"He is going to make a good, careful player, and I think a fine soldier."
"Allow me—Mr. Andsdell, Miss Carrick."
There had come with General Lee and his body of soldiers sent to quell the insurgents, a number of citizens out of curiosity to see the place. Among them a young Englishman, who had been in the country several years seeking his fortune and having various successes. He had tried the stage at Williamsburg, Virginia, and won not a little applause. He was an agreeable well-mannered person and always had excellent luck at cards without being a regular gamester. He made no secret of belonging to a titled family, but being a younger son with four lives between him and the succession he had come to America to try his fortune. Yet even in this new world fortunes were not so easily found or made.
Daffodil watched them with interest. M. de Ronville had played it with an elderly friend.
"You have seen it before?" Andsdell asked, raising his eyes and meeting the interested ones.
"Oh, yes; in Philadelphia. I spent a few months there."
Her voice had a charm. She seemed indeed not an ordinary girl.
"I have been there part of the last year. I was much interested."
He kept a wary eye on the young fellow's moves.
Once he said—"No, don't do that; think."
The other thought to some purpose and smiled.
"You are improving."
A flush of pleasure lighted the boyish face.
"Check," said Andsdell presently. "I had half a mind to let you win, but you made two wrong moves."
The young man glanced at his watch. "Now I must go and drill," he exclaimed. "Can we say to-morrow afternoon again?"
"With pleasure;" smiling readily.
He bowed himself away. Andsdell rose.
"I wonder if I might join your walk? I have met a Mr. Carrick——"
"That was my father likely. Grandfather is quite an old man."
"And figured in the—what shall we call it—émeute?"
Captain Forbes laughed. "That was about it. Yet at one time I was a good deal afraid there would be a fierce struggle. Better counsels prevailed, however. When the army arrived those who had not really dared to say the government was right so far as obedience was concerned came out on the right side. A thousand or so soldiers carried weight," with a half sarcastic laugh.
Andsdell stole furtive glances at the girl the other side of Forbes. What a graceful, spirited walk she had; just what one would expect with that well poised figure.
Then she stopped suddenly and the captain paused in his talk as she half turned.
"There's father," she exclaimed with a smile that Andsdell thought enchanting.
He had met the Englishman before and greeted him politely. After a little talk he slipped his daughter's arm through his and said mostly to her—"I am ready now."
She made her adieu with a kind of nonchalant grace in which there was not a particle of coquetry. He followed her with his eyes until they had turned the corner of the bastion. Then again he saw her as they were going out.
"I should think that girl would have half the men in the town at her feet," he said.
"Oh, Miss Carrick?" as if he was not quite certain. Then with a half smile—"Do you think so? Well, she hasn't."
"She is very lovely."
"In a certain way, yes. I believe our people like more color, more dash and spirit. We are not up on a very high round, pioneers seldom are. It takes a generation or so to do the hard work, then comes the embellishment. They are rather dignified and have some French ways. An old grandfather, the fourth generation back, might have stood for a portrait of the grand Marquis. It is on the mother's side."
"She doesn't favor the French."
"No, but the boy does, a bright, handsome fellow, wild as a deer and full of pranks. It will be hard to tell what race we do favor most. A hundred years hence we will be going back with a sort of pride, hunting up ancestors. At present there is too much to do."
Andsdell went his way presently. He was comfortably well lodged. He had a bountiful supper and then he went out for a walk. There was a young moon over in the west just light enough to bring out the silvery beech trunks and touch the tips of the grasses. The woodthrush still gave his long sweet call at intervals. This path led into the town. He would not go that way. He wished he knew just where these Carricks lived. He fancied her sitting on the porch drinking in the loveliness of the evening.
How absurd! He had seen pretty girls before, danced with them, flirted with them. There were the imperious belles of Virginia, who bewitched a man's fancy in one evening. There were the fair seductive maids of Philadelphia, and so far he had not been specially impressed with the girls of this town. A crowd were coming this way—he heard the strident laughter and loud voices, so he stepped aside.
Dilly was not sitting out in the fragrant air, but trying to explain a lesson to Felix. Neither did she give one thought to the young Englishman. She was glad in her inmost heart that Ned Langdale had been engaged elsewhere. Something in his eyes troubled her. She did not want to make him unhappy. She hated to be cold and distant to her friend, yet when she warmed a little he seemed to take so much for granted that she did not feel inclined to grant. Why couldn't one be satisfied with friendship? Occasionally she heard from Archie. They were eager, ambitious letters and she always read them aloud.
But if there could come any warmer interest Archie never would be content with this busy, bustling, working town, and then they would lose her. Every day she grew dearer to the mother. Geoffrey Andsdell decided he did not like the place very well either. He could not be winning money all the time from the garrison, and no business opening had been really thrust upon him, though he felt it was high time he turned his attention to the fact of making an honest living. He had wasted four years since he left England. It would be folly to return, and when that thought crossed his mind he bit his lip and an ugly look settled in his eyes. He had come to the New World to forget all that.
Yes, he would go back to Philadelphia. There were genteel opportunities there, and he was not a dullard if he had not been business bred.
He was asking a little advice of Mrs. Forbes as they had been sauntering about the hills that were showing bits of autumnal scenery and scattering the fragrance of all ripening things on the air. The jocund song of the birds had settled into a sort of leisurely sweetness, their summer work was done, nest building and caring for the young was over with for the season, and they could review their losses and gains. Somewhere along the stream that wound in and out a great frog boomed hoarsely and the younger ones had lost their fine soprano in trying to emulate him. Insects of all kinds were shrilling and whirring, yet underneath it all there was a curious stillness.
Then a human voice broke on their ear singing a merry Irish lilt.
"Oh, that's Daffodil Carrick. I could tell her voice from fifty others. It is never loud but it carries so distinctly. Let's see where she is."
They turned into the wider path zigzagging through the woods. Yes, there she sat on the limb of a tree she had bent down and was gently swaying to and fro. Her sun-bonnet was held by the strings serving to drive troublesome insects away. Her golden hair clustered about her temples in rings and then floated off by the motion of the swinging, a lovely bewildering cloud. She did not notice them at first; then she sprang up, her face a delicate rosy tint.
"Oh, Mrs. Forbes! And—Mr. Andsdell!"
She looked a startled woodland nymph. He thought he had never seen a more lovely picture.
"Are you having a nice time to yourself in your parlor among the hills? Can't we sit down and share it with you? I am tired. We have been rambling up hill and down dale."
