Dare Fairfax
page: (TitlePage) [View Page (TitlePage) ] DARE FAIRFAX. BY ADA AUGUSTA GOTT. We live, we love, and then ere long, Stone dead we lie. Oh life! is all thy song Endure and die? BARRY CORNWALL. NEW YORK: E. J. HALE & SON, PUBLISHERS, MURRAY STREET. BALTIMORE: W. H. H. ADKISSON, No. 228 W. BALTIMORE ST. 1872. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1872, by E. J. HALE & SON, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. "ANGE, LITTLE & HLLMAN, PRINTEIR, ELECTROTYER S AND 6TEREOTYERS, 108 to 114 WOOSTER ST., N. Y TO MY TRUEST FRIEND, WIS E ST COUNSELLOR, AND MOST DEVOTED BROTHER, THESE PAGES ARE LOVINGLY INSCRIBED, BY THE AUTHOR. page: 0[View Page 0] DARE FAIRFAX. CHAPTER I. TO-NIGHT ten years ago, was March thirty-first, Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-one. 'March-like it was, too, with the wind shrieking around the old Hall, and tossing the clouds like sea-billows in a tempest. Ten years ago, she sat there, in that old crimson arm-chair, with eyes untroubled as a June sky, and her unbound, hair falling in dusky shadows over her splendid dra- pery. I, pen in hand, musing over an old portfolio, looked up listlessly and asked- "What shall I write about, Isabel?" Slightly lifting her head and raising those beautiful eyes of hers, Isabel Darnleigh said- "Write about me." Surely, had I known then what I would write about her this March, some of the shadows which have gloomed these later years would have laid their weird hands across the paper that night. The laugh page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] 6 DARE FAIRFAX. with which I answered her would have been less merry, and the little tune I commenced humming have measured sadder numbers than those my pen went tracing over the page. How to go on now, and tell over some of the days of the years since then, I scarcely know. Pain clutches at my breath and shivers along my arm, even to the finger-ends. Is it because, in telling her story, I must tell something of my own? Is the living sor- row in my life so limitless as the Zahara-waste in hers, which all her tears cannot cool; nor her arms, forever outstretched, ever cross? Though my sorrow reaches up before the angels, is it as fathomless as the grave in her life, whose silence reaches into eternity, and from the sleep of which there is no resurrection? In telling her story, let me, as far as possible, forget self; nor drag into the warp of her life the blurred and worthless woof of mine. Ten years ago I was little more than a child, living under the same roof with her, in her father's house, sharing all her privileges and pleasures. Though only the daughter of her first governess, and left by the sad termination of an unfortunate marriage to the charity of a kind benefactor, I, Alice Birney, was excluded from no pleasures that were provided for Isabel, at Darnleigh Hall. Do not suppose that Darnleigh iall was an English palace, sitting, queen- like, in an English park. It was only a stately home, which, for more than three quarters of a century, had DARE FAIRFAX. 7 stood between hill and forest in stanch old Mary- land. Yet it is not with Darnleigh Hall my story has so much to do, as with her, who, ten years ago, sat in the old red c air which had been her mother's; and which, for he mother's sake, Isabel loved more than the most luxurious couch in all those stately suites of rooms. l'OOlllS. Most of us, for "mother's sake," love something, or put something away, which, with wet eyes, we take out when we are alone, recalling the associations which so long have clung around it. It may be only the spectacles she used to fold on the brown lids of the Bible, or set over the border of her cap when the old eyes grew tired reading; perchance a half-finished stocking, with the needles yet in it, on which she last knitted. We women, perhaps, are foolish about such things; but it is a very tender foolishness, that keeps the heart warm in the cold days and desolate evenings which come to us all-somewhere in a lifetime. Dare Fairfax had left us early that evening. Dare Fairfax, with his blue eyes, shining with a tenderer light than I had ever seen there before; and a flush, delicate as a girl's, tinting the white temples from which he had lightly tossed the sunny cuils. Dare, with that firm, true mouth, so earnest and strong, who-I may as well write it out, for every one knows it now,-Dare Fairfax, who loved Isabel Darnleigh. But neither she nor I knew then how stanch and page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] 8 DARE FAIRFAX. good he was, though children loved and women re- spected him. We know now that any man who main- tains the pure regard of those two classes of indi- viduals, must bear about with him a clean record, and an enviable consciousness of a higher approval than even earth vouches. I had seen his hands tremble when the wanton wind blew a tress of her dusky hair against his cheek, as we three strolled together under the evergreens in the old avenues. I had noted the brave color spring to his face, when the fiery horse she loved to ride would plunge and tear the hills with his hoofs, heedless of her slender hand on the rein. I know now, when it is too late to know it, that he would, even then, have dared death over ahy precipice to hold back the vi- cious animal she gloried in mounting. Oh, Dare Fairfax! first young love though it was, 'twas truer than most women ever have offered them! We had been riding that evening before the storm came on. It had been a gray, lowering day, and to- ward night the wind swept up from behind the pines; and little white ripples crept like wary ghosts over the tiny lake. Cantering along on my white pony, I had forgotten the frown of the early storm on the hills, and his warm breath panting down through the March valleys. Watching the varying color rippling over her cheek, I forgot all but herself; and the blue eyes of Dare Fairfax searching into hers for answers to his eager, hurried questions. DARE FAIRFAX. 9 Sweeping up the road which "'like a brown ribbon girdled the hills," nothing could be heard but the regular, swift beating of the horses' hoofs, and the wild music of some hidden cascade. Once, the wind, which had risen to a gale, stormy and fitful, brought back to my ear the low words of Dare: "Isabel, Isabel, can it never be?." And Isabel must have said " never," for all the rest of that evening her lips wore the look of an inevitable Fate. We sang old ballads in the twilight to keep out thoughts that moaned around our hearts, even as did the storm around the windows: but we could not keep out thoughts, though we could the rain. Dare Fairfax saig too, more sweetly than usual, it seemed to me; for I knew his voice drew all its sweetness from pain, as our hearts do their strength while our lips echo the hurrahs of mirth. Poor Dare! How little did he understand, as he hugged to his heart that stinging "never," that it let into that heart its sweetest 'angel, whose tones and touches would remain when the stars should be ex- tinguished! How childish it seems when my pen lingers here, unwilling to leave that evening when the first shadow of our first sorrow came. I was onl. yfif- teen then, but I somehow understood that Dare Fair- fax went out from his first love with his first trouble. The cloud from his face must have clouded our 1* page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10 DARE FAIRFAX. hearts, for long after he had gone Isabel Darnleigh sat there silently, with her forehead resting on her palm, while I scribbled away at a little poem I knew would occupy the corner of some wandering paper. It was near midnight when we separated, never knowing that before the next day's dawn, events that were to change our whole lives from their forner ways would have transpired. All the unwarped impulses of childhood were yet unchanged with me, so, as Isabel crossed the room with her queenly step, I, stole to her side, and with my arms about her, I found myself saying- "Why did you do it, Isabel? He is so true and good! Isabel Darnleigh, there is not another in all the world like Dare Fairfax." Oh, blue and true as his were the eyes that looked with a little surprise and much of patience into mine, eager and questioning, as they ran their. quick glances over her changing face. All she said then was, "I know he is good, Allie." My name was Alice, and Isabel called me Allie when she meant to be very tender with me. "But you said ' never' so hard, Isabel!"I cried, with some bitterness, wanting her to feel how much she had pained Dare Fairfax. Right into mine poured all the earnestness of those eyes for a long minute; then, as if seeing through the breadth of time, their gaze strayed unconsciously DARE FAIRFAX. " into space, while her lips, grown pale in that minute, murmured breathlessly, * Never is hard." Many to-morrows of which we knew nothing were to prove to s both the whole measureless meaning of that" enevPr," as well as its mercy. "Couldn't you help it, Isabel?"I pleaded, with childish persistence. "No, Allie, I couldn't help it. He is all I ap- prove; but he is nothing to me." Nothing to her! Was the future so far off she could not see or know what that grand heart would be to her When she said it, the blue eyes swam in tears and the tender mouth was tremulous. "Couldn't you love Dare, Isabel?" I could scarcely see her then for the growing mists in my own eyes. "Oh, Allie, don't!" she cried vehemently, trying to put my arms away from her. "Isabel Darnleigh, why won't you marry Dare Fairfax?" Slowly, almost desperately, the proud girl turned, and as slowly answered me. This time she called me Alice, and I never forgot it. I didn't know it then, but she was neither thinking of herself nor me, but of Dare. "Alice Birney, I do love Dare Fairfax, but-" "Oh, Isabel!"I cried, eagerly interrupting. "Why then-" page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 DARE FAIRFAX. "Alice!" she repeated, staying my impetuosity. "Alice, I cannot marry Dare, because I could love some one else so much more. Some one whom I may meet somewhere in the world. I don't love now the best I can love." "But, Isabel, how do you know this?"I ques- tioned, in my eager ignorance. Then, indeed, if never before, the daughter of Gra- ham Darnleigh forgot her pride. She put her arms close around me this time, and the tenderest look I ever saw on her face came over it then. I had not dreamed that blue eyes could glow and soften into such exquisite beauty as hers did. If but once again I had ever seen that look on her face! Others did, who were falser than I. Oh!- Max! Max! I can never forget her look when she told me how she could love; how could you forget when she told you she did love you? Is it possible to be false to one and true to another? Dare I believe it? Oh, Max I Max! I waited what seemed ten minutes, with those worlds of beauty looking into my soul;-it was really but a minute; then she answered me. I have not forgotten,-I could not forget,-I shall never forget; for I know she loved himr just that way. I stop here to cry bitterly, "God forgive you, Max!" "Ihow do I know? -how do I know, Allie Birney? I can't tell you how, but I do know, past all doubting, that some one's footstep following could DARE FAIRFAX. 13 make mine falter; some one's hand touching mine make my finger-tips glow and tremble; some. one's eyes make my lids fall on burning cheeks; some one's kiss be an eternal seal on my lips. Some one's voice I shall follow over the waters of Death into the Beyond, and Heaven itself will be brighter for sake of that one there." I was hushed, awed to silence. I had peered into the casket through the tiny crevice; behold its jewels gleaming and flashing in my open palm! I had looked at the pictured palace, and lo! its royal beauty was unfolded to my gaze. "Isabel, who do you love thus?" "Allie, you don't understand," she said, gently. What wild questions I put I have forgotten. I only know that like a dream came to me the idea that some wondrous being had stolen her heart from us,- Dare and I. Who it was I could not con- jecture. I talked on at random, deploring and reproaching. She hushed me, even authoritatively. Had she but told me who was near- who had come with the. footsteps of a stranger and the charm of an Apollo-what to-day is had never been, I think. Had she only whispered to me his name!-but she only kissed me to silence andwent away to her room. In the silence of mine that night the roof of Darnleigh Hall covered me for the last time. The last time. page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] " DARE FAIRFAX. CHAPTER II. "Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining." SHE sang it blithely, as though into her life had never a rainy day come; as if weary winds had never blown, and sorrow had not followed sin over the earth. Under the sunny Southern sky the maiden sat singing; and still she kept up the melody, as if the gladness of her heart must bubble over her lips. "Shining, shining, still shining, - behind the clouds is the sun still shining.'" Oh, how she sang! Her voice mounted up through the balmy spring-time; while the dreamy air trembled with the infectious gladness of her I happy tones. In that early March, even the odor of the flowers was almost a burden. Brilliant birds swept their gorgeous plumage through pine and live- oak, dipping their brilliant wings down to the lan- guid orange-blooms, and catching the spirit of her song, sped upward again, their little throats wild with music. DARE FAIRFAX. 15 A low wide home sat there under the trees and among the flowers, and at an open window was a woman of perhaps middle age, with mild face, from which the brown hair was put softly away in a few shining curls behind either ear. A gentle contentment was expressed in all her mien. In the shaded piazza, on which the windows opened, sat the singer, with waves of shining hair floating goldenly away from the wild-rose face to the dainty shoulders. Blue and winsome were her eyes, and rosy red the lips that went on singing, now a snatch of song, now some jubilant chorus of ado- ration. Her dress, scarce whiter than her busy hands, swept in undulating folds around her as she sat, child-like, on a great mat of woven straws; while her lap, her dress, and as far as she could reach around her, were strewn with flowers. Some she wove with dexterous movements of her little fingers into gar- lands, and held up joyously, while she cried- "Look, mamma! can anything be lovelier?" "It is lovely indeed, my child," answered the sweet voice of the mother, her eyes certainly lingering longest on the maiden, as though she was fairer than they. "Clean robes, white robes- White robes are waiting for me." Still the happy girl warbled on. page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 16 )ARE AIRFARX. "Waiting for me, waiting for me!-waiting-wait- ing-waiting for me-me-n-e!" "More water, Nix; more vases, Ducy!" First a song and then a call. Little negroes, with black faces shining above their blue cotton frocks and white aprons, ran eagerly, scampering at every call, to bring with willing hands what every demand required. A serving-woman, with quiet step, crossed the wide room, and handing to Mrs. Hope,-for such was the elderly lady's name,-two letters, with many courte- sies withdrew quietly as she came. "Letters, Lillian!" The widow's voice said it gladly. "Oh, mamma, mamma! My letters, my letters! Here I am!" More than one vase was upturned and its flowers scattered as the excited girl sprang forward to the window, with outstretched hands. "Stop, daughter; only one is for you." And with a fond look, she gave a letter with a handsome super- scription into the eager grasp. "Are you right sure that one is yours, mamma?" she laughed, archly. "Who from, please?" "From your Uncle Rolfe, Lillian." "Uncle Rolfe Ingraham! Quickl mamma; see what lie says about it, while I read mine." Rosily mounted the blushes to her tinted cheeks, while the blue eyes scanned each fluent sweep the pen had made for her. It was her first letter from DARE FAIRFAX. 17 the absent, so lately gone. The first love-letter! Could it ever be forgotten? Did any one ever forget receiving such? The first! The strange, sweet words to be read and re-read, and kissed; and worn next the heart, and put under the pillow, to mingle in happy dreams of times to come. The letter commenced: "Little Lillian," and ended, "Only yours." There was no name appended, and no need for a name. She knew from whom it came; had she not heard the same words from his own lips? Yes, "only hers,"-comning soon to claim her for his vdry own. It had been written up in brave, old Maryland, too. Would he ever take her there, she wondered; and wished he would. The flowers were forgotten, and the overturned vases lay with the little streams of water running under bright roses and delicate heliotropes. Alas! Lillian, that so sweet a dream should ever end. The mother's voice broke in gently enough on hers. "Do you want very much to hear what your Uncle Rolfe thinks, my child?" it asked, while varied emo- tions of regret and gratification mingled in the expres- sion of her face. "Oh, so very much! Mamma, does he scold me any?" "Not at all, darling; but he thinks you very young to marry yet; and says I should be very sure, before permitting it, that your happiness would be increased. page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] 18 DARE FAIRFAX. I am afraid myself, Lillian, you need your mothers' loving care more than another's." "But, mamma, you know I am not to leave you." The voice lately singing so blithely trembled now with almost childish grieving. "No, you will never leave me, I think, darling, and I shall never willingly let you go, even to another's love, be that other ever so true." The mother's voice shook a little now. In a moment Lillian's white arms were around her, and the flushed cheek laid next the sunken one of her parent. "Mamma, he won't ever ask me to leave you; he said so. Indeed, I will only go away from you when I go to my grave." Strange enough it sounded, to hear those fresh lips talk'of going into the grave; yet had they been pro- phet lips, they could not have spoken sadder truth. The flowers were gathered up, the vases filled, andc the dreamer dreamed on under the fair blue of the Alabama skies; while the wandering winds, catching up strains of new song, swept them outward to chime and ring in the glad music so soon to be turned into wailing all over the land. Dream on, sing on, O, golden-hair'd girl! Brief is your time of happy singing, until you join a grander anthem over Sorrow's sea, and beyond the wild waves of tears that rush past life's shadowed land. Wait on; a Kinglier than earth's bridegrooms comneth for you. DARE FAIRFAX. 19 CHAPTER Il1. BACK again from the far South to the border-land, stretching around Chesapeake's bright waters, my story travels; back from the zephyrs and flowers of Alabama, to a home set on the sloping hills of Mary- land. The residence of Mrs. Fairfax was a place of comfort, and beauty, rather than of grandeur and ceremony. Oaks with their brawny arms, and trem, bling maples, guarded the low house with its cool, wide halls, its many piazzas, and quaint windows set in carved recesses; and all, in summer-time, draped from ground to gables with clematis and woodbine. How restful its quiet seemed to Dare Fairfax that night after leaving Darnleigh Hall and Isabel, and having ridden slowly over the hills which partially shut' in the view of "Darnleigh " from "Fair- lands." Long he paced his room that night, with his heart numbed by the saddest word we ever hear. It passed not his lips, but it formed the key-note of every thought that sobbed through this, the first sor- row of his manhood. NEVER! She had said it, and, looking over the brown hills to Darnleigh, he felt it, page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] 20 DARE FAIRFAX. as we only feel such things once. It was not his nature to struggle and wrestle for the love of the woman lie loved before all the world. Bright-faced, sunny Dare, whom no physical danger could daunt, would never sue a second time for Isabel Darnleigh's love; yet many hours saw him wakeful that night. Slumber came fitfully and stayed briefly. Away in the east, he could see a fiint gray steal- ing athwart the darkness. Could it be dawn? It seemed to increase more swiftly than the gradual approach of a March morning, although the hour for its appearance must be near at hand. Then it rolled in volumes, rather than spread grayly as at first; now a warm glow tinged the gray, which seemed to be between the eye and the clouds, instead of coming up behind them over the horizon. Abstractedly he gazed, simply because he could not sleep, and morning was welcome. A moment more and Dare Fairfax leaped from his couch, where he had thrown himself, still dressed, a few hours previous. One might almost have seen his cheek grow paler in the gloom, and his eye darken with excitement. A single red line had shot, lance-like, athwart that now rolling mass of dusky gray, shot up toward the March sky--then came a second and a third; but Dare had not paused to see them. He was half-way down the stairway, light-footed as a deer, when his mother's voice from her chamber-door called- DARE FAIRFAX. 21 "Dare, what is it, my son? Have you seen the light across the hills?" "Yes, mother; go back to bed, please. I'm going there now." "Where, Dare? What is it? anything burning?" again called the sweet, aged voice. "Darnleigh Hall on fire!" His voice rang back the startling answer from the hall below, and the next moment the doors opened and shut hastily, and he was gone. Every servant- man was speedily awakened by Mrs. Fairfax, and despatched, as help, to the scene of the conflagration, whither' Dare- had gone before and alone. Panting and almost breathless, he reached the eminence from which the whole of Darnleigh was visible. One por- tion of the building stood out boldly against the background of light, apparently uninjured; but the whole south and west wings seemed one vast theatre, where flame, mad and terrible, leaped and hissed in wild riot. Right there, in that seethinig oven, he knew were the sleeping apartments of Isabel Darnleigh's aged and invalid father; right there, too, were Isabel's- Isabel, who had said " never " so firmly to him only yesterday. Had she escaped? Could she escape? How he crossed that last hill he never knew; but when he stood before Darnleigh's stately entrance, the fire was creeping to the very threshold. A shout- ing, working crowd were already there from the few page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 DARE FAIRFAX. tenement houses and the adjacent hotel. It was a small number, but they worked and fought the fierce element with all the means available. "Is any one in that part of the house?" Dare heard the question asked by some one near heard it, though the blood seemed beating out at his ears and boiling under his eyelids, after his hard run. Immediately a dozen voices, hoarse with excitement, shouted, "THREE! ' "Three persons in there! Great God!" The awful name was invoked close to Dare's ear, by whom he knew not. As he sprang forward, waked as from a trance by the fearful words, one backward glance caught sight of a tall figure and a face of wonderful beauty. As he tore his way through the choking rooms and passages, that face seemed gleam- ing on the smoke and set in frames of fire on every hand. He knew that they two were alone in that furnace- heat, struggling, side by side almost, both bound for the rescue of three persons,-three, of whose little number was one dearer to Dare than the life he risked. What any one of them was to that other he knew not,-he asked not,-he scarcely wondered about it. Isabel! to save her was all his thought. He, too, whispered, "Great God!" as the fire scorched his very lips; but the holy name was uttered from that fiery baptism in fear and ago- DARE FAIRFAX. 23 nizing supplication. Nearly fainting from exhaus- tion and blinded by smoke, Dare stumbled against some one whom he could not see. He stretched out his arms, for even in the roar of the flames he could hear moans as of suppressed pain. He clasped an old man, who, stupefied and weak, was being drawn, rather than walked, toward the burn- ing stairway, and Isabel Darnleigh's arms were around him, her dusky hair sweeping over her white dress, while even her brave eyes could not deny the fear that blanched her very lips. "Isabel!" gasped Dare, hurrying them toward another stairway in the rear of the building. Isabel Darnleigh's arms still encircled her poor father; and putting off Dare Fairfax's grasp, while over her ashen face swept a wild, tender, entreating smile, she articulated- "Allie,- Allie Birney! Save her if you love me, Dare!" If he loved her! Instantaneous as the lightning's flash their eyes met. From his to hers the truth leaped. That instant a strong arm lifted the old man and another was thrown around Isabel; the face Dare had seen in that one backward glance, and seen in the flames at his side, came between him and them. Isabel's pallid face, as if fainting, lay helpless on the stranger's breast, close to his face; bent down to it, to avoid breathing the fire, -then they were swept from sight. page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 DARE FAIRFAX. "If he loved her--to save Allie Birney!" I, telling this, dreamed not then how I was saved; later I was told. Dare Fairfax had carried me from my room, at the door of which I had fainted from terror, and laid me, wrapped in a cloak, near some shrubbery, charg- ing the terrified but kindly servant-women to watch over me. What else was saved or lost, I scarcely ever knew. Fire and water ruined nearly all. Very certain I am, thast the sun, looking over the hills hours after, saw only a few stark and blackened chimneys, a charred stretch of wall, some stone col- umns, and, over all, gray ashes and smouldering embers. Certain I am, too, that Dare Fairfax stood there at sunrise, alone, he thought, by the ruins of N1'-.-Darnleigh, saying softly to his own heart the last words Isabel Darnleigh had said to him,-"-If you love me." One red line of sunlight smote a blackened beam that lay across a fallen wall, and lighted the face of a man who stood under a half-burned oak-tree. Dare knew it as the face which had come between him and Isabel; the brown beard was singed, the brown eyes glittering with excitement or shining with what must have been a sweet triumph. At least, so it seemed to Dare. The stranger's glance met his an instant,--long enough for recognition, but the other strode away with an air of gracefil indif- ference, and as Dare turned homeward, sick-hearted, DARE FAIRFAX. 