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j m l 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.]