CHAPTER XXXIII.
COMPENSATION.
"Yes, Boston has gone wild," asserted Colonel Archdale a week after the news of the capture of Louisburg. He was in his brother's house, with Mr. Archdale, his wife, and Katie, as eager listeners. "And not only Boston," he went on, "but New York and Philadelphia, too. As to Boston, there has never been anything like it since the place was founded. Captain Bennett got in with the news about one o'clock the morning of the third. But they didn't fire the salvos until daylight. Then the bells rang—oh! how they rang!—and the streets filled like magic. The cannon fired, the people shouted and wept for pride and joy. All day long crowds kept pouring in from the towns round about, and at night there was not a house in the city or near it that was not illuminated. Pepperell's official report was very interesting. Part of it was read to the people; but I saw the document. He speaks handsomely of Commodore Warren, which was to be expected of him; and he says that he believes there never were such rains seen before, 'which,' he adds, 'is not perhaps to be wondered at, for we gave the town about nine thousand cannon-balls and six hundred bombs before it surrendered;' and he said, too, that 'the day of the flag of truce the fire from Island Battery made some of the gunners run into the sea for shelter.'"
"Has Elizabeth returned?" asked Katie, after further details of the surrender had been given.
"Yes; she came home with her father in Captain Bennett's ship. I saw her that same day."
"How is she?"
"Very well; she looks worn, however; she must have worked hard. She is a strange young lady,—very charming, though."
"Yes, indeed; as good as gold," assented Katie, wondering if Elizabeth's fatigue had seriously injured her good looks. She wondered, also, if Stephen were any more reconciled to his fate. But she did not ask this.
"I suppose Stephen has not come home yet," said her mother at the moment.
"He will not be here at present. He wrote me that Pepperell needed him there."
New England was full of the elation that a youth feels at having given evidence of manly prowess. For the idea of the expedition had been born in the colonial brain, and the enterprise had been carried through by colonial nerve, muscle, and endurance. The very sinews of war had come from New England. Days of thanksgiving were appointed. The soldiers who returned broken down by wounds or illness found welcome and aid, and the families of those who had died in the service were considered by some as opportunities for proving the gratitude they felt for victory. Europe was amazed at the exploit, and England had good reason to remember a conquest which counterbalanced the disasters that she had met with on the Continent, and was the best achievement of the war of 1744. News soon came that Warren had been made Admiral, and their own soldier, Pepperell, created a Baronet.
One perfect afternoon in September Katie set out through the fields to her uncle's house. The walk was not too long when one went across lots. She would perhaps stay to tea, and then the Colonel would send her home. She felt that it was very nice in all the family not to resent her change of mind in regard to Stephen. That day she went on in happy mood.
At last she crossed the little bridge over the creek, and walked slowly up to the house, wondering that she had found neither of her cousins on the river this beautiful day. They would have taken her across the stream, and saved her the distance down the bank to the bridge, and up the long avenue on the other side. But it was cool under the arching trees. She sauntered on. Exercise had brightened her color a little, but it was still as delicate as the petal of a rose; her eyes, too, were full of brightness; her mouth, with its beautiful curves, was bewitching. Altogether, a more graceful figure, in its white dress, and a more perfect face, had seldom made their way through a vista of summer foliage. Was it her fault if too critical an observer missed in the face those shadowy lines that nothing but thought can draw, and in the eyes that peculiar clear depth of shining that comes only when fires of pain have burned into the soul, and purified it, and made it luminous? The shadows of the great trees above her flickered over her face, and did their best to make up the defect, and her long lashes threw a beautiful shade around the bright brown eyes. A young life that suffering has never touched has a wonderful charm in its exemption. It is only when suffering fails in its work that something is missed in the face it has passed over.
As she came near the house she saw that the hall door stood open. She thought that her uncle, or one of the girls, was there. With a smile of greeting she ran the few more steps up the avenue, and standing on the threshold, called merrily:—
"Here am I! Where are you, somebody? Uncle Walter? Faith?" Then she gave a cry of surprise, and, holding out her hand without any embarrassment, said:—
"Stephen! you at home? I hadn't heard of it. When did you come?"
Archdale stood a moment motionless, looking at her fixedly. Then he came forward mechanically and took her hand, still staring at her, in what seemed to her a kind of bewilderment, until she again asked when he had returned, and hoped that he had escaped wounds and illness in the siege.
"Yes," he said, at last, in what seemed to her an unnatural way, "I am quite well, thank you." After a pause he added, "I was coming this evening to see you all. I reached here only to-day."
"Come back with me," she answered, "and"—she hesitated a moment, then, feeling that it was better for poor Stephen to have the encounter over at once, since he must bear the pain of it, she busied herself with looking through the open door of the drawing-room, and added,—"You will meet Lord Bulchester there; he is coming this evening." In spite of herself she turned pale, and her eyelids drooped.
But Stephen held out his hand with a coolness that she told herself was admirably assumed.
"I congratulate you," he said. "He is a much better match than I am. He is a good fellow, too, else I shouldn't be glad, my dear cousin." He had not called her cousin for years, not since their betrothal, and Katie looked up at him. Their eyes met.
After her return that evening, and after Stephen had left his uncle's house, she sat talking listlessly with Lord Bulchester. She was thinking over the account of the death of Harwin and of Edmonson. She had learned the details that afternoon. They were dreadful, she thought.
She perceived something of the truth as to this duel. She knew now, as she had told her mother before, that Harwin was not a man to love to his death; it was Elizabeth's suitor who had done that. And Katie, at the moment lightly touched by the crime and the horror, sat lost in contemplation of something that did move her deeply.
"Yes," she said to herself, "it was she, not I, who had the power. And now? Yes, now, is it still not I? How very strange!"