THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
PRESENTED BY
PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND
MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID
Thkkk was anothkr Low Cedar Nearer to her.
Near to Nature. Page i
The Works of
E ^ P ^ ROE
NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
PETER FENELON COLLIER & SON
MCM
r U
CSOPVSIGHT, 1876^
S^ DODD, MEAD, & COMPASR
PREFACE,
THE autumn winds are again blowing, and the even-
ings are growing longer. At the time when the fires
are kindled once more upon the hearth, I send this stoiy
out to visit those whom I can almost hope to regard zs
friends. If it meets the same kind welcome and lenient
treatment which my previous works have received, I shall
have more than sufficient reason to be satisfied. If, in
addition to being a guest at the fireside, it becomes an in-
centive to the patient performance of duty in the face of ail
temptation, I shall be profoundly thankful. I am not afraid
to inform the reader that these books are written with the
honest, earnest purpose of helping him to do right ; and
success, in this respect, is the best reward I crave. I do
not claim for these books the character of beautiful works of
art. Many things may have good and wholesome uses with-
out exciting the world's admiration. A man who cannot
model a perfect statue may yet erect a lamp post, and place
thereon a light which shall save many a wayfarer from stum-
bling.
It is with much diffidence and doubt that I have ventured
to construct my story in a past age, fearing lest I should
give a modem coloring to ever}'thing. But, while the book
is not designed to teach history, I have carefully consulted
good authorities in regard to those parts which are histori*
cal.
M36-3722
tV PREFACE.
Captain Molly has her recognized place in the Revolution,
s!)ut my leading characters are entirely imaginary. Still,
I hope the reader may not find them such pale shadows that
their joys, sorrows, and temptations will appear mere sickly
fancies, but rather the reflex of genuine human experiences.
They have become so real and dear to me that I part with
them very reluctantly,
CORNWALL-ON-THE-HUDSON, N, Y.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER 11.
CHAPTER m.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIIL
CHAPTER IX.
A Child of Nature
Vera and her Home
The ICONOCLAST3
For Worse
Washington's Sermon
A Scene at Black Sam's
New York Under Fire
Larry Meets his Fate
Left to Nature's Care
CHAPTER X.
The Robin Hood of the Highlands .
CHAPTER XI.
The Mother Still Protects her Child
CHAPTER XII.
Beacon Fires .....
CHAPTER XIII.
Liberty Proclaimed Among the Highlands
CHAPTER XIV.
Echoes Along the Hudson
CHAPTER XV.
Saville's Night Reconnoissance
CHAPTER XVL
Dark Days .....
CHAPTER XVIL
"The White Witch of the Highlands"
CHAPTER XVIII,
"The Black Witch of the Highlands"
CHAPTER XIX,
▲ DiRCE Ending Joyously . .
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VI
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XX.
SxULA Hears a Veritable Voice . .
CHAPTER XXL
Camp Fires and Subtler Flames . .
CHAPTER XXII.
The Storming of the Forts
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Wife's Quest Among the Dead
CHAPTER XXIV.
Vera's Search Among the Dead
CHAPTER XXV.
The Woman in Vera Awakes . . ,
CHAPTER XXVI.
Vera's Only Crime . . . . .
CHAPTER XXVII.
Vera must Become an Atheist
CHAPTER XXVm.
A Hasty Marriage . . . . .
CHAPTER XXIX.
Seeming Success ....
CHAPTER XXX.
A Master Mind and Will
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Revelation
Groping her Way
Strong Temptation
A Stranger's Counsel
The Parting .
fiEEKiNG Death
Seeking Life ......
CHAPTER XXXVIIL
A Mystery Solved— Great Changes .
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Explanations ......
CHAPTER XL.
Husband and vVife . . . . .
CHAPTER XLI.
JTEDDF-n WITH HER MOTHER'S RING . .
List of I/lustrations
NEAR TO NATURES HEART
There was another low Cedar nearer to her Frontispiece
"The top o' the mornin' to ye," Larry had said
A Panic seized upon the Robber -- -—
Barney fell dead at his victim's feet —
"May God have pity on us both" «.,.....
NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART
NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
CHAPTER I.
A CHILD OF NATURE.
THE granite mountains that form the historical High-
lands of the Hudson have changed but little during
the past century. On the 1 7th of June, about one hundred
years ago, a day inseparably associated in American memory
with Bunker Hill, and the practical severance of the cable of
love and loyalty that once bound the colonies to the mother
country, these bold hills undoubtedly appeared much as
they do now. In the swales and valleys, the timber, un-
touched as yet by the woodman's axe, was heavier than the
third or fourth growth of our day. But the promontories
overhanging the river had then, as now, the same grand and
rugged outlines of rock and precipice. The shrubbery, and
dwarf trees, that catch and maintain their tenacious hold on
every crevice and fissure, softened but litfle the frowning
aspect of the heights, that, like grim sentinels, guard the
river.
But nature in her harshest moods can scarcely resist the
blandishments of June ; even as the sternest features relax
under the caresses of youth and beauty. On this warm still
day of early summer, when over the city of Boston the wild-
est storm of war was breaking, the spirit of peace seemed
supreme even in that rugged gorge into which the Hudson
2 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
passes from Newburgh Bay, and a luminous haze softened
every sharp outline. The eastern shore was aglow with the
afternoon sun, like a glad face radiant with smiles. The
western bank with its deepening shadows was like a happy
face passing from thought into revery, which, if not sad, is
at least tinged with melancholy.
From most points of observation there were no evidences
of other life than that distinctively belonging to the wilder-
ness. If the pressure of population has brought so few in-
habitants in our time, there was still less inducement then
to settle where scarcely a foot-hold could be obtained among
the crags. Therefore the region that is now filling up with
those who prefer beautiful scenery to the richest lowlands,
was one of the wildest solitudes on the continent, though
amidst rapidly advancing civilization, north as well as south
of the mountains.
While at that time the river was one of the chief highways
of the people, the means of communication between the
seaboard and a vast interior, so that the batteaux of voyagers
and passing sails were common enough, still the precipitous
shores offered slight inducement to land, and the skippers
of the little craft were glad to pass hastily through this for-
bidding region of sudden flaws and violent tides, to the
broad expanse of Tappan Zee, where the twinkle of homa
lights and the curling smoke from farm-house and hamlet
in the distance reminded them that they were near their own
kind.
But there was neither boat nor sail in sight on the memo-
rable afternoon upon which my story opens, not a trace of
the human life that now pulsates through this great artery of
the land, save a small sail -boat drifting slowly under the
shadow of Cro'nest. The faint breeze from the west died
away as the sun declined, and the occupant had dropped
the sail that only flapped idly against the mast. The tide
A CHILD OF I^ A TURK S
was still setting up in the center of the river, but had turned
close in-shore. Therefore, the young man, who was the
sole occupant of the boat, reclined languidly in the stern,
with his hand on the tiller, and drifted slowly with the cur-
rent around the mimic capes and along the slight indenta-
tions of the shore, often so close that he could leap upon a
jutting rock.
Though the almost motionless vessel and the seemingly
listless occupant were in keeping with the sultr}' hour, dur-
ing which nature appeared in a dreamy rever)-, still their
presence was the result of war, A nearer view of the young
man who was mechanically steering, proved that his languid
attitude was calculated to mislead. A frown lowered upon
his wide brow, and his large, dark eyes were full of trouble —
now emitting gleams of anger, and again moist in their sym-
pathy with thoughts that must have been very sad or ver^''
bitter. His full, flexible mouth was at times tremulous with
feeling, but often so firmly compressed as to express not so
much resolve, as desperation. In contrast to nature's peace,
there was evidently the severest conflict in this man's soul.
In his deep pre-occupation, he would sometimes permit his
boat to drift almost ashore ; then his impatient and power-
ful grasp upon the tiller bespoke a fiery spirit, and a strongs
prompt hand to do its behests.
But, by the time he had crossed the flats, south of
** Cro'nest, " he seemed inclined to escape from his painfa'
revery, and take some interest in surrounding scenes. He
looked at his watch, and appeared vexed at his slow progress.
He took the oars, pulled a few strokes, then cast them down
again, muttering,
* ' After all, what do a few hours signify } Besides, I am
infinitely happier and better off here than in New York ;"
and he threw himself back again in his old listless attitude.
His boat was now gliding around that remarkable projec*
4 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
tion of land that has since gained a world-wide celebrity
under the name of West Point. When a little beyond what
is now known as the old Steamboat Landing, he thought he
heard a woman's voice. He listened intently, and a snatch
of wild melody, clear and sweet, floated to him through the
still air. He was much surprised, for he expected to find
no one in that solitude, much less a woman with a voice as
sweet as that of a brown-thrush that was giving an occasional
prelude to its evening song in a shady nook of the moun-
tains.
He at once proposed to solve the mystery, and so divert
his thoughts from a subject that was evidently torture to
dwell upon ; and keeping his boat close to the land, that it
might be hidden, and that he could spring ashore the
moment he wished, he pursued his way with a pleasant
change in a face naturally frank and prepossessing.
As he approached the extreme point v.'here now tlie light-
house stands, the notes became clear and distinct. But he
could distinguish neither air nor words. Indeed, at his dis-
tance, the melody seemed improvised, capricious, the utter-
ances of a voice peculiarly sweet but untrained.
It soon became evident that the songstress was on the
south side of the rocky point, on which grew clumps of low
cedar. Standing with an oar in the bow of his boat, and
causing it to touch the shore so gently that the keel did not
even grate upon the rock, he sprang lightly to land, and
secured his vessel. He next stole crouchingly up behind a
low, wide-spreading cedar, from whence he could see over
the ridge.
It was a strange and unexpected vision that greeted him.
He naturally supposed that some woodman's or farmer's
daughter had come down to the bank, or that a party of
pleasure had stopped there for a time. But he saw a crea*
ta»re whom he could in no way account for.
A CHILD OF NATURE. 5
Reclining with her back toward him on a lUtle grassy plot
just above a rock that shelved down to the water, was a
young girl dressed in harmony with her sylvan surroundings.
Her attire was as simple as it was strange, consisting of an
embroidered tunic of finely- dressed fawn-skin, reaching a
little below the knee, and ending in a blue fringe. Some
lighter fabric was worn under it and encased the arms. The
shapely neck and throat were bare, though almost hidden
by a wealth of wavy, golden tresses that flowed down her
shoulders. Her hat appeared to have been constructed out
of the skin of the snowy heron, with its beak and plumage
preserved intact, and dressed into the jauntiest style. Leg-
gings of strong buckskin, that formed a protection against
the briars and roughness of the forest, were clasped around
a slender ankle, and embroidered moccasins com.pleted an
attire that was not in the style of the girl of the period even
a century ago. She might have passed for an Indian
maiden, were it not for the snowy whiteness of her neck,
where the sun had not browned it, and for her good pro-
nunciation of English. In her little brown hand she held 3
fishing-rod, but she had ceased to watch her floral float,
which was the bud of a water-lily tied to the line. Indeed,
the end of her pole dipped idly in the water, while she,
forgetful of the sport or toil, whichever it might be, sang
her passing feelings and fancies as unaffectedly as the birds
on the hills around, that now were growing tuneful after the
heat of the day.
Thus far, our hero, whom we may as well introduce
at once as Theron Saville, had been able to distinguish
only disjointed words, that had no seeming connec-
tion ; mere musical sparkles, rising from the depths of a
glad, innocent heart But imagine his surprise when she
commenced singing to an air that he had often heard in
England :
6 NEAR TO NA TURK'S HEART,
" I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows."
She broke off suddenly, sprang up, and commenced wind-"
ing the line upon her pole. Then Saville saw that, though
very young seemingly, she was taller and more fully de-
veloped than he had supposed. At first glance she had
appeared to be little more than a child, but as she stood
erect, he saw that she was somewhat above medium height
and straight as an arrow.
He was most eager to see her face, thinking that it might
help to solve the mystery, but she perversely kept it from
him as she leisurely wound up her line, in the mean time
chattering to herself in a voice so flexible and natural that it
seemed to mirror every passing thought. Now, in mimic
anger she cried, " Out upon you, fishes, great and small —
whales, leviathans, and minnows ! ' Canst thou draw out
leviathan with a hook } Canst thou put a hook into his
nose .? ' No, I can' t ; nor in the nose of a single perch,
white or yellow. Did I not whisper when I first came,
' Come home with me to supper ? Scaly, unmannerly
knaves, out upon you ; I'll none of you,"
Then, with instant change to comic pathos, she con-
tinued, " ' Alas, 'tis true, 'tis pity ; and pity 'tis, 'tis true.*
r 11 none of you — when I wanted a dozen. ' '
Suddenly, with a motion as quick as a bird on its spray,
she turned, and appeared to look directly at Saville. He
was so startled that he almost discovered himself, but was
reassured by noticing that she had not seen him, but was
looking over his sheltering cedar at something beyond, with
a pouting vexation, that he learned a moment later was
only assumed. He now saw her features, but while they
awakened a thrill of admiration, they gave no clue to her
myster}'. The hue of perfect health glowed upon her oval
face, while her eyes were like violets of darkest blue. The
A CHILD QF NATURE 7
mouth %vas full, yet firm, and unlike Saville's, which was
chiefly expre^ive of sensibility and suggested an emotional
nature.
Altogether, she seemed a creature that might ha^int a
painter's or a poet's fancy, but have no right or real exist-
ence in this matter-of-fact world. Saville could not account
for her, and still his wonder grew when she exclaimed in
tones as mellow as the notes of the bird she addressed :
" What are you saying there, saucy robin? You're so
proud of your scarlet waistcoat, you're always putting your-
self forward. ' The sun's behind the mountain, and it's
time for evening songs,' you say. Well, I can see that as
well as you. Go sing to your little brown wife on her nest,
and cease your ' mops and mowes ' at me.
" ' I can sing in sunshine,
I can sing in shadov/.
In the darkest forest glen,
O'er the grassy meadow,
At night, by day, 'tis all the same.
Song is praise to His loved name.'**
Then she lifted her face and eyes heavenward, as if from
an impulse of grateful devotion. Her white throat grew
full, as in slower measure, and with a voice that seemed to
fill the balmy June evening with enchantment, she sang as
a hymn those exquisite words from Isaiah :
" For ye shall go out with joy.
And be led forth with peace ;
The mountains and the hills
Shall break forth before you into singing.
And all the trees of the field shall clap their hands."
Saville was in a maze of bewilderment and delight. Wa4
this a creature of earth or heaven } A fairj'' or an ideal
Indian maiden, the perfect flower of sylvan life .? All his
classic lore flashed upon him. Oreads and dryads, n)rmph.';
8 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
of the mountain and forest tripped through his brain to no
purpose. She seemed to him as much a being of the imag-
ination as any of them, but was so tantalizingly near and
real, that he could see the blood come and go in her face,
the rise and fall of her bosom, the changing light of her
eyes ; and yet he feared almost to breathe lest she should
vanish. Moreover, a pure English accent, and familiarity
with Shakspeare and the Bible, savored not of the wigwam
nor of Greek mythology. He resolved to watch her till she
seemed about to depart, and then seek to intercept her, and
by questions solve the enigma.
The girl stood quietly for a moment as the last sweet
notes of her voice were repeating themselves in faint echoes
from the hill-sides, and then in a low tone murmured,
" How can I be lonely when God makes all His crea-
tures my playmates*?' '
In the quick transition that seemed one of her character-
istics, she soon snatched up her fishing-rod, exclaiming :
" Old Will Shakspeare, I know more than you." And
she sang again,
" * I know a bank ' where the strawberry ' blows,'
Where the red ripe strawberry even now ' grows,'
' Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk roses and with eglantine ; *
These I can gather long before the night,
And carry home to mother ' with dances and delight * —
with dances and delight" — and as she repeated this refrain,
she lifted her slight pole like a wand over her head, and
commenced tripping on the little grassy plot as strange and
fantastic a measure as ever wearied Titania, the fairy queen.
There was another low cedar nearer to her, and Saville
determined to reach this, if possible. He did so, unper-
ceived, and for a moment gazed with increasing wonder on
her strange beauty. Though she seemed a perfect child of
A CHILD OF NA TURB, 9
nature, as unconventional as a fawn in its gambols, there
was not a trace of coarseness or vulo^arity in feature or action.
Suddenly the girl ceased her improvised dance, and
looked around as with a vague consciousness of alarm. It
%vas evident she had not seen nor heard anything distinctly,
but as if possessing an instinct akin to that of other wild
creatures of the forest, she felt a danger she could not see.
Or, perhaps, it was the influence of the same mysterious
power which enables us in a crowded hall to fix our eyes
and thoughts on one far removed, and, by something con -
cerning which we hide our ignorance by the term " mag-
netism," draw their eyes and thoughts to ourselves.
From her quivering nostrils and dilating eyes Saville saw
that his nymph of the mountain, wood, or water — the em-
bodied enigma that he was now most curious to solve — was
on the eve of flight ; therefore, cap in hand, and with the
suave grace of one familiar with the salons of Paris, he
stepped forth from his concealment.
But, seemingly, his politeness was as utterly lost on the
maiden as it would have been on a wild fawn, or the heron
Vi'hose plumage mingled with her flowing hair ; for like an
arrow she darted by him up the steep ascent, with a motion
so swift, so seemingly instantaneous, that he stood gazing
after her as helplessly as if a bird had taken wing.
It was not until she had gained a crag far above him, and
there paused a moment, as if her curiosity mastered her
fears, that he recovered himself, and cursed his stupid
slowness.
But, when he again advanced toward her and essayed to
spgak, she sprang from her perch, and was lost in the thick
copse- wood of the bank. Only her light hazel fishing-rod,
and the line with the watei Hly bud, remained to prove that
the whole scene was not an illusion, a piece of witchery that
comported well with the hour and the romantic region.
lO NEAR TO NATURE* S HEART.
Correctly imagining that though invisible she might be
watching him, he took the flower and put it in his button-
hole, leaving the pole on the bank ; then, taking off h5§
hat, he again bowed in the direction whither she had fled,
with his hand upon his heart, which pantomime he hoped
contained enough simplicity and nature to serve in place of
the words she would not stay to hear.
He then pushed his boat from the shore (for he no more
thought of following her than he would a zephyr that had
gone fluttering through the leaves), and permitted it to drift
down with the tide as before.
With the faint hope of inducing her to appear again, hs
took up a flute, of which he had become quite a master,
and which he usually carried with him on his solitary ex-
peditions, and commenced playing the air to which she
had sung the words,
" I know a bank "
He was rewarded by seeing first the plumage of the snowy
heron, then the graceful outline of the maiden's form on a
projecting rock where now frowns Battery Knox. He again
doffed his hat, and turned the prow of his boat in-shore, at
which she vanished.
Believing now that she was too shy to be won as an ac-
quaintance, or resolute in her purpose to shun a stranger,
he pursued his journey with many wondering surmises.
But partly to please himself, and with some hope of pleasing
her, he made the quiet June evening so resonant with music
that even the birds seemed to pause and listen to the un-
wonted strains.
Thus he kept the shores echoing and re-echoing till his
boat was gliding under a precipivous bluff, where it would
be impossible to land. Here a light northern breeze came
fluttering down the river with its innumerable retinue of
A CHILD OF NATURE. 1 1
ripples, and Saville threw down the flute and hoisted his
sail. As he glided out from the shadow of the bluff to the
center of the river, the same weird and beautiful voice re-
sounded from the rocks above him, with a sweetness and
fullness that filled the whole region and hour with enchant-
ment,
" I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."
Then he saw the plumage of the snowy heron waving him
a farewell, and distinguished the half concealed form of the
maiden. The northern gale tossed her unconfined hair for
a moment, and then the vision vanished.
The wind freshened, and soon the water was foaming
about the bow of his boat. Taking up his flute, he gave as
a responsive farewell the simple melody which had become
a kind of signal between them, the one link of mutual
knowledge, the gossamer thread that might draw their lives
closer together.
The maiden, who no longer needed the sheltering foliage,
but was concealed by the deepening twilight, listened till
the faintest echoes had died away in the distance, and then,
quite as bewildered and full of wonderment as the hero of
our story, slowly retraced her steps toward West Point.
Saville gazed lingeringly and regretfully back upon the
landscape that grew more picturesque every moment in the
uncertain light, and felt that he was leaving a fairy land for
one of stern and bitter realities.
la NEAR TO nature: S HEART,
CHAPTER XL
VERA AND HER HOMH.
WITH slow and thoughtful steps, the young gir! ptt?«
sued her way, finding a path where, to another,
there would have been only a tangled forest, growing among
steep ridges and jagged rocks. But the freedom and easa
with which she picked her way with almost noiseless tread,
might have deepened the impression that in some occult
manner she was akin to the wilderness in which she seemed
so much at heme. Having crossed a rocky hill, she entered
a grassy foot-path, and soon approached a dwelling whence
gleamed a faint light. Though her steps apparently gave
forth no sound, they were heard, for suddenly innumerable
echoes filled the silent valley, and two dogs, that must have
been large and fierce, judging from their deep baying, came
bounding toward her. With a low laugh she said :
" Here's ' much ado about nothing.' There, there.
Tiger and Bull ; two precious fools you have made of your-
selves, not to know me."
The great dogs fawned at her feet and licked her hands,
and, by the humblest canine apologies, sought forgiveness
for their rude greeting.
The light from within fell upon the somewhat haggard
and startled face of a man who stood upon the door-step
»nd peered out into the darkness.
" It's only I, father ;" and in a moment the girl was a*
bis side.
VERA AND HER HOME. 1 3
The man responded but slightly to her caress, and, enter-
ing the one large living-room of the cottage, sat down, with-
out a word, in its most shadowy corner, seemingly finding
something congenial in its gloom
" What has kept you so late, Vera?" asked a woman
who was taking from a rude cupboard the slender materials
of the evening meal,
" I was watching a queer little sail-boat, mother."
" Sail-boat, sail-boat ; has it landed near us ?" asked the
man, starting up.
" No, father. I watched till it disappeared down the
river," said the girl, soothingly.
" That's a good child. Still it does not signify ; no one
could have any business with me. ' '
But the slight tremor of excitement in the girl's tone
caused the mother to give her a quick, searching glance,
and she saw that something unusual had occurred.
Vera looked smilingly and significantly into the pale,
anxious face turned to her, and her glance said, " I will
tell you all by-and-by. "
The woman continued her tasks, though in a manner so
feeble as to indicate that the burden of life was growing too
heavy to be borne much longer, while Vera assisted her with
the quickness of youth and the deftness of experience.
From a little " lean-to" against the side of the house,
used as a kitchen, an aged negress now appeared. A scar-
let handkerchief formed a sort of turban above her wrinkled
visage. She was tall, but bent with years, and there was a
trace of weird dignity in her bearing, that was scarcely in
keeping with her menial position.
" Did de young missis bring anyting?" she asked.
"Nothing, Gula, " said the young girl, lightly. "The
unmannerly fish laughed me to scorn. Though I tempted
them above with a lily bud, and beneath with a wriggling
'14 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
angle-worm, not one would come home with me. They
were afraid of you, Gula. ' '
" Den dare's nothin' for supper but milk and bread, *
muttered the old woman.
" It will suffice for me. To morrow I will be up with
the lark, and have a dish of strawberries for breakfast"
And she hummed to herself :
" I know the bank whereon they grow—
A thing Will Shakspeare does not know."
The mother looked at her fondly, but her smile ended in
3 sigh. With her, almost everything in life was now ending
with a sigh.
The frugal repast being ready, the father was summoned,
but before he would leave his partial concealment, he asked
Vera to close the window-shutters, so as to preclude the
possibility of any one looking in from the outer darkness.
The man seemed haunted by some vague fear which was
not shared by the rest of the family, but which, in his case,
was tacitly recognized and humored. He ate his supper
hurriedly, and then retired again to his dusky comer, where
he sat the remainder of the evening, silent, save when
spoken to by his wife and daughter, who evidently tried to
retain him as part of the family circle, though he morbidly
shrank within himself.
The mother and daughter were left alone at the table, at
which they sat even after Gula had removed to the kitchen
the slight remnants of the meal. A dip-candle burned
dimly between them, and lighted up, but with deep con-
trasts of shadow, two remarkable faces — not such as one
would expect to find in a rude log cabin of the wilderness ;
for the uncertain rays revealed the fact, though disguised by
many a dainty rural device, that the walls of the dwelling
were of rough-hewn logs. But the homely surroundings
VERA AND HER HOME. 1$
cmly brought out more clearly the unmistakable refinement
of the faces of mother and daughter, now turned toward
each other in a subtle interchange of sympathy that scarcely
needed words. They seemed to have formed the habit of
communicating with each other by significant glances and
little signs apparent to no one save themselves, and there
existed between theai a love so deep and absorbing that it
was ever a source of tranquil pleasure to look into each
other's eyes. This silent communion was rendered neces-
sary in part, because there was much of which they could
not speak in the presence of the father and husband in his
present warped, morbid condition of mind. To her mother
Vera embodied her name, and was truth itself, reveaUng,
like her playmates the mountain streams, ever}^thing in her
crystal thoughts, To her father she was equally true, but
was so through a system of loving disguises and conceal-
ments. If she had told him of her adventure of the after-
noon he would have been greatly excited, and sleep were
banished for the night.
The mother saw that Vera had a confidence to give, and
quietly waited until they should be alone ; and as she
looked tenderly upon her child, her pale, spiritual face
might have realized the ideal of pure motherly love. As
such, in after years, Vera remembered it. It was well that
she should look long and fondly upon those dear features,
for in their thin transparency they promised soon to become
only a memory.
But Vera knew nothing of death. She had never seen a
pallid, rigid human face, and the thought that the dear face
before her could ever become such, was too dreadful to
have even entered her mind.
The mother, with a secret and growing uneasiness, had
been conscious of her failing powers. Her usual household
cares became daily more burdensome. She panted i<X
Roe— VI T I— B
e6 near to NATURE'S HEART.
breath, after tasks that once seemed light. Her rest, instead
of being sweet and refreshing, was broken through the long
night by a hacking cough, which the bland air of June did
not remove as she had fondly hoped. But, in the strange
delusion of her disease, she ever expected to be " better in
a few days," and she never had the courage to blanch the
joyous face of Vera with the vague fear which in spite ot
her hopes sometimes found entrance to her mind. The
malady had been so slow and insidious in its advances, that
Vera had not noticed the daily yet almost imperceptible
changes, but old Gula sometimes shook her head ominously,
though she said nothing. The husband was too deeply
shadowed by one oppressive fear to have thought for any-
thing else ; and so the poor exile (for such she was) uncon-
sciously to herself and those she loved, daily drew nearer to
the only home where the heart is at rest.
Upon a rustic shelf above Vera's head were two books
that originally had been quite handsomely bound. They
were the products of a time when things were made to last ;
and yet such had been their vicissitudes and constant use
that they looked old and worn. They were the only books
Vera had ever seen. They had been the story-books of her
childhood, and long before she could read them, her mother
had beguiled her by the hour with their marvelous tales.
They had been the school-books in which she had conned
her letters ; and, following her mother's pointing finger, she
had spelled her way through them, when the long and un-
pronounceable words were to her lisping tongue what the
ragged boulders around their home were to her little feet.
She had often stumbled over both ; still she had learned to
love the mossy boulders and the equally formidable words,
and the latter had gradually become stepping-stones to her
thoughts. These books were now yearly developing for her
deeper and richer meanings, and were having no small part
VERA AND HER HOME, 1 7
In the fonnation of her character. The gilt letters on their
backs were not so faded and worn but that the titles could
still be read — the " Plays of William Shakspeare/' and " Holy
Bible."
The former had been given to Vera's mother in other
and happier days, and in another land, by the man, now
but a wreck of the handsome, spirited youth, who then gave
glances and words with the gift, which she valued more than
the book. She had given him the Bible in return, and he
formerly had read it somewhat for her sake, though seldom
for its own. The Bible was much the smaller and plainer
volume, and suggested that the purse of the donor might
not have been as large as her love. In the sudden and dire
emergency which made them exiles, these two gifts of affec-
tion had been hastily snatched among the few other things
they had been able to take, in the confused and hurried
moment of departure. .
At a sign from her mother. Vera took down this Bible,
and drawing the failing candle nearer, read a few verses from
the 14 th chapter of St. John, commencing, " Let not your
heart be troubled." At the close of each day, for many sad
and anxious years, the poor woman had tried to sustain her
faith by these divine, reassuring words. They were read
first, not only for her own support, but in the hope that
they might have a soothing, calming effect upon the dis-
quieted mind of her husband. To Vera, also, she believed
that they might eventually become a legacy of hope and
strength. After they were read, some other passage was
also chosen.
The mother had opened the kitchen door that Gula might
hear, if she would, since she never could be persuaded to be
present at the family altar. Gula had been stolen from her
African home, where, as she once hinted in a moment oi
anger, she had possessed some rude and savage kind of roy-
1 8 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
alty, and since that time she had suffered cruelty and wrongs
without stint from those who called themselves Christians ;
thus she naturally chose to remain a pagan.
As Vera read the sacred words, the mother's face, where
she sat, a little back from the light, was sweet and shadowy
enough to be that of a guardian spirit.
The comer in which the father remained had grown so
dark that only the gleam of his restless eyes could be seen.
Vera's voice was sweet, low, and reverent. It was not a
form, but a heartfelt service in which she was leading, and
one that she knew to be dear to her mother.
She made a pretty picture, with the dim candle lighting
up her classic profile and a bit of her golden hair. All the
rest was in partial and suggestive shadow.
After the lesson of the day had been read, they sat a few
moments in prayerful silence. With the shrinking timidity
which some w-omen find it impossible to overcome, this
Christian wife had learned to pray unceasingly in her heart,
but could never venture upon outspoken words. Her nature
was gentleness itself, and strong only in its power to cling
with unselfish, unfearing tenacity to those she loved. Had
her husband been condemned to suffer any form cf death,
her meek spirit would have uttered no protest, but only
force could have prevented her from sharing his fate. If,
by interposing her own life she could save her daughter's,
she would give it up so naturally and instinctively that the
thought of self sacrifice would not even occur to her. Years
before, she had renounced, for the sake of her love, every-
thing save honor ; and though knowing that exile and soon
death itself would result, she never considered the possibility
of any other course, but in resignation accepted what she
regarded as her inevitable lot. Where she loved most, with
the certainty of gravitation, her steps would follow, while the
power remained. She was one whom the world would call
VEKA AND HER NOME. 1 9
weak, but whose strength God would honor, because pos-
sessing in her humble sphere His loftiest attribute, patient,
all-enduring love.
Before seeking her own little nest, Vera went out to speak
to the old negress, whom she found sitting on a low door-
step, smoking her pipe.
" Art lonely, Gula ?"
" No, chile, I'se got past dat. Dare's lots talkin' to ole
Gula."
" Why, I hear nothing save the whippoorwills, and the
frogs in the marsh."
" I doesn't hear dem. De voices dat come to me come
from far back o' dese mountains. I isn't loiiely any mo'."
" How queer !" said Vera musingly. " But you were
lonely once, Gula?"
" Yes, chile ; for nigh on twenty summer and winter my
heart was a-breakin'. I was so homesick like, dat I wanted
to die ebeiy minute. Den I died. My heart was jus a
heavy stun in my bres' ; only my body was kind o' half
alive so it could work when day whipped it But de heart
inside didn't tink nuffin, nor feel nuffin, nor know nuflSn.
On a sudden, one night, I kindo' woke up and heerd voices
a callin' me to run, and 1 got up and run, and trabbled for
days and nights till. I got here; den de voices tole me to
Stop. And I'se a stoppin' and a waitin' to see what de
voices say nex. ' '
" I can't understand it," said Vera wonderingly.
'* No, chile, you needn't try."
** Where do these voices come from ?"
" From way back o' dese hills — from farder dan de greaj
water whar dem floatin' miseries, dey call ships, go — from
whar de sun shine hotter dan it did to-day, all de time. Oh,
dis poor ole heart's nebber been warm since dey carried
me, screamin', on de floatin' misery. Go to bed, chile, go
so NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
to bed ; ole Gula hopes you'se body'll nebber be alive artet
your heart's dead,"
" Poor old Gula," said Vera, in a voice so gentle, so
sympathetic, that it would have moved the stoniest nature.
"I'm very sorry for you. ' Let not your heart be troubled/
Gula."
The old woman was touched by the young girl's compas=
sion ; but she had a strange, rugged pride, that prevented
her from ever receiving openly what still was balm in secret.
Probably the voices that had induced the fugitive to stay at
the humble cottage v/ere those of her present mistress and
Vera, speaking in the long unheard accents of kindness,
though in the poor creature's disordered fancy they had
blended with those she imagined coming from her old tropi-
cal home. Therefore, the roughness with which she said,
" Dare, dare, chile, none o' dat, don't keep you'se
mudder waitin' ; go to bed," was only assumed to disguise
the sudden relenting which usually takes place when the
flintiest heart is touched by the potent wand of kindness.
" Good night, Gula," said Vera. " Among your voices
you shall always hear mine ; and I hope it won't be cross
often ;" and she followed her mother, who had already gone
on before to her child's sleeping apartment.
It was as strange a little nook as one could imagine ; and
if Vera had been a nymph of the mountains, as her appear-
ance had suggested to Saville, this resting-place would have
been in harmony. The rude cottage had been built at the
sloping base of the rocky height crowned in later years with
the frowning walls of Fort Putnam. Just above the cabin
on the southern side, a huge crag projected so far from the
rocky steep as to form a natural shelter or sort of cave.
This little niche had been enlarged by excavation, and the
granite eaves extended by rough-hewn boards, so as to form
quite a roomy apartment, which Vera and her mother had
VERA AND HER HOME. 21
disguised into as dainty a rural bower as any grotto of the
Grecian n^mpias. It was connected with the main living-
room of the cabin by a covered way securely thatched and
protected at the sides by heavy logs, fastened in the securest
manner. Indeed the entire dwelling had been built with
almost the strength of a fortress, and Vera's father seemed
to find a growing satisfaction in strengthening its various
parts with stone and wood. The brief ascent to her " nest"
— as the young girl called it — was made by stone steps.
When her mother grew feeble. Vera brought home a slender
grapevine that she had found swinging from a lofty forest-
tree, and stretched it from her door to that of the living-
room. By laying hold of this, the ascent could be made
with greater ease. A stout cord passed along the roof, so
that if anything happened, summons or alarm could be
given instantly. But though the poor man who arranged
all these precautions seemed burdened with an increasing
dread, the years had passed, and they had been unmolested
in their wilderness retreat.
The mother placed the candle on a little bureau, and sat,
panting from her climb, on the edge of Vera's couch. The
daughter drew a bench forward, and dropping on it, leaned
her arms on her mother's lap and looked up into her face
as she did when a little child. Indeed, in her guileless
innocence and ignorance of the world from which she had
ever been secluded, she was still a child, though fully sixteen.
" Now, mother, you have been working too hard again
to-day," she said reproachfully. " See how tired you are."
" No, dear — I am only a little breathless — from climbing
to your nest. I get out of breath so easily of late. Now
tell me what has happened."
Vera described her adventure of the afternoon, which in
her tranquil life was a notable event. She dwelt long and
somewhat admiringly upon the stranger's appearance and
22 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
manner, especially his act of putting the v.ater-lily bud in
his button- hole.
" If he xoves flowers, mother, he can' t be bad.
But it was upon the notes of his flute that she descanted
most enthusiastically. ' ' And do you know, mother, he
played the same air that I had been singing, and which you
taught me years ago. But he must have thought me wild
as a hawk."
' ' No, dear, as timid as a dove. ' '
" Well, I was greatly startled at first. When I got a good
look at him I was not so much afraid. But you, and espe-
cially father, have so often warned me against making
acquaintances. You don't think I was rude, now ?"
" No, dear, no more than the birds that take wing when
you come too near."
' ' The birds are getting very presuming, mother ; they
either think that I am one of them or not worth minding.
They only cock their little heads on one side and give me a
saucy look, and then go about their business just as if I were
not near. ' '
*' They know and do not fear their friends," said the
mother abstractedly, " and you have been their harmless
playmate so long that they know all about you." And the
poor woman gave a long sigh.
" Now what does that mean, mother?"
" That you cannot always have such innocent and harm-
/ess companions. You are growing up, Vera. You cannot
always be a little wild-flower of the woods. You must make
acquaintances erelong. It is needful that you should.
But how are you to make them 1 Where are you to find
them .? We are strangely situated. I wish we had some
good neighbors, and your father did not feel as he does."
" Ought I then to have stayed and spoken to this young
man?"
^ VERA AND HER HOME. 23
" No, darling, you did right. He was an utter stranger.
And yet such are all the world. The ordinary ties which
unite us to our fellow creatures seem utterly broken, and
our isolation is so complete that I see no escape from it.
For myself I do not mind it. I am content. But for your
sake, Vera, I do indeed wish it were otherwise."
" I too am content, mother. The woods are full of play-
mates for me, and we chatter away to each other as merrily
as the day is long. We are beginning to understand each
other too. Do you know, mother, that the sounds of nature
seem a sort of language which I am fast learning .? I went
cut on the hills the other day after the shower, and found a
brook and a brown-thrush singing a duet together, and I
sat down and mocked them till I learned what they were
saying" — and in almost perfect mimicry she first gave the
gurgling murmur of the stream and then the mellow whistle
of the thrush.
" You are a strange child, Vera, But what did the brook
and bird say? I do not understand their language."
" Why, it's plain as can be. They said, ' Cheer up.
Vera. Let not your heart be troubled. After the shower
comes the sunshine. ' What else could they mean } There
was the brook sparkling in the sunlight, and singing the
louder for the shower ; and there was the little bird, which
neither the lightning nor the rain had hurt. "
Tears came into the mother's eyes, and kissing her child,
she said :
' ' Good night, Vera ; you are so innocent that God talks
with you, as He did with Adam and Eve in the garden."
The mother returned to the main room, which was also
used as a sleeping apartment Gula had already retired by
some rude steps to her loft overhead.
With the dawn of the next day, the mother was awakened
bjr Vera's receding voice, mingling with the songs of hei
84 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
music- masters, the birds, and knew that she had gone for
the promised strawberries. Before ver}' long, she returned
with an oddly constructed basket of broad leaves, heaped
up with the daintiest fruit of the year, and a m.oment later
the cabin was filled with their wild aroma, as, with scarlet
fingers. Vera quickly prepared them for breakfast.
" How kind it was of you to get us these berries," said
her mother. " I thought I had lost my appetite altogether,
but these taste so good that I must be better. Perhaps they
will make me well."
The flush of pleasure that came into Vera's face vied with
the ruby fruit, and she said, joyously :
'* You shall have them, mother, as long as there is one
to be found in the shadiest nook."
The light of day now revealed clearly the character of
their abode, which, in its exterior, did not differ greatly
from the ordinary log cabin of the frontier. There had
evidently been an effort to make it exceedingly strong, and
on every side were loop-holes, through which could be
passed the muzzle of a rifie.
But the usual bareness and unsightliness of these primitive
dwellings had been quite removed by festoons of the Ameri-
can woodbine (or ivy) which- Vera had planted at the cor-
ners, and trained along the eaves and to the very ridge.
There were also attempts at flower-beds, in which she had
sought to tame some of her wild favorites of the woods.
But the interior was an interesting study, from the effort
of refinement, everywhere manifest, to triumph over the
rudest materials. Such of the furniture as had been bought,
was strong and plain, and had evidently been selected from
motives of economy. This had been added to and supple-
mented as far as the ingenuity of the inmates permitted, and
on every side were seen pretty little things that were not
childish, and yet would please a child.
i^ERA AND HER HOME. 25
Autumn leaves, still brilliant, which Vera had pressed,
with great pains, between dry leaves preserved for the pur-
pose, festooned the unsightly walls, producing an effect that
gave the young girl more content then Gobelin tapestry gives
to its princely possessors. Mingling with these festoons
were button-balls, cut the preceding autumn from the plane-
tree, and bright red berries. In one corner was a huge
hornet's nest, suspended from the branch where its savage
little architects had built it the year before, and whose con-
struction Vera had watched with great interest, until, in the
fall, the paper citadel, that an army would hesitate to attack,
was evacuated ; then she had carried it home as a trophy.
But she found that it still contained a small garrison, which
occasioned no little commotion as they recovered from their
torpor in the warmth of the room. On a spray beside this
fortress, was placed, for contrast, an abode of peace — a hum-
ming-bird's tiny nest. In place of prosaic pegs and hooks,
the antlers of the stag were fastened here and there, and
served many a useful purpose. Rustic brackets, and a
cross of gray bark, with a mossy base, divested the apart-
ment of all appearance of the squalid poverty that often
characterizes the pioneer's cabin.
But the principal feature was the wide stone fireplace into
which for many years Vera could pass without stooping,
and in the corner of which she still sat on winter evenings,
reading by the light of the blazing fire, her inexhaustible
story book, the " Plays of William Shakspeare." Over the
hearth was a great iron crane ; and it was a proud day for
Vera when she learned to relieve her mother by swinging it
in and out, deftly hanging thereon the sooty kettle, without
smirching her hands or dress. Above a rude mantel, on
which Vera had placed some odd little ornaments gathered
in her rambles, were suspended a long rifle of very fine
workmanship, and a silver-mounted fowling-piece, which
26 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
the exiles had brought with them, rightly estimating theiF
value when seeking a refuge in the wilderness. The shot-
gun was light but strong, and of exquisite finish, and had
in other days brought down many a pheasant in English
parks. It carried just as truly now, and Vera had learned to
be almost as unerring in its use as her father. In conse-
quence, a plump partridge frequently graced their board that
too often was meagre enough. For a large part of the year
game was their principal food, as her father supported his
family by hunting and trapping. But of late he had grown
so moody and uncertain in his actions, that for days he
would sit in his shadowy corner brooding over some dark
secret of the past. It would then devolve on Vera alone to
supply the needs of the household, and at times the poor
child's heart was heavy, as weary and discouraged she re-
turned in the evening only to report her ill-success. Then
her father would rouse up as if his manhood were struggling
against the paralysis creeping over his mind, and he would
be more like his former self. But as Vera grew older, and
more acquainted with the habits and haunts of game, and
learned sn what waters to drop her line successfully, she
became more self-reliant and confident that she could at
least maintain a supply of food if the worst came to the
worst. On days when the man's mind was most unclouded,
he would, at his wife's solicitation, take the skins and prod'
nets of the chase to some village down the river, and bartef
them for such things as were needed. A little of the hoard
of gold which they had brought with them still remained,
and was kept for some emergency of the future.
Thus the years passed on, and Vera was ceasing to be a
child in appearance, though still a child in guileless sim-
plicity, and content with the pleasures and duties which had
filled her time thus far.
THE ICONOCLASTS, *1
CHAPTER III.
THE ICOXOCLASTS.
THE northern breeze caused Saville's boat to glide rap-
idly through the looming shadows of the lower
Highlands, and in comparatively brief time lights glimmered
invitmgly from the village of Peekskill, which was situated
at the head of a wide bay upon the eastern shore. Here he
decided to seek refreshment and spend the night, intending
to pursue his homeward journey the following morning.
The episode of the afternoon had formed a pleasing but
temporary diversion to the thoughts it had interrupted ; but
now, with increasing power to pain and agitate, they came
trooping back. In the consciousness of solitude and in the
enshrouding darkness, he made less effort at self-controL
His features were distorted by contending emotions, and he
often gave vent to passionate exclamations. It was evident
that a painful question was pressing upon him for immediate
solution, and that the results of his action in any case would
be very serious.
But by the time he reached the rude wharf he regained
his self-command, and having moored his boat, sought a
dwelling which combined the character of farm-house and
tavern. Here he received a welcome that was but in part
professional, for in those days of limited travel, a stranger
was an event, and a guest in reality as well as in name,
being often made much of, and becoming an object of
absorbing interest, it might be added also, of curiosity, to
bis entertainers.
28 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Saville found the little inn already in a state cf excitement
and bustle over the arrival of an old acquaintance of his
own, a wealthy, pleasure-loving young gentleman from the
city below, who was off on a fishing excursion, and who
eagerly sought to gain Saville as a companion,
" What is the news from the army before Boston ?" asked
Saville, gloomily.
' ' * The army before Boston ' be hanged, and the army
in Boston also. I could not sit down to dinner but a fire-
brand of a patriot would pluck one sleeve, and demand,
' Are you for Liberty .? ' and an ancient fossil who had
brushed against a duke, or mayhap a duchess, would pluck
the other sleeve, and querulously question, ' Are you not
for the King ? ' It was in vain that I anathematized both,
and said, ' No, I' m for dinner. ' There is no such thing as
peace down there, unless you are ranting on one side or the
other. So I snatched my fishing tackle, and showing a
clean pair of heels, am here among the mountains. It's a
confounded poor world for a man to enjoy himself in.
There are always two parties in it bound to devour each
other, and if you won't raven on one side or the other,
they'll both turn in and rend you. I don't care whether
the laws are made in Philadelphia or London, if they will
only let me alone. There, I'm through with the accursed
squabbles of the hour. I'm here to get rid of them, and
intend for the next few days to forget the existence of both
Parliament and Congress. So come with me, and keep
out of purgatory as long as you can."
In spite of his prolonged mental conflict, Saville still felt
himself unequal to solve the question that burdened him ;
and so to gain time and distract his thoughts, he complied
with his friend's wish.
On the following morning they started, equipped for the
sport. It was the Sabbath, but in SaAiUe' s estimation the
THE ICONOCLASTS. 29
day was no more sacred than would be a Decadi of the com-
ing French Revolution. He had lived in infidel France
sufficiently long to regard the Sabbath as a relic of super-
stition. He was a disciple of the " New Philosophy," and
had faith in naught save man, and man was a law unto
himself.
But the sport which completely absorbed his companion
dragged heavily with Saville, and after a few days he returned
to his boat, resolving to put off his decision no longer ; so
the latter part of the week saw him again beating southward
against the wind with many a long tack, as the river broad-
ened before him.
Saville's position was a trj'ing one, and yet not peculiar
in tnat day when the plowshare of division ran, not only
through communities, social circles, and churches, but also
through families, severing the closest ties. In order that
his present circumstances and character may be better un-
derstood, it will be necessary to take a brief glance into the
past
Theron Savilie combined both the French and Dutch el©'
ments in his parentage. On his father's side he came frcan
that grand old Huguenot stock which has largely leavened
for good the American character. He had thus inherited s
legacy of prayer and sacred memories from his ancestry,
and might ii he v.'ouid, receive the blessing which descends
to children's children : a *' covenant-keeping God" would
faithfully seek to reclaim him from evil. But he had utterly
abandoned the faith of his fathers, and was now an open
unbeliever.
His moral state was the natural result of the influences he
had fallen under during his education. In accordance with
a custom quite common among patrician families in colonial
days, hs had been sent to Europe to finish his studies.
i^ter a few years at an English university he went to Paris td
3© NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
acquire his profession, that of military and civil engineering.
But his tastes did not lead in the direction of exact and
practical science, and he appreciated the French opera far
more than French roads and fortifications. But it was the
new and skeptical literature of that chaotic age that chiefly
fascinated him. The brilliant theorists and iconoclasts who
were then, with jest and infinite wit, recklessly sapping the
foundations of the slowly built structures of human belief,
of social custom, and of established government, seemed to
him the heroes of the world. He, as little as they, foresaw
the crashing ruin for which they were preparing. Bigoted
violence had succeeded only too well in stamping out and
exiling the Huguenot element, and what then passed for
religion in France, was such a wretched imposition as to be
despised even by its consecrated priests. Social distinctions
were arbitrary and unnatural. Etiquette ruled in the place
of fidelity and principle, and behind this tinsel mask gross
license rioted. Government had become simply the oppres-
sion of the many by the few — an organized system to rob the
people that the titled might indulge in unbounded extrava-
gance. The corner-stone, which is the family, with its sacred
and guarded rights, had crumbled, and the whole social and
political fabric was consequently tottering in inevitable weak-
ness. The character of the times made it far easier to scoff
and strike at all institutions that should be sacred than to
reform them ; and the leading minds of the day were great
only in their genius for satire and innovation. But it was
the fearful degeneracy in the institutions themselves that
gave point to the sarcasm, and it was their crumbling weak-
ness that made blows, which now seem puny, then to appear
herculean.
Young Saville, unschooled by experience, had just the
temperament to be carried away by the railing and irreverent
spirit of the age. Naturally visionary, enthusiastic, and
THE IC0NGCLAST3. 31
gifted with far more imagination than judgment, he reveled
in the " Atheistic Philosophy/' and exulted over it as the
groundwork of a new and better order of things. Voltaire
enchained him by his boundless wiL Diderot, and even
Helvetius with his gross, materialistic theory, that sensation
originates all that there is in man, became his masters, while
in political creed he was a disciple of Jean Jacques Rous-
seau. Liberty, which was of an impossible ki.id — liberty,
which from the absence of safeguards and foundations must,
and in fact did, degenerate into the wildest license, became
his dream ; and he hoped to become eventually an apost'e
of this French ideal of freedom, in his own land.
Yet when the time came for Saville to return to New
York, he had not become utterly vitiated by the evil influ-
ences which were then demoralizing a nation. Something
in the old Huguenot blood and in his early training stiu
remained in his nature as a germ that migb* be developed
into healthful growth. He was not false, though unre-
strained by religion, or even by what was regarded as moral-
ity m his own land ; he accepted the world's code of honor
and unlike the world in which he had been living, was true
to it. His word bound him ; and though capable of very
wrong action, he shrank from anything mean, base, or un-
grateful. He was not coldly, selfishly, and deliberately
depraved at heart He scoffed with his favorite author,
Voltaire, not at what he beheved sacred, but at what, in that
false age, pretended to sacredness, and was in fact a solemn
and venerable farce. The truth back of this, which had
been corrupted or abandoned altogether, he did not recog-
nize nor even believe in its existence. A false priesthood
had made religion a byword and a hissing. As ignorant
and superficial as the leaders of opinion, he did not distin-
g'uish the purer faith of his fathers from the gross super-
stition from which it bad separated itself, but condemned
$2 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
all religion as the folly of credulity, the evidence of a weak
and unenlightened mind.
He was heartily in sympathy with Rousseau's best char-
acteristic, hatred- of the artificial and unnatural, and joined
in his protest against the absurd and arbitrary tyranny of
etiquette and monstrous custom. He believed with the great
innovator, that after the rags had been taken from the peas-
ant, and the titles and court dress lifted from the noble, in
each case remained that essential atom of society — man ;
and he held that this human unit, with its innate rights and
qualities, naturally develcped, must be the starting point in
the reorganization of the political fabric.
He could not then see that he and his teachers would
ever build in vain, even were they to attempt reconstruc-
tion ; for they ignored man's moral and spiritual nature and
its needs. Let man build his side of the arch never so well,
the work would crumble, because the opposite side, which
is God and the pure morality of his law, and the key-stone,
which is inteJligent faith and obedience, would be utterly
lacking.
But there was hope for Saville, because he was so sincere
in his skepticism ; because he accepted so enthusiastically
theories, the majority of which now have in history a record
like that of brilliant meteors only. He had not reached the
most hopeless of mental attitudes, that of coldly doubting
everything, nor had he sunk into the apathy of discourage-
ment, or plunged into the recklessness of those who see
nothing good or sure save present gratification.
His authors were demi-gods, and adorned a temple of
feme which he might enter. He was not near enough to
know the selfishness, meanness, and often baseness of their
lives. If he had read the confessions ot Rousseau, he
might not so readily have become his disciple. The fact
that he could honestly believe in these writers and their
THE ICONOCLASTS. .^3
teachings, proved him capable of accepting the truth with
equal heartiness, when once apprehended.
Saville heard with pleasure of the growing restlessness in
the American colonies under British rule, and ardently
hoped that he might there become a leading advocate of the
broad liberty of the new philosophy.
It became his favorite dream that he might be one of the
founders of a republic in the new world, in which liberty
and equality should be the corner-stones, human reason the
sole architect, and nature the inspiration. During his voy-
age home, he spent much of his time in the imaginary con-
struction of this Utopia of the future, in which he hoped to
have no mean place. Nor was it at all surprising that one
of his age and temperament should have fallen completely
under the influence of the philosophy that was then sweep-
ing 'jver the world.
34 NEAR TO NATURES HEART,
CHAPTER IV.
*' FOR WORSS."
SAVIL1LE had not been long in his native city before an
event occurred that changed the spirit of his dreams,
or rather blended them with others of a different nature.
The nebulous goddess of liberty, at whose feet he had been
worshiping, was exchanged for a creature of flesh and blood,
earthy indeed, material even to her mind. But Saville had
a faculty of seeing things, not as they were, but through a
transfiguring mist of his own imagination.
During his voyage home, his father had died suddenly,
and, in consequence, young Saville, for a few months im-
mediately after his return, was much secluded from social
and political life. Sorrow renders the heart more tender
and receptive, and there were long and vacant days to be
beguiled. His mother, who had inherited the thrifty traits
of her Dutch ancestry, availed herself of this opportunity to
secure an alliance which worldly wisdom would commend,
inasmuch as the young lady in question was the heiress of
property which would double the large wealth of her son, and
thus, of course, double his happiness. Their mutual acres
were so situated that they could be joined together with
great advantage. Whether the moral and mental qualities
of the parties themselves were equally adapted to union, was
not considered, and indeed seldom is, by your sagacious
match-maker, who to the end of time will be filled with
self-congratulation on having united estates. That two poor
FOR WORSE."
35
souls must henceforth dwell in purgatorial fires of discord,
or become polished icicles under the steady frost of indiffer-
ence, is a mere matter of sentiment. Two acres instead oi
one is a solid consideration, and ought to satisfy any
heart.
Mrs. Saville loved her son after her fashion, and was
serving him, as she supposed, in the best and most enduring
manner. She was aware that society would regard the
match as brilliant ; and to have the world nod approval was
as great a thing a hundred years ago as to-day. She had
met the parents, the uncles, and aunts of the coveted neiress,
in solemn conclave on the subject, and ^ound them quite as
ready to enter into the arrangement as herself. With many
fine speeches they disguised the" property considerations
uppermost in each mind, and it was agreed that the young
lady's disposition should be delicately inclined to assist.
That willful factor in the problem, however, bluntly said,
" I'll wait and see him first. "
This very natural decision disturbed Mrs. Saville but
little ; for she knew that unless her son had changed greatly,
his appearance would be in his favor. He'- chief ground of
anxiety was the action of the young man himself.
" Men are so unreasonable," she said ; " but unless
Theron is utterly blind to his own interests, he must see
things as we do. The young lady I have chosen for him is
rich, handsome, and of one of the first families in the
colony. Indeed her relatives in England are titled."
All this was true. Mrs, Saville had weighed externals
carefully. Julia Ashburton was very handsome after her
type and style. The prudent mother had considered every-
thing save the viewless, subtle spirit which dwelt within the
beauty, and which would prove, to the sorrow of all con-
cerned, the spirit of a Tartar.
Verily Saville was utterly blind to his own interests ; for,
36 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
soon after his return, he delighted his mother and the other
schemers by action that accorded with their plans.
Miss Ashburton was eminently gifted with the power to
awaken passion ; and in one who, like Theron Saville, saw
everything through the transfiguring haze of his own fancy,
she could even inspire an approach to love. But a man
who desired a wife, a home, and domestic peace, would
look askance at her. Her black eyes were too near together,
and emitted scintillations rather than the pure, steady light
of a womanly nature. They could fascinate and beguile
with something of a serpent's power, bat they would drop
abashed before the searching gaze of an honest man. Her
forehead was none too low, but it was narrow. The de-
velopment of her lower face was full ; not too much so,
l^rhaps, for sensuous beauty, but to a close observer it
would suggest the trait of stubbornness, and the possibility
that passion might triumph over all restraint But it was
the perfection of her form — which she was not at all chary
in displaying — and her grace of carriage, which constituted
her chief attractions. She was as lithe and supple as a
Jeopard, as well as feline in many of her qualities.
But Saville glorified her into ideal womanhood, and she
for a time fostered his delusion. Having seen the hand-
some young stranger, who possessed all the courtly bearing
and polish that could be acquired in French salons, she
readily joined in the family conspiracy. She was as gentle
and sympathetic as it was in her nature to be, and gave him
most of her time. A spirit less exuberant than Saville' s
would have had a vague sense of dissatisfaction — a con-
sciousness of something wanting in both her words and
manner ; but his heart, generous to a fault, was deeply
touched by her show of regard for his recent bereavement,
and his love for her was mingled with gratitude. Soon she
mw him a captive at her feet, and could make her own terms.
"FOR WORSE.** 37
During the long hours spent together, he, hoping to find
a sympathetic and congenial spirit, had often enlarged (to
her horror) on his favorite dreams of broad, democratic lib-
erty and equality. He even permitted her to see his bitter
hostility to everything that bore the name of religion, or
superstition, as he vi'ould characterize it, and he regarded all
forms of faith as the chosen instruments of tyranny. He
believed that he could soon kindle in her an enthusiasm
equal to his own for the new and glorious ideas that he had
acquired abroad, and for the reception of which, he imag-
ined, events were rapidly preparing America.
Now, Miss Ashburton was, by nature and education, as
hostile to these ideas as it was possible for any one to be.
She was a Tory and royalist to her heart's core, as were all
her family ; and their descent from a titled house in Eng-
land was the cherished source of their abounding pride.
The girl to whom Saville often discoursed of his Utopian
dreams, in a manner so rapt and pre occupied that he
scarcely noted her effort to disguise her apathy and distaste,
was not capable of enthusiasm for anything save herself.
Selfishness, the bane of all character, especially of woman's,
had consumed the kindly endowments of her nature, and
sometimes, when her lover's face was flushed in the excite'
ment of his own thronging thoughts, which were at least
large and generous, if mainly erratic, there would come a
crafty, and even vindictive, gleam into her eyes, which
seemed to say, '* I will endure with such patience as I can,
until the uniting links in the chain are forged, and then you
must listen to me."
If, at times, her manner chilled him, and he imagmed
her lacking in sympathy, he consoled himself by the thought
that she did not yet understand these great themes, and that
he could not expect her to reach in a few weeks the ad-
vanced views, which, in his case, had required years, and
38 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
that, too, where they formed the poUtical and social atmos-
phere in which men Hved.
As for Miss Ashburton, she soon perceived what she re-
garded the weak point in his character -the one that would
give her the advantage in the inevitable conflict that must
come after marriage ; and that was his loyalty to his word
— a scrupulous, generous, though perverted sense of honor.
He was a true gentleman, after the fashionable French ideal,
and not according to the French reality. It was a sad fact,
that in that debauched and chaotic age, the ninth command-
ment, and, indeed, every other in the Decalogue, rested as
lightly on the French conscience as the seventh. Of course
there were many honorable exceptions, and to these Saville
belonged.
Therefore, when in due time he poured out his passion,
she was full of demure hesitancy and doubt. ' ' Would he
be faithful to her?" she asked. " He had lived too long
in Paris, where men's eyes and fancies were given too great
freedom. He believed in such new and strange French
doctrines, which seemed to unsettle everything, even religion,
and was captivated by French ideas in general. How could
she be sure that she had secured a steady, loyal English
husband?"
In view of Saville's theories and rhapsodies she might
perhaps have urged these objections wdth some reason.
But the astute maiden had no fears on these grounds. She
was skillfully playing part of a pre-arranged game. She
would bind him by many and varied pledges. She would
keep him from the course on which his heart was bent, by
promises that now seemed silken cords of love and loyalty,
but would afterward prove galling fetters by which she would
hold him captive under a merciless tyranny.
Unsuspicious of her object, he gave her pledges innumer-
able, which could readily be made to bear the meaning she
''FOR WORSE.'* 39
designed, but which in his mind had no such purport
Having ensnared and woven a web around her victim, she
gracefully permitted herself to be won.
It was a rude awakening that Saville had from his delirium
of love, and dream of inspiring sympathy in his career as an
apostle of the broadest liberty, wherein all kings, human
and divine, were to be overthrown. His wife had been
under restraint too long already for one of her willful, self-
pleasing nature, and she threw off the mask with unseemly
haste. To his dismay he found that he had married a pretty
bigot, who would not hear a word against church or stat^
the venerable abuses of which were even dearer to her than
their excellencies. Nay, more, she told him that by all his
oaths of loyalty to her he was bound to the Tory side, which
was then rapidly becoming defined in distinction from the
Whig, or patriot party ; and such was the ingenuity of her
feminine tact, that in his bewilderment he half feared that
she was right ; and that he, like the Hebrew slaves, would be
compelled to build the structures he would gladly tear down.
At first, he chafed like a lion in the toils ; but on every
side she met him with the meshes of his own unwary prom-
ises. In vain he protested that loyalty to her did not involve
loyalty to institutions that he hated.
" I am identified with these causes," she would coolly
reply.
By this chain of loyalty to her, she would even drag him
to church, and made religion seem ten-fold more hateful by
the farce she there enacted. His eyes were now opened,
and he readily saw that she was a bigot to the forms c^
worship, and that the doctrines of her church were neither
understood nor considered. Her spirit was that of the
Italian bandit, who will shed his own blood to carry out the
purposes of his priest, and the blood of any one else that
his interest or revenge may require.
Roe— YIII— C
40 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Thus the wretched months dragged on, and Saville was a
moody captive. As the stirring events thickened which pre-
pared the way for the overt acts of the Revolution, he was
often greatly excited, and inclined to break his fetters ; but
he was ever confronted by a will more resolute than his own.
"To whom do you owe the more sacred duty," shr
would ask ; " this wretched cabal of blatant rebels who wiU
find halters around their necks if they go much further, or
your wife to whom you have pledged your honor ?"
His young friends in the patriot ranks were greatly dis-
appointed in him. Before marriage, his utterances had
been pronounced and radical ; now he was silent and kept
himself aloof.
There were many sneers about the " apron-strings of a
Tory wife," and the " difference between large swelling
words and the giving and taking of honest blows." Some
of these flings reached Saville, and stung him almost to
frenzy.
Of course anything like love or even passion died out
between these two, whom relatives had so complacently
matched, but who never could be mated.
At first, Saville often appealed to her, earnestly and even
passionately, to be a wife in reality, and not to thwart every
hope and aspiration of his life.
She would exasperate him by coolly replying, "Only as
I check and thwart your wild fancies and mad action can
I be a true wife. Can't you see that you are bent on ruin-
ing us both ? Your mind is full of monstrous innovations.
It is as if you should say in the dead of winter, I have a
vague plan of a better home than this. Let me tear down
our house, and I will build something different. Not while
I keep my senses. What would our property be worth
under the ' nouvelle ordre ' as you call it ?"
'* But, madam, you do not consider me ai ail, but only
*' FOR WORSE." 41
ihe property. Am I to have no other career than that of a
steward of our joint estates ?"
" That is better than a rebel's halter. But let us end
this useless discussion. You are a man of honor, and your
word is pledged. "
The tidings of the battle of Lexington almost brought
things to a crisis, and resulted in a stormy scene between
husband and wife. His passion and invective were so ter-
rible as to alarm even her for a time. And yet it only
served to intensify the settled obstinacy of her nature. It
also greatly increased a growing dislike for him, which
needed only time to develop into hatred.
At the close of this memorable interviev/, she sa'd harshly
" I have endured this folly long enough. You must
either give up this madness wholly and utterly, or else
trample upon your honor and duty, and proclaim yourself
& perjured villain. The day you join the rebel crew, you
desert your wife ; and I will never so much as touch your
hand again."
" Do you mean that?" he asked hoarsely.
" The God you dare to despise is my witness. I do."
" Pitiful are the gods which attract such worshipers," he
sneered, and turning on his heel, he left her.
He now saw that the crisis had indeed come. He had
learned to know his wife sufficiendy well to be aware that
neither appeals nor circumstances could change her views
and actions. She formed her opinions and purposes solely
on the grounds of her own prejudices and wishes ; and a
nature without generous impulses made her coldly obstinate
in their maintenance.
And now what should he do? The epithet " perjured
villain ' * stood in the path to patriotic action, like a grislj
spectre, for perjured he knew that she would make him
appear to her family.
4* NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
If his own interests only were involved, he would not
have had a moment's hesitancy. But was it right to risk
his property and life in rebellion, and perhaps bring his
mother to poverty and danger in her old age ? For she,
too, by many an eloquent appeal assured him that he would
be false to the sacred duties which he owed her in her
widowhood ; and by the whole force of the filial bond,
sought to chain his generous nature to inaction. He was
thus torn by contending emotions, and tortured by conflict-
mg claims. His cheeks grew wan, and his face haggard, in
as cruel a captivity as ever man endured. But both mother
and wife looked on unsympathetically. They were in the
most aggravating condition of mind toward the sufferer,
complacently sure that they were right and he wrong ; that
they were acting for his best good, and that he, like a rash,
foolish child, must be held in steady restraint until he
should pass beyond the folly of his youth. Their treatment
was as humiliating as it was galling.
And yet he did not know what was right, for he had no
true moral standard. He had cast away that book of divine
ethics, which clearly defines the relative force of each claim
upon the conscience, and which, in an emergency like this,
calmly lifts a man up to the sacrifice of himself and every
earthly tie, that God may be honored, and humanity at
large served.
But, in his creed, as we have seen, man was his own law ;
and while his heart said, " Join the cause of freedom," a
perverted sense of honor said, " No, your word has made
you the slave of your wife's bigotry, and your mother's
fears. ' '
In vain he appealed to his mother, telling her how patri-
otic ladies in the city were urging their sons to heroic
action, and teaching even their little children the alphabet
of liberty- She would oal.v weep- and nrophesy dismally.
"FOR WORSE.^ 43
*' When these mothers see their sons brought home
mangled corpses, and their pleasant homes burned, and
their children turned adrift upon the heartless world, they
will shed tears of blood over their folly. I love you too
well to permit you to rush to your own destruction as truly
as to mine."
She always assumed that it would be impossible for him
to go without her permission.
His bitter reply at last became, " Your love will be my
death by slow torture."
"Nonsense, my child," the old lady answered, almost
petulantly. " You will soon see the day when you will
thank me from the bottom of your heart for having kept
you out of this wretched broil, which will rain all who
engage in it "
Thus there was not even sympathy for him at home, but
«sly a riveting of the fetters which v/ere eating into his very
soul. So he came to indulge in long and lonely espedi-
tions, by which he sought to escape, in some degree, the
painful couditicns of his city life.
^EAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
CHAPTER V.
Washington's sermon.
THE explanatory digression of the two previous chapters
left Saville returning from one of these flights from the
tormenting difficulties of his position. In due time he
approached his native city, passing for miles along rugged
and heavily wooded shores, that now are occupied by
spacious ware-houses, and wharves crowded with the com-
merce of the world.
By the time he reached a point opposite where Canal
Street now ends at the North River, his attention was drawn
to a large flotilla, just leaving the Jersey shore. Remem-
bering that it was Sunday afternoon, he was still more sur-
prised to find that on grounds adjoining his own estate, near
the foot of Murray Street of our day, an immense concourse
of people were assembled. His boat soon reached his
private quay, where he found his body-servant, who had
come down to the shore, with thousands of others, to wit-
ness some great event.
His master's face was sufficient interrogation to garrulous
Larry, and he at once launched forth.
" Glad ter see yer honor. Yer jist in time. Faix, sure,
there's great doin's on foot. The rebels, as yer leddy calls
'em, are gittin' bold as lions, an' will eat us up if we don't
jine the bastes. I'm half a mind to turn rebel meself."
" Stop your nonsense, Larry. Who are those coming
yonder across the river, and what does this concourse
aiean V '
WASHINGTON'S SERMON. 45
** It manes more than I can tell ye in a breath, yer
honor. But that's Gin'ral Washington himself that's a
comin' there, and the rebels have knocked bloody blazes
out of the red-coats in Bosting."
These tidings were sufficient to arouse Saville's ardent
spirit to the highest pitch of excitement. Mingling with
the throng at the spot near which the disembarkation must
occur, he met an acquaintance from whom he obtained a
more satisfactory, if not succinct, explanation of what he saw.
The battle of Bunker Hill had been fought, and behind
a slight breast-work constructed by a few hours' labor, his
countrymen had m.et and thrice repulsed the veterans of
Europe. In the torrent of blood which flowed that day,
the Revolution had become a fact to which men could close
their eyes no longer. The time had arrived when all must
take sides ; and Saville recognized the truth that he must
now choose with which party he would cast his lot. He
was in an agony of conflicting feelings, and hoped that
something in the stirring events of the hour might settle the
question which he felt scarcely able to decide himself.
He gained a standing-place upon a projecting rock on the
beach, from which he had a good view both of the crowded
shore and the approaching flotilla, and his enthusiastic
nature kindled momentarily as he gazed on the scene.
It was a lovely summer afternoon. The sun shone bright
but not too warm, and gave a touch of beauty and light-
someness even to things prosaic and commonplace in them-
selves. But there was little that was ordinary on this occa-
sion. There, facing him on a sloping bank, was such a
throng of his fellow townsmen as he had never before seen
together, their faces aflame with excitement. Near him
were drawn up in martial array a thousand men with glitter-
ing accoutrements, and bayonets whose points the declining
sun tipped with fire.
40 NEAR TO NATURES HEART.
When the boats approached the land, even the heavy
booming of the cannon was drowned by that most awe-
inspiring sound of earth — the shout of a multitude, wherein
the thought, the intense feeling and resolute purpose of the
soul finds loud, vehement utterance. It is a sound that
stirs the most sluggish nature. How then would the spirit
of one be moved who, like Theron Saville, believed that the
voice of the people was the voice of God ? He did not
shout with the others. His excitement was too deep for
noisy vent, but his face grew stern, and his lips compressed
with his forming purpose. He was growing desperate, and
was passing into a mood in which he was ready to trample
every tie and extorted pledge under foot that he might join
what he believed would prove a crasade against all tyrants,
temporal and spiritual.
But his chief desire now was to look into the face of Wash-
ington, of whom he had heard so often, and who had even
now gained much of that remarkable influence which he
was destined to possess over the young men of the country.
His rural and hunting tastes, his romantic, military experi-
ence on the frontier, and his reputation for the most daring
courage, had already made him a hero in a new country
where such qualities would be most appreciated. But to
Saville, he was more than a hero, more than a patriot and
chivalrous soldier : he was a forerunner and inaugurator o!
the golden age of liberty and equality, which his fancy por-
trayed in the near future. Groaning himself under the
thraldom of the old and hated regime, he regarded the com-
ing commander-in-chief as a captive in hard bondage might
welcome a deliverer. He expected to see a face that was a
revolution in itself, eager, fiery, kindling others into flame
by its intense expression.
But, when a tall and stately man in the prow of the fore-
most batteau uncovered, as he drew near the shore, in ac-
WASHINGTOir^ SERMON. 47
knowledgment of the resounding acclamations, he was at
first disappointed. He was not looking on the bold, defiant
features of an innovator. There was scarcely a trace even
on that calm, noble face, of the enthusiasm that was burn-
ing like a flame in his own heart.
Wherein lay the man's greatness and power.? In his
eagerness to see more nearly the one he now felt would
largely shape his own destiny, as well as that of others, he
sprang down the rock, and unconsciously stood in the
shallow water. Washington noted his eager action, and
turned his face full upon him with a kindly look and half-
inclination, while Saville removed his hat at once.
As Washington again lifted his eyes to the waiting thou-
sands, the young man scanned his face as if he would there
read his own fate. Here was a man who had larger wealth
and higher social position than himself, and yet he had
joined his fortunes to a cause which Saville' s relatives char-
acterized as both desperate and disreputable. Here was
the man toward whom the national heart instinctively turned,
and hailed as leader and chief. As Washington looked to
God for guidance and help, Saville looked solely to man,
and as we have said before, with all the eagerness which the
hope of his own deliverance and the realization of his dreams
could inspire, he scrutinized the face before him to gather
if this were the coming man of the nouvelle ordre.
He did not see what he expected — the embodied prin-
ciples of the French iconoclasts and reckless innovators, but
the native quickness of bis race enabled him to apprehend
the spirit which animated Washington, and which found
expression in his honest face. There was no elation, no
appearance of gratified pride, which such a reception would
bave evoked, had the elements of personal vanity existed
largely in his nature. There was an absence of all com-
placent self-confidence and self-assertion, and yet he inspired
48 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
confidence, and more — something of his own heroic and
patient spirit of self-sacrifice in behalf of a sacred cause.
His face wore the solemn aspect of one who felt himself
charged with awful responsibilities. As he saw the thou-
sands turning toward him in hope and trust, the burden of
the nation's weal pressed heavier upon him. And yet there
was not a trace of weakness or shrinking in view of his
mighty tasks. His face had the calm, strong expression of
ctie who had counted the cost, who was wholly consecrated,
and who, without a thought of self, proposed to serve a
cause in which he fully believed, leaving to God the issue.
Like the ancient Hebrew leader who climbed Sinai's height
to the presence of God, he also had been prepared above
the clouds to lead the people who tarried on the plain
below.
Though Saville could not understand the source of Wash-
ington's strength, still the calm, noble face quieted him.
Half unconsciously he was taught the difference between
mere enthusiasm and personal ambition, and a resolute
purpose combined with unselfish devotion. He v/as gener-
ous and noble enough himself to appreciate the heroic qual-
ities embodied before him, and to be won to something of
the same spirit for the time being. Washington's appear-
ance and character reconciled Saville' s heart and conscience,
which had long been at variance, and made him fee! with
the certainty of intuition, that the cause which had won
such a man was so sacred, that he could be true to it, and
at the same time true to every duty he owed his wife and
mother.
There are times when the mind, thoroughly aroused,
works with marvelous rapidity ; and the few moments that
Intervened between the near approach and disembarking,
gave that face, toward which so many were turning for
Inspiration, time to preach Saville the only sermon which
WASHINGTON'S SERMON. 4f
he had ever heeded. The most effective sermons, after all,
are those which are embodied. The Word of God ^a^; a
living person — a Divine Man.
He who had been harassed so long by conflicting claims,
hesitated no longer. With his eyes fixed on the man that,
in his humanitarian creed, he was ready to worship, he said
in the low, deep tone of resolve —
" His cause is mine from this hour forth. Liberty,
equality, or death."
Washington had landed, and Saville was possessed with a
desire to hear him speak, and so pressed toward him with
many others. General Schuyler, who stood at his chief's
side, had noticed the eager and interested air of the young
man. He knew Saville slightly, and the thought occurred
to him that it might '^ a good opportunity to secure the
adherence of one who had thus far stood aloof, but whose
wealth and talents would be a welcome addition to the
cause. He spoke in a low tone to Washington, and then
Stepping up to Saville, said,
*' Let me present you to his Excellency, with others of
your fellow-citizens."
Before Saville could realize it, the man he adored had
taken him by the hand, saying,
" Mr. Saville, I hope you are with us in this good
cause."
With deep emotion, Saville replied,
" I am with you in any service — the humblest — which
your Excellency may require."
" Rest assured," said Washington, kindly, " that it will
be honorable service, for which your countr}' will reward
you."
The young man stepped back, more proud and pleased
than if he had been decorated by all the sovereigns of
Europe.
50 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
The procession was now commencing to form. Saville
pushed his way out of the throng to where Larry was gaping
at the strange sights, and called,
" Bring me my horse, saddled, within five minutes."
" Och, by the holy poker," gasped Larry, as he ran to
obey the order, ' ' the maister is a goin' to turn rebel. Thin
I'll be a rebel, too ; for there's nary a man of 'em all that
can fight ould England wid a better stomach than mesell
Didn't she take the last praty out of me bin at home ?"
A little later, Saville, mounted on his favorite horse, took
a flying leap over his garden wall, and Joined the cavalcade
of leading citizens who were to escort the Commander-in-
chief down Broadway ; while Larry followed with the popu»
lace on foot, chaffing right and left to the amusement of
many listeners.
At length the pageantry was over, and in the purple twi-
light Saville sought his home. Everything in nature that
Sabbath evening breathed of peace and tenderness, but he
justly feared that a scene of bitter and unrelenting hostility
was awaiting him. The coming battles in which he would
take part, would never require the nerve and relf-contro!
that he must maintain this quiet June evening, and m his
own home.
In his exalted and generous mood, he determined to
make one more appeal before the final separation with his
wife took place. But meeting her on the piazza, he saw by
a glance that it would be a vain and humiliating waste of
words.
Her features were inflamed with passion, and upon her
full lower face rested the very impress of willful stubborn-
ness. She had evidently heard of his action during the
afternoon, and surmised the result. Having never been
thwarted in her life, she now hated the man whose course
and motives were so utterly repugnant to her.
WASHINGTON'S SERMON. 5?
She stood in the doorway, dressed for walking, and, not
waiting for him to speak, said harshly :
" Well, sir, in a word, what is your decision r'
" I have decided that I am a free man and a patriot "
'* A rebel and a perjurer, you mean."
" That is your unjust version, madam," he repliec
quietly, for Washington's calm, strong face was before
him.
Her features grew fairly livid, but she was about to pass
out without a word.
"Julia!" he exclaimed, intercepting her, "listen for
one moment before you take this rash, irrevocable step.
If I am true to the sacred cause of Liberty, I can be true
to you, I "
" Stand aside !" she cried, imperiously stamping hef
foot " I will not hear one word of your idiotic drivel
The idea of you being true to anything, who break pledges
made at God's altar, and cast off your wife to join a herd
of ragged, blaspheming rebels ; I shall never darken your
doors again."
" Well chosen phrase, madam. You have indeed dark-
ened my door, and darkened my life. But farewell : I will
not reproach you. I will be loyal to the name of wife :
the reality I never had."
She deigned no reply, but passed down the path that led
to the adjoining residence of her parents, with such hot
wrath in her heart that it was strange the roses did not
wither as she passed.
Saville breathed more freely after she was gone. It seemed
as if a deadly incubus had been lifted from him.
But he soon found that the meeting with his mother
would be a far severer ordeal. When he entered her room,
and saw her, who was usually so stately and composed,
Vtterly broken down, rocking back and forth as if in mortal
5» NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
agony, with her gray hair hanging in disorder over her face,
be felt as if a sword had pierced him.
" Ruined ! ruined ! all is lost !" groaned the wretched
woman.
"Why are we ruined," he exclaimed impetuously,
*' more than thousands of families who have joined the
patriotic cause ?' '
" We shall soon be homeless and penniless."
" No, mother, not at all. I shall have it distinctly
known that you still adhere to the crown. I will put all
the property in your name, and content myself with a
soldier's fare."
" And I shall then be childless and alone in the world !"
she continued in the same despairing tone.
" Oh, cease, mother ; you m.ay break my heart, but you
cannot change my purpose. My word is pledged to Wash-
ington and Liberty,"
" It has been pledged before," was the reproachful reply.
" No !" said the young man sternly ; "do not charge
aoe with dishonor. I can endure that from the woman to
whom the miserable hap-hazard chance of this world and
priest-craft temporarily joined me, but not from you. I
never deliberately and consciously made a pledge against
my present course ; and to-day I have seen a man who has
taught me how I can be true to you, and at the same time
true to Liberty. You say, ' my child, ' — do you not realize
that I am a man, who must be guided by his own indepen-
dent wall or be despised by all ? I have chosen my lot"
With these decisive words, Saville retired to his room,
Aat he might regain his calmness and form some plans for
the future.
Among his first acts during the next few weeks was the
transfer of a large sum of money to Paris, subject to his
own or his mother's order. Having thus cast an anchor to
WASHINGTON'S SERMON. 53
the windward, he felt that he had done much to provide
against the vicissitudes of that stormy period, and thus could
give his thoughts more fully to the stirring work of the hour.
He explained his situation, as far as a scrupulous delicacy
would permit, to Captain Sears, more generally known by
the sobriquet of " K'ng" Sears, and told this recognized
leader of the populace in all daring revolutionary acts, that
after the few weeks required to settle his affairs and provide
for his mother, he would be ready to enter the regular ser-
vice, and that, in the mean time, if any enterprise were on
foot, he could be depended upon at any moment. His
young Whig acquaintances had no further cause to complain
of his absence from their councils, or of a disposition to
shrink from " honest blows" if any were to be received.
He found a congenial spirit in a fiery young student of
King's College, whom his companions nick-named " the
Little Giant," but who is now known to the world as Alex-
ander Hamilton ; and the two young rebels plotted treason
enough, in Tory estimation, to satisfy the shade of Guy
Fawkes, and were quite as ready to blow up Parliament and
all other anciently constituted authorities.
Mrs. Saville's manner was for a time that of cold and
stony despair, and considering her views and feelings, it
was more real than assumed. But beneath the thick crust
of her worldliness and conservatism, there was a warm,
motherly heart, which soon began to yearn toward her only
son, who, she now feared, might any day be lost to her for-
ever. Her coldness soon gave place to a clinging tender-
ness, which she had never before manifested, and which
made it a hundred-fold harder for her son to carry out the
steadfast purpose which the expression of Washington's face
had inspired. Moreover, such are the contradictions of
'voman's heart, she secretly admired her handsome son, in
his buff and blue uniform, and respected him fai more than
54 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
if he had been content to remain merely the steward of the
large joint estates which her thrifty scheming had united.
Both pride and indifference prevented Saville from making
advances toward his wife, and there was nothing in her
nature that would prompt to any relenting. On the con-
trary, as her husband's outspoken republicanism and skepti-
cism were bruited through the city, her hatred grew more
intense and vind'.ctive. Not only was his opposition to
church and state most offensive, but the fact that he could
break her chains and ignore her existence was humiliating,
and taught the spoiled beauty, for the first time, that her
despotic will could be disregarded. Nothing so exasperates
some natures as to be first thwarted, and then severely let
alone.
He scrupulously re-transferred her dov/er and every vestige
of property to which she had the slightest claim ; and she,
in impotent spite, refused to be known any longer by his
name ; but the irrevocable marriage vows had been spoken,
and this past act of folly, like a hidden rock had seemingly
wrecked the happiness of both. They might hate each
Other, but they were forbidden to love any one else.
"A SCENE AT BLACK SAATS." 55
CHAPTER VI.
" A SCEVE AT BLACK SAM's."
