_Runaways_
As the sleigh-bells commenced their departing jingle Marianne sprang
from the bed. "Now then, they are gone!" she cried. "That I hope was
an excusable deception. Come out, Cousin Fred, and tell us the rest of
your story; you must be tired enough of your close corner."
The young man obeyed with alacrity, and began to tell them of the
battle of Frenchtown, saying, "I suppose you have not yet heard what
has befallen us in the battle on the 23d of January at Frenchtown. It
is the latest news I bring and bad enough at that. At first our side
was successful, but we were surprised by a combined force of British
and Indians, and a most horrible massacre ensued. It makes one's
blood run cold to think of it, and I will spare you details. Hundreds
of brave Kentuckians, my own friends and relatives among them, were
scalped and mutilated by the savages. Do you wonder that I long for
revenge, and for a chance for active service?"
The girls listened, pale and horror-stricken.
"I have begged to be sent to the front," said Fred, "but before I
should go, I felt that I must make an effort to see you, Sue, dear. I
took my chances, for I felt that I could not go without one more word
with you."
"Don't say that, after the dreadful tale you have been telling us."
Sue held out her hands supplicatingly. "It will be harder than ever to
sit mute and listen to grandfather's tirades against you. Oh, Fred, to
think you might have been one of those to fall by the hand of those
murderous Indians. How can I let you go? Pray do not try to be in the
thick of it. Let fate take its course and do not court danger."
He came closer and took her hands. "You love me, Sue?"
She gave a quick glance at Marianne before she whispered, "Yes."
"Never mind my little cousin," said Fred, smiling at Marianne. "You are
our good friend, Marianne, I know."
"Yes, yes," Marianne replied eagerly, "and I shall be glad, very glad,
Sue, dear, to have you for my cousin."
Sue smiled faintly, then asked her lover wistfully, "Must you go back
soon?"
"Yes, it was a risk to come at all, you know."
"And after you return, will you go to the front at once?"
"I cannot tell just how soon, but at all events I cannot stay here very
long."
"No, I can see that, but," she put her hand on his arm, "it seems
harder than ever to let you go."
"If you were but on the other side of the river, we could be together
till the time came when I should be ordered away. Sue, dear heart, do
you love me enough to forsake your family and to take the chances of a
soldier's wife now, when it may bring you greater sorrow if I fall?"
She clung to him closely, "Oh Fred, I love you enough for anything,"
she whispered, "but--if I could know what is right! Would it make you
happier, dear?"
"Happier! You know that, Sue; and if anything can make me fight more
desperately, it will be the thought of my wife waiting my return."
"Your wife?" Sue's whisper was a half sigh.
"Yes, sweet. Shall it be so? Will you consent to it? To cross the
river with me where we can best get over on the ice? Do you think your
parents would receive us, Cousin Marianne? Would you--could you send
with us a message to your parents, commending Sue to their charge?"
"I? Gladly, Cousin Fred. And--yes, I know my mother will welcome Sue,
and our home shall be hers while you are away."
"Good girl. Thank you, cousin. So, Sue--"
"Yes?"
"Shall we do this? And after the war we will go back to Kentucky, God
willing, and I shall be proud to present my wife to my family there."
Sue smiled up at him and nodded assent, her heart too full for words.
And then Mrs. Hunter came in to remind Marianne that she had had no
supper, and they all went into the kitchen together.
The first dim light of dawn was stealing over the land when Sue bade
Marianne a tearful good-by. "Wouldn't it be better if I were to go,
too?" Marianne asked.
Sue shook her head. "No, no, I will not have any censure come to you
through me. I shall have Fred, and I am not afraid. You will try to
comfort Kate and be a sister to her. I would rather have you stay for
that. It will not be so hard for Kate if she is not left alone; and I
hope soon, soon there will be no barrier to separate us. Tell father I
love him dearly as I have always done, and that I hope he will forgive
me for leaving him."
So they watched her depart into the gray of the morning, confident in
her love and faith, and yet with a strange longing and regret tugging
at her heart.
