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We must turn back, only for half a chapter, and we are sure our fair readers
will forgive us, when they recollect it is the only indulgence of the kind
we have asked—that we have spun the thread of our story straight forward,
without turning to the right or the left. We stated in a former chapter that
Ellen Evylin, when she drove up to the door of the Governor's mansion,
was rather cold and distant to the young gentleman then called Hall, and
for fear our fair readers might think her fickle and capricious, we will explain
why it was so. It will be recollected that the Indian girl had expressly
stated, that the young lady then in captivity, had sent a most
urgent appeal to Mr. Hall in her behalf, and such an one as only a lady
betrothed would send to her lover. Now, supposing that Miss Evylin had
had for some time a shrewd suspicion who this Mr. Henry Hall really
was—a sort of half doubting, half confident possession of his secret, how
could she explain satisfactorily his equivocal position between herself and
Miss Eugenia Elliot. She knew from the young gentleman's own statement,
that this very young lady accompanied him across the ocean—that
she was a party to the masking adventure; that her father had been involved
in the same political troubles with himself; and she, moreover,
remembered tha the was under the impression at the time of the voyage,
that she (Miss Evylin) was either affianced or married to another. What
more probable then, than that he should seek consolation from such a
charming source. She most ingeniously tormented herself in imagining
what an embarrassing position he had thus placed himself in, between
two young ladies, and most innocently too, if her surmises were correct.
Thus she accounted for much of the studied mystery and reserve of the
young man; and our readers may readily imagine what was her resolution
upon the painful subject—it was to surrender up all claims upon the
instant.

So admirably, however, had Frank Lee (for we shall henceforth call
him by his right name) mystified even his oldest and best friends, and so
constantly had he worn his masquerading dress, and pertinaciously had he
continued to carry out the delusion through trials and difficulties, that she
was by no means certain that her suspicions as to his identity were correct.
Nothing but this constantly harrassing doubt prevented her from
sending for him at once and releasing him from his early engagement,
which she had tortured herself with supposing, was now so embarrassing
to him.

She was carried from the meeting of the members of “the Tramontane
Order” by Frank Lee, it will be remembered, and that ardent and emancipated
young gentleman seemed determined to make amends for his past losses, and
let loose his long suppressed affections in a burst of endearments to his half
dead mistress. How ardently he folded his lovely burden in his arms, and
with what glowing animation he pressed his lips to her cold and clammy
cheeks. We know of no restorative like it. The olfactories may be, and no
doubt are, very sensitive, but a ladies sensorium is sooner reached through
those thrilling thermometers of vitality, the lips. So it proved in the present
instance; and by the time Frank had reached the green in front of the
Capitol, Ellen was pleading, at first most eloquently, and at length indignantly,
to be set down and left alone. And what sounded not less strange in his
ears, she called him Mr. Lee. Now, it might have sounded strange to him,
from the fact of his having so long suffered it to fall into disuse himself—
that was not the idea here, however—there was a chilling and distant tone

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and manner in it, which he had never encountered but once, even as the poor
adventurer Hall, and he was consequently taken all aback—he had anticipated
a very different reception, and was utterly at a loss to account for it. His
failure to present himself after his acquittal, was the only thing which he
could in his rapid review of his conduct surmise as the cause, and he commenced
his protestations accordingly, but it was all met by a cold wave of
the hand, and an earnest supplication to be conducted to her father's carriage.
Of course such an appeal, or rather demand, was not to be resisted, and he
reluctantly escorted her to the carriage. Most wistfully did he gaze by the
dim light to see if there was no relenting—no hint or look implying a desire for
his company in her solitary ride home, but there was none, and his pride coming
to his relief, he closed the door with a hasty good night, and strutted off in
high disdain. He was marching thus, like a grenadier, with his nose in the
wind, and gesticulating with great animation, when Moore walked up, and
touched him on the arm. Frank gazed at him as if he had fallen from the
moon, so completely had he forgotten his whereabouts.

“You are unanimously admitted into the Tramontane Order,” said Moore,
with a bright smile.

“Oh, the plague take the Tramontane Order,” responded Frank, still striding
on and Moore following' down Gloucester street.

“Your brother decamped from the meeting instanter.”

“Well, I hope he may never return.”

“Why, Frank?” exclaimed Moore in surprise, “this in the first moment
of your restoration and our mutual recognition? You have not given up the
mysteries yet, I see.”

“Forgive me, Bernard,” said he, suddenly wheeling round, and seizing his
friend's hand. “Forgive me—the fact is, I have been thrown all out of
sorts by an inexplicable piece of capriciousness in one whom I believed too
far exalted above such little feminine arts.”

“Hah! a petticoat in the case is there? I'll tell you a secret, my fine
fellow—there's none of them above caprice—always except Kate.”

