Kate Aylesford: A Story of the Refugees

I care not for her, I. —Shakespeare.

It is a quarrel most unnatural,
To be revenged on him that loveth thee. —Shakespeare.

The instant Major Gordon was out of sight of Sweetwater, and had plunged into the forest that lay between it and his quarters, he gave vent to the angry emotions that had raged, like a suppressed volcano, in his bosom.

His first ebullition was directed against Aylesford. The insolent tone of the cousin, in recalling, galled him to the quick; and his hand instinctively sought the hilt of his sword, when he remembered that supercilious and confident look. A savage, almost murderous feeling took possession of him. He muttered between his teeth. “If I had him alone, here in the forest, with a clearing of but a dozen yards or so, he should answer for his conduct with his life.”

The angry lover felt that he could not return to the Forks as yet, where prying eyes might read his mortification, so he turned into a cross-road, which led into the heart of the wilderness, and, giving the rein to Selim, galloped till the panting beast was covered once more with foam. In this rapid motion the turbulence of his soul gradually found a partial vent. The first blind impulse of outraged love passed away, and he began to scrutinize the facts with comparative calmness.

He went over, mentally, the whole of the last fortnight. He recalled every word, gesture and look of Kate. Something almost like a groan burst from him, as he admitted to himself, after this review, that she had never given him cause to indulge the wild hopes he had entertained that morning. She had invariably been affable. But a woman in love, he had heard, was shy and timorous. She had boldly controverted his opinions, when they differed from her own. But if she had secretly loved him, she would have implicitly adopted them. Major Gordon reasoned in this way, not from experience, for he had never before been in love, and had enjoyed comparatively little female society, but from what he had read of the passion, in its effect on the sex, in the romances of the day: Clarissa Harlowe, Amelia, Tom Jones, and Sir Charles Grandison. It is no demerit, we hope, even in these days, for an honest man to be practically ignorant about such matters, when there is no way in which he can be informed, except by trifling with the happiness of trusting innocence.

Nor was this all. Kate’s social position, her large fortune, and the hereditary loyalty of her family, now rose before him, the barriers they really were to a union with a rebel officer, who had no income but that derived from his sword. Instead of repeating the charge of coquetry against Kate, he owned to himself that she had been frank throughout; for a new light was thrown upon him, in reference to their conversations respecting rank and descent. She had evidently intended, he saw, to put him upon his guard. “Into what a bit of folly has not my vanity led me,” he cried.

The day was drawing to its close before he returned to the Forks. As he emerged from the denser forest, he discovered that the obscuration in the sky, which he had noticed for some time, and which he had thought was smoke from the conflagration, was in reality a thunder-storm coming up. He quickened his pace at this, and reached his quarters just in time to escape a drenching.

For half the night he walked his chamber, his mood of mind alternating, as that of lovers will under similar circumstances. Now the first angry impulse against Kate would return. Now he would exonerate her from all intentional coquetry. Now he would recall her glance in the forest, when both considered death inevitable, and decide that there was some mystery, which, if understood, would explain satisfactorily her subsequent conduct.

In this mood he retired to bed. The rain still continued. It had been falling in torrents the whole evening, the huge drops rattling on the roof like shot. The water splashed like a small cataract, as it ran off from the eaves. The great buttonwoods about the house creaked in the gale; and the river, which ran close by, surged along with a wild, mournful sound, at times rising to a sullen roar, as if threatening a freshet. Amid such noises our hero fell asleep.

When he woke, the storm had ceased, the sun was shining brightly, and the birds sang as merrily as on a morning in spring. It was Sunday. The usual busy hum of the Forks was hushed, and everything breathed a Sabbath silence, made more eloquent by contrast with the tumult and rage of the preceding night. Not a leaf stirred; a thousand diamonds sparkled in the grass; the air was full of balm; and all was still, save the sound of a hymn that rose from a neighboring cottage, whose family was at morning worship. The sweet influences of the hour, combined with his late sleep, made Major Gordon heartily ashamed of his angry mood of yesterday. “What if Mr. Aylesford is preferred to me,” he said. “Is that a reason why I should seek his blood? It is nobler to forgive than to resent.”

In this mood he prepared to attend church. It was the first Sunday that services had been held since his arrival at the Forks; for, at that time, Sweetwater had no regular minister, but was compelled to rely on chance itinerants. The Methodist connexion, always a missionary church, but never more so than at that period, was then just beginning the great work, which has made it since such a bulwark of morality and religion in this republic. A new preacher, who had never visited the district, was to conduct the services.

The Major reached the edifice early. But the excitement of a strange minister and of the conflagration of yesterday had already collected an unusual crowd, at least for the period; for half the male population was absent in consequence of the war. Having tied his horse, as the rest had done, to the bough of a tree, our hero joined the principal group. He heard, as he had expected, that the storm had extinguished the fire, which otherwise, it was declared, might have swept the whole region, “down to Waldo itself,” as one of the men said.

While they were talking, Uncle Lawrence came up. It gratified Major Gordon to see the respect, almost reverence, in which the veteran was held. The conversation still continued to turn on the fire.

“I’ve often wondered,” said Uncle Lawrence, with quick sagacity, divining a scientific truth which has since been demonstrated, “if there wasn’t a connection between these great fires and the rains which nigh a’most always follow ‘em. I’ve observed, neighbors, nine times out of ten, that a fire in the woods brought a deluge of rain close on its heels.”

“That’s a fact, anyhow,” said one of his hearers, with a puzzled look, “though I never thought of it afore.”

“The Lord is always merciful,” continued Uncle Lawrence. “If he didn’t send these rains, I don’t know what would become of us, for mortal man couldn’t put out such a fire. It’s skeered the deer clear off their old haunts, for I met one at the crossing of the branch in the main road, as I came to meetin’.”

After awhile, Major Gordon left the group conversing and turned aside into the grave-yard, on the right of the church. It was a spot that might have been selected for an elegy as fittingly as that of Stoke-Pogis. There were few headstones in that humble cemetery; no pompous heraldic emblems; nothing of the usual vanities of life, that seem, in similar places, such a mockery of death. Good and true men, who, in their lowly walk, had lived more nobly than Pharaohs who now slumber beneath pyramids, or conquerors who repose under marble mausoleums, slept there unheralded, and forgotten by all, except by the descendants who still reverenced their virtues, and by that Omniscience in whose eyes the sainted poor are “beyond all price.” As the Major stood, thoughtfully regarding the graves, he heard a step behind him, and turning was accosted by Uncle Lawrence.

“A sweet, quiet spot, sir,” said the old man. “Just such a place as seems fit to lay this mortal body in, to await the resurrection. Some day, I shall sleep here myself. Yonder,” he continued, pointing to the right hand, close to the fence, and about half way down the little cemetery, “is the corner I should choose of all others. I have thought of it so often that I have got a sort of home feeling for the spot. I never could understand,” he added, “how folks can have grave-yards in cities; it seems kind of natural like, however, to be buried where the birds can sing, and the grass grows above you.”