ON the evening of the 23d of August, 1775, a large
mansion standing at the comer of Broadway and
Dock (now Pearl) Street, appeared to be the center of un-
usual excitement, even at that time of general ferment
The place was well known as the down -town tavern of Sam-
uel Fraunces, who, from the swarthiness of his complexion,
went by the sobriquet of " Black Sam." This tap-room
and restaurant was a general resort, not only because
Fraunces was the Delmonico of that day, and could serve a
dinner and cater in wines better than any other man in the
city, but also because Sam's patriotism effervesced as readily
as his champagne or strong beer ; and, it may be added,
for the reason that they were often served by his pretty,
black-eyed daughter, Phctbe Fraunces. To her, perhaps,
in the foUowmg year, Washington owed his life, since she
was able, through the confidence given her by a lover who
was one of Washington's body-guard, to penetrate a Tory
plot to destroy the dread Commander-in-chief by poison.
True-hearted Phcebe was not to be won by a lover who pro-
posed to administer such jx)tions, so, having smilingly be-
guiled from him his secret, she furnished him with anothe!
noose than that of Hymen's make, and donning her bright-
est petticoat, went cheerfully to his hanging.
But upon this memorable occasion, she was the embodi-
ment of exuberant health and spirits, and seemed as spark'
56 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
ling as the wines she brought to the guests that thronged
this favorite haunt of the city. It was warm, and her round,
stout arms were bare, and her swelling throat and bosom
snowy white, while her eyes were black as coals. But
while she was coquettish and piquant, there was nothing
pert or bold in her manner, and he was either drunk or
brutish who gave her a wanton word the second time. In
her ready tongue she carried a keener weapon than the
swords that dangled and clattered at the sides of the incipi-
ent warriors on whom she waited ; and when provoked she
gave thrusts which brought the hot blood at least to their
faces. But while she inspired a wholesome respect, she
was generally bubbling over with good humor and arch rep-
artee, and so was a general favorite. Her mercurial nature
readily caught the spirit of the hour, and to-night her dark
eyes were ablaze with excitement, and her white teeth, which
frequent smiles displayed, and her white neck and arms,
gave to her quick movements a glancing, scintillating effect
\s she flitted here and there among the noisy patriots, many
ix\ eager sentence was suspended and but lamely finished,
as the speaker's eyes followed her admiringly.
Little wonder that she was the blooming Hebe of this
bacchanalian Elysium, for the majority habitually craved
the boon of drinking to her health. She would graciously
comply, and then chuckle with her father over the coins
resulting, when, at the late hour (at that primitive time) of
ten at night, they counted the gains of the day. It is to
such places that men resort who appear to value public and
purchased smiles from those who sell to all alike, more than
similar glances from wives and children, which they rarely
seek to win, and more rarely deserve. Phoebe was not
above reaping this harvest from fools ; but she did it so
fascinatingly that they felt well repaid.
Black Sam, broad and swarthy, stood behind his bar^
-A SCENE AT BLACK SAATS." 57
controlling and directing his large establishment from this
central point like a captain on the deck of his ship. His
eyes were a trifle duller than Phoebe's, and indicated that
he indulged occasionally in more than the sips of a con-
noisseur. But to-night they glanced rapidly and shrewdly
around, seeing that his daughter and her assistants neglected
no one ; and he found time, in the mean while, to add a
word in his heavy bass to the various pronounced political
discussions and utterances going on around him. It was
very evident that Sam and his patrons had little reverence
for the " divinity which doth hedge a king," and these
quasi subjects of George III. spoke of him with a refreshing
candor which it would have been well for him to have heard,
for it might have saved a world of trouble. It has ever been
the chief misfortune of potentates that they are surrounded
by a dead wall of courtiers that excludes every rude but
warning sound.
Phoebe's excitable temperament correctly interpreted the
occasion. There was something abroad in the air which
charged the summer night with subtle and electrif}-ing power.
Though many were evidently in ignorance, it was noted that
Fraunccs exchanged significant glances with several present,
and seemed dilating with some portentous secret. His sup-
pressed excitement grew more apparent, as his rooms filled
rapidly, and the crowd increased about the doors. It was
also observed that all the newcomers were armed, and that
among the rapidly appearing faces were those which, like
beacon fires, always betokened some doughty undertaking.
The general stir and hoarse murmur of voices was greatly
augmented when Saville entered with young Hamilton, fol-
lowed by fifteen students from King's College, all fully
armed. The latter were soon chaflling with Phoebe as they
took from the tray she brought them, glasses brimming over
with rich Madeira, for which the tavern was most famous.
58 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" With father's compUments," said Phoebe, courtesying.
Then, boy-like, they proposed three cheers for the prince
of caterers and the fair Hebe who had borne them the nectar
which he alone could furnish ; and they were given with
deafening heartiness and glasses raised aloft.
They were scarcely drained, before a young man, leaning
Upon the bar, and who was more noted for his drinking
powers than his discretion, cried,
' ' I propose another toast — Saville, who is doubly to be
congratulated, since he has escaped a double bondage—
that of King George and also of his Tory wife ; having
slipped the cable of her apron-string by which
Before he could finish his sentence, Saville' s fist was
planted upon his mouth with such force as to send him
reeling to the floor, with his glass clattering after him.
Standing over the prostrate and half-tipsy man, and trem-
bling with rage, Saville said, threateningly,
" The man who dares to cast a slur upon my wife shall
do so at his peril."
There was the usual uproar and confused sound of con-
flicting voices, when a cry arose which drowned all else,
" Sears, Sears, King Sears," and that great firebrand of the
American Revolution, whose headlong zeal and courage
kindled so many fires of contention with the royal authori-
ties, stood among them.
" Come, come, comrades," he cried, " no need of inter-
changing blows here among yourselves. Come with me,
«.nd I will give you a crack at our common enemy. Col-
onel Lamb, with his artillerymen, and Captain Lasher, with
his company, are marching down Broadway to take the guns
at the fort, without saying so much as ' by your leave.'
Who will follow me to their aid ?"
There was a loud acquiescing shout, while Black Sam
sprang over his bar, crying,
"A SCENE AT BLACK SAM'S." 59
*' Lead on, King Sears, and the man who refuses to fol-
low may choke with thirst before my hand serves him
again."
In Fraunces's estimation, this was the direst threat he
could make, and in fact, to many present, the fulfillment
would be like cutting off the springs of life.
Hamilton took Saville's arm, saying,
" Come, comrade, fall in. What do the maudlin words
of that drunken fellow signify.? Come, you know we've
grand work on hand to-night. ' '
In a few brief moments the crowded, noisy rooms were
deserted. The street became full of hoarse shoutings, and
the confused sound of many feet, as Sears, Hamilton, and
Other extem.porized officers marshaled the citizen-soldiery in
something like orderly array. Then from the head of the
Colum.n rang out those stirring words which, though causing
many hearts to bound with hope and thrill with grand excite-
ment, have yet been the death-knell of myriads.
" Forward — march !"
With strong and steady tramp the dusky figures receded
toward Broadway, while Phoebe, with eyes ablaze, stood in
the door waving a farewell with her handkerchief, its Sutter
meaning anything rather than a trace with King George's
agents of oppression.
Black Sam's buxom wife took his place behind the bar,
while Phoebe repaired to an upper window that she might
see if the English man-of-war in the harbor had anything to
add to the drama of the evening. The hitherto thronged
hostelry became silent, being deserted by all save a few old
men whose age precluded them from taking part in the
events of the night. It was an occasion when not even the
famous Madeira of Sam's tavern could tempt any loyalists
thither ; and such of the Whigs as were too prudent to join
the raid, skulked away, much preferring to face a dozen
6o NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
English batteries than to hear the comments of Phoebe
FrauRces upon their discretion.
As for the young woman herself, she repined bitterly at
the usages of society which preveni^d her from taking hand
in the promised melee, and was halt inclined *o don he?
father's habiliments, and be a man in spite of fate
IfEW YORK UNDER FIRE,
CHAPTER VII.
NEW YORK UNDER FIRE.
C**OLONEL LAMB and Captain Lasher with their com-
^ panics halted on Broadway till Sears and his following
of citizens joined them ; then thev proceeded at once to
Fort George, which had its front on Bowling Green, and
was located within the space now bounded by State, Bridge,
and Whitehall Streets. Tory informers had revealed to the
authorities in charge of this work the intended attack. In
view of the overwhelming force, no resistance was made by
the small garrison. Unmolested at first, the patriots went
to work with feverish zeal to dismount the cannon from the
bastions, and load them on the heavy wagons that came
lumbering down Broadway for the purpose.
To Alexander Hamilton and his party was given the task
of capturing Grand Battery, another and smaller work nearer
the river, v/hich was also accomplished without resistance.
But the fiery young spirits composing this band were
much disappointed at the quiet and peaceful nature of the
enterprise thus far.
" We might as well have come armed with only pickaxes
and crowbars," growled Hamilton,
" Yes," responded Saville, in like discontented mood.
** A brigade of carmen was all that was required on this
occasion. I had hoped that the night would be enlivened
by a few flashes at least. Suppose we go down to the
water's edge and take a look at the Asia."
63 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Securing the approval of their superior officers, and leav-
ing a guard in charge of the work, the rest of the party com-
menced patrolling the shore, casting wistful glances at the
ship, whose masts and yards were faintly outlined against
the sky.
" Now, if we had only a dozen whale-boats," said Ham-
ilton, " and could go out and board that old tub, we would
have a night's work that would stir one's blood."
" Not a little would be set running, no doubt," replied
Saville ; " and it would not all be on our side either, I
imagine. But see, they are waking up on board. We may
have a bout with those water dogs yet."
It soon became clear that there was an unusual stir and
excitement on the vessel. Lights gleamed and glanced
rapidly from point to p)oint, and faint and far away came
the sound of orders hastily given.
Then there was a heavy splash ir\ the water.
" Hurrah !" cried Hamilton, " they are manning a boat
We will resolve ourselves into a committee of reception."
The measured cadence of oars confirm^ed the surmise just
made, and the young men eagerly pressed to the furthest
point of land, and looked well to the priming of their fire-
locks. The barge was pulled steadily toward them until at
last a 4usky outline emerged from the night, and then the
shadc'R^y figures of the crew.
" Make not a sound, and let them land if they will," said
Hamilton in a low tone.
But the barge approached warily, with lengthening rests
after each dip of the oars. At last, the officer in command
detected the little party in waiting, and shouted :
'* Who and what are you ? What deviltry's on foot to-
night?"
" Come and see," cried Hamilton laconically.
But the officer's night-glass, together with the ominous
NEW YORK UNDER FIRE. 63
sounds from Fort George, clearly showed that this was not
good advice under the circumstances. There was a hurried
consultation, and then, whether by order or not cannot be
known, some one in the boat fired a musket, and the hot
young bloods, for the first time, heard the music of a whist-
ling bullet.
" Give 'em a volley — quick \''' cried Hamilton.
Obedience to the order was indeed prompt, and yet not
so hasty but that the marksmen, familiar with the rifle from
boyhood, took good aim, and several in the barge were
killed and wounded. The silent oars at once struck the
water sharply, and the boat rapidly disappeared toward the
man-of-war ; but the young men heard enough to satisfy
them that their shots had taken effect.
Immediately upon the report of the first musket. Colonel
Lamb, Captain Lasher, and King Sears hastened to the
shore with many others, and learned from Hamilton what
had occurred. In the mean time the barge reached the
vessel and reported, satisfying Captain Vandeput of the Asia
that the intimations he had received of the proposed attack
upon the forts were correct. The British authorities hitherto
had hesitated in taking decisive action, knowing that it
would precipitate the conflict at once. But now the point
of forbearance seemed passed, and he ordered the port-holes
opened an'i the rebels dispersed by a few shots. In quick
succession three flashes came from the ship's sides, and
three balls plowed into the Battery.
But so far from dispersing quietlj', Lamb ordered the
drums to beat to arms, and the church bells to be rung, and
soon the silent city was in an uproar.
English blood, as well as American, was now at boiling
point, and the defiant sounds from the shore were no longer
answered by single shots but by broadsides, the thundering
echoes and crashing balls of which awoke both Whigs and
Roe— VIII— D
64 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Tories to the reali<tation of the true meaning of war. The
experiences of Bo3tcn, the very thought of which had caused
many to tremble, were now their own in the aggravated
form of a midnight cannonade. Men, women, and chil-
dren, many but partially clad, rushed into the streets and
joined the increasing throng of fugitives that pressed toward
the open country, away from the terrible monster in the
harbor, whose words were iron, and whose hot breath threat-
ened to burn their homes over their heads. Tories, as they
ran, cursed the rebels, whom they regarded as the cause of
the trouble ; and the Whigs anath-^matized British tyranny.
But faster and hotter ^han their oaths the heavy balls crashed
into their houses oi over their heads, with the peculiar,
demoniacal shriek of a flying shot.
A night bombardment is a terrible thing for strong, brave
men to endure. The roar of cannon is awe-inspiring in
itself ; but when it i^ remembered that every flash and
thunder peal haf its resistless bolt which is aimed at one's
life, only those who have nerved themselves to risk their
lives calmly, or who, like the patriots on the Battery, are
lifted by mad excitement above all fears, can stand unmoved.
But how could the sick and the aged — how could helpless
women and children endure such an ordeal ? Only the
pitying eye of God no ed al. the fainting, mortal fear of
those who tremblingly sna^'-hed cliildren, treasures, or sacred
heirlooms, and sought to escape. Hearts almost ceased
their beating, as the terror-stricken fugitives heard balls
whizzing toward them. The messengers of death might
•trike out of the darkness any where and any one. Broad-
way has witnessed many scenes, but never a more pitiable
one than when, in that August midnight, a hundred years
ago, it was thronged with half-clad, shrinking, sobbing
women, and little children wailing for parents, lost in the
darkness and the confusion of Hight. When, at last, the
N'EfV YORK UNDER FIRE. 65
open fields beyond the range of the Asia's guns were
reached, the strangely assorted multitude, from whom the
gloom of night and common misfortune had blotted out all
distinctions, sat down panting and weary, and prayed for
the light of day.
Many who were helpless and a few who were brave re-
mained in their homes, either in an agony of fear or in quiet
resignation. Among the latter was Phoebe Fraunces. But
there was not a particle of resignation in her nature, for she
chafed around her father's tavern like a caged lioness ; and
when a round shot, well and spitefully aimed at the '* pesti-
lent rebel nest," as it was called on the Asia, crashed
through the house, shattering a decanter of Madeira that the
gunner would rather have drained himself, she forgot the
softness of her sex utterly, and seizing a huge cutlass that
hung over the bar, and leaving her mother to recover from
a fit of hysterics as best she might, she started for the scene
of action in a mood that would have led her to board the
Asia single-handed, had the opportunity offered. But, aa
she approached Fort G or^e anti hear the rough voices o!
the men at work, her modesty regained its control, and she
realized that it was scarcely proper for a young woman to
be abroad and alone at that time of the night ; so, she who
was ready to attack a man-of-war, turned and fled before
that which a true woman fears more than an army — the
appearance of evil. But it would have been a woful
blunder for any rude fellow to have spoken to Phoebe that
night, armed as she was with the old cutlass, and abundance
of muscle to wield it. His gallant cdvances would have
been cut short instantly.
Although there was panic in the city, there was nothing
erf the kind within the dismantled walls of Fort George
from which the cannon were fast disappearing ; nor upon
the Battery, where Colonel Lamb's artillerymen, flanked by
66 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Hamilton and his students, were drawn up, to prevent the
Asia from interfering with their operations by landing a
force from the vessel. But Captain Vanderput prudently
contented himself with striking from a distance, supposing
that the terrors of a night bombardment would soon bring
the contumacious rebels to their knees. To make the warn-
ing lesson still mo'.e effectual, and to increase their punish-
ment greatly, he ordered the guns to be loaded occasionally
with the deadly grape-shot
But, in the morning, both he and the populace had a
surprise. The Battery was not covered with killed and
wounded. In fact, there was not a Whig to be seen, dead
or alive. But neither was there a cannon to be found in
the royal forts. While he had been thundering his dis-
approval from the harbor, the "raw militia," who, his
officers jocularly asserted, "would not stop running south
of King's Bridge," had steadily completed their tasks, and
spirited off every gun to parts unknown.
And when, in the -peaceful summer morning, the fugitives,
who had spent the night in the open air, concluded they
had better go home to breakfast, and appear in less pictu-
resque toilets, they found, instead of death, carnage, and
gutters running with blood, no wounds save those which the
carpenter and joiner could heal. It was another remarkable
example of how little destruction may be caused by a bom-
bardment, even in a crowded city. The mercurial temper-
ament of the people, which their descendants seem to have
inherited, led those of Whig proclivities, who were over-
whelmed with terror but a few hours previous, to react into
cheerfulness and exultation. Many doughty citizens, who
stole into their back entrances, strangely appareled, soon
afterward appeared, dressed in different style, at their front
doors, hoping that their flight had been covered by the dark-
ness ; and not a few, who had made excellent time toward
ATfifT YORK UNDER FIRE. 6^
King's Bridge, ventured, over their dram at the comers of
the streets, to descant on ' ' the way we carried off the British
bulldogs from the fort"
The Tory element in the city was very quiet that day ;
but a sullen, vindictive expression lowered upon many faces.
The timid and conservative sighed, again and again,
" Where is this thing to end ?"
In a beautiful up-town villa, the face of one fair woman
was often distorted with passion and hate, as she hissed,
through her teeth, ^' He was foremost in this vile night
work." But when Saville, hungry and exhausted, reached
his home, his mother, who had been a sleepless watcher,
only folded him in her arms, murmuring,
" Thank God ! you are yet spared to me."
Then she gave him a breakfast that in future campaigning
caused many a longing sigh as he remembered it.
68 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
CHAPTER VIII.
LARRY MEETS HIS FATE.
AVING completed all the arrangements possible for
his mother's comfort, and settled his affairs as far as
the times permitted, Saville made known his readiness to
enter the regular service at any point where he could be
most useful. His education as an engineer led to his being
sent to Martelear's Rock (Constitution Island) in the High-
lands of the Hudson. He would have much preferred
serving under Washington, before Boston, but had too
much of the spirit of a soldier to think of aught save prompt
obedience. Having been commissioned as lieutenant, he
repaired to the scene of his duties about the last of Septem-
ber, and found that he was to serve under an ofificer by the
name of Colonel Romans, who had arrived on the ground
with a small working force about a month earlier. He was
assigned to the duty of superintending the details of labor
and the carrying out of the plans of the chief engineer in
respect to the incipient fortifications.
While strolling around the rocky island, the evening after
his arrival, he soon came in full view of the extreme point
of land on the western shore, whereon he had seen such a
strange vision a few months previous. In the press and
excitement of succeeding events, the circumstance had
quite faded from his memory ; but now, with the purpose
of diverting his mind from painful thoughts, he decided to
solve the pretty enigma by which he had been so unexpect-
LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 69
edly baffled. He made some inquiries of the small garrison
with whom he was associated ; but they, like himself, were
newcomers, and knew nothing of the few inhabitants of the
region. For several days he was too much occupied with
the effort to obtain the mastery of his duties to think of
aught else, and, when evening came, was well contented to
climb some rocky point on the island, and rest, while he
enjoyed the wonderful beauty of the landscape ; for this
historic region was just as weird and lovely then as now,
when it is admired by thousands of touristS:
But one warm afternoon, early in October, he took with
■ him the garrulous Larry, his body-servant, who had followed
the fortunes of his master, and started in a little skiff down
the river to a cottage on the western bank, which he had
noted on his journey up. This might be the home of the
wood-nymph, or he »,here might learn something about her.
" Come, Larry, \ want time for a little shooting after I
land," said SavH'e, impatiently ; "so pull away, and I
will steer, for the tide is against us."
"I'm oblee/jed to yer honor," replied Larry, dryly, tug-
ging at the oars ; " there's nothing like dewision of labor."
" You can rest while I am tramping round with my gun,"
said Saville, who gave Larry something of the license of a
court jester. " I shall expect you to wait for me where
I leave you, so that there may be no delay in our return."
" Faix, sur, I hope ye's gun will be more ready to go off
than I'll be, arter this pull."
Having descended the river half a mile below the foaming
cascade now known as Buttermilk Falls, they fastened their
boat and ascended the bank to the cottage, or, more cor-
rectly, log cabin.
Saville quickly saw enough to convince him that this
could not be the home of the young girl who sang
** I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."
7© NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
A hnge, fat hog reclined in the sun near the step, and
chickens passed in and out of the door, as if they had equal
rights with the family, while the cow-stable formed an exten-
sion to the dwelling, and was quite as well built as the rest
of it. Were it not for his wish to make inquiries, he would
have turned away in disgust.
But for I.arr}' the scene appeared to have unwonted attrac-
tions. With arms akimbo he struck an attitude of admiring
contemplation, as he exclaimed,
"I'm glad I come wid your honor, for I've seen nothink
so swate since I left the ould counthr}'. Now, isn't that a
beautiful soight .? Pace and plenty ! 'Twas jist such a pig
as that as grunted at me father' s door. Faix, sur, it makes
me a bit homesick ;" and Larrj^'s shrewd, twinkling eyes
grew moist from early memories.
As they proceeded a little further, Larry saw that which
proved quite as attractive to him as the vision of Vera had
been to Saville a few months before ; but the elements of
mysterj- and romance were wholly wanting. In a small
inclosure back of the house a young Irishwoman was dig-
ging potatoes. As the men approached, she leaned leisurely
upon her fork- handle, and stared at them unblenchingly.
Her head was bare, but well thatched with thick, tangled
tresses which were a little too fiery to be called golden.
Her eyes were dark, expressive, and bold ; her stout arms
were red and freckled, as was also her full and rather hand-
some face. In simplicity and picturesqueness no fault could
be found with her dress, for it appeared to consist only of a
red petticoat and a scant blue bodice ; but it might well
have been mended at several points. Her feet and ankles
were as bare as those of INIaud Muller, if not so shapely and
slender. But, as she stood there, aglow with exercise, in
the afternoon sun, she seemed to Larry a genuine Irish
houri — the most perfect flower of the Green Isle that he had
LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 7 1
ever seen ; and he hoped that his master, who had accosted
an old woman knitting in the doorway, would keep him
waiting indefinitely, so that he might make the acquaintance
of this rare creature.
"I'm glad to see you well, madam, and enjoying the fine
afternoon," began Saville, with French suavity.
" Umph !" responded the old woman, and after looking
him over briefly, went on with her knitting.
" Have you any neighbors in this region .?" asked Saville,
undaunted by his forbidding reception.
" Mighty few as is neighborly."
" But there are other families living near.'
" A small sprinklin'."
" Haven't you some neighbors further up the river, and
nearly opposite the island where we are building the fort.?"
" Indade, an' we have not. Our neighbors be dacent
folks who own their land, and not skulkin' and hidin'
squatters."
" Would you mind taking a shilling for a bowl of milk .?"
said Saville, pursuing his object with a little finesse.
"Now ye talk sinse," replied the old woman, rising.
" No, nor two on 'em. I ax your pardon for being a bit
offish, for I've seen sogers in the oiild counthry, an' no
good came o' 'em. Yer grinnin' man there is not a soger,
be he?"
" No, indeed ; Larry is a man of peace."
" 'Kase I want 'em all to understand that if any sogers
come a snoopin' round here arter IMolly, they'll be arter
catchin' me 'stead o' her."
" I don't think any will come, then," said Saville gravely.
" But I'm sorry you give your neighbors up the river such
a bad character."
"It's not meself that gives 'em a bad character, but their
own bad dades, ' '
72 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" Why, what have they done ?"
** That's raore'n any one knows ; sumpin' the ould
man's mighty 'shamed on, for he won't look honest folk in
the face ; and as for that wild hawk of a gal o' his'n, the
less said 'bout her the better. She's kind of a witch, any-
how, and 'pears and dodges out o' sight while yer winkin'.
She needn't turn up her nose at my Molly there, that's corns
o' dacent folk."
" And has she been guilty of that offense .?"
" Dade an' she has ; Molly comes 'cross her now an'
thin, out berr}'in', and fust she tried to speak her fair, but
the ill-mannered crather would kinder stare at her a minut^
and thin vanish in a flash. She's larnt more o' that ould
heathen black witch, as lives wid 'em, than anythin' good. "
'* What is the name of the family ?"
" That, too, is more'n anybody knows. They calls
'emselves ' Brown ; ' but I know 'tain' t their name ; for it
was meself that did a bit o' washin' for 'em once when the
woman was sick, and there was two names on the linen,
but nary one nor tother was Brown. I couidnr't list make
out what they was, for I hain't good at readin' ; but one
thing is sartin, husband and wife don't have two names."
" Have they done anything wrong since they came here ?"
" Well, I can't say they are robbin' and murderin' every
night, and yet how they live nobody knows. But it's 'nuff
that they're hathen. They did widout the praste in the fust
place, and nary a thing have they had to do wid praste or
parson since. The ould black witch worships the divil, for
Molly's seen her in the woods a-goin' on as would make
yer har stan' up ; and I'm a-thinkin' the divil will git 'em
all ; an' he may, for all o' me. "
By the time Saville had finished his bowl of bread and
milk, he came to the conclusion that the crone had more
spite and prejudice against her neighbors than knowledge
LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 73
of them. It was the old story of resentment on the part of
the ignorant and the vulgar toward superiority and exclu-
siveness. It was very probable, however, that some guilty
secret of the past led to this utter seclusion. Saville well
knew that there were many hiding in the wilderness whose
antecedents would not bear much light. And yet his curi-
osity, so far from being satisfied, was only piqued the more
hy the old woman's dark intimations. Taking his gun, he
said to Larry, who was now digging potatoes vigorously,
" So that is the way you are resting."
" Diggin' praties is an aisy change, and kind o' home-
like ; and thin, yer honor, ye wud not have me a-standin*
like a great lazy lout, while a fair leddy was a-workin'. "
" Very well ; but save enough muscle to row me home."
And he went back upon the hills in quest of game, leaving
his deeply smitten factotum to the wiles of Molly, who,
with hands upon her hips, contemplated his chivalric labors
in her behalf with great complacency.
" The top o' the mornin' to ye," Larry had said as he
approached, doffing his hat.
" Faix, an ye' re a green Irishman not to know the afther-
noon from mornin'," was Molly's rather brusque greeting.
" The sight o' ye wud make any time o' night or day
seem the bright mornin'," was Larry's gallant rejoinder.
" Ye kissed the blarney- stone afore ye left home, I'm
a-thinkin'."
" An' ye' 11 let me kiss yer own red lips, I'll dig all these
praties for ye."
' I see ye' re good at a sharp bargain, if ye be a bit green.
But I'll wait till ye dig the praties."
" But ye' 11 give me jist one buss when I'm half through,
to kinder stay me stomach."
" There's plenty lads as wud be glad to dig the praties
for me widout a-drivin' hard bargains for it."
74 NEAR TO NATURES HEART.
" So they'll tell yees afther the praties is dug. They'll
be very swate about it whin the cowld snow kivers the
ground."
"An' ye think ye' re very swate about it now," said
Molly, with her head coquettishly on one side.
" No, but I'm a-hopin' ye' 11 be swate about it."
" What's yer name, anyhow ?"
" Larry O'Flarharty ; an' ye may have it yerself any day
that ye' 11 go wid me to the praste.
" Is that what ye say to every gal ye mate ?"
'• Faix, an' it is not. It's to yersel that I've fust said
it."
"Ye' re better at talkin' than doin'. I thought I'd git
at least one hill o' praties dug by yees."
" Give me the fork, thin, and I'll show ye that Larry
O'Flarharty can take care o' ye and a dozen childer into
the bargain."
" Och, ye spalpeen ! Ye' 11 have me coorted, married,
and a gran' mother, afore ye git a praty out the dirt."
Larry set about his labor of love with such zeal that the
potatoes fairly hopped out of the ground, carroling, as he
worked,
" I'll dress ye up in silks so foine,
An' ye shall drink the best o' woine.
Be jabers ! but we'll cut a shoine
The day when what's yer name is moine."
How's that for a dilicate way of axing ye yer name ?"
" What do I want wid a name since ye' re goin' to give
me yourn ?' '
" What shall I call ye till the happy day comes ?"
" Molly, for short."
'* Let it be for short, thin, and not for long."
" D'ye think I wud marr}' a man o' all work ? I'm goin'
to marry a gallant soger boy. "
LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 7S
** No ye hain't, nayther," struck in her mother, whose
age had evidently not impaired her hearing.
Molly gave her head a defiant toss which indicated that the
maternal leading-strings had parted long ago. Larry paused
abruptly in his work, and leaning his chin on the fork-
handle, asked,
" Are ye sarious about that now ?"
** Ah, go on wid yer work and sthop yer foolin'," said
Molly, who saw that she had made a false move in her little
game to get her potatoes dug by another.
" Divil a praty will I dig till ye tell me."
" Divil another shall ye dig any way, ye impudent spal-
peen I" retorted Molly, who was touchy as gunpowder;
and she took the fork out of his hands, and turning her
back upon him, struck it into the potato hillocks as only a
spiteful termagant could. Discomfited Larry in the mean
time perched himself on the fence, that he might take an
observation, and hold a council of war in his own mind
But the more he looked the more the charms of this wonder-
ful creature grew upon him, and his soft, impressible heart
became as wax. He soon hopped down from his rail, and
said,
•' Come now, Molly darlint, what's the use o' a-goin'
agin fate .? Ye shall marry a soger bhoy, I see that by the
cut of yer perty jib, as the sailors say. Ye've spunk and
fire enough for a rigiment. Give me the fork agin, and
one o' yer own swate smiles."
" Well, since ye' re a sort o' baste o' burden, an loike
workin' better nor fightin', ye may have yer way. "
" Faix, an' I will be a baste wid the burden of a sore an'
heavy heart, if ye talk to me in that way."
Molly could come out of a pet as quickly as she fell into
it, and so she said,
"I'll be swate thin till ye git the praties dug."
76 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" Yh, an' many a long day afther. I know the soger
bhoy ye're goin' to marry."
'* No, ye don't."
•*Yis, I do."
" What's his name ?'
" Larry O'Flarharty. The masther may git a new man,
for I'm goin' to 'list. The nixt time ye see me I'll be a
gay and gallant soger bhoy. I'll "
" Hush, mother's comin'."
Larry delved alter the potatoes as if they were halfway
down to China.
The old woman looked sharply and suspiciously at them,
but only said,
" Molly, go afther the cows.
" I'll go wid ye," cried Larry, throv/ing down the fork.
" No, ye won't," retorted the old woman ; " yer masther
tould ye to bide here till he come."
••I'm a-thinkin' I'll be me own masther," said Larry,
straightening himself up ; " everybody's gittin' free an'
indepindent, and I'll thry a hand at it meself."
" Go along and git 'em yerself, mother," added Molly,
who began to entertain some thoughts of her own in regard
to this ardent admirer that was so subservient to her will and
moods. " They hain't far off ; and ye wud not have me
treat the man what has been a-workin' for me all the afther-
noon so oncivil as to lave him alone. Go along, and we'll
have the praties dug agin ye git back."
The old woman was in straits what to do, since in either
case she must leave her daughter alone with one at least
nearly connected with the dreaded "sogers;" but at last
she hobbled grumblingly after the cows, the tinkle of whose
bells proclaimed them near.
With the usual perverseness of human nature, Molly grew
friendly toward the soldiers as her mother showed prejudice
LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 77
against them. The more she learned about their life, the
more attractive its publicity, vicissitudes, and excitement
became to her bold, restless spirit, and she had already re-
solved to enter the camp in some capacity at the earliest
possible moment. The thought now occurred to her that
perhaps she might find in this plastic, garrulous stranger
just the chance she hoped for. Molly was aware of her
infirmity of temper, and if she could find a '* soger" that
could be kept submissively under her thumb, she would
consider herself blessed with better luck than she had ever
dared to expect,
Larry made his first favorable impression when he good-
naturedly dismounted from his rail, and recommenced the
work which she was ready enough to leave to him ; and she
was not long in coming to the conclusion that if this pliable
and useful man of all work could be transformed into a
regular soldier, and then be captured as a sort of base of
operations, which would enable her to lead a free, wild,
rollicking life, she had better make the most of the oppor-
tunity. But she went direct to her point with feminine
indirectness, and so when her mother was out of hearing,
said,
" Ye' re not brave enough to be a soger."
" An' ye are not brave enough to marry one. *'
" Some foine day, when ye're a-blackin' yer masther's
boots, ye' 11 find yerself mistaken, for ye' II see me a-walkin'
into camp the wife o' the handsomest man o' the lot o*
yees."
" Now what do ye mane be that V asked Larry, abruptly
suspending his labors, while his chin and troubled phiz again
surmounted the fork-handle.
" I mane," said Molly yawning, " that I'm only a-waitin*
to make up me mind which of me soger swatehearts to
take."
78 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
"An' how many have ye, sure?" said Larry, in some-
thing like dismay,
" Oh ! sumthin' less than a dozen,"
" But ye hain't made up yer mind on any on 'em yit?"
queried the anxious lover.
" Well, not yit. There's two or three on 'em I could
worry along wid if I thried,"
" Yis, an' it would be worryin' along, Molly, me dear;
while wid me ye'd be happy as a quane."
" But I telled ye afore I was goin' to marry a soger."
" And I telled ye afore I was a goin' to be a soger."
" Yis, a-goin' an' a-goin', but I'll belave it when I see
it"
" An' one wake from this day ye will see it," protested
Larry, with hearty emphasis.
* ' Now ye begin ter talk a little sinse, ' ' said Molly, more
complacently. "Well, well, I'll thry ye, and give yean
aven start wid me other swatehearts. If ye' re down by the
wather a wake from this afthernoon dressed as a gay soger
boy, I'll think ye mane sumthin', but all yer foine words
now is loike spilt wather,"
" Och, Molly, me darlint," cried Larry, and pitching
away his fork, he threw his arms around the bewitching crea-
ture, and took full payment for his labor of the afternoon.
"Hold on, Larry," cried his master, who had returned
just in time to witness this last demonstration ; " hold on,
or you will never be able to row me back to camp."
" Faix, yer honor," said Larry, somewhat abashed that
his gallantry had been observed, " I fale much refreshed."
" Well, come along, then ; it's time we were off."
" Good-by, thin, Molly, my dear, for one long wake."
" Ye're nothin' but a wild Irishman," said Molly, half
angry, and half laughing ; " but mind ye, come in the
toggery I tould ye on, or don't ye come at all."
LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 79
** Don't ye fear. Whin I come agin, yer other s\^'ate-
hearts will be like the stars when the sun comes over the
mountain."
** An' hist !" continued Molly ; " don't ye come up to
the house, or mother' 11 take yer life. I'll mate ye at the
wather."
That night Larry made known his purpose to enlist at
once. In vain Saville protested. Like the immortal
Romeo, Larry had found his Juliet, and was in feverish
haste to don the uniform that would give him an " aven
sthart wid the other spalpeens of swatehearts, " whose imag-
ined rivalr)', Molly had shrewdly guessed, would be a most
powerful incentive to prompt action.
" But don't ye mind, yer honor ; it's in the 'tillery I'm
goin' to 'list, and so I can do yer odd jobs jist the same."
' ' Are you going to marry that carroty-headed girl over
there.?"
" If ye spake of the swate crathur in that way, divil a turn
will I do for ye agin."
" Mark my words, Larry, you are giving up one master
to find a harder one," at which his quondam servant went
growling and muttering away.
Larry was true to his tryst, and the reader may be assured
that the strategic Molly was not absent. After two or three
meetings, in which she nearly tormented the poor fellow
out of his senses, with fear and jealousy ot the mythical
" swatehearts" who were just about to earn,' her off, Molly
permitted the entrancing concession to be wrung from her,
" I will stale away wid ye to the praste, if I kin only git a
pair o' shoes. ' '
Having received this sweet assurance of affections won,
Larry, on his return, made pacific overtures to his former
master.
" Ye know that I served ye long and faithfully,"
8o NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
'* Well, that will do for preface. What do you want
now, Larry?"
" Faix, sur, an' if ye'U give me a pair o' yer shoes, I'll
do many a good turn to pay for 'em."
" With all respect for your understanding, Larry, I don't
think they'll fit you."
"I've taken the measure of a fut as they will fit, yer
honor."
" Oh 1 I see now ; yes, yes, there are the shoes ; and
by the way, Larry, I have a pair of leather breeches which
you may take her also ; for she struck me as one who would
be sure to wear them before long."
" Bless yer honor, ye mustn't judge all the women o' the
world by yer own bad luck. " And with this home-thrust,
Larry went chuckling away with the shoes that were to con-
summate his happiness.
Before a week of wedded bliss had passed, the newly
fledged artiller}^man found that he had, indeed, exchanged
his old master for a more exacting one, and he dubbed the
redoubtable Molly "captain," long before she won the
title by her military prowess.
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE.
CHAPTER IX.
LEFT TO nature's CARE.
THE changes that war was about to make, in the wild
and secluded region which Vera's father had chosen
as his retreat and hiding-place, soon began to manifest
themselves. The arrival of the engineer, Colonel Romans,
with his working force, at Constitution Island, was discov-
ered almost immediately by the young girl, while out upon
one of her excursions, in the latter part of August. Nor
could the advent of the soldiery be kept from her father, as
the morning and evening guns, and the notes of the drum
and fife, announced their presence, with startling distinct'
iiess, in the quiet summer air.
At first the morbid and conscience- stricken man was in
great excitement and alarm, and, with the tendency com-
mon to persons in his condition, connected the unlooked-
for event with danger to himself. His fears led him to
propose that they should all leave their home, and seek
some more secluded spot far back in the mountains ; but
for once his meek and gentle wife was firm in her opposition
to his will. She saw that her husband's mind had become
SO warped that it was no longer capable of correct judgment
in any matter where his fears were concerned. The reason
for the military occupation of the island opposite she had
not yet learned, but could not see how it necessarily threat-
ened them with danger. Moreover, her desire that Vera
might form acquaiatances, who could rescue her eveatuali^
82 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
from a seclusion that might at last leave the girl utterly
alone in the world, incre^ed daily. In spite of her felse
hopes, which were a part of her disease, and an earnest de-
sire to live, she had failed so rapidly, during the oppressive
heats of summer, that vague fears for the future often gave
her great uneasiness. She clearly recognized her husband's
growing distemper of mind, and old Gula was still less to
be depended upon. How could she leave her child so
friendless and unshielded ?
In her terrible anxiety, the gentle creature would at times
become almost stem and fierce in her appeals to heaven,
crying :
'• O God I as thou art good and true, present my child,
ftnd bring her to me at last, pure and unspotted from the
world, I commit her to thy care, and I hold Jhee to thy
many promises, "
While her growing weakne^ made it apparent, even to
her husband, that she could not be moved, and he was
thus induced to remain in his present home, he continued
Steady and unrelenting in his determination that no acquaint-
ances should be formed with the new-comers. Of this par-
pose Vera and her mother had a very disheartening illustra-
tion about the middle of October,
One day, just as they were about to sit do^^^l to their
meagre dinner, the two huge dogs bounded out from the
door-step, with fiercest clamor.
Mr. Brown, as he may be called at present, sprang uft
and was only in time to prevent a conflict between a stranger
and the savage beasts.
Vera also ran to the door, in order to see the cause of
the alarm and her heart throbbed quickly, as she recognized
in the stranger the young man who had surprised her, in
the manner already described, while fishing.
•' Back, Tiger and Bull," said their master ; and, as the
LEFT TO N'ATURE'S CARE. 83
dogs reluctantly obeyed, he advanced with a dignity which
Saville was quick to recognize, and said, coldly,
' ' Have you any special business with me ?' '
The young man commenced replying suavely, and in a
manner which he hoped would pave the v%'ay to an acquaint-
ance ; but, sail more coldly and sternly came the interrupt-
ing question :
" Have you any business with me, sir?"
*' I cannot say that I have, save that as a temporary
neighbor I would be glad to show myself neighborly."
The man regarded him suspiciously, but continued, with
the same repelling coldness,
' ' You have the bearing of a gentleman. ' '
" Yes, sir ; and the character and standing of one,"
'' I shall put that assertion to the test," was the forbid-
ding response ; " and if you fail to make it good, I shall
know how to act hereafter. I desire seclusion for myself
and family. This cottage, though very humble, is my
castle, and I regard any visits to it or to this locality as an
intrusion."
Saville flushed deeply, for, if this man were a guilty out-
law, he could assume a hauteur and loftiness which were
oppressive. He felt almost as if an ancient baron were
ordering him, as a poacher, off his grounds. But in the
fece of Vera, who stood excited, tremblinof, in the doorway,
he thought he detected a different and friendly expression ;
so he made one more effort to remove the suspicious exclu-
siveness of the father.
" But suppose I come in the spirit of kindliness," he
said.
' ' I thought I made it clear that I desired no visits what-
ever," was the stern reply.
"You are unwise, sir," said Saville with corresponding
haughtiness. " I am an officer and a gentleman, and as
84 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
such might have extended protection to you and >'OiBf
family. This region will soon become fall of armed men,
and how can yon escape visits from the rade soldiery, who
may not always be overscrupulous ?"
" They will come at peril to life and limb," said the ma»
savagely ; and he began to show symptoms of great agita-
tion.
Saville saw that the young girl's eyes had overflowed wilii
tears, that her hands were clasped, and that her whole mail>
ner was a mute appeal. But whether it was to leave them
at once, or to give unasked, the protection against the
danger at which he had hinted, and which her father had so
harshly refused, he could not tell He also saw that the
man was becoming excited and dangerous, and that tbe
dc^, quickly catching their master's spirit, were bristlil^
toward him. Vera sprang down with words of rebuke, and
soon had the fierce animals crouching at her feet As she
stood between them in her simplicity and unconsciooi
beauty, tears gemming her eyes like dew upon violets, she
made a picture that Saville did not soon foiget.
With a silent bow and smile to her, which she returned
by a grave and graceful inclination, he turned away, and
soon disappeared among the trees. He had seen enough,
however, to kindle his vivid imagination, and on his way
back among the hills, in search of game, indulged in many
wild surmises in regard to the people who so resolutely
secluded themselves. But he could scarcely fail in reaching
the conclusion that fear was the motive, and that the roan
was hiding from the consequences of some act of the past,
the discovery of which would lead to terrible punishment
It was still more certain that he had belonged to the superior
and educated classes, for his unkempt appearance and rude
attire could not disguise his proud and stately bearing. At
the same timef even the brief glimpse that Saville bad caught
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. «5
of the externals of the cabin, proved that some one dwelt
there who had an eye and a love for beauty.
The rude logs were prettily disguised by crimson festoons
of the American ivy. Clumps of eglantine with equally
brilliant foliage stood on either side of the open door,
through which he could see a little of the rustic decoration
within. The impression, however, that the man was a
criminal chilled his desire for personal acquaintance, and
save some generous pity that the fair young girl should be
left to develop under such forbidding circum.stances, he
soon became indifferent to the inmates of the cabin from
which he had been so rudely repelled. With the exception
of the maiden, the other inmates were probably subjects for
the detective and constable. Whether right or wrong,
Saville was as open as the day, and had no taste for mysteries
or crime.
But the results of his attempted visit were not so slight or
transient in the little cabin among the mountains. Vera,
and especially her mother, were bitterly disappointed. To
the latter it seemed as if a providential opportunity of gain-
ing some hold on the outside world had been lost ; and
when her husband became calmer, she so remonstrated with
him that he half regretted his own action. But the trouble
was that he could not be depended on, for when his mind
had been enabled for a moment to struggle toward a correct
judgment, another dark and engulfing wave of fear Vv^ould
sweep over it, carrying him back into the depths of his old
despondency and morbid dread of strangers.
But the remark of Saville, that the region would soon be
filled with armed men, while it greatly increased his uneasi-
ness, also kindled a faint gleam of hope. In his occasional
expeditions to distant villages for the purpose of barter, he
had heard faint mutterings of the storm, that had now broken
over the land. The only hints which he had obtained were
86 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
from the casual remarks of others, for he had feared to ask
questions, as this would give the right to question him. He
was regarded, at the few places where he traded, as an odd,
half-deranged man, and received but little thought or atten-
tion. Indeed, it was his policy to assume something like
imbecility on all matters save that of securing a fair return
for his merchandise.
The few expressions which he had happened to hear, in-
dicating trouble between England and her colonies, had
made but little impression on him, however, as the idea
that there could be any resistance to her mighty power never
entered his mind. But now what else could the presence
of so many soldiers mean, save resistance ? Were the
soldiers that had already come, and that were coming,
under British rule or hostile to it ? If they were English
troops, nothing could induce him to remain. If they were
American forces in armed rebellion, then there would be
hope that in their success he might finally escape the juris-
diction of English law. His mind became so far aroused
and clear that he was enabled to act intelligently, though
characteristically. Instead of going over to Constitution
Island, where he might readily have learned the situatioHj
he prepared a large pack of articles for barter, and started for
a distant village down the river. Here he assumed his old,
stolid manner ; but he heard enough to so stimulate his
curiosity and awaken his hopes that he at last brought him-
self to question an old and inoffensive appearing man who
was working alone in his garden. Learning from him the
principal facts which had thus far transpired, and the open
resistance into which the colonies had gradually passed, he
started for home in a state of wild and almost exultant ex-
citement. At first, he half proposed to take an open p«rt
m the struggle. But long before he reached his cabin, the
old wave of morbid fear returned, and the habit of secretive^
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 87
ness, and disposition to shrink from every one, resumed
their mastery. He decided to remain in his present home
as a post of observation.
" ri! wait and see what headway the rebelUon makes,"
he muttered ; "for if it fails after I have committed myself
to it, I am lost utterly." The man had become such a
tt'reck of his former self that his only thought was for his
own personal safety. His terrible secret had seemingly
blasted every generous and noble trait with its deadly shade.
During his absence Vera and her mother ardently hoped
that the young stranger might come again. Vera even went
down to the shore, and looked wistfully at the island oppo-
site, from which the din of labor on the fortifications came
faintly across the river. But she saw not the one to whom
she now felt she could almost find courage to speak, and
ask for that protection which he had intimated they might
need.
During the summer and autumn, they had been left
utterly alone. Even Vera, in her youth and inexperience,
had become alarmed at her mother's feebleness and hacking
cough, and her thoughtful efforts to alleviate and help were
as pathetic as they were beautiful. She felt that they had 3
very trying winter before them, and knew that her father
could be depended upon less and less as a support But
she induced him to repair the cellar under the cabin, so
that the vegetables from a small garden might be stored
securely. She also had persuaded him to enlarge a spring
near the house into a little pond, and in this her skill
enabled her to place quite a number of fish. She did hef
best to follow the example of her wild playmates of the
woods, that were busy most of the time in providing against
the cold, dark days to come, and she even diminished the
squirrels' hoards, by the quantities of nuts which she gath-
ered and dried for winter use. She also carefully noted the
Roe— Vlil— E
88 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
haunts of rabbits, partridges, and quails, and prepared traps
and snares which could be used when the snow covered the
ground.
But, as the autumn winds sighed through the mountains,
she sighed also ; for a strange depression and boding of evil
was stealing over her. Her face, which had been full oi
sunshine and mirthfulness even in darkest daj'S, grew un-
wontedJy thoughtful and oppressed with care ; but her fea-
tures were none the less lovely, as they began to express
womanly solicitude and responsibility instead of a child's
light-hearted confidence. In her mother's presence she ever
sought, however, to maintain her cheerful hopefulness.
But the mother's love pierced all disguises, and it was one
of the bitterest drops in her overflowing cup that her child
should be so early and heavily burdened.
The bond of clinging a^ection appeared to grow stronger
and tenderer between mother and daughter, as their rela-
tions toward each other changed, and Vera began to give
the failing parent the care she had once received herself.
There were days when the poor woman could scarcely leave
her bed, and then Vera's every touch was a caress. But
the bracing air of autumn and winter appeared to agree with
the invalid better than the relaxing heat of summer. The
generous diet of game which Vera carefully prepared did
much also to keep up her strength. But perhaps her gain
in vigor was due to the element of hope which her sympa-
thetic spirit caught from her husband ; for he had at once
informed his wife of the struggle that v/as commencing with
the Power he dreaded, and both felt that in its success
would come a calming sense of security. The wife urged
her husband to take an open part in the conflict, correctly
judging that daily contact with others would be the best
antidote against his habit of morbid brooding. But in his
unnaturally developed caution and shrinking fear of dis»
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 89
covery, the man was not equal to this, and, for the time,
became only a secret and anxious watcher of the events
which he hoped might work out his deUverance, The habit
of suspiciously shunning every one had grown to be a dis-
ease. Indeed, so warped had he become that he began to
dread lest his wife — the only one in this land who knew his
dire secret — might reveal it to Vera in some unguarded
moment ; and at times he even harshly cautioned her against
such a possibility.
Thus the winter passed rather sadly and drearily away.
Vera's powers were taxed to their utmost as nurse, watcher,
and housekeeper. Her father also had bad days when noth-
ing could induce him to leave his dusky corner, and then
her hands and feet were pinched with cold, as she visited the
traps and snares among the hills, carrying the fowling-piece
also, in order that their meagre larder might not become
utterly bare.
In the midst of her deepening anxiety and increasing
burdens her mystic sympathy with nature increased, and shs
found comfort and companionship even in the wintry land-
scape. Bible ideas and imagery blended with what she saw
around her. As with the lightness of a fawn she bounded
through the newly fallen snow, she would exclaim with an
ecstatic thrill of hope,
'* My robe, one day, will be as white and sparkling, and
the gems in my crown brighter than the icicle's gleam hang-
ing over yonder ledge of rocks. God teaches me, even in
winter, by such pretty things, what He is preparing for His
children."
WTien at times every branch, spray, and twig was encased
with snow, and the evergreens were bending beneath their
fleecy burdens, she would be half wild with delight at the
beauty of the scene, and would cheer her mother by saying,
"See what God can do in a single night Won't out
9°
NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
mansions in heaven, which we so often read about, be
beautiful, mother ? for he has had ever so many years in
which to prepare them. Don't you think he is making
them prettier all the time ?"
"Yes, Vera," her mother would reply; "as we grow-
better, God makes them prettier. Never distrust Him, for
you see what He can do even in this world which is so full
of evil and trouble."
Thus, every beautiful object in nature became to the
young girl an evidence of her Heavenly Father's good -will
and love, and an assurance that He would fulfill at last all
the wonderful promises of the Bible. And dark and dreary
days, and disagreeable things, were expressions of the evil
in the world, from which she had His promise also, that
she should be protected, and finally delivered.
Often, when the cold, bitter wind was blowing, and the
trees and shrubbery were tossing in its power, she would
draw a slender spray with its securely encased buds against
her glowing cheeks, as she said, caressingly,
" Don't fear ! We shall be taken care of. Next May
will be like last May, and the wind wall come softly from
the south."
Again, she would stand in the snow upon a violet bank,
and call,
" Heigh-ho, down there, tucked away in your winter
bed ! Do you ever dream of me in your sleep .?' '
Thus nature, even in mid-winter, suggested to her child
sleep rather than death ; and hope, instead of fear and de-
spair ; and when her heart grew heavy and full of vague
forebodings of evil, as she saw her mother's weakness, and
her father so deeply enshrouded in gloom, she would take
her trusty gun and one of the great dogs, and spend hours
among the defiles of the mountains, finding peace and good
cheer, where to another would have been only blackness
LEFT TO X A TURK'S CARE. 91
.jid desolation, or the awful solitude and grandeur of a
mountain landscape in winter. While Vera's character was
simplicity itself, this noble companionship with things that
were grand and large, though at times stem, took away
utterly the elements of silliness and triviality which make
many young girls at her age a weariness to all save those as
empty as themselves. And the sternness of many scenes was
more apparent than real ; for in frowning ledges of rocks
Vera found cosy nooks in which she was protected from the
winds as she rested, and the sun would often light up the
face of the precipice, as a smile might illumine the rugged
features of one who seemed harsh and cold in nature, but
who, on closer acquaintance, would be found to possess
traits that are kindly and gentle.
The winter passed, and Vera was being prepared for the
part she must take in life — for temptations and ordeals
which would test the strength and integrity of the strongest
Her teachers were not such as the fashionable would choose
or desire — sickness and sorrow at home, and the solitude of
wintri- mountains without ; and yet these stern-visaged in-
structors made their pupil more sweet, unselfish, and
womanly tstxy day. They endowed her with patience
and, at the same time, inspired her with hope. Moreover,
she had the two grand books of the world, the Bible and
Shakspeare ; and often as she watched in the comer of the
wide fireplace, sh^ half read and half brooded over their
glowing pages, until her own mind was full of thronging
thoughts and fancies, which, in their beauty and character,
were at least akin to those she read.
Still, she often had a sense of loneliness, and the natural
craving for a wider companionship and sympathy. From
the day on which she had at first met Saville, there had
been in her mind a vague, faint unrest, and a desire to
know more of the world to which he belonged. His
92 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
attempted visit had greatly increased this desire, and concen-
trated her thoughts upon him as the only one concerning
whom she had any knowledge, or who had shown any
interest in her. She often found herself vividly recalling the
two occasions on which she had seen him, and which had
ended so unsatisfactorily. His manner, appearance, and
his words and tones even, were dwelt upon ; and he became
to her like one of Shakspeare's knightly and heroic char-
acters — half real, half ideal. She would end by sighing,
" He has probably gone away, and thinks of us only as
rude, ill-mannered mountaineers."
As spring advanced her mother failed rapidly, and Vera's
heart and hands became too full for thoughts of aught else
save the deepest and tenderest solicitude. Old Gula shook
her head more frequently and ominously, and Vera had the
most painful misgivings.
One day, after her mother had recovered from a terrible
paroxysm of coughing, she followed the old negress to the
little kitchen, and asked,
" Why do }0u shake your head so discouragingly .?"
" Ise a tinkin' dat missis is a hearin' voices as well as ole
Gula. "
" What voices .?"
" You'se can't understan', chile ; but you will, some
day. Dey come to de homesick like."
" Where do they come from ?"
" Why, from home, honey. You'se mudder is like ole
Gula — far from home. I heerd her a talkin' in her sleep
of a green, flowery island, way off 'yond de big water. She,
no more'n ole Gula, hab allers lived 'mongdese cold, stony
mountains. An' now de voices is a callin* her home,"
" Do you think — do you think mother — oh I can mother
die ?" said Vera, in a terrified whisper.
" Dunno nufiin 'bout dyin', child ; don't tink dere's any
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 93
such ting. But some day you'll find dis ole body lyin* cold
and still, but 'twon't be Gula, 'twon't be me. I'll be far
away, a followin' de voices ober de big wabes, where de
floatin' miseries go, and Gula will be home where de sun
shines warm all de time, and de palm-trees wave. Oh ! —
oh ! — ole Gula's heart is sore ; sore wid waitin'." And
the poor creature threw her apron over her head, and rocked
herself back and forth in ail the tropical demonstrativeness
of grief.
But Vera's heart was sore also, and finding that she was
losing self-control, she hastened out into the twilight, and
sitting down upon a rock back of the cabin, sobbed as if
her heart would break.
Gula soon forget her own grief in the young girl's distress,
and removing her apron, her quaint, wrinkled face became
full of commiseration. At last she rose and hobbled to her,
and laying her hand on the bowed head, said in husky tones,
" Dare, dare, po' young missis ; don't take on so. You
mustn't be sorry dat ycu'se mudder's goin' home. When
she gits back where she lived afore, she won't be sick any
mo'."
" Oh 1 — oh ! — oh ! — there's no use of trying to be blind
any more. Mother is going hom. ; but not to England —
to a better home than that. But, oh ! — to be left alone—
what shall I do .'' how can I bear it ?"
Calming herself by a great effort, she at last returned to
her miOther, who had surmised her daughter's distress, and
looked at her so wistfully that Vera again lost self-control,
and kneeling by the bed, gave way to an agony of grief.
" O mother, " she sobbed, " how can you leave me .?"
The poor woman gave her child a startled look, and then,
more fully than ever before, realized the inevitable separa
tion soon to come ; she also saw that the sad truth could be
no longer concealed from Vera Reaching out her feeble
94 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
hands, she took her child into her arms, and they wept to-
gether till both were exhausted. Then the mother whispered
the old sweet refrain that had soothed and sustained her
through so many troubled years :
' ' * Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid,
in my Father's house are many mansions' — I think I shall
soon be in mine, Vera ; and I will watch and wait for you."
'* I don't want another mansion, mother. I'll ask God
to let me live with you. One mansion will be enough for
us both. Oh, why can't I go with you V
" Your father needs you here, Vera. Oh, my DOor hus-
band ! For my sake he fell into this gulf of darkness. Had
it not been for me "
*' Hush !" said a stern voice ; and mother and child be-
came very still, the one oppressed by a dark secret known,
and the other by the same secret unknown, but which the
girl, even in her inexperience and ignorance of evil, began
to realize must be very sad and dreadful. She retired for a
time to her little grotto-like apartment in the side of the hill,
and then came back calm and strengthened, and entered
upon her patient watch.
The husband, who had been a silent, and, up to the time
of his harsh interruption, a forgotten witness of the scene
just described, was terribly agitated by contending emotions.
The words he had heard had aroused him from his deep
preoccupation, and he too began to realize for the first time
that his wife might be near her end — that this was more than
a temporary illness. His mind was not so utterly warped
but that he foresaw his loss with the keenest anguish. He
had loved this faded, dying woman with al! the strength of
his nature, and the thought that she could die and leave
him had never been entertained. But now it came like a
revelation — a lightning flash into his darkness, making ever}''-
thing the darker thereafter. At one moment his heart would
LEFT TO .VATURE'S CARE. 95
jrearn toward her with an infinite tenderness and remorse ;
and then the thought would come surging up, born of his
guilty secret and demoralizing fear, ihat if she died, no one,
at least in this land, would know the past. It seemed to
him that he had arrested her just as she was on the point oi
revealing the secret to his child. She might do so still.
He remembered that the dying were prone to unburden
their hearts to some one. He determined that this must be
prevented at all hazards ; and in spite of his morbid suspi-
ciousness, he still had such trust in the woman who had
been so true to him, as to be satisfied that if she gave him
her solemn promise to be dumb — never to tell even Vera—
she would keep her word.
When their daughter had left them alone, he said abrupt-
ly, and yet in a tone that trembled,
" Esther, are you going to die ?' '
" Yes, Guy," said the wife, wearily and faintly.
After a moment, and still more tremblingly, the man
said,
' ' Will you protect me to the last, as you have in all these
years ?"
" Yes, Guy. "
" Will you give me your word, which you have nevei
broken, not to tell even Vera?"
" Yes, Guy ; not even Vera."
•' Will you swear it ?" he said hoarsely.
" God is my witness, I will be silent. The deed was not
done in malice — God will forgive you, Guy. Oh, let the
' Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the world '
lift the load from your heart. He has from mine. But
how — how can 1 leave you and my darling child .? And
yet you mav be better off without me. I fear I have be-
come a burden. "
The man gave way, and throwing himself down on his^
96 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEAR7\
knees beside his wife, groaned and sobbed in a perfect tem*
pest of grief.
" r ve blighted your life, Esther, ' ' he cried. ' ' Think what
you might have been. You might have dwelt in a palace."
" Hush, Guy," said his wife solemnly. " If all could
be done over again from that night when you came and told
me what had happened, I would act just the same. 1 loved
you then. I love you now, and God loves you."
" What kind of a God is he that permits such horrors V*
groaned the wretched man, showing that even the love of
the unbelieving can in such emergencies do little else than
wound and pain those who cling to them.
" He is the God who only can deliver from such horrors,
and remedy the fatal mistakes and deeds of this life," said
his wife eagerly.
" How has He remedied them ? You are dying, and
we will be left alone in this dreary wilderness, in which we
must cower and hide till we also die."
*' O Guy, Guy, time is short, and eternity very long.
So trust, so live, that all may be well hereafter. I shall wait
for you and Vera ; and it seems to me that heaven will not
begin till )'ou both come to me."
The man was silent, and became more composed.
*' And Guy," continued his wife faintly, for she was
growing very weary, *' I fear this utter seclusion is unv/ise
and unsafe. It may be fatal to Vera's happiness. Go out
and take an open part in this conflict for liberty. You will
be your old self after you have mingled awhile with your
fellow men. "
** Not yet," groaned the man. " I dare not yet."
The wife sighed deeply, but said no more. But her sore
heart was comforted when her husband rose and for the first
time for years bent over her, giving a kiss and gentle careae,
as he said,
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 97
" Pcor little wife, you have been faithfulness itself."
Then he went back to his dusky corner ; but the watch-
ful glitter of his eyes was often dimmed with tears ; and
Vera found on her return that her mother had fallen into
the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
The spring night deepened and darkened, but a shadow
darker than the night had fallen across the cottage ; for all
at last realized that death was near. Toward morning the
man dozed in his chair, but Vera's eyes were fixed with a
wide and fearful gaze into that dread future when she should
be alone in the world that to her was so strange and unex-
plored. More than once the thought crossed her mind in
reference to Saville,
" If he knew, would he come.'"
And yet all through that interminable night, she was sus-
tained and comforted by the memory of One who she felt
sure would know and care.
But in the light of the lovely May morning, and in view
of the fact that her mother seem.ed a little stronger and
easier, hope revived.
"Father, I think a surgeon might help mother," said
Vera with decision.
The man gave his daughter a startled look, and her words
had evidently awakened a sudden conflict in his mind. But
his aroused and better nature prevailed.
"Perhaps he might," he faltered; "perhaps he
might."
" Then v.'here can one be found V
He strode up and down the room a moment, then cast-
ing a compassionate look at his wife, muttered,
"She shall have the chance, cost me what it may,"
Then aloud to Vera — " There is no doubt a surgeon at the
garrison on the Island. "
' * I will go for him at once, ' ' said Vera.
98 NEAR TO NATURES HEART.
" Will you — will you go ?" said her father with an air of
great relief.
' ' Yes, if I could only keep mother with us, I would go
anywhere and face anything."
The poor woman smiled faintly, but shook her head.
But old Gula barred Vera's exit, till she had finished her
morning bowl of bread and milk.
" You'se not a sperrit, honey, do' you'se growin' to look
mighty like one. " Old Gula had considerable sense still
in spite of her weird ways.
" I will take our little skiff out of its hiding-place and
launch it for you, " said her father ; " and I will be on the
watch with my rifle all the time to see that no harm comes
to you. ' '
In less than an hour Vera's light shell shot out of a little
cove above the point of land opposite Constitution Island,
and was soon dancing on the waves raised by the southern
breeze blowing against the tide.
Saville was engaged as usual, directing the work upon
the fortifications, when a casual glance toward the river re-
vealed to him the approaching skiff. Its occupant so puz-
zled him that he hastened for his glass, and soon recognized
the shy maiden who had eluded him on the point just op-
posite, and whom he had half forgotten. But now she
seemed coming boldly to the shore a little below where he
stood. As Vera looked around and saw who it was, she
seemed startled, and rested on her oars.
** Are you, too, afraid of me.?" asked Saville kindly.
Her reply was a few vigorous strokes which brought her
boat to his feet, and then rising steadily, she stepped lightly
to the shore, before he could offer his hand.
" You see I trust you, sir," she said simply, as she stood
tremblingly before him with downcast eyes.
" And am I such an ogre that you fled from me once-
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 99
and now tremble before me as if I might eat you up?
Though if I were an ogre I should be sorely tempted to fall
to ; for I doubt if one ever sat down to a daintier meal."
The young girl's eyes overflowed with tears, as her onlj
/eply to this light badinage.
" You are in trouble," said Saville quickly, and in a very
different tone.
' ' Yes, ' ' was all that Vera could say.
" Tell me what 1 can do for you ?"
Putting her hand upon her bosom to still its wild throb-
bing, caused by embarrassment, excitement, and her violent
exercise, she at last was able to say,
" Is there—I would see a surgeon."
" Sit down, my child, and rest. Do not be afraid ; yoe
may trust me fully. I will bring the surgeon to you. "
" I am much beholden to you for your courtesy," said
Vera, naturally falling into the quaint language of the bock
with which she was so familiar, and whose courtly phtBseoi-
ogy seemed to her appropriate in addressing a stranger.
Saville was interested in the contrast between her stately
words and simple, grateful manner, for she was much re-
lieved at finding that she need not face the stare cf the
garrison.
Calling one of his men, Saville told him to stand guard,
and permit no one to approach his protegee, and then hast»
ened for the surgeon. Neither he nor the man who stood
mechanically at his post, though with many a curious glance
at the strange visitor, realized that their good behavior was
greatly to their advantage ; for if they had been capable of
anything else, an unerring rifle would have spoken from
the opposite shore.
Saville soon returned with a stout, burly, but kindly-
featured man, who, on learning Vera's errand, looked wi&
dismay at the slight skifL
3fOO NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
"Look ye here, my child," he said brusquely, "I'm
not a fairy like yourself, and can't swim. Did you imagine
you could take a fully developed surgeon across the river in
that shell ? I wouldn't venture in it for twelve months' pay
in advance. ' '
Vera turned her face, full of distress and disappointment,
in mute appeal to Saville, who immediately said, cordially,
" That's right ; you can trust me to keep my promise of
help ; so don't spoil your pretty eyes with tears. You can
lead the way in your skiff, and I will take this healing mon-
ster over in a pontoon boat, or ship-of-the-line, so that he
be kept from the element he most dreads. But wait a mo-
ment, and I'll get you something that will do your mother
more good than all his medicines," and he hastened to his
quarters, and brought Vera a bottle of French brandy.
"There," he said, " I put that in your charge ; for it won't
do to trust the doctor with it. He will tell your mother
how to use it, but do not let him show her."
But not a glimmer of a smile came into Vera's face at
Saville' s light talk. Indeed, it grated harshly on her ears,
as she remembered her mother's critical state.
" Now, cheer up," added Saville kindly, " and lead the
way. If our good doctor is helpless on the water, he is
skillful on the land, and no doubt will soon restore youJ
mother to health. "
Vera, whose sore heart was in such need of sympathy, lost
her control at Saville' s kindly tones and manner, and burst-
ing into tears, said,
" I fear mother is sick unto death ;" and turning hastily
sprang into her little boat, and was soon out in the stream,
where she kept the light craft waiting in position, with the
care and precision of a water-fowl.
Saville' s pontoon proved to be a handsomely modeled
boat ot his own, which he kept for his private pleasure 0£
LEFT TG NATURES CARE. ICl
for patroling the river should occasion require, and he soon
struck out vigorously after Vera's guiding skiff. She led
them to a point from which the ascent to the cottage could
be made vi^ith comparative ease. Saville was about to ac-
company them, having again become interested in the unique
character of the maiden, and feeUng assured that if the cabin
was the hiding-place of crime, none of its occupants could
be vulgar criminals ; while the thought of evil was not to be
entertained in regard to the maiden. But Vera arrested his
Steps, by saying, with painful embarrassment,
" Father said I must bring no one save the surgeon."
Saville 's quick spirit was hurt, and he flushed resentfully.
Vera felt herself cruelly trammeled, but was unable to see
how she could explain the apparently rude requital of his
kindness. Her troubled face, however, almost instantly
disarmed him, and he saw that her words were not at all
prompted by her own feelings ; and when she suddenly
stepped up to him, and said in a low tone.
'* 'Charity suffereth long and is kind,' " he took her
hand and answered gently,
*' Charity also * thinketh no evil. ' You are a good giri,
though you are rather odd. Good-by, and don't worry
about me. May your mother soon get well. "
" And may God requite thy kindness, " Vera said so ear-
nestly, that for the moment he felt as if she had appealed to
One who had an existence. But a moment later, after she
was gone, he shrugged his shoulders, and soliloquized,
" That's the way it always is — crime and superstition go
together. That girl's parents, who no doubt are hiding from
the constable, are very religious, and have taught this poOT
child their pious jargon. Still she seems to have the natural
grace to use it with skill and taste. She is, indeed, very
odd, and her seeming familiarity with the two greatest works
of fiction in the world is unaccountable in one so young
I02 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
and isolated. I must find some means of propitiating her
churlish father ; foi I would like to pursue this strange ac-
quaintance further. "
The surgeon's practiced eye at once saw that Vera's moth-
er was in the last stages of consumption, and to the ques-
tioning and entreating eyes that were turned upon him,
could only shake his head and say,
" Neither I nor any one else can do much for you, mad-
am ; you must prepare for a better world. "
Vera gave a faint cry, as if she had received a mortal
wound, and was about to give way to her grief, when her
mother restrained her by saying,
" Be calm, darling, for my sake. It is just as I supposed.
Let us patiently submit to Gk)d's will. "
"That's a good child," added the kindly surgeon.
*• Try to control yourself and listen to me, and you can
make your mother's last days much easier;" and he gave
lull directions, and left alleviating remedies. " But Savil'e
was right," he concluded, "the brandy will do more to
sustain your mother at times than anything else. You
needn't come back with me. I can find my way to the
boat."
The doctor's visit had not been so brief but that he had
been much impressed by the mother's refinement, and the
appearance of the cottage.
" You may depend upon it," he said to Saville on his
return, " those people there are very far from being ordinary
mountaineers."
Thus the young man's interest was still further stimulated,
and he resolved, though with no motive of vulgar curiosity,
if possible, to penetrate the mystery.
The lovely spring day without, was a dark and dreary
one within the cabin, for the last hope of recovery had van-
ished. The husband sank into the deepest gloom, from
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. I03
which nothing could arouse him ; but he was unwontedly
tender and thoughtful of his wife. From that day he so man-
aged and provided for the family that Vera could give all her
time to the sick room. But this seclusion from her out-
door life, combined with her broken rest and burden of sor-
row, told heavily on the young girl, and she was beginning
to look almost like the ministering spirit Gula had spoken
of. The mother would often urge her to go out and take
the air, but Vera would always reply, in the pathetic words
of one whom in simplicity and fidelity she resembled, " En^
treat me not to leave thee."
And yet it was an unspeakable comfort to the dying
woman that her husband so provided for the household as
to leave her beloved child a continuous watcher at her bed-
side ; for had Vera been compelled, as had often been the
case in the past, to spend much of her time roaming the
hills and following the brooks in order to keep up a supply
of food, the cup of her bitterness would have overflowed.
As well as she could, in view of her own ignorance of the
world and the peculiarities of their situation, she tried to
advise and guard her child in reference to the future.
" Let yourname," she said one day, " which your father
gave you because he said I had been true to him, express
vour character. Be true to your God and your faith, be
true to my poor teachings and your own pure womanlf
nature. Let the Bible guide you in all things, and then
you will always have peace in your heart, and find sympathy
in nature without. But rest assured, Vera, however wise
and greatly to your advantage anything may seem, if your
Bible is against it, do not hesitate to turn away, for it would
cot end wsll. Keep thy heart with all diligence. When it
troubles you — when your old playmates, the innocent flow-
ers, look at you reproachfully, something will be wrong.
Keep true, my darling, and our separation won' t be long.
I04 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
But, oh I— how can I leave you in the world, so unshielded
and alone ? O Thou v/ho callest thyself a ' covenant-keep-
ing God,* fail not my child. "
Again, at another time she said, ' ' Vera, one of the most
painful things in your future lot will be that you cannot trust
the judgment of your father. Indeed, you will have to be
his guardian and protector more truly than he will be yours.
Be very tender and patient with him, for my sake as well
as from your own love, and yet be firm when your own and
his interests require it. I do not think this utter seclusion
wise or safe. It will draw rather than avert suspicion and
trouble."
'• Why does father shrink so from strangers ? Though I
have often asked, you have never told me much about your
old life in England.'*'
" Well, my darling, you must be content to know little,
for your life will be burdened enough, I fear, with your own
tiO'iibles, and I would not add to them those of the past.
Let it satisfy you to know that your father met vrlth a sudden
and great misfortune, and was compelled to leave his native
land. I loved him, and followed him, as I would again, if
I were free to choose. But, Vera, he took me to a minister
of God before we left England, and with this plain ring, and
with sacred words, we were joined in holy wedlock. I had
thought to be buried with this ring, but it can serve better
uses. I now put it on your hand, as a kind of charm
against evil. Give no man any rights, Vera ; permit not
even a caressing touch from one that you may even love,
unless he will wed you with your dead mother's ring, and
in the presence of God's minister, in accordance with the
teachings of God's book." And she placed the plain gold
band upon Vera's finger.
Did not God inspire the act?
Of course Vera had spoken often of Saville's kindness, and
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 105
the mother seemed to have a presentiment that he might havs
much influence upon her aaughter's destiny. " I wish I
could have seen him, for it is said that the dying often have
great insight into character," she sighed, one day, as Vera
v«ras speaking gratefully of his words and manner ; and the
girl deeply regretted that she had not permitted him to come.
" If he ever does seek your acquaintance, find out if he is
true, above all other things. If truthfulness is wanting, you
can depend on nothing else. I pray God that he, or some
other strong, honest friend may be raised up for you ; for
when I remember the words, ' This region will soon be full
of armed men,' my heart fails me. I fear your father's
manner will only draw suspicion and hostility."
Thus the dying mother tried to counsel Vera against the
time, when, though still a child, she should be entirely de-
pendent for guidance on her own judgment and conscience.
After all hope of life had been removed by the surgeon's
visit, she failed quite rapidly, until at last her life seemed but
a breath, that might cease at any moment. She felt that her
end was very near, and one day, in the latter part of May,
would not permit her husband to leave the house. Still,
she slept most of the time, only rousing, now and then, to
give the watchers a faint smile. The man sat most of the
time with his face buried in his hands, overwhelmed with
remorse and gloom. But Vera's eyes were continually fixed
on her mother's face, as if she feared her treasure might
vanish should she turn away an instant.
As the sun sank below the mountains, the sleeper aroused,
and her face was so peaceful and painless that Vera said :
" You are better, mother."
" Yes, darling, I shall soon be well. Where's old Gula .?"
Vera called her, and the aged negress, with her wrinkled
face working strangely, stood at her bedside.
" Good-by, Gula. Oh ! that aiBong your voices you
lo6 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
could hear that of our Saviour, saying, ' Come unto me, and
I will give you rest.' I shall wait and watch for you, too,
my poor old friend."
" You'se will git home 'fore ole Gula, but I'se a goin'
soon — wery soon." And the poor old creature threw her
apron over her head, and going back to the door-step, rocked
back and forth, crooning a low, continuous wail of sorrow.
" Guy," said the wife.
Her husband came and took her hand, already cold with
approaching death. She fixed her large and unnaturally
bright eyes upon him while he trembled like an aspen in
his effort at self-control.
" Guy," at last she faltered, " I left all things to follow
you ; won't you follow me to the home where we shall be
safe and at rest ?'
" I will try," he groaned.
" Be gentle with Vera— be thoughtful of her. If he who
so kindly aided her in bringing the surgeon comes again, do
not drive him away. ' '
The man could not trust himself to speak, but bowed his
head in assent.
" Oh ! my husband," said his wife in sudden and pas-
sionate earnestness, " I love you ; I would follow you again
to the ends of the earth. ' Let not your heart be so troub-
led.' "
With a cry like that of one desperately wounded, he rushed
from the room, exclaiming, " My punishment is greater than
I can bear."
Her eyes followed him with infinite regret and tenderness,
and the expression of her face must have been akin to that
of Christ, as he wept over the doomed and unbelieving city.
For a few moments she was silent, and her lips moved in
prayer. Then she turned, and took her child in one last
close embrace.
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. I07
"Vera, darling," she whispered, "it's only for a little
while, and then we'll not part any more. Assurance has
been given me that He who took into his arms the children
that mothers brought Him, and blessed them, will take my
place to you. My heart is not troubled, neither is it afraid.
I leave you in His charge, and no one shall be able to pluck
you out of His hands."
*' Mother," said Vera suddenly, " do you think God
would permit any one to have two guardian angels ? Might
he not let me have two, at least till I find some one who
will take care of me ?''
" Well, dear, if He will, what then .?"
"It may be selfish, mother darling, to ask you to leave
heaven ; but God says in His Book that after we go to Him
we shall be ' like unto the angels. ' If He will let you,
would you mind coming down sometimes to watch over me }
I shall be so very, very lonely without you, and if I thought
you were near me at times, it would be such a comfort."
" I believe he will let me come, darling, and it seems to
me that not all the joy of heaven could keep me from being
continually at your side. But whether I can come or not,
He has said, ' I will never leave thee nor forsake thee ;' and
His words seem verj' sure to-day."
The mother's voice, in her mortal weakness, had sunk to
the lowest whisper.
After a few moments, she said, "Can you sing me the
twenty-third Psalm, darling.?''
Vera had long before passed beyond sobbing and tears,
and now possessed the strange, unnatural calmness of those
who are lifted by some great emergency of sorrow far above
their ordinary moods and powers.
Rising from this last close embrace, she chanted those
sublime yet tender words, which have been like an all-pow-
erful and sustaining hand to myriads of weary pilgrims in
lo8 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
the last dark stage of the journey home. The music was
simple and improvised, but so sweet and full of pathos, that
even her father, who had returned, was calmed and melted
by it, and sat down by Vera's side to watch and wait for the
end. The mother's face was very peaceful, and she seemed
to be sleeping. Suddenly her eyes opened wide and her
face appeared illumined by a coming light. Her lips moved,
and Vera, bending over, heard her whisper,
'* Oh, my Saviour, hast Thou deigned to come Thyself
for me ? ' Behold the handmaid of the Lord.' "
Then, as if remembering those she was leaving, she looked
back to them with a smile that Vera never forgot, for it
seemed spiritual rather than human, and said quite plainly,
" Good-by for a little while. All is well. Let not your
heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid,"
Her breast rose and fell with two or three long sighs, and
then the frail, earthly tabernacle was tenantless, but upon
the pallid face the departed spirit had left the impress of
peace. To Vera, in her excited and exalted state, the dusky
cabin seemed filled with the rustle of angels' wings.
" Is she dead ?" asked the husband in a hoarse whisper.
" No," said Vera gently, " she is in heaven."
Her father went back to his dark corner, and sat there
through the long night, motionless, sleepless, and scarcely
seeming to breathe. Vera, still holding her mother's cold
hand, watched mechanically, too stunned and bewildered to
think or to realize her loss, and yet sleepless from excitemen'
and the long habit of wakefulness. Old Gula brought her
a cup of milk, but she shook her head.
" Now, missy, mind your mud der jus' desame. Wouldn't
she say take it ?' ' and Vera drank it eagerly.
The night deepened, and was full of the strange, weird
sounds to which she had always loved to listen, but she did
not hear them. The silent stars passed over her head as un-
LEFT TO NATURES CARE. 109
noted as the hours. With the same steadfast gaze she looked
toward the dead face, which, though hidden by the dark-
ness, was ever distinctly before her. At last, as the morning
dawned, the face began to take shape to her outward vision.
At first it was shadowy and spirit-like, then that of a quiet
and peaceful sleeper ; but at last a broad ray of light, stream-
ing through the casement, fell full upon it, giving it a strange
gladness, and the effect of recovered youth, health, and
beauty. God seemingly transfigured the wasted features, sug-
gesting to the desolate young watcher what had really taken
place in the sunny land " wherein the inhabitant shall no
more say, I am sick." To Vera' s strong and simple faith it
was like the vision of her mother's glory in heaven, and the
ray became, and was ever remembered, as an angel of light
and comfort.
Then Gula entered and said, " Keepa doin' jus' as you'se
mudder would like, honey. Goto de spring and bathe your
face, and den come and see what I'se got for you."
Vera went at once, and the cool water, coming from the
heart of the mountain, calmed her feverish excitement. She
sat down on a m.ossy rock, and looked around like one who
had entered a new world and a new life, and could not yet
comprehend it. But gradually the familiar sights and sounds
of nature gained her attention, and began to speak to her in
the language she loved and understood so well.
" Look at us," said the violets, blooming at her feet.
" All last winter we slept in seeming death, as your mother
is sleeping now ; but at the right time God awakened us,
and here we are to comfort you."
" Look at me," said the bubbling spring. " The black
ice shut me in, as the black earth will cover your mother,
b'ut it did not hurt me ; and, sparkling again this morning
as brightly as ever, I am here to comfort you."
" Listen to us," said the birds over her head. '* We did
no NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
not sing here last winter, but we were singing where the cold
winds never blow. So your mother has only flown a'-^y to
a sunnier clime, and we are here to comfort you."
" Look at me," cried the sun, rising in unclouded
spleaador over the eastern hills. " Do I not come back to
you after the darkness of the night ? So will He, whose light
I reflect, shine away your sorrow, and He has sent me to
comfort you. ' '
" Watch m.e a little while," said a drop of dew, hanging
on a delicate wind-flower that she had unconsciously pluck-
ed ; " and, ere you are aware, the sun will draw me up
toward himself into the sky. So God has taken your
mother, and soon he will take you, and he himself will wipe
away all tears and comfort you."
Then, to the fancy of the solitary girl, who had little com-
panionship save that of nature's children, these voices all
seemed to join in a swelling chorus :
" Oh ! trust with us the great Creator,
Whose law of love our love enthralls ;
Unnoted by our Heavenly Father
Not e'en a fluttering sparrow falls."
" Let not j'our heart be faint and troubled.
And neither let it be afraid ;
For God will guard, with care redoubled,
The child in his own image made."
Thus the peace and hopefulness of nature were breathed
into her heart, and she went back to the cottage, trusting in
Him to whom all things seemed to point.
But, when she entered the cabin, and the sleeper did not
awake with the wonted smile of recognition and words of
welcome ; when she kissed the cold lips, and found that
they were indeed cold and unresponsive, a mysterious dread
chilled her own heart, and the realization of her loss, lone-
LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. II f
Kness, and helplessness was so vivid as to be well-nigh over-
whelming".
But tears, nature's relief, came at last, and she wept and
sobbed until she grew quiet from exhaustion. Then Gula
again resumed her homely ministry, and after inducing the
Stricken orphan to take a little food, was at last pleased to
see her escape from sorrow for a time in the deep oblivion
of sleep.
The husband, who for many hours had seemed stunned
and paralyzed by his loss, at last aroused himself, and told
Gula that he would go with the skiff up the river for a coffin,
and that it would be late before he returned. Having taken
some provisions, and leaving the two dogs as protection, he
departed.
