Evenings at Donaldson Manor

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"I suppose I ought to consider it very joyful intelligence--I am no
longer a prisoner--I have been exchanged, and"--he hesitated, looked
away, then added rapidly--"I am ordered immediately to join my regiment
in Canada."

A quick drawing of the breath, as though from sudden pain, met his
ear--his heart beat quickly, but he would not embarrass her by a glance.
There was a slight rustling of her dress, and turning he saw that she
had risen, and with one hand pressed upon the table for support, was
advancing to the door. Falteringly, one--two--three steps were taken,
and completely overcome, pale and ready to faint, she sank upon a sofa
near her. He sprang forward, but she motioned him away, and covering her
face with her hands, burst into tears--tears of shame as well as of
sorrow. For an instant he stood irresolute--but only for an instant,
when bending over her, he whispered, "Dare I hope that you sympathize
with me, Mary--that the feeling which made even liberty painful to me
since it separates me from you, is not confined to my own bosom?"

Mary's sobs ceased--but she spoke not--moved not.

"Answer me, dear Mary--remember I have little time to woo, for my orders
admit of no delay in their execution--I must leave you to-morrow. Rise
then above the petty formalities of your sex, and if I may indeed hope
ever to call you mine, let me do so this night--this hour--your father
will not, I think, fear to commit you to my tenderness."

Mary uncovered her face, and raised her eyes for an instant to his, with
an expression so confiding that he thought his suit was won, and
pressing her hand to his lips, he said, "That glance tells me that you
are my own, Mary. My life shall prove my gratitude--but now I must seek
your father--_our_ father--will you await us here?"

"I have something to say to you--sit down and hear me," said Mary, in a
voice which she strove in vain to raise above a whisper.

He placed himself beside her on the sofa, still clasping the hand he had
taken, and with a voice faltering and low at first, but gathering
strength as she proceeded, Mary resumed:--"I will not attempt--I do not
wish to deny that you have read my heart aright--that--that you who
saved me are--are--" a lover's ear alone could detect the next
words--"very dear to me--but I cannot--I think I ought not----"

She paused, and Captain Percy said, "You are not willing to intrust your
happiness to one so lately known."

"Oh, no! you mistake my meaning--I can have no doubt of you--no fear for
my own happiness--but my father--who will care for him if I, his
daughter, his only child, thus give myself to another at the very time
that he needs me most?"

"I will not take you from him--at least not now, Mary--give me but the
right to call you mine, and I will leave you here in your own sweet
home--not again, I trust, to be visited by war--till peace shall leave
me at liberty to return to England with my bride--my wife."

He would have clasped her to him as he named her thus, but Mary
struggled almost wildly to free herself, exclaiming, "Oh! plead not thus
lest I forget my father in myself--my duty in love--the forgetfulness
would be but short--I should be unhappy even at your side, when I
thought of the loneliness of heart and life to which I had condemned
him."

"But he should go with us--he should have our home. It will be a simple
home, Mary--for though I come of a lordly race, I inherit not their
wealth--but it will be large enough for our father."

"Kind and generous!" exclaimed Mary, as she suffered her fingers to
clasp the hand in which they had hitherto only rested, "would that it
might be so--but that were to ask of my father a sacrifice greater even
than the surrender of his daughter--the sacrifice of his sense of duty
to the people who have chosen him as their spiritual father--and to whom
he considers himself bound for life."

Captain Percy remained silent long after she had ceased to speak, with
his eyes resting on her downcast face. At length in low, sad tones, he
questioned, "And must we part thus?"

Mary's lips moved, but she could not speak.

"I will not ask you to remember me, Mary," he resumed, "for if
forgetfulness be possible to you, it will perhaps be for your happiness
to forget--yet--pardon me if I am selfish--I would have some little
light amidst the darkness gathering around my heart--may I hope that had
no duty forbidden you would have been mine?"

She yielded to his clasping arm, and sinking on his bosom, murmured
there, "Yours--yours ever and only--yours wholly if I could be yours
holily."

