Evenings at Donaldson Manor
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Maria J. McIntosh >> Evenings at Donaldson Manor
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"Have they harmed her, sir?"
"Not by a touch, thank God! not by a touch!" exclaimed the father, as he
pressed her with passionate joy to his heart--ay, joy, even in the
presence of her so long the light of his life now passing for ever from
earth. For a few minutes the dying had been forgotten, for what was
death--a death of peace--to the long misery into which man's base,
brutal passion would have converted the life of that pure and lovely
girl? Now, however, she was safe, and still supporting her on his arm,
Mr. Sinclair turned to his wife and tenderly moistened her parched lips.
What a mockery of all human cares seemed that pale, peaceful
brow--peaceful, while he whose lightest sorrow had thrown a shadow on
her life was suffering anguish inexpressible, and the child who had lain
in her bosom, to the lightest throb of whose heart her own had answered,
lay senseless from terror in his arms. It was a scene to touch the
hardest heart, and Captain Percy's heart was not hard. He looked around
for the men whom he had interrupted in their hellish designs--they were
not there.
"Is this their work?" he asked of Mr. Sinclair, pointing to his scarcely
breathing wife.
"No--no--this is the gentle hand of our Father," said Mr. Sinclair, as
he bent his head and touched with his lips the sunken cheek dearer to
him now than it had been in all its girlish roundness. The blood had
begun to cast a slight tinge of red into the lips of Mary Sinclair
before Captain Percy had left the room in search of the men whom he was
unwilling to leave behind him, and when he returned, the tremor of her
form and the close clasp with which she clung to her father, proved that
her consciousness and her memory were awake. His step had startled her,
and as he entered he heard Mr. Sinclair say, "Fear not, my daughter,
that is the step of your deliverer, and though he is an English
soldier----"
"I pray you, sir, judge not Englishmen by ruffians like these--a
disgrace to the name of man. Believe me, every country has within it
wretches, who, at moments such as this, when all social restraints are
withdrawn, become demons. But I must leave you, in safety, I trust, as I
have sent to the ships all the soldiers whom I could discover in your
neighborhood."
"Farewell, sir," said Mr. Sinclair, extending his hand--"God reward you
for the timely aid you have this day brought to the defenceless. Look
up, my child, and join your thanks with mine."
Mary Sinclair raised her head from her father's bosom, and lifting her
eyes for an instant to the face of Captain Percy, unclosed her lips to
speak, but voice and words were denied her.
"God bless you, lady!" he exclaimed, as taking her hand he raised it to
his lips, and relinquishing it with one glance of sympathy at the dying,
turned away and passed from the room. He returned once more, but it was
only to leave his pistols with Mr. Sinclair.
"They are loaded, sir, and in such a cause as you needed them just now,
even a Christian minister may use them."
Captain Percy spoke rapidly, only glancing at Mary, who was already
bending with self-forgetful devotion above her mother's pillow, and
before Mr. Sinclair could answer he was gone.
All was again silent in that deserted suburb, and for long hours nothing
disturbed the solemn stillness of the chamber of death, save the low sob
or earnest prayer of parting love, though sounds of tumult had not
ceased wholly in the village. The invaders had been interrupted in their
work of destruction by an alarm from some of their own party of an
approaching foe. They hurried to their ships with mad impetuosity,
conscious that their acts deserved only war to the knife, and that they
were not prepared to cope with any regular force. Only they, who, like
Captain Percy, had held themselves aloof from the brutal barbarities
which they had striven vainly to prevent, were now composed enough to
take any steps for the safety of others. To collect those who had
straggled off was the first business, and while the recall was hastily
beaten, Captain Percy, selecting a small party of men on whom he could
depend, went to patrol the more distant quarters of the town. Having
seen no trace of an enemy on his way to the parsonage, he had somewhat
hastily concluded the alarm to be false, and therefore did not hesitate,
before returning with his pistols to Mr. Sinclair, to send forward his
men in charge of those whom he had found, promising to join them before
they reached the point of embarcation. Without a thought of danger he
traversed the silent and deserted streets on his return, and had arrived
where a single turn would bring him within view of the rallying point of
his companions in arms, when the sound that met his practised ears told
of something more than the hurrying tread and mingling voices of
soldiers rapidly embarking. Had his men been opposed? If so, they should
not be without a leader--and with that thought he sprang forward. He was
too late. Already they had fought their way through the band of
villagers, who, maddened by the desolation of their homes, had gathered
together such weapons as they could, and led on by one gallant and
experienced soldier, whom their burning houses had lighted to their aid,
were seeking to cut off the retreat of some amongst their invaders, and
thus to revenge those whom they had been unable to protect. Captain
Percy's men had, as we have said, fought their way through this
band--not without loss. He now stood alone--one against many--with only
his good sword to aid, for his pistols he had given to Mr. Sinclair. To
retreat unobserved was impossible, for his own cry of "Forward--forward,
my men!" uttered as he rushed to the scene of the just decided contest,
had betrayed him--to fight against such odds with the faintest hope of
success was equally impossible, and to yield was an alternative which
there seemed to be no intention of offering him. In an instant twenty
swords flashed before his eyes--twenty muskets were pointed at his
breast. That instant had been his last had not Major Scott, the leader
of whom we have spoken, sprang forward and placed himself before him.