25 he shook his head resolutely, bracing up his shoulders as if to take a burden. Thus he walked bravely on over the hills to Fair- lands, and only once his compressed lips unclosed from their unnatural sternness - only once, when he said, half doubtingly, half persistently- "Pshaw! You're a fool, Dare Fairfax! He is nothing to her." Nothing to her! Are you sure of that, Dare? Aye, brace up your brave young shoulders, and brace up your gallant heart. Another sunrise may tell to other morning winds whether he is nothing to her. 2 page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 DARE FAIRFAX. CHAPTER IV. FOR long, long weeks after this, I was unconscious of everything. Then came a period of convalescence, during which Mrs. Fairfax sat beside me, talking in her sweet, soothing way ; refraining from the subject of our misfortunes, lest excitement should injure my shattered health. The fright and terror of that night, -that last night at Darnleigh-together with expo- sure, half-dressed, to the night so long, had made fearful havoc with my bloom and strength. Again, after many other days, Dare would wheel my sofa to the piazza, and read to me some choice scrap from book or journal, or let in on my thirsty heart some tender light from the Holy Book. Dare seemed to me strangely changed of late. Ile called me Allie, in an absent way-I think it was because Isabel had called me so. He was just as kind, or, may-be, even kinder than ever; at least I thought so, because I had fewer persons to love now, and fewer to show kindness. His lip, smiling of old, was always paler now, and compressed as with thought or pain; shadows flitted daily over his hitherto bright, proud face, each time lingering longer. They told me that Isabel and her father had gone DARE FAIR'FAX. 27 South, hoping that its genial climate would assist in restoring his shattered health and failing faculties, both of mind and body. She had only waited, they said, until I was pronounced out of danger; and from that time to this I have never-but no, I do not dare to write it. Oh! Strong One, give me Thy strength, or I fail. The thougpht of time since then, is more than I can bear. The thought-not of what mnight have been-but of what has been. All know how the tramp of many feet over the land that sumnmer was followed by the blood of many hearts, running redly to the great river of death. But God only knows how many a mother's hair bleached in that one year with frosts enough for ten winter-times; how many old men bowed farther earthward, under the heavy hand scourging their dearest memories and sweetest hopes. HE KNOWS. Did we not feel that, memory would be unbearable sorrow. Dare went. Thousands know the full burden of those two words. A volume could to them express no more. He went, and I comforted his mother as best I could. But you mothers know that little could be said or done when that void was made in your homes, and that sick silence in your hearts, through which brave, young steps would come, perhaps, never. Yet, I wept with her; and for the weepers we can do nothing more. It is only when sorrow seals the heart, with a stone page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] 28 DARE FAIRFAX. rolled against its sepulchre, that human sympathy i; unavailing. Then, He alone, whose angels openec the tomb of His Beloved, can help-Iis voice onlU break the silence to our souls. Yes, Dare went. It was only the mother's fear- that plead for his stay. Her pride bade him go; hej heroism offered him a sacrifice for other homes and altars-not gladly, but willingly. In answer to all, he only gave the stern reason of his duty. The last evening came-the last night The poor mother gave way and wept over him, with many prayers that Israel's God would be to him a "pillar of cloud and fire." I, still more child than woman, with all a child's unreasonable petulance, protested that he had no right to leave us and go; that his single strength could not avail in the mighty struggle already raging. "Allie," he answered, patiently, "were it possible for every drop of ocean's waters to rebel against Him who set it in earth's hollow places, what then? If every grain of sand refused to lie on ocean's shores, what would stem the ocean's power, or stop its en- croaching waves?" "Dare, "I retorted, impetuously, " this foolish en- thusiasm of yours will subside in a month." But he made me no answer; no, that attack was too foolish for reply. With the next breath, I declared that he was going only to die away from his mother and me--that he DARE FAIRFAX. 29 would never return-that he would be shot-would die, and be buried there. "Well!" That was all the answer he made me; and that was still patient and tenderly tolerant. "Well!"I retorted, repeating his own word with the privileged irritability of an invalid. "Why should you feel it incumbent on you to go to the help of a people who are nothing to you?" "Nothing, Allie " "Don't mimic. me, Dare," I returned, crying now. "They are nothing to you, and you know it, for you don't know one of them; and if you fall among them there's not a man would say more than 'poor fellow.' They are only a whole people, and no one among them is looking for you." An instant, his blue eyes met mine, more sadly than usual; then, as if looking far away, he only said- - "She is there, Allie." "Isabel!"I cried, rebuked. "O Dare, I had for- gotten her. But she will come back; you know, she wrote that she would." He looked at me pityingly indeed then, and lean- ing forward, that his mother, who was quietly weep- ing across the room, might not hear, he whispered- "Didn't you know, little Allie, that she cannot re- turn to Maryland now?" "Cannot?" ' page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 30 DARE FAIRFAX. "No, Allie, she cannot. They are now somewhere in Virginia, having tomne up from the far South, with the. intention of making them a home again near Darnleigh; but Mr. Darrnleigh's strength is so rapidly failing that they have been obliged to take a resi- dence, temporarily, of course, until such time as they may be permitted to cross the military lines." "Oh, my poor, poor Isabel!" 3Bearing up against sickness; even facing death, it might be, all among strangers! I sobbed, it may have been as much from weakness and self-pity at my own loss of her, as anything else. I only know I cried so bitterly that Dare's hand closed firmly on mine, as if with a desire to give me some of his strength. "DQn't; Allie," he said, "you must comfort my poor mother when I am gone. I leave her to you, remember. If you grieve, it will only add to her sorrow. Comfort her for me, Allie." He smoothed my hair away from my tear-stained face, as a mother might have done from her little child's, and quietly kissed me on the forehead. Yes, he was going then. He took his mother in his arms, murmuring many a tender farewell. He kissed her as we kiss those we never even hope to see again. He did not hope then, I think, for anything. Perhaps he did-to meet Isabel Darnleigh again, - satisfied, he thought, if he lay, when some battle DARE FAIRFAX. 31 was over, so still that no impulse could move him, if only she came to look into his eyes, and they, though open, not seeing her. "Never" would surely be ended then. Would a tear of her sweet woe baptize him then for his grave? Would a touch of her hand anoint him for death? Would one, only one kiss from her lips seal him for the angels' knowledge, when they gathered their harvests from the awful fields of the South? Poor Dare! --poor, brave, enduring Dare! Strain your dim eyes after him in the darkness, sad mother: when next he comes, other hands shall bear him; not his own brave steed. When his eyes, going from you, turn again -to look, they will turn from the hills of Paradise; and tears in them now shall have been wiped away. His "never" will be over then. page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] CHAPTER V. AFTER a period of ten years I am telling the sim- ple narrative of events, not as they affected persons or peoples not mentioned here; but as they touched the lives of few. I witnessed few of the scenes; nei- ther did I know, at the time they transpired, of many of the circumstances; but the recital of them. came to me from hands I shall touch no more; or from lips that will be dumb evermore to all love's kisses. Some were told me by other lips, perfect as a sculptor's ideal, but false, - false to her and to me. Only to her? - only to me? Lillian! Lillian! white lily, pure, and rare, and broken, well is it that your true eyes are shut from looking, and your sweet heart from listening in the gloamfing, in the midnight, and in the desolate dawn, for steps that can only go now to your grave. Aye! where your dear eyes are shut in from their ceaseless gaze by the cool brown hand of old earth, and God has gathered your yearning feet from their tireless "Going to meet him,"-there, it may be, I will dare to pray, "God, be' merciful and forgive him!" How -.n I sit in this room and write what I am writing? in this room, and hear his footsteps going DARE FAIRFAX. 33 over the stairs! The dear angels that come in with every sorrow, bear it for me, not on their hearts, but in their hands, to the very feet of Him, who, ages ago, " took our sicknesses and bore our infirmities." I somehow forget that I am telling the story, and come back to these last days, which, had I only known, might never have been. The events of Isabel's life, after the burning of Darnleigh Hall, were but little known to me, until all too late for reparation. Reparation! Can that ever be made for some things done under the sun? I think not. Never mind that now; One above us all will attend to that. I will try to get everything straight as I tell it, so that you may understand all things at the end. Now I must turn back to the time which followed the going away of Dare Fairfax. The home of Mrs. Fairfax, from that time, became my home. I was taken into a child's place in the life which henceforth was to have no other child, nor daughter, nor son. Among the cool mountains of Virginia, by her healthful springs and under her invigorating winds, the blind and enfeebled father and the devoted daughter wandered through these summer months; but strength came no more to the invalid; and the rose-tint on the check of his child was fading. The old cavalier spirit awake in the land, swept so wildly up her valleys, that Mr. Darnleigh, sight- less to the brave faces and iron arms, grew timorous 2* page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] of the march of their thousands and the battle-blasts of their whirlwind charges. Another was there, too, provoking inquiry, among the Virginia hills. To whom belonged those wondrous powers of attraction, almost of fascination? Was he a son of the Maryland invalid, to whose comfort he so often gave his hours? Was such delicate, yet constant and respectful, atten- tion given by a brother to the elegant Miss Darn- leigh? It was the same face Dare saw following him through fire and smoke to the rescue, at the burning of Darnleigh Hall,-the same triumphant eyes that met Dare's at sunrise, across those fallen, columns and ruined walls. Though the travellers had tarried but little time in cities, yet it had been noticed by some, curious enough to examine, that a Lynchburg hotel register bore underneath the name of "Graham Darnleigh and daughter," one, written with many a rich curve and delicate line, that of "Max Upvergne, Alabama." The gossips gossipped; the curious made inquiries, and the politely imaginative wondered quietly what tie bound the handsome stranger, with his band- aged arm, to the failing old gentleman and his lovely child. Alas! the tie was known too well to two, at least, of the three. What the .fther guessed, or even hoped, I know not. Surely he did know, daily, that he was slowly going away from the sound of wars, and the roar of battles, into everlasting rest. If in his-age he clung to the youth of this brilliant man,-if in his weakness he leaned on the strength of this pleasant stranger, loving him next to his child, who shall wonder? When the first clarion notes called the land to battle, Max Upvergne, with the eager speed of an enthusiast, had ridden from his native Alabama to enroll his name in the columns later years mlade immortal by deathless deeds. It mnay have been that remembrances of that night of fire, during a previous sojourn on the Maryland side, a memory of eyes that looked unutterable confidence and gratitude, amid the ghastly ruins of her home, had some strange power to woo him to those fields of danger nearest her. In one of the first engagements, Max Upvergne had been severely wounded. Long weeks in a hos- pital left him with an almost useless arm, still band- aged, and unfit for service. He determined to recover strength, if possible, in the more invigorating climate of the "Mother State," rather than return to his own. Thus it seemed that chance brought together this son of Alabama and the fair daughter of Mary- land. I think it was God who did it, to work through her love the discipline her life needed to make it beautiful. Some who will not go to Himl joyfully over sunny ways, lie leads to Himself over bitter paths, and "through the flood, on foot." For the sake of the cause to which Max Upvergne page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] 36 DARE FAIRFAX. had in the spring-time dedicated his life and fortune I would gladly write that he regretted his uselessness for action. But it is only necessary to say that-almost without a contrary desire, he attached himself to the invalid, mnaking his presence both useful and pleasant, with but little effort. Could the father's blind eyes, as they turned to the cheerful voice, ever ready with legend or news, have seen the face so near him, I think that, old as he was in the study of men and character, he might have led her out of the path of the giant gloom rolling blackly up the future to meet her. As for Isabel, she seemed standing on some beauti- ful eminence, with the sweet, fresh dawnlight stream- ing over the hills, baptizing brow and cheeks with tenderest flush. Soon the dawn brightened into sun- light, the radiance of which kept the lids drooping over conscious eyes, and ripened the beautiful lips for their first sacrament of love. When I would cry low to myself, thinking of my own loveless living, somehow, a sad face, that smiles while weeping over the grave of its past, comes close to mine, and instead of selfish plaining I cry, "Isa- bel, my Isabel!" In that autumn of Sixty-one, Dare Fairfax and Isabel Darnleigh met again,-Isabel a little paler than dur- ing the old days at Darnleigh and Faillands, but with a shy happiness of manner, notwithstanding the tem- pest of events glooming the public mind. In the DARE FAIRFAlX. :37 smile of Dare the old sunlight was dead, aye! dead; but its spirit lay around his lips, more sternly set, and shone in the blue eyes, looking evenly in the hard face of duty. Isabel's eyes seemed ever turning to some unseen shrine, to offer there their worshpful light. Dare looked with prophetic gaze to that May of Sixty-four, seeing, with the mournful ken of a Jeremiah, the grim horrors trooping to their fearful bivouac in the twi- light of the "Wilderness." Dare Fairfax said to Isabel, while his hand held hers, lingeringly, and his lips grew bloodless-- "Isabel, don't love Max Upvergne." Isabel Darnleigh's eyelids, momentarily falling, lifted again; and looking into his face, while her regal head seemed worthy of a crown, she said: "Be silent, Dare. I allow no one to dictate there." "Isabel," lie repeated, in a voice expressive of ex- traordinary efforts for self-control, "Isabel, I ask nothing for my own sake. I shall never mention self to you again, knowing' that I am nothing to you ;---but, Isabel, for your own sake, don't let your- self love this Max Upvergne." Isabel Darnleigh wrung her hand from his and turned quickly away. Her cheeks were crimson, and her lips compressed angrily. Dare turned as hastily the other way, with hot tears spriingig to his eyes, the bitterness of love unreturned and pride wounded page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] \u7ina am' SZ1WAX. urging his movements. He vaulted to his saddle; his hand gathered the reins from his horse's neck, when Isabel's voice, broken and penitent, murmured at his side- "Dare, you are going away, -I was proud and re- sentful ; won't you forgive me?" Which face seemed noblest then could scarcely have been told,-one so beautiful and humble, the other so wounded and loving. Dare Fairfax never touched the slender hands which reached up to him; but leaning down fromr his horse, he took the tender, earnest face between his palms, and said-- "Forgive me, Isabel. God knows what is best. I do not. Let Him decide for you and it will be right." Scarce venturing,--half afraid, Dare reverently leaned down to that lifted face and touched the forehead with his lips. It was well Isabel had said, "Dare, forgive me;" well that he had left the seal of his forgiveness on her brow; for if she should call through many a twilight for pardon, only the war-hewn woods and desolate fields would answer her. He went, and she turned back to her duty and memory. How hopes glowing and beautiful came trooping to meet her, shutting out memory's words, many a woman's heart knows. How, listening for another footstep, the echo of Dare's was forgotten; how, hearing another's voice, saying, if not in words, DARE FAIRFAX. 39 in tones and accents, "Isabel, love me," she was deaf to his last sad iteration, "Isabel, don't love him." Ah! she even forgot the sublime self-abnegation of poor Dare, as he said-- "God knows what is best. Let Him decide for youn." She even forgot, that night when she kneeled down, to ask the Omniscient to decide for her. She did beg His blessing on Dare, that he might be shielded from pain and death. She prayed, too, that if it was wrong to love this one, so true and good to her poor father; if He who knew best willed it, that He would quickly put their lives asunder-quickly, before the bond grew stronger. Who that' ever prayed does not know that God does not answer prayer always in our way nor at our time? page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] 40 DARE FAIRFAX. CHAPTER VI. ON a slope of the Blue Ridge, vocal with the music of streamlets, and solemn with the shade of old forest- trees, lay a quaint old-fashioned house. Centuries old it may have been; but so garlanded with woodbine, and woven about with the gorgeous beauty of the Virginia creeper, that no deformity or decay was visible. Beds of mignonette grew under the small, low windows, across which artistic hands had drawn folds of delicate drapery; roses, sweet and wild, climbed over the little porch; and, within sight of the doorway, a cool spring bubbled up over mossy stones, to scamper away, with low ripples of musical laughter, between gray rocks and trailing grasses. A great boulder overhung the little spring on one side, and, leaning against its brown mosses, strewn with the red leaves of late September, stood a man, dark-bearded and brown-eyed; tall, strong, and grace- ful. Iis brown eyes were searching with eager glances the face of the girl by his side. Hers was the samne face I had fronted that March night before, in the red arm-chair at Darnleigh; the same face that had grown solemn and tender while she said, "Over the waters of Death into the Beyond; " the same DARE FAIRFAX. 41 face Dare Fairfax saw, that night of fire, lying, pal- lid and helpless, on the breast of the man who stood now at her side. This, then, was Max Upvergnc, and she was Isabel Darnleigh! To this quiet mountain-side had Graham Darnleigh and his daughter come. The quaint old place was eagerly taken; and they established themselves with two faithful negro-servants, until a time, perchance, might come, when they could cross into their own loved land. Blind and infirm, it was most probable that the father would cross a darker river, into a bet- ter land, when he moved next. That he knew it, was evinced by the misty, yearning eyes, which, though not seeing her, followed her as she went about their cheerful home; or when, in the dusk of evening, she satng to him of the "Beautiful Vale of Rest." She knew he would leave her soon; it could be seen by the tireless hands, that soothed and served him; as well as in the quivering lip with which she talked of the "Shining Shore," and the "Other Side!" At a little mountain hotel, up on a spur of the Blue Ridge, Max Upvergne, with his still helpless right arm, had taken rooms and stall, for time indefi- nite. In the mornings, he brought to the sufferer trout from the streams, to tempt his appetite- or a rare plant for talk and discussion. In the evenings, his pleasantly attuned voice read some page of rich literature, till the lines of pain grew soft about the page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 DARE FAIRFAX. old face, and, for a time, all traces of pain van- ished. Now, while the glow of sunset blushed across the brow of the storm, which half an hour before had swept over the hills, and down in the wet valleys,; while behind them rolled the tempest, muttering low in its nearly spent wrath; while the western sky faced them, broad, calm, and glittering with starry splendors; Isabel wondered, with lifted brow and beating heart, if the future would face her life, serene as that blue glory stretching across the west. She had heard Max LUpvergne declare the time to be drawing near, when the call to arms must be an- swered by his presence in the ranks. Sure and resist- less, the certainty crept into her heart, that with his coming, an earnestness, and strength, and sweetness, before unknown, had come into her life; and that when he was gone, something very close and dear must be broken away from it. Southward and eastward swept the rumbling wheels of the tempest. Westward she looked, with eyes whose lids drooped with the consciousness of other eyes searching them; with cheeks deepening rosy red, and lips that faltered on common-place words. There was a hushed moment, when the maple-leaves floated down, crimson and yellow, and lay in the lap of the silvery spring; when an acorn dropped, silent and quick, into the gray moss at Max Upvergne's elbow; a moment when her heart stood DARE FAIRFAX. 43 still, and the pulses in her finger-ends seemed throb- bing in her ears. A hand was laid on hers-a hand, eager and warm with passion intense; brown eyes, like bronze splendors, under the glory of the western hills, drew nearer hers, till the bearded face almost touched her own. Then the stars themselves seemed shouting for joy, the September wind whispering its evening prayers, and the very hills solemn with her own strange, exquisite delight. The lips drawn near her own had said, "Isabel, I love you." Seraphs burning her brow with their fiery gaze would not have burned off the touch of his lips, nor dimmed the sudden tenderness leaping into her eyes. Isabel, you will be mine some day, won't you?- my wife; mine, all and only." "Some day," faltered the tender voice. "You shall know all you wish of me and mine. You shall make me what you will; your pure hand in mine shall lead me to a nobler life and a better man- hood. Will you trust me?" "Always," was the brave answer, given in firm, low accents. Shadows in the west grew deeper; the wind swept fresher along the hillsides; still Isabel Darn- leigh's hand lay, held tightly, in Max Upvergne's. All that ever was hard in the man's face had sud- denly grown tender; all that had been untrue had page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " DARE FAIRFAX. grown true, and the impure in his nature struggled to whiter heights than ever before. Again, when there was no sound but the startled beating of excited hearts, Max Upvergne's voice broke the stillness. There was a jarring of selfishness in its very tenderness. "Isabel, am I first in your heart? Have you ever loved another before me " "Never." "Never," was the sweet echo, that made him cover his own face with her hands. It burned hotly against their soft fairness; his voice seemed struggling to ar- ticulate, but remained silent. Then, with a strong effort, he only said- "Shall I tell you now about myself,-about my past ." "Nothing now," whispered Isabel. "Do I not trust you? Some time you may tell me of your home, if you will, and of those you love,-nothing else, unless you wish it." "My home, I have told you, is in old Alabama. I love none scarcely now, but you, my darling. Some of these days you shall know all about us. Nothing that affects me shall be kept from you. You shall teach me and lead me as you will." "No, no. I must be taught. I am only a child in the ways of the world. Tell me all you know of good; teach me all you know that is true and sweet; and, oh! if there has been aught in your past life not DARE FAIRFAX. 45 true, never, never tell me, Max. Build up a beauti- ful fiture, fair and great, and I will never fail you.' Isabel Darnleigh's face looked almost holy in the twilight, lifting its glance to the magnetic face above it. If ever the angels who fenced Max UIpvergne's life about were glad, they looked then at each other with joy shining in their holy eyes. He was reach- ing, with purest intent, after clean hands to clasp, and following after innocent footsteps. The waters of the spring trembled; the tiny stream sang between the rocks, and the wind considerately whispered to the restless leaves, while lips met in tender kisses, and hearts beat wild against each other. Then, there was a parting; Max Upvergne to go over the hill to the little summer hotel beyond the glen and the wood, Isabel to go in and watch the white hairs and wan fice of him who henceforth must share her heartiwith another. Something glittered at her feet as she turned slowly from the mossy spring to re-enter her home. ' How the little pools of water shine in the moon- light;" she murmured, and stepped over it toward the flowery porch. A swift gust of wind lifted the hair from her flushed forehead, and looking upward she saw the crescent moon swept over by frowning clouds return- ing westward,-the whole heavens growing black with storm. page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] " DARE FAIRFAX. That night, long after the hills had grown silent, the trees standing breathless after their struggles, and the brawling streams had quieted, Isabel sat by her father's pillow. Tears bedewed the blushes on her cheek, as she stooped to kiss him as he slept. With a tender light coming into her eyes, like holy watchers she drew softly away again. She could not bear to kiss away the touch of Max's lips on hers so soon. "Nso, no," she whispered to her own heart, while the rosy color swept over her beautiful forehead and delicate throat, "let them sleep on mv mouth for one night, and hereafter make my whole life fragrant with their sweetness. Thou wilt not miss mine, dear slumberer, and to me they are so much!" Isabel's dreams that night were of a matchless face and wonderful eyes that searched all her heart; of hands that drew her after theni over the earth, and of arms that held her close, though all the world lav be- tween them. With the dawn she awakened, startled with her new joy, and happy. Beforle the sun had lighted anything but the hill-tops, she trod the little pathway to the spring. Her heart beat wildly to stand there again. The spring seemed to know her secret, and the wind touched her conscious cheek with playful congratulations, while'every leaf seemed eloquent with the wonderfil words that throbbed and thrilled through her heart, "Isabel, I love you." Something gleaming lay on the mossy stone where DARE FAIRFAX. 