wish that all those who are now uselessly contend- | dreaded, but was, moreover, composed under the ing against their king, would follow your worthy influence of that exasperation with which youthexample, and avoid the waste of life that their fool-ful artlessness regards deep hypocrisy when prachardiness is daily causing." tised upon its ardent feelings. The traitor was The period of the Virginian's deepest disgrace had denounced in unmeasured terms of reproach and now arrived. He advanced toward the royal com- indignation, and the letter concluded with an apomander, and when the pieces of British gold rat-logy for the appearance of the chirography; the tled together, as they fell into his open hand, his writer stating that he was obliged to use his left brow slightly contracted, and his cheek, momen-hand—his right having been wounded by a mustarily took a lighter shade. ket shot from the galley on board of which Champe had escaped. There was no other sign of shame or compunction about him. His eye was steady, and his outstretched arm trembled not. Finding no consolation from this source, and possessing no friend to whom to confide the subject of her distress, the wretched Miss Brookville sought the only sad comfort left her-that of mingling her tears with those of the unhappy mother of the deserter, and soothing her dying pillow; for that mournful task was now required at her hands. The very evening of which we are writing was to be the poor invalid's last on earth. Twice, and twice only, did she mention the name of her son after Emma entered the house, ere she closed her eyes forever upon a world in which she had seen little save trouble. Once when she fervently thanked Heaven for preventing, by death, the suffering her husband would have experienced had he lived to learn the disgrace of their child—and again, when the first beams of the rising sun penetrated her narrow apartment. "Emma," she said faintly, my child-my more than daughter, come hither. Raise me up, Emma, for the last time, and let me look upon those sunbeams that have just smiled upon my boy. Traitor to his country, reckless of my broken heart as he is-God knows I love him still." The sun had just sunk behind the mountains among which her life had been so nobly preserved by him whose image had ever since been present to her mind, when the injured girl, pale and emaciated, her young brow clouded with deep sorrow, issued from her father's house, and bent her trembling steps toward the lowly residence of the Champes. She had just escaped from the importunities of the merciless and craven-spirited Birdsall, who, ever since the news of his rival's deser- Her request was complied with, and, after gation had reached the villa, had incessantly demand-zing a few minutes upon the scene without, her ed the immediate fulfilment of her promise that head fell languidly upon the shoulder of her young she would be his, if John Champe should ever disgrace himself or the corps to which he belonged. And how could she have been otherwise than safe in making such a promise? Who, that had known her preserver, would have judged differently of him? Was he not of a noble nature-brave, generous and upright? He was :-and his desertion could only be looked upon as one of those unaccountable events which sometimes occur, as it were, utterly to baffle and set at naught all human calculations. When the news of his only act of shame had first reached Loudoun county, Emma laughed the report to scorn: but, every subsequent rumor confirming it, she at length had recourse to a method of tracing it to its foundation. She requested one of the maidens of the neighborhood, who had a brother in the Legion, to write to him. This was no other than the sister of the young Buxton; and, as may be supposed, the answer not only added certainty to that which Emma nurse. Her eyes were closed, and in this manner she reclined some time, scarcely seeming to breathe. Suddenly, and without assistance, she started to a sitting posture, and looking with an eye of fearful wildness at her alarmed attendant, in a voice raised almost to a shriek of exultation, she cried, "I knew it, Emma Brookville, I knew it! They have belied my boy! He is no deserter! He is innocent! His honor is as high as Heaven !— Thank God, thank God!" It was the last, and perhaps an unconscious effort of her failing faculties. There was a flush in the cheek that death had already touched with his icy fingers, and an unearthly fire reigned in her eye. She lay, an instant after she ceased to speak, in the arms of the terrified Emma, a breathless corpse! Had Champe been present then!—we forbear. But the deserter knew not what was passing there. It might be, he thought not at all of his humble, but honorable home; for his whole mind VOL. III.