A great hollow tree had fallen some time and Mrs. Forbes seated herself waving her hand to Mr. Andsdell, who looked a little uncertain.
"Oh, yes," Daffodil said. "I have been roaming around also. It is just the day for it. Now the sun comes out and tints everything, then it is shade and a beautiful gray green."
"You were singing," he said, thinking what compliment would not be too ornate. Out here in the woods with nature and truth one could not use flattery.
"Yes." She laughed softly a sound that was enchanting. "When I was little I was a devout believer in fairies. Grandfather Carrick's second wife came from Ireland when she was fifteen, and she knew the most charming stories. You know there are stories that seem true and hers did. I used to feel sure they would come and dance in the grass. That was the song little Eileen sang, and they carried her off, but they couldn't keep her because she wore a cross that had been put round her neck when she was christened."
"And did you want to be carried off?" he asked.
"Yes, I think I did. But I had a cross that I made of beads and named them after the saints. We are not Catholics, but Huguenots. I took my cross out in the woods with me, but the fairies never came."
"There is a great deal of really beautiful faith about those things," said Mrs. Forbes. "And some of the Indian legends as well. Old Watersee has stores of them. Some one ought to collect the best of them. Fairy stories go all over the world, I think, in different guise. They are the delight of our early lives. It's sad to lose that childhood faith."
"Oh, I don't want to lose it all," Daffodil said earnestly. "I just say to myself it might have been true somewhere."
Then they branched off into other matters. The sky grew grayer and the wind moaned through the trees, shaking down a cloud of ripe leaves.
"Is it going to rain?" asked Andsdell.
"I think it will storm by to-morrow, but not now. You see, evening is coming on. We might go down;" tentatively, not sure she was the one to propose it.
The path was beautiful, winding in and out, sometimes over the pile of richest moss, then stirring up the fragrance of pennyroyal. But the streets and houses began to appear.
Barbe Carrick sat on the porch waiting for her daughter, always feeling a little anxious if she loitered, though these woods were free from stragglers. She came to meet them now, she knew Mrs. Forbes and invited them to rest awhile, and they cheerfully accepted. Then she went for some cake and grapes and brought some foaming spruce beer. Even grandmere came out to meet the guests. Andsdell was delighted and praised everything and Mrs. Bradin said with her fine French courtesy—"You must come again."
"I shall be most happy to," he replied.
They finished their walk almost in silence. Andsdell was recalling the many charms of the young girl. Mrs. Forbes was looking upon him in the light of a lover. She could understand that the ordinary young man of the town could not make much headway with Daffodil Carrick. There were some nice men in the garrison, but after all——And it was high time Daffodil had a lover. All women are matchmakers by instinct and delight in pairing off young folks. She was a happy wife herself, but she recalled the fact that the girl was not in love with soldiers.
"Richard," Mrs. Forbes began, looking up from the beaded purse she was knitting, "do you know anything about that Englishman, Andsdell?"
He had been reading, and smoking his pipe. He laid down both.
"A sort of goodish, well-informed fellow, who doesn't drink to excess, and is always a gentleman. He plays a good deal, and wins oftener than he loses, but that's luck and knowledge. Like so many young men, he came over to seek his fortune. He was in Virginia, was some general's aide, I believe. Why are you so eager to know his record?"
"Why?" laughing softly. "I think he is very much smitten with Daffodil Carrick. She is pretty and sweet, a most admirable daughter, but, somehow, the beaux do not flock about her. She will make some one a lovely wife."
"Young Langdale has a fancy for her."
"And she is not at all charmed with military glory. Her father was a good, brave soldier, and went at the darkest of times, because his country needed him, not for fame or enthusiasm. She has heard too much of the dangers and struggles. Edward Langdale is full of soldierly ardor. They have had opportunities enough to be in love, and she rather shrinks from him. No, her husband, whoever he is, must be a civilian."
"Why, I think I can learn about him. The Harrisons are at Williamsburg, you know. And there is a slight relationship between us. Yes, it would be well to learn before you dream of wedding rings and all that."
Still she could not resist asking Daffodil in to tea to meet some friends. There were Mrs. Trent, the wife of the first lieutenant, and Bessy Lowy, young Langdale, and the Englishman. Bessy was a charming, dark-eyed coquette, ready of wit, and she did admire Ned. Andsdell was almost a stranger to her, and in the prettiest, most winsome fashion she relegated him to Miss Carrick.
They had a gay time, for Mrs. Trent was very bright and chatty, and her husband had a fund of small-talk. Afterward they played cards, the amusement of the times. In two of the games Ned had Daffodil for a partner, but she was not an enthusiastic player. And she had accepted Andsdell's escort home, much to Ned's chagrin.
"I did not know whether you would be at liberty," she said simply.
"I'll have an afternoon off Thursday. Will you go for a walk?"
She hesitated, and he remarked it.
"I see so little of you now. And you always seem—different."
"But you know I am quite grown up. We are no longer children. And that makes a change in every one."
"But that need not break friendship."
"I think it doesn't break friendship always," she returned thoughtfully.
"Daffodil, you are the loveliest and sweetest girl I have ever known."
"But not in the whole world," she rejoined archly.
"In my world. That is enough for me. Good-night;" and he longed to kiss her hand.
She and Andsdell came down from the Fort, crossed several streets, and then turned to the east. Philadelphia was their theme of conversation.
"I was such a little girl then," she said, with almost childish eagerness. "Everything was so different. I felt as if I was in a palace, and the maid dressed me with so much care, and went out to walk with me, and Miss Wharton was so charming. And now she is in France."
"Would you like to go to France—Paris?"
"Oh, I don't know. You have been there?"
"Yes, for a short stay."
"And London, and ever so many places?"
"Yes. But I never want to see it again."
Something in his tone jarred a little.
"I am glad you like America."
Then they met her father, who was coming for her, but Mr. Andsdell went on with them to the very door.
"Did you have a fine time?" asked her mother.
"Oh, yes, delightful. Mrs. Trent was so amusing, and Bessy Lowy was like some one in a play. I wish my eyes were dark, like yours. I think they are prettier."
Her mother smiled and kissed her.
All the next morning Dilly sat and spun on the little wheel, and sang merry snatches from old ballads. She wished she were not going to walk with Lieutenant Langdale.
"Is there any wrong in it, mother?" she asked, turning her perplexed face to Barbe.
"Why, not as I see. You have been friends for so long. And it is seldom that he gets out now."
