Kate Aylesford: A Story of the Refugees

I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forest green.
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that’s the life is meet for me. —Scott.

Gather the rose-buds while you may,
Old Time is still a-flying. —Herrick.

If Major Gordon had thought Kate charming, in her simple morning dress, he considered her transcendently beautiful on horseback. The easy, graceful seat; the light bridle hand; the erect figure; and the animation which the pastime kindled in eye and cheek, rendered her doubly lovely to his mind. She seemed to fulfill every requirement for that beau-ideal which he had long sighed after as unattainable, and which should unite in one person a Rosalind, an Imogen, and a Portia.

The day was sultry, so, after proceeding a short distance, Kate said—

“I think I can find a cooler road, if you will permit me to be the guide. There used to be an old one, somewhere near here, which had become quite deserted before I went to Europe; it was grass-grown in many places, and must now present an unbroken sward, which will be a relief to the horses after toiling through these hot sands. For half a mile or more, the way leads through a cedar-swamp, where what we call a corduroy road had been laid down. We shall find it deliciously cool. Here is the very place.”

So saying, she turned her horse into an opening between the trees, where, in spite of the obliterated wheel-tracks, it was apparent a road had once run. Tall pines rose on either hand, stretching far away in a vista that seemed interminable, like pillars in a gothic colonnade. The air was full of the sweet aroma they shed. Their fallen tassels, faded to a rich brown color, carpeted the road.

“What a bit of ground for a canter,” said the Major, who was eager to test Kate’s horsemanship. “Shall we give our steeds a brush?”

“Willingly,” said Kate; and away they went.

It was a beautiful sight to see the two spirited animals cantering side by side, so that a blanket would have covered both. Arab was full of play, and turned continually to snap at his companion, which Kate laughingly permitted him to do occasionally, while at other times she wheeled him off with a dexterous turn of her wrist, which elicited the open admiration of Major Gordon.

Very soon, the natural emulation between the two mettled steeds began to tell on their pace, which gradually increased from a canter to a gallop. They went snorting along now, their necks arching at the strain upon the bit; their hoofs crackling the pine splinters that strewed the road; the foam flecking their glossy coats as they tossed their heads; and now one, and then another, momentarily succeeding in passing his antagonist, only however to be passed in turn.

“They are determined to try each other’s mettle,” said Kate, laughingly. “It’s as much as I can do to keep Arab in. Suppose we let them out and have a race in earnest.”

“Agreed,” said the Major, entering into the spirit of the thing as fully as his fair companion.

“You see yonder thunder-riven pine,” said Kate, pointing with her riding-whip. “It is probably half a mile off. The best one gets there first. Are you ready?”

“Ready,” answered the Major.

“Go,” cried Kate, giving her horse his head.

Away they went, like twin arrows from a bow: the riders laughing in the very abandon of fun; the horses, with outstretched necks, straining every nerve. The Major’s steed, though a superior one, was somewhat too heavily built, and this quickly began to affect his speed. Arab, on the contrary, was in his element. With his neck extended almost in a straight line, his nostrils expanded, and his fine eyes a-blaze, he soon sprang far ahead of his adversary. Kate, as she left the Major’s side, merrily looked over her shoulder, waving her hand in triumph. In a few moments she drew in at the blasted pine, walking Arab slowly until Major Gordon came up.

“Your horse runs like a deer,” said that gentleman. “Yet, from his looks, I should think a child might ride him, when he’s at full speed; he doesn’t seem to move his body at all; it is only his limbs; but they are drawn up as beautifully as a greyhound’s.”

“He’s a darling,” said Kate, enthusiastically, leaning over and patting his neck; at which Arab looked around gratified. “I wouldn’t exchange him for half of England.”

Major Gordon smiled a little at this enthusiasm, though he could not but think that it became Kate charmingly.

“Poor Selim,” said the Major, patting his horse in turn, “you did not win, and it’s not often you’re beaten. But never mind, old fellow, you can carry your master in battle, if need be, as gallantly as the best.”

“To confess the truth,” answered Kate, “I had no idea Selim could run so well. He’s a noble fellow,” she continued, leaning over and patting him also. “Ha! you like it, do you, my brave Selim? But I declare if Arab isn’t jealous. See, he is ready to bite both you and your horse, Major. I must draw him off,” she added, laughingly, as she turned his head, striking him at the same time with her heel, so that he sprang to one side. “Fie, fie, Arab!” and she patted him anew, “you should be ashamed of yourself, sir. You are first in the heart of your mistress, and might allow her at least to be civil to others.”

By this time they had reached the edge of the cedar-swamp, which Kate had described. The road was much decayed, so that it would have been necessary to walk the horses, even if there had been no race. Kate was in high spirits, and rattled on gayly. To the Major, unaccustomed for several years to female society, except at rare intervals, her conversation was perfectly bewitching; and indeed it would not have been without its spell even to the most ennuied habitue of the choicest circles; for it exhibited that rare union of refinement and wit, intellect and sentiment, which, when combined in woman, renders her so irresistible.

“Ah! here we are at the spring,” she said, at last, drawing up Arab at the side of the road, where a pool of dark, amber-colored water, limpid as flint glass, lay slumbering under the mossy roots of an enormous red cedar. Slowly the rich, aromatic water welled out from the impenetrable recesses of the swamp, into this natural basin, ebbing away from it, at the other side, as imperceptibly, and flowing off over silver-white sand, till it lost itself beneath the rude bridge crossing the road. Gigantic trees, laden with dark foliage, fairly met overhead, obscuring the sunshine, and filling the air around with spicy odors. To add to the fairy-like charm of the spot, the atmosphere was as cool as that of a cave.

“This is delicious,” said the Major, lifting his hat from his heated brow. “It is Greenland at our very doors. The water looks so tempting that I must have a drink,” he continued, dismounting. “Will you permit me, Miss Aylesford, to be your cup-bearer?”

“I haven’t the heart to refuse,” said Kate, fanning herself, with her broad-leafed hat, “for the water is the best in the whole region. Besides, to be frank, I’m half dead with thirst. But will your horse stand?” “Like a lamb, generally, but as he is also thirsty, and might drink, I’ll fasten him thus,” and with these words the Major threw the bridle over the limb of a tree.

“Yonder you’ll find a leaf large enough for an impromptu cup,” said Kate, observing that he was looking about as if for one. “I used to come here frequently, before I went abroad, and always knew where to find materials for a woodland goblet.” And she directed him with a wave of her hat, still fanning herself.

The Major was not long in profiting by the hint, and skillfully arranging the leaf, filled it with water, and bore it to his lovely companion in triumph.

“Handsomely done,” said Kate. “Yon must once have been the wood-nymphs’ Ganymede, if the doctrine of transmigration of souls be true. Ah!” she continued, with a sigh, “what a world of poetry went out with the Greeks, who peopled every object in the landscape with life, so that a wood, or a tree, was an actual dryad or hamadryad. How I drank in those pages of Tasso, when I was still quite a child, where the Christian knight hews down the tree, which, a beautiful nymph, bleeds at every stroke. I cried over the poor lady, imprisoned in the cruel bark, as if my heart would break.”

