For Love of Country Part 35

"No, Philip," said Seymour, gently, "I wish to be alone for a few moments."

The boy hesitated.

"Oh, very well," he said, beginning to understand, "I will sit down here on this tree by the road and wait for you. I 'll tie my horse, and you can leave yours here also, if you wish. There is nothing at the Hall, G.o.d knows, to make me hurry up there now, since father and Katharine are gone," he continued with a sigh. "Go on, sir, I'll wait.

You won't mind my waiting?"

"No, certainly not, if you wish it I shall be back in a few minutes anyway. I just want to see the--the--ah--boathouse, you know."

"Yes, certainly, I understand, of course," replied Philip, bluntly, but carefully looking away, and then dismounting from his tired horse and a.s.sisting Seymour to do the same from his.

"Poor old fellow!" he murmured, as he saw the man walk haltingly and painfully up the road and disappear around the little bend.

Left to himself Seymour stumbled alone along the familiar road over which a few short months before he had often travelled light-heartedly by the side of Katharine. As he pressed on, he noticed a man leave the boat-house and climb slowly up the hill. Desirous of escaping the notice of the stranger, who, he supposed, might be the factor or agent of the plantation, he waited in the shadow of the trees until the man disappeared over the brow of the hill, and then he staggered on. A short time after, he stood on the landward end of the little pier, and then his heart stood still for a second, and then leaped madly in his breast, as he seemed to hear a subtle voice, like an echo of the past, which whispered his name, "Seymour! Seymour!" Stepping toward the middle of the pier so that he could see the interior of the boat-house through the inner door, his eyes fell upon the figure of a woman standing in the other doorway looking out over the water, stretching out her hands. The sun had set by this time, and the gray dusk of the evening was stealing over the river. He could not see distinctly, but there was light enough to show him a familiar scarlet cloak at her feet, and although her back was turned to him, he recognized the graceful outlines of her slender figure. It was Katharine, or a dream!

But could the dead return again? Had the sea given up her dead indeed?

He could not believe the evidence of his bewildered senses. It might be an hallucination, the baseless fabric of a vision, some image conjured from the deep recesses of his loving heart by his enfeebled disordered imagination, and yet he surely had heard a living voice, "Seymour--John--Oh, my love!" Stifling the beating of his heart, holding his breath even, stepping softly, lest he should affright the airy vision, he staggered to the door and stood gazing; then he whispered one word,--

"Katharine!"

It was only a whisper she heard, but it reached the very centre of her being.

"Katharine," he said softly again, with so much pa.s.sionate entreaty in his wistful voice, that under its compelling influence she slowly turned and looked toward the other door from whence the sound had come.

Then as she saw him, lifting one hand to her head while the other unconsciously sought her heart, she shrank back against the wall, and stared at him in voiceless terror. He dropped unsteadily to his knee, as if to wors.h.i.+p at a shrine.

"Oh, do not go away," he whispered. "I know it is only a dream of mine--so many times have I seen you, ever since the night the frigate struck and I sent you to your death on that rocky pa.s.s, in that beating sea. Ay, in the long hours of the fever--but you did not shrink away from me then, you listened to me say I love you, and you answered." He stretched out his hand toward her in tender appeal. She bent forward toward him. He rose to his feet, half in terror.

"Kate," he said uncertainly, "is it indeed you? Are you alive again?"

She was nearer now. One glad cry broke from her lips; he was in her arms again, and she was clasped to his heart!--a real woman and no dream, no vision. What the wind could only faintly shadow forth upon her cheek, sprang into life under the touch of his fevered lips, and color flooded them like a wave. Laughing, crying, sobbing, she clung to him, kissed him with little incoherent murmurs, gazed at him, wept over him, kissed him again. All the troubles of the intervening days of sadness and privation faded away from her like a disused chrysalis, and she sparkled with life and love like a b.u.t.terfly new born.

He that was dead was alive again, he had come back, and he was here!

As for him, in fearful surprise, he held her to his breast once more, still unbelieving. She noticed then an empty sleeve, and raised it tenderly to her lips.

"I lost it after an action with the British s.h.i.+p Yarmouth,--it was only a flesh wound at first,--we were long in reaching Charleston; the arm had to be amputated. It was a fearful action."