“You view the grave with no horror, I see,” said his companion. “It is a noble state of feeling, and eminently Christian, for the old Pagans had nothing like it.”

“I bless God,” said the patriarch, “that I have no fear of death. It is but casting off this old garment of the flesh, and, when a little while has past, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump, I shall be raised again.” And, leaning on his staff, he looked above, reminding his hearer, for the moment, of Elijah, when the prophet saw the chariot of fire.

If Major Gordon had retained any of his yesterday’s anger, its last traces vanished now. His mind was attuned by the calm yet elevated conversation of his companion to the services of the day, and the solemn thoughts they merited. In this mood he followed the veteran into the church.

You raised these hallowed walls; the desert smil’d,
And Paradise was opened in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father’s stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze our floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers given,
Here bribe the rage of ill-requited Heaven;
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker’s praise. —Pope.

The bustle of the arrivals had reached its climax at this moment. For nearly half an hour the congregation had been collecting, some on foot, others on horseback, and still others in antiquated, worn out carriages. The last, however, were very few. Generally the conveyance was nothing better than a common hay wagon, with temporary seats placed for the good dame and her children; while the harness was of the most primitive description. The horses were tied about, under the shade of the trees, and were busy whisking the flies off with their tails, and occasionally glancing around with a knowing look at the groups of people. The women generally entered the church as soon as they arrived, but the men stood talking about the crops, the war, or other matters of interest. Now and then a rustic beauty would create a buzz of remarks, as she tripped coquettishly by the young bachelors, glancing askance at them; and now some elderly person would step out from the throng to assist a poor, ancient dame, who came hobbling along on crutches.

A murmur of voices without, and of rustling fans within, filled the air.

Suddenly a handsome carriage dashed up from the direction of Sweetwater, drawn by two spirited horses, and was checked in front of the church. In the driver Major Gordon recognized his rival, who, throwing the lines to a servant that rode beside him, leaped out, and hastened to assist the ladies to alight. But Kate was too quick for him, for already she had opened the door and stepped nimbly to the ground, much to her cousin’s discomfiture, as Major Gordon thought.

When Kate turned, after her aunt had descended, to enter the church, her eye met that of Major Gordon. The latter bowed with all his old cordiality. Her recognition was instantaneous and frank, and was accompanied with a bright blush, and a sudden lighting up of the whole countenance, as if with gratified surprise. This little incident was not, however, observed by her cousin, who had preceded Kate, Mrs. Warren leaning heavily on his arm, with more than her usual assumption of dignity.

“I declare,” said Uncle Lawrence, “if that ain’t Charles Aylesford come back. I thought he’d gone to Philadelphy for a month or two.” And, shaking his head, he added, “Strange, that two such near relations as Miss Katie and he should be so different. But their fathers were so before them, and there’s a good deal, Major, in blood.”

In what this difference consisted, Major Gordon had not time to inquire, even if he felt so disposed, for as he finished speaking, Uncle Lawrence led the way into the church.

It was, as we have stated, a small edifice. A single block of benches, with an aisle on each side, afforded room for a few score of people only; but these were quite as many as the neighborhood supplied, even in better times. The pulpit was high, approached by a staircase, and surmounted by a sounding-board. On each side it had a window, half obscured outside by waving oaks; and through this casement the summer air stole in, laden with sweet fragrance from the cedars that overhung the stream. In either corner of the edifice, to the right and left of the pulpit, was a deep square pew, reserved for the proprietors of Sweetwater and Waldo, who together had built the church. One of these young Mr. Aylesford now occupied, in solitary state; while the other was tenanted by Kate and her aunt. The sexes, throughout the congregation, sat apart, in like manner, the women to the right of the preacher, and the men to the left. Uncle Lawrence, advancing to the head of the church, took his seat, evidently an accustomed one, on the front bench, dragging with him the Major, who would have shrank, if alone, from such a conspicuous position. The old man evidently expected Mr. Aylesford to rise and invite Major Gordon to enter the pew, a civility usually tendered to strangers in the Major’s rank of life; but as Kate’s cousin sat still, and only noticed the officer by a civil stare, Mr. Herman signed to his companion to occupy the bench at his side.

Our hero could not avoid, after a while, glancing in the direction of Kate. She sat, with eyes downcast, and her hands folded meekly before her, looking, in her spotless white, like some virgin saint. The deep love for her, which already filled the heart of Major Gordon, welled up warmer and more gushing than ever at this sight. For true manhood reverences woman all the more for those religious instincts which, implanted in her by her Maker, can never be obliterated without defacing her fair image. Her lover thought as he looked, that Raphael, when painting his Madonna, must have had a vision of such a face.

The preacher ascended the pulpit, and at once the shuffling of feet subsided, the preparatory coughs ceased, and a profound silence fell on the audience. For a few moments, with his head leaning on the Bible, the man of God engaged in silent prayer. The hum of insects without, and the light rustle of leaves, gave audible meaning to this deep stillness. In at the east windows, the sunshine, glimmering through the grave-yard oaks, slanted downwards into the church, and dappled the white, sanded floor with shifting light and shade. The murmur of the stream, like the solemn undertone of a distant organ, swelled softly on the ear, filling the whole atmosphere with sacred quiet.

The hymn was given out. It was that one of Charles Wesley’s, beginning, “Lo! on a narrow neck of land.” After a slight pause, a manly tenor struck up. The solitary voice was soon joined by a treble; a deep bass followed; and directly the whole congregation, women and men, adults and children, had joined in the singing. Rude as the music was, it had an earnestness, which placed it, in Major Gordon’s opinion, far ahead of the meretricious vocalization he had often heard in fashionable churches. At the end of every stanza, the preacher read the next, when the singing commenced again. It seemed to our hero that he could distinguish Kate’s voice, rising melodiously above all the rest, like that of some fair seraph, soaring high up over the choirs of Heaven.

The text was suited to the hymn. At first the preacher labored perceptibly, and the attention of the audience slackened. The disappointment was great. Near Major Gordon sat a pompous, self-satisfied looking man, occupying a corner of the bench, who was notorious for his noise in meeting, his sharp bargains out of it, and his opposition to all new preachers. He had publicly declared he would not like this one, and now, after listening awhile, he quietly leaned his head back, covered his shining bald pate and face with a bandanna handkerchief to keep off the flies, and surrendered himself to sleep. But as the preacher warmed in his discourse, the opinion of the congregation began to change. The orator, though what is called illiterate, was evidently deeply read in the Bible; and no man can be that, yet remain really ignorant; for he will know the human heart, if he knows nothing else, and will have at his command the most sublime imagery in all ancient or modern poetry. The preacher soon showed that he was also terribly in earnest. Heaven and hell, God and Satan, were awful realities in his eyes; and he labored to impress them as such on his hearers. He described a conscience-struck sinner, seeking to flee from the wrath to come; and described him with a glow of language and a fervor of eloquence which went directly to the heart. Cries of “Amen!” became frequent in the congregation. Even the comfortable old sleeper, disturbed in his slumbers, began to respond occasionally also, though still retaining the bandanna over his face, and making a vigorous effort to doze on. But now the warnings of the orator became more earnest than ever. The conflagration of the preceding day was introduced. “Where will the sinner be,” he cried, “when, at the last judgment, the whole world will be wrapt in flame? No providential rain will then put out the fire of an angry God.” The effect was electric. The women sobbed aloud, and some even shrieked. “If eloquence means the adaptation of style to an audience,” reasoned Major Gordon, “this man is a Christian Demosthenes.” Even the captious sleeper could endure it no longer, but, half starting to his feet, he snatched the handkerchief from his face, and shouted stentoriously, “Amen!”