From this interview Mary retired to her chamber, and Captain Percy
sought his host in his study. After communicating to Mr. Sinclair the
contents of the dispatch he had just received, he continued, "I must in
consequence of these orders leave you immediately--but before I go I
have a confession to make to you. You will not wonder that your lovely
daughter should have won my heart; but one hour since, I could have said
that I had never yielded for an instant to that heart's suggestions--had
never consciously revealed my love, or endeavored to excite in her
feelings which, in my position and the present relations of our
respective countries, could scarcely fail to be productive of pain. I
can say so no longer. The moment of parting has torn the veil from the
hearts of both--she loves me,"--there was a joyous intonation in Captain
Percy's voice as he pronounced these last words. He was silent a moment
while Mr. Sinclair continued to look gravely down--then suddenly he
resumed--"Pardon my selfishness--I forget all else in the sweet thought
that I am loved by one so pure, so gentle, so lovely. But though I have
dared without your permission to acknowledge my own tenderness, and to
draw from her the dear confession of her regard, there my wrong has
ended--she has assured me that she could never be happy separated from
you, and that you are wedded to your people." Mr. Sinclair shaded with
his hand features quivering with emotion. "At present," continued
Captain Percy, "these feelings, which are both of them too sacred for me
to contest, place a barrier between us, and I have sought from her no
promise for the future--if she can forget me--" Captain Percy paused a
moment, then added abruptly--"may a happier destiny be hers than I could
have commanded--but, sir, the time may come when England shall no longer
need all her soldiers--an orphan and an only child, I have nothing to
bind me to her soil--should I seek you then, and find your Mary with an
unchanged heart, will you give her to me?--will you receive me as a
son?"

"Under such circumstances I would do so joyfully," Mr. Sinclair replied,
"yet I cannot conceal from you now that I grieve to know that my
daughter must wear out her youth in a hope long deferred at best,
perhaps never to be realized."

Both gentlemen were for a few minutes plunged in silent thought. Captain
Percy arose from his seat--walked several times across the room, and
then stopping before the table at which Mr. Sinclair was seated, resumed
the conversation.

"Had I designedly sought the interest with which your daughter has
honored me," he said, "your words would inflict on me intolerable
self-reproach, but I cannot blame myself for not being silent when
silence would have been a reproach to her delicacy and a libel on my own
affection. Now, however, sir, I yield myself wholly to your cooler
judgment and better knowledge of her nature, and I will do whatever may
in your opinion conduce to her happiness, without respect to my own
feelings. If you think that she can forget the past, and you desire that
she should"--his voice lost its firmness and he grasped with violence
the chair on which he leaned--"I will do nothing to recall it to her
memory. It is the only _amende_ I can make for the shadow I have thrown
upon her life--dark indeed will such a resolve leave my own."

"It would cast no ray of light on hers. Be assured her love is not a
thing to be forgotten--it is a part of her life."

"And it shall be repaid with all of mine which my duties as a soldier
and subject leave at my disposal. Do not think me altogether selfish
when I say that your words have left no place in my heart for any thing
but happiness--I have but one thing more to ask you--it is a great
favor--inexpressibly great--but----"

"Nay--nay," Mr. Sinclair exclaimed, gathering his meaning more from his
looks and manner than from the words which fell slowly from his
lips--"ask me not so soon to put the irrevocable seal upon a bond which
may be one of misery."

"If your words be true--if her love be a part of her life, the
irrevocable seal has been already affixed by Heaven, and I only ask you
to give your sanction to it, that by uniting her duty and her love, you
may save her gentle spirit all contest with itself, and give her the
fairest hope of future joy."

It was now Mr. Sinclair's turn to rise and pace the floor in agitated
silence--"I know not how to decide so suddenly on so momentous a
question," he at length exclaimed.

"Suppose you leave its decision to her whom it most concerns. It is for
her happiness we are most anxious--so entirely is that my object that I
would not influence her determination even by a look. I will not even
ask to be present when you place my proposal before her; but I must
repeat, sir, if you design to do it, there is no time to be lost, for I
must be on my way to Canada to-morrow."

"So be it then--she shall choose for herself, and Heaven direct her
choice!"