“Bernard, an hour ago I would have thrown down my glove upon it,
against all comers, that there was not such another model of constancy—ingenuousness—
frankness—firmness—modesty—gentleness; in short, my dear
fellow, a very personification of all the female virtues, with many borrowed
from ours. This has been my solace under every trial and difficulty; and
then to turn round in the very moment of my triumph, and descend to the
little arts of her sex, and dash my brimming cup to the ground. Oh, it was
too bad.”

“Nay, nay, Frank—it was certainly a better chosen moment than the
period of your adversity would have been—you must admit that; but there is
some mistake, you may depend upon it—I know her too well to suppose that
she would indulge in any idle caprice at such a moment.”

“I'll call at the Doctor's upon the spot, and demand an explanation. I
cannot stand this cruel suspense, just upon the eve of what I supposed would
be one of the happiest moments of my life—what I supposed would compensate
me for a life of unexampled misfortunes.”

“Do so, Frank—I am sure there is some misunderstanding—perhaps there
is some charge which she has deferrred preferring until you were entirely
clear of all difficulties—i. e. if she really penetrated your disguise, as I am
told many did, now that the eclaircisement is made. What wonderful sagacity
the many-headed monster is blessed with! But to return—the surmise that
I ventured just now is the true solution—it is very much like her, depend
upon it.”

“No, no, Bernard—Ellen penetrated my mask at least, I am sure, and we
played a sort of mutual masquerade, under which nearly every subject of

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personal interest or otherwise was discussed; and oh, Moore, when she first
began to peep behind my mask, and I to reproduce the shadow of her long
lost lover, as his best friend, Henry Hall, what exquisite moments I enjoyed.
Can it be possible that she designs now to revenge herself on me, for thus
surreptitiously plundering her heart of its secrets?”

“It is not in character, Frank, she has no revenge to accomplish—it is
some higher object, real or imaginary, that she has in view—perhaps she
fears a deadly encounter between your brother and yourself—that's it—that's
it, Frank.”

“But how could her snubbing me in this fashion prevent Harry and me
from coming to high words, perhaps blows?”

“Perhaps she caught a glimpse of him eaves-dropping?”

“No, no, Bernard. With all his malice and uncharitableness, he is not so
mean as that; but I will solve the riddle before I am an hour older. I will
merely call at the Palace to deposit these papers, and then for a trial of my
fate.”

Together they proceeded on foot, when just as they entered the avenue
leading to the Palace, they discovered the Doctor's carriage driving away,
and Kate hastily retreating from the door. Now, as this avenue was always
lighted at night, they could see that Ellen still sat alone upon the back seat,
and that she was weeping. She also caught a glimpse of them, and drew
herself up in the corner of the carriage, out of sight. This was all very
strange and inexplicable to the young men, especially on such a night, and
after all that had happened at the Capitol. It was just the reverse of what
Frank had anticipated, but he proceeded on his course, none the less bent on
clearing up the mystery from what he had just seen. He was destined to
some farther experience in the matter, earlier than he expected; for no sooner
had he entered the hall of the Palace, than a servant presented him with a
message from Miss Kate—she desired to speak a few words with him. He
followed and was led into one of the sitting rooms on the lower floor, where
Kate awaited him with a bundle in her hand. She congratuated him upon
his restoration to his proper name and station, and said she was sorry to be
the bearer of unpleasant news at such a time, but her friend Ellen had charged
her with the mission, and she was compelled to perform it. She said that
Ellen had commissioned her to deliver into his hands that package and a
miniature of himself, with a complete discharge from all engagements to her.
Frank was speechless with astonishment—he seemed as if he would choke, so
parched became his throat, and so vain his attempt at utterance. Kate seeing
his pitiable condition, and that he still gazed at the things she held in her
hand without taking them, and that his face was almost convulsed, so intense
was the working of his troubled spirit, she handed him a chair, and begged
him to be seated. Her efforts at consolation were at first not very successful,
for her auditor seemed not to be listening to a word she said. His eyes
were riveted upon the locket, the early memento of his youthful passion.
What overwhelming recollections of days and joys gone by forever poured in
upon his memory, with all their blended associations of sorrow and joy; that
picture, which he had not seen before that day, since he had plighted his
faith, upon the occasion of its being given? How vividly it brought back the
bright morning of his youthful love—those halcyon days that have but one
dawn, one bright morning, ere they are closed over forever by a long, and
dark, and bitter night. The long years which had intervened, with their sad
and blighting experience and bitter memories, were rolled back, and he stood
before the youthful beauty in his mental vision, as he stood before her with
her hand clasped in his, as when he had presented her with that picture. Was
it any wonder that he spoke not? Such memories have no voice.

Frank Lee had perhaps came as near acting out and preserving the first

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freshness of his early romantic love, as is ever permitted to mortal man,
but his self-condemnation, upon the return of that picture, knew no sophistry
or deception. He stood abashed, in recollection of the bright purity and
unwavering constancy of his mistress—of these, he had indubitable evidence—
he was compelled,therefore, to make a hasty retrospect of his conduct towards
her; and though self-condemned in many respects, as we have said, for his
life he could not divine in what he had offended towards the object of his
early, undivided, and constant attachment, and he at length resolved to vindicate
himself before his offended mistress. Scarcely was the resolution formed,
ere he seized upon the package and the picture, and rushed from the house.