Towards the close, the sermon became a fervid appeal, in which the most majestic Bible imagery was employed with startling power. Tears rolled down the speaker’s face, while emotion often choked his utterance. The effect, when the preacher sat down, was evidently deep. For some minutes not a listener stirred. Even the noisy critic was now melted into heartfelt and silent emotion. Indeed, it was only when the minister, apparently too exhausted to conclude the services, leaned over the pulpit, requesting the well-known patriarch of the neighborhood to conclude with prayer, that the spell seemed even partially dissolved. Then, for an instant or two, there were deep drawn breaths, as of relief, and a slight movement through the audience, as of persons shifting from uncomfortable postures.

The prayer of Uncle Lawrence was simple, but fervent, and while Major Gordon listened to it, he could not help saying to himself, “this is the religion of the primitive Christians.”

A doxology and benediction concluded the services, after which the congregation streamed out, the boys snatching their hats before the blessing was over, and rushing from the church, pell-mell.

Major Gordon lingered behind, not wishing to be jostled in the crowd, so that, when he reached the doorway, the Aylesfords were just driving off with the preacher, whom they were entertaining as was the patriarchal custom of Sweetwater. He remained a few moments, watching the congregation disperse. Here a good dame was climbing into a rude vehicle, there a small farmer was untying his plough-horse from a tree; here a group of damsels were glancing aside at the young men, and there the young men were sheepishly returning the glances. Finally, Major Gordon, mounting his horse, and bowing to the crowd, rode off.

My bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to human love,
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up. —Shakespeare.

In this
You satisfy your anger and revenge;
Suppose this, it will not
Repair your loss; and there was never yet
But shame and scandal in a victory,
When, rebels unto reason, passion fought it. —Massinger.

The next morning Major Gordon was early in the saddle. Like a brave man and a soldier, he resolved to see Kate at once, and know his fate.

But he was destined to meet with a disappointment. He had ridden about half a mile, when he was startled from a revery, in which she took a leading part, by the soft sound of hoofs advancing through the same path. He looked up, and recognized Kate’s cousin.

The influence of the preceding day had not yet left Major Gordon. He was no longer eager for a quarrel with his rival, but on the contrary was resolved, if Kate refused him, to withdraw entirely from the contest, and even to avoid Mr. Aylesford, in order to prevent the possibility of a collision. He bowed, therefore, civilly, though distantly, and was passing on, when the other stopped him by placing his horse across the narrow road.

“Excuse me, Major Gordon,” said Mr. Aylesford, haughtily, “but, as I was on my way to visit you, I would thank you to give me your attention for awhile.

“Certainly,” said the Major, politely, endeavoring to look calm, though inwardly chafed by the manner of his rival: “I wait your commands,” he added, seeing that Mr. Aylesford did not speak; and he backed his horse, so as to widen the space between himself and the other.

“I was astonished,” said Mr. Aylesford, looking up with a frown, “to find, sir, on my return from the city, that you were paying attention to a lady engaged to myself,” and he paused for a reply.

Major Gordon felt his color change at this confirmation of his worst fears; but the eye of his rival was on him, and he strove to seem composed. He could not trust himself to speak, however; so he only bowed, as if for the other to proceed.

“I presume, however,” resumed Mr. Aylesford, “that you were not aware of the circumstance; at least such is the conclusion I have arrived at on second thoughts. I have made it my business, in consequence, to seek you, in order to state the fact, and to suggest to you, what your own sense and honor doubtless will hint also, that, for the future, your visits at Sweetwater should be made fewer, if not altogether dispensed with. For the services rendered to the ladies, my aunt, and cousin, by the party with which you were in company, when they had the misfortune to shipwrecked, I thank you, in their name.”

It was not possible, perhaps, to frame a speech more galling to one of his disposition than was this to Major Gordon. The taunt in regard to his honor, the sneer at his conduct at the wreck, and the supercilious tone in which Mr. Aylesford thanked him, as if he had been a mere lackey, made his blood boil. Nevertheless he endeavored to retain command of himself. He saw that a brawl between him and Kate’s cousin could not but be disreputable.

“I thank you, sir, for your courtesy,” said the Major, at last breaking the silence, and looking his rival steadily in the face; “but as for your advice, I shall take the liberty of declining that—”

The hot blood mounted to the forehead of Aylesford, as, interrupting the speaker at this point, he stammered, half insane with rage—

“Sir, sir, do you know who you are talking to?” I am a gentleman, and not a mere adventurer—

“What do you mean, sir?” said Major Gordon, temporarily losing control of himself, at this crowning piece of insolence: and he pushed Selim close to Aylesford.

“I mean what I say, sir,” answered the latter, drawing back his horse, and putting his hand on his sword.

But a moment’s reflection recalled our hero to himself.

“Put up your sword,” he said, contemptuously; “I have no quarrel with you. I was on my way,” he continued, “to call on Miss Aylesford, and from her, if from anybody, must I receive notice that my visits are disagreeable.”

“Do you question my word?” fiercely said Aylesford, again interposing his horse across the road.

“I merely deny your right to prescribe who shall, and who shall not visit her.”

“That is the same thing.” And he stuttered, white with rage, “sir, sir—”

“Permit me to pass,” said Major Gordon sternly

“Never.”

The temptation was strong to rush Selim at his antagonist, ride him down, and pass on. But Major Gordon was still unwilling to be driven into a brawl; and therefore, after a moment’s pause, during which he was conquering his anger, he wheeled his horse about in order to seek another road.

His irritated antagonist, however, was not thus to be baulked. He seemed determined to fix a quarrel on Major Gordon, now that the latter had expressed his resolution to visit Kate, if he had not indeed determined on it from the beginning. He, therefore, followed our hero, saying contemptuously—

“Coward!”

Under any other circumstances, that word would have been enough. Observing, however, after going a few paces, that Aylesford still followed him, he sternly said.

“Enough of this, sir. You must see that I won’t quarrel with you. Permit me, therefore, to take my way, and you take yours.” And, as he spoke, he checked his horse again.

But the rage of Aylesford had now become ungovernable. Nothing, indeed, maddens a temper such as his so much as cool conduct like that of Major Gordon. Taking his sword by the hilt, he suddenly raised it, and striking our hero across the face, before the latter could parry the blow, said, with an oath,

“Take that, sir. It’s the first time that I ever saw even a rebel officer disgrace his cloth by poltroonery.”