“It’s the most alluring feature of the old Pantheism, that beautiful fiction of tutelary spirits of the woods and streams,” said Major Gordon, as he took the emptied cup; and filling it, in the spirit of the thought he poured the water out again, saying, “A pious Greek would have propitiated, in this way, the deities of the place by a libation.”

“They don’t seem to be in an especially good humor now, at any rate,” said Kate, who happened to glance up at the sky at that moment. “As well as I can see, through the leaves overhead, a thunder storm is coming up. We have been so long in the cool forest aisle, that we have noticed neither the increasing darkness, nor the fall in the temperature. The day has been sultry enough for a tempest, and, if we don’t make haste, we may get drenched through.

Major Gordon was in the saddle before she had ceased speaking. Cantering a short space ahead, where the verdant vault parted partially above, he confirmed Kate’s opinion. In a moment she was at his side.

“Hadn’t we better return?” he said, surprised to see her following him.

“We should be too late to escape the storm,” she replied. “Mr. Herman’s farm is the nearest place of shelter I remember; it is only a mile off; but we can reach it before the rain comes on, if we lose no time. Follow me.”

As she spoke, she gave Arab his head again, and dashed forwards. She did not, however, permit him to distance Selim, as he might easily have done; but held him back sufficiently to allow Major Gordon to keep at her side.

In a couple of minutes the riders emerged from the swamp, on a comparatively clear space, where the forest had just been cut away: and here the grandeur of the approaching storm broke upon them in all its terrific majesty. Colossal clouds, as black as ink, were rolling up from the west, piling one on top of the other, and making the lately azure heaven as dark as the day of doom. The trees moaned ominously. All at once a dead calm fell upon everything. Nature seemed panting for breath. Then, suddenly, a hurricane arose, which rushed through the woods, stripping off the leaves, and tore along the now sandy road, driving before it huge columns of lurid dust.

Kate wheeled her horse, at this crisis, into a by-road at full speed, merely looking around at Major Gordon as a signal for him to follow.

A few strides carried them within the shelter of the forest again. A few more, and they emerged on a small clearing. Major Gordon had only time to observe that it contained about fifty or sixty acres, and boasted a thriving apple-orchard, when they dashed up to a comfortable looking, though primitive dwelling, constructed of hewn logs, a story and a half high.

The house stood a few rods back from the road, and was approached by a lane guarded by a gate. This entrance was now closed, and Major Gordon was about to press forward, in order to open it, when Kate, rushing her horse at it, and skillfully lifting him, gallantly cleared it. The Major had just time to raise Selim for the leap, when Kate reached the door of the house, throwing Arab back nearly on his haunches, as she reined him suddenly in.

A patriarchal old man was standing in the open entrance, with two lads at his side. As Kate sprang nimbly to the ground, he advanced, and, seizing her hand, drew her in, for the big drops were now beginning to descend, heavy as miniature bullets.

At the same time he said, as Major Gordon alighted,

“Lads, take the horses, quick, and put them in the barn. Be lively now, or the saddles will get wet. But walk in, walk in, Miss Katie; and welcome to the old man’s hearth again; it’s been many a year since you were here.”

With these words he fairly pushed her in, signing for Major Gordon to follow.

A wit’s a feather, and a chief a rod,
An honest man’s the noblest work of God. —Pove.

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. —Gray.

The rank is but the guinea stamp,
A man’s a man for a’ that. —Burns.

The room into which Mr. Herman ushered his guests apparently occupied about half of the lower floor, and was employed indiscriminately for a kitchen, sitting-room and parlor. A huge fire-place, with a high-backed settle inside, occupied a considerable portion of one side of the apartment, the rest of the space being filled up with a cupboard to the right and a staircase to the left. There was no carpet on the floor, but the boards were scrubbed to a snowy whiteness; and a pine dough-trough which stood under one of the windows, was also as white as rubbing could make it. The whole aspect of the place indicated, in fact, the most scrupulous neatness. The good wife herself was a pattern of tidiness. Although it was not yet noon, and her day’s work, therefore, was but half over, she advanced to receive her visitors in a clean apron and cap, which, in the single minute left her for preparation, she had managed to snatch from their repose in one of her lavender-scented drawers. A cheerful, motherly face was that of Mrs. Herman, such a one as made a visitor feel at home immediately.

Her husband was of medium height and strongly built, but looked smaller than he really was, in consequence of a slight stoop which he had contracted. In sitting, however, this partial deformity added to the habitual thoughtfulness of his aspect. The head, covered with thin, patriarchal gray hair, in which a few threads of a darker color still remained, was large and squarely shaped, with a jaw indicative of a great decision of character, and expanding above into a square, solid brow, in which the reflective faculties were largely developed. It was not without meaning, so Major Gordon thought, that Kate had called him a natural-born philosopher. His face in repose looked severe to sternness, especially as age had begun to wrinkle it; but when he spoke, his blue eye brightened, and a pleasant cheerfulness, which yet rarely amounted to a smile, diffused itself over his countenance. His manner, in acknowledging his introduction to the Major, partook something of shyness. But before the interview was over, his guest decided that, though a man of reserved habits, he was nevertheless quick to observe and reflect, and that a warm heart beat within his bosom, full of genial benevolence to his race, and glowing with sweet domestic affections.

“I declare,” said his good dame, dusting a split-bottomed chair, which Major Gordon thought already clean to a miracle, and looking apologetically towards Kate, while she tendered it to the handsome officer, “if I had known anybody had been coming, I’d a had things more in sorts.”

“There, mother,” said the husband, quizzically, “Miss Katie knows you well enough not to need an apology. It’s true,” he continued, with dry humor, glancing about the scrupulously neat apartment, “if we had a shovel here, we might pitch some of the dirt out; but since that can’t be done, our friends will make the best of things, I hope, and not be too severe on us.”

“Father will talk,” said the dame, apologetically, a little disconcerted; “he’s no better, Miss Katie, than when yon left, you see.”

“No, I really come into my own house sometimes,” rejoined Mr. Herman, his eye twinkling with laughter, though still good-humoredly, “without taking off my shoes. I’d like to see the boys do it, however,” he added, with a pleasant laugh.

“Mrs. Herman makes me always ashamed of our housekeeping at Sweetwater,” said Kate, with tact.

“Don’t say that now,” replied the gratified housekeeper, whose whole face glowed with delight at the compliment, than which Kate knew no other could possibly have been more agreeable.

The conversation now became more general. After awhile, Kate said, addressing Mr. Herman by the familiar name she had been accustomed to use when a child—

“How are the deer now, Uncle Lawrence? I think I remember something of having heard, when in England, that a very severe winter had destroyed large numbers. Mr. Herman,” she continued, turning to the Major, “is the best hunter we have in all West Jersey.”

“They are getting pretty plenty again,” answered her host. “That is, for one who knows where to look for ‘em. But for others, they’re as scarce as ever. I took several loads of venison to town last winter, and got good prices—the war don’t seem to make much difference,” he added, slyly, “to the nabobs.”

“You farm this place also?” said Major Gordon, interrogatively.

