HOW HE WON HER.
A
SEQUEL TO “FAIR PLAY.”
BY
MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
AUTHOR OF “FAIR PLAY,” “THE WIDOW’S SON,” “THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,”
“HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “THE LOST
HEIRESS,” “THE FORTUNE SEEKER,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE FATAL MARRIAGE,”
“THE MISSING BRIDE,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “LADY OF THE
ISLE,” “GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “VIVIA,” “WIFE’S VICTORY,” “MOTHER-IN-LAW,”
“INDIA,” “THE THREE BEAUTIES,” “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE DESERTED
WIFE,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE CHANGED BRIDES,” “THE
PRINCE OF DARKNESS,” ETC., ETC.
“She loved him for the dangers he had passed.”—SHAKSPEARE.
“None but the brave deserve the fair.”—COLLINS.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.
Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume.
_FAIR PLAY; OR, THE TEST OF THE LONE ISLE._
_HOW HE WON HER. A SEQUEL TO FAIR PLAY._
_THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS._
_THE CHANGED BRIDES._
_THE THREE BEAUTIES._
_THE WIFE’S VICTORY._
_THE MOTHER-IN-LAW._
_FALLEN PRIDE; OR, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE._
_THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN._
_THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY._
_THE FORTUNE SEEKER._
_THE DESERTED WIFE._
_THE LOST HEIRESS._
_RETRIBUTION._
_INDIA; OR, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER._
_THE FATAL MARRIAGE._
_THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD._
_LOVE’S LABOR WON._
_THE MISSING BRIDE._
_LADY OF THE ISLE._
_THE TWO SISTERS._
_VIVIA; OR, THE SECRET OF POWER._
_THE CURSE OF CLIFTON._
_THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER._
_THE WIDOW’S SON._
_ALLWORTH ABBEY._
_THE BRIDAL EVE._
Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.
Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the
above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on
receipt of their price by the Publishers,
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.
TO
MRS. FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN,
OF WASHINGTON CITY;
IN COMMEMORATION OF HER ENTIRE DEVOTION,
FOR THE PERIOD OF FOUR YEARS,
TO THE SICK AND WOUNDED SOLDIERS,
IN THE HOSPITALS,
THIS STORY OF THE WAR
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,
BY HER SISTER.
PROSPECT COTTAGE,
GEORGETOWN, D. C.
FEBRUARY, 1869.
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I.— ERMINIE’S STORY 25
II.— THE VETERAN’S RETURN 34
III.— JUSTIN ENLISTS.—ELFIE DRILLS 45
IV.— THE SOLDIER’S LOVE 54
V.— THE LOVERS’ PARTING 68
VI.— THE GUERRILLA’S WIFE 80
VII.— ABOUT ALBERTA 92
VIII.— ABOUT BRITOMARTE 103
IX.— AN UNEXPECTED GUEST AT A PICNIC 115
X.— AS THE LION WOOS HIS BRIDE 130
XI.— A MOONLIGHT FLIGHT 143
XII.— THE OUTLAW’S LOVE 155
XIII.— THE ALARM 168
XIV.— THE FLIGHT 178
XV.— COLONEL ROSENTHAL 193
XVI.— THE MEETING 208
XVII.— THE GUERRILLA’S ENCAMPMENT 216
XVIII.— MONCK 224
XIX.— A COLD-BLOODED SENTENCE 232
XX.— THE WHISPER 244
XXI.— THE MOUNTAIN CAMP 256
XXII.— THE MARCH 269
XXIII.— THE BATTLE 278
XXIV.— THE FATE OF THE FREE SWORD 283
XXV.— AFTER THE BATTLE 287
XXVI.— ELFIE IN THE GROVE 290
XXVII.— REQUIESCAT IN PACE 300
XXVIII.— ELFIE’S RETURN 304
XXIX.— ELFIE’S VISIT TO LITTLE MIM 315
XXX.— AN UNEXPECTED MEETING IN THE HOSPITAL 323
XXXI.— POOR ELFIE’S HONEYMOON 334
XXXII.— THE REBEL RIDES ON HIS RAIDS NO MORE 345
XXXIII.— AT PEACE 356
XXXIV.— WING’S GALLANT CHARGE 366
XXXV.— DEATH LIGHTS 374
XXXVI.— THE DEATH WATCH 385
XXXVII.— THE GHOSTLY VISITOR 397
XXXVIII.— ELFIE’S VISION 408
XXXIX.— BOB’S SPECTRE 422
XL.— ON THE BATTLE-FIELD 432
XLI.— THE SURPRISE 444
XLII.— “THE BEGINNING OF THE END.” 460
XLIII.— DELIVERANCE AT LAST 469
XLIV.— AFTER A WHILE 480
XLV.— THE WOMAN’S DEAREST RIGHT 497
HOW HE WON HER.
