_Marianne Celebrates_
The summer of 1814 found the American troops upon the Niagara frontier
more confident than ever before. Under the indefatigable labors of
General Scott, they had been vigorously trained, all through the
spring, in military tactics, and toward the end of June it was proposed
to reopen the campaign. There were British troops encamped at Chippewa;
Forts George, Niagara, and Erie were garrisoned, and at Queenston was
a small force. There was much sickness in the British camp, and their
entire force was not so large but that they had to resort to a draft of
one-fourteenth of the male population. This proclamation alarmed Madame
Desvouges and Victorine. What if Victor, who had been so fortunately
exempt thus far, should now be forced to take up arms, when he was more
than ever needed at home? But Victor was again lucky, for the axe did
not fall upon his devoted head.
With Royal beyond all hopes and fears, with her father a prisoner at
Quebec, all Marianne's anxiety was now centred in Jack, who was in the
field and might at any time be called to battle. There were daily
reports that the Americans intended to lose no time in regaining their
lost ground, and that they were ready to invade Canada. The British had
been vigilant in picking off spies who attempted to cross the river,
but, nevertheless, it was known that the Americans were quite aware
of the strength--or weakness--of their foe, and that when they came a
hot conflict might be expected. Soon the whole country was up in arms.
Marching and counter-marching, camps here, there, everywhere; the noise
of skirmishing, of hoof-beats up and down the roads, of alarms sounded,
of the beat of drums and the call of fifes filled the air.
On the morning of the fourth of July Marianne came downstairs full
of enthusiasm. "Independence Day," she cried. "I wish we could win a
battle this day."
"You know what that means," said Kate, significantly.
"What?" asked Marianne, wheeling around defiantly.
Kate took her face between her hands. "Your eyes were very red the day
Jack went away, little sister."
Marianne bit her lip and gave her head a toss. "Well, and what of it?
I suppose I may have my griefs and that you do not always know the
nature of them."
Kate put her arms around her. "Don't be cross, dear. Jack told me
long, long ago that you were very dear to him, and it is nothing to be
ashamed of that you should shed a tear for his sake."
Marianne's head drooped, and she sighed. "Yes; but, Kate, you know that
however much he cared, it could never be anything but a friendship."
"Why?"
"Because he is a Britisher, or the same as one; and my father would be
very unhappy, more than ever that he is bereft of his son, if I were to
go over to the enemy. I have always stood by father, and I shall always
do so, whatever happens."
"Even if it means the breaking of your own heart?"
"I will not let my heart break; but even if it did, rather than not
live on American soil I will die by inches, but I will die a free,
independent citizen of my own United States; so there!"
"Then nothing will persuade you to live on this side the river? What
about Victor? You know your family's desire in that direction."
"Whoever marries me will have to come over to my side. If he doesn't
love me enough for that, he can stay at home. But it is Fourth of July,
and I want to celebrate. Where is Jerusha? She is a good American; we
will do something together to declare our sentiments. If the country
were not full of soldiers, I would ride up to the Falls; only something
big and tremendous and exhilarating like that expresses my feelings on
this day."
Kate laughed and picked up her baby, who was crowing in his cradle,
while Marianne went in search of Jerusha. She found her in the
wash-house industriously at work. "It's Fourth of July, Jerusha," said
Marianne. "How shall we celebrate?"
"I guess I'm doing all the celebrating I'll do," Jerusha replied.
"There's one thing I don't mean shall be said to me, and that is, 'Why
stand ye all the day idle?' I've no time for jewlarking."
"Who said anything about that? Just hurrah for the Stars and Stripes,
or sing Yankee Doodle while you are washing, or do something. Oh, dear,
if one could but have a picnic or something like that, and if some one
was here to make a speech and set off fireworks, as we used to do at
home, I would be pleased."
Jerusha swashed her clothes up and down vigorously. "There's no time
for patriotic speeches these days. The army's on the move, and I guess
they'll show their patriotism by a kind of fireworks that ain't very
harmless. They say a proclamation has come out, saying that nobody's
going to be touched if they're peaceable and quiet; and I guess we can
rest easy, and not be afraid of Injuns being let loose on us. They're
marching toward Fort Erie; they say it's took by our men, and they're
coming this way. I guess they'll git stopped before they git here."