“Yes! we farm a little. Enough for our own use, raising a bit of rye, a few potatoes, and some corn. The boys do most of it, though, to give them justice. We don’t want much, we simple folk,” he continued, “so that we easily manage to live on what I bring from the woods and what the boys raise. Mother there keeps us pretty well supplied with linsey-wolsey. Whenever I go to town with venison, I bring back a few nice things for her in return; and I shouldn’t wonder now, if we could look into some dark corner of her closet, if we wouldn’t find even some tea, whigs as we all are. How is it, mother? Is the tea there? And did I buy it for you, or did it come from this saucy tory, Katie.

“We get along, too, as well as the rest, so far as I can see,” continued Mr. Herman; “At least I often think so when I’m in Philadelphy. We haven’t as much money, to be sure; but then we’ve no vessels at sea, like Mr. Morris and others there I know, and can sleep soundly, in spite of storms and British frigates. Then we’ve fresher air than they can have, let them build as big houses as they will. I never cross the ferry but I don’t for awhile think the air’s pisened, for what with the vegetables rotting in the market, and the sewers that empty on the river front, the whole place smells dreadfully, leastways to a man from the woods. Before the war broke out, some of my acquaintances there, rich men, you know, used to come down here to hunt awhile, once a year. It was a sight to see ‘em eat,” he continued, with a low, chuckling laugh. “I’ve known ‘em, after a tramp in the woods all day, when there’s been no luck, sit down to a piece of cold pork, that they wouldn’t look on at home, and eat it as if it had been the best saddle that was ever sarved up. Then, to see ‘em drink our water! When they’ve had a hot run in the woods, they’d kneel right down by the side of the road, and lap up like a dog the water running from a cedar-swamp; and they’ve told me they never drank Madeery, not Port, that was half as good.”

“Yours is the true philosophy,” said Major Gordon, “and the world would be all the better if there were more who followed it. I confess,” he continued, turning to Kate, “that there is an independence and content about it, which strongly tempts a soldier.”

“Yet yours is a grand profession,” said Uncle Lawrence, “at least in times like these. The trade of a soldier is the meanest alive; think of the Hessians coming over to murder at so much a day; but when a man takes up arms for his country, and to drive out an invader, he’s doing a brave deed.” And the old man’s eye gleamed. “I was out in the Trenton campaign myself, for that was a time when even age couldn’t excuse staying at home, unless to them as were tired of liberty. I’ve one son now in the army, and another will ‘list as soon as he’s big enough, if it’s the Lord’s will,” and he looked up reverently, “that the war should last that long.”

In similar conversation nearly an hour passed, by which time the rain ceased, and the sun shone out again brightly: and Kate now rose to go. As she stood at the door, while the horses were being brought around, the birds sang merrily in the orchard, and the rain-drops sparkled in the grass.

“That’s a music I never get tired of,” said Uncle Lawrence. “It beats the best playing I ever heerd on the spinet, even Katie’s here,” and his face relaxed as he looked at her. “Then those spangles in the grass are handsomer than any diamonds. I’ve heerd that, after one of them grand parties in town, where the music plays and jewels sparkle, that people go home worn out and often ill-humored; but I thank God that I never listen to the birds, or see the rain-drops shine in this way, without feeling glad.”

When Major Gordon, having placed Kate in the saddle, offered his hand to the old man, preparatory to mounting, Uncle Lawrence said—

“If you stay in our parts long, Major, and would like to hunt, I’ll go out with you a’most any time. I think we may be certain of a fine doe, or even a buck, if you’d rather.”

Thanking his host heartily for the offer, which was evidently a sincere one, Major Gordon bowed to the good dame, and cantered after Kate.

“What a grand specimen of an honest, simple-hearted old Nestor that is,” he said, addressing his companion, as soon as they were out of hearing.

“I knew you would like him,” answered Kate, highly pleased. “And he has taken a fancy to you, or he wouldn’t have asked you to hunt with him. Father always said, in any difficulty, ‘I wonder what Uncle Lawrence thinks,’ for though he has read few books, except his Bible, he has ten times the wisdom of many a lettered man. I don’t know what the neighborhood would do without Uncle Lawrence. He is the general peace-maker; yet no man can be firmer, when a great principle is at stake.”

“He has the air of one who could become a martyr, if need were, even to dying at the stake.”

“And he would,” said Kate, her fine eyes glistening with enthusiasm, for in this her own character sympathized with that of the old man. “He told you he was out in the Trenton campaign, but he was too modest to add that he walked to head-quarters in little more than twenty-four hours. There are few men over sixty years of age, who could or would have done that.”

The conversation continued till they parted at Sweetwater, for Major Gordon had to return to the Forks to dinner, and could not accept Mrs. Warren’s invitation to alight.

With thee conversing, I forget all time;
All seasons and their change. —Milton.

This was the beginning of an acquaintance between Major Gordon and the heiress of Sweetwater, which soon ripened into intimacy. Of the dangers of such a friendship, to the gentleman at least, he was in part ignorantly, in part willfully blind. Bewitched by the grace, wit and beauty of Kate, not less than by the sweetness of her disposition as displayed in a thousand home ways, Major Gordon abandoned himself to the pleasure of her society, forgetting the barrier which fortune had placed between them, in making him poor and a patriot, but Kate an heiress and a royalist. Yet, to do him full justice, he did not think of the passion that was overmastering him, or the probabilities of its success. Love was a new thing to him. The law first, and the camp afterwards, had been his mistress hitherto. He little suspected, therefore, how necessary Kate was becoming to his happiness. He did not know he was in love. But an irresistible fascination drew him to Sweetwater, at first almost daily, and finally punctually every morning. Often, indeed, he left the Forks, intending to ride elsewhere; but invariably he found himself in Kate’s presence; and at last he ceased even to invent excuses, such as bringing her a bunch of wild-flowers, a book, or a bit of news, as originally had been his custom. When away from her he felt a void, which only her presence satisfied. He rode, walked, boated on the lake, chatted or read with her, accordingly, as the weather permitted, or circumstances allowed.

Mrs. Warren was almost invariably present when these interviews took place at Sweetwater. She generally sat knitting, in a corner, occasionally joining in the conversation, and always managing on such occasions, to bring in her cousin, Lord Danville. Her connexion with that nobleman was a source of pride indescribable to her. It elevated her and the whole Aylesford family, in her opinion, into an entirely different sphere from that of the provincials about her. She felt annoyed, therefore, at the frequency of Major Gordon’s visits, which promised an intimacy that, some day, she thought might become troublesome. He was very pleasant as a temporary acquaintance, she reasoned, but having no peer for a cousin, quite too plebeian for a friend. Her manner accordingly grew less cordial daily to their visitor, though it never ceased to be civil; nor did the good dame neglect to attire herself in all her state—she “owed it to her family,” she said, “even when not to her guests.” Meantime, also, she studiously avoided making a parade of her royalist sympathies, professing, as at the first interview, to be entirely neutral, and little dreaming that her guest saw through her poorly acted part, and amused himself secretly at her weakness and self-confidence.