Vera slept quietly until the time her mother had died the
previous evening, when something, perhaps, in the recurring
hour caused her to start up as if called. But time had
been given for her healthful nature to recuperate, and
though the sense of desolation, all the more oppressive from
her father's absence, was indeed terrible at tim.es, she was
able to resume her post of watcher for the night, saying to
Gula,
" 1 will feel better sitting here by mother, as if she wero
Still alive, than I would ?.ny where else."
" I'se a gwine to stay here wid de young missy," said
Gula resolutely ; and she crouched down in the wide fire-
place, the faint flicker of the flames often giving a strange
effect to her face and form as she crooned weird snatches oi
the barbarous music learned long ago in her tropical hom&
It was a remarkable group : the mother, once beautiful
and abounding in hope, now faded and dead in the moun-
tain cabin ; the exile, the old African princess, who had
been stolen from her home, and wronged, until her mind
had become even a greater wreck than her scarred and shriv-
Roe— VIII— F
112 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
eled form ; and the young maiden, who was like some of
her favorite mountain flowers, that grew into fragrant love-
liness among rocks and cliffs, where it would seem they
could scarcely live at all.
The night deepened, and it may be well believed that
other and viewless watchers gathered round the sorrow*
Stricken girL
TBE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. II3
CHAPTER X.
THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS.
AS the lovely spring day, which had brought to Vera a
brief respite from her sorrow, was drawing to a close,
a man might have been seen issuing from a log cabin located
among the mountains west of the Hudson, and at a consid-
erable distance from the river. His manner was brisk and
decided, as if he were looking forward to the labors from
which, in view of the hour, he should naturally be return-
ing. His house was built very strongly, and appeared as if
it might be used as a refuge and defense, as well as a dwell-
ing. The place had a certain rude air of thrift, and yet there
was nothing to indicate from whence the owner's revenue
came. There was no cleared and arable land near, and
certainly the beautiful horse, that cropped the grass in the
small inclosure around the cabin, had never served as one of
a woodman's team.
The man's action was still more irreconcilable with any
peaceful pursuit ; for he rapidly ascended the lofty hill back
of his house, which was one of a succession of wooded high-
lands, stretching away toward the river, and having gained
the summit, scanned the valley to the westward, giving espe-
cial attention to some object far distant upon the road lead-
ing southward.
As he stood there, partially concealing himself among the
low trees, glass in hand, we may sketch him briefly. He
was a little past middle age, tall, and most powerfully built ;
314 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
his quick movements, however, adding an impression of
lightness and something like grace to that of strength. The
aspect of his face was bold, even to recklessness. He had
the bearing of one gifted with unlimited natural daring,
rather than the calm, patient courage which would lead a
man to die at his post. His restless black eyes had the
habit of glancing rapidly from side to side, as if he were on
a perpetual reconnoissance. The light that came from them
was not the diabolical gleam of those who know themselves
to be villains, but rather the keen, alert expression often
seen in beasts of prey. There was scarcely anything to in-
dicate the presence of a moral nature. The eagle, perched
upon his eyrie, scanning the valley to see where he could
swoop down to the best advantage, would be the most cor-
rect type of this man, Claudius Smith by name, and the ter-
ror of the whole region, during the early years of the Revo-
lution.
Apparently satisfied by his scrutiny, he went rapidly back
among the hills, instead of returning to his own house.
Within less than half an hour he reached a secluded glen.
Before descending this, he again took an observation — not
of the exquisite landscape, with valleys lying in shadow, and
rugged highlands aglow with the setting sun, and all decked
in the tender and tinted foliage of May. The gleam of a
rifle barrel would catch Smith's eye instantly, but the per-
ception of beauty was not in his line.
Again everything appeared satisfactory, and he descended
the hill-side nearly to its base, and then, instead of giving
the conventional signal of thrice whistling, he imitated with
mar\-elous exactness the neigh of a horse. A fiat stone,
quite hidden by some copse-wood near where he stood, was
thrown back, and eight men emerged, as it v/ere, from the
bowels of the earth, and the leader and his band were to-
gether.
THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS, 1 15
** It's all right, boys," he said hurriedly. " I watched
the squad of militia till they disappeared to the southeast.
The coast is clear. Meet me, mounted and armed, at my
house within an hour ;" and with the lightness and celerity
of movement that characterized him, he vanished among the
trees.
His men well understood their part, and were seemingly
glad to be released from confinement The presence oi
soldiery in the neighborhood made the resort to this hiding-
place (of which they had several in the mountains) a precau-
tion which their leader insisted on, for this Tory gang had
already become so notorious that parties had attempted their
capture. After carefully covering the mouth of the cave,
they went to their secluded mountain homes, or where their
horses were in hiding, and within the time named, were
reassembled at Smith's house, armed and mounted in true
moss-trooper style.
Never was a group of Italian bandits among the Apennines
more picturesque and suggestive of ruthless deeds than these
highland Tories and Cowboys ; and not a classic brigand 01
them all was more unscrupulous.
They were all dressed somewhat as their leader, in red
flannel shirts and short coats, which could be buttoned
tightly or hang loose like a cavalryman's jacket. Buckskin
breeches, and topboots armed with spurs, completed their
simple attire ; but their leathern belts bristled with weapons,
while across each one's back was slung a short musket.
Though little more than midnight plunderers, they were ever
prepared for desperate fighting, should the emergency require
it. As they hastily devoured the rude meal which the wife
of iheir leader had prepared, they certainly were a savage-
looking crew, with their unshaven faces, and eyes gleaming
cut from under slouched hats, which they had not the grace
to remove.
lid NEAR TO lSrATURE'& HEART.
But of their horses, the beautiful and innocent accomplices
of their crimes, too much could scarcely be said in the way
of praise. And little wonder, for the freebooters had taken
the pick of the whole country side. The splendid and spir-
ited beasts made the quiet evening resonant with their neigh-
ing, as they impatiently pawed the earth while waiting for
their ignoble masters.
At last, in the dusky twilight, the men formed a circle
about the door, and Claudius Smith held aloft a flask of
whisky, as he cried,
" Here's to a big night's work ;" and he took a heavy
draught.
" Tip it well, boys," he added ; "for you've plenty of
rough, hard riding before you, and mayhap some fight-
ing."
A shout greeted this announcement, and the flask was
drained, and filled again for the emergencies of the night.
Slinging their muskets over their shoulders, they sprang
lightly into their saddles, and were soon following Smith
along a rough road which skirted a mountain side. Where
the road was rough and precipitous, they walked their horses ;
but at times they would break into a sudden gallop over
level reaches, showing that they knew every inch of the way.
At last they descended to the valley, and struck out rapidly
across the open country, till they approached a secluded
farm-house, where, drawing rein, they entered the gateway,
and surrounded the dwelling.
*' This is the right kind of a Whig, boys, for he's got a
pile of hard money stowed away somewheres ; so don't let
him escape. Bring him out. Cole."
The man thus addressed dismounted, and taking from
the adjacent woodpile a log of wood, crashed in the door,
thus rudely arousing their victim from his slumbers.
" If you want to save your life, come out and speak to
THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. 117
me," shouted Smith ; " but if you pull a trigger you are a
dead man. You know Claud Smith."
The wretched farmer knew him only too well, and called,
*' I'll come as soon as I get my clothes on."
" No matter about your clothes. We ain't over modest,
and it's not women you've got to deal with, I can tell yer."
The man, partially dressed, appeared in the doorway,
with face so pale that it looked white even in the starlight.
" Now," continued Smith, "I've got two things agin
you. Fust, you're a Whig; and second, you're hoardin'
up money that others need more' n you do. If you want me
to let yer off on the first offense, you must bring out every
sUner you've got"
"Now, Smith," began the man tremblingly, " you are
entirely mistaken. I haven' t got any "
*' Stop your jaw," said the robber coarsely. "A man
Ihat's so near eternity as you be ought to look out how he
Ijes."
" But I tell you I haven't — ~"
" String him up, boys ; we'll help his memory."
They were provided with a rope for such style of persua-
sion, and throwing it over the well-sweep, they fastened it
around the neck of their victim, and lifted him off his feet
for a moment.
** Can you remember where it is now .?" asked Smith un-
feelingly.
But they had misjudged their man, for he had that kind
of passive courage and obstinacy which rises up against out-
rage, and is strong to endure. Moreover, his gold was his
heart's treasure, and he doggedly resolved to part with life
first ; so he said,
** I know you. Smith ; you've no more feeling than a
Stone. I expect you'll take my life any way, but you
shan't have my money."
Sl8 NEAR TG NATURE'S HEART,
**0h ! you want some more persuasion, do you? Up
with him again, boys."
They kept him struggling and strangling as long as they
dared and still preser/e the breath of life, and then let his
feet rest on the ground.
" Now you see how mistaken you are, and how tender
hearted I am. Here I've given you another chance for life ;
but be quick, for this is only the beginning of our night's
work."
" No," gasped the man doggedly.
" No ? curse you ! I'll soon change that tune. Up with
him again."
With oaths and ribald revilings, the bandits, whose dusky
figures seemed those of demons, obeyed the diabolical order.
When they again let him down, the farmer was unable to
stand ; but, in response to their kicks and questions, he
maintained an obstinate silence.
"Shall we string him up and leave him?" asked
Cole.
Smith hesitated, and for a moment the man's life depend-
ed on the caprice of the bandit's lawless will.
Then he said, carelessly,
" No, let him alone. I rather like his grit, and I've
nothing agin him. If I had, old feller, I wouldn't even
give you time to say your prayers. Let us look for our-
selves, boys. Mayhap we' 11 find enough to pay us for com-
ing out of our way."
The victim crawled to his door-step, on which he sat in
sullen silence while they ransacked his house in no gentle
style, breaking their way where locks resisted. But the
farmer had concealed his coin too v/ell for discovery. la
order to spite him, however, they carried off many valuable
papers, and all light articles of value on which they could
'ay their hands, and with the parting salutation of a kick to
THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. I19
their half-murdered host, they vanished in the darkness as
rapidly as they had come.
The inmates of farm-houses and cabins trembled as they
clattered by, but they were safe for that night, as the next
point at which Smith meant to strike was far distant. It
was a part of his policy to mislead and bewilder the authori-
ties by depredations so far apart as to make it seem impossi-
ble that he and his gang were the authors in each case.
Their long, swinging gallop soon brought them to the
mountains again, and for an hour they slowly ascended the
precipitous sides ; then, like the wind, they crossed a level
plateau, and afterward continued through wild and unfre-
quented roads known to few save themselves, finding breath-
ing places for their horses when the ascent or descent was
steep. In about three hours they commenced defiling down
what was little more than a path, from various points of
which the gleam of the Hudson River could be seen in the
starlight. The way was rough and rocky, but their horses
had been trained for their work by many similar expeditions.
At last they drew near the recently commenced military
works at Fort Montgomer}', and their approach became
quiet and stealthy.
" We must capture one of the garrison," said Smith ; "for
if we can send a full account of what the Whigs are doing
here, our Tory friends in the city will pay us well for it."
Leaving their horses in a clump of dark, overshadowing
trees, with several of the party in charge, Smith and three
others cautiously reconnoitered on foot until they reached
the unfinished line of the works. Stealing along this a little
distance, their steps were soon arrested by a slight sound.
Listening intently for a few moments, Smith turned and
whispered succinctly,
" It's some cuss asleep. Leave him to me."
Advancing cautiously a few steps further, he saw the faint
120 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
outline of a sentinel leaning against a small tree, with his
hands crossed on the muzzle of a musket, above which a
bayonet gleamed. The Tory, quick at expedients, instantly
formed a plan for his capture. Summoning his three com-
rades, he directed them how to support his undertaking.
He then took from one of them his leather belt, and stole
noiselessly up behind the tree against which his victim was
leaning, and whose nasal organ made the night anything but
musical. Then, like a flash, he threw the belt around both
tree and man, and secured his prisoner by drawing the
buckle tight.
" Och, Molly, me darlint, hold on a bit Bloody blazes !
what's—"
Smith's hand stopped further utterance, and then a hand^
kerchief was tied securely over his mouth. The other
bandits came up, and before the unwary sentinel (who was
sio other than the unfortunate Larry, and whose feculty of
getting into trouble never deserted him) was fairly awake,
he was bound and spirited away, giving the garrison he was
set to guard no other warning than the remonstrance which
Molly's sharp tongue and heavy hand had made habitual.
When they reached the secluded spot where the others,
were in waiting, Smith put a pistol to Larry's head, and said,
" Now speak low, and speak to the point, if you ever want
to speak again. Answer my questions ; I can tell whether
you are lying or not. At your first lie my men will cut
your juggler." And removing the handkerchief, he asked
rapidly about the number of the garrison and the nature of
the work.
Larry's discretion preserved him to die for his country
upon a more auspicious occasion, and he answered as well
as his chattering teeth would permit. Smith was soon con-
vinced that he had drawn from him all he knew, and then
said coolly,
THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. 1 21
' ' Now you are goinp^ to desert, you know. If I should
kill you and leave you here, it might make me trouble.
You will have to disappear, and make your cursed Whig
commander believe that you have gone off to parts unknown.
We shall have to take you with us till we find a good place
for you to desert in."
These words had such a mysterious import that Larry re-
solved to make a desperate effort to escape. But his hands
were tied behind his back, and the rope they had used on
the farmer was about his neck, with which they hustled him
along as they resumed their march northward, tending toward
the river bank.
' ' Sure an' ye' re not goin' to murther me ?' ' gasped Larr)\
" Well, I s'pose that's about it, in plain English," said
Smith.
" Surely ye' 11 not shed innocent blood .?"
" Your blood isn't innocent. In the first place, you're
a Whig ; in the second place, you were sleeping on
your post, and your own officers would shoot you for that
to-morrow ; at least they ought to, and we'll save them the
trouble."
"What are yees goin' to do wid me.?" asked Larry
hoarsely.
" Oh, put you quietly out of the way, where you will do
no harm," said Smith, who rather enjoyed Larry's terror.
" They say dead men tell no tales ; but it's an infernal lie.
There are times when I don't want either dead or live men
on my trail."
Larry was now satisfied that if he ever saw Molly again he
must act promptly, and with almost superhuman strength he
tugged at the cord that bound his hands. With a thrill of
hope he was at last able to draw one hand out of its confine-
ment, and thus relieved thera both, but had the presence
of mind to keep them together as before, so that their free*
122 NEAR TO NATURES HEART.
dom was unnoted, and continued on a little further with the
gang, till they came to where a steep bank shelved down
into the darkness on one side of the road. Then, with the
celerity which his desperate emergency prompted, he drew
his knife, cut the rope around his neck, and bounded over
the bank, rolling, tumbling, springing, he knew not whither,
in the mad desire to get away.
For a moment his captors were so astonished that they did
not move ; then Smith cried,
*' Don't shoot After him ; cut his throat, and hide hig
body."
Two of the most active sprang from their horses, and com-
menced descending the rocky, precipitous bank. But Larry
had the start, and his pursuers were not willing to go at his
breakneck pace. For a wonder, he reached the bottom of
the ravine sound in limb, and darted off in the darkness
among the concealing copse-wood, soon becoming utterly
lost to view. The baffied brigands gave up the chase, and
returned, grumbling and swearing, to their horses. Nor
were their rufBed tempers soothed by the volley of curses
received from their leader.
'* I could have shot him if you hadn't stopped me," said
Cole.
" Yes, and brought the garrison clattering after us. I
had other work on hand before I crossed the mountains, and
I won't be balked either; so come," And away like a
thundergust they sped to work destruction elsewhere.
In an incredibly short space of time, Larry regained his
post, and found, to his joy, that the time for the relief of
guard had not come. Dodging around in shadow, he
reached his quarters, and awakened Molly as roughly as he
had imagined she was rousing him when the Tory pinionsd
him to the tree.
** Bloody murther 1" spluttered Molly.
THE ROBIN HGGD OF THE HIGHLANDS. 123
" Hist, or I'll throttle ye. It's me— Larry, If ye don't
want to see me shot in the mornin', git me a musket in a
wink."
" Faix, an' I'll shoot je meself, if ye don't be quiet
Ye've been drinkin'."
'• Now, Molly, me darlint, I'll tell ye all in the mornin' ;
but if ye don't stale out an' git me a musket, I'm the same
as a dead man. They won' t mind yees if ye is seen, but if
they cotch me, it' s all up. Don' t ye see ? I' m off me post
I've been robbed and murthered, an' to-morry I'll be shot.
Yees can stale to the armory an' git me one in a jiffy. Go
quick, or I'll haunt ye all yer days."
This dire threat roused Molly to action, and she now be=
gan to realize, from Larry's desperate earnestness, that the
emergency was pressing. Her husband threw a gray blanket
around her, and with bare feet and noiseless tread, she slip-
ped to a forge near by, where arms were repaired, and soon
returned, saynig,
" There, now, look to yerself, for I don't want to be both-
ered wid ye after ye' re dead." A moment later Larry was
back to his post, where he stood, straight as a ramrod, often
rubbing his eyes, to make sure it was not all a dream. But
his torn clothes, aching wrists, and bruised limbs proved
the reality of his strange experience, and he was only too
glad that the loose discipline of the incipient fort had enabled
him to gain his beat without detection. When, a little later,
the officer of the guard came around with his squad, Larry
challenged him with great promptness, and went rejoicing
to his quarters with an encomium on his vigilance. But
his tale was so strange that Molly would not believe it, and
her only comment was,
" I thought ye'd be mare-ridden afther the supper ye ate.
Ye' d better find that firelock in the mornin' . ' '
But when, in the morning, she saw his wrists and bruise^
2 24 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
and the gaps in his clothes which she must mend, she con-
soled him by saying,
" Och, ye spalpeen ! it was the divil himself as had ye ;
better mend yer ways."
Larry shook his head, but resolved that he would put
chestnut burrs in his shoes before he slept on his post again.
Smith and his followers soon reached the vicinity of the
lonely log cabin back of West Point, where Vera was keep-
ing her patient watch. As they struck up the glen leading
to the dwelling, Cole sidled up to his leader, and said,
" Claud, you're not goin' to Brown's ?"
"Yes, I am. Why not.?"
"Well," continued the superstitious robber, " they say
everything is not right there, and that the old black witch as
lives with them can do with a feller just what she pleases.
I'm not afraid of flesh and blood, but our weapons ain't o'
much account agin the devil."
"I'm not afraid of man or devil," said Smith surlily.
" They say there's a lot of hard money hid in that cabin,
and I'm not goin' home empty-handed, after such a ride as
we've had to-night,"
Cole's words, however, oppressed the mind of the leader,
fcr superstition is rarely divorced from ignorance and crime.
He also saw that Cole's fear was shared by the rest of the
gang ; so he caused them to halt, and passed around the
flask of whisky again. Under this stimulus they advanced,
and were glad to hear sounds that were earthly, as the great
dogs bounded fiercely toward them. Two shots in quick
succession dispatched them, and after their dying whine
ceased, all was still — it seemed to them strangely and un-
naturally still. They supposed the owner of the cabin would
appear, but there was not a sound.
Smith took another pull at the flask, and then approached
the door, but the same oppressive silence continued ; a dread
THE JiOB/IV noon OF THE HIGHLANDS. 125
and restraint that he could not understand chilled his heart,
and the fire that flickered on the hearth filled the cabin, as
seen through the windows, with fitful and fantastic shadows.
" Come away, Claud," muttered his companions ; "this
is no place for us."
But the hardihood of the man prevailed. Taking another
fiery draught, he cocked his pistol, and went straight to the
door and knocked.
There was no response.
He lifted the latch, and it yielded to him. Stepping
within, he stood transfixed. Gleaming out upon him from
where she crouched by the fireplace was the weird, unearthly
visage of old Gula, whose fixed gaze of terror was to him a
Gorgon stare. More awful to the guilty soul was the white,
dead face turned toward him from the bed. Vera knelt by
her mother with clasped hands and eyes turned heavenward,
and her beauty, pallor, and attitude gave her a spiritual
rather than an earthly aspect. But not a sound broke the
silence that had now become awful to the man of blood,
and it seemed to him that he could not break the spell him-
self. A jet of flame leaped up suddenly from the hearth,
and the strange inmates of the cabin seemed to dilate as if
in supernatural light. A panic seized upon the robber. He
turned upon his heel, and, without a word, sprang upon his
horse and galloped away with his trembling companions ;
not did they draw rein till far up among the mountains.
Speaking of it afterward, Smith said it seemed to him as if a
great hand took him by the shoulder and thrust him
out.
At the first fierce clamor of the dogs. Vera felt a sudden
shock of terror, which the firing increased ; but her training
and her own instincts led her to lift her heart at once to God.
Then came the impulse to trust Him only, and stepping to
the door, she unbarred it, and then knelt by her mother's
126 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
side, in which attitude she remained until the clatter of the
flying bandits died away. When she arose, she said,
" ' Fear not,' Gula, ' for they that be with us are more
than they that be with them. ' If God should open our eyes
as he did the eyes of the young servant of Elisha, we, too,
would see that ' the mountain is full of horses and chariots
of fire round about' us."
" Your God seems mighty po'ful," said the negress, with
awe in tone and manner, " but Gula's too ole to be changin'
Gods at her time o' life. De captain ob de floatin' misery
dat brought me from my home, and de mas'r dat used to
whip my ole dead body, sot great store by your God, and
was alius axin' him to dam folks, whatever dat was ; and
I'se afeard if I should pray to him he'd take me to whare
old mas'r is, and I doesn't want to see him no mo'. I
wants to go back to my ole home. ' '
Vera sighed deeply, for Gula's harsh experience, which
she could not fail to associate with the Divine name that she
heard so often, raised perplexing questions. But after a lit-
tle the young girl said thoughtfully,
*' I do not think your old master will be where mother is.
God does not mix winter and summer together. No more
will he join the cruel and brutal with the loving and gentle.
Suppose my God should take you to where mother is ?"
Old Gula shook her head, saying, "I'd like po'ful well
to see old missus, an' p'raps dey'd let me visit her. But I
doesn't want to take no risks ob meetin' ole mas'r agin, and
I does want to see my ole home. Oh ! dat I might go dis
minute."
With such quaint, unearthly talk the Christian maiden,
who was scarcely more than a child, and the pagan slave be-
guiled the heavy hours. In their beliefs, as in their appear-
ance, there was seemingly wide diversity ; but in the only
kinship that is abiding — that of love — and in God's eyes tliey
THE ROBIN- HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS, 12?
were not so far apart as many who bow together at his altar.
The fathomless chasm of evil did not divide them, and per-
haps at last old Gula would find her tropical hom.e so blended
with Vera's paradise as to be content.
Note to Preceding Chapter. — Claudius Smith is not a ficti-
tious character, but was once the terror of the region adjacent to
the Highlands of the Hudson. The robbery of the farmer actually
took place as described, and is only antedated little more than a
year. When Smith was hung at Goshen, N. Y., January 22d, I779»
this farmer asked Smith where valuable papers he had stolen were.
" Meet me in the next world and I will tell you," was the grim
reply.
His tall and splendid form, arrayed in rich broadcloth with silver
buttons, combined with his fearless and almost manly bearing, made
him an imposing figure on the scaffold ; and even in the hour of
death he inspired something like dread and respect in the vast throngf
that witnessed his exit. His deep depravity, or, perhaps, more cor-
rectly speaking, his lack of a moral nature, was shown at the las?
moment by a characteristic act. Just before he was hung he
" kicked off his shoeS;.'* with the bratal remark,
" Mother often said I would die like a trooper's horse with aa^
^K)es on ; but ! will make hsr a liar.'
128 NEAR '10 NATURES HEART,
CHAPTER XI.
TBE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD.
THE winter had passed rather drearily and unsatisfac-
torily to Saville. The garrison at Constitution Island
■was small, and the works on the fortifications advanced
slowly. Although his education as an engineer had been
superficial, he was satisfied that Colonel Roman's draughts
and lines of defense were very defective, and that time and
money were spent to little purpose. Moreover, his visits to
the western shore, and his excursions after game, had shown
him that the island was overlooked and commanded by more
advantageous points. But his frank statements to this effect
had not won him favor with his superior officers, who were
ignorant and incompetent, and had more than humanity's
average dislike for criticism. Moreover, Saville was so often
faulty in the details of his profession as to be frequently
open to censure himself, and his prospects of promotion were
not very flattering. He would have much preferred active
service in the presence of the enemy ; but such was the
dearth of engineers that he was kept at labors much too
peaceful for his fiery spirit.
He had, besides, another cause for dissatisfaction and un-
easiness, which also increased his unpopularity in certain
quarters. It was impossible for one of his frank and out-
spoken nature to nurse his unbelief in silence. He even
felt it a privilege and a duty to advocate the new ideas ac-
quired abroad, and soon had quite a following ef young
THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 129
and unstable men, to whom he often discoursed in his glow-
ing style on what he termed " the absurd and antiquated be-
liefs and systems of the past, originated by shrewd old
schemers who constructed and maintained them for their
own advantage. They had been imposed upon men in
times of general ignorance," he said ; " but the age had
come when men would use their reason, and break away
from the tyranny of custom and the trammels of superstition.
Man should be true to himself, and obey the laws which he
found existing in his own nature, instead of trembling before
an imaginary God seated on a throne which no one had
ever seen. The idea of men in the eighteenth century bow-
ing down to an ancient Hebrew divinity ! Why not also
before Isis, Jupiter, and Odin?" But the practical results
of his bold, brilliant theorizing perplexed and troubled him.
So far as his sophistries found acceptance, and he succeeded
in removing from his listeners the idea of a personal God to
whom they were accountable, they became reckless, vicious,
and generally demoralized. It was said, and with seeming
good reason, that Saville had a very bad influence over his
associates. It was not, however, the man himself, but his
pernicious opinions, that did the mischief. Those whose
minds he poisoned were coarser-grained than he, and had
not his resources of culture, nor his repugnance to the gross
vices of the camp. It was in vain that he remonstrated with
them. His skeptical words had broken down the barriers of
a wholesome fear, which, with many, serves for a time in the
place of principle ; and the dark tides of evil flowed in un-
restrained. Thus he unwittingly made them uncongenial
companions for himself ; and, as spring advanced, and his
life grew lonely and isolated as he recalled his wife's unnat-
ural course toward him ; as he remembered that his mother
was grieving over his action as a great misfortune ; as he saw
those who had in a measure accepted his iconoclastic and
r30 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
skeptical views sinking far below the level of true manhood,
his spirit at times grew bitter and resentful, and he would
say,
" Everything I touch blackens, and even to my mother I
am only a source of sorrow and anxiety. What is the evi?.
fatality of my life ?' '
But his nature was too sanguine and healthful for any
continued morbid brooding, and he would soon throw off
the burden of unhappy thoughts, and hope for better things.
Vera's quest of the surgeon had renewed his interest in
one whose character seemed so unique that he felt quite a
strong desire to explore further ; for he had a Frenchman's
love of companionship, providing it was tolerably congenial.
The difficulty of making the acquaintance of the family
on the opposite side of the river now acted only as an in-
centive. Perhaps the man was a political refugee, and what-
ever was the cause of his seclusion he and his certainly did
not belong to the class of vulgar criminals. Possibly, if he
crossed the river with his flute, and, within hearing of the
cabin, played the air which he and Vera had come to asso-
ciate with each other, the air to which he had first heard her
sing the exquisite words,
■' I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,"
he might lure the young girl to an interview. But, recall-
ing his experience with the fierce dogs, and their equally
dangerous master, he also took his arms.
Remembering that the cabin was at the base of a rocky
height, he concluded that, by scaling this, he might over-
look the habitation unobserved. The lovely spring day was
declining when he reached the summit of the hill, where
now are the ruins of Fort Putnam, and found that he could
there, among the sheltering evergreens, securely carry forward
his reconnoissance. With his glass he was able to subject
THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 131
everything to the closest scrutiny ; but there was no one in
sight, and even the great dogs were not visible. At first, he
hoped that the man had gone away and taken them with
him, and he was about to tune his flute to the musical signal
which he was in hopes the daughter would answer, when
his attention was caught by an ominous heap of newly turned
earth under a wide-spreading elm not very distant from the
house. Its meaning was soon shown, for the door of the
cottage opened, and there issued forth the strangest funeral
procession that he had ever seen. It consisted only of
three : the husband, who carried upon his shoulder the
coffin containing the light and wasted form of his wife ;
Vera, and old Gula. Vera carried a large cross of flowers,
composed of the white blossoms of the dog-wood and blood-
root, while the negress followed with two wreaths of ever-
greens. Slowly, and with bowed heads, they carried the
wife and mother from one lowly home to the last and most
lowly of all. Then Gula helped her master to lower the
coffin into the grave, while Vera stood sobbing by. Nor
would she permit any one to put the floral cross and wreaths
of laurel upon the coffin of her mother save herself. Then
all three stood a few moments in silence at the side of
the open grave, as they might upon the shores of an ocean
across which one very dear had passed beyond their reach.
The man, with folded arms and bowed head, stood as mo-
tionless as a statue, while Vera, after a few moments, opened
a book, which Saville afterward learned was /he Bible, and
with a voice choked with sobs and interrupted by bitter weep-
ing, tried to read those sublime and inspired words which
form part of the burial service in all Christian lands, com-
mencing,
" So also is the resurrection of the dead."
Saville had become so intensely interested in the scene that
he had stolen with noiseless tread through the sheltering
132 NEAR TO NATURES HEART.
cedars sufficiently near to catch the broken utterances ; and
although he had heard bishops and eloquent men read those
words, never before had he been so impressed with them.
Tears of sympathy started to his own eyes, and he thought,
" Poor child, that beautiful fiction is a comfort to her
now. It's a pity to disturb some of these superstitions,
since they soften man}'- of the inevitable ills of our lot to
those who can believe."
After closing the Bible, Vera tried to chant the Twenty-
third Psalm, which her mother had asked for just before her
death ; but after a few broken, plaintive strains, her grief
overpowered her. The thought of that dear form being
covered with the cold, black earth was too terrible to be
borne, nor would she remain as a witness, and so she fled
to her own little retreat in the side of the hill back of the
cabin. Old Gula soon tottered after, moaning and wring-
ing her hands in her honest grief.
At last the man started out of his stony paralysis, and seiz-
ing the spade, worked with superhuman energy till the grave
was filled and mounded. Then going to the house, he took
his rifle and started up the glen. He was soon lost to view,
and the place became as silent and apparently as deserted as
when Saville first saw it.
He wondered what had become of the dogs. Venturing
down into the valley, a little distance below he found their
dead bodies. Here was another mystery. He waited for a
time, hoping that Vera would come to the grave, for she
seemed so alone in her sorrow that he longed to assure her
even of a stranger' s sympathy. He had been deeply touched
by the scene he had witnessed, and his curiosity had devel-
oped into the most kindly interest. He felt that he could
not go away until he had told her that if he could ever be
of help to her she must come to him again. At first, hs
thought he would go directly to the door and ask to see her ;
THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 133
but, acting upon another impulse, he sat down by the grave,
and commenced playing a beautiful dirge that he had
learned abroad.
He was soon rewarded by seeing the door open, and the
maiden appear, looking wonderingly up, as if she thought
the music came from the air. But, on recognizing him,
she was much startled. Still she did not tarn away, nor did
Saville cease his music, but only sought to give it a more
plaintive and tender character. After a moment's debate
with herself, Vera approached with hesitating steps, like a
timid fawn. Then Saville arose, and taking off his hat,
awaited her coming.
*' Will you forgive a stranger for intruding on your sorrow,
when his only motive is sympathy.?" he asked gently.
Vera essayed to speak, but found no words.
" I hope you are not sorry I came. I would not force
my company upon you now."
" No — oh, no. I am not rorry. I think God sent you.
I was so lonely, it seemed as if my heart was breaking.
Pardon me, I have such a pain here (pressing her hand upon
her side) that I can hardly speak."
" I feel very deeply for you," said Saville soothingly ; and
he took her hand and gave her a seat on a rock beside the
grave. "Is there anything I can do to comfort you?
Though a stranger, you surely can trust me in this sacred
place. I do not think there is a wretch in the world who
could harbor an injurious thought against you by your
mother' s grave. ' '
" I am sure you could not, ' ' said Vera gratefully ; * ' and
you are less a stranger to me than any one else in. all the
world."
•* Can it be true that you have no friends— no acquaint-
ances — beyond the inmates of the cottage there ?"
" It is true : while mother lived she was everything to me,
134 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
and when I saw lier placed in the ground, the world turned
black. If she could only have taken me with her !"
" But that would leave the world * black' for some one
else," said Saville gently. ** That might be more than your
father could bear. "
" I know it's selfish and wrong for one to feel so ; espe-
cially when mother is, at last, well and happy ; though just
how she can be when I am so unhappy is hard to under
stand."
" It is, indeed, poor child."
" It will seem right by and by," Vera continued, more
calmly and patiently. " ' What I do thou knowest not now,
but thou shalt know hereafter.' Already I see He will not
make the burden heavier than I can bear, for He sent you
here v/hen it seemed I could not endure my lonely feelings
any longer."
Saville was deeply stirred, for he was by nature very sym«
pathetic and emotional. But he must have been unnaturally
callous, could he have looked unmoved upon Vera as she
turned to him in her terrible isolation and sorrow. Little
other claim had she upon him save that of kindred human-
ity ; and yet it seemed to her that he was the only one that
£ould be sent out of the strange unfamiliar world, whose
words and presence would not be a burden.
To Saville, led as he was ever prone to be, by his gener-
osity and imagination, it appeared that this orphan, in her
toneliness and bereavement, had the most sacred claims
upon him. Because she was so friendless and defenseless,
his chivalric spirit acknowledged her right to seek help from
him.
When men are devoid of faith in a personal God who is
intelligently shaping the destiny of his creatures, and con-
trolling events, they are prone to believe in such vague ab-
stractions as fate, destiny, and fortune. That he should
THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 13S
have met Vera as he had in the first instance, and then have
received her at the island, when she came in the vain hope
©f finding help for her mother ; that the young girl should
take his proffered sympathy as if famishing for human fel-
lowship, and even in her strong superstition feel that her
God had sent him,— all together combined to kindle his
quick fancy, and impressed him with the feeling that in this
case humanity asserted one of the strongest claims that
would ever rest upon him. At the same time, he was not
conscious of the degree in which Vera's beauty, youth, and
uniqueness of character emphasized this claim.
With all his faults, he had no small vanity to mislead
him, and was sufficiently pure and noble to understand
Vera's innocent welcome and frank expression of relief tha*
he had come. He regarded her feeling as an intense desire
to escape from the awful solitude of sorrow. Sympathy froiE
one's own kind is one of the deepest and most instinctive
wants of the heart; and there are times when it must be
had or the consequences are disastrous. No nature that i£
human is self-sufficient in every emergency of life ; for eveis
the pure and perfect human nature of our Lord, though al-
lied with Divinit}', pleaded with the drowsy disciple^
"Watch with me." This request was not a mere form,
nor a test of their loyalty, but the inevitable appeal for sup-
port which ever comes from suffering. The larger and moJ«
perfect the nature, the more deeply is this want felt But,
while human kindness and consideration can do much to
assuage this eager hunger of the heart, it cannot satisfy.
The experience of Gethsemane is well-nigh universal, and
there come to all, hours of darkness when earthly friendship
is as unavailable as that of the men who slept through
their Master's grief when he was but a *' stone's ca^'
»way.
How true this was in Vera's experience will be seen here*
2oE— YIII— G
r3& NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
after ; but now she saw that the stranger, toward whom hei
thoughts had so often turned, was strangely moved in her
behalf, and it greatly comforted her. She felt almost sure
that God had sent him, and that he would become such a
friend as her mother desired her to gain, — one that would
enable her to make further acquaintance with her fellow
creatures, and escape from her dangerous isolation. The
thought of anything like love, which might end in an aUi-
ance with this young man had never entered her mind. She
did not know what love was, save that lo\'e which, in its
tranquil phases had swayed her since childhood.
As has been said, Saville was large-minded enough to un-
derstand that she welcomed him as a captive might ; and
that he, in some degree, satisfied a natural craving for sym-
pathy and companionship. He also saw that she was as guile-
less and ignorant of the world, as she was friendless and in
need of guardianship ; and every generous trait in his nature
responded to her unconscious appeal. He took her hand,
and said,
" You are, indeed, very much alone in the world. I
never knew any one quite so friendless, who was as good as
you are."
" You are almost the only one I have ever spoken to, save
mother, father, and old Gula," replied Vera, looking into
his face as frankly and gratefully as a little child.
' ' Would you like to speak to me often .? Would you
like to have me as a friend to whom you could tell your
troubles, and from whom you could ask help and advice
without any fear ? I am willing to be a brother to you as
nearly as I can."
Vera's lovely face was fairly illumined with gratitude ;
but, without removing her frank and childlike gaze, before
which a bad and designing man would have shrunk abashed,
she said, earnestly,
THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD, 137
*' And can you offer so much to one who has so little
claim upon you ?' '
" Who could have a stronger claim ? Your need, your
loneliness and sorrow, your youth, beauty, and ignorance
of the world and its dangers, would awaken a chivalrous
spirit m the basest of men ; and such, believe me, I am
not, with all my faults. Let me, then, be a friend and
brother, till you can find better and more helpful friends."
" And do you think that I could use you only as a step-
ping-stone on which to cross a rough place ?' ' said Vera, a
little reproachfully. " Ingratitude is a ' marble-hearted
fiend. ' No friend can ever take the place of one who has
been kind to me at this time. But, humble and friendle^
as I am, there are conditions of which I must speak first. I
am, indeed, alone. There is no one to guide or counsel
me, and I must follow mother's teachings and words, as far
as I can remember them. She told me that if I ever made
friends, the first thing I must try to be sure of was their
truthfulness ; for she said no good qualities could take the
place of truth, and that, if this were lacking, all else would
fail. I feel sure that you are true and honorable. My heart
telb me that you are. You would not deceive me anywhere,
much less here," with a little, eloquent gesture toward the
spot where her mother was sleeping. " Will you promise
me that your friendship will ever tend to help me live and
feel as that dear mother would wish .? I believe God will
permit her to be near me, and I wish her to see no change,
no forgetfulness of her, or any of her words. I would rather
live alone all my life in these mountains, and never see any
one, than grieve her. My only request is, that you will help
me to remain true to her teachings, and to live in a way that
I know will be pleasing to her."
Saville hesitated a moment, for Vera was asking more than
she could understand. According to his opinions the best
138 NEAR TO NATURES HEART
service he could render this young girl was to enlighten he?
mind, and break the chains of superstition. And yet his
theory in this case failed signally, for that superstition was
now her only comfort — the rock that sustained her above
the dark waves of sorrow. He might better stab the girl
looking up wistfully at him, than hint that her mother was
not living and that there was no such place as heaven.
Then the thought flashed into his mind : could his philos-
ophy make her more true, innocent, and lovely in character,
than had those mother's teachings, to which she was so
pathetically seeking to be loyal ? His experience as its
teacher had not been encouraging ; and had he not better
leave the spells of early years unbroken, in this instance ?
The moment's reflection convinced him that any other
course would be most cruel, and perhaps disastrous ; and
therefore he said solemnly,
" I promise what you ask ; and when I see what your
mother's teaching and example have made you, I feel assured
that I am acting right."
Thus again Saville gave a pledge which would in the future
confront him, and rise like a wall across his path.
But Vera heaved a great sigh of relief, and said, " I am
content. I now have done just as mother would wish,"
and she looked as fondly at the grave as if it were an intel-
ligent face.
For a little while Saville watched her wonderingly in si-
lence, and then asked abruptly,
■" You have never told me your name."
' ' Vera — Vera Brown. ' '
" Vera ! it's a most appropriate name."
' ' It was appropriate to mother, and it was given to me by
father, because he said she had been so true to him. Oh !
how I wish you had come sooner," she added, with a sud-
den rush of tears.
THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 1 39
" Why do you wish I had come sooner ?"
*' Mother wished to see you/'
" Indeed ! did she know anything about me ?"
" She knew all that I did. I never hid a thought from
her, and never shall, for I think God will let her come back
to me and be my guardian spirit. Can you think I did not
tell her of your great kindness when I went for the surgeon ?
She wanted to see you and thank you," and Vera's tears
fell fast.
" \^1iy did you not come for me ?"
" I did venture once to the shore, but there was a feeling
which I cannot explain that made it impossible for me to ask
you to come, though I so much wished you would," said
Vera, unconsciously revealing the maidenly reserve, which,
though not understood, controlled her. " I was in hopes
you might come again of your own accord."
" I ought to have done so ; and yet I feared I might be
an intruder.
" You have no reason to blame yourself, after the treat-
ment you received from father and myself. I had no cause
to expect yon ; I only hoped."
"lam. still to blame," said Saville ; " for while your
voice forbade me to come, I thought I saw in your eyes the
need of sympathy and help."
' ' You saw what was true, indeed.
" Besides, you spoke your father' swill, and not your own
wish.
An expression of pain flitted across the girl's face. For a
moment she sat still in deep embarrassment, trying to think
how she should explain her father's action, past and pros-
pective : but she knew so little herself, and the whole sub-
ject was so mysterious and sad, that she was at a loss to find
words.
Her truth, however, and her simplicity served her better
I40 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
than skill or concealment ; for at last she turned a little
abruptly to Saville, and with eyes washed clear by many tears
said,
" My father met with a misfortune in England. What it
was I do not know ; neither he nor mother ever told me.
But he had to leave his home ; so he brought mother here,
and here I was bom, and here we have lived ever since :
now you know all that I do. Mother thought that father's
troubles and his long seclusion from the world had a bad
influence on his mind, and once told me that he had greatly
changed from his former self. But, like Cordelia, ' I love
him according to my bond, ' and with her could cry,
' O my father ! Restoration, hang
Thy medicine on my lips ; and let my kiss
Repair those violent harms,'
But from you I can ask only forbearance ; the same generous
courtesy that you showed when you said to me, * Charity
thinketh no evil.' "
This statement, so simple, guileless, and yet enriched by
an apt allusion to one whose character she seemed to p>os-
sess, greatly pleased Saville. Whatever had been the act
that clouded the father's life, not even the shadow of its
knowledge rested upon the mind of the child.
" Your thoughts are as crystal as yonder spring," he
said ; " and yet you are enshrouded in mystery. How
came you so conversant with the two great books of the
world ?' '
" There is no mystery about that ; they are the only books
we have. I learned to read in them, and they have been my
companions ever since. What I should have done without
them, often, I scarcely know."
" Which of the two do you like the better ?"
*' Oh I the Bible, of course. But a year ago I found
THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 141
more pleasure in the plays, and I never could get weary of
them ; but when mother began to fail, and my heart to
sink with dread, the plays would not answer. I wanted
something like the kind voice of a living being speaking to
me, and so I have read the Bible altogether of late. ' '
" And does the Bible seem like a living voice speaking to
you ?"
" Why, surely ; the Bible is God's Word. Sometimes I
hear mother's favorite text so plainly — ' Let not your heart
be troubled ' — that I look around, half expecting to see
some one."
Saville sighed, as he thought, " What a pity her belief is
not true !" but he said, changing the subject,
" Will you let me ask about another mystery ? How does
it happen that your two great dogs lie dead yonder ?' '
" There is a mystery concerning those two humble friends,
which perhaps you can help us solve. When I found them
dead this morning, I felt very badly. It seemed as if death
still hovered around us ; and yet God preserved us so won-
derfuUy from greater harm, that we have only reason to be
grateful." Then she told him of the night alarm, and the
intrusion of the robber within the cabin. ' ' But after he
entered," continued Vera, " he did not speak, and scarcely
moved until he turned and abruptly left the room ; and then,
judging from the sound of their horses' feet, they went as if
flying for their lives. I unbarred and unbolted the door, so
that we might be solely in God's hands ; and He protected
us as He did the prophet, when cast into the lion's den."
" This is very strange," mused Saville frowningly.
" Do you think they were soldiers? Their coming haa
troubled father terribly. ' '
' You say they came up the valley from the south, and
continued northward."
"Yes."
t4t NEAR TO NATURES HEART.
** I scarcely think they were any of our men. It is more
probable that they belong to a class of dangerous wretches
that are becoming very troublesome. They pretend to be
Tories or Royahsts, but usually plunder either party as they
get a chance."
" Oh ! thank God, who kept us from the 8'/il**
*' i do indeed shudder to think of your situation last
night," said Saville, growing pale at the thought of the
young girl's peril. *' But, to quote from one of your fa-
vorite books, * Conscience makes cowards of us all. ' Thess
guilty rascals are very superstitious, and no doubt your
mother's dead face was more protection than an armed man.
But it troubles me greatly to think of you as so isolated and
unshielded. ' '
" i shall continue to trust in God," said Vera calmly.
" That is right ; keep up your faith and courage," re-
plied Saville heartily ; adding mentally, " Poor child ! never
was delusion more harmless and useful than in your case."
The twilight was now deepening fast ; still it had not grown
so dark but that Vera's father could be plainly seen advanc-
ing toward them. When he sav; Saville, he stopped abrupt-
ly, and took his rifle down from his shoulder, with the in-
stinctive action of one who suddenly thinks himself in the
presence of danger. But Vera rose promptly, and taking
her companion's hand, led him forward, saying,
** Father, this is Mr. Saville, who was very kind to me
when I went for the surgeon. ' '
The man's recognition was so cold and distant as to be
forbidding, whereupon Vera continued, in a tone whose
firmness and decision excited Saville' s surprise, and proved
that she had unusual force of character,
'* You remember mother said that if he came again yoo
must treat him with kindness and courtesy ; and from hence-
forth mother's will must be your law and mine."
THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. I43
This reference to his dead wife disarmed the man at
once. The known wishes of a loved one who has died are
often far more potent than were strong entreaties when urged
face to face ; and the husband's mind was not so warped
but that he was suffering from the remorseful impression that
he had not been as considerate of his wife as both duty and
his own affection required, and he was in a mood to make
amends. It was only his strongly rooted habit of shunning
and repelling strangers that now stood between him and this
the first visitor who had broken in upon his solitude for so
many long years. But Vera was gladdened by seeing him
master this, though evidently by a great effort, and give his
hand to Saville in something like a welcome.
" The wishes of the dead are indeed sacred," he said ;
** and I hope that neither myself nor my daughter will ever
have cause to regret our acquaintance."
*' I pledge you the word of a gentleman, you shall not," ■
replied Saville heartily ; ' ' and to the extent of my power
as an officer I will extend you protection while I am in this
locality."
" I hope you will not go away," said Vera in a low tone ;
Iwt there was more entreaty in her wistful look than in her
words.
"The chief element in a soldier's life is uncertainty. I
must obey orders, and there is prospect of a very active cam-
paign. But wherever I am, I shall not forget you, nor cease
to use what influence I possess in your behalf."
Mr. Brown now went so far as to ask Saville into the cabin,
where Gula had prepared as good a supper as her slender
materials permitted, Saville' s high breeding and familiarity
with the world enabled him to talk with ease and grace,
while his tact and genuine sympathy for the afflicted house-
hold made his words like oil that calmed the troubled waters
in the souls of each of his listeners ; for, beyond a few eager
144 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
questions on the part of Mr. Brown in r^^ard to the progresi
^f the war, both father and daughter were well content to
listen rather than speak, when their hearts wei« so full of
sorrow, and their lips sealed by so much mystery. Gleams
of hope and almost exultation came into the eyes of the fear-
haunted man, as Saville told him of the forced and hasty
evacuation of Boston, on the part of the British troops, of
which event vague rumors only had reached the mountain
cabin.
" But, after all," he asked, " can the American Colonies
make any prolonged resistance to the enormous power <rf
England?"
"Yes," cried Saville enthusiastically; " we are on the
eve of complete and final independence, and on this new
continent will be built up a system of life and government
which will revolutionize the world."
The haggard face of his host lighted up as he caught
something of the young man's spirit ; but soon the shadoMr
fell across it again, and he shook his head, saying,
" England's power is almost without limit, and Englida
blood is slow to heat and slov.' to cool. Rest assured it will
be a long fight"
"Yes, and a hard one," added Saville thoughtfully;
*• and I am inclined to think that the severest part of the
Struggle will be for the possession of this river. For that
reason I may be of service to you, as this region become
crowded with troops."
While Saville and her father were dwelling on the military
and political aspects of the situation. Vera' s eyes and thoughts
often wandered out into the darkness that concealed the little
mound which was still ever present to her mind, and as the
last words were uttered, she sighed,
' ' Perhaps mother has escaped from ills too great for her to
bear."
THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 145
" It shall be my effort that you escape from as many as
possible also, though not by flight into the unknown," said
Saville, generously hoping to do more than circumstances
would probably permit, to show his friendship. ' And now,
sir," he continued, giving his hand to his host, as he rose
to depart, ' ' you cannot fail to trust me after to-day ; for I
have broken bread with you, and were I a wild Arab, I could
never entertain an injurious thought against you or yours."
This cordiality toward his host was somewhat the result
of policy ; for he saw that if he would be of service to the
daughter, he must disarm the suspicions of the father.
Moreover, he had come to the conclusion that the man's
offense had been of a political nature, for in his words and
bearing there was no suggestion of vulgar crime.
To Vera's hand he gave a strong pressure, as he said, " If
anything I can say or do will cheer you, I will soon come
again."
' ' You have cheered and comforted me more than I could
have believed possible," said the maiden gratefully ; and
she added, with the frankness of a child, ' ' I hope you will
come soon and often.
346 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
CHAPTER XII.
BEACON FIRES.
SAVILLE was not slow in keeping his promise, and bs*
came a frequent guest at the little cabin among ths
mountains. His visits, which at first were made largely from
sympathy, soon became sources of so much pleasure, that
he was ready to avail himself of any pretest which gave hiia
for a few hours the society of one who was more ^scinating
than if schooled in social arts. And yet such was her ycmth
and simplicity, and so undisguised was her wonder as hs (te-
scribed scenes and life in New York and Europe, that shs
seemed to him only an intelligent child, whom It was a de-
light to instruct. Congenial companionship was a necessity
of the young man's nature ; and in Vera he found so mucb
delicacy and refinement, combined with such utter absence
of conventionality, and entire ignorance of the form and eti-
quette of the times, that she appeared to confirm his Utopian
dreams o£ a liberty so large that the impulses of nature would
become the only laws. But nature, to Saviile and Vera, had
very different meanings. To the one it was an existing
order of things that he could not account for, but in which
man was supreme, and a law unto himsell To the other
it was the creation and dwelling-place of a Divine, all-pow«
erful Being, who was, at the same time, her Father and friend.
In the beauty and purity of Vera's character Saviile saw the
effects of this belief, but he erred greatly in supposing all to
be the result of earthly causes. The development of the
BEACON FIRES. 147
soul, under the influence of a Divine, ever-present Spirit,
was a truth concerning which he had little knowledge and
no faith.
Of his own great trouble and disappointment he never
spoke to any one. His wife's conduct was more than a
sorrow, and had become rather a bitter shame and disgrace,
to which his proud spirit could not endure the slightest al-
lusion. Not even to his mother had he mentioned her name
since the evening she crossed his threshold for the last time.
It was his wish to forget her existence ; for his blood tingled
as he remembered how easily she had duped him, and how
blindly and stupidly he had wrecked his happiness. While,
therefore, he spoke frankly to Vera of his mother, and of ,
his life abroad and in New York, he maintained the habit
of silence, in regard to his wife, which was already fastened
upon him.
Vera had disarmed at once the bitter and misanthropic
thoughts, which a man with his experience is prone to cherish
toward the entire sex. No mountain stream could be more
transparent than this child of nature, who had learned none
of art's disguises. When, from instinct, she manifested
maidenly reserve, the cause was as apparent as the effect.
Her perfect guilelessness deepened the impression, that Sa-
ville had formed from the first, that she was but a child ; and
his warm and growing affection was that of a brother for a
younger sister, who accepts wonderingly and trustingly his
superiority in all things. And yet there was withal a certain
womanly dignity which often puzzled Saville, and made it
impossible for him to indulge in the innocent caresses which
are natural between brother and sister.
As for the young girl, she no more thought of analyzing
her feeling toward her new found friend than would the
mind of a famished man dwell upon the chemical constituents
of the food that was giving him a new lease of life. She
i48 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
did indeed love Saville, and she knew it ; but her strong
and deepening regard caused no more unrest than had the
tender yet tranquil affections which had hitherto governed
her. She loved him like a sister, and yet with more inten-
sity than that relation usually awakens. She loved him from
a deep and abiding sense of gratitude. He had been a
friend in the sorest extremity of her life, and had come as a
deliverer when her heart was breaking in her terrible anguish
and loneliness. He had rescued her from the agony which
pierced like a mortal thrust, as she realized that her mother
was buried from her sight ; and he had gently and tenderly
sought to comfort and divert her thoughts ever since. She
loved him for the same reason that many others of her sex
would : because he was lovable, and possessed the traits that
usually win esteem. He was brave ; he was manly in his
appearance and bearing ; frank and affable in his manner ;
and more than all, possessed tact, and the power of adapting
himself to the moods and characters of his associates. He
could be most fascinating when he chose to exert himself ;
and both inclination and every generous impulse led him to
do all in his power to cheer the orphan, who looked to him
as the sole friend she possessed. But perhaps the tenderest
element -in her affection was the result of her mother's
knowledge of him, and her belief that he would prove the
deliverer who would open a way of escape from an isolation
which she saw, more and more clearly, would be fraught
with danger and unhappiness. He had shown kindness to
her mother, and his gift of the brandy had made the pain
and weakness of her last days more easily borne. Under
the circumstances, and with her nature, how could she do
otherwise than love this stranger knight, who had done so
much to help and relieve from sore distress .?
And yet there was a depth in her heart in which the name
of Saville had never sounded. If he had told her that he
BEACON FIRES, 149
dad a trae and loving wife in New York, her heart would
have bounded with joy ; for in that wife she would hope to
find another friend, of her own sex. She could love her at
once for his sake. If, in brotherly confidence, he had toW
her of another maiden that he loved, no sister would has^S
sympathized more unselfishly and heartily. Savilie ^b3*
right ; Vera was still a child.
With no disposition to monopolize her as a discovery of
his ov^^l, Savilie was perfectly ready to introduce other oflS-
cers, whose characters warranted the privilege, at the moun-
tain cabin. But it was found that its master was so morbidly
averse, as yet, to any extension of acquaintance, that as
Vera's request, he waited until circumstances should break
dov.a the barriers. Her father's intense interest in the
progress of the war grew more and more apparent, and th^
believed that if he could be induced to take an open part iii
the struggle, his mental disorder would pass away. Al°
though, at limes, he seemed almost ready to yield to their
wishes, his old habit of shrinking caution and demoralizing
fear would suddenly resume its sway and disappoint them.
That this was true was most unfortunate ; for, as the seasos
advanced, the whole country became pervaded with rumors
of Tory plots and uprisings. The arrival of British forces
was daily expected at New York, and it was said that the
loyalists in the city and along the shores of the Hudson
were in league to rise, on the advent of large bodies of sup-
porting English troops. It was a time of general distrust
Near neighbors regarded each other with suspicion, and oftea
with good cause. Spies were everywhere plying their trade
of drawing from the unwary, secrets that might prove ruin-
ous. It was a bad time for people who could not or did
not fully account for themselves ; therefore, the man who,
among the few that were aware of his existence, went by th®
name of '* Skaikin' Brown/' could not iail to become a»
150 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
object of suspicion. There were increasing rumors, which
had no other foundation than the excited imaginations of
people who feared danger on every side, and only the fact
that nothing definite was alleged against him, prevented a
self-appointed delegation from waiting on him with notice
to decamp to parts unknown.
But, in the garrison at Fort Montgomery, rumor began to
take more tangible and ominous form ; for Molly, sharing
in all her mother's prejudices against the neighbors who had
been so secluded and unsocial, began to give out many dark
hints of what she had surmised rather than seen ; and these
intimations constantly gained in evil suggestion as they be-
came the staple gossip around the camp fire.
The artillery company to which her husband belonged
had been stationed for a time at Fort Montgomery, but had
recently been recalled to Fort Constitution ; and Larry was
glad to get back, for after his experience as sentinel, he re-
garded the east side of the river as the safer one. He and
his wife naturally gravitated toward that class among the
soldiery who were as ignorant and superstitious as them-
selves ; and loquacious, rash-speaking Molly was not long
in convincing her associates that old Gulawasa " hay then,"
and in league with the Evil One, and that Vera was her
disciple.
These rumors soon took such shape as to become the
topic of conversation among the officers, and thus Saville
heard of them. Alarmed for the safety of Vera, he promptly
sought their origin, and was not long in tracing them to the
daughter of the old crone who had disgusted him with her
envenomed but baseless innuendo on the afternoon when
he and Larr}' first saw the nymph of the potato field. At
first, he sought to reason with Molly, and awaken her sym-
pathies for the motherless girl. But, on the mention of
Vera, the coarse-fibered woman only tossed her head, with
BEACON FIRES. 1%X
something like a leer on her bold, handsome face ; and Sa»
villa, with indignation, saw that she gave him credit for very
different motives from those of commiseration and friendly
regard for the maiden he was seeking to protect. Therefore
he said, with a sudden anger and sternness, before which
even the reckless termagant quailed,
" Beware how you or your husband whisper another lie
against those who are under my protection. If you even
hint anything you cannot prove, I will have you drummed
out of camp."
This, to Molly, was a dire threat, which for a time had
the desired effect ; for, in her estimation, she could suffer no
greater misfortune than to be exiled from the camp, where
she had already become quite a potentate, with numerous
satellites, the unfortunate Larry being the most subservient
of all. But her spite rankled and strengthened, neverthe-
less. Saville was no favorite of hers ; for her husband had
reported his significant offer of his old breeches, as well as
his shoes, at the time she captured his quondam man-of-
ail-work.
Saville was able, in part, to allay the suspicions of his
brother officers, by his strenuous assertions that the Whig
cause had nothing to fear from the inmates of the mountain
cabin ; but, when asked to give some account of them, he
could say but little, and so an evil-boding prejudice re-
mained.
But the rapid events of a stirring campaign soon banished
all thought of possible dangers ; and in the approach of
legions of British troops, the exile suspected of Tory pro-
clivities was forgotten.
As the month of June passed, the nearer approached the
time when all felt that the English men-of-war and transports
must appear upon the coast. Not a day dawned but the
tidings of their arrival at New York was expected by Colonel
15a NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
James Clinton, who then commanded the forts in the High-
lands ; and the feverish excitement of expectation hourly
increased among both officers and men.
One lovely evening, about the last of June, Saville, after
his labors upon the fortifications were over, pulled his boat
across the river to a little cove near the cabin. He had
suffered much, during the past year, and was finding in the
society of Vera an increasing power to obliterate the painful
impressions of the past. He felt, at times, like one con-
sumed with feverish thirst, and that her conversation, at
once so childlike and intelligent, so natural and yet tinged
with the supernatural, was like a cool mountain rill, sweet
and sparkling, as it issued into the light from its mysterious
source in the heart of the hills. He often wondered at her
ability to enchain his thoughts, to awaken questionings in
regard to matters which he had considered settled, and un-
consciously to arouse misgivings concerning his doubt and
unbelief.
Of one thing, however, he was certain : her influence was
making him a belter and truer man, and bringing a strange
peace and hopefulness into his soul, that hitherto had been
full of unrest, and was at times embittered by impotent re-
sentment at his destiny and again weighed down by deep
despondency.
He was soon on the crest of the rocky height above the
cabin, playing upon his flute the air which had become the
summons to trusts that, thus far, had not been tainted by
the thought of evil. A clear voice from the glen below
echoed back the words,
" I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,"
and, a moment later. Vera gave him her hand in greeting.
After a little while their conversation flagged. The sut^tle
sympathy between them had grown so deep, that they did
BEACON FIRES. I53
not need a constant interchange of words to enjoy each
other's society ; and, on this occasion, the exquisite beauty
and peace of the landscape, as they scanned it from their
lofty eyrie, so impressed both that they were content to gaze
in silence. Darkening and lengthening shadows from the
western mountains stretched far across the river, whose
glassy surface had gradually passed from the sheen of silver
to a colder, steely gleam, as it washed its bold shores at their
feet ; but the heads of " Sugar Loaf" mountain, and other
lofty heights, were still crowned with light and robed in
royal purple. Coming night would soon uncrown them,
even as death brings darkness and obscurity to those who,
but a brief time before, shone pre-eminent in power and
station.
At last Saville said,
•' Why is it. Vera, that while here with you, the real
world, which is full of turmoil and trouble, recedes, and I
seem near another world which I would gladly enter ; for
even on its borders I find a strange peace and quiet joy.
The people I am thrown with in the garrison are coarse, and
their best idea of life is commonplace and material. Our
food is plain and even gross, and yet it seems wholly to oc-
cupy the thoughts of many. How you live I cannot tell,
unless the fairies feed you. Every day has its harassing
rumors, and we know that the enemy will strike us soon ;
and the sooner the better, for the great question of Liberty
can be decided now only by hard blows. But you cannot
know what a relief it is to escape from the dust, heat, and
din of labor on the fortifications, and the oversight of men
who seem little better than beasts of burden, to a scene like
this, and to have you hover near me, my dainty Ariel. Are
you sure you are not a spirit of the air, an emanation of this
romantic region and hour ? When the cold, dark days come,
will not you and your rustic bower vanish ? If I come next
154 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
November, and give our musical signal, will not the sighing
cf the chilly wind be my only answer ? Are you really flesh
aad blood ?"
** I might answer with Shylock," repliedV era, playfully,
*' * Have I not eyes ? Have I not hands, organs, dimen-
sions, senses, affections, passions?* "
" Still, you differ vastly from ordinary mortals. How is
it that when with you, such a sense of peace, rest, and deep
content steals into my heart ?' '
" Another has said, ' My peace I give unto you, not as
the world giveth give I unto you.' It is that which yois
feel, I trust."
" Who said that ?"
" The Prince of Peace— the God who loves us both. Life
is bringing to me, as well as to yourself, many sad and
stern realities. I live as you do, but am fed much as the
ravens are, not knowing where to-morrow's supply is to
come from ; only sure that it will come. You know well,
Ptlr. Saville, that there is now nothing sportive and fairy-lika
in my life, and yet deep in my heart abides perfect peace."
Its reflection was on her face, as he gazed upon it long
and intently.
" May it never be disturbed," he said fervently. "I
enjoy, while here, but the pale reflection of what you pos-
sess. But it's all a mystery, like yourself. What's that?"
Far to the southward a faint light illumined the dusk oi
approaching night. While they looked, another and nearer
flame sprang into the sky, and soon the highest mountain-
tops all along the river were ablaze.
" What do they mean ?" asked Vera, in an awed whisper.
"They are beacon fires," said Saville excitedly; "the
enemy is at last at hand. Good-by, my little wildflower ; I
must be at my post instantly. May the hot breath of vrsr
sjever wither your bioom."
BEACON FIRES. I55
" Good -by," said Vera sadly; "but remember, I shall
be here in November, just as certainly as in June."
" While I live I will seek for you," he called back, as
he sprang down the rocks and x-anished in the darkness.
Vera watched the ominous glare of the alarm-fires for a
/ong time, and then sighed, as she descended to her home,
' ' Alas ! war means death to many, and, perhaps, to him,
my only friend. But not if prayer can shield him."
She found her father watching the glare, also, in moody
silence. Taking his arm, she stood quietly by him. How
much those beacon fires might presage to both !
" They have come at last," he said, with a deep breath.
" Yes, father, no doubt the English ships are down the
river, and now is the time fOr you to do as mother said —
join Mr. Saville, and take an open part in the struggle for
liberty. It will be so much better and safer.
He only shook his head, and she felt his arm tremble be-
neath her hand.
" Do you think," he asked hesitatingly, " we could find
a safer place than this } — one further away ?"
' ' No, father ; none half so safe as this. We cannot
leave this place, where mother died," she answered, so de-
cidedly that he yielded to her stronger will, and permitted
himself to be led quietly within the cabin ; but, in accord-
ance with his old habit, he sat, a sleepless watcher, through
the night, in his dark comer, his eyes moving restlessly at
the slightest sound without. Vera tried to watch with him,
but her head soon dropped upon the chair,
Gula, shading the light with her hand, looked at her calm
face a moment, and then went muttering to her loft, " She
doesn' t hear no voices yet
1^6 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
CHAPTER XIII.
LIBERTY PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLANDS.
SEVERAL evenings passed before Saville appeared again,
and then he went directly to the cabin, for he had
tidings for both father and daughter.
" I wish you joy, Mr. Brown," he cried, as they went
out to meet him. " You are no longer under British law.
This is a free country." And in rapid sentences he told
them of the formal declaration of independence on the part
of Congress, and of its joyous and hearty ratification by the
people, as far as they had been heard from.
His words greatly excited both his listeners, and a sudden
gleam of exultation appeared upon the man's haggard face.
Saville saw his vantage, and added eagerly,
" I have been selected to read this solemn declaration to-
morrow, at evening parade, before all the troops ; and I
have come to ask you and Vera to be present. I will put
you under the charge of our surgeon, whom Vera knows,
and will guarantee your safety. Indeed, your safety largely
depends upon your coming ; for if you are known to be
present and approving upon such an occasion, it will disarm
suspicion, and all will recognize that you are on our
side. ' '
" We will come," said Vera decisively ; for she felt that
it might be the turning-point in their lives.
" Oh, no, my child ; I cannot," cried the father trem
blingly.
LIBERTY PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLANDS. 15/
"Yes. lather; you can and will, " said Vera calmly. ''I
shall go, and you will not permit me to go alone.
Urged by his strong desire to verify the tidings he had heard
with his own ears, and Vera's gentle coercion, he yielded.
It was arranged that they should come the following day to
a point, near the fort, where they would find Saville, who
promised to give them a position which, while not conspic-
uous, would enable them to hear those pregnant words which
had created a new and independent nation.
As may well be imagined, Vera's excitement was scarcely
less than that of her father, though more controlled. She
was, at last, to catch a glimpse of the world and its inhabi-
tants, concerning which she had thought and dreamed so
much. She was to be present on an occasion of pomp
and military display, and the one she loved and honored
as the most excellent man existing, was to be the cen-
tral figure. To her, he embodied the Declaration which
he was to read, and was a synonym for liberty. In her
fancy, she compared him to the youthful David of Bible his-
tory, and the loftiest Shakspearian heroes ; and her heart
overflowed in gratitude to God that He had raised up such
a friend and deliverer for her and her father. Through his
kind offices, she already, in hope, saw her father restored to
sound reason and useful station, and both gaining a respect-
ed and recognized place in society. To-morrow would be
the auspicious day which would inaugurate the happy
change.
" Mother was a true prophetess," she said to herself a
hundred times. "He is the true friend whom God has
raised up to rescue us."
Temptation was indeed coming to Vera as an angel ot
light, but as yet no threatening cloud appeared above the
bright horizon. As the thundergusts lurked behind her
naUve mountains, to break at last as trom a clear sky, £&
158 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
might the truth come to her. But now, with the unquenched
confidence of a child, she exulted over the vista of hope and
promise op>ening before her, and with an affection and ad-
miration which was essentially that of a sister for a strong
and gallant brother, she permitted Saville to become to her
the centre of all earthly expectation.
She was almost as sleepless that night as her father, and
the next day, an hour before the appointed time for starting,
was dressed in all the simple finery she possessed. And
simple indeed it was ; for neither from her mother nor her
foster parent, nature, had she acquired any artificial or gaudy
tastes.
Moccasins incased her feet. Her dark-blue gown was
made after the fashion in vogue when her mother was a
maiden in her English home, and was fastened at her throat
by a quaint and ancient brooch. But her chief ornament
was the wealth of golden hair that flowed, unconfined, far
down her shoulders. Upon her head, as jauntily as when
Saville first saw it, sat the plumage of the snowy heron.
Saville wondered at her beauty, as she appeared, glowing
with exercise and excitement, at the rendezvous. Her^ther
also had seemingly nerved himself up to the emergency, and
maintained the stately bearing of a gentleman of a former
generation ; while Vera, to a very great degree, had removed
from his person and dress the habitual appearance of dis-
order.
Saville led them at once to his quarters, and placed before
them such refreshments as could be obtained .in a mountain
garrison. According to agreement, the bluff but kindly sur-
geon soon appeared, and did his best to entertain the vis-
itors. Saville would have introduced a few other officers, but
Mr. Brown had stipulated that he should make the acquaint-
ance of no other person than the surgeon. To his disordered
fancy, danger menaced from every one who obtained knowK
LIBERTY PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLANDS. 1 59
edge of him. Saville and Vera readily acquiesced, feeling
that his habit of reserve and morbid fear could only be
broken gradually.
But Vera was more than content, and would have been
in a state of childlike wonder and delight, had she been left
solely to the enjoyment of the new and strange scenes wit-
nessed now for the first time. But with Saville, and the
surgeon who was kind to her mother, at her side, to explain
and protect, she felt that her cup was full to overflowing.
Saville noted with pleasure her simple grace and dignity
of manner. She was his protegee, and he had felt some
anxiety as to her appearance and bearing, and also lest she
should be painfully embarrassed, or so odd in dress and
manner as to attract unfavorable notice. But her bearing
was that of a well-bred but diffident child. Her modest
deference to the surgeon's words both charmed and dis-
armed him of the prejudice which her father's life and repu-
tation had created ; and her keen and intelligent interest in
all she saw, and the innocent wonder that often found ex-
pression upon her mobile features, amply repaid Saville for
his effort to secure her presence. There was, withal, a trace
of quaint Shakspearian stateliness in her words and manner,
which, to one of his tastes, was far more pleasing than the
artificial graces of the prevailing mode.
As the hour approached for evening parade and the cere-
monies attendant upon so important an occasion, Saville
conducted them to a commanding yet sheltered position be-
neath some overshadowing trees, from which they could see
and hear all, and still not be full in the public eye. As
Vera noticed this, and saw how relieved her father was that
he could shrink partially out of sight, she said,
'* Do you read one's thoughts, that your courtesy is so
kind?"
*' I should be dull indeed," he replied, " if I could not
Roe— Vni— H
i6o NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
read your thoughts, and most unkind not to please one so
easily pleased, Good-by, now, for a time. I must go and
prepare for the part that I am to take."
" I am proud that it is the chief part," she said exult-
antly.
Saville's enthusiasm over the Declaration of Independence
had scarcely known bounds, and so attracted the attention
of his brother officers, that Colonel James Clinton, the com-
manding officer, said laughingly,
" You shall read it at evening parade, for, judging from
the feeling jou show, you can do the document more justice
than any of us."
" I shall esteem it the greatest honor of my life, if I may,"
responded Saville eagerly ; " for I see in this instrument
the inauguration of a totally new condition of society. I
think its writer was inspired, and that it contains more than
he realized. He wrought better than he knew. Take the
words, * all men are created equal, and are endowed with
certain inherent and inalienable rights ; that among these
are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. ' Push these
pregnant sentences to their logical conclusion, and they level
all arbitrary distinctions, and break all chains, spiritual and
temporal. They will make all men sovereigns, instead of
vassals and slaves of tyranny, existing on earth or believed to
exist somewhere else."
" Hold on, Saville," cried Clinton ; "you haven't quot-
ed correctly. The document reads, ' endowed by their
Creator with certain inherent and inalienable rights.' A
Creator that can endow, can also impose restrictions."
" I admit," Saville had replied, " that in the letter of its
phraseolog)', the instrument accords with the waning super-
stitions of the times ; but, as I said, the writer wrought bet-
ter than he knew, and placed there the germs of a golden
age, wherein man will be supreme, reason holding the
LIBERTY PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLANDS. l6l
sceptre. Suppose we break the bonds of King George, hov
can we possess liberty and pursue happiness, if we are tram-
meled on every side by what some ancient bigots imagined
was the will of an obscure Hebrew Divinity ? If we must
be governed by the myths of remote antiquity, in the name
of reason, let us go to Greece ; for there, at least, we shall
find some breadth and beauty."
'* If I saw in this document what you foreshadow, I'd
bum it instead of having it read," said Clinton, with an
oath. " I see in it only independence of King George, and
allegiance to the God of my fathers."
"The acorn grows slowly," Saville answered; "but
when it grows, the shell decays and drops away."
"Very well," said Clinton; "you shall read it, and
every man can interpret it for himself."
And so it had been arranged. Apart from Saville' s en-
thusiasm, the selection would prove good in other respects,
for he had a fine presence, and a strong, sonorous voice.
As the sun sank behind the western highlands, the tap of
the drum summoned the garrison to their respective posi-
tions, and filled all minds with eager expectancy. Vera
heard the confused and hurrying tramp of feet, and rapid
commands from officers which, though unintelligible to her,
soon crystallized the human atoms into compact masses.
In every part of the fort and island that was visible, bodies
of men appeared with bayonets gleaming above their heads.
Then, with a precision and order which only military disci-
pline can produce, each company was put in motion by a
single word, as if all were swayed by one will. The rj-th-
mical tread of many feet echoed and re-echoed on every
side, and soon the open, level space before her began to fill
with angular masses of men. At first, they seemed to her
untaught eyes like human blocks placed here and there by
chance ; but, as company and battalion came marching for»
1 62 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
ward to the music of fife and drum till they seemed to form
an innumerable host, she saw the angular human masses
take, as it were by magic, the outline of three sides of a hol-
low square. The martial sounds caused every nerve to
tingle, and looking at her father, she saw, with a thrill of
hope, that he was losing his shrinking manner, and that his
eyes were kindling with a grand excitement akin to her own.
In very brief time the lines were dressed, and the men
standing like serried ranks of statues. A word of command
rang out, which was followed by a subdued crash, as every
firelock came simultaneously to the ground, and the ranks
became statuesque in another attitude. She also saw that
in the mean time every cannon had been manned along the
extensive line of breastworks. A little in the rear of the
nearest stood a person whose strange costume did not pre-
vent Vera from recognizing as the young Irish girl whom she
had occasionally met in her mountain excursions. It was
no other than the redoubtable Molly O'Flarharty, dressed in
a blue petticoat, the scarlet coat of an artilleryman, and a
cocked hat worn rakishly on one side. She also saw, from
Molly's steady gaze, that she knew both herself and her
father ; but, while the woman's bold stare gave her for a
moment an uncomfortable impression, she soon forgot her
existence in the interesting scenes in which she was a par-
ticipant.
When all were in position, and silence had taken the
place of the preceding din and tramp of feet, Colonel Clin-
ton, with his staff officers, issued from the shadow of some
large tents, and grouped themselves on the fourth and open
side of the square, the commander being a little in advance
of the others. To Vera, as they stood there in as brilliant
uniforms as the 'times and their meagre purses permitted,
they seemed heroes of the first magnitude.
But when Saville's tall form appeared, and he advanced
LIBER T Y PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLA NDS. 1 63
and saluted Colonel Clinton with the erectness and steadi-
ness of a trained soldier, combined with the ease and grace
of one who had seen court life abroad, tears of exultant
pride suffused her eyes, and she murmured, ' ' He towers
above them all."
" See what a grace is seated on this brow ;
Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself ;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ;
A combination, and a form, indeed.
Where every god did seem to set his seal.
And give the world assurance of a man."
A deep hush fell upon the garrison, broken only by the
rustle of the parchment as it was unrolled. Even the most
stolid of the soldiery could be seen craning their necks that
they might hear more distinctly the words that were so
fraught with destiny to them and their children. But there
was no need of such effort ; forSaville's powerful voice, like
a trumpet, sent every syllable even to the artiller5'men stand-
ing at the distant guns.
When he came to the words, " We hold these truths to
be self-evident : that all men are created equal, ' ' he gave to
them such emphasis and meaning, that they thrilled all pres-
ent, and touched the deep chord of human brotherhood in
every heart. From the common soldiery, who felt their
humble station, but believed that this truth made them peers
of all mankind, there went up an irrepressible shout, whose
echoes were long in dying away. Saville smiled, as he
thought, " Did I not say that the germ of perfect liberty and
equality is in these words ? ay, and the instinct of the masses
will discover it, in spite of their rulers. Even the mere an-
nouncement causes these poor fellows to break the iron
bands of military restraint."
More than once the reader was interrupted by outbursts
of applause, or by groans and hisses given with emphasis by
l64 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
his recent subjects for King George, who, in this memorable
document, was to hear the unvarnished truth in a form that
would make his ears tingle.
It was indeed a remarkable occasion and scene. In the
words themselves, in the feelings of those who then for the
first time heard them, and especially in view of the results,
the element of sublimity was pre-eminent. It was befitting
that the surroundings should be sublime ; that there should
rise on every side solemn mountains, some in shadow, some
crowned with light and glory, suggestive of the checkered
fortunes of those who must fight long years for the libert)
they were now claiming. But when a strong current o!
popular feeling and opinion sets steadily in one direction, it
will break through all barriers, and overcome all obstacles,
even as the broad river at their feet had cleft its way through
miles of granite hills.
As the last words fell from the reader's lips— " And for the
support of this declaration we mutually pledge to each other
our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor," — a frenzy of
enthusiasm seized upon all. The lines were partially broken,
for the citizen soldiery were too recently from their democratic
homes to be held in check, had restraint been attempted.
The three-cornered continental hats were whirled high in
air, and the prolonged and deafening shouts were but par-
tially drowned by the cannon that, from every embrasure,
thundered repeated salvos. The guns of Forts Clinton and
Montgomery were soon answering like mighty echoes.
Though the reader had acquitted himself admirably, he
was content to be forgotten in the wild excitement over what
he had read, and escaped almost unnoticed to Vera's side.
As he saw the deep intensity of feeling expressed in her dark
blue eyes and earnest face, the thought occurred to him,
" She is not a child ; she is capable of becoming, if she is
not already, a heroic woman.
LIBERTY PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLANDS. 165
The father, also, was so changed that he scarcely knew
him. He looked, not only like one who could fight for lib-
erty, but lead others in the conflict. Not from him, how-
ever, but from Vera, came the request that they might now
depart
" I am overpowered," she said ; " perhaps if I had had
former glimpses of the strange and unknown world, I would
not feel so. But I am now overwhelmed, as I imagine one
of the old prophets must have been just after he had seen a
vision."
" The excitement has been too much for you," said Sa-
ville gently.
' * Yes, for the moment ; but I have seen that which I can
think over and dream about for months. I am very grate-
ful to you for this wonderful experience ; but let us go now,
and when you come again I shall have many questions to
ask. Mother was right — you are the friend that she had a
presentiment you would become. Oh, that she were with
us to-day !"
" Your mother seems ever present to your mind," said
Saville, in a low tone, as they walked to the boat.
"Dear mother!" sighed Vera, in a tone that trembled
with tenderness ; ' ' perhaps she is nearer to me than you,
upon whose arm I lean."
It caused Saville a sudden and sharp pang to remember,
as he believed, that her mother had vanished into nothing-
ness, and had no longer any existence.
On parting at the landing, Saville took Vera's hand in
both his, and said,
" I have learned to respect you very much to-day, my lit-
tle friend. I think you are ceasing to be a child, and are
becoming a woman. ' '
" I would rather be a child as long as I can," said Vera
humbly, "for I have so much to learn."
I66 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Her father wrung the young man's hand, and said,
" I shall be with you in this struggle actively, if not
openly. "
** Openly, my friend, openly, and all will be well," cried
Saville, as they pushed from the shore.
If he had taken that advice, it might have saved him and
his daughter years of suffering.
ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON* l6|
CHAPTER XIV.
ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON.
EARLY in the season — indeed, as soon as it became
probable that his native city, New York, would be
the next point of attack — Saville had commenced to chafe
at the orders that kept him so far from the prospective scene
of action, and made him little more than an overseer of the
soldier laborers, working upon fortifications. When, at
last, the beacon fires and subsequent intelligence announced
that the enemy were in the harbor, and the city was liable
to assault at any moment, he could scarcely restrain his im-
patience, and at once made application to be transferred to
the main army. He was now daily hoping to receive the
orders he desired. In the uncertainty, he had decided to
say nothing to Vera, since, if the request were denied, she
would be saved from the pain of fearing his departure ; and,
should it be granted, she would be preserved from days of
anxious anticipation.
But in the mean time events occurred which intensified his
desire to visit the city, and he began to feel that the duty he
owed his mother was conflicting most painfully with that of
a soldier. If he could only remove her to a place of safety,
he would even be content to return to the mountain fort
where there was no immediate prospect of active service.
This anxiety kept him on the alert for every rumor from the
city, and in that feverish and portentous time there were
rumors innumerable.
l68 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
But on the 13th of July, while directing a working party
in the construction of a bastion, he noticed two sloops com-
ing up the river at an unusual speed. The wind was blow-
ing very strongly from the southeast, and yet they carried so
much sail as to involve danger, and at times would careen
over to the water's edge. Saville was something of a sailor,
and he knew that none of the easy-going skippers of the
river craft would carry all the canvas they could raise, in
such a gale, unless there was urgent reason.
Scanning them through his glass, he was soon convinced
that there was reason, and that events of great importance
had occurred below. He was confirmed in this surmise
when the vessels, instead of standing on past the fort, ap-
proached the shore, and came up before the wind. Even
while casting anchor two boats shoved off, and a few mo-
ments later the captains of the sloops were clambering up the
rocky bank and asking for an audience with Colonel Clin-
ton. Saville led them at once to the commandant's tent,
and the bluff skippers, almost in a breath, said :
" Colonel Clinton, look well to your guns. The British-
ers attacked the city yesterday afternoon, and some of their
largest ships were a-standin' straight up the river when
night closed in. If they keep on they'll be here afore long."
Then followed several hurried questions and answers.
Clinton Nvas a prompt man and a brave soldier, and though
his garrison and works were ill able to cope with English
ships of the line, he had no other thought save that of resist-
ance to the last.
"Make all sail," he said to the captains, " for New
Windsor, where you will find my brother, the general. Teli
him what you have told me. Ask him to order out the
militia at once, and reinforce me at the quickest possible
moment.
The captains needed no urging, and scrambled aboard
ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON. 169
tfieir vessels, which were soon lying upon their sides again,
in imminent danger, as every inch of canvas swelled with
the freshening gale. But, even in advance of their swift
progress, and in accordance with a preconcerted signal.