Himself a brave and generous soldier, he could not tamely witness such
butchery; and pale with the terror for another which he had never felt
for himself, he exclaimed, "Yield yourself, sir, quickly--a moment's
delay, and I cannot protect you."
Captain Percy's sword was in the hand of his noble foe, who, linking his
arm in his, turned to face his own band, shouting as he did so,
"Back--back on your lives--he is my prisoner, and who touches him makes
me his enemy."
The day had passed with all its exciting incidents. The glow of sunset
had faded into twilight's soberer hues, and these had deepened into the
darkness of night. With the darkness silence had settled upon the
streets of Havre de Grace. They who had trodden, for hours, with burning
hearts around the sites of their desecrated homes, retired to the house
of some charitable and more fortunate neighbor, to seek such rest as
misery may hope. They went with sullen as well as sad brows, and as they
passed one house in the village they muttered "curses not loud, but
deep." This was the house in which Major Scott had found a refuge for
himself and the prisoner, whom all his influence had scarcely been able
to protect. To remove him from Havre de Grace in the light of day, and
under the eyes of his infuriated enemies, was too hazardous a project to
be attempted; and by the advice of some who seemed disposed to second
his efforts for his safety, he had delayed his departure till night
should veil the obnoxious features of the British officer.
At the parsonage, death had accomplished his work, and the room in which
we have already seen Mr. Sinclair, bears the solemn impress of his
presence. Beside the bed on which the lifeless limbs have been composed
with tender care, the pastor kneels. His prayer is no longer, "Let this
cup pass from me"--he is struggling for power to say, "Father, not my
will, but Thine be done!" In an upper room lies Mary Sinclair. Tears are
falling fast as summer rain-drops from her closed eyes; but she utters
neither sob nor moan, and by the dim light of the shaded lamp she seems
to the two women, who, with well-meant but officious kindness, have
insisted on watching with her through the night, to sleep. A slight
noise in the street causes one of these women to start, and she whispers
to the other, "I am 'feard of every thing to-night--the least noise puts
me all of a trimble, for I'm thinking of my Jack. He's gone to guard
that British soger, and I shouldn't wonder if he had a skrimmage about
him before morning."
"And I must say, Miss Dunham, if he did, it would be nothin' more than
them deserves us would go for to guard them cruel British."
"But they do say, Miss Caxton, that this Capin--for Jack says he is a
Capin--was better than the rest--that he took the part of our people
every where when he found there wasn't any fair fight, and that he was
drivin' his men to the ships when we caught him."
"Them may believe that that will, but for my part I think that it must
be a poor, mean speritted American that will hold guard over one of them
British----"
"Not so mean speritted as you think perhaps," said Jack's mother with a
flushed face.
"Well, I must say, Miss Dunham, I never thought Jack would do such a
thing--if I had----"
Miss Caxton stopped abruptly, but her companion would hear the
whole--"Well ma'am, if you had--what if you had?"
"Why, then, Miss Dunham, I shouldn't have been so well pleased to see
him keepin' company with my Sarah--but after this, of course, that's at
an end."
"May be, Miss Caxton, you may think to-morrow mornin' that it would have
been just as well to wait till the night was gone before you said
that--when you see the British Capin hanging by the neck in his fine
regimentals, and hear that his guard were the men that did it--as I know
they've sworn to do--you may think after all they an't so mean
speritted."