"They may get stopped, but I hope they'll not get beaten. I see
plainly, Jerusha, that you won't let me kindle the fires of your
patriotism, or if I do, you put them out with soapsuds, so I will go
off by myself and do my own celebrating."
"Look out that you don't go too far," Jerusha warned her.
"I'll not," Marianne called back. She went up to the garret to rummage
in an old chest, where she remembered storing a good-sized American
flag two years before. It was one she had made and brought over for the
purpose of teasing Royal and Jack. She rolled it up and slipped it in
her pocket with her little pipe. Then she went down through the orchard
and on into the woods. A slim young sapling gave her a staff for her
flag, and with it flung out to the breeze, she marched along gayly
piping Yankee Doodle.
When she reached a certain little knoll she planted her flag firmly,
and standing by its side she addressed herself to the silent company of
the trees. Her clear, girlish voice rang out in a flowery speech, in
which much spread-eagle oratory, mixed metaphor, and queer logic were
prominent. She was totally unaware that she had other audience than the
sentinel trees, but behind her, watering his horse at a tinkling brook,
was a young British soldier hastening with a message to Queenston. In
front of her in the thicket was hidden an American scout on his way in
the opposite direction to join Scott's army. Of the two, it was the
scout who was least anxious to be seen; for his was a dangerous errand
through the enemy's country, and he took his life in his hand when he
ventured forth.
The address ended, Marianne piped up again her Yankee Doodle. The two
men listened with very opposite emotions. What did not the little pipe
bring to the redcoat's recollection? What patriotic feelings were not
stirred in the heart of the American? He plucked up courage at the
sound. Here was a patriotic maiden, who could probably give him a few
hints how best to avoid the enemy on his journey.
Marianne stood smiling as he advanced toward her. He halted at the
foot of the mound, but alas for the Britisher, this very moment gave
a glimpse of the redcoat to the scout. Each saw the other at the same
instant. It was a critical time for the American; there might be other
British near; he obeyed his first impulse and fired. At the same
instant Marianne, having seen his start of surprise, swung around and
caught sight of the figure by the brook. She rushed forward still
holding her flag, which she had a minute before taken in her hand. Did
she not recognize that boyish face? "Jack!" she cried. "Oh, Jack!"
The young man still stood, but he leaned heavily against his horse and
felt for his pistol. Seeing this, the American took aim a second time,
but before he could fire, the form of the girl sprang between him and
his enemy, and her flag covered Jack from sight. "You dare not fire on
your flag," cried Marianne. "Go, go quickly; I, too, am an American,
but you shall not fire upon this man. Go, or I will call help; your
enemies are nearer than you know." She put the pipe to her lips, and
the man plunged into the thicket without a look behind.
Then Marianne flung down her flag, and ran to where Jack had sunk to
the ground, very white, but with a smile on his lips. The girl crouched
beside him, and took his head in her lap. "Jack," she said, "Jack,
you are not hurt badly; tell me you are not." His lips moved, but he
grew very faint, and no words came. His pallor and silence overcame
Marianne with alarm. "He is dead," she moaned. "All I love must go.
Oh, Jack, dear, dear Jack, I have been so cruel to you, so wrong and
hard-hearted. Speak to me. I love you, yes, I do love you. Listen
while I tell it. Listen before you die. I know now. I knew when you
left me that day. Jack, my dearest, my only love, don't die." The
eyelids fluttered, but there was no response from his white Lips. "What
shall I do? What shall I do? Oh, if some one would only come! Jerusha!
Victor! Kate!" she called. There came an answer from over the hill,
and presently a figure in sunbonnet and flapping gown appeared between
the trees. "Jerusha! Jerusha!" cried Marianne, "hurry! hurry!" And
Jerusha's strides became a run.
"I cal'lated you'd been gone long enough," Jerusha began, but she broke
short her sentence. "What in the name of conscience are you doin'
there? For the land's sake, Mary Anne Reyburn, what are you doing with
that Britisher?"
"Oh, Jerusha, Jerusha, it's Jack, it's Jack, and he's killed! Oh,
Jerusha, it is my own dear Jack who loves me so; and I love him, I do.
Jack, I do!"