The Post brought a letter from Archie. It was really very joyous. He had won a prize for a fine treatise, and had joined a club, not for pleasure or card playing, but debating and improvement of the mind.
She was very glad they would have this to talk about. And when Ned saw her joyous face, and had her gay greeting, his heart gave a great bound. They went off together in a merry fashion.
"Oh, you cannot think"—then pausing suddenly—"Did you have word from Archie in the post?"
"No, but a letter came for mother."
"You hurried me so, or I should have remembered to bring it. Father thought it so fine. He has won a prize, twenty-five pounds. And he thinks another year he may pass all the examinations. Oh, won't your mother be glad?"
There was such a sweet, joyous satisfaction in her tone, such a lovely light in her eyes, that his heart made a protest.
"You care a great deal about his success?" he said jealously.
"Yes, why not?" in surprise.
"And none about mine?"
"Why—it is so different;" faltering a little. "And you know I never was overfond of soldiering."
"Where would the country have been but for the brave men who fought and gained her liberty? Look at General Washington, and that brave noble-hearted Lafayette. And there was General Steuben that winter at Valley Forge, sharing hardship when he might have lived at ease. It stirs my blood when I think of the hundreds of brave men, and I am proud to be a soldier."
He stood up very straight, and there was a world of resolution in his eyes, a flush on his cheek.
"But you are glad of his success?"
"And why should you not be as glad of mine?" not answering her question.
"Why—I am. But you see that appeals to me the more. Yet I shall be glad for you to rise in your profession, and win honors, only—fighting shocks me all through. I am a coward."
"And he will come back a doctor, and you will rejoice with him. I shouldn't mind that so much, but you will marry him——"
"Marry him! Ned, what are you thinking of!"
There was a curious protest in her face almost strong enough for horror. Even her lips lost their rosy tint.
"What I am thinking of is this," and there was a fierce desperation in his tone. "I love you! love you! and I cannot bear to think of you going to any other man, of any person calling you wife. I've always loved you, and it has grown with my manhood's strength. Archie will always be lost in his books, and his care for others. A doctor ought never to marry, he belongs to the world at large. And I want you in my very life;" then his arms were about her, and clasped her so tightly that for an instant she could make no protest. She pushed away and dropped on a great stone, beginning to cry.
"Oh, Daffodil, what have I done! It is my wild love. It is like some plant that grows and grows, and suddenly bursts into bloom. I almost hated Bessy Lowy taking possession of me in that fashion. I wanted to talk to you, to be near you, to touch your dear hand. All last night I lay awake thinking of you. It was so sweet that I did not want to sleep."
"Oh, hush," she entreated, "hush," making as if she would put him away with her slim hands. "You must not talk so to me. It is a language I do not understand, do not like. I think I am not meant for lovers and marriage. I will be friends always, and rejoice in your success. And it is the same with Archie. Oh, let me live my own quiet life with father and mother——"
"And never marry?"
"Not for years to come, perhaps never. I am not afraid of being called an old maid. For Miss Wharton was delightful and merry, and like a mother to me, though I shall not be as gay and fond of good times. I like quiet and my own pretty dreams, and to talk with the birds and squirrels in the woods, and the lambs in the fields, and sometimes great-grandfather comes back."
Her face was partly turned away, and had a rapt expression. He was walking moodily up and down. Why was she so different from most girls? And yet he loved her. She might outgrow this—was it childishness?
"Well," with a long sigh, "I will wait. If it is not Archie——"
"It is no one. And when some nice girl loves you—oh, Ned, you should find some nice sweet girl, who will be glad of your love. I think girls are when they meet with the right one. And do not think of me in that way."
"I shall think of you in that way all the rest of my life. And if you do not marry, I shall not marry either."
Then there was a long silence.
"Shall we go on?" she asked timidly.
"The walk is spoiled. It doesn't matter now;" moodily.
"Oh, Ned, let us be friends again. I cannot bear to have any one angry with me. No one ever is but grandad, when we talk about the country or the whiskey tax," and she laughed, but it was half-heartedly.
What a child she was, after all. For a moment or two he fancied he did not care so much, but her sweet face, her lovely eyes, the dainty hands hanging listlessly at her side, brought him back to his allegiance.
They walked on, but the glory had gone out of the day, the hope in his heart, the simple gladness of hers. Then the wind began to blow up chilly, and dark clouds were drifting about. She shivered.
"Are you cold? Perhaps we had better go back?"
"Well"—in a sort of resigned tone. Then, after a pause—"Are you very angry with me?"
"Perhaps not angry—disappointed. I had meant to have such a nice time."
"I am sorry. If I could have guessed, I would not have agreed to come."
They paused at the gate. No, he would not come in. The fine face betrayed disappointment.
"But you will come sometime, when you have quite forgiven me," and the adorable tenderness in her tone reawakened hope. After all, Archie was not looking forward to marriage. Jeffrey Andsdell had not even entered his mind.
She went in, and threw aside her hat.
"Did you have a nice walk? You came back soon."
"No, I did not. Ned neither." She went and stood straight before her mother, pale, yet with a certain dignity.
"You did not quarrel, I hope. Is it true he is charmed by Bessy?"
"He asked me to love him. He wants to marry me;" in a tone that was almost a cry.
"Well?" subjoined her mother. The young lieutenant was a favorite with her, worth any girl's acceptance, in her estimation.
"I—I don't understand about love. To give away your whole life, years and years;" and she shivered.
"But if you loved him, if you were glad to do it;" and the mother's tone was encouraging.
"Ah. I think one ought to be glad. And I wasn't glad when he kissed me." Her face was scarlet now, her bosom heaving with indignation, her eyes full of protest.
"He will make a nice husband. His father is devoted to his mother. He has learned what a true and tender love really is."
"Mother, would you like me to marry?"
She knelt down at her mother's knee.
"Oh, my dear, not until you love some one;" and she kissed her fondly.
"Do you think there was ever a girl who could not love in that way?"
"I should be sorry for her; love is the sweetest thing in life, the best gift of the good Lord is a good husband."
Autumn was coming on slowly. Housewives were making preparations for winter. Daffodil was cheery and helpful. Grandmere was not as well as usual. She said she was growing old. There was a great deal of outside business for the men. Pittsburg was a borough town, and its citizens were considering various industries. Every day almost, new things came to the fore, and now they were trying some experiments in making glass. The country round was rich in minerals. Boat-building required larger accommodations. The post road had been improved, straightened, the distance shortened. There were sundry alterations in looms, and homespun cloth was made of a better quality.