Colonel Clinton sent the echoes of a heavy gun booming up
the river, warning his brother, the warrior-governor, that the
guardians of the Highlands must bestir themselves at once.
" I am sorrj', Saville," he said to the anxious-visaged
young ofi&cer ; ' ' but there is no use in your thinking of get-
ting away now. The garrison is ridiculously weak as it is.
Out with every man who can handle a pick or spade. We
must fignt with these while the red-coats give us a chance."
And, having put everybody in motion at Fort Constitution,
he hastened down to Forts Montgomery and Clinton, to
push forward the work there also, and arrange for signals,
should the enemy' s ships appear,
Saville, as a good soldier often must do, ignored all per-
sonal interests and affections, and, to his utmost, seconded
the endeavors of his commander. In order to animate the
men, he even laid hold of the tools himself, in emergencies
that required unusual effort ; and the ramparts seemed vis-
ibly to grow under the eager labors of oflBcers and mea
Late in the afternoon. General George Clinton's barge,
filled with men, was descried coming down the river, and
the belligerent governor was soon concerting measures of de-
fense with his brother, who, in the mean time, had returned.
Having informed Colonel Clinton of the important steps he
had taken, and of the various regiments that would speedily
be on the march to reinforce the posts, he said,
" I shall make my headquarters at Fort Montgomery, as
that is nearest the enemy. I want to take down with me
one or two engineer ofiBcers, to help push forward the lines."
" Yonder is a man who is not afraid of work," said the
colonel ; and Saville was instructed to accompany the gov-
I70 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
ernor at once, and told that his baggage would be sent after
him.
The day passed, and brought no enemy ; but the feverish
excitement and expectancy were not permitted to die out ;
for, as soon as darkness closed, the hill-tops far to the south
began to blaze, and the Dunderberg, Bear Mountain, Sugar
Loaf, Cro' Nest, and Butter Hill speedily assumed their
crowns of flame.
From the rocky height above the cabin, Vera and her
father watched the ominous glare, for a long time, with deep
anxiety. However little she might know of its cause, one
thing was certain — it portended danger to her only friend.
On her was imposed already the most painful experience
of war — woman's helpless waiting and watching for those
they love.
Not many hours later, swift riders brought tidings to the
fort that the admiral, Lord Howe, had come to co-operatg
with General Howe, his brother, and that the active cam-
paign would no doubt commence at once.
On the following day came a letter from Washington, urg-
ing General Clinton to do what had already been accom-
plished, for the energetic governor had stirred up the whole
country. In the evening the notes of the drum and fife
were heard along the river road, and three hundred of the
hardy Ulster County militia marched into the fort.
During the night, Vera saw many lights on the mountain-
side, to the west ; they were the camp fires of five hundred
men, who arrived in the fort early the next morning, and,
after a brief respite, for rest and refreshment, all were at work
upon the fortifications, every man acting, in the grand ex-
citement of the moment, as if all depended on himself.
For two or three days Saville's labors were incessant, and
he had scarcely time to obtain necessary rest. But, as mat-
ters quieted down somewhat, and the English ships remained
ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON, 1 71
quietly at anchor in Haverstraw Bay, he found an oppor-
tunity to slip across the river, on a visit to the mountain
cabin. Vera was overjoyed to see him again ; for, from
her eyries, even her unpracticed eyes had descried prepara-
tions for immediate conflict : while her father was tremblingly
eager to obtain the latest tidings.
" I am out with my rifle," he said, " on the southern
hills, as long as I can see ; and you have one vigilant scout
in your service, if he is unknown."
** Let me report your services to the general," said Sa-
ville ; " it will be so much better for you both, if your po-
sition is known."
" Not yet, not just yet," said the man nervously. " I
am not equal to it yet : you must give me time."
And so the fatal delay to take a recognized part in the
war continued.
Saville's visit was necessarily brief, for he could not long
be absent from his post In parting, he said,
** Good-by, once more, my little sister ; I will see you
again soon if I can, but in these times we do not know what
an hour will bring forth. If we should not meet in a long
while, you must not grieve too much."
*' I should not sorrow," said Vera tearfully, " as others
who have no hope ; for I believe in another world, and a
better life than this, where we shall not be disturbed by these
rade alarms ; but grieve I would — and how deeply, you caa
never know. Am I so rich in friends that I need not
grieve?"
•• How will it be when you come to have many.?" he
asked, half playfully.
Looking full into his eyes, without the faintest blush
tinging her pale cheeks, she said earnestly,
*' If that time ever comes, you will still be first"
They accompanied him to his boat, for every mom^it
I7» NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
with him was precious. As he pushed away the father
said,
" I shall be watching on the Dunderberg to-morrow."
The presence of English ships so high up in the waters of
the Hudson, created intense excitement along its shores,
among both Whigs and Tories ; nor was the general ferment
diminished by the fact that the enemy's boats were out
daily, taking soundings far up toward the Highlands.
Everything indicated that they were preparing to take pos-
session of the river.
On the afternoon of the day following Saville's visit, sig-
nals were seen along the mountain-sides, which indicated
that the enemy were approaching. The drums beat to
arms, and all were ordered to their posts. The guns were
manned, and the matches ready for lighting.
Before very long, one of the tenders of the British ships
was seen beating up against a stiff northern breeze, which
would enable her to retire rapidly in case of danger. But
the occupants of- the fort supposed that the men-of-war were
following, and prepared for the worst. Larry, whose com-
pany had been again ordered down to Fort Montgomery,
was stationed near a long thirty-two pounder which had the
best range of the river, and was not a little nervous, now
that his amorous enlistment had brought him face to face
with something more than garrison duty ; but his wife,
Molly, aflame with excitement, hovered near him, voluble
now with gibes and taunts, and again with words of cheer.
The element of fear seemed totally lacking in her composi-
tion, and in this respect her influence was good over the raw
recruits, who dreaded to ''show the white feather," as it
was termed, where a woman was undaunted. Thus she be-
came a privileged character, and was tolerated, as useful
camp-followers often are. Many an awkward fellow, though
badly frightened, would rather march to a cannon's mouth
ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON. 1 73
than receive a scornful glance from Molly's black eyes ; and
if she gave a man an opprobrious nickname, it stuck to him
like a burr. Colonel Clinton would often laugh, as he
said,
" Molly makes soldiers out of the militia faster than the
drill oflficers."
But Larry had become proof against all her sarcasms. He
had philosophically accepted his matrimonial fate, and only
shrugged his shoulders at her keenest thrusts.
But that English vessel which was beating slowly up
against the wind, and the others that he believed to be fol-
lowing, might give him something harder to digest thatt
words, and he heartily wished himself back in the " Ould
Counthry," even though there was " not a praty in the
bin." But he had nerve enough to go through with his
duties, and that was all that was required of him.
At last it was thought that the vessel was in range, and
the governor himself, as well as the officer in command of
the artillery, ran his eye along the gun.
*'Firer' he cried.
Every eye was strained, and happy were they who had
glasses. A shout of exultation went up, as the ball was seen
to plow into the tender's quarter, and applause was again
and again repeated as she quickly went about and scudded
down the river before the wind. The echoes had scarcely
died away, before Larry breathed freer in the hope that the
attack would not be made, and that he should " live to fight
another day."
Saville asked and obtained permission to follow the tender
in his sail -boat, and observe her movements, and was soon
skimming along before the breeze at a rate that would make
it necessary to drop his sail, unless he wished to enjoy the
hospitality of a British prison-ship. As it was, he ap-
proached so near that a brass howitzer on the tender was
174 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
brought to bear upon him, and the ball passed over his
head, striking the water a little to the leeward. He con-
cluded to run his boat into a sheltering cove, until the ten-
der sailed out of range ; but in doing so, had narrow escapes
from two more shots. He did not know that the self-
appointed scout was watching all from the sides of the Dun-
derberg, and that Vera would grow pale as she heard of his
peril.
When the tender had receded sufficiently, he reefed his
sail and followed more cautiously, contenting himself with
the use of his glass. He had not proceeded far, before the
English vessel suddenly rounded to, and cast anchor. A
boat was lowered, and Saville first thought that they intend-
ed giving him a chase, in the hope that he might be cap-
tured, since he would have to beat up against the breeze.
But, confident of the sailing abilities of his little craft, he
determined to let them come within range of his rifle before
going about.
But the boat, on the contrary, was pulled steadily toward
shore ; and soon a farm-house, at the base of the moun-
tain, was in flames, while the cries of its occupants came to
him faintly against the gale.
" Do they call that war ?" muttered Saville indignantly.
** I must have a shot at those base marauders." And he
ran his boat in shore, behind a projecting rock, and unship-
ped the mast, so that nothing could be seen. Then, seizing
his rifle, he sprang up the mountain-side, and made the best
speed he could, over the rocks, through the copse-wood,
toward the burning dwelling.
The work of destruction was complete, and the incen-
diaries had already embarked before he came within range.
He feared they would be out of reach before he could get a
shot. But the boat had proceeded from the shore but a lit-
tle distance, when a sharp report rang out from the sides of
ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON. 1 75
the Dunderberg, and the stroke oarsman fell over backward.
This caused some confusion and delay, and Saville gained
on the boat rapidly. But, after a moment or two, the oars
struck the water more vigorously than ever, and Saville was
about to fire, and do the best he could, when a second well-
aimed shot disabled the oarsman who had been substituted,
and again delayed progress somewhat
He now sprang down the rocks toward the water, and
whipping out the glass that was slung over his shoulder, en-
deavored to distinguish, if possible, the form of the officer in
command, feeling that he, more than any of the rest, de-
served punishment Though this man, with the cowardice
in keeping with his deed of rapine, sought to hide himseif
among the crew, Saville' s glass revealed his insignia of rank.
Leaning his rifle over a rock, he took deliberate aim, and
fired ; then, taking up his glass, he had the satisfaction of
seeing the craven spring up, and fall overboard, while h^
cry of pain came distinctly across the water. He was im-
mediately pulled on bc^rd, but whether dead or alive, Sa-
ville could not tell, and in a moment or two more the boat
passed out of range. The few random shots that had been
fired by the marines pattered harmlessly against the rocks ;
for the two fatal marksmen were well concealed.
Saville now remembered that Mr. Brown had said that he
would be watching on the Dunderberg that day, and he at
once surmised that it was he who had fired the first two shots.
In the hope of seeing him and taking him back in his boat,
he sent his powerful voice far up the mountain,
" A friend — Saville."
"I believe you are, Mr. Saville," said a quiet voice at
his side ; and to his surprise, on looking around, he saw the
object of his thoughts standing before him.
" How, in the name of the impossible, did you get here
wthout my seeing you ?"
17^ NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" I told you that I could be something of a scout, and
wished to prove it. ' '
" You can be invaluable if you will," said Saville, shak-
ing his hand heartily. " Those were splendid shots you
made."
" Yours was a better one, and at a longer distance. I
am glad you hit that miscreant in command. I would have
sighted him, but I saw you coming, and wished to delay the
boat till you got within range. But it would have been an
infernal shame to have let that fellow escape, for he treated
the inmates of the farm-house brutally. Good God ! the
thought of such a wretch coming to my cabin in my ab-
sence !"
" Mr. Brown, you owe it to your lovely daughter to place
her in some position of safety in these troublous times."
" I believe you are right," muttered the father, with con-
tracting brows.
"Let us find an asylum for her and old Gula at once,
and then do you openly join the army. I will look after
your interests."
" I believe I will," said the exile hesitatingly ; and he
suffered Saville to lead him to his boat
If they had been near the fort all might have been well,
and the man enrolled in the Continental service. But, as
he sat quietly in the boat, while it tacked slowly up the river
against the wind, his blood had time to cool. Reaction
from the fatigue and excitement of the day set in. One of
the old waves of fear and despondency began to surge over
his unstable mind, and Saville heard him mutter,
" My God ! I have shot two English soldiers. If ever
apprehended, my fate is made doubly certain. "
At last he said piteously, ' ' Put me ashore anywhere ; I
can go no further."
Saville reminded him of his promise, and pleaded with
ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON. ill
him to keep it for Vera' s sake, but soon saw that it was in
vain.
"Put me ashore," was the only response, and uttered
in tones that were almost savage. Then he added, half
apologetically, " I am not myself now, and all I can do is
to cower and hide. I will see you again soon."
Saville reluctantly acquiesced.
" Say not a word about me till you have my consent,"
said his trembling companion ; and he dashed into the
thickest copse-wood, as if his only thought were concealmeat,
Aias for Vera 1
178 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
CHAPTER XV.
saville's night reconnoissance.
SAVILLE proposed, on the following day, to visit the
cabin, in the hope of finding its owner in a better
mood. He was more and more convinced of the wrong of
leaving Vera so exposed, and with no better protector than
one who, at times, was ready to fly from his own shadow.
He saw that her father's mind was more shattered than he
had supposed, that he could not be depended on even from
hour to hour, and was fast coming to the conclusion to act
independently of his will, if possible.
But early in the day came the startling tidings that the
British men-of-war — the Phosnix, carrying forty guns, and
the Rose, twenty, were standing steadily up the river.
Again there was preparation for immediate conflict, but
the vessels came to anchor within six miles of the fort, and
there remained quietly.
With the enemy, however, in such close proximity, no
one could leave his post that night or the next day.
Governor Clinton was greatly alarmed, and with good
reason. The river was deep, and, with a fair wind, the ships
could speedily pass his guns, unless disabled ; and, once
above the Highlands, a rich and defenseless country was
open to ravage. He feared that they might take advantage
of some dark night, and slip by him in the deep shadows of
the mountains.
To prevent this, the shores were lined with guards, and
SAVILLE'S NIGHT RECONNOISSANCE. 1 79
the river patroled by boats. Huge piles of brushwood, and
other inflammable materials, were placed at various points
along the shore opposite the fort, and these were to be kin-
dled after nightfall, the moment it was discovered that the
ships were under weigh. Thus the fort would remain in
darkness, while the men-of-war must pass distinctly through
the transient glare, and so become excellent targets.
The cannoniers slept by their guns, while Molly's scarlet
coat flamed along the ramparts by day, and she flitted hither
and thither almost as restlessly at night. Ever}' morning
found her as morose and vixenish as one of the wildcats of
her native mountains, because the signal fires had not blazed,
and that all had remained quiet on the Hudson.
There soon came a day on which there was a steady down-
fall of rain, and it was feared that the brush-heaps and com-
bustibles would become so dampened that they would not
kindle. The night promised to be excessively dark, and
Saville learned that the general was growing anxious.
He again volunteered to go in his boat on a reconnois-
sance, and his offer was gladly accepted.
" If we fire three shots in instant succession, you may
know that the ships are under weigh up the river, but if we
fire at intervals, give no heed, for it may be necessary in
self-defense, or we may have a skirmish."
" Don't do anything rash," said the governor. " You
are such a fire-eater, that I scarcely expect to see you
again. ' '
Saville chose two active young fellows, who had been boat-
men, to accompany him, and with mufiied oars they pulled
vigorously at first, till they began to approach the hostile
vessels. Then they permitted themselves to drift slowly with
the tide, which was in their favor. The darkness had be-
come perfectly intense, and there was not a sound save the
heavy patter of rain on the water.
rSa. NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
They drifted for a period that seemed interminable to their
excited minds, and then Saville whispered,
" I fear we shall pass without seeing them. The fact that
they have no lights out is very suspicious."
Scarcely had he spoken when the gentle breeze from the
south caused a slight creaking of cordage so near that it
seemed just over their heads. He at once crept cautiously
to the bow of his boat, and put out his hands, so that it
might not strike with even the slightest concussion.
It was not long before a faint black outline loomed up
over him, and a moment later his hands touched the sides of
a ship. Feeling stealthily along, he found that he was near
the bow, and, by standing np, was able to hold his boat for
a time in motionless silence. He could hear the confused
sound of voices, and the step of the officer of the watch, but
nothing definite.
At last, footsteps and voices approached the bow of the
ship under which he stood. Some one said distinctly,
"It's cursed dark."
" Yes ; but that would be in our favor, if we only get a
little more wind from the present quarter, and could feel
our way up through these black hills. It's just the time to
catch the rebels napping."
Saville concluded that he would now put a word in their
counsels.
" Have my pistol ready," he whispered to the nearest of
his companions.
Then, by a powerful effort, he pushed his boat well away
from the ship, and shouted,
" But the rebels are not napping, and, as proof, take that,"
and he fired his pistol where he supposed the group to be.
There was a sharp cry of pain, followed by great confu-
sion for a moment, and in the mean time Saville' s compan-
ions pulled rapidly away.
SAVILLE'S NIGHT RECONNOISSANCE. l8l
" Here, a lantern, quick ! Hold it over the side,"
shouted a hoarse voice.
This was all that Sa\alle desired, and taking up his rifle he
fired instantly, and man and lantern splashed overboard.
" Lights, lights ! man the guns ! every man to his post !"
roared the same gruff voice. " This comes of playing bo-
peep in the dark. The cursed rebels might put a keg of
powder under our quarter, and blow us up."
*' Would to the gods I had thought of that before," cried
Saville ; " but 1 thank you for the suggestion all the same."
" Stop his m.outhwith grape shot," thundered the officer.
" Isn't there a musket or a pop-gun aboard, that no one
can fire a shot ?' '
" Pull sharp to the left," said Saville to his oarsmen.
The confusion and uproar on the ship were so great that
a moment or two elapsed before the oflScer's order could be
obeyed, and then a bow-gun belched forth the iron hail,
and a scattering fire from muskets commenced ; but the
balls only cut harmlessly into the water in the region where
the bold patrols had been.
When once under the rayless shadow of the western moun-
tain, Saville felt safe from pursuit. In the mean time nu-
merous lights appeared on the other ships, and indicated their
positions.
" I am going to ask you," said Saville to his compan-
ions, " to do something that, after all, is not so dangerous
as it seems. The ships there are lighted up, while complete
darkness covers us. One of you can scull, I suppose.
" Yes ; both."
*• Who is the best shot ?"
" I used to bring a squirrel out of the tallest trees," said
one of the men.
" Well, by sculling we can move noiselessly around among
the ships, now on one side, now on the other, and make
l8a NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
them think there are a dozen boats here instead of one. I
. wish two shots fired in rapid succession occasionally, to in-
crease the impression of numbers. In this way we can keep
them in an uproar and state of alarm all night, while we, by
moving rapidly from point to point, will run but little risk
of being- hit. ' '
His companions had the nerve to enter upon the scheme
at first with zest ; and one of them, seizing an oar, soon
propelled the boat within range of the ship with which they
had first come in contact. Dropping well astern, they ap-
proached slowly and cautiously her nearest quarter. Soon
the outline of a human form gave Saville a fair mark, and
his rifle again rang out with startling distinctness in the si-
lent night.
The man with the oar then sculled rapidly toward the
eastern shore, passing directly aft of the vessel. Again there
was the trampling of feet, and a hurried giving of orders, and
many shots were fired in the direction from whence had
been seen the flash of Saville' s rifle. But, in the momentary
delay, the lively little craft had passed so far to the eastward
as to be out of range.
" Now," said Saville, " let us give them two shots on the
other quarter. The moment we fire, scull down the river.
Come around well abreast, so that it will seem as if our shots
were fired from another boat."
In a few moments, the firing from the ship ceased, as it
seemed to produce no effect ; but there was evidently great
excitement on board.
They had scarcely reached the position which Saville de-
sired, when several men were sent aloft with lanterns, in the
hope that their rays might penetrate the darkness more
effectually.
' ' Steady and careful now," said Saville. " Let us each pick
off one of those fellows in the rigging. Fire just after me."
SAVILLE'S XIGHT RECOXNOISSANCE. 1 83
Thus to the bewildered and harassed marines two flashes
came from a new and unexpected point.
Saville's man dropped plump on the deck, the other let
his lantern fall, and, after an ineffectual effort to climb
down, fell also.
But the enemy were now better prepared, and bullets fell
thickly around the unseen assailants.
Fortunately they escaped, and soon reached a point to the
«outh where their position was unsuspected.
" They are getting too sharp for us here," said Saville ;
*' suppose we next have a skirmish with that big fellow
yonder. ' '
His companions agreed, but rather reluctantly ; for this
measure of attacking an English fleet was m.ore than they
bargained for on leaving the fort.
" I will give you a crack across her bow," said the man
at the oar ; " but would rather not go any lower down."
It was arranged that two shots should be fired again.
Drifting with the tide, they slowly approached the second
and larger ship, which was the Phoenix, and watched for
their opportunity. In the meanwhile, comparative silence
was again restored, though it was evident that all hands on
both the ships of the line and their tenders were kept in
sleepless vigilance at their posts by their ubiquitous assail-
ants, who numbered but three.
At last, dusky forms appeared, and the two rifles again
awoke the sleeping echoes, but with what effect could not
be seen.
The commander of the Phcenix, however, warned by the
experience of the other ship, had stationed marines all along
the sides of his vessels, and the return volley was so prompt
and accurate that Saville's fellow marksman was slightly
wounded. Happily the man at the oar escaped, and they
again passed out of range, by going toward the western shore^
Roe— VIII— I
184 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
and the English officers soon checked the useless firing at
random.
But Saville had effected his object. There would be no
sleep on the British vessels that night, nor any hope of catch-
ing the " rebels napping." So he hoisted sail, and quietly
stood up the river, leaving the sorely puzzled and not a little
frightened British crews standing at their guns and alarm-
posts, so that any attempt at boarding, on the part of the in-
definite number of rebels imagined in the surrounding dark-
ness, might be repelled,
Saville and his companions received high praise for their
conduct, and were soon sleeping peacefully, while the har-
assed enemy remained on the alert until daybreak.
Note. — The incidents of the preceding chapters are largely
founded on fact. The tidings of the irruption of the British ships
into the waters of the Hudson were brought as described. A ten-
der of these ships ventured within range of Fort Montgomery, and
received a shot in her quarter. On retiring down the river, her
boat was sent ashore, a farm-house burnt, and the boat, on re-
turning, was fired upon. The Phoenix and Rose approached within
six miles of the fort, and, whenever opportunity offered the Eng-
lish vessels were annoyed by marksmen in boats or from the shore.
DARK DAYS. 185
CHAPTER XVI.
DARK DAYS.
ON the following day the commanders of the British
vessels satisfied themselves that fuller preparations
for resistance had been made than they supposed ; and, not
relishing the experience of the preceding night, nor consid-
ering it safe to remain in a position where the deep shadows
of the mountains might afford concealment until an attack-
ing force was close upon them, they ordered their ships
down the river to the old anchorage.
Fear of immediate attack having passed, Saville's thoughts
recurred to Vera and her father, and he proposed visiting
them that evening, hoping that he might find Mr. Brown in
a condition to carry out the measures on which his own and
Vera's welfare depended. But during the afternoon he was
hastily summoned to headquarters.
" I can now give you a quasi leave of absence," said
General Clinton ; " and you have earned it. Go and look
after your mother's safety. But first deliver these dispatches
to his Excellency, General Washington. They are impor-
tant, and must reach him at the earliest possible moment.
Your escort will be ready within an hour on the further
shore. I have mentioned your name with praise in my dis-
patches, and though I shall feel your loss, you will probably
be assigned to duty in the main army. When things are
somewhat settled, your heavy baggage will be sent after you.
And now, sir, hasten. Give those papers into his Excel-
lency's own hands, or into those of his private secretary."
l86 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Saville was greatly pleased at this turn of affairs, and, in
the excitement and bustle attendant upon his hurried de-
parture, forgot for a time the inmates of the cabin. When
he did remember them, it was with a pang of genuine pain
and regret, that he could not see Vera before his departure.
As this was impossible, he penned a few hasty lines, explain-
ing his sudden movements, and urging that she should find
a safer retreat, and that her father should enlist openly in the
war. This was sent to the surgeon at Fort Constitution,
with the request that he would deliver it. Unfortunately,
the missive was never received.
Having arrived in New York, and delivered his dispatches
as directed, Saville received permission to provide for his
mother's safety.
The old lady, however, would not leave her city home,
asserting,
' ' I have naught to do with this unnatural broil, and shall
demand protection from both parties."
But, after all, her chief motive was the desire to be near
her beloved son, who, she hoped, might be assigned to
duty upon the works that were going up at various points
on the island. In this expectation she was ready to endure
the terrors attendant upon the city's bombardment.
Saville therefore gave up his leave of absence, and at once
reported for duty again. In consideration of his natural de-
sire to see more of his mother aftef so long an absence, he
was given charge of the construction of some redoubts not far
from his own house, and at a point where his wife could
plainly scan his movements with a glass. Often and darkly
she scowled upon him.
But the disastrous battle of Long Island soon occurred,
and was speedily followed by the retreat of the American
forces from the city and island. Saville, in his sphere, and
to the extent of his ability, seconded Washington's masterly
DARK DAYS. 187
tise of the pick and shovel in the disheartening campaign
that followed. He now sought thoroughly to learn his
profession, and became an efficient officer. Washington
learned to know something of his value, finding that he had
promptness and energy, which enabled him to accomplish
much even with few men ; and at times, defenses reared in
a night were worth regiments.
On the 4th and 5th of November, the British forces began
to retire from before Washington's strong position in the in-
terior of Westchester County, taking the roads leading south-
ward and toward the river. As soon as it became evident
that the enemy would cross into the Jerseys and menace
Philadelphia, Saville was sent thither to aid in strengthening
the defenses of that city. Thus his hope of seeing Vera at
the close of the fall campaign was disappointed. He wrote
to her again, as he had several times before, in care of the
surgeon at Fort Constitution. But that officer had been as-
signed to duty elsewhere, and the letters never reached their
destination. Saville comforted himself with tlie hope that
Vera was informed of his movem.ents and continued remem*
brance.
As day after day passed, and nothing was seen or heard
of her friend, a great dread began to chill Vera's heart
Her father had come back from his watch on the Dunder-
berg in a wretched condition of mind. With scarcely a
word, he had cowered all the long night in his dark corner.
But, as the result of rest and quiet, the incubus lifted from
his mind somewhat in the morning, and Vera heard of Sa-
ville' s peril in following the tender down the river, and of
his firing into the marauder's boat. Of his own share in the
transaction her father was characteristically silent, even to his
daughter.
On the dark and stormy night of Saville' sreconnoissance.
the southern breeze had borne faintly through the damp air
i88 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
the reports of the guns. To her, every such sound now
meant danger to him.
The days passed, and still he did not come. Her father
told her that the ships had moved down the river. As far
as she could judge, the garrison opposite had no apprehen-
sion of immediate attack. She urged her father to go down
to Fort Montgomery and make direct inquiries ; but vainly.
Saville's prolonged and unexplained absence had awakened
his morbid suspicions and fears, and his mind was so shat-
tered that he was not capable of the effort.
A look of wistful, anxious expectancy became the habitual
expression of Vera's face. The slightest sound startled
her. In her daily tasks, her face was ever toward the win-
dow. The breaking of a twig, the bark of a squirrel,
brought her to the door. She often ventured down to the
shore, and strained her eyes in the vain effort to recognize
him on the island opposite. Constant prayer for his welfare
and speedy return was in her heart.
At the twilight hour, when he had been accustomed to
appear, she would climb to the rocky height behind the
cabin, and wait and watch, as they who are wrecked on a
barren island scan the horizon for a ship. As dusk deepened
into night, her despondency would become more leaden
and oppressive. Then she would drag her heavy steps back
to the cabin, and sigh and sob herself to sleep.
Not even Gula's entreaties could induce her to eat much,
and she grew wan and spirit-like indeed. The old woman
began to shake her head ominously, and m. utter,
" I'se afeard she's beginnin' to hear voices. 'Twill be
orful lonely if she goes home afore ole Gula. "
One evening after she had been vainly watching, she tried
to sing the musical signal which he had so often answered
by voice and flute,
" I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."
DARK DA VS. 189
She sang one line with a pathos that would have touched
the stoniest nature, and then held her throbbing heart to
listen. The weird notes of a whippoorwill from the lonely
valley were the only answer.
She threw herself upon the ground, like a child, in an
agony of grief, and wept until utterly exhausted. When she
looked up, the lurid glare of the beacon fires was again
upon the mountain-tops, but he had not come.
" O God !" she sighed wearily. "I am a weak child.
I had but one friend —one brother. Where is Thy mercy ?"
" O mother ! are you happy in heaven, when I am so
lonely .'"
Poor Vera was in the deepest mystery of earthly disci-
pline. Her God, her mother, and her friend, all seemed to
have deserted her that night, and she could scarcely drag her
weary feet to the home where no gentle sympathy awaited.
Her father was away upon the hills with his rifle most of
the time, and was wholly absorbed by his interest in the
progress of the war, at which he could only guess, as he
would speak to no one. Vera had hoped that he might
again meet Saville, and whenever he returned, she eagerly
questioned him.
Old Gula, in her strange superstition, sorrowed mostly
for herself, as she saw Vera growing pale and weak like the
parent who had died.
" Young missy is a gwine home to her mudder, and I'll
be left all alone. Why can't de voices call me too .?"
On the evening after her almost despairing grief. Vera said
to herself, " I can endure this suspense no longer. He is
either sick, wounded, or dead ; for he could not have left
without a word of farewell. I will go to the fort and find
out. He may have needed my help, while I have been
weakly mourning for him."
Nerved by this thought, she waited not a moment, lest
19© NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
her maidenly timidity should obtain the mastery. For his
sake — impelled by the thought that he might possibly be in
need of her care — she could venture to face the stare of
strangers.
It did not take long to row her light skiff to the opposite
shore, and bitter tears filled her eyes as she thought of the
two former occasions on which she had crossed at that place.
Near the spot where she had landed when in quest of the
surgeon, she saw a small group of men, and, from their
uniforms, surmised that they were officers. It occurred to
her that she might question them, and be saved the ordeal
of meeting others. She concluded to ask for the surgeon,
since, if Saville were sick, wounded, or — her heart sickened
at the thought — he would know all the facts.
Unfortunately, the officers whom she was about to address
were wild, reckless fellows, who had made their normal con=
dition worse by liquor,
** There's a rare bird," cried one, as Vera approached.
" I would see Mr. Jasper, the surgeon," she said modestly,
with downcast eyes ; ' ' and crave the favor of being shown
where I may find him.
" The surgeon, pretty miss ! you have no need of a sur-
geon. It is a gay young gallant like myself you are looking
for. ' '
"You do me great wrong, sir," she replied coldly;
■* and if there is a man of honor present, he will grant my
request."
' ' We have no surgeon, ' ' continued the first speaker reck-
lessly. *' A soldier's only business is to die, and to have a
jovial time while he can. So come, my pretty one, ex-
change your frowns for smiles."
"As you are men," cried Vera desperately, trembling
like a leaf, ' ' have respect for a defenseless girl, and tell me
where I may find Surgeon Jasper."
DARK DAYS. 191
The instincts of a gentleman still lingered in one of the
party, and, in response to this appeal, he said soberly,
"He is right, miss ; there is no surgeon at the present
moment in the garrison, Dr. Jasper having been ordered
away. "
' Then — then — may I see Mr. Saville V ' faltered Vera.
" Saville, Saville," laughed the first speaker coarsely.
" She had him in mind all the time."
In pity for her distress, the second speaker again came to
her relief, and said,
" Lieutenant Saville is not here, and I have heard that he
was ordered hastily to New York."
" Come, my lass o' the hills," struck in the tipsy youth.
** The crows have eaten Saville before this. I'll be to you
a far better lover. ' '
'* For shame, Dick, let her alone. Saville will call you
to bloody account, if he hears of this nonsense."
" Things have come to a fine pass," blustered the fellow,
** if I've got to ask Saville' s permission to speak to a moun-
tain wench. By Jove ! I'll kiss her, if I fight a dozen
Savilles," and he started forward to give the insult.
Vera, with her old instantaneous quickness, which had
once surprised Saville, eluded him, sprang into her skiff,
and was out in the stream in a moment, while her insulter,
unsteady from liquor, missed his footing, and fell into the
water. His companions roared with laughter at his plight,
and ere he could scramble out, sputtering and profane.
Vera was half-way across the river.
Every nerve in the poor girl's body was tingling with in-
dignation and fear, when she reached the shore. She
scarcely had strength to climb over the hills to the cabin,
and then fainted across its threshold.
Old Gula was in sore dismay, but had sense enough to
carry her to the cool spring, and bathe her face. At
192 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
last she slowly revived, but was seriously ill for several
days.
Still, the bitterness of her mental trouble had been re-
lieved, for Saville's absence was accounted for. He had
been ordered hurriedly away. In her strong trust, she be-
lieved that there had been no opportunity for a farewell
visit, and there was no necessity for thinking that he was
either sick, wounded, or dead. Although he was exposed
to the innumerable risks of a brave man in an active cam-
paign, her confidence increased that God would spare him
in answer to her prayers.
With reviving hope and feith, her strength and vigor re-
turned ; for, in her case, the spiritual and physical organiza-
tions were so closely allied that one could not suffer without
keen sympathy from the other. But in both she was natu-
rally healthful, having been nurtured in the atmosphere of
truth, and the bracing air of the mountains.
Her father, upon her illness, seemed at last somewhat
conscious of his daughter's need, and, in his poor way,
sought to meet it. He waited upon her with unwonted ten-
derness, and brought the delicacies of wood and stream. ;
but he had lost the power to speak soothing and appreciative
words. His own disordered mind was tossed on such a sea
of troubles, that he had no calming thoughts for another.
Thus, in her sad isolation, Vera was compelled to look
heavenward, and, in her long hours of weakness, the unseen
world of faith grew very near and real. She felt sure that
her mother was watching at her side, and in the night, at
times, fancied she saw the dear, familiar form. The impres-
sion v/as often so strong, that she would reach out her arms
with expressions of endearment, or speak her thoughts with
the freedom of olden time, when sure of loving sympathy.
Her mother's favorite text, " Let not your heart be
troubled," acquired daily richer and fuller meaning, and the
DARK DA YS. 193
ability to trustfully cast all her burdens on her Saviour in-
creased.
So, although the strain and nervous excitement of the past
year had been very great, she slowly but surely rallied back
into her old, vigorous health. She would need it all in her
coming desperate struggle for bare existence.
By the time she had fully recovered, the autumn winds
were prophesying of winter, and, with a forethought learned
in the hard school of experience, she realized the necessity
of making all possible provision. She knew how little her
father was to be depended on, and he might grow worse.
Therefore, as she grew strong, she became busily engaged
with her old playmates, the squirrels, in hoarding everything
that could be preserved for coming use.
As her father could not be induced to join the Continental
service openly, she persuaded him, as far as she could, to
resume his old hunting and trapping pursuits.
It might be a long time before she would see Saville again,
or before her hope of finding friends and a recognized place
in society would be realized. So, nothing remained but the
patient performance of present duties.
And yet the dangers resulting from her position, and her
father's vain effort to hide from all observation, were in-
creasing. Nothing so attracts attention as unusual efforts to
shun it, and nothing so piques curiosity as mystery and con •
cealmenL
Relieved from Saville' s immediate presence, it was not
long before Molly's tongue began to wag again, in dark
hints as to the uncanny character of the inmates of the cabin.
While such gossip had no weight with the officers, it had
with certain of the ignorant soldiery, and gradually Vera and
Gula were acquiring the titles of the " white and black
witches of the Highlands." If Molly had urged on some
of the baser sort, over whom she had obtained almost all the
194 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
power of a gyps}'- queen, Vera's homely duties might have
found tragic interruption ; but a wholesome fear of Saville's
vengeance restrained her. And yet Vera, unconsciously,
was living over a mine which might be fired at any time.
To the officers, also, Brown, from his seclusion, and the
fact that no one could account for him, was an object of
suspicion, and they would be inclined to deal summarily
with him should any one bring a definite accusation.
But though wrong-doing in the past, and most unwise
action now, must cause their legitimate evil results, God
would not permit his child to suffer beyond her ability to
endure.
During the month of October, the beacon fires had often
flamed, and yet while Vera and her father saw that there was
unusual stir and preparation in the garrisons, and extraor-
dinary efforts to obstruct the navigation of the river, no
attack was made, and they remained in almost total igno-
rance of the progress of the war.
At last the exile could endure his anxiety no longer, and
he determined to find out the condition of affairs ; but,
with his old characteristic caution, went across the moun-
tains to an interior village, for the ostensible purpose of
barter. He had in his mind the inoffensive-appearing old
man whom he had once before ventured to question, and
felt that if circumstances favored, he could do so again with-
out risk.
He found the aged gardener at work as before, and as
talkative as ever. But the dismal tale that he told of the
American defeat on Long Island, of the evacuation of New
York, of continued retreats, and, worse than all, of the
second irruption of the British ships into the Hudson, caused
Mr. Brown's cheeks, already pale, to grow more ashen.
" How is it you don't know 'bout these things ?" asked
the old man with sudden curiosity.
DARK DA VS. 195
"I live back in the mountains," was the hasty reply ;
and the fear-stricken man waited for no further questions,
but started for the hills, with the one desire to find in them
some impenetrable recess for concealment.
At first, he was bent upon leaving the cabm at once ; but
Vera, with gentle firmness, refused to listen to any of his
wild plans. She saw clearly that the time had come when
her judgment and will must be supreme. But he ventured
less and less abroad, and the impression appeared to grow
upon him that his dusky corner was the safest place. Here
he would often remain all day, and sometimes through the
night also, apparently dreading to move.
As one of the results of her father's condition, the task
of providing food devolved chiefly on "Vera ; and the bleak-
ness of November and the biting cold of winter often chilled
her weary frame, as she wandered over the hills in quest of
game. But the chill at heart, the cold, dreary despondency
which often crept over her while engaged in these un-
womanly and unseasonable labors, was harder to bear. She
could not now anticipate the welcome of a gentle and sym-
pathetic mother on her return. Even when cold and ex-
hausted, she almost dreaded going back to the cabin where
her father crouched and cowered, haunted by fears that were
becoming contagious, and where weird old Gula muttered
and mumbled unceasingly of her unearthly voices. The
poor girl herself was growing morbid in her misfortunes and
unnatural surroundings.
The hard- struggle for mere existence began to blunt her
finer sensibilities, and she was often too weary for even
prayer or thought. Like many others, under the increasing
stress of earthly care, she permitted herself to lose gradually
her hold upon the divine strength and patience, which her
mother had ever enjoyed through her confiding and un-
questioning faith. Not that she entertained doubts of God's
*9<5 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
ability and willingness to help, or cherished resentful
thoughts at her lot ; but, in the pressure of daily duties,
prayer was neglected. She was drifting unconsciously from
the quiet waters, where feith had kept her spirit moored in
peace, out upon the restless sea of mere human endeavor
and dependence. Like many another, she could still pray
" Lead me not into temptation, and deliver me from evil ;"
but for '* daily bread " she turned practically to her traps in
the thickets, to her fowling-piece, and to the diminishing
Stores that her own hands had gathered. Unfortunately,
the question of daily bread was the absorbing one, and, as
we have seen, it did not bring her near the Divine source of
spiritual largeness and growth. Thus her life began to grow
hard, material, and devoid of those influences which had
made her appear to Saville more akin to the supernatural
world in which she believed, than the tangible one which
was all to him.
The poor child was learning to employ bodily fatigue as
many use narcotic drugs, and sought to escape from her
desperate loneliness in the oblivion of sleep, whenever her
tasks permitted. In dreams, at least, she occasionally saw
her mother's loved face bending over her, with the old ex-
pression of tenderness ; more frequently Saville' s flute gave
the musical signal from the rocky height above her grotto,
and she, in spirit, hastened to the tryst ; but ever to awake
and find it only a dream. Although she would sob herself
to sleep again, she would still hope for the return of the
vision, that she might once more see his face and hear his
voice.
Vera began to realize, in some degree, that she was grow-
ing narrow, and dwindling toward a mere animal existence ;
and she shed bitter tears over the truth. She sometimes
tried to overcome the tendency, and would take down the
Bible, or the Plays, after the labors of the day ; but her head
DARK DAYS. 197
would soon droop upon the page, and the pine knots sink
into ashes, as had her hopes.
Her father was dreading lest he should become known,
and compelled to carry his secret into the presence of ques-
tioning curiosity. With almost terror at the thought, Vera
began to ask herself,
•' Am I always to live this life ? Am I to be left here till
I become little better than the beasts and birds of prey that
hide in these mountains } Indeed, I envy them ; for they,
at least, have companions of their own kind."
She was able to feel her isolation more keenly since she
had been given a glimpse of the world, and, in her intimacy
with Saville, had learned to know the sweets of congenial
society and friendship.
Though so very young, she was becoming one of earth'?
weariest pilgrims, and at times she almost felt, when be-
numbed with cold, like lying down in some wild mountain-
gorge, and letting the snow drift over her as she sank to
sleep. If she had believed, with Saville, that it would have
been a dreamless, eternal sleep, she would undoubtedly
have yielded to the temptation.
Thus the winter dragged heavily on, till the sun turned
from its decline southward, and began to fill the mountains
with brighter and more genial rays. But she, who had
always welcomed this change, scarcely heeded it. Perhais
the sharp suffering and seemingly untoward events soon to
come, would be better than the slow, increasing pressure <A
the sordid cares and loneliness of her lot. Immediate and
pressing dangers might break up the apathy of practical un-
belief, wherein God becomes a being who must be prayed
to and served, but ceases to be a helpful, sympathetic friend
Anything that would drive her to Him as a refuge would be
a blessing ; anything that broke the leaden monotony of
her life, a healthful changa
198 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART*
CHAPTER XVII.
"the white witch of the highlands."
IN the latter part of February, the stores in their little
cabin ran so low that it was necessary they should be
replenished by a visit to some country store. But her father,
from long inaction and brooding, was in his worst mood,
and it was in vain that Vera besought him to go on the
errand. At last, in her desperation, she decided one morn-
ing to go herself. On ascending the hill behind the cabin,
she saw that the river was covered with smooth ice. She
went down to the point of land which enabled her to look
up the river, and through the cold, clear air, the villages of
New Windsor and Newburgh seemed not far away. Re-
turning, she took a little of iheir hoarded money, and, with-
out a word to her father, started on what was, to her, like
the voyage of Columbus, a journey into the unknown. Her
only weapon of defense was a light, strong staff, pointed
with iron, which would enable her to \xy the ice, and also
assist in walking. She kept close to the western shore, so
that, like a timid hare, she might fly to cover, if she deemed
it necessary. Though she found the way longer than she
supposed, and the effort to walk on the smooth ice against
the wind very fatiguing, she reached in safety the shores of
New Windsor, where she saw a building whose appearance
led her to hope that she might there obtain what she wished.
To her joy the surmise proved correct, and she was saved
forther weary steps. She asked and obtained permission to
**THE WHITE WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS." 199
sit down and rest awhile. Many and curious were the
glances cast upon her by the loungers that always infest such
places, especially in winter.
Some tried to engage her in convereation, but there was
something in their tones and manner that, though she did
not understand, she disliked, and, with an innate dignity
and reserve, which is a true woman's sure protection unless
men are equal to brute violence, she silenced them. She
would have gladly hastened away, had she not felt that rest
and the wrarmth of the place were essential for a time be-
fore starting on the homeward journey with her laden
basket.
Among the men present, when she entered, was a knot
of rough- looking soldiers, who had impressed her most dis-
agreeably. They had stared at her a few moments, winked
at each other, and then to her relief, departed.
As soon as she felt equal to the effort, she started home-
ward ; but the sun was already declining ; the sky also was
ijecoming overcast, and the rising wind betokened a storm.
By the time she reached Butter Hill, the snowflakes began
to fly, and not a solitary form was seen on the dreary ex-
panse of ice, where, in the morning, travelers had appeared
in the distance.
Still, this did not trouble her, for she did not dread a
storm as much as she feared meeting rude fellows coming or
going from the garrisons below. Her only concern was lest
the snow might make her progress dangerous, by covering
the occasional air-holes that almost always occur in the ice
among the Highlands.
But, imagine her dismay, when, on passing around the
point of a mountain, she came upon a group of soldiers,
apparently lying in wait With sickening fear, she recog-
nized in them the ill-favored fellows she had seen in the
store at New Windsor.
200 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
She hesitated, and was about to turn back ; but they, with
devilish cunning, seemed to give her no heed.
' ' I have naught to do with them, nor they with me, ' ' she
thought ; " and no doubt they will let me pass without a
word."
Indeed, they moved out toward the middle of the river,
as if intending to pursue their way without regard to her.
This gave Vera renewed hope, and the chance to keep near
the shore as she desired.
When she reached a point where the mountain shelved
perpendicularly down to the water, rendering its ascent im-
possible, they turned sharply on her, one shouting brutally,
" So ho ! ye' re the white witch o' the mountains, are ye ?
But the divil himself can't help ye now, 'les ye fly up the
rocks. ' '
Vera gave the precipice a despairing glance : even she
could not scale it. There was no chance for aught save
flight ; and, for a few moments, she made desperate efforts
to escape, once or twice barely eluding a grimy, outstretched
hand.
Notwithstanding her wonderfully quick movements, and
the abrupt turns which she was able to make on the smooth
ice by the aid of her staff, they were gradually hemming her
in toward the bluff. A few yards to the south, and near
the land, she saw a small air-hole with open water, and at
once formed the desperate purpose to lead her pursuers so
near it that they would fall in ; or else, if failing in that, to
find, herself, a refuge in death beneath the ice. She ran to
its perilous edge, and then, by means of her staff, turned
short toward the shore. Her nearest pursuer was so intent
on grasping his victim, that he did not see the danger in
time and fell in.
This created a diversion in favor of Vera, and two of her
pursuers stopped to help their comrades, but the remaining
" THE WHITE WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS," 201
three were adjured, with oaths and curses, to " head her off
up agin the mountain."
" May the divil fly away with me if I don't beUeve she is
a witch," cried one of the ruffians.
Vera had now reached a place where there was a break in
the precipice facing the river, the rock making a sharp angle,
and receding from the water a few feet ; and then it made
another angle and trended away toward the southwest, leav-
ing an increasingly wide margin between the precipitous
bluff and the river. Despairing of escape on the ice, Vera
had the hope that by springing ashore she could make her
way along this margin, and so up among the hills.
But the tide was out, and huge cakes of ice were piled
among the rocks where she attempted to reach the land ;
slipping on one of these, she fell, and was delayed, seem-
ingly, a fatal moment. Two of the men sprang ashore south
of her, thus cutting off escape along the base of the cliffs,
while one stood on the ice behind her.
"We've got her now!" they cried, with horrid joy;
" she's just druv into a corner o' the rocks, and must go
through 'em to get away."
** Two on ye keep her there, then, and t'other come and
help us git Barney out. I'm afeerd he'll droon. The
cussed ice breaks wid us, and he's gittin' could and numb-
loike."
Vera gave a swift glance and a sobbing prayer to Heaven,
and then turned toward the granite rocks that beetled above
her head, to see if there was the faintest possibility of escape.
With a thrill of hope, she saw crevices in the inner angle of
the rock, and from one of these, far above her head, a bush
was growing. Here was her only chance. Availing herself
of the moment' s respite given by her pursuers in their solici-
tude for their half-drowned companion, she planted her long
Staff among the loose stones, and, by its aid, steadied her-
20« NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
self up the almost perpendicular rock, till she r^ched tiie
bush. It bore her weight, and seemed like a helping hand.
Fear lent her wings, and, by the aid of the shrabbery, she
reached a point not quite so steep, where the angle in the
precipice turned off toward the river somewhat, and she was
able to climb with more security and hope.
All this had transpired in a moment of time, while the
eyes of the ruffians had been turned toward the one of their
number struggling in the water. Having pulled him, moFS
dead than alive, out upon tiie ice, they made a rush f<x
their victim, when, to their unbounded amazement, th^
saw her, far above their heads, ascending what seemed,
from their point of view, the perpendicular face of the rock.
For a moment they could only stare in their wonder.
Then one of the men whipped out a pistol.
"Don't fire!" cried another, "for if the divil hain't
carryin' her up, she'll fall ; an' if he is, the ball' 11 come
back and kill yerseli."
Fortunately this sage advice was taken, and, a second
later. Vera had followed the angle in the rocks to the sum-
mit of the precipice, and was at least fifty feet above their
heads. From this point the ascent was easier and safer,
although still very difiicult and dangerous. A& every mo-
ment she mounted higher, scaling places that appeared im-
passable, a superstitious dread crept over them, and they
slunk off with muttered curses to the opposite shore of the
river, leaving the basket where Vera had dropped it The
angels that had charge over her, lest she should dash her
foot against a stone, were, to their besotted minds, evil
spirits, though certainly less malignant than themselves.
As she sav/ them depart, she sat down on a shelf of rock,
panting and exhausted. Night was near, the sky overcast,
and the snow whirling through the air. The great mountain
of ** Cro' Nest" rose between her and the cabin, while, from
the wide rugged valley that she must cross, came the roar of
•• THE WHITE WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS.' 203
the wind in the forest. She thought not of these dangers,
however, in her unbounded gratitude for what seemed an
almost miraculous escape. There on the bleak mountain-
side she knelt, and poured out her heart to God. In answer,
there came to her a feeling of safety, a sense of being guarded,
which she never had before. With a distinctness which
made them seem as if spoken, the inspired words came into
her mind, " Fear not thou, for I am with thee : Be not dis-
mayed ; for I am thy God : I will strengthen thee ; yea,
I will help thee ; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand
of my righteousness."
" Oh I" she cried, stretching out her arms toward heaven,
" Oh that God would take me home to mother now ! Why
must I descend into this dark and stormy valley ?"
Again the voice whispered in the depths of her soul,
*' The Lord is thy keeper : The Lord shall preserve thee
from all evil : He shall preserve thy soul." " Let not your
heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."
With a feeling of resignation and trust, to which she had
long been a stranger, she set out on her journey of several
miles through a rugged and unbroken wilderness. Her
intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled her to go
toward her home, even in the gathering darkness, with as
much directness as the almost impassable region per-
mitted ; but it was night before she descended the hills that
sloped toward the cabin. She began to think that her
Strength would fail, and that after all she might perish ;
but, in her weariness and loneliness, the thought brought
peace instead of fear. Mechanically she tottered on,
scarcely conscious from exhaustion, until she reached the
valley where stood her home. Summoning all her failing
energies she tried to gain its door, but in vain. The utmost
limit of endurance had been reached, but, as her last effort,
before sinking on the ground in unconsciousness she cried,
•♦Father I Gulal"
S04 NBAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
CHAPTER XVIII.
"the black witch of the highlands."
VERA'S absence had not caused much anxiety to the
inmates of the cabin. They were both so wrapped
up in their own strange fancies that they could think ol
little else, and it was not unusual for her to return from
hunting expeditions after nightfall. They were so preoccu-
pied that neither of them noticed that the light fowling-piece
was in its accustomed place.
Throughout the entire day, Gnla imagined she had been
hearing voices, and even the winter's cold did not prevent
her from leaving the door of her little kitchen open, that
they might be more distinct. While busy in preparing as
good a supper for Vera as a very meagre larder permitted,
she would often go to the door, and listen intently, not for
the footsteps of the young girl, but for the strange echoes
that, in her disordered mind, came from her tropical home.
And she was thus listening, when Vera's cry reached her.
In great excitement she said,
" Dare, dare, dat a voice sure. P'raps I'se gwine home
to-night. I'se a-coming," and she hobbled down the glen
as fast as her age permitted, till her feet struck against the
poor girl's unconscious body. Stooping down, she felt of
the unexpected obstacle, and then, in a shrill scream, called,
*' Mas'r Brown, come quick ! Missy Vera 'pears like
she's dead."
The father hastened to the spot, and between them they
bore her into the cabin.
•• THE BLACK WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS." 205
" Is she dead ?" asked the man in a husky whisper.
' ' Dunno ; allers been afeard she' d git home afore me.
De strong stuff in dis bottle did her mudder good ; I'll put
a little in her mouf," and Gula moistened Vera's lips with
the remnant of the brandy, and was comforted by seeing the
spasmodic effort to swallow.
" She was a' most home," soliloquized Gula ; " and it's
orful cruel in me to bring her back ; but I couldn't let her
go afore me."
" O God ! if there is a God ! save my child !" cried the
father in agony. "What have I become, to leave her so
exposed .''' ' and he bent over her in remorseful terror.
Slowly Vera revived to consciousness, and was at last able
to give them a smile of recognition.
' ' Where have you been ? What has happened V ' asked
her father eagerly.
She shuddered, shook her head, and said faintly, *' Not
now. I can't tell you now."
At Gula's urgent request, she took a little food and some
more of the brandy, and then sank into a deep sleep, which
lasted until the sun was shining into the casement. Gr<
awaking, she found her father watching her with the most
intense anxiety. In the hope of arousing him from his
morbid condition, she told him the truth, and the last rem •
nants of the man and parent flashed up in his soul.
His face became ashen in its hue, and again he exclaimed
in agony, " Great God I what have I become ?"
Then he seized his rifle, and started for the scene of Vera'a
peril, with the half-crazed hope of finding her assailants stilt
there. After a time he returned with Vera's basket, and
commenced restlessly pacing the cabin floor, muttering deep
curses on the caitiffs who were beyond the reach of his
vengeance.
" Father," said Vera piteously, " won't you lake care of
2o6 NEAR TO nature: S HEART.
US? won't you be your old self, as I remember you when
a little child ? It may be long before I am able to go out
again, and I ought not to go at all."
" I will, my child, I will," he replied. " Would to God
I had never been born !"
" O father ! be a brave man. Do as Mr. Saville wished,
and all will yet be well."
" I will, my child ; I will remove you and Gula to a
place of safety, and then join the army."
" Act now, father, act at once."
*' I will— soon."
For a few days he made desperate efforts to throw off the
incubus that was crushing body and mind, and supplied the
household with abundance of game.
After a few days of perfect rest, Vera's healthful frame
quite recovered from its terrible strain ; but there remained
in her eyes a troubled, frightened expression. Her mind
was constantly dwelling on the strange epithet that the
ruffians had applied to her. Why did they call her the
*' white witch of the Highlands ?" and what did they mean
by this term ? A vague sense of danger oppressed her, and
a fear lest their seclusion was causing people to imagine
evil concerning them.
This surmise was not long in being verified, for spring
had scarcely opened, before an oflScer with a squad of men
marched to their door one morning.
" I wish to see a man named Brown," was the prompt
request.
Nerving himself for an ordeal that was terrible, her father
came to the door, and said haughtily,
••I am he."
*' I am directed, sir, to inform you that you are suspected
of disloyalty to the American cause, and of being in the
employ of the enemy. As there are no definite charges
" THE BLACK WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS,'* t&l
against you, and as Mr. Saville once spoke in yourfavOT,
you are not to be arrested on this occasion. But your pres-
ence is no longer desired in the vicinity of the forts, and it
is requested that you leave this region before the campaign
opens. If after two weeks you are here and can give no
satisfactor}' account of yourself, you will be arrested and put
in confinement."
The terrified man could scarcely retain sufiicient com-
posure to bow in silent acquiescence ; but, as the officer
was taming away, Vera exclaimed,
*' Indeed, sir, we are loyal You do my father injustice.''
" Let him be prompt in proving it then," was the stem
response ; then came the word of command, " Right about
face ; march," and they were gone.
Vera thought that she recognized among the soldiers the
malignant face of the wretch who had narrowly escaped
drowning in his reckless pursuit of her upon the ice. She
was right At first, the ruffians had kept quiet, fearing lest
Vera should report their conduct, and they be severely dealt
with. But the man in question vowed vengeance, and was
so besotted in his ^otism and depravity as to feel that he
had good cause to punish one who, in escaping his brutality,
had involved him in great peril.
He was one of Captain Molly's satellites, and she had
soon beguiled from him the story, but embellished and
changed somewhat to suit their interests. The worst ol
villains do not like to portray themselves in their true colors.
" She is a witch^ indade," concluded the irate ruffian ;
*' for nary a one that the divil didn't help could have walked
right up straight rocks. But, by the holy poker, I'll pay
her off for that drooning she guv me. ' '
The story of Vera's scaling the precipice s|xead rapidly
among the ignorant and superstitious members of the garri-
son, over whom Molly ruled, and became positive {hxwC
Roe— VIII-J
2o8 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
that the innocent maiden, as well as old Gula, was in close
league with the Evil One,
*' Let us go over and roast them out some day," was a
proposal often made, and once or twice in danger of being
carried out ; for the discipline of the fort was not severe,
and the men were often permitted to be absent.
But Molly was shrewd enough to counsel prudence.
Larry had cautioned her that Saville was the " very divil
himself" when angry; and she remembered his threat.
Though she had not seen or heard anything of him lor a
long time, he might return. Besides, Molly, although
capable of any amount of wicked gossip, had too much
humanity to face its consequences. She liked to scatter
jSrebrands and arrows recklessly, but did not enjoy seeing
the wounds and suffering ; and there was woman enough in
her nature to shrink from the deeds of cruelty and violence
which she foresaw would occur, did the vindictive Barney
lead a band of kindred spirits against the cabin. So she
tried to satisfy his revenge by inducing him to throw out
hints that " Brown was a Tory, a-watchin' the garrisons."
This story the officers took up promptly, and Barney was
asked for definite proof. But Molly had told him not to
say anything with Certainty, but to abound in suspicions ;
so the authorities concluded that, as there had been consid-
erable doubt about the man, they would compel him either
to join the service, or to remove from a region where, if he
were so inclined, he could be very useful to the enemy.
Thus, the evil consequences, which even the dead wife had
foreseen, occurred, and worse dangers threatened.
As the officer departed with his squad, Vera turned to her
father with the purpose of entreating him to follow at once,
and enlist in the army. But, after one glance, all hope
died. It almost appeared as if he were shrinking and
shriveling away. He tottered back to his dusky corner, as
" THE BLACK WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS:' 209
seemingly scarce able to walk. In a trembling whisper, he
said,
" Vera, we must fly at once."
"Fly where?" she answered desperately. "Are we
birds, that we can take wing in a moment, and live without
shelter? O God ! is Thy mercy clean gone forever?"
" There isn't any God," said her father with sudden and
vindictive passion ; " there is only a devil. Witness my
wife's grave yonder ; witness your unmerited suffering ;
and, chief of all, witness myself. I dare not live — I dare
not die. I have but one vile impulse, and that is to hide ;
and hide I will, where no human eye shall see me again.
I know of a wild gorge in these mountains that I believe
untrodden by any foot save mine. Before your moth(?r
died, I built a hut there for a refuge, if the worst came to
the worst. Last fall I repaired it, and made it stronger.
No one knows of its existence, for this is the first that I have
spoken of it. Come, we will go at once."
Vera sank into a chair, and sobbed as if her heart would
break. As he saw her grief, he relented somewhat, and
said,
" Well, we will not go till to-morrow. They gave us a
little time.
" If we are to go, let us go at once," said Vera despair-
ingly. ' * But is there no way out of this darkness, no es-
cape from this terrible isolation which is destroying us all ?
I fea: I shall go mad myself.
" No," said her father, with the gloom of the most hope-
less fatalism in his tone and manner ; " there is no escape,
and there is darkness all the way on forever more. You are
in the grip of the same awful destiny as myself. I am mad,
and the worst of it is, I know that I am. I can see my
mad self, and can see my former and nobler self when I was
flane, and all day and ail night I sit and compare the two.
2IO NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
I expect you will become like me, for I have been a curse to
myself and all bound to me. But I will go where I can
never see another soul, and the curse will die out with us."
" But, father, have you no pity for me ?"
" Pity ! ^ pity you from the bottom of my heart. Don't
I know that we are both in hell ? I shall pity you forever,
but what good will that do ?"
" Oh, hush !" said Vera, shuddering. **Sayno more."
Until late that night, she prayed and questioned God as
to her duty. Would it not be better to go to the com-
mander of the garrison, and, throwing herself on his mercy,
declare that her father was no longer responsible for his
actions ? And yet each time she had sought to make her
way alone out into the world, she had been met by experi-
ences that caused her womanly nature to shrink with inex-
pressible fear.
" Is there only one true, kind man in the world?" she
gi'oaned in bitterness.
At last, she concluded that her father, in his present
mood, would not remain near the dwellings of others ; and
that, if she tried to compel him to do so, he would v;ander
off by himself, and perish in the forest. She also saw the
difficulty of accounting for his condition of mind, for, as he
said, he was both sane and insane. It would become evi-
dent to all that his gloom, fear, and remorse had their dark
source in guilt of some kind. He would not explain ; she
could not ; and thus mystery and her twin sister, suspicion,
would ever follow them with pointing fingers, till even she
might be glad to hide in the depths of the mountains.
She recalled her mother's words in regard to her father :
*' You will have to be his guardian and protector more truly
than he yours. Be very tender and patient with him for
my sake."
*' I will go with him to his mountain-gorge," concluded
•' THE BLACK IVITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS." 2II
she, * * although it is the same as being buried alive. Mr.
Saville will never find me there, and I have now, in sad
truth, lost my only friend. * '
Again a comforting and reassuring voice spoke in the
depths of her soul, ' ' Commit thy way unto the Lord ; trust
also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass."
There sprang up a sudden hopefulness within her heart,
that God, in His own time and way, would break down the
barriers that rose between them and their own kind, and
that He would guide Saville to their hidden retreat An
impression, which soon became a conviction, that it would
be best and safest to leave all to Him, brought rest to hef
mind, and she slept until her father summoned her in the
morning.
After an early meal, they made up two packages, contain-
ing tools, bedding, some food, and cooking utensils, and
taking their guns, started for the secluded hut, which, after
all, was not so distant as it was inaccessible, and apart from
all the mountain roads and paths. It was their plan to
spend two or three days in repairing and putting it in the
best condition possible, before removing thither old Gula
and the household furniture.
But, in their absence, the elements of evil were at work,
and poor, pagan Gula had another experience with Chris*
tians, upon whose profane lips was continually the name of
the God whom she had learned to associate with deeds of
fiendish cruelty.
The ruflian, Barney, had accompanied the officer, and
heard the order which would soon make the little cabin
tenantless. But this did not satisfy his malignant spirit ;
and so, one afternoon, when heated with liquor, he pro-
posed to a few kindred villains that they should go and hurry
the departure of the witches. By reason of their super-
stitious fears, the others were rather relucia&t ; but he stimu^
21 1 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
lated them up to the reckless point by fiery potations from a
stolen bottle of rum. They doubted Captain Molly's ac-
quiescence in their action, and so did not inform her ; but,
on one pretext or another, obtained a brief leave of absence
from their officers.
It was quite late in the afternoon when they reached the
vicinit}' of the cabin. They approached warily, for Brown
had the reputation of being savage and dangerous. At last
they made a rush for the two doors, having already had ex-
perience of Vera's quickness in flight But, to their sur-
prise, not a soul was to be seen. They looked cautiously
in every place where one could be concealed in the main
room and kitchen, with their weapons ready, but there was
no trace of their victims. Then Barney and two others of
the most reckless of the gang went up the covered way to
Vera's little room ; and beastly satyrs of Grecian myth, in
the grotto of a nymph, could not have appeared more hide-
ous and devilish than these caitiffs in that refuge of maidenly
purity and beauty. Again, in after days, with a gratitude
beyond word.s, Vera thanked God that she was absent. Her
filial loyalty to her father had brought unspeakable reward.
The ruffians were now convinced that the occupants of
the cabin had fled, and with sacrilegious hands they de-
stroyed, pillaged, and defaced, till their attention was diverted
by a loud shout from one of their number who had ascended
the ladder to peer into the little loft. Here he caught a
glimpse of Gula, cowering in the remotest corner, and was
now, in brutal glee, dragging her down to his companions,
who with oaths and imprecations gathered around.
The aged negress, speechless and paralyzed with terror,
was as limp and unresisting in their hands as if dead ; turn-
ing, as the only evidence of life, her wild, horror-dilated
eyes from one to another of her persecutors, who were to
her so many torturing fiends.
" THE BLACK WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS:* 213
•• Where is the other she-divil ? where is the white witch
O* the Highlands ?" demanded Barney. "Speak, or we'll
make ye swallow coals o' fire."
But Gula's unearthly stare was his only answer.
" Tie her to the tree there, or the divil may carry her off
in spite o' us ;" and they hustled the poor creature out,
and did his bidding, Gula making no resistance, and utter-
ing not a sound.
" Now take what ye want, and thin set fire to that divil's
nest o' witches, " continued Barney, who, by common con-
sent, was leader in the outrage.
Gula's eyes dilated with increasing terror, as she saw the
cabin speedily wrapped in flames. Then the demons gath-
ered round her, and Barney commenced,
" Now, ye ould black hag o' Satan, tell me where the
white witch is a-hidin', or I'll roast the flesh off yer bones."
But Gula only turned upon him her horror-stricken stare.
He seized a firebrand, and held it scorchingly near her
hand. She writhed, but would not speak,
" Here, boys, git some dhry sticks, and put 'em around
her feet. Ye' 11 see how blue she'll burn. "
"Hold on, Barney," said the others; "don't let us go
tco far. Her looks' 11 haunt us all our days now. "
With loud curses on their cowardice, the drunken wretch
began to carr}' out his fiendish cruelty himself.
Gula at last seemed to realize that she might be near to
death, which to her meant return to kindred and ruda
regality in her far-away home, and she suddenly broke the
silence, thus far maintained, by a weird, shrill cr>' of ecstasy,
' De voices, de voices! I'se hear you plain. I'se
3,-comin' nov.% sure."
The ruffians started back aghast.
" What voices '" demanded Barney.
A piercing shnek from the hill west of them was the an-
214 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
swer. Then the report of a rifle rang out, and Barney Ml
dead at his victim's feet, with a bullet through his crtiel
heart.
His companions turned in precipitate flight, but another
yelled with pain as the contents of Vera's gun reached them.
Marking the couree of their fiight with blood, they reached
their boat half dead from fright and bruises, and, crossing
to the garrison, told a terrible story of Tory outrage. A
strong party was sent over immediately to arrest Brown and
the *' Tory horde" that v/as declared to be with him ; but
nothing was found save the smoking embers of the cabin,
and the dead body of the ruffian Barney, which was brought
over to the island and buried.
From what he sav/, however, the officer in charge of the
expedition suspected that there might be two sides to the
story, as Barney and his companions were known to belong
to that human scum which always exists in every army.
Beyond some effort made to discover whether Brown still
frequented his old haunts, nothing further was done, and
the affair was soon forgotten in the excitement of the opeR'
iRg campaign.
A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUS£.Y. 2\%
CHAPTER XIX.
A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY.
OUR story now passes over an interval of several months.
The autumn winds of early September were again
prophesying of winter among the Highlands ; but only in
plaintive suggestion, for summer yet lingered in their mild
breath.
As the sun was sinking low in the west, on a certain after-
noon, a form, that could scarcely be recognized as that of
Vera, were it not for the old wealth of golden hair — but
uncovered now by the jaunty plumage of the snowy heron
—might have been seen stealing through the defiles of the
hills toward the river. A painful timidity characterized her
movements, and she seemed to fear her own shadow. There
';vere traces of suffering and almost famine on her sunburnt
face, and in her deep blue eyes an expression akin to that
of some helpless animal that had been hunted almost to the
death. Her dress was in tatters, and would not much longer
conceal her thin form. Instead of shoes, rudely constructed
sandals of buckskin protected her feet. Her frame appeared
shrunken and somewhat feeble, and yet, as if impelled by a
powerful motive, she made her way rapidly, although fur-
tively, along a path which no one save herself could follow.
As she reached the vicinity of her old home, her approach
became more cautious and stealthy. She flitted, like some
timid creature of the forest, from cover to cover, till she
could look out unperceived on the little glen made dear by
so many memories.
sx6 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEARTi
The first object that her eyes dwelt on was the grave of
her mother, and she seemed to dread lest, among the sad
changes occurring, it might also have disappeared. But
the mound was untrampled, and the flowers she had planted
near were still growing. As the glen seemed as lonely as
her own life, she ventured from the thicket to the shade of
the elm, where rose the grassy mound. A visit to this grave
had become the poor child's best earthly solace, and the
nearest approach to comforting companionship Vvithin her
reach. There was no one in her dreary home to whom she
could speak of the sorrows that were crushing out hope and
life ; but here she could imagine, at least, that her mother
listened to her as in the past.
Becoming satisfied that she was alone in the sacred place,
her furtive, apprehensive manner passed away, and she gave
herself wholly to the tender memories naturally inspired.
Leaning her head on the grave, as she had upon her
mother's bosom when a child, she spoke of past scenes in
tones that v.'ould have touched the most callous. Her sen-
tences were fragmentary, mere indices of passing thoughts.
From them it would seem that her hope of meeting Saville
again had almost perished, but that her recollection of his
kindness was of such a character as to be in harmony with
the sacred memories of her mother.
At last, with a wear)' sigh, she saw, from the deepening
shadows in the glen, that night must be near. She clasped
the cold earth of the mound in close embrace. She was in-
deed orphaned and alone, when the pressure of her heart
against a grass-grown grave could give more comfort than
aught else.
When about to rise, she heard footsteps, and she hastily
stole into the thicket from which she had first issued, and
which would cover her flight back to the hills. But, though
almost fainting with alarm — such had become her weakness
A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY, 217
of mind and body — a faint hope stayed her fleet steps till
she could obtain one glimpse of the intruder.
There was something in the distant outline of the tall form
that was strangely familiar. But, as the stranger's rapid
advance revealed his face, she sank upon the ground over-
whelmed with her feelings. It was, indeed, the friend and
brother whom she had mourned as lost, and he was appar-
ently as unchanged as on the day she last saw him. Was
his presence actual, or was it merely a vision of her over-
wrought and morbid mind ? She scarcely dared to move or
breathe, and feared lest the wild throbbing of her heart
would break the illusion.
And yet he was so real, he could not be a phantom ; his
Step was not ghost-like, but struck the ground firmly.
Now she saw the expression of his face — the perplexity—
the alarm, the trouble, and distress depicted there — as the
desolation of the glen became apparent He went to the
Stone step that had led to the threshold of the cabin, and
peered into the charred ruins, as if he dreaded discovering
there traces of its inmates. He next ascended hurriedly to
the place where Vera's grotto-like apartment had been, but
the scrutiny of the ashes gave no confirmation of the fear
that apparently had risen in his mind.
He took off his hat, and passed his hand across his brow
and eyes, as if all were to him a vision which he would
gladly dispel. He looked up and down the glen till his
eye rested on the elm under which was the grave, ai;d he
approached it rapidly, as if hoping to find there something
that would lead to the disco^'ery of those he sought.
" She must be living," he said aloud, " for here are the
proofs of her care and taste. Indeed, from the marks upon
the grass, I should think that some one had been here
to-day."
Again he looked up and down the glen, in the hope of
2lS NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
seeing something or some one that could explain the mys-
tery. The poor girl, who was but a few feet away, seemed
under a strange paralysis. She tried to speak, but, as if
dreaming in very truth, though her lips moved, there was
no sound.
But, as Saville sat down upon a rock, and, taking out
his flute, commenced playing the same dirge which once
before had summoned her to him and kept her heart from
breaking, the stony spell that bound her was broken. Tears
rushed to her eyes.
" ' I know a bank,' " she faltered ; then, springing from
her concealment, she knelt at his feet, as one might do who
sought deliverance from some pressing danger.
"Vera!" he exclaimed, raising her up. "My friend,
my little sister ! what has happened ? What has changed
you so ?' '
But, for some moments, her tears and sobs were his only
answer. He gently seated her on a rock beside him, and
held her hand, while stroking her head in gentle caresses,
accompanied by equally tender and soothing words.
' ' My poor little sister, it is plain that much has happened^
and that you have suffered deeply, since I saw you last."
" But thank God, thank God ! you are not dead — yoa
have not forgotten me," she was able at last to say brokenly.
" You may indeed take all the comfort you can out of
these facts, ' ' he replied cheeringly. ' ' I never had a better
prospect of living, and there was never less danger of my
forgetting you. So cease your trembling, little one, and
dry your tears. I am again stationed at Fort Montgomery,
and can see you often, as in old times. Now tell me whaS
has happened— no, first tell me where you live, for it is
almost night, and v/e can talk on our way thither.
" Oh !" exclaimed Vera, " in the joy of seeing you, I
have forgotten all else. The wretched little hut^ which I
A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY. tl^
cannot call home, is miles away. You can't go with me
there. The path is loo rough and tangled for aught save a
mere creature of the forest, as I have become. ' '
Then, for the first time conscious of her tattered and for-
lorn dress, and her bare and brier-torn ankles, she turned
away with a burning blush, and said, in a low tone,
" I am glad night is near, that its darkness may cover
me. I wonder at your kindness, for I looked into a mirror-
ing pool on my way hither, and saw my poor, miserable
self as you now see me. What must I seem to you, who
have seen the best of the world .?"
"Vera," said Saville gravely, "did not your mother,
when living, hope that I might become your friend r"
" Yes," said Vera, with fast-falling tears.
" That hope has been fulfilled ; but, were I only a
casual stranger, what else could I feel for you, in this place,
and by this grave, but the deepest sympathy.? You may
trust me then without fear or embarrassment, because of
your ragged dress and braised feet, which are to me tha
touching proofs of your misfortunes. There are no stronger
claims than those of humanity, and unconsciously you assert
these in a way to make them most sacred. I feel that yoa
are committed to my charge, and that nature and all-con-
trolling destiny constitute me your brother and guardian.
So, rest assured, you shall lean upon my arm all the way to
your mountain hiding-place, which, I fear, is little better
than the nests of the birds, which are open to the sky."
*' But the way is longer than you think."
" Will it seem shorter to you without me.? All the more
reason for my going. Com.e, little sister ; I have a v-nll of
my own," and he drew her hand within his arm.
" I can take the more open paths, now that you are vn.'Cb.
me," she said, with sudden gladness in her tone.
" Yes, any you like. 1 will take care of you."
2 20 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
With a sigh of intense relief, she exclaimed, " Oh ! what
a comfort it is not lo be oppressed with fear every moment.
Constant dread was becoming a habit of my mind, as it is
with father. There are such cruel and terrible men in the
world ; and we are so helpless, and are the objects of so
much suspicion, that concealment and flight have become
our only safety ;" and, with the simplicity of a child, she
told him of her own and Gula's experience, and the burn-
ing of the cabin.
** When we saw the smoke," she" said, " we thought it
had caught fire by accident, and we ran, in the hope of
saving something. But. Gula's crv, and the horrible men's
rough voices, soon led us to fear the worst. I was afraid,
at first, that father would leave old Quia to her fate, for often
he is so strangely timid. But, for a few moments, he seemed
like an enraged lion. He shot the leading villain, and then,
snatching my gun, fired again. Only their rapid flight kept
him from attacking them single-handed. He seemed to
think they were the same ruffians that tried to catch me ;
and, from what old Gula said afterward, I am sure they
were. Ever since, I have lived in a state of terror lest they
should spring out upon me."
Her tragic story was often interrupted by Saville's excla-
mations of pity and anger ; and when she described her
peril upon the ice, and in climbing the precipice, she ielt his
arm tremble beneath her hand.
'' Vou shall be amply revenged," he said in a deep tone,
as she concluded.
' ' Oh, no, ' ' she cried pleadingly ; ' ' any effort to avenge
me would only add to my pain and fear. Please make
these dreadful men understand that father is loyal, and that
Gula and I are not witches. How came they ever to imag-
ine such a thing about two such inoffensive creatures ?"
" That's the cursed quality of superstition," he muttered.
A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY . 281
** The less reason and cause, the more monstrous and
bigoted the belief."
" You can never know all I have suffered of late," she
said, finding much comfort in his strongly manifested sym-
pathy. '* We often do not have enough to eat, and I was
beginning to hope I should die before winter came. Father
is more gloomy and taciturn than ever, and I often find him
looking at me with a strange pity and almost horror in his
eyes, as if he were murdering me and could not help it
His looks haunt me. Old Gula, too, is growing more
strange, and mumbles unceasingly of her unearthly voices.
Still I could endure all this, were it not for my constant and
unspeakable fear lest those wicked men find our hiding-
place, or spring out at me when I am away alone among the
mounfains. When I heard your step this evening, I came
near flying, without looking back (God saved me from ths*-
at least). I even wake out of my sleep, and imagine I hear
them coming with their dreadful oaths. Are you sure you
can keep them away .?"
" Yes, Vera, sure. Poor child ! I did not dream it pos»
sible that misfortune and wrong could so single you out. "
" What you say," she continued, in an awed, frightened
tone, ' ' leads me to speak of the worst trouble of alL
Mother's Bible v/as burned in the cabin, as was nearly every-
thing else. I have tried to remember its teachings, but of
late they seemed slipping from my mind. Indeed, I ap-
peared sometimes to be forgetting everything. I felt as if I
were dwindling to nothing in body and mind, and a great
fear has at times chilled my heart lest death should be just
becoming nothing. When we first came to our hiding-
place, I felt that it was ver)' doubtful whether I should ever
see you or any one else again, and I gave up almost ail
hope of happiness in this life. But, while the world was SO
dark, the door of heaven seemed wide open, and mothee
222 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Standing in its light, waiting for me. For a long time this
beautiful vision was ever before me, and I felt like a traveler
who is going toward his home-light. But at last the open
door, with its streaming rays, began to recede, and mother's
form to grow dim ; and now they have gone so far away
that they seem like that faint star just above yonder moun-
tain. What does it mean .? Has God forgotten me .? Is
He in truth taking mother far away into heaven, and am I
becoming so much like the poor, timid little creatures of
the woods, that I shall at last die like them, and become
nothing .-* I wish you could explain it all to me."
" I can, my poor little friend, very readily.- When one
has been long under the influence of trouble and solitude,
and especially when there has been a lack of nutritious food,
the mind becomes morbid, and full of unnatural fancies,
just as the night is full of strange, monstrous shadows, which
all disappear when the sun rises. The sun has risen for
you, and all these strange shadows upon your mind will
soon pass away."
*' But are you sure that God never forgets any of His
children, though they are weak and insignificant .? It is
this fear that troubles me most."
" Well, Vera, to tell you a truth, which you would have
suspected long ago, if you had not been so innocent, I do
not know much about God. I think you had better try to
overcome all these morbid fancies, of which you have
spoken, in a new and hopeful interest in your present life. I
promise that T shall never forget you, and will try to make it
certain that you shall never be so exposed to misfortune again.
At first, Vera gave him a troubled, startled look, and was
silent for some moments. Then he felt her hand tightening
in its grasp upon his arm, as if the thought were in her
mind, " If God is failing me, I must cling the closer to this
friend, who is so near and sympathetic."
A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY. 223
To divert her mind, he told her of his experiences during
his long absence, and how he had written to her, and had
hoped that she knew about his Hfe elsewhere, while he re-
mained ignorant of hers. He explained how very uncertain
letters were to arrive, even along the regular lines of travel.
And yet his heart reproached him that he had, in some de-
gree, forgotten her in his manifold duties and excitements,
and that he bad not made greater effort to learn of her wel-
fare, and provide for her safety.
They at last reached a point where they must leave the
comparatively open path for one that was narrow, precip-
itous, and often, to his eye, entirely blocked by rocks and
tangled undergrowth. But she picked out a way for him,
where, in the darkness, none appeared. Toward the last,
however, her movements became slow and feeble.
" Let us rest awhile," he said ; " you are becoming too
wearied to stand, almost."
' ' I am sorry to say, it is more than weariness, Mr. Saville.
I have scarcely tasted food to-day ; and the worst of it is,
I fear that we shall have little, if anything, to offer you in
the way of supper. I cannot tell you how it troubles me."
" And are you forgetting your own pangs of hunger and
consequent weakness, in the fear that you may not have a
supper for one who dined heartily a few hours ago?" he
asked, taking her hand.
" But I am accustomed to being hungry, and you ate
not "
" My poor little friend, I can scarcely realize it all. If
you could spread a banquet before me, ray heart would be
too full to permit me to think of eating to-night " And ths
thought passed through his mind, " Can this maiden and
my bigoted, selfish wife belong to the same world and
race?"
He was naturally generous and sympathetic, and his heart
824 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
overflowed with pity and tenderness for the lonely girl, whose
thoughts had constantly followed him, while he had partially
forgotten her.
He now insisted on her pointing out the way ; and going
before, he lifted her down the rocks and steep places.
"It is so strange to be petted and taken care of," she
said, with a low laugh, " that it must be all a dream. "
"Thanks for that laugh," he cried; "it is the first I
have heard from } ou, but I shall be much mistaken if it is
the last. If I can carry out my will, this is your last dark,
miserable day. ' '
" This day is no longer dark and miserable," she said
promptly.
". How is that?" he asked, " It is night, and you are
both hnngry and weary."
"But comforted and happy," she added. "The only
ache that I cannot endure is the heart-ache, and your com-
ing has cured that
Having at last descended into the wild, secluded valley,
they were not long in reaching v/hat Vera had called with
truth " a wretched little hut."
GULA HJ^ARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 225
CHAPTER XX.
GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE.
WHEN Vera told Saville that they were near the little
cabin, he asked why no Hght appeared.
" We live literally in darkness much of the time," she re-
plied ; "for father will not permit a light, lest its rays reveal
our hiding-place ; and I have been so timid, also, that I
was well content to submit. Please wait here, and I will
prepare father for the meeting."
" Is it possible," he thought, scanning the place by the
light of the rising moon, " that this poor little hovel has
been her only shelter for long months ? Even our soldiers'
huts are better than this."
Vera noiselessly raised the latch, saying, at the same time,
in a quiet tone, " It is I, father."
" I am verj' glad you have returned, for I was beginning
to surmise horrible things. What has kept you ?"
" I met an old friend."
" Met an old friend ! Who?"
*' Your friend as truly as mine. Can you not think who
he is ?' '
" Has Mr. Saville returned, and is he indeed friendly?"
he asked eagerly.
" He is more friendly than ever ; he shall speak for him-
self. Mr. Saville !"
' ' O Vera ! you have not brought him to this, our only
refuge ?' ' cried her father in great agitation. ' ' I fear evil
vrill come of it.' '
326 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
"No, Mr. Brown," said Saville, cordially taking his
hand ; " good and only good shall come of it. I am here
as a friend to you both. Besides, I bring you cheering
tidings, sir. We are making good our Declaration of Inde-
pendence, v/hich you heard over a year ago, and have now
excellent prospects of final victory."