"Amen!" responded Captain Percy, as Mr. Sinclair turned from the door.
He heard him ascend the stairs, and ask and receive admission to his
daughter's room. Then he counted the seconds as they grew into
minutes--the minutes as they extended to a quarter of an hour--a
half-hour--and rolled slowly on towards the hour which lacked but little
to its completion, when his straining ear caught the sound of an opening
door, and then Mr. Sinclair's sedate step was heard slowly descending
the stairs and approaching the study. Captain Percy met him at the door,
and looked the inquiry which he could not speak. Mr. Sinclair replied to
the look, "She is yours!"

"May I not see her and receive such a confirmation of my hopes from her
own lips!"

"Not to-night--I have persuaded her to retire at once--she needs repose,
and we must be early astir. Your marriage must for many reasons be kept
secret at present, and as I could not, I fear, find witnesses here on
whose silence I could rely, we will accompany you in the morning to
Major Scott's, and there, in the presence of his wife and sister, your
vows shall receive the sanction of the church. You must have some
preparation to make, and I will bid you good night, for there are
certain legal preliminaries necessary to the validity of a marriage
here, to which I must attend this evening--unusual as the hour is."

There was a strange mingling of emotion in the hearts of the lovers as
they stood side by side within that room in the gray dawn of the next
morning. In a few hours they were to part, they knew not for what
distance of space or duration of time. It might be that they should
never after this morning look upon each other's faces in life; yet, ere
they parted, there was to be a bond upon their souls which should make
_them_ ever present to each other, should give them the same interests,
should, as it were, mould their beings into one. Sacred bond of God's
own forming, which thus offers the support of a spiritual and
indissoluble union amidst the separations and changes of this
ever-varying life! No such strength and peace are to be found in the
frail and casual ties for which man in his folly would exchange this
bond of Heaven.

Few words were spoken during the burned breakfast at the parsonage, or
the drive to Major Scott's, for deep emotion is ever silent. Yet not for
them were the coy reserves often evinced by hearts on the verge of a
life-union--the faltering timidity which hesitates to lift the veil from
feelings in whose light existence is thenceforth to pass. They could not
forget that they were to part, and even Mary hesitated not to let her
lover read in her eyes' shadowy depths the tenderness which might soothe
the parting pang, and whose memory might brighten the hours of
separation.

Why should we linger on a scene which each heart can depict for itself?
With solemn tenderness the father pronounced the words which transferred
to another the right to his own earthly sanctuary--the heart of his
daughter--and committed to another's keeping--his last and brightest
earthly treasure. That treasure was soon, however, returned, for a time,
to his care. The vows of the marriage rite had scarcely been uttered,
when with one long clasp--one whispered word--one lingering look--the
disciplined soldier turned from his newly-found joy to his duties. Never
had Mary seemed more lovely in his eyes or her father's than in that
moment, when with quivering lips, eyes "heavy with unshed tears," and
cheeks white with anguish, she yet smiled upon him to the last. Nor did
her heroic self-control cease when he was gone. Her father was still
there, and for him she endured and was silent. Only by her languid
movements and fading color did he learn the bitterness of her soul
through the weary months of her sorrow. Weary months were they indeed!

One letter she received from Captain Percy, written before he had
passed beyond the limits of the United States. It breathed the very soul
of tenderness. "My wife!" he wrote, "what joy is summed in that little
word--what faith in the present--what promise for the future! I find
myself often repeating it again and again with a lingering cadence,
while your gentle eyes seem smiling at my folly." Long, long did Mary
wear this letter next her heart, and still no other came to take its
place.

They had parted in 1813, just as the falling leaves came to herald the
approach of winter. That winter passed with Mary in vain longing and
vainer hopes. Spring again clothed her home with beauty, but there came
no spring to her heart. Summer brought joy and gladness to the earth,
but not to her, and another autumn closed over her in anxious suspense.
There were moments when she could almost have prayed to have that dread
silence broken even by a voice from the tomb--other times in which she
threw herself on her knees in thankfulness that she could yet hope. From
Major Scott she had heard that Captain Percy's regiment had been sent to
the South, but of him individually even Major Scott knew nothing. At
length came the eighth of January, that day of vain triumph on which
thousands fell in the contest for rights already lost and won--the
treaty of peace having been signed at Ghent on the twenty-fourth of the
preceding month. Forgetful of this useless hecatomb at war's relentless
shrine, America echoed the gratulations of the victors which fell with
scathing power on the heart of the trembling Mary. How could she hope
that he, the fearless soldier, had escaped this scene of slaughter! If
he had, surely he would now find some way to inform her of his safety,
but weeks passed on, and passed still in silence.