"Miss Dunham! if they'll do that, I'll unsay every word I've said, and
proud enough I would be to call one of 'em my son-in-law--but now do
tell me all about it--she's asleep you see," glancing at Mary Sinclair,
"and there an't nobody to hear."
"Why, there an't much to tell. You see the Major wouldn't give way any
how at all about this here man--so, as they didn't want to fight _him_,
they agreed that some of the real true blues who an't afeard of nothin',
should seem to help the Major and persuade him to keep the man here till
late in the night, and that they would guard him--but they were to take
care to have the key of his room, and when the Major goes there he'll
find it empty, or at best only a bloody corpse there. They'll hang him
if they can get him out of the window without too much noise, but if
there's any danger of his waking the Major with his screeching, they'll
stop his voice quick enough."
Any further conversation between these discreet watchers was prevented
by a sudden movement on the part of Mary Sinclair. Springing from her
bed she was hastening to the door when her steps were arrested.
"Dear me, Miss Mary! where are you going? Now do lie down again, my dear
young lady!--be patient--it's the Lord's will, you know." Such were the
remonstrances of her officious attendants, while, one on either side,
they strove to lead her back again, but Mary persisted.
"I must go to my father, Mrs. Dunham, pray let me go, Mrs. Caxton, I
must speak to my father."
"Well, then, my good young lady, just put your wrapping gown around you
first, and put your feet in these slippers."
Mary complied silently, and then was suffered to proceed. Rapidly she
flew to her father's room--it was unoccupied, and a glance at his bed
showed her that it had not been disturbed. Mary was at no loss to
conjecture where she should find her father--but as she approached
_that_ room her steps grew slower, lighter--she was treading on holy
ground. With difficulty she nerved herself to turn the latch of the
door, and in an awed whisper she entreated her father to come to her.
Mr. Sinclair rose from his knees, but he lingered a moment to cast one
look on that still lovely face, to press his lips to that cold brow, and
then, reverently veiling it, he approached his daughter.
"Come quickly, papa!--not a moment is to be lost if you would save him
from death, and such a death--oh, papa, papa!--it may be even now too
late."
Her tale was rapidly told, and before it was concluded Mr. Sinclair was
ready for action.
"But the house, Mary, what house is he in?"
This Mary could not tell, but rapidly ascending the stairs to her room,
Mr. Sinclair obtained from the two gossips the information he sought.
Startled as they were by his appearance, they reverenced the rector too
much to question his designs. Leaving his daughter to forget even her
own heavy sorrow in the imminent danger of another--of one whom, without
any very satisfactory reason, she as well as Mr. Sinclair had at once
concluded to be her deliverer of the morning--let us follow his steps.
The church clock tolled eleven as Mr. Sinclair passed, and the sound
made his fleet movements fleeter still. Street after street was
traversed without a voice or tread, save his own, breaking the stillness
of the night. At length he reached the point of the day's devastations.
Dismantled and roofless houses, from which a dull glimmer showed that
the fire was not yet wholly extinguished, were seen rising here and
there, while in intervening spaces a charred and smouldering heap alone
gave evidence that man had had his dwelling there. A rapid glance as he
passed without a pause over this ground told its desolation. But
see--what object meets his eye, and causes every nerve to thrill with
apprehension! From the midst of one of those blackened heaps a single
post shoots up--wildly Mr. Sinclair casts his eyes upward to its
summit--gracious heaven! is he too late? To that post, about twenty feet
from the ground, a cross-piece is attached, to which a rope has been
secured, and from that rope a dark object hangs motionless. Sick with
horror he stops--he gazes--no! it is no illusion--dimly defined against
the star-lit sky, his eye, dilated by terror, traces the form of man,
and fancy supplies the traits of him who stood before him but a few
hours since in all the flush of manhood--every moment replete with
energy, every look full of proud resolve and generous feeling. With a
searching glance Mr. Sinclair looks around for the murderers--but they
are gone--again, his strangely fascinated eye turns to that object of
horror. Is it the agitation of a death struggle which causes it now to
swing to and fro in the dusky air? The thought that life may not yet be
extinct gives him new strength--he runs--he flies to Major Scott's
lodgings, for from him alone is he secure of aid in his present purpose.