Of course there was a scene at the Silverthorns when the news of Sue's
flight was brought them. It was Royal who spared his little sister the
pain of telling it. "I can stand the Major's explosions of wrath," he
insisted. "You can tell Kate if you like, and I will face the others."
"My poor Sue," said Kate, the tears gathering in her eyes; "it seems
so pitiful that she must go without one of us to wish her happiness.
Oh, I hope she will be happy; but I shall miss her so, and I cannot
quite forgive Fred for being willing to have her leave us all without
a word." She put her head down on Marianne's shoulder and wept softly.
Presently she wiped away her tears. "I must go to father," she said.
"He is the one who needs me."
Marianne wisely stayed behind, and Royal slipped from the room when
Kate appeared. Major Silverthorn was storming up and down the floor,
uttering all manner of execrations. Kate paid no heed to him, but went
directly to her father, who gathered her into his arms. The humorous
twinkle was gone from his eye, and his mouth was gravely set. "You are
not angry, too, father?" Kate whispered.
"Angry with my girl? No." He shook his head. "She had no mother to
teach her patience and prudence, my poor little Sue. She is not to
blame."
"And you will forgive her when she comes back?"
"Forgive her? There's nothing to forgive. I am to blame myself. I
should not have treated it all so lightly. It was no joke to her, poor
child. While she was eating her heart out with fear and anxiety, I
laughed at her." He drew his hand across his eyes.
Kate clung closer to him and would not have him blame himself, rather
counting herself at fault. And so they comforted each other, and no one
felt harshly toward poor Sue except the inflexible major. Jack heard
the news gravely. It was Kate who told him, and he had no comment to
make but, "Poor Sue, I hope she will be happy. Fred is a good fellow if
he does belong to the other side, though I think he was wrong to steal
our sister away."
But soon there was little time to consider anything but near and
immediate dangers. As the spring opened, hostilities were renewed.
The invasion of Canada was still the object of the Americans. Their
regular force was now nearly sixty thousand, while that of Sir George
Prevost, governor of Canada, was comparatively small. Up to this time
neither side had displayed very excellent tactics, and the border
country, except in special localities, had not suffered greatly.
But the day of terror was near. The employment of Indian allies was
sufficient fact to determine a season of horrible warfare, and the more
timid were trembling at the possibilities in store for them.
In February Sir George Prevost directed an attack against Ogdensburg,
capturing the American stores and artillery. It was considered so
great a victory that a message was sent to the commanding officer of
Fort Niagara, informing him that a salute would be fired from Fort
George in honor of the affair. The American officer sent a return
message to the effect that he was gratified to be able to return the
compliment, as he intended to fire a salute from his fort at the same
time, having just received news of a brilliant naval victory: that of
the _Peacock_ over the British frigate _Java_. Probably no one enjoyed
the humor of this more than Mr. Silverthorn, and he laughed with
Marianne over the Yankee wit of Colonel McFeely.
With the disappearance of the ice from the streams and the lakes the
military movements were started, and then Marianne's grandmother
clamored for her to remain with her altogether. "I shall not have a
moment's peace," the old lady declared, "with both you and Royal in the
midst of danger."
"But shall I be any safer here?" Marianne asked.
"Surely, yes. Monsieur Silverthorn has chosen a most isolated
habitation, and who could ever discover if a horde of savages were
suddenly to descend upon you all there?"
"But it does not seem right to desert Kate."
"And what is to prevent the coming of Mademoiselle Kate, too?"
But to this Kate would not listen. "It is right for you to go to your
grandmother's," she decided, "for families should keep together if they
can at such times, and for that reason I must stay here where father
and Jack can come if they need me."
"But if danger seems nearer you than us, you will come?" said Marianne.
"If I can. You must not worry about me. We are so far out of the way
that for that very reason we shall probably be safer than those nearer
the village and the high road."
So Marianne left her reluctantly, and arrived at her grandmother's to
hear them all talking of the attack upon York. General Pike had been
killed, and it was reported that the American fleet was coming down
the lake. Then came the positive information that General Dearborn had
evacuated York and was making for the Niagara country.
"There will be trouble for us now," said Victor, who brought the news.
