CHAPTER XXVI.
A GRAVE DECISION.
After the greetings were over, Elizabeth, looking at Stephen Archdale, realized fully the difficulties of her task. She was to go through with it alone she perceived, for her father had turned away and taken up a spyglass that had been brought him at the moment, and was absorbed in looking through it at the new fascine battery. Evidently he expected her to give Captain Archdale the history of the facts and conclusions that had brought her father and herself to Louisburg. As she looked at the young man in his strength, she felt more than ever the necessity for speaking. He knew well enough that Mr. Edmonson hated him, and that was necessary to be known. And yet, speech was hard, for even though he could never imagine Edmonson's contemptible insinuations, still before he believed in his own danger he might have to learn his enemy's foiled purpose toward herself; and to be sought for her fortune was not a thing that Elizabeth felt proud of. Her head drooped a little as the young man stood watching her, and the color began to come into her face. Then the courage that was in her, and the power that she had of rising above petty considerations into grandeur, came upon her like an access of physical strength. The strong necessity filled her, and the thought that she might be bringing life where she had almost brought death, at least death of joy, lighted her face. Still she hesitated for a moment, but it was only to study how she should begin. Shall she give him Katie's letter at once, and in her name warn him to take care of the life that was of so much value to his betrothed? No, for with Katie's letter in his hand, he could not listen carefully to Elizabeth's words, he could think only of what was within. His thoughts would refuse to have to do with danger; they would be busy with joy. That must wait.
"We have come here, my father and I," she began, "to say one word to you, Captain Archdale. We talked it over, and we saw no other way."
"You are pale," cried Stephen suddenly. "You must be very tired. Let us sit down here while you tell me." And he pointed to a coil of rope at hand. But she shook her head.
"I am not tired, thank you; I am disappointed that I can't go back immediately, that I must wait until to-morrow, when the dispatches will be ready."
"You need not," he cried. "The General shall let you go if you wish it. I will insist upon it. The dispatches can go some other way. If the Governor wants news in such haste, he would do better to send us some powder to make them out of. He was enough in a hurry to get us off, to give us something to do after we are here."
"I should think you had something to do," she said pointing to the battlements of Louisburg which at that distance and from that angle looked as if no shot had ever been fired against them. "But don't on any account speak to the General. We are glad to do even so little for the cause. And perhaps it's not that that makes me pale. I don't know. I have a warning hard to deliver to you. I have come hundreds of miles to do it. I will give it to you immediately, for you may need it at any moment." She drew closer to him, and laid one hand upon his arm as if to prevent his losing by any chance the words she had to say. Her gesture had an impressiveness that made him realize as much as her face did how terribly in earnest she was.
"It must be something about Katie," he thought. And the vision of Lord Bulchester rose before him clearly.
"Listen," said Elizabeth absorbed in her attempt to make him feel what she feared would seem incredible to him. "Stray shots have picked off many superfluous kings in the world—and men and the world not been the wiser. This is what some one said when the war was being talked of, said at your house, and said in speaking of you."
"Said it to you?" interposed Archdale with a quick breath.
"Oh, no, but about you, I am sure, sure, though it has taken me all this time to find it out. And,—oh, wait a moment,—the man who said it was your guest then, and he is here now, else we should not have come; he is here, perhaps he is close by you every day, and he,—he is meaning the shot for you." She waited a moment drawing a breath of relief that she had begun. "You know he is your enemy?" she went on with a longing to be spared explanations.
She was spared them.
"I do know it," said Archdale looking at her, and as she met his eyes a great relief swept over her. Her warning had been heard and believed, she was sure of that. She heard Archdale thanking her, and assuring her that he would give good heed to her warning. And she had not had to tell why Edmonson hated him, she had not even been obliged to utter the name that she was coming to hate. "Do you know?" she had asked wonderingly, and he had told it to her. Did he know the man so thoroughly, then? And were there other causes of hatred, possibly money causes, that had spared her?