As Mr. Sinclair approached the house in which Major Scott had found
accommodations for himself and his prisoner, he found himself no longer
in darkness. More than one burning torch threw a lurid light upon the
scene, while the men who held them, and perhaps as many as twenty more
stood clustered together, near the house, against which some of them
were engaged in elevating a ladder. In what service that ladder might
have been last used Mr. Sinclair shuddered to think. Perfect stillness
reigned in this party. Their few orders were given in whispers.
Keeping cautiously in shadow, and moving with stealthy steps, Mr.
Sinclair passed them and reached the house. Even when there, he had
little hope of making Major Scott hear him without alarming them, and he
could not doubt that they would do every thing in their power to
frustrate his object. But Heaven favored his merciful design--he
touched the door and found it ajar. All was dark as midnight within it,
and he had scarcely taken a step when he stumbled against a man whose
voice sounded fiercely even in the low whisper in which he ejaculated,
"D--n you. Do you want to wake the Major? Don't you see you're at his
room door?"
"I see now, but it was so dark at first," whispered Mr. Sinclair in
reply--adding with that quickness of perception and readiness of
invention which danger supplies to some minds--"I have come to watch
him--you are wanted."
The man obeyed the intimation, and he had no sooner turned away than Mr.
Sinclair laid his hand upon the latch of the door which had been
indicated as Major Scott's. It yielded to his touch, and with a quick
but cautious movement he entered the room, and closed the door behind
him. Cautious as he was, the soldier's light sleep was broken, and he
exclaimed hurriedly, "Who's there?"
Mr. Sinclair's communication was made in a hasty whisper, and Major
Scott only heard enough to know that his prisoner was in danger. Of Mr.
Sinclair's worst suspicions he did not even dream when, starting to his
feet, half dressed, as he had thrown himself on the bed, he snatched his
pistols from under his pillow, and exclaiming to Mr. Sinclair, "Follow
me, sir," hurried to the scene of action, the room of Captain Percy. Mr.
Sinclair followed with rapid steps.
In one respect the conspirators had been disappointed--they had not
obtained the key of Captain Percy's room, for being now a prisoner on
parole, he was subject to no confinement. He had, however, locked the
door of his room himself, to guard against the incursion of curiosity
rather than of hostility; but the lock was none of the strongest--a
single vigorous application of Major Scott's foot to the door started
the screws which held it, and a second burst it off and threw the
entrance open before him. As Mr. Sinclair glanced forward, "Thank God!"
burst from his lips, to the no small surprise of Major Scott, who saw
little cause for gratitude in finding the object of his solicitude
retreating, sword in hand, towards the door, while several athletic men,
their faces dark with hate, were already pressing dangerously upon him,
and others were crowding in at the opened window. The impetuous rush of
his friends freed Captain Percy for a moment from his assailants, but
they returned fiercely to the charge, too furious now to postpone their
revenge even to their deference for Major Scott. Vain were Mr.
Sinclair's entreaties to be heard, till their advance was stayed by the
sight of Major Scott's firearms--weapons with which they had not
furnished themselves, considering them useless in an enterprise to whose
complete success silence was essential. Then first they listened to him
as he exclaimed, "This man is innocent, and if you shed his blood it
will call to Heaven for vengeance. I saw him myself this day oppose
himself to two of his own countrymen to save a defenceless woman from
injury. That woman was my daughter--some of you know her well--ah,
Thompson! you may well hang your head--would you slay the deliverer of
her whose good nursing saved the life of your motherless child?--Wilson,
it was but last week that she sat beside your dying mother, and soothed
and comforted her--but for this good and brave man she would now have
been with her in heaven."
It was only necessary to gain a hearing for such words to produce an
influence on the rash, but not cruel men whom Mr. Sinclair addressed,
and scarcely half an hour had passed since their entrance into the room,
when they offered their hands in pledge of amity to him whose life they
had come to seek. As a proof of their sincerity, they advised Major
Scott no longer to delay his departure from the town, and some of them
volunteered to accompany him as a guard to his country-seat.
"You have saved my life," said Captain Percy, as he shook hands with Mr.
Sinclair at parting.
"And you have preserved for me all, except my duties, for which I can
now desire to live," answered Mr. Sinclair with emotion: then turning to
Major Scott, he added, "as soon as you consider it safe, you will, I
hope, bring Captain Percy to visit us. In the mean time, Captain Percy,
remember that the stranger and the prisoner are a clergyman's especial
care, and suffer yourself to want nothing which I can do for you. By-the
by," and he took Major Scott aside and whispered him.
