also was remembering that night in the boat as she had heard of it, and
it seemed hard to her that she should be obliged to render Edmonson the
smallest service, yet he had been brave in the attack, and had been
wounded in fair fight against the enemy. Her first thought that night of
the attack, on seeing him borne in, had been that Archdale had given the
wound in self-defence. She was humiliated by feeling that her wealth had
been played for like a stake by Edmonson. For she had not yet come to
confessing to herself what flashed across her mind sometimes. Two years
ago Edmonson's approval had seemed to her a desert beyond her talents;
now his admiration displeased her,--there was an element of
appropriation in it. Where Elizabeth prized regard she could not
condescend to woo it; where she did not prize it, it seemed to her, if
openly given, almost an impertinence. Stephen had been right when in the
midst of his anger at her pride he had felt that love would awake new
powers in her, that she could be magnificent in action and in devotion.
He had been very human, too, in the breath of wild desire to see her at
her best that had swept through him. But the desire slept again as
suddenly as it had waked, and the mists of indifference settled about
him once more.
Edmonson dared not speak. If he offended Elizabeth he should not see her
again, except at a distance as real as the intangible space always
between them now. And if he were silent, he might yet win, some day.
"At last!" she smiled, and rose to meet the doctor with an alacrity that
made Edmonson bite his under lip hard. She thought that dressing the
wound took a long time that evening, that the physician had never been
so slow before, nor the patient so fractious. But to Edmonson it seemed
as if she vanished like a vision.
At last she was in the open air, under the stars, and refreshed by the
breeze. She stood looking out to sea, but there was an expression of
trouble on her face, that the air could not blow away.
A voice said, "Good evening," and, turning, she saw Archdale beside her.
She asked him if he were on guard that evening.
"Yes," he answered. "You must be very tired, cooped up in that hot place
for so many hours," he went on. "Shall we walk down to the shore and
back, for a change. I'm sorry that I can't suggest any variations in the
route. But we will stop at the brook and I will get you some fresh
water."
She took a step, then hesitated.
"But I thought you were on guard," she said.
"So I am, especially detailed by our commander-in-chief to look after
the comfort and welfare of a certain gentleman, a civilian in name, but
so active an inspector of military operations that I cannot often keep
track of him unless I'm under fire myself, and also the welfare of two
volunteer nurses who are in great danger of letting their zeal outrun
their strength. No, I am wrong; I am in charge of only one nurse; she
takes care of the other. It is you whom the General has in mind." Never
was Archdale's tact finer and more opportune. After the smouldering
passion of Edmonson, felt if not yet confessed to herself, the ease and
safety of this companionship seemed to her like the difference between
the air of the tents hot and heavy with unhealthy breaths, and the salt
wind that came to her softly now, but with invigorating freshness.
"I haven't the least idea where my father is," she said. "I suppose he
is so used to business that he must have always something on hand."
"He is with the General now," he said.
"There is one walk I wish you would invite me to take," said Elizabeth,
as they sauntered away. "Into the city, I mean." And for a moment she
forgot the cost of victory in its exultation.
"I will," he answered. "Will you come, then?"
"Certainly."
They reached the brook and followed it up a little distance above the
camp. Elizabeth sat down upon the bank, and Archdale filled his cup and
brought it to her. She examined it by the dim light.
"I see that it is silver, and chased," she said. "But I can't make out
the figures upon it."
"The Archdale arms," he answered. "I brought the cup with me. It's my
canteen." She drank and gave it back to him.
"Thank you," she said. As she spoke, a shot rose high in air and ended
its parabola in the heart of the doomed city. It seemed as if a cry
uprose. Elizabeth shuddered. "How dreadful it is!"
"You will never forget it," he answered.