Natures that are slow to anger, or that give way to it only after strenuous attempts at self-control, are always the most terrible in their wrath. The countenance of Major Gordon grew livid as he reeled from this insulting blow. It was a considerable interval before he spoke, for at first the words choked in his throat; and afterwards he could not trust himself to speak, lest he should, in the first moments of passion, utter something unworthy of himself.

“Dismount,” he said silently, in a low, concentrated voice. “Your blood be on your own head.”

Aylesford, with a mocking laugh, leaped from the saddle, threw his bridle over a convenient bough, and stepped into the middle of the smooth, shaded road. Then drawing his sword he stood on guard.

Major Gordon did not keep him waiting. Disposing of his horse in a similar manner, he unsheathed his blade and placed himself in front of his antagonist.

Nearly a minute elapsed before the duel commenced, the combatants measuring each other, meantime, with their eyes. Our hero saw at once, from the easy position of his opponent, that all his skill and caution would be required to disarm Aylesford; for already he had cooled sufficiently to come to the resolve not to shed his adversary’s blood.

On his part Aylesford was secretly admiring the fine person and practised air of our hero. But no charitable feelings found place in the bosom of the insulter. He had determined to take his opponent’s life, and he had few misgivings as to success, for he was not only an expert swordsman, in a day when every gentleman thought it a necessary part of his education to have skill in fence, but he had been considered, by his teacher, the most adroit of scores of pupils. As yet, indeed, he had never met his match, except in his old master. “It will be easy work with this militia officer, and quondam attorney,” he said to himself, scornfully beginning the contest.

But Aylesford was not long in discovering that he had underrated his adversary’s skill. He quickly saw, by the style of his opponent’s fence, that it was the intention of Major Gordon to disarm him: and irritated at what he believed to be a contemptuous forbearance, in one of whom he had just been expecting to make an easy victim, he began to throw more vehemence into the combat than was altogether prudent. He soon, in consequence, laid himself open to a lunge from his antagonist; but, as we have seen, it did not suit Major Gordon’s purpose to take advantage of this; and Aylesford, taught a lesson, fought for awhile with more caution.

We will not weary the reader with a catalogue of terms, of whose meaning he is probably ignorant, in order to describe, in accurate detail, the progress of the duel. But if he had been a spectator, he would have held his breath in horror at the rapid flashing of the blades and the rattling of the steel, whose lightning-like movements his eye would have vainly tried to follow. Every moment he would have expected one or both of the antagonists to fall, and would have wondered, as the struggle went on, why this did not happen.

The reason was, that never, perhaps, were two combatants more equally matched. Aylesford was really superior in skill, but Major Gordon was more cool; the first was ready to take every advantage, the latter fought only to disarm his adversary. For some time, therefore, the chances hung equally balanced. At last Aylesford, impatient to terminate this protracted strife, began again to be more vehement in his assault. But though pressing his opponent severely, he took care not to expose himself a second time. His attack was so rapid and fierce, that Major Gordon was compelled to give ground, at which Aylesford, now confident of a speedy victory, rushed on more relentlessly than ever, though still covering himself with so much skill, that his antagonist could not but admire, even as he reluctantly fell back. Had the assault been less splendid, Major Gordon might have reserved his own strength, while Aylesford was expending his; but it demanded our hero’s whole energies to save his life, so that he soon became as exhausted as his opponent. The assailer perceived this, and continued his vigorous assault, knitting his teeth, and inwardly vowing, in the savageness of his passion, to run his rival through to the very hilt. At last, when he had pressed Major Gordon a considerable distance, the foot of the latter struck against an inequality in the ground; he made a slight stumble backwards; and, for an instant, lost his guard. Quick as thought, Aylesford took advantage of it, and lunged desperately, regardless of caution, which he thought no longer necessary.

But what was his astonishment, instead of seeing his blade enter the defenceless front of his antagonist, to observe Major Gordon recover himself, and avert the thrust by a dexterous twist, which he thought was known only to himself and his master. It was all the work of an instant, demanding less time than it has taken the reader to peruse the description.

“Ha!” hissed Aylesford to himself, with a curse, now fairly frantic with rage and baffled revenge, “he must have had lessons from my old teacher. From no one but him, or the devil, could he have learned that trick of fence. But he is blown; he is less practised than I am; and I’ll have his heart’s blood yet.”

It must not be supposed that there was any pause, while he thus soliloquized. On the contrary, the attack went forward as desperately as before. Major Gordon at last began to acknowledge to himself it would be impossible for him to disarm his adversary, and that he must either lose his own life, or take that of the vindictive young man. The last alternative was only less objectionable than the first, since it would incontestibly banish him forever from Kate. But the liberty of choice was not left to him. He felt himself so hard pressed that he could count on nothing with certainty. All he could do was to defend himself, and watch for his opportunity, if fortunately it should come, or to die, if another and more serious stumble should be his lot.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave,
To tell us this. —Shakespeare.

Do not insult calamity,
It is a barbarous grossness. —Daniel.

But at this crisis, and when another instant would have dismissed one, if not both of the combatants, to death, a gun-barrel was thrust between them, striking up their blades, and simultaneously Uncle Lawrence stepped out into the road, having approached unperceived and unheard, through the woods.

“For shame,” he said. “Put up your swords, young men. I thought better of you, Major Gordon,” he continued, addressing the latter, “for your blood belongs to your country, and you’ve no right to waste it in a private quarrel.”

Somewhat abashed, the Major dropped the point of his weapon.

Uncle Lawrence, turning to Aylesford, went on.

“Put up yours also, sir. I’ve no doubt this brawl is of your making. You needn’t scowl at me; it will do no good; I was respected by your father before you was born, and I shan’t allow you to murder, or get murdered. Now mount your horse, young man, and go home. You needn’t look at the Major. He’s coming with me, for I have business with him: and I know he’ll promise me there shall be no more of this.”

Sullenly Aylesford, after a vain attempt to bluster, sheathed his sword, and telling his late antagonist, with an oath, that they would meet again, got into the saddle, and moved away as he was directed. When he had turned a corner of the road, a few rods distant, and was out of hearing, Uncle Lawrence said to Major Gordon:

“Now tell me how all this happened. He insulted you, of course, for I know him of old, and I marked his rudeness yesterday in church.”

There was a tone of authority in the speaker, yet one entirely free from assumption, which there was no resisting. With his blood still boiling, the Major put up his sword and prepared to obey the old man. He could not tell everything; Kate’s name was studiously avoided: but he gave otherwise a fair account of the interview. When he had concluded, Uncle Lawrence said:

“It is just as I expected. Now it’s strange,” he continued, “how one brother’ll differ from another. This young man’s father wasn’t the same man at all that Kate’s father was; and the son’s worse even. The old one spent half his fortune on wine and women, and the son has sent the helve arter the hatchet. He leads a wild life, when he’s in town, where he can get company of the same sort; and did the same here, for awhile, when his cousin was in Europe. You can see that, though, in his face.”