47 she and Max Upvergne had stood the night before; just where she had thought the moonlight shone in a pool of water, as she stepped over it going home. It was a little carved locket, enamelled and jewelled quaintly, that lay glittering in the morning sunlight. Turning it over with curious fingers, it opened sud- denly, as though a spring had been inadvertently touched, and--what was it lay in her open palm? Her hand grew cold to hold it; her lips, a moment before murmuring what Max had said, only last night, grew tremulous and powerless. Again and again she looked, as it were, pressing her gaze, intent and sick- ening with fear, on the picture that lay between those diamond-studded lids. A sweet, wild-rose face it was, with dainty throat and lily brow; eyes like the eyes of a fawn, and a mouth of laughing sweetness. Golden waves of hair floated around the delicate temples and over the drooping shoulders. While Isabel looked, and her cheek paled, a foot- fall was at her side, and a warm, firm hand closed over hers that held the locket. The wild tears rushed to her eyes, and, like a grieved child whose heart could not bear its trouble, she lifted her pitiful face, with a little sharp, pained cry: "Oh, Max!" She did not see the troubled confusion of his countenance, that struggled through the tenderness of his tones. He had drawn her face to his breast, still page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 -DARE FAIRFAX. holding her hand, which enclasped the miniature, tightly in his own. "Isabel, are you afraid of that? What do you think of me?" k "Oh, -Max! Max! I did-I do trust you, but this-" Max Upvergne was not proof against the pathos of that voice; nor was he quite prepared to be called on for an answer. Finding he had lost the little locket, he had risen early and walked over, thinking to regain it before any one was stirring at Cliffside. To find it in her hands took from him his self-control, in a meas- ure; at least his present assurance and ease. Waiting till there was silence, save for hushed breathings, he asked, with tender reproach, "Isabel, are you trusting me really Will you not believe me, darling, when I tell you this is my own sister?" "Oh, Max, I thought-- "Think no more then, my own, unless you think of this as one who will love you dearly for my sake, some of these days." "Your own sweet sister!" Isabel's eyes searched his face for likeness of one lineament to the delicate lily-like beauty of the pic- ture. ",No, Isabel, there is no likeness between us," he answered, interpreting her questioning gaze. " No, Miax, none.. It is a lovely face-too lovely." DARE, FAIRFAX. 49 "Do you know, my lady, that is not compliment- ary to me,-' lovely,' yet 'no likeness' to me. Eh " His effort at humor brought the happy smiles back to Isabel's eyes. Lifting them to his face, she said, with a tender, penitent manner, "Forgive me, Max. I was only childish,-not doubt- ing. I was afraid a little-" Don't ever be afraid, my darling, my darling." The sunlight stole lower yet, glancing down the mountain-side, and bending over the tree-tops, to lighten up the marvellous face of Max Upvergne; bringing the amber tints to his brown eyes, and bronzing the clustering masses of hair that swept around his white temples. "Isabel, don't ever be afraid again of anything but doubting me. I have found you, my one ideal,-all that I ever dreamed of or yearned for in woman. Would that my past had been as pure as you shall make my future." "Not I, Max! I cannot. You must do it, God helping you," whispered Isabel, awed and happy. "You, my darling, you ;" murmured Max Upvergne, holding her close to his heart, and laying his cheek against her pure forehead. "I will all I can, Max, only I am afraid- "Afraid again, my darling?-of what That you do not love me half enough?" "Oh, Max! not that. I shall love you too much; that is all. I am afraid you will come between me 3 page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 DARE FAIRFAX. and God. I kneel down to pray, and your hands seen holding mine when I put them together. I shut my eyes to all but the angels, and I only see your face; I say the words of prayer, and-and-- "What, my darling?"- asked Max Upvergne in quivering accents. "Can you not pray for me? Always pray for me, little one." "I do, I do; but while I pray to God, you come into my thoughts, and I forget Him. Suppose He should part us for my sinfulness?" Max Upvergne lifted the timid, serious face between his palms, and while he reverently kissed her lips, he solemnly said, "Would God I had your innocent record to my life,-your pure heart in my breast! Isabel," he con- tinued, shaken with a terrible passion, "if I ever prove false to the trust you put in me, may the thun- ders of God smite me where I stand." "Don'tl don't, Max!" Isabel Darnleigh's face blanched at the awful words, and her proud head, so regal to all others, was pressed to his breast, as if to avert the wrath invoked. "There, there, my beloved, I am rude. You must make me gentle, like yourself:" He was gone. Without being conscious of doing so, she had relinquished the miniature into his hand, when she had meant to ask him to let her keep it for a little while, for sake of the sister he had promised her she should some day know. DARE FAIRFAX. 51 He was gone, and she felt more than ever afraid, as she returned to her room, and knelt down to her morning prayers. How should she ever help him? He was not a Christian, she felt, with a great pang. Could she hope to lead him to the light? Dare she wed one who owned not God save as a power-not as a Saviour? It was the dawning of her trial-hour, coming on faster than the day over the hills. "God help me!" she prayed then, loving and trust- ing one of earth's human idols. Ah! she was to pray that prayer, when all help but the Divine should fail her. page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 52 DARE FAIRFAX. CHAPTER VII. FOR one short hour, and for the last time, we will look away from Cliffside to the home we saw in that past March, lying under the Alabama sun. Flowers in even wilder luxuriance burden the air with subtle aromas; while birds, brilliant and tuneful, make gor- geous the greenery of nature. Where now is the singer of that spring-time past? The low windows are open, but she is not there; trees wave softly in the evening wind, but she wan- ders not under them; happy negroes laugh and scamper at play among the clustering flowers, but they run not at sound of her voice; older and graver ones go about their daily duties with lazy content- ment, but no light step of hers makes merry surprise behind them. Before the spacious entrance stands a carriage, equipped for travelling. The strong but light-limbed horses paw the earth restlessly, and are only restrained by the united caresses and strength of the driver, who, while he strokes their glossy necks, maintains a firm grasp at the bits. Cushions are carefully arranged inside as if for the accommodation of an invalid; DARE FAIRFAX. 53 needless shawls, too, are tossed in to meet emergen- cies, should they arise. Standing where last we saw Lillian sitting, herself the brightest among her flowers, is a man of thirty- eight or forty years; a man, dark-eyed, dark-bearded, and bronzed with sun and wind. It is a stern, -strong, good face he bears; one a woman would trust and a man respect; one we in a crowd would turn and look at involuntarily, glad, somehow, that that grand head and those true eyes were near us; one that must be looked at anywhere, for among a thou- sand lie would have towered, in kingly unconscious- ness, a head above the heads of others. Now, as if waiting, he stands there, not meditating, but thinking quickly and to a purpose, as if it was necessary to think. Changing emotions swept over his ftce; bitterness,-almost hatred,--a still powerful wrath flamed to nearly white heat in his steel-gray eyes. Iis lips scarcely unclosing, strongly articu- lated "Curse him." A woman's voice called gently from within: "Rolfe, we are ready." Turning quickly toward the voice, he asked, "Is everything arranged, Elinor?" "Everything, brother, as far as it is possible to do so at present." "You are sure your servants are all faithful?" "Quite, Rolfe. They are devoted creatures, and I grieve to leave them even temporarily. Any further page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] 54 DARE FAIRFAX. arrangements which may be necessary I can write about to my agent here. He will be as kind to them as even I could ask. I know him to be an hon- est man and a Christian, or I would not have trusted them to his management." "Then you have taken leave of all, Elinor?" "Yes, brother, I have just come from seeing them all. It was so hard not to let them all come to see us off, but I begged them not to do so, for poor Lillian could never have stood the excitement of their boisterous sorrow." "Poor Lillian!" He said it softly, but over his face swept the same dark bitterness that had made it wrathful when he had uttered so deeply, "Curse him." "Is she ready, Elinor?" "Yes; she is lying on the lounge in the library and Molly is with her. Let us go to her." With a face full of yearning tenderness, Mrs. Hope beckoned to her brother, and turned toward the library. Pushing open the half-closed door, she en- tered; and he on the threshold heard no sound of voices for a full minute. Then it was only the moth- ers tones, tearful and trembling: "Lillian, my lamb, my darling, we are ready." "Oh, mamma!" was the little heart-breaking cry that answered her. "My child, we must be going. Uncle Rolfe is waiting to put you in the carriage." DARE FAIRFAX. 55 "Going, mamma! Suppose he should come2 " The faint, sick voice was full of unspeakable en- treaty. "Then, darling, if he comes we will meet him. You often go to meet him; this may be the last time." "Yes, it may be the last time; let me go to meet him." This was all the note of the spring-time singer. He who had stopped to hear the plaint of those girl- ish tones, went in, and saw a fair creature lying on cushions in utter abandonment of weakness and sor- row. Her young head was resting wearily on one arm, and a middle-aged negress sat beside her smooth- ing one thiA pearly hand, and stroking gently the waves of her sunny hair. That was the happy singer of that past March morning; but her singing was done, and the fair gold of her floating hair looked like a halo around an angel's face. Pale and dreamy now was the counte- nance that bloomed once like the wild rose; still lovely indeed, but so frail, with its yearning blue eyes, and the delicate veins wandering on the temples. "My darling, do not repine," said the widow's voice, broken, but comforting. "Tie who lets not a sparrow fall without His knowledge, has your be- loved in His holy keeping. If he never comes again, my lamb, God knows where he is." "Yes, mamma, God knows." page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] 56 DARE FAIRFAX. It was a dreary acquiescence; but the young head lifted not; nor one thin hand moved from its clasp on the other. "We must go, Lillian." Looking up now, with'a faint sweet smile, Lillian Hope said, "Yes, God knows all about it. He said he would come; so I'll go to meet him again. Let me go, mamma." The slight form was lifted in powerful arms,-lifted as if she had been an infant, and Rolfe Ingraham's face, stern and bitter a moment before, bowed down to the lily face lying against his breast, while his countenance grew tender as a woman's. Almost with reverence, he touched his lips to the girl's fore- head and carried her out to the great easy carriage. "Get in quickly, Elinor," was all he said. In a moment Mrs. Hope had taken her place, and soon received from his arms her half-fainting daughter. "Oh, Rolfe, if this journey should prove too much!" The sorrowing ejaculation was almost more of an entreaty forhope than an exclamation of doubt. "Eling, it is certainly the best of two alternatives. Here she cannot recover; there, with change of place and associations, she may. Sister, do not set your heart on any one thing, to pray for it now; God, in His wisdom, may deny it you." DARE FAIRFAX. 57 His grave goodness strengthened her; but her tear- ful eyes were bowed over the pure pale face on her bosom, as her lips faltered, "I try, Rolfe-I do try to leave all to Him; but- my darling, my darling! O brother, do not blame my weakness, for she is all I have. You are good and true as brother can be to me; but she is my one ewe-lamb." The mother's tears fell fast on the unconscious face of her child, and Rolfe Ingraham turned to shake hands with two or three house-servants who stood behind him. One was an old man bent at right angles,. walking with a cane in each hand. His work for all lifetime was over, and his white wool covered a head all lovbd and respected. Rolfe Ingrahar entered the carriage, the driver gathered the reins and sprang to his place, and Lillian rode out under the last sunset she would ever see in the skies of Alabama. "Good-bye, Miss Lillian. May de Lord bless and bring you home again." It was Molly's last good-bye, and she said it sob- bing, as the carriage rolled from sight. "You's a fool, Molly. De good Lo'd knows bet- ter'n you, nigger. He nebber bring Miss Lill'yun back to ole Yallabammy. No, no, de great Massa Lo'd aint gwine fo' to do it." The old darkey shook his head with prophetic sad- ness, and wiped his eyes with his red bandanna. His 3* page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 58 DARE FAIRFAX. thin hands shook on his canes, and his toothless mouth quivered spasmodically. "How does you know, Uncle Zekel, what the Lord's a gwine to do? She's His own, sure; an' He does what he pleases wid His own, widout axin' you.' Molly retorted indignantly, though her respect was great for the old fellow, who had hobbled up from his cheerful little cabin, to see the last of his mistress and her daughter. "How does I know, Molly? Chile, dis ole nigger knows often what's a comin', an' what aint. I knows Massa Lo'd aint gwine to keep po' Miss Lill'yun waitin' fo' what nebber come." "Now, Zekel, does you perteprl you knows Miss Lillian's 'tended nebber come no more? Likely, aint it, dat if he's libin' he stay 'way for good an' eber!" "I tell you, Molly, its mo' likely dat de bressed Lo'd come fo' Miss Lill'yun dan dat chap. He too hansom' not to be fool. He look too much to de wanity ob de worl' to see angels wen dey come 'fo' him. My 'pinion is, Miss Lill'yun's gwine to meet de Lo'd, she is. Her little feet mos' don' totin out to meet dus' an' ashes. Dus' an' ashes done boderin her; but de Lo'd's on de way. Bress God, de Lo'd's on de way." Old Zekiel mopped his dim old eyes with his gay handkerchief, and Molly covered her sympathetic face with her blue cotton apron. DARE FAIRFAX. 59 "To think how she used to laf an' sing! O my-- O my!" Molly sobbed outright now, rocking back and forth as she stood. "Jes think, Unle Zekel, how her shinin' head darted 'bout here, like a day-time fire-fly, makin' everything else dark 'side it. Po' chile, all her singin' 's done now." "No taint, Molly," responded old Zekiel, " it may be long time 'fo' you hears her sing, but, bress de Lo'd, ole Zekel '1 hear her w'en she watches on de walls ob Zion. Ole Zeke's black and ugly 'nuff, but Miss Lill-yun '1 know 'im, an' sing right side 'im dar. Dat time won't be long fus', ne'der, Molly, if Zekel is waitin' fo',de Lo'd, while little white Missus waitin' fo' nudder chap. De -udder chap won't come, likely; but de Lo'd come anyway, an' meet bof', maybe. S My ole black feet and her little white feet, bof' tired, gwine to meet 'n; but bof' gwine de same- way, shuh,-'fo' long, too, Molly,-'fo' long." ,-? f page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] 60 DARE FAIRFAX. CHAPTER VIII. AUTUMN lingered long on the sunny slopes of the mountains, garlanding the earth with gorgeous beauty, while frost-crowns sat on her regal brow. Winter followed with jewels of glittering ice to hang on the pine-trees and engirdle the wandering stream- lets-Winter that pinched the poor, and opened our hearts to their suffering. Mrs. Fairfax and I relieved all we possibly could of the suffering around us, as well as worked for the poor fellows dragging artillery over the mountain-roads, and bivouacking in the snow and mud. We talked of Dare, almost as if we talked to him; and read the books he had loved best, and knitted, with busy fingers, warm. stockings for brave feet, marching to the trenches and to fame. Spring came and went swiftly, and it was almost Autumn again; indeed, the leaves were putting on a saddened shade, and the withering blades of grass lay sere under a September sky, when a stranger came to Fairlands, Shall I ever forget his kingly head, with its crown of slightly-frosted hair; the black beard, silver- tinted, too, the strong gray eye, and grave bearing? I said he was a stranger, but not one long, for he DARE FAIRFAX. 61 brought us news from Dare. Dare had been wound- ed and laid for weeks at his house, nursed by his sister until strong enough again to follow the white steed of his Colonel wherever brave men were needed. All the welcome we two women, Dare's mother and I, could give, we gave to Rolfe Ingraham. He had lately returned from the far South, whither he had gone to bring to his home in the Old Domin- ion, his widowed sister and her invalid daughter, and only left them now to perform for the public cause a mission that could best be served quietly and quickly. "Had he seen or heard of the Darnleighs " Our eager hearts ached for his answer. ; "No." Then there was a silent minute in which the stern brows were plaited in thought; then he told us that very near the old manor where he lived was a sweet, wild spot called Cliffside, inhabited by an invalid gentleman and his daughter, together with two or three family-servants. He had heard his sister, Mrs. Hope, speak of the frail health of the father, and the devotion of the lovely daughter to his comfort and pleasure. Yes, he did more fully remember now, he had heard his sister speak of them a day or two be- fore he left, and she had expressed her fears that the old Maryland gentleman would not survive long. Ah! it all came back to him then,-the name was Darnleigh; he remembered particularly that it was page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] 62 DARE FAIRFAX. the same name Dare had talked of so much in the delirium occasioned by his wounds,-yes, Isabel,-he recalled it all as we questioned. It was thought Mr. Darnleigh could not live long, being noiw entirely blind, and much worn with grieving about the future of his daughter when he should be gone. She could not return to her friends in Maryland, and had none on whom she could base a claim in Virginia or the more remote South. This, it was thought, more than anything else, was wearing away his little strength. Mrs. Fairfax must have thought, as love for any one will teach women to think, how Dare had loved Isa- bel; for she besought our guest to seek the Darn- leighs on his return, and, with his sister, to guard Isabel as though she were his own. "Would he influence Mrs. Hope to care for her until she could return to those who loved her so in Maryland 2" Rolfe Ingraham, no longer a stranger, promised us this. Sympathy had made us friends, and we trusted him as people in those times learned to trust; after- ward how thankful we were because of that con- fidence! Surely he who had risked so much because Dare wished him to see us, would remember the fatherless when the father was gone. We saw him go with many a prayer for his safety; not daring to endanger him with even a line for Isa- DARE FAIRFAX. 63 bel. All our full hearts could say that was tender and loving we sent her,-to Dare, should he see him, a mother's blessing, and the assurance of her prayers. Many days after that, during one wild night of storm along the Blue Ridge, Rolfe Ingraham sat in the pleasant library at the old manor. Mrs. Hope, a mild-looking woman, in black, with her hair parted away from her temples, which have grown thinner since she left her warm Alabama home, sat opposite her brother, while the bright wood-fire leaped and crackled on the hearth. Rolfe Ingraham had only returned that day from a long absence, and had been hearing from his sister the history of the long months since he left them. Apparently, he had just announced some intention, which had called forth an earnest protest from, Mrs. Iope,-very earnest, gentle as she was, for there was much decision in the lines around her delicate mouth, and in the formation of the well-set chin. "It was only yesterday, brother, I sent to inquire of Mr. Darnleigh's health, and he was much the same, only growing gradually weaker. He may last weeks, possibly, and you will have ample time in which to fulfill your kind promise." "Elinor," answered her brother firmly, "a pro- mise made months ago cannot be too quickly attended to. This is my first opportunity to keep it literally, and I must not disregard it. Should Mr. Darnleigh " e page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " DARE FAIRFAX. die before I reach him, I would not soon forgive my- self for negligence, or cease to regret my carelessness. "You are never careless, Rolfe. I am only too glad you met with friends of theirs, and have the privilege of helping them, if only by sympathy. Surely Miss Darnleigh must feel fearfully lonely with no one but her sick father and the servants. I wish so much, as you will go to-night, that I might go also. My love to Miss Darnleigh, Rolfe; tell her I will come to see her when Lillian is better; she is very feverish to-night. Be careful how you ride, Rolfe; the mountain-roads are not safe since the hard rains of late." "Yes, Elinor. Good-night; don't wait up for me; I will find this room pleasant enough when I return, if the fire does fail.' Ilounted on a sure-footed horse, Rolfe Ingraham took his way over the wooded hill to Cliffside. It was still early, for night had settled down darkly this day, weighted with wind and rain. The light that came softly through the dainty curtains of the little house had been shaded by careful hands; and a ser- vant-woman, with head wound about with the inevi- table bandanna, moved gravely to and fro. It was a very gentle knock he gave at the modest door, after securing his horse under shelter. The same turbaned head appeared, and, after asking for Miss Darnleigh, he was courtesied into a quaint artistic little parlor, and his card taken to Isabel, bearing on it the message DARE FAIRFAX. " 65 that its owner came from Maryland, and Mrs. Fairfax. Two or three minutes elapsed, and a footfall, very soft indeed, stopped at the door; then Isabel Darnleigh stood before him, with her dark hair pushed away from her face. She was very pale, save for the red- ness of bitter crying around her eyes, the lids of which were swollen and drooping, and the young forehead wore a drawn look of agony very painful to see. Rolfe Ingraham rose and said, with gravest courtesy, "Miss Darnleigh, I should feel myself an intruder in coming here to-night, did I not do so in fulfillment of a promise made Mrs. Fairfax some two months ago, while in Maryland." "An friend of Mrs. Fairfax would be gladly welcomed, even did you not also represent our kind friend, Mrs. Hope." Isabel faltered over the words, with difficulty re- straining the tide of bitter weeping. "It is great kindness for you to " Here her voice forsook her, and sinking into a chair, the hands which had grown thin with watch- ing and anxiety, went quickly up to her face, while sobs shook her whole frame. Before Rolfe Ingraham could find words in which to address her again, she spoke in a voice powerfully controlled, "Do not think me ungrateful for your' kindness or theirs; but to-night I cannot talk even of dear Mrs. Fairfax. My poor father-- " page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] " DARE FAIRFAX. Again a sob, deep and long, broke up her utterance. Rolfe Ingraham drew nearer, and with a voice of deepest sympathy said, "Can 'I do anything for you or him, Miss Darn- leigh? Command me, if possible; can I bring you a physician? My horse is fresh and strong, and would relish a jog over the mountain to-night." Slowly lifting her head, Isabel rose, saying, "that the doctor was with him, but even his skill was past availing. Would Mr. Ingraham soe him? It could not disturb him-no, nothing could, and his presence might be gratifying." Without a word he rose and followed her through an intermediate apartment into the chamber of suf- fering-if suffering could have been applied to the still form, which might have been lifeless to appear- ances, save for the faint breath which passed slowly over the white lips; and the blind eyes, which, from seeming to rest on Isabel, turned now to where Rolfe Ingraham stood. He took the hand of the dying in his, and stroked it gently; while Isabel pressed her face hard down into the pillow to stifle the bitter cry of loneliness and or- phanhood that seemed bursting from her heart. The doctor whispered to him to speak to the dying man, whose lips were moving without power of articula- tion. "I am Rolfe Ingraham, Mr. Darnleigh; what can I do for you?" DARE FAIRFAX. 