YOUNG AMERICA IN 1814.
Young students of the neighboring academy--mere boys of from thirteen to
eighteen years of age, but brave, spirited, vigorous lads, well mounted,
well armed, and led on by the redoubtable college hero, Cloudesley
Mornington. They rushed forward, they surrounded, they fell upon the
marauders with an absolute shower of blows.
"Give it to them, men! This for Fanny! This for Edith! And this! and
this! and this for both of them!" shouted Cloudesley, as he vigorously
laid about him. "Strike for Hay Hill and vengeance! Let them have it, my
men! And you, little fellows! Small young gentlemen, with the souls of
heroes, and the bodies of elves, who can't strike a very hard blow, aim
where your blows will tell! Aim at their faces. This for Fanny! This for
Edith!" shouted Cloudesley, raining his strokes right and left, but
never at random.
He fought his way through to the miscreant Thorg.
Thorg was still on foot, armed with a sword, and laying about him
savagely among the crowd of foes that had surrounded him.
Cloudesley was still on horseback--he had caught up an ax that lay
carelessly upon the lawn, and now he rushed upon Thorg from behind.
He had no scruple in taking this advantage of the enemy--no scruple
with an unscrupulous monster--an outlawed wretch--a wild beast to be
destroyed, when and where and how it was possible!
And so Cloudesley came on behind, and elevating this formidable weapon
in both hands, raising himself in his stirrups and throwing his whole
weight with the stroke, he dealt a blow upon the head of Thorg that
brought him to the earth stunned. From the impetus Cloudesley himself
had received, he had nearly lost his saddle, but had recovered.
"They fly! They fly! By the bones of Caesar, the miscreants fly! After
them, my men! After them! Pursue! pursue!" shouted Cloudesley, wheeling
his horse around to follow.
But just then, the young British officer standing near Edith, resting
on his sword, breathing, as it were, after a severe conflict, caught
Cloudesley's eyes. Intoxicated with victory, Cloudesley sprang from his
horse, and raising his ax, rushed up the stairs upon the youth!
Edith sprang and threw herself before the stripling, impulsively
clasping her arms around him to shield him, and then throwing up one arm
to ward off a blow, looked up and exclaimed:
"He is my preserver--my preserver, Cloudesley!"
And what did the young ensign do? Clasped Edith quietly but closely to
his breast.
It was a beautiful, beautiful picture!
Nay, any one might understand how it was--that not years upon years of
ordinary acquaintance could have so drawn, so knitted these young hearts
together as those few hours of supreme danger.
"My preserver, Cloudesley! My preserver!"
Cloudesley grounded his ax.
"I don't understand that, Edith! He is a British officer."
"He is my deliverer! When Thorg set his men on me to hunt me, he cast
himself before me, and kept them at bay until you came!"
"Mutinied!" exclaimed Cloudesley, in astonishment, and a sort of horror.
"Yes, I suppose it was mutiny," said the young ensign, speaking for the
first time and blushing as he withdrew his arm from Edith's waist.
"Whe-ew! here's a go!" Cloudesley was about to exclaim, but remembering
himself he amended his phraseology, and said, "A very embarrassing
situation, yours, sir."
"I cannot regret it!"
"Certainly not! There are laws of God and humanity above all military
law, and such you obeyed, sir! I thank you on the part of my young
countrywoman," said Cloudesley, who imagined that he could talk about as
well as he could fight.
"If the occasion could recur, I would do it again! Yes, a thousand
times!" the young man's eyes added to Edith--only to her.
"But oh! perdition! while I am talking here that serpent! that
copperhead! that cobra capella! is coming round again! How astonishingly
tenacious of life all foul, venomous creatures are!" exclaimed
Cloudesley, as he happened to espy Throg moving slightly where he lay,
and rushed out to dispatch him.
The other two young people were left alone in the hall.
"I am afraid you have placed yourself in a very, very dangerous
situation, by what you did to save me."
"But do you know--oh, do you know how happy it has made me? Can you
divine how my heart--yes, my soul--burns with the joy it has given me?
When I saw you standing there before your enemies so beautiful! so calm!
so constant--I felt that I could die for you--that I would die for you.
And when I sprang between you and your pursuers, I had resolved to die
for you. But first to set your soul free. Edith, you should not have
fallen into the hands of the soldiers! Yes! I had determined to die for
and with you! You are safe. And whatever befalls me, Edith, will you
remember that?"
