Chapter IX: Conclusion (5)

About two o'clock we glide into the far-famed Bay of Naples, in company with the cool sea-breeze which there each afternoon sends to refresh the heated shore. As we swing round to our moorings, we pass numerous line-of-battle-ships and frigates bearing the flags of England, France, and Sardinia, but look in vain and with disappointment for the star-spangled banner. A single floating representative of American nationality is obliged to divide the favor of her presence between the ports of both the Two Sicilies, and at this time she is at the island portion of the kingdom.

Our craft is at once beset by boats, their owners pushing, vociferating, and chaffering for fares, as though Mammon, and not Moloch, were the ruling spirit. Together with a chance companion of the voyage, Signor Alvigini, _Intendente_ of Genoa, and his party, we are soon in the hands of the _commissionnaire_ of the Hôtel de Rome. As we land, our passports are received by the police of Victor Emmanuel, who have replaced those of the late _régime_.

As we enter our carriage, we expect to see streets filled with crowds of turbulent people, or dotted with knots of persons conversing ominously in suppressed tones; and streets deserted, with shops closed; and streets barricaded. But in this matter we are agreeably disappointed. The shops are all open, the street venders are quietly tending their tables, people go about their ordinary affairs, and wear their commonplace, every-day look. The only difference apparent to the eye between the existing state of things and that which formerly obtained is, that there are few street brawls and robberies, though every one goes armed,--that the uniform of the soldiers of Francis II. is replaced by the dark gray dress of the National Guard,--and that the Hag of the Tyrant King no longer waves over the castle-prison of Sant' Elmo. Garibaldi, on leaving Naples, had formally confided the city to the National Guard; and they had nobly sustained the trust reposed in them.

A letter of introduction to General Orsini, brought safely with us, though not without adventure, through the Austrian dominions, gains a courteous reception from General Turr, chief aide-de-camp to the "Dictator," and a pass to the camp. General Turr, an Hungarian refugee, is a person of distinguished appearance, not a little heightened by his peculiar dress, which consists of the usual Garibaldian uniform partially covered with a white military cloak, which hangs gracefully over his elegant figure.

After a brief, but pleasant, interview with this gentleman, we climb to the Castle of Sant' Elmo, built on a high eminence commanding the town, and with its guns mounted, not so as to defend it against an invading enemy, but to hurl destruction on the devoted subjects of the Bourbon. We are told that the people Lad set their hearts on seeing this fortress, which they look upon as a standing menace, razed to the ground, and its site covered with peaceful dwellings. And it is not without regret that we have since learned that Victor Emmanuel has thought it inexpedient to comply with this wish. Nor, in our ignorance, can we divest ourselves entirely of the belief that it would have been a wise as well as conciliatory policy to do so.

We are politely shown over the castle by one of the National Guard, who hold it in charge, and see lounging upon one of its terraces, carefully guarded, but kindly allowed all practicable liberty, several officers of the late power, prisoners where they had formerly held despotic sway. We descend into the now empty dungeons, dark and noisome as they have been described, where victims of political accusation or suspicion have pined for years in dreary solitude. It produces a marked sensation in the minds of our Italian companions in this sad tour of inspection, when we tell them, through our guide Antonio, that these cells are the counterpart of the dungeons of the condemned in the prison of the Doges of Venice, as we had seen them a few days before,--save that the latter were better, in their day, in so far as in them the cold stone was originally lined and concealed by wooden casings, while in those before us the helpless prisoner in his gropings could touch only the hard rock, significant of the relentless despotism which enchained him. The walls are covered with the inscriptions of former tenants. In One place we discover a long line of marks in groups of fives,--like the tallies of our boyish sports,--but here used for how different a purpose! Were these the records of days, or weeks, or months? The only furniture of the cells is a raised platform of wood, the sole bed of the miserable inmate. The Italian visitors, before leaving, childishly vent their useless rage at the sight of these places of confinement, by breaking to pieces the windows and shutters, and scattering their fragments on the floor.

We have returned from Sant' Elmo, and, evening having arrived, are sitting in the smoking-room of the Hotel de Grande Bretagne, conversing with one of the English Volunteers, when our friend General J--n of the British Army, one of the lookers-on in Naples, comes in, having just returned from "the front." He brings the news of a smart skirmish which has taken place during the day; of the English "Excursionists" being ordered out in advance; of their rushing with alacrity into the thickest of the fight, and bravely sustaining the conflict,--being, indeed, with difficulty withheld by their officers from needlessly exposing themselves. But this inspiring news is tinged with sadness. One of their number, well known and much beloved, had fallen, killed instantly by a bullet through the head. Military ardor, aroused by the report of brave deeds, is for a few moments held in abeyance by grief, and then rekindled by the desire of vengeance. Hot blood is up, and the prevailing feeling is a longing for a renewal of the fight. We are told, if we wish to see an action, to go to "the front" to-morrow. Accordingly we decide to be there.

The following day, our faithful _commissionnaire_, Antonio, places us in a carriage drawn by a powerful pair of horses, and headed for the Garibaldian camp. A hamper of provisions is not forgotten, and before starting we cause Antonio to double the supplies: we have a presentiment that we may find with whom to share them.