-79 was absorbed in a mighty project. He was the The shoemaker was a man of middle age, well favorite of the abandoned Arnold-he was parti- to do in the world, very clever, very attentive to cipating in the rewards of ingratitude and treason, his business, somewhat talkative, but seldom saywhile his place at the bed-side of his dying parent ing anything that was not quite common place. was filled only by the pale and heart-broken girl | Above all, he never was heard to speak a word whom, with the rest of the world, he had so artfully deceived, and who, above all others, save her who was now no more, he never should have deceived. against a single individual, however bad his character: though, if another chose to do so, he never expressly denied what he might say. In fact, he never expressly denied anything you might tell Arnold had strongly pressed the Virginian to him. It was impossible to provoke him into an join his Legion. He at first refused, alleging argument, and yet he was one of the most pleathat if he should, through the chances of war, sant men to talk to in the world. He was so fall into the hands of the rebels, he had no better "perfectly astonished" if you mentioned any strifate to expect than hanging. Arnold replied that king event, that it was really quite agreeable to inhe would run no more risk than himself; offered form him of it; and if your own exploits chanced to him the same station he had enjoyed in the Vir-be the theme of the story, his exclamations of ginia Legion; and promised him speedy promo-" Why! what a man you are!"-" Well! you tion. He still declined, affirming that he was do beat every thing!" or, "Do you tell me so?” resolved to give up the profession of arms. He promised, however, that should he alter his mind so far as to resolve to join any royal corps, it should be his, provided he adhered to the offer he had made. But Arnold would not part with him thus: the flattering description Champe had given him of the effects of his own treason was soothing to his jaded mind. The presence of the deserter had become, in a measure, necessary to him; and he assigned him quarters, the same as those of his recruiting sergeants, requesting him to call upon him daily. The Virginian complied, and in return no doubt being now entertained of the sincerity of his regard for the royal cause-he was suffered to go at large wherever he pleased. were delivered with such apparent sincerity and surprise that your self-esteem was irresistibly flattered, and, ten chances to one, you told him more of your private thoughts than you had intended. In short, he was extremely cautious, without seeming to know enough to be so; and under his apparent mere pleasantness of manner and peculiarly demure look, there lurked a degree of real acuteness, and even design, far beyond anything that could have been suspected from his simple exterior. When he took up the letter brought by Champe, he requested the bearer to be seated. Then walking to a small desk, and thus turning his back upon his visitor, he placed the letter within an account book, and proceeded to read it. At first, Champe seemed so well contented in his new lodgings, that he did not appear to care A customer calling in just as he had finished, about leaving them for an instant. After a day he carefully shut the book and put it into his desk, or two, however, he occasionally walked out, saun-exclaiming "very good, Mr. Champe, very tering leisurely about the city, but never remain-good-this order is as good as the cash-much ing long absent from his snug quarters. Gradu- obliged to you for your preference, sir." Then, ally, as the novelty of his situation wore off, he extended his rambles to a greater distance; and, in a short time, he was acquainted with every street, lane, or alley that New York at that day contained. calling his wife to attend the person who had just entered, he continued-" Walk this way, Mr. Champe, walk into the back ware-room, sir. I think I have an article in the shoe line there, that will suit you exactly." They retired, and after a few minutes spent in close conversation, in the course of which nothing in the "shoe line" was mentioned, Champe took his departure, and returned to his quarters. It was in one of those solitary walks, just as night was closing in, and a faint light might here and there be seen to dart into the windows of the straggling shops of the narrow street in which he was, that Champe, having first curiously peered into the shop of a shoemaker, without being himself observed, stepped in and briefly demanded of its only inmate whether he was the principal of patriot-John Champe joined the Legion of Arthe establishment. Without hesitation, but with a scrutinizing glance at his visitor, the shoemaker answered in the affirmative; when, without farther words, Champe threw a letter upon the counter and stepped back, in order, as it might seem, to give the other a chance to read it, but, in reality, to watch his countenance while he did so. The next day-the last but one of September, and the anniversary of that