Uncle Lawrence paused, but as Major Gordon was silent he went on.

“His family, even Miss Katie, are in fear from his temper. You’ve had a taste of that yourself, and they say its sometimes awful: he’d as lief kill a person, if he was angry, as look at ‘em. Miss Katie, too, pities him, as is natural, for they were children together. I have heerd it was a plan of their fathers to marry ‘em, when they grew up.” His listener winced. “How that’ll be now, however, I can’t tell. Miss Katie worships the very name of her father, and would do a’most anything that she knew he wished: but I’m sartain, if he was alive, he’d sooner see her dead than married to her cousin. Her aunt, I hear, don’t think so, and is a great friend of the young man’s, which is the more odd, because she married just such another, who spent all her money and nigh broke her heart. But they do say, she went a’most crazy with grief, in spite of it all. Women, Major, are queer critters.”

“I suppose it’s this old compact,” said the Major, endeavoring to assume a composure he was far from feeling, “which has brought Mr. Aylesford down to Sweetwater.”

“Most likely. Though there may be something else afloat, as other sarcumstances make me suspect. He’s a tory at heart, I’m sartain. He was always high, and thought nobody good enough for him, talking of his cousin, Lord somebody, just as Mrs. Warren does,” and he laughed that low chuckling laugh, which was all his mirth ever rose to. “Such a man, Major, is naturally a tory; and tories are always on the watch, with their cunning ready, for this youngster’s as cunning as a fox; so I don’t know but there’s mischief afoot. That brings me, too, to my business, which is public, and to that private affairs must always give way, you know. But you’ll go back to the Forks?”

In manly bosoms, love, though the master-passion, is not the selfish and all-engrossing one, which mere romancers would have their readers to believe. Though Major Gordon was as anxious as ever to learn his fate from Kate, he saw that the present was not the time for it, and therefore declared his readiness to return to the Forks, and meanwhile, to hear what Uncle Lawrence had to say.

“It’s about the refugees, Major, that I’ve come to see you,” he said, walking by Selim’s side, as the latter proceeded homeward at a slow pace. “Yesterday, when we were all at meeting, widow Bates’ house was robbed and fired; and it could have been by none but them thieving vagabonds. Poor thing! she has a hard time to get along anyhow. Her husband was killed at Brandywine; and both her oldest sons are ‘listed for the war; so that she had nobody at home but her youngest, a boy of only twelve, and her little darter, who’s still younger. Among us, we manage to plow her little bit of land, so as to give her corn and rye enough to eat; but how she picks up the rest of her living, it’s hard to tell. Yesterday she walked into meeting with her children, though it’s a matter of five miles or more; and when she was away, somebody robbed her, taking everything that was worth carrying off, and then burning down her house.”

“The villains!” exclaimed the listener.

“You may well say that,” continued Uncle Lawrence, “for it’s not charity to call the scoundrels by softer names, as some folks, I hear, do in these times. Nobody but a villain would rob the widow and the orphan. Especially a soldier’s widow. It could only have been the refugees.”

“But have you no clue to them?” said Major Gordon.

“No what?”

“Can you guess who did it?”

“Oh! ay! can I guess? I think I can. It’s Ned Arrison, I’m a’most certain.”

“Who is Ned Arrison?”

“He’s a vagabond well known about these parts, Major, and likely to git his desarts if he’s ever caught by the folks. He used to be a hanger-on of young Aylesford; he was ostler, I believe, at Sweetwater, for awhile; and as Master Charles, as they called him, was always in the stables, the two got pretty thick. Arrison’s ten years the oldest, however, and wasn’t born in this country either, but had to leave Ireland when he was about nineteen, I’ve no doubt for gittin’ into some scrape or other there. He taught the young fellow to drink, and play cards, and worse, if all accounts are true. Long before Katie’s father died, however, the tricks of Arrison were found out, and he was turned off.”

“What makes you think he had to leave Ireland for committing some crime?”

“Why, you see, Major, the rogue has had some eddication, and it stands to reason that such a man couldn’t have been brought up an ostler, or forced to fly his country without being in a scrape. To do young Mr. Aylesford justice, he’d never have been so thick with Arrison, if the fellow hadn’t had some eddication. But this, and his cunning, and his always being ready to lick Master Charles’ shoes, or go down on his knees to sarve him, which pleased the lad’s high notions, made him the right-hand man of the young fellow.”

“But all this does not prove that Arrison had anything to do with yesterday’s affair.”

“Not so fast, Major. It helps, as you’ll see by-’m-bye. Arter being turned off, Arrison went away, and I heerd was living in Philadelphy. I’ve no doubt at all that Master Charles and he were as thick as ever, there, when the lad went up to town to school. I’ve heerd that a poor girl, whom it’s said the youngster ruined, was arterwards made to marry Arrison, in order to hush it up; and that Arrison took the wife for the money that was put down, and then spent the money and broke his wife’s heart, that is if it wasn’t nigh broke before: but of this I ain’t sartain, as what happens away off in Philadelphy, isn’t easy to be got at here; and I never liked to ask outright, when I’ve been in town, and, besides, didn’t know rightly who to ask.

“When the war broke out, and the time came, before Washington re-crossed the Delaware, that ‘most everybody feared the king was going to win, who should come down here but Arrison, and as Katie’s father was now dead, Master Charles was living at the big house, and took Arrison into his employment at once. There was deviltry enough went on, in a few weeks then, to ruin the souls of a hundred men. However, before long, the tables turned, and this young Mr. Aylesford, who, as I’ve said, is as cunning as he is hot tempered, began to be afeerd for himself, if he allowed such a tory to live with him. At this Arrison went away agin. But not long after he was seen, with some other precious scoundrels, hanging about the British camp; and by-’m-bye he came back to our parts, where he took to a reg’lar refugee life. Some of us, at this, turned out and tried to hunt him off. But we couldn’t find him, till one day, he robbed a house down near the Banks. John Sanders was away when it happened, but coming home at night, and hearing from the women all about it, and how Arrison had sworn at ‘em, and struck his old mother because she tried to hide some silver tea-spoons under her apron, he swore an oath, that he’d have revenge. He guessed that the refugees wouldn’t go far that night, for they’d come in a boat, and as the wind was agin them, they’d naturally wait for the next tide: besides there were few men left in these parts at that time, and so they’d nothing to fear. On this, he struck through the woods, coming out on the shore of the river, t’other side of the big bend, some dozen miles below this. He’d taken his axe with him, and what does he do now,” and Uncle Lawrence laughed a low laugh, “but cut a path through the brush, alongside the river, leavin’ just bushes enough between him and the water to hide him. He made his path a couple of hundred feet long, and when he’d finished it, lay down at its lower end, after having double-loaded his gun with buckshot, to watch for the refugee boat. It was a bright starlight night, and I’ve often heerd Sanders tell, that as he lay there, he could see the dark tide, as it rolled by, rippling past the pint, and twinkling as if a swarm of fire-flies was settling close over it. It was as still, too, as a grave-yard. He could hear the water lip-lapping agin an old tree trunk, that lay in the stream right in front of him; and the whip-poor-wills, he said, never wailed so loud; while, whenever an owl hoo-hooed, away off in the swamp, it a’most skeered him, it seemed so near. At last, arter he’d waited a long while, he heerd the sound of oars, soft-like, as if a boat was being rowed only just enough to give her steerage way. He peeped out, his heart a-beatin’, and sure enough there they were, dropping down the river with the tide. He knew Arrison, who had the tiller; and thought he knew one of the others too. There were five of ‘em. So he kneeled down, resting his gun lest his hand should shake, for he wanted to be cock-sure, and when the boat came directly opposite, blazed away. He jumped up at once, but not before he’d time to see that Arrison clapped his hand to his side, as if hurt, and that the fellow next to him, who was pulling the stroke oar, tumbled over dead like. Then he ran, let me tell you, for dear life. The men who weren’t hurt, fired right off. But,” and again Uncle Lawrence laughed his low chuckle, “Sanders, by this time, was two hundred feet off, one way, while the tide had carried them a couple of hundred in another; so that their buckshot only stripped a few leaves off the bushes, and cut down a huckleberry branch or two. Sanders got home safe before daylight, and we heerd no more of Arrison for a long while, till it was told that he’d been laid up, for months, with a wound, and had arterwards gone over to Maurice river to carry on his deviltries there, thinking that these parts was too hot for him.”