There are twelve miles before us to the nearest point in the camp, which is Caserta. Our chief object being to see the hero of Italy, if we do not find him at Caserta, we shall push on four miles farther, to Santa Maria; and, missing him there, ride still another four miles to Sant' Angelo, where rests the extreme right of the army over against Capua.

As we ride over the broad and level road from Naples to Caserta, bordered with lines of trees through its entire length, we are surprised to see not only husbandmen quietly tilling the fields, but laborers engaged in public works upon the highway, as if in the employ of a long established authority, and making it difficult to believe that we are in the midst of civil war, and under a provisional government of a few weeks' standing. But this and kindred wonders are fruits of the spell wrought by Garibaldi, who wove the most discordant elements into harmony, and made hostile factions work together for the common good, for the sake of the love they bore to him.

About mid-day we arrive at a redoubt which covers a part of the road, leaving barely enough space for one vehicle to pass. We are of course stopped, but are courteously received by the officer of the guard. We show our pass from General Turr, giving us permission "freely to traverse all parts of the camp," and being told to drive on, find ourselves within the lines. As we proceed, we see laborers busily engaged throwing up breastworks, soldiers reposing beneath the trees, and on every side the paraphernalia of war.

Garibaldi is not here, nor do we find him at Santa Maria. So we prolong our ride to the twentieth mile by driving our reeking, but still vigorous horses to Sant' Angelo.

We are now in sight of Capua, where Francis II. is shut up with a strong garrison. The place is a compact walled town, crowned by the dome of a large and handsome church, and situated in a plain by the side of the Volturno. Though, contrary to expectation, there is no firing to-day, we see all about us the havoc of previous cannonadings. The houses we pass are riddled with round shot thrown by the besieged, and the ground is strewn with the limbs of trees severed by iron missiles. But where is Garibaldi? No one knows. Yonder, however, is a lofty hill, and upon its summit we descry three or four persons. It is there, we are told, that the Commander-in-Chief goes to observe the enemy, and among the forms we see is very probably the one we seek.

We have just got into our carriage again, and are debating as to whither we shall go next, when we are addressed from the road-side in English. There, dressed in the red shirt, are three young men, all not far from twenty years of age, members of the British regiment of "Excursionists." They are out foraging for their mess, and ask a ride with us to Santa Maria. We are only too glad of their company; and off we start, a carriage-full. Then commences a running fire of question and response. We find the society of our companions a valuable acquisition. They are from London,--young men of education, and full of enthusiasm for the cause of Italian liberty. One of them is a connection of our distinguished countrywoman, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Before going to Santa Maria, they insist on doing the honors, and showing the objects of interest the vicinity. So they take us to their barrack, a large farm-house, and thence to "the front." To the latter spot our coachman declines driving, as his horses are not bullet-proof, and the enemy is not warranted to abstain from firing during our visit. So, proceeding on foot, we reach a low breastwork of sand-bags, with an orchard in advance of it. Here, our companions tell us, was the scene of yesterday's skirmish, in which they took an active part. The enemy had thrown out a detachment of sharp-shooters, who had entered the wood, and approached the breastwork. A battalion of the English Volunteers was ordered up. As they marched eagerly forwards, a body of Piedmontese, stationed a little from the road, shouted, "_Vivano gl' Inglesi! Vivano gl' Inglesi!_" At the breastworks where we are standing, the word was given to break ranks, and skirmish. Instantly they sprang over the wall, and took position behind the trees, to shoot "wherever they saw a head." Each soldier had his "covering man,"--a comrade stationed about ten feet behind him, whose duty it was to keep his own piece charged ready to kill any of the enemy who might attempt to pick off the leading man while the latter was loading. One of my young friends had the hammer of his rifle shot off in his hand. He kept his position till another weapon was passed out to him. The action lasted till evening, when the enemy drew off, there being various and uncertain reports as to their loss. Our British cousins had some ten wounded, besides the one killed. Fighting royalists, we will mention here, was no fancy-work about that time, as the Neapolitans had an ugly trick of extinguishing the eyes of their prisoners, and then putting their victims to death.

We return to our carriage, drive into a sheltered spot, and give the word of command to Antonio to open the hamper and deploy his supplies, when hungry soldiers vie with the ravenous traveller in a knife-and-fork skirmish. No fault was found with the _cuisine_ of the Hôtel de Grande Bretagne.

The rations disposed of, we set off again for Santa Maria. Arrived at the village, at the request of our companions, we visit with them a hospital, to see one of their comrades, wounded in the action of the preceding day, and, as we are known to profess the healing art, to give our opinion as to his condition. We enter a large court-yard surrounded with farm-buildings, one wing of which is devoted to hospital purposes. We find the wards clean and well ventilated, and wearing the look of being well attended. This favorable condition is owing in great measure to the interposition and supervision of several ladies, among whom are specially mentioned the two daughters of an English clergyman, without omitting the name of the Countess della Torres. The wounded comrade of our friends had been struck by a ball, which had not been readied by the probe, and was supposed to have entered the lung. The poor young fellow draws his rapid breath with much pain, but is full of pluck, and meets the encouraging assurances of his friends with a smile and words of fortitude. Some time afterwards we learn that he is convalescent, though in a disabled state.

