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Vol. XIX. No. 879.
ATLANTA, GA., NOVEMBER 26, 1892.
Yearly Subscription. Two Dollars.
Single Copy, Ten Cents.
THE REWARD HE EARNED.
A ROMANCE OF THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
Written specially for Thanksgiving issue of Sunny South.
An evening in June, 1776—that
eventful year in our country’s history.
The day had been warm, but after
the sun had gone down a cool breeze
sprung up from the Delaware River
and fanned the heated brows of the
{ food people of the Quaker City, and
ifted lazily the leaves of the elms and
tulip trees growing about the magnifi
cent home of Colonel Fairfax March-
mont, a retired officer of the British
civil service.
Colonel Marchmont, a typical Eng
lishman in appearance, stepped out
upon the portico for the sake of the
fresh air. He wore the elegaut evening
dress of the day, since there was to be
a ball at his home this evening, to
which all the prominent loyalists of the
city were invited.
In those primitive days, guests in
vited to an entertainment came at a
sensible hour—by early candle light, as
the camp-meeting preachers were wont
to say, when announcing from the pul
pit the time for evening service.
Col. Marchmont,
in his p o wd er ed
wig, his velvet knee
breeches, long buff
waistcoat, lace-frill
ed shirt bosom, silk
stockings and dia-
mond-buekled
pumps, was an im
posing figure; for,
although neither
tall nor stout, he
was finely propor
tioned and had the
air of superiority
befittinga man who
was backed by a
long line of well-
known ancestry.
Colonel March
mont presently de
scended the broad
stone steps and be
gan to walk about
leisurely among his
flower beds, n o w
and then stopping
to take a pinch of
snuff from the jew
eled box he carried
in his shapely white
hand. He had stoop
ed to gather a fresh
ly opened bud for
his button hole
when he heard a
fresh voice above
him burst into a
song.
“Roses, Sweet Roses,
I know why you bloom;
’Tis because your bright
wooer,
The sun, loves you so,’.
sang the linnet-like
voice overhead.
Colonel March
mont looked up.
There, on the little
vine covered balco
ny which jutted out
from an upper wid-
dow, fresh and fair
as the roses she was
gathering, stood his
daughter T
laughter Edith.
She did not see
him; she went on
plucking the clus
tering buds from
the viue that em
bowered the balco-
ny and thinking
her own sweet
thoughts as she
sang, while he
watched her from below, his heart
swelling with ambitious hopes, of
which she was the center.
“Yes, she would grace Arden Castle,”
he thought. “She would make a no
bler looking marchioness than any that
have borne the title.”
Edith made a lovely picture standiug
there, framed in rose vines against a
background of dark gray massive walls.
The rosy after glow illuminated her
fair face and the loose masses of golden
hair falling over her shoulders. She
wore a simple white wrapper, and it
was evident she had only stepped out
of her dressing room a moment to get
a breath of cool air.
“Lazy little puss!” called her father
presently, “Not dressed yet? What
have you been doing?”
“I have been helping grandmother
dress the drawing room with flowers,”
she answered:
“Oh! I’ll be ready in good time,
never fear. I have nothing to do now, j
except to slip on my gown and have
Marie pile up and powder all this hair
as foolish fashion decrees. I am only
letting the breeze cool my head and
gathering some flowers for my corsage.”
“What will you wear this evening,
petite f”
“Didn’t I tell you ? I meant to. I
will wear my blue silk and the pearls
you gave me.”
He frowned.
“Wear something else,” he said ; “I
do not like the color you have chosen.”
She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing
She knew why he did not like the
color she had elected to wear. It was
the chosen color of the rebellious colo
nists who were on the eve of declaring
their independence, grimly determined
to sustain the declaration with their
lives if the right of independent gov
ernment were not granted them, as then
seemed little hope would be the case.
Colonel Marchmont was an uncom
promising loyalist—bitter in his denun
ciation of that, “rebel gang” which
should shortly be chastised back into
allegiance to the King.
Edith did not share his prejudices.