“Now that’s just the kind of rogue,” continued Uncle Lawrence, “that would rob a poor widow. And what makes me think, above all, that it was he burned widow Bates’ house, was that, when Arrison was living at Sweetwater last, he insulted the widow, one day, when he was drunk, for which her husband, who was alive then, gave him a sound thrashing. He’s the very man to remember such a thing, and take out his revenge in this cowardly way.”

“Your conclusions seem accurate,” said Major Gordon, “for it is scarcely credible that there can be two men, in all this district, who could commit so mean an outrage. You wish me, I suppose, to put my men on his track. If that is it, I will do it cheerfully. Though how we are to succeed in running him down, if you, who have better woodcraft, failed when he was last here, I don’t see.”

“There’s nothing like trying,” answered Uncle Lawrence, “and there’s the more need of it, because there’s worse mischief a-brewin’, you may depend on’t. This varmint wouldn’t have dared to come back, especially when he knew there were soldiers at the Forks, unless he’d a good many men at his back, or there were other reasons for thinking he could snap his fingers at us. I can’t tell what it is, but there’s something, I’ll stake my life on that.”

“I’ll go out this very hour with my whole force. Will you help?”

“That’s what I came over for. I’m a pretty good guide through these woods, though I say it that should not say it, and can track a man a’most as good as an Ingin can. I’m agin shedding human blood, too, when it can be helped,” added the old man; but slapping his gun, he went on, “yet if I draw sight on Arrison, he’s a dead man, for I’ve loaded her with as many buckshot as she can carry, and I’d no more mind shooting him, than I would a mad dog.”

As he spoke these words he came in sight of the Forks, where we will leave them for the present.

For on his brow the throbbing vein
Throbb’d as if back upon his brain
The hot blood ebb’d and flowed again. —Byron.

I am burned up with inflaming wrath;
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood. —Shakespeare.

It would be impossible to convey, in words, an adequate idea of the state of Aylesford’s mind, after his separation from Major Gordon. Rage, shame and jealousy possessed him by turns. But to one sentiment he was constant through all; he was resolved yet to have the life of our hero; to consummate the revenge of which he believed he had been baulked at the very moment of success.

Uncle Lawrence’s description of him had not exaggerated the reality. On the contrary, it had fallen short of the truth in many particulars; for the patriarch was ignorant of some of the worst passages in the young man’s life. Aylesford had long since squandered his entire patrimony, in the wildest excesses, and had now no prospect of retaining his position in life unless by marrying his cousin. Relying on the family understanding to that effect, he had never allowed himself to doubt Kate’s assent; but had looked forward to her return to America as the period which was to set him afloat anew on the tide of fortune.

Expecting, however, that Kate would not only land at New York, but remain there until the colonies, as he hoped and believed, would be subdued, he had made every preparation to meet her at that port; but not supposing that she would arrive as soon as she did, he had delayed, until the last moment, entering within the royal lines, a step which he knew would prevent his return to Sweetwater or to Philadelphia. He was at the former place, accordingly, when his aunt and cousin, arriving from the wreck, brought the first intelligence alike of their having sailed earlier than they had designed, and of the catastrophe which had terminated their voyage.

At first he saw nothing in the somewhat reserved manners of Kate, but the coyness natural to her sex and age; in fact, for awhile he attributed it to secret admiration of himself. But time gradually undeceived him. Kate’s reserve changed occasionally to marked aversion. He resembled, indeed, so little the cousin she remembered when a boy, that, when his attentions became particular, she shrank from him with feelings almost of disgust. As whatever was worst in his past career was concealed from her, this growing dislike must have arisen from the fine instinct of her sex.

Aylesford, like men of his class, looked everywhere but to himself for the cause of this aversion. He could find no explanation so plausible as in a romantic fancy, on the part of his cousin, for the handsome young officer who was said to have been the principal cause of saving her life. Giving way to his unbridled passions, he secretly swore to avenge himself on this rival. But, meantime, resolving to lose no opportunity of ingratiating himself with his mistress, he offered to visit Philadelphia, in order to attend in person to those commissions which the damaged wardrobe of the ladies rendered necessary.

Arriving at Sweetwater, after an absence unavoidably protracted, his first inquiry was for Kate; and his rage was only equalled by his astonishment, when he learned she had gone out on horseback with Major Gordon. Once, before his departure, he had offered to accompany her himself; but she had declined in terms that left no opening for repeating the request. A few questions, angrily put, extracted from the frightened servant, that Kate had been riding out daily for a fortnight with the man he already considered his rival. He was almost white with passion, therefore, when Mrs. Warren appeared.

His aunt, like all weak-minded persons, loved him none the less, perhaps, for his wild life, or his ungovernable temper. He had been her pet before she left for Europe, the more probably because his uncle so often frowned upon him, and now that she had returned, he seemed to her to be the same frank and good-hearted lad she had always persisted in believing him, only somewhat older in years, handsomer in person, and more finished in manner. To do her justice, Aylesford did all he could to deceive the simple dame. He was punctilious in attending to her wants, flattered her whims, and paraded his royalist sympathies freely in her presence. Accordingly, such was the hold he obtained over her, before leaving Sweetwater, that when, once or twice, her maid began to gossip about his antecedents, she sternly bade the girl to be silent, and resolutely refused to believe anything to his disadvantage.

“What is this I hear?” said Aylesford, with a lowering brow, when they had entered the parlor. “How could you allow this paltry rebel officer to establish himself here?”