"Give yourself no concern about that, my dear sir," said Major Scott in
reply, "I will attend to it."
He did attend to it, and Captain Percy's drafts on his captor were
promptly met, till he was able to open a communication with the British
commander.
In as quiet a manner as possible Major Scott and Captain Percy moved off
from the hotel, and were met in the suburbs by their volunteer guard,
while another party of the men whom he had thus saved from a great
crime, attended Mr. Sinclair to his home. As he entered the area of the
smouldering ruins his eye sought the object lately viewed with so much
horror. He had scarcely glanced at it, when one of his companions
stepped up and disengaged a dark cloak from the noose already prepared
for its expected victim--"I knew no one would steal it from the
gallows," said the man, as he threw it over his shoulders. Mr. Sinclair
smiled to think how easily imagination had transformed that harmless
object into the fair proportions of a man.
Nothing more was heard of Captain Percy for weeks--dreary weeks to many
in Havre de Grace--melancholy weeks to the inmates of the parsonage, who
missed at every turn the familiar step and voice which had been life's
sweetest music to their hearts. At length Mr. Sinclair received a note
from Major Scott, announcing his own approaching departure to the army
on our northern frontier, and requesting permission for Captain Percy
and himself to call on Mr. and Miss Sinclair. Permission was given--the
call was made, and they who had met only in scenes of terror and dismay,
amidst flushing looks and fierce words, now greeted each other with
gentlest courtesy among sounds and sights of peace. The call was
succeeded by a visit of some days, and this by one of weeks, till at
last it seemed to be understood that the parsonage was to be the home of
Captain Percy while awaiting the exchange which Major Scott had promised
to do all in his power to expedite. His society was at the present time
peculiarly pleasing to Mr. Sinclair, who was diverted from his own sad
thoughts by the varied intelligence of the soldier and traveller in many
lands. Mary Sinclair had been unable to meet her deliverer without a
thrill of emotion which communicated an air of timidity to her manner,
whose usual characteristic was modest self-possession. Captain Percy, at
thirty-five, had outlived the age of sudden and violent passion, but he
had not outlived that of deep feeling. A soldier from boyhood, he had
visited almost every clime, and been familiar with the beauties of
almost every land, yet in this lovely and gentle girl, whom he had
guarded from ill, and whom he now saw in all the pure and tender
associations of her home, blessing and blessed, there was something
which touched his heart more deeply than he liked to acknowledge even to
himself. Again and again when he saw the soft, varying color that arose
to her cheek at his sudden entrance, or heard the voice in which she was
addressing another, sink into a more subdued tone as she spoke to him,
did he take his hat and wander forth, that he might still in solitude
his bosom's triumphant throb, and reason with himself on the folly of
suffering his affections to be enthralled by one from whom, ere another
day passed, he might be separated by orders which would send him
thousands of miles away, and detain him, perhaps, for years.
"If I thought her feelings were really interested," he would say to
himself at other times--"but nonsense--how can I be such a coxcomb--all
she can feel for me is gratitude."
This last sentiment was echoed by Mary Sinclair, who, when
self-convicted of unusual emotion in Captain Percy's presence, ever
repeated, "It is only gratitude."
One evening Mr. Sinclair retired after tea to his study, leaving his
daughter and his guest together. He had not been gone long when a
servant entered with the letters and papers just brought by the
semi-weekly mail, which conveyed to the inhabitants of Havre de Grace
news of the important events then daily transpiring in distant parts of
the country. The only letter was a somewhat bulky one for Captain Percy.
Mary received the papers and commenced reading them, that she might
leave her companion at liberty. Had she been looking at him she would
have seen some surprise, and even a little annoyance in his countenance
as his eyes rested on the seals of his dispatch. He opened it, and the
annoyance deepened. He read it more than once. Minutes passed in perfect
silence, and Mary began to wonder what correspondent could so deeply
interest him. A heavy sigh made her look up. His letter lay open on the
table before him, but he had evidently long ceased to read, for his arm
rested upon it, while his eyes were fixed with an expression at once
intent and mournful on her. Mary thought only of him as she said, "I
hope you have no painful intelligence there, Captain Percy."
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