The morning of the next day dawned on few who had pressed their
customary couches--on none, whose feverish pulse and bloodshot eye
failed to attest the utter sleeplessness in which the night had been
passed. Numerous groups of men were to be seep assembling after the
reveille, in various parts of the barrack square--those who had borne a
part in the recent expedition commingling with those who had not, and
recounting to the latter, with mournful look and voice, the
circumstances connected with the bereavement of their universally
lamented officer. As none, however, had seen the blow struck that
deprived him of life, although each had heard the frantic exclamations
of a voice that had been recognised for Ellen Halloway's, much of the
marvellous was necessarily mixed up with truth in their
narrative,--some positively affirming Mr. de Haldimar had not once
quitted his party, and declaring that nothing short of a supernatural
agency could have transported him unnoticed to the fatal spot, where,
in their advance, they had beheld him murdered. The singular appearance
of Ellen Halloway also, at that moment, on the very bridge on which she
had pronounced her curse on the family of De Haldimar, and in company
with the terrible and mysterious being who had borne her off in triumph
on that occasion to the forest, and under circumstances calculated to
excite the most superstitious impressions, was not without its weight
in determining their rude speculations; and all concurred in opinion,
that the death of the unfortunate young officer was a judgment on their
colonel for the little mercy he had extended to the noble-hearted
Halloway.
Then followed allusion to their captive, whose gigantic stature and
efforts at escape, tremendous even as the latter were, were duly
exaggerated by each, with the very laudable view of claiming a
proportionate share of credit for his own individual exertions; and
many and various were the opinions expressed as to the manner of death
he should be made to suffer. Among the most conspicuous of the orators
were those with whom our readers have already made slight acquaintance
in our account of the sortie by Captain Erskine's company for the
recovery of the supposed body of Frederick de Haldimar. One was for
impaling him alive, and setting him up to rot on the platform above the
gate. Another for blowing him from the muzzle of a twenty-four pounder,
into the centre of the first band of Indians that approached the fort,
that thus perceiving they had lost the strength and sinew of their
cunning war, they might be the more easily induced to propose terms of
peace. A third was of opinion he ought to be chained to the top of the
flag-staff, as a target, to be shot at with arrows only, contriving
never to touch a mortal part. A fourth would have had him tied naked
over the sharp spikes that constituted the chevaux-de-frize garnishing
the sides of the drawbridge. Each devised some new death--proposed some
new torture; but all were of opinion, that simply to be shot, or even
to be hanged, was too merciful a punishment for the wretch who had so
wantonly and inhumanly butchered the kind-hearted, gentle-mannered
officer, whom they had almost all known and loved from his very
boyhood; and they looked forward, with mingled anxiety and vengeance,
to the moment when, summoned as it was expected he shortly would be,
before the assembled garrison, he would be made to expiate the atrocity
with his blood.
While the men thus gave indulgence to their indignation and their
grief, their officers were even mere painfully affected. The body of
the ill-fated Charles had been borne to his apartment, where, divested
of its disguise, it had again been inducted in such apparel as was
deemed suited to the purpose. Extended on the very bed on which he lay
at the moment when she, whose maniac raving, and forcible detention,
had been the immediate cause of his destruction, had preferred her wild
but fruitless supplication for mercy, he exhibited, even in death, the
same delicate beauty that had characterised him on that occasion; yet,
with a mildness and serenity of expression on his still, pale features,
strongly in contrast with the agitation and glow of excitement that
then distinguished him. Never was human loveliness in death so marked
as in Charles de Haldimar; and but for the deep wound that, dividing
his clustering locks, had entered from the very crown of the head to
the opening of his marble brow, one ignorant of his fate might have
believed he but profoundly slept. Several women of the regiment were
occupied in those offices about the corpse, which women alone are
capable of performing at such moments, and as they did so, suffered
their tears to flow silently yet abundantly over him, who was no longer
sensible either of human grief or of human joy. Close at the head of
the bed stood an old man, with his face buried in his hands; the latter
reposing against the wainscoting of the room. He, too, wept, but his
weeping was more audible, more painful, and accompanied by suffocating
sobs. It was the humble, yet almost paternally attached servant of the
defunct--the veteran Morrison.