Daffodil Carrick watched some of the lovers, who came under her notice. She met Lieutenant Langdale occasionally, and they were outwardly friends. They even danced together, but her very frankness and honesty kept up the barrier between them. He tried to make her jealous, but it never quickened a pulse within her.
Yet in a curious way she was speculating on the master passion. There were not many books to distract her attention, but one day there came a package from her guardian that contained a few of the old rather stilted novels, and some volumes of poems by the older English poets, dainty little songs that her mother sung, and love verses to this one or that one, names as odd as hers. And how they seemed to love Daisies and Daffodils.
She took them out with her on her walks, and read them aloud to the woods, and the birds, or sometimes sang them. Jeffrey Andsdell found a wood nymph one day and listened. He had met her twice since the evening at Mrs. Forbes'. And he wondered now whether he should surprise her or go his way.
She rose presently, and by a sudden turn surprised him.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I have been listening, enchanted. First I could not imagine whether it was some wandering fay or wood nymph wild."
"Oh, do I look very wild?" with a most charming smile.
"Why"—he colored a little—"perhaps the word may have more than one meaning. Oh, you look as if you were part of the forest, a sprite or fairy being."
"Oh, do you believe in them? I sit here sometimes and call them up. There was an odd volume sent me awhile ago, a play by Shakespere, 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' and it is full of those little mischievous elves and dainty darlings."
"That is not it?" coming nearer and looking at her book.
"Oh, it is verses by one Mr. Herrick. Some of them almost sing themselves, and I put tunes to them."
"And sing to the woods and waters. You should have a more appreciative audience."
"Oh, I couldn't sing to real people," and she flushed. "I wonder if"—and there came a far-away look in her eyes that passed him, and yet he saw it.
"What is the wonder?"
"That if you could write verses, songs."
She asked it in all simplicity.
"No, I couldn't;" in the frankest of tones.
"One must know a good deal."
"And be a genius beside."
"What queer names they give the girls. Chloe, that isn't a bit pretty, and Phyllis, that is a slave name. And Lesbia, that isn't so bad."
"I think I have found Daffodil among them. And that is beautiful."
"Do you think so?" She could not tell why she was glad, but he saw it in her face, and what a sweet face it was! He wondered then how such a fascinating bit of sweetness and innocence could have kept its charm in this rather rough soil. Her frankness was fascinating.
"Do you come here often?" he asked presently.
"Oh, yes, in the summer."
"That was when I first met you. I was with Mrs. Forbes. And her little tea was very nice and social. I've not seen you since. Don't you go to the Fort only on special invitation? There are quite a number of visitors. Strangers always come."
"I am quite busy," she replied. "Grandmere has not been well, and I help mother. There is a great deal to do in the fall."
Such a pretty housewifely look settled in her face. How lovely it was, with the purity of girlhood.
The wind swayed the wooded expanse, and sent showers of scarlet and golden maple leaves down upon them. The hickory was a blaze of yellow, some oaks were turning coppery. Acorns fell now and then, squirrels ran about and disputed over them. He reached over and took her book, seating himself on the fallen log, and began reading to her. The sound of his voice and the melody of the poems took her into another land, the land of her fancy. If one could live in it always! The sun dropped down, and it seemed evening, though it was more the darkness of the woods.
She rose. They walked down together, there was no third person, and he helped her with the gentlest touch over some hillocks made by the rain-washed roots of the trees. Then she slipped on some dead pine needles, and his arm was around her for several paces, and quietly withdrawn.
Daffodil laughed and raised her face to his.
"Once I slipped this way, it was over on the other path, where it is steeper, and slid down some distance, but caught a tree and saved myself, for there was a big rock I was afraid I should hit. And I was pretty well scratched. Now I catch the first thing handy. That rock is a splendid big thing. You ought to see it."
"You must pilot me some day."
They emerged into the light. The rivers were still gleaming with the sunset fire, but over eastward it was twilight gray.
"Good-night;" as they reached her house. "I am glad I found you there in the woods. I have had a most enjoyable time."
"Good-night," she said in return.
A neighbor was sitting by the candle her mother had just lighted.
"Dilly, you come over here and write these recipes. My eyes ain't what they used to be. And your mother does make some of that peppery sauce that my man thinks the best in Pittsburg. And that grape jam is hard to beat. Your fingers are young and spry, they hain't washed, and scrubbed, and kneaded bread, 'n' all that for forty year."
Daffodil complied readily. Mrs. Carrick told the processes as well.
"For there's so much in the doin'," said Mrs. Moss. "That's the real luck of it."
Felix went down to the shipyard after school, and came home with his father. To go to New Orleans now was his great aim.
"Grandad wants you to come over there," Mrs. Carrick said to her daughter.
"Then I'll have to read my paper myself," Mr. Carrick complained.
Grandad wanted her to go over some papers. They were all right, he knew, but two heads were better than one, if one was a pin's head. Then she must gossip awhile with Norah, while grandad leaned back in his chair and snored. Her father came for her, and she went to bed to the music of the dainty poems read in an impressive voice.
And when she awoke in the morning there seemed a strange music surging in her ears, and in her heart, and she listened to it like one entranced. But she had gone past the days of fairy lore, she was no longer a little girl to build wonderful magic haunts, and people them. Yet what was it, this new anticipation of something to come that would exceed all that had gone before?
It came on to rain at noon, a sort of sullen autumn storm, with not much wind at first, but it would gain power at nightfall. Daffodil and her mother were sewing on some clothes for the boy, women had learned to make almost everything. It took time, too. There were no magic sewing machines. Grandmere was spinning on the big wheel the other side of the room, running to and fro, and pulling out the wool into yarn.
"Why so grave, child? Is it a thought of pity for the lieutenant?" and Mrs. Carrick gave a faint smile that would have invited confidence if there had been any to give. She could hardly relinquish the idea that her daughter might relent.
"Oh, no. One can hardly fix the fleeting thoughts that wander idly through one's brain. The loneliness of the woods when the squirrels hide in their holes, and no bird voices make merry. And bits of verses and remembrance of half-forgotten things. Is any one's mind altogether set upon work? There are two lives going on within us."
Barbe Carrick had never lived but the one life, except when her husband was with the army, and she was glad enough to lay down the other. Had it been wise for Daffodil to spend those months in Philadelphia? Yet she had accepted her old home cheerfully. And all unconsciously she had worked changes in it to her grandmother's delight. Now her father was prospering. They would be among the "best people" as time went on.