During this long period of suspense, no doubt of the tenderness and
truth of him she loved had ever sullied Mary's faith. Mr. Sinclair was
not always thus confiding, and once, on seeing the deadly pallor that
overspread her face on hearing the announcement of "no letters"--he
uttered words of keen reproach on him who could so wrong her gentle
heart.

"Oh, father!" Mary exclaimed, "speak not thus--be assured it is not his
fault--remember that no license could tempt him to wrong the
defenceless--think how honorable he was in suppressing his own feelings
lest their avowal should bring sorrow on us--and when my self-betrayal
unsealed his lips, how delicate to me, how generous to you was his
conduct--and who but he could have been so rigid in his observance of a
soldier's duty, yet so inexpressibly tender as a man! I loved him
because I saw him thus true and noble--and having seen him thus how can
I doubt him? He may be no longer on earth, but wherever he is, he is my
true and noble husband, and you will not again distress me, dear father,
by speaking as though you doubted him."

"Never," said Mr. Sinclair emphatically, and he never did, though he saw
her form grow thinner, and her cheek paler every day, and before the
winter was gone heard that deep, hollow cough from her, which has so
often sounded the knell of hope to the anxious heart. With the coming on
of summer this cough passed away, but Mary was oppressed by great
feebleness and languor--scarcely less fatal symptoms. Still she omitted
none of those cares essential to her father's comfort--while to the
poor, the sick, the sorrowing, she was more than ever an angel of mercy.
With feeble steps and slow she still walked her accustomed round of
charity, and thus living for duty she lived for God, and had His peace
shed abroad in her heart, even while sorrow was wearing away the springs
of her life. She loved to sit alone and send her thoughts forward to the
future--not of this life, but of that higher life in which there shall
be no shadow on the brightness of our joy--where love shall be without
fear--no war shall desolate--no opposing duty shall separate--no death
shall place its stony barrier between loving hearts. With a mind thus
occupied, she wandered one day, in the latter part of August, through
the garden of the parsonage and the yard immediately surrounding the
church into the little inclosure beyond, within which was the green and
flowery knoll that marked her mother's last resting-place. As she turned
again towards her home the sound of a carriage driven rapidly by caused
her to look towards the road which lay about a hundred yards distant.
The carriage rushed by, and she caught but a glimpse of a gentleman
leaning from its window. In another moment a grove of trees had hidden
both the carriage and its occupant from her sight--yet that glimpse had
sent a thrill through her whole frame--a mist passed over her eyes, and
with eager, trembling steps, she proceeded on her way. As she reached
the garden, she thought she saw her father approaching it from the
house, but her path led through a summer-house, and when she had passed
through it he was no longer visible. Every thing in the house wore its
usual air of quietness on her entrance, and with a feeling of
disappointment, for which she could not rationally account, she turned
her steps towards her father's study. As she drew near the door she
heard his voice--the words, "I dread to tell her," met her ear and made
her heart stand still. One step more and she was at the door--she looked
eagerly forward, and with a glad cry sprang into the extended arms of
her husband.

It was long before any of the party were sufficiently composed for
conversation. When that time came, Captain or rather Colonel Percy heard
with surprise that no letters had been received from him since his
joining the army in Canada. He had written often, but had been obliged
to send his letters to some distant post-town by his own servant. As he
had declined accompanying Colonel Percy to America, there was reason to
suppose that he had suspected the character of the correspondence,
perhaps had acquainted himself fully with the contents of the letters,
and had taken effectual means to prevent their reaching their
destination, with the hope of thus completely removing from Colonel
Percy's mind every inducement to return to this country. Having received
a disabling though not dangerous wound at the battle of New Orleans,
Colonel then Major Percy was sent home with despatches, and was
immediately ordered to join the army under Lord Wellington, then rapidly
hastening to repel the attempt of the prisoner of Elba to re-establish
himself on the throne of France. From this period till the battle of
Waterloo all private concerns were merged in the interest and the hurry
of great public events. In that battle Major Percy was again slightly
wounded. His distinguished bravery was rewarded by his being made again
the bearer of despatches to England. As it was evident to all that the
struggle which had called the whole force of Britain into the field was
now at an end, he had no hesitation in asking and no difficulty in
obtaining leave of absence from the commander-in-chief, and had lost no
time in embarking for America.