Kate, all this while, was as gay, as frank, and as bewitching as ever. Sometimes she was so full of spirits, that serious conversation was impossible. On such occasions, she made a jest of everything, especially of love; for often, in reading the poets with her guest, that fertile theme came up. As merry and willful girls will, she delighted to play at fence with this mysterious passion, which she secretly felt would some day be her master. How she made sport of the meekness of Desdemona; of the fainting of Rosalind; of poor, deserted Imogen’s melancholy. “She would never break her heart for a man, not she,” she would say, glancing roguishly at her guest. “There must be a latent weakness in the women who had furnished the types of these characters to Shakespeare; for she supposed some women were so foolish, as everybody said Shakespeare never violated nature.” As for Amelia, the heroine of the novel she was reading, and about which she and Major Gordon had daily battles, “never was there such a silly little thing.” “Why,” she said, “that good for nothing husband wasn’t worth a single one of poor Amelia’s tears. Booth was a brute; and if men were like him, she wondered women didn’t—” But here she stopped with a blush, on seeing her guest’s wondering look; and, with a pretty little laugh, added, “Heigho! wasn’t it ridiculous, anyhow, for her to be talking of love, of which she knew nothing, and never cared to.”

At other times she would be quite serious. On these occasions Major Gordon would secretly admire the sound sense of her father’s views on female education. For Kate could converse on subjects of which few women, at that day, knew anything: and many an animated discussion took place between her and her guest. In truth, her visitor liked to engage her in debate, for he loved, at such times, to watch the animation of her eye, the heightened color of her cheek, and the dexterity with which she defended her cause, often forcing him to a positive capitulation.

Kate’s real opinion as to the war remained, all this time, a puzzle to Major Gordon. Her face, indeed, glowed with enthusiasm, whenever a gallant deed was mentioned, whether the actors were Americans or royalists; but she never expressed any sympathy for the cause for which he had drawn his sword, except sometimes in jest, when she wished to tease her aunt. In the pride of birth, which so eminently distinguished Mrs. Warren, Kate confessed that she shared. “Let philosophers say what they will about the rights of man,” were her words, “I feel that it is something to be descended from heroes who fought with Richard at Askalon, and withstood the chivalry of France at Agincourt.”

Yet, in her demeanor to those more lowly born, there was nothing of the hauteur which might have been supposed to accompany such opinions. There was an old negro woman who had once been a slave in the family, and who, in that capacity, had often assisted to take care of Kate when an infant. To this poor creature, who now lived alone in a small cabin about a mile from Sweetwater, our heroine was as affable and kind as if she had been her own flesh and blood.

“Yonder is Aunt Chloe’s cabin,” said Kate, one day, when riding with Major Gordon, “and I must stop awhile. The poor thing will fancy I have grown proud, since I went abroad, if I don’t draw rein and ask her how she does. She was at the house the other day, and would have amused you, I am sure. The paper-hangings on the drawing-room seemed to strike her fancy particularly. She had never before seen wall paper, for when she lived with us the rooms were painted. But where can she be?”

As Kate spoke, they drew up in front of a small clearing, about two acres in extent, with a log hut in front. A few cabbages, a bean-vine or two, a mock orange, and half a dozen gaudy sun-flowers, constituted the garden. As no signs of the occupant appeared, Kate nimbly jumped to the ground, and throwing her bridle over one of the gate-posts, entered, beckoning to her companion to follow.

The door stood wide open, and on reaching it, the aged dame was seen inside, holding her dog in her hands, intently occupied in alternately dipping his paw into a bucket of some kind of colored dye and making marks with it in regular order, on the white-washed wall of square-trimmed logs.

We have said that the crone, already nearly deaf with age, did not hear the guests. Kate watched her with a puzzled look, for a while, and then going close up to her, she put her light-gloved hand on the old woman’s shoulder, and said, in her musical voice, but with something of astonishment—

“What are you doing, aunty? Have you lost your wits?”

The dame, thus apostrophized, turned, and, after disdainfully regarding her visitors as if scorning their ignorance, answered tartly, turning to her work,

“Chile, I’se paperin’ de wall. Dis makes a fus-rate lion’s claw. Don’t yer see? Dar!”

And, giving a finishing touch to her work, she stepped back admiringly, as a Landseer may be supposed to do, when he has completed a masterpiece.

The first instinct of Kate was to laugh heartily. But regard for the feelings of her poor old nurse, who would have been mortified inexpressibly, induced her to restrain herself, though her eyes literally ran over with suppressed glee, as she glanced at her companion, who, in turn, could scarcely keep his merriment under control. The visit, after a few kind inquiries from Kate, terminated by our heroine slipping a dollar into the hands of the crone, a gratuity which Major Gordon secretly doubled as the fair girl rode off ahead.

When the cabin was fairly out of hearing, however, the woods rung with the silvery laughter of Kate. At last, her merriment subsided, and she said—

“It’s hardly fair to laugh at poor old Chloe. She only does what all the world’s doing. Her poke-berry juice and dog’s paw are but an humbler way of aping the luxuries of the great.”

Major Gordon made no answer, but said to himself— “Her heart is right, even where her education is wrong.”

The old Continentals
In their ragged regimentals. —Knickerbocker.

That Spartan step without their flutes. —Brainard.

Another day, the conversation, when Uncle Lawrence was present, happened to turn on the battle of Trenton, and the famous winter campaign of Washington in the Jerseys. The veteran had brought some rye to mill, and while it was being ground, stepped over to the “big house,” as it was called, where Kate, obeying the hospitable custom of the day, had him immediately into the parlor, to drink a glass of wine. Mrs. Warren was absent in the kitchen, scolding the cook.

Never before had Major Gordon heard our heroine exhibit so much interest in behalf of the Americans as on this occasion. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and she really seemed at last to sympathize with the patriots.

“Do you know,” she said, turning to Uncle Lawrence, “that the great Frederic has declared that battle to be one of the most brilliant strokes of the century?”

“Did he, indeed?” said Uncle Lawrence, his face glowing with gratification. “Did the great King of Prussia, the hero of Rosbach, really say that?”

A century ago, Frederic the Great, it must be remembered, filled something of the same place in military history which Napoleon does now. He was especially the idol of the English and Americans; quoted, strange to say, as the “Protestant Champion;” and considered a marvellous captain, as indeed he was, at least in many respects. Thus even Uncle Lawrence, little as he knew of the doings of the great world across the water, was familiar with the exploits of the Prussian monarch.

“Did the great Frederic,” repeated the old man, putting down his glass only half drained, his whole countenance irradiated with pleasure, “really say that?” And he looked from Kate to Major Gordon, as if half doubting whether the latter, whom he secretly considered a better authority on military matters, would confirm the assertion.

“He is said to have used substantially those words,” said the Major, thus appealed to. “I have no doubt of the truth of the report either, for the movement on Trenton was certainly masterly. The results show that. In ten days, the enemy, though twenty-five thousand strong, and though holding all the principal posts in this state, from the Raritan to the Delaware inclusive, were forced back on New Brunswick, and the whole region rescued from their hands. It is one of my greatest griefs as a soldier that I could not participate in that campaign, being at that time still ill of a wound I had received at Long Island.”

Kate, who heard of this circumstance for the first time, looked with interest at the speaker; for a woman, even if an enemy, regards a soldier who has suffered with something of tender pity.

“You not at Trenton!” exclaimed Uncle Lawrence; and he shook his head, as he added, “Ah, I can understand your grief!”