Despite the gravity of the situation, Jerusha gave her a glance of
scorn. "You do, do you? I thought you couldn't abide him. Trust a girl
for not knowing her own mind. Here, let me see what's the matter." She
knelt down and laid her hand over the young man's heart. "He ain't
dead; he's just swoonded." She went to the brook, and scooping up some
water, dashed it in his face, and then began to bathe his head. After a
little he opened his eyes and smiled at them. Marianne sat up stiffly.
"You're not dead," she said.
"No," he replied; "I guess not this time. It was a close shave. You
saved me, Marianne," he whispered.
The color came back to the girl's lips. "I believe I did," she replied,
in a low voice, glancing at Jerusha, who was tethering the horse that
he might not get away. "Or, rather," she went on, seeing that Jerusha
did not hear, "it was the flag did it. You were saved by my flag; you
can never revile it again."
Jack began to laugh weakly in spite of his evident pain. "It was so
funny," he said.
"What?" asked Marianne, in surprise.
"The Fourth of July address," he answered, and then he fainted again,
and Marianne's rising pique was lost in her anxiety.
"We must try to get him up to the house at once," said Jerusha,
coming at Marianne's call. "I'll go and fetch Victor and some sort of
litter, and I guess between us we can carry him. Don't you get into
high-strikes again while I'm gone. He's good for some time yet, for all
I kin see."
With this reassurance and admonishment, Marianne was left. She sat
quietly, with Jack's head resting in her lap, and in a short time
Jerusha returned, and Jack was carefully carried to the house, where
he was wept over by Kate, and tenderly ministered to by Victorine and
Madame Desvouges. He was Royal's friend, and that was enough to win him
compassionate and gentle care. Upon seeing him in competent hands,
Marianne held aloof, and as his danger lessened, she withdrew herself
more and more.
As night came on, the sound of distant cannonading reached their ears,
and the next day brought the news of victory for the Americans on
the field of Chippewa. "I told you," said Jerusha, "there would be
fireworks."
A few days later, when the American army was encamped at Queenston, who
should come hobbling in but Asa. He had been wounded at Lundy's Lane,
but had declined to be sent to the hospital at Lewiston, saying he had
friends on this side the river. He brought news that gave a strange
gray pallor to Jerusha's face. Her husband had fallen in battle. She
heard Asa imperturbably, giving no evidence of emotion but a tight
clasping of her knotted hands. "I hope he was prepared," she said, as
she arose to leave the room. Marianne stole after her. "Jerusha, dear
Jerusha," she said, with her arms about her, "I am so, so grieved for
you."
Jerusha pressed her lips convulsively together. "I guess my bitterest
tears were shed long ago," she said. "He wa'n't a good man, but he
might have been a worse one. He was no patriot, but--but--" She turned
away her head, and the tears stole down her cheeks. He was the love of
her youth, and at that moment all else was blotted out.
Next to appear was Fred Lyle, Lieutenant Lyle now, and he brought
brighter news. Mrs. Reyburn and Sue were in Geneva, and had been
together all this time. They were both well. Captain Reyburn still
awaited his exchange, but they had heard from him from time to time,
and he was well treated and hoped for a speedy release; indeed, they
might expect to see him any day. Of Major Silverthorn Jack was able
to tell them; he was still with the army, and as bitter a partisan
as ever. Jack, it may be mentioned, seemed very well content not to
have been a sharer in the fortunes and misfortunes of his regiment at
Chippewa and Lundy's Lane. Fred gave them a graphic account of these
two battles, of that valiant charge at Chippewa, where General Scott,
by his brilliant tactics, defeated the larger force of the enemy;
and of Lundy's Lane, fought within sight and sound of the thundering
cataract of Niagara, and fought by night, a weird battle surely. "We
took the battery, held it, and drove the enemy from the field. We
should have held our ground; there was no reason why we could not have
done it, but because we did not, the British claim a victory, but it is
preposterous."
Jack, to whom he was talking, did not argue the point. He felt in no
mood for it. He was occupied with wondering why Marianne held herself
so aloof. She had saved his life, for without a doubt a second shot
from the unerring gun of an American scout would have laid him low. He
felt secure as to his despatches, for Victor had taken charge of them
and forwarded them. But for Marianne's presence they might have fallen
into the hands of the enemy, Jack told himself, and he owed the girl
thanks for that.
It was his old spirit of teasing which finally brought Marianne out of
her attitude of diffidence; for he told her triumphantly that he meant
to apply to the British government for a medal for her in recognition
of her gallantry in defending his Majesty's messenger, who was carrying
important despatches upon his person.