67 That was all he could say, with that young, sad face lifting itself beside him, to look with swollen eyes and trembling lips on the loved one, who so soon would be shut forever fronm her sight. There was the faintest possible pressure of the feeble fingers; a gleam of intelligence shot athwart the poor, thin face, and the old blind eyes turned mean- ingly to where he knew Isabel was. Interpreting the motion, Rolfe Ingraham said, very earnestly, "Mr. Darnleigh, your child shall never want a protector while I live; and my sister, Mrs. Hope, will be all that the best of women can be to another. If you will permit it, she shall be our joint care, until, by her own 'choice, she prefers change." An expression of unutterable gratitude wandered around the poor lips that vainly tried to express satis- faction; then the sightless eyes turned to his child once more. Isabel clasped the hand that tried to reach hers, and laid her warm cheek against his, that had grown very chill. "Miss Darnleigh," said Rolfe Ingraham solemnly, while. his brown cheek flushed, and the lamp-light made the silvery tips of his dark hair glisten, "till you can communicate with other and older friends, will you elect me your guardian, and make the home of my sister and niece your home? It may comfort this dear heart going from you to know it will not leave you alone." His hand stretched out to her. A smile of ineffa- page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] 68 DARE FAIRFAX. ble peace stole over the dying face. The lips which had not spoken so long, murmured- "It is well,-all well." Then Graham Darnleigh slept his last long sleep, "after lifc's fitful fever." There was sobbing such as the lonely only make; arms stretched over the dead, and big, wild tears of sorrow wept over a pulseless heart. Then, admon- ished by the doctor, Rolfe Ingraham drew Isabel's cold hands into his, saying softly, "' lHe giveth His beloved sleep.'" Calling the devoted negro-woman, he led Isabel to her own room, and left her to her servant's affection- ate ministry; then he went back to assist in prepar- ing all that was left of Graham Darnleigh for the grave. Through the remainder of that night he sat by that empty tabernacle, where the glory of the Shekinah had lately shone. Tired and weary, he sat down to watch under the shadow of death,-to watch and commune with life in his own heart. Isabel slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion, and the negro-woman watched her. Sitting on the floor, with her hands clasped around her knees, she rocked herself. to and fro, while the broken sobs broke over the thick, ugly lips in pas- sionate moans. "Po' Miss Is'bel! De good Lo'd don' took ole massa home to He. O Lo'd, temper de win' to de DARE FAIRFAX. 69 sher'd lam'! Gib her home, good Lo'd, and Cotton wid her. Nobuddy lubs Miss Is'bel like Cotton. I'se nussed huh, an' did fo' huh, ebber sence she was wee picaninny. Take call ob hull, good Lo'd, an' make Cotton good mammy." In the gray dawn Rolfe Ingraham waked the ne- gro-man, bidding him take his horse, and bear to kMrs. Hope the message, hastily pencilled- "Come to ifiss Darnleigh ; she needs you. Her father died at ten, last night." Before the sunlight had come half-way down the hillside to the little spring, where Max and Isabel had stood more than a year before, the " manor carriage " drove quietly to Cliffside, bringing Mrs. Hope. When at last Isabel awoke, it was to find her kind face beside her, while the gentle fingers smoothed the dishevelled hair away from her aching temples. Delicate thoughtfulness, and quiet, unobtrusive care, kept from Isabel all knowledge of, or participa- tion in, the preparations for the funeral. Mrs. Hope stayed with her, and Rolfe Ingraham with rare tact as- sumed the superintendence of all preparation for the sad ceremonials of interment. After two more days of such silence as God only can speak through, it was all over. The minister had said- "Though worms destroy this skin, yet in my flesh shall I see God." With the rattling clods had been pronounced the solemn iteration, "Dust to dust, and ashes to ashes." page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 DARE FAIRFAX. At the new grave-head in the old manor graveyard a stone was reared, upon which was cut the beautiful words of divine inspiration, "THS MORTAL SHALL PUT ON IMMORTALITY."5 The servants were sent to the manor, and Cliffside was closed. Isabel went home with Mrs. Hope and Rolfe Ingraham, thus tacitly accepting their protec- tion. Where the old chain broke, new links were forged goldenly; where the old wine was spilled, the new rich elixir flowed in, cheering and strengthen- ing. DARE FAIRFAX. 71 CHAPTER IX. WITH a brave will Isabel strove for resignation, and with her sore heart sought for peace. After a few days of quiet and rest, she came naturally into the pleasant ways of the little family. Lillian, from indisposition, had not left her apartments since Isa- bel's appearance among them, consequently they had not yet seen each other. Waking early one soft morning when the sun was sending golden arrows athwart the stately pines, and turning to fire the scarlet leaves yet swinging from the nearly denuded boughs of maples and oaks, she knelt down to her morning prayers. From her grateful heart, following the words of praise for mercies past, arose the earnest plea for blessings on the friends raised up to her in her loneliness-blessings on the brave heart that had promised her the protection of his strength and home, on the gentle woman who had bestowed upon her a mother's care and kindness, and a yearning desire for the affection of the young crea- ture whom she had not yet seen--fragile, tender Lillian. Isabel had scarcely risen from her knees, when on the bright morning air stole a wailing music. Now, page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] harp-notes alone throbbed a low prelude, then, min- gling and mounting, rose an exquisite voice, breathing the supreme sorrow of "The long, long, weary day." So soon to be singing that! It could never be Mrs. Hope; no, it was a young voice, though so sad. Isabel stole softly down the wide stairway to the drawing-room door; so softly, that though the door was partly open, the singer was not disturbed. A window facing the east was thrown open, and all the room flooded with the glory of the newly-risen sun. With her shining hair afloat, and her fair face, pale and sweet, fronting the eastern valleys, stood a young girl. Scarcely more than a child she seemed, for surely more than seventeen summer-times had not touched with their ripe kisses her tender forehead. This, then, must be Lillian Hope, the daughter of Rolfe Ingraham's widowed sister. Still the wild strain rolled on,- "Alas! if land or sea Had parted him. from me: I would not these sad tears be weeping; But hope he'd come once more, And love me as before, And say, "Cease weeping, Thy lone watch keeping." "But he is dead and gone! Whose heart was mine alone: And now for him I'm ever weeping; DARE FAIRFAX. 73 His face I ne'er shall see, And naught is left to me But bitter weeping, My lone watch keeping!" As the last words died away on the singer's lips, her head turned slightly, revealing nearly the whole face. Something cold and faint crept from Isabel Darnleigh's heart to her cheek as she looked, quell- ing the little color that days and nights of watching had left her. Why, she could not tell, but the same sickening fear which had stolen over her, when, at the spring-side, she had gazed on the picture of iMax Upvergne's sister, came back now, as she looked on this face, listening to its plaintive singing. Where had' that vision arisen before? Had those features come in dreams to her? HHad they been among the vague unrealities that saddened her vigils b3: her father's pillow? Long after the song had wailed itself to silence, Isabel stood there with her forehead leaning against the door, her queenly head bowed under its coronal of dusky hair, and her deep mourning dress sweeping around her. Where was Max during the long weeks in which no word had come from him? Where, in the wild thea- tre of blood, he then rode, she dared not think. If - "Into the valley of death" the unstabled steeds of war had resistlessly swept him, "God keep him,-God help her!" That was all her prayer. 4 page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 DARE FAIRFAX. Why did the singer by that east window bring tor- turing thoughts of Max Upvergne? Ah! she had few thoughts of him that were not torturing. If the memory of his caresses swept rosy delight over her face; creeping after was the wild fear that they would some day grow cold and leave her. If the relmem- brance of the oath he had sworn to her came sol- emnly across her heart, it sunk leaden-like with awe. There was a step beside her; a hand extended in respectful sympathy; a voice said, cheerfully, "Good-morning, Miss Darnleigh." Isabel, startled, looked up to see the courtly and kind Rolfe Ingraham. Before she could well reply, he set the drawing-room door wide open, saying, "Let me make you acquainted with my niece, Miss Darnleigh. This is Lillian Hope. Lillian, I trust you will learn to know and love Miss Darnleigh, for we know not how soon jealous friends. may cheat us of her society." Lillian Hope turned winningly to the sable-robed stranger, and, taking both hands, kissed her on both cheeks, saying, innocently, "If you will only let me love you! If you only won't go away, Miss Darnleigh." The bright drops welled to Isabel's eyes, but, with a strong effort at control, she replied, "Your sweet music drew me down so early that I am afraid I am encroaching on an hour you would prefer to have unshared." DARE FAIRFAX. [ , "Ah! no, Miss Darnleigh, I love to have you down. I was very glad yesterday, when mamma told me I might see you to-day. I am always here early to wait for him. He said he would come when I was not expecting him, and take me by surprise; but," she rejoined archly, "I am seldom off guard, and I think he'll be here directly." This was said with much composure of manner, and much sweetness of the lovely, delicate face. Isa. bel thought for the first moment that Rolfe was the one meant, and turned an expressive glance toward him; but as Lillian concluded her remark, she noticed the look of pain that shadowed his face. One glance, that might have meant much had it been put in words, Rolfe Ingraham turned on Isabel; somehow it established an understanding on that subject, and others were immediately introduced. They talked of the beauty of the sunrise; the rimy fields and nutting-grounds; the prospect from such an eminence; the way such a road went; until Mrs. Hope's cheerful "Good-morning" was heard among them. She kissed Lillian and then Isabel; had a fewl words of tender congratulation to them- selves for having her down among them. Then there were a few little home matters, about which some minutes' talk with Rolfe ensued, leaving Lillian and Isabel to entertain each other. The breakfast-bell rang out its pleasant call of merry hospitality, and Rolfe Ingraham, with some- page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 DARE FAIRFAX. thing of the old knightly courtesy, handed Isabel into the cosy morning-room, where breakfast was always served at the manor. Lillian and Mrs. Hope followed. There was a reverential pause, and with bowed heads a few words were uttered by the host invoking the Divine blessing. A subdued cheerfulness prevailed, for each was careful that not even a sad allusion should mar this first morning of Isabel at their board. When the breakfast could be no, longer prolonged, and made no more cheerful, they rose, Rolfe say- ing he had several out-door duties to attend to; Lillian ran away to bring her work, as she called a bit of dainty embroidery; and drawing her arm through her own, Mrs. tIope led Isabel away to the brightest of sitting-rooms. A few choice pictures were on the walls; in the windows bloomed fresh geraniums, filling the air with their spicy perfume; and to make the picture home-like, Cotton, with a fresh bandanna surmounting her ebon head, was put- ting the finishing touches to the arrangement of the apartment. Mrs. Hope commended her good-humoredly, and turning to Isabel, said, "You see, Miss---Darnleigh, I let her do as she pleases." "'Deed you does, missus, an' Cotton likes it. Bless you, honey, Miss Is'bel knows I likes to fly roun.' "That is right," smiled Isabel. "Do all you can to help and please our kind entertainers." DARE FAIRFAX. " They passed the delighted darkey and paused in a recess by a window overlooking a sunny Autumn prospect. "Miss Darnleigh," commenced Mrs. Hope, with what was evidently a painful effort, "there is one subject very sad to me, yet upon which I must speak now. If my child has not already revealed to you her one idiosyncrasy, you must soon discover it. You will find her always expecting the arrival of some one; often going to meet them, as she fancies. She never mentions the name of the absent, so I will that far preserve her confidence." "Dear Mrs. Hope," interrupted Isabel, "do not feel it necessary to speak to me on any matter of pri- vate interest-about nothing, please, that gives you or yours pain." "But I prefer you should be told this, my child. If you give my Lillian your affection, how much more must you give her your sympathy. It is noth- ing to you; only, by this, I bespeak your considerate regard for my darling." "As you will," said Isabel, gently. Mrs. 'Hope continued: "Two years ago she was wooed by one whom I too esteemed highly. The promise of her hand was sought and given, her lover telling her to be always ready, that he -might come for its fulfillment earlier than she expected. For eighteen months no word nor sign has come to tell us even that he lives. A long illness in the Spring, re- page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] 78 DARE FAIRFAX. suiting from suspense, has left her frail almost as it is possible for the living to be. All her other thoughts and expressions seem perfectly natural, save the one -in which she is daily persistent-that he is coming very soon ; in her simple unconsciousness imagin- ing that every one about her knows of her previously contemplated marriage. I felt, Miss Darnleigh, that I was justified in adding this to your store of sad knowledge, that living among us you might under- stand our one sorrow." "For my own sake I thank you for the confidence, dear Mrs. Hope. The knowledge will, I know, only endear her more closely to me. We will try to help her forget, if she cannot be reconciled." Isabel spoke with eloquent sincerity, and the mother's heart more fondly yearned toward the lonely girl. Hearing Lillian's light footsteps returning, she hastily continued: "We have hopes yet that the bracing air of this climate may prove beneficial, and the change of scenery and surroundings win her from the constant contemplation of her grief. Dear Rolfe came down in the early Summer and brought us here. From be- ing formerly so hopeful he seems now only pitying. "Dear Lillian," murmured Isabel, choking down the thought of her own absent one. "Could it be possible that he had fallen in the strife?" Mrs. Hope feared so; that he had fallen on some DARE FAIRFAX. 79 lone field; making no sign and giving no clue by which even his uncovered grave might be found. Isabel's heart, sore with her recent loss and aching for a word from him who had said, "I love you," by the Cliffside spring, readily opened its fountain of tenderness for Lillian. From that morning no sister could have grown more closely into her affectionate care than this bereaved child of old Alabama. The delicate face, so pure and ethereal, was to Isabel a painful study. Remembrances, dim and uncertain, seemed to float through her mind; remembrances of a face she could not entirely recall; yet with each effort of memory came back the oath of Max Up- vergne, and the faint, deathly fear which came first at the spring-side. Lay aside your hopes, sweet Lillian; put them ten- derly away in the white robes of the dead. Gather up your strength, Isabel, for events are marching up the valley of time that will unveil for you the unac- countable and obscure; and for Lillian,-but it were better not yet told. Soon enough will come the call- "Come to me now, for the West is burning; Come ere it darkens;". "Then cries of pain and arms outstretching, passionate words as of one beseeching-" Soon enough will waiting Lillian's tryst be kept, though by that other one all unwittingly. page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] OU IJSKD KrjlIS^LT. CHAPTER X. WINTER again blew his rude blasts through the blocked up passes and over the snow-burdened streams. Pain and suffering were abroad, for war's horrid front loomed hideous before palace and cot, sickening the heart of women and striking terror to the little children, who, before Spring-time, would be fatherless. Rolfe Ingraham's presence no longer brought a sense of protection to the inmates of the manor. He too fought where dangers were thickest, and rode where bullets fiercely whistled and cannon belched out death along the lines. Side by side, in many a sharp conflict, on many a dreary march, or in welcome bi- vouac, Dare Fairfax and Rolfe Ingraham fought, and rode, and slept. But there came a day that was to try their hearts, -hearts hidden from each other, though hands grasped, and eyes met each other daily, in full faith. Through a dark ravine in one of Virginia's his- toric valleys the bitter wind swept, frost-laden and keen, and scarce less swift, keeping pace with its mad haste, galloped a body of horsemen. There were not DARE FAIRFAX. 81 more than twenty of them, but they were well mounted and seemed eager to overtake a legitimate prey. Up the ravine they swept, without laugh, or jest, or sound, save the ringing tramp of the horses, as their iron-clad hoofs struck on the frozen ground. They were picked men on desperate service; and heroic were the faces that looked sternly forward,-looked ahead to the tall form of their leader on his gallant iron-gray. The gray stretched his thin neck and dis- tended his wide nostrils, then lifted his proud stag-like head suddenly, until it almost touched the beard of his rider. Men who had ridden often after that courser knew well his signals; knew when he snuffed the battle, and many a hand grasped more firmly its rifle. Alas! none too quickly. A sharp report rang across the stillness,-fifty guns fired as one! The early morning air was torn through with the shrieks of dying horses, and the suppressed moans of men in mortal agony. Into the shelter of the wood poured an answering volley, almost before the concealed foe could gain the road. Brief and bitter was the conflict; but when it ended the face of that powerful horseman swept darkly down the road between the woodland walls, followed by twelve of his men. On the heels of the enemy they thundered down vengeful and fierce; and as he rode, the steel-gray eye of Rolfe Ingraham 4* page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 DARE FAIRFAX. flashed like fire. As if pervaded with the spirit of his rider, the iron-gray kept a neck ahead of all others, stretched out like an implacable Fate following the flight of Terror. But sad was the scene in that frozen road between the Virginia hills. Two intrepid hearts were still; they had throbbed out their last breath bravely. God help the mothers who prayed for them, or the sweethearts who waited. Tender hands lifted and bore them away, for these men were in the land where their own homes lay, and care for the dead, as well as relief for the wounded, was near. Under his horse-the horse standing like a bronze statue, without motion, save the quivering of the nostril, and the eye dilated with fear, lay one of that number, so lately dashing on in duty's perilous way. Peril had grappled him now, for across one fair tem- ple a sabre stroke had made a bleeding gash, and into it were matted the waves of brown hair. Blood saturated the coat-breast, and trickled through his shirt-front. Had the features been chiselled by sculp- tor's hand, they had not been more perfectly cut. The brow was square, the nostrils thin, the lip proud and perfect; and amber lights seemed going out in the half-closed eyes. Over the rich lengths of his waving beard, ran blood from the temple, disfiguring the beauty of that face which only one man could bear. It is Dare Fairfax who bends over him, quietly giving orders to the men around him; then he kneels, ! DARE FAIRFAX. 83 lifting the head and uttering cheering words-pro- mising speedy succor. The man, already uncon- scious, replies not, though the handsome lips move with inarticulate sounds. Dare leans closer, searching with his eyes the face he had seen in the flames at Darnleigh; and again, looking at him with bright triumph across its ruined walls. He listens to the moving lips. A faint sound issues, takes form, and is given to the winds. Only Dare hears it. His lips compress bitterly; his cheek blanches whitely; with- out lifting so much as his eye heavenward, he prays for one moment, "God help me!" Aye! God help thee, Dare, to do thy bitter duty. Why not leave him there, Dare, for the dead man he seems to be? No. "God help me," he had prayed, on the out- going of a breath, and no one ever prays that prayer remaining unhelped of Him. He took from the breast-pocket a linen handker- chief already stained, and with it bound the bleeding forehead. He felt for the wound in the side, and found it only a flesh-wound, though deep and pain- ful. With ready assistance he lifted him to his horse, and directing a strong fellow to mount behind, gave orders to have him taken to the first house ahead of them, about a quarter of a mile distant. They rode away with him, and all other traces of the fray hav- ing been hastily removed, Dare turned to mount his page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 DARE FJAIRFAX. waiting horse. A folded paper, fluttering in the wind near his feet, attracted his attention. It looked like a letter, from the manner of its folding, and was covered with writing in a woman's delicate hand. At a glance, without reading a line, Dare saw it was not from Isabel; for he knew her chirography well. He saw, too, whose it was. At the top was written "Fairlands," and at its close, a name he knew only too well. Had it been Isabel's, I think he would scarcely have looked so stern. Surely from his heart rose up the bitter- "Curse him!" which Rolfe Ingraham had said in early Summer-time in that far Southern home. It rose to his lips, but he said it not. Nay, he did not even wish it. "God knows what it means," he muttered, riding after that helpless form over that frozen road, through the bitter cold of that February morning. Reso- lutely he crushed the paper into his pocket, resolving to restore it at the first practicable moment. How he longed in that burdened moment to follow his comrades, who, as pursuers, had dashed over that road a half-hour before. But his care was the wounded, not the victor's, nor the foemen then. In silence he rode on to a little roadside cottage, where two or three horses stood already tied. He mechan- ically dismounted, knowing, that though humble, it held true hearts. The little yard in front was tram- pled over as by many feet, the weight of which only DARE FAIRFAX. 85 showed by where they had broken down the frozen projections of ice and earth, as they bore in a heavy burden. Busy and tender as a woman, Dare laid aside his cloak, and with hands that seemed accustomed to the work, assisted in bathing the wounds of the helpless man, who lay on a clean bed in the corner of an inner room. He cut away the curling hair from the gashed temple, and bound it around with cool band- ages. Everything that their slender resources would allow was done; then Dare Fairfax sat down by the little wood-fire to think. The paper he had picked up, and which was now crumpled and crushed into his pocket, seemed to burn his very flesh. "And yet;"Dare said to himself, " her name was not the one on his lips when he fell-when he lay there unconscious. No, thank God, that was Isabel! Yes, I can thank Him sincerely, if he is only true to her. If he is true." Restless moans from the bed startled Dare from his reverie. He went quickly to the bedside, and found the bandaged head burning with fever; the hot hands, too, were tossing aimlessly in delirium. The hand- some lips murmured, now low and soft, anon raising their accents to a stronger key, "Isabel, Isabel, I love you!-come to me now. Come, the river is widening! My God! let me grasp but her hand. Isabel!-but once!-Isabel!" The sound of many feet and the tramp of horses page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] gy jL6./I J' J'1/lJ ' Z1. again broke the silence, mingling with Max Up- vergne's delirium. The low door of the outer room opened, and Rolfe Ingraham, deathly pale and stern, crossed the threshold.. Dare joined him almost in- stantly, and in low eager tones asked, "What results?" "Five of the enemy killed, fourteen prisoners, and nineteen horses ours. All our men safe. How many did we lose at the first attack?" "Allan and Hartley killed outright; Upvergne seriously wounded. They were carried back to their homes; he is here," answered Dare, briefly. "Poor Lillian," Rolfe Ingraham uttered involun- tarily; the next moment his face grew dark again with some secret bitterness. Dare heard his words without dreaming of their true signification. With a great sigh he murmured, under his breath, "Poor Isabel." Rolfe Ingraham must have caught the words, for he looked at Dare searchingly a moment only; then the voice of the sufferer, now wild with delirium, called low and hoarsely, "Isabel, trust me-I love you, my darling, my darling." Rolfe Ingraham grew whiter yet, till his very lips looked hard and ghastly. Almost inperiously he asked, as if writhing under some bitter wrong, "What Isabel does he mean?" *1 DARIE FAIRFAX. 