The storm lasted three days. There had been some hours of wild fury in it, when the trees groaned and split, and the rivers lashed themselves into fury. Then it cleared up with a soft May air, and some things took a second growth. There was a sort of wild pear tree at the corner of the garden, and it budded.
Daffodil did not take her accustomed walk up in the woods. Something held her back, but she would not allow to herself it was that. Instead, she took rides on Dolly in different directions. One day she went down to the shipyard with a message for her father. Mr. Andsdell stood talking with him. Her pulses suddenly quickened.
"Well, you've started at the right end," Bernard Carrick was saying. "This place has a big future before it. If it was a good place for a fort, it's a splendid place for a town. Philadelphia can't hold a candle to it, if she did have more than a hundred years the start. Why they should have gone way up the Delaware River beats me. Yes, come up to the house, and we'll talk it over."
Then they both turned to the young girl. There was a pleasurable light in Andsdell's eyes.
Afterward he walked some distance beside her horse. The storm, the beautiful weather since, the busy aspect of the town, the nothings that are so convenient when it is best to leave some things in abeyance. Then he said adieu and turned to his own street, where he had lodgings.
She went on with a curiously light heart. Her father had said, "Come up to the house," and she was glad she had not gone to the woods in the hope of meeting him.
She slipped off Dolly and ran to the garden. "Oh, Norry, what are you doing?" she cried with a sound of anger in her voice. "My beautiful pear blossoms! I've been watching them every day."
They lay on the ground. Norry even sprang up for the last one.
"They're bad luck, child! Blossoms or fruit out of season is trouble without reason. I hadn't spied them before, or I wouldn't have let them come to light. That's as true as true can be. There, don't cry, child. I hope I haven't been too late."
"Yes. I've heard the adage," said her mother. "Norry is superstitious."
"Still, I'm glad you inquired," Mrs. Forbes said to her husband. "And that there's nothing derogatory to the young man. He's likely now to settle down, and he will have a fine chance with Mr. Carrick, who certainly is taking fortune at the flood tide. And one can guess what will happen."
"A woman generally guesses that. I hoped it would be Langdale. He is a fine fellow, and will make his mark," was the reply.
"Daffodil isn't in love with military life. Most girls are;" laughing. "Why, I never had two thoughts about the matter. I must give them a little tea again."
"Ask Jack Remsen and Peggy Ray, and make them happy, but leave out the lieutenant. Something surely happened between them."
Andsdell came to the Carricks according to agreement. How cosy the place looked, with the great blaze of the logs in the fireplace, that shed a radiance around. He was formally presented to Mrs. Carrick and the Bradins. Daffodil and her mother sat in the far corner, with two candles burning on the light stand. The girl was knitting some fine thread stockings, with a new pattern of clocks, that Jane had sent her from Philadelphia. Felix had a cold, and had gone to bed immediately after supper, and they were all relieved at that.
Jeffrey Andsdell had stated his case. He was tired of desultory wandering, and seven-and-twenty was high time to take up some life work. He was the fourth son of a titled family, with no especial longing for the army or the church, therefore he, like other young men without prospects, had emigrated. The heir to the title and estates, the elder brother, was married and had two sons, the next one was married also, but so far had only girls, and the entail was in the male line. The brother next older than Jeffrey had been a sort of imbecile, and died. But there was no chance of his succeeding, so he must make his own way. He had spent two years at Richmond and Williamsburg, then at Philadelphia. At Williamsburg he had taken quite a fancy to the stage, and achieved some success, but the company had disbanded. It was a rather precarious profession at best, though he had tried a little of it in London.
The straightforward story tallied with Captain Forbes' information. True, there was one episode he had not dwelt upon, it would never come up in this new life. How he had been crazy enough to take such a step he could not now imagine. But it was over, and done with, and henceforward life should be an honorable success.
Daffodil listened between counting her stitches. She stole shy glances now and then, he sat so the firelight threw up his face in strong relief. The brown hair had a little tumbled look, the remnant of some boyish curls. The features were good, rather of the aquiline order, the eyes well opened, of a sort of nondescript hazel, the brown beard worn in the pointed style, with a very narrow moustache, for the upper lip was short and the smiling aspect not quite hidden.
When he rose to go the ladies rose also. He shook hands, and held Daffodil's a moment with a pressure that brought a faint color to her soft cheek.
"He is very much of a gentleman," commented Mrs. Bradin. "And, taking up a steady occupation is greatly to his credit. Though it seems as if a soldier's life would have been more to his taste."
"I am glad he did not fight against us," said Barbe.
"Some have, and have repented," added her husband, with a touch of humor in his tone. "And we are large-minded enough to forgive them."
Daffodil did not see him until she went over to the Fort. Langdale dropped in to see her, but there was no cordial invitation to remain. He knew later on that Andsdell was there, and in his heart he felt it was not Archie who would be his strongest rival. If there was something that could be unearthed against the Englishman!
The Remsens, mother and son, were very agreeable people, quite singers, but there was no piano for accompaniment, though there were flutes and violins at the Fort. Andsdell, after some pressing, sang also, and his voice showed training. Then he repeated a scene from "The Tempest" that enchanted his hearers. Daffodil was curiously proud of him.
"You did not haunt the woods much," he began on the way home. "I looked for you."
"Did you?" Her heart beat with delicious pleasure. "But I did not promise to come."
"No. But I looked all the same, day after day. What were you so busy about?"
"Oh, I don't know. I thought—that perhaps it wasn't quite—right;" hesitatingly.
"It will be right now." He pressed the arm closer that had been slipped in his. Then they were silent, but both understood. There was something so sweet and true about her, so delicate, yet wise, that needed no blurting out of any fact, for both to take it into their lives.
"And who was there to-night?" asked her mother, with a little fear. For Mrs. Forbes would hardly know how matters stood between her and Lieutenant Langdale.
"The Remsens only. And they sing beautifully together. Oh, it was really charming. Mrs. Remsen asked me to visit her. It's odd, mother, but do you know my friends have mostly fallen out! So many of the girls have married, and I seem older than the others. Does a year or two change one so? I sometimes wonder if I was the eager little girl who went to Philadelphia, and to whom everything was a delight."
"You are no longer a little girl."
"And at the nutting the other day, I went to please Felix, you know. But the boys seemed so rough. And though I climbed a tree when they all insisted, I—I was ashamed;" and her face was scarlet.