on which, three years before, he parted from his native state an honest nold; and to the great apparent satisfaction of the restless traitor, took up his quarters in a decently furnished house adjoining that where the American-British brigadier, himself, resided. Champe was now allowed free access to the apartments of his newly chosen general; and indeed, so much were they in each other's society, as to occasion a report among the soldiery whether well founded or not, the sequel will determine that there was in agitation between them, some mighty scheme for striking a deathblow at the resistance of America. Arnold was an ambitious, daring, and restless being, and his proselyte had proved himself one of the deepest of cunning deceivers, as well as a man possessed of talents far above his station. Besides this, no doubt could be entertained of the present fidelity of both. Every time they could induce an American to desert, would seem an amelioration of the perfidy of their own conduct, by adding weight to the arguments by which they pretended to excuse themselves. The course of both was plainfrom the king they had everything to expect; and while one was an insatiate spendthrift, the other was extremely poor. From their country, neither could look for aught but a halter. Evening was now the only period left Champe for passing his time as he pleased, as he was more or less engaged throughout the day in picking up recruits for the "King's American Legion ;" and when off duty, generally closetted with Arnold. At the close of the day, the latter also always left home. Sometimes he went to be entertained-and secretly scorned by his entertainers-the British officers-from whom, Clinton's oft repeated and strongly urged request could not compel more than a nominal respect for the traitor. Indeed, Arnold himself could not fail, under the civilties, to detect, with the quick perception of a guilty conscience, a disgust and detestation, which, in truth, was in many instances very illy concealed. Clinton's personal friends or lose adherents alone, really endeavored to forget the character of the man with whom they associated, and whom they sought to force into the best society afforded by the city. This, however, resulted as is usual with that undeserved respect for an individual which is dictated by a faction or party, in opposition to the better sense of a community-in rendering his demerits more conspicuous. As we have said, the traitor was sagacious enough, and still possessed a sufficient sense of shame to perceive this. To drown reflection, he not unfrequently declined the invitations of those whose very attempts to conceal their detestation of him served but to irritate him almost to frenzy ; and sought, in the lowest haunts of profligacy and vice, a soul-degrading, yet temporary and unavailing oblivion. Whether engaged in the former or the latter manner, at all events Arnold never spent an evening at home; and, what was a little singular, whether he came from the more or less respectable of those scenes of amusement, the period of his return never varied many minutes from a certain hour-that of midnight. In the meantime, Champe closely imitated the habits of his general. He, too, went out every night, and returned at an hour not much earlier than that observed by Arnold. As the reader may perhaps be curious to know in what manner he spent his leisure time, we proceed to introduce a scene or two in elucidation of that circumstance. TO A WINTER FLOWER. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. I When Winter comes with icy mien, II No shrub then lingers on the plain, To feed the warm and watchful gaze; Nor blade of grass the fields retain, Nor sprig of maize. III Far as the searching eye may bend, O'er gentle slope and bedded vale, The barren sands and hills extend, Thou tell'st their tale. IV Thou, of the autumn train, the last, V No other flow'rs, that late could vie In sweeter grace and scent with thee, May now be seen, beneath the sky In rivalry. VI Struck in the sullen clod too deep, Thy roots the wintry winds defy, And while thy thousand brethren sleep, Thou lift'st thine eye. VII What secret spring of life is thine, And what art thou, pale flow'r, to gain Such partial favor, as to shine Last of thy train? VIII Untouch'd, when all around are dead, IX Such lot, methinks, can ne'er be blest, To see and feel ourselves alone,A late, and watchful, lingering guest, When all are gone! November, 1825. "There is no doubt, sir, that you can go up with the tries still to detain him; he moves gently along to the rest of the world. It is on the second story." "With the rest of the world!" says M. Guerreville to himself, as he ascended the stair-way; "What can the porter mean by that? But no matter; we will see." Reaching the second story, M. Guerreville enters a spacious anti-chamber, the door of which is open; a servant is stationed there. "Madam Dolbert ?" says