87 Dare answered briefly, scarce above a whisper, "Isabel Darnleigh!" Rolfe Ingraham's hand closed like a vise on Dare Fairfax's arm; and hoarser was his voice with emo- tion than the wounded man's from fever and blood, as he queried, "What is she to him?" "His betrothed wife." That was all Dare answered again. A great light seemed dawning on his mind as he looked into the splendid face of Rolfe Ingraham. Could it be possi- ble that lie too loved her? lie went over and stood on the hearth, and an old man with flowing white hair came haltingly into the room and sat down by the fire. Rolfe Ingraham went to the bedside, and with folded arms stood looking down on the face which wounds and bandages could not render unsightly. "And she loves him;" he said, between his closed teeth. "My Isabel," he added, under his breath. Who but God, in His unsearchable wisdom, could have so grouped these three men? Was there one of them-one of the three-who was "nothing to her?" page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 DARE FAIRFAX. CHAPTER XI. SEVERAL days elapsed after that surprise in the Virginia ravine, and a bitter midnight hung like solid blackness over the manor-house on the Blue Ridge. The wind shrieked through the pine-trees; the air was full of frost, and the terrible cold kept the snow banked like an iron dome over head. Isabel lay strangely wakeful. From one restless slumber she had been awakened by the certainty that some one was calling her. Softly she arose, and called into Lillian's room to be sure it was not fancy; but Lil- lian slept like a child. All was silent in Mrs. Hope's apartment, and poor Isabel, sadly excited, laid her head once more on her pillow. Then the face of Dare Fairfax seemed leaning toward her, pleading, "Isabel, can it never be?a" Again for a minute she was lost in sleep, and again Dare's voice besought her very earnestly, '"Isabel, don't love this Max Upvergne." Then in her dreams she saw the deathly face of Max Upvergne, and he was sinking powerless into a battle-trench, with only his pale hands outstretched to her. It seemed as if his white lips whispered her name. From somewhere, a voice like Rolfe Ingra- DARE FAIRFAX. 89 ham's called her, and with a bound she stood in the middle of the floor, wide awake and trembling. Poor Isabel, her sorrow was fast overshadowing her! Excited and sleepless, watching the leaden sky, she lay until morning. With the first gray streak in the east, some one knocked softly at her door. Expect- ing she knew not what, she opened it instantly. Cotton was there with wide eyes and sorrow spread all over her black face. "Miss Is'bel, honey, you jes dress yousq'f an' come down inter de settin' room. Mass In'gram's dar, an' wants fur to see yuhi honey. We mus'n't 'sturb Miss Lillian, needer, 'cause he on'y wants fuh to see Miss Is'bel." Isabel, scarce comprehending, with parted lips that gave no answer, bathed her face and arms, wound up her rich hair, and, quietly assisted by Cotton, was ready in a few moments to go down. By the blazing fire, whose many red embers showed it was not newly kindled, stood Rolfe Ingraham, his face looking unusually pale above his black beard. His arm rested on the mantel, and his forehead was bowed wearily upon it, while beside him, thrown on a chair, was his gray riding-cloak, cap, and riding- gloves. Isabel went up straight to where he stood, with fearless eyes but blanched face. Seeing its whiteness, he took her two hands in his, and led her to the easiest chair, with rare thoughtfulness seating her so she would not front the light. He did not let page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 90 DARE FAIRFAX. go the hands he had taken, but searching her coun- tenance with grave eyes, he only said, making no apology for disturbing her rest so unseasonably, "Miss Darnleigh, could you take a long, cold ride after we have breakfast . ' "Yes," gasped Isabel, finding voice, " only tell me where, and what is the matter?" Not answering her last question, he said, still hold- ing her hands, "You may not be strong enough, and it will be a weary ride. Miss Darnleigh, are you sure of your strength?" "Oh yes, yes. Only tell me! "Max Upvergne is wounded. May I take you tc him?" Isabel. rose straight up, with a wild look on her white face. "Sit down, Miss Darnleiglh; I have more to tell you, which is best you should hear now. He is not fatally, but seriously hurt. In his delirium he calls for you, and at Captain Fairfax's suggestion I pro- mised to bring you. I have but one request to make, which may seem strange to you; but you must be- lieve that my reason is a good one. Do not mention to any one here the name of him to whom you are going, especially to my sister or niece. Leave it to me. I will tell them all that is necessary." There seemed to Isabel to be, behind all Rolfe Ingraham's tender sympathy for her, some stern DARE FAIRFAX. 91 reason that plaited his brows, while his voice seemed aching with unspoken pity. Again she rose; this time he only detained her to say, "Dress yourself warmly, Miss Darnleigh. It is bitterly cold." Then he followed her to the door to know if she had thick gloves and furs. Returning to the fire he stood again, leaning his arm on the mantel, and his head on his arm. His face was drawn and hard, and his hand clenched as though it could drive home a blow with terrible effect. Nervous and alarmed, but outwardly calm, Mrs. Hope came into the room, in answer to the news from Cotton, that her brother had arrived. Calmly he kissed her forehead and put her into the chair Isabel had just vacated. In a few words he told her what liad brought him. "And you have ridden nearly all night, Rolfe," said his sister, solicitously. "No, I came by stages; stopped about ten last night and refreshed my horse,- and rode the last two hours at a stretch, reaching here at midnight. My horse and I have both been resting since then. I kindled a fire, you see, and made myself comfortable." "But why, brother, did you not awaken some of us and go to your room until morning?" "Soldiers are not accustomed to rooms, my dear sister. I have slept some, for I knew we should all have to wake early." page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92 , DARE FAIRFAX. "Had I not better awaken Isabel myself?' Mrs. Hope rose, and he seated her again, telling her that he had already had an interview with Miss Darnleigh, and that she would meet them at break- fast ready to go. "Have you ordered an early breakfast, Rolfe?" "Yes, an hour ago. Elinor, keep all you can from Lillian. It is useless to trouble her with sorrow she cannot alleviate." "Trust me, brother. I will merely tell her that a friend of Miss Darnleigh's is ill. But Rolfe, what is his name? Is he one of her Maryland acquaint- ance?2 It was well for Rolfe Ingraham that his sister put the last question so closely, thereby enabling him to answer that, and evade the first one. "I do not know, Elinor. I knew but little about him previous to his encounter with us the other day. He had fought well and met danger fearlessly, thereby attracting sufficient attention to have himself selected for especial and perilous duty. His wounds, though in themselves not serious, have become so from the fact that fever set in immediately." "Perhaps he is her betrothed, Rolfe," she sug- gested. "I think it likely," was all he said. "If we could only have him here, brother, until he gets well again-" "But we cannot," interrupted Rolfe, so quickly DARE FAIRFAX. 93 that Mrs. Hope turned and looked him in the face, surprised and wondering. It was immovable; only if anything harder than before. :No bell was rung that morning for breakfast. Isa- bel came in quietly and stood by the fire. Mrs. Hope, with the tender movement some women have, put her arms around Isabel and kissed her cheek. A blessing was asked, and the coffee drunk in silence, save when the widow asked if they had not better wait until after sunrise before starting, as the weather might moderate by that time. Rolfe's quiet negative set the matter at rest; and Isabel, afraid to trust her voice, gave him an earnest look of gratitude. A sudden light leaped to his eyes, even a tinge of color stole up to his temples. He rose hastily from the table and left the room. Five minutes later he entered, saying the horses were waiting, and asked briefly, "Are you accustomed to riding, Miss Darnleigh?" "Yes, until the last year. But I am not afraid." "That is well, though the horse I have selected for you is safe; I chose him for speed. Are you well wrapped up?" Thus he hurried on, determinedly, giving Mrs. Hope no time to press her kind attentions and con- cern. He assured himself of the thickness of Isabel's cloth habit, buttoned on her gloves, and fastened her furs. page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " DARE FAIRFAX. "Hadn't you better take a barege veil, Miss Darn. leigh? the air is full of snow, and your face will suffer." "No, I like the wind in my face,-Oh, no!"' as Mrs. Hope was on the point of bringing one herself. Isabel's quiet, to a cursory observer, might have seemed stoical; but Rolfe Ingraham knew that action then was all that could save the breaking down of her self-control. "My dear, come back safe and soon," whispered Ars. Hope, returning the kiss of Isabel's quivering lips. , "De good Lo'd fotch yuh safe and shuh', Miss Is'bel," was heard behind them, and Cotton's ban- danna gleamed in the gray light of the cloudy morning. "Good-bye, Cotton, for a little while," said Isabel, with a faint smile, turning to the faithful crc-ture. In another minute she was in her saddle, and the gallant bay was pawing the earth, impatient to be gone. Forgetful of the biting wind, Mrs. Hope stood for some minutes watching the two figures who rode away under' the leaden sky. How gallantly Rolfe rode, his cape sweeping on the wind. t:ow splendidly Miss Darnleigh managed that dashing horse! Suppose that idolized brother should come to love this Maryland girl, whose heart was given, perhaps, to another. A deep sigh followed these DARE FAIRFAX. 95 searching thoughts, and Mrs. Hope re-entered the house; over which, it seemed to her, the shadow of a great sorrow hung. She went to Isabel's room, as the place that seemed. to her most fitting, and knelt down, praying earnestly that He " who numbered the very hairs of our heads," would do all things well, for Isabel. Then with an unaccountable yearning toward Lillian, she went into her apartment and watched her till she awoke. The mother's heart ached to see how thin the fair face was growing; and how fragile it looked with -the violet shade under the eyes and on the tem- ples. Quietly she told her Isabel had gone to see a friend, whom her uncle Rolfe had found ill at a long dis- tance; and she might not return that day. "Oh, mamma! I dreamed a strange dream, last night. I thought I met him, mamma, out on a strange road, in a dreary country; and I flew to him, but he never saw me. He only motioned me away with his hands silently, and held out his arms to some one behind me. I grew sick and blind, it seemed, and fell, and as I fell I saw him draw her close to his heart. Wasn't it strange, mamma? for I never dream." Lillian's sweet face looked so sad that the mother smiled, with an effort at cheerfulness, saying, "You are not right well, darling. We will make ourselves busy to-day, to enable us to forget our lone- page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 96 DARE FAIRFAX. liness. I have something to do, and you shall read to me this morning.' "Yes, mamma," said Lillian, thinking of her dream. DARE FAIRFAX. 97 CHAPTER XII. ROLFE INGRAHAM and Isabel Darnleigh rode long and hard where the roads would permit them to do so. Little was said. Only once Isabel asked how far they had to go. "By miles, I scarcely know, Miss Darnleigh; as we will be obliged to use some by-roads. I think this best to avoid meeting any portion of either army. That, you know, might cost delay, if not trouble, to reach there as soon as we wish." "What time, at this rate, will we get-there2?" Isabel asked, chokingly, hesitating on the last word. "A little after noon,-by noon, perhaps, if you can maintain the gait at which we have come thus far." "Can the horses stand it without suffering?" she asked again, in a quieter voice. "I think so, if we use them judiciously, and a great deal more,-twice the distance, probably. A brave heart will serve next to a brave horse to-day, Miss Darnleigh." That one sentence was all of encouragement he dared to give; and it was said in the most common- place manner imaginable; evidently intentionally so. '5 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] 98 DARE FAIRFAX. As it was, wild tears sprang to Isabel's eyes, and froze as they fell on her gloves. Rolfe Ingraham, seeing, though seeming not to see, suddenly remarked, "Your Maryland weather is but little milder than ours, Miss DarnleigJ5." Who has not blesedthat ever-ready topic, weather or climate! With a brave effort, she answered, "No. And our changes are perhaps even more sudden. Morning may be mild, with a few airy clouds; and evening chill, with frosty winds." "Your winters are more severe," he asserted, for the sake of talking on indifferent topics. "No, I think not more so than in this part of Vir- ginia. Your mountain regions are quite as Arctic- like as ours." "Isn't there a little dear prejudice in your mind? You Marylanders are very tenacious of everything favorable to your State." "Being compelled to it, perhaps, by you monopo- lizing Virginians," she replied, with a faint smile, being anxious as her companion to distract thought from their ride and its destination. "Such near neighbors should be more generous than we are. Do you not think so? The two States have always avowed a love for each other." "Which I doubt not is real," answered Isabel, " but love is generally more jealous than generous." Each being conscious of its own merits, will not allow the other's supremacy. Is that it?" DARE FAIRFAX. 99 "Give them credit for a little more amiability of temper. Say, at least, that they are willing to be equal, as all so nearly allied should be."' "And as all people or persons who love should be," added Rolfe Ingraham, thoughtfully. Thus each intending innocently to deceive, as to their real feelings, neither succeeded, and many miles were traversed again in almost entire silence. Once, as he glanced at Isabel's face, he noticed that even her lips were white as her cheeks, and asked, hastily, if she felt cold. "No, I think not," was her only answer; while her eyes strained onward in the distance, as if vainly seeking tented field or hospital walls. Another 'nile and another they went over; then Rolfe Ingraham, lifting himself in his saddle, looked long ahead. Presently he turned to his companion, and said in a cheerful voice, "We lave about one more mile, Miss Darnleigh, and our ride will be over." Isabel turned to him, and up over her face swept the scarlet tide, flushing her temples, while the reins almost dropped from her nerveless hand. A moment only it lasted, and gathering the bridle in a firmer grasp, they sped onward. But Isabel was pale no more; her lips were scarlet, her cheeks burning, and her eyes beautiful with a dewy tenderness. The country they rode through now bore every- where evidences of recent strife. Fences were thrown page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 DARE FAIRFAX. t to the ground; trees splintered and broken; fields ploughed by the hoofs of charging squadrons, and torn with cannon-balls. On an adjacent hillside long rows of red earth told too eloquently where brave hearts lay; and wide-open eyes slept that would never look again into wet eyes, waiting for them in Virginia's valleys, or places remote. Turning at a brisk canter an angle in the road, they carne suddenly upon a long, low house, with riddled walls, and many shattered windows. They halted at the little white gate, and Rolfe Ingraham said, without any explanation, "Wait for me a moment, Miss Darnleigh." Dropping from his horse, he left it standing by Isabel's, well knowing it was willing now for a little rest. He turned an astonished glance to the quiet of the m-odest place; the unglazed sashes in several places were shutterless, with only half-curtains of muslin drawn across them. He rapped decisively at the low door, which to pass through he would have been compelled to stoop not a little. There was a shuffling sound from within, and an old man with a cane, on which he leaned half his weight, and his white hair falling over his shoulders, presented himself. Rolfe Ingraham apparently asked some question in a low voice, and the old man, answering, shook his head sadly. ' V t DARE FAIRFAX. 101 "It is, certainly peculiarly unfortunate, under the circumstances," Isabel heard Rolfe say. Limping out into the yard, the old man lifted his benign face pityingly to hers, while replying to some question put in a low tone. "And the enemy were on them, you say?" again asked Rolfe, with excitement he could not conceal. "Iot and fast, Mister, I take it, from the way they clattered past here." "At what time was this?" Rolfe's face was anxious 'now for others besides Isabel. "It's a matter of four or five hours, I reckon," Isabel heard him, say again. "About what would 'a' been sun-lp, if it hadn't 'a' been cloudy." "Do you think they had time to get off safely " "Yes, the pickets, or rather the sent'nels, all came in together, repo'tin' the inemy comin'; an' hurryin' the po' fellow into an ambulance, they moved off putty brisk to'ds the main army." "Surely Upvergne was unfit to be moved," Rolfe Ingraham said, decisively. "As fo' that matter he was," answered the old man, with another shake of his head. "But Cap'n Fairfiax just knelt a minute by that old three-legged cheer beside the bed, while the boys stood like they were hearin' a sermon by the fire. Then like a flash o' blue li'tenin' he lep' up, and ses he, "' We'll take him along, boys.' page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 DARE FAIRFAX. "'Fo' my old woman could offer 'em a cup o' sum- thin' warm, they were gone." "Did Captain Fairfax leave no word in case we- I came?" "That he did! yes, yes!" Hurrying into the house, as fast as age and rheuma- tism would allow, the veteran returned soon, bringing a scrap of paper, evidently torn from a pocket jour- nal. This, together with a crumpled paper, folded in letter-form, he put into Rolfe Ingraham's hand. "This 'ere," he said, designating the last paper, "I think belongs to Cap'ii Fairfax, or maybe the sick 'un; leastways, I reckon you'd better keep it for 'em." Quickly the dark gray eyes noted its import, and with a strangely perplexed face, lie thrust it into his pocket, then ran his eyes hastily over the pencilled words. Without a moment's hesitation, he stepped to Isabel Darnleigh's side, and held it to her, over the pommel. He did not look at her face while she read it, for his features were working strangely, and the steel-gray of his eye moistened suspiciously. This was all the paper contained: "The enemy are on us. We take lUpvergne with us, believing he would rather undergo the risk than to fall into their hands. Don't attempt to follow us. Tell Isabel, I pledge my life for his. If human efforts can save him, he shall live. "Devotedly, hers, and yours, DARE." DARE FAIRFAX. 103 The wind swept the paper from her powerless fingers; a violet shade crept over her face, darkening around the eyes and lips; the eyes closed partially, and, with a swaying motion, she leaned strangely in her saddle. Rolfe Ingraham reached out his arms with passionate haste; but his hand had scarcely touched her, when she straightened herself in her place, and with a despairing look on her face, once more gathered up the reins, saying, in a faint, husky voice, "Let us go home." "Had you not better dismount, and rest a half-hour only?" asked Rolfe Ingraham; and the tones of his voice were broken and pitying. "No, no, let me go home." Despite the wail of pain in her voice, a thrill of delight swept through his heart, that she should then, in her moment of supreme sorrow, yearn toward his home, calling it hers. "Better ride pretty well, till yo' safe, ten miles fromn here, I reckon. I'd like' mo' than most things to have her gentle face in my old home for a minute, but I wouldn't advise it, sir," volunteered the sym- pathizing voice of the old man, who somehow seemed to have gleaned a little knowledge of the true relation of the parties before him to those lately under his roof. "Yes, as briskly as our horses will permit," an- swered Rolfe, vaulting again into his saddle. Slowly page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104 DARE FAIRFAX. they turned their horses homeward. Putting up their ears, and ringing out a gratified neigh, they seemed as though fresh for the return. A " good-bye " and "God-speed" from the aged lips was given, but Isabel could only bend her head, and look a reciprocation of his kindly meaning. They left him standing in the trodden yard, looking after them, with the wind sweeping his white hair around his thin, old face. No words can truthfully describe that homeward ride. It was some time after midday, with the sky still leaden above them, with horses not fresh, though fleet and willing. Her heart was aching with unspeakable sorrow, and his with unspeakable pity; for he knew, since he had seen that crumpled letter, that of Max Upvergne, which would have added a hundredfold to that day's anguish, for her, and, if' he judged her rightly, leave a scar on her memory at least that would go with her to her grave. More than once his watchful eye persuaded him that her slight form swayed strangely in her saddle; fancied too that the hand on the rein was relaxing its grasp; but still her eyes, purple they looked with intensity of pain, faltered not in their homeward gaze. Still th hr t the horses kept up their unflagging pace. Twi- light came down, solemn and early; the cold abated somewhat, and the wind grew still. Ever and anon a white snow-flake was wafted across their faces; presently they came faster, till the ground DARE FAIRFAX. 105 looked blanched in the increasing gloom. Finally, when within a few miles of the manor, the gallant horses relaxed a little in their speed, but still percep- tibly. Rolfe Ingraham could only feel their move- ments; it being too dark to note appearances. He rode nearer Isabel, not knowing what moment a strong arm might be needed to save her from a dan- gerous fall. Still, on they went bravely, but with steadily- slackening pace. Voluntarily the horses would some- times plunge forward with a resolute effort, only to lag again, suspiciously. Without her knowing it, his hand sought, and retained her pommel; thus enabling him to feel every motion of the bay, who would throw up his head desperately, and bring it down again, with a shuddering neigh. Rolfe Ingraham grew white in the darkness which had now settled thickly around them. Only a half mile farther, lights gleamed in the manor-house win- dows, but surely the bay was failing too rapidly to be trusted much longer; it now stumbled into a walk, while his own horse was comparatively strong. What should he do! Something was demanded, so he said quietly, "Miss Darnleigh, your horse has given out, I think; will you trust me to do the best I can?" That was all he said; but with his hand on her rein, he drew both horses to a short stop. It required little effort; they were both willing enough. 5* page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] 106 DARE FAIRFAX. "Miss Darnleigh, you can see the windows of home from here. It is only several hundred yards to the avenue; for that distance, could you ride behind me?" "Yes," canie icily from her lips. Her consent was all he waited for; indeed, without it even, there was no other alternative but this. In a moment he was on the ground. "Loosen your foot from the stirrup, please. Now, that is right,--come." le reached up his arms, and lifted her from the sad- dle. Without volition of her own, Isabel felt herself carried a few steps as if she had been a child, and lifted lightly behind the saddle of his own horse. There was nothing to be said. She felt in a vague way that Rolfe Ingrahan was good and strong, and almost before she was aware of it, he was in the sad- dle before her, and had -drawn her arms partially around him. "Miss I)arnleigh, does your position feel secure 2'" The voice in which he asked her the question was graver than ever before, and Isabel again only said, "Yes." "Then we'll soon be home!" His own horse strode along with spirit enough, bearing his double burden; yet, had they put him to greater speed than a walk, the bay could not have kept up with them. As it was, he followed with stumbling steps and lowered head. At the outer DARE FA IRFA X. 107 gate, a negro-man stood, evidently waiting for them. Rolfe simply gave the bay's bridle into his hand, saying, "Stable him directly, Nick, and rub him well for an hour at least. He has given out." Toward the stable the, faithful black led the jaded horse, with many words of rough affection and gentle caresses of his horny hands. On to the steps of the old mansion Rolfe guided his iron-gray; and before the listening ear of Mrs. Hope could have heard the horse's iron footfall, he had dismounted. Taking Isa- bel in his arms, lie carried her through the hall into the brighlt room where sat Mrs. Hope and Lillian -one read- ing, and the other knitting, to while away the time. Stooping to put her on the sofa, a paper, folded and crumpled, slid from his outer breast-pocket, and, un- observed of him, dropped on the floor. ".Bring some wine, Elinor; the ride has been too n-much for her." He did not say that she was worn out with sus- pense and excitement; but Mrs. Hope's quick eye saw at a glance the blanched lips and purple eyelids, and hastened to obey. Lillian ran to remove Isabel's hat and gloves, but Rolfe Ingraham only said, with a backward wave of his hand, "Give us that cushion, Lillian." She brought it, and doing so, her eye caught the folded paper; she picked it up, supposing it to be- something worthless, carelessly dropped. A name on page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 DARE FAIRFAX. the outer fold, flushed all her lovely face with won- drous beauty. With only the one thought to know something of him, her hand closed tightly, with the right of possession at least. While she stood there, panting with excitement, Rolfe removed Isabel's hat and drew the gloves from her stiffened fingers: bade the frightened Cotton bring her slippers, and remove her boots; then took the wine from his sister's hand, putting it to Isabel's lips. As a mother might have persuaded her child, he said, "Drink this, Miss Darnleigh." The pale lips closed with a feeble No, no." "It is suicide to refuse." He looked into her despairing eyes, till his own brimmed up with hot tears. Still a negative motion of her head answered him. " Isabel, for ilax Upvergne's sake, drink this." He said it with his face close to hers-so close, that only she heard the name he uttered. He would not, for half his fortune, have had another in that room hear it then. Her wide eyes opened, and her icy land took the glass. Meekly as a child, she drank its contents, and, with a quivering sigh, laid her head back on the cushion. It was nearly midnight before Rolfe Ingraham slept. Two hours were certainly 'devoted to his horse's well-being. Then, after supper, he sat by the fire to receive from time to time reports of Isabel's condition from Lillian or Cotton, Mrs. Hope having DARE FAIRFA1X. 109 remained in her room until slunber, with gentle hands, shut out remembrance of the weary day. He was too much absorbed in his own fears and medita- tions to notice the wild brightness of Lillian's eyes, and the feverish eagerness of her step. The mother, stealing silently to her child's pillow hours afterward, found it wet with weeping, and the heavy lids and colorless cheeks stained with the redness of tears. Readily attributing traces of such emotion to sym- pathy for Isabel, she blessed in heart the loving nature of her daughter, and commending her to the keeping of "Him who never slumbers nor sleeps," sought rest for herself. When Rolfe Ingraham did sleep, he dreamed,- dreamed that he roamed over the world all his life- time through, with Isabel Darnleigh's cheek touching his shoulder, and her arms clasped around him. He never missed the letter he had lost. Its mission was being performed without his knowledge. page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] "O DARE FAIRFAX. CHAPTER XIII. FOR days Isabel Darnleigh's existence was one breathing prayer for Max Upvergne's life. Only that he might'live! was the ceaseless plea. Ite who was all she now had in the world that was her own-her very own. Surely a pitying Father would not "give her a stone, when she asked for bread." This was a life-a dear human life, in which her own was so centred, that to break it from around hers, would be to break the silver cord of her own. There was no peace in her unsubmissive heart, and no rest. "His life-his dear life," was the boon she held before the Throne, demanding it, because Christ had said, "Ask anything in my name, and I will give it you." Like many who feed on husks, she knew not He meant the bread and water of Life. To the source of all life, the one she besought was but a drop, an atom-one tiny globule of strength. It must be granted her. Then came a time, when, though the heavens seemed as brass above her, and the world an awful desert round about,-when, worn and weary with pleading and watching, exhausted nature broke down DARE FAIRFAX. 