CHAPTER I.
ERMINIE’S STORY.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country’s wishes blest!
When spring with dewy fingers cold
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than fancy’s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
There honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay
And freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there.—COLLINS.
It was not until the morning succeeding his arrival, after breakfast,
when they found themselves alone together in the drawing-room, that
Justin told Erminie the story of his voyage and shipwreck, his
preservation and residence on the Desert Island, and his rescue and
return home.
She listened with breathless interest to his narrative, and when it was
finished she earnestly thanked Heaven for his restoration to his home
and friends.
And then, in return, she gave him the history of all that had occurred
to her since he had first sailed.
She told him of those gathering clouds of disaffection in the South that
no one could be made to believe would ever break in a storm of Civil
War. She spoke of that solemn day in the Senate when the Southern
senators withdrew. She whispered of the shameful, sorrowful day when
Fort Sumter was taken, and, in the language of the man who commanded the
assault, “The proud flag that had never been humbled before—the
star-spangled banner—was humbled to the dust.” She told how these words
had burned in the hearts of all true patriots until they lighted a flame
of love of country, hate of traitors, never to be quenched; how, at the
President’s call for seventy-five thousand men, four times that number
started to arms; how even across the broad Atlantic, in Ireland, the
warm-hearted lovers of the Union had banded together and offered their
services to the Federal Government through our ministers and consuls
abroad; how these had been declined _en masse_, as unneeded then.
Here the Lutheran minister’s orphan child paused to gather strength; for
she had next to speak of the fatal fields of Bethel and Ball’s Bluff;
and of Bull Run, where her brave father fell. She told the awful history
amidst sobs and tears that she could not restrain.
“He died where he fell, before his men, in front of the enemy. He lies
buried near the spot, his grave marked by the care of a brother officer,
his honored remains waiting only the return of peace to be removed.”
“They shall not-await the return of peace, they shall be brought home
immediately,” answered Justin.
Then Erminie spoke of opening her father’s will, and seeing there that
he had left his property to his two children, to be divided between
them, share and share alike.
“Then my dear father did not believe me to be lost?” said Justin.
“_Then_ we none of us did; there had not been time enough for us to grow
anxious. We had got two letters from you, one mailed from Porto Praya,
and one from the Cape of Good Hope. When my dear father died we were
looking daily for a letter from you from Calcutta.”
“I am glad that he had suffered no anxiety on my account. Go on, sweet
sister.”
“Oh, my brother! after that public and private woes came thick and fast.
Defeat after defeat discouraged our army, until at length came the
crushing shame and sorrow of the last battle of Manassas. Blow upon blow
fell upon my own heart, until I thought that the Lord had forgotten to
take care of me. I was still weeping, weeping day and night over the
death of my dear father, when there came news of the wreck of the
Sultana. It came through the officers of that Dutch merchantman who
picked up the life-boat with the missionary party on board; and it came
in the form of a narrative written by the Reverend Mr. Ely. It was
published in all the papers. It contained a list of the names of those
whose lives were lost. And, Justin, your name was among them!”
“Poor sister!”
“I laid down to die. I did so wish for death! But I suppose youth and
life were too strong within me and I lived and suffered. Ah, Justin! I
was a very self-occupied woman up to that time. I thought ‘no sorrow was
like unto my sorrow.’ In the midst of that great bitterness of grief I
received a telegram from New York calling me to the death-bed of our
dear Uncle Friedrich.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I went on immediately and remained with him until he died. Ah, Justin!
The scene of that good man’s peaceful departure went far to heal my
spirit. He talked to me when he was able; his words were few, but very
precious. He told me, in this great crisis of the country’s history,
when for the high and holy cause of union and liberty hundreds were
suffering more than I, and thousands quite as much; I must not sit down
in selfish sorrow, I must get up and minister to those whose sorrows
were as great as mine, and whose necessities were so much greater.”
“He was right, Erminie.”
“I know it and I knew it then. He told me to go among the wounded
soldiers in the numerous hospitals, and with hand and purse minister to
them and relieve their wants. He told me to seek out the bereaved widows
and orphans, and mothers of those who had fallen in the holy war; and to
serve _all_ as far as they should have need and I have power; but
especially—oh! especially to minister to the mourning mothers. ‘Widows,’
he said, ‘may be consoled by second husbands; orphans grow up and forget
their fathers; but the mother whose boy has fallen in battle is
inconsolable and unforgetting forever. Therefore especially, motherless
girl, comfort the childless mothers.’ And kneeling by his bed I kissed
his hands and promised to obey his words. And that same day, as the sun
went down, he died. But it was not until some days had passed that I
knew he had left me all his wealth. Justin, I came home, and I have
religiously obeyed his dying instructions, and—in comforting others I
have found comfort.”