Poor Mrs. Warren knew not what to say. She felt like a culprit. At last, not daring to look in his face, but fumbling, like a truant girl, the little, round pin-cushion, which, in common with all dames of her day, she wore at her side, she stammered—

“Indeed, Charles, I couldn’t help it—”

He answered angrily—

“Why didn’t you say that her horse was too wild? That you were afraid of the unsettled condition of the country? That it wasn’t proper for Kate to be seen with an American officer?”

Bewildered by so many questions, Mrs. Warren could only reply to that which came last.

“Oh! Charles, how could I be so rude?” she answered, “Major Gordon, you should remember, saved our lives—”

“That’s the very difficulty,” broke in her nephew. “I wish the intermeddler had been at the bottom of the ocean.”

“But we should have been drowned then,” and Mrs. Warren held up her hands. “You don’t mean what you say, Charles.”

“Well, then, I wish I’d been there—”

“I wish so, too, from the bottom of my heart,” said Mrs. Warren, beginning to cry, for his impetuosity had quite unnerved her.

“There, aunt,” he said, curbing his passion, “don’t. I’m sure I never intended to hurt your feelings.” And he approached and kissed her.

“Nor have you, my dear boy,” sobbed Mrs. Warren, throwing herself on his neck, and crying for a while hysterically. “But I’m sure nobody can blame me. I always knew there’d be trouble. I felt it from the first. I was satisfied you wouldn’t approve of such an acquaintance, any more than our cousin, Lord Danville, would.”

“Confound the old fool!” muttered Aylesford to himself. Then, giving up to his impatience, he said aloud. “It’s not as an acquaintance I care about him. But,” and he forgot himself so much as to utter a savage oath, “the fellow will be having Kate in love with him.”

Mrs. Warren sank into a chair, holding up both her hands.

“In love with him? Deary me! deary me! I never thought of that! But it can’t be, Charles,” she said, eagerly, “you’re joking with me. Kate would never throw herself away on such a person.”

“How do you know?” abruptly said he. “There’s nothing Kate won’t do, if she takes a mind to it. The man saved her life, too, or she thinks he did; and she’s as romantic as the devil!”

“So he did. So she is!” said Mrs. Warren, confusedly. “Oh! I see it all now. Why did I not do it before? But I never suspected such a thing. A rebel too, and worse, a rebel officer! We’re disgraced forever. What would Cousin Danville say? What will the King say when he hears of it?”

“Well, if this isn’t a precious partner I’ve got,” said Aylesford to himself, “to help me in my difficulty. I might as well have a crazy person.” But after a turn about the room, seeing that the handkerchief was still at her eyes, he said— “I’m not finding fault, aunt. But why the deuce,” he cried “didn’t you say that Arab was too wild for Kate?”

“I did, my dear boy, I did,” was the eager reply. “I was going to tell you so, only you frightened me. I told her so again and again. But your cousin’s as headstrong as her father, poor, dear man—I don’t mean to abuse him, now that he’s in his grave, but he’d always have his way; or for that matter so would your father, too, Charles, when we were children—I remember once seeing him, when he wasn’t ten years old, jump on an unbroken colt, that the grooms were afraid to ride, in spite of all they could say, and though I screamed as if I’d go into fits—and so she would ride Arab, when the Major had tried him and pronounced him safe, and though I begged him not to favor the child’s whim, and said to him, says I, ‘she’ll kill herself yet’—but he no more minded me than if I hadn’t spoke, for I see now that he wanted to have a tete-a-tete with her—and so they’ve been riding together nearly every day—and it’s all over with the marriage between you two, on which I’ve always set my heart”—and here the good dame, after this marvellously lucid narrative, burst into a perfect passion of sobbing, for she really could see no end to the troubles that threatened her.

Aylesford, with another oath, muttered— “Cold comfort this for a man. But what else can be expected from a whimpering old dunce? If she’d had sense and courage, she’d have got rid of this militia Major civilly, after the first interview. However,” he continued, “I mustn’t let her see what I think. She can be of service to me yet, and I must keep her in temper. I really believe she loves me as if I was her son.” So, again going up to her, and embracing her, not without something even of affection, he said— “There, aunt, compose yourself. What’s done can’t be helped. But, now that I’ve come back, I’ll take this matter into my own hands; and the first thing is to get rid of this rebel visitor. How long have Kate and he been out?”

He looked at the clock as he spoke, his frown deepening, for the hour was even later than he had thought.

“Deary me,” exclaimed Mrs. Warren, in reply, her face displaying visible consternation, “it’s almost noon. I wonder if anything has happened. I’m sure something has,” And she began to wring her hands. “I’ve felt all the morning that it would.”

Aylesford wheeled on his heel to conceal his impatience. But immediately he returned.

“Have they been absent two hours? Three? How many?”

“Deary me, don’t be so cross?” replied his aunt, his very impatience frustrating his object. “You frighten me, Charles. I’m sure I’ve done nothing to deserve this—”

“For heaven’s sake,” cried her nephew, losing control of himself, “cut this short, and tell me how long they’ve been gone, and what road they took.”

Aylesford at last extracted the unwelcome intelligence that Kate and his rival had been absent since eight o’clock.

“Time enough to make a dozen proposals,” muttered he, “and talk down the scruples of twenty heiresses, especially when a beggar of an officer is the suitor, who has had the good luck to help her off from a wreck. But I’ll put a stop to the fellow’s insolent pretensions. If the mischief be not done already, I’ll take good care he gets no more such opportunities; and if he has practiced on my cousin’s susceptibility, of whom I’m the natural protector, as being her nearest male relative, I’ll run him through.”

With these words he stepped to the window, ordered a horse to be saddled, and having ascertained the direction in which the equestrians had ridden, set off in search of them. Fortune conducted him immediately to them, as we have already seen.

Helen I love thee; by my life I do:
I swear by that which I will love for thee,
To prove him false that says I love thee not. —Shakespeare.

I cannot love him,
He might have took his answer long ago. —Shakespeare.

I’ll have my bond, I will not hear thee speak.
I’ll have my bond. —Shakespeare.

Though Kate could not think, without aversion, of ratifying the family contract to marry her cousin, yet she commiserated his disappointment, and was consequently more tender to his feelings than she would otherwise have been.

These sentiments had governed her during the interview at the bridge. No true woman takes pleasure in the suffering of an unfortunate lover. Kate had, on that occasion, thought more of her cousin’s disappointment than of Major Gordon. But, when she had reached Sweetwater, and was left to solitary thought in the privacy of her chamber, she saw that, in trying to save the feelings of Aylesford, she had hurt those of her preserver. Her momentary anger at the latter’s coldness gradually subsided, and when she met him, on the following day, she returned his bow, as we have seen, with all her old cordiality.

Kate was sitting alone in the parlor, to which we have already introduced the reader, on Monday morning, when her cousin entered the apartment. Something in his manner betrayed to her that he sought a private interview. Her heart began to beat fast.