He paused a moment, and then said, as the memory of that day rose more vividly before him,

“I’ve heerd better men than I can ever hope to be say that we saved the country then; and if so be it turns out to be true, I shall be prouder to have my children say their father fought at Trenton, than if King George had made me a lord.”

Major Gordon instinctively looked at Kate, whose countenance was lighted up with enthusiasm at the words and aspect of the speaker; at least our hero thought so.

“You are right in asserting that the victory at Trenton saved the country,” he replied, with animation. “Miss Aylesford will excuse me, if I speak too boldly. But I know she honors bravery wherever it may be found.” And he bowed respectfully to her.

“Don’t let me be a check on you,” she replied, blushing. “I know that both you and Uncle Lawrence are conscientious in your opinions”.

“Well, then,” resumed the Major, his blood quickening at this acknowledgement, “if our cause triumphs, it will be because Trenton was the turning point in the struggle. Up to that time, with the exception of the evacuation of Boston, everything had gone against us. This was especially true of the period immediately preceding it; I mean the period following the defeat at Long Island. The terms for which most of the soldiers had enlisted were expiring; and but few were willing to renew their engagements. Meantime new recruits came in slowly. The force of Washington, the only one at that time left,” he continued, addressing Kate, “was reduced by loss in battle, by the capture at Fort Washington, and by the expiration of enlistments, to but little over two thousand men. A general panic seized all except the most resolute patriots. The Congress was preparing to fly, for there was no barrier between the capital where it met, and the victorious enemy, but the comparatively feeble one of the Delaware; and the British, twenty thousand strong, were rapidly advancing on that river. Lord Howe considered the revolution virtually at an end, and issued his proclamation, offering pardon to all who, within sixty days, would lay down their arms and take the oath of allegiance. You do not know, Miss Aylesford, you could not, living in England, as you then did, the temptations and terrors which beset men in that awful crisis, especially those who had families. The axe and scaffold, I should rather say the gallows-tree, loomed up before the eyes of every patriot. Many gave way. This was especially true of those who had property. Crowds took the required oath of allegiance. The liberties of the country, the future of mankind, quivered in the balance.”

He paused for a moment for breath, for he had spoken rapidly and impetuously. Uncle Lawrence nodded assent approvingly. Kate, with downcast eyes, but heightened color, sat, playing with a rose, which she had just taken from a vase beside her.

More composedly, the Major resumed—

“In that crisis, if Washington had given way, all would have been lost. But he was like Atlas, who upheld our world. Firm as a rock, when night, tempest, and angry surges combine against it, he stood up, not only unshaken, but unappalled. ‘If we are driven from Philadelphia,’ said he, ‘we will retire beyond the Alleghanies.’ Never, even for an instant, did he think of surrender. And then it was,” added Major Gordon, kindling again, “that he conceived that daring night attack, to strike at all the posts of the enemy on the Delaware, from Trenton to Burlington, which, even though it but partially succeeded, resulted in throwing the royal forces back on Brunswick, and recovering, in ten days, all which the foe had gained during the entire autumn.”

“Only partially succeeded?” interposed Kate, with real surprise. “Why I thought it was a complete victory. It was so considered in private circles in England.”

“The intention was to cross below, as well as at Trenton, and so cut off the whole series of posts,” replied the Major; “but the driving ice prevented Cadwallader, at Bristol, from achieving his part of the task. Above Trenton, however, Washington succeeded in crossing, and carried all before him, as you say.”

Uncle Lawrence, while the Major was speaking, would have been a study for an unconcerned spectator. His usual calmness of manner had given place to intense, but suppressed excitement; and now, as the Major’s last words recalled the whole scene of that eventful night, he could control himself no longer. The color rose in his aged cheeks, and his eye flashed with youthful fire. In general, he was the last person to speak of events in which he had been himself engaged. But now he seemed to lose his own personality in the magnitude of the transaction he described.

“Such a night as that was,” he said. “The weather had been warm afore, for the season—kind o’ spring-like—but all at once it set in cold, and when we reached the place where we had to cross, the river was full of ice, driving like mad in the dark. At first I thought all was up, for with the great cakes grinding together, it seemed to me as if we’d never get over, leastways with the cannon—we had twenty small brass pieces, you know. Along shore, in many places, the ice was piled ten feet high, where it had jammed, and one bit slid up over another. Often, in the middle of the river, whole fields would come together, so that, for a while, you’d think you might walk across. Then, with a low growl, like thunder miles away, it would split apart, and the whole begin to move agin. The Gin’ral, howsomever, determined to try; the boats were filled, and we set off. It was a hard fight to push ‘em through, a’most as hard as the battle in the morning; and more than once I said, said I, ‘we’ll have to give it up.’ Sometimes a boat would be carried a mile away from the one it started with, in spite of all the rowers could do to make it keep its place. Once our batteau was crushed by getting where several fields of ice met. If we pushed her off from one she ran agin a second; and soon they began to slide over each other; all the time moaning as if in pain, like the great leviathin that we read of in Scriptur’. At last we had to give up, and just wait what the Lord would send, but expecting every minute to be ground to powder. All this time there were twenty others, some with horses on board, as bad off as ourselves; the horses snortin’ and plungin’, frightened mad, poor things! The wind was cutting cold. Our hands got ‘numb, and the water froze on us.

“Howsomever,” continued the old man, “we made the shore at last, but not till four o’clock in the morning, when we ought to have got over by the middle of the night. Washington had crossed among the first, and there he sat, for hours, on a bee-hive, on the shore, watching the rest of us. You may guess how he must have felt! We had nine miles to go, and every minute was precious; for there wasn’t much time wasted, after the cannon was landed. But now the weather, which had been threatening-like all day, set in stormy, snow and sleet mixed together, and the wind sharper than ever. The hail stung our faces; the cold went to the marrow, and some of us were thin enough dressed. Many a poor fellow, who had no shoes, marked the road with his blood. Not a soul met us, to bid us God speed! But I’ve often thought since, that people, asleep in the farmhouses, must have heard us as we went by; but they but half woke up, perhaps, and saying to themselves it was only the Storm, dozed again, little knowing that the fate of America was being decided.

“Well,” continued the veteran, “it was nigh eight o’clock afore we reached Trenton. Long afore, when they told Washington that the wet would spoil our powder, he had said that ‘then we must fight with the baggonet;’ so we all knew that it was to be for life or death. Two of our men had dropped out of the ranks and died; but that only made the rest of us more eager. Not a fife was heard, nor a drum beat, as we marched along; the rumble of the cannon, and the tread of our men was the only sound; but the roar of the gale through the woods was often louder. At last, as I’ve said, we reached Trenton, just as daylight began to break. Washington rode down our line, and pointing with his sword ahead, said, ‘Now or never, my lads!’ He may have said more, but that was all I heerd; and that was enough; for I felt, after it, as if I could fight like a dozen men. I shall never forget how he looked. He seemed as big as a giant through the sleet and fog; and his face, oh! such a face, it said a thousand things.”

Uncle Lawrence paused for a moment, as if compelled by emotion. His listeners hung eagerly on his words, Kate quite as interested as Major Gordon. Directly the old man resumed.