It now becomes necessary to say our mutual farewells, which we do as cordially as though we had been old friends. We go our respective ways, to meet once more in Italy, and to renew our acquaintance again in London, where we subsequently spend a pleasant evening together by a cheerful English fireside.

Scarcely have we parted with these new-found friends of kindred blood and common language, when we are provided with another companion. An Italian officer asks a seat with us to Caserta. Our letter of introduction to General Orsini being shown to him, he volunteers to assist us in attaining our object, that of seeing the hero of Italy. At five, we are before the palace of Caserta, now a barrack, and the head-quarters of the Commander-in-Chief. The building is one of great size and beauty of architecture. A lofty arch, sustained by elegant and massive marble pillars, bisects the structure, and on either side one may pass from the archway into open areas of spacious dimensions, from which lead passages to the various offices. We approach a very splendid marble staircase leading to the state apartments. A sentinel forbids us to pass. This is, then, perhaps, the part of the building occupied by the Commander-in-Chief. Not so. The state apartments are unoccupied, and are kept sacred from intrusion, as the property of the nation to which they are to belong. Garibaldi's apartments are among the humblest in the palace. We go on to the end of the archway, and see, stretching as far as the eye can reach, the Royal Drive, leading through a fine avenue of trees, and reminding us of the "Long Walk" at Windsor Castle. Retracing our steps, and crossing one of the court-yards, we ascend a modest staircase, and are in the antechamber of the apartments of the Commander-in-Chief. There are sentinels at the outer door, others at the first landing, and a guard of honor, armed with halberds, in the antechamber. Our courteous companion, by virtue of his official rank, has passed us without difficulty by the sentries, and quits us to discharge the duty which brought him to Caserta.

We are now eagerly expectant of the arrival of him whose face we have so long sought The hour is at hand when he joins his military family at an unostentatious and very frugal dinner. In about half an hour there is a sudden cessation in the hum of conversation, the guard is ordered to stand to arms, and in a moment more, amid profound silence, Garibaldi has passed through the antechamber, leaving the place, as it were, pervaded by his presence. We had beheld an erect form, of rather low stature, but broad and compact, a lofty brow, a composed and thoughtful face, with decision and reserved force depicted on every line of it. In the mien and carriage we had seen realized all that we had read and heard of the air of one born to command.

Our hero wore the characteristic red shirt and gray trousers, and, thrown over them, a short gray cloak faced with red. When without the cloak, there might be seen, hanging upon the back, and fastened around the throat, the party-colored kerchief usually appertaining to priestly vestments.

Returning to Naples, and sitting that night at our window, with the most beautiful of bays before us, we treasure up for perpetual recollection the picture of Garibaldi at head-quarters.

GARIBALDI AT POMPEII.

It is Sunday, the 21st of October. We have to-day observed the people, in the worst quarters of the city as well as in the best, casting their ballots in an orderly and quiet manner, under the supervision of the National Guard, for Victor Emmanuel as their ruler. To-morrow we have set apart for exploring Pompeii, little dreaming what awaits us there. Our friend, General J--n, of the British Army, learning that there is no likelihood of active operations at "the front," proposes to join us in our excursion.

We are seated in the restaurant at the foot of the acclivity which leads to the exhumed city, when suddenly Antonio appears and exclaims, "Garibaldi!" We look in the direction he indicates, and, in an avenue leading from the railway, we behold the Patriot-Soldier of Italy advancing toward us, accompanied by the Countess Pallavicini, the wife of the Prodictator of Naples, and attended by General Turr, with several others of his staff. We go out to meet them. General J--n, a warm admirer of Garibaldi, gives him a cordial greeting, and presents us as an American. We say a few words expressive of the sympathy entertained by the American people for the cause of Italy and its apostle. He whom we thus address, in his reply, professes his happiness in enjoying the good wishes of Americans, and, gracefully turning to our friend, adds, "I am grateful also for the sympathy of the English." The party then pass on, and we are left with the glowing thought that we have grasped the hand of Garibaldi.

Half an hour later, we are absorbed in examining one of the structures of what was once Pompeii, when suddenly we hear martial music. We follow the direction of the sound, and presently find ourselves in the ancient forum. In the centre of the inclosure is a military band playing the "Hymn of Garibaldi"; while at its northern extremity, standing, facing us, between the columns of the temple of Jupiter, with full effect given to the majesty of his bearing, is Garibaldi. Moved by the strikingly contrasting associations of the time and the place, we turn to General J--n, saying, "Behold around us the symbols of the death of Italy, and there the harbinger of its resurrection." Our companion, fired with a like enthusiasm, immediately advances to the base of the temple, and, removing his hat, repeats the words in the presence of those there assembled.

GARIBALDI AT "THE FRONT."

Once again we look in the eye of this wonderful man, and take him by the hand. This time it is at "the front." On Saturday, the 27th of October, we are preparing to leave Naples for Rome by the afternoon boat, when we receive a message from General J--n that the bombardment of Capua is to begin on the following day at ten o'clock, and inviting us to join his party to the camp. Accordingly, postponing our departure for the North, we get together a few surgical instruments, and take a military train upon the railway in the afternoon for the field of action.

