Into the Haven, at last

Two weary horsemen on tired horses were slowly riding up the river road just where it entered the Wilton plantation.  One was young, a mere boy in years; but a certain habit of command, with the responsibility accompanying, had given him a more manly appearance than his age warranted.  The other, to a casual glance, seemed much older than his companion, though closer inspection would show that he was still a young man, and that those marks upon his face which the careless passer-by would consider the attributes of age had been traced by the fingers of grief and trouble.  The bronzed and weather-beaten faces of both riders bespoke an open-air life, and suggested those who go down upon the great deep in ships, a suggestion further borne out by the faded, worn naval uniforms they wore.  In spite of the joy of springtime which was all about them, both were silent and both were sad; but the sadness of the boy, as was natural, was less deep, less intense, than that of the man.  He was too young to realize the greatness of the loss he had sustained in the death of his father and sister; and were it not for the constant reminder afforded him by the presence of his gloomy companion, he would probably, with the careless elasticity of youth, have been more successful in throwing off his own sorrow.  The man had not lost a father or a sister, but some one dearer still.  He looked thin and ill, and under the permanent bronze of his countenance the ravages wrought by fever, wounds, and long illness were plainly perceptible; there were gray hairs in his thick neatly tied locks, too, that had no rightful place there in one of his age.  The younger and stronger assisted and watched over his older companion with the tenderest care and attention.

They rode slowly up the pleasant road under the great trees, from time to time engaging in a desultory conversation.  Philip endeavored to cheer his companion by talking lightly of boyhood days, as each turn of the road brought familiar places in the old estate in view.  Here he and Katharine and Hilary had been wont to play; there was a favorite spot, a pleasant haunt here, this had been the scene of some amusing adventure.  These well-meant reminiscences nearly drove Seymour mad, but he would not stop them.  Finally, they came to the place where the road divided, one branch pursuing its course along the river-bank past the boat-house toward the Talbot place, the other turning inland from the river and winding about till it surmounted the high bluff and reached the door of the Hall.  There Philip drew rein.

“This is the way to the Hall, you know, Captain Seymour,” he said, pointing to the right.  Seymour hesitated a moment, and said finally,-

“Yes, I know; the boat-house lies over there, does it not, beyond the turn?  I think I will let you go up to the house alone, Philip, and I will go down to the boat-house myself.  I will ride back presently.”

“Well, then, I will go with you,” said Philip.  “I really think you are too weak, you know, especially after our long ride to-day, to go alone.”

“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, God 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 assisting 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 passionate 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 worship 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 pass, 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 butterfly 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 ship 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 ship!  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 ship 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 ship, 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.

“Oh, Katharine,” Seymour said at last, “do you know that I am a poor man now?  Lame!  See, I can no longer walk straight.”  He stood up.  “Poor surgery after the battle did that.”

“The more reason that in the future you should not go alone,” she said softly, standing by his side.

“And with but one arm,” he continued.

“No, three,” she said again, “for here are two.”

“Besides, my trading ships have been captured by the enemy, my private fortune has been spent for the cause.  I am a poor man in every sense.”

“Nay, John, you are a rich man,” she said gayly.

“Oh, yes, rich in your love, Katharine.”

“Yes, that of course, if that be riches, and richer in honor too; but that’s not all.”

“What else pray, dearest?”

“Did you know that Madam Talbot had died?” she answered, with apparent irrelevance.

“No, but I am not surprised at it.  After her son’s death I expected it, poor lady.  He loved you too, Kate.  We fought about you once,” he said; and then he told her briefly of Talbot’s end, his burial, the interview he had with Talbot’s mother, and the letter.

“I have seen that letter since I returned,” she said.  “It is at Fairview Hall now awaiting you, awaiting its master like the other things there,-and here.  Shall we live there, think you, John?”

“Awaiting me!  Its master!  Live there!  What mean you, Kate?” he cried in surprise.

“Yes, yes, it is all yours,” she replied, laughing at his astonishment.  “A codicil to her will, written and signed the day before she died, the day after you saw her, left it all to you.  It was to have been her son’s and then mine; and when she believed us dead, as she had no relatives in this land she left it to you, ‘As,’ I quote her own words, ’a true and noble gentleman who honors any cause, however mistaken, to which he may give his allegiance.’  I quote them, but they are my own words as well.  You are a rich man, John, and the two estates will come together as father and Madam Talbot had hoped, after all.”

“I am glad, Kate, for your sake.”

“It is nothing.  I should have taken you, if you had nothing at all.”