Yes, the Little Girl was gone forever.
Her mother kissed her, and she felt now that her child would need no one to tell her what love was like. For it took root in one's heart, and sprang up to its hallowed blooming.
It was too soon for confidences. Dilly did not know that she had any that could be put into words. Only the world looked beautiful and bright, as if it was spring, instead of winter.
"You've changed again," Felix said observantly. "You're very sweet, Dilly. Maybe as girls grow older they grow sweeter. I shan't mind your being an old maid if you stay like this. Dilly, didn't you ever have a beau? It seems to me no one has come——"
"Oh, you silly child!" She laughed and blushed.
There were sleighing parties and dances. It is odd that in some communities a girl is so soon dropped out. The dancing parties, rather rough frolics they were, took in the girls from twelve to sixteen, and each one strove boldly for a beau. She was not going to be left behind in the running. But Daffodil Carrick was already left behind, they thought, though she was asked to the big houses, and the dinners, and teas at the Fort.
Andsdell dropped in now and then ostensibly to consult Mr. Carrick. Then he was invited to tea on Sunday night, and to dinner at the holidays, when he summoned courage to ask Bernard Carrick for his daughter.
For he had begun a new life truly. The past was buried, and never would be exhumed. And why should a man's whole life be blighted by a moment of folly!
They grew brave enough to look at one another in the glowing firelight, even if the family were about. One evening she stepped out in the moonlight with him. There was a soft snow on the ground, and some of the branches were yet jewelled with it. Half the lovers in the town would have caught a handful of it and rubbed crimson roses on her cheeks. He said, "Daffodil," and drew her closely in his arms, kissed the lips that throbbed with bashful joy and tremulous sweetness.
"Dear, I love you. And you—you are mine."
There was a long delicious breath. The story of love is easily told when both understand the divine language.
She came in glowing, with eyes like stars, and went straight to her mother, who was sitting alone. Both of the men had gone to some borough business. She kissed her joyous secret into the waiting heart.
"You love him. You know now what love is? That is the way I loved your father."
"It is wonderful, isn't it? You grow into it, hardly knowing, and then it is told without words, though the words come afterward. Oh, did you think——"
"Foolish child, we all saw. He carried the story in his eyes. Your father knew. He has been very honest and upright. Oh, my dear, I am so glad for you. Marriage is the crown of womanhood."
Her mother drew her down in her lap. Daffodil's arms were around her neck, and they were heart to heart, a happy mother and a happy child.
"You will not mind if I go to bed? I—I want to be alone."
"No, dear. Happy dreams, whether you wake or sleep."
She lay in a delicious tremor. There was a radiant light all about her, though the room was dark. This was what it was to be loved and to love, and she could not tell which was best.
Then at home he was her acknowledged lover. He came on Wednesday night and Sunday to tea. But Norry soon found it out, and was glad for her. Grandad teased her a little.
"And you needn't think I'm going to leave you any fortune," he said, almost grumblingly. "The blamed whiskey tax is eating it up every year, and the little left will go to Felix. You have all that land over there that you don't need more than a dog needs two tails. Well, I think there are times when a dog would be glad to wag both, if he had 'em. That will be enough for you and your children. But I'll dance at the wedding."
Barbe Carrick looked over the chest of treasures that she had been adding to year after year. There was her wedding gown, and it had been her mother's before her. The lace was exquisite, and no one could do such needlework nowadays. What if it had grown creamy by age, that only enhanced it.
Here were the other things she had accumulated, sometimes with a pang lest they should not be needed. Laid away in rose leaves and lavender blooms. Oh, how daintily sweet they were, but not sweeter than the girl who was to have them. And here were some jewels that had been great-grandmother Duvernay's. She would have no mean outfit to hand down again to posterity.
Barbe was doubly glad that she would live here. She could not bear the thought of her going away, and a soldier's wife was never quite sure where he might be called, or into what danger. There would be a nice home not very far away, there would be sweet, dainty grandchildren. It was worth waiting for.
Jeffrey Andsdell was minded not to wait very long. Love was growing by what it fed upon, but he wanted the feast daily. They could stay at home until their new house was built.
"We ought to go over across the river," she said, "and be pioneers in the wilderness. And, oh, there is one thing that perhaps you won't like. Whoever married me was to take the name of Duvernay, go back to the French line."
"Why, yes, I like that immensely." That would sever the last link. He would be free of all the old life.
"It isn't as pretty as yours."
"Oh, do you think so? Now, I am of the other opinion;" laughing into her lovely eyes.
She grew sweeter day by day, even her mother could see that. Yes, love was the atmosphere in which a woman throve.
Barbe settled the wedding time. "When the Daffodils are in bloom," she said, and the lover agreed.
Archie Langdale wrote her a brotherly letter, but said, "If you could put it off until my vacation. I'm coming back to take another year, there have been so many new discoveries, and I want to get to the very top. Dilly—that was the child's name, I used to have a little dream about you. You know I was a dull sort of fellow, always stuffing my head with books, and you were sweet and never flouted me. I loved you very much. I thought you would marry Ned, and then you would be my sister, you could understand things that other girls didn't. I am quite sure he loved you, too. But your happiness is the first thing to be considered, and I hope you will be very happy."
The engagement was suspected before it was really admitted. There were various comments, of course. Daffodil Carrick had been waiting for something fine, and she could afford to marry a poor man with her possible fortune, and her father's prosperity. And some day a girl would be in luck to get young Sandy Carrick.
Lieutenant Langdale took it pretty hard. He had somehow hoped against hope, for he believed the Carricks would refuse a man who had come a stranger in the place. If he could call him out and shoot him down in a duel! He shut himself up in his room, and drank madly for two days before he came to his senses.
March came in like the lion and then dropped down with radiant suns that set all nature aglow. There were freshets, but they did little damage. Trees budded and birds came and built in the branches. Bees flew out in the sunshine, squirrels chattered, and the whole world was gay and glad.
One day the lovers went up the winding path to the old hill-top, where Jeffrey insisted he had first lost his heart to her. They sat on the same tree trunk, and he said verses to her, but instead of Clorinda it was Daffodil. And they talked sweet nonsense, such as never goes out of date between lovers. And when they came down they looked at the daffodil bed. The buds had swollen, some were showing yellow.
"Why, it can be next week!" cried the lover joyously.
"Yes," said the mother, with limpid eyes, remembering when the child was born.