"No; no one who has been here ever can." She had risen, and they were
walking down toward the shore. Her fatigue, or her mood, gave her an
unusual gentleness of manner. As Stephen Archdale walked beside her he
tried to imagine Katie as Elizabeth was now, with a background of
suffering, with trial and daring, perhaps death before, and failed. He
looked at Elizabeth, dimly seen under the starlight, now suddenly
brought sharply into view by the flare of cannon, weary, glad of the
General's thoughtfulness, without a suspicion that her present companion
had suggested it, taking the rest that came to her and enjoying it as
simply as a child would do, yet radiant at moments in the presage of
national success, or pale with a glow of sublime faith at the efficacy
of the sacrifice that was being offered up for her country. She seemed
in harmony with the nature about her and the earnestness, perhaps
tragedy, of her surroundings. Katie could not have been at home here; it
was not because she had been brought up in luxury and laughter, for so
had Elizabeth. It was because there was in the latter something
responsive to the great realities of life. Did Katie lack this? He drew
a quick breath at the thought. Elizabeth turned to him suddenly.
"Is your arm quite well yet?" she asked.
"Quite well, thank you."
"Not even a twinge left?"
"Not one."
"I thought there was then," she said.
"Oh, no, that was my conscience. Are you a good doctor for that? Shall I
try you?"
"No; thank you; my own is not clear enough."
"Isn't it?" he said. "Then I think the rest of us had better give up in
despair."
She made an impatient movement, and said, "Was that Captain Edmonson's
ball? You did not tell me, but I guessed it."
"Yes. At first I thought it had only grazed my sleeve. But it was really
very little." Archdale, bringing up the wounded on that night of the
repulse, had said nothing of being wounded himself, and Elizabeth,
meeting him three days afterward with his arm in a sling, had been
assured that he was ashamed to speak of such a scratch.
They sat down upon the rocks and talked for a time about the siege and
the soldiers, and even about things at home, away from this strange
life, but never about what had happened to themselves, and never one
word of Katie. Elizabeth seemed to be resting. Archdale thought that she
found it pleasant enough, too. But more than once she turned her face in
the direction of the hospital, and he knew that she was thinking of her
duties there. He must find some way to keep her a little longer. This
hour must not be gone yet. What story could he tell her? If he did not
begin, in a moment she would get up from that comfortable niche in the
rock, and say that it was time to go back to her patients, and then it
would be too late.
"I think I never told you," he began, "how Mr. Edmonson's portrait, my
great-grandfather's, came into that hiding-place? Would you care to
hear?"
"Very much, if it is not too much family history for you to tell me."
He smiled. "I must begin a good way back, as far as with my
grandfather's youth," he said. "I am afraid it was a wild one. He was
handsome, and gay, and rich, well-born, too, though not of the
Sunderland Archdales, as I had always supposed. He must have said this
when he took his own name again after his year of hiding as a criminal
from justice. But I don't think that he ever meant crime; it was an
irregular duel. I think his adversary's first shot hit him in the
shoulder, and at the second, for they were to fire twice, he rushed up
to his opponent in a fury of pain, perhaps, and fired at close range.
The man fell dead. I don't know how they tell the story in Portsmouth,
but it's not worse than that, I suppose."
"It's something like that, I think," she said.
"Pleasant to go back where we've always been so,--well, so esteemed; I
mean that the name has been. But I may not go back," he added.
She made no answer for a moment; then she said, "Captain Edmonson is
like that."
"But worse," he answered.
"Yes, worse."
"Is his wound doing well?" questioned Archdale.
"It is healing, but very slowly."
"Next time he will not fail of his mark," said the young man.
"Perhaps the next time his mark will be the enemy," she answered. "He
has had time to think." Her companion gave an eager glance. "Is she
teaching him something?" he wondered. "What?" How could she teach him
not to care for her? His pulses quickened. He altered his position a
little, which brought him by so much nearer. "But tell me about the
portrait," said Elizabeth.
Archdale told the story, the outlines of which Elizabeth had given to
Mrs. Eveleigh. But he told it with so many details that it seemed new
to her. "Edmonson insists that the nobleman killed in this duel was a
distant relative of Sir Temple Dacre," he said, as he finished the
account of the flight and the taking of the portrait.
He told of its careful concealment afterwards lest it should identify
them, and how, when the daughter's eyes rested upon it, she had a dread
of discovery, that amounted almost to a sense of guilt.
