“My child-life was one full of excitement, yet little pleasure. What with our struggles between hostile Indians and the soldiers of King George, we had small time for play or serenity of living. Yet perhaps we children enjoyed our play hours more than do those of the present time, for they were so few and far between,—those peaceful, happy days,—they were treasured all the more. Of the many strange events that happened in those far-off years I have no time to tell you now. My parents had seven children—there were six boys. I was the only daughter, and next to the youngest, who was my favorite brother, one year my junior, sunny, brave-hearted, and loyal in all things.
“While the men were at work in the fields, and women busy in the house, the children on different homesteads kept watch for Indians. My brothers, of course, took turns on our place; and sometimes in the harvest days, when many hands were needed out doors, and I was not helping my mother in spinning the flax, I was set on the lookout. Those were days when the stoutest heart among us would quail at times, for danger and horror were on every side; and I—well, I was none of the bravest. But on the days when Harold knew I would be most likely put on guard he would contrive so as to have his work near the house, and so watch over me. In order to do so he would rise before the rest, and going alone in his far corner of the field,—his only defence a faithful dog, and a trusty rifle over which the dog kept watch while his master worked,—he would finish his field labor for the day by the time I was ready for my task. It was a mutual understanding between himself and my father that this should be; and I think that while my parents feared for the boy’s safety they were proud of his courage that dared so much for love.
“Well, we grew as children grow, through war and peace, through storm and calm. And when the first gun of independence was fired on Bunker Hill my father and brothers armed themselves and joined the numbers there. Two of my brothers were killed outright in their first encounter with Gage’s men. In the third battle another was taken prisoner, and with four others tried for ‘treason against the king,’ and shot. My mother was a type of the bravest women of that period, but I thought she would have died then, for he was her eldest born, upon whom she had always looked with pride.
“I was eighteen then, and my heart and hands were full; but so were those of many another woman. In that time girls were women and boys were men; it was needed so, you may be sure. Well, after a while the struggle was over, you know, and they came home,—father, Robert, George, and Hal. We were expecting them, and stood at the door watching,—mother and I. And then—and then—we saw them coming, not in triumph, as we expected, but slowly, a mournful little procession. We saw father, Robert, and George, and a few neighbors, and they were bearing a burden we could not see.
“They came nearer, and then I heard mother’s awful shriek, that rings in my dreams even now; but I stood there still; all my heart seemed turned to stone. ‘Seven wounds,’ I heard them say, ‘and the last was mortal.’ O Harry, my boy—my boy! He looked up and smiled faintly, as they bore him past me into this very room, and laid him on that couch yonder. My boy! I had never seen him so white and weak,—he who had been so strong always. All my strength seemed gone, and I sank beside him as he held out his hand for me to come to him. He was but a lad in years, but he had a power of earnest courage many men of riper years do not possess. Shot six times, he had insisted upon returning, after the dressing of each wound, to the struggle going on so fiercely, heeding nothing, fearing nothing, until, in that last battle, he had received the seventh wound,—the seventh and the last. He lived two days after they brought him home; and his sufferings! I shudder now when I think of them. He died as he had lived,—strong and brave to the last. He was a handsome lad, and he was beautiful in death. Oh, how I missed him! how I have missed him all these years! Yet as I stood alone, bending over the coffin, before they bore him out of the dear home forever, I knew all his terrible pain was over, and through blinding tears I thanked God as I have never thanked him since. I felt as if I should like to die too; but soon the numb feeling passed away. Mother was failing, and she, father, and the other boys leaned upon me as woman can be leaned on, and I was beginning to be happier. In the train of the French general, Lafayette, was a young soldier, Chevalier de Rosseau, and he had known Harold, and loved him. He would come often to the house, and one day he brought his sister Manon, who had followed him from France. She was the loveliest little creature I ever saw. I call her little,—although she was three years my senior,—she was so small and delicate. We became great friends, and she told me, in her pretty, affectionate way, how she had been afraid to cross the great ocean, but that she could not bear to be separated from her brother, who was all she had, and so she had, after trying in vain to live without seeing him for many months, conquered her fear and crossed to America. But after a time La Fayette prepared to return to France. Then it was that my life-trouble came to me. Chevalier de Rosseau loved me, and I loved him; but when he asked my father’s consent to wed me he was sternly refused. My father had always seemed to like the young count, and we had no fear of his opposition; you can imagine, therefore, our dismay and grief. We sought in vain for a reason for his refusal; he gave none. In vain my lover pleaded. I could say nothing. In those times a daughter’s obedience was in strict command. Countess Manon wept in vain. They went back to France. I stayed on. My brothers married and went away. My mother died, and then my father, he commanding me on his death-bed not to marry Chevalier de Rosseau. The latter, hearing of my father’s death, came once more to America, and sought again to woo me. What was the need of obeying the dead? Why should we not be happy? He urged in vain. Dead, as living, my father’s word was law. I was very young still; and I was lonely in the old house, from whence all joy had fled. The chevalier went back to France. I never heard of him again but once, and then of his death. Countess Manon was married, and came with her husband to America; here she stayed four years, and we often saw each other. We might have been sisters, and we loved each other as such. Ah, what narrow ways we have to walk! Is it well in the end? God knows. Manon and her husband returned to their own land in time, and once more I was left alone. I had many suitors, but I cared for none; my love had not died, nor will it ever. Perhaps, somewhere, some time, the life I could not have on earth will be given in another world. I wait in patience. It will not be long. The other day I heard of the death of Countess Manon. My brothers are gone. I alone am left. Why is it so?—I ask myself over and over, I have not cried for years; but the tears will come to-night as I think of the past, and of beautiful Countess Manon lying cold and still in death under the sunny skies of far-off Southern France. She may not have been beautiful these later years. I forgot she was older even than I, and I am very old; but to me she always was, and always will be, beautiful. She was the last link of the old bygone years. What is the use of remembering them? If Harold had only lived I could have been happy; but I have not long to wait now. They will come for me. O Harry, Harry!—across the long space of years the newer love has never dimmed the older. Eternity waits. I shall see and know you again.”
Is it much, after all is told? I have repeated it just as Marjory Vincent said it, half to me, yet more to herself, for she scarcely heeded my presence; it was better so. Poor Mistress Marjory! There is nothing left now; even the old manor is gone. And Mistress Marjory is at rest.