Our party consists of General J--n, General W., of Virginia, Captain G., a Scotch officer serving in Italy, and ourself. Arrived at Caserta, Captain G., showing military despatches, is provided with a carriage, in which we all drive to the advanced post at Sant' Angelo. We reach this place at about eight o'clock, when we ride and walk through the camp, which presents a most picturesque aspect, illuminated as it is by a brilliant moon. We see clusters of white tents, with now and then the general silence broken by the sound of singing wafted to us from among them,--here and there tired soldiers lying asleep on the ground, covered with their cloaks,--horses picketed in the fields,--camp-fires burning brightly in various directions; while all seems to indicate the profound repose of men preparing for serious work on the morrow. We pass and repass a bridge, a short time before thrown across the Volturno. A portion of the structure has broken down; but our English friends congratulate themselves that the part built by their compatriots has stood firm. We exchange greetings with Colonel Bourdonné, who is on duty here for the night, superintending the repairs of the bridge, and who kindly consigns us to his quarters.

Arrived at the farm-house where Colonel Bourdonné has established himself, and using his name, we are received with the utmost attention by the servants. The only room at their disposal, fortunately a large one, they soon arrange for our accommodation. To General J---n, the senior of the party, is assigned the only bed; an Italian officer occupies a sofa; while General W., Captain G., and ourself are ranged, "all in a row," on bags of straw placed upon the floor. Of the merriment, prolonged far into the night, and making the house resound with peals of laughter,--not at all to the benefit, we fear, of several wounded officers in a neighboring room,--we may not write.

Sunday is a warm, clear, summer-like day, and our party climb the principal eminence of Sant' Angelo to witness the expected bombardment. We reach the summit at ten minutes before ten, the hour announced for opening fire. We find several officers assembled there,--among them General H., of Virginia. Low tone of conversation and a restrained demeanor are impressed on all; for, a few paces off, conferring with two or three confidential aids, is the man whose very presence is dignity,--Garibaldi.

Casting our eye over the field, we cannot realize that there are such hosts of men under arms about us, till a military guide by our side points out their distribution to us.

"Look there!" says General H., pointing to an orchard beneath. "Under those trees they are swarming thick as bees. There are ten thousand men, at least, in that spot alone."

With an opera-glass we can distinctly scan the walls of Capua, and observe that they are not yet manned. But the besieged are throwing out troops by thousands into the field before our lines. We remark one large body drawn up in the shelter of the shadow cast by a large building. Every now and then, from out this shadow, a piercing ray of light is shot, reflected from the helm or sword-case of the commanding officer, who is gallantly riding up and down before his men, and probably haranguing them in preparation for the expected conflict. All these things strike the attention with a force and meaning far different from the impression produced by the holiday pageantry of mimic war.

The Commander-in-Chief is now disengaged, and our party approach him to pay their respects. By the advice of General J---n, we proffer our medical services for the day; and we receive a pressure of the hand, a genial look, and a bind acknowledgment of the offer. But we are told there will be no general action to-day. Our report of these words, as we rejoin our companions, is the first intimation given that the bombardment is deferred. But, though, there is some disappointment, their surprise is not extreme. For Garibaldi never informs even his nearest aide-de-camp what he is about to do. In fact, he quaintly says, "If his shirt knew his plans, he would take it off and burn it." Some half-hour later, having descended from the eminence, we take our last look of Garibaldi. He has retired with a single servant to a sequestered place upon the mount, whither he daily resorts, and where his mid-day repast is brought to him. Here he spends an hour or two secure from interruption. What thoughts he ponders in his solitude the reader may perhaps conjecture as well as his most intimate friend. But for us, with the holy associations of a very high mountain before our mind, we can but trust that a prayer, "uttered or unexpressed," invokes the divine blessing upon the work to which Garibaldi devotes himself,--the political salvation of his country.

* * * * *

TWO OR THREE TROUBLES.

[Concluded.]

Every day, and twice a day, came Mr. Sampson,--though I have not said much about it; and now it was only a week before our marriage. This evening he came in very weary with his day's work,--getting a wretched man off from hanging, who probably deserved it richly. (It is said, women are always for hanging: and that is very likely. I remember, when there had been a terrible murder in our parlors, as it were, and it was doubtful for some time whether the murderer would be convicted, Mrs. Harris said, plaintively, "Oh, do hang somebody!") Mr. Sampson did not think so, apparently, but sat on the sofa by the window, dull and abstracted.

If I had been his wife, I should have done as I always do now in such a case: walked up to him, settled the sofa-cushion, and said,--"Here, now! lie down, and don't speak a word for two hours. Meantime I will tell you who has been here, and everything." Thus I should rest and divert him by idle chatter, bathing his tired brain with good Cologne; and if, in the middle of my best story and funniest joke, he fairly dropped off to sleep, I should just fan him softly, keep the flies away, say in my heart, "Bless him! there he goes! hands couldn't mend him!"--and then look at him with as much more pride and satisfaction than, at any other common wide-awake face as it is possible to conceive.

However, not being married, and having a whole week more to be silly in, I was both silly and suspicious. This was partly his fault. He was reserved, naturally and habitually; and as he didn't tell me he was tired and soul-weary, I never thought of that. Instead, as he sat on the sofa, I took a long string of knitting-work and seated myself across the room,--partly so that he might come to me, where there was a good seat. Then, as he did not cross the room, but still sat quietly on the sofa, I began to wonder and suspect. Did he work too hard? Did he dread undertaking matrimony? Did he wish he could get off? Why did he not come and speak to me? What had I done? Nothing! Nothing!