There was not much to make ready. The cake had been laid away to season, so that it would cut nicely. There was a pretty new church now, and the marriage would be solemnized there, with a wedding feast at home, and then a round of parties for several evenings at different houses. The Trents had just finished their house, which was considered quite a mansion, and the carpets had come from France. They would give the first entertainment.
She had written to her guardian, who sent her a kindly letter, wishing her all happiness. The winter had been a rather hard one for him, for an old enemy that had been held in abeyance for several years, rheumatism, had returned, and though it was routed now, it had left him rather enfeebled, otherwise he would have taken the journey to see his ward, the little girl grown up, whose visit he had enjoyed so much, and whom he hoped to welcome in his home some time again.
And with it came a beautiful watch and chain. Presents were not much in vogue in those days, and their rarity made them all the more precious.
They dressed the house with daffodils, but the bride-to-be was all in white, the veil the great-grandmother had worn in Paris, fastened with a diamond circlet just as she had had it.
"Oh!" Daffodil exclaimed, "if great-grandfather could see me!"
Jeffrey Andsdell took her in his arms and kissed her. This was, indeed, a true marriage, and could there ever be a sweeter bride?
She was smiling and happy, for every one was pleased, so why should she not be! She even forgot the young man pacing about the Fort wishing—ah, what could he wish except that he was in Andsdell's place? For surely he was not mean enough to grudge her any happiness.
She walked up the church aisle on her lover's arm and next came her parents. Once Andsdell's lips compressed themselves, and a strange pallor and shudder came over him.
Her father gave her away. The clergyman pronounced them man and wife. Then friends thronged around. They were privileged to kiss the bride in those days.
"My wife," was what Jeffrey Andsdell said in a breathless, quivering tone.
They could not rush out in modern fashion. She cast her smiles on every side, she was so happy and light-hearted.
They reached the porch just as a coach drove up at furious speed. A woman sprang out, a tall, imperious-looking person, dressed in grand style. Her cheeks were painted, her black eyes snapped defiance. One and another fell back and stared as she cried in an imperious tone, looking fiercely at the bride, "Am I too late? Have you married him? But you cannot be his wife. I am his lawful, legal wife, and the mother of his son, who is the future heir of Hurst Abbey. I have come from England to claim him. His father, the Earl of Wrexham, sends for him, to have him restored to his ancestral home."
She had uttered this almost in a breath. Daffodil, with the utmost incredulity, turned to her husband and smiled, but the lines almost froze in her face. For his was deadly white and his eyes were fixed on the woman with absolute terror.
"It is God's own truth," she continued. "I have your father's letter, and you will hardly disown his signature. Your son is at Hurst Abbey——"
"Woman!" he thundered, "it is a base trumped-up lie! There are four lives between me and the succession, and there may be more."
"There were, but last autumn they were all swept suddenly out of existence. The Earl was crazed with grief. I went to him and took his grandson, a beautiful child, that would appeal to any heart. And at his desire I have come to America for you."
Jeffrey Andsdell placed his wife in her father's arms. "Take her home," he said hoarsely, "I will follow and disprove this wild, baseless tale."
Then he pressed her to his heart. "Whatever happens, you are the only woman I have ever loved, remember that;" and taking the woman's arm, entered her coach with her.
The small group dispersed without a word. What could be said! There was consternation on all faces. Bernard Carrick took his daughter home. Once her mother kissed the pallid cheek, and essayed some word of comfort.
"Oh, don't!" she cried piteously. "Let me be still. I must wait and bear it until——"
She did not cry or faint, but seemed turning to stone. And when they reached the house she went straight through the room where the feast was spread, to her own, and threw herself on the bed.
"Oh, acushla darlin'," cried Norah, "sure we had the warning when the pear tree bloomed. I said it was trouble without reason, and though I broke them all off it couldn't save you."
"Oh, my darlin', God help us all."
"Whatever happens!" The words rang through Daffodil's brain like a knell. There was something to happen. She had been so happy, so serenely, so trustingly happy. For her youthful inexperience had not taught her doubt. The cup of love had been held to her lips and she had drank the divine draught fearlessly, with no thought of bitter dregs at the bottom.
Grandmere came and unpinned the veil; it was too fine and precious an article to be tumbled about.
"Let the rest be," she said. "He is coming and I want to be as I was then."
Then they left her lying there on the bed, the gold of her young life turning slowly to dross. Some curious prescience told her how it would be.
She heard the low voices in the other room. There was crying too. That was her mother. Felix asked questions and was hushed. Was it hours or half a lifetime! All in her brain was chaos, the chaos of belief striving with disbelief that was somehow illumined but not with hope.
He came at last. She heard his step striding through the room and no one seemed to speak to him. He came straight to her, knelt at the bed's side, and took her cold hands in his that were at fever heat.
"My poor darling!" he said brokenly. "I should not have learned to love you so well, I should not have asked for your love. But in this new country and beginning a new life it seemed as if I might bury the old past. And you were the centre, the star of the new. Perhaps if I had told you the story——"
"Tell it now," she made answer, but it did not sound like her voice. She made no effort to release her hands though his seemed to scorch them.
"You can hardly understand that old life in London. There is nothing like it here. I was with a lot of gay companions, and all we thought of was amusement. I had a gift for acting and was persuaded to take part in a play. It was a success. I was flattered and fêted. Women made much of me. I was only a boy after all. And the leading lady, some seven years my senior, fascinated me by her attention and her flatteries. It did turn my head. I was her devoted admirer, yet it was not the sort of love that a man knows later on. How it came about, why she should have done such a thing I cannot divine even now, for at that time I was only a poor, younger son, loaded with debts, though most of my compeers were in the same case. But she married me with really nothing to gain. She kept to the stage. I was tired of it and gave it up, which led to our first dissension. She fancied she saw in me some of the qualities that might make a name. And then—she was angry about the child. We bickered continually. She was very fond of admiration and men went down to her. After a little I ceased to be jealous. I suppose it was because I ceased to care and could only think of the wretched blunder I had made and how I could undo it. We had kept the marriage a secret except from her aunt and a few friends. She would have it so. The child was put out to nurse and the company was going to try their fortunes elsewhere. I would not go with her. In a certain way I had been useful to her and we had a little scene. I went to my father and asked him for money enough to take me to America, where I could cut loose from old associates and begin a new life. He did more. He paid my debts, but told me that henceforward I must look out for myself as this was the last he should do for me."