The fear- haunted man drew a long breath, and then said,
'* The deed has now been done, and, since you are here,
we will treat you with the best courtesy we can; but I had
hoped no living soul would ever discover this retreat."
" God has in mercy willed it otherwise, father."
" God forsooth !" he responded bitterly. " If I could
hide forever from Him, I might hope for a little respite."
" We have not a chair to offer you," he continued, turn-
ing to Saville. " Will you accept of this rude bench ?"
" I shall be most content in faring as you do," answered
Saville, in the frank, cordial manner which always gives con-
fidence. '* And now, I pray you, sir, sit down with me,
while I tell you of the progress of the war. Vera has re-
lated enough of your experience to fill me with the deepest
sympathy for your misfortunes. At the same time, I clearly
foresee brighter days in store for you both."
Before the exile was aware, Saville held him completely
absorbed by his graphic descriptions of the battles that had
cjccurred during his long absence. Vera, in the mean time,
disappeared, and nothing was seen of old Gula.
At last the door of the hut was opened from withouf, and
Vera called, " Come, Mr. Saville, to my banquet."
" Banquet !" he said, laughing. ** If you and Gula have
prepared a banquet to-night, I shall be ready, also, to be-
lieve you are witches, or good fairies, rather."
" Oh, I am so glad !" she exclaimed. " Everything
has turned out better than I expected. Father, come with us."
To her surprise and joy, he who had seemed hopelessly
GULA HEARS 4 VERITABLE VOICE. 227
beyond even the desire of seeing or speaking to a fellow
creature again, rose hesitatingly, and followed them.
Taking Saville's hand, with the freedom of a child, she
led him to a grassy plot behind the cabin, where, in the
moonlight, stood a rude table
" I much feared," she said, " that we should have noth-
ing to offer you to-night. As I told you once before, we
are fed as the ravens are. I do not know whether they ever
go supperless to bed, but we do sometimes. To-night,
however, in honor of your coming, two young partridges
considerately put their heads into my snares, and there they
are awaiting you. ' '
" Have you been out in the forest after them since yoiir
return.?" asked Saville, still retaining her hand.
" Yes, but it wasn't very far."
" And have you not had anything to eat yet ?"
" I eat before my guest .?"
" Yes, or your guest will be most pained and unhappy.
See, your hand trembles from weakness ; your pulse is
rapid, yet feeble, while mine is strong and even from gener-
ous living. Can you think that I, who dined heartily but
a few hours since, would take the smallest part of those
dainty morsels which you need to keep soul and body to-
gether t Do you and your father sit down upon this mossy
rock, while I carve the birds, and help you," and he almost
compelled them to do his bidding. Then lifting the light
table, he placed it before them so that they could not well
rise.
"Now you are my prisoners/" he continued; "and
only on the condition of your making a good supper, shall
I permit you to escape.'
" Hungry as I am, I cannot eat, unless you share the
birds with us," persisted Vera, leaving the choice bits before
her untasted.
228 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" Was there ever such a queer little sister ? If any pain
were to be borne, you would want it all, I warrant you.
Well, I'll take a wing."
" No, that may portend your sudden absence again."
•' Where is Gula ?" he asked abruptly.
'• I'se here," said the old negress, stepping from the deep
shadow of a rock.
•' And right glad I am that you are still here," said
Savilie cordially. " I have heard how badly you were
treated, but I am going to take care of you all now."
" Mas'r Brown fired little too quick, or I'd been home
now. I would like to git hcnic afore de cold winter
come. Tink I will, for de voices is callin* po'ful strong
lately."
" But our voices will call on you more strongly to stay
with us ; besides, I am going to bring a lively young colored
boy to help you, when I come again. Vera," he said in a
low tone, turning to the young girl, "be so kind as to let
me give my portion to this poor old creature. When I
come again, I will, in truth, be your submissive guest."
" Well," said Vera laughing, " I do not know much
about the world ; but I imagine that men always have their
own way in it."
'* You have indeed forgotten your Shakspeareif you think
that. But I am much interested in your g}'psy life. Where
were these birds cooked so nicely ?' '
"We has a stone fireplace in de side ob de hill," said
Gula, with a courtesy.
" Father has arranged it so that the smoke is carried off
among the recks, and in such a way that it cannot be seen
by any one on the hills around us," added Vera ; " and
the cabin, you perceive, is quite hidden by evergreens,"
It was, indeed, even from them, who were but a few feet
away.
GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 229
" AU this may answer in summer, but not in winter,"
said the young man decidedly.
" I doubt whether we could have survived the winter,"
Vera repHed in a low tone.
" How quietly you speak those darkly suggestive words !"
" It was my best hope, till you came. "
" Thank fortune, my coming was not delayed."
" I thank God," added Vera reverently.
" Don't mention that name," said her father irritably.
" I have always heard it oftenest when my troubles thick-
ened. ' ' Then to Saville, ' ' You spoke of bringing your
colored servant. I fear it will not be safe, sir. ' '
' ' I will give you my personal pledge that it is ; and when
you come to know the boy, you will fear no harm from
him. So I trust you will leave all to me, for I can provide
for your safety more surely than you can yourself. "
Mr. Brown acquiesced so far as to be silent.
Saville had seen much of the world, but the picture made
by that wild mountain-gorge and the little group before him
left an ineffaceable impression upon his memory. Rugged,
rocky steeps rose on either side, one shimmering in the
moonlight, and the other lying in the deepest shadow.
Glades and vistas opened here and there, with strange effect,
among the giant trees of the valley. The closely ranked
cedars and hemlocks concealed every vestige of the little log
hut, and the inmates, as they then appeared, were so unlike
ordinary people, that he felt that they and the whole scene
were more like _a creation of the fancy than a part of the
real world. But to him, who was weary of the platitudes
and hollovmess of conventional life, the picture had an un-
speakable attraction.
Old Gula stood a little back from her master and mistress,
leaning her tall, gaunt form, that was feeble from age and
kck of food, against one of the granite boulders that were
330 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
scattered thickly at the base of the mountain. Her wrinkled
features formed as elfish and unearthly a visage as could well
be imagined.
The unbroken rays of the moon, as they shone full on
Vera's father, only made more evident what a wreck he had
become. His face was haggard, his hair unkempt, and his
grizzled beard had grown to enormous proportions. At
times, when Saville was speaking to him, he had almost the
bearing of a finished gentleman ; a little later, he wore the
look of a frightened animal, furtively devouring its food.
Although Saville, with almost the appreciation of an
artist, marked the other features and accessories of the pic-
ture, his eyes constantly reverted to Vera with increasing in-
terest. Having finished the repast, which, after all, was
very meagre, she leaned her head upon her hand, and Hs-
tened with such a wistful, intent expression in her face, that
it was difficult for him to dwell merely on the details of a
past campaign. He wished to comfort and reassure her.
He now had opportunity to note the changes that had
taken place in her appearance, and saw, with boding anx-
iety, how frail and thin she was. Her sun- browned face
was very pale in the moonlight, and more suggestive o!
spirit than of flesh and blood. To his kindled fancy, her
wealth of unconfined hair grew into a halo, and the pure,
beautiful face beneath resembled portraits of saints that he
had seen in picture galleries abroad, and he thought,
" If the world would only worship such saints— lovely,
nnselfish, and living women— there would be more hope
for humanity."
But the night was passing, and he rose to depart.
" You will not think of returning before the break of
day?" remonstrated Vera.
" Yes ; I have lingered too long already ; I must be at
sny post in the morning, and i have much to do during the
GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. »3I
day. I shall return to-morrow evening about the same
hour I came to-night. And now, sir, I shall ask your kind-
ness to guide me back to the open path."
" I can lead you by a much nearer way to Fort Mont-
gomery, " said Mr. Brown, rising promptly ; " and to-night
I fee! like taking the walk."
" I will not say good-by," said Vera, in parting, *' lest it
be followed by another long and dreary absence. ' '
Her father guided their guest for several miles, and 1^
him only when the path became so plain as to be easily
followed. Saville was greatly pleased that his visit had s?
aroused the unhappy man, and, during their walk, con-
tinued to do his best to kindle in his mind a healthful inter-
est in the outer world. He even obtained from him a
promise that he would come with Vera, at sunset the follow-
ing evening, to the place where they parted.
During the remainder of his walk to the fort, Saville's
mind was very active in trying to solve the problems pre-
sented by the peculiar character and situation of the family.
It was clearly his Srst duty to supply them with food and
clothing. He also resolved, at the earliest opportunity, to
assure the military authorities of Mr. Brown's loyalty to
the American cause, and thus preserve the femily from
further molestation, because suspected cf being Tories. Ke
also determined that if Larry and his wife, Molly, had aughi
to do with the outrages that had been committed against th-s
family, he would make them suffer to the extent of his
ability. Vera, fearing that it might lead to a bloody quar-
rel, had not told him of the insult received at Fort Constitu-
tion, when she crossed thither to learn what had become of
him.
Early the following morning, he sought an inter/iew widi
James Clinton, who now commanded the forts, and who,
several months previous, had been promoted to the rank o£
Roe— VIII— K
23» NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
General. Saville, also, on the ground of tnerit, had recently
been commissioned captain in the engineer department.
It was impossible for the young man to be a cool advo-
cate, or to be satisfied with halfway measures, and he soon
quite enlisted General Clinton's sympathies in behalf of his
p-oieg'es. His request for a brief leave of absence was
readily granted, and full protection for the family promised.
His next step was to secure a boat in which to visit Peek-
skill, that he might obtain the articles of apparel and com-
fort which both Vera and her father greatly needed ; and
therefore he summoned the colored servant whom he had
lately taken into his employ, and who thus far had proved a
bundle of contradictions, a human riddle, that his master
had been unable to solve.
He %Yas a genuine African in features and manner, and of
that uncertain age which made it doubtful whether he was
man or boy. He had presented himself at Saville's tent on
the morning after his arrival, asking for service.
•• Where do you come from ?" Saville asked.
'* From nowhar in 'ticklar," was the indefinite response.
" What is your name ?"
" Mas'r kin call me w-hat he likes."
" Haven't you any name ?"
" I'se had a sight o' names ; jes' as liv hab annoder. I'll
answer quicker' n lightnin' to any nam.e you gub me, if
you'se ony take me."
" Well, who are you, any way ?"
" I doesn't jes' know."
" What are you doing in this region V*
"I'se a-lookin' for somebody."
" And somebody is looking for you, I imagine. You
have run away. Where is your master ?"
" Dar he is, I'se a-hopin'," said this most indefinite of
human atoms, at the same time ducking his head toward
GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. «35
Saville. " Jes' guv me a chance, and you'se *1I see I knows
a heap more 'bout some oder tings dan I does 'bout vay-
sell"
** Very well," said Saville carelessly. " I will keep yon
till you are claimed, or till I find you will not answer my
purpose."
At this, the boy had ducked again, and pulled a little
horn of wool that he had seemingly coaxed over his fore-
head for polite or politic uses.
*' Now, if mas'r '11 jes' guv me a handle, I'se '11 begio
to be use' 1 right straight. ' '
" * A handle ! ' "
" Yeh, sumpen to call and send me by."
" Oh ! a name. Any one of your old ones will answer. "
" If mas'r please, I'd rudder he guv me a new un."
*' Bless me ! I don't know what to call you, unless I tak«
the mathematician's terms for an unknown quantity, and
name you X Y Z. "
" Dat'il suit kerzackly," was the delighted response.
" ' Ekswyze.' I neber had as big a name as dat afore."
" But I shall call you X for short," said Saville, laugh-
ing. * ' Now let me see what you can do. ' '
The boy, even in a few hours, proved his ability to serve
well, if he so chose, and now was on hand, ready to do his
master's bidding with alacrity.
" Find me a small sail-boat, that can be rowed if the
wind is contrary, and be ready to go with me to Peekskill
in half an hour. '
Within less time, the boy reported that all was ready, and
a favorable breeze soon enabled them to reach the store of
Daniel Birdsall, From his meagre stock, Saville made the
best selection he could, half smiling, half frowning over the
coarse material and stout shoes he was compelled to buy fof
Vera's wear.
234 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
*' They will at least keep her warm," he thought, " and
I have no fears but that, by some form of woman's magic,
she will conjure this dark stuff into a tasteful dress. Per-
haps I may do better another time in the stores up the
river."
He also purchased an abundance of ammunition, and
such provisions as the place furnished. Making all into
two stout bundles, he returned, landing considerably above
She fort, as he did not wish to be followed by curious eyes.
" Now, X, take the boat back, and return as soon as pos-
sible. If any inquire where I am, say that I am shooting
among the hills."
X speedily rejoined his master, at whose bidding he took
up the heavier bundle, and followed without a jot of inter-
est, apparently, as to their destination.
" I am glad that you have sense enough to hold your
tongue," said Saville. " For a time, you may be able to
serve me best by serving others. I have friends back in the
mountains, with whom 1 may leave you ; and if there is
anything about them that seems strange, think what yoa
please, but never speak of what you see and hear to any
one. If you do, I have the means of making you wish you
had bitten your tongue off first."
" Mas'r Saville' 11 find out by-and-by dat I'se po'ful good
at knowin' nuffin dat's nobody's business."
"Yes," laughed Saville ; "you have given me a proof
of that already. I think you may be just the boy I want."
The sun appeared like a great beacon-fire on the summit
of a western mountain, as they reached the place where INIr.
Brown had promised to meet them with Vera ; but there
was not a trace of their presence.
"They have not arrived yet," thought Saville, " but it
Is time they were near. I will give our old signal, and
Vera may answer ;" and he played the familiar ain
CULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 235
Almost immediately a powerful yet bird-like voice an-
swered, from a neighboring thicket,
" I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."
" Gosh ! what's dat ?" said X, starting up in great alarm.
' ' That is your future mistress, X ; don' t run away till
you see her."
As Vera stepped forth with her father, her strange appear-
ance and remarkable beauty so impressed poor X that he
muttered,
' ' I knowed any critter wid a voice like dat mus' be a
speret from one place or t'oder. Tink she ain't from t'oder,
dough ; for dat ar singin' was hebbenly, sure 'nuff. But I
doesn't like de looks ob de ole man."
X soon gained his stolid composure, however, and was
able to pull his little woolly horn with his wonted noncha-
lance, when introduced with his big bundle.
Saville greeted his friends with the utmost cordiality, and
sought by his manner to banish their timidity. Hope and
happiness had already wrought a marvelous change in Vera,
and Saville, as of old, found himself wondering at her
beaut}'.
" What have you here.?" she asked, with childlike curi-
osity and vivacity.
" Well, in the first place, this is X Y Z. If you can find
out any more about him, you will accomplish more than I
have done. As for these bundles, we will open them at the
cabin. If you will spread a banquet for me again to-night,
you will find that I shall need no urging to partake of it."
" I have nothing better than a few more birds," said
Vera ruefully.
" What could be better, my quaint Ariel ? Come, moon-
light will not satisfy me to-night. ' '
The moon was just rising when they reached the cabin.
X sat down with his bundle where he was bidden, and.
2$6 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
wearied with the fatigue of the day, was inclined to go im-
mediately to sleep, when a name, uttered by Saville, aroused
him thoroughly.
" Gula," Saville had called, " come and see what I have
brought you."
"Gula!" repeated X. "What Gula is dis ?" and he
strained his eyes toward the dark recess among the rocks
where glowed a few live coals. After a moment, he could
endure his suspense no longer, and said,
" Mas'r Saville, shall I bring de tings dar ?"
' * What voice is dat ?' ' cried Gula in her shrillest and
most excited tones. And she rushed to the spot where
X was standing in trembling expectancy.
" Who is you ? What is your name ?' ' she asked eagerly.
" De name Mas'r Saville guv me is Ekswyze," said X
mechanically.
" No ! no ! no I" cried Gula, more shrill and excited
ihan ever. " What name did you'se mudder gib you when
you'se was a little diile ?"
"Tascar."
With a wild cry Gula threw her arms around the boy, ex-
claiming, " I'se your mudder I Fse called you Tascar
when you was a baby, arter one I lubbed in de warm sun-
land. Oh ! my po', ole, dead heart jes' seem as if it had
riz right up out ob de grave. ' '
All gathered round Gula, overflowing with sympathy and
congratulations, and the moon, rising above the eastern
Highlands, enabled the mother to see the features of her
long-lost son. Every moment or two she would cry out,
*' Yeh, yeh, it is my little Tascar, sure 'nuff. "
*' I knowed I'd find you, mudder," said the boy delight-
edly. " Dey couldn't keep me long down dar when dey
sole me 'way from you. I came back to whar you used to
?se, and foun' you had run up dis way (lame Tom tole me).
GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 237
De world is po'ful big place, but I knowed I'd find you if
I only looked long 'nuff. "
" You are now no longer an unknown quantity, so we
will call you Tascar after this," said Saville, laughing.
" And now, Gula," added Vera, " you have at last heard
a real voice, and I hope it will satisfy you, so that you will
not listen any more for those strange, unearthly voices that
you thought were calling you away from us. I suppose
Tascar is hungrj', like the rest of us ; so you may take him
into your rocky kitchen, and let him help you get our sup-
per. iNIr. Saville has generously brought us a great many
things.
"See, Mr. Saville," she continued, taking his arm, and
leading him a little apart ; "see what a difference your com-
ing has made to us all. Old Gula has found her son ; and
father has changed so much for the better, I scarcely know
him.. "
" And you .?" he asked gently.
" Ah ! Mr. Saville, you nave never known what it v>'as to
have but one friend, one hope, in the world. When I first
heard your steps, I was lying on mother's grave, and prav-
ing that I might speedily sleep beside her. Surely God
sent you to us. "
" Think so, little one, if it does you any good."
" But do you not think so .'"
"All I know is that I have come, and very glad I am
that it was not too late. "
" I wish you could explain to me abou God, and make
Him seem near to me again."
" I cannot, Vera ; let us change the subject," Saville re-
plied, a little abruptly.
She sighed, but soon gave herself up to thorough enjoy-
ment of the happiest hour that had ever yet come into her
brief and shadowed life.
S38 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
CHAPTER XXI.
CAMP FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES.
NOT very long after their bountiful supper, Savills
said,
" I had but little sleep last night, and have taken many
steps to-day ; so, with your permission, I will seek a resting-
place. "
" I am sorry that we have scarcely anything better than
the cabin floor to offer you, ' ' said Vera ruefully,
** You forget that I am a soldier, and that at this time of
the year I ask no better bed than the greensward,"
The cabin, like the larger one near West Point, had been
constructed with a small loft. Into this Vera crept, but for
a long time was too happy for sleep.
Saville took the blanket that Tascar had brought at his
bidding, and, throwing himself under a wide-spreading
hemlock, slept as only the strong and weary can sleep.
Gula and her son dozed and crooned in their rocky recess,
till the dawn aroused them to preparations for breakfast
Even the poor, remorseful exile rested with an unwonted
sense of security.
The next morning, Saville tried to induce Mr. Brown to
permit him to find them a better home nearer the fort, but
found that any proposition of the kind would not be enter-
tained.
" I have a feeling that I am safe here, and nowhere else,"
he said. ' ' If you think best. Vera and Gula can go, but
I shall remain. ' '
CAMP FIRES A. YD SUBTLER FLAMES. 239
" I shall not leave you, father, " said Vera, quietly.
"Well," said Saville, cheerily but firmly, "then we
must make you all as comfortable here as we can. A new
cabin, as large as the old one that was burned, must be
built."
"But that will attract attention," remonstrated Mr.
Brown.
" Suppose it does. I have satisfied General Clinton that
you are loyal to our cause, and he has promised you and
y^ur family full protection. "
" Does General Clinton know anything of me and my
whereabouts V cried the man, starting up in great alarm.
" Yes, sir ; and if he had only known before what I told
him yesterday, you would not have been molested in your
old home. Can you not see, Mr. Brown, that nothing so
draws attention and suspicion as your effort to hide from
every one .? At the time I was so hastily ordered away from
this region, I yielded to your judgment, and did not say much
concerning you, not having your permission. But now,
for Vera's sake, as well as your own, I can allow no doubt
to exist as to the fact of your being heartily on our side. In
respect to anything else, no one seeks to know aught. I
can promise you all perfect safety, if you will do just what
I ask. "
The exile's brow contracted darkly, but he would not
meet Saville' s eye.
" Mr. Brown," said Saville, in a low, meaning tone.
The man now gave him a startled, apprehensive look.
" I can promise you perfect safetj^ if you do just what I
ask," Saville continued, in the same low, significant voice.
' ' I will, I will, ' ' was the eager reply.
" There's my hand in pledge."
Mr. Brown seized it like a drowning man, and from that
hour became Saville 's slave.
240 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Vera watched this strange interview with a beating heart,
and, at its close, felt as never before, even that her destiny
also was controlled by the young stranger, whom Providence
had sent, as she believed, to rescue both herself and her
father from the hopeless and helpless condition into which
they had drifted.
With characteristic energy and promptness, Saville set
about the tasks made necessary by the decision to remain in
the secluded glen. He decided that the little hut already
built should be preserved for Gula and her son ; and the
plan of a much larger cabin, for the use of Vera and her
, father, was marked out adjoining it.
"I also mean to have a little nook myself, " he said.
" It will all be yours, " Vera added promptly.
He looked at her so earnestly that the blood came into
her face, though why, she did not know. After a moment,
he said, half to her, and half in soliloquy,
' ' I cannot tell why it is, but this place already seems to
me more like a home than any I have yet known."
" I do not understand hov^ you can feel so," said Vera,
looking frankly into his face. ' ' It will, in truth, be home
to me ; because containing, when you are here, all whom
I love."
Again he gave her an earnest look, as he said,
" Nature is a rare teacher, my little friend ; and she has
taught you a truth which we sometimes forget, to our sor-
row. Only the places which contain those whom we love
can be homes. "
" And it is your love for us," exclaimed Vera, openly
and joyously, as if she had solved the mystery, " that makes
this forbidding place seem homelike."
" That is not bad logic, " he replied, laughing ; " though
your pronoun is rather too general."
*' How strange it is," said Vera, musingly, "that we
CAMP FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. %\\
should have met as we did, and that you should have be-
come my brother m very truth ! Do such things often haj)-
pen in the world ?"
" I am afraid not," he replied, shaking his head.
" Then I have been specially favored, when I have been
almost repining at my lot "
" I certainly have been ver}' fortunate in finding such a
sweet, wild flower in this wilderness of a world. But
come ; this is not preparing for the cold storms of winter,
which, unfortunately, are near. You must ply the needle,
and bring home the game, while your father and Tascar do
the heavy work. Ye gods ! how I would like to stay here
and help you ! I have brought plenty of powder and shot
for your gun."
" But will it be safe to have the report of fire-arms heard
here ?' '
" Certainly ; the old policy of hiding and concealment is
past ; and as soon as I can, I shall find you a home where
you can have good, kind neighbors. Bring your gun, and
let me see if you can hit that gray squirrel in yonder tall
tree.
She complied, with the joyousness of a child, and was
soon within range with her light fowling-piece.
' ' Now, quick ! before he moves, ' ' cried Saville.
Her merry laugh rang out, as she threw pebbles at the
little creature, till, thoroughly alarmed, it ran to the top-
most boughs. Then, as it was in the act of springing to'
another tree, she fired, and it fell dead at her feet.
" I take off my hat to you," cried Saville. " You excel
Diana herself."
The morning passed all too quickly, and, after an early
dinner, Saville returned to the fort, taking Tascar, that
he might send back by him tools and other needed ar-
ticles.
842 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
During the week following, Saville pleaded, with justice,
that he had scarcely had a respite from duty since joining
the service, and obtained leave to absent himself for several
days. He started ostensibly upon a hunting excursion in
the mountains, but took the shortest path to the secluded
valley, which was beginning to have for him peculiar attrac-
tions.
The days passed like enchantment. Under the new and
happier conditions of her life, Vera appeared to grow hourly
in beauty and fascination. The recuperative power of
nature was in her mind and body. She was like a sunny
bank, that a few warm spring days change from wintry bare-
ness to fragrant bloom.
Her feeling for Saville was the frank, undisguised affec-
tion of a sister ; or, perhaps more truly, the strong, inno-
cent love of a child, that gives its heart wholly for the time
to those who win it.
The woman in Vera was still unawakened, though, at
times, there was an intensity in Saville' s gaze that quickened
her pulse a little, and mantled her cheek with a richer hue
than even restored vigor was giving it again.
As for Saville, he was self -deceived. We have already
seen that he had a faculty for illusion, and this 'jras espe-
cially true in the line of his favorite theories. As he had
once imagined his transient passion for a most unworthy
object to be the precursor of lasting and conjugal affection,
so now he regarded the pure flame of love, which was kin-
dling in his heart for. Vera, as a lofty kind of friendship, re-
sulting from the peculiar accord of their two natures. He
felt that he was in all respects ennobled and made better by
her society. Unconsciously she stimulated every good
quality he possessed into greater vigor. She was so pure
and innocent herself that his passion slept in her presence,
while his higher faculties of mind and heart were awakened
CAMP FIEES AND S(/BTLER FLAMES. 243
into aspirations that were as thrillingly delightful as they
were foreign to all his former experience.
Moreover, his conscience commended the part he was
acting toward her. The circumstances of their acquaintance
had been such, that ever}' -generous, sympathetic trait he
possessed was enlisted in her behalf. He regarded himself
as a disciple of nature and an apostle of humanity. In his
view, nature had been her teacher, and had formed her
character ; and the result confirmed his theory that all
should be guided by nature's teachings. In their warm and
growing friendship, were not they both following the strong
and natural impulses of their hearts .?
As one devoted to the interests of humanity, he would
consider himself most false, did he leave this innocent
maiden to the perils of her peculiar isolated condition, and
he honestly desired to obtain for her a safe and recognized
position in society, as soon as possible.
But the spell of her beauty grew daily upon him ; tha
touch of her hand was acquiring subtle power to thrill every
nerve and fiber of his body ; the tones of her voice kept re-
peating themselves for long hours in his heart ; and before
his visit was over, even the man of theories and illusions
was perplexed at certain peculiarities in his platonic friend-
ship.
But the woman in Vera still slumbered, and she returned
his affection with the same frank innocence as at first.
After his visit to the romantic glen, life at the fort was to
Saville very "weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable." Not
even the fact that the enemy might soon make a demon-
stration up the river, could greatly divert his thoughts at
first, and only as the tidings from the armies, under both
Washington and Gates grew full of exciting interest, and
the prospect that the British forces in New York v/ould seek
to force their v.-ay through the Highlands became quite cer-
244 NEAR TO NA TURK'S HEART,
tain, did his old military ardor rekindle. As all seemed
quiet on Saturday evening, the 4th of October, he obtained
permission to be absent from the fort during the Sabbath.
The moment the duties of the day were over, he was on his
way to the secluded valley, which now shut in his thoughts
from the outer world almost as completely as it immured
the exiles who had found a refuge there.
His coming was a glad surprise to Vera, and there were
evidences of deeper feeling in her welcome than she had
ever yet manifested.
" You are not going away again from this region .?" she
asked eagerly.
" Not soon, that I am aware. Why .?"
" I have had such a drear}' foreboding of evil of some
kind, and last night I dreamed ' ' and she suddenly cov-
ered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.
" Why, Vera, this is unlike you : are you well V
" Yes, yes ; but it was such a terrible dream !"
*' Tell me it, and I will explain it away."
" I dreamed that there had been a battle, and that you
were left wounded and dying on the ground, and I could
not find you," she said, in a low, shuddering tone, with
tears starting afresh. " Is there prospect of a battle ?"
" No special prospect — no more than there has been for
several days past ; but a soldier cannot look for anything
else."
" I wish I did not feel so," said Vera.
" Come, cheer up, my little friend. Dreams go by con-
traries. Never shed tears over troubles that may not come ;"
and he exerted himself to his utmost to banish her gloomy
fears.
The new log cabin, at which he also had labored during
his visit, was now nearly complete, and he kindled a genial
fire in its ample chimney-place.
CAMP FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. 245
He took a genuine interest in all that had been done in
his absence, and praised the results o( each one's labor.
But Vera noted with pleasure that he lingered longest over
her handiwork. Never before had he been so kind or so
thoughtful of her. His mere tones and glances were like
caresses. But all this only made her heart more full, for
she could not cast off the miserable presentiment with which
she had risen that morning. For his sake, however, she
disguised her feelings.
After dinner, the following day, they took a long walk
together, ana she accompanied him well on his way back to
the fort.
As they were parting, she said, as she clung to his hand,
" Promise me one thing — if there is a battle — that yot?
will not needlessly or recklessly expose yourself. What
would become of us if you were — if you were — oh ! my
heart almost breaks even at the thought ! If you have any
pity or love for me, grant what I ask.
" ' If I have any love for you,' Vera? I hardly dare
trust my heart to answer. Well, well, little sister, I will be
as prudent as a soldier can be with honor. I must say
good-by at once, or I may be tempted not to go at all,"
and for the first time he stooped down and kissed her fore-
head.
She watched his receding figure as long as it was visible,
and then returned to the cabin, with an increasing weight
upon her heart.
By the time he reached the vicinity of the fort, the camp
fires were lighted, and around these the men were gathered,
cooking the evening meal. To divert his thoughts, he wan-
dered aimlessly here and there, watching the strange effects
of light and shadow among the rocks and evergreens, and
the picturesqueness of the bearded men as they passed to
and fro between the fires. Even the coarse rations of the
24^ NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
soldiery gave forth a savory odor in the open air. From
all sides came the cheerful hum of voices, and from many
groups, the sound of laughter, or the notes of a rollicking
song.
" This scene has more the air of a gypsy encampment
than the stern aspect of war," he thought " I wish Vera
could see it, for it would quite allay her fears. What does
that singing mean yonder?" and he made his way to a
large fire, around which numbers were increasing con-
tinually. ' '
" Oh ! it's a religious meeting. There is Parson Gano !
How dearly A^era would love to hear his pious jargon, and
would swallow it all, poor child, as undoubted truth !
Still, I am glad to note that she speaks less and less ol
these things, and think she has a native strength of mind
which will enable her to outgrow her superstitious trammels.
Well, Gano is a good, brave fellow, if he is teaching solemn
nonsense ; and out of curiosity I'll stay, and hear what he
has to say." And he sat down under the shadow of a tree,
and watched the scene, as one might look on some heathen-
ish incantation.
The throng around the fire grew large, for the preacher
was a popular speaker. Officers mingled with the men, as
they would do in the plain meeting houses in their distant
village homes ; and Saville could not help noting that the
serious faces lighted up by the glare of the central fire,
were, in the main, raanlj', self-respecting and intelligent.
" How is it," he asked himself, "that sane and even
very clever people can keep up with so much pains this old-
fashioned mummery of religion.? Cuihono? What is the
good of it all 1 Here we are living in a world of inexorable
law and destiny, and yet multitudes are praying to an old
Hebrew divinity, that never had any existence, as if they
expected practical help ! Could anything be more absurd ?
CAMF FTRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. 247
The idea of my getting down on my knees, and praying to
one of Homer's demi-gods ! What is it in men that makes
them so credulous ?' '
Here he suspended his soUloquy to listen to the hymn
which the chaplain gave out before his sermon. The voices
that sang it were untrained and rough, and the harmony
not ver}' smooth, and yet the critical listener admitted to
himself that there was a certain element in the music which
made it differ from a mere performance.
" Human action, however absurd and unreasonable, is
always impressive when earnest," he philosophized ;
' ' but, after - all, what is the secret spring in man which
leads to this folly ?' '
Though not aware of it at first, he was answered by the
text, which was now announced :
" Jesus saith unto her, I am the resurrection and the
life ; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet
shall he live ;
" And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never
die, Believest thou this ?"
"No, "was Saville's decided mental response. "That
Jesus said this ' unto her, ' is most appropriate, for it was an
assertion fit to be addressed only to a credulous woman, "
" The Being who uttered these remarkable words," began
the chaplain, simply standing up before the fire, and talk-
ing in a familiar and fatherly way to his audience, " had the
power to make them good ; and, therefore, we may take to
our hearts all the hope and encouragement they contain."
"That is where we differ," thought Saville, rising and
shrugging his shoulders. " Why had the man, Jesus, such
power, more than other enthusiasts of the past ? That is
the way with all these teachers of religion. They first as-
sume what is contrary to reason, and, as a matter of course,
their conclusions are absurd, and often monstrous. There
248 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Is HO use of my wasting more time here." But, as he was
moving away, tlie preacher' s words again caught his atten-
tion.
"To-night," said Chaplain Gano, "the scenes, even
within and around these miUtary forts, are peaceful, rather
than warlike. The sky is cloudless, and there are the stars
looking down as steadily as the eyes of God. Only the
insects' chirp is heard in the dark valleys and on the steeps
around us. The Sabbath stillness is broken by no ruder
sounds than the profane mirth and songs which sometimes
disturb our worship. To the ear of heaven, though, ribald
words and laughter make harsher discord than the wildest
din of battle, where freemen are warring for their rights.
Still, there is nothing apparent to man, in the scenes about
us to-night, to awaken the emotion of fear, even in the
breasts of the fearful.
"But, what shall be on the morrow? Such is our un-
certain tenure of earthly life, we could not ask this question
in our peaceful homes without misgivings. But, how much
it means to the soldiery ! Only by killing many of us, do
our enemies hope to put their feet again upon our necks.
Many of us must be slain before our righteous cause can
triumph. A few years, perhaps but a few days — do not
think I am talking wildly when I say, but a few hours— may
elapse before these warm, living bodies of ours become like
the clods beneath our feet."
A foreboding recollection of Vera's dream came into
Saville's mind.
" Young man, " continued the chaplain more earnestly,
leveling his long finger at a carelesis young fellow, who was
whispering to a comrade on the opposite side of the fire,
" I have no doubt that you are a brave soldier. Alas ! you
seem so bold that you are willing to defy God as well as
man. When the foe attacks these forts, you will try to do
CAMP FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. 249
your duty. But do you not realize that this very duty may
cause your vigorous young body to be racked with dying
pains ? If I could tell you that to-morrow evening you
would be lying dead somewhere in the cold starlight, what
ought you to do now ? What ought you — and you — and
you — to do ?' ' he asked solemnly, sv/eeping his finger
around the entire circle. ' ' What ought we all to do ?
"Ought.? How great the privilege, rather, of creatures
like ourselves — weak and ready to perish at all times, now
hourly exposed to peril — how great is the privilege of heed-
ing the Divine Saviour as He cries, ' I am the resurrection
and the life.' If we trust and fear the One who spake
these words, we have naught else to fear. The bullet that
pierces us may be but God's swift messenger to summon us
home. Suppose our mangled bodies do strew these rugged
hill-sides and rocky forts ! The cruel foe cannot so trample
them out of shape, nor time so destroy them, nor the winds
so scatter and dissipate them, but that He, who declared,
' I am the resurrection, ' can raise them up, no longer dead
and defaced, but fashioned like unto His glorious body ;
and so shall we be ever with the Lord. Then why live an-
other hour, why go into desperate battle, vv-ithout this pre-
cious Friend 1
" Comrades in peril ! I have not sought to work upon
your fears to-night, but rather to lead you to accept a faith
which makes even cowards brave, and strong men lions for
the right. We have reason to think that we shall soon meet
the enemy ; but there is no foe on earth, or in hell be-
neath, that can strike a fatal blow at the honest Christ-
believer and follower."
To Saville's surprise, the preacher had kept him a listener
until the close of his exhortation. Then with a shrug, he
strode away into the darkness saying, " Here, I suppose, is
the secret of it all. Men know they must die ; these poor
250 NE.iR TO NATURE'S HEART.
fellows are aware that they may be knocked on the head
within a few days. They all want to live after they are dead
(as if the very idea were not absurd), and they give a ready
hearing to anybody who holds out the hope that they may.
Well, I wouldn't mind an eternal Elysium myself, if I could
have the fashioning of it. One thing is certain — Vera
would share it with me."
As he was threading his way among the camp-fires, toward
his quarters, he heard his own name mentioned, and natu-
rally paused to learn in what connection it was used. The
voice came from beyond a clump of cedars to his right,
and, looking through it, he saw, just below a ledge of rock,
a circle of visages, differing widely in character from those
gathered round the chaplain's fire. The physiognomy of
Larry, his old servant, was the type of the majority on which
the flames were flickering, although the expression of many
was still more unpromising. But the bold, handsome face
of his wife, " Captain Molly," would have received the first
attention, even if she had not been speaking.
" Is it where yer ould masther, Saville, does be goin' out
in the woods that ye' re askin', Larry ?"
" Yees."
" Well, I'm a-thinkin', should ye follow his trail, ye'd
foind the White Witch o' the Highlands."
" It's a long day since she's been seen or heard on."
" He's found her, I warrant ye ; an' moighty glad I am
we had nothin' to do wid the diviltry when Barneyw as
shot. He questioned me close, an' if I'd been a-lyin',
I fear he'd a-cotched me. Wherever this gal o' his'n is,
folks as don't want their heads broke ud better let her
alone. ' '
" But what would his wife say to his galivantin' off in
the mountings ?" asked Larry.
"Why should he care?" said Molly carelessly. "If
CAMP FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. SJI
what ye tell me is thrue, he's got a divil for a wife, and may
well look for a betther one."
" 'Cordin' to that," snickered Larry, "it's me that shud
go galivantin' off in the mountings too."
A loud laugh followed this sally.
" Thry it once," cried Molly, " an' ye' 11 foind that the
divil will be arther ye in a way ye' 11 not forgit,"
" Now Molly, me darlint, ye knows I was only a-givin'
ye a poke in the ribs in sport, so ye needn' t guv me any
in good earnest. My ould masther can have the White
Witch o' the Highlands, and the Black Witch, too, for all
o' me."
Saville stayed to hear no more of their low talk, but hast-
ened on, his cheeks tingling that his name had been coupled
with that of the m.aiden under such circumstances.
He sat down in his tent in no enviable mood, and, for
the first time, permitted his mind to dwell on the conse-
quences of his growing intimacy with Vera. After all,
would his brother officers, would the world, take a more
charitable view than that which he had just heard expressed ?
He might assert that his love for Vera was friendship, broth-
erly affection ; but he plainly foresaw society's shrug of in-
credulity. From the depths of his heart, also, a question
was beginning to arise,
** Is your love for Vera fraternal or platonic only ?" And
he found that he could not give a prompt and positive an-
swer. Then the pledge he had made on the memorable
Sabbath evening, when he sacrificed all ties to his patriotism,
rose up before him like a spectre.
" I shall be loyal to the name of wife, though the reality
I never had."
"Curses on the priest-ridden, law-marred world !" he
muttered, " wherein every natural impulse is thwarted. I£
I continue to act the part of a brother toward Vera, society
t52 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
will point its finger toward us both in scoffing unbelief, and
imagine the worst. If, because she is so truly lovable, I
come to love her more warmly, and seek for some honor-
able solution of the problem, society will heartlessly tell me
that there is none, in this prudish land, save open shame.
I shall be informed that the combination of woman, devil,
and bigot, in New York, is my wife ; that the mummery in
the church made us one, when we have nothing in common
except our hate ; and that it is foul sin for me to think of
another. Where is men's reason ? Why, even the instinct
of this coarse, untutored Irish woman hit upon a better
philosophy. And yet so it is, and so it will be until the
broad and rational principles which are revolutionizing
France are accepted and acted upon here. Oh ! that we
had a Voltaire and a Rousseau to break the chains of the
past, and teach that the impulses of the heart are right !
But now, all my pure and ennobling affection for Vera, and
her snow-white love for me, will be jumbled in the same
category as the infidelity of this woman, Molly, to her hus-
band."
Further bitter musings were interrupted by the appearance
of an orderly, with the message that his presence was required
at on^e at headquarters.
^HE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 25|
CHAPTER XXII.
THE STORMING OF THE FORTS.
>,N reaching the tent of General James Clinton, Saville
found all the leading officers of the garrison already
assembled, and was informed that the enemy were advancing
up the river, and had already landed large forces at Tarry-
town and Verplanck' s Feint. He also found that Governor
Clinton had just arrived, with a considerable reinforcement
of militia. After giving such directions as were deemed
necessary, Governor Clinton said,
"The enemy will probably strike Putnam at Peekskill
first, but we shall have our own share of fighting, no doubt,
and may have to do the most of it. It is well known to you,
gentlemen, that the garrisons are not as strong as we could
wish. We must double our strength by doubling our cour-
age and efforts. I shall expect every man to do his whole
duty. I request that the engineer officers do all in their
power to strengthen the unfinished portions of the works. ' '
Throughout the remainder of the night, the din of labor
resounded, and only toward the break of day was Saville
able to get a little sleep.
On awakening, he immediately repaired to the governor's
tent for instructions, and had scarcely reached the place,
when Major Logan, who had been sent with one hundred
men on a scouting expedition beyond the Dunderberg, re-
turned, with the startling information that about forty boats,
crowded with British troops, had landed near Stony Point.
•J54 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Saville, having no special command, was willing to do
anything which promised active and exciting service ; he
therefore volunteered to go on a reconnoissance. Governor
Clinton, who had learned his value in such employment on
% previous occasion, at once accepted his offer, and ^.ve
'bim, as a support, a lieutenant and thirty men.
Saville and his party proceeded rapidly along the inoun=
J&in-road leading from Fort Clinton to Haverstraw, and,
when between three and four miles out, suddenly met the
vanguard of the English forces, upon the rapid and stealthy
march which had, as its object, the surprise of the forts.
The small American detachment was peremptorily sum-
Wioned to surrender.
" Give 'em a volley as our answer," said Saville ; and
the wooded defile was at once filled with the preliminary
echoes of the mighty uproar soon to rage among the High-
lands.
Under the cover of their fire, the scouting party retreated
rapidly to a new point of observation, fortunately none
being wounded by the return fire of the enemy.
After some further skirmishing, in which the num-bers
and purposes of the attacking force became more apparent
Saville retreated rapidly, without the loss of a man, and re-
ported. In the mean time, patrols had brought word that
the enemy were also advancing around Bear Mountain, to
the rear of Fort Montgomery.
" Putnam has been outwitted," said Governor Clinton,
"and we've got to take all the blows. Well, I believe in
giving even the devil his due ; and, in rny opinion. Sir
Henry Clinton has executed a m.agnificent piece of strategy.
He really does honor to the name, and I am quite inclined
to claim relationship. We must see to it, James, that we
prove that the American branch of the family has not degen-
eratec^" and the brothers smiled grimly and significajitiy.
THE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 255
Before many hours passed. Sir Henry himself would have
been among the first to admit the sturdiness of the colonial
stock.
"It is now past noon," said General James Clinton,
"and yet we hear nothing from Putnam. It's very
strange !"
"I will send a messenger at once to him," said his
brother, and a man by the name of Waterbury was dis-
patched.
' ' I hope that fellow can be depended upon, for I did not
like his looks overmuch," said James Clinton. "The
firing is growing sharp out on the Bear Mountain road, and
we must have reinforcements soon, if they are to be of any
service. There ! the firing has commenced at the abatis,
where the road passes Sinnipink Pond. I will return to
Fort Clinton at once, and do my utmost to carry out the
measures we have concerted."
" God be with you, brother ! Hit hard and often, and
remember, we won't lower the flag while we have a foot of
ground to fight on ! How many men did you say were at
the abatis by the pond ?"
" Over a hundred."
" Let them hold the point obstinately. Time is worth
everything to us now. Troops from Putnam must be here
soon. Farewell."
" Saville," continued the governor, "as you have no
command, you can serve me best by acting as an aide.
Colonels Bruyn and M'Claghrey are out on the Orange
Furnace road with sixty men. Tell Colonel Livingston to
detach thirty more to their support. Take that horse yon-
der, ride out, learn what you can, and report as soon as
possible."
Saville urged the poor beast at a tremendous pace up the
rocky way ; but, by the time he reached the point of con-
RoE— VIII— I.
356 NEAR TO NATURES HEART.
flict, the advance skirmishers of the small American force
had been driven in, and Colonel Campbell, with the assault'
ing column, was pressing on as rapidly as the narrow road,
leading through a wild, rugged pass, permitted. The
enemy paused a moment, as a brass field-piece sent a ball
plowing into their ranks, and then, with the courage and
steadiness of trained soldiers, filed off, on either side of the
road, into the partial shelter of the wooded hill-sides, and
pressed on as before, in the face of a brisk fire of small-
arms. Their advance was so rapid, and the road so rough
and impracticable, that it was found impossible to extricate
the field-piece, and it was therefore spiked and abandoned.
With these tidings, Saville returned to the fort. But,
while present at the affray over the field-piece, his attention
had been caught by the occasional report of a single rifle
from a shaggy hill-side, along which he knew the enemy
must be advancing, and he correctly surmised that it was
the exile, striking at the power he so greatly dreaded. Vera's
dream and presentiment flashed into his mind, and he mut-
tered,
" Poor child ! this firing no doubt causes her to imagine
that all her forebodings of evil will come true. I hope I
shall live to laugh her out of such fancies for the future."
On his way back to the fort, he had observed that Col-
onel Lamb had posted himself in a commanding position,
with a twelve-pounder ; and the veteran had grimly re-
marked that they would hear from him soon.
" Return, and request Colonel Lamb to hold the enemy
in check as long as possible. Then cross to Fort Clinton,
and bring me word how things are going there. Good
God! Why doesn't Putnam send me help.?" said Gov-
ernor Clinton, who was chafing like a lion in the toils.
Saville made the fire fly along the flinty road, and soon
regained the crest of the hill upon which Colonel Lamb had
THE STORMxNG GF THE FORTS. 257
posted himself with his formidable twelve-pounder. The
advance party, under Colonel Bruyn, were marching around
to the rear of the gun, within supporting distance. As
soon as the head of the English column showed itself, Lamb
opened with the precision of aim for which he was famous,
and his quick firing, with the havoc which it made, once
again, and more decidedly, checked the hostile advance.
The sharp-shooters under Colonel Bruyn were seeking
stations among the trees and rocks, from which to gall the
enemy with small-arms, and aid in maintaining the position,
when, unfortunately, the cannon with which Colonel Lamb
was doing so much execution burst The British troops,
with a loud huzza, rushed forward, and the Americans re-
treated, fighting, to the fort.
When Saville reached Fort Clinton, the abatis at Lake
Sinnipink had been carried, and such of its defenders as had
not been killed and disabled were retreating rapidly, with
the enemy close upon them.
Coolly walking the parapet of the fort, with the bullets
already whistling round him, was the tall form of Chaplain
Gano ; and his intrepid bearing had an excellent influence
on the militia, most of whom were now, for the first time,
to face the dreaded Hessians, who were, to many of the
simple rustics of that day, monsters rather than men. Fear-
ful stories concerning them were rife, the mildest of which
being that, as they were unacquainted with the English
tongue, they neither understood nor heeded offers of sur-
render or cries for mercy ; but bayoneted indiscriminately
all who fell into their hands.
The survivors of the conflict at the abatis brought word
that these terrible Hessians were advancing in vast numbers,
at which poor Larry so quaked that he could scarcely serve
his gun, and not a few others wished themselves safe in
their humble homes. But " Captain Molly" rallied the
258 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
spirits and courage of those near her, by springing on the
rampart, and calling, in her shrillest tones,
" Come on, Hessians or Red-coats ; we'll trate ye all
the same, and'll put more bullets an' balls intil yees than
ye' 11 loike for supper. "
" Och I Molly, me darlint, get down," cried Larry.
" What wud we all do an' ye shud sthop a Hessian bullit?"
But Molly recklessly kept her exposed position, gesticu-
lating and firing volleys of epithets toward the advancing
foe, until ordered down by one of the officers. She then
descended, amid the loud huzzas and laughter of scores of
poor fellows whose voices would soon be hushed.
Having received such message as General James Clinton
desired to send to his brother, Saville galloped back to Fort
Montgomery, and barely escaped being intercepted by the
environing forces.
It was now four o'clock, and both the forts were fairly
invested. The two brave men who commanded them were
still hoping for aid from Putnam, and determined to make
as obstinate a resistance as their inadequate forces permitted.
The enemy gave but brief respite, and, after a rapid dis-
position of the assaulting columns, pushed forward to the
attack. By the aid of his glass, Saville could see his old
acquaintance. Colonel Beverly Robinson, leading forward
many neighbors and fellow townsmen whom he knew.
It was evident that the enemy did not calculate upon a
very stubborn resistance, and hoped to carry the works by a
simultaneous attack. Therefore they advanced confidently,
and in imposing military array, expecting to awe and intimi-
date the rustic soldiery opposed to them. But the terrific
and well-directed fire, both of cannon and small-arms, that
circled around the ramparts of both the forts, soon taught
them their error, and showed that the keys of the High-
lands could be won only by a bloody battle.
THE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 259
Again and again they advanced to the charge, but only to
be repulsed and driven back, strewing the broken and rocky
region with their dead and wounded.
An hour passed — an hour of bloody, obstinate fighting,
on both sides — in which many souls, hot with wrath, mad
with excitement, passed away from the scene of conflict.
But, to the scanty garrison, the loss of men was a far
more serious matter than to the full battalions of the enemy.
The lines of Fort Montgomery were extensive, and but par-
tially finished ; and Governor Clinton was able to repulse
all attacks thus far only by good generalship and the in-
domitable spirit of his men.
The British officers, however, had by this time gauged
quite correctly the forces opposed to them, and were satis-
fied that they could eventually carry the works by the mere
weight of numbers. In order to save himself further loss,
Sir Henry Clinton ordered a brief cessation of hostilities,
and sent in a flag of truce, with the dire threat that, unless
both the garrisons surrendered within five minutes, he would
put all to the sword.
Lieutenant-Colonel Livingston was ordered to receive the
flag, and instructed to inform Sir Henry Clinton that the
Americans would defend the forts to the very last extremity.
" This putting everybody to the sword is a game that two
can play at," remarked the governor grimly. He still had
hopes that a reinforcement from Peekskill might arrive at
any moment, and felt sure that if he could maintain the posi-
tion until the following day, he would certainly receive relief.
Having defiantly refused to capitulate, nothing now re-
mained for the garrisons but the most desperate resistance.
As the men in Fort Clinton saw the flag retire from the open
space where the parley had been held, they set their teeth,
and many faces grew white and stern v/ith the determination
to sell life dearly.
i6o NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
The October day was drawing to a close. The sky was
overcast with clouds, as if heaven, offended at the rude
clamor of earthly passion, were frowning upon the scene.
As the flag disappeared within the hostile ranks, there
was, for a few moments, an awful lull and suspense. The
echoes of the preceding strife had died away, and there was
now an ominous and oppressive silence, broken only by the
groans of the wounded and dying. Then, from the environ-
ing foe, came a hoarse and increasing murmur of rage.
Commands and orders were given rapidly, and the storm of
war broke forth more vehemently than before.
The British ships, under Admiral Hotham, had now
come up within range, and commenced bombarding the
forts and the American vessels that were anchored above the
chain and chevaux-de-frise, which had been stretched across
the river for the purpose of obstructing navigation. The
conflict was thus raging upon the water as well as on the
shore, the heavy guns of each party adding greatly to the
fearful uproar resounding among the mountains.
The sun was setting behind obscuring clouds, and, in the
early and deepening gloom, the flashes from the firelocks
and cannon grew more lurid and distinct, increasing the
terrors of the scene. The garrison of Fort Montgomery,
thinned by the strife which had already occurred, and com-
pelled to defend works far too extensive and imperfect, con-
sidering its scanty number, was fighting heroically, and had
thus far repulsed the most determined assaults. But the
governor's forces were inadequate, and the enemy were gain-
ing and holding positions, in the broken region in the rear
of the fort, that were menacingly near the American lines.
At one of these threatened points, Saville, who was sweep-
ing the field with his glass, saw a heavy massing of British
grenadiers, and he directed the governor's attention thither.
Lord Rawdon was preparing for his memorable charge,
THE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 26 1
which, with the supporting attacks all along the line, decided
the fate of the day. As a chivalric volunteer, at his side
was his friend, the Count Gabrouski, a Polish aide-de-camp
of Sir Henry Clinton.
The governor, for a moment, scanned, with a heavy frown,
this thunderbolt, whose shock he must soon sustain, and
then made such disposition to receive it as was possible in
the brief time allowed him.
" If we do not repulse this attack, and the worst comes
to the worst," he said to Saville, "cross to Fort Clinton,
by the foot-path, and tell my brother not to surrender, but
cut his way out among the hills. The darkness will favor
this."
Slowly and steadily at first, but with increasing speed, the
assaulting column advanced through the gloom, becoming
every second more distinct and terrible. Cannon and
musket balls made gaps, but the ranks closed up, leaving
no more trace than the smooth surface of a smitten lake.
The foremost fell. The point of this human entering wedge
appeared to crumble, as it reached the fort. The tall Polish
count seemed at one moment a Homeric demi-god, as he
was about to spring across the fosse upon the rampart. A
second later, he was a weak, dying man, with only strength
to gasp, to the grenadier who bent over him,
" Take this sword to Lord Rawdon, and tell him the
owner died like a soldier. "
The American resistance was as vain as it was heroic.
The assaulting column, like a black river, flowed steadily
on, and by its enormous weight alone pressed everything
back.
" To my brother, quick, with my message," cried the
governor to Saville ; and by the time Saville extricated him-
self from the fort, a hand-to-hand melee had commenced.
In his swift transit across the deep ravine, Vera' s dreara
262 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
again occurred to him, with an ominous significance, and
his face grew white and rigid, with the determination un-
waveringly to meet the worst. But as, in this moment of
soHtude and respite from the m.ad excitement of battle, ha
realized his danger, and therefore hers, in her isolation, his
heart sickened.
When he entered Fort Clinton, the situation was as des-
perate as it had been at Fort Montgomery at the moment o(
his departure. All was confusion. In the increasing dark-
ness, he could not discover General Clinton. At several
points, the enemy seemed pouring over the ramparts.
Shouts, yells, curses, groans, the clangor of weapons, and
crash of musketry deafened and bewildered him. He also
noted, as proof that the enemy were taking the fort, that all
firing of cannon had ceased on the part of the Americans.
Suddenly he heard, above the uproar, a shrill voice, which
he knew to be " Captain Molly's," crying,
" Back, ye spalpeen ! Fire the gun."
•' Here, at least," he thought, " must be enough of our
troops to fonn a rallying-point," and drawing his sword, he
rushed toward the place from whence came the voice. Fugi-
tives rushed against him ; a second later he saw Larry break
from the grasp of his wife, throw down his lighted match,
and fly.
" Divil a sthep will I rin, till that gun's fired," cried
Molly, seizing the match ; and, in the faces of the enemy,
who were climbing the rampart, she touched off the las'
cannon that was discharged in Fort Clinton.
All this passed in a very few seconds. With a wild Irish
whoop of exultation, Molly turned to escape, when a Hes-
sian lieutenant laid his iron grasp upon her, and raised his
heavy saber to strike.
" Wretch ! would you kill a woman ?" cried Saville, anc'
he ran the man through the body.
THE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 263
" The Holy Vargin bless ye ! i\Iisther Saville, " ejaculated
Molly, springing away like a deer, the moment the grasp
on her arm relaxed. But, looking back as she ran, she
saw Saville fall, from a savage bayonet thrust in his breast.
Then, the human wave that was surging into the fort swept
over him. Under the cover of darkness, she leaped the
parapet on the opposite side, scrambled down the steep
bank into the ravine of Poplopen Creek, and escaped wath
many other fugitives, among whom was General James
Clinton, wounded, but*indomitable in his purpose not to
fall into the enemy's hands.
Governor Clinton was also among the last to leave Fort
Montgomery, On reaching the shore of the river, he saw
a boat pushing away, and hailed it. The ofiicer in charge
knew his voice, and caused the boat to return. But it was
found to be already loaded to the gunwale, and the gov-
ernor would not endanger the safety of its occupants by en-
tering it. The loyal officer generously offered to g^ve up
his place, but the governor, equally generous, would not
listen to this. The enemy were pressing closely, and it was
agreed to try the experiment of adding the weight of one
more, and, to the joy of all, the boat was still above the
water's edge. The perilous transit was made in safet}', and
on the further shore were found five hundred men, whom
the bewildered Putnam had at last sent, but too late to be
of any service.
The man Waterburi-, whom the governor had dispatched
to Peekskill, had treacherously delayed his departure, and,
on the following day, deserted to the enemy.
On the capture of the forts, the American vessels above
the chetiaux-de-/rise slipped their cables, and tried to escape
up the river ; but the wind was adverse, and their crews, to
avoid capture, set them on fire, and abandoned them.
Then followed scenes that were weird and awiui in the eS'
2&4 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
treme, forming an appropriate close to the bloody drama of
the day. By reason of the clouds, night had come on sud-
denly, and was very dark. When the torches were applied
to the ships, every sail was set, the cannon were loaded, and
there was an abundance of ammunition in the magazines.
In a few moments, they became pyramids of fire, as the
flames, fanned by the gale, leaped from deck to mast-head.
The rugged, precipitous shores were lighted up as with the
glare of noon, and the neighboring mountains seemed like
a group of giants standing around their mighty camp-fires.
As the flames reached the heavy guns, they were dis-
charged, not as in battle, but irregularly, fitfully, as if some
capricious demon were directing all in accordance with its
mad impulses.
The region where the vessels were drifting has ever been
famous for its echoes, and, from the first, the clamor of the
strife had been repeated and augmented, untiJ it might have
seemed that the combatants were innumerable. But v/hen
the fire reached the magazines of the ships, volcanic explo-
sions followed, at which even the granite hills appeared to
tremble, and it seemed as if the deep reverberations never
would cease. Old Gula, cowering in her rocky niche,
muttered,
" Dat's de mos' awful voice I'se eber heard. I'se afeared
on't."
The burning wrecks were at last quenched beneath the
water. After all, the passions of men cannot long disturb
nature's deep repose, and sof^n pil^'nce 9nd night held un-
disputed sway on the liver, and among the mountains.
THE WIFE'S QUEST AMONG THE DEAD. 265
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE wife's quest AMONG THE DEAD.
FOR a long time, lights had glanced hither and thither
on the battle-field and within the forts, and, to one
eager watcher in the distance, their movements had seemed
as erratic and meaningless as the glimmer of fireflies in
June. The surgeons, with their assistants, were gathering
up the wounded, and conveying them to points where they
could receive such attention as the hour and pi ace" permitted.
At last, Fort Clinton was deserted by all except an occa-
sional sentinel, and those who still lay within its walls were
very quiet.
At an early hour in the evening, its parapet, was crossed
by two British officers, one of whom carried a lantern, and
seemed bent on an eager quest.
" I say, Vennam," asked his companion, *' why are you
so anxious to find this Saville ?"
" For the sake of his wife."
" Nonsense ! His wife will shed no tears if you find
him with a bullet through his head. If all is true that I
have heard, she hates him Hke sin."
" Far more than sin, mon ami," and the lantern that he
held down that he might peer into a dead man's face, re-
vealed the traces of recklessness and dissipation in his own.
" Indeed, I scarcely think she hates sin at all. You are
right, however, in one respect. No tears will be shed, if
I can find him in the condition of this carrion here, unless
266 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
they are tears of joy. Still, for her sake, I am looking for
her husband ; and, I may add, for my own. Knowing
how glad she would be to find him here, snoozing quietly
in the eternal sleep of which he prates, I, as her proxy, am
looking for him, as I promised. He is not among the
wounded or prisoners, as far as I can learn ; if I cannot find
him among the dead, he must have escaped, and we shall
have reason to curse our luck.
" Well, if you find him here, and food for the crows, what
then?"
*' Then I invite you to my wedding."
" Wedding, indeed ! I doubt that ! You are not one to
trammel yourself with a wife."
*' I confess I have had prejudices against the holy state of
matrimony, but any other relation with my present lovely
charm.er would involve half a dozen duels, and with good
shots. I wouldn't have a ghost of a chance in running the
gauntlet, and so I must emulate the example of the good
King David, and get her husband out of the way. I
snatched a musket and fired at him twice to-day, but for
once the devil did not help his own. ' '
" By St. George ! Vennam, I should think the devil
would be afraid of you."
"Ha! ha 1 ha!" was the reckless response. "Julie
Saville x\shburton is not, and she is the most magnificent
creature I've ever seen, and I've been something of a con-
noisseur in several lands. Besides, she's an heiress, which,
to a man of my tastes, is no small consideration."
" By St. George ! Vennam, this turning up of dead
men's faces is grim business. I'm getting sick of it."
" Well, well I you are not playing for the stake that I
am, so I don't wonder. Perhaps I may find him in the
morning. Hold ! who is that lying behind yonder big
Hessian ? That's an officer's uniform. O ye Plutonian
THE WIFE'S QUEST AMONG THE DEAD. 267
gods ! here he is ! dead, too, as the immortal Caesar. That
bayonet-thrust would have killed an ex. Here's to thee,
Julie, and our wedding-bells ;" and, drawing a flask of
wine from his pocket, he drank deeply, and then passed it
to his companion.
" And will the bells be rung soon ?"
- " Ay, that much we shall make her proud relations yield.
Up to a certain point, she always has her own way. A
soldier's life is too uncertain to wait upon the slow forms
of decorous custom. Besides, in this case, there will be no
* funeral baked meats ' to grow cold. There, I' 11 take his
sword, if I can \^nthdraw it from this beastly Hessian, and
that will be proof positive that I saw him dead. Farewell,
now, most accommodating of husbands I your sleep may
be as ' eternal ' as you like ;" and the human ghoul, who
had been feasting his eyes on the dead, disappeared, in the
-darkness, toward Fort Montgomery.
Z6S NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
CHAPTER XXIV.
vera's search among the dead.
THE Sunday evening following the departure of Saville
had been to Vera one of peculiar sadness and de-
pression. " If I only had my dear old Bible," she thought,
" and could turn to some of God's promises, perhaps they
would comfort and reassure me ; but, in a way that I can-
not understand, they have grown vague, and He seems far
off."
Still, she again and again tried to lift her heart to heaven
in prayer ; but the image of Saville would enter, and absorb
every thought, and the presentiment of some evil or danger
weighed down her spirits with increasing despondency.
The night passed mainly in sleepless imaginings of what
might happen ; but, with the light of Monday morning, she
tried to throw off the incubus, and busy herself with the tasks
which she knew were pleasing to him.
She noted that her father appeared restless, and that he at
last took his rifle, and disappeared among the hills.
About the middle of the forenoon she thought she heard,
faint and far away, the report of fire-arms, but tried to
ascribe the impression to her over-wrought and anxious
state. But when the skirmishing commenced on the Orange
Furnace road, and there was no longer room for doubt, her
heart sank, with such an overwhelming foreboding of evil,
that she almost fainted.
But her native vigor and her strong affection for Saville
soon banished all weakness. If her presentiment had any
VERA'S SEARCH AMONG THE DEAD. 269
foundation, it might be that even her hand could reach and
minister to him. While Vera had inherited her mother's
gentleness, she also had her readiness to suffer anything for
the sake of one she loved.
Summoning Tascar, she bade him prep)are at once to ac-
company her toward Fort Montgomery.
" Take a small ax, some food, and materials for kindling
a fire," she said.
At the same time she herself took some bandages, a flask
of brandy that Saville had brought, and (what seemed a
Strange act in so gentle a maiden) she also concealed, in the
folds of her dress, a keen-bladed hunting-knife.
" God grant I may have no use for this !" she sighed ;
*' but I have been taught what some men are,"
By the time that the first report of the field-piece was
echoing through the mountains, they were on their way.
With a boldness which greatly taxed poor Tascar' s cour-
age, she approached so near the fort, that two or three half-
spent cannon balls splintered the rocks a little below her
hidden outlook. Her eyes dilated with horror, as she
watched the bloody conflict that was taking place aim.ost at
her feet. Her keen eyesight enabled her to see men falling
within the fort, as the strong north wind swept aside the
smoke. At times she could scarcely resist the wild impulse
to rush through the rank^ of the inter\'ening enemy, and
assure herself that Saville was not among those who lay
motionless within the ramparts, or who were being carried to
a more sheltered position. Soon all became dusky and
obscure in the early descending night. The lurid flashes
grew more distinct, and these indicated that the besiegers
were drawing continually nearer the besieged. As the lines
of fire drew nearer and nearer, she pressed her hands upon
her throbbing heart. Then there came a great s:iOut With
lips parted, and eyes wild with terror, she sprang to the edg©
270 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEaRT.
of the cliff. A dark mass was entering the fort. The flashes
became intermingled, irregular ; they receded toward the
river and the northeast side of the fort, and at last ceased.
She sat down, and covered her face with her hands, as she
moaned shudderingly,
" He is lying yonder, bleeding or dying. I feel it — I
know it ! O Tascar ! what shall we do ?' '
But the poor boy could give no advice in this emergency.
Voices approached, and soon a stream of fugitives escap-
ing to the mountains began to pass near where they had
posted themselves.
" Quick, Tascar !" said Vera. " Let us go to the edge
of the path. You ask for Mr. Saville, and say you are hi?
servant. I will hide within hearing. "
This plan was at once carried out.
" O God ! grant that he may be among these who hav»
survived," she sighed.
In response to Tascar' s eager questions, several replied
that they had seen Saville during the fight, but did not know
where he was now.
The last weary and wounded straggler seemingly had
passed, and Vera's hope was dying, when another step was
heard, and a woman's voice was heard complaining.'
" I hope poor Larry's aloive. I've tried so long to foind
him, I've got ahint all the rest."
" O Captain Molly !" began Tascar.
" Och 1 ye spalpeen ; how ye stharted me. Me nervea
Is all shuck up 1"
" But, hab you seen Mas'r Saville ?"
' ' Is ye the little nig he had a few days, and thin sent off
in the mountings ?' '
" Yeh ; and I wants to find him po'ful bad."
"I'm sorry to tell ye, I'm afeard ye won't. God rest
his sowl I"
VERA'S SEARCH AMOMG THE DEAD. 27 »
With a wild cry, Vera sprang out, and grasped the wom-
an's arm.
" Speak ; what do you mean ?" she demanded.
" Holy Vargin !" gasped Molly. " I thought yees was
a cat o' the mountings. Be ye the one they call the white
witch?"
" No ; I'm a poor, orphaned girl ; and Mr, Saville was
my brother — my only friend. Tell me, have you seen
him?"
" Now, bless the poor young crather's heart, what kin I
tell her?" groaned Molly, turning away and beginning to
sob.
" You have told me all," said Vera, feeling as if turning
mto stone. " He is dead."
'• I'm afeard he is, unless the saints has kept him aloive
for the good turn he did for sich a poor wicked divil as I
be. He saved me life— he kilt the big Hessian as was
killin' me — ochone, ochone !" and Molly, in the exuber-
ance of her feeling, sat down, and rocking herself back and
forth, uttered a wild Irish waii of sorrow.
Vera's face grew almost as rigid as the granite on which
she stood. After a few moments she said,
" You say he saved your life ?"
" He did, ochone ! he did, God rest his sow] !"
" If any one had saved my life," continued Vera, in a
tone that was almost taunting, " I would not sit down and
weakly whine about him."
" Now what do ye mane by that r" cried Molly, starting
up, and dashing away her tears.
" I mean that if he saved your life, you ought to be will-
ing to try to save his. You are a strong woman, and hav©
lived among soldiers ; but I will see if you are as brave m
a timid young girl. Will you go with me, and bring him
away, dead or alive ?"
2 73 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" P'aix an' I will," cried Molly sturdily. " I loikes this
betther'n cryin' about him. Besides, I know jist where to
look for him. Tt was behint Larry's gun he fell, and I could
go there wid me eyes blinded. What's more, no gal, nor
man nayther, dares do what Molly O'Flarharty darsent. "
But Captain Molly's heroic fire was suddenly quenched
for a few moments ; for Vera threw herself upon her neck,
with sobs that caused the young girl's slight frame to quiver
almost convulsively.
•' Ye poor little tender-hearted crather," said Molly, cry-
ing in sympathy ; " yees jist as human as 1 be ; and I, like
a pig-headed fool, was a-thinkin' ye was a witch ! Yees isn't
able to go on any sich dare-divil irrend as snatchin' a body
out o' the jaws of that orful baste they call the British lion."
" Wait a moment," said Vera, growing calm. " I shall
be the better for these tears. I am, indeed, but a weak
child ; but for Mr. Saville I could die a thousand deaths.
Come."
" Well," said Molly, with a shrug, " it's only honest ii»
me to risk one life for him, afther what he did for me. S*
I'm wid ye."
'• You hab been kind to my ole mudder, " said Tascar,
" and I'll go wid you, too. Mas'r Saville is po'lul heavy,
and'll take a sight ob liftin'. "
" We must wait a bit," said Molly, "till them Britishers
git the wounded gathered in. That's what they are doin'
now where them lights is movin' 'round."
"But they will carry him off to die somewhere else,"
cried Vera, in great distress.
"No, child ; if they carry him off, the docthers'll take
care of him. So, if we doesn't find him by the gun, ye kin
comfort yer heart wid the thought that he's doin' well some-
where. If we shud go down there now, before they all git
aslape, they wud treat us moighty oncivil. "
FERA'S SEARCH AMONG THE DEAD. 273
** You are right," said Vera. " But it is desperately hard
to wait. "
"We hain't ready to go yit," continued Molly. "We
must thry to rig up sumthin' to carry him on, or else I'll
have to stale a stretcher down there, and that may be risky. ' '
" I know what you mean,'' said Vera, catching the
thought quick as light. " With Tascar's help, I can soon
make one. Tascar, cut two long straight poles."
While the boy was obeying. Vera drew her hunting knife,
and feeling around among the copse- wood, selected tough
and very slender young saplings. Having secured a suffi-
cient number, she twisted them back and forth across the
poles, and secured them in their places with some fibrous
bark, which she was not long in discovering. Never did
her thorough wood-craft serve a better purpose than in this
emergency.
" Ye' re a m.oighty handy little thing," said Molly.
" When did ye learn all these things ?"
" My heart would teach my hands to do anything that is
needful to-night. Can we not go now .?"
" Not jist yet. Sit down and rest yerself. "
"As if I could rest ! Oh ! do let us go. It will be a
comfort to get a few inches nearer. What a wild night it
promises to be ! ' The bleak winds do sorely ruffle. ' "
" All the betther for us ! There'll not be so many abroad.
They're gittin' quiet, an' I think we may stale up a bit
toward the place now. We've got to take quite a woide
turn, anyhow, to git around the creek, for they'll have
guards at the bridges. I know a place down here on the
right, where we kin git over."
The strangely assorted group now started on their most
perilous adventure, Molly leading, because familiar with
the region, and Tascar bringing up the rear with the rude
but strong stretcher which Vera had improvised. Molly's
274 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
early years had made her perfectly familiar with the wild
mountain region through which they must find a path, and
she threaded her way quite as readily as Vera would have
done in her own haunts.
" I've fished up and down this creek often enough to
know every inch of it," said Molly, who was now as eager
to serve Vera as she had once been to get her into trouble,
for being so " stuck up an' oncivil loike ;" and she was
not long in leading her little party to a place where the
shallow stream could be easily crossed. Then they ascended
the further bank by a slanting path that led toward Fort
Clinton.
" We must git well up on the hill," said Molly, " for
they won't be a-lookin' for anybody on the mounting sides,
and thin we kin crape intil the fort right by Larry's gun.
Ochone, Larry, me darlint ! I've been kind o' rough on ye
sometoimes, an' if we both git through this wild night's
work, I'll thry to be more aisy on ye. I tell you what 'tis.
Miss Brown, when ye' re ' 'twixt the divil an' the dape say,'
as I've heerd some o' the sailor sogers spake, ye think on
ivery oncivil thing ye iver said or did. May all the saints
be wid us ! Faix, an' they ought to be !" she concluded,
with sudden emphasis. " Ain't we a-thryin' to do as good
a job as they iver did ?"
By this time Molly had reached the end of her theology,
and exhausted her sentiment ; but her practical energies and
shrewdness seemed inexhaustible. With firm yet stealthy
tread, she led them down into the neighborhood of the fort,
and her familiarity with military life enabled her to suspect
just where guards and sentinels would be placed.
" Their fires show that they're down toward the river,
loike," she whispered ; "an' that's good for us, too. If
they git afther us, we must cut roight back on the path we
come, as no one could foller it who didn't know it. No^;
VERA'S SEARCH AMONG THE DEAD. 275
Step loight, an' keep yer mouths shut, for we're gittin' tick-
lish near. ' '
Fortunately, the early part of the night was so dark that
they must have stumbled immediately upon some one to be
observed. As they approached quite near the fort, they
heard a sentinel walking his beat. As his steps receded
they slipped by, and sprang down into the ditch under the
parapet, and then crouched a few moments, scarcely daring
to breathe.
" Give me yer knife," whispered Molly. " I've stuck
many a pig in my day, an' I'll stick a Hessian — yes, two
or three on 'em — afore they'll git sich a holt on me as that
big feller had as is lyin' dead over there."
Vera shuddered, but complied,
" Now," continued Molly, slowly rising, " let me git my
bearin's, so we kin climb in jist beside Larry's gun."
The dark outline of the mountain soon satisfied her how
to proceed, and she said, " Come around this way a bit. "
Stumbling, with thrills of horror, over the dead that lay in
the fosse. Vera followed. Suddenly Molly whispered,
" Hist, down !"
Footsteps approached, but died away again,
" Now wait a bit where ye are, I think this is the gun,
and kin tell soon as I fale of it. Ah ! ye ould bulldog,
this is ye, thrue anuff, I made ye bite 'em the last toime,
didn't I, ye good ould baste.?"
Vera was at her side instantly, whispering, ' ' Was it here
he fell .'' Oh ! quick, quick ! I cannot endure this sus-
pense a moment longer."
" Not too fast, or we may spoil iverythin' yit. I'llcloimb
up this side o' the gun, an ye on that side. Let the bhoy
bide down here till we call him. Aisy loike, now, ' ' she
cautioned, as Vera, with a bound, was up beside the can*
non. " Let us look over and listen."
476 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEARt
CHAPTER XXV.
THE WOMAN IN VERA AWAKES.
IN falling, Saville was not so stunned but that he h&<i
sufficient presence of mind to niake the huge Hessiaa
he had killed a sort of rampart against the thronging enemy,
and the man who had bayoneted him was carried forward
with the impetuous advance of the victors. He was well
content to be somewhat trampled, instead of receiving an*
other thrust which would pin him to the earth.
Almost his first thought was, '* Vera's dream comes trua
I am desperately wounded, perhaps dying ; and she, pool
child, in sad truth, can never find me here. ' '
As the rush of battle swept away elsewhere, so that h«
could venture to move, he tried, by feeling, to learn th«
nature of his wound, and found, with a thrill of hope, thai
a thick memorandum-book in his breast-pocket had caused
the bayonet to glance from his vitals into his shoulder, in*
flicting what seemed only a flesh wound.
He soon became aware, however, that it was a deep one,
and that he was losing blood rapidly. His main hope no\«
was, that he might not become unconscious before the sur-
geons gathered up the wounded ; and yet he now dared
show no sign of life, or assume any position that would
attract notice ; for the brutal Hessian soldiery were raging
around the fort, often striking down the wounded who
begged for mercy ; so he turned over upon his face, and
thus passed for one of the dead. When it became evident
THE WOMAN AV VERA A WAKES. 277
to the British officers that all resistance was over, they called
off the " dogs of war," and soon none were left near Saville
except those as helpless as himself. He now ventured to
turn over again, and then tried to sit up, but found himself
too weak.
Xot far away, he heard a wounded man repeating to him-
self the text the chaplain had chosen the previous evening :
" I am the resurrection and the life ; he that believeth in
me. though he were dead, yet shall he live :
" And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never
die.
"Poor fellow!" thought Saville; "believing that, he
can die easily, and, after ceasing to be, can have no dis-
appointment over his illusion. And yet, situated as v/e are,
one might well wish that it were all true. Oh ! that a sur-
geon would come."
The surgeon v>'as coming, but his blood and strength
were ebbing fast. In the fierce excitement of the day, he
had eaten scarcely anything ; and this abstinence, together
with his previous night of toil and the loss of blood, made
a feaiful drain upon his vital powers. When, a little later,
the light of a lantern was carelessly fiashed upon his pallid
face, the man who held it muttered, " He's done for, " and
passed on to those giving signs of life.
The deep swoon lasted while his wife's lover feasted his
murderous eyes upon him.
Had Vera's prayers received no answer .' Why had he
seemed like the dead, when a man stood over him who
would have stamped out tke faintest apparent spark of life ?
Why does he revive again, now that Vera is stealing toward
the fort ?
Slowly he became conscious of what had happened, of
his desperate situation. He felt that the deep sighs that
heaved his breast caused the slight remnant of his blood to
P-jS NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
ooze more rapidly. He was now sure that he would
die.
"Poor mother!" he groaned. "Dear, kind mother!
you will have a dreary old age. "
A light step was gliding swiftly toward him.
" Vera !" he murmured ; " my more than sister, my
heart's true mate ! How can I enter on my long* dream-
less sleep, and leave you waking and suffering?"
She knelt beside him, sobbing.
" Theron, I have found you ! Thank God !"
•' Is this real ?" he said, in a husky voice.
'* It is — feel my warm hand ; it's strong as a man's to
rescue you ! There are others here to help. Courage S
O God 1 spare him, spare him, or let me die also J"
*' Hist, aisy now," warned Molly. " Kapeall yees perty
sayins till we're out o' this divil's nest o' Hessians, Give
him some brandy, while I call the bhoy wid the sthretcher."
As Vera put the flask to his lips, she v/hispered,
" You will live ; yon will not die, and break my heart?"
" If mind has any power over matter, I will live," he
said doggedly, ' ' and more for your sake than my own.
From henceforth my life is yours, my peerless Vera. How,
in the name of wonder, have you reached me ?"
" Don't speak now. Save every atom of strength. Lay
the stretcher here, Tascar. Lift him gently now with me."
And, as if endowed with tenfold her usual power, she put
her arms under his shoulders, and lifted him on the green
boughs that she had twined for the purpose.
' ' You are an angel of mercy, ' ' said Saville.
" Hush! Now, Molly!"
" Git out o' the way, ye bloody spalpeen !" snarled
Molly, giving the poor Hessian whom Saville had slain a
contemptuous push with her foot. "I'm glad ye got yes
desarts, ' '
THE WOMAN IN VERA AWAKES. 279
With some difficulty they made thek way over the parapet
and fosse with their burden, and then started rapidly for the
hills. When a little beyond the sentinel, Tascar stepped
on a dry stick, which cracked sharply.
" Who goes there ?" challenged the sentinel instantly.
** Whist I let the stretcher down a minute. If he comes
to see, ril fix him ;" and she went back a few feet, and
crouched like a panther at the side of the path.
As there were no fur*' -'r sounds, the man evidently
thought that it was some animal in the woods, and con-
tinued walking his beat.
With throbbing hearts and stealthy tread, they again
pressed on, Molly following, with the hunting-knife, as a
sort of rear-guard ; and they soon breathed freer, with a
growing sense of security.
" Let me spell ye now," said Molly to Vera. "I've got
a stronger back, if not a stouther heart, than yees."
They were not very long in reaching the place where the
ax, provisions, and material for kindling a fire had been left,
Vera took up these, and for an hour they toiled en, wife
frequent rests. Saville often essayed to speak, but Vera en-
joined silence, and, when he grew faint, she put the flask to
his lips.
At last they found a secluded place, quite out of the
course that any of the fugitives would take, and hidden from
the enemy in the forts by intervening hills. A brook ran
near, and Saville' s thirst was growing very painful. Vera
thought they might venture to rest here, and kindle a fire.
They were all desperately weary, and in need of food.
Saville, also, was growing so weak that he might again be*
come unconscious. Vera asked Molly to help Tascar gathei
dry wood, saying that she would wait on Mr. Saville, fof
she esteemed this so great a privilege that she was unwilling
to share it
Roe— Vni— M
sBo NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" Never was there such music, excepting your voice,
Vera, as the babble of that brook, ' ' said Saville feebly. ' ' I
have heard of the thirst of the wounded, but did not know
what it was before. ' '
Taking a cup from the bundle she had carried Vera soon
placed a cool draught to his lips. He held her hand, as he
drank eagerly.
" Oh ! that gives me life," he said. " Did you mutter
any potent words over this cup ?"
*' My every breath is a prayer for you," she said.
" It seems to me that you are answering your own pray-
ers, my sweet divinity. I shall worship you while I have
breath to pray or praise. "
" Your mind is wandering, Mr, Saville."
" Never from you."
" Hush ! you must not talk."
" Like all other devotees, I find it easier to worship than
to obey."
" Please don't speak in this manner, Mr. Saville, I am
so grateful to God for having spared you that your words
pain me,"
" And I am so grateful to you that I can scarcely find
words that mean enough. May 1 live to show you how I
feel 1 Do not call me Mr, Saville any more, "
" Do you not think I had better try to dress your wound
by the light of the fire, Theron .?' '
" Yes, do ; your very touch is healing,"
She took out her bandages, and bade Tascar heap light
wood on the fire. Then, laying her sharp hunting-knife
within reach, she set about her delicate and difficult task.
But her beautiful face, as she bent over him, revealed only
the deepest solicitude for him, and not a particle of embar-
rassing self-consciousness. She first took from his pocket the
torn and deeply indented little, memorandum-book.
THE WOMAN IN VERA AWAKES. «8l
**Theron, " she exclaimed, " this saved your life 1"
*' I think it did. It was fortunate that it was SK that
pocket instead of the other. ' '
** Fortunate ! Oh ! why do you use such meaningless
words ? It was so much more than fortunate I Will you
give the book to me ?' '
"Yes,"
She pressed her lips upon it, and hid it in her bosom.
Then Molly and Tascar were surprised to hear Saville's
audible laugh, but tears were in Vera's eyes.
"Alack!" she sighed, dashing them away; "I am a
foolish child, and not equal to this work. I must cut your
coat, Theron."