Around the bed were grouped nearly all the officers, standing in
attitudes indicative of anxiety and interest, and gazing mournfully on
the placid features of their ill-fated friend. All, on entering, moved
noiselessly over the rude floor, as though fearful of disturbing the
repose of one who merely slumbered; and the same precaution was
extended to the brief but heartfelt expressions of sorrow that passed,
from one to the other, as they gazed on all that remained of the gentle
De Haldimar. At length the preparations of the women having been
completed, they retired from the room, leaving one of their number
only, rather out of respect than necessity, to remain by the corpse.
When they were departed, this woman, the wife of one of Blessington's
sergeants, and the same who had been present at the scene between Ellen
Halloway and the deceased, cut off a large lock of his beautiful hair,
and separating it into small tresses, handed one to each of the
officers. This considerate action, although unsolicited on the part of
the latter, deeply touched them, as indicating a sense of the high
estimation in which the youth bad been held. It was a tribute to the
memory of him they mourned, of the purest kind; and each, as he
received his portion, acknowledged with a mournful but approving look,
or nod, or word, the motive that bad prompted the offering. Nor was it
a source of less satisfaction, melancholy even as that satisfaction
was, to perceive that, after having set aside another lock, probably
for the sister of the deceased, she selected and consigned to the bosom
of her dress a third, evidently intended for herself. The whole scene
was in striking contrast with the almost utter absence of all
preparation or concern that had preceded the interment of Murphy, on a
former occasion. In one, the rude soldier was mourned,--in the other,
the gentle friend was lamented; nor the latter alone by the companions
to whom intimacy had endeared him, but by those humbler dependants, who
knew him only through those amiable attributes of character, which were
ever equally extended to all. Gradually the officers now moved away in
the same noiseless manner in which they had approached, either in
pursuance of their several duties, or to make their toilet of the
morning. Two only of their number remained near the couch of death.
"Poor unfortunate De Haldimar!" observed one of these, in a low tone,
as if speaking to himself; "too fatally, indeed, have your forebodings
been realised; and what I considered as the mere despondency of a mind
crashed into feebleness by an accumulation of suffering, was, after
all, but the first presentiment of a death no human power might avert.
By Heaven! I would give up half my own being to be able to reanimate
that form once more,--but the wish is vain."
"Who shall announce the intelligence to his sister?" sighed his
companion. "Never will that already nearly heart-broken girl be able to
survive the shock of her brother's death. Blessington, you alone are
fitted to such a task; and, painful as it is, you must undertake it. Is
the colonel apprised of the dreadful truth, do you know?"
"He is. It was told him at the moment of our arrival last night; but
from the little outward emotion displayed by him, I should be tempted
to infer he had almost anticipated some such catastrophe."
"Poor, poor Charles!" bitterly exclaimed Sir Everard Valletort--for it
was he. "What would I not give to recall the rude manner in which I
spurned you from me last night. But, alas! what could I do, laden with
such a trust, and pursued, without the power of defence, by such an
enemy? Little, indeed, did I imagine what was so speedily to be your
doom! Blessington," he pursued, with increased emotion, "it grieves me
to wretchedness to think that he, whom I loved as though he had been my
twin brother, should have perished with his last thoughts, perhaps,
lingering on the seeming unkindness with which I had greeted him after
so anxious an absence."
"Nay, if there be blame, it must attach to me," sorrowfully observed
Captain Blessington. "Had Erskine and myself not retired before the
savage, as we did, our unfortunate friend would in all probability have
been alive at this very hour. But in our anxiety to draw the former
into the ambuscade we had prepared for him, we utterly overlooked that
Charles was not retreating with us."
"How happened it," demanded Sir Everard, his attention naturally
directed to the subject by the preceding remarks, "that you lay thus in
ambuscade, when the object of the expedition, as solicited by Frederick
de Haldimar, was an attempt to reach us in the encampment of the
Indians?"
"It certainly was under that impression we left the fort; but, on
coming to the spot where the friendly Indian lay waiting to conduct us,
he proposed the plan we subsequently adopted as the most likely, not
only to secure the escape of the prisoners, whom he pledged himself to
liberate, but to defend ourselves with advantage against Wacousta and
the immediate guard set over them, should they follow in pursuit.