"As a consequence of peace," said Colonel Percy in conclusion, "a large
part of our force will be disbanded, and many officers put on half-pay.
A friend who is very influential at head quarters has undertaken to
secure me a place on the list of the latter--and henceforth, dear Mary,
your home is mine!"

"And did you never doubt me during all this long silence?" he asked of
his happy wife a few days after his return.

"Never," said Mary firmly, and then added in a more playful manner--"if
I should step into the confessor's chair, could you answer as boldly?"

"I can, Mary--though I never received a line from you, it never occurred
to me to fear any change in your affection. Our marriage had placed on
it the seal of duty, and your conduct in relation to your father had
shown me that that seal you could not easily break."

"Then you did not love me less for not yielding every other
consideration to the gratification of your wishes?" said Mary,
endeavoring to speak lightly, but betraying deeper feeling by the slight
tremor in her voice, and the quick blush mantling in her cheek.

"Love you less!" exclaimed Colonel Percy warmly--"my love had been
little worthy of your acceptance, dearest, had it been lessened by
seeing that your principles were paramount even to your affections.
Happy would it be for all your sex, Mary, did they recognize as the only
test of a true and noble love, that it increases with the increase of
esteem, and finds more pleasure in the excellence of its object than in
its own selfish triumphs."

Ere the winter of 1815 had set in, Mary's rounded form and blooming
cheek relieved all Mr. Sinclair's apprehension of her consumptive
tendencies, and proved that her love was indeed, as he had said, "a part
of her life."

CHAPTER XIV.

The New-Year's day--the day after which the year is no longer new--is
come and gone; and while sitting here to record its events before I
sleep, I look back at it with pleasure, chastened by such thoughts as
the young seldom have. I believe of all such eras the aged may say as
the poet says of his birthday:

"What a different sound
That word had in my younger years!
And every time the chain comes round,
Less and less bright the link appears."

To all, these eras mark their progress on the journey of life; but to
the young they are bright with the promise of a happier future; the
aged, they direct to the grave of the buried past, and they read on them
the inscription so often found on the Roman monumental stones, "Siste,
Viator." Travellers are we from time to eternity, and it is well that we
should meet with these imperative calls to stand and consider. Cheered
by the Christian's hope, we can stand; we can look steadily on the past,
count the lengthening line of these memorials of our dead years, and
feel that but few more probably lie between us and the river of death,
yet, strong in the might of Death's great Conqueror, "bate no jot of
heart or hope."

These are grave though not sad thoughts; too grave to mingle readily
with the record of mirthful scenes, howsoever innocent may have been the
mirth. I must, therefore, lay aside my pen, and reserve the description
of our New-Year for tomorrow.

Our New-Year opened with a cold and cloudless morning, and our party met
at breakfast with faces as bright as the sun. Gifts were exchanged
between the parents and children, the brothers and sisters--gifts,
trifling in themselves, but dear from their association with the
cherished givers. It was an endearing sight to see the venerable parents
receiving from their children testimonies of that affectionate
consideration which the care and tenderness of years had so well
deserved. Tears were on Mrs. Donaldson's cheeks, and even the Colonel's
eyes glistened as they clasped one after another of their children to
their hearts, and invoked on them the blessing of Heaven. From this
scene Mr. Arlington and I had stood aloof, silent, but not uninterested
spectators. As the excitement of the principal actors subsided, we
approached and tendered our hearty congratulations, and received equally
hearty congratulations in return. Neither had Aunt Nancy been altogether
forgotten in the mementos of affection provided for the day; and I
thought Mr. Arlington looked a little envious as Annie, with a kiss,
threw around my neck a chain woven of her own hair, and suspended to it
the eye-glass which I always wore. I do not know but his envy may have
been somewhat allayed by a very handsomely decorated copy of an English
work on sporting, with which Col. Donaldson presented him. He had
scarcely found time, however, to admire it, when all attention was
attracted to Philip Donaldson, who entered with a servant bearing the
mysterious box to which I have before alluded.

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