1" *in wild tears. What more could she do? Surely she had wearied Heaven with her importunities. "Oh, Max, Max!" murmured the fainting spirit, "God only can save you. Dear Christ, do with him what Thou wilt; only save his soul alive, to know me in Thy kingdom hereafter. If in the wide world I see him no more, let Thy will be done." Somehow there settled over her spirit a great calm. Those who daily pray, "Thy will be done," know how sweet is the peace He left to those who love Him. Long had she loved much; but, like many who lean too much on earth's frail reeds, she' had not trusted enough. Now loving more because of His chastening, she trusted all, knowing it was best, and left her beloved in the care, of Him who promised that all things should work together for good to those who love Him. The Winter sunset was glorious on the mountain, and under its crimson splendors, Isabel, in warm wrappings, went out for a walk under the pines. Lillian, at the bay-window, tapped against the pane and motioned with her golden-crowned head that she had bletter return within doors. Isabel, with return smile, held out an inviting hand, signalling Lillian to join her in a walk, saying that the air was bracing and pleasant. But with a sadder face the young watcher turned an expectant look down the far ave- nue, and Isabel uunderstood her meaning only toc well. page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "6 JL/JM X1Xli. Poor Lillian! when would her waiting be over? --er long watch rewarded? In the still grave, O golden head! on its kind pillow, will thy weary aching be over; and thy blue eyes' vigil ended. Not by him; but ANOTHER, more glorious than all earth's kings, shall place on thy virgin brow the seal of Love Eternal,-love that knows no changing, nor caprice; no fading, nor death; love that giveth no dagger-thrusts, and hath no chilling winds to paralyze the pitiful hands so long upreaching. For some time Isabel paced up and down under the pines; then, feeling a desire to extend her walk, entered the avenue, and walked quickly out under the leafless arms of the old trees,-under the same trees through which the wind sighed, and the snow fell, as she returned from that fearful ride, days be- fore. Still on she walked, forgetful of distance, med- itating, not so much on her sorrow, as on the tender- ness of that Father, who had taken it all from her heart, and put in its place a sweet resignation. Just ahead of her, and approaching, was a horseman. Not any one she knew, certainly, thought Isabel, when, lift- ing her head, she perceived him, for the first time; yet there was something unmistakably familiar in the face. Surely she knew the eager 'blue eyes, though the cheeks were bronzed and a moustache covered the moutl she remembered as beardless. It could be no other than Dare Fairfax,-it was he; for he leaped DARE FAIRFAX. 113 from his horse, and, taking the rein on his arm, came toward her with extended hands. "Isabel," he said eagerly, yet sadly. "Oh Dare! Is it you?" It was all her lips could fashion; for, like light- ning the thought from whom he might have come thrilled along her veins, and rushed the scarlet to her cheeks. Dare did not misinterpret the emotion. He knew too well the changes of her fcee not to read them aright; and he said again and again to himselfi silently, "I am nothing to her. I will not worry her because I want her." Isabel would have turned with him toward the house, for he had drawn her hand through his arm, and silently held it there; but he persisted against it. "No, no, I came only to see you this time. I am most fortunate in finding you here. I must return almost immediately, and will send by you my love and gratitude to that house. Under God, I owe them my life." "But, Dare, you must be so weary," said Isabel. "How much danger you are risking for such a little minute of time!" Her words implied anxiety, reproach, affection,- all. Dare knew their value to him, but said, quietly and cheerfully, "Yes, a little: but you know danger only gives zest to adventure." page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] "4 DARE FAIRFAX. Then his changing face fronted hers earnestly. "Isabel," he said, hurriedly, not willing to witness her pain, " you know why I have come-from whom I come?" "From Max," she whispered breathlessly. "Yes; you know a surprise from the enemy com- pelled me to move him, ten days ago. He is not a member of ours, but being a brave fellow, was sent with us on especial duty. Being wounded with us, made him our charge. I ran up this evening" (how lightly he spoke!) "'to tell you he is much better. The fever is over; and now recovery is certain." "Oh, Dare, how good you are!" Isabel Darnleigh's proud head bowed on Dare Fair- fax's arm to hide the bright, grateful tears that ran wild over her cheeks. Poor Dare! He knew she was grateful; and if he could have hoped that one tear of hers fell for him, how precious would have been its memory. "Isabel," Dare's brave voice choked a little now. "Isabel, you know how I would help you if you needed it; believe me, that just that much will I do for Max Upvergne. If my life could buy his back to you, I would give it." What a beaming gratitude shone up through her wet lashes, as she lifted her face to his. "Dare, Dare, what can I do for you for all this?" "Nothing, Isabel. Your gratitude is more than mnother's love. Give my name nightly to God in DARE FAIRFAX. 115 your prayers, and I am rewarded. Good-bye, lnow.' He held her hands and looked long, to impress each feature on his memory,-every shade of her changing face, every wave of her dark hair. Then he said, with a little trembling still in his voice, "Isabel, if I should be called home first, and it is in your power, will you come to me and kiss my lips once before they put me away?" No words can portray the solemnity of his face, or the inexpressible startling anguish of hers. Her white fingers clasped his tightly, though lightly held; and reaching up her sweet tremulous mouth, she kissed himn as,holily as a woman's lips ever kissed,- once, twice,-and turned quickly away. Never looking back, she went on, trying to calm the tumult in her heart, while Dare stood there be- side his horse, like one in a dream,-stood there till, in the windings of the avenue, her form was lost to sight. With a great upheaving sigh, he slowly raised himself to his saddle and slowly rode away; but -there was a light in his eye, that lighted all his fair, bronzed face with strange beauty. * * * * Days went on linking themselves into weeks, the weeks joining hands with months. Great deeds were done, and in silence hearts ached and hands worked. Battles had been fought, and in many a trench lay a mother's only love, with face bearing the victor's smile. In many page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "6 DARE FAIRFAX. - --- " a ward of the whitewashed walls, Where the dead and the dying lay," eyes yearned for a sight of the fields that were grow- ing green, and a look at the buds on the dogwood- trees. Streams ran limpidly past the little hillocks beside their way where a "lone sentry" slept, who in the night-shades had heard the sharp rifle-crack, and had fallen amid the rank grasses and alder-bushes, with only the night-birds to hear his moan. Some pitying comrade had found him, and all left for him to do was to raise the green hillock that lay there, telling never to wife or waiting sweetheart who it held so closely in its inevitable arms. Along the Blue Ridge, over many a historic spot, Aiad the cannon belched out death, and the horses of war swept resistless. As yet unharmed, the manor- house stood among a wide area of strife and destruc- tion. More than once Rolfe Ingraham's fleet horse had brought him to his home,-not the gallant iron- gray! It lay with many bullets in its proud breast, under the shades of a far forest, on the battle-field's verge, beside broken howitzers and the scattered paraphernalia of deadly contest. Once, in early April weather, he came and found Isabel and Lillian wandering. with 'dreamy faces in the favorite pine-walk. Time and strife had made few encroachments on Rolfe Ingraham. He had the same leonine head and kingly bearing; the same black locks, slightly tinged with gray; the same DARE FAIRFAX. 117 dusky, sweeping beard, and kind, grave eyes. Never, it seemed to Isabel, had his gaze rested with such loving sympathy on Lillian as now. He bowed to kiss her fair forehead, and when he lifted his head there was unwonted moisture in his eyes. A long, long look he gave Isabel; a long clasp to her hand, and only relinquished it when Mrs. Hope, in surprise and delight, called to him from the house. He left them and went in, but when events had given the clue to its meaning, neither Isabel nor Lillian ever forgot the brooding sorrow and love of that look which he turned on them over his shoulder, as he went across the threshold. What interchange passed between him and his sister, for several minutes, is of little interest to any but tlemselves. Then, in reply to Mrs. Hope's re- iterated pleasure at his unexpected arrival, Rolfe Ingraham said, "A painful duty brings me, Elinor; more painful, because it will revive a sorrow I thought would hence- forth grow calmer, believing it waited over the dead." "Rolfe, what can it be? Tell me, brother." "Elinor, Lillian's betrothed lives." "Lives, how? where? Lives, but surely not with liberty?" exclaimed the startled voice of the mother, keenly alive to her child's sorrow, and all that could in any way affect her. "No. Not in unwilling durance; but worse." page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] "8 DARE FAIRFAX. "Helpless-? Crippled? He could not think my child would love him less, even if maimed for life." "Elinor, he is false to Lillian." "Rolfe, what are you saying?" cried the stricken mother. "The simple fact, Elinor, that he is well and strong, but does not care for Lillian. He wooed and won that child for merest pastime; and for pastime left her." "You are surely mistaken, brother," answered the widow, with more calmness than seemed possible. "Would that that were possible." "You know this, Rolfe?" "I know surely that more than one has shared his fancy, since then; certainly another than Lillian his heart." "You know it?" repeated the grieved voice. "I have known it for months." "Why, then, did you not tell it, Rolfe?" "I have been silent for another's sake, sister." "Rolfe, what other can come between Lillian and her betrothed? Is it right to let any consideration deter you from first considering her interests?" "What other, Elinor?, Another betrothed." "Rolfe, I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it!" "Elinor, act rationally. It would have promoted no interest of Lillian's, had I told this. It would not have reclaimed for her his allegiance. And, sister, if it wanders so lightly, better that it never be recalled. DARE FAIRFAX. 119 I say fervently, thank God that he is nothing to her, nowe." "Oh! my poor, poor Lillian,--my sweet fading child!" Rolfe Ingraham went over and sat down by his sister's side. He drew her thin hands from her face very tenderly; but his voice was almost stern a moment after, when he said, "Elinor, does it not occur to you that others besides Lillian are suffering? The good God has happily dwarfed her sorrow to a patient waiting; such as it will ever be, till her watch is over, in the grave's cool quiet. But one with every sense keenly strung, and heart as true to him as woman ever held true heart, will receive the sharpest stab. I know it, for I know her. That there may be still another being deceived by him, I have no doubt. If so, God knows." "Can this all be, Rolfe?" asked the stricken voice. "False to Lillian, he cannot be true to any. Think you he really loves this other of whom you speak?" "I think yes. I think the majesty of her woman- liness and the purity of her endeavors have raised him to his best altitude. I know, past all doubting, that he loves her with his best love, and is true with his best truth." "How do you know, brother?" "I have watched him, though he knew it not. I have listened to hin, for he has told me, not knowing that I was anything to Lillian; and I know that the page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 DARE FAIRFAX. highest devotion his life will ever feel, is given to a queenly-hearted woman." "And you know her, Rolfe? How can you bear all this so calmly? Why not tell him you know them both, and charge him with his dishonor? Why not tell her how untrue he has been to my poor Lillian, that she may be undeceived?" "Why, Elinor?" he asked with strange emotion. "Yes, I do ask why? Do you not care that my poor darling's waiting face has grown to a mere shadow? Do you not care that daily she goes out 'to meet him,' till her little strength will scarcely take her, and still she believes him true?" "I noticed its shadows and paleness too well, sister; but Lillian has changed, from expectation to resigna- tion, I think. Her unerring intuitions have taught her that her watch is useless; and I fancied just now that a heavenly light was fast dispelling earth's shadows for her. How can you ask if I do not care for her Because I care, I trust she may never look on his face again." "Forgive me, Rolfe; but this new, hopeless sorrow is so strange. I do not mean to reproach you. I know you do what is best; but I must ask what we shall do?" "Nothing o" "Nothing! Not even undeceive her whom he now professes to care for?" I cannot, Elinor. I do not dare." DARE FAIRFAX. 121 "Not dare!" echoed the widow's voice, plaintive and surprised. "No." That monosyllable was freighted with more than it uttered. "Oh, brother! why? Why should you let wrong go on accumulating? If you cannot help Lillian, and you think that any further knowledge of him must only distress her, why not go to this girl and tell her all his falsity. Tell her of my child's blighted life and stricken youth." "I cannot do this, Elinor," said Rolfe Ingraham decisively. "Rolfe, only tell me why you will not." There was a full minute's pause-a dead silence. Even his breathing seemed suspended; then a won- derful sweetness wound itself into the tones of his voice; he said very gently, "Because I love her myself." When Mrs. Hope, lifting her head quickly, looked at him, his eyes were following the figure of Isabel, as she paced under the pines alone. He did not see the parted lips, and eager eyes, staring as with keen, startled pain, at a crumpled, worn letter, which she read breathlessly. Her hand went to her head in a dreamy way, and she leaned against the old tree faintly, it seemed, struggling for the strength he dared not offer her. 6 page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 DARE FAIRFAX. At last, without the will of any human creature, the worn paper Dare Fairfax picked up in that deso- late pass, after the fight, had brought its dagger-point of pain into her heart. How hard waihlBe inevitable! Each alone must bear a burden that no other heart can share. It never occurred to Isabel, to wonder even if Lillian had lost that fatal thing, or how it came there. That was little matter. Nothing presented itself to her but the black, unmistakable characters of a pen she had known from childhood. I think she never moaned. The thrust of that sword was too bitter to leave strength for sound. If there was, only God heard it. I thank Him that I did not; and I pray that its anguish be not laid in retribution on him, miserable and weak and sinning though he be. I know now that she prays, "Father, forgive." Oh, if all women would only think when wronged that they punish most keenly by forgiveness! All true love, though utterly crucified, like His on Cal- vary, prays that prayer. DARE FAIRFAX. 123 CHAPTER XIV. IF, when we struggle for the achievement of some cherished purpose, or, with passion intense, yearn for its consummation; or, sadder yet, believe what we wish will come to pass, becautse we wish it,-if we would but remember how, high above all earthly plans, marching ahead of our desires, the inevitable work of, God goes on, perfecting what He will, and not what we insist, while in His palm He holds our beloved, and at His foot our foes. Our prayers answered, would often be our heaviest curses; our wishes gratified, our mdst wearying pains. From the almost insupportable burden He lays upon us here, if we bear it in patience, He will fashion for us crowns of everlasting peace. From the bitterest chalice pressed to our revolted lips will flow 'hereafter a fountain of Eternal gladness. That for which Isabel daily prayed, Rolfe Ingra- ham, with a deepening shadow on his brow, as fer- vently plead might never be. What the mother, with tenderest solicitude feared and deprecated, poor Lillian, though hopeless now, still patiently awaited. page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 124 1DARK PAltJBLA. Hope, so long deferred, at last made her heart sick. At last the frail life faltered and weakened, and on the tumbled pillow tossed the golden head, throb- bing with fever and mad with delirium. At last the young heart's burden broke down her sunny years. and the silver cord was being surely loosened. Soon would "the golden bowl be broken, and the pitcher broken at the fountain." "Typhoid." That was the physicians' verdict, pronounced with wise faces and many an ominous shake of their saga- cious heads. So it proved; but, repelled by a buoy- ant mind and healthful brain, it might have been successfully resisted. All Mrs. Hope's entreaties could not keep Isabel from Lillian's bedside. Rolfe Ingraham's almost stern interdict proved equally unavailing. "What you would do for me," she had said to Mrs. Hope, "that will I strive to do for Lillian. If you have been mother to me in my double orphan- hood, therefore it is my right, and must be my privilege, to be sister to her." So Isabel, in her imperative kindness, had her way; and many an hour the poor mother rested, while that matchless face of Isabel Darnleigh's with sleepless eyes kept vigil. Time came when only a faint flush tinted the wasted cheek, and the parched lips made indistinct mutterings, while the little attenuated hands wan- DARE FAIRFAX. 125 dered aimlessly over the covering, or without power to steady themselves, quivered in the air above her head. Surely there is nothing more pitiful than those ghastly hands, quivering upward at the weird hour of midnight; neither beckoning nor beseeching, nor yet deprecating; only waiting! Like a child, Lillian babbled of her home in far Alabama, and fancied she was weaving a flowery wreath of orange-blooms,-orange-blooms and wed- dings!-her marriage that was to be; and she talked plaintively to Isabel, fancying she was her mother, at times. Once at the eerie time between midnight and dawn, when no sound could be heard but the beating of her own heart, Isabel fancied a startling change was creeping over the poor faded wild-rose face; a change unmistakable to those who have ever seen its blanched calmness. Isabel leaned nearer, watching intently. Suddenly, the blue, wandering eyes opened, and fixed their gaze on her with strange intentness. Isabel's hand fluttered softly over the forehead, where the purple tracery of veins meandered, and in a sweet, low voice she sang softly the dear hymn of comfort, "Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly." In rapt silence the young sufferer listened, and, on the closing line, she lifted one thin hand, which wavered painfully; and while a look of eager expect- ancy came over the poor face, she whispered, page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 126 DARE FAIRFAX. "Don't you hear, mamma? He's coming now; it is sunrise, and all the East is flooded with glory. Oh! Max, Max, I've waited so long; but you never knew it, did you, dear? Who wrote that letter, Max? who was she up -in Maryland?" Poor Isabel! what made her heart give a great sick- ening throb? Of course it was not her Max who was meant. Lillian had never heard of him-yet why had she had in her possession that letter, written to him by one she knew too well That letter was written to Max Upvergne. Lillian had had it and lost it; she had it now. Could there be two of that name? Creeping, cold and resistless, came again that despe- rate chill, penetrating her very heart,-the same that came first that September morning at Cliffside, as she looked on a fair pictured face,-the very same that crept so deathly over her, that other morning, when trying to recall where she had seen the face of the singer who plained, "The long, long weary day," in the splendors of that gorgeous sunrise. Nearer that sad young face she leaned,-closer looked, yet she could not solve the mystery of her emotions. How desperately she strove to remember, before that face should be shut away forever. "Mamma, it's my bridal eve!" cried the thin, weak voice again, quivering with excitement. "I knew DARE FAIRFAX. 127 you would come, Max. They kept you away. Ah! they kept you! I found the letters they wrote. But you didn't mean it. No, no, I know it. Kiss me once, and I am ready. Oh yes, I was waiting,-I waited so long,-so long." A feverish gleam shot athwart the wandering eyes; and she laughed a low laugh of strange merriment, while the transparent hands spread out the dainty white covering with fantastic motions. Again the weak accents were audible in a pitiful attempt at archness. "Don't I look charming? You know I'll be Mrs. Upvergne in a minute." The low laugh which followed, for lack of strength ended in slaarp and prolonged strangling. Isabel's arm was under her head in an instant, while the golden hair tangled its brightness over her hands- "O my God! my God!"' In exceeding bitterness the cry of fearful extremity struggled to Isabel's lips; but not a sound they ut- tered. She knew it now!-that face before her. Wasted and faded, with all life's delicious rose-tints gone out, and the delicate fairness burned by consum- ing fevers, she could not mistake it. She had held its pictured loveliness in her palm; and called it "sister" to her own heart. Not even the memory of Max Upvergne's arms around her,-not his voice murmuring " my darling," could dispel the grim certainty of his falsehood then. page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 DARE FAIRFAX Earnestly and completely as she had depended on his truth, with equal despair she believed in his untruth. Those dying lips could not lie,-that poor, blighted, fiosted life could not be mistaken. "Oh, why-why did I trust so?" So quickly do we reach up our pitiful, pleading hands, when first at our feet lies the dust of a shattered idol! So quickly to Him do we cry, "My God!" Ah! what other help have we, when earth and her broken reeds fail and sway from under our leaning strength? What other hope have we, when we have laid our sweetest and dearest ones away, rigid and white, knowing that for them is no resurrection? This cup pressed to her lips was surely bitterer than the draught of death poor Lillian was drinking even then. Could she sit there, and bear it all alone, in that awful midnight? Stunned and aclling, as with some Strong disease, and new," Isabel sat powerless for action-almost for motion. Why could she not cherish the poor, bruised, broken flower, left to early frost and fading? Oh! she could not! It seemed terrible to draw to her heart-out- raged and betrayed-the poor head that some time, in the sunny young days gone, Max had held on his breast. Could she ever kiss again the lips his had kissed? Had he ever said, under the evening stars, "Lillian, I love you," as he had said to her, "Isabel, I love you?" The wind and the trees had heard him ; Ij; DARE FAIRFAX. 