" Yes," said he ; " pass your knife up my sleeve ; cut
all away around my throat. It will not do for me to move
much. I can direct you somewhat, for I know a little of
surgery. On entering the service I foresaw wounds, but no
each blissful experience as this. "
" Only speak in directing me," said Vera, deftly doing
his bidding. " Oh I what an awful gash 1" and for a
moment she covered her face with her hands.
" I tell you I am going to live, Vera. I feel it in every
nerve and fiber of my body. How does the cut run ?' '
" Across the upper part of your breast, into your
shoulder. ' '
" You see it is a flesh wound merely. Remove only the
clots of blood that prevent you from pressing the sides of
the cut together. Now bandage as tightly as you can
around my shoulder. There, that is right. How infinitely
different your touch is from that of a half-drunk British
surgeon ! Suppose that in your place, my dainty Ariel,
my ministering spirit, a broad-faced Hessian butcher were
bending over me, bungling away with fingers as hard as
his heart i That will do. Now cover all up well, so
282 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
theie may be no danger of my taking cold, and then rest
you rseif , '
" I will rest when you are out of danger. You must take
some food now. ' *
" Not much. We must run no risk of inflammation."
Again she brought water from the brook, and dipping the
hard, dry bread into it, fed him as she would a child. She
saw that his head did not rest comfortably, and so she lifted
it gently into her lap, But, as she did so, there came a
warmer glow into her face than the ruddy firelight war-
ranted.
" I will waken you," she said, " when it is time to re«
same our journey home. "
" Home ! How sweet that word sounds, as you speak
it!"
" Hush 1 hush !"
" Well, then, good-night. Vera. This is not the dream-
less sleep that I was dreading in Fort Clinton." And
almost instantly he sank into quiet slumber.
Molly and Tascar, as soon as they found that they could
do nothing more to serve Vera, had thrown themselves down
by the fire, and were soon in deep oblivion. But the young
girl, with eyes as clear and steady as the stars which now
shone brightly, watched through the silent hours.
She had never had less inclination to sleep. There was
a strange, delicious tumult in her heart. She thought it
was gladness and gratitude for Saville's escape. She thought
it was hope for the future. She would understand, by-and-
by, that it was far more. A hand was on the door of the
inner chamber of her heart. Its silence was broken by a
voice whose echoes would never cease. During the agony,
the fear, the awful suspense, of that eventful day. Vera had
ceased to be a child, and had become a woman— strong to
act and to suffer. And now that the man, on whom she
THE WOMAN- W VERA A WAKES. 183
had leaned as might a younger sister, and whom she r^;arded
as a superior being, far beyond and above her, had become
utterly helpless — dependent on her for existence — woman-
like, she began to love him as only a woman could love;
and with the same spirit of self-sacrifice and self -forgetful-
ness which had been the characteristic of her mother.
Innocent love is happiness ; it brings its own reward ;
and the more unselfish it is, the more profoundly it satisfies*
The world began to grow more beautiful to Vera, even
on that chill autumn night, and the sounds of nature to
make sweet chords with the new and rdysterious impulses ol
her heart. The brook sang to her as of old, when she was
a child ; but now with richer, deeper meanings ; the chirp
of the crickets seemed cheery and companionable ; the light
of the stars grew kindly and sympathetia A stag, attracted
by the fire, came and stood in the outer circle of light, and
gazed at her a :ioment with his laige, wistful, questioning
^es. With something of her old mirthfulness, she shoc^
her finger at him, as if he were an unruly child, liiat might
disturb the sleeper over whom she was watching, and the
timid creature bounded away.
The hours passed swiftly, with strange, happy thoughts
and fancies flashing up in her mind, as little understood as
the mysterious aurora that was illuminating the northern
sky.
The young girl was consciously puzzled by the feet that
she was beginning to look forward to Saville's awakening
with something like shyness and embarrassment ; her heart
fluttered at the very thought Heretofore, she had lifted
her eyes and face to his with no more self-consciousness
than that of a flower opening to the morning sun. And
yet, that which she half dreaded she anticipated with a new
and vague delight.
Her finger often sought his pulse, and her confidence in-
284 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
creased, as she found that it was quiet and even, though
feeble.
As dawn began to tinge the eastern horizon, he seemed to
grow uneasy. His brow contracted heavily, and, bending
down, she heard him mutter,
' ' Stand aside ; your power to curse my life has gone. ' '
Then, after a little, his face became calm and quiet for a
while. But soon another painful dream disturbed him, and
from broken words and sentences it was evident that he was
living over the terrible scenes in Fort Clinton. Suddenly he
said, quite plainly,
" Vera, my heart's true mate, how can I leave " and
he started up, and looked wildly around for a moment.
"Theron, " said Vera gently, "it's only a dream ; and
dreams, you told me, ' go by contraries. * ' '
He looked at her earnestly a moment, and then asked,
•' What has happened ?"
" I dreamt that you would be wounded, and alas I it
came true, I also dreamt that I could not find you ; but,
thank God I the contrary was true. ' '
" Oh, yes ; it all comes back to me now. You found
me dying in the fort. ' '
' ' But you promised to live, ' ' said Vera, with a sudden
chill of fear.
•* Did I ? My head is confused. Will you please give
me a little water?"
Trembling with apprehension, she hastened to the stream,
and returned with the cool and refreshing water. This
awakening was so different from what she expected.
After taking the water he seemed better, and his eyes
sought hers wistfully and questioningly.
* ' I am very weak, ' ' he said ; ' ' you must be patient with
me.
•• O Theron 1 live ! live ! that is all I ask I"
THE WOMAN IN VERA AWAKES. 285
•* I feel that I shall, Vera ; but it may be long before I
ftm well. You were holding my head when I awoke. ' '
' ' Let me support it again, ' ' she said blushing, and she
lifted his head into her lap.
" I want to see your face."
" No, no," she answered hastily ; " look at the beautifrl
dawn yonder."
" Your face is to me more beautiful and more full of
hope than the morning. Are you sure that you are well ?
I have had such painful dreams. Please let me see you and
reassure myself. ' '
She moved so as to comply with his wish, and as he fixed
his eyes eagerly upon her face, it drooped, and a warmer
light stole into it than glowed in the eastern sky,
" I do see the dawn in your face, " he said, " and it grows
more lovely every moment. Have you been watching over
me all the long night V '
" It has not seemed long, " she faltered.
"Vera!"
She raised her eyes timidly to his, but they soon fell again
before his ardent gaze.
" Vera, your face contains the true elixir of life, I shall
get well, never fear !"
* ' O Theron ! I am so glad — so very happy. But if you
cannot sleep any more, had we not better try to get home ?"
" Yes," he replied, in a voice of deep content ; " tak»
me home."
She was glad to escape. Arousing Tascar and Molly,
they were soon on their way to the secluded mountain gorge,
in which was the rude cabin, which, to Saville, promised to
be a haven of rest such as he had never known before.
a86 NEAR TO NATURES HEART,
CHAPTER XXVI.
vera's only crime.
AFTER a toilsome, difficult journey, during which
Saville's wound became very painful, they reached
the cabin. Old Gula met them with a scared expression
on her wrinkled face, but was overjoyed at finding Tascar
and Vera safe.
*' I'se had an orful time," she said. "Strange, loud
voices, speakin' among de hills, an' I didn't know what
A'sj mean. Den Mas'r Brown come home wild and drefful,
a-cryin' dat all was lost. Den he sat a long time like a
stun. All on a sudden he ask, ' Whare's Vera ? ' I telled
him dat you took Tascar, and went away yesterday mornin*.
And he began to go on orfuUy agin, and took de big gun
and went arter you. ' *
" Well," said Vera, with a sigh, "if he does not come
soon, I will try to find him. Mr. Saville has been badly
wounded, and we must all do our best for him. You get us
some breakfast. Tascar, make a fire on the hearth in the
cabin, and then help your mother. Molly, will you help
me cany Mr. Saville in ?"
They laid him down on the cabin floor, and Vera brought
a pillow, saying, as she placed it under his head, " You are
at home^ Theron," and was well rewarded by his contented
smile.
One end of the cabin had been partitioned off into two
apartments. In one of these a couch was pr^)ared for
VERA'S ONLY CRIME. 287
Saville ; bat, as they were about to carry him thither, Mr.
Brown entered in strong excitement, exclaiming,
" Great God ! Vera. What does this mean ?"
" Hush, father!"
' ' Are you bent on my destruction ? Why have you
brought this strange woman here ?"
' ' I'm not so moighty strange," snapped Mohy.
' ' Mr. Brown, ' ' said Saville, in his old, significant tone.
The exile turned tremblingly to him.
" You are safe, as I told you, just as long as you do ex-
actly as I direct. Sit down there and rest, and all will be
well."
The man obeyed, but was evidently dissatisfied, and
under great perturbation.
Before the day was over, both Vera and Saville were satis-
fied that the services of a surgeon would be required. Molly
was anxious to depart, that she might find her husband,
Larry. Vera therefore decided, without consulting her
father, to send Tascar with her across the mountains to New
Windsor. Molly thought that all who had escaped from
the forts would probably be in that region, and said that
she knew the way well, after she got down near to the river ;
so it was arranged that they should go early the next morn-
ing.
Saville slept a great deal of the time, and seemed strength-
ened by the nourishing broth which Gula made for him.
His deep content, and the anticipation of Vera's society and
care, did more than anything else to forward recovery.
The next morning, Molly and Tascar departed. Vera
accompanied them, and directed the boy to blaze the trees
until the path became plain. Molly did not tell Vera that
she had learned from her husband a great deal about
Saville's previous life, nor did she hint that he had a wife
living in New York. The redoubtable "captain's" ideas
288 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
concerning morals were rather confused, at best ; but, in
this case, she acted in accordance with such light as she had,
and her reasoning was simple, if not correct Saville had
saved her life ; and, whether he was right or wrong, she
was in honor bound not to put a straw in his way ; and,
from what Larry had told her about Saville's wife, she fdt
that no one had a truer right than he to find a better one.
Toward the close of the following day Tascar returned,
and, to Vera's great joy, was accompanied by her old
acquaintance. Surgeon Jasper. He pronounced Saville's
wound severe, but not dangerous, if he had good care and
nursing; "and that, I know, he will get," he added, with
a glance that brought the rich color into Vera's face, which,
for some reason that she could not understand, was now so
ready to come and go.
" I am here, prepared to stay a few days," said the kind
surgeon ; " and when I leave, good living and sleep will be
all that are needed, I think. "
" How can I repay you?" exclaimed Vera, taking his
'* No occasion for thanks," was the brusque reply.
" This is my business, and we can't afford to lose such good
soldiers as Saville."
Her father chafed greatly, at first, when he found that an-
other stranger had learned of his hiding-place, but the man
was so genial and frank, and the fact that he had been at the
bedside of Vera's mother partially reconciled the exile to his
presence. The surgeon, also, raised his hopes that the
American cause was not hopelessly lost, as he had believed
on the capture of the forts.
Under skilled treatment, Saville's wound healed rapidly,
and he was soon able to sit up before the fire on the ample
hearth of the cabin. The genial surgeon was the life of the
party during the long autumn evenings, and to Vera these
VESA'S ONLY CRIME. 289
hours were ever remembered as among the happiest of her
life.
Whenever it was possible, she found Saville's eyes follow-
ing her with an expression that warmed her very soul ; but
she, in her innocence, imagined that his rapid recovery was
the cause of the springs of joy welling up in her heart.
But, as Saville grew stronger, he often fell into gloomy
fits of musing, which perplexed and distressed her. She
also noted a troubled expression on the surgeon's face, as
some little act on the part of Saville suggested that his feel-
ings were warmer than gratitude or friendship inspired.
Jasper knew that Saville had a wife, and, moreover, that
she was a wife only in name. He felt that Vera was too
fine a girl to be trifled with ; but as she was situated, the
man to whom she had unconsciously given her heart might
do more to make than mar her happiness. At any rate, the
surgeon, who was a man of the world, concluded that it was
not his business to interfere, and so at last took his departure
in his wonted jovial manner.
" I suppose you won't thank me, Saville," he said, " for
taking you away from this fairies' bower ; but I shall report
to the governor that you will be fit for duty in a month."
' ' I shall not forget that I am a soldier, ' ' said the young
man, flushing ; " and you may see me in less time."
After the surgeon's departure, Saville's moody fits did
not cease, but rather increased. While he was exceedingly
kind and gentle, Vera saw that he was passing under some
kind of restraint ; his eyes did not seek hers with the old,
frank, ardent expression ; and, at times, she observed him
regarding her furtively, and with such a sad, wistful look,
that she began to shed tears in secret, though, with womanly
instinct, she tried to appear cheerful, and blind to all
changes in him.
But when his growing distress of mind began to retard his
990 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
recovery, she felt that she could endure it no longer. One
day, when he scarcely tasted some delicate birds which she
had shot for him, she burst into tears, and said,
'• Theron, what is the matter? I can shut my eyes to
the truth no longer. Something is preying upon your mind.
You have a deeper wound than that which Surgeon Jasper
healed. For the last few days, you have failed, rather than
gained, in health."
He grew very pale, and did not immediately answer.
*' I do not ask to know the cause of your trouble," she
continued ; "for you would tell me if you thought best ;
but I cannot endure to see you suffer. If there is anything
that a poor, friendless young girl like myself can do, I pray
you, speak plainly. Believe me, I would think any self-
sacrifice that would serve you a privilege."
" Any sacrifice. Vera ?"
" Any, any that you can ask," she replied eagerly.
But, looking into her pure, innocent face, and rem m-
bering how totally ignorant she was of the world's harsh
judgment, his own manhood rose up to defend her.
He took both of her hands in his, and said, very gently,
" I believe you, my dearest sister ; you are unselfishness
itself. But no cruel self-sacrifice on your part would help
me. Some day I will tell you what is troubling me. I can-
not now. The miserable and misgoverned world, of which
you know so little, often brings to those who must be out
in it many hard problems to solve. Rest assured, if I need
your help, I will ask it, and would rather have it than that
of any other living being. Now take your gun, and get me
some more birds, and at supper I will try to do better."
She saw that he wished to be alone, and so, sorely per-
plexed and heavy-hearted, she complied.
After she was gone, Saville grappled with the strongest
temptation which life had yet brought him. In the eye of
VERA'S ONLY CRIME. 291
the law, he had a wife, and could not marry Vera, and yet
he loved her with the whole intensity of his nature. From
the hour, also, when she blushed under his searching glance
in the early dawn, at the time of their bivouac in the moun-
tains, he had thought she was learning to give him a warmer
affection than that of a sister. In his weakness and inability
to think connectedly, this hope had filled him with a sort of
delirium of happiness ; but he had soon commenced asking
himself how this mutual regard must end.
With his French education, and as an honest adherent to
the creed that the impulses of nature should be man's only
law, he required no priestly sanction to his love ; but could
have said to Vera, in all sincerity, ' ' My heart claims you j
my reason approves the choice. I cannot help my p)ast folly,
but know that I am acting wisely now. I will ever be your
true lover. I will be such a husband as love can make me,
and such as mere form and law cannot
"While all this was true, he also clearly saw that Vera in
remembrance of her mother's teaching and example, and
with her faith in the Bible, and in the Being whose will she
believed that book revealed, would not look upon any such
relation in the light in which it appeared to him. Although
the young girl had proved her readiness to sacrifice her life
for him, there had always been something in her words and
manner which led him to doubt greatly whether he could
induce her to violate her conscience, even though that which
he asked seemed perfectly right to him.
In justice to Saville, it should be said, that though he re-
garded her faith as an utter delusion, he would not wish her
to do anything which she thought wrong ; and, although
he could honestly declare his love, he felt that it would be a
base thing to ask her to reward it, since she could not do so
without great moral wrong to herself.
There were, besides, other very important considerations.
992 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
He had always promised Vera, and had sincerely proposed
to secure for her, a recognized and respected place in so-
ciety. If she listened to his suit, this would be impossible.
She was defenseless, friendless, more than orphaned. She
trusted him implicitly, and, as a man of honor, he found
that he could come to but one conclusion. He must be
true to her interests, at any and every cost to himself.
"Am I equal to this.?" he groaned, and he strode up
and down the little cabin in such agony, that great beaded
drops came out upon his forehead.
At last he sat down, and covered his face with his hands,
while his mind went rapidly over the past. In imagination,
he saw the timid maiden venturing down into the dark fort,
where on every side a late worse than death threatened, that
she might rescue him.
• ' I am a base wretch to hesitate, ' ' he cried ; ' ' but would
that I had died there, rather than have lived to suffer this !
She shall not surpass me in self-sacrifice, however. I will
place her as high in society as a brother's love can raise her,
and then, if the burden grows too heavy, I can soon enter
on the dreamless sleep from which she recalled me. O hating
and hateful wife ! even your malignity would be satisfied if
you could see me now."
Vera returned empty-handed. " My hand trembled so
that I could not shoot," she said. " I am very sorry."
' • Never mind, little sister ; I am better now, and do not
need anything," he said soothingly, for he saw that her
heart was full.
"Better!" she cried, with tears starting to her eyes.
*■• You are but the ghost of your old self. I never saw you
so pale, and you look years older than when I left you an
hour ago."
" You are tired and depressed, Vera. Come and sit down
by me on your low bench, and see if I cannot cheer you."
VERA'S ONLY CRIME. 293
She gave him a wistful, questioning look, which he loand
!t hard to meet.
Making a strong effort at self-control, she complied witii
his wish, and for a few moments neither spoke. Again and
again she would look at him, with the same childlike, ques-
tioning manner. '
" What is it, little sister ?" he at last asked.
For some reason, this term, which had once seemed s©
sweet and endearing, but which of late he had seldom em-
ployed, now chilled her heart with fear. His face, though
very kind, had a strong, resolved expression. She felt as if
a viewless but impassable barrier were growing up between
them. While at her side, and holding her hand, he still
seemed far oft and receding. He called her his " dear littl?
sister," and yet she would rather that he should say simply.
Vera, in the tone in which he had spoken her name, wheji^
after her night's watch, she had raised her downcast eyes to
his. She neither understood herself nor him, but her heart
craved for more than mere brotherly affection ; and now tha*
he sought to manifest only this, he rudely jarred the deep«S
and most sensitive chord of her being. When he again
asked, in a gentle, soothing tone, as he might speak to a
child, ' ' Tell me what troubles you, sister Vera. Speak as
frankly as if I were indeed your brother," she bowed her
head upon his knee, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
" I don't know what is the matter," she faltered. " It
seems as if you were miles away from me, and that some-
thing dreadful is going to happen.
A spasm of pain crossed his face, for he interpreted her
feelings far better than she could herself ; and he learned,
as never before, how penetrating a loving woman's intui*
tions often are.
Suddenly she asked, "Are you going to leave w.%
Theron?"
294 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
He had about decided to tell her the whole truth, and
show the necessity of his course, when her father entered the
cabin. Before doing so, he had marked his daughter's atti-
tude and distress, also Saville's caresses as he stroked her
bowed head. He said nothing, however, but sat down in
his accustomed place, with the deepest gloom lowering upon
his haggard face.
Vera was about to move hastily away, but Saville retained
her at his side, saying,
" No, Vera ; no one has a better right here than you."
For a little time they all remained silent. Vera made
desperate efforts to gain the mastery of her feelings, though
with but partial success ; for she felt that some blow was
impending, which she could not avoid, and yet from which
she shrank in sickening dread.
At last Saville began, in a quiet, steady voice,
** Mr. Brown, I have so far recovered from my wound
that I ought soon to report for duty again. I feel that it
would be very wrong to leave you here in this remote and
lonely place. I tremble as I think of what might happen
in case of sickness or accident. Moreover, the country is
filled with lawless, reckless men, as you have learned, to
your sorrow."
The exile sprang up, and commenced pacing the room in
great excitement, but Saville continued firmly,
' ' You owe it to Vera to place her in a more secure po-
sition. This wild mountain gorge is no place for her. She
is fitted to shine among the highest and best, and I think
I can say, without boasting, that I have the influence to
place her there. All that "
A harsh, bitter laugh interrupted him, and her fathe?
said,
" Mr. Saville, you are unequaled at sarcasm."
The young man rose and faced the speaker, and Vera,
rERA'S ONLY CRIME. 295
also, stood tremblingly at his side. " I mean every word
I say. I can " he began earnestly.
" Mr. Saville," again interrupted the exile, ** yonr words
are worse than useless. It is time you learned the truth.
For the sake of the past, in memory of what my daughto-
braved in your behalf, you will at least leave us unmolested,
after you learn who and what we are. Blinded as I am by
remorse and fear, I have still marked your growing affection
for Vera ; and though I am but a wreck — a miserable frag-
ment of a man — I have still some sense of honor and justica
left. You are a gentleman, sir. I knew that from the
first ; and it is not right that you should associate with
such as we are any longer."
*' You are talking wildly, sir. You are not youreelf,"
Saville answered soothingly.
*' I am speaking terrible truth," continued the unhappy
man. " Whatever else has failed in me, memory has not,
and it is my hourly and relentless scourge. But enough of
this. It is sufficient to say that we are outcasts. A curse is
resting on us, which must die with us. This is no place for
you, and you will bear me witness, that I never sought to
draw you within the deadly shade of my destiny. I have
but one favor to ask — that you leave us to perish as remote
from human knowledge as possible."
" I cannot do this," cried Saville, quite off his guard.
' ' Why are you outcasts ? What crime has this innocent
maiden committed, that I should heartlessly leave her to so
horrible a fate ?' '
" What crime has she committed ? The same as that of
her poor, fond mother, the crime of belonging to me, and
of being a part of me. Would you ally yourself — would
you even associate— with the daughter of one of the worst
criminals on the face of the earth ?"
With a faint cry, Vera fell to the floor, as if struck down
296 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
by a resistless blow. Saville instantly lifted her up, say^
ing,
*• Don't grieve so, darling. He charges you with ne
feult, only misfortune.
Her father looked at him in great surprise for a moment,
and then said,
" Well, since you differ so greatly from the rest of tho
world, you may take her away, where her relation to ma
may never be known. If she could escape from under the
curse which crushed her mother, I would esteem it a bound-
less favor. For me there is no hope.
"Will you go with me. Vera?" asked Saville gently,
pressing her closer to his heart.
" Go, Vera, go, since he is willing to take you," said her
fether earnestly. " The thought that you were safe and
happy would render the miserable remnant of my life more
endurable.
Vera's sobs ceased speedily, and she became very quiet.
After a moment or two, she raised her head from Saville' s
shoulder, and said distinctly,
" No, I will not leave you. You are my father, and my
dying mother commended you to my care."
" O God !" exclaimed her father, " that I should have
brought down the curse on two such hearts ! My punish-
ment is greater than I can bear.
"Theron," continued Vera, drawing away from him,
and trying to steady herself in her weakness and strong emo-
tion, " the blow has fallen ; I have felt it coming all day.
We must indeed part ; there is no help for it, for my duty
is here. You must leave us to our fate ; for, as father says,
you cannot continue to associate with such as we are.
" Leave you 1" he cried, drawing her closely to his side,
and looking down into her pale face with an honest, manly
flush of indignation on his. ' ' May every plague in nature
VERA'S ONLY CRIME. 297
fall on ray dishonored head if 1 do ! You are rightly called
' Vera,' for a truer heart than yours never beat ; and I am
not such a fool as to lose it. I shall not ask her to leave
you, sir," he said, addressing her father. " But I charge
you, by the memory of your dead wife, and as you value
your safety, to place no obstacle in my way, as I seek to
make her happy in this, her mountain home."
"Theron," said Vera, in a low, thrilling tone, that he
never forgot, " I did not know that there was so noble a
man in all the world."
" Give me no credit," he replied. " To very few does
there come such a chance for happiness as I have found in
you. Come with me out under the starlight, for I have
much to say to you."
Before leaving the cabin, however, he turned to her father,
who sat with his face buried in his hands, and said,
** I know not, and will never seek to know, what you
have done, and I believe that your remorse is greater than
your crime ; but, as the father of this dear and innocent
maiden, I shall always treat you with respect. You have
acted honorably to-night, and I honor you for it. I take
my present course deliberately, and with my eyes fully open."
' * I fear that you will have cause for regret ; and yet, for
Vera's sake, I hope it may be for the best."
" I will never leave you, father," said his daughter, ten-
derly putting her arms around his neck, and kissing him.
Tears came into the poor man's eyes, and he said huskily,
" I am not worthy of this. Go, go ; it pains me !"
Saville, in the impulse of his strong love and excitement,
had decided to tell Vera just how he was situated, believing
that, in view of the circumstances, she would accept of his
life-long devotion, though unsanctioned by any formal rites ;
but her first glad and natural utterance, as they stepped out
into the quiet night, checked the words upon his lips.
298 NEAR TO NATURES HEART,
** Thank God !" she cried ; " thank God ! How good
my Heavenly Father has been to me ! Oh ! that I could
tell mother how happy I am !"
Saville was silent. It was his turn to experience a pro-
phetic chill of dread. What had that old Hebrew divinity,
at whom he had scoffed so many years, to do with his hap-
piness or hers ? But now He rose up before him like a
grim, remorseless idol, to which the maiden at his side, so
gentle and loving, and yet so strong, might sacrifice both
herself and him.
Prudence whispered, " You had better not tell her to-
night, you have too much at stake ; wait." And so, in-
stead of telling her the sad story of his past blindness and
folly, with their consequences, he led her thoughts away
from every painful theme, resolving that they both should
have one happy hour, whatever might be on the morrow.
And yet, remembering the only relation he could offer, he
did not dare speak frankly of his love, and could only com-
fort her with the general assurance that he would never leave
her to the desolation which her father's language, had so
awfully described. He spoke of their old, happy trysts, and
promised that they should be continued as often as his
duties permitted. Thus, while he did iioti openly and
formally decfare his love, it so pervaded his tone and manner
as to abundantly satisfy Vera, whose quick intuitions scarcely
needed words.
VERA MUST BECOME AN A THEIST. 299
CHAPTER XXVII.
VERA MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST.
THAT night Saville slept but little. He had thought
that he had settled, in the afternoon, the question of
his future relation to Vera ; but the strange, unexpected
events of the evening, after her father's return, had given the
problem, in his view, an entirely nev/ aspect. The future
he had proposed for the maiden — the chance for a happy
life under its ordinary and normal conditions in society —
seemed utterly blotted out and rendered impossible, and
through no fault or weakness of his.
Saville was full of generous and noble impulses, and Vera's
fidelity to her father excited his boundless admiration and
respect, and greatly increased his affection for her. In con-
trasting the faithful girl with his selfish and malicious wife,
he could scarcely believe that they both belonged to the
same race.
But, as he saw that Vera's beauty of character equaled that
of her form and features, the more unspeakable became his
reluctance to attempt any such self-sacrifice as he had re*
solved upon in the afternoon. Nor did it now seem neces*
sary, or even right, that he should. Every avenue into the
world was closed against her, and she looked to him alona
for happiness.
The fact of her love was most apparent ; and she, no mora
than himself, could be satisfied with the fiction of fraternal
afection.
300 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
But one thing now stood in the way of their happine^
and that was what he regarded as her superstitious faith.
Holding her present belief, what he must propose would
seem wrong, and only by teaching her his own philosophy
could he make it appear otherwise. But even if this were
possible, he had promised, at her mother' s grave, on the day
of burial, that he would never do aught to shake the child's
confidence in that mother's teachings, or lead from the
course which the parent would approve. Did not that
pledge prove as insuperable a bar as his wretched marriage ?
And he cursed his destiny as the most cruel that had ever
fallen to the lot of man.
But as, in the long, wakeful hours, he sought some solu-
tion of the problem, this thought occurred : When he made
that promise, he had foreseen no such emergency as this.
Should he be more loyal to his own hasty pledge than to
her whose welfare now wholly depended upon him ? In
breaking the promise, he would only be more true to her.
He believed that her mother was only a memory. She was
dead ; she had ceased to exist He was a strong, living
friend.
As long as the religious delusion which the mother had
taught her child had been a comfort and a support, it was
right and kind not to disturb it. But should he permit this
delusion — this old, antiquated superstition, from which the
advanced thinkers of the world were fast freeing themselves
—to stand in the way of actual and priceless advantages ?
Both Vera and himself would soon cease to exist, and the
opportunity for enjoyment would pass away forever. Why,
then, let an imaginary spectre in the path, that a bold ap-
proach and scrutiny would dissipate, prevent a lifetime (A
happiness ? Was he not even under sacred obligations to
take the trammels from her mind, when they would cause
such remediless loss ?
VERA MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST. 30 1
The honest theorist believed that duty coincided with in-
clination, and starting with this premise, there was no other
conclusion possible.
But the question which troubled him most was, Could he
do this ? He had been shown how much the word duty
meant to Vera. Her faith was simple and absolute, and
having been taught by her mother, was most dear and sacred.
He foresaw that the task would be exceedingly difficult, and
yet there seemed no other course.
He resolved to attempt it as the only way out of his cruel
dilemma ; and it was a habit of his mind, when he had
reasoned a thing out to his satisfaction, to rest firmly in the
conclusion. It was not in his nature to be ever looking
back with doubts and misgivings. He had no fears but that
he could make a home in that secluded mountain region,
after the war was over, which would contain more of the
elements of happiness than he could find elsewhere. And
if she were willing, he was perfectly ready to proclaim, to the
world that the impulses of nature are the only true and bind-
ing laws, and to support his creed by his open example. He
knew that his proud, conservative mother would never approve
of his course, but this was too near and personal a question
to be decided by her prejudices. He therefore decided to
conceal the feet of his marriage from the maiden, as much
for her sake as his own. For, if she learned of it prema-
turely, before receiving the enlightenment of mind which he
hoped to bring by his teaching, she, in her strong supersti-
tion, might destroy, not only his happiness, but her own.
Having settled upon his course, he fell into a refreshing
slumber, which lasted till late in the following morning,
when he was awakened by the report of Vera's gun. On
going out, she met him joyously, exclaiming,
" My aim is truer to-day. See what a royal dinner you
are to have I"
502 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEARTi
" I will come to your banquet, Queen Esther."
" You might do worse. And I'm glad you have no
hateful Haman to bring with you." Then she added mus-
ingly, "How often I have read that story. Do you know
that I think some of those old Bible tales are ver}' strange ?"
" Little wonder," he replied, with an expressive shrug.
*■ But I believe them," she said stoutly.
* I do not doubt it, ' ' he replied laughing ; ' ' even to the
acceptance of that marvelous, long-eared beast which was
wiser than the prophet, and spoke his master's vernacular.
There, forgive me ! I did not mean to pain your dear,
credulous heart. You must remember, in charity to me,
how these stories sound to a man. I hope you feel as well
and happy as I do this morning. But I need not ask,
when I see the tints of these October leaves in your
cheeks."
" Here is one that is brown, and here another, yellow and
green," replied Vera, in like playful spirit, permitting the
cloud to pass from her brow.
*' And here is one as beautiful as that dawn which I saw
reflected in your face after the night you so patiently watched
over me. Was that rich color only the reflection of the sky.
Vera?"
" You had just waked up, and could not see anything
plainly. But a busy housekeeper must not stand idling
here. Come and see what Gula has for breakfast."
The day passed like a happy dream to them both. With
A shy, maidenly reserve. Vera checked any open expression
or manifestation of the love she was content to see in his
face and catch in his tones, while the garish light of day
lasted. But when they again walked out in the starlight,
Saville would be put off no longer, and he asked,
" Vera, do you know why it was impossible for me to
leave you?"
VERA MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST. 303
'* You said, yesterday afternoon, that I was your dear sis-
er," she faltered.
" That is an endearing term ; but did it satisfy you ?'*
She \vSs silent, and he felt her hand tremble on his arm.
" I do not think it did. Your wistful eyes, unconsciouslj
to yourself, pleaded for something more — some dearer term.
Am I not right?"
" Do you remember what you were saying when I found
you in Fort Clinton ?" she asked in a low tone.
" Tell me what I said."
" I would rather that you remembered."
" I was thinking of you, Vera. I supposed they would
be my last waking thoughts, and I said, ' My more than
sister, my heart's true mate.' Were not those my words.?"
*' Yes ; and they have made sweet echoes in my ears ever
since, though I did not till last night understand all they
meant. ' '
" Have they not made echoes in your heart also ? Have
you not found your own true mate ?"
" * Thou knowest, ' Theron, ' the mask of night is on my
face ; else would a maiden blush ' tell you all. I cannot
add, with Juliet,
If thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay ;
for you know well, already, that I am wholly yours. In»
deed, if my heart had been as cold toward you yesterday as
it was tender, 1 could not fail of being won by your gener-
ous — O Theron ! your course toward me, who am so
poor, friendless, and shadowed with evil and shame, over-
whelms me with gratitude."
" Any other course would bring me life-long wretched-
ness. Now what cause have you for gratitude ?' '
' ' More cause, since what you give is not an alms ; for
though I should perish without your love, I could not take
Roe— VIII -N
304 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
it as a charity. But are you sure you will never regret your
action ? My heart misgives me when I think of it ; the world
can offer you so much ! You might easily win one who is
dowered with wealth, rank, and beauty, instead of poor me,
who am heiress only of a curse."
Saville thought, with a mental oath of execration, how he
had won such a one as she described ; but, with the pur-
pose of banishing all such misgivings on her part, he
said,
" If I were an ambitious boy who had never seen the
world, there might, possibly, be some ground for your fears ;
but from my youth I have been out in the world, and know
much about it ; and never, in my happiest moments there,
did I experience half the content I found in your compan-
ionship, even when I was first learning to know your worth,
as we talked together on the height back of your old home,
near West Point. Now that I have come to love you, now
that I justly honor you above all other women, can you
imagine I could ever think of another ? It is because I
have seen the world, and know what it contains, and how
little it can do for me, that I prize you far beyond it all ;
and it is because you are so innocent and unworldly that
you do not know your own value. If I had met you in
society, I should have had scores of rivals.
' ' Now I fear you are flattering me, ' ' she said laughing ;
" but you would have had no cause for fear. I shall come
to believe in my value only as I can make you happy."
*' Then I fear you will grow vain, indeed, for you will find
that your power is unbounded in this respect."
'' O Theron ! if I could induce you to accept of my
faith, what you say would eventually be true. I cannot help
telling you now, at the commencement of our new and happy
life, that I can never rest — never be satisfied — till mother's
favorite words from the Bible, * Let not your heart be
VERA MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST. 303
troubled, neither let it be afraid,' mean to you what they
did to her and do to me. For some reason, God had
seemed afar off, and I was losing my faith in His goodness
and mercy ; but, from the time He enabled me to find yon
in the fort, I have felt differently, and now I cannot thank
and love Him enough."
Saville was dismayed. This was reversing matters, and
the one he proposed to win over to atheism was fully bent
on leading him to become a Christian.
After a moment she added, " I miss my Bible so much.
Won't you get me another, Theron ?"
*' I cannot," he said, a little abruptly ; and then con-
tinued, very gently, " We must agree to dismiss this subject.
Vera, darling. The Bible is not to me what it is to you,
and it never can be. Great as my faults are, I try to be
honest ; and with you I cannot help being sincere. If you
regarded the Bible as a result of human genius, like the
plays of Shakespeare, I would get you one. But I cannot
aid you in making its unnatural teaching and stories the law
of your conscience. ' '
*• O Theron i" exclaimed Vera, bursting into tears, and
hiding her face upon his shoulder.
•' I knew what I said would pain you, darling, but I could
not help it. Would you have me act the part of a hypo-
crite ? I am just as sincere as you are. You have told me
your views and faith, and I tell you mine. As you believe
in the Bible, I believe in man and nature ; and I see in
you her most perfect work."
" But God is the author of both man and nature," said
Vera eagerly.
"I see no proof of it, and much to the contrary," an-
swered Saville decidedly. " Moreover, the great and wise
of the world, who do their own thinking, hold the same
views that I da As the subject has come up between us, I
3o6 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
could not help being honest with you, as I ever shall be ;
but do not let us dwell on it any longer now."
Vera sighed deeply, but said only, ' ' I cannot understand
how any one can be so good and noble as you are and not
believe in the Bible. I never even dreamed that it could be
otherwise than true, and to doubt it seems impossible. And
yet I know you are as sincere as I am."
"And thus you prove that you are no bigot, darling;
for, as a general thing, the devotees of all the various relig-
ions of the world are prone to regard those who cannot think
just as they do as willful, wicked wretches, who ought to be
knocked promptly on the head. If you can't convert me, I
am sure you will not put me to torture, will you, dear ?"
" If I did, L»should torture myself most. But, Theron,
this is too sad a subject for me to jest about. I shall never
cease to hope that you will some day think as I do. God
can incline your heart toward Him as easily as He bends the
tops of yonder trees."
" Now, Vera, darling, that is the wind which is bending
the treetops. Let us drop this subject for the present. We
have both been honest with each other, and we could not be
otherwise. There is so much on which we lovingly and
heartily agree, why dwell on the one thing wherein we
differ?" And he strove, with alia lover's zeal, to banish
her sad thoughts. She loved him too well to permit him
to see that he failed. Indeed he did not fail. The cup of
happiness which he placed to her lips filled her with a
strange delight, even v/hile she remained conscious that it
contained one bitter dreg.
The following days passed all too quickly for them both.
It was part of Saville's scheme to enchain her affections, so
that she could not take any other course, when the test
came, than that which he proposed ; and it would seem that
he was succeeding beyond his hopes. Her capability of
VERA MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST. 307
loving was large, and she had but few other ties and inter-
ests to draw her thoughts from him. His mind was culti-
vated, versatile, ever full of bright, fresh thoughts ; and thus
his society was to her like a sweet, exhilarating wine. But
that which weighed more with her than all else was the ever-
present memory of his devoted loyalty to her, when she
knew that the great majority of the world would have shrunk
away. She looked forward to their parting with inexpres-
sible dread, and the remembrance of the constant dangers
to which as a soldier he must be exposed, gave to her affec-
tion a tenderness, which only those who hold their heart-
idols in uncertain tenure can understand.
During the latter part of his stay, Saviile wasted no hours
in love-idyls ; but was busy, in every possible way, in pro-
viding for her security and comfort during the coming win-
ter. He sent Tascar repeatedly across the mountains for
such things as were needed, and also employed him in con-
structing a secure though hidden bridle-path down into the
glen. He induced Mr. Brown to aid him in building sub-
stantial shelter for a horse, two or three cows, and some
poultry. On the margin of a neighboring pond there was
still forage which might be cut, which, with the grain that
he intended to send, would be sufficient provision until
spring again brought its abundant supply.
Vera amused Saviile one day by her spirit of indepen-
dence.
*' We cannot receive all this," she said, " without mak-
ing some return."
" Give me a kiss, and I am amply repaid," he an-
swered.
" I am in earnest," she continued. '* Is there not some
way in which I can earn money ?' '
' ' Yes, you have only to do as I ask, and you shall receive
the greater part of my pay."
3o8 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
*' But something tells me that this is not right, Theron ;
at least, not yet."
He knew that she meant not until they were married.
But, feeling that he could never have a better right than now,
he tried to satisfy her by saying,
'• Since I am yours, body and soul, can I not share that
with you which I value only as it can minister to your com-
fort ? This is the beginning of our future home, and you
are doing more to make it homelike than I can."
"Oh dear!" she cried, half pouting, half laughing;
*' do men always have their own way ?"
" No, my fairy queen. I will one day be your slave."
" Why not add that you will take the part of Caliban, and
that I will call ' What, ho ! slave ! Caliban ! make our fire ;
fetch in our wood. ' Oh ! but you will be ' a brave mon-
ster,' Theron !"
" Now I think of it, I will be Prospero, and you ' my
quaint Ariel.' But I will never give thee thy freedom."
" Indeed ! this is reversing the order ; and yet I think
you are nearer right now. I am ' to answer thy best pleas-
ure, ' and do * thy strong bidding. ' Your pet name of Ariel
always makes me laugh, however, for you forget that the
spirit says, ' To thy strong bidding task Ariel, and all kis
quality.' Tascar must be your Ariel, and I will be "
" My heart's true mate. Come, there is Gula summon-
ing us to supper ;" and with a glance that gave the confid-
ing girl more assurance than could any words, he led her
within the cabin that he already called '* home," and to
which their united labors were fast giving a homelike and
inviting character.
The parting which soon came was a sore trial to Vera,
though, woman-like, she sought to hide from her lover how
deeply she was pained. She comforted herself with his as-
surance, however, that in all probability he would not be
far away, and that he could often visit her.
A HASTY MA RRIA GE. 309
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A HASTY MARRIAGE.
ON reaching the headquarters of the force defending the
Highlands, Saville received a warm welcome from
his old associates and acquaintances. And yet he could not
help noting something in their manner which both puzzled
and annoyed him. He, at first, suspected that Surgeon
Jasper had gossiped concerning his fair hostess and nurse ;
and, therefore, drew him aside, with the intention of teach-
ing him and others a severe lesson, in case his surmise proved
correct. In matters personal to himself Saville was one to
resent promptly, even to the extent of a bloody quarrel, any-
thing which he regarded as an unwarrantable interference or
liberty.
* ' Jasper," he said, ' ' I cannot believe that you could have
so far forgotten the confidential relations which you, as my
medical adviser, sustained to me, as to babble of anything
you saw or surmised when attending me in the mountains ;
and yet what does the peculiar manner of my old acquaint-
ances mean ? Why do they turn and look after me, and say
something that is not designed for my ears ?"
" You are right, Saville. I am not capable of breaking
professional silence, even if I had no friendly regard for you.
Come to my quarters."
On reaching them, the surgeon fastened the door, and
took out a New York paper.
" Read that," he said.
3IO NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" Mother?" asked Saville, turning pale.
** No, no ! Read !"
With a frown black as night, Saville read :
"M>arried, on the 12th of October, Captain Henry Vennam, of
H. R. M. Service, to Mrs. Julia Ashburton Saville, widow of the
late Captain Saville, who was killed during the storming of the forts
in the Highlands on the Hudson. It is well known that Mrs. Sa-
ville had no sympathy with her husband, in his unnatural rebellion
against his king, and that her loyal hostility to his disloyalty long
ago led to a formal separation. This fact fully accounts for the
seeming haste with which she has honored with her hand the brave
and accomplished officer who this day leads her to the altar."
With a deep imprecation, Saville crushed the paper in his
hand, and then sat motionless, with contracting brows, like
one trying to think his way out of some unexpected emer-
gency.
" From one of our spies who has since come in," said
the surgeon, '* we have learned the additional fact, that this
fellow, Vennam, found you himself in the fort, and brought
away your sword as proof of your death. It is well he did
not use it to let out what little life you had left."
" I have no doubt that he would, and with her full ap-
proval, if he had supposed I was alive," said Saville ab-
stractedly.
" That's a harsh accusation to bring against your wife."
" Curse her !" cried Saville, starting up in great agita-
Won. '* That is the most infernal part of this whole shame»
ful business ! She is still my wife. If I were only rid o*
her forever, I could forgive the insult of her indecent haste
in seeking the altar with another man. But the law still
binds me to her, as fiendish cruelty once chained criminals
to a putrefying corpse. ' '
*' It's only too true, Saville. Her marriage with that
ofi&cer was only an empty form. Will she remain with him,
A HASTY MARRIAGE. 311
do you think ? She must have heard that you are alive by
this time."
* ' I don' t know, ' ' said Saville desperately. ' ' She is none
too good. If she would only break her neck before she
breaks my heart !"
" Well, Saville, pardon me for saying it ; but I think you
will find both comfort and revenge in yonder moun-
tains."
"Jasper," said Saville gravely, " you are my friend ; but
touch lightly on that subject. If I were free to marr}' that
innocent maiden, who, you know well, is unrivaled in all
that can win respect and love, I would esteem it more than
the best gift of the world. She saved my life when that vile
tning the law calls my wife was waiting with murderous
eagerness to hear of my death."
" I admit that you cannot legally marry your wild flower ;
but you know what men do every day, and without a tithe
of your excuse. She is evidently the daughter of a criminal,
and can never hope for any better future than you can
offer."
" The honest love and devoted, lifelong loyalty which I
would offer I believe to be right and honorable. Do you
suppose that I could ask that true, pure girl, to whom I
owe so much, to do anything that I regarded as base, or
even wrong ? That she is friendless and defenseless ; that
her father, who should be her natural protector, has only
darkened her life by some evil deed, all make it more im-
perative that I, as a man of honor, should be faithful to her
interests. I do most sincerely believe that I have a right to
offer her my love ; but, with her faith and training, I fear
that I can never make it appear so to her, when she comes
to know of that woman in New York."
" Well," said the surgeon, with a shrug, " I am neither
Christian nor philosopher. I take the world as I find it, and
312 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
try to have as comfortable a time as I can every day, hoping
that the good luck which I have always had here will follow
me into the next life, if there is any."
"Well added," replied Saville bitterly; " * if there is
any ! ' If men used their reason, and believed what they
saw, they would know there is not. This life would be
abundantly sufficient, and in the main happy, did not super-
stition and the monstrous la^s it has spawned curse and
thwart us on every side. But, farewell, my friend ; I have
much to think of, and I will inflict my ill-starred affairs on
you no longer. Let all that has passed between us be
buried where no gossip-monger can ever rake it up."
After carefully considering the act of his wife in all its
aspects, Saville concluded that it would be to his advantage.
The haste of her marriage, which she had intended as an
indignity to his memory, would react against herself, and
involve more shame to her than to him. His hate was grat-
ified at the thought of her intense mortification and disap-
pointment when learning that he was still living. She must
either separate instantly from the man for whom she had a
passion — of love she was not capable — or else be disgraced
for life. At best, even her own party would be far more in-
clined toward censure than to entertain charity or sympathy.
He also felt utterly absolved from what he regarded as his
rash promise to be ioyal to the mere name of wife.
But the consideration which weighed most with him was
the belief that Vera, in view of her act, could be made to
feel that in reality he had no wife, that she had forfeited
every claim, and so might be more surely led to accept of
Saville as her lover, since he could not be her husband.
The fact that a certain amount of the odium of his wife's
course would cling to him in the world's estimation, and
that he would always be known as the husband of the woman
whe was in such haste to mairy another that she could not
A HASTY MARRIAGE. S'S
wait till assured of his burial, made a secluded mountain
home, with Vera, seem all the more truly a refuge.
Thus, every hope for the future oftme to rest, more com-
pletely than before, on the success of his scheme of teaching
Vera that man was a law unto himself, and that there was
"JO external power that had a right to set in judgment on his
actions.
A day or two thereafter, a paper came through the lines,
from New York, containing the following item :
" Truth Stranger than Fiction.— Captain Saville, whom all
supposed killed at Fort Clinton, is alive. It is said that he was
taken from the fort, late at night, by some people whom he had be-
friended, and carried back in the mountains ; and that, though very
severely'wounded. he is rapidly recovering. These facts are so well
authenticated that his wife has left Captain Vennam's quarters.
and returned to her relatives. It is said that they are deeply in-
censed against the unfortunate officer, who rather deserves sym-
pathy, since he has become, in a certain sense, a widower. There
seems to have been strange blundering in the case somewhere.
Perhaps the eyes of the gallant captain were still blinded with the
smoke of battle, when he supposed that he saw Saville dead.
There may be new developments in the comedy, or tragedy, which-
ever it may prove, before many days."
Saville smiled grimly as he read it, and then tossed it coa-
temptuously aside.
314 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,,
CHAPTER XXIX.
SEEMING SUCCESS.
LATER in the day, Saville received a document v4iidi
he read with keen deUghL It was a leave of absence
from his commanding ofi&cer, in which he was compHmented
on his behavior in the recent battle, and congratulated upon
his remarkable escape. " The campaign is over," the writer
went on to say, ' ' and it is not yet fully decided just where,
in the Highlands, the future works will be erected. Sur-
geon Jasper also informs me that, in your zeal for the ser-
vice, you have reported for duty rather sooner than the con-
dition of your wound warrants. You are therefore requested
to leave your address at these headquarters, and are permitted
to be absent until notified."
" Jasper, this is your work," said Saville, entering the
surgeon's quarters.
" Well, suppose it is ; what have you got to say about
it ?" replied Jasper, lifting his broad, good-natured face to
the speaker.
" I say this, from the bottom of my heart, mon ami, may
you never have to take any of your own medicine !"
" Amen I" cried the surgeon. " I was never wished bet-
ter luck than that But hold on, you are not through with
me yet I jogged the general's elbow only that I might
get a chance to jockey you on a horse. I've a beast that's
a little too skittish for one of my weight and temperament,
and it occurred to me that if I gave you a chance to make
I quick journey, you would buy him."
SEEMING SUCCESS. 3^5
*' Name your price ; charge what you please ; I'm wholly
at your mercy," laughed Saville.
' ' That is the condition in which I always like to get a
patient, for I can then bleed him to ray own satisfaction.
But if you were not my friend, Saville, I would charge you
twice as much as I am going to ask."
The bargain was soon made, nor did Saville regret it,
when, on the follov/ing short November day, the fleet animal
carried him safely to the mountain gorge that he hoped would
henceforth be the Mecca of all his pilgrimages.
He did not go clattering down the bridle path ; but, tying
his horse some distance away, stole up to the cabin unper-
ceived, and looked in at the window. How vividly, in after
years, he remembered the picture he then saw ! Vera sat
alone, on one side of the ample hearth ; her work had fallen
on the floor at her side, and her hands were creased upon
her lap. She was looking intently into the fire, as if she
saw more there than the rising and falling flames, which now
illumined herfece until its beauty seemed scarcely earthly, and
again left it in shadow that suggested almost equal lovelinesa
Her revery soon ended with a happy smile ; she picked
up her work, and seemed chiding her idle hands ; then, in
obedience to another impulse, she dropped it again, and her
rich, powerful voice gave the old refrain,
" I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows.*
She had scarcely sung the line before Saville was accom-
panying her on his flute. She stopped abruptly, and sprang
up, with hope and fear both depicted on her face. Was
the echo real, or a ghostly omen of evil ? She darted to the
door, and Saville took her into his arms.
How fondly she ever dwelt on the halcyon days that fol-
lowed ! They hunted and rambled together among the hills
that love made beautiful, even in bleak November ; and
3X6 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
when the storms of early winter roared in the wooded heights
above the cabin, the roar of the crackling flames up the wide
chimney was louder, and the sound of their merry voices
often louder still. Their mirthfulness, at times, relaxed even
the gloomy face of the poor exile, and he appeared to enjoy
a pale reflection of their happiness.
Saville also sought to make the most of the opportunity
which this visit gave, by commencing to give Vera a culture
which would make her more companionable in future years.
He gave her lessons in drawing and music, and found her a
most apt scholar in these branches. He also taught her how
to express herself correctly in writing, and in the evening she
usually read aloud to him for an hour or more.
He succeeded in obtaining quite a library for her. Learn-
ing that among the effects of a wealthy Tory, whose property
!^d been confiscated, there was a large number of books,
he went to see them, and found that he could buy them all
for a small sum. He did not wish them all, but only such
as would serve his purpose, and give Vera general culture
and knowledge, without strengthening her faith. To his
joy, he found that the library was quite rich, for that day,
in history, travels, biography, and even philosophy. It also
contained some of the Latin classics, a translation of Homer,
and the " Plays of William Shakspeare, " which he knew to
be so dear to Vera's heart. He and Tascar, who accom-
panied him, were quite well laden on their return ; and Vera,
at first, was wild with delight over these treasures. She
looked hastily and eageriy through the collection, and then
sighed deeply.
" What does that mean V asked Saville.
'• There is no Bible here," she replied in a low tone.
" No, Vera," he said gravely, and almost sternly ; for he
was beginning to regard this book with bitter hostility, as the
possible cause, in his view, of wretchedness to them both.
SEEMING SUCCESS. 317
Tears cams into the sensitive girl's eyes ; but he kissed
^em away, and sought, with his usual success, to divert her
thoughts from the subject he most dreaded. He believed
that he could educate her mind above and beyond her su»
perstition, and thus enable her gradually and naturally to
outgrow it, as he supposed that he had. In this effort, he
made history and books of travel his chief allies, thinking
that they were best suited to the simplicity and childlike
character of her mind. He skillfully, yet unobtrusively,
caused her to see that othsr peoples and races were as de-
voted to their multifarious religions as she was to hers. Ha
placed before her, though in no argumentative way th^
would awaken opposition, the absurd, cruel, and monstrous
acts of those who had professed to be Christians. He sup-
plemented what he read with graphic descriptions. The old
Greeks and Romans were made to live again, and she was
shown that their mythology, which lasted for centuries, was
now in truth only a myth, and that, as the people grew
wiser, they lost faith in their gods.
Vera was not slow in drawing the inference, and clouds
of doubt began to darken her mind ; but it seemed so dread-
ful to question her mother's faith, that she fought against
her unbelief earnestly, though secretly ; for she knew that
she could obtain no help from Saville. These doubts, how-
ever, became a low, jarring discord in the sweet harmony of
her life.
But his personal influence had a still stronger effect than
his suggestion of abstract thought, and of facts adverse to
her faith. He one day obtained quite a clear glimpse of the
silent workings of her mind ; for, coming m unexpectedly,
he found her in tears. To his gentle but eager questioning,
she sobbed,
' * O Theron ! you are pushing God, and all relating to
Him, out of my heart and thoughts, and I am beginning
3l8 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
to worship only you. My conscience tells me that it is not
right, and that evil will come of it."
"Well, Vera, darling," he said, "this is scarcely more
than fair, since you fill every nook and comer of my heart,
and I have long worshiped you only."
She shook her head with a new rush of tears ; but he
comforted her with many reassuring words, and she loved
him too well to be willing to cloud his face with her trouble.
Her conscious effort to resist his personal influence grew less
and less, and he seemingly took sole possession of her heart
As she was situated, she was scarcely to be blamed, for he
had proved such a true and helpful friend ; he had made
such an infinite difference in her life, and was so genuinely
human, so sympathetic in all respects, save the one on which
they differed, that her own humanity found in him every-
thing it craved. Even in his skepticism, she was compelled
to respect him for his evident sincerity.
Still, she did not lose her faith in God, nor did she often
neglect the form of devotion ; but she permitted Saville's
Image to crowd Him almost wholly from her heart and
thoughts.
Saville occasionally sent Tascar with a note of inquiry to
Surgeon Jasper, and thus kept himself posted in regard to
public affairs. During 'che latter part of January, he was
ordered to report to Lieutenant-Colonel Radiere, and found,
to his great satisfaction, that his services would be required
at West Point, from which place he could ride " home" in
comparatively brief time. The winter and spring passed
rapidly away. His hopes continually grew stronger, that
his effort to teach Vera to eventually feel and think as he
did, would be crowned with success, and he was even more
Eure that he had made himself so necessary to her very ex-
istence that she could never give him up, even though hef
conscience at first might be arrayed against him.
4t MASTER MIND AND WILL, 319
CHAPTER XXX.
A MASTER MIXB AND WILL.
EARLY in the summer, Saville received instructicaas te
go to the main army under General Washington,
and thence to Philadelphia (which had recently been evacu-
ated by the British troops), upon business connected \«ntb
the Engineer Department.
On his way he stopped at the cabin, to inform Vera of hif
lourney, but assured her of his speedy return. She grew
?»ie at the thought of the possible perils which he might en-
counter, but he promised more caution than it was in his
nature to practice, and also said, with a significant glance,
that awakened a curicKit}' which he would not then satisfy,
that he would bring her something from Philadelphia.
He reached General Washington's headquarters on the
eve of the memorable battle of Monmouth, Though jaded
and worn by his ride, he readily accepted Lafayette's invita-
tion to act as his aid, his services being specially valuable at
this time, from his familiarity with both French and English.
The command of the extreme advance, upon which would
devolve the important task of first attacking the enemy pre-
liminary to a general engagement, would properly fall to
General Lee, who was second to Washington in rank. But
Lafayette, ever coveting the post of danger, eagerly sought
to be intrusted with this duty. As General Lee had been
from the first strenuously opposed to the battle, and, in-
deed, to any interference with the British line of mardi
320 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
through New Jersey, Washington was more than ready to
comply, if that officer would waive his right to lead in per-
son. This General Lee did unhesitatingly, saying to the
Marquis, that he was only too glad to be relieved from all
responsibility in carrying out measures which were destined
to fail.
Lafayette, therefore, early on the morning of the 27th of
June, advanced with a large force toward the enemy. The
British troops were commanded by Sir Henry Clinton, who,
perceiving that a battle must be fought, made his disposi-
tions accordingly, moving his baggage forward on his line
of march, but retaining the flower of his army in the rear to
repel the approaching Americans. In the mean time. Gen-
eral Lee changed his mind, and requested Washington to
give him the leadership of the advance which he had just re-
linquished. Indeed, as a matter of military etiquette, he al-
most claimed it as his right. Although Lee had been bit-
terly opposed to Washington's plan of battle, the latter still
believed the crotchety general would do his duty as an
officer, but did not know how to satisfy his punctilious
claims without wounding Lafayette. Learning, however,
that the British forces immediately before the Marquis were
being rapidly increased, he dispatched two additional
brigades to the front, under command of Lee, who, as senior
officer on the field, would, as a matter of course, outrank
all others. But Washington's friendship for Lafayette also
led him to vn:ite him a note of explanation.
That sultry Saturday night was one of deep anxiety to
both parties. The British general was encumbered with an
enormous amount of baggage. Washington was about to
assail the disciplined troops, whom Lee said it was madness
to attack in their present force and strong position.
None who were burdened with responsibility slept, and
tven Saville, though very weary, was kept awake by the
A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 32 1
thought, that in a very few hours he might enter on the
dreamless sleep which his love now made him dread un-
speakably ; and that, should desperate wounds leave him
helpless on the field. Vera was too far away to seek him
again.
At midnight there was a stir and the heavy tread of men.
Washington, who has been characterized as over-cautious,
was so resolutely bent on fighting Clinton, that he had sent
orders for a large detachment to move up close to the ene-
my's lines, and to hold the British general in check, should
he attempt to decamp in the darkness.
At daylight, expresses galloped to Lee and to Washington
with the tidings that the enemy were moving. The chief
put the main army into motion instantly, and gave orderi
that the men should throw aside blankets and every imped-
ing weight. Lee remained inert until positive orders spurred
him into action. He then advanced, it is true, but lan-
guidly, very cautiously, without definite purpose, and with-
out concert with his supporting generals.
By his direction. General Wayne gained a position where
he was certain he could deal the enemy a tremendous blow ;
but was checked in the very act of striking, that Lee himself
might carry out a brilliant piece of strategy, which ended,
however, in a feeble and purposeless demonstration.
Lafayette saw an opportunity to gain the rear of a body of
the enemy marching against them, and spurred to Lee, that
he might obtain permission to make the attempt.
* ' Sir, ' ' was the reply, ' ' you do not know British
soldiers ; we cannot stand against them ; we shall certainly
be driven back at first, and we must be cautious."
"It may be so. General," Lafayette replied; "but
British soldiers have been beaten, and they may be again ;
at any rate, I am disposed to make the trial."
Lee then gave Lafayette permission to carry out his plaE
^22 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
in part. A little later, one of Washington's aids arrived
upon the field in quest of information, and the marquis sent
back emphatic word to his chief that his presence was
needed.
Before the halfway measure which Lee proposed could be
carried out, the permission was recalled, and the gallant
Frenchman was ordered to fall back, though why he could
not tell. He chafed like a chained lion, and now felt that
the man whom he must obey was either a traitor or a coward.
Saville was deeply^ chagrined ; for Lee, from his outspoken
skepticism and innovating tendencies, was one of his heroes.
This hesitation, this marching and countermarching, and
cautious feeling around, gave Sir Henry Clinton just the
time he needed. His immense train of baggage was well
out of the way, guarded by a strong force under General
Knyphausen, so he now decidedly took the initiative, by
hurling the bulk of his army, under Lord Comwallis, against
the dilatory Americans, who had been wasting their time
and strength in purposeless skirmishing.
The whole advance guard of the army under Lee was soon
falling back, some with orders and some without, and it was
not long before the retrograde movement developed into a
disgraceful retreat. As the enemy pressed faster and near-
er, panic seized upon the Continental forces, and all the
awful consequences followed inevitably. The day was in-
tensely hot, and the unclouded sun smote many a poor fel-
low to the earth in surer death than the thickly-flying bul-
lets. The already wearied men sank ankle-deep into the
yielding sand, and those who, through feebleness, wounds,
or fatigue, fell in the way, were trampled by the strong in
their reckless flight.
And yet Washington knew nothing of all this. There had
been no indications of heavy fighting in his front. To all
tiie wretched blunders of that morning Lee added the mos?
A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 323
unpardonable, when he failed to inform his chief that he
was falling back ; for he thereby endangered the entire army.
The first intimation that Washington received of what had
occurred was the appearance of breathless, terror-stricken
fugitives. With rare presence of mind, he ordered them
under arrest, lest they should communicate their tidings tc
the main body of the army, which was advancing to Lee'g
support ; for there is no contagion so mysterious and awf ally
rapid in its transmission as that of a panic.
Still hoping that the report was unfounded, he sprang upon
his horse, and spurred toward the front ; but the increasing
stream of fugitives, and then the heads of the retreating
columns, soon convinced him that the disaster which he be-
lieved impossible had taken place. He asked several officers
in the retreating column what it all meant. No one knew.
One smiled significantly, another was angry, while a third
declared, with an oath, that " they were flying from a
shadow."
Washington was ever slow to suspect others of evil, but
the thought now flashed into his mind that Lee was making
good his predictions of defeat, by his own cowardly or
treacherous action. He stopped to ask no more questions,
but, ordering the commander of the first division to form his
men on the first rising ground, he, with his staff, swept
across the causeway, past the disorderly fugitives, his anger
kindling as he rode. The frown upon his brow grew black
as night, and by the time he reached Lee, who was leading
the retreat of the second division, his appearance was terrible.
Saville, who rode near, with Lafayette, was deeply awed,
and, were not the proof before him, could not have believed
that a human face could become so powerful in its indig'
nation.
" What is the meaning of all this, sir .?" Washington de-
manded, in a tone that was stern even to fierceness.
324 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
* Sir— sir," stammered Lee, at first overwhelmed by
Washington's manner.
" I desire to know the meaning of this disorder and con-
fusion," was again demanded, and with still greater vehe-
mence.
' ' You know that the attack was contrary to my advice
and opinion — " Lee began.
•' You should not have undertaken the command, unless
you intended to carry it through."
Lee's irascible spirit was now stung to rage, and he made
ftn angry repty, which drew from Washington still sharper
expressions. For a moment, the incensed generals con-
fronted each other, like two thunder-clouds that are flashing
their lightnings back and forth, as if within the dark folds of
each there was a vindictive will.
Lee sought to give a hurried explanation, which ended
with the assertion that the ground was unfavorable, and that
he was not disposed to beard the whole British army with
troops in such a situation.
" I have certain information," rejoined Washington,
" that it was merely a strong covering party. "
" That may be ; but it was stronger than mine, and I
did not think proper to run such a risk."
*' I am very sorry," was the reply, " that you undertook
the command, unless you meant to fight the enemy."
" I did not think it prudent to bring on a general engage-
ment."
' ' Whatever your opinion may have been, ' ' answered
Washington disdainfully, " I expected my orders would
have been obeyed."
All this had passed with inconceivable rapidity, and, as it
were, in flashes, and yet too much time had been wasted,
tor the enemy were but a few minutes' march away from
them. Casting Lee aside, as he might a broken reed. Wash*
A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 325
ington ordered that the head of the second division, instead
of continuing its retreat, should form instantly in line of
battle. Then, wheeling his horse, he dashed to the rear of
the American column, and toward the advancing enemy,
who were now close upon the confused and disordered rem-
nant of Lee's troops.
Until Washington appeared, the poor fellows were in sore
straits. Their retreat had been checked ; they were standing
helplessly in the road, artillery and infantry huddled together.
No one knew what to do, or how the miserable blundering
of the day would end. Only one thing was definite and
certain — the solid columns of their pursuers were now al-
most upon them. They were on the eve of a headlong anc
disastrous flight, when Washington, with his staff, galloped
up, and his presence and inspiring mien sent an electric
thrill of hope and courage to every fainting heart. The
great master mind, aroused to its highest degree of power,
seemed to lay a resistless grasp upon the whole chaotic
mass. It appeared but a moment before Colonel Oswald's
guns were posted on a neighboring eminence, were unlim-
bered, and were pouring well-directed shots into the advanc-
ing foe. Two other batteries galloped off to the left, and
taking position in the covert of woods, were soon adding
their tremendous echoes to the deepening uproar of battle.
In the mean time, and under a perfect storm of bullets and
cannon balls, the intrepid chief formed the regiments of
Colonels Stewart and Ramsay in line, and enabled them to
reply to the destructive volleys they were receiving. He
seemed to bear the same charmed life that had excited the
superstitious wonder of the savages on Braddock's disastrous
field in the old French and Indian war. Within a space of
time so brief as to appear incredible, he had rallied into battle
array fugitives that, a few moments before, were bent only on
flight, and the impetuous advance of the enemy v/as checked.
$26, NEAR TO nature: S HEART.
Having made all the arrangements within his power, this
born commander of men did a still greater thing : he con-
trolled himself. Riding back to Lee, in calmer mood, he
asked,
" Will you retain the command on this height or not?
If you will, I will return to the main body, and have it
formed on the next height."
" It is equal to me where I command," replied Lee.
" I expect you will take proper means for checking th«
enemy," said Washington.
'* Your orders shall be obeyed ; and I shall not be tha
first to leave the ground."
Availing himself of the respite which his own masterly
action had secured, Washington spurred back to the main
army, which, under his rapid orders, soon bristled along the
next height
But he had left something of his own iron will amo!^
those who were now sustaining the enemy's attack. Hia
clarion voice, which had resounded above the din, was stiU
echoing in their hearts, and the grand excitement which bad
animated his face made a hero of every soldier in the iittle
force which the enemy's bullets were fast thinning.
They maintained their position gallantly for some little
time, and when, at last, the left wing gave way, pushed back
by the weight of numbers, and emerged on the further side
of the woods toward Washington, both of the contending
parties seemed intermingled in a hand-to-hand mele'e.
The enemy next attacked Vamum's brigade, posted neaj
the causeway, across which the Americans must retreat, and
here the conflict raged severely for some time.
As Saville was carrying an order across the field to a bat-
tery that was doing effective service, he was hailed by a
familiar voice, and turning, saw his old acquaintance, Caps-
tain Molly, coming toward him with a bucket of water.
A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 327
'* The Holy Vargin bless ye, Misther Saville !" she cried.
*' I fale safe, now I know that ye' re around,"
" Ah, Molly, my brave girl ! is that you ?" he replied,
*' What are you doing here ?"
" Faix, sur, while Larry is givin' the Red-coats fire, I'm
givin' him wather, '*
" Can you spare me a drop ? for I'm half perished with
thirst in this infernal heat and dust."
" Take all ye want, and welcome. What are a few
dhraps of wather, when ye spilt yer blood for me ?"
" IMolly, you are a jewel ! What did you do for me?
Larry may well be proud of you."
" Och ! poor man I I'm better to him now "
A cannon ball was whizzing toward them ; a second later.
Larry was a bleeding corpse beside his gun.
Molly saw him fall as she turned. With a wild shriek she
dropped her pail, rushed to his side, and throwing herself
upon his mangled form, gave utterance to loud cries of
grief.
The officer in charge of the battery was about to withdraw
the gun, as he now had no one competent to work it ; but
Molly, obeying another impulse, sprang up, and dashing her
tears right and left, cried,
"No, yer honor! I'll take Larry's place, and it'll do
me sore heart good to send some o' thim Red-coats, as
killed him, to the divil ;" and she seized the rammer, and
proved instantly that she had nerve and skill for the task.
With her dark, piercing eyes ablaze with anger, and her di-
sheveled hair flying about her inflamed face, she seemed a
fury rather than a woman. When Saville left, the rapid dis-
charges of the gun told how eagerly she was seeking to
avenge the death of her husband.
The British cavalry, and a heavy body of infantry at last
charged simultaneously, and broke the American ranks.
EoE— VIII-0
328 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
Lee ordered instant retreat, and, with Colonel Ogden's regi-
ment, covered the passage of his men across the cause-
wa}-.
Molly would not leave her husband's body, but lifting it
on the gun, she tied it there, and then, by running, kept
near to the retiring battery, the troops greeting her with ac-
clamations as she passed.
The British forces promptly followed the hard-pressed
Continentals over the causeway, anticipating a complete vic-
tory, and the battle speedily became general. But Wash-
ington was now upon his own ground, and supported by
generals in whom he could trust implicitly. The enemy
made successive attacks on his front, left and right, but were
repelled. A tremendous cannonade was kept up on both
sides, and seldom had the peace of the Sabbath been so
rudely disturbed as on that sultry summer day.
General Wayne, whose headlong valor had justly earned
him the sobriquet of " Mad Anthony," occupied an ad-
vanced position in an orchard, from which he maintained a
brisk and galling fire on the British centre. He repeatedly
repulsed the Royal Grenadiers, who sought to dislodge him.
It soon began to appear that the success of the enemy's at-
tack depended on driving him from his position.
Saville was directed by Lafayette to ride over to Wayne
with a cheering message, to watch the struggle, and report
to him its progress.
When Saville reached Wayne's advanced post. Colonel
Moncton, who commanded the Royal Grenadiers, was de-
ploying them in the open field, as for a quiet evening
parade. It was evident that he ^^'as preparing for the stern
and silent use of the bayonet, on which the British troops
justly prided themselves.
When his men were in line, he made them a brief, stirring
address, in which he appealed to every motive which could
A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 329
inspire an English soldier with unflinching courage. His
voice was distinctly heard by those awaiting the assault, and
at times even his words were intelligible. He next placed
himself at their head, and led them in solid column against
the Americans. They presented a truly magnificent sight
in the warm, mellow light of the declining day. With tha
same firmness and steadiness that they would pass in review
on some gala occasion, the poor fellows advanced toward ths
point where very many would meet wounds and death. So
even and perfect was their step, as they marched shoulder to
shoulder, that a cannon ball from an American battery en-
filaded a whole platoon, knocking the muskets out of each
man's hand ; but, with scarce a change in muscle, the ob-
scure heroes strode on with their comrades, although un-
armed. Moncton walked at their head, erect, stately, reso-
lute, and his bearing was emulated by every officer in the
column. Their silent progress was more impressive than if
every step was accompanied by shouts and volleys. Their
march was the very sublimity of courage, the perfect
flower of discipline, and it seemed as if it must be resist-
less.
They are now within a few rods of their equally silent,
waiting foe ; and yet there is no hesitation, no change in
Ae time of their strong, steady tramp. They are now so
near that the opposing ranks can look into each other's be-
grimed and heat-swollen faces. The same stern resolve char-
acterizes the countenances of each dark array. To distant
spectators the two clouds of vi^r seem almost together ; the
lightning flashes must come soon.
The American firelocks are leveled, not evenly, covering
the whole advancing column, but concentrating on every
oflficer visible. They are but a few yards away. Suddenly
Moncton steps to the right, waves his sword aloft, and
shouts,
33© NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" Charge I"
Wayne's signal is equally prompt. A volley from the
whole length of his line rings out ; then, lowering their
empty pieces, his men rush forward to meet the coming
shock with answering bayonet thrust
Moncton fell, and also almost every other British officer ;
but his heroic column, stunned but for a moment, pressed
on, and there was at once a desperate hand-to-hand conflict
over the prostrate commander, one party seeking to retain,
and the other to obtain his body. At last the Continentals
secured the lifeless form of the gallant colonel, and carried
it to the rear.
If the English courage was steady and unflinching, that
of the Americans was reckless and enthusiastic. Gradually
they pushed back the struggling and almost unofficered
grenadiers, until, convinced that their assault had failed,
they gave way. This practically decided the fate of the day.
The sun was setting, and the British forces soon retired to
the height whereon Washington had rallied Lee's disordered
troops in the morning. Throughout the long twilight,
something of the Sabbath' s stillness settled down on a region
that had, throughout the day, resounded with the horrid din
of war. The battle-field, and the whole line of Lee's disas-
trous retreat, presented one strange feature. There were
wounded and mangled bodies in abundance, but everywhere
were found men dead or helpless, without a scratch upon
their persons. The torrid sun had smote both parties as
with the wrath of heaven.
Washington and his suite lay down under a broad oak,
with the dead all around them, intending to renew the con-
flict with the light of the following morning ; but, while the
Americans, from the fatigues of the day, were sunk in ob-
livion almost as deep as that of those whom the morning re-
veille could not awaken, Clinton stole away with his baffied
A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 33'
army, leaving his severely wounded to the mercy of his
foes. When, at daybreak, the advance was sounded, the
Americans found only the deserted campaign ground.
It was a drawn battle ; but, if Lafayette had commanded
the advance instead of Lee, and had Morgan, with his brave
riflemen — who, but three miles distant, chafed all day with-
out orders — attacked the enemy's rear, history might have
given a different record.
332 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE REVELATION,
SAVILLE was naturally brave, but no man ever had a
greater sense of gladness than he at having passed un-
scathed through the manifold perils of the day. Though
wearied to the point of exhaustion, at the close of the battle,
he sought Molly, as soon as his duties permitted, and tried
to comfort the poor creature. He found her crooning and
wailing by turns, at the side of her husband's body.
" Ah ! Misther Saville," she said, " it's now I think on
ivery oncivil word iver I spake to him. If I could only
have him aloive once more, I'd be swater than honey all the
toime. Faix, sur, Larry was a kind, dacent man, an' I'll
niver git his loikes agin."
The story of Molly's action on the death of her husband
had spread like wildfire through the army, and on the fol-
lowing morning General Greene presented her, all begrimed
with powder and blood, to Washington, who, with words
of praise and sympathy, conferred on her the commission of
sergeant, while he afterward caused her name to be placed
upon the list of half-pay officers for life.
Saville saw that Larry had a soldier's burial, and then
gave Molly the means of defraying her expenses back to her
home in the Highlands, to which she soon returned. Im-
mediately after her arrival thither, she went out to see Vera,
to whom she related, with all the vividness of her demon-
strative style, the events of the battle, enlarging upon her
THE REVELATION. 333
own loss, the dangers to which Saville had been exposed,
and his kindness to her.
Her tidings, while in part reassuring, threw Vera into an
agony of anxiety for the safety of her lover. Now, in his
absence, she realized, as never before, how necessary he ft^as
to her very existence ; and again, with her old importunity,
she besought Heaven in his behalf, though not with her old
and simple faith ; and she watched for his return with al-
most sleepless vigilance.
In the meantime, Saville, finding that there was no further
prospect of fighting, proceeded on his journey to Philadel-
phia, and, after attending to his official business, purchased
a beautiful ring for Vera. Returning, he taxed his poor
horse heavily, in his impatience to see again the one who
grew dearer every day. The dangers he had passed through,
and the uncertainty of life in that stormy period, made him
feel that he could delay the consummation of his love no
longer, and he half resolved to put his hopes to the test on
his return. By rapid riding, he gained sufficient time to
enable him to spend a day or two at the cabin, and still re-
port as early as he was expected.
When he met Vera, he found that the knowledge of what
he had passed through had preceeded him. Never before
had her reception been so marked by a clinging tenderness,
and he thought exultantly, " She cannot give me up." But
she soon clouded his face and hopes by saying,
'• O Theron ! God does answer prayer. It seems to me
that I have entreated Him in your behalf even in my troub-
led dreams, as well as in every waking moment, and He has
spared you to me."
"Is her faith still so unshaken in a mere name ?" hft
sadly asked himself. " Will it ever be otherwise ?"
After an early supper, he led her out to one of their fa-
vorite haunts upon the hill-side, and gave her the ring he had
334 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
brought. He was pleased to see her unbounded delight
and gratitude, and he said,
" When you no longer wish my love, you may return this
ring to me."
" You will never receive it again," she answered, with
tears in her eyes ; ' ' for if I were dying, Theron, I could
not give it back on that condition."
It proved a little too large, but she obviated this defect by
drawing off the ring given by her mother, and then, putting
Saville's gift in its place, she kept it there by the plain gold
band which she had worn so long.
" That is the way it should be," she said ; " for I have
felt from the first that I had mother's approval of my love."
Then she added musingly, " How well I remember he*
words when she gave me this ring I"
" What were they, Vera ?"
She blushed deeply, for she had spoken half unconscious-
ly, not realizing the nature of the explanation that must fol-
low.
*' Tell me her words," Saville again gently asked.
" They remind me that I have, in part, disobeyed them,
Theron ; but I trusted you so completely, and all has hap-
pened so strangely and differently from what any one could
have anticipated, that I could not do otherwise."
His curiosity and hope were now both aroused. Was the
way opening for explanations that, in any event, must soon
come ? So he said,
** I know you have acted right, darling. Were your
mother living, she could have found no fault ; but what did
she say when she gave the ring ?"
** I cannot hide anything from you, Theron," she said,
turning away her face. " You must remembe the circum-
stances. Mother was leaving me alone and friendless. She
feared I would be peculiarly unshielded. I would have bees
THE REVELATION. 33$
but for you. Think of v/hat I passed through in your long
year of absence ! think of the condition in which you found
me 1 O Theron ! how much I owe to you. Well, mother
evidently feared I might meet with some one not so honor-
able as you are, and she made me promise that 1 would not
permit caresses, even from one I loved, until he should w^ed
me before God's minister with this ring. I readily gave the
promise, for I did not then know what love was. But I
could not keep it. When you raised me from the floor, the
night father spoke those dreadful words, I knew I could
trust you. I turned to you as instinctively as that climbing
vine to yonder oak. I could not help it, and I knew that
all would be as mother wished in your own good time."
As she spoke he grew very pale, and, at her last words,
buried his face in his hands with a deep groan. It seemed,
for the moment, as if the dead mother stood between him
and her child.
" Theron 1" she said in great alarm.
He did not answer.
' ' Theron, are you ill V '
" Yes, yes, sick at heart ; my evil destiny will conquer
yet.
" O Theron !" she pleaded, laying her hand on his
shoulder ; " tell me your trouble. You need dread no evil
that I can avert."
" If that were only true," he answered, looking at her
with a face so full of trouble that her tears started in sym-
pathy.
" How can it be otherwise than true .?" she asked, begin-
ning to dread, she knew not what. *' Can you think me
so ungrateful that I will not make any sacrifice for you .?"
" You will never be ungrateful, Vera, and you have had,
thus far, no more cause for gratitude than I have ; but I fear
you cannot — mark, I do not say will not — I fear you can-
336 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
not give up your superstition — your faith in what I am sure
is all delusion — for my sake ; and yet you must, or else
the chance for a happiness greater than I thought possible
passes away from both. "
" Theron, your words are as dark as night. What can
you mean ? Why are you so pale ?" cried Vera in great
distress.
" I may as well tell you now,'* he said, after a moment,
" what I have been on the point of telling you before ; but
I hesitated, as much for your sake as my own. I could no
more endure the thought of your losing this happy future
than of losing it myself ; and I hoped that in time, and
under greater enlightenment of mind, you would outgrow
the imaginary obstacles in the way. I too have broken the
letter of a promise that I made you at your mother's grave.
I said, in effect, that 1 would not try to lead you to forget
or depart from her teachings ; nor would I, save in one re-
spect, for her influence and that of nature have made you
the sweetest, purest woman that ever breathed. But I could
not be loyal to you and to your happiness and still keep that
hasty pledge, for since that day our mutual love has grown
till it absorbs us both, and in the wretched past an event
occurred which would render the consummation of our love
impossible, did I leave your baseless faith undisturbed.
While it comforted you after your mother's death, I kept the
promise. When, ere we were aware, we both began to 'ove
each other in such a way that the terms brother and sister
no longer meant the truth ; when your father's words taught
me that this wilderness must continue to be your home, and
that the position in society, which I that day had resolved you
should have, became impossible, then I commenced trj'ing
to teach you what I firmly believe myself. I could sacrifice
my own happiness ; I had decided to do so, and your quick
intuition read my decision in my face. And yet how glad
THE REVELATION. 337
I was that I saw, as I believed, a way in which we both
could be happy by becoming one for life ! I then tried to
undermine your delusion ; I sought to do it gently, that
your old beliefs might pass away^ clouds from the sky."
Just then, in ominous contradiction of his words, the set-
ting sun entered a dark cloud, and the gloom fell on the
feices of both.
" Vera, before I saw you I thought I had spoiled my life ;
not by a crime, but by an act of folly. It is for you to de-
cide whether my life is to be blighted by its consequences ;
for your sake— not my o\vn ; my pure, strong love needs no
priestly sanction —for your sake, it cuts me to the heart to
say it I cannot, in truth, take you before a minister and
wed you, with that ring. While my heart is free to love
you, in the eye of our barbarous laws I am a married man."
She started violently and became deathly pale, but she
only moaned,
" O Theron, Theron ! I should have known this before. "
" Hear me, hear the whole wretched story, before you
condemn meV' he cried passionately. "I could have
brought a minister hither, and it might have been years be-
fore you learned the truth, if ever ; but no deceit shall ever
sully my relations to you. When we were first acquainted.
I did not tell you of my N\'ife, because I never spoke of her
to any one, not even to my mother. I was seeking to for-
get her hateful existence. When ycur father's words and
your decision to remain with him prevented me from carry-
ing out my self-sacrificing plan, then the thought came :
Teach her the truth, show her how valueless are the forms
and ceremonies which are based on falsehood."
" But they are right and true to me," said Vera sobbing.
" They cannot continue to be so, dariing, after you hare
calmly considered the proof to the contrary ; and when you
come to know how cruelly I am placed, how utterly I am
338 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
absolved from every bond save that which is purely legal,
you will have pity ; you will see that I have a right to seek
your love. " And he told her the whole story of his mar-
riage, softening no part that was to his own disadvantage ; he
spoke with intense bitterness of his wife's recent and shame-
ful marriage at the very time when he owed his life to Vera's
tireless care ; " and this marriage," he said, " was solem-
nized with all the forms that are called sacred."