"Poor woman!" said Elizabeth, "with the loss of her father and her
child, she could not have been very happy."
Her listener recalled that the speaker at one time in her life had not
considered the loss of a husband in any other light than a great
satisfaction. But he went on to explain that after his grandmother's
death, the portrait had been concealed where Elizabeth had discovered
it. "My mother knew nothing of it," he said, "but my father had seen it
before. He told me so after that day," he added, remembering that
Elizabeth had heard Colonel's denial of any knowledge of the portrait.
"He knew whom it was a picture of, I mean, and that we were not the
Sunderland Archdales, but nothing of Edmonson's rights; and he had
looked at the portrait so little that he never perceived the likeness to
Edmonson until we all did. Edmonson, you know, was in search of this
portrait. He had heard of it from his father, who passed as the child of
the old man's only son, who died in India at about the same time that
the baby and nurse came to the grandfather's. My grandmother Archdale
besought her father to take care of the child until she could send for
it, and he was better than her request. I suppose that he could not bear
to give up both his children and he hated his son-in-law. Edmonson's
father did not know his real name until after the elder Edmonson's
death. Then the nurse told him the story. But at that time he was
twenty-five; married, and established in his home, with no desire to
change, or to share his possessions. Gerald learned the truth only when
he came of age, and his capacity for getting through with money made him
think that something ought to be made out of his colonial relatives. He
had spent his own moderate fortune before he came here. He showed his
character in his way of going to work," finished Archdale,
contemptuously. "He could not believe that anybody would have honesty
enough not to defeat his claim unless he could clinch his proofs
instantly."
"It was a cowardly way of doing it," said Elizabeth slowly.
"Yes," he answered, and looked at her, wondering if he should learn what
she was thinking about, for it seemed as if she had only half finished
her sentence.
"Nothing seems to me stranger than the difference between people in the
same family," she said at last, almost more to herself than to him.
There was something so utterly impersonal in her tone that she seemed to
be setting forth a general trite observation rather than comparing
Edmonson with any of his relatives. And it was evident that, if she
thought of her listener at all, this was the way in which the remark was
meant for him. And yet--Then he heard Elizabeth saying that she must go
back.
"Poor Melvin is dying," she said. "He probably will not live through the
night. I promised to take down some messages for him. He began to give
them to me, but was so exhausted that I had to leave him to rest. But I
must not leave him too long, and then there are the others." Stephen
helped her down from the rock as she spoke, and they went together along
the beach and up the path from the shore, talking as they went. She told
him some of the things that the men needed most, and asked his advice
and his help toward getting for them what was possible. "I cannot go to
the General for these; I cannot put any more burdens upon him," she
said. Archdale told her all that he could, and then for a few minutes
they walked on in silence. At the hospital she stopped and turned to
him.
"Thank you," she said. Then, as he was about to answer, she added
hastily, "I think that experience like this is good for us, for every
one I mean; it opens up the world a little and shows so much suffering
besides one's own. It's a help to get at the proportions of things.
Don't you think so?" The appeal in her voice was an exquisite note of
sympathy.
Stephen knew that all his life long it had been his way, as it had been
that of the other Archdales, to consider his own joys and sorrows not
only of more relative but of more actual importance than those of the
people about him. He looked at Elizabeth, royal as she stood, full of
compassion for him, but with her hand already stretched out to draw back
the canvas which separated her from that presence of death in which live
and grow, watered by tears, all human sympathies. It seemed as if she
always touched some chord in him untouched by others. Was it the truth
that she spoke that thrilled him so? He perceived nothing clearly except
the one thing that he uttered.
"Yes," he said, "I am glad I came,--glad for my own sake, I mean. Be it
for joy or sorrow, for life or death, I am glad that I came."
She drew back the curtain of the tent. He bowed and turned away.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
FOOTNOTES:
[D] Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.
EDITOR'S TABLE.