She sympathise*t strongly with the
rebels, partly because she felt they had
right on their side and partly because
the man she loved was an enthusiast
her heart been given to that other, ab
sent one, whose name she was forbid
den to speak. *
The lovely pale blue robe, half veiled
in white lace, was regretfully laid back
in the ample drawers of the great ma
hogany wardrobe, and in its place the
pretty maid laid out a white silk gown,
embroidered in pink carnations. Be
fore it was put on, the maid’s deft fin
gers had dressed Edith’s plentiful gold-
beside her stately, handsome grand
mother, who, arrayed ih 'stiff black
satin and diamonds with high medici
collar of point lace about her neck and
silk mitts on her hands, stood in the
entrance hall near to the spacious par
lors, opening to the right and left,
through folding doors, where she could
conveniently welcome her guests.
Ina little while the stirring strains
of the violin were heard, inviting the
en hair, piling up the tresses on cush- i young people to take their partners for
ions and letting little tendril curls es
cape here and there.
“If you would only look in the glass,
ma’amselle, and see how lovely you
are!’ she said, when her work was
! done.
But Edith did not hear her. She was
i devouring the letter Marie had slipped
into her hand a moment ago—a letter
from Harry Leighton—in form the typ-
! ical epistle of that day—a sheet of large
sized letter paper, gilt edged, folded in
square shape and fastened with sealing
wax, stamped by a signet ring. In such
shape did our grandmothers receive
their love letters as late as 1839, when
the envelope was invented.
Seldom does a maiden of modern
times receive a love letter, at once so
impassioned, romantic and reverential
as that which Edith Marchmont read,
standing in her brocade ball dress be
fore the tall wax candles on her dress-
the stately minuet, while the elders
retired to other rooms and scattered
themselves in groups, some around the
card tables, others earnestly discussing
the one absorbing topic of the hour—
the revolt of the colonies and the
threatening approach of war, the first
thunders of which had already been
heard at Lexington and Bunker Hill.
Bitter were the invectives against
the “fool hardy rebels and their ple
beian leader,” which came to Edith’s
ears as she moved here and there
through the wax-lighted rooms, or
glided through the dance with young
Arden, her affianced lover, as all be
lieved, or presided with her aunt at the
massive mahogany table, draped in
snowy damask, sparkling with silver
and heaped with luscious fruits, game
and wines of many kinds.
One week later Congress had con
vened ; the eventful fourth of July had
THK TWO CULPRITS STOOD TIMIDLY BEFORE THE STATELY OLD LADY.
for liberty.
A fiueyouug fellow was Harry Leigh
ton, coming from good old Virginia
stock, splendidly formed, daring and
graceful in the saddle, noble in nature,
the master of a rich estate and a beau
tiful home. All these possessions failed
to have weight in Colonel Marchmont’s
prejudiced eyes, against the fact that
this young man had determined to
stand by the land of his birth in her
struggle for independence.
Edith should marry none but a stal
wart loyalist, or better still, a faithful
British’subject and a prospective peer
of the realm.
Young Charles Arden was the man
he had chosen to wed his daughter. He
was the elder son of Lord Arden, of
Arden Hall, heir to vast estates and a
noble name. He had crossed the At
lantic six months before to take a look
at this w estern world, Brittania’s newly
acquired gem, which she was in dan
ger of losing from her crown.
There was a family connection be
tween the Marcbmouts and Lord Ar
den’s mother, and the young man, who
had been warmly welcomed at the
stately home ot the Colonel, fell deeply
in love with his pretty kinswoman.
She might have cared for him had not
iug room table. Her lover implored
her with ardent eloquence not to let
her father’s prejudices doom them both
to life-long unhappiness. There was
no room to doubt that congress would
pass the decree of war between the
►States and the Mother country. Her
father would immediately return to
England ; he would take her with him;
they would be separated forever. He
besought her to marry him and trust
to time to sol ten her father’s preju
dices. He would, he said, be in Phila
delphia by the first of July, that he
might learn the decision of congress
immediately.
If it was what he then
felt assured it would be, rather than be
separated eternally, would she not I grandmother to excuse her to
come to him at the home of his aunt—
his only relative—who lived in the
Quaker city. They would be married
there and he would take her to his
home in Virginia. Let him find a
letter from her at his aunt’s when he
arrived there, and it would be as a
draught of water to one perishing ?f
thirst.
It was some minutes after reading
dawned, and in the crowded State
House of Philadelphia there had been
sitting in earnest debate, since early
morning, the representatives of Great
Britain’s thirteen revolted colonies.