129 i the little spring and the stars,-Gocl had heard it among His angels. As she thought that, she prayed, not idly, nor absently, but yearningly and in agony, "God help nle!" The pathos of that prayer cursed Max Upvergne deeper than his broken oath of passion, madly sworn by the Cliffside spring. Still Isabel Darnleigh sat there, and listened to the voice which each minute grew fainter,--listened to snatches of the beautiful idyl of Lillian Hope's life, so brightly begun, so darkly ending. Still on through the shadows marched the hours to the dawning; on- ward floated the tender spirit, fluttering outward into Peace; onward floated the angels, over the River in barques of golden glory, to bear her into everlasting Itest; onward too strode an invisible power, bringing, face to face, Lillian Hope and Max Upvergne, to keep their awful tryst. Dawn was growing gray, when Mrs. Hope sought Lillian's room, never dreaming of the change which had come to her child through the dark, small hours. Almost as white as the face on the pillow was that other bending over it. The dark waves of Isabel's half-unbound hair swept down among the fairer beauty of Lillian's. Scarcely in an audible whisper now, the faint voice called, "Mamma, I'm going in a minute. My bridal-robes 6* page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 .DARE FAIRFAX are ready-white and glistening in the light of angel- eyes. Over the River they float, up the beautiful other side. Max is not there, mamma, but One more glorious than seraph evdr shone. He is waiting with the white robes and the ring. Let me go-let me go!" There was a little lifting of attenuated hands, faint returns of kisses a mother's love left on her face. The blue, fading eyes, shining with a far-off light, like the reflex of unseen sunrise, rested on Isabel; who, tearless and statue-like, sat there in the ghastly dawn. "Isabel-waiting---Max." Isabel shuddered through all her frame. There was further effort to speak; the lips, fast growing white, moved vainly for a minute, then there was the faintest sound of- "Coming-coming! It is sunrise now; and I am ready-coming." Still Isabel sat there, as if turned to stone. Still the mother knelt bathing the ivory-like hands in sad tears, moaning bitterly, "My child! my child! I shall come to thee some day, though thou canst not return to me. Lord, Thou gavest, and Thou hast taken away. Thy will be done!" The consciousness of a living presence came in that moment to Isabel; and with it the memory of the night at Cliffside, when the last moments of her DARE FAIRFAX. 131 father had been cheered by a promise, since so relig- iously kept. Rolfe Ingraham stood in the doorway. Up over the east swelled the flood of sunrise splen- dor; and as it came luminous through the casement, the last spark of Lillian's life leaped up and went out. Looking on the lovely clay, Rolfe Ingraham said solemnly, with his head uncovered and his hand rest- ing on the brow of the dead, "For we know, that if the earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a dwelling with God; a house not made with hands, eternal inthe heavens." Isabel had a vague remembrance of two strong kind -hands that enfolded hers warmly; of strength that carried, more than led her away. The pain in her head and the pain at her heart gnawed keenly; both sore and both bitter. Why, like others, could she not fint into forgetfulness? Oh, why would not fever, with its hot hands, clasp her brain to quiet? Why did not delirium rock her into forgetfulness? Welcome even insanity, if insanity would give re- lease from bitter knowledge of falsehood and faith- lessness. But no. Unto the bitter dregs must the cup be drained. No nepenthe for her!--not even sleep to page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] rest the aching eyes, nor slumber to calm the tortured mind. Through the house, awful with the presence of Death, she went through that weary day. Death is awful, even when it comes under tenderest hands, to pearly beauty. True, it left no grim signet on that young face. Still in sunny waves floated the silken lustre of Lillian's hair over her last pillow; still smiled the wild-rose face, only the rose was faded from its spring-time budding. To that old home, in the twilight of that day, came a stranger visitor than. Death. I ; DARE FAIRFAX. 133 CHAPTER XV. YES, it was in the twilight, beneath the pine-tree shadows, as Isabel walked, with her heroic face front- ing the western heavens. They were black again with tempest, and ominous thunder-wheels rumbled hoarsely under the gloom. A figure came toward her; her eyes saw in the deepening obscurity a face that made her heart leap wildly in the bonds she had that day set on it. Arms were stretched out and held her close; a voice too well remembered, murmured, "My darling!-my darling!" "Oh, Max! I have waited so long!" Unconsciously she repeated Lillian's words, almost her last. Not yet did she question her right to her place on his heart; to hear those words while the dear heart that had waited so long for him was still in that house so near! "Isabel! Isabel! Have you no glad word for me? I too have waited so long to come to you. I am starved for my darling's love." Her face whitened in the shadows, but Max Up. vergne could not yet see it; he only felt that the cheek against which he pressed his own was cold, page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 134 DARE FAIRFAX. and the slight form he held was shivering as with an ague. The thunder deepened under the western cloud, and anon theefiery lightnings leaped flittingly across its chasms. In all the hours of that awful day Isabel had said to herself, "I am brave enough. I can do it! The deserter of Lillian can be nothing to me." She had chained down her woman's heart with every last word of the pale sleeper, and held it there, -stony it seemed, and lead-like. In those few mo- ments, a tone and an outstretched arm had mastered her stoicism. One hand in the folds of her dress clutched tightly a crumpled letter, and the next words after that first surprised cry of "M lax, Max!" came hoarsely, as if wrung out by harshest pain. Blunt and hard, the truth was hurled home, "Did you know Lillian Hope's watch was over? Max, did you know that she went home with the angels at sunrise?" Had she struck him he would not have staggered so. Her own hands were icily cold as she put off even his touch from her. "Isabel, what is this?-what do you know of her? What is Lillian Iope to me?" "Do you ask me that, Max Upvergne?" There was no anger nor excitement in her voice; only a stern, pathetic anguish. DARE FAIRFA4X. 135 Again he reached his arms for her, asking reproach- fully, "Isabel, what phantom are you conjuring between o hearts? Surely such things cannot separate us But she waved him from her, more sadly still, again repeating, Do you ask me that, Max Upvergne? Do you know how long she has been in truth my sister? Do you know how long I have witnessedi her watch for one who was false to her?-not knowing, until last night, that one was you Do you know now that she lies in her white silence, no dumb witness to Him who avengeth, even though her lips are so still; for the appeal of that young face before His throne will bring to you all-aye! more than I pray you may ever feel-of retribution." Still he stood hearing all she said, and the pathos of her voice, tear-burdened as it was, was keener to him than any shrill accusation. His tones in reply though gentle, were heavy with reproach. Regain- ing one hand, of which action she seemed uncon- scious, he said, "Isabel, do you mean to let the fancies of one feverish girl part us forever? Will you believe the vagaries of delirium before me?" She only said, still sorrowfully, "Max, when I held her lovely-pictured face in my hand, down yonder by Cliffside spring, why did you O ywyddy- page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 136 DARE FAIRFAX. tell me falsely of her? Why did you not honestly say, 'I loved this lovable one once, but do not now;' -if it is possible for true love to cease?" "Because, Isabel, you were all to me, then. I could not bear to say that I had ever had even a passing fancy for another." "Then it was but a passing fancy, and if soon gone, you could not help it; but why did you not go to her in brave manliness and say so; being able to walk the earth a free man before you dared offer me your love? Having pledged it to her, it was not yours to offer me. In so doing, you perjured yourself and insulted me." No innocent queen ever stood in more palpable queenliness before a revolted people, than Isabel Darnleigh stood there before that one weak, sinning man. Lifting that perfect face of his, he said very humbly, yet with apparent confidence, "Isabel, I will more than atone for all." "ATONE! Oh, my God! be pitiful now." In that wild appeal, scarce audibly breathed, the smitten woman expressed the anguish and indigna- tion of her outraged nature. Alarmed and remorseful, he held closer her cold hand, and his wondrous voice, every accent alive with mournful sweetness, pleaded, "Isabel! I can,-indeed I can, and will." But she silenced him. So hushed and controlled DARE FAIRFAX. 137 were her tones in answering, that one hearing her would have thought all emotion dead in her breast. "Do you know what atonement would be, Max Upvergne? To iher it means, to give her again the days of the Wyears since you first offered her your love; with all the joy she might have known, had you never crossed her path; with all the love and faith you promised, but never gave. It means to undo the watching and waiting of those years, and the suffer- ing of these past weeks; to awakel life in one you have slain, and hope from where you sepulchred it. It means, Max Upvergne, to rid the record Angels have kept, of this catalogue against you; it means the forgiveness, of Him who has gathered her as a pitilessly-wounded dove to His bosom. " "Isabel, I have no answer for all this. I told you my past was not fai-r as my future should be by your side. If I win your forgiveness, I can hope for no more. That I have wounded you, is bitterer than all." "C Mine? my forgiveness, Max Upvergne?" All the woman's love, and passion, and pain trailed their pathetic plaint through her voice then, as she said, "I gave that to God for you, praying that it might balance your wrong. He holds that for you. I would rather that not one thought of me should darken your life. If I can, I will keep back even my tears lest they be held against you. O, Max!-M-ax!" page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 138 DARE FAIRFAX. "Only tell me, Isabel, that you still love me,-that you can trust me?" "Love you, Max?" Volumes would not have told him more than those weighted words; but she resolutely put away his hands which clung passionately to hers. Then she added presently, But I cannot trust you." ' Isabel, then you do not love me." "Max Upvergne, into my grave will my love go with me-a solemn weight, as it has been a solemn joy. I gave it to you forever; and I meant it not for a day or a year. Forever, with me, means eter- nally. My love being pure, will not leave me with my breath; but glorified with my spirit, as all holy things we keep clean here will be, it will clothe me with a tenderer beauty up there." "My darling, I cannot lose you!" His voice was completely broken now, and utterly without pride or assurance. "Lose me, Max? No, no, I trust we are not lost to each other. If my regard has ever influenced you, that influence cannot die. You must be a better man because of it. You, in failing me, Max, have taught nie that only One is true; only One can be forever trusted. Perhaps it was His way of teaching me to love Him best." Trembling and utterly broken down now, he re- plied, DARE FAIRFAX. 139 "I promise you my entire faith. Isabel, will you never trust me again?" "Not with my future, Max." Again she put her quivering hand in his, saying simply, "Come." But he drew back reluctant; and a strange dread came coldly over him. "Where, Isabel? I cannot see your friends to-night. I know none of them, do I? I am in no condition of mind to meet strangers." She made him no answer, but with bowed head she led him on; her black robes trailing after; her hair heavy with night-damp; her eyes strangely bright, and oh', with what a beating, trembling heart! They passed from under the shelter of the pines, passed an angle of the building; and Isabel, pushing open a half closed, low glass door, entered, drawing him, still reluctant, into a dimly-lighted apartment. Max Upvergne faltered where he stood. Something still and white-robed lay on a low sofa, with pale roses in its golden hair, and clasped in the thin, waxen hands. Near by, sat a man with folded arms, bowed head, and eyes looking down in stern meditation. He rose, and would have advanced, not knowing who came; but Isabel Darnleigh's colorless face and shining eyes arrested him where he stood. Very quietly he turned aside, into a darkened recess, and page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] "O DARE FAIRFAX. she led on that other, who followed with strangely lagging step. Rolfe Ingraham drew still farther into the shadow, for one glance showed him who Isabel brought; but his stern lips were sealed in that presence. Very low was her voice, when at last they two stood beside the broken Lily of far Alabama. "Do you know what your promise is worth, Max Upvergne?" she asked so sadly, her voice full of wild tears. 'This is how you fulfilled one. Is it an inducement for me to trust you with another?" He was voiceless to answer that. He could not sue for trust there ; he only said brokenly, "Oh, Isabel, Isabel! you were my only love." "And you mine, Max. We are equal in that," she said simply. He searched her face eagerly, but she slowly con- tinued, as if each word was weighted with pain, "Even if I could trust you-and I cannot-do you think I could have the shadow of this face ever com- ing between us? What surety have I that a fairer than I might not win your wayward fancy from me, even as I, all unwittingly, won it from her? Max Upvergne, my hand will only go where it can go fearlessly. I must rely on Christian principles, and not on-words." He stood up braver now; his handsome face turned toward Isabel and away from silent Lillian. Like one who had a right to justify, if not accuse, he said, DARE FAIRFAX. 141 "Isabel, I know now in whose house you are. I may be wrong in so conjecturing; but I fear your heart has been stolen from me." The insinuation was more than the words. Isabel's hands fluttered' out pitifully, then covered her face. This was more bitterness than she could bear. He shrunk from the very anguish of her voice when next she spoke: "Max Upvergne, here, beside poor Lillian, I would not dare one idle utterance. Only God knows what your love has been to me. No other may ever know of its entire devotedness. The brave heart whose truth gave me protection in my desolation, and whose roof gave me a home, must have guessed all that any one could guess of my heart; but, Max Upvergne, he would have been too true to his own manhood, to have stolen my love from another, even had he wanted it. A knighther man or a gentler gentleman T have never known." Max Upvergne looked into Isabel's sweet, brave, grieved face, and said, sarcastically, "This, then, is the secret of it all, Isabel." Very white she looked, and very calmly she spoke next: "Come out from this presence, Max Upvergne. Beside her, I cannot talk of aught but peace and rest -colne." As they came, they went; and Rolfe Ingraham stood motionless where they left him. He bowed his page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] head on his breast. .Beyond meed, her praise was the sweetest he had ever known. In a whisper that scarcely crossed his lips, he said, "Oh, Isabel! Isabel! Isabel! Can it never be . " It was just what Dare had said that March evening, on the windy hills of Mary]and. Poor Dare!--but none should ever say of him, Poorl Rolf! He stood up like a king, shook away the black locks from his temples as though a crown sat upon them; all his face and beard trembling as with a shiver of de- light. Isabel led Max Upvergne out to the porch. Her strength was utterly gone now; and he was going-- he must go! Henceforth, he must be nothing to her. Down in her own heart, and known only to her heart, she would love him with all that heart's strength and fervor. She would pray for his future, and no prayer would ever be disregarded. In His own time, and in His own way, the Omnipotent would answer them. She was no heroine, only a woman, with a woman's truest love outraged, and trailed in the dust of his passions. "Isabel, is this all? Are we to part so?" There was a gleam of anger in his eye, a bitter reproach in his voice. At sound of the altered tone, Isabel lifted her eyes, and they were like the eyes of a wounded stag. "This is all, Max." "-For my best love and my single devotion Isa- bel, say what you will, doubt what you will, you cannot doubt that." Isabel Darnleigh's face changed like'the lightning then. er h and flashed before him the crumpled letter that sle had kept so long, that Lillian had kept, and grown heart-sick keeping; the same that old man gave into Rolfe Ingraham's keeping by the Virginia roadside the day she rode those weary miles to what might have been Max Upvergne's death-bed. "If I doubt everything else, I cannot doubt this, Max Upvergne." Isabel-.--who has dared?" was all his lips could fashioii. "Who? you, Max, have dared too much. Go." Isabel knew that he wrung her hands when she dropped helpless on the rustic chair, under the vines of the old porch. She knew that icy lips kissed hers; that what seemed to be the arms of a .madman, held her a moment in a wild clasp. Then lhe thunder roared, the wind swept awfilly around; and great rain- drops dashed on her head. She heard footsteps dash Lray, and, what seened to be ages after, some other one, that brought a sense of comfort and strength, drew her into the house. A voice somewhere floating on the dreamy silence murmured, "My poor darling! mine " She never remembered anything more ot that fear- ful night. page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "4 Once, long after, Rolfe Irgraham asked her sadly, as if fearing to recall what was painful, "Isabel, where did you ind that letter?" Isabel only answered, Where Lillian dropped it; under the pines." ie had found it again, drenched with rain, under the rustiC chair on the porch. Reader, don't hate me, till you hear all. That was my first letter, to the first one I ever loved. Iad I known some things I knew afterward, it would never have been written. He had asked me to be his wife "some of these days," and I had told him in that letter that I would. DARE FAIRFAX. 145 CHAPTER XVI. SHALL I bring in here a page of my own life? Shall I tell of the beautiful world stretching around me All the sorrow in the land could not make me sad; nor all the tears ever wept drown my smiles. Even the long silence of Isabel could not stifle with its strangeness my glad cry to my own heart, "I am beloved!" I forgot for the time poor-Dare's unreturned devo- tion,-poor Dare? whom I had pitied so. I even forgot tile one absorbing wish, for more than two weary years, to know something more of the brave one who had saved her from Darnleigh Hall in flames. I forgot everything, only to be incredible whether ever braver arm had striven for right or rescue, than that which had been thrown around me. I only wondered whether rarer fascinations ever breathed from eye or voice, than in his who wooed me, in that dear sweet home of Fairlands. He had come to us a stranger, it was true; had said he knew Dare,-told the poor, patient mother, how grandly her son fought in vindication of princi- ples she had instilled into his mind. Dear Mrs. Fair- fax; I think she loved him, in her motherly fashion, almost as well as I in my girlish way. 7 page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] DARE FAIRFAX. "6 The first time I saw him, was just before the bitter strife of Antietam; and aain, when it was over. Then, when the tide of battle swept and reswept the desolate fields and heights of Gettysburg, he camne to ne again. Hrd In that Fall of '63, he was thin and worn. Hard marching and fighting, he said; but,weary as he seetied, I marvelled that nothing could mar the beauty o i lied brow, or di the amber li hts of his brown eyes. At times he seeme ae and troubled. That I fancied was not unnatural, when I knew he must go so soon, to come again after strife, or imrisonment, or perils untold, - perhaps Iay now, would God had willed thi he had never come again! n nly So oIe "If he knew Dare, and knew that kingly soul Rolfe Ingraham, did he know anything of Isabel.--my peerless, precious Isabel." "Oh yes, I have met Miss Darnleigh," he said, but his faie grEew so white, and his eyes so strange, I fan- cied he was ill, and insisted he must lie on the sofa, while I brought him some of Mrs. Fairftx's famous I talked on of my earliest friend; told him all about the burning of Darnleigh, and te brave f n- known one who had saved her and her father from death. lie seemed strangely moved at this, and asked if I never heard who it was; but I reminded him of -DARE FAIRFAX. 147 my-long illness which followed, and afterward no one could tell me. I told him of Dare's devotion to Isa- bel,-so rare, and true, and unreturned. At that he started up, his face so flushed, I said he was feverish. Still Isabel was my theme, and I read to him a letter she had managed to send me, soon after leaving Cliff- side for the manor. When I went over the line-only the single line where she had said, referring to her- seli "Oh, Allie! I am dearly, dearly loved, and life is so sweet," He put his hands over his eyes, saying, the light gave him the headache. Never once did he move them, when I rbad where she had found one who was almost a sister to her,-one, with lovely haunting face and eyes, that troubled her to recall where she had seen them. At last he sqal huskily, as if suffering, "With whom is she living now, Allie Does she mention names?" "No, no nanme, except that of Rolfe Ingraham, whom she named as a royal-hearted man." "Yes, I doubt not, he is to her," he laughed; and his laugh seemed to mock her sweet letter. "I wish she would love him," I cried impetu- ously. "They would match grandly." "Yes, grandly," he echoed; and five minutes later, with haggard face, he left me. "When would he come again?" page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "Maybe never, little Allie," he said half sadly, half fiercely. "Yes, I know what 'maybe' is, but what is pos- sibly?"I asked, trying to be cheerful, though my heart failed me. "Possibly?" he said, while his eyes looked away over the southern hills. "Possibly? Oh! that means some of these days." He was gone. He, I say, as though in all the world there was only one, and for me there was but one. I forgot even to be anxious for Dare. The Autumn wore into Winter, and in the Winter another letter was brought us by friendly hands from Isabel. It was tender and good, and written more to Mrs. Fairfax than to me. Indeed, there was little of it in which I had any part; all there was in it for me, was strange and intense. It said, "Tell Alice Birney,"-then, as if relenting some- what,-" tell little Allie, I shall keep herplace warm in my heart. Oh! hirs. Fairfax, kee) her close in your home-nest, nor let the hunters wound your dove." Early in the Spring, or rather some time in April (and that usually seems very early in Maryland), a let- ter came from Dare. It could scarcely be called a letter, either; it was only a little thin brown scrap of paper, pencilled all over. This, strangely enough, was never put into my hands. I did wonder over it, for, ever .Lv' L^IL .Al . 149 since I had lived at Fairlands, it seemed that, while sharing all else with Ms. Fairf x, I owned a part of Dare too. But about this letter,--while she repeated to me many things he had said in it, much which seemed, with brotherly solicitude, was intended for me --she put it safely away like something to be guarded. At least it was to be guarded from me; I knew it by her sad, sweet counsel to me,-sadder, and, if possible, kinder, than ever. She would stroke my hair away from my forehead, and draw my head to her knee, saying softl, while her aged eyes were brimful of tears, "Poor little Allie." If I only looked inquiringly, she would rally from her abstraction, and send me on some quickly-impro- vised errand; her gaze following me regretfully throlgh the door. The last I would see, seeming not to see, would be her white widow's cap, shaking sadly, as though deprecating something unavoidale or inevitable. Then came such an hour as could come to Fair- lands but once; "an hour that would send its fadeless trace down life's far-sweeping tide;" an hour when the mother's heart leaned only on GoD; feebly mur- nuring that if such was His will, she was willing to lie in her welcome grave. All other stay was taken from her heart. The fearful strife in the Virginia "Wilderness" was page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] 150 DARE FAIRFAX. over, and Dare lay under its shadows,--our brave, sunny-faced, darling Dare! That was all we knew. Was it not enough?"Oh, our Father, help us,"' we prayed; and he did, with strength that was strong, and resignation that gave us peace, if not joy. ,pe DARE FAIRFAX. 151 CHAPTER XVII. IN that fatal May of '64, while I comforted, as best I could, the poor old heart that still dwelt upon its lost boy, through the desolated valleys of Virginia, and over its scathed hills, desperate marches were made and wild battles fought. Wherever women could go, by field and hospital, Mrs. Hope and Isabel were to be found, unshrinking in the path of suffer- ing, and by the pallet where ghastly death came to the hacked and maimed victims of-" civilized war- fare." Even as went the pale Sisters of Mercy, they went to the awful horrors of the "Tilderness," when the sickening carnage was over. Many a poor fellow looked with dimming eyes up to the kind face, bor- dered with fast-bleaching hair, and murmured the name of '" iother." Dear Mrs. Hope! She cooled many a hot brow with the little water that was to be had, and put precious drops of it to parching lips. Wherever Mrs. Ilope led, Isabel followed, stronger from her fiery trial, the pure gold of her character. shining brighter day by day. Something of the rosy tenderness of the girl was gone; something, too, of the old pride, and in its place, the patience and self- page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] 152 DARE FAIRFAX. reliance of the woman. Still the beautiful eyes wore in their depths the pain of the wounded stag-the agony of resistance-the scorn of the dogs of death that were waiting to drag her down. One evening, when the sunset lay redly over the tangled brushwood, and the very leaves seemed faint- ing with thirst, many of the dead had been buried, and many of the wounded removed; but field and wood still bore many a ghastly evidence of the fight. Rolfe Ingraham, apparently unchanged, save that into his dusky eyes an inexpressible pity had crept, and gentler curves softened the hardness of his grand face, was there too. Grieved and troubled, with eyes that seemed startled with the pain of an unexpected wound, he came in to where Isabel sat, weary with that fearful day's min- istry, and said huskily, "' Come out into the air. I have something to tell you that will need all the freshness there is in this sick, sick land." He drew her arm through his own, and led her out under the red sunset. "Miss Darnleigh, could you bear another great sorrow?" Her heart felt like lead at the suggestion. Another! What could come to her now to equal the suffering she had already known? Could Max Upvergne be in one of those gorged trenches? His name had never DARE FAIRFAX. 