"I know it," she interrupted; "I was there."

"You, Katharine! Ah, that woman on the s.h.i.+p! I was not deceived then, and yet I could not believe it."

"Yes, 'twas I. I gloried in your bravery, until I saw you lying, as I thought, dead on the deck. Oh, John, the horror of that moment! Then I called you, and you did not answer. Then I wanted to die, too, but now I am alive again, and so happy--but for this;" she lifted the empty sleeve to her lips. "How you must have suffered, my poor darling," she went on, her eyes filling with tears, her heart yearning over him.

"And how ill you look, and I keep you standing here,--how thoughtless!

Come to the bench here and sit down. Lean on me."

"Nay, but, Kate, you too have suffered. See!" He lifted her arm, the loose sleeve fell back. "Oh, how thin it is, and how smooth and round and plump it was when I kissed it last," he said, as he raised it tenderly again to his lips.

"It is nothing, John. I shall be all right now that you are here. You poor shattered lover, how you must have suffered!" she went on, with a sob in her voice.

"Oh, Katharine, this," looking down at his empty sleeve, "was nothing to what I suffered before, when I thought I had killed you!"

"When you thought you had killed me!" she said in surprise. They were sitting close together now, and she had his hand in both her own.

"How--when, was that?"

And then he told her rapidly about the loss of the Radnor, and the idea which her note had given that she was on board of it.

"And you led that s.h.i.+p down to destruction, believing I was on her!

How could you do it, John?" she said reproachfully.

"It was my duty, darling Kate," he said desperately.

"And did you love your duty more than me?"

"Love it? I hated it! But I had to do it, dearest," he went on pleadingly. "Honor--you told me so yourself, here, in this very spot; I remember your words; do you not recall them?--'If I stood in the pathway of liberty for a single instant I should despise the man who would not sweep me aside without a moment's hesitation.' Don't you know you said that, Katharine?"

"Did I say it? Ah, but that was before I loved you so, and you swept me aside,--well, I love you still, and, John, I honor you for it too; but I could not do it. You see, I am only a woman."

"Kate, don't say 'only a woman' that way; what else would I have you, pray? But tell me of yourself."

Briefly she recited the events that had occurred to her, dwelling much upon Desborough's courage and devotion to her in the first days of her captivity, the death of Johnson, the burning of Norfolk, the death of Bentley. He interrupted her there, and would fain hear every detail of the sad scene over again, thanking her and blessing her for what she had done.

"It was nothing," she said simply; "I loved to do it; he was your friend. It seemed to bring me closer to you." Then she told him of the foundering of the s.h.i.+p, of the frightful voyage in the boat, and rang the changes upon Desborough's name, his cheerfulness, his unfailing zeal and energy, until Seymour's heart filled with jealous pain.

"Kate," he said at last, "as I came up the road I saw a man leave the boat-house and climb the hill; who was it?"

"It was Lord Desborough, John."

Seymour was human, and filled with human feeling. He drew away from her.

"What was he doing here?" he said coldly. She smiled at him merrily.

"Bidding me good-by. He was made prisoner, of course, by the first soldier we came across after we landed, and has been spending the days of his captivity with us. He was exchanged to-day, and leaves to-night."

"Katharine, he was in love with you!" he said, with what seemed to him marvellous perspicacity.

"Yes, John," she answered, still smiling.

"Was he making love to you here?"

"Yes."

"And you? You praise this man, you like him, you--"

"I think him the bravest man, the truest gentleman in the world--except this one," she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder and her head upon his breast. "No, no; he pleaded in vain. I only pitied him; I loved you. Do not be jealous, foolish boy. No one should have me. I am yours alone."

"But if I had not come back, Kate,--how then?"

"It would have made no difference. I told him so."

Neither of them in their mutual absorption had noticed that a horse had stopped in the road opposite the boat-house, and a horseman had walked to the door and had halted at the sight which met his eyes. Desborough recognized Seymour at once, and he had unwittingly heard the end of the conversation. He was the second. The man was back again. It was true. The gallant gentleman stood still a moment, making no sound, then turned back and mounted his horse, and rode madly away with despair in his heart.