She had told her listener more than she dreamed, far more than her words. She had stood before him in the noblest guise a human being can wear, that of a preserver from evil fate; she had looked at him out of holy depths in her clear eyes, she had turned upon him a face in which expression had marvellously brought out physical beauty. Also, in her unconsciousness that he knew the reason of his danger, she had looked at him with a wonder at his ready credulity before there had come her smile of relief that she need speak no more. He knew Edmonson's story, knew how this play at marriage between Elizabeth and himself had interfered with the other's plans, guessed the further truth, looked at her, and muttered under his breath:—"Poor fellow!" It was with his own eyes, and not another man's that Archdale saw Elizabeth. Yet, it was not in human nature that she should not seem the more interesting as she stood there, since he had learned his own life to be in danger because another man had found her so desirable, and so unapproachable. Watching Elizabeth, he acquitted Edmonson of mercenary motives, whatever they might once have been. His appreciation had no thought of appropriation in it. Katie was his love. But comprehension of Elizabeth made him glad that their mistake had saved her from Edmonson. And then again after a moment he muttered under his breath:—"Poor fellow!"
"You are very, very kind," he said to her.
"Don't think me rude," she answered with a smile. "But, you know we must have done this for any one. Only,"—and her voice became earnest again, "I was very grateful that the least thing came to me for you and Katie. I have not done with Katie yet" she added, "here is something that I have brought you from her." And she handed him a letter. "She gave me this as I was leaving," she said.
"Thank you," he said again, and holding it clasped in his hand, stood not looking at it, but as if he still had something to say. "Has Bulchester gone yet, Mistress Royal?" he asked abruptly at last.
"No. But I think that he must be very hard to send away, and Katie you know hates to say anything unkind. She doesn't see that it is the kindest way in the end. We shall not go until to-morrow, you know. If you have any letters, we shall be so glad to take them."
"Thank you once more." He stood still a moment. "The earl may be wise to stay on the field," he said. "I may be swept off conveniently. Yes, he is wise to wait and see what the fortunes of war will do for him."
"Oh! Mr. Archdale," cried Elizabeth, between indignation and tears at his want of faith. "How can you not trust her? Your letter that she was so eager to send will prove how wrong you are." Here Mr. Royal sauntered up, and the conversation turned upon the scene before them.
But in the midst of Archdale's description of one of their skirmishes a signal was given from the new battery. "They are signalling for me," he said. "My place is in command of those guns. I am sorry to leave my story half told, but I must go. I shall try to see you to-morrow." And with a hasty farewell he sprang into the boat. As he was rowed away, Elizabeth saw him put his hand into the pocket where he had slipped Katie's letter, and draw this out.
She sat down again in her favorite place on deck, laid her arms on the railing of the schooner and her face upon them. Now that her errand was done, she became aware that she was very tired. She sat so quiet that she seemed to be asleep. But she was only in a day-dream in which the thought of which she was most conscious was wonder that Archdale could doubt Katie. Had she not always been a coquette? And had she not always loved him? Yet Elizabeth wished that she could have said that Lord Bulchester had gone, wished that she could have seen Stephen Archdale's face brighten a little before he left them, perhaps forever; she had not forgotten the danger of his post. Nancy softly drew her chair close. But Elizabeth made no movement. She sat with her face still buried, thinking, remembering, longing to be at home again, counting the hours until they should probably sail.
Suddenly she started up. For there had come light that she saw through the dark folds that she had been pressing her eyes against. To her there was a sound as if the heavens were being rent, and she felt a trembling of the earth, as if it shook with terror at the spectacle. She stood a moment bewildered. It seemed as if the light never paled at all, but only changed its place sometimes; the roar was terrific, it never ceased, or lulled, and the water beneath them tossed and hissed in rage at its bed being so shaken. Nancy's hand sought her companion's with a reassuring pressure, for speech was impossible. But Elizabeth had only been unprepared. She recovered herself and smiled her thanks. Then she sat down again with her face toward the city and watched this cannonade, terrible to men grown grey in the service, as officers from the fleet bore witness, and to the enemy deadly.