“As all mourners may, if they will, my sweet sister,” replied her
brother. He fell into deep thought for a few minutes, and then, looking
earnestly at his sister, he said:
“But, Erminie, in all this long story you have never once mentioned the
name of Colonel Eastworth. Where is he? What is he doing? Why are you
not married?”
Erminie grew even paler than she had before been; she compressed her
lips until they too faded, and then slowly and steadily answered:
“‘Where is he?’ In South Carolina. ‘What is he doing?’ Warring upon his
native land. ‘Why are we not married?’ Because the child of Ernest
Rosenthal can never be the wife of a man in arms against his country.
Never mention his name to me again, Justin. For he was the very caitiff
who so gloried in his shame as to boast that he had humbled the proud
flag that had never been humbled before!”
And the beautiful eyes of this “falcon-hearted dove” flashed as she
spoke.
Justin put out his arms and drew her to his breast; for he saw that
those flashing eyes were about to be drowned in tears.
“My dear sister! my dear, dear sister, blow upon blow has indeed fallen
fast upon your heart. How much you have suffered!” he said, as he
tenderly soothed her.
She wept upon his bosom for a little while, and then lifting her head
and wiping her eyes, she smiled and said:
“But I have been comforted, Justin. In comforting others I have been
comforted. And now I am more than comforted—I am rejoiced. How all is
changed, in public and in private, from grief to joy. And oh! how
suddenly changed, brother! In a day! Almost in an hour! Yesterday
morning came the glorious news of the victory of Gettysburg, and I knew
that the tide of war had turned. Soon after—very soon after—came a
messenger of joy to me. The minister that brought me the news of your
safe return from—the grave! It was like a miraculous resurrection.
Coming directly upon the news of the great victory, it was almost
overwhelming. There seemed too much joy for one day!”
“I entreated Dr. Sales to break the matter to you very cautiously,” said
Justin.
“Ah! do you think _that_ could be broken to me cautiously?” inquired
Erminie, with a smile. “Why, Justin, as soon as he came into the room
and I saw his face, I knew that he brought me ‘glad tidings.’ I
naturally thought it was of the victory of Gettysburg, so I told him I
had heard of it that very morning. But when he drew your name into the
conversation, I knew in an instant that you were saved. Oh, Justin, it
was such a shock of joy! But it did not kill me, as it might have done.”
“Yes, it might, my sweet sister, for you look very pale, and thin, and
fragile—not well able to bear a shock of any sort,” said Justin
tenderly.
“Ah, but all is well now. I am happy, so happy, although I weep. You
must not mind my weeping, dear. We women often weep most when we are
happiest, and—ah, yes! Heaven knows, _smile_ most when we are most
wretched!”
“‘Smile most when you are most wretched!’ Where have you learned that
bitter lesson, my sister?” Justin gravely questioned.
“In the hospital, where I have seen the heart-broken mother smiling on
her mutilated or dying boy to keep his spirits up, as long as he should
live.”
“You seem to be very familiar with the wards of the hospitals, my
sister.”
“It is the business, the blessing of my life to be so. But, Justin,
dear, I wish to ask you about Britomarte. You took care of her on the
Desert Island. She saved your life in the sea fight. Ah, how my heart
thrilled to the touch of that story. Now you are betrothed, I hope, and
soon to marry? Oh, Justin, how cordially I would welcome her here as my
sister, and how willingly resign my position as mistress of the house,
in her favor. For the house is yours, you know, Justin, and as your wife
it would be her right.”
Justin slowly shook his head, compressed his lips, and frowned.
“What do you mean by that, my brother?”
“There is no possibility of a marriage between Miss Conyers and myself,”
he said.
“JUSTIN!”
“You know what were Britomarte’s sentiments on the subject of marriage,
or rather of the position of a woman in marriage. And now I have only to
add that all which has happened to us has not been able to work a change
in them.”
“Oh, Justin! I am so sorry!”
“So you see, my dear, there is no chance of your being superseded on the
household throne, for since Britomarte will not be my wife, no other
woman shall.”
“Oh Justin, what a pity. But if she will not be your wife, she shall be
your sister and mine. She shall come here, and share my home and means.”
“She would never do that; she is much too proud to be dependent, even on
those who love and honor her most.”
“Then what will become of her? for oh, Justin, it is whispered
that—that——”
“_What?_” inquired the young man, seeing his sister grow pale and
large-eyed as she paused.
“That—oh, it is too horrible to breathe—that——”
“For Heaven’s sake, speak, Erminie!”