And it was not long before the first booming of the great guns from the
batteries on both sides the river told them that the trouble had begun.
The thunders of the cannons were silenced by night, but began again
the next morning. Except for the constant booming, it was quiet enough
at the Desvouges farm, but there was confusion enough beyond,--troops
marching, fighting, shouting; flags waving, drums beating, fifes
shrilly playing. From time to time one or another of these sounds
came faintly to the ears of the family. By noon Fort George had been
surrendered, and by night all was quiet. The Niagara frontier was
abandoned by the British.
"My father! My father! I shall see him soon," Marianne cried
delightedly.
"I would not count upon it too surely," her grandmother warned her.
"But why? He will surely come. He must have been there with his
regiment."
"Yes, but this is war, my child. It does not mean that there are none
slain, nor wounded."
"Oh!" Marianne had not for a moment considered such a possibility,
since her friends were the victors. She grew suddenly pale. "Do you
think he is killed, grand'mère?" she asked, in an awed tone.
"Tut, tut, my child, I did not say so. I but warned you not to be too
confident of seeing him. The fortunes of war are so very uncertain."
But the girl did not hear her. She had sprung to her feet. "He is
coming now! I hear him! I see him!" she cried. "Father! Father!" She
sprang to the door to meet him, indeed, upon the very sill, hale and
hearty and weather-beaten.
"You have come! You have come!" cried Marianne, catching him around the
neck and receiving a mighty embrace.
"Come, sure enough; and not alone, either," replied her father with a
laugh. "This time there are plenty to keep me in countenance."
"It is true, then; we have taken Fort George?"
"Yes, and five hundred prisoners."
"Good!" But a sudden thought sobered her. "Do you suppose that Royal
and the Silverthorns are among them?" she asked gravely.
Her father's smile faded. "I do not know. We shall see." Then he
brightened again. "You are on our soil to-night, daughter."
"So I am, and long enough have I been off it. Now do tell me the news,
father. Mother and Jerusha are well?"
"Yes, but anxious to see you. Let me have a word with your grandmother,
and then I will tell you all that you are so ready to hear." He
turned to Madame Desvouges and chatted with her while Marianne waited
impatiently her turn. A long sigh drew her grandmother's attention to
the wistful face. She laughed. "I see I shall be considered an old one
most tiresome, if I do not give way to this questioner. We shall have
to send her to bed very early in order to converse."
"I do want to hear about Sue," said Marianne, eagerly.
"She is still with your mother, and a great comfort to her in your
absence. Naughty little Marianne, you let her steal a march on you. I
had looked to see you in her place."
Marianne laughed. "Cousin Fred could not wait for me, it seems, for I
have no mind to marry yet, and I am very well content to have Sue for a
cousin. Isn't she a fine girl?"
"She is, and Fred is a fine fellow."
"They ought to be very happy, then, and I suppose they are. Is Fred
with you? Was he in the battle to-day?"
"Yes, and came out of it safe and sound. To-morrow you shall see him,
and your mother, too, I hope."
"Here?"
"Or at our own home."
"No, here," interrupted Madame Desvouges, "and then we shall all have
the pleasure. I protest at breaking up a family again."
"We must get Kate, and--oh, but it will be fine to have every one safe,
and to feel that one does not have to hide and contrive and beware
of enemies at every turn. Grand'mère forgives you for making her an
American, I know she does. Yes, grand'mère, this is American soil now,
and you cannot do or say anything against any of us or you will be made
a prisoner as I make you one now." She encircled the old lady's waist
with her arms and would not let her go.
"To-morrow, Victor," said Madame, "you will go and bring my daughter
and her friend home. Do not forget to start early."
"And we will go and get Kate, and have a grand family reunion. Will it
not be fine, Victorine?"
Victorine smiled sadly. Her thoughts flew to Royal. Was he this night
wounded, a prisoner, or dead? "Your brother, too, should be here to
make it complete," she said.
"True," Marianne sighed. "I hope he is safe. I forgot that one can
never be completely happy; there is always a thorn somewhere." But
where Royal was at that moment they little knew.