"You are faint! You are wounded! Indeed you are wounded! Oh, where! Oh!
did any of our people strike you?"
"No--it was one of our men, Edith! I do not know your other name, sweet
lady!"
"Never mind my name--it is Edith--that will do; but your wound--your
wound--oh! you are very pale--here! lie down upon this settee. Oh, it is
too hard!--come into my room, it opens here upon the hall--there is a
comfortable lounge there--come in and lie down--let me get you
something?"
"Thanks--thanks, dearest lady, but I must get upon my horse and go!"
"Go?"
"Yes, Edith--don't you understand, that after what I have done--after
what I have had the joy of doing--the only honorable course left open
to me, is to go and give myself up to answer the charges that may be
brought against me?"
"Oh, heaven! I know! I know what you have incurred by defending me! I
know the awful penalty laid upon a military officer who lifts his hand
against his superior. Don't go! oh, don't go!"
"And do you really take so much interest in my fate, sweetest lady?"
said the youth, gazing at her with the deepest and most delightful
emotions.
"'Take an interest' in my generous protector! How should I help it? Oh!
don't go! Don't think of going. You will not--will you? Say that you
will not!"
"You will not advise me to anything dishonorable, I am sure."
"No--no--but oh! at such a fearful cost you have saved me. Oh! when I
think of it, I wish you had not interfered to defend me. I wish it had
not been done!"
"And I would not for the whole world that it had not been done! Do not
fear for me, sweetest Edith! I run little risk in voluntarily placing
myself in the hands of a court-martial--for British officers are
gentlemen, Edith!--you must not judge them by those you have seen--and
when they hear all the circumstances, I have little doubt that my act
will be justified--besides, my fate will rest with Ross, General
Ross--one of the most gallant and noble spirits ever created, Edith!
And now you must let me go, fairest lady." And he raised her hand
respectfully to his lips, bowed reverently, and left the hall to find
his horse.
Just then Cloudesley was seen approaching, crying out that they had
escaped.
"You are not going to leave us, sir?" he asked Cloudesley, catching
sight of the ensign.
"I am under the necessity of doing so."
"But you are not able to travel--you can scarcely sit your horse. Pray
do not think of leaving us."
"You are a soldier--at least an amateur one, and you will understand
that after what has occurred, I must not seem to hide myself like a
fugitive from justice! In short, I must go and answer for that which I
have done."
"I understand, but really, sir, you look very ill--you--"
But here the young officer held out his hand smilingly, took leave of
Cloudesley, and bowing low to Edith, rode off.
Cloudesley and Edith followed the gallant fellow with their eyes. He had
nearly reached the gate, the old green gate at the farthest end of the
semi-circular avenue, when the horse stopped, the rider reeled and fell
from his saddle. Cloudesley and Edith ran toward him--reached him.
Cloudesley disentangled his foot from the stirrup, and raised him in his
arms. Edith stood pale and breathless by.
"He has fainted! I knew he was suffering extreme pain. Edith! fly and
get some water! Or rather here! sit down and hold up his head while I
go."
Edith was quickly down by the side of her preserver, supporting his
head upon her breast. Cloudesley sped toward the house for water and
assistance. When he procured what he wanted and returned, he met the
troop of collegians on their return from the chase of the retreating
marauders. They reported that they had scattered the fugitives in every
direction and lost them in the labyrinths of the forest.
Several of them dismounted and gathered around the young ensign.
But Cloudesley was now upon the spot, and while he bathed the face of
the fainting man, explained to them how it was, and requested some one
to ride immediately to the village and procure a physician. Thurston
Willcoxen, the next in command under him, and his chosen
brother-in-arms, mounted his horse and galloped off.
In the meantime the wounded man was carried to the mansion house and
laid upon a cot in one of the parlors.
Presently Edith heard wheels roll up to the door and stop. She looked
up. It was the carriage of the surgeon, whom she saw alight and walk up
the steps. She went to meet him, composedly as she could, and conducted
him to the door of the sick-room, which he entered. Edith remained in
the hall, softly walking up and down, and sometimes pausing to listen.