It is not an easy task either to establish a magazine, or, having
secured for it a place in public favor, to retain the good will
essential to its continued success. The examples of failure on the part
of those who have essayed this task are so many and so notable, that
publishers and editors who enter the field of periodical literature with
new ventures, must possess, first of all, not a little courage; to this,
if they are to expect any degree of success, must be added a _raison
d'etre_ for the publication; and, besides, there must be an
accompaniment of managerial ability sufficient to give the reason a
continual demonstration in fact. Whatever the view of the cheerful
optimist who stands on the threshold of the magazine world, with his
experience, like his hoped-for triumphs, all in the future, the
conditions above named, as witnessed by the broken lance of many a
vanquished knight of this "Round Table," are not easily met. It is with
a full understanding of these facts that we record the enlarged plans of
the publishers of the BAY STATE MONTHLY, whereby that periodical, a vine
of Massachusetts planting, seeking soil for wider growth, will send
forth its roots into all New England. Chief among the features of the
BAY STATE MONTHLY which have made it acceptable to the people of
Massachusetts have been the many articles relating to the history and
biography of its storied towns and famous men. Material for articles of
equal interest and value, and much of it as yet unused by historian or
biographer in sketch or story, abounds in every State of the New England
group. It is in order to make better use of this material, that a change
is made, as will be seen, not in place, but in scope,--whereby the Bay
State gives way to the New England; and the NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE, which
is the BAY STATE MONTHLY with a wider outlook, goes forth to commend
itself to the good opinion of the citizens of Connecticut, Maine,
Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Vermont, and of New
Englanders everywhere.
* * * * *
The prohibitionists of New England find it difficult to understand why
Georgia, with the immense quota of ignorance in its voting population,
has been able to abolish legal rum-drinking, a thing which has not yet
been found possible--notwithstanding the supposed reign of a more widely
diffused intelligence--in the greater part of New England. An
explanation of the fact is to be found in the homogeneity of the
Georgian population, due to the vast preponderance of native born
elements (there being only ten thousand five hundred persons of foreign
birth in 1880), and to the popular condition affecting public sentiment
in Georgia and her sister States. Among these influences may be noted
that of the clergy, who reach the greater part of the population, white
and black, through the churches in whose membership it is enrolled; the
fact that, owing to the comparative non-use of wines and beers, the
question is simply that of rum or no rum; and the added circumstance
that the evils of intemperance are there greatly aggravated by the
character of the whiskey almost universally used, it being an
unrectified form of the article, and accompanied by the most dangerous
and destructive results to individuals and to society. Among these
results may be mentioned the often repeated instances of lawlessness and
bloodshed, and the growing demoralization of the colored workingmen,
which reacts injuriously upon every industry.
Against conditions like these, there can be found in almost any
community in the land, in the aggregate, an opposing majority. In New
England this majority is largely powerless, because swallowed up in the
opposing votes of political parties. In Georgia it has succeeded,
because it has separated the liquor question from all other political
considerations and made it a separate issue, upon which men vote neither
as Democrats nor Republicans, but as well meaning, and ably directed
men, who are marshalled against a great social evil.
New England temperance advocates have difficulties to contend with,
growing out of the foreign born elements in our midst, which do not
exist at the South; but it may be well for them to consider the question
of adopting the Georgian method of sticking to the temperance issue as a
distinct question, instead of dragging it into general politics, where
the temperance element loses in strength by a division upon other
questions.
* * * * *
We find in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ suggestions intended for the eyes of
English matrons, but which may be equally commended to the attention of
American mothers, relating to the establishment of "housekeeping
schools" after the pattern of those in Germany.
Every girl in Germany, be she the daughter of nobleman, officer, or
small official, goes, as soon as she has finished her school education,
into one of these training establishments. The rich go where they pay
highly. They are never taken for less than a year, and every month has
its appropriate work: Preserving of fruits and vegetables, laying down
meats, the care of eggs and butter, the preservation of woollen clothes,
repairing of household linen, etc. Besides these general branches of
housewifery, they are taught cooking, clear starching, the washing of
dishes, the care of silver and glass, dusting and sweeping, laying of a
table and serving--in brief, all the duties which will fall to their own
lot or to the servants whom they employ. As a result, the _menage_ of a
German matron is perfection, according to German ideas.