“The Gin’ral had hardly got out of sight, when there was a flash ahead, and patter, patter, came the sound of musket-shots. It was the picket, at the end of the town, which had just found out that an enemy was upon ‘em. We dashed forward, the cannon jolting and leaping past us, the horses at full gallop. Of what came after, I don’t remember much. The fight didn’t seem to me to last five minutes, though I’m told it was five times that at least. I s’pose a hound, when he’s been long held in, and is at last let loose on a deer, feels something like I did, after marching all night to get at the Hessians, and fearing often that we’d come up too late.

“You both know how we whipped ‘em,” said the veteran, resuming in a less excited tone. “They were dancing, and feasting, and drinking, just like Belshazzar, when the Lord sent the Persians agin him; and Col. Rohl, who was killed, was act’lly playing cards, we were told, when we rushed into the town. They wouldn’t believe it in Philadelphy, though, till we marched the Hessians through the streets,” concluded Uncle Lawrence, with a chuckle.

Here flying loosely as the mane
Of a young war-horse in the blast;
There, roll’d in masses dark and swelling,
As proud to be the thunder’s dwelling. —Moore.

I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous.
As full of peril and adventurous spirit,
As to o’erwalk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. —Shakespeare.

“What! mounted already?” said Major Gordon, as he rode up to the gate of Sweetwater, and saw Kate in the saddle. “I had no idea even that you intended to ride today. I thought, in fact, that we were to read Milton.”

It had come to be as much of a habit for the Major to appear at Sweetwater every morning, as it was for his men to report themselves to him at roll-call. Kate, moreover, always had a smile for him, even if Mrs. Warren had not; and often, before he left, the manner in which the next morning should be spent, whether in riding, reading, or otherwise, was determined.

“Haven’t you heard!” answered Kate, as she arranged her dress, giving a brief nod, her whole demeanor full of excitement.

“I have heard nothing.”

“Not heard it? The woods are on fire. See!”

As she spoke, she pointed with her riding-whip in the opposite direction to that from which her guest had come.

The Major, looking where she indicated, observed, far off, hovering over the distant swamp, a thick, black cloud, which, if the day had been more sultry, he would have supposed to be an approaching thunder storm.

“But why should you go?” he said.

“It is my duty,” was the reply. “The population is thin at best in this wild district, but thinner than ever since the war broke out. But few men can turn out, and I thought”—she hesitated, and then added, frankly, “that my presence, perhaps, would stimulate them to exertion. For, you know,” she added, changing her tone suddenly to a light and jesting one, “that my poor wealth is in timber almost entirely, as that of the patriarchs was in herds and camels; and one doesn’t like to have whole acres burned up, even though caring for riches as little as your humble servant.”

“But you ought not to have thought of going alone. You should have waited for me,” said Major Gordon, impulsively. “It may be fraught with danger.”

“Thank you!” saucily replied Kate, bowing with mock gravity. “You must excuse the curtsey,” she added, “for you see I am on horseback. Oh! don’t explain. I say again, I’m a thousand times obliged to you, for thinking I’m not able to manage myself, or look after my own property; but am just like the hundred and one silly, weak creatures, whom you men would keep in glass cases, as a pretty toy for the mantel-piece.”

“Indeed, Miss Aylesford,” began the Major. “I beg you—”

“Nay, not another word, as you would be restored to favor,” she said, playfully lifting her right hand, from the wrist of which her whip dangled by a silken cord. “Or rather be put on trial for good behaviour. The truth, sir, always comes first. I see now what all your pretty compliments mean. Nay! not a word.” And she shook her head, a pout on her lip, but her eyes dancing with merriment; for the Major was looking quite disconcerted. “You and aunt both agree in having the most sovereign contempt for my capacity for taking care of myself; I will not add the most supreme confidence in your own powers of advice, if not guardianship.”

“I cry your mercy,” said Major Gordon, when, after this wild rattle, she suddenly gave her horse his head; and as he spoke, he cantered on beside her. “I haven’t a word to say for myself. But, as I have never seen a fire in the woods, you’ll be, I hope, my cavalier, so that I may gratify my curiosity.” His tone, as he uttered these words, was demureness itself.

The gay creature he was attending laughed outright. It was a light, silvery laugh, and with all its abandon, lady-like. It was a laugh running over with happiness and glee. She turned her head over her left shoulder, and looked the Major frankly in the face.

“Well done,” was her reply. “You have beat me at my own weapons. But enough of such nonsense.” And in a tone of real seriousness, she asked, “Have you, indeed, never seen a fire in the woods?” “Never. Are they not dangerous sometimes?”

“Often. If the wind shifts, the flames come roaring down on the workmen, frequently faster than a man can run. These pines, in a dry season, burn like tinder. It is a common thing for the conflagration to rage till a heavy rain extinguishes it. Sometimes miles of forest are devastated before the fire goes out.”

All this time, the Major and his fair companion had been pressing forward, at a hand gallop. Before long, the smell of the burning woods, as well as the increasing clouds of smoke, betokened their near approach to the scene of the conflagration; and in a few minutes, turning an angle of the road, they came in full sight of it, and checked their horses.

Directly in front of the equestrians, appeared a space from which the trees had been cut off by the charcoal-burners employed in providing fuel for the neighboring iron-furnace. Here and there about this clearing, which was nearly a mile long and a half a mile deep, stood various smoking, semi-circular mounds, like huge black ovens; while scattered around, were to be seen cubical piles of pine-wood, some partially covered with earth, and some as yet entirely bare. Though Major Gordon had never seen the process of charcoal making before, its different stages, as thus revealed, explained the whole to him. A log-hut, the rudest in construction he had ever seen, located in the midst of this desolate tract, showed that the charcoal burners temporarily resided here. But, at present, no signs of human life were visible about the cabin. Indeed, the eye of the Major did not rest on it, or on the smoking mounds, for more than a second, the spectacle beyond being such as to fix his attention immediately.

Back of the charcoal-clearing stretched the pine forest, like a wall of enormous reeds, sombre and gloomy as death. Just as the Major and Kate arrived at the turn of the road, the fire, racing before a brisk wind, had come into sight at the further end of the clearing. In little more than a minute, it swept across a tract of woodland nearly a furlong in extent. The flames had scarcely caught the lower part of a tree before they had run to its very top. Distance seemed to be no impediment to them, for, reaching a side-road, they did not perceptibly pause, but crossed it at once. Indeed, the dry, resinous trees appeared often to take fire without the contact of the elements, flashing into conflagration from the heat alone.

As the ocean of flame advanced, it tossed billows of pitchy smoke up into the sky, while red forky tongues shot continually forth, and lapping the air for a moment, went out forever. Where the undergrowth had been left standing along the edge of the wood, or where there was a tract of wild grass, the fire, catching to it, whistled along with a rapidity the eye could scarcely follow. It was a melancholy sight to see the tall pines, the growth of a century, standing one moment green to the top; and the next, after writhing helplessly in the lurid fire, left blackened and shrivelled wrecks. The roar of the conflagration, meantime, was awful, the sound of it seeming to pervade all space. Every instant it grew louder and deeper, for the flames had now skirted along almost the entire side of the clearing, and were consequently directly opposite to our equestrians, within only half a mile.

For the first time it now occurred to the Major that their situation might possibly become perilous. He censured himself for not suspecting this before, but as less than five minutes had elapsed since their arrival, perhaps less than half that time, and as, in that brief interval, his whole attention had been engrossed by the novel spectacle, his error was natural. He turned immediately to Kate.