Public excitement was at fever heat.
The heart of an embryo nation throb
bed with hope and determination. Men
and women filled the streets in spite of
the heat of the July sun.
Colonel Marchmont and his mother
sat in the grand family carriage at
tached to two blooded horses, which
was draw’ll up under the shade of the
elms around a corner of the street not
far from the State House. Edith was
not with them; she had begged her
her fa
ther, on the plea of a headache. It
was true her temples were throbbing
fiercely with nervous excitement, but j
this did not hinder her from keeping a
more important engagement.
The moments of the eventful day
seemed as hours to those who waited
for news from the momentous council.
Colonel Marchmont looked every little
while at his watch, then out of the w’in
this letter before Edith could compose dow\ where he asked the passers by,
herself enough to go down to the draw- “What new T s?” He would not believe
ing room, where the guests were be- what to others seemed a certainty—
ginning to arrive, and take her place that the colonies would really' array
their feebleness against the mighty
strength of Britain.
The long, hot day dragged on. At
last, just as the hands of the clock on
the State House tower pointed to two,
a loud cheering was heard, and imme
diately afterwards, from its lofty sta
tion, the Liberty bell rang out peal af
ter peal, intermingled with shouts and
cheers that rent the air. ]
The noise frightened the Marchmont
horses, chafing under their long re
straint. They started forward with
wild bounds, and in another instant
they were dashing along the street with
frightful speed. The coachman was
thrown from his high perch and the
horses rushed on without control. Col
onel Marchmont, from the window,
shouted loudly for help. His cries and
the screams of the terrified old lady
only added to the fright of the madden
ed animals, who seemed making
straight for the steep bluff of the river.
Suddenly, as the horses dashed around
a corner, a man leaped before them and
caught the bridle of the nearest horse.
In the next breath both bridles were
in the grasp of his two strong hands,
while the horses reared and plunged,
dragging him a little way as he clung
to his hold and forced them back with
all the strength he was master of.
He could not stop them but their
mad career was checked : soon others
ran up to help him
and the occupants
of the carriage were
saved.
Two hours later
Colonel March
mont, his mother
and his handsome
widowed sister, Mrs.
Lee, were in the
drawing room at
their home. Edith’s
letter had just been
read—a letter lov
ing, imploring, yet
firm in its convic
tion that she had
done right in mar
rying the man she
loved. She besought
forgiveness of her
father and grand
mother for having
disobeyed them,
but she defended
her right to keep
faith with ner lover,
whose only fault
was that he was true
to his country.
Colonel March
mont flung the let
ter to the floor and
a bitter impreca
tion broke from his
lips.
“Forgive her!”
he muttered, “ I
never will. May she
live to feel that a
father’s curse ”
“Hush. Douglas,
hush! You shall
not curse your
child,” interrupted
his mother, laying
her band implor
ingly on his arm.
“She has done no
wrong. You can
not force a girl’s
h eart w itho ut
breaking it. She
has begged you to
forgive, and she is
your child — your
only one.”
“My only child!
And she has left me
for him ! The rebel
scoundrel. If he
ever dares ”
The door opened.
The gray headed
butler announced:
“The gentleman who stopped your
runaway horses, sir—he is here.”
“Bring him in,” cried Colonel March
mont. “I must thank that brave
young man in person. I owe my life
and the life of my mother to him. I
must reward him for his brave act.”
As the words left his lips, two fig
ures entered the room. They were
Edith and her husband. They came
up to where Edith’s grandmother sat
in her throne-like arm chair and stop
ped, hr sits* ting until her gentle smile
reassimd her. Then Edith came up
and was clasped in the arms of the dear
old lady, who had been the only moth
er she had ever known.
. Presently she raised her head and
looked timidly toward her father. He
had started back—an angry scowl on
his face as the culprits entered. He
still stood, his stern eyes turned away,
j but as Edith approached, he looked at
her reproachfully.
“Father—dear father—” she said,
“I heard the words you spoke just now.
You said ‘I must reward the man who
saved my life and my mother’s.’ Fath
er, the man was Harry—my Harry.
The reward he asks is your forgiveness
—for our marriage without your con-
[Concluded on 13th page.]