Here Laura came in to say she was going to Mrs. Harris's to get the newest news about sleeves. Mrs. Harris for sleeves; Mrs. Gore for bonnets; and for housekeeping, recipes, and all that, who but Mrs. Parker, who knew that, and a hundred other things? Many-sided are we all: talking sentiment with this one, housekeeping with that, and to a third saying what wild horses would not tear from us to the two first!

Laura went. And presently he said, wearily, but _I_ thought drearily,--

"Delphine, are you all ready to be married?"

The blood flushed from my heart to my forehead and back again. So, then, he thought I was ready and waiting to drop like a ripe plum into his mouth, without his asking me! Am I ready, indeed? And suppose I am not? Perhaps I, too, may have my misgivings. A woman's place is not a sinecure. Troubles, annoyances, as the sparks fly upward! Buttons to begin with, and everything to end with! What did Mrs. Hemans say, poor woman?

"Her lot is on you! silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches from affection's deep
To pour on"--something--"a wasted shower!"

Yes, wasted, indeed! I hadn't answered a word to his question.

"It seems warm in this room," said he again, languidly; "shall we walk on the piazza?"

"I think not," I answered, curtly; "I am not warm."

Even that, did not bring him to me. He still leaned his head on his hand for a minute or two, and then rose from the sofa and sat by the window, looking at the western sky, where the sun had long gone down. I could see his profile against the outer light, however, and it did not look placid. His brow was knit and mouth compressed. So, then, it was all very likely!

Having set out on my race of suspecting, my steeds did not lag. They were winged already, and I goaded them continually with memories. There was nothing I did not think of or accuse him of,--especially, the last and worst sin of breaking off our engagement at the eleventh hour!--and I, who had suffered silently, secretly, untold torments about that name of his,--nobody, no man, could ever guess how keenly, because no man can ever feel as a woman does about such things! Men,--they would as soon marry Tabitha as Juliana. They could call her "Wife." It made no matter to them. What did any man care, provided she chronicled small beer, whether she had taste, feeling, sentiment, anything? Here I was wrong, as most passionate people are at some time in their lives. Some men do care.

At the moment I had reached the top-most pinnacle of my wrath, and was darting lightnings on all mankind, Polly showed in Lieutenant Herbert, with his book of promised engravings.

With a natural revulsion of temper, I descended rapidly from my pinnacle, and, stepping half-way across the room, met the Lieutenant with unusual cordiality. Mr. Sampson bowed slightly and sat still. I drew two chairs towards the centre-table, lighted the argand, and seated myself with the young officer to examine and admire the beautiful forms in which the gifted artist has clothed the words rather than the thoughts of the writer,--out of the coarse real, lifting the scenes into the sweet ideal,--and out of the commonest, rudest New-England life, bringing the purest and most charming idyllic song. We did not say this.

I looked across at the window, where still sat the figure, motionless. Not a word from him. I looked at Lieutenant Herbert. He was really very handsome, with an imperial brow, and roseate lips like a girl's. Somehow he made me think of Claverhouse,--so feminine in feature, so martial in action! Then he talked,--talked really quite well,--reflected my own ideas in an animated and eloquent manner.

Why it was,--whether Herbert suspected we had had a lovers' quarrel,--or whether his vanity was flattered at my attention to him, which was entirely unusual,--or whether my own excited, nervous condition led me to express the most joyous life and good-humor, and shut down all my angry sorrow and indignant suspicions, while I smiled and danced over their sepulchre,--however it was, I know not,--but a new sparkle came into the blue eyes of the young militaire. He was positively entertaining. Conscious that he was talking well, he talked better. He recited poetry; he was even witty, or seemed so. With the magnetism of cordial sympathy, I called out from his memory treasures new and old. He became not only animated, but devoted.

All this time the figure at the window sat calm and composed. It was intensely, madly provoking. He was so very sure of me, it appeared, he would not take the trouble to enter the lists to shiver a lance with this elegant young man with the beautiful name, the beautiful lips, and with, for the last half-hour at least, the beautiful tongue. He would not trouble himself to entertain his future wife. He would not trouble himself even to speak. Very well! Very well indeed! Did the Lieutenant like music? If "he" did not care a jot for me, perhaps others did. My heart beat very fast now; my cheeks burned, and my lips were parched. A glass of water restored me to calmness, and I sat at the piano. Herbert turned over the music, while I rattled off whatever came to my fingers' ends,--I did not mind or know what. It was very fine, I dare say. He whispered that it was "so beautiful!"--and I answered nothing, but kept on playing, playing, playing, as the little girl in the Danish story keeps on dancing, dancing, dancing, with the fairy red shoes on. Should I play on forever? In the church,--out of it,--up the street,--down the street,--out in the fields,--under the trees,--by the wood,--by the water,--in cathedrals,--I heard something murmuring,--something softly, softly in my ear. Still I played on and on, and still something murmured softly, softly in my ear. I looked at the window. The head was leaned down, and resting on both arms. Fast asleep, probably. Then I played louder, and faster, and wilder.

Then, for the first time, as deaf persons are said to hear well in the noise of a crowded street, or in a rail-car, so did I hear in the musical tumult, for the first time, the words of Herbert. They had been whispered, and I had heard, but not perceived them, till this moment.