153 been spoken by her or to her, since that night when Lillian kept her tryst with hiiu8and death, at the old manor on the Blue Ridge. Had this good, strong friend come now to tell her this? There was a lifting of her burdened heart an in- stant; an instant only,--a meant, but unuttered, "Dear Saviour, help me!" Then Isabel said, with her purple-blue eyes appeal- ing upward to his for quick words, "Tell me at once; I am ready; I think I can bear anything now." "Isabel, Dare hasfallen." He said it so stilly-so sadly, that Isabel faltered not under the shock; indeed, it was scarcely a shock to her, for she had looked into many still faces, won- dering if the next could be Dare's. She had answered many a plaining voice, thinking, what if his should be among them! Dare was among them now. Not with those whose voices were strung with agony, nor the fever- maddened ones, with gaping wounds and mangled limbs. "Will you take me to him now-this minute?." "Is it best, Miss Darnleigh? Could you not trust to me? I will do with it what is right." "It." How sickening was the full meaning of that little two-lettered word! Not "Dare" any longer; only "It!" "Take me at once, please. I promised him, if pos- 7* page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 IDARE FAIRFAX. sible, to go to hiim lecI. You shall do all that- is to be done; only take inc." Under tlhat heavy sky, sulphurous with battle- smoke, they went together; a little way down a trodden road, strewn with evidences of destruction; across a little piece of ragged land, and along the edge of the fatal wood, under whose solemn arms many a brave heart had beat its last. Strange burdens were being borne by rude but kindly hands, to rough couches in the aching earth; for earth must have felt the roar and shock flowing and receding through those last fearful days. A winding and intricate way Rolfe Ingraham led her, turning now this way, now that, to avoid the stark forms that lay in every possible shape for human agony to assume-lay under the glare from the west, with staring eyes that saw no sunset and no hills. A little farther, and just ahead of them, where a slight opening was, the fading glow of the sunset stole over the brown earth and rank grasses, seeming to enclasp the bole of a gnarled tree, then lay softly, like a smile, on something at its base,--something so still, and straight, and quiet, that they stood beside it, neither of them speaking a word. The face of the man who lay there with his left arm under his head, and his cheek resting on one arm, was calm and almost smiling. The blue beauty of his eyes was not eager now, but folded under white lids, tranced into an unchanging gaze toward eternity. DARE FAIRFAX. 155 The right hand, inside the breast of his jacket, was clutched tightly over his heart, and all the linen of his shirt-front and sleeve was wet with blood. "My poor, poor Dare!" murmured Isabel, while her tears rained on his sunny hair and cold fore- head. "Oh! true, true heart! I promised you to come at such a time as this,-I am here, Dare, and you cannot smile back at me." As if he could hear, Isabel talked to him brokenly between her sobs, holding one poor powerless hand between her own, and laying it, from time to time, against her warm cheek. Rolfe Ingraham knelt among the 'grass, and lifted the lifeless head on his knee. What could he say to comfort her? Nothing! He could only give his meed of praise to the dead ; so he said, quietly, "We could ill afford to lose him now :-gallant- hearted fellow! Knowing you will do justice to his bravery, perhaps I had as well tell you how he met his fate. Will you hear now, or later? ' "Tell me now," answered Isabel. While the light went out in the west and the sha- dows deepened amid the trooping horrors of that wilderness, Rolfe Ingraham told Isabel Darnleigh how, when foe pressed on foe, Dare Fairfax found himself almost alone. Nearly his whole company had been shot down, and the little line swayed and fell. Then, before reserves came, side by side in page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 156 DARE FAIRFAX. that strife, three men fought, with wide gaps in"'the ranks around them,-three, unhorsed and desperate: Rolfe Ingraham, Dare Fairfax, and one more. What awful hand had grouped them thus? Was it Chance, blind and blundering.? Was it Fate, cruel and bitter? Or was it GOD, wise and un- searchable A man with brown beard, and amber-lighted eyes, had leaped from under his dying horse, beside them; his face aflame with wrath, a terrible shout of defi- ance on his lips. Dare Fairfax, hearing that voice, turned then, before the battle-flame, as, four years be- fore, he had turned amid fire and smoke; faced death as he faced it then. He saw that marvellous, flashing face. A dozen rifles, it seemed, blazed at the breast that fronted them defyingly. Rolfe Ingraham only knew after that, that Dare Fairfax had dashed aside the menacing death, and thrown himself across that other's front. The sharp volley came, and from Dare's right hand the rifle fell. He only spoke once after that supreme moment. Isabel's face was hidden on the gray coat of the fallen, 'and her weeping made it wet as the blood which had dyed it earlier. "Tell me all-all!" she sobbed, never once lifting her face. "Yes, it is best to know all his heroism. We car- DARE FAIRFAX. 157 ried him here; we knew that surgical skill could not help him then. The last soon came, painless and quiet. "Poor, poor Dare! Who in all the land did he love well enough to give his life for? Did he say no word-no last word?" "Isabel, he covered not with his breast the life he saved because he loved it; b ifor the sake of another, whose name was last on his lips." She wondered not that he called her "Isabel," she only waited for Dare's last words. "What were they? Tell me every one." She looked up at him with her eyes full of anguish. Ie was silent, evidently reluctant to speak further; but the wistful appeal in her face overcame his wishes. Slowly lie resumed: '"As he covered that other's breast with his own, he said, ' It is for Isabel. . once promised her mine for yozurs.' "Oh, Dare, Dare!" was the bitter cry with which she bowed her head again, lower than before; and kissed. the white forehead, from which the cap had fallen,-kissed it lingeringly, as we kiss those we kiss for the last time. Then she rose, and, looking into ERolfe Ingraham's eyes, asked, "Whose life did lie save? Tell me, if you know." He had dreaded that question; but her imperative "Tell me," could not be evaded. Would that he could say he knew not who held life at the sacrifice of page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 DARE FAIRFAX. Dare's! He answered not a word; then she rose, and turning from the dead to the living, asked so pite- ously, "Do you know, Rolfe Ingraham 2 " Even then, like lightning ran the consciousness leaping through his veins that she had called him "Rolfe ;" but he only said, "Why will you know, Isabel? He is nothing to you." Her face grew from white to crimson, and deadly white again; seeing it so, he said bitterly, laying the helpless head of Dare back again on the long grasses, "It was Max ITpvergne." "No, nothing to me," she said, stooping, again to stroke the cold hand of Dare. "All! ah!" sharply, between gasps of breath, and shivering, though it was warm. "No; nothing to me! The price of three wasted years-and, the price of poor Dare's life." Rolfe Ingraham drew her from the place with grave tenderness, as four men came to lift and bear away the form that had lain all that day in the long grass, under the old tree in the opening at the edge of the wood. They carried it one way, and Rolfe Ingraham and Isabel Darnleigh went another; he trying to comfort her with the promise that a grave should be made alone, from which, at a future day, Dare should DARE FAIRFAX. 159 be taken to Fairlands. "Would she trustohim to do it all?" But she, with her head bowed on her breast, only murmured, "No. Nothing to me! Ah, my God!-nothing to me." page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] 160 DARE PFAIRFAX. CHAPTER XVIII. "ET me get over another year quickly, quickly. Its political history the world knows-one-sided and biased; with bitter prejudices, and bitterer deeds. Yes, that knowledge is set down for succeeding gen- erations; but God alone knows the secret record, true and changeless, which He kept among the angels, of man's doings on His groaning earth. Dagger-thrusts and pistol-shots made not so many or so great martyrs as the secret goadings of malice, and jealousy, and hatred, and revenge. Treachery, creeping under the guise of friendship, to betray; and grim deso- lation lying like universal death over all the South- land. They said there was peace; but we would not have known it save that armies marched and fought no more. Resignation came and taught our lips silence, and called out smiles to cover breaking hearts. Rolfe Ingraham came in that summer of '65, bring- ing to Fairlands all there was of pool Dare. We could not see him even; but it was so comforting to be told of his matchless heroism, and last sacrificial act. Many could mount on their country's honor, and with leaping impulse give it their life; but few with DARE FAIRFAX. 161 heroic hearts could sublimely offer it to one they loved not, and to whom they owed nothing. He never told us whom Dare's death saved; he said a fel- low-soldier, and left us to wonder who deserved such fidelity. He also brought letters to Mrs. Fairfax and to me from Isabel,-not such as she would have written in her old, merry, splendid girlhood, but letters strong and sweet, as though the kernel of her woman's life had had its uses and aromas bruised out to strengthen and perfume other lives. I could not tell to this kingly friend of hers and poor Dare's-this lion-like lamb-what was trembling in my heart and on my lips. I could, not tell to him the beautiful gecret which all the world would know so soon; so I hid away my white robes, veil, and orange-blossoms; turning on my finger, a thousand times a day, the ring he had given me. But sun- moning up all my courage, with a beating heart I wrote a long letter to Isabel, telling her all I could of my life-its love, engagement, and coming marriage. From what pages of beauty, from what heights of splendor I gathered words to paint him who then was all my theme, I cannot recall now. "Max " was the one name around which my every thought revolved. Had she ever met him? My Max, in my egotistic devotion, I called him. Would she not come to Fairlands before I left it for far Alabama, and be with me in the moment of my supreme happiness? page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162 DARE FAIRFAX. What more I wrote I do not know. How much of it all Rolfe Ingraham guessed, or knew, I cannot tell. He never did. He looked strangely, I thought pityingly, into my face, all red with conscious blushes, as I gave him that letter for Isabel. When he was gone, I went morning and evening with Mrs. Fairfax, to plant and train flowers over the new grave under the willows there at Fairlands. No other hands could be allowed to do for his memory all that was left for us to do. Ere September came, the cypress and roses had made it beautiful; and the myrtle twined memorial hands beneath them. What Isabel wrote me was strange, and ry tears came fast and childishly, when I read the tender words under which she veiled her refusal to come to my marriage. "Allie," she wrote, "I cannot come. Ipray daily for your happiness. Little Allie, you will need all your strength and bravery in the years before you. Trust first, and above all others, ' Him who giveth Hris angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.' iay they bear thee upon their wings, 'lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.' "Yes, I have met Max Upvergne. May he prove all you believe him to be! Give him all your best thoughts and efforts. Be the truest wife God ever helped to be true. MJay He bless you, little Allie; may He love you, even better thae Ido." DARE FAIRFAX. 163 Here she had broken off suddenly, writing her name hurriedly, and with an evidently unsteady hand. The disappointment of her refusal to me, who cared for so few, was very sore. When Max came, a few weeks later, I showed it to him. He laughed at me, put it in his pocket, just to tease me, he said; and called me a veritable baby. I pettishly declared it was going to spoil all the affair-she not coming. Then he retorted, still, I thought, annoying me unnecessarily: "Why, Allie, did you think she would leave her lover so long?" Whom did he mean?-"Who is her lover?"I cried, eager and excited. "So she never told you even that,-Didn't she? why, Rolfe Ingraham, of course; who else?" What was there in the tones of his voice that sounded so strangely? I couldn't tell then; but I denied all belief in his assertion, half laughingly, half indignantly. "She don't love him, Max! I don't believe a word of it. I don't believe she cares one bit for any one. Maybe she did once, from a slight reference in one of her earlier letters to me; but it wasn't Rolfe Ingra- ham. Oh, no; I reckon it isn't any one now. May- be she had made a mistake." Then I laughed too. "Yes, that was likely," he said; " all people make mistakes. Suppose we too are mistaken a? page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 DARE FAIRFAX. And he laughed strangely; but not strangely enough to demand comment. Silly as it may seem to any one reading this, I laughed again, for very hap- piness and security, I reckon; laughed aimlessly as children do, never thinking of the next minute. Still I talked on, never weary, of Isabel; hardly noticing his peculiar comments or answers; for I haven't mnuch tact, people say. I couldn't have had much discernment that day. At last, tossing my curls over my forehead, he said, yawning, "Can't we find somebody else to talk about, little one, besides this old maid?" "Old maid!"I exclaimed, indignantly. What spirit possessed me, I don't know; but, gleeful and perverse, I declared with emphasis, "I believe you've been in love with her yourself, Max Upvergne, and she wouldn't have you. Doubt- less she-" I never finished that sentence. He turned white to the lips, and with those wonderful eyes losing all their beauty, he rose up, while his hand let go mine. I had never dreamed such a transformation possible. Could that be my Max, with such a harsh, drawn, suffering face?-cruel and angry, too, it seemed to me. lHe had reached the door, leaving me; when, frightened and grieved, scarcely knowing what I said, I called hiln to come back and forgive me. But he went on. It was little after noon then, and I sobbed until dusk; when he came back, looking sterner than I had ever DARE FAIRFAX. 165 seen him look before. I piteously begged him to for- get my nonsense. All he said was, "Well, let us never mention this again. It was all foolishness, any way, you see, Allie. You know I am nothing to her. I was hurt a little to have you say what you did. Do you think, if I cared for her, I would marry you?" His voice was not reassuring, and that last question was certainly harsh; but I didn't know then that men do marry, sometimes, loving some one else more than those they swear to cherish. I didn't know either that there are two sides to a life; only one shown to the world, and the other known only to one's con- science. So I begged again, caressing his hands: "Don't ever be angry with me, Max." "I was not angry, Allie, but you see,-no, you don't know; but as we are never to speak of it again, I will tell you. The fact is, Allie, Miss Darnleigh loved Dare more than any one else. I was only teasing you about Rolfe Ingraham." "Well? But I can't see why that should hurt you." "'Because I never told you that Dare received his death-wound across my breast." "Poor, noble Dare! why, I never dreamed you were such friends. It really was you, Max? was it not strange Rolfe Ingraham did not tell us so?." "No. It would have been strange if he had, Allie, page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 DARE FAIRFAX. knowing you wore on your hand my ring; and that Dare was lying under the willows, where we can see his grave from the chapel, in which a little time hence we will be married." "It is all strange-very strange and painful. That, then, is why Isabel will not be bridesmaid for me?" "Yes," he "supposed" it was. Then we talked of other things. When it was quite dark, I stole out, leaving him and Mrs. Fairfax talking. Yes, I went out to poor Dare's grave; and sobbed out my sorrow for him and Isabel. She had loved him, then, as he merited. Noble fellow, true until death! How glad I was that she knew of his entire devotedness, even if it did keep her from my marriage; for it seemed to me that it would have been so hard, had he left the world not knowing him- self beloved. How many hard things there were to bear, anyhow! I didn't know that there is blessedness in bearing things that seem cruelest to bear. I didn't know, then, that sorrow's hand is the hand of an an- gel shrouded in an earthly mantle. I know it now, and follow it, with lips that have learned to say, "Thy will, not mine." I When I went in, Mrs. Fairfax and Max were still talking. I think he had told her what he told me about Dare; for Mrs. Fairfax was wetting her white cap-strings witlh many a tear, forgetting the handker- chief in her hand. Three days later, at sunrise, we were married, very DARE FAIRFAX, 167 quietly. At sunrise! Was it not sunrise when he stood at Cliffside spring, and said to another, "If I ever prove false to you, may the thunders of God smite me where I stand!" At sunrise, sweet Lillian Hope had died; saying, "My Max! so long I have waited." At sunrise, Isabel had turned from the death-bed of that golden-haired girl, wounded unto death!-ay, unto death would the scar and the pain go with her! Loving lips might whisper, and tender hands press together its jagged edges; but the bitter crimson scar would be forever a painful reminder of the careless hand and the cruel stab. I, knowing nothing of all this-nothing of any of it then-was made Max Upvergne's wife, by words that have no undoing in the sight of God; words that meant " until death us do part." So " until death us do part," will we walk our life's inevitable way. Though I never say it, I know, past all doubting, that the heart I believed all mine, is not all mine; that the life mine is linked to-no! let it remain un- said even here, and forever unwritten. No true woman or true wife ever tells to another the infirmities of a life she should shield by womanly charity and patience. All will be known "'some of these days." In these pages I shall never again speak of myself. To all but my duty, I am dead now; and the reader of happier lives will simply remember that mine is nothing to them. page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 168 DARE FAIRFAX. Lonelier perhaps am I,.than the Indian chief, who, crossing the river into old Alabama, gave it its name. So, I think, till life's waiting and enduring is over, "rest we here."' DAE AIR RFAX. 169 CHAPTER XIX. ONE last, sweet page must close this memorial; for it is little more-a memorial a few hearts keep; some in patient sorrow; some in solemn joy; and some with "everlasting rejoicings." When Mrs. Fairfax was left alone at Fairlands, Isabel Darnleigh and Mrs. Hope went there to visit her: Mrs. Hope, with her face beautiful with touch- ing memories; Isabel, brooding with grave tenderness over her " dead past." Dead, indeed, it was. Only at her prayers did the name of Max Upvergne ever cross her lips; and what retribution, save the bitterness of remembrance and remorse, her prayers kept away from him, only He who keeps them before Iim knows. She knew, past all doubting, that prayer was a power in heaven. So the sacrifice was daily offered, -let no one dare to say, " not acceptably." Beautiful was the communion between the two bereaved mothers; touching, too, as they recounted to each other all that had been; or mused of what, God willing, " might have been." Some one has said, there is no such thing as "might have been." To those who ask for the "daily bread " of the soul, there is not, for nothing " might 8 page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] have been" given them without the knowledge of that loving Father whose hand puts all needs to their lips. If He gives them to drink the vinegar and gall of earth's agony, it is right. If they are called to drink the "new wine" in His kingdom, it is well. Nothing "might have been" to them unless He willed it so. One day, by Dare's grave under the willows, Rolfe Ingraham found Isabel Darnleigh. I say, one day; it matters not when. It was after Dare's grave had more than three years' sunshine on it. More than three years' roses had bloomed around it; and three years' birds had sung above it. Mrs. Hope slept at Lillian's side in the "Manor" church-yard, and Fairlands was the home of her who now stood touching with dreamily moving fingers the scarlet blossoms of the cypress-vine. Rolfe Ingraham had come from the old Manor on the Blue Ridge side to the only woman who ever had power to win him by her irresistible, unintentional influence. Lonely he had lived, striving in vain to shut out all thoughts of her; determining that she was nothing to him, save as associations with his family made her akin in sympathy. .He knew she held her memories sternly away from inspection, and kept her heart as her most precious possession. -Did he dare hope that at last he might win it for himself? Whether he hoped he might, I know not. That he had resolved he would, was sure. -^*^^ ^' ^J^.AS A. , 1 71 Was she changed? Not outwardly, except that peace, as entire as could come to any one working out their duty in life, had laid its calm hand on her fore- head. The shadow of pain flitted constantly before her eyes,-wonderful rooms they were, curtained in for sweetest thoughts and saddest memories. Looking into them as they opened, startled at his coming, Rolfe Ingraham saw a gladness start up, as stretching her hands out fieely, she said, "How welcome you are! How glad Mrs. Fairfax will be that you have come." "And are you not glad, Isabel?" he asked, smil- ing, and holding her hands closely lest they should slip from him. "Very glad," she anwered, truthfully. lie drew her hands closer to him, till he held them against his breast; then he said, "Do you know what I come for now? Do you not know, Isabel?" She dared not answer lightly,. for his eyes were searching her face with questions she could not evade. "Isabel, I have come for your love. Can I win it?-can I have it?" ( Oh no!-not mine, not mine," she said, like one stumbling blindly. "Yours-your very own; yours, and not another's." With her head bowed she said, "It is worth nothing now to you." page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 1i2 )AllW FA12FlSIX. j "It is worth evelything under heaven to me, Isabel!" he cried, passionately. "But you know mny past,-yo must knotw----- "Yes, I know, Isabel," lihe said sadly, bt bravely; I do know you gave a true love to an untrue object. Becase the object was worthless, the love was no less valuable. Yon do not yet love that one as you did then I t all." l ie is nothin"g to Me--notlig at all." ,Isabel, I do not expect you to foget a past." :1Oh, 11no! I shall ,Tnever fotget-never. I shall remember with a tender it a llmemory, and love wit true love, all in my pst tlat was ever loved " But 1Rolfe TIgralham's itce, as many a man's face would,--as even h"is good iface ust do,--clouded in- stantly. Sadly lie aske, t le as nDid you not slay a mome s nothing to you " "I say it tl,- eaning that for all time he cannot nge a plan or purpose of my life; but though I put him. out from ny life, I c annot fi'om my memory and regard. Will not my body and soul separate it deatht's door with bitter pain and anguish Will they not also know each other hereafter, and remember how they shared earthl's pain and joy? Do not seek my love; it cannot bring you happiness. Go, and remember no more that you have ever known me." -DARE FAIRFAX1. 173 Tears, that had not been in her eyes for many days, came smarting and bitter now. She recalled all this grand heart's goodness to her; all his help and sym- pathy, and now his love. Her own heart ached to go to him. "Never mind all this, Isabel," he said, with inex- pressible love and gentleness. "Only come into my life, bringing all the love yrou can give me, if it is but little. I ask no more. Will you? Let your past be dead,-keep it sacredly away from me, if you wish it; or--my love, my love! bring it to my breast, and I will cherish it with you." Still he drew her to him. Still her head was bowed; but he saw that'the tears only hung on her drooping lashes, and ran no more over cheeks that were scarlet instead of white. "Isabel! Isabel!" he appealed passionately, with his lips almost touching her hair-her hair dusky and waving, and beautiful, half-hanging from her loosened comb. While he waited, she looked up seriously with her tender womanly eyes into his, and said, almost calmly, "Knowing all you know, do you want me " "Want you!" In an instant he held her close to his heart-his brave, kingly heart; and looking into the upturned face, as a sovereign might look on his queen, said, "My crown!-precious and pricelessl Mine, and not another's." page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 DARE FAIRFAX. Then his head was bowed on hers. Like a prayer was the silence between them for a nminute; then he said, "Isabel, your past must not be buried away frqm me. When you weep, it must be on my heart, and not on a gravestone. Rather let it be a stronger bond between our lives; for had it never been, I would not have so known and loved you,-had it never been, you had not grown so tender and womanly. All pure loving, no matter on whom lavished, en- nobles the soul that loves. Your past with your fiture is mine,-shall it not be so?" "As you will," she said softly, forgetting to weep. "Then I will that, God willing, 1 never go from you any more." She said- "Never any more." Isabel Darnleigh's past and future-a tender memoiy and a beautiful hope-linked their hands for all time, over the great, brave heart of Rolfe Ingra- ham. THE END. I