A young man ran down the little pier and into the house at this moment.  “Kate,” he cried, “where are you?  It is so dark here I can hardly see- Ah, there you are!” he ran forward and kissed her boisterously.  “You ’ll have to forgive me, I could not wait any longer, Captain Seymour.  Father rode down the hill after Lord Desborough galloped by me, and met me there, waiting.  Oh, I was so glad to know you were alive again!  We felt like a pair of murderers, did n’t we, Captain Seymour?  Father told me you were here, Kate, and then we waited until now, to give you a little time, and then I could n’t stand it any longer, I had to see you.  Father’s coming too, but I ran ahead.”

“Why, Philip,” cried Kate, as soon as he gave her an opportunity, kissing him again and laughing light-heartedly as she has not done for days, “how you have grown!  You are quite a man now.”

“It is entirely due to Philip, Katharine, that I am here,” said Seymour.  “He commanded the little brig which ran down to the Yarmouth at the risk of destruction, and picked me up.  Disobeyed orders too, the young rogue.  He brought me into Charleston, nursed me like a woman, and then brought me here.  I should have died without him.”

“Oh, Philip,” said the delighted girl, kissing the proud and happy youngster with more warmth than he had ever known before, “promise me always to disobey your orders.  How can I thank you!”

“Very bad advice that.  Promise nothing of the kind, Philip; but what are you thanking him for, Kate?” said the cheery voice of the colonel as he came in the door.

“Thanking him for Seymour, father.”

“Ah, my boy,” said the colonel, grasping his hand, “you don’t know how glad I am to see you.  It is like one returning from the dead.  But it is late and cold and quite dark.  Supper is ready, let us go up to the Hall.  I shall see the Naval Commissioners in a few days, Seymour, and get you another and a better ship.  The country is full of your action; they ’ve struck a medal for you and voted you prize money and thanks, and all that.  I make no doubt I can get you the best ship there is on the ways, or planned.  ’T was a most heroic action-”

“Not now, father,” said Katharine, jealously, throwing her arm about her lover.  “He shall not, cannot, go now; he must have rest for a long time, and he must have me!  We are to be married as soon as he is well, and the country must wait.  Is it not so, John?”

“What’s that?” said the colonel, pretending great surprise.

“Sir,” answered Seymour, nervously, “I have something to say to you,-something I must say.  Will you give me the privilege of a few moments’ conversation with you?”

“Seymour,” said the colonel, smiling, “you asked me that once before, did you not?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so.”

“And I answered you-how?”

“Why, you said, if my memory serves me, that you-”

“Exactly, that I would see you after supper, and so I will.  Come, children, let us go in; this time I warrant you there will be no interruptions.”

The father and son turned considerately and walked away, leaving the two lovers to follow.

“You won’t leave me, John, will you, now that you have just come back?”

“No, Kate, not now; I am good for nothing until I get strong.”

“Good for me, though; but when you do get strong?”

“Then, if my country needs me, dearest, I shall have to go.  But I fear there will be no more ships of ours to get to sea, the blockade is getting more strict every day.  I can be a soldier, though.  No, Kate, do not beg me.  My duty to my country constrains me.”

“Don’t talk about it now, then, John.  At least I shall have you for a long time; it will be long before you are well again.”

“Yes, I fear so,” he said with a sigh.

“Why do you sigh, dearest?”

“Because I want to stay with you, and I ought to welcome any opportunity to enter active service.  Think what old Bentley would say.”

“Old Bentley did not love you,” she replied quickly, with a jealous pang.

“Ah, did he not!” said Seymour, softly.

There was a long pause.

“Well,” said Katharine at last, “I suppose nothing will move you if your duty calls you, but I warn you if you get killed again, I shall die.  I could not stand it another time,” she cried piteously.

“Well, dearest, I shall try to live for you.  Now we must go to the Hall.”

But, to anticipate, fate would be kinder toward Katharine in the future than she had been in the past and it was many a day before her lover, her husband rather, was able to get to sea; and, as if they had suffered enough, he went through the rest of the war on land and sea scatheless, and was one of those who stood beside the great commander before the trenches of Yorktown, when the British soldiers laid down their arms.  But this was all of the future, and now they turned quietly and somewhat sadly to follow the others.

This time it was Katharine who helped Seymour up the hill.  Slowly, hand in hand, they walked across the lawn, up the steps of the porch, and toward the door of the Hall.  The night had fallen, and the house was filled with a soft light from the wax candles.  They paused a moment on the threshhold; Katharine resolutely mastered her fears and resolved to be happy in the present, then, heedless of all who might see, she kissed him.

“Home at last, John,” she said, beaming upon him.  And there, with the dark behind, and the light before, we may say good-by to them.