' ' And now, Vera, ' ' he concluded, ' ' how could I have
acted otherwise .? I believe that this life is all. It is all, "
he said earnestly ; " everj-thing in nature proves it. We
have before us but this brief life. Alas ! in my calling, how
uncertain it is ! Since our short day must pass swiftly at
best, shall we waste our waking moments over delusions .?
Shall we let what men imagined in the ignorant past stand
in the way of real and practical happiness ? Only obstacles
created by the untaught minds of the superstitious are stand-
ing in our way. Shall these unsubstantial spectres frighten
us from a lifetime of deep content ? In a little while we
shall cease to be, and the chance for happiness is gone."
But Vera drew another inference than that which he in-
tended, and in a tone that pierced his heart she cried,
*' Then where is mother.?"
He was silent, for her distress was so great that it seemed
a cruel thing to say that all that remained of one so dear was
corrupting in a distant grave. He never realized before how
harsh and abrupt an end his creed gave to human life. He
tried to comfort himself with the thought that her intense
grief would gradually pass away, and that realizing that she
had in sad truth lost her mother, she would cling all the
more closely to him as her only certain possession.
He endeavored to soothe her, but for a long time his
efforts seemed utterly vain. At last she grew calm enough
to falter.
THE REVELATI0I7. 339
•' I am in the dark, Theron. It seems as if the mountain
had opened at my feet. I dare not move lest I fall into the
gulf. I don' t know what' s right, I don' t know what' s true ;
my mind is confused, and my heart aches as if it would
break O mother ! are you indeed lost to me forever ? If
you should die, Theron, would I never see you again ?
This is terrible, terrible. Please take me home. I cannot
think. Perhaps to morrow some light will come. I am in
thick darkness now."
He could only comply with her request, and hope that
time and thought would become his allies. She told her
father that she was not well, and shut herself up in her own
little room ; but for hours her mind was so stunned and b©»
wildered that it could not act coherently.
)40 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
CHAPTER XXXII.
GROPING HER WAY.
THE night to Saville was one of sleepless anxiety. He
felt that he was at the crisis of his life. Indeed, if
Vera gave him back his ring, saying that, under the circum-
stances, she could not accept of his love, what would life be
but a painful burden } The result of the council which he
knew her to be holding with her own heart, and the mysteri-
ous faith which he had found so hard to overcome, might
blast the hope upon which he built all his future. When
she appeared, the following morning he scarcely dared lift
his eyes to her pale face, lest he should there see the impress
of a determination which he might not be able to overcome.
But, instead of a strong resolve, he saw only irresolution
and trouble, her mobile features revealing the deep dis-
quietude and uncertainty of her mind. He also saw, from
her greeting and wistful eyes, how tenaciously her heart
clung to him. His manner was gentleness and sympathy
itself, and while she evidently longed to receive it in her old,
frank manner, as her right, she hesitated, as if it were for-
bidden and fraught with danger Her restraint did not
dishearten him, and he thought exultantly,
" She is mine. Her love wili not permit her to give me
up ; her old beliefs are shaken. Time, gentleness, and the
truth shall be my strong allies, and to them she will surely
yield."
Her father was too preoccupied to notice that anything
GROPING HER WAY. 34 1
\ras amiss, and soon after the morning meal was over, de-
parted on one of his lonely tramps into the forest.
Saville led Vera again to their old, secluded haunt on the
hill-side, hoping that ere the day closed he might satisfy her
mind sufficiently to secure an acquiescence in his plans,
which, if at first hesitating and full of fear, would soon be-
come hearty and decided.
" I learn by your face and manner, dearest." he said,
" that you will not send me away a despairing and reckless
man, ' '
She shivered at these words, for they opened a new vista
of difficulty and danger.
She sa\, down on a mossy rock and put her hands to her
head, saying, in pathetic, childlike simphcity,
" I can't seem to think any more. I can only feel and
suffer. My head is still all confused, and my heart is like
lead."
"•Let me think for you, Vera," he said, taking one of
her cold, passive hands. " Let me assure you, also, that I
do not consider my cause so desperate and my views so un-
sound that I must take advantage of your weakness, and
urge you to a hasty decision. I wish to carry your reason
and all pure, womanly feelings with me at every step."
" O Theron ! would to God I knew what is right, what
is true ! And you say there is no God. I am bewildered
and lost."
" The impulses of nature are right, Vera. The unerring
instincts of our owii hearts are true, if in each case our rea-
son approves. ' '
*' The impulses of nature are right," she repeated slowly
after him.
" Yes," he replied eagerly ; "^ and you, as nature's near-
est and most perfect child, will soon see that I am correct
What we feel — what we think within our own breasts — that
34* NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
we know. What we see and experience in nature without
we also know ; but what else are we sure of ? I am not
asking you lo peril your happiness on what some old, bigoted
Jews wrote a millennium or two ago ; but to build it surely
on what your own eyes, your own heart and reason, assure
you of to-day. I am here at your side ; I am loyal to you
to my heart's core. To the utmost extent of my ability you
can depend upon me ; while I live "
" Ah ! Theron, there is the terrible part of your belief —
* While you live. ' Do you not see that you are standing
on a little point, with a black, raylesB gulf all around you ?
What if you should fall ? What if you should die ? Where
could I find you ?"
" Dismiss these morbid fancies, dearest. There is no
need of supposing that I shall fall or die. I have the pre-
sentiment of a long and happy life with you, if I can only
dissipate the clouds of superstition from your mind, and,
after life is over, we shall sleep and not be conscious of our
loss. But now, long before that deep oblivion comes, to
see a bliss beyond that of your fancied heaven, almost within
our grasp, and yet to be denied — this is more than human
fortitude can endure. Let me teach you the truth from your
own experience, and pardon the seeming egotism of my
argument, for it is all for your sake as truly as my own.
The evening you buried your mother you said I saved your
heart from breaking. The voice of living sympathy brought
reliet Your mother did not help you, simply because she
could not. She was sleeping, and even the voice of her
child could not awaken her. If you will calmly think of it,
she has been lost to you from the moment she breathed her
last, and all that she has been to you since has been due to
your vivid memory and strong imagination. At no time
can you prove her presence or show that she gave you aiyr
practical help."
GROPThTG HER WAY, 343
** O Theron I I never felt so orphaned before," she
sobbed,
" I know my words hurt you cruelly, darling, but they
are necessary to your final health and happiness. When
even your light touch bound up my wound, it caused me
agony for the moment ; but I am here to-day because of that
sufiering. Go back with me to the time when I found you
near your old desolated home. You were embracing the
unresponsive mound beneath which your mother was sleep-
ing, and the cold, unanswering silence was breaking your
heart. You had become timidity itself, feeling justly that
you had no protector. As soon as I appeared, you had a
strong arm to lean upon. Has not your life improved since
that day .? Has it not grown fuller, more complete and sa^
isfying ?' '
" I should have been dead but for your coming, Theron."
" That which is worse than death might have happened,"
he said shudderingly. " Think of the perils to which you
were exposed before I came. I have been to the point o£
Butter Hill, where you escaped a fate too frightful to be
imagined. As I pictured you climbing that awful precipice,
I trembled and grew faint. Who helped you then ?"
'* It seemed as if God helped me,"
*' But was there in fact any practical help save that which
these little hands and feet gave, bruised and bleeding as they
must have been ? Kindly nature held out a shrub here and
there, and the granite rock, more merciful than your imag'
ined deity, gave you a few crevices on which to step for a
perilous moment. Your own weary feet carried you on
that lonely, desperate journey home, and when your natural
and human strength gave out, you fell. No one helped
you, and, were it not for the accident of old Gula stumbling
against your unconscious form, you would have perished
within a few yards of your own door. And if, a little later,
344 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
the ruffians had found you in the cabin, who would have
saved you ? Who has saved thousands, equally helpless,
from every outrage that ineamate fiends could perpetrate ?
Poor, inoffensive Gula was rescued by a human hand.
My life was saved by these dear hands. Tell me when and
^here any real and practical blessing came to our lives that
was not brought by human hands, and prompted by human
love.
She turned and clung to him almost in terror, as she said,
" Theron, is this arm, which death may at any moment
paralyze, my only defense ?"
' ' What have been the facts, darling ? Who has helped
you ? Who rescued me when I should have soon died
from my wound, as that thing which the law calls my wife
devoutly wished ?"
' ' There seems reason in what you say, ' ' she said ; ' ' and
yet it is so contrary to all that I ever hoped or believed that
I cannot grasp it, ' ' and her brow contracted for a few mo-
ments in deep thought.
He did not interrupt her, wishing to give his words time
to make their impression.
At last she said slowly, " I must try to feel my way out
of this darkness, and come to some clear sense of what your
words mean and involve. I shall have to trust you, Theron.
You can easily deceive such an ignorant child as I am,
but I know you will not. I have always lived in these
mountains, and mother and the Bible have been my only
teachers. ' '
' ' You forget nature. Vera. I cannot help feeling that
she has taught you more than all. It is her influence that
makes you so docile and receptive. Your mind opens to
the truth, like the flower buds to the rain and dew, when-
ever they fall.
" Alas ! the resemblance is too true. You might put
GROPING HER WAY. 345
within the petals of the silly flowers that which would poison
them, and they would know no better at first."
" And can you think I would try to poison your mind,
Vera?"
" Not willingly and knowingly, Theron ; and yet I
tremble at the thoughts you suggest, and fear they involve
more to me than you realize. Besides, if you are right, so
many must be mistaken ; at least I think so. I am so ig-
norant, and my life has been so remote from the world, thai
I distrust myself on every side. You say that the great and
wise believe as you do ?' '
Here Saville launched out with enthusiasm and sincerity.
" The learned men of France," he said, " are the greal
thinkers of the world. They are rapidly emancipating their
own nation, and their ideas are finding an increasing num-
ber of adherents in this country and England, especially
among the educated classes. Only those who will not or
cannot think for themselves hold to the old superstitions ;
and in a generation or two more, all our barbarous laws will
have to be remodeled in accordance with truth and reason.
Men will evolve their laws from their own nature and needs,
and hence they will cease to be mere arbitrary and irrational
restraints. By following the impulses and teachings of na-
ture, we may hasten forward that golden age. It was one of
my dearest hopes that I might, in this new land, contribute
much toward reorganizing society, and breaking the chains
under which so many are groaning. Perhaps I have been
made to feel how galling and unnatural they are that I might
be fitted for the task."
' ' Who has arranged it so that you might be fitted for this
task ?' ' asked Vera innocently.
" Well, destiny, nature, or perhaps I should more cor-
rectly say, it is a happy chance," answered Saville, some-
what confused.
3^6 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
"It's all so strange and vague to me," said Vera de-
spondently. "These questions are too deep forme. I
cannot follow you. There seems nothing sure existing but
yourself, and in a few hours you will be gone, and then
comes the awful uncertainty whether you will ever return."
After a few moments she added, with an averted face and
burning blush, " As things are now, Theron, we cannot be
truly married."
" Yes, Vera, it will be my only true marriage. Was that
a true marriage which joined me temporarily to a woman
whom I loathe and hate, though solemnized by every priestly
and superstitious form ? Nature joins our hands, hearts,
and lives, and makes us one in reality."
"Would it be true marriage to your mother ?" asked
Vera, in a low tone.
" My mother holds to the old views," said Saville hesi-
tatingly. " While we love each other dearly, we differ rad-
ically on many points. She does not approve of this war
for liberty."
" It would not seem a true marriage to my mother, if she
were living, Theron," continued Vera in the same low,
troubled voice.
" Probably not Vera. With her prejudices and beliefs, the
mere formal rite, which is impossible, would be essential.
But your mother is dead, and I am here."
" The Bible would be against it, Theron."
" I suppose it would be. But, as the Bible is a mere ex-
pression of human opinion, we have a better right to our
opinions in this more enlightened age."
" Would many people, in our own age, regard it as true
marriage ?"
" Not yet, I fear," he said sadly ; "but they will in time.
But what is the world to us ? I am more than willing to
share your seclusion among these beautiful mountains. As
GROPING HER WAY. 347
long as we know that we are doing right, what need we care
what the world thinks ?"
* ' If there is no God to whom we are responsible, ' ' she
said in sudden recklessness, " and if in a few days we shall
cease to be, why need we care what is right ? It seems to
me the words right and wrong have no meaning. The only
question is. What do we want to do ? We must hastily
snatch at whatever is within our reach, and make the most
of it while we can."
" Now, Vera, darling, those words are not like your old
self," he replied, with a slight accent of reproach. " You
have only to follow the instincts of your pure, womanly
nature to do what is right and shun what is wrong."
" But your words are sweeping away all on which I based
my motives and rules of action," she continued, in the
Bame desperate tone. ' ' The Heavenly Father that I tried
to please, as a dutiful child, is but a mere name. The
mother, whose gentle teaching echoed His will, has ceased to
exist. I am to live a few uncertain days, and then also be-
come nothing. In accordance with all I have been taught
to believe true, I have no right to sit here listening to your
love. Neither your mother nor mine would believe it right,
and, strange to say, I have a guilty fear in my own heart
while doing so. I don't understand it And yet, if yoa
are not mistaken in what you have told me, why need I
care ? You are here. I am sure of to-day. That is all."
He was appalled at the reckless and unnatural expression
of her face. Instead of the pure, gentle light which usually
beamed from her deep blue eyes, it almost seemed as if a
lurid flame were burning back of them. He asked himself,
in wonder, Is this Vera .'' But he only said, gently and
soothingly,
"The truth involves such great and radical changes in
jrour belief that you are confused, daru..^ You will see
348 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
everything calmly in its proper light by-and-by ; and, that
you may, I will give you an abundance of time. "
" • Time !' " she repeated, with a bitter laugh ; " that
is the only thing in which we need to practice economy. In
a few hours you will mount your horse and vanish like my
other delusions. What is sure, save this fleeting moment ?"
Then, in strong revulsion of feeling, she commenced
weeping bitterly.
" There is something wrong in all this, Theron," she sob-
bed. " I am frightened. I tremble at myself, and am sore
perplexed. It seems as if I were falling down some black
chasm, and even your hand could not reach me. The im-
pulses of nature, as you call them, and conscience are all at
war. I don't understand myself at all. I only know that
something is wrong, and that there must be a dreadful mis-
take somewhere. Have pity on me and take me home."
The man of theories was almost as greatly perplexed as
herself, but he took comfort in the thought that she was un-
strung by her strong emotions ; that her trust in her old
beliefs had given way so suddenly that she was too bewil-
dered to see the solid ground where he stood. With sooth-
ing, gentle words he led her to the cabin.
" I will go now," he said ; " but shall return in a day
or two, and then you will be able to see everything clearer,
and you will be your old happy self."
*• Theron, do not go," she said, with such sudden and
passionate earnestness that he was surprised. Then she
added, almost instantly, in a tone of the deepr.st sadness,
"Yes, you must go, you must go. Good-by/' and sh9
hastened to the seclusion of her own room.
He went away feeling that all was still in doubt
STUONG TEMPTATION, 349
CHAPTER XXXIII.
STRONG TEMPTATION.
SEVERAL days passed before Saville's duties permitted
him to be absent again. To him they were desperately
long, but to Vera they were interminable. And yet she al-
most dreaded to see him, for she could not solve the ques-
tions of right and duty. Her heart sided with him and his
arguments with pleadings so strong that it seemed they
would not be denied. The doubts he had raised in her
mind grew stronger as she dwelt upon them.
" If this life is all," she sighed again and again, " how
unspeakably dreadful to lose this one chance of happiness I
But, even if I yield, will I be happy?" she asked herself in
prophetic dread. " I have such a strange, guilty fear in
giving up all my old belief, and doing what mother forbade.
If I could only become his wife, as mother said, I should be
the happiest, proudest woman that ever lived. But now,
although he is so true, I dare not trust him. I dare not
trust myself. I feel that it is a leap into the dark. Oh I
that I knew what was right ; oh ! that I knew what was true I
"And yet I cannot give him up. It would now be a
million-fold worse than death. Can there be anything more
dreadful in all the future even if the Bible is true ? How
much easier it would be to give him every drop of my heart's
blood than to give him back this ring ! How strange it
feels upon my finger ! It burns like a circlet of fire. It
can't be right. Oh I is it very wrong?"
35© NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
Thus, by turns, doubt, passion, fear, and love surged over
her mind till she thought she would lose her reason.
Her old playmates, the flowers, began to look at her re-
proachfully, the notes of the birds to grow strangely plain-
tive, and the breathings of the winds among the trees were
long drawn sighs, responsive to her own.
" It is just as mother said it would be," she moaned;
" nature frowns upon me. It must be wrong. But if I
am mistaken, if she were mistaken, if this is only a sick
fancy of my disquieted mind — oh I that I knew what was
true and right. ' '
One lovely afternoon, weary and torn by conflicting emo-
tions, she went out to the old haunt on the hill-side. In
her distress she threw herself upon the ground, and buried
her burning face in the cool grass. How long, in her deep
preoccupation, she lay there, she did not know, but at last
a kind voice said,
"Vera."
** O Theron ! have you come once more ?"
" Yes, darling ; I could not come before."
Then she became silent, and seemed under the most pain-
ful restraint. She was so unlike her former self that he
sighed deeply.
She burst into tears as she said, " That is the way it is
all ending ; sighs, sighs, only sighs."
" Must it all end in sighs ?" he asked very sadly.
" I fear that it will anyway. Theron, I get no light. I
cannot give you up, and yet my heart forebodes evil till I
tremble with dread."
" You are not well, Vera. Your hands are feverish, and
your pulse rapid and uneven."
" It but faintly echoes the unrest of my heart. I have
thought and thought till my head swam in a dizzy whirl.
My love has been your ever-present and eloquent advocate.
STRONG TEMPTATION. 35 1
At times, I have been on the point of recklessly shutting my
eyes, and of letting you lead me whither you would."
" My only wish, darling, is to lead you to deep content
and lasting peace. "
" How mockingly impossible that happy condition seems 1
O Theron I I don't understand myself at all. It seema
but the other day, and I was a simple child ; now I am I
know not what. My own feelings remind me of Shak-
speare's tragedies, which I never half understood before.
Even in my dreams I am walking on the crumbling Qdt%Q of
an abyss. Even if I yield, something tells me that I shall
lose you. It can't be right, Theron, it can't be right,
though your words and your unspeakable kindne^ to me
make it seem so. I dare not think of your mother, much
less of my own. Did my poor, dying mother have a pro-
phetic insight into the future when she charged me, ' Be true
to your God and your faith ; be true to my poor teaching
and your own pure, womanly nature. LsJt the Bible guida
you in all things, and then you will always have peace in
your heart, and find sympathy in nature without But rest
assured, however wise and greatly to your advantage anything
may seem, if your Bible is against it, do not hesitate ; turn
away, for if will not end well. Keep thy heart with all dili-
gence. When it troubles you, and your old playmates, the
innocent flowers, look at you reproachfully, something will
be wrong' ? Theron, they do look at me reproachfully, and
my heart is full of strange disquietude and fear. Mother
said, ' Keep true, and our separation will be brief.' My
feelings of late seem to rob me of the right of even remem-
bering her. Half-forgotten sentences from her burned Bible
come into my mind like lightning flashes. One of these is
ever ringing in my ears. I don't remember its connection,
but the words are dreadful, and they too often express my
condition. They are, * A fearful looking ioi of judg
Roe— Vni - P
352 NEAR TO NA TURE'S HEART.
ment.' Then again I almost see the Saviour looking at me
so reproachfully — just as He must have looked on Peter
when he denied his Lord. And Shakspeare, too, which
you say is one of the gieatest books of the world, seems to
echo the Bible. The writer must have understood the hu-
man heart, for he describes mine. He gives the experience
of those who did wrong, and he portrays myself. But when
I think of you and your devoted loyalty to me when any one
else would have cast me off, I have not the heart to deny
you anything. As for myself, I would rather die a thousand
deaths than be separated from you. If I were only sure
what was right — that is the only ground on which I can end
this cruel conflict. "
" And that is the only ground on which I wish you to
end it, ' ' he said gently and soothingly, taking her hand.
But he was surprised at the intensity and far-reaching
character of her thoughts and emotions. Were it not for the
external shadows which had fallen so darkly on her life, she
had seemed to him almost an emanation of the sunshine, a
being akin to her companions, the flowers, and with no ca-
pabilities for the dark, passionate thoughts which were surg-
ing up in her mind. Was nature failing him who had been
her disciple and votary .? Her impulses in this, her child,
were far from being satisfactory. In his strong delusion he
then could not understand that it was Vera's very nearness
to nature' s heart that caused the deep unrest and dread as
he sought to lead her into violation of the subtle laws
which the Divine Author had caused to permeate all His
work.
The eating of the forbidden fruit appeared a simple, harm-
less act in the mellow light of Eden ; but it broke the safe,
harmonious control of God's will, and there has been jar-
ring, deadly discord, ever since.
But, assured in his own theories, he reasoned with Vera
"May God have Pity on us both."
Near to Nature. P^S^ 354-
STRONG TEMPTATION. 353
long and earnestly. He showed her how the mastery of a
strong superstition is slow to yield to the light of truth. Ha
explained how hard and gradual was the death of ancient
faiths, which now have no credence whatever. He tried to
make it clear that the transition from the habitual thought
and belief of years must be stormy and full of misgivings.
She listened intently, honestly seeking light ; but when
he was through, she shook her head sadly, saying,
" What you say seems true. I cannot answer you, 1 can-
not refute your argument ; like a weak woman, I can only
feel. You men think with your heads, Theron ; but I
imagine that women think with their hearts. "
" Well, Vera, both your head and heart will be satisfied
in time. I feel sure that when I come again the clouds
and mists will have disappeared. And it may be quite a
long time before you see me, for this is a sort of farewell
visit The French fleet has arrived upon our coast, and
oflScers are needed who are thoroughly conversant with both
the French and English languages. I have been assigned
to duty on General Sullivan's staff, and start for the East to-
morrow. ' '
Vera became very pale, and murmured, " Is God, seeing
my weakness, sending you away, and into new and greater
dangers ? This is the worst of it all, for, however I decide,
you must suffer."
" No, Vera, only 2t.syou send me away shall I suffer, and
you only have the power to blight my life. Without your
love it would be an unendurable burden."
*' You will never cease to have my love ; but, Theron, I
have the dreadful presentiment that if 1 do wrong, I shall
bring evil upon you, and that would be worse than anything
that could happen to me."
" Well, darling, only time can cure you of these strange,
wild ^cies. I will fortify my heart with hope that when I
354 b/dAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
corae again, you will give me your old joyous and confident
welcome."
" Must you go ?" she asked passionately, a reckless light
coming into her eyes.
" Yes."
She swayed for a moment like a reed shaken by the wind.
She seemed about to throw herself into his arms, but turned
away instead, and cowering to the earth, murmured,
*' May God have pity on us both."
He lifted her up with a manner that was at once gentle,
strong, and protecting, and, placing her hand on his arm,
led her home.
*' Good-by, Vera," he said, pressing her hand only to
his lips, in a way that was full of respect as well as of ten-
derness ; " your healthful mind will soon recover, and be
dear and strong when I come again."
She did not trust herself to speak, but he never forgot the
SJcpressioQ of her face.
A STRANGER'S COUNSEL, 355
CHAPTER XXXIV.
A stranger's counsel.
FOR several days thereafter. Vera' s distress was so great
that even the self-absorbed inmates of the cabin
noticed it ; but she satisfied them fully by saying that Mr.
Saville had been ordered away, and it might be a long time
before he returned.
But her spiritual conflict went on with increasing bitter-
ness, until she grew almost desperate, and feeling that she
must decide the question one way or the other, the thought
occurred to her that perhaps at her mother's grave duty and
truth might become clearer. Something might there make
it known whether she was restrained, as Saville said, by the
strong though shattered powers of an old superstition, or by
the voices of truth and nature within her heart So, one
beautiful afternoon about the middle of July, she started, as
some remorseful pilgrim might seek a shrine famous for its
sacred powers.
But when she drew near the familiar place, unwonted
sounds filled her with apprehension, and soon from a shel-
tered height she saw that the rocky hill back of the site of
the old cabin was thronged with soldiers, under whose la-
bors were rising the walls of a work afterward known as Fort
Putnam. She could not descend into the valley without
taking the risk of being seen by many eyes, and meeting
those from whom she shrank with fearful memories. She
bastiljr retraced her steps, weeping as she went, and ieeling
356 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
more than ever before that Saville's words were true — that
she had indeed lost her mother, and that not even her grave
would be left.
' ' Theron is right ; there is no hope, no protection for me
but in him," she had almost concluded, when the sound
of a horse's feet caused her to spring from the path and con-
ceal herself in a thicket.
A tall, grave-looking officer soon appeared riding leisure-
ly toward her. His face was so open and kindly in its ex-
pression, that Vera felt that she would have had no cause to
fear him, even if he had discovered her.
A few steps beyond where she was hiding, a little stream
fell into a rocky basin, sparkled a moment in the sunlight,
and then stole on into the deep shade of the forest.
The stranger seemed pleased with the spot, for he reined
up his horse, and, removing his hat, wiped his brow, and
then looked around as if to assure himself that he was alone.
Having dismounted, he drew a small silver cup from his
pocket and drank from the rill. He then suffered his eager
horse to dip his nose deeply into the water of the little
pool.
" Ha ! Lion, that tastes good to us both, doesn't it?"
he said, stroking the mane of the beautiful animal. Then
he slipped off the bridle, and permitted the horse to crop
the grass that grew green and rank in the cool, moist spot.
Laying his hat on a rock near, the stranger sat down and
took a small book from his pocket, which he quietly read
for some little time, often moving his lips, and shaking his
head with a slow, gentle emphasis, as if the words before
him were full of deep, grave import.
Vera's tears dried upon her -face as she watched him with
increasing interest. " I wonder what he is reading," she
thought. "It must be a good book, for it gives such a
sweet, noble expression to his face, I could trust that man.
A STRANGER'S COUNSEL. ZS1
Oh ! that I dared ask counsel of him. Perhaps God has
given me the chance. Be still, poor, foolish heart," she
whispered, putting her hand to her side in her old, charac-
teristic way. " Why am I so timid .?"
But when, to her great surprise, the stranger laid the book
down, and, kneeling beside it, commenced praying audibly
to God, her hesitation vanished. Crossing the intervening
space with silent tread, she knelt near, and her tears fell fast
as his voice grew earnest and importunate. The burden
upon his heart appeared to be his country's weal ; and in
his earnest desire that all the blessings of liberty and good
government might be secured, he quite forgot himself. As
she listened to his strong pleadings, her own wavering faith
began to revive, and she felt that a great living Presence was
near to them both.
When the stranger rose, and saw the kneeling form of
Vera, his surprise was very great, and he was almost resent-
ful, at first, that his privacy had been intruded upon ; but a
second's scrutiny of the bowed head and tearful face quite
disarmed him,
''What do you wish, my child?" he asked, a little
coldly, however.
" Pardon me," faltered Vera, rising, and putting her
hand to her side. " I — will you please forgive a poor child
that would fain learn to pray also .''"
"Surely I will," said the stranger kindly, becoming at
once interested in one who appealed, by her modesty and
unconscious grace, to both his taste and sympathy. * ' Do
not be so frightened, and tell me how you came here. ' '
" I heard your horse's steps, and I was afraid and hid
myseli But I was in sore trouble, sir ; and when I saw
you kneel in prayer, I thought you might be willing to
counsel one of the ' little ones ' of whom the Bible speaks."
** I shall be glad to advise you if I can ; but why not take
358 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
counsel of the Bible itself ? That is the best and surest
guide."
" I have not any, sir ; it was burned, " she said, her tears
falling fast. Then she added eagerly, ' ' Is the Bible a sure
guide ?"
" Certainly, ";^y child. How came you to doubt it ?'*
" I have been told that a great many people are losing
feith in it."
'• I have not lost faith in it,** said the stranger, with quiet
emphasis. And he took up the little volume reverently,
adding, " This book commends itself to my judgment and
conscience more and more every day."
•' Is that a Bible ?" asked Vera eagerly, and he marked
her wistful gaze. " Oh !" she added, again putting her
hand to her side, " how long it is since I have seen one !"
" This is all very strange," said the stranger musingly.
" Who are you, my child, and how came you to doubt the
Bible?"
•' My name is Vera Brown, sir. We are poor people,
and live back among these mountains. My mother, who
is dead, taught me to believe the Bible ; but it was burned
in our old home by some bad men. , I have not been able
to get one since, and I am forgetting its teachings. And
yet I have great reason now to remember them. I don't
know what is right and true, but I must decide. When I
saw you kneeling, I thought perhaps God had given me a
chance to ask."
" Perhaps He did, my child. ' God is faithful ; He will
not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able.
" Oh ! I have been so tempted," said Vera, bursting into
tears ; " and it seemed as if God had left me to struggle
alone. I was told the Bible was not true."
" Who told you this ?" asked the stranger, a flush of in-
dignation rising to his face.
A STRANGER'S COUNSEL. 359
In painful embarrassment she faltered, " Father does not
believe as mother did."
" Then remain true to your mother's teaching," was the
decided response ; " and rest assured that anything which
the Bible condemns will end only in wretchedness."
" That is what mother told me."
" Are you willing to be guided by the Bible V asked the
stranger very gravely.
" I will try to be," faltered Vera, " as far as I can re-
member it."
' * I will take away all excuse for failure. You shall have
mine ;" and he placed the little book in her hands.
" May God bless you, sir, for this gift. I did not expect
so much. Never did one need it more."
" Repay me by doing just as it bids you," said the
stranger, with kindly interest kindling in his eyes.
" God help me to do so !" she replied in a low tone, but
growing almost faint as she thought of all that obedience
involved. " I have one question more," she began, but
stopped in deep embarrassment.
" Well, my child, do not be afraid ; you may trust me."
" I was sure of that when I first saw you, sir."
' * You were } Well, that pleases me more than all the
fine things I ever had said to me. But you are not mak-
ing good your trust, and seem afraid to speak your mind.''
" I have been told," continued Vera, " that the wise and
great are the ones who doubt the Bible — people who are
able to think for themselves — and that those who believe it
do not or cannot think for themselves. "
" That is always the arrogant way of these skeptics," he
replied indignantly. " Those who do not at once accept
their ever-shifting vagaries, are set down as fools or bigots."
Then, looking at the timid maiden standing before him hi
almost trembling expectancy, his face relaxed, and he added
36o it EAR TO NATURES HEART.
smilingly, " I will try to satisfy your mind on this point
also, and will be a trifle more confidential than I imagine
you have been with me. / think for myself, and have to
think for a great many others ; and though I may be
neither ' wise' nor ' great,' I am General Washington."
Vera stepped back and bowed reverently.
•'No, my child, no need of that," said Washington j
" bow only to the. Being to whom we have both knelt, and
on whom we are both alike dependent. Trust and obey
Him, and all v/ill be well. And now, good-by. If we
ever meet again, I shall ask you if you have been true to the
Book in which your mother taught you to believe."
A sudden change came over the shrinking maiden, and,
springing forward with the freedom and impetuosity of a
child, she took his hand, saying,
" The God of the orphan bless your Excellency. Yor
will lead our armies to victory. I know it. God will an-
swer, through you, your own prayer."
As Washington looked down into the beautiful, eager &ce
turned to him, his eyes moistened, and he said, after a
moment,
*' Thank you, my child. Your words and manner
strengthen me. You have helped me as I hope I have
aided you. You have your burden to bear here in these
lonely mountains, as truly as I have mine out in the troubled
world. For aught I know yours may be the heavier. But
God will sustain us both if we ask Him. Good-by," and
he rode away toward West Point
Vera afterward learned that his visit there was a transient
one of inspection. In accordance with a habit to which,
perhaps, the profoundest philosophy will ascribe the final
success of the American arms, he had sought retirement in
the forest that he might entreat the Almighty in behalf of
the cause to which he vk^as devoted.
THE PARTING. $6 1
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE PARTING.
VERA sat down on the rock which he had occupied,
and, turning to the chapters that her mother's teach-
ings had made most famihar, she read until the deepening
twihght blurred the page. As she rose she exclaimed,
"It is true ; it proves itself. It meets my need as the
light does my eye. My conscience echoes every word. O
Theron, Theron ! we must indeed part !" and she bowed
her head upon the little book, and wept until she was al-
most too exhausted to reach her home.
For several days following she did little else save read the
Bible, and think long and deeply over its teachings. Every
day deepened the conviction that its words v/ere those of One
who had the right to say to His earthly children. My will is
your only true, safe law of action. The Bible' s teachings
and principles so commended themselves to her conscience
and unperverted nature that she felt that she must doubt her
own existence — doubt everything — or else take her old faith
back into her heart with more than her old childlike trust ;
with the strong and assured confidence, rather, of one who
has tested a friend in a desperate emergency, and found him
stanch and steadfast
Thus the question of right and duty was brought clearly
to an issue ; the question which she tried to put off in its
full and final settlement until she had wholly satisfied her
mind that her lover's views were fallacious.
302 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
She now felt perfectly sure that he was wrong ; and yet it
was agony to come to the irrevocable decision which would
doom herself to the old, lonely, and unprotected state, and,
what was still worse, to darken his life with grief and perhaps
despair. What might he not do in his reckless unbelief ?
In her intense affection she was almost ready to cast herself
awa)-, deliberately and consciously. Were it not for that
one word, duty, which meant so much to her, she might
have been tempted to do so. If she were sure that she
alone would suffer all the evil consequences, her grateful
love, her strong desire to make him happy at any cost to her-
self, might almost lead to the boundless self-sacrifice.
" But it v.'ould not be right," she murmured ; " and as
sure as there is a God, I can never make him happy by do-
ing wrong.
She went out to their trysting-place on the hill-side, where
she had been so sorely tempted, resolving that she would
settle the question there once and forever.
Laying Washington's Bible on a rock beside her, she
leaned her head upon it, and sighed,
"It's earth or heaven ; it's God or Theron ; it's a snatch
at something forbidden, or a long, dark journey to my rest ;
for, in giving him up, I banish the possibility of the faintest
ray of happiness in this world. O God ! help me, like a
kind, strong Father ; direct and sustain thy helpless child.
If I must decide against Theron, let no harm come to
him."
Was it an audible voice that answered ? The suggestion
of inspired words that had helped her once before was so
strong and vivid that they seemed as if spoken.
" Commit thy way unto the Lord ; trust also in Him ;
and He shall bring it to pass."
As if directly addressed, she replied, with passionate ear-
nestness,
THE PARTING. 3^3
" I will obey Thee ; I will trust Thee ; there is no othei
right or safe course for either Theron or myself."
In the solemn hush that followed, she felt as if a kind
hand rested on her head in blessing. The guilty fear and
disquietude fled from her heart like ill-omened shadows,
and in their place came a deeper peace, a stronger sense of
security than she had ever known before. Her mother's
face, which had so long appeared averted in reproachful sor-
row, was now beaming upon her in approving love.
" O God ! I thank Thee," she cried, lifting her tearful
face to heaven. " I will never doubt Thee again. Mother,
dear mother, you are not lost to me. i am as sure you live
as that I live."
If Saville had then come, her strong feeling and revived
faith would have made the ordeal of parting less hard to en-
dure ; but week after week passed and still she did not hear
from him. At last Tascar brought a letter, given him by
Surgeon Jasper at West Point. It assured her of his con-
tinued safety, and every word breathed of the love and hope
which she must disappoint. If it had contained the tidings
of his death, she could have scarcely wept over it more often
and bitterly. But she did not waver in her decision ; and
in the depths of her heart, far beneath all the tumultuous
waves of her sorrow, the consciousness of peace and security
remained. She was also gaining an assurance that God, in
some v/ay, would make her loyalty to duty result in win-
ning her lover from his skepticism.
She did not dare to let her mind dwell on their meeting,
his disappointment, and the inevitable parting tiiat must fol-
low ; but her constant prayer was that she might be firm,
and that he might not become reckless and desperate.
At last one September afternoon Saville came, and, as
was his custom, stole into the glen that he might surprise
her. From the hill-side in his descent he saw her seated
364 NEAR TO NATURES HEART.
on a ledge that projected from a rock lying near the cabin
door. He silently approached and looked over the boulder.
His eyes at first dwelt only on the maiden with an expres-
sion of the deepest affection ; then they fell on the page she
was reading, and he saw that the book was the Bible.
He became very pale, and gave the little volume almost a
scowl of hate. Instead of announcing his presence in some
playful manner, as he had intended, he went directly around
the rock into her presence, with the aspect of one who, feel-
ing that he must face a dreadful crisis, will do it at once ;
but she, in the strong, sudden impulse of her heart, sprang
into his arms, as if it had been her light.
" I thank you, my true, loyal Vera ; I was dreading a
different reception," he said, as if an infinite burden were
lifted from his mind.
But her fast-falling tears, and the manner in which she
extricated herself from his embrace, disappointed the hope
\fhich her impulsive reception had raised, and he almost de-
spaired, as she said,
" Come with me, Theron ; let our farewell be where no
eye can see us save that of our pitying God."
" Do not say ' our,' " he replied harshly.
" Yes, Theron, our God, though you may not believe
Him now. I have found light that is unmistakable."
" Where have you found it ?"
"In this Bible."
" Curses "
She put her hand to his lips,
" O Vera ! this is worse than the bitterness of death.
Why did you not let me die in Fort Clinton ?"
* ' Theron, don' t break my heart.
" Is it nothing that you are breaking mine ?"
"God pity us both," she sobbed, burying her face in
her hands.
THE PARTING. 365
They had now reached the spot on the hill-side which had
been their favorite tr}- sting -place and the scene of strong
temptation, conflict, and victory. He seated her on a rock ;
but, instead of being his old gentle self, he seemed to have
become a man of stone. For some little time her emotion
was so great that she could not speak ; he would not At
last, she asked brokenly,
" Theron, do you doubt my love?"
" You listen to old bigots rather than to me."
" Is General Washington a bigot i"
He was silent a moment, then said, " He has not thought
on these things. He simply accepts what he is too indiffer-
ent to question."
' ' But he told me that he thought very deeply on these
subjects."
" He told you ! Vera, you are talking wildly. Can it
be that you have brooded so long over these wretched su-
perstitions that your mind is becoming unsettled ?"
" No, Theron ; my mind never vras so clear before.
Only my heart is faint and pierced with sorrow because we
must part Look at the fly-leaf of this Bible."
He read, in the clear, unmistakable hand that he well
knew, the name " George Washington."
" He gave it to me himself," continued Vera.
" Am I dreaming.?" muttered Saville, in a low troubled
tone.
" Theron," said Vera, laying her hand appealingly on
his shoulder, " have pity I be patient with me, and I will
tell you all. You can never know what this effort is costing
me. Going after you to Fort Clinton was nothing in com-
parison. You caused my faith to waver by your strong argu-
ment that all the practical help I ever had was human help
— human only. I have had human help again ; but I have
come to see that God helps us and speaks to us through
366 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
creatures like ourselves. Even you will be inclined to ad-
mit that the fact that I have received personal counsel from
General Washington is so strange as to be more than chance,
and yet it is true. ' ' And she told him how it happened.
" In asking his counsel I do not seek to know whether
you mentioned my name," said Saville gloomily; "fori
have not sought to tempt you to evil."
" Believe me, Theron, I never gave him — nor shall I ever
give any one— a hint or clue of that which is between our-
selves and our God. The truth of the Bible was the only
question on which I needed light. That settles all the
others. Theron, it is true ! I know it, as I know I exist 1
I am not wise enough to answer your arguments ; but I
have come to that point in which I am not so sure of any.
thing as that the Bible is true.
He buried his face in his hands, and fairly groaned in the
agony of his disappointment.
"Theron," said Vera, with a burning blush, "you
could not love such a woman as you have described your —
your wife to be."
" Why stab me with that word ?" he cried passionately.
" Suppose I should become like her."
" Impossible."
'• You do not understand a woman's heart. You have
learned to love me as a simple, childlike girl, innocent if ig-
norant, gentle and loving, if not strong and wise. Could
you love me if I became a reckless, passionate woman ?
Pardon me that I speak so plainly, and, in this agony of
parting, pass beyond maidenly reserve and delicacy. But,
since we must part, I wish you to see the necessity. The-
ron, you are too good a man to love what I would become
if I should turn my back on my faith, my mother's dying
words, and my God. You know that I have been brought
face to face with awful peril, and yet never have I so trem-
THE PARTING. 367
bled at anything as I have at the dark abyss that seemed
opening in my own soul. At one time, Theron, I was al-
most ready to lose my soul for your sake," she continued
in a low tone ; ' ' and were I sure now that I only would
suffer, that my remediless loss would be your happiness, I
should scarcely dare trust myselL But God in mercy has
removed this temptation, and I have been shown that wrong
on my part would eventually mean wretchedness on yours.
There, Theron, I have shown you all my heart, and I ap-
peal to your own noble manhood to protect me. "
" My manhood is gone. I am utterly crushed and
broken. Since to you it is a crime to keep my ring, give
it to me and let me go. I can endure the torment of my
loss no longer."
•• O Theron, Theron !" Vera sobbed.
'* If there is no help for it, give me the ring, and let me
go before I become mad.'"'
Slowly and reluctantly she drew off the two rings, as if the
effort were almost beyond her power. He snatched his
from her, and ground it into the earth under his heel.
She saw with terror that he was taking counsel of despair.
Acting on an impulse to save him from himself, she again
drew off her mother's ring, and seizing his hand, she
pressed it, with difficulty, on his little finger.
" Theron," she said pleadingly, "if it is wrong, I can-
not help it ; but I love you with my whole heart Wear
this priceless relic — my dead mother's wedding-ring — as ta-
ken of my pledge that, since I cannot marry you, I will
never marry any one else. Let its faint gleam ever remind
you that if you raise this hand against youreelf, you strike
me a more fatal blow."
In answer to this appeal, his dry, darkly suggestive eyes
for the first time moistened, and grew somewhat gentle in
Aeir expression.
368 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" Vera," he said, pressing the ring to his Ups, " you are
stronger and braver than I ; you have more than human
fortitude. Though I scarcely know whether to thank you
or not, I beheve your words and gift have again saved my
life. Your promise, of which this ring is the token, holds
out a glimmer of hope, and without hope who can live ? I
can trust myself here no longer."
He took her in his arms one brief moment, then dashed
away. A little later the sound of his horse' s feet echoed
from the opposite hill-side, but died quickly in the distance.
It was well for both that he did not see her weakness, her
grief that was almost as despairing as his own, which fol-
lowed his departure.
At last she crept home in the dusk, repeating over and
over again, as her only comfort,
" Like as a father pilieth his children, so the Lord pitieth
them that fear Him."
PEEKING DEATH, 3*9
CHAPTER XXXVI.
SEEKING DEATH.
A YEAR had almost passed since the parting described
in the previous chapter— a year of patient fidelity to
duty on the part of Vera, a year that was clouded by the
deepest melancholy and almost despair in the case of Saville.
For a long time he had cherished faint hopes that her forti-
tude might fail ; that his arguments, from being more fully
dwelt upon, would have their weight ; and, chief of all, that
her loneliness and love might overcome her resolution.
While recognizing the truth that she was acting conscien-
tiously and heroically, he still believed that the only obstacle
in the way of their happiness was the tenacious hold of her
old superstitions upon her mind. The fact that their mutual
suffering seemed so unnecessary made him chafe all the
more, and his mind and body were giving evidences of the
bitterness of the long-continued ordeal. Perpetual gloom
lowered upon his brow ; at times, fits of abstraction almost
unfitted him for his duties, and again he would be reckless
and inclined to dissipation.
To his old acquaintances, his wife's conduct accounted
for his manner and actions ; but Surgeon Jasper knew of
the deeper wound, and was often tempted to inform Vera of
the disastrous results of Saville' s disappointment. Indeed,
he would have done so had not the young man charged him,
almost harshly, " not to meddle. "
At first Saville haa lound some soUce in sending Vera, by
370 NEAR TO NA TURE'S HEART.
the hand of Tascar, such things as he thought might add tc
her comfort ; but she soon, in a brief letter, gently but firmly
declined to receive his gifts, and entreated him to remember
that they must accept their whole duty, and school their
hearts into submission.
But there was this radical difference between them : while
her suffering was the keener, because of the sensitiveness and
delicacy of her nature, she was finding increasing strength
and calmness from the Divine help that is ever given in an-
swer to prayer.
He was unaided in his struggle, and, if he still believed
that man was a law unto himself, he was learning by bitter
experience that he is not sufficient in himself for life's
emergencies. He had at last reached that desperate condi-
tion in which, though still restrained by Vera's words and
the ring she had given him from any directly suicidal act,
he was only too ready to throw away his life by reckless ex-
posure in the first battle that occurred.
Vera learned of his growing despair and consequent dan-
gerous moods in a rather peculiar way. In introducing
Tascar to the secluded cabin, Saville had virtually provided
lor the household, for the boy proved the most ubiquitous,
industrious personality that ever taxed earth, air, and water
for the means of livelihood. He soon became as accurate a
shot as Vera herself, and she had no more occasion to range
the hills with her gun save as a pastime. His knowledge of
the instincts and habits of game made escape from his cun-
ningly prepared traps and snares very improbable. His
good luck as a fisherman became almost unvarying, because
he knew just when and where to go. He enlarged the gar-
den which he had made the preceding year, and kept it
green and flourishing by turning through it a brook that
had its unfailing source deep in the mountains. He scoured
the hills and valleys for wild fruits in their season, and these.
SEEKING DEATH. 371
with the surplus of game, found a ready sale at the garrison
of West Point.
Vera had thoroughly adopted Saville's plan of perfect
openness, and would permit nothing that looked like guilty
fear or desire for concealment. Thus, through her manage-
ment and Tascar's able seconding, the little cabin was be-
coming a recognized base of supplies for several officers'
messes ; and Saviile had always been ready to buy every-
thing that his quondam servant brought, whether he wanted
it or not.
In answer to her father's questions concerning Saville's
long- continued absence, Vera had said briefly,
" Circumstances are such that Mr. Saviile cannot marry
me, and since he cannot, it is best for us both that his visits
should cease. Ask me no further. Let it satisfy you that
he has acted toward me like an honorable man, as he is,
and that he is still a true friend on whom I can call should
I need him."
The exile turned gloomily away, satisfied that Saviile at
last realized the folly of allying himself to the daughter of
one whom he knew to be a criminal ; but from that time
his remorseful pity and tenderness for Vera increased.
Tascar's success as a huckster finally led to his acquaint-
ance with a redoubtable negro by the name of Pompey, for
whom the boy soon conceived a strong friendship, and a
boundless admiration. Pompey was ostensibly following a
like calling ; but, in supplying the British garrison at Stony
Point, he brought away shining coin for his fruits and vege-
tables, instead of the depreciated Continental money which
was paid chiefly at West Point. This fact alone gave the
elder sable trader a marked pre-eminence.
But one day Pompey took Tascar into the depth of the
forest, and, with great mystery and solemnity informed him,
"You' se a peart likely boy, and I'se 'bout to put you up
372 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
a peg higher. I'se a-gwine to let you inter a deep 'spir-
acy."
** Where is dis deep hole, an' how deep' 11 I hab ter go
in?" asked Tascar, in some trepidation from Pompey's
words and manner.
" What a chile you is !" said Pompey loftily. " 'Tain't
a hole ; it's a 'spiracy agin de Red-coats. Does you tink I
goes down to de Britishers at Stony P'int to hawk benies?
My mas' r, Capting Lamb, doesn't need to sell berries; I
takes a heap mo' inter de fort dan I carries in my basket."
** What does you take .?" asked Tascar, agape with curi=
osity.
** I takes dese two eyes. I takes dese two ears."
" Well, you doesn't sell 'em ?"
*• What a chile you is ! I comes back wid my basket
empty, but my head is chuck full, an' I tells mas'r all I
sees an' hears, an' he tells a 'Merican ossifer, an' soon
Gin'ral Washington hisself knows all /does." And at this
point Pompey assumed an air of such mysterious importance
that Tascar was deeply awed.
'* Fraps we II take dat ar British fort. We're a-thinkin'
ob it," continued Pompey, half in soliloquy. " It 'pends
werry largely on me. Now it isn't 'comin' dat a man in
my 'sponsible 'sition should be out berryin' all de time.
I'se got to tink" (with a suggestive tap on his forehead);
** an' while I'se a prowidin' sumfin' dat you doesn't know
nuffin' 'bout, an' what is called strogedy, you can pick de
berries an' bring 'em to me, an' I'll gib you de shiners for
'em. Your part ob de 'spiracy is to pick de berries an'
keep your mouf shut, an' den some dark night you'll hear
more'n you eber did in de daytime."
Though Tascar' s share in the dark conspiracy against the
British garrison was rather humble, he was more than satis-
fied, and was so elated with his secret and his importance
that old Gula asked,
SEEA'IXG DEATH. 373
" What's de matter, chile ? 'Pears like you'se a-bustin'
wid sumfin'."
But Tascar, by a mighty effort, was able to keep his
" mouf shut."
Vera also asked, " How is it you get coin of late for the
fruit?"
"I gits it honest, Missy Vera," was all that the sable
sphinx would vouchsafe.
But one July midnight he roused them all by his wild and
excited cries.
" Dar I dar !" he shouted, " Pompey's goin' fur de
Red-coats. I'se in de 'spiracy, an' mus' go to look arter
it," and he started southward, in spite of his mother's ex-
postulations.
The heavy jar of a brief cannonade, and the faint reports
of musketry, satisfied Vera and her father that a battle was
in progress. To the maiden these sounds suggested danger
to the one ever present in her thoughts, and, in the solemn
night, they were peculiarly ominous and depressing.
She soon learned how profoundly she had reason to dread
such evidences of battle, for one evening, a few days after
the capture of Stony Point, Tascar induced his great lu-
minary, Pompey, to come and beam on the inmates of the
cabin for an hour, and to relate the events of the assault, as
far as he saw and imagined them. Tascar was peculiarly
eager to bring about the recitation of this epic, not only that
he might, as one of the " 'spirators," reflect a few rays of
Pompey's glory ; but also that his master might learn of an
important American success, and that Vera might hear how
Strangely Saville had acted. He introduced his friend as the
hero of the occasion, declaring excitedly,
*' Does you believe, Mas'r Brown, Pompey tuk our folks
right into de fort, an' cotched 'bout a million Red-coats ?"
** Well," began Pompey, with a patronizing glance at Tas-
$74 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
car, '* I don't'spose derewas quite so many as dat, an' den
you mus' know, Mas'r Brown, dat I had 'siderable help.
From what dis yer peart boy hab told me, you'se 'ud like to
know how 'twas done."
" We would indeed," said Vera, welcoming anything
that beguiled her sad thoughts for an hour. Tascar had
not told her that Pompey had aught to relate of Saville, for
he was magnanimous enough to detract in no respect from
the force and freshness of his friend's narration. He had
hinted to Pompey that Mas' r Brown would be greatly pleased
to hear any tidings of Saville ; but, with a little diplomacy
of his own, said nothing of Vera's interest. He had not
been a member of a " 'spiracy" for nothing, and could
keep other secrets than those of Pompey to himself.
" Well, you see, Mas'r an' Missy Brown," Pompey con-
tinued, assuming a histrionic air and attitude, " it all begin
in a 'spiracy, an' I was de big 'spirator. Dis yer chile was
in de 'spiracy too" (and he laid a patronizing hand on Tas-
car' s head), " an' his part was to pick de berries an' keep
his mouf shut. He's a peart boy, an' a good 'spirator."
Tascar, in the exuberance of his delight at such high
praise, stood on his head a moment, and then righted him-
self again in the attitude of an intensely eager listener.
Pompey complacently waited till the boy was through with
his demonstration, as an orator or actor might yield a mo-
ment to an outburst of applause, and then proceeded :
" De 'spiracy rested on two tings : De British ossifers like
strawberries, an' my mas'r an' Gin'ral Washington liked ter
know what de Red-coats was up ter. I" (with an air of
conscious power) ' ' was able to guv bof parties what dey
wanted. I tuck de berries inter de fort, an' 1 brought back
eberyting I seed an' heerd, an' often my head was fuller
when I come out dan my basket when I went in. Well, ter
git in an' out 1 had ter hab what dey call a countysign — a
SEEKING DEATH. 375
sort ob sayin' or word dat is like a key dat unlocks de do'.
It's a mighty quar ting, de countysign is ; it jes' makes
'em big grannydeers like suckin' Iambs, when, if you habn't
any countysign, dey'd spit you on de p'int ob dare bayonets.
" Well, I'se had allers carried de berries tode Red-coats in
de daytime ; but arter a while de 'spiracy got deeper, and
mas'r tole me dat Gin'ral Washington wanted ter see if he
couldn' t tuck de fort some dark night. So I put on a long
face de nex' time I went, and said,
' ' * Can't git here no mo' in daylight. Hoein' corn time's
come ; mas'r can't spare me ;' and dey said, ' Mus' hab
our berries. You come ebenin's, and we'll let you in and
out; for you' se an innercent darkey, and wouldn't do no
more harm dan a mule.' I said, ' Yes, mas'rs, I'se jes' as
innercent as a mule.' An' I tole de truf ; for you know,
Mas' r Brown, you neber can tell when a mule is a-gwine to
kick up.
" Well, I tuck de berries in at night, an' all went smooth
as ile a few days, an' de countysign let me in an' out in de
dark jes' as well as in de light. On de fourteenth ob de
month my mas'r said, ' Pompey, you'se got a long head.
We don't want a dorg nowhar near Stony P'int, kase dey
might bark de wrong time, you know. Can you fix 'em so
dey won't bark to-morrow night ?' an' den he wink one eye
jes' dis way.
" Den I knew de 'spiracy was a-gittin' deeper yit, an'
takin' in de dorgs. Wheneber dey wanted some strogedy
dey allers come to me, an' dey knowed dat de only way dey
could eber git aroun' dem ar dorgs was by strogedy. I tink
po'ful strong a few minutes, an' den I said, ' Mas'r Lamb,
jes' leave dem dorgs to me. If any ob 'em barks to-morrow
night, den dorgs hab ghosts jes' as much as oder folks.'
Dat night I tuck down de berries in one basket an' sumfin'
tor de dorgs in anoder. Whar I knowed people lived dat
EOE— VIII— Q
376 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
thought mo' ob dare dorgs dan ob de country I jes' drap.
ped a chunk ob seasoned meat, an' watched till I seed it
tucked away whar it would be werry quietin'. To de true-
blue Whigs I says, ' Gin'ral Washington doesn't want no
dorgs barkin' ter-morrow night.' Den I winked jes' as
mas'r did an' dat was enuff.
" I'se been 'tickler in 'latin' dese parts, kase here's whar
de strogedy comes in, an' it all 'pended on strogedy. Any-
body kin fight an' git knocked on de head, but in dis case
eberybody, even Gin'ral Washington, had to wait till I'd
done up de strogedy.
" Well, de fifteenth come, an' it was a big day an' a big-
ger night. You heerd de guns, but dare had ter be a po'ful
lot ob strogedy afore dey was fired, an' all de great gin' rals
an' kunnels an' captings foun' dat dey couldn't git on wid-
out Pompey. Gin'ral Wayne, de one dey call ' Mad An-
terny,' was at de head ob it all, an' he 'rived sumfin' less
dan two mile below de P'int arter dark, an' he had quite a
lot ob Continentals wid ^im, not so wery many, dough, for
he was 'pendin' on my strogedy more'n hard fightin'.
" Gin'ral Wayne stopped his men out ob sight, an' was
jes' a-startin' wid a lot ob his big ossifers to take a squint
at de Britishers an' de kaseway leadin' to de fort, when we
heerd a hos comin' as if de debbil was arter him, an' some
'un dashed up like mad, ' Why, Saville,' said Gin'ral
Wayne, ' how in de name ob wonder did you git here ?*
' I jes' heerd what was on foot, an' I stole away to jine
de 'spedition as a wolunteer. ' ' Kunnel De Fleury says
you're mo' reckless dan I is,' raid de gin'ral, ' an' it won't
do ter hab too many hot heads in dis ticklish bizness ; so I'll
put you in charge ob de kunnel, and you must keep back
and 'bey orders.' ' I promise, gin'ral, to keep back,' said
de one dey call Saville, 'till you say de fust man dat gits \.b de
center ob de fort is de best man,' an' den dey let him go."
SEEKING DEATH. 377
Vera had been listening with a half smile upon her face,
for she could not help being amused by the negro's droll
manner and boundless egotism ; but, at the mention of Sa-
ville's name, she became deathly pale and very faint ; by
great effort, however, she controlled herself sufficiently not
to interrupt the narrative.
" Now, you mus' know, Mas'r Brown, dat de Britishers
was a little careless, kase dey said de 'sition ob de fort was
so po'ful strong dat de rebs couldn't tuck it ; an' no mo'
dey couldn' t, widout strogedy, an' dat was de reason dey
wanted me all de time. De fort is on a great, high, rocky
hill, an' de water ob de ribber comes all aroun' in front ob
it, an' to'rd de land dere's wide, nasty mash, whar de mud
is deeper nor de water, an' you'd go down inter it kerchunk 1
right ober yer head. Stony P'int is a kind ob island, an'
de only way to git dare is by a long, narrow kaseway, whar
my ole missus, wid a broomstick, could keep back a reg'-
ment. We could only git across dat ar place by strogedy,
an' so dey all was a 'pendin' on me.
"Well, Gin'ral Wayne an' Kunnel De Fleury, an' him
dey call Capting Saville, look all aroun' as near as dey
an' could not be seen, an' all was still. De dorgs was
wery quiet, an' dey seed dat I had fixed eberyting jes'
right.
" About de middle ob de night all de sogers started, an'
I goes on ahead wid de gin'ral an' all de big men, kase I
had de countysign, an' was to keep on doin' de 'portant
part of the strogedy. I had to Irab de help now ob two
Oder 'spirators ; so dey had two big men fixed up like ole
farmers, an' dey was to go along wid me. When de sogers
got near de fort, de gin'ral stopped dem agin, an' he sent me
an' de ole farmers on ahead, while he an' some ossifersfollered
slow like. Capting Saville wanted to go wid me, but de
gin'ral called him back.
378 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" Well, I had my basket ob berries jes' de same as eber
— Tascar here pick 'em fer me — an' deole farmers was each
a-carryin' a sheep ; an' so we trudged along up to de fust
sentinel, as innercent as mules, sure'nuff. Demanknowed
me, an' had let me by often afore. So I steps up to him
to guv de countysign, which was * De fort is our own,' an'
de ole farmers follered close on my heels. While I was
a-whisperin' de countysign an' a-talkin', dey was to carry
out de rest ob de strogedy.
" ' De fort's our own,' says I to de Britisher. ' Correct,
hand hit' 11 stay hour hown,' says de Red-coat. ' You
doesn't tink I'm a-gwine to take it away in my basket, ter-
night, does yer ?' ' What hab you hin de basket ?' says
he. ' Help yerself,' says I, an' while he was a-fumblin'
about de basket, de two old farmers jump on him an' tuck
away his muskit an' stopped his mouf so tight he couldn't
git no berries in nor no sound out. Down by de kaseway
dere was anoder sent' nel, but we come de strogedy on him,
de same way.
' ' But de tide was so high dat even de kaseway was kivered
wid water, an' strogedy couldn' t help dat, an' so dey all had
ter wait till de tide lowered. But Capting Saville wouldn't
wait, and was a-gwine to feel his way ober through de water
when de gin'ral call him back agin. Po'ful brave man,
dat Capting Saville, but no good at strogedy.
" At last we all got ober, sabe a big lot ob men dat was
to stay on dis side for a resarve, dey said. De gin'ral tole
me dat I needn't go no furder ; but I telled him dat I'd
done my part, an 'bout de same as guv him de fort, and
now I'se was a-gwine along wid him and see how he did his
part. He larfed and says, * Pompey, p'raps you is de big-
gest gen'ral ob de two.'
" Well, he d'wides de sogers into two big parties, and he
tucks one and Kunnel De Fleury de oder, and he sent ahead
SEEKING DEATH. 379
ob each party an ossiferwid twenty men, who was to cot away
what dey call de 'batis, or a strong, scragly fence ob tree-
tops, all sharpened and stuck in front ob de fort Dare
was two thick rows ob dese, an' I pitied dem po' fellers who
had ter go ter wood-choppin', while de Red -coats was a-cut-
tin' dera up. Dey called dese twenty men ahead ob each
party de ' 'lorn hope.' Who should jine one ob dese 'lorn
hopes but Capting Saville, ' Come back, ' saj's Kunnel De
Fleury ; 'Come back,* says Gin'ral Wayne; ' you'se no
bizness dar.' ' I'll 'beyde lieutenant in command, and will
disconsortno un, ' says Saville, an* away he goes up de steep
hill wid de 'lorn hope.
'* I wanted ter see it out ; but I wasn't 'sessed, like Cap-
ting Saville, ter get knocked on de head ; so I crep around
one side, away from bof de parties, kase I knowed de Red-
coats wouldn't fire whar no one in 'tickler was comin' agin*
'em, an' I could see by de flashes how tings was goin*.
Gittin' 'round in a safe place, while oders was bein' cracked
on de head, was de difference between havin' strc^^edy an'
not havin' strc^edy."
" But Captain Saville," cried Vera, seizing his arm ;
*' what became of him ?"
The sharp interruption, and Vera's bloodless, agonized
lace, checked Pompey's historic flow of thought, and sug-
gested a new and quite distinct idea to him.
"Law sakes, missy," he began, "I didn't know you
cared in 'tickler 'bout him. Tascar, you orter — '*
" Speak, man !" she said, with an importunity that was
almost fierce. " Was Captain Saville wounded? w^ he —
O God ! I cannot utter that word 1"
" Missy Vera, Capting Saville's safe at West Point I
aeed him yesterday. He wasn't hurt, dough it 'pears like
as if he tried to be," said Tascar hastily.
** Ab 1 thank God 1 another awful danger is past. PlcMC
380 NEAR TO NATURE S HEART.
hasten your story, for I cannot bear to hear of these awful
scenes. ' '
" I'se near through, missy, for what happened arter whar
I lef off all seemed to be in a minute. Our folks went up
de hill as still Hke as if dey was ghosts. On a sudden dey
come on de Red coats, an' dey fired on our men, but no
flashes came from our side. I was tole dat dare wasn't a
loaded musket 'mong de 'Mericans, an' I tinks it was so ;
for dey jes' put dere bay' nets in front an' run for'ud like
mad. In a minute de 'lorn hope nex' me was cuttin' away
de 'batis, or big, ugly fence. De place dat was so still as if
dey was all sleepin' became full of drefful sounds. De
drums beat de long roll, de ossifers was a-shoutin' ' To
arms ! to arms !' de cannons began to beller, and dey filled
dem wid grape-shot, an' all de Britishers was a-firin' dare
muskets fas' as dey could load. It 'peared to me dat ebery
un s>b our folks would be killed twice ober. A minute later
I seed Capting Saville, by de light ob a big flash, jump on
an' ober de 'batis, a-cuttin' an' a-slashin* wid his sword.
Away went a crowd ob our sogers arter him. In less time
dan I kin tell you our two parties come togedder, kerslap,
right in de middle ob de fort. Dey hauled down de flag ;
dey stuck ebery 'un dat was oncivil — Well, Mas'r Brown,
ter make a long story short, dey jes' picked up, on de p'ints
ob dare bay'nets, de fort dat I had already got for 'em by
my strogedy. But, Missy Vera, if Capting Saville is a friend
ob your'n, you orter look arter him, kase he can't do what
he did dat ar night twice, strogedy or no strogedy. ' '
Vera fled to her room.
Her father looked after her with an expression of deep
commiseration, and having dismissed Pompey with a few
words of thanks, turned on his heel, and strode away into
the forest, muttering,
" The curse resting on me will crush her also, and seems
SEEKING DEATH. 381
to be falling on Saville. His pride will net permit him to
many the daughter of such a wretch as I am, and yet his
thwarted love makes life a burden that he would gladly be
rid of. Oh ! the malign power of one evil deed ! Who
can tell when and where its deadly influence will cease ? I
have destroyed myself ; I am destroying Vera and Saville ;
my crime dug poor Esther's early grave. How many others
shall I blight before the curse dies out ? Would to God I
had never been born !"
Note. — A shrewd negro slave, by the name of Pompey, obtained
the countersign, and guided the American forces to the causeway
leading to Stony Point, in the manner described in the foregoing
chapter. Ke belonged to Captain Lamb, a staunch Whig who ws»
skiiKl in the ndghborhoodi
j83 NEAR TO NA TURE' ^ HEART,
CHAPTER XXXVII.
SEEKING LIFE.
ON reaching the seclusion of her own little closet, Vers
did not give way to helpless gnef. She recognized
the necessity of prompt action. Saville must again feel her
strong yet gentle grasp, or he might be lost to her and to
himself. Another battle would soon occur, and another op-
portunity for the carrying out of his dreadful purpc^e. He
must be shown at once that such reckless exposure was a
virtual violation of his promise of which her mother's ring
was the token. She resolved to write to him and appeal to
all the noble, generous traits which she knew he poase^ed,
and to chide him for the unmanly weakness which he ^r^k
now displaying. She even determined to risk the loss oS
her dearest treasure, Washington's Bible, in the hope that
he would read it, and be led by its teachings to doubt the
skepticism which had so little power to sustain and comfort
Thus, she was a sleepless watcher through the night, often
writing earnestly and rapidly, and again thinking long and
deeply between the sentences of the following letter :
" Theron, my more than brother, have I lost my influ-
ence over you ? The fear that I have adds greatly to a bur-
den that is already too heavy. Your influence over me loses
none of its power. It would be hard for me to say when
the thought of you is absent from my mind. The greatest
SEEKING LIFE. Z^l
sacrifice you could ask would be a joy did not conscience
' forbid. Theron, I am trying very hard to do right. There
are many days in which I can only cling desperately to God's
hand ; but He has sustained me in a manner so wonderful
that my confidence in Him, not myself, is continually in-
creasing. He is very gentle and patient with me also, for
He knows I am a ' bruised reed. '
But, Theron, you are making my burden heavier than
I can bear, even with God's compassionate help. You
know well that in my shadowed life I have become acquaint-
ed with suffering, and yet never before have I endured such
agony as pierced my heart to-day. You are the cause.
Theron, in every unordered, uncalled-for, reckless step you
took, in the attack on Stony Point, you trod upon my heart.
When you are called upon to face danger by just authority,
do your duty, and your whole duty, as I am asking God to
help me do mine, in the face of a temptation that assails me
relentlessly and almost continuously. I say this much,
though well a'.s-are that if you receive wounds, I shall be
more sorely wounded, and that if you are killed, it will be
worse than death to me. But, did duty compel you to take
part in that desperate midnight assault .? Was it love of
country that thrust you forward beyond the bravest who were
acting under orders } When I pained and disappointed
you, I did so under a compulsion the strongest and most
sacred that the human soul can recognize. Was your mo-
tive in seeking death, that awful night, noble and sacred ?
Theron, it was the first cowardly act I ever knew you to
commit, and it v,-as an act so cruel as to be utterly unlike
you. It was an unmanly effort to escape from a burden
which I, in case you had accomplished your purpose, would
have had to bear alone, and which was made infinitely greater
by your act Granting that your belief is true, and that
death is dreamless sleep, can you long for a rest which
S84 NEAR TO NATURE* S HEART.
means unspeakable agony for me ? I do not say it boast^
ingly, but from the depths of my heart, I could welcome
pain, loss, disaster, anything save sin, which would bring
you rest You should be stronger and braver than I. Why
are you not ? Theron, there must be something wrong in
your philosophy when a man naturally as noble and good
as you are sinks, fails, and is overborne ; and if your phi-
losophy cannot sustain one peculiarly strong and favored
like yourself, of what use would it be to average humanity ?
How utterly it would fail the weak and tempted ! But my
feith in God sustains even me in as sore a stress, I think, as
ever a woman was called to endure. It sustained my dear
mother, and you know how sad her lot was in so many re-
spects. If your creed cannot make a strong, noble man
like yourself brave and patient, it is so poor that I am sure
it is unfounded.
" Theron, I know you honestly think you are right, but
are you sure you have full reason to think so. Pardon me
if I, in love and sympathy, touch for a moment on your
past experience. You once believed that the woman who
is your wife was worthy of your affection. You assumed
that she was, and acted honestly and naturally in view of
your beliei If you had studied her character carefully and
patiently, you would have found that you were mistaken.
Forgive me for saying it, Theron ; but I cannot help think-
ing that any view, creed, or philosophy which can permit you
to make a cowardly flight from life's burden, from the duties
you owe to your mother and country, is equally unworthy
of respect We are now, as it were, meeting the same cruel
misfortune side by side. Will you run away and leave me
to suSer it all alone ?
" I have a favor to ask. Your response will show whether
I have still any influence over you, and whether you will do
» comparatively little thing for one who will do for yov
SEEKING LIFE. 3^5
everything in her power save that which is wrong, I Hstened
patiently to all your arguments, and I tried very hard to be-
lieve them. Oh ! how I wished that I could think as you
did ; but I had known and seen the power of God's living
truth, and it was impossible. Will you in fairness honestly
consider the grounds of my faith ? As a proof of my all-
absorbing interest in you, I send the dearest thing I have,
Washington's Bible, with the one request that you read it
through, patiently and thoughtfully, and that you dwell
especially on the New Testament. I suppose that there are
wise men who could argue with you and tell you something
about the Bible, how it was written, and why people think
it is God's Word ; but I do not ask you to seek them. I
only ask that you sit down by yourself, and, putting aside all
prejudice, that you read this Bible with the candor and sin-
cerity which have always been among your noblest traits.
I feel sure the book will make its own impression, and con-
tain all the arguments that are needed. I leave the issue
with God, to whom I pray in your behalf more often than
in my own. I hope my pencilings here and there will not
mar the pages for you.
" Theron, is my mother's ring still on your finger? It
means now all that it did when I placed it there. But you
made a promise then as truly as I did. Do not keep its let-
ter but break its spirit. Farewell.
"Vera."
Early the next morning she summoned Tascar, and
giving him the letter and package containing the book,
said, with a decision which he could not fail to under-
stand,
" Find Mr. Saville, and give him these as soon as possi-
ble. Mark my words, Tascar, find him. Go to him wher-
ever he is, and give this letter and book into his own handi ;
S86 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEAR7\
remember, his own hands. There is money. If need be,
travel days and weeks till you find him, I must take no
risks in this matter. Wait for his answer. ' '
Having done her part, Vera was able, more calmly and
trustingly, to leave the result in God's hands,
Tascar reached West Point at about noon, and found Sa-
ville in his quarters. His gloomy face lighted up as he saw
the boy.
' ' Missy Vera tole me to give you dese, an' wait for an
answer."
Saville eagerly took the missive and package, and shut-
ting himself up in a small room back of the main one,
opened the letter with a hand that now trembled as it never
had in the shock of battle. He soon reappeared with a
note in his hand, and said to Tascar, who had zealously
complied with the request that he should eat the untasted
dinner on the table,
" Take this to your mistress, and come to me again in a
week, for I shall have something to send to her."
'* Did you find him ?" asked Vera, surprised at his
speedy return.
" Yes, Missy Vera, an' here is what he guv me."
Vera hastened to her room, tore open the note, and, with
tears of joy, read as follows :
" My loyal Vera, I have read your letter, and am over-
whelmed with shame and self-contempt. How strong you
are I How weak I have been 1 If I am not a man after
this, let even my memory perish. I now promise you to
keep the spirit of my pledge. If anything happens to me,
I't will be in the performance of what you even would es-
teem — duty. And, Vera, 1 will even read the book which
has broken my heart and blighted my life, in separating
you from me. I cannot now trust myself to say anything
SEEKING LIFE. 3^7
more. You are as much above and beyond me as your
fancied heaven is above the earth.
" Yours, to command henceforth,
" Saville."
The long, dark night was passing, and Vera saw in these
few words the faint dawning of hope.
Did her pencilings mar the pages of the little Bible ? Sa-
ville, on his return to his quarters that evening, turned at
first only to such pages, and to the words indicated, which
were thus made to seem as if spoken directly to him by the
maiden.
One text struck him with peculiar force, in the circum-
stances. It was heavily marked, and Vera had written under
it, "May not this be true.?" It was, "There is a way
which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the
ways of death."
" Is it possible that I am mistaken ?' ' he asked himself
for the first time. " At any rate, I shall be more bigoted
than the bigots themselves if I do not accede to Vera's re-
quest, and give her side a careful, unprejudiced hear-
ing."
Saville was too honest a man to bestow on Washington's
Bible a careless, hasty perusal ; and he was too large- na-
tured and fair to read it with his mind steeled against its
truth by dislike, contempt, or the pride of preconceived
opinion. It was his sincere intention to be receptive, judi-
cial, and let the book speak for itself, according to its capa-
bility.
Some things in Vera's letter strongly tended to promote a
condition o! mind favorable to the reception of the truth.
Her reference to the blindness which he had shown, at first,
to the character of his wife, made him wince, but the effect
was wholesome. He certainly had been mistaken then in
3B8 NEAR TO NAIJRE'S HEART.
a matter of vital importance, and how disastrous had been
the consequences !
" If Vera is right, and this book is true ; if I am mistaken
again," he thought, " the evil will be without remedy. If
death is not a dreamless sleep, but rather an eternal, wak-
ing consciousness of all that one has lost ; if there is the
faintest possibility of this, I had better consider it at
once."
He moreover felt that he had justified Vera's contempt for
his philosophy. What had it done for him, save to prompt
to unmanly, cowardly action ? Her faith, in contrast, had
sustained her in patient, heroic endurance. He was hum-
bled, and truth is ever ready to be the guest of humility.
It does not come within the scope of this story to follow
closely his mental changes during the days and weeks that
followed. It is sufficient to say that the grasp of the Divine
mind upon his grew continually more masterful and firm.
The Bible, as Vera said, did prove itself, as it ever does to
the candid reader ; as it ever does to those who are not ab-
sorbed in their own little 'isms, or befogged by their own
pet theories, or intrenched in opinions already formed. Few
of the Bible's opponents have ever followed the example of
Saville, for he permitted the book to do all it could with
him.
" My reason," he often resolved, " shall be like a judge
upon the bench, and neither pride, prejudice, my wishes,
nor an unfair hearing, shall bribe or dispose it to a false de-
cision.
As he read and carefully re-read the book, and at last was
able to grasp, to some extent, its scope and meaning ; as he
discovered its wonderful unity in the seeming 'diversity ; as
he saw that the verbal husk in the early parts of the Old
Testament had a kernel of rich, spiritual meaning, and that
the New Testament clearly taught a philosophy too lofty for
SEEKING LIFE. 389
a merely human origin, he gradually became convinced that
there was a God, and that the Bible was His guiding word
to His earthly children. The " Man of Sorrows" fascinated
him with irresistible power, and he followed Him in all His
patient journeying through Palestine, wondering, fearing,
hoping, but unhealed.
With the conviction of the Bible's truth, a distress of
mind, such as he had never known before, began to develop
itsell How must the all-powerful and holy God regard him,
who had so arrogantly, and with so little proof and reason,
assumed that His Word was a myth, and Himself a fiction
of the superstitious ? And when he thought how he had
tempted Vera, and caused her to waver in her faith, he was
ready to despair.
' ' What have I learned from the Bible ?' ' he exclaimed
one day, in agony, " save that I am justly and irretrievably
lost. I now know what poor, tempted Vera meant when
she trembled at the words, ' A certain fearful looking for of
judgment' "
As early as possible, after receiving the Bible Vera had
sent him, Saville had procured another, which he sent out
to her by Tascar, as he had promised. While Vera welcomed
this gift as a proof that he was relenting in his bitter hostil-
ity to the book, she was left in ignorance of the radical
changes taking place in his mind. Saville did not wish to
commit himself until fully convinced. But when, after in-
tellectual conviction, he commenced drawing practical in-
ferences from its truth, and saw the fate which threatened
him ; when his awakened and instructed conscience revealed
to him that the penalty of sin is not arbitrary and externally
imposed, but inevitable and natural, in the one sinning,
from the very law and principle of creation ; the man was
overwhelmed with rational fear. The dark question, which
all the penances of the Romish Church, and the cruelties oi
390 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
superstition, have vainly tried to answer, rose for his per-
sonal solution, How shall I be rid of my sin ?
Only the flippant and shallow-minded make light of this
question, and they but for a brief time. The student of
history and humanity knows that it has been the burden of
the heart among all races and in every age ; and that to-day
men are inflicting upon themselves inconceivable suffering in
the vain hope of answering it.
Saville had learned from the Bible only part of the truth.
He saw what evil was and what it involved ; but he had not
yet discovered the remedy, which is usually overlooked at
first from its very simplicity.
His despairing self-condemnation became so great that he
determined to write to Vera, and see if she could not give
him some clue of hope. So, one day several weeks after
the time he had commenced reading the Bible, at her re-
quest, he wrote the following brief letter, knowing that
he would soon have an opportunity of sending it out to
the cabin by Tascar, who was often down to the garri-
son.
" My faithful Vera, I fear the gift of the Bible, which cost
you so much to send, but which I tried to make good by
sending another, has been but of little service to me. Will
you be full of joy when I tell you that I believe it to be the
true Word of the all-powerful God ? Can you be, when
you remember the doom which this Bible pronounces on
me who so long scoffed at it, and (what is far worse to me)
who tempted you ? I am no longer in the darkness of un-
belief, but stand in the searching, consuming light of God's
truth, trembling at the thought that I have lost myself — that
I have lost you — forever. Is there no remedy } In my de-
spair I turn to you, the one I have wronged most.
" Saville.'*
SEEKI.YG LIFE. 39I
" Mas'r Saville looked sick," said Tascar, as he gave the
letter to Vera, one evening.
In a few moments Vera came to the cabin door again and
summoned Tascar. The boy thought the expression of
her face indicated that something unusual v/ould be required,
and he was prepared for th t request.
" Tascar, ^vill you go to West Point for me again to-
night ?' '
" Yes, Missy Vera, if it!s anyting 'tickler."
" Give that letter to Mr. Saville, and you won't be sorry
for the trouble it costs you. I will reward you."
Late in the evening, Saville received a missive which con-
tained only these words :
" Theron, I wish to see you. Come to the place where
we parted on the hill-side, the first evening your duties will
permit. Vera."
He briefly wrote in reply, " I will come to-morrow even-
ing. How faithful you are !"
He put a broad piece of gold in the wearied messenger's
hand, and said,
" Keep that yourself, Tascar."
It was with feelings diflScult to be described that Saville
looked down into the wild, secluded glen once more. Over
a year had passed since he had seen it, or its inmates. The
mellow autumn sunlight shimmered through the trees and
upon the rocks, softening the rugged wildness of the scene.
But in its dreariest wintry garb it would be the one attractive
spot of earth to him.
" Will Vera be much changed ?'' he had asked himself
again and again. Ages seemed to have passed since he had
seen her.
He could not surprise her now. She was waiting for him.
392 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
with her hand upon her side, as was her custom when deep
leehng caused her heart to flutter too strongly. To one
watching them from a little distance their meeting would
have appeared very quiet and undemonstrative ; but to each
other, trembling hands and moistened eyes revealed the
depths of feeling in reserve.
" You are pale and thin, Theron," said Vera, her tears
gathering visibly.
"These are the least of my troubles," he replied, half
smiling. " I dreaded lest you had become shadowy and
spirit-like under the discipline of sorrow. Since I have come
to believe there is a heaven, I have been constantly wonder-
ing why you are not taken there at once. But I am inclined
to think that you have become womanly during this long
year, rather than angelic.
" I am glad to hear you say so," she answered, trying to
smile also ; ' ' for the reason that I am a woman, if for no
other. I have no desire to be anything else at present."
" Vera," he could not forbear saying, " I did not know
that faith and sorrow could make a human face so beauti-
ful."
She could not have been a woman did not a smile of pleas-
ure illumine her face now. Almost instantly it was fol-
lowed by an expression of deep pain, and she turned away
for a moment.
He understood her ; she could not drink at the ever-full
fountain of his love and admiration, though the waters were
so sweet.
But when she turned to him again, there was no prudish
restraint in her manner. She took tiis hand as a sister might
do, and said,
' ' Theron, I want to help you. You as yet only believe
the poorest and most meagre part of God's truth."
He looked at her with some surprise, and said,
SEEKTXG LIFE. 393
" Why, Vera, I now believe the Bible as it reads substan-
tially. I admit that there is much that I do not understand,
and cannot reconcile. It grows clearer, however, as I study
it The difficulty in understanding it all is an argument in
its favor. It's a revelation of an infinite mind ; mine is
finite. If I could grasp the whole book, I should say at
once, ' It is the work of human intellects like my own.' "
' ' The simple parts are those which you do not believe.
You do not understand the parts that mother taught me
when I ^vas a little child."
" Then teach me as if I were a child."
" How strange that you should say that ! It's a good
omen. Read those words." And she pointed out the fol-
lowing text in the Bible he had given her :
" Verily I say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the
Kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter
therein. ' '
' ' We must come to the point, Theron, of believing what
our Heavenly Father says, with the trust of a little child."
" But what does the Bible say of those who offend, or
cause one of God's little ones to offend? How sorely I
tempted you. Vera," and he covered his face with his hands.
" But you have no wish to make me offend now i"
' ' No. Whatever becomes of me, I shall thank God that
He preserved you."
' ' Can you not see what a difference this fact makes ?
Besides, you did not deliberately and consciously tempt me
to evil."
' ' But that made the temptation tenfold harder for you to
resist. ' '
" You were not to blame for that. But why dwell on the
unhappy past ? I said truly that you, as yet, believe and
understand but the poorest part of the Bible. If the Bible
is true, is not God true f"
594 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
"Certainly."
** Must He not keep His word ?"
" Yes."
' ' Then listen : ' Let the wicked forsake his way and the
unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the
Lord, and He will have mercy upon him ; and to our God,
for He will abundantly pardon,' You are willing to forsake
your unbelief, and all the evil that grew naturally out of it."
" How sweetly those words sound as you read them,"
said Saville musingly; "but can God, consistently viith
justice and His threatenings against evil, forgive my years of
blasphemy, and my "
" O Theron ! surely He will and can. Did He not
teach His disciples to forgive each other seventy times seven ?