She recoiled a step from him and looked at him with a shocked
expression. He was sitting up for the first time, and though not rosy,
he looked well. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I did that! I was disloyal to
my country! O dear, that was dreadful! I ought not to have failed to
examine your pockets to find out what you carried; that is what a real
heroine would have done. It really was dreadfully wrong of me."
"To save my life?" He held out his hand. "You said we were friends,
Marianne," he dropped his bantering tone. "Won't you let me thank you
for that? It was like your dear, noble self."
Marianne smiled. "As I told you before, you must thank my flag; it
defended you. You were under its protection. No good American would
fire on his own flag, you see, and I knew it would be perfectly safe
for you behind it."
"All the same, the flag couldn't have walked without feet, and it was
you who placed yourself between me and danger. I repeat, and shall
always to my dying day, that you saved my life; I wish you would take
the credit for it and let me tell them all what you did."
"I don't want you to."
"Why not?"
Marianne shot him a hurt glance. "You must not tell any one that it was
I who saved you. Oh, can't you see why?" And she precipitately fled,
leaving Jack to puzzle over her words. It was months after that his
masculine mind grasped what she meant, and he was able to perceive what
her womanly intuition had seen in a moment.
Jack joined his grandfather in Montreal, and Asa with his limping foot
remained with the family till the summer faded and the winter brought
the news that the Niagara frontier was abandoned by both sides. It had
been sorely distressed, but one after another began to creep back to
the abandoned homes; the wasted fields once more began to show signs of
greenness, and houses sprang up here and there upon the sites marked
by blackened heaps. Among the last to return were Captain Reyburn and
his wife. The former had at last received his exchange and made haste
to join his wife at Geneva. Together they made the journey back to
where their home once stood, and then they crossed the river. The news
of Royal's death and of Marianne's safety had reached them, and now
they were eager to see their daughter and the new claimant to their
affections, the baby Walter.
It was a nipping cold day when they arrived at Madame Desvouges's and
found, shut in the warmth of her big living-room, the whole family.
For once Mrs. Reyburn had no words as she held Marianne to her mother
heart. "Our child, our child; all we have left," she said at last,
turning to her husband. But Captain Reyburn was smiling down at Kate,
as he held the baby close to his bearded face. "Oh, no," he said, "we
have another daughter, and here, my wife, is our little grandson that
you have so longed to see." He put the child in her lap and asked, "And
what is the name of this little fellow?"
"Walter, Kate told me. It was Royal's dearest wish that he should be
named after you." And then the strong man, who had bravely faced danger
and loss and sorrow and defeat, fell upon his knees by his wife's side
and hid his face. "My son, my son," he cried, "how gladly would I have
died for you!"
Tears were coursing down Marianne's cheeks as she bent over him.
"Father, dear father," she whispered, "don't say that. What would
mother and I do without you?"
"Your last letter was such a comfort," Kate told him, "and he said
many times that he loved you very dearly even when he seemed the most
unruly, and he hoped his son would be the comfort and stay to you that
he thought he had failed to be."
"My poor Royal," sighed Mrs. Reyburn, "he was so young, and it was love
he needed to lead him. He would never be driven."
Despite the knowledge that all hard feeling had been swept away by
the letter Captain Reyburn had written to his son, and which was so
treasured by him, it was a bitter moment for the father, who realized
too late that but for his own inflexible will there need never have
been any misunderstanding between him and his eldest born.
That Kate bore him no ill-will and was so anxious to carry out Royal's
wishes affected Captain Reyburn greatly, and he paid her such deference
and consideration as would have gladdened Royal's heart to see. "You
will come home to us, my daughter," he said to her. "I shall rebuild as
soon as spring opens. By then I hope we shall have peace."
"We will see whether Kate and the boy are willing to leave me,"
interposed Madame Desvouges, jealously. She was pitifully eager to
recompense Kate for her first unkindness, and as to the boy, to lose
him seemed more than she could bear. "You would not take them from
me," she said pathetically. "I should never recover from it! I want
them always, always."
"But we want them, too," said Mrs. Reyburn, already a slave to her
grandson's charms.
"We shall see," said Madame, emphatically. "There is time enough.
Matters will adjust themselves. There is no need to quarrel over them
now. Possession is nine points of the law, and behold, we possess."