M. Guerreville. The valet opens the door of the saloon, saying, "Be pleased to enter, sir." M. Guerreville enters a very beautiful saloon, and is surprised to see some thirty people collected there. The ladies are in full dress; the gentlemen, though generally in boots, have a certain party-air about them; different groups are formed-some conversing, some walking about the saloon. As M. Guerreville enters, they simply salute him, and every one resumes conversation. door, when a sudden movement runs along the saloon. "The bridegroom! the bridegroom!" is whispered on all sides; and at the same moment, Edward Delaberge enters the saloon. M. Guerreville, whose looks were turned towards the door, is one of the first to see him. An instant change is visible in all his features; his eyes become fixed--his limbs can no longer carry him forward-his hands close convulsively, and he mutters in a halfchoked voice-" it is he-it is DAUBRAY!" Edward, however, had not seen M. Guerreville, who is concealed in the crowd, and he advanced with a gracious air into the saloon, smiling to the ladies, shaking hands with the gentlemen, and replying to the congratulations that were showered upon him from all sides. Almost at the same moment, Stephanie and her grandmother entered by an opposite door, and Edward pressed forward to meet them. Stephanie, whose dress is arranged in the purest taste, seems more beautiful than ever; an extreme paleness, spread over her features, gives her face an inexpressible charm of expression; she smiles on rais "What can all this mean?" thinks M. Guerreville, as he looks about him-"something is going on here. Can it be a marriage? They have admitted me probably in the belief that I am here by invitation. I think that I have selected the wrong time to talk about little Zizine, and might as well take my leave for the pre-ing her eyes to Edward, who takes one of her hands sent." M. Guerreville was already approaching the door, when he perceived in a corner of the saloon a little girl dressed with elegant simplicity, but who seemed to attract no attention. By her modest and serious air, the paleness of her countenance, whose expression was even more than usually melancholy, M. Guerreville immediately recognized the daughter of Jerome, and directing his steps towards her, he took her hand and said, "You are little Zizine, are you not?" The child looks at him--a quick blush mantles her face, her eyes sparkle and moisten, while she whispers, "Ah, sir! you are the kind gentleman who gave me money for my papa, when he was ill." "You remember me, my dear child." "Oh, yes sir, I remember you well; and now I even know your name: for my father has told me that he had met you, and that you gave him permission to come and see you." and carries it to his lips. "We are late," says Madam Dolbert, "but I wished that my Stephanie should put on her best looks; a little coquetry is not unpardonable on a marriage day. If you will be directed by me, ladies and gentlemen, we will proceed forthwith." Every one approves the proposition, and a general movement takes place in the saloon. Edward has presented his hand to Stephanie; he prepares to lead the way, and the company to follow. But a man has planted himself in the door-way; instead of falling in with the company, and giving place to the bridegroom, this man remains fixed, and forbids their passage; then placing his arm before Edward, and fixing on him a glance of lightning, he exclaims in a startling tone"Where are you going, sir?" This inquiry, and the tone in which it was uttered, produced a great sensation in the company. They paused, looking alternately at M. Guerreville and the "It is for you that I have now come here my little bridegroom; the latter, who at first only appeared one." "For me!" "Yes, I saw your father yesterday, and he desired me to see Madam Dolbert--but I fear that I have not chosen the right time. What is going on here, my child?" surprised, became pale and trembling as he examines more attentively the features of the individual who thus crossed his path. Stephanie, agitated, disturbed, looks on him who was about to be her husband, and seems astonished that he has not repelled the man who thus interrupts their progress. Edward soon recovered his self-pos- | he is suffering under a strong excitement; he runs tosession, and feigning a laugh, exclaimedwards him. "Here is a joke which I do not comprehend: come, sir, delay us no longer." "Wretch!" cries M. Guerreville, seizing Edward by the arm; "you pretend not to recollect the voice of a father who comes to demand of you his child! Madam, this man should not be the husband of your daughter. You wish, doubtless, to secure the happiness of Stephanie; he to whom you would wed her is a monster, a base seducer. Under the name of Daubray, he introduced himself into my family-he robbed me of my daughter-my only child-falsely telling her that I had refused him her