Aylesford, for a minute or two, did not speak. He walked, in an embarrassed way, to the window; looked out a moment, glanced at Kate, and then tattooed on the panes with his fingers; and, finally, turning abruptly towards her, said—

“How is it, Kate, that you have compromised the family, by permitting this Major Gordon to visit here so frequently? His rebel commission surely ought to shut your doors against him.”

Kate’s color, which had been heightened ever since Aylesford entered, flushed to a still deeper crimson at these words. But, having determined, while remaining firm to her purpose, to do everything else to conciliate her cousin, she paused awhile before replying, in order to command voice and judgment alike.

“I do not see, Charles,” she said, finally, “that I have compromised the family. Major Gordon, though not a royalist, is a gentleman, and entitled to the civilities due to all such. In addition,” she added, with another blush, “he deserves particular attention at our hands; you yourself must admit this.”

“I don’t admit any such thing,” answered her cousin, nettled alike by her quiet manner and by her words. “He helped to save your life, I know; but so would any other person in his place. I myself,” he added, with an outburst of really natural feeling, “would have given my right hand to have been there, and risked my life also for you.”

Kate was touched.

“I believe you,” she said, with a voice full of feeling.

To do him justice, Aylesford loved her with all the passion of his illy regulated nature, and when he heard this reply, and saw Kate’s emotion, what was good in him awoke responsive to it. He fell upon his knee, by a sudden impulse, and seizing her hand, said—

“Then why won’t you believe still more, dear Kate? Why won’t you believe that I am the most sincere and devoted lover ever woman had? That I have been taught, from my youth up, to look upon you as my future wife? That all my associations of home and happiness have centred around you? Oh! Kate,” he cried, as she withdrew her hand and shook her head sadly, “have pity on me. Don’t let your heart be estranged from your own blood and kin, merely because a stranger has done that which I would have died a thousand times to do.”

Kate shook her head again mournfully. “It is not that,” she faltered.

“Then what is it? I implore you to tell me. By the memory of our fathers, who loved each other so well, what is it that makes you cold to me, and to me only?”

Kate had been struggling for composure to reply. Deeply moved, she said—

“Rise, Charles. This is no attitude for you to assume, nor for me to allow.”

Her manner was firm, though gentle, and Aylesford rose and stood before her.

“I cannot listen to such language,” she began. “I must be truthful, even if I speak words that may seem harsh; and I do not love you, Charles—”

He clasped his forehead violently with both hands.

“Yet what have I done,” he cried, after a moment, like one beside himself, “to win this hatred? Oh! never man loved as I love you, Kate.”

“I do not hate you, Charles,” was Kate’s mild reply. “You are my cousin, and the last male representative of our family, and therefore have a double claim on me. I like you as a relative, though I see much,” she added, hesitatingly, “to condemn. But to be your wife is impossible. It would bring happiness to neither of us. And knowing that it would not bring happiness,” she added, in a firmer tone, “it would be a sin in us to contract it. Otherwise, perhaps,” and here her voice trembled, “I might have ratified the wishes of our parents; which, but for this incompatibility between us, I should feel bound to obey.”

Aylesford, whose angry sense of humiliation had been gradually rising, was subdued again by these last words, for he thought Kate was relenting. He, therefore, answered eagerly—

“There is no incompatibility. Or,” for she shook her head, “there shall be none. Only try me. I will be anything you wish. We have been apart so long, that perhaps we do differ in some things; but I place myself in your hands; mould me as you will.”

His impassioned manner left no doubt on his hearer’s mind that he was sincere, at least for the time; but Kate well knew that natures like his were past reforming; and she could not, therefore, permit herself to be misled by these earnest protestations. The interview was becoming too painful, and she rose to terminate it.

“Don’t talk in that way, Charles,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “Please don’t,” she added, placing her hand restrainingly on his arm, as she saw he was about to renew his pleadings. “My decision is final. The heart cannot be forced.”

There was no mistaking the sincerity of this avowal. It left no room for hope. Her manner also confirmed her words. As Aylesford seized her dress to detain her, when she would now have left the room, she gently but resolutely removed his hold.

The ill-regulated nature of her cousin passed, in a moment, from entreaty to rage. He was like one of those volcanic countries, where suddenly, on a clear day, the heavens are filled with smoke and the solid ground shaken with earthquakes.

“Then you love this Major Gordon,” he cried, livid with suppressed passion. “You have lost your heart, like a romantic fool, to a rebel beggar, merely because he happened to be present when you escaped from shipwreck. Yes! go,” he added, bitterly, as Kate, with dignity, was proceeding towards the door, “but know that I will go to him, and force down his throat a disavowal of his suit to you.”

This threat checked Kate’s steps. The scandal of an encounter between her cousin and her preserver, apart from her well-founded dread of the former’s skill at fence, induced her to stop, with the hope of preventing this mad threat from being executed.

“You will do no such thing,” she said, fronting Aylesford with decision, yet with something of entreaty too in her manner. “You will not, you cannot, so disgrace her whom, but a moment ago, you professed to love. Nay, Charles,” she continued, as he was turning away, and advancing quickly she caught him by the arm, “you must promise me this. I demand it as a woman, as a relative,” and seeing he was still unmoved, she added, with spirit— “the honor of our family is concerned, that a gentleman who preserved my life should not be so grossly insulted; and I call on you, as my nearest male connexion, to sustain that honor.”

But Aylesford still turned from her with gloomy rage. As she still continued to hold fast to him, he finally shook her off roughly, saying—

“It is you who dishonor the family, by loving this base-born adventurer.”

“Oh! Charles,” she cried, reproachfully, with a burst of feeling, “I had not expected this of you.”

He turned on the instant. Again he thought she might be induced to relent.

“Promise me,” he said, eagerly, “that you will listen to my suit. Only promise me a probation, I ask nothing more. I will then do anything you wish.”

She shook her head sadly, but firmly.

“Then it’s no use deceiving me,” was the angry answer, as he flung off the hand which he had taken.

“You love this low fellow, this cowardly traitor—”

“Stop,” said Kate, with an air of command, her person seeming actually to dilate before her companion’s eyes. “I will not hear a gentleman maligned to whom we all owe so much. Nay!” she continued, almost sternly, as Aylesford attempted to speak, “I will be heard, and once for all. You forget yourself, and trespass on even the privileges of a relation, when you charge me with loving Major Gordon. You grossly insult me, when you say that I could love any man merely because he saved my life. Moreover,” she added, with something of haughty scorn in her manner, “if you will seek this gentleman’s blood, you may find to your cost that he is anything but a coward. As for me,” and her eyes sparkled with determination, “I shall take good care that Major Gordon knows that I have no share in this dishonorable requital.”

With these words she swept from the room like an empress, not condescending to pursue the altercation further.

Aylesford, with an oath, saw the door close after her, when, hastily arming himself, he ordered his horse saddled and went forth to provoke the duel which we have seen so opportunely interrupted.