"And now he asks you to return?" There was a certainty in her voice and she was as unemotional as if they were talking of some one else.
"It is true that now I am his only living son. Late last autumn Lord Veron, his wife and two sons, with my next brother, Archibald, were out for an afternoon's pleasure in a sailboat when there came up an awful blow and a sudden dash of rain. They were about in the middle of the lake. The wind twisted them around, the mast snapped, they found afterward that it was not seaworthy. There was no help at hand. They battled for awhile, then the boat turned over. Lady Veron never rose, the others swam for some time, but Archibald was the only one who came in to shore and he was so spent that he died two days later. I wonder the awful blow did not kill poor father. He was ill for a long while. My wife went to him then and took the child and had sufficient proof to establish the fact of the marriage, and her aunt had always been a foster mother to the boy. There must be some curious fascination about her, though I do not wonder father felt drawn to his only remaining son. Archibald's two children are girls and so are not in the entail. Hurst Abbey would go to some distant cousins. And she offered to come to America and find me. She has succeeded," he ended bitterly.
There was a long pause. He raised his head, but her face was turned away. Did she really care for him? She was taking it all so calmly.
"You will go," she said presently.
"Oh, how can I leave you? For now I know what real love is like. And this is a new country. I have begun a new life, Daffodil——"
"But I cannot be your wife, you see that. Would you give up your father's love, the position awaiting you for a tie that could never be sanctified? You must return."
"There is my son, you know. I shall not matter so much to them. It shall be as you say, my darling. And we need not stay here. It is a big and prospering country and I know now that I can make my way——"
It was not the tone of ardent desire. How she could tell she did not know, but the words dropped on her heart like a knell. Apart from the sacrifice he seemed ready to make for her there was the cruel fact that would mar her whole life, and an intangible knowledge that he would regret it.
"You must go." Her voice was firm.
Did she love so deeply? He expected passionate upbraiding and then despairing love, clinging tenderness. One moment he was wild to have the frank, innocent sweetness of their courtship; he was minded to take her in his arms and press bewildering kisses on the sweet mouth, the fair brow, the delicately tinted cheek, as if he could not give her up. Then Hurst Abbey rose before him, his father bowed with the weight of sorrow ready to welcome him, the fine position he could fill, and after all would the wife be such a drawback? There were many marriages without overwhelming love. If his father accepted her—and from his letter he seemed to unreservedly.
He rose from his kneeling posture and leaned over her. She looked in her quaint wedding dress and marble paleness as if it was death rather than life.
"You can never forgive me." His voice was broken with emotion, though he did not realize all the havoc he had made. "But I shall dream of you and go on loving——"
"No! no!" raising her hand. "We must both forget. You have other duties and I must rouse myself and overlive the vision of a life that would have been complete, perhaps too exquisite for daily wear. It may all be a dream, a youthful fancy. Others have had it vanish after marriage. Now, go."
He bent over to kiss her. She put up her hand.
Was it really more anger than love?
"I wish you all success for your poor father's sake." She was going to add—"And try to love your wife," but her whole soul protested.
He went slowly out of the room. She did not turn or make the slightest motion. She heard the low sound of voices in the other room, his among them, and then all was silence. He had gone away out of her life.
Her mother entered quietly, came near, and took her in her arms.
"Oh, my darling, how could the good All Father, who cares for his children, let such a cruel thing happen? If that woman had come a month ago! And he fancied being here, marrying, never to go back, made him in a sense free. But he should not have hidden the fact. I can never forgive him. Yet one feels sorry as well that he should have misspent so much of his life."
"Help me take off my gown, mother. No one must ever wear it again. And we will try not to talk it over, but put it out of our minds. I am very tired. You won't mind if I lie here and see no one except you who are so dear to me."
It was too soon for any comfort, that the mother felt as she moved about with lightest tread. Then she kissed her and left her to her sorrow.
Mr. Carrick had been very much incensed and blamed the suitor severely. Andsdell had taken it with such real concern and regret and apparent heart-break that the father felt some lenity might be allowed in thought, at least.
Grandad was very bitter and thought condign punishment should overtake him.
"And instead," said warm-hearted Norah indignantly, "he turns into a great lord and has everything to his hand. I could wish his wife was ten times worse and I hope she'll lead him such a life that he'll never see a happy day nor hour, the mean, despicable wretch."
In the night tears came to Daffodil's relief, yet she felt the exposure had come none too soon. With her sorrow there was a sense of deception to counteract it. He had not been honest in spite of apparent frankness, and it hurt her to think he had accepted her verdict so readily. Hard as it would have been to combat his protestations in her moment of longing and despair, any woman would rather have remembered them afterward.
Daffodil kept her bed for several days. She felt weak and distraught. Yet she had her own consciousness of rectitude. She had not been so easily won, and she had been firm and upright at the last. There was no weak kiss of longing to remember. The one he had given her in the church could be recalled without shame. For a few moments she had been in a trance of happiness as his wife. And putting him away she must also bury out of sight all that had gone before.
She took her olden place in the household, she went to church after a week or two and began to see friends again, who all seemed to stand in a little awe of her. The weather was lovely. She was out in the garden with her mother. She rode about with her father. But she felt as if years had passed over her and she was no longer the lightsome girl.
It made her smile too, to think how everything else was changing. The old log houses were disappearing. Alleyways were transformed into streets and quite noteworthy residences were going up. General O'Hara and Mayor Craig enlarged their glass house and improved the quality of glass. She remembered when her father had tacked some fine cloth over the window-casing and oiled it to give it a sort of transparency so that they could have a little light until it was cold enough to shut the wooden shutters all the time, for glass was so dear it could not be put in all the windows. Not that it was cheap now, the processes were cumbersome and slow, but most of the material was at hand.
Mrs. Forbes was a warm and trusty friend through this time of sorrow. She would not let Daffodil blame herself.
"We all liked Mr. Andsdell very much, I am sure. I can count up half a dozen girls who were eager enough to meet him and who were sending him invitations. He really was superior to most of our young men in the way of education and manners. And, my dear, I rather picked him out for you, and when I saw he was attracted I made the captain write to a friend of his at Williamsburg and learn if there was anything serious against him, and everything came back in his favor. Of course none of us suspected a marriage. He talked frankly about his family when there was need, but not in any boastful way. And this is not as disgraceful as some young men who have really had to leave their country for their country's good. But, my dear, if it had not been for this horrid marriage you would have gone off in style and been my lady."