hand. What have you done with my daughter? Answer--miscreant, answer!” These words caused great excitement in the company. Stephanie feels a cold shudder pervading her frame her eyes close, and she falls lifeless into the arms of the ladies who surround her. They carry her to a sofa. Zizine and Madam Dolbert run to her assistance; every one wishes to lend his aid, but at the same time they look at the stranger, whose face and bearing cannot but command respect, and they wait with anxiety the reply of the bridegroom. After having in vain attempted to disengage his arm, Edward exclaims, looking round him on the company "What has happened?" "Ah! my friend, I have at length found him-at length seen him! This monster-this Daubray—it was Edward Delaberge the man who was affianced to Miss Dolbert." "Is it possible?" "To-day was appointed for the marriage-he was on the point of leading her to the altar. At the sight of this man, I could no longer restrain myself. I seized him-I demanded to know what he had done with my child. The coward-he pretended not to know me. In my frenzy I—" "You struck him." "I did--and it was the first moment of happiness that I have known for years." "But, my friend, was this the most likely means of recovering your daughter ?" "I did wrong, perhaps ; but could I be master of myself and repress my fury before this wretch, who pretended that I was a lunatic! The coward! But we are to fight-immediately—at St. Mandé. Doctor, you will be my second ?" "Of course-but if in this duel you kill this man, who will tell you what has become of Pauline ?" "Do you believe that in the moment of death he "In truth, I am distressed at this occurrence-but I know not what to make of it. This gentleman is cer-will be insensible to the pangs of remorse? But, doctainly deranged, for this is the first time I ever saw tor, the duel is inevitable. Perhaps I ought to have him, and I know nothing about his daughter." conducted myself differently-to have used address in "Wretch! it was not necessary to add insult to out-compelling him to speak; but when I saw him enter rage," cried M. Guerreville, who was exceedingly ex- the saloon-when I saw his hand clasped in that of the asperated by the cold-blooded indifference of Edward. woman he was leading to the altar,—then—look you-"You do not wish to recognize me. Perhaps I can I know not what passed in my mind 'This Edward devise some way to compel you." is a wretch, and before all the world I would expose his At the same time, M. Guerreville struck Edward on crime'-my friend, I am certain if you had been in my the cheek, with the back of his hand. place, you would have done just as I did." "Very likely-but we must prepare for your duel. What weapons do you choose?" "Swords and pistols-let him take his choice;George, George, call a carriage-we have no time to A general exclamation follows; some of the younger portion of the company wish to fall upon M. Guerreville, and put him out of the room: but they are restrained by his commanding look; whilst Edward, pale | and motionless, after the blow that he had just received, lose." contents himself with rolling his eyes on M. Guerre- "And tell him to mount behind it-we may have ville with the expression of a tiger, and muttering-need of his services." "Do you wish then that I should kill you." "I go to provide a second, and will attend you; but don't think to escape me. I know your name now-I know that you call yourself Delaberge, and I shall be sure of finding you again." "In an hour, I will be at the rendezvous." M. Guerreville hears nothing further. He departs, no one seeking to detain him. He quits the house which he had filled with confusion and alarm. He hurries home, burning with the desire of vengeance, but utterly distracted by the circumstances under which he had met the seducer of his daughter. Jenneval was at his friend's house, waiting his return. On meeting M. Guerreville, he perceives at once that Jenneval makes every preparation for the duel. M. Guerreville is not in a state of mind to attend to anything, and can only walk up and down his chamber, looking by turns at his watch and his clock-exclaiming, "Despatch-despatch-we have no time to lose." At length everything is prepared. M. Guerreville hurries down stairs. A carriage waits in the street; he enters it with the doctor, who carries the armsGeorge mounts behind, and the coachman drives for St. Mandé. Jenneval appeared anxious, and remained silent by the side of his friend, who takes him by the arm and says- "My friend, do you not sympathize with my good fortune? I have found the wretch who betrayed my daughter. I go to fight him-to punish him-to revenge myself! Don't you understand my happiness?" "I understand perfectly your wish to fight the man who has injured you; but I fear it will not lead to the result you desire. If you kill this man, you will not learn the fate of your daughter. If he is successful—” |