For the fascine battery had opened fire.
At midnight General Pepperell sent for Archdale to detail him for special service the next day.
"Why! what's the matter?" he cried, looking at the young man as he came into the tent.
"Nothing, General Pepperell. I am quite ready for service," replied Stephen haughtily.
"Ah!—Yes. Glad of that," returned the General, and he went on to give his orders, watching the other's pale face as he did so, and reading there strong emotion of some kind.
When he was alone, and his dispatches had all been written, he sat musing for a time, as little disturbed by the glare and the thunder about him as if stillness were an unknown thing. His cogitations did not seem satisfactory, for he frowned more than once. "What's the matter with the fellow?" he muttered. "Something has gone wrong. I've seen an uneasiness for a long time. Now the blow has fallen. Poor fellow! he doesn't take life easy. The news is it, I wonder? or the letter?" He sat for a while carefully nursing his left knee, while his thoughts gradually went back to military matters, and worked there diligently. At last he straightened himself, clapped this same knee with vigor, put both feet to the ground and, rising, took up from his improvised table—a log turned endwise,—a paper upon which he made a note with a worn pencil from his pocket. "Yes," he cried, "I can do that. It's the only thing I can do. And I need it so much they will not mind." He finished by a smile. "Strange I hadn't thought of it before," he said.
Then he threw himself down upon his bed of boughs and moss, and with the terrific din about him slept the sleep of weariness. At sunrise, according to his directions, an orderly roused him.
Archdale had already gone with his reconnoitering party. His heart was bitter against the conditions of his life, and he felt that it would be no misfortune, perhaps quite the contrary, if Edmonson's plan were not interfered with. "It's beyond her comprehension," he said to himself. "How confident she was. What will she say when she knows?"
In the morning, Elizabeth standing beside her father turned a tired face toward the shore as she watched General Pepperell's approach. Sleep had been impossible to her in the strangeness and terror of her surroundings.
"You are very thoughtful to come to bid us good-bye," she said, giving him her hand as he stepped on board.
He smiled, and still holding it, asked after a moment's hesitation, "Should you be very much disappointed if I begged you not to return this morning?"
She certainly looked so for a moment, before she answered: "If it will help, if I can be of any use, I am ready to stay. Are there soldiers in the hospitals? Can we do anything for them, Nancy and I?"
He caught at the diversion readily. "The hospitals? Yes, I should be very glad, infinitely obliged to you, if you would pay them a visit. I've not a doubt that your suggestions would make the poor fellows more comfortable, and there are a number of new ones there this morning. I'm sorry to say our health record is discouraging. Not that I'm discouraged, but I want to put this business through as quickly as possible." Then he turned to Mr. Royal. "I must tell you both," he said, "that I came to you this morning bent upon purposes of destruction, (though, happily, not to yourselves,) and not purposes of health, except of saving lives by making the work as short as possible. I should like this schooner. I have an immediate use for it, and in two days, or, at the outside, three, I'm going to send to Boston. Will you permit me to take this as a fire-ship, and will you remain under my especial care until this other vessel sails?" He turned to Elizabeth as he spoke. "If you consent," he said to her, "I am quite sure your father will. It will be a great favor to me, and I hope to the cause, if you do. But I won't insist upon it. If you say so you shall go this morning."
Elizabeth glanced at her father, "But I don't say so," she answered. "I am compelled to stay if my father consents. It's not you that make me but a stronger power. You won't be offended if I call patriotism a stronger power?" And she smiled at him.
"Thank you, my dear," he said with a gravity which showed that she had touched him. "You shall not regret your sacrifice."