Erskine approving, as well as myself, of the plan, we halted at the
bridge, and disposed of our men under each extremity; so that, if
attacked by the Indians in front, we might be enabled to throw them
into confusion by taking them in rear, as they flung themselves upon
the bridge. The event seemed to answer our expectations. The alarm
raised in the encampment satisfied us the young Indian had contrived to
fulfil his promise; and we momentarily looked for the appearance of
those whose flight we naturally supposed would be directed towards the
bridge. To our great surprise, however, we remarked that the sounds of
pursuit, instead of approaching us, seemed to take an opposite
direction, apparently towards the point whence we had seen the
prisoners disembarked in the morning. At length, when almost tempted to
regret we had not pushed boldly on, in conformity with our first
intention, we heard the shrill cries of a woman; and, not long
afterwards, the sounds of human feet rushing down the slope. What our
sensations were, you may imagine; for we all believed it to be either
Clara or Madeline de Haldimar fleeing alone, and pursued by our
ferocious enemies. To show ourselves would, we were sensible, be to
ensure the death of the pursued, before we could possibly come up; and,
although it was with difficulty we repressed the desire to rush forward
to the rescue, our better judgment prevailed. Finally we saw you
approach, followed closely by what appeared to be a mere boy of an
Indian, and, at a considerable distance, by the tall warrior of the
Fleur de lis. We imagined there was time enough for you to gain the
bridge; and finding your more formidable pursuer was only accompanied
by the youth already alluded to, conceived at that moment the design of
making him our prisoner. Still there were half a dozen muskets ready to
be levelled on him should he approach too near to his fugitives, or
manifest any other design than that of simply recapturing them. How
well our plan succeeded you are aware; but, alas!" and he glanced
sorrowfully at the corpse, "why was our success to be embittered by so
great a sacrifice?"
"Ah, would to Heaven that he at least had been spared," sighed Sir
Everard, as he took the wan white hand of his friend in his own; "and
yet I know not: he looks so calm, so happy in death, it is almost
selfish to repine he has escaped the horrors that still await us in
this dreadful warfare. But what of Frederick and Madeline de Haldimar?
From the statement you have given, they must have been liberated by the
young Ottawa before he came to me; yet, what could have induced them to
have taken a course of flight so opposite to that which promised their
only chance of safety?"
"Heaven only knows," returned Captain Blessington. "I fear they have
again been recaptured by the savages; in which case their doom is
scarcely doubtful; unless, indeed, our prisoner of last night be given
up in exchange for them."
"Then will their liberty be purchased at a terrible price," remarked
the baronet. "Will you believe, Blessington, that that man, whose
enmity to our colonel seems almost devilish, was once an officer in
this very regiment?"
"You astonish me, Valletort.--Impossible! and yet it has always been
apparent to me they were once associates."
"I heard him relate his history only last night to Clara, whom he had
the audacity to sully with proposals to become his bride," pursued the
baronet. "His tale was a most extraordinary one. He narrated it,
however, only up to the period when the life of De Haldimar was
attempted by him at Quebec. But with his subsequent history we are all
acquainted, through the fame of his bloody atrocities in all the posts
that have fallen into the hands of Ponteac. That man, savage and even
fiendish as he now is, was once possessed of the noblest qualities. I
am sorry to say it; but Colonel de Haldimar has brought this present
affliction upon himself. At some future period I will tell you all."
"Alas!" said Captain Blessington, "poor Charles, then, has been made to
pay the penalty of his father's errors; and, certainly, the greatest of
these was his dooming the unfortunate Halloway to death in the manner
he did."
"What think you of the fact of Halloway being the nephew of this
extraordinary man, and both of high family?" demanded Sir Everard.
"Indeed! and was the latter, then, aware of the connection?"
"Not until last night," replied Sir Everard. "Some observations made by
the wretched wife of Halloway, in the course of which she named his
true name, (which was that of the warrior also,) first indicated the
fact to the latter. But, what became of that unfortunate creature?--was
she brought in?"
"I understand not," said Captain Blessington. "In the confusion and
hurry of securing our prisoner, and the apprehension of immediate
attack from his warriors, Ellen was entirely overlooked. Some of my men
say they left her lying, insensible, on the spot whence they had raised
the body of our unfortunate friend, which they had some difficulty in
releasing from her convulsive embrace. But, hark! there is the first
drum for parade, and I have not yet exchanged my Indian garb."
Captain Blessington now quitted the room, and Sir Everard, relieved
from the restraining presence of his companions, gave free vent to his
emotion, throwing himself upon the body of his friend, and giving
utterance to the feelings of anguish that oppressed his heart.