After a little, the door opened. It was only Solomon Weismann, who asked
for warm water, lint, and a quantity of old linen. These Edith quickly
supplied, and then remained alone in the hall, walking up and down, and
pausing to listen as before; once she heard a deep shuddering groan, as
of one in mortal extremity, and her own heart and frame thrilled to the
sound, and then all was still as before.
An hour, two hours, passed, and then the door opened again, and Edith
caught a glimpse of the surgeon, with his shirt sleeves pushed above his
elbows, and a pair of bloody hands. It was Solomon who opened the door
to ask for a basin of water, towels and soap, for the doctor to wash.
Edith furnished these also.
Half an hour passed, and the door opened a third time, and the doctor
himself came out, fresh and smiling. His countenance and his manner were
in every respect encouraging.
"Come into the drawing-room a moment, if you please, Miss Edith, I want
to speak with you."
Edith desired nothing more earnestly just at that moment.
"Well, doctor--your patient?" she inquired, anxiously.
"Will do very well! Will do very well! That is, if he be properly
attended to, and that is what I wished to speak to you about, Miss
Edith. I have seen you near sick-beds before this, my dear, and know
that I can better trust you than any one to whom I could at present
apply. I intend to install you as his nurse, my dear. When a life
depends upon your care, you will waive any scruples you might otherwise
feel, Miss Edith, I am sure! You will have your old maid, Jenny, to
assist you, and Solomon at hand, in case of an emergency. But I intend
to delegate my authority, and leave my directions with you."
"Yes, doctor, I will do my very best for your patient."
"I am sure of that. I am sure of that."
Edith watched by his cot through all the night, fanning him softly,
keeping his chest covered from the air, giving him his medicine at the
proper intervals, and putting drink to his lips when he needed it. But
never trusted her eyelids to close for a moment. Jenny shared her vigil
by nodding in an easy chair; and Solomon Weismann, a young medical
student, by sleeping soundly on the wooden settee in the hall. So passed
the night. After midnight, to Edith's great relief, his fever began to
abate, and he sank into a sweet sleep. In the morning Solomon roused
himself, and came in and relieved Edith's watch, and attended to the
wants of the patient, while she went to her room to bathe her face and
weary eyes.
But instead of growing better the patient grew worse, and for days life
was despaired of. The most skillful medical treatment, and the most
careful nursing scarcely saved his life. And even after the imminent
danger was over, it was weeks before he was able to be lifted from the
bed to the sofa.
In the meantime, Throg, who was also treated by the doctor, recovered.
He took quite an affectionate leave of the young ensign, and with an
appearance of great friendliness and honesty, promised to interest
himself at headquarters in behalf of the young officer. This somehow
filled Edith with a vague distrust, and dark foreboding, for which she
could neither account, nor excuse herself, nor yet shake off. Thorg had
been exchanged, and he joined his regiment after its return from
Washington City, and before it sailed from the shores of America.
Weeks passed, during which the invalid occupied the sofa in his
room--and Edith was his sole nurse. And then Commodore Waugh, with his
wife, servants and caravan returned to Luckenough.
The old soldier had been "posted up," he said, relative to all that had
transpired in his absence.
There were no words, he declared, to express his admiration of Edith's
"heroism."
It was in vain that Edith assured him that she had not been heroic at
all--that the preservation of Luckenough had been due rather to the
timely succor of the college boys than to her own imprudent resolution.
It did no good--the old man was determined to look upon his niece as a
heroine worthy to stand by the side of Joan of Arc.
"For," said he, "was it not the soul of a heroine that enabled her to
stay and guard the house; and would the college company ever have come
to the rescue of these old walls if they had not heard that she had
resolutely remained to guard them and was almost alone in the house?
Don't tell me! Edith is the star maiden of old St. Mary's, and I'm proud
of her! She is worthy to be my niece and heiress! A true descendant of
Marie Zelenski, is she! And I'll tell you what I'll do, Edith!" he said,
turning to her, "I'll reward you, my dear! I will. I'll marry you to
Professor Grimshaw! That's what I'll do, my dear! And you both shall
have Luckenough; that you shall!"
Months passed--the war was over--peace was proclaimed, and still the
young ensign, an invalid, unable to travel, lingered at Luckenough.
Regularly he received his pay; twice he received an extension of leave
of absence; and all through the instrumentality of--Thorg. Yet all this
filled Edith with the greatest uneasiness and foreboding--ungrateful,
incomprehensible, yet impossible to be delivered from.