She had not been less absorbed than himself, and was still eagerly regarding the conflagration, her whole attitude and air betraying intense abstraction. The quick, earnest words of her companion aroused her, however, at once. She started with a blush, at the first sound of his deep voice.

“We shall be cut off by the fire,” he said, “if we don’t fly for our lives. As soon as the flames reach this end of the clearing, they will extend laterally in our direction; for that is the course of the wind. Not a minute must be lost.”

Kate scarcely waited to hear him out. At once she saw the truth of what he said, and recognizing the imminency of their peril even better than he did, for she was more familiar with the treacherous rapidity of these conflagrations, she turned her steed, and, with no answer but a look, galloped back along the road they had come.

The horses had, for some time, been restless. But their riders, engrossed by the scene, had not observed this, though mechanically quieting them, from unconscious habit. The moment the animals felt the rein relax, and found their backs turned on the nameless horror which had oppressed them, they gave way to their affright, and rushed onward with terror, the sweat starting on their glossy coats, and their distended nostrils reddening with blood. Neither the Major nor Kate made any effort to check them. For both now recollected that the road they were following curved in towards the line of the fire, and that for a considerable time at least, they would be approaching the conflagration, instead of increasing their distance from it. In this extremity the same thought occurred to both. It was whether it would not be wiser to return, for, even in the event of being surrounded by the flames, the clearing would afford comparative safety. But each felt that already it was doubtful if they could regain the clearing, and that nothing was left but to press on at the most rapid pace of which Arab and Selim were capable. They looked at each other but did not speak, for looks supply the place of words in great emergencies. Both read each other’s thoughts, and both said mentally that their lives now depended on the mettle of their horses.

The air, meantime, was becoming so oppressive, that breathing grew difficult. The smoke and heat filled the whole atmosphere, and the terrified animals, now more unnerved than ever, were bathed completely in sweat, and began to exhibit a disposition to bolt aside. It was with the utmost difficulty that Kate could keep Arab’s head facing the approaching fire, the alarmed beast swerving continually. Selim, from having been trained to the battle field, was less affrighted at the smoke, though, as terror is infectious, he also commenced to be unmanageable.

Precious moments were thus lost. Suddenly the conflagration made its appearance, about two hundred yards in front of them, and crossing the road almost immediately, blocked up the passage with a solid wall of fire; while rapidly spreading laterally, it threatened, in a few instants more, to engulf our equestrians. Blazing fragments of bark were already falling around them; the flames crackled sharper, and the roar deepened.

Heretofore, in seasons of danger, Major Gordon had invariably known what to do. There had always been some possibility of escape, something which, if tried, might perhaps avert death. But now he saw no chance, however remote. He was like the miserable victim, who, bound hand and foot, is laid down in the path of the hideous Juggernaut, and who beholds, with chill horror, the terrible machine advancing continually nigher and nigher. Yet he thought less of himself than of Kate. To see her perish before his eyes, and of a death so awful, he being powerless to assist her, was the pang that wrung his soul. But his agony was not unmixed with a certain pleasure. From the deep recesses of his heart, surprising even himself, there thrilled, in this crisis, a wild joy. He could not pause to analyze it, but it seemed to say that death was sweet, with Kate to share it. Instinctively he looked at her, something of all this finding expression in his glance. Her eyes met his, in a long, full gaze, as if her whole soul was in it, a gaze which raised this sensation of joy to one of absolute bliss. For a moment he almost thanked heaven for the calamity which had broken down the barriers of conventionalism and sex between them. The near approach of death had revealed to him how much he loved Kate; and that look, did it not, he said, betray that she loved him as well?

All this occupied but an instant. But the conflagration, in that brief interval, had diminished its distance one-half.

Trifles, light as air,
Are to the jealous, confirmation strong
As proofs of holy writ —Shakespeare.

‘Tis than delightful misery no more,
But agony unmixed. — Thornson.

Suddenly Kate cried, in a voice almost inaudible from eagerness,

“I see a bridle path, I remember. Follow me.”

As she spoke, she struck Arab with all her strength, so that he shot forward like a bolt from a cross-bow, entering the forest, on the right, where the tracks of an old road were dimly visible. The trees had so overgrown the way, indeed, that Kate had to stoop to his neck, in order to avoid striking the branches. Her companion darted after her, burying both rowels into his steed.

There was no sign, as yet, to what point the path would lead. It was evidently a temporary road, made by the wood-choppers long before, at some period when they were cutting rails or timber in the forest. There were scores of such tracks traversing the woods, but their course was never direct, and often they led back quite near to the place where they started. A person, unfamiliar with the particular road, might lose himself speedily in its labyrinths. But the positiveness with which Kate spoke convinced Major Gordon that she had used the path before, and that it held out a possibility, at least, of escape.

In confirmation of this, he observed that the conflagration, though pressing close on their left, moved in a parallel line with them. For several seconds it was a race for life and death between the advancing fire and the fugitives. On sped the horses, their muscles starting out like whip-cord, and the ground fairly flying beneath their hoofs. But close and hot in pursuit, like a troop of hungry wolves, whose breath already burns the flying hunter, the conflagration came leaping and roaring behind. Not once, however, did Kate look around after the first hurried glance, which ascertained that her companion had understood her and followed.

Rushing through the forest in this way, they regained, after a while, a spot where the path widened, the road not being here so much overgrown. They were now able to see that the way opened ahead into a broad, well-beaten highway, with several parallel wheel tracks, which crossed nearly at right angles to the horse path they were in. Never was harbor a more grateful sight to the mariner than that white, glaring, sandy road to the Major and Kate. The latter glanced back over her shoulder, waving her hand as she dashed on; while, the former, in his excitement, found himself almost bursting into a huzza. The cheer, however, would have been checked on his lips, if he had yielded to the impulse; for a second glance revealed a tree, lying right across their path, its branches forming a chevaux de frieze, while the thickness of the wood on either side forbade the hope of turning it. Meantime, the forest was shaking in the eddy which ran immediately before the fire; and looking back eagerly over his shoulder, he beheld the flames, only about a pistol shot behind, careering fiercely after them.

But what was his amazement, and an amazement coupled with the wildest delight, when he saw Kate rushing Arab at the tremendous obstacle before them. The leap was one, which, except in such an emergency, he would have thought it suicidal, even for the best horseman, mounted on the finest of hunters, to attempt; but Kate, not hesitating an instant, lifted her horse with a sudden cry of encouragement, and went flying over the impediment, just brushing its top as she passed. Quick as lightning the Major followed, driving his spurs deep into Selim’s flanks, and cheering him on.

They had escaped, by what seemed a miracle; for directly after the conflagration reached the fallen tree. There, checked by the width of the highway, temporarily, it seemed to rage more furiously than ever, roaring and leaping like baffled wolves that howl along the shore from which their prey has escaped.

They galloped forward in silence, for some time, Kate leading the way. A swampy bit of ground being crossed, they reached the head of a pond, around which Kate made a short circuit, when she drew in her rein.

“We are safe now,” she said; “this is the pond of Waldo furnace, and is between us and the fire, so we can take our time.”