I turned towards him, looked him full in the face, and dropped both hands into my lap. Well might I be astonished! He started and blushed violently, but said nothing. As for me, I was never more calm in my life. In the face of a real mistake, all imaginary ones fell to the ground, motionless as so many men of straw. With an instinct that went before thought, and was born of my complete love and perfect reliance on my future husband, I pushed back the music-stool, and walked straight across the room to the window.

His head was indeed leaned on his arms; but he was white and insensible.

"Come here!" I said, sternly and commandingly, to Herbert, who stood where I had left him. "Now, if you can, hold him, while I wheel this sofa;--and now, ring the bell, if you please."

We placed him on the couch, and Polly came running in.

"Now, good-night, Sir; we can take care of him. With very many thanks for your politeness," I added, coldly; "and I will send home the book to-morrow."

He muttered something about keeping it as long as I wished, and I turned my back on him.

"Oh! oh!--what had _he_ thought all this time?--what had he suffered? How his heart must have been agonized!--how terribly he must have felt the mortification,--the distress! Oh!"

We recovered him at length from the dead faint into which he had fallen. Polly, who thought but of the body, insisted on bringing him "a good heavy-glass of Port-wine sangaree, with toasted crackers in it"; and wouldn't let him speak till he had drunken and eaten. Then she went out of the room, and left me alone with my justly incensed lover.

I took a _brioche_, and sat down humbly at the head of the sofa. He held out his hand, which I took and pressed in mine,--silently, to be sure; but then no words could tell how I had felt, and now felt,--how humiliated! how grieved! How wrongly I must have seemed to feel and to act! how wrongly I must have acted,--though my conscience excused me from feeling wrongly,--so to have deluded Herbert!

At last I murmured something regretful and tearful about Lieutenant Herbert--Herbert! how I had admired that name!--and now, this Ithuriel touch, how it had changed it and him forever to me! What was in a name?--sure enough! As I gazed on the pale face on the couch, I should not have cared, if it had been named Alligator,--so elevated was I beyond all I had thought or called trouble of that sort! so real was the trouble that could affect the feelings, the sensitiveness, of the noble being before me!

At length he spoke, very calmly and quietly, setting down the empty tumbler. I trembled, for I knew it must come.

"I was so glad that fool came in, Del! For, to tell the truth, I felt really too weak to talk. I haven't slept for two nights, and have been on my feet and talking for four hours,--then I have had no dinner"--

"Oh!"

"And a damned intelligent jury, (I beg your pardon, but it's a great comfort to swear, sometimes,) that I can't humbug. But I must! I must, to-morrow!" he exclaimed, springing up from the sofa and walking hurriedly across the room.

"Oh, do sit down, if you are so tired!"

"I cannot sit down, unless you will let me stop thinking. I have but one idea constantly."

"But if the man is guilty, why do you want to clear him?" said I.

Not a word had he been thinking of me or of Herbert all this time! But then he had been thinking of a matter of life and death. How all, all my foolish feelings took to flight! It was some comfort that my lover had not either seen or suspected them. He thought he must have been nearly senseless for some time. The last he remembered was, we were looking at some pictures.

Laura came in from Mrs. Harris's, and, hearing how the case was, insisted on having a chicken broiled, and that he should eat some green-apple tarts, of her own cooking,--not sentimental, nor even wholesome, but they suited the occasion; and we sat, after that, all three talking, till past twelve o'clock. No danger now, Laura said, of bad dreams, if he did go to bed.

"But why do you care so very much, if you don't get him off?--you suppose him guilty, you say?"

"Because, Delphine, his punishment is abominably disproportioned to his offence. This letter of the law killeth. And then I would get him off, if possible, for the sake of his son and the family. And besides all that, Del, it is not for me to judge, you know, but to defend him."

"Yes,--but if you do your best?" I inquired.

"A lawyer never does his best," he replied, hastily, "unless he succeeds. He must get his client's case, or get him off, I must get some sleep to-night," he added, "and take another pull. There's a man on the jury,--he is the only one who holds out. I know I don't get him. And I know why. I see it in the cold steel of his eyes. His sister was left, within a week of their marriage-day, by a scoundrel,--left, too, to disgrace, as well as desertion,--and his heart is bitter towards all offences of the sort. I must get that man somehow!"

He was standing on the steps, as he spoke, and bidding me good-night; but I saw his head and heart were both full of his case, _and nothing else._

The words rang in my ear after he went away: "Within a week of their marriage-day!" In a week we were to have been married. Thank Heaven, we were still to be married in a week. And he had spoken of the man as "a scoundrel," who left her. America, indeed! what matters it? Still, there would be the same head, the same heart, the same manliness, strength, nobleness,--all that a woman can truly honor and love. Not military, and not a scoundrel; but plain, massive, gentle, direct. He would do. And a sense of full happiness pressed up to my very lips, and bubbled over in laughter.

"You are a happy girl, Del. Mrs. Harris says the court and everybody is talking of Mr. Sampson's great plea in that Shore case. Whether he gets it or not, his fortune is made. They say there hasn't been such an argument since Webster's time,--so irresistible. It took every body off their feet."