He had continued some minutes in this position, when he fancied he felt
the warm tears of a human being bedewing a hand that reposed on the
neck of his unfortunate friend. He looked up, and, to his infinite
surprise, beheld Clara de Haldimar standing before him at the opposite
side of the bed. Her likeness to her brother, at that moment, was so
striking, that, for a second or two, the irrepressible thought passed
through the mind of the officer, it was not a living being he gazed
upon, but the immaterial spirit of his friend. The whole attitude and
appearance of the wretched girl, independently of the fact of her
noiseless entrance, tended to favour the delusion. Her features, of an
ashy paleness, seemed fixed, even as those of the corpse beneath him;
and, but for the tears that coursed silently down her cheek, there was
scarcely an outward evidence of emotion. Her dress was a simple white
robe, fastened round her waist with a pale blue riband; and over her
shoulders hung her redundant hair, resembling in colour, and disposed
much in the manner of that of her brother, which had been drawn
negligently down to conceal the wound on his brow. For some moments the
baronet gazed at her in speechless agony. Her tranquil exterior was
torture to him; for he, feared it betokened some alienation of reason.
He would have preferred to witness the most hysteric convulsion of
grief, rather than that traitorous calm; and yet he had not the power
to seek to remove it.
"You are surprised to see me here, mingling my grief with yours, Sir
Everard," she at length observed, with the same calm mien, and in tones
of touching sweetness. "I came, with my father's permission, to take a
last farewell of him whose death has broken my heart. I expected to be
alone; but--Nay, do not go," she added, perceiving that the officer was
about to depart. "Had you not been here, I should have sent for you;
for we have both a sacred duty to perform. May I not ask your hand?"
More and more dismayed at her collected manner, the young officer gazed
at her with the deepest sorrow depicted in every line of his own
countenance. He extended his hand, and Clara, to his surprise, grasped
and pressed it firmly.
"It was the wish of this poor boy that his Clara should be the wife of
his friend, Sir Everard. Did he ever express such to you?"
"It was the fondest desire of his heart," returned the baronet, unable
to restrain the emotion of joy that mingled, despite of himself, with
his worst apprehensions.
"I need not ask how you received his proposal," continued Clara, with
the same calmness of manner. "Last night," she pursued solemnly, "I was
the bride of the murderer of my brother, of the lover of my
mother,--tomorrow night I may be the bride of death; but to-night I am
the bride of my brother's friend. Yes, here am I come to pledge myself
to the fulfilment of his wish. If you deem a heart-broken girl not
unworthy of you, I am your wife, Sir Everard; and, recollect, it is a
solemn pledge, that which a sister gives over the lifeless body of a
brother, beloved as this has been."
"Oh, Clara--dearest Clara," passionately exclaimed the excited young
man, "if a life devoted to your happiness can repay you for this, count
upon it as you would upon your eternal salvation. In you will I love
both my friend and the sister he has bequeathed to me. Clara, my
betrothed wife, summon all the energies of your nature to sustain this
cruel shock; and exert yourself for him who will be to you both a
brother and a husband."
As he spoke he drew the unresisting girl towards him, and, locking her
in his embrace, pressed, for the first time, the lips, which it had
maddened him the preceding night to see polluted by the forcible kisses
of Wacousta. But Clara shared not, but merely suffered his momentary
happiness. Her cheek wore not the crimson of excitement, neither were
her tears discontinued. She seemed as one who mechanically submitted to
what she had no power of resistance to oppose; and even in the embrace
of her affianced husband, she exhibited the same deathlike calm that
had startled him at her first appearance. Religion could not hallow a
purer feeling than that which had impelled the action of the young
officer. The very consciousness of the sacred pledge having been
exchanged over the corpse of his friend, imparted a holiness of fervour
to his mind; and even while he pressed her, whom he secretly swore to
love with all the affection of a fond brother and a husband united, he
felt that if the spirit of him, who slept unconscious of the scene,
were suffered to linger near, it would be to hallow it with approval.
"And now," said Clara at length, yet without attempting to disengage
herself,--"now that we are united, I would be alone with my brother. My
husband, leave me."
Deeply touched at the name of husband, Sir Everard could not refrain
from imprinting another kiss on the lips that uttered it. He then
gently disengaged himself from his lovely but suffering charge, whom he
deposited with her head resting on the bed; and making a significant
motion of his hand to the woman, who, as well as old Morrison, had been
spectators of the whole scene, stole gently from the apartment, under
what mingled emotions of joy and grief it would be difficult to
describe.