“—The house is the resort of conspirators, who plan—plan—no less a crime
than—than—.” Her voice gradually sank to a whisper, and then stopped
altogether.
“Than what? Speak, my sister; take courage and speak!”
“Oh, I cannot! I cannot! Spare me! it is too horrible!”
“But what house is it to which you allude?”
“Witch Elms.”
“And it is said to be the resort of conspirators, who plan—what?”
persisted Justin.
“I cannot say it. I hope it is all a mere canard. Certainly the civil
and the military authorities have both visited and ransacked the house,
but they have discovered nothing there but what they call ‘the fossil
remains of an old lady and two negroes,’ meaning Miss Pole, the
centenarian aunt of Britomarte, and the two servants.”
“Then the horrible story, whatever it may be, _is_ probably a mere
canard, not worth our attention.”
“But Britomarte! She cannot go there, even if her old relative would
receive her. What will become of her? What can we do for her?”
“We can do many things in this world, but we can do nothing with the
will of a woman like Miss Conyers. We must leave her to the Lord and
herself. And have you lived here quite alone all this time, my poor
Erminie?” said Justin, pityingly.
“Oh, no. I should have told you before, only there was so much to tell
and to hear. Elfrida Fielding is with me. She is a refugee from
Virginia. Her father is with General Meade at Gettysburg. We had a
telegram from him yesterday. He is wounded but not dangerously, and is
coming home on leave.”
“Then they are on the right side.”
“Thank Heaven, yes! But they have suffered very much for their devotion
to the Union; they have had their house burned over their heads by the
Secessionists, and they escaped the flames only through the fidelity of
an old family servant. They have been here ever since. At least this is
Elfie’s home always, and her father’s whenever he comes to see her.”
“That is right, my sister. Let the home of our heroic father be the
refuge of all whom the war has made homeless, and who seek its
threshold. But where is my little friend now? I should be glad to see
her.”
“Immediately on receiving the telegram yesterday, she prepared to go to
Gettysburg to bring her father home. I also was ready to go with her,
when the visit of Mr. Sales with the joyful news of your return stopped
my journey. And so Elfie, after kissing and congratulating, and laughing
and weeping over _me_, and sending what she called ‘lots of love’ to
you, left in the three o’clock train alone.”
While the sister and brother conversed, the time, unheeded, passed away,
and now it was nearly noon, when the door bell rang.
“Oh, I hope that is Britomarte. Did she say she would come early?”
inquired Erminie.
“She said she would come this morning—she did not specify the hour,”
answered Justin, rising to open the drawing-room door.
Britomarte it was, for Justin met her on the threshold, in the act of
being ushered in by Uncle Bob, the old servant of Elfie, who also found
a home at the parsonage.
Justin warmly welcomed Miss Conyers, but was cut short in his
demonstrations by Erminie, who flew to meet her friend, and fell weeping
for joy on Britomarte’s bosom.
“How pale you are, my darling. You have suffered much since I saw you
last,” said Miss Conyers, tenderly caressing Erminie.
“Oh, much! much! How much you do not know or guess. But it is all over
now, dear Britomarte, quite over, now that I see you and Justin safe,
and all is well, now, very well, since the tide of war has turned, and
the invaders are flying before our victorious army,” she answered,
smiling through her tears.
“And do you know what they are saying outside, my darling?” inquired
Miss Conyers, brightly glancing back her smile.
“No! what?” eagerly demanded Erminie.
“Haven’t you been out this morning, Justin?” inquired Miss Conyers,
turning to Mr. Rosenthal.
“No—why?”
“Nor received a visitor?”
“No visitor except yourself.”
“Then I have the happiness to be the first to announce the news to you.
Vicksburg has capitulated!”
“Vicksburg capitulated!” echoed both Justin and Erminie, in a breath.
“The words are in everybody’s mouth. The stars and stripes are waving
from half the windows on the avenue.”
“Oh, Justin, go! go out and learn the particulars, but don’t stay long.
I cannot bear you out of my sight long, lest I should wake up and find
your return all a dream,” urged Erminie.
And Justin, snatching up his hat and gloves, departed.
And Britomarte and Erminie were left together for a long tête-à-tête.
Erminie took Britomarte up into her own bedchamber, and they sat down to
talk. What need to relate their conversation? To do it would be to
repeat all that is already known to the reader of what happened to each
during their long separation. To Britomarte Erminie told the same story
that she had told to Justin, and by her was comforted with the same
tender sympathy she had received from him. And Britomarte answered all
Erminie’s questions concerning the voyage, the wreck, the rescue, the
life on the Desert Island, the deliverance from the place, the cruise of
the Xyphias, the sea fight, the capture of the privateer, and the voyage
home.