I did not answer a word,--only clothed my soul with sackcloth and ashes, and called it good enough for me.

We went to bed. But in the middle of the night I waked Laura.

"What's the matter?" said she, springing out of bed.

"Don't, Laura!--nothing," said I.

"Oh, I thought you were ill! I've been sleeping with one eye open, and just dropped away. What is it?"

"Do lie down, then. I only wanted to ask you a question."

"Oh, _do_ go to sleep! It's after three o'clock now. We never shall get up. Haven't you been asleep yet?"

"No,--I've been thinking all the time. But you are impatient. It's no matter. Wait till to-morrow morning."

"No. I am awake now. Tell me, and be done with it, Del."

"But I shall want your opinion, you know."

"Oh, _will_ you tell me, Del?"

"Well, it is this. How do you think a handsome, a _very_ handsome chess-table would do?"

"Do!--for what?"

"Why,--for my aunt's wedding-gift, you know."

"Oh, that! And you have waked me up, at this time of night, from the nicest dream! You cruel thing!"

"I am so sorry, Laura! But now that you are awake, just tell me how you like the idea;--I won't ask you another word."

"Very well,--very good,--excellent," murmured Laura.

In the course of the next ten minutes, however, I remembered that Laura never played chess, and that I had heard Mr. Sampson say once that he never played now,--that it was too easy for work, and too hard for amusement. So I put the chess-table entirely aside, and began again.

A position for sleep is, unluckily, the one that is sure to keep one awake. Lying down, all the blood in my body kept rushing to my brain, keeping up perpetual images of noun substantives. If I could have spent my fifty dollars in verbs, in taking a journey, in giving a _fête champêtre_! (Garden lighted with Chinese lanterns, of course,--house covered inside and out with roses.) Things enough, indeed, there were to be bought. But the right thing!

A house, a park, a pair of horses, a curricle, a pony-phaëton. But how many feet of ground would fifty dollars buy?--and scarcely the hoof of a horse.

There was a diamond ring. Not for me; because "he" had been too poor to offer me one. But I could give it to him. No,--that wouldn't do. He wouldn't wear it,--nor a pin of ditto. He had said, simplicity in dress was good economy and always good taste. No. Then something else,--that wouldn't wear, wouldn't tear, wouldn't lose, rust, break.

As to clothes, to which I swung back in despair,--this very Aunt Allen had always sent us all our clothes. So it would only be getting more, and wouldn't seem to be anything. She was an odd kind of woman,--generous in spots, as most people are, I believe. Laura and I both said, (to each other,) that, if she would allow us a hundred dollars a year each, we could dress well and suitably on it. But, instead of that, she sent us every year, with her best love, a trunk full of her own clothes, made for herself, and only a little worn,--always to be altered, and retrimmed, and refurbished: so that, although worth at first perhaps even more than two hundred dollars, they came, by their unfitness and non-fitness, to be worth to us only three-quarters of that sum; and Laura and I reckoned that we lost exactly fifty dollars a year by Aunt Allen's queerness. So much for our gratitude! Laura and I concluded it would be a good lesson to us about giving; and she had whispered to me something of the same sort, when I insisted on dressing Betsy Ann Hemmenway, a little mulatto, in an Oriental caftan and trousers, and had promised her a red sash for her waist. To be sure, Mrs. Hemmenway despised the whole thing, and said she "wouldn't let Betsy Ann be dressed up like a circus-rider, for nobody"; and that she should "wear a bonnet and mantilly, like the rest of mankind." Which, indeed, she did,--and her bonnet rivalled the _coiffures_ of Paris in brilliancy and procrastination; for it never came in sight till long after its little mistress. However, of that by-and-by. I was only too glad that Aunt Allen had not sent me another silk gown "with her best love, and, as she was only seventy, perhaps it might be useful." No,--here was the fifty-dollar note, thank Plutus!

But then, what to do with it? Sleeping, that was the question. Waking, that was the same.

At twelve o'clock Mr. Sampson came to dine with us, and to say he was the happiest of men.

"That is, of course, I shall be, next week," said he, smiling and correcting himself. "But I am rather happy now; for I've got my case, and Shore has sailed for Australia. Good riddance, and may he never touch _these_ shores any more!"

He had been shaking hands with everybody, he said,--and was so glad to be out of it!

"Now that it is all over, I wish you would tell me why you are so glad, when you honestly believe the man guilty," said I.

"Oh, my child, you are supposing the law to be perfect. Suppose the old English law to be in force now, making stealing a capital offence. You wouldn't hang a starving woman or child who stole the baker's loaf from your window-sill this morning before Polly had time to take it in, would you? Yet this was the law until quite lately."

"After all, I don't quite see either how you can bear to defend him, if you think him guilty, or be glad to have him escape, if he is,--I mean, supposing the punishment to be a fair one."

"Because I am a frail and erring man, Delphine, and like to get my case. If my client is guilty,--as we will suppose, for the sake of argument, he is,--he will not be likely to stop his evil career merely because he has got off now, and will be caught and hanged next time, possibly. If he does stop sinning, why, so much the better to have time for repentance, you know."

"Don't laugh,--now be serious."

