IN the quiet little parlor of Widow Heartwell, in the early May
morning, the tender breeze stole in and out of the window,
fluttering the muslin curtain and filling the apartment with
delicious perfume. In the same parlor a few chosen friends were
assembled, to witness the solemn ceremony that was to deprive them
of the pride and favorite of the village. As the dial upon the
delicate face of the little bronze clock on the mantel marked the
hour of eight, the flutter of robes and the rustling of footsteps
ushered in the expectant pair, and at once all the guests arose.
Pale and trembling, Mrs. Heartwell took her place beside her
daughter, as she stood before the venerable minister. For years the
Rev. Mr. Pratt had been their pastor and spiritual adviser, and his
heart was filled with deep emotion as he pronounced the solemn words
that bound this child of his love and watchful care to her husband,
to be "His servitor for aye." Amid smothered sobs, he invoked
Heaven's benediction upon their wedded hearts, praying that, as love
had directed this union, so love might attend them, even unto death.
Amid sighs and tears, the congratulations were received, and when at
length Fred Pinckney found a moment to whisper in George Marshall's
ear, he said, with characteristic drollery, "By Jupiter? I'll be
glad when the coach comes. I can't stand so much crying; it's more
like a funeral than a wedding. If they are obliged to blubber this
way when a fellow marries, I think I shall back out."
Another hour and the bridal party had departed. The fair flower of
Melrose was gone, changed from a lonely maiden to a happy, hopeful
bride; gone to follow the footsteps of a true, brave-hearted
husband,-gone from Melrose, leaving many aching hearts behind;
leaving, too, a vacancy that no succession of years could ever quite
fill.
A fortnight after the quiet wedding in Melrose, late one afternoon,
George Marshall and his wife were walking slowly along the
ever-thronged battery of the Queen City, whither they had come on a
visit to Captain Marshall's uncle, Dr. Thornwell. A serious
expression rested upon the young captain's face, as he surveyed the
long lines of tents that dotted the open square and bordered the
broad street-so serious indeed, that he scarcely heeded the
passers-by who were bowing salutations to him and his fair bride.
"George, you seem so abstracted; you scarcely noticed Frank Brewster
as he passed just now in the brett with Florence Dale. What's the
matter, dear?"
"I'm troubled, perplexed, pondering, my dear. Yet I did not mean to
be so abstracted. I must beg your forgiveness, as well as that of my
friends."
"Oh! never mind me, George; only tell me what troubles you."
"Nothing more than the perplexing question that has harassed me ever
since I came home, and saw beyond a doubt that we should have
war-the question that I must soon decide, whether I shall desert my
State in time of peril, or my country. In either course of acting, I
shall be branded as a traitor, or a rebel. It's a serious dilemma to
be placed in, dear Eliza, and I must act wisely, and like a man. My
heart is dreadfully divided: duty calls me to my country, and love
calls me to my home. My forebodings, too, whisper that this war will
be no trifling affair."
"Well, for my part, George, and you already know it, I am opposed to
secession. Fred Pinckney says it's on account of the Whig blood that
flows in my veins. I told him that my father, and my grandfather
before him, were uncompromising Whigs. It may be so; I don't know. I
abhor the idea of bloodshed, and as yet, I think we have had little
cause to declare war."
"You are a sage little woman, and your argument sound, but these
sentiments won't do to promulgate in the Queen City. Remember, I am
still a commissioned officer in the United States army. Be careful."
"Oh! I am not afraid of my sentiments, or of being deemed
traitorous. Only this morning, Colonel Legare asked me if I would
present the Palmetto Rifles with the new flag he had made for them.
But to return. War is war, George, and should be entered into with
caution."
"Yes; you are right. I feel at times as though I could not fight
against the flag of my country; and then, on the other hand, I would
not fight against my home and kindred. There seems but one
alternative left to me-to resign my commission in the army and not
take up arms at all," replied the young officer sadly.
"Well, cheer up. Don't grow despondent. I hope wisdom will direct
your decision; and remember, if the thought will give you any
comfort, that I have sworn to follow your footsteps and your
fortune, wheresoever they may lead, be it from craggy Maine to wild
Colorado," said the young wife with forced pleasantry.
"Bravo! what a lucky fellow I am! Surely no evil will befall me.
Your cheering words decide my choice; wisdom, you say, will direct
the decision. It shall be made. We will once more make the charming
round of this inviting boulevard, and then I'll tell you my
decision. There goes Fred Pinckney on horseback. How handsome he
looks in that uniform! He belongs to the Palmetto Rifles, I
believe."
"Yes, so he does. Fred's a gallant, handsome fellow, a little too
hot-blooded, though," replied the young wife, thoughtfully.
Once again the gay promenade was traversed, and as the sun's last
ray was faintly dying, the young wife stopped, and leaning gently on
the railing with eye turned toward the sea, she said, "Now, George,
tell me your decision." And he replied quickly, "I shall resign my
commission in the army, and cast my lot with my people and my State.
Alas! I may never see Franco again!"
"I trust you have acted wisely," replied the young wife,
thoughtfully. "But, oh, George, see Defiance. See how the dying sun
gilds the flag, the new flag that has risen above the old one that
floated there when I was here a school-girl. Somehow I love the old
flag, the Stars and Stripes-'Whig blood,' I suppose; but Defiance
always looked so grim and terrible to me, even when I was a
school-girl, in peaceful days, and now it appears a terrible monster
of horror!"
"Oh! Defiance bears you no ill-will, my darling. It's a quiet old
fort, that will protect us from our enemies. Long live the memory of
the man who surrendered it only at the mouth of cannon! But come,
let's be going. It's late; already pedestrians and vehicles are
turning homeward."
How sad, that time so far has furnished no historian or biographer
truthfully and charitably to chronicle the terrible struggle of many
noble-souled men, who sacrificed the love of country for the love of
State in that unhallowed civil war! Yet there is the truth that the
great Searcher of human hearts has His record on high; and in the
unfolding hereafter, many souls that here were branded as traitors,
will there receive the rewards of patriots. Scores who were here
despised for cowardice, will there receive the plaudits that await
the brave. Legions who have perished in ignominious cells, will
there be found crowned heroes. For who knows the yet unwritten
record of the horrible war between the States, but the heroes who
perished here and passed on beyond?