* * * * *
A good illustration of the historical spirit, which happily has come to
stay in our midst, is seen in the instructive and entertaining articles
which have recently been published in the newspapers concerning some old
New England homesteads. Among these is one in the Boston _Courier_ of
Oct. 4, 1885, telling of the Pickering house in Salem, built in 1659,
and still in the Pickering name, and also of the Porter place in Wenham,
which, although it had been in the Porter name without alienation since
1702, was of much older date. In the Boston _Transcript_ of Nov. 28,
1885, was also an interesting account of the old Curtis house at Jamaica
Plain, which was finished in 1639. Its builder, William Curtis, was its
first occupant; and from that time to 1883 none but his descendants
occupied the house. A number of ancient dwellings still standing in New
England were referred to in the same article.
Such public notices of time-honored landmarks are to be commended, not
only because they serve as historical links, but because they develop
that historical imagination which enables one to clothe with a tender
reverence places so rich in interest.
* * * * *
The present NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE is not the first of the name. Another
New England Magazine was established in 1831, by Joseph T. Buckingham
and his son Edwin, who died and was buried at sea in 1832. His cenotaph
may be seen in Mount Auburn, bearing the inscription, "The sea his body,
heaven his spirit holds." This magazine included among its contributors
John Quincy Adams, Oliver Wendell Holmes (who commenced _The Autocrat of
the Breakfast Table_ as a serial in it), Jeremy Belknap, Jared Sparks,
Edward Everett, Charles C. Felton, John G. Palfray, Gardner Spring,
Joseph Story, Francis Wayland, Daniel Webster, and Nathaniel P. Willis.
It contained articles upon the authorship of Junius, American
Colonization Society, and Spurzheim, who died in 1832, and was among the
first tenants of Mount Auburn, and the elegy upon whom, composed by John
Pierpont, commencing
"Many a form is bending o'er thee,
Many an eye with sorrow wet,"
pronounced at the funeral services at the Old South Church, is still
remembered by many. It also contained _Garrett's Fly-Time_, _Reflections
of a Jail-Bird_, etc., etc. It was discontinued in 1834, for want of
patronage. We have the courage to believe that the success so justly
merited, but denied to the projectors of this pioneer among American
periodicals, will not fail to reward the efforts of those who, at the
end of a half-century, take up the broken thread, and give the
time-honored name once more a place in American literature.
* * * * *
In a future number, we shall have more to say concerning our worthy
predecessor in the Magazine field. It will be seen that there is much in
common in the aims of the two periodicals, especially in the purpose to
represent, and loyally serve, the best interests of New England and its
people.
* * * * *
As the NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE seeks to become a repository for material of
interest concerning the New England States worthy of preservation, we
cordially invite contributions to its pages, from all sources, of matter
relating to town and local history, and the manners and customs of early
times, and of biographical and other sketches relating to the notable
men and women, the social and religious life, the occupations and
industries, of colonial and later days.
* * * * *
Under the head of NECROLOGY there will be published obituaries of
notable New England men and women recently deceased, accompanied, where
possible, by brief genealogical records. The value of material thus
placed in permanent form, within reach of future investigators, will be
at once evident; and we shall be glad to receive properly prepared brief
contributions to this department.
* * * * *
We shall seek to make the "Notes and Queries" department of the Magazine
of use and interest to our readers, as a medium of communication between
those seeking or possessing information as to New England persons and
places. Communications intended for this department should be written
separately from the letter enclosing them, and should be brief.
* * * * *
Brief records of the genealogy of families resident in New England
during and prior to the war of the Revolution are invited; and by
furnishing such records, especially in instances where they have not
already been fully published, valuable additions will be made to the
store of material relating to both history and biography--which is
really _fundamental_ history. Men and women _make_ history.
* * * * *
In this connection we shall welcome not only articles of length, but
anecdotes and scraps of information, for which a special department will
be furnished, under title of "In Olden Times."
HISTORICAL RECORD.[E]