Will He do less?"
He looked at her very earnestly, and she saw from the
expression of his face that the light was coming.
" Vera, my good angel, lead me on a little further," he
said. " Even if I were forgiven, it seems to me the mem-
ory of what I have been and what I have done will oppress
me with gloom forever."
" Read those words, Theron."
He took her Bible and read, " The next day John seeth
Jesus coming unto him and saith. Behold the Lamb of God
which taketh away the sin of the world.
" The Bible also says," she added, " ' The blood of Jesus
Christ cleanseth us from all sin.' "
" Where is that?"
She showed him.
"Theron," she said tearfully, "can you remember the
scenes of Calvary and doubt God's love ? That is the part
of the Bible you don' t understand and believe. You never
can understand God, or this. His book, until you make
these words the key to all, ' God is love. ' I shall test you
SEEKING UFB, 395
now whether you believe the Bible or not," and she repeat-
ed earnestly these words :
" If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive
as our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
" There is no escape here, Theron. It's either God is
true, or He is not true, and will not keep His word. You
have acknowledged your sin with grief and sorrow, and you
have no wish to continue in it. With this clear promise
before you, what must be your inevitable conclusion ? Ah,
Theron I I read your answer in your face. You take God
at His word. You believe. Can any happiness of heaven
surpass this moment ?' '
*' O God !" he said, in a low, deep tone, " I thank Thee
for mercy which is as boundless as Thyself !"
" Did I not tell you once, Theron, that Shakspeare
echoed the Bible ? He writes thus of mercy, you remember :
' It is twice bless'd ;
II blesseth him that gives and him that takes :
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest.'
" I believe that God finds more joy in showing you mercy,
than you in receiving it."
' ' I can almost believe it, ' ' he said ; "for the Being I
dreaded inexpressibly an hour ago now seems the source and
fountain of tenderness. O Vera 1" he added, with an ex-
pression which warmed her heart, and cheered her through
the long, lonely years that followed, ** I am glad to owe
heaven to you. This is better than saving me from death
in Fort Clinton. I can wait patiently now. ' '
An hour flew by and another like brief moments. The
full moon filled the wild gorge with beautiful lights and
shadows ; but they were too deeply absorbed to heed the
witchery of nature.
At last Saville reluctantly rose to go. " No ; I will not
396 NEAR TO NATURE:S HEART.
go to the cabin," he said. " After these words to you J
wish to speak to no other human being to-day."
He then commenced looking for something on thf
ground, and said,
" Where was it that I, in my wicked passion, trod that
ring into the earth ?' '
" Here, Theron," said "Vera promptly. " I have watch-
ed the place ever since as if it were a little grave."
He soon recovered it, and taking her hand, said hesitat-
ingly,
' ' Vera, can you not wear this ring as a token of my
boundless gratitude to you ?"
" Yes, Theron."
" It is tarnished and warped like myself."
*' But it's made of gold, Theron, gold that has been tri«d
in the fire."
" This is a very different parting from our last," he said,
after a moment ; " and we now have the earnest in our
hearts that the time will come when these sad farewells shall
cease. Good-by. Good-by once more, my true, loyal
Vera. I will watch till I see you enter the cabin door."
* ' Theron, you never made me so happy before. Good-
by."
He watched her as she passed through the alternate light
and shadow that fell upon the path. He saw the flutter of
her handkerchief as she waved him a farewell at the cabin
door, but still he did not go. The dawn was tinging the
sky before he could bring himself to leave the place where
heaven had opened to him in the stony desert of his despair.
A MYSTERY SOLVED— CiEAT CHANGES. 397
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A MYSTERY SOLVED — GREAT CHANGES.
ON the day following his visit to the mountain valley,
Saville received orders which occasioned one of those
sudden changes that are characteristic of military life ; for
he was directed to report as soon as possible at Charleston,
South Carolina. He wrote quite a long letter to Vera, in
which he recognized the kind Providence which had brought
about his new and happy belief and feelings before this wide
separation took place.
" I must go this very day," he wrote, " for my orders
are urgent. Your promptness gave me our interview last
evening, and the peace, hope, and faith which grew out of
it. I now feel that my feet are on the rock. Vera, and no
distance, time, or disaster can finally separate me f^om you.
How much I owe to you !"
The winter of 1 779-80 was one of unprecedented severity.
Even the great bay of New York was frozen over, and the
British ships were ice-bound at their anchorage. If Wash-
ington's army had been strong and thoroughly equipped,
he could have attacked the men-of-war as if they were inland
fortresses. New York city was no longer on an island, and
the heaviest artillery could approach it on every side. Gen-
eral Knyphausen, in command, was greatly alarmed, appre-
hending that Washington would attempt a coup de main, and
he made extraordinary efforts to secure himself against a sud-
den attack from the Continentals. But Washington's troops
398 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
were half naked, shivering, and starving among the snow-clad
hills of Morristown. For weeks at a time the whole army
was on half allowance, and this at a period when the intense
cold made generous diet most necessary.
•' For a fortnight past," Washington wrote on the 8th of
January, " the troops, both officers and men, have been al-
most perishing with want. Yet," adds he, feelingly, " they
have borne their sufferings with a patience that merits the
approbation, and ought to excite the sympathies, of their
countrymen."
In addition to all other horrors, the loathsome disease of
small pox became epidemic, and often there was not even a
blanket with which to cover a sick and dying man. Thus
the Continental army could scarcely keep soul and body to-
gether, much less strike vigorous blows at their ice-bound
enemies, who were at least comfortably housed and well
fed.
In this dark hour Washington entreated Heaven continu-
ally in behalf of his country. * He was often seen bowing
in prayer in some retired place of the forest, and it is rational
to believe that we witness the answer to his petitions in his
sublime and more than human fortitude.
Had such a winter occurred at the time when Vera was
chiefly dependent upon her own exertions, it might have
been fatal to her and all the inmates of the cabin. It cer-
tainly would have been so, in the condition in which Saville
found them in the autumn following the burning of their
first home. But his forethought and liberality, and the
labors of Tascar, had provided against such an emergency,
and though she and her father suffered somewhat from the
* A soldier in the regiment of which the writer was chaplain dur-
ing the late war, stated that his grandfather had seen Washington
at prayer, in the woods near his quarters at Morristown, more
than once.
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 399
cold during this interminable winter, they had food in
abundance.
It passed away at last, and spring brought another long
campaign, during which she heard from Saville but very
seldom.
Another winter and summer passed, and there were long,
anxious intervals, with no tidings from the South. Letters
were rare and uncertain luxuries in those days.
At last the thrill of joy which went through the land at the
surrender of Lord Comwallis at Yorktown was felt, even in
the secluded mountain cabin. Tascar, half wild with excite-
ment, brought the news from West Point Vera was pro-
foundly thankful, as the event promised to hasten the day of
peace ; while her father was more elated than he had ever
been before with the hope that he would soon be, without
doubt, beyond British law. As the war continued, and the
colonies had maintained the struggle from year to year, his
hope had gradually strengthened, that even the enormous
power of England might at last be wearied into yielding the
liberty which her colonies claimed. Under the influence of
this hope he grew somewhat less moody and depressed, and
at times he even tried, in a grim, poor way, to be more com-
panionable to Vera, whom he pitied profoundly in her lone-
liness.
In the winter of 178 1-2 a letter, that had been long on
the way, came from Saville, stating that he had been wound-
ed in the siege of Yorktown, but that he was now out of
danger and recovering. It breathed the same quiet, hopeful
spirit which had pervaded all his letters during this long ab-
sence. His faith was strengthening with time and trial.
Vera immediately wrote fully and feelingly in reply, and
Surgeon Jasper, who was still at West Point, and a friend
that could be depended upon, promised to make great
efforts to secure her letter a sale transit. Its receipt did
EoE— VIIT— R
400 NEAR TO NATURE* S HEART,
much to hasten Saville's recovery ; but such was the feeble
and exhausted condition of his system, that his surgeon in-
sisted upon his remaining in the South during the winter.
The spring of the auspicious year of 1782 again clothed
the Highlands with beauty, and rumors of peace were glad-
dening the hearts of the people.
One day Tascar came up from West Point in an unusual
state of excitement.
" I'se a-tinkin'. Missy Vera," he said, " dat peace mus'
hab come ober de water, for dey's gitting ready for wonder-
ful doin's at de P'int. Nebber see de like afore. Dey's
buildin' a kind ob arbor wid trunks ob trees, and de
branches all twisted togedder, and it's as big — why de hull
army could git under it. An' dey tells me dat dere's
a-gwine to be a big dinner, an a dance, an' a ^ few de jq^td,'
an' no end to wonderful tings. I seed Capting Molly, too,
an' she said we mus' all come down an' see, kase eberybody
would be dar. Gin'ral Washington and big ladies and
eberybody else. "
Vera saw that her father was as greatly interested as herself.
"Do you think that it does mean peace, Vera?" he
asked.
*' We will go and see."
" Oh, no ; I cannot "
' ' Father, I am going, and you would not let me go
alone."
So, on the morning of the 31st of May, the strange little
group, consisting of the tall and grizzled exile, carrying his
long rifle ; his beautiful daughter, with her golden hair fall-
ing in wavy fullness far over her shoulders, and the delighted
Tascar, who capered along the path like a frolicsome span-
iel, often exposing their basket of lunch to imminent danger
from his odd freaks, started for the plain of West Point,
where the celebration was to be held.
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 401
They reached the vicinity of their old cabin during the
forenoon, and Vera said,
" Father, we will rest and eat our lunch by the spring
near mother's grave."
" Oh, no, Vera, not there," he answered, with a remorse-
ful face.
"Yes, father, there. Mother is not lost to us. She is
only absent now ; but I am sure she would like us to re-
member her, and to be near her resting-place."
Ke yielded. He was forming the habit of yielding to her
more and more, for, since her will had governed, he recog-
nized the fact that he had enjoyed both security and the
comforts of life.
Vera left her lunch untasted for some time, as she gazed
wistfully around the familiar place, now so changed in con-
sequence of tije fort having been built. With a ^^^s^ sense
of gratitude she saw that the grave had not been molested
or trampled.
" I would rather spend the day here, recalling the past/'
she said, as they were preparing to leave, " than in witness-
ing the grand festival. But come, the longer I remain, the
harder it will be to go."
' ' O Esther, my wife ! would to God you had seen these
better days," sighed her father. " Would to God you had
seen the time when we could begin to feel safe."
" She does see it, father. I feel sure she is rejoicing in
everything that brings us hope and joy."
He shook his head, but followed silently.
Vera was young, and still had the keen interest of youth
in all that was new, strange, and beautiful ; and her eyes
kindled and her face flushed with delight as the wide plain
of West Point, lined with barracks, tents, and oflScers' quar-
ters, all decorated with flags and gay streamers, opened be-
fore her. Across this plain, groups of people, and battal-
402 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
ions of soldiers with their weapons glittering in the bright,
early summer sunlight, were moving in what seemed from
her distant place oi observation to be bewildering confusion.
The magnificent colonnade, or arbor, which was built on
a slight rise of ground in the rear of Fort Clinton, seemed
to her a. structure more wonderful and beautiful than even
the imagination could create.
It was indeed one of the most remarkable edifices of the
kind ever erected, and had required the supervising skill of
an eminent French engineer by the name of Major Ville-
franche, and the labors of a thousand men for over ten days.
It was two hundred and twenty feet long and eighty feet wide,
and was composed of the simple materials which the trees
in the vicinity afforded. A grand colonnade of one hun-
dred and eighteen pillars, which were simply the trunks of
tall, stately trees, ran down the center, and supported the
lofty roof, that was formed by curiously interwoven boughs
and leafy branches ; the fragrant evergreens, in which the
region abounds, being the chief components. Rafters sloped
beneath this leafy canopy from the ridge to two lighter rows
of supporting pillars on either side, and from these were sus-
pended wreaths of evergreens and flowers. The ends and
sides, up to a lofty height, were left open, so that the guests
could pass in and out unimpeded, and also from every part
command a view of the plain and surrounding scenery. This
openness of formation also caused the immense structure to
give the impression of light, airy grace.
As Vera approached, and saw that groups of people were
passing unhindered under and through the beautiful bower,
she induced her father to go thither also. He seemingly had
come to the conclusion that he would humor Vera to her
heart's content on this occasion, though it cost him a greater
effort than even she realized to face the curious stare he saw
on every side. At first she was so absorbed and delighted
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 403
with the new and wonderful scenes, that she did not notice
how many eyes were following her. Wherever they went,
faces were turned toward them, on which were the blended
expressions of surprise, admiration, and curiosity. But Vera
was so utterly free from vanity and self -consciousness that she
did not notice this till the fact was forced upon her. With
her lovely features aglow with pleasure and intelligent inter-
est, she strolled through the arbor at the side of her father,
calling his attention to the festoons of flowers, the garlands
encircling the rustic pillars, the emblematical devices, fieurs-
de-lis, and other decorations significant of the American al-
liance with France.
As she was examining the fanciful manner in which the
central pillars were surrounded by muskets and bayonets
bound together by the intermingled colors of each national-
ity, she suddenly became conscious of a dark, bloated face
directly before her, and the rude, leering stare of two evil
eyes. She sprang back as if she had seen a viper coiled
among the devices about the pillar, for she recognized in the
stranger the tipsy officer who had insulted her by trying to
snatch a kiss at the time she went to Constitution Island in
search of tidings from Saville.
" Ha ! my pretty one, I see you remember me," he said
brassily. " I hope you are now prepared to make amends
for your coyness then. If so, I will forego the grudge I
might naturally hold against you."
Vera gave him no other answer than a look of aversion
and contempt, which her expressive features made very un-
mistakable, and hastening to her father, she induced him to
follow the people who were streaming across the plain to the
northern side, as if something of interest were taking place
there.
They had not gone very far before the fellow, captivated
by Vera' s beauty, determined to make another attempt to
404 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
break down her reserve. She started violently as she found
him walking coolly at her side.
" Upon a gala occasion like this," he said, " a fair lady
needs a gallant. I am an officer and a gentleman, and I
can make the day pass more pleasantly."
" You are not a gentleman, sir, or you would not thrust
yourself upon those to whom your society is evidently un-
welcome."
" Nay, my lovely charmer ; your frowns and coyness
only stimulate my desire to win your favor."
Almost before the words were spoken a blow laid him
prostrate on the plain, and the enraged father stood over him
and said, with significant emphasis,
" As you value your life, do not approach my daughter
again to-day."
The scene was drawing a curious crowd, and Vera, taking
her father's arm, hastened to escape, leaving her insulter to
explain his plight as he pleased. The scene explained itself,
however, and the prostrate officer picked himself up and
skulked off amid jeers and shouts of laughter.
But among those who had witnessed the incident was no
other than the redoubtable Captain Molly herself, who, with
quite a following of " swatehearts," was about as jolly a
widow as one could imagine. She hastened after Vera, and
soon overtook her, crying volubly,
" The top o' the mornin' to ye, Misthress Vera, and the
same to yerself, sur. It did me heart good, sur, to see how
ye gave that capting a lesson in manners. That clip at the
side o' his head is the fust wound he's got in the war, for
they say he's moighty discrate wid men, though bould as a
lion or some wusser baste wid women. Faix, and I'm hon-
est glad to see ye agin, an' a-lookin' as pertyas a wild rose,
too. I don't wonder the fellers is all a-starin' at ve."
Vera's greeting was cordial though quiet For some rea*
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHAXGES. 405
son she felt safer since Molly was within call ; but she
shrank sensitively from the attention she drew, for the
" captain," in her blue petticoat, cocked hat, and the scar-
let coat of an artiller\-man, was the cynosure of all eyes, be-
ing followed by a crowd of gaping country people wherever
she went.
" This festival is not in honor of peace after all," said Vera.
' ' Did ye think that it was ? Well, yez live so far behoind
the mountings that ye' re a little behoind the times. Pace
is comin' soon, but they call this a fate, and it's to the
honor of the Dolphin of France. "
"The Dolphin of France?" said Vera, turning to her
father with a look of inquiry.
" Yis, it's in honor of the birth of the Dolphin of France.
That's what ivery one'sa-sayin'. It's not meself that knows
what kind of a crayther it is that's been bourn, but I'm
a-hopin' its mother' 11 have ar lot more, if we are to have as
big a day as this ivery toime !"
' ' She means that the fete is in honor of the birth of the
Dauphin of France, the child who is heir to the French
throne," said Vera's father, his grim face relaxing at Molly's
words and manner.
" Now ye've got it straight, Misther Brown. It's nothin'
but a baby we' re makin' sich a fuss about. But niver ye
moind, since we're goin' to have the fuss and frolic. An'
now I must go back to me swatehearts. But belave me,
Misthress Vera, none on 'em comes up to the fust 'un. I've
thried many a one since poor Larry got his head shot off,
but I shall niver git his loikes agin," and with that she
scampered off, to Vera's great relief. And yet the maiden
had cause to bless the meeting ever aftenvard.
Escaping from the staring, laughing crowd which Molly's
appearance and words drew around them, they soon reached
the northern edge of the plain facing the river, from which
4o6 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
point they witnessed a beautiful spectacle. Approaching
the shore were parallel lines of barges decorated with flags
and streamers, and the water around them was flashing and
sparkling under the strokes of multitudinous oars. These
boats contained General and Lady Washington and his suite.
Governor Clinton and his wife, eminent generals with their
staffs, and a large number of prominent citizens and ladies
of rank and fashion. A band of music led the way, and ac-
companied the distinguished guests up the hill to Major-
General McDougall's quarters, while the artillery thundered
out its salvo of welcome.
Vera watched everything with the wonder and delight of a
child, and it was a relief to her, and especially to her father,
that the pageant absorbed all attention, and that thej^, for a
time, were utterly unnoticed. It gave them a chance to re-
cover from the nervousness and disquietude which their en-
counter with the rude officer and the irrepressible Molly had
occasioned. As Washington approached, Vera recognized
him with a strong thrill of pride and gratitude.
" He has the same quiet, noble face," she thought ; "he
is too great to be elated by all this pomp and show."
After his Excellency, his wife, and suite had disappeared,
Vera was annoyed at finding so many glances turning toward
her again. Unlike, perhaps, the majority of her fair sisters
who have since visited West Point she did not realise that
her own lovely face was the chief cause. In fact, both father
and daughter appeared as if they might have stepped out of
some old story for book of fairy tales ; and Tascar, as he
followed them, would have answered very well as a hobgob-
lin page. Many young officers lingered near, and cast wistful
glances at the maiden, but their manner was respectful and
unobtrusive.
Vera now suggested that they should find some quiet nook
near to the great colonnade, whence they could see all with*
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT '.HANGES. 407
out attracting notice themselves ; and her father was only
too glad to accede, for this exposure was taxing his resolu-
tion to give Vera a day of pleasure, at every cost to himself,
almost beyond his power of endurance.
Soon after their arrival, Vera had directed Tascar to find
Surgeon Jasper ; but he returned, saying '•hat the doctor had
been summoned home, on important matters, a few days
previous ; so they had no other resource than to do the best
they could themselves.
They at last found a spot a little off at one side, from
which, under a clump of trees, they had a good view of the
plain, the colonnade or arbor, and surrounding heights.
Plain country people and utter strangers, who, like them-
selves, were bent on seeing the pageant, and had no other
thought, sat down around them, hiding them, in part, from
view, and shutting away the curious and obtrusive. It was
not long before they felt a sense of security and retirement in
this sheltered place, which was decidedly reassuring, and even
the poor exile became interested in the brave scenes before
him, especially as they gave evidence that the Americans
were gaining rather than losing the power to cope with their
most formidable enemy.
At two o'clock in the afternoon, it seemed to them that an
innumerable host appeared. The hills on the eastern side
of the river were covered with troops, while from every side
of the plain, and on the circling heights around, bavonets
began to gleam, led forward by that music which chiefly
has the power to set the nerves tingling with excitement.
The earth beneath them trembled under the heavy, rumbling
wheels of the artillery. Within an hour the plain and hills
adjacent, on both sides of the river, were covered with ser-
ried ranks of men, their burnished weapons lighting up the
scene with flashing brilliancy, by their vivid reflection of the
genial sunlight.
4o8 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
About the middle of the afternoon, three cannons wers
Sred as a signal. All the troops around the immense circle
advanced simultaneously In grand and glittering array ; and,
after a brief display, in full view of the arbor, the men were
permitted to stack their arms, and throw themselves upon
the ground, or stroll about near the line of their position.
All the officers, except one field officer to each brigade,
and one battalion officer to each regiment, repaired to the
colonnade, where, they had been informed, " General Wash-
ington expected the pleasure of their company at dinner."
From every part of the plain, and in barges on the river, the
gallant veterans of seven years of war were gathering to the
banquet — -a most unwonted experience to them.
But, while Vera was enjoying every moment beneath the
shelter of her tree, and in the shadow of the honest, home-
spun people, who were wondering, with breathless interest,
at the rapidly shifting scenes, she was the object of plots and
counter-plots. The officer whose insolence had been pun-
ished, in part, went away with oaths of vengeance. As far
as he could learn, Vera was friendless, and her father under
a cloud of some kind, so that there would be no one to re-
sent any indignity he might offer them. He knew well
where to find men of the basest sort like himself, aud, as
liquor flowed like water that day, the evil-disposed were reaify
for any reckless deed. He resolved that if Vera stayed until
the dusk of the evening, he would carry her off to his quar-
ters up the river. He laid his plans cunningly, rapidly, and
secreiiy, taking into his plot only a sufficient number to
carry it out. It was briefly this : After night obscured every-
thing, he and his party would suddenly crowd up and around
his victim, separate her from her father, tie a handkerchief
over her mouth, so that she could make no outcry, and
spirit her off to the shore, where a boat would be in waiting.
But it so happened that a bad fellow of this officer's com»
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 409
pany was one of Captain Molly's satellites ; for she still was
not over choice in her company. She saw this man sum-
moned away for a few moments by his captain, and the
whispered conference that followed ; and the quick-witted
camp-follower surmised that a plot against Vera was on foot.
" What did that spalpeen say to ye ?" she asked the man
on his return to her side.
" He was a-tellin' me what a handsome woman ye is."
" If ye don't tell me what he said, ye may take yerself
off."
"Now, Molly, me dadint, why should ye care what he
said ?' '
" I don't care ; I've only took a notion to see how good
a friend ye 're to me. "
" Well, ye won't tell, thin, nor do anythin' to sthop the
fun that' sup?"
" Of course not"
' ' Well, the capting, who is moighty swate on the women,
is a-gwine to carry off a perty little gall to-night, and I'm to
help him," he whispered in her ear.
" Is that all V she said carelessly.
" I tould ye it was somethin' ye wouldn't care nothin'
about.
Molly made no further reference to the subject, but not
long after she casually, and with no apparent motive, took
a position where she could keep Vera and her father con-
stantly under her eye, and she continued to maintain such
a position.
As the sun declined toward the western highlands. Gen-
eral and Lady Washington, his suite, and the most distin-
guished guests moved from General McDougall's quarters,
through lines of saluting soldiers, to the arbor, where was
spread as elegant a dinner as the times and circumstances
permitted. Five hundred guests, ladies and gentlemen, sat
no NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
down to the dinner, and the thousands who looked on, kepS
by the guards at a respectful distance, regarded these fa-
vored ones as among the immortals. Vera saw Washington
at the head of the table, and she wondered how one so es-
alted in station could have been so simple and kind in hia
manner toward her. She found herself watching him, and
thinking about his interview with her, during the time he
was presiding over the banquet.
But there was another, seated toward the further end of
the table, who would have absorbed her thoughts completely
had she known of his presence. Pale, thin from much suffer-
ing, and with the sleeve of his left arm hanging empty at his
side, Saville sat quietly among the guests, equally in igno-
rance that the one never far from his thoughts was but a few
rods away. He had heard of the proposed ftts in honor of
the Dauphin, had hastened his journey, and arrived just in
time to sit down with his brother oflBcers beneath the rustic
arbor. The insignia upon his uniform showed that he had
been promoted to the rank of colonel ; but the expression
of his face revealed that he had achieved a character which
is above all earthly rank and distinction.
He had not written to Vera of the serious nature of his
wound, and of the irreparable loss it had occasioned, know-
ing that it would pain her to no purpose. She would grieve
over it continually ; but, when she came to see him, he
could, in a measure, make light of it.
Saville found himself seated next to an officer possessing
the same rank as himself, and of a very noble mien, and dis-
tinguished bearing. There was a peculiar gravity in his
manner and expression, and he seemed to have no disposi-
tion to become convivial, as was the case with the majority.
This made him all the more a congenial companion to Sa-
ville, and they both speedily became interested in each other.
Saville thought he had never met a man of more wide and
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 41 S
varied information, or one better able to express himself with
elegance and force. He also noted that he was treated with
deference b}' those who knew him. The stranger soon in-
troduced himself as Colonel Wellingly, adding, with fine
courtesy, " I have long known you, Colonel Sa^/ille, by
reputation as an accomplished engineer ofiicer, and I have
heard of your gallantry at Yorktown."
" I feel highly honored," Saville replied, " that my name
has ever had favorable mention to you ; but I confess that I
am thoroughly tired of war, and would be glad to devote
what there is left of me to the arts of peace."
■'Well," said Colonel Wellingly musingly, "I suppose
the war is practically over, and I am glad, on account of the
evils and suffering it ever occasions. But I am at a loss to
know to what I shall devote myself, unless it be to the erec-
tion of a hunting-lodge among these magnificent mountains.
I have never seen a better place in which to while away the
useless remnant of a life.
From the first Saville had detected a low undertone of
sorrow and disappointment in the man's words and accent.
Colonel Wellingly evidently knew that he had suffered deeply
in the past, for he said, as the cloth was being removed,
preparatory to the drinking of toasts,
*' We have both seen trouble in our day, Colonel Saville ;
but I envy you the hopeful spirit you possess, and the pur-
pose still to accomplish something in life. I am growing
listless and tired."
Thirteen toasts, appropriate to the occasion, were an-
nounced successively, and each one was followed by the dis-
charge of artillery and joyous music, and, by not a few, with
long, deep potations, which made their march to their quar-
ters anything but steady.
After the thirteenth toast was drank, the guests rose from
the tables, which were rapidly cleared away in preparation
412 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
for the dancing of the evening, and the regimental officers
joined their respective commands.
As the twilight deepened, the feu-de-joie which had been
ordered commenced with the thunder of thirteen cannon,
followed by volleys of musketrj' along the whole line of the
army on the surrounding hills. Three times the circling
lines of fire flashed out, and the hills and mountains were
kept resounding with the mighty echoes, until they gave way
to another and more awe-inspiring sound — the thrice-repeated
shout of acclamation and benediction for the Dauphin, by
the united voices of the entire army, on every side. The
poor boy was destined to soon hear, and from his own peo-
ple, volleyed curses, instead of benedictions, and a pitiless
cry for his blood, instead of loyal acclamations.
As the last vehement shout died away, the night was il-
luminated by a brilliant display of fireworks from Fort
Webb. The discharge of three cannon concluded the cere-
monies of the day, and was the signal for the troops to march
to their cantonments.
In the mean time the arbor or colonnade had been brill-
iantly lighted up, and the dancing was about to commence.
Vera had been almost overwhelmed with awe at the deep
reverberations of the artillery and the impressive closing
scenes. She now persuaded her father to let her see Wash-
ington open the ball, and then she would return home fully
content. And when his Excellency, with dignity and grace,
having Mrs. General Knox for partner, carried down a dance
of twenty couples in the stately minuet, she felt as if the
grandest visions which her old friend Will Shakspeare had
ever raised in her mind, had been more than fulfilled.
But all was growing confused and somewhat disorderly
where they stood, and her father had said more than once,
" Come, Vera, it is getting late, and we have far to go."
Vera turned away with a deep sigh ; she had ever felt a
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHAXGES. 413
longing^ for social pleasures and the companionship of people
of culture. The beautiful and brilliant scene before her
showed how attractive such occasions were in realit}', and
she had looked on with the natural desires of a young and
healthful mind. She had once hoped to participate in such
social reunions at the side of Saville, and even the thought
had been ecstasy. But now she felt that the deep shade,
which fell so early across their humble mountain cabin, was
the t}'pe of the somber shadow that would ever rest upon
her life.
" Come, Vera," said her father still more urgently to the
girl, who was lingering, for she saw in the gay throng be-
neath the arbor a face that reminded her of Saville.
They found their steps impeded ; the confusion around
them increased ; suddenly her father was struck down by a
blow from some one behind him, and before Vera could cry
out, a handkerchief was passed around her mouth, two men
seized her hands on either side and thrust them within their
arms, and she was being forced away in the darkness, she
knew not whither ; but she could not help associating the
dark, bloated-faced ofiScer who had twice before insulted
her, v/ith the outrage.
The assault had been cunningly conceived and skillfully
carried out, for the villainous accomplices were making loud
demonstrations around the prostrate father, thus drawing the
attention and the crowd thither, while the daughter was be-
ing hurried off unperceived.
Never, perhaps, had Vera been in greater peril before.
She was so overcome by terror and a sense of suffocation
that she was almost fainting, when the handkerchief was
snatched from her mouth, and she wrenched violently from
the grasp of her captors.
" Ye spalpeens !" cried Captain Molly, with a wild Irish
howl, and she drew her nails across the eyes of one of the
414 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
men. No wildcat of the neighboring mountains could have
given a deeper or more vindictive scratch, and he was glad
to stumble off in the darkness away from the crowd which
Molly's shrill voice was rapidly gathering.
But it was toward the principal villain that the redoubt-
able " captain" directed her chief attention, and she laid
upon him a clutch from which he vainly sought to escape.
"I'll tache ye a lesson," she yelled. " Ye shall have
gome wounds afore the war is over, I warrant ye, an' they
won't be in yer back 'nuther, but on yer big bloated face,
where yer grandchildren kin see the scars ;" and she clawed
him like a tigress, and until his cries made a duet with her
own shrill voice.
On being released. Vera had looked around a moment in
hesitating terror. She could not see her father, and she
knew not where he was. All around were dark, strange
faces, and hurrying forms of men and women, and the air
was filled with confused cries, above which arose Molly's
loud vituperation, for with every blow and scratch she fired
a volley of epithets. But a few rods away, the bewildered
girl saw the lighted arbor, with Washington full in view. If
she could reach him she knew that she would be safe. She
darted through the intervening throng, past the startled and
astonished guests, and knelt at his feet.
" Officer of the guard," cried Washington sternly,
" what means such ruffianly disorder without that women
must fly to us for protection ? Arrest all concerned in it.
What do you wish, madam? Do not be afraid, " he said
to Vera.
" Your Excellency," cried Saville, stepping eagerly for.
ward, " I will answer for that maiden with my life."
At the sound of his voice Vera sprang to his side and
dung, panting, to his arm.
" Indeed, Mr. Saville, I think that she is capable of an-
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREA F CHANGES. 415
swering for herself. If I mistake not, I have met this young
girl before."
"Yes, your Excellency," faltered Vera, with her hand
upon her side ; ' ' and you were kind to me and therefore I
fled to you for protection now."
' And you shall have full protection, my child ; so, calm
your fears. Indeed, Mr. Saville looks as if he might defend
you against the world. "
By this time the attention of all was directed to Colonel
Wellingly. With a face as pallid as that of Vera's, he came
forward and asked, in a husky voice,
*' Will you please tell me your name.?"
»' Vera— Vera Brown."
* ' Is that your only name V '
"Yes."
The colonel looked at her a moment, shook his head de-
spondently, and muttered, as he stepped back,
' ' It's very, very strange. I never saw such a resemblance ;
and the same old habit, too, of putting her hand to hef
side."
' ' O Theron I you have lost an arm. You did not tel3
me, ' * said Vera, bursting into tears.
" That is a small loss compared with all I have gained
I did not wish to pain "
"My daughter, where is my daughter?" cried a loud,
agonized voice from without, and wrenching himself away
from the guards who had arrested him as one of the disturb-
ers of the peace, the exile rushed into the lighted arbor.
All fell back before his tall form, and wild, threatening
aspect, for the expression of his face was a terriDlt blending
of anguish and rage.
' ' She is here, Mr. Brown, ' ' said Saville promptly.
" You are both among friends ;" and he led Vera to him
and placed her hand in his.
4l6 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
" Come," said her father eagerl}' ; " let us go. Let us
escape while we can. "
Again Colonel Wellingly stepped forward and confronted
the exil.e.
" Who are 5'ou .?" he asked excitedly.
The moment Mr. Brown's eyes fell on the questioner, he
staggered back as if he had received a heavy blow.
"Are you x^rthur Wellingly?" he asked, in a strange,
hoarse whisper.
" I am," was the agitated answer.
" You did not die, then ?"
" No, Guy ; and I have been searching lor you all these
years. O my brother !" and he clasped the trembling exile
to his heart.
" O Esther, Esther ! my poor, dead wife ! why could you
not have seen this day ?"' Guy Wellingly groaned, with re-
morseful memories.
" She is dead, then .?" his brother said, in a low, shud-
dering tone.
" Yes, dead."
At this moment, Vera, to whcm the strange scene
began to grow intelligible, stepped forward and said ear-
nestly,
" No, father — no, uncle — not dead, but in heaven."
"This is a remarkable scene," said Washington, with
moistened eyes. ' ' Colonel Wellingly, I congratulate you
on the success of your long search, of which I have often
heard with sympathy. I already esteem myself as among
the friends of your niece, and think you will have just cause
to be proud of her ; and I shall hope to make the acquaint-
ance of your brother. I now suggest that you take your
relatives to your quarters, for you must have much to speak
of in which strangers have no part. ' '
" I thank your Excellency," was the grateful reply. " I
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 41?
have been so overwhelmed by this unexpected meeting that
I am not myself."
" Your emotions are most natural, sir, and are to your
credit."
" Vera," said Saville, coming to her side and taking her
hand, " I am overjoyed at your good fortune. I thank God
from the depths of my heart. ]\Iy little wild flower has be-
come a great lady."
He felt her fingers seeking her mother's ring, and she an-
swered in a low tone, *' No outward changes can change that
of which this ring is the token. You shall ever be first
Good night."
But before they could move away, a shrill voice just
without the arbor cried,
" Ye didn't arrist him at all ; I arristed him meself, and
I'm a-goin' to take him afore his Ixcellency. Git out o' the
way, ye spalpeens, or I'll tear yer eyes out ;" and she broke
from the guards, dragging her bleeding, half-murdered captive
with her, and did not stop till she stood before Washington.
' ' This is the spalpeen, your Ixcellency, as was carryin' of
the pert)' Misthress Vera. I heerd the hull plot, and I
cotched him in the very dade.
"What does all this mean.'" demanded Washington
sternly, and yet with difficulty maintaining his gravity, for
the wretched officer looked like a torn quarry in the claws of
some strange bird of prey.
" Indeed, sir, all we can tell your Excellency is that we
found him on the ground, and this woman on top of him
pounding him within an inch of his life."
At this there was a general and irrepressible burst of laugh-
ter, in which even Washington joined for a moment. But,
instantly recovering his gravity, he asked,
' ' Miss Wellingly, does this woman state ^e truth about
this man V '
4l8 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" She does, your Excellency ; but I think that he has
been sufficiently punished and humiliated already."
" I cannot agree with you upon this occasion," said
Washington, his face becoming almost terrible in his indig-
nation. Then addressing Captain Molly, he asked,
" You are the woman who took her husband's place at
his gun in the battle of Monmouth ?"
" I be, your Ixcellency ; an' it was moighty swate in ye
to give me the pay and rank of sergeant."
Washington's face twitched a moment, but he managed to
say, with his former sternness,
'• You are a far better soldier than the craven whom I am
glad to see in your clutches. Will you oblige me by taking
from his uniform all insignia of rank ?"
" Faix, yer Ixcellency, I will. Barrin' the presence of th^
foine leddies, I'd take ivery stetch off him as I'd skin an eel."
A roar of laughter followed this speech, and her miserable
victim looked as if he would indeed be glad to have the
mountains fall and cover him from the universal scorn,
"Now," continued Washington to an officer, ' taks
him to the guard house, and to-morrow I wish him drum-
med out of camp with the Rogue's March ;" and the cul-
prit was led away.
" Come, my dear niece, my heart is too full to endure
this publicity any longer, ' ' said Colonel Wellingly,
" In one moment," Vera replied ; and crossing to Cap-
tain Molly, she took her hand in both of hers, saying,
*' I thank you from the depths of my heart. If you ever
aeed a friend, come to me. "
*' Have ye become a great leddy ?"
" I should not be a lady at all did I fail to remember,
with grateful affection, all who were kind to me in my need.
Good -by for the present, my brave, true friend. I owe yos
more than words can express. ' '
A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 419
"An' ye pay me in the coin I loikes best. Faix, ther's
nothin' that goes furder wid man nor baste than a koind
word. Though I'm a bit rough and reckless loike, I'd
ruther have ye spake to me as ye does than a hatful oi
crowns. ' *
" The money shall not be lacking either," -jald Colonel
Wellingly, offering her his purse.
" Not a penny will I iver take for Awythin' I've done for
Misthress Vera," and she darted away.
With a low courtesy to General and Lady Washington,
and a swift glance to Saville, Vera permitted herself to be
led away with her father ; and the wondering guests were
boundless in their admiration, and almost equally so in
queries that could not as yet be answered.
Tascar, who had been watching all in a state of excitement
that made him almost as explosive as one of the cartridges
of i\iQ /eude-Joie, was sent to inform old Gula that her mas-
ter and mistress would not return that night ; and the tale
he told his mother, and acted out in pantomime that night,
was more marvelous than any of her weird imaginings.
A few hours later the beautiful colonnade or arbor was
darkened, and echoed only to a lonely sentinel's tread.
420 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART*
CHAPTER XXXIX.
EXPLANATIONS.
EVEN the rude temporary quarters which ColoRel Wei-
lingly occupied, at West Point, gave evidence that he
was a man of wealth and culture ; for, as far as possible, he
had surrounded himself with objects that ministered to re-
fined and luxurious tastes. He had been the more inclined
to carry out his bent, from the fact that his duties would, m.
all probability, keep him at his present location for a long
time.
In the fullness of his heart it seemed as if he could not do
enough for his brother and niece ; and, for one naturally
stately and reserved, his manner was affectionate in the ex-
treme. He embraced Vera again and again, and his eyes
rested on her with an expression of wistful tenderness, which
proved that she was the embodiment of a very dear memory.
When he heard that they had not partaken of any re-
freshment since their frugal lunch early in the day, he
brought out a bottle of rich old madeira, and ordered his
servant to prepare as sumptuous a supper as could be pro-
vided promptly.
" I cannot realize it all," said Vera again and again ; and
her father ejaculated, more than once,
" Thank God ! your blood, Arthur, is not on my soiei.
It is now possible that I may again become a man." A£t^
a few moments he asked hesitatingly,
' ' Shall we tell Vera ? She does aot know. ' '
EX PL A NA TIONS. 42 1
" Yes, Guy ; it's right she should know. I will tell her,
Dr I feel that I am as much, if not more, to blame than
you."
" No, Arthur ; no. There is no excuse for the murder-
ous blow I struck you, and the remorse and fear, that have
followed me through all these years, have nearly destroyed
my reason. I sank lower than the beasts ; for they, at least,
provide for tlieir own. I wonder that you can forgive me.
1 can never forgive myself."
" I do forgive, and in the same breath ask forgiveness.
Henceforth we must be to each other all that she who is
dead would have wished. 1 shall seek to make reparation
to you and Vera to the extent of my ability, and you shall
share in all I possess. It is best that Vera should know
everything, for v/ith those who are as closely united as we
shall be, there should be no mysteries. Vera, the highest
praise I can give you is, that you closely resemble your
mother when she was of your age. Never did a maiden
live who had greater power to win and keep affection than
Esther Ainsley. She was of humble station, being the
daughter of a curate, who had a small charge near to our
estate ; but she was dowered with a beauty of person and
character which I have never seen equalled. Our mother
died v/hen Guy and myself were children, and our father
died before I was through with my studies, so that I as el-
dest son, became heir to a large property, at a time when I
needed restraint, guidance, and counsel, more than wealth
and independence. The lessons of self-control and patience,
which should have been taught us in childhood and youth,
were left to the schooling of bitter experience ; and bitter,
in truth, it has been to us both. I valued ray untrammeled
position chiefly because there was no one to prevent me
from marrying the daughter of this obscure and penniless
curate. Only her own will, which was as strong as she was
422 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
gentle, did prevent the marriage, for I sought in eTcry pos-
sible way to shake her resolution. There was not a trace of
gratified vanity in her refusal, but only the keenest distress.
At last she told me that she loved some one else, and I think
she was about to inform me who it was, but my darkly vin-
dictive face prevented her. Egotistic and passionate fool
that I was, I felt that no one had a right to thwart me, and
I determined to discover the one, whom I at once regarded
as a personal enemy. To be brief, I was not long in learn-
ing that it was Guy, my younger and only brother ; but, in
the infatuation of my passion, this fact made no difference,
and, as the eldest, I would brook no rivalry. I confronted
him one evening, as he was returning from a tryst with
Esther, and arrogantly informed him that he could not cross
my path in this matter. I first made him a large offer, if
he would quit the country and leave the field clear for me.
But he said, and wi th good reason, that he would not re-
linquish Esther Ainsley for the wealth of England, much less
for the pitiful sum I offered. One word led to another.
We both became enraged, and at last I sprang toward him
in a transport of passion, and he, equally unmanned, struck
me on the head with a heavy cane that he carried and for
weeks thereafter I was unconscious."
Guy Wellingly, who was sitting with his face buried in his
hands, groaned deeply.
"You see. Vera," continued her uncle, "I was even
more to blame than he. I had it in my heart to strike just
as heavy a blow. Indeed, we were both beside ourselves
at the time, and scarcely responsible. The trouble was that
neither of us had ever learned the first lesson of self-re-
straint."
" O Arthur ! I was sure I had killed you. I brought
water from the brook, but I could not revive you, and
then came the one desperate, all-absorbing desire to fly and
EXFLANA TIONS. 433
hide, which has been my curse ever since. I felt that I had
npon me the mark of Cain. ' '
" We have both paid dearly for that rash quarrel, in
which I insist that I was to blame more truly than yourselL
I had a narrow escape from death. My body servant found
me late at night, and I revived only to pass into a brain
fever, and then after I regained consciousness came the
dreary weeks of slow convalescence, in which recovery was
retarded by my restlessnesr and self-reproach. For a time
I tried to forget my sorrow and disappointment in dissipa-
tion, but I soon turned from sensual excess with loathing.
In every sane moment I saw Esther's pure, reproachful face.
1 do not think that a man, who has been absorbed by a love
for a pure, good woman, can e^'er make a beast of him-
self, unless there is something essentially gross in his
nature.
" As soon as I was able, I traced you and Esther to Liv-
erpool, and all I could learn was that you had been married
and had sailed for America. Her fether and mother were
quite broken-hearted at the loss of their child. The only al-
leviation of their sorrow that I could give was to secure to
them a competence for life. As time passed on, and I
brooded over the past, quiet life in England became hateful
to me. I resolved that I would come to this country and
try to find you. As the years passed, this search became a
passion with me, and the increasing difficulty and doubt
only stimulated my purpose. It was a good thing for me,
for it absorbed my sad thoughts, and kept my mind from
preying on itself. I would often follow a supposed clue for
months, only to be disappointed. I have often passed up
and down this river, little dreaming that the objects of my
search were but a few hundred rods away. Oh ! that I had
found you in time to have seen Esther, and asked her for-
giveness.
Roe— VIII— S
424 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
" But a few words more will explain how 1 happen to be
in the Continental service. In my wandering over this coun-
try, I became greatly enamored with its beauty and magnifi-
cence, while the wildness of many of its vast solitudes ac-
corded with my moods and tastes. I am very fond of hunt-
ing, and I could gratify that bent here to my heart's desire.
I have no special ties in England, so I returned thither, sold
my estate to advantage, and, to insure myself, invested large
sums in France and Holland, as well as England, in addi-
tion to that which I brought with me to this country. When
the American struggle for independence commenced, my
heart took sides with this people. They had been so kind
and sympathetic in every case, as they learned that I was try-
ing to find relatives who had migrated hither, that I identi-
fied myself with their cause from the first. Besides, my long
residence here convinced me of its justness. On seeing that
the struggle was inevitable, I instructed my English agent to
transfer my funds to Holland, and from thence I have drawn
them largely hither, and the American Government is, to
some extent, in my debt. During the war, I sought the
duty of a staff officer, as it brought me in contact with many
troops from all parts of the country, and enabled me to con-
tinue my inquiries concerning any one answering to youi
name and description. But you escaped me utterly, until
our most unexpected meeting to-night. I v/as getting weary
and discouraged in my search. I was becoming oppressed
with my loneliness, and life began to drag heavily ; but now
that I have found you, Guy, and have this dear girl, who is
the image of her mother, to provide for, I shall find abun-
dant zest in living."
As he finished his narration, Vera put her arms around
his neck, and said,
** I am equal to mother in only one thing. I can love
very deeply, and you have won my heart already. I won't
EXPLANA TIONS. 425
let you regret having found me, uncle. " Then going to
her father's side, she added, with reassuring caresses,
" After this night, do not again doubt that God is good,
father. Though I never before knew what the deed was
that led to your flight from England, I have been sure that
Mr. Saville's words were true, and that your ' remorse was
greater than your crime.' "
"No, Vera," replied her father, in strong emotion. "If
I had in fact slain this generous and forgiving brother, I
should never have known peace in this or any other world.
As it is, Arthur, I am but a miserable wreck of v. man,
warped, by base fear and years of brooding lemorse, from
all good and noble uses. There is nothing that makes such
awful havoc in the soul as a constant sense of guilt. The
knov/ledge that you are living has brought me inexpressible
relief, and I ask nothing more, and nothing better than this
fact But Vera still has life before her. I have at tim^
meditated self-destniction, in the hope that she might thus
escape the curse which I felt resting on me ; but something
held me back."
" Thank God i" murmured Vera shuddering.
"Now she can be very happy," continued her fether.
" Since I am not the foul criminal that, in justice to Mr.
Saville, I told him that I was, his pride will no longer be an
obstacle in the way of their marriage."
"Vera marry Colonel Saville 1" exclaimed her uncle.
*' He is married already."
" Saville married i" ejaculated her father, in unbounded
surprise and rising anger. ' ' Then I have an account to
settle with him ;" and his tall form towered up instinct with
passion.
At the mention of Saville's name Vera'sface became scar-
let ; then, at her father's words, her pallor was equally
Barked.
426 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
"Vera," said her uncle, in a tone of deep distress, "what
trouble have we here ?"
But the maiden, strong in her conscious rectitude, rallied
promptly, and, in a firm, quiet tone, said,
" We have no trouble whatever, except we make it.
Uncle, Mr. Saville is a true, honorable man, and he has
never asked me to do a thing that he thought wrong. Both
father and myself would have been dead years ago were it
not for his unspeakable kindness. Father, be calm. You
cannot strike Theron Saville without striking me. He is
m} brother, my more than brother, and I love him better
than life."
" But, Vera," remonstrated her uncle, with a gravity al-
most approaching to sternness ; " in your secluded life you
have not learned how rigid the proprieties of life are in these
matters. You bear the proud name of Wellingly, and ' '
" Uncle," interrupted Vera, with a dignity and firmness
of which her gentle mother had never been capable, * ' I bear
a prouder name than that of Wellingly. I am a Christian,
and, in the light of God's truth, and not the fashion of this
world, I have thought this matter out to its right issue, and
I shall stand by my decision. Rather than permit any one
to come between me and Mr. Saville, I will go back to the
poverty and obscurity of our mountain cabin for the rest of
life. I do not speak these words as a willful, ignorant child,
but as a woman who has been matured and sobered by years
of bitter sorrow. Mr. Saville is my dearest friend — nothing
more ; and he never can be anything more. I have known
for years that he is married. He told me himself, and he
never cherished one dishonorable thought toward me. I
declare to you both that there is nothing in our relationship
to which my sainted mother would object. But I would
rather perish by slow torture than stand aloof from him or
treat him coldly."
EXPLANA TIONS. 427
" This is very extraordinary," said her uncle.
*' I cannot reconcile his conduct with your words," add-
ed her father, in deep agitation.
The strain of the eventful day had at last become too great
for Vera, and she felt herself growing faint
" Be patient," she said wearily ; " you shall know all
A^ uncle said, we shall have no mysteries. But I can say
no more to-night. In pity, uncle, remember what I have
passed through to-day."
" Forgive me, my child," he said remorsefully, and
bringing her a glass of wine. " I will trust you, Vera," he
added ; "for your words and manner" are those of truth and
purity. My only fear is lest you should be misled through
your innocence and ignorance of the world. ' '
She looked him steadily in the face a moment as only the
innocent could do, and then replied,
' ' Uncle, my honor and good name are as safe in Mr.
Saville's hands as in yours or father's. He is a Christian
gentleman, in the truest and strongest sense of the word."
" There, my dear, I am satisfied, and your father must
be, too, until he can have fuller explanation. Calm your-
self now, and let me show you to the best resting-place which
a soldier can provide for a guest who is as loved and wel-
come as she was unexpected ;" and, without listening to
her remonstrances, he gave her his own room, and kissed
her tenderly as he said good-night.
Vera was too exhausted to think ; but she was dimly con-
scious that, after all, it would be difi5cult to make her father
and uncle understand the honest skepticism from which Sa-
ville's course was the natural outgrowth. What was so clear
to her mind might seem dubious, or worse, to theirs. She
was not so wear)', however, but that she thanked God, with
a boundless gratitude, that He had led her safely through
that season of doubt and strong temptation. If she had
428 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
yielded, she saw plainly that her proud and stately uncle
would have cast her away in bitter contempt ; or, what was
far worse, her father might have killed her lover.
Early the next morning Saville sought an interview with
Colonel Wellingly, and, to secure privacy, took him to Jas-
per's quarters, which he was occupying, in the surgeon's
absence.
Vera's words and manner had convinced her uncle that
she had not consciously erred from the path of rectitude,
but he was not so sure of Saville ; and it must be confessed
that he was not a little anxious, for he saw that Vera was a
girl of unusual force and decision, and he feared that if Sa-
ville chose to take advantage of the strong hold he had upon
her affections, he could make them trouble indeed. Al-
though he had been very favorably impressed with Saville,
his knowledge of the world made him slow and cautious in
trusting men who are under strong temptation. And yet he
was pleased with the fact that the young man had come to
him so promptly, feeling that it might give him a chance to
prevent difficulties.
" Colonel Wellingly," said Saville, after they were alone,
" I have sought the first opportunity possible that 1 might
make explanations which are your due, and which it might
cause your niece pain and embarrassment to give. I have
no fears that my good name would suffer through any words
of hers ; on the contrary, she would excuse conduct for
which I have only bitter condemnation. I owe to her my
life, and much more than life, and it is a privilege to save
her from the least pain and annoyance. Are you willing to
listen to an honest statement of all that has occurred between
us.?"
"Colonel Saville," was the reply, " I am gratified that
you have thus early sought this interview, for it tends to as-
sure me that my niece's confidence in you as a Christian
EX PL A N-A TIONS. ^29
gentleman is not misplaced. I admit that, from her father' s
words and manner, last evening, after he learned that you
were a married man, I feared that I might have a quarrel
with you. The Wellingly blood has ever been over hot
upon certain kinds of provocation, and on no point more
sensitive than that of our women's honor."
" You may still think that you have cause to quarrel
with me ; but, be that as it may, I shall not gloss the truth.
You cannot condemn me more bitterly than I do myseli
Nor shall I shrink from any punishment or course which
you may impose." And he gave a faithful history of his
acquaintance with Vera from the first. While, in justice to
himself, he showed how his wrong conduct was the natural
fruit of his erratic views, he did not in the least extenuate
it ; but, on the contrary, spoke of it with a censure so strong
as to be almost fierce. It was evidently the one thing for
which he could never forgive himself. Indeed, in his bound-
less admiration for Vera, he forgot himself, and became her
advocate rather than his own. He argued that she had been
tempted as no woman ever was before — tempted by one to
whom she was profoundly grateful, not only for much kind-
ness, but for the fact that he had stood by her after her
father's statement that he was a criminal. She had been
tempted by one upon whom she was almost utterly depen-
dent for existence and the necessities of life. And, what made
resistance tenfold more difficult, he had not sought to be-
guile her as a villain might have done, but he had been open
and honest in his error, full of plausible arguments ; and
he had, for long months, and with all the skill he possessed,
sought to undermine what he regarded as her baseless faith.
■'Moreover," Saville concluded, " there was much in my
own unhappy relations and in the conduct of my wife which
txcited her womanly sympathies in my behalf ; but, in the
face of all, she was loyal to truth and duty. I have now
430 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
been through a long war ; but I have seen no heroism, no
fidelity, and all-enduring fortitude equal to that which she
has displayed through long, weary years, and I love and
honor her next to God in whom she led me to trust I am
through, sir, and I have told you the truth."
As Saville had warmed with his narrative, and spoke with
graphic earnestness and power, Colonel Wellingly walked
the floor in deep excii-ement, with strong and varying emo-
tions contending on his face. When Saville concluded, he
said,
' ' This is a most extraordinar)' statement, and yet I can-
not doubt its truth. I have been inclined by turns to em-
brace you in the profoundest gratitude, and to shoot you on
the spot. Poor child, poor child I What a strange, sad lot
she and her mother have had ! Heaven grant that I may
shield Vera from any more of such dark and terrible ex-
periences."
" I shall ever echo that prayer, sir," Saville added ear-
nestly.
" Colonel Saville," continued Colonel Wellingly, after a
few moments of deep thought, ' ' I cannot doubt, after hear-
ing all that you have said, that Vera is correct in believing
you are now a Christian gentleman ; but you were once a
very dangerous man, sincere as you evidently were in your
errors. As a matter of curiosity, I have read some of the
writings of your old masters, and, though very friendly to
the French people, I predict for them terrible evils, as the
result of this destructive and disorganizing philosophy."
" I can believe you, sir. Were it not for a firm, gentle
hand, that stared and rescued me, it would have brought
evils into two lives that would have been irreparable.
" Your own strong self-condemnation," said Colonel
Wellingly, " has disarmed me of censure. Your feelings
and motives are now evidently honorable, and it would be
EXPLANA TIONS. 431
wretched folly to drag forward the evils of the past to mar
the present. But, Colonel Saville, you know the way of
the world, and how ready it is to suspect of evil. Even now
I fear that rumor may couple your name with that of my
niece in a sense that neither of us can wish."
' ' I recognize and respect your wish. I will not even see
Miss VVellingly again, if you think such a course wise."
"No," Colonel WeUingly replied, after a little thought.
" I do not think such a course would be wise," for he
remembered Vera's decisive words. " I think it would be
better for you to see her occasionally. But a gentleman
of your tact could easily give the impression that your rela-
tion to my niece was only that of frank, cordial friendship.
At the same time, it might be well to apply for duty else-
where. ' '
"I look upon you," Saville answered, " as Miss Wel-
lingly's guardian, and shall be guided strictly by your judg-
ment. Believe me, sir, I should regard it as the greatest mis-
fortune that I could suffer, if any act of mine should cast
a shadow on her fair name. You are at liberty to state to
her father all that I have told you ; and I sincerely hope that
his mind will now rapidly recover a serene and healthful
tone.
" I will satisfy him," was the reply, " as you have satis-
fied me. Please do us the favor of dining with us at six this
evening."
When Vera awoke, late in the day, her thoughts again
reverted to the explanation which she supposed she must
make, and she dreaded the ordeal unspeakably. But when
she emerged from her room, her uncle took her in his arms,
and said,
" Vera, Mr. Saville has told me all, and I am proud of
you, as the best and noblest little girl that ever breathed."
" That's like Mr. Saville," said Vera, coloring deeply.
432 NF.AR TO NATURE'S HEART,
" He has been making me out an angel, and himself almost
a villain."
"Well," said Colonel Wellingly, laughing, "the more
he called himself a villain, the more sure I became that he
was an honorable man. At any rate, I have invited the vil-
lain to dine with us this evening. ' '
She rewarded him so promptly and heartily that the wary
colonel was filled with alarm.
" She is too demonstrative, " he thought, "and will show
all the world that Saville has her heart ;" so he began, very
gravely, " Vera, my dear, when in Mr. Sa\alle's presence, I
hope you will "
She put her hand over his lips, and said smilingly,
" Don't fear, uncle ; a sensitive woman's nature is a better
guide in these matters than the soundest advice."
During the hour of dinner Colonel Wellingly was abun-
dantly satisfied that he had nothing to fear, for the most evil-
disposed of gossips would not have seen anything in Saville's
or Vera's manner toward each other to which exception
could have been taken. But, as he gave her his hand, in
taking leave, she touched her mother's ring upon his finger
so significantly that he went away with his heart warmed and
comforted by the thought, " She will be unchangeable amid
all changes."
Immediately after Captain Molly left the arbor, the
evening before, Saville joined her, and said, in a low
tone,
" Molly, my brave girl, will you do for me one more good
deed to-night.?"
" Faix, an' I will ; a dozen on 'em, if I've toime."
' ' Promise me, by all that took place in Fort Clinton, that
you will never mention my acquaintance with Miss Vera to
any one. It's not the world's business, and the world sus-
pects evil where there is no evil."
EXPLANA TIONS. 433
** Misther Saville, " was her reply, " may that big Hes-
sian that ye killed cotch me agin if I iver say a word. ' '
Tascar had often been warned, but the boy was perfectly
safe, for he had a habit of dense ignorance on any subject
concerning which he did not choose to speak.
Only enough of Vera's romantic story got abroad to lend
an increased charm and interest to her beautiful person. If
at first there had been some disposition to ask what had
been her relations with Saville, their frank, unaffected man-
ners in society banished the thought of evil from all save
those who, being wholly bad themselves, have no faith in
anything good.
In spite of herself, Vera speedily became a belle, and, in-
stead of being a hunted, frightened animal of the mountains,
as she once described herself to Saville, she was now estab-
lished in the highest social position, and soon became a spe-
cial favorite with General and Lady Washington. In addi-
tion to her beauty, she possessed unusual solid attractions,
as heiress of her uncle's large wealth, and suitors began to
gather from far and near, as, in her favorite comedy, they had
beset the door of Portia, in Belmont ; and, like Portia, she
often sighed, ' ' By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary
of this great world. ' ' But the casket which contained Vera's
imago was Saville's heart, and that was closed to all the
work.. She instructed her father and uncle to give a cour-
teous but firm refusal to all who asked of them permission
to pay their addresses, and those who sought to lay siege
without such formality were speedily taught that any atten-
tions that were not merely friendly were most unwelcome.
Colonel Wellingly had been much pleased with the situa-
tion cf the mountain cabin, and at once commenced enlarg-
ing it as a hunting -lodge. He saw that his brother, from
long habit, would be much happier there than anywhere
else, and it was a place in which he felt that he could while
434 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
away many months of the year when his duties would per-
mit. The incubus, in a very great measure, lifted from Guy
Welling!}' 's mind, and he was no longer subject to his old
fits of gloom, which bordered on horror and despair ; but it
Vv-as evident that he would always be a grave, silent man,
finding the shadows of the forest more congenial than ths
haunts of men.
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 435
CHAPTER XL
HUSBAJCB AND WIFE.
SAVILLE, at Colonel Wellingly's request, did not apply
to be sent from West Point ; but, before many weeks
alapsed, he was summoned away for the most unexpected
and painful reasons. Papers came through the lines, from
Mew York, containing the follov/ing statement :
" A Double Crime in High Life. — Mrs. Julia Saville,
the wife of Colonel Saville, of the American Army, has
eloped with Captain Vennam, the officer whom she married
with such indecent haste, on receiving from him the report
of her husband's death. Captain Vennam had obtained
leave of absence, on the pretext cf visiting some friends in
Nova Scotia, whither the guilty pair have sailed. This was
bad enough. But, on the night before their departure, an
event occurred which seems to give proof of a malice and
vindictive hate, of which it is difficult to believe a woman
capable, save on the theory that when she does fall, she sur-
passes man in wickedness. In the middle of the night,
flames broke out in Colonel Saville's mansion, which has
been occupied by his mother during the war. Mrs. Saville
barely escaped with her life, and found refuge in a small
cottage on the estate, and she is now quite ill from fright
and exposure. But the worst part of the story is, that a
short time before the fire manifested itself, she was sure that
she heard the voice of her son's recreant wife beneath hei
436 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
windows, and also the unrecognized voice of some man.
She also asserts that the house did not take fire from within,
but from the front piazza, and that it swept up the main
stairway. She and the servants escaped by a rear staircase
and entrance. The night was dark and windy, and favor-
able for the fiendish deed. Everything was lost. The au-
thorities should thoroughly investigate, ' ' etc.
Colonel Wellingly, as he read it, unconsciously exclaimed,
" Shameful ! Poor Saville !"
In a moment Vera was at his side, and, before he could
prevent it, also read the paragraph.
' ' Uncle, I wish to see Mr. Saville. ' '
" But, Vera, my dear, it may not be prudent to "
" O uncle ! if Mr. Saville has friends, should they noi
show themselves such now ?"
" I will go to him with all my heart. There are many
things which a man can do which are not proper for a young
lady. The very thought of that vile creature, his wife, is
soiling to you. ' '
" I do not think of her, but of him in his cruel chains,"
she replied, weeping bitterly. " Never was there a more
hideous bondage than his. ' '
But her uncle was relieved of all perplexity, for his ser-
vant brought him a note from Saville to Vera, containing a
copy of the paper, but in his care.
" I am so overwhelmed with shame and sorrow," Saville
had written, " that I cannot trust myself to see you. Were
it not for the faith which you taught me, I could not have
survived this last blow and disgrace. By the time this
reaches you, I shall be on my way to New York, and shall
make every effort to induce the British authorities to permit
me to visit my mother, and provide for her comfort. I have
"lot seen her now for years, and, if necessary, I will throw
ffUSBAXD AND WIFE. 437
Op my commission and become a citizen in order to reach
her side at once."
The English commander, after a little delay for explana-
tions, courteously acceded to Saville's request, on condition
that he would not do anything during his residence preju-
dicial to his majesty's service. Peace was now almost as-
sured, and there was a disposition to relax the rigid military
rule of the city.
The son found that he had not reached his mother a day
too soon, for she was sinking under the effects of her fright,
loss, and loneliness. His presence revived her, however ;
but she rallied slowly, and was a feeble invalid for the re-
mainder of the summer and autumn. He hoped to move
her to West Point ; but she was not equal to the journey,
and most reluctant to leave the spot where she had spent so
many years. He made the gardener's cottage, which she
occupied, as comfortable as he could with his limited mean:^ .:
for his property, lying chiefly in the city, had melted away
during the war, and the money he had deposited in Paris
was now inaccessible. Pie denied himself ever}-thing
that he might make his mother comfortable, and devoted
himself to her, trying to make amends for his long absence,
and she slowly regained health and strength under his
care.
And yet those long months of watching and poverty taxed
Saville's faith and fortitude to the utmost. The open shame
of his wife did not make her less his wife in the legal sense.
Her offense gave no cause for divorce before the laws as
then existing. In his intense desire to escape his chains,
he had the legal archives searched for some precedent ; but
found that for over a hundred years no divorce had been
granted, in the province of New York, on the ground of his
wife's crime.
' The future grew darker and more uncertain than ever-
438 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
His wife had disappeared utterly from his knowledge. TTiere
was a rumor that Captain Vennam had gone to England.
But Saville knew that it was ever the custom of satiated lust
to cast away its victims, and Vennam, of all men, was the
one to coolly abandon a woman of whom he had wearied.
Therefore Saville 's wife would probably become a wanderer
on the face of the earth, and might perish in some miserable
place and way, and still he remain in ignorance of the
event. If she filled a nameless grave in a foreign land, so
long as the fact could not be proved, Saville would still re-
main bound, and the chances were now that he would wear
out his life in this slow torture of uncertainty. He could
never approach the proud Colonel Wellingly and ask for his
niece while such a doubt hung over him, even if his own
jealous regard for Vera's honor would permit.
As the dreary winds of November began to blow, he be-
eame deeply depressed. Captain Vennam's regiment had
been ordered to England, and there was not the slightest
^.hance for his return. Saville did not know to what part of
Nova Scotia he had taken his wife. He had lost all clues.
In frequent and painful reveries he saw himself growing old
in doubt and uncertainty, ever chained to a possible, suppos-
ititious woman, who might be living a vile life of crime in
some of earth's slums. He saw Vera's bright youth and
beauty fading into dim and premature age under the blight
of hope deferred. Then, after life had nearly passed, and
the chance for happiness was gone, he pictured to himself
the return of his wife as a hideous, shrunken hag, as loath-
some in appearance as in character. And he shuddered at
the thought that he could neither refute nor escape her claim
— " My husband !"
A letter from Surgeon Jasper, that came in with a flag of
truce, greatly increased his despondency, for it contained the
incidental statement that ' ' the young ofl&cers were half wild
HUSBAND A AD WIFE. 439
over Miss Wellingly, and that she might take her pick from
the army. "
One dreary day, when even the wild storm without was a
cheerful contrast to his thoughts and feelings, he came to the
deliberate conclusion that Vera's future should not be de-
stroyed with his own, and, knowing that a flag of truce
would go out the following morning, he sat down and
wrote, telling her just how he was situated.
He told her that he was a cripple, that the war had con-
sumed his property, and that the sum deposited in Paris,
even if he should be able to get it, would not be more than
sufficient to support his mother. These facts in themselves
formed a good reason why she should be released from the
promise of which her mother's ring was the token. He
then stated plainly the uncertainty he would always probably
be under in regard to the fate of his wife, and he earnestly
urged Vera not to lose her chance of happiness. * ' I will
wear your mother's ring henceforth as your friend and
brother, hoping and asking for nothing more. "
He inclosed this letter to the care of her uncle, and inti-
mated that she had better show him the contents.
He went out in the storm, and made it certain that the
ktter would go the next morning, and then returned to his
humble home, chilled, cold, and wet. But he had achieved
a great self-sacrifice, and he felt better. He now believed
that Vera would form new ties and interests, and eventually
become happy in them. For himself he must look beyond
the shadows of time.
He did his best to make his mother pass a cheerful even-
ing, and succeeded. She did not dream that he had given
up the dearest hope of his life, and that his genial manner was
like sunlight playing upon a grave. She had been ill and
weak, and he had not burdened her with his sorrow.
They were just about retiring, when a light, uncertain step
4AO NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART,
was heard upon the Httle porch. There was a low, hollow
cough, and then came a hesitating knock.
Saville took a candle and went to the door, and the form
of a woman stood in the driving sleet. The candle flared
in the wind, and nearly went out.
"Who are you, madam, and what do you wish?" he
jisked.
' ' I am your wife," said the woman, in a low, desperate tone.
He knew from her voice that she was ; but, in his sur-
prise and strong feeling, he could not immediately speak,
and she continued,
" I suppose you will thrust me out to die also, as I have
been turned from the door of my own home, and by my
own father, this bitter night. I deserve nothing better at
your hands. I said I would never cross your threshold again,
but I must or perish, and I dare not die. If you will only
give me shelter in some out , ' ' but here a paroxysm of
coughing interrupted her.
' ' I cannot turn you away in such a night, ' ' said Saville,
in an agitated tone. ' ' Indeed, I pity you from the depths
of my heart I will give you food and shelter here for to-
night, and in the morning will try to find a refuge for you."
"No, Theron," said his mother, who had drawn near
to the door and overheard all ; " if that woman comes in,
I will go out."
" O mother ! you women have no m.ercy on each other."
" I will not pass the night under the same roof with that
creature," said his mother sternly.
" As I am a Christian man, she shall have shelter some=
where," he said; and throwing a large cloak over her
shoulders, he took her to the cottage of a poor man living
near, who was under great obligations to Saville, and, with
much difficulty, secured a room for her there. He then
took her food and wine with his own hands.
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 44!
" Why do you do this ?" she asked.
" Julia," he said kindly, " if I had been a Christian in-
stead of an unbeliever when we were married, you might
never have come to this wretched state. ' '
" Will you forgive the past, and take me back as your
wife again T ' she asked, her old trait of self-seeking promptly
showing itself.
" I will and do forgive you," he said gravely, " and I
will do all for your comfort that I can in my poverty ; but
you can never be my wife again save only in name. ' '
" Well," she muttered, " that's more than I could ex-
pect ; and it's a great deal better than dying in the street like
a dog. ' '
The next day she was very ill and feverish, and Saville sum-
moned a physician. After a brief examination, he told Sa-
ville that she could live but a short time under any circum-
stances, since she was in the last stages of hasty consumption.
Her wretched history after leaving New York was soon
told. Vennam left her penniless in a northern city, and,
after a brief life of crime, she became ill from exposure in
the rigorous climate. A British officer who had known her
in New York secured her a steerage passage thither. She
arrived in the storm, but did not dare to go to her father's
house till after dark. He had sent her from his door with
curses, and then she came to the one whom she had wronged
most.
She was in great terror when the physician told her that
she could not live, and the scenes at her bedside were har-
rowing in the extreme. Saville patiently and gently tried to
lead her to the Merciful One who received and forgave out-
casts like herself ; but her mind was too clouded by terror
and too enfeebled by disease to understand anything clearly
save the one dreadful truth that she must die. Her deliri-
ous words were even worse than her partially sane cries and
442 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
moans ; but Saville, with patient endurance, remained at
her bedside almost continually, and ministered to her with
his own hand to the last. All that medical skill and faith-
ful care could accomplish was done to alleviate her suffering
and add to the number of her days. With earnest words
and prayer he sought to instill into her guilty and despairing
heart something like faith. But that had happened to her
■which may happen to any who persist in the ways of evil :
she had passed so far down into the dark shadow of moral
and physical death that no light could reach her. Her end
was so inexpressibly sad, that, although by it Saville was re-
lieved from his cruel bondage, he yet sat down by her life*
less bod^ aud wept as oni^ a strong man can wsep.
WEDDED iVJTH HEK MOTHER'S RING, 443
CHAPTFB XLI.
WEDDED WITH HER JIOTHER's RING.
VERA was alone with her uncle when she received Sa-
ville's letter. She read it with a blending^ of smiles
and tears, and then passed it to Colonel Wellingly, saying,
' ' Mr. Saville wished you to see this, and I am ver}' glad
to have you do so, for it will satisfy you more fully than ever
what kind of a man he is. "
Her uncle read the contents with great interest, and then
said, "This letter does Mr. Saville much ciedit, and, I
must say, I think he takes a correct and sensible view of
things. Your promise was a rash one, at best, and it was
extorted from you in a moment of dire emergency. More-
over, what he says is true, and it is probable he will never
hear a word from his wife again. And yet Vera Wellingly
cannot marry a man whose wife may appear any day."
" I do not expect to marry him, uncle."
" Now that is sensible, too. You must be quite well
convinced by this time that you can take your pick, and
make a very brilliant match.*'
"Where is your wife, uncle?" said Vera, with tears in
her eyes. " You are the kind of man who can always take
his pick."
He was silent, for she had touched a very tender chord in
him, as he had in her heart.
' * It may be that some can manage these things in a sensi-
4.44 NEAR :0 NATURE'S HEART,
ble, thrifty way," sh; continued ; ** but it does not seem to
run in our blood to do so. Forgive me, uncle, for touch-
ing a sensitive chord : b;it I wish you to learn to interpret
my heart by your own ; then this question will be finally
settled, and you caa shiek^ me from many unwelcome at-
tentions. "
" Well," said her uncle, trying to give a lighter turn
to the conversation, "somebody's loss is mine and your
father's great gain."
" Yes," said Vera ; " I intend to make myself so neces-
sary to you both, that you will be like two dragons toward
every one with suspicious designs. I am satisfied that it is
money that most of them are seeking, at best ; and Theron
loved me and was kind when I was hungry and in rags.
Foolish fellow ! I suppose he was in a state of high trag-
edy when he wrote this letter, and thought that I would take
him at his word. He will never make such a blunder again
after receiving my answer."
But one day, before she found a chance of sending her
reply to New York, her uncle entered his quarters in a state
of great excitement, and said, producing a city paper,
" Vera, it is due to you that you should see this at once."
And he pointed out the following paragraph :
Rare Magnanimity.— The Saville tragedy has at length ended,
and ended strangely. As might have been expected, Captain Ven-
nam soon abandoned the wretched woman who eloped with him,
and she returned to this city in a sick and dying condition. In the
pitiless storm of the night of the 25th ult., she was repulsed from
her parents' door and, in her despair, sought help from her most
deeply wronged husband. Strange to say, he has treated her with
wonderful kindness. He could not give her a refuge under the
same roof with his mother ; but he procured for her a comfortable
room, and was untiring in his attentions, doing everything in his
power to alleviate her sufferings during the few days she survived.
WEDDED WITH HER MOTHER'S R/.YG. 445
We have these facts from the citizen at whose house she died, and
can vouch for their correctness."
Vera dropped the paper and fled to her room, and several
hours elapsed before she reappeared. When she did, her
eyes gave evidence tiiat many tears had mingled with her
joy. In curious and feminine contradiction to her plainly
expressed purpose, she did not write to Saville by the next
flag of truce. " He is now at liberty to write to me another
and a very different letter," she said to herself; "and I
shall wait till he does."
But when Saville's letter came, as it did in time, it breathed
only a quiet and friendly spirit, such as he would naturally
write on the supposition that she had accepted his last letter as
the basis of their future relations. It was not in Vera's
nature to write and inform him that he was all at fault, and
that she was like a rose waiting to be plucked. " He will
have to find out all for himself, '' ' she thought ; ' ' but I fear
he will be ridiculously blind, and continue his high tragedy
until some unforeseen circumstance opens his eyes.
Early in the spring Mrs. Saville so far regained her health
that her son was able to return to the army, a step rendered
specially necessary by his pecuniary circumstances. He
called promptly on Vera after his return to West Point ; but
it so happened that there were several strangers calling at her
uncle's quarters at the time, and his manner was somewhat
formal and distant. She was provoked at herself that she
permitted her bearing to be tinged by his.
After the guests were all gone, her uncle found her in
tears, and said,
' ' Foolish child I as if you had cause to worry. You are
both like gunpowder, and only need a spark to set you off ' '
" You are very much mistaken, uncle. Theron is wors«
than a spiked cannon."
446 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
The next evening, she and her father were taking a walk
by the river, near the extreme point of land where Saville
had first discovered her nearly eight years before, on the
June afternoon, now memorable to both. Footsteps caused
her to glance up the bank, and then she pulled her father
into the concealment afforded by a clump of cedars. In a
few moments, Saville came out on the point and threw him-
self down upon the grassy plot where he had seen Vera re-
clining before he caused her hasty flight. She put her finger
to her lips, and made a sign to her father not to move, and
then she stole up toward him as he had before approached
her, and reached the same low cedar over which he had
peered wonderingly and admiringly at her childish face and
form.
" O stupid Theron ! can't you feel that I am here ?" she
thought. " I felt your presence even then before I saw you.
I am so near that I can almost touch you, and yet there you
lie at lazy length."
He commenced singing, in a low tone,
" I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."
She waited no longer, but, in her sweet voice, repeated
the old refrain, which had been the signal for so many of
their trysts. He sprang up, and catching a glimpse of her
laughing and blushing face back of the cedar, came instantly
to her side.
" See what a whirligig time is," she said. " I surprised
you on this occasion."
" But I shall not run away as you did, Vera."
" Indeed I Now it is my turn to be surprised again. I
had fears lest, in your desire to escape, you might plunge
into the water."
He looked at her very earnestly, and her eyes drooped
under his gaze, as they had, years before, in the early dawn,
after she had rescued him from Fort Clinton.
WEDDED WITH HER MOTHER'S R/NG. 447
" Vera," he said hesitatingly, " I am very poor."
" What has that to do with the subject ?" she asked, with
a sudden mirthfulness in her eyes.
" I am but a cripple," he continued sadly, " and there
is a dark stain upon my name."
Her laughing eyes became full of tears.
" Circumstances have greatly changed. You are now
Vera Wellingly, and the heiress of large wealth "
" I would rather be the ragged, friendless Vera Brown
you found at my mother's grave, than have you talk in this
way, Theron."
" Would to heaven you were !" he said with passionate
earnestness ; "for then I would kneel at your feet and beg
you to be my wife."
She dashed her tears right and left, and taking his hand,
asked,
" Theron, what right ha^e you to this ring? You have
become a skeptic again, and I shall have to teach you a new
and stronger faith. ' '
" And may I give this old, bent ring which you are wear-
ing its first meaning V ' he said eagerly.
' ' It never had any other meaning to me, " ' she said, with
a low laugh, and then she added, with an exquisite touch of
pathos, " We could not help loving each other, Theron,
after all that had happened ; we could only help doing
wrong. Do not grieve that you have lost an arm, for you
shall have both of mine in its place. That which you call
a stain upon your name has come to be, in my eyes, the
most flashing jewel in the crown of your manhood. When
that poor creature fled to your door from her father's scorn
and curses, you, who had been most wronged, acted as the
Divine Man would have done. If you could be so kind to
her, how sure I am of patient tenderness ! I will conclude
my long homily with this plain exhortation : Never forget
Roe— VTTT— T
448 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
that Vera Wellingly and Vera Brown are one and the same
person. It will save you a world of trouble."
Then she called her father, but he had stolen away and
left the lovers to themselves.
The long and terrible war was over. The last British
soldier had embarked from the city of New York, and Wash-
ington, who had become the foremost general of the age,
was about to repair to the seat of government, that he might
resign his commission and become a simple American citi-
zen. But, before doing so, he attended a wedding in a
beautiful uptown villa which had been hastily prepared for
the occasion.
It was a magnificent affair for those primitive and war-
depleted times. Sam Fraunces and his buxom daughter
Phoebe presided over the cuisine and entertainment, and the
best military band of the army discoursed gay music. Many
of the leading men of the country. State, and city, were pres-
ent, and among them, it might almost be said, was Captain
Molly, for she persisted in wearing her cocked hat and ar-
tilleryman's coat. Surgeon Jasper found himself an honor-
able master of ceremonies, and Tascar was charged with so
many important duties that he at last was satisfied that he
utterly eclipsed his old friend, Ponipey. His mother, old
Gula, in her lofty red turban, looked as if she might have
been in very truth an African dowager queen.
Mrs, Saville was so happy that she quite renewed her
youth, and would have been perfectly ready to admit that
heaven had made a better match than she had thriftily com-
passed, as she had once supposed. Vera's gentle and affec-
tionate manner had won her heart at once, while she, at the
same time, complacently remembered the ducats of the
bride.
The tall, bent form of the father was conspicuous, even
though, in accordance with his old shrinking habit, he ever
WEDDED WITH HER MOTHER'S RING. 449
sought the background in the brilliant scene. Peace sat
serenely on his brow, where gloom had lowered for so many
years. He believed that the curse had passed away from
him and his, and he was daily becoming more grateful for
recognized blessings.
But Colonel Wellingly was the genius of the occasion,
and, with a genial, high-bred courtesy, he moved among the
guests, bestowing words of welcome and graceful attentions,
with the tact of one whose thorough knowledge of men en-
abled him to make every utterance and act timely and appro-
priate. To each one he gave the sense of being recognized
and cared for ; and his fine breeding made him at ease in
addressing Governor Clinton, or the Commander-in-chief,
and no less so in speaking to some subaltern, or Captain
Molly herself.
Soon a breezy and expectant rustle and hum of voices an-
nounced that the bride and groom were descending the grand
stairway. *
As Vera entered, leaning upon the arm of her father,
there was a deep murmur of admiration.
Her heart was filled with unspeakable gratitude, for God's
minister was before her, and in his hand God's Holy Word.
And when Saville spoke the words, ' ' With this ring I thee
wed," and put upon her finger the plain gold band with
which her father had espoused her mother, she thought she
felt that mother's hands resting upon her head in blessing.
Even in that supreme moment, her mind flashed back to the
hour of her strong temptation, when her mother's charge that
she should be wedded with this ring came to her help like
an angel's hand. While the clergyman was offering the
concluding prayer, her mind wandered a little, and harbored
the thought,
"If on earth God can thus richly reward patient obedi-
ence, what will heaven be?"
450 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART.
As Washington was about to take his leave, with strong
expressions of his regard and kindly interest, Saville asked
him if he would grant them a brief private interview.
With some surprise he consented, and was conducted into
a beautiful little room, to which no guests had been admit-
ted. On a stand of inlaid wood of rare value, and resting
on some exquisitely embroidered velvet, lay a little book.
"Does your Excellency recognize this?" asked Vera,
pointing to it.
As Washington took it up, a quick ray of intelligence
lighted up his face, and he said,
" It is my old Bible, which I have carried through many
a battle. ' '
"God bless your Excellency!" said Vera, taking his
hand in strong emotion. " This book, which is your gift,
carried me through the one sore battle of my life."
' ' And this happy wedding to-night, ' ' added Saville, in a
tone of deep feeling, ' ' at which I feel the Son of God is
present, as truly as He was at Cana, is due to your gift of
this Bible, and the Christian counsel which accompanied it.
I was then an unbeliever, and was tempting this dear wife
to a union in which she must have thrown away her mother's
wedding-ring. But this Bible saved us both, and we bless
you for it with a gratitude that shall never cease."
Tears gathered quickly in Washington's eyes, and taking
Vera in his arms, he kissed her tenderly, saying,
" The words which you and your husband have spoken
form one of those memories which grow dearer to the last
hour of life. "
One quiet summer evening, Arthur and Guy Wellingly
issued from the door of the rustic hunting-lodge into which
the mountain cabin had been developed, and, following a
path, they came to a lovely and secluded spot, embowered
in the primeval trees of the forest. From a pedestal arose a
WEDDED WITH HER MOTHER'S RING. 451
light shaft of white marble, around which was entwined the
clinging ivy. It bore no name. That was engraved on the
hearts of the brothers.
Was she a weak woman who had thus enchained two such
men ? Is not that faith rational which affirms that iov« £o
faithful must have a spiritual and eternal fruition?
THE END.
r