"I am. Once, I made up my mind as to my client's guilt from what he told and did not tell me, and went into court with a heavy heart. However, in the course of the trial, evidence, totally unexpected to all of us, was brought forward, and my client's innocence fully established. It was a good lesson to me. I learned by experience that the business of counsel is to defend or to prosecute, and not to judge. The judge and jury are stereoscopic and see the whole figure."

How wise and nice it sounded! Any way, I wasn't a stereoscope, for I saw but one side,--the one "he" was on.

Monday morning. And we were to be married in the evening,--by ourselves, --nobody else. That was all the stipulation my lover made.

"I will be married morning, noon, or night, as you say, and dress and behave as you say; but not in a crowd of even three persons."

"Not even Laura?"

"Oh, yes! Laura."

"Not even Polly?"

"Oh, yes! the household."

And then he said, softly, that, if I wanted to please him,--and he knew his darling Del did,--I would dress in a white gown of some sort, and put a tea-rose in my beautiful dark hair, and have nobody by but just the family and old Mr. Price, the Boynton minister.

"I know that isn't what you thought of, exactly. You thought of being married in church"----

"Oh, dear, dear! old Mr. Price!"--but I did not speak.

"But if you would be willing?"----

"I supposed it would be more convenient," I muttered.

Visions of myself walking up the aisle, with a white silk on, tulle veil, orange-flowers, of course, (so becoming!) house crowded with friends, collation, walking under the trees,--all faded off with a mournful cry.

It was of no use talking. Whatever he thought best, I should do, if it were to be married by the headsman, supposing there were such a person. This was all settled, then, and had been for a week.

Nobody need say that lovers, or even married lovers, have but one mind. They have two minds always. And that is sometimes the best of it; since the perpetual sacrifices made to each other are made no sacrifices, but sweet triumphs, by their love. Still, just as much as green is composed of yellow and blue, and purple of red and blue, the rays can any time be separated, and they always have a conscious life of their own. Of course, I had a sort of pleasure even in giving up my marriage in church; but I kept my blue rays, for all that,--and told Laura I dreaded the long, long prayer in that evening's service, and that I hoped in mercy old Mr. Price would have his wits about him, and not preach a funeral discourse.

"Old Mr. Price is eighty-nine years old, Laura says," said I.

"Yes. He was the minister who married my father and mother, and has always been our minister," answered my lover.

And so it was settled.

Laura was rolling up tape, Monday morning, as quietly as if there were to be no wedding. For my part, I wandered up and down, and could not set myself about anything.

"Old Mr. Price! and a great long prayer! And that is to be the end of it! My wedding-dress all made, and not to be worn! Flowers ditto! Nowhere to go, and so I shall stay at home. He has no house; so Taffy is to come to mine!"

And here I burst out laughing; for it was as well to laugh as cry; and besides, I said a great many things on purpose to have Laura say what she always did,--and which, after all, it was sweet to me to hear. Those were silly days!

"No, Del,--that is not the end of it,--only the beginning of it,--of a happy, useful, good life,--your path growing brighter and broader every year,--and--and--we won't talk of the garlands, dear; but your heart will have bridal-blossoms, whether your head has or not."

Laura kissed me, with tears in her sisterly eyes. She never talks fine, and went directly out of the room after this.

I thought that women shouldn't swear at all, or, if they did, should break their oaths as gracefully as I did mine, when I whispered it was "_so_ good of him, to be willing I should stay in the cottage where I had always lived, and where every rose-tree and lilac knew me!" And that was true, too. But not all the truth. What need to be telling truths all the time? And what had women tongues for, but to hold them sometimes? Perhaps "he," too, would have preferred a journey to Europe, and a house on the Mill-Dam.

Things gradually settled themselves. My troubles seemed coming to a close by mechanical pressure. As to the name, it was better than Fire, Famine, and Slaughter,--and I was to take it into consideration, any way, and get used to it, if I could. The other trouble I put aside for the moment. After it was concluded on that the wedding should be strictly private, it was not necessary to buy my aunt's present under a few days, and I could have the decided advantage, in that way, of avoiding a duplicate.

The Monday of my marriage sped away swiftly. Polly had come up early to say to "Laury" (for Polly was a free and independent American girl of forty-five) that "there'd be so much goin' to the door, and such, Betsy Ann had best be handy by, to answer the bell. Fin'ly, she's down there with her bunnet off, and goin' to stay."

As usual, Polly's plans were excellent, and adopted. There would be all the wedding-presents to arrive, congratulatory notes, etc. Everything to arrange, and a thousand and one things that neither one nor three pairs of hands could do. How I wished Betsy Ann would consent to dress like an Oriental child, and look pretty and picturesque,--like a Barbary slave bearing vessels of gold and silver chalices, instead of her silly pointed waist and "mantilly," which she persisted in wearing, and which, of course, gave the look only of a stranger and sojourner in the land!

I hoped she was a careful child,--there were so many things which might be spoiled, even if they came in boxes. Betsy Ann was instructed, on pain of--almost death, to be very, very careful, and to put everything on the table in the library. She was by no means to unpack an article, not even a bouquet. Laura and myself preferred to arrange everything ourselves. We proposed to place each of the presents, for that evening only, in the library, and spread them out as usual; but the very next day, we determined, they should all be put away, wherever they were to go,--of course, we could not tell where, till we saw them. That was Laura's taste, and had come, on reflection, to be mine.