She was scarcely audible, and Major Gordon, looking into her face, saw that it was pale as death. High-spirited as Kate was, the reaction had been too great for her, and she seemed, for a space, as if she would actually fall from her saddle.

“Let me help you to dismount—you are fainting,” cried Major Gordon, springing to the ground.

But she shook her head, smiling her thanks.

“At least rest a while,” he urged, “dear Miss Aylesford.”

It was the first time he had ever used this mode of address, and his whole frame thrilled as he tremulously uttered it. Kate made no reply. She was plainly too weak, for the time, to speak. But her eyes drooped, the color mounted to her face, and the delicate hand which held the rein shook perceptibly. She did not, however, check her horse; and her companion seeing, by this, that she preferred not to stop, ceased to urge her, but vaulting into the saddle, followed her slowly.

The last half hour had opened Major Gordon’s eyes. He had yielded, for more than a fortnight, to the fascination of Kate’s society, without inquiring what was the nature of the spell which bound him; but that moment, when he thought death inevitable, had suddenly, as if by a lightning-flash, revealed the truth. He knew that he loved Kate with all the ardor of his soul. Nor, if he had interpreted her look aright, was he indifferent to her. At any other time, he would at once have urged his daring suit. But the agitation of Kate forbade it now.

He followed her in silence, therefore, until they reached the vicinity of the church near Sweetwater, when, just as they were crossing the old bridge in its rear, Kate drew Arab in.

“I never pass this spot without wishing to stop,” she said. “Running water and its musical sound always fascinates me.”

The old bridge fascinated Major Gordon also, as he looked at the dark waters, some twenty feet below, swirling and rushing from under it. Almost completely shaded by the sombre cedars, which here entirely overarched it, the river swept swiftly onwards, the color of dark walnut, except when a stray sunbeam, penetrating the thick canopy, and falling in broken gleams on its surface, burnished it momentarily into gold. Insects skimmed to and fro on the water, now darting out into mid-current to be borne rapidly downwards, and now dozing on the very edge of the rushing tide, or circling in the eddies that revolved under the mossy banks. An almost undistinguishable hum pervaded the atmosphere, from the thousands that buzzed on busy wing about. Occasionally a low sound, as if the cedars audibly sighed, rose up when some faint breeze stirred through their ancient boughs. The scene was the more lovely and absorbing, for its contrast to the conflagration they had just witnessed.

Suddenly a horse’s hoofs were heard striking the bridge. Kate and her companion looked up, the former with perceptible embarrassment; a circumstance which induced Major Gordon to examine the new comer narrowly.

This person was a young man apparently about eight and twenty years of age, and attired in an elegant riding-dress, such as only gentlemen of birth and fortune wore in that day. Slender and tall, though not disproportionally so, and with a haughty yet graceful carriage, he had that peculiar air which the world is accustomed to call aristocratic. He sat his steed with careless ease, managing him principally by the heel. To the Major’s practiced eye he was plainly an adept in horsemanship; though his skill was that of the manege rather than of the field; in short, he was evidently no military man, though so finished a rider. His face was of the high Norman cast, and would have been strikingly handsome, if less cold and supercilious in expression. In his fiery eye were traces of a daring, if not passionate will. But either care, or late hours, or excessive dissipation, had given to his countenance a worn and exhausted look, not generally seen out of great cities, nor often even there in persons so young.

A perceptible scowl gathered on the face of the stranger at sight of the Major. But without noticing him further, he checked his horse, and addressing Kate, said, authoritatively—

“Your aunt has sent me for you. She became alarmed at your long absence, and the woods on fire, too. So, the moment a horse could be saddled, I galloped in search of you, without even stopping to change my dusty coat.”

Kate colored, but, to Major Gordon’s surprise, she showed no signs of resentment, though the Major felt as if he would have liked to punish the speaker for his insolent tone. In fact, she turned Arab’s head immediately homeward, as if obedience to the mandate so surlily delivered was a matter of course.

“Who can the fellow be?” said Major Gordon to himself.

But his curiosity was not destined to annoy him. Kate directly remembered that the gentlemen were strangers to each other, and proceeded to introduce them.

“Cousin, this is Major Gordon,” she said, turning to the new comer. “Major Gordon,” she said, turning to the latter, “my cousin Charles;” then correcting herself, she added, “Mr. Aylesford.”

The gentlemen bowed distantly. Kate’s cousin, with a supercilious air he did not attempt to conceal. Major Gordon, with a look, at first of surprise, and then of marked resentment.

“A cousin,” said the latter to himself, his whole feelings taking a sudden revulsion, “and I never even so much as heard one mentioned before! Strange! He seems to exercise more than a cousin’s authority over her.” And a jealous pang shot through his heart.

A constrained silence followed, which was first broken by the lady.

“When did you leave town, Charles?” she said.

“At daybreak this morning,” was the reply. Then, as if he could no longer contain himself, he said, emphasizing her name formally, “Really, Catharine, you do wrong in worrying your aunt in this way. She insists that you will come to harm, riding out in these troubled times.” And he looked as if he echoed the opinion. “But, above all, what or who induced you to go out to-day?”

“Oh! you forget,” answered Kate lightly, affecting not to notice this last remark, “that Major Gordon attends me.”

“I beg Major Gordon’s pardon,” said the cousin, without even an attempt to conceal a sneer. “I had quite overlooked that circumstance, which of course insures your safety, though unfortunately it does not, it seems, prevent your aunt’s alarm.”

Kate’s face was crimson at these words. But she said nothing, and did not even look to Major Gordon to implore his forbearance, as the latter, with a lover’s exacting nature, thought she ought. The consequence was that the Major, already jealous of the cousin, became irritated at Kate herself; and insensibly drawing his horse to one side, left Mr. Aylesford and lady to ride together; for, during this conversation, the speakers had set off slowly towards Sweetwater.

“What a fool I would have made of myself,” soliloquized Major Gordon, angrily, “if I had told her, five minutes ago, I loved her, as I was tempted to do. She is evidently plighted to this cousin, for in no other way can his cool assumption of authority over her be explained; and she has been only amusing herself with me; her look I misinterpreted, or, which is probably truer, she is the most arrant of coquettes.” An angry lover is rarely just or logical. “Why did I not see whither I was being led? Yes; if she had not been trifling with me, she would have mentioned her cousin at some time or another,” he continued, getting more enraged, “but it was necessary to her success to keep me ignorant of him, and so his name was studiously avoided. All she seems to think of now is the possibility of a collision between us, for he has probably returned sooner than she expected; and she dreads his haughty insolence. Well, my pretty lady, it would give me a pleasure, if the gentleman and I were alone, to make him taste my sword.”

In this way he rode on, sullen and apart, till they reached the gate of Sweetwater, where courtesy compelled him to approach to make his adieus.

“Won’t you come in?” said Kate, in her old, frank way, though in a lower, perhaps softer tone than usual.

In an instant he forgot his indignation. But recollecting that he could not be mistaken, and saying to himself that this was only another of her wiles, he answered, coldly—

“No, I thank you,” and, replacing his hat ceremoniously, he rode stiffly on, internally cursing the whole sex, from Kate back to mother Eve, as irritated lovers will.