In the course of conversation he told Mr. Royal that Archdale had been sent off at dawn upon an exploring expedition. "I want to find out how near to us the Indians are," he said, "they are hanging about somewhere. You will not see him to-day."
That morning, Elizabeth was rowed ashore with Nancy, and under an escort they went to the hospitals; not for a visit of inspection, as it turned out, but as workers. Nancy had had experience in illness, and Elizabeth was an apt pupil. Before the day was over the poor fellows lying there felt a change. There were no luxuries to be had for them, but their beds were made a little softer with added moss and leaves, the relays of fresh water from the brook running through the encampment were increased. One dying man had closed his eyes in the conviction that the last words he had sent to his mother would reach her; he had watched Elizabeth write them down, and she had promised to put a lock of his hair into the letter. He was sure that she would do it, and he died happier for the thought. Altogether, in many ways the comfortless tents grew less comfortless, for Elizabeth interpreted literally the general's permission to do here what she chose. The eyes of the soldiers followed both women with delight, and one rugged fellow, a backwoods man, whose cheerfulness not even a broken leg and a great gash in his forehead could destroy, volunteered the statement: "By George! whether in peace or war we need our women." This was responded to by a cheer from the inmates of his tent. The demonstration was all the more touching, because its endeavor to be rousing was marred in the execution by the physical weakness of the cheerers.
They spent that night on shore. Elizabeth's tent was next her father's and a few rods from the general quarters. As Mr. Royal left her, she stood a moment at the swinging door of her strange room, and looked at the stars and at the scene so new to her on which they were shining. Then leaving it reluctantly, for it fascinated her, she laid down upon the woodland couch prepared for her, and was soon as soundly asleep as her maid near by, while around the tent patrolled the special guard set by General Pepperell.
The next day also was spent in the hospital. In the course of the afternoon, Nancy, looking over the Bay in a vain search for the schooner which had brought them, said; "I wonder how we really shall get home, and when?"
"As General Pepperell promised us," answered her mistress. "And probably we shall leave to-morrow. I expect to hear from him about it then. So does my father; he was speaking of it this morning."
They were right; the next day the General told them that the "Smithhurst" would sail that afternoon with prisoners of war from the "Vigilant," a captured French vessel. "She is one of the ships that Governor Shirley has sent for to guard the coast," he said to Elizabeth speaking of the "Smithhurst." "She goes to Boston first to report and discharge her prisoners. Be ready at four o'clock. If I can, I will take you to the vessel myself; but if that is impossible, everything is arranged for your comfort. Your father is at the battery, I have just left him there. He is undeniably fond of powder. I've told him about this." Elizabeth was in one of the hospital tents when Pepperell came to her with this news. She staid there with Nancy all the morning, and at noon when her father came and took her away for awhile to rest, she had an earnest talk with him upon some subject that left her grave and pleased.
After a time she went back to the hospitals again. At the last moment the General sent an escort with word that he had been detained. Just before this message arrived, Elizabeth called her maid aside.
"Nancy," she said, "you see how many of our soldiers are here, hundreds of them, almost thousands. They are fighting for our homes, even if the battle-ground is so far away. And see how many have been sent in, in the short time we have been here. Do you want to desert them? Tell me how you feel? Shall we go back to our comfortable home, and leave all this suffering behind us, when we might do our little to help? Shall we, Nancy? I have no right to insist upon your staying; but don't you think we ought to stay? and won't you stay with me?"
"Indeed I will," was the quick answer. "I hated to leave the poor fellows, but I did not see what else to do. The General won't like it one bit though. And your father, Mistress Elizabeth?"
"The General has no authority over me. I'm not one of his soldiers. And as to my father, it's all right with him."
Yet she felt very desolate when the ship which was to have carried them had gone with its companion vessel, and from the door of one of the hospital tents she stood watching the white sails in the distance. But it was not that resolution had failed her; for she would have made the same decision over again if she had been called upon at the moment.