As he passed out, he had nearly upset the Governor, who, with his party,
were just returned from the Capitol. The hardy old soldier turned round and
looked after his retreating figure, with a dubious and amusing stare of astonishment.

“Gad,” said he, “that fellow will die in a mystery,” touching his forehead
at the same time with his finger, as much as to express a fear that all was
not right in that quarter.

Frank scarcely knew that he had passed, much less been rude, to any one.
He soon found himself knocking at the Doctor's door. Now, as the old Doctor
was one of those who accompanied the Governor, the coast was clear—
there was nothing to prevent his having the interview and explanation he
sought. Yet he trembled more when ushered into the presence of the little
offended beauty, than when recently on trial for his life. And to say truth,
the young lady herself was not in the most serene mood in the world.
They stood before each other like two culprits. Frank, with the letters
and the trinkets, like stolen goods, still in his hand. He made many
efforts to speak, and nearly choked at the formality of calling her Miss
Evylin, but at length burst through all embarrassments and restraint,
and exclaimed, “Ellen, will you, can you, tell me what all this means?”
pointing to the things he held in his hand.

She motioned him to be seated, and began, “Mr. Lee!”

But he held up his hand in a deprecating mood, and begged her, “For
God's sake, no more of that—I shall die upon it!”

“Well, then, Frank,” resumed she, “I have accidentally learned that
you had most innocently, as I presume, engaged yourself to another and
most excellent and beautiful lady. Nay, be not so impatient, I will conclude
all I have to say in one moment.”

“No,” said he, hurriedly, and striding impatiently about the room, “not
another word will I listen to of the sort—it is all an infamous falsehood, and
the coinage of the same prolific brain which has devised so many disasters for
me already.”

“Indeed, indeed, Frank, you are mistaken,” said Ellen, very much softened
in her manner, however.”

“Well, then, Ellen, go on until I see from whence the story came.”

“Of that I can inform you in a moment. It came from the lady herself,
Miss Eugenia Elliot, and you know that you gave me such a description of
her, yourself, as none but a lover could give.”

Frank was bewildered, he had stopped, and stood facing his partially appeased
mistress. “You astonish me!” said he, “for I know that Eugenia
Elliot is incapable of falsehood or deception.” He was wrapped in a deep study
for a moment, and then striking his forehead and capering about the room
like one wild, cried out, “I have it! I have it!”

Ellen was agitated, and began to think somewhat like the Governor, that his
misfortunes had touched his brain, and she rose up from her seat, as if about
to escape, but Frank caught her in his arms, and after imprinting sundry most
extravagant kisses upon her forehead, cheeks and lips, seated her nolens volens.

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“I have it, my Ellen! I have it! The mistake has originated in the confusion
of the two Halls. It is the real Henry Hall who is engaged to Eugenia
Elliot; fool that I was not to think of this, when that little Indian girl
delivered the message, but of this you shall be certain within the half hour;”
and he put on his hat and was hurrying out, but Ellen, with a sweet smile of
forgiveness on her face, called him back.

“It needs not, Frank,” said she, as he returned into the room, “you see I
have taken you at your word, and resumed those precious treasures of our
childish days,” and she held out her hand at the same time.

It may be readily imagined that Frank was not satisfied with a mere shake
of the hand, or even carrying it to his lips, but over that evening we dare not
venture to intrude the stranger's gaze. Their hearts and their memories
poured forth their long pent up treasures without stint.

Happy, happy are they, who, after whatever trials and afflictions, maintain
their first pure affections uncontaminated by the world. It is a god-send, and
sufficient for most men, that the memory preserves these delicious dreams of
youth, to be called up at pleasure to reinvest with their bright colors the otherwise
sombre views of the present and the future. A large majority of mankind
are only thus partially blest—it is enough to vibrate a single cord of the
instrument, but with our now happy young couple, their whole hearts throbbed
in perfect unison, not a jar was heard in the beautiful concord of sweet words.

Is it because such delicious hours so intoxicate the senses, that no durable
record has ever been taken of these too fleeting joys; or, is the impression so
evanescent that no durable impression is left? That it is not the latter, the
heart and memory of every one can testify; the impression is more lasting
than life; many a miserable sufferer in this world lives out his dreary pilgrimage
upon the bare hope of living o'er all these scenes again in another
stage of existence. The wish, the hope, is never perhaps embodied into language,
but they nevertheless exist under grave visages, and quaint garbs and fashions
of the world. The heart of every man, and especially of every woman, is a
store-house of these hidden things, treasured up through every trial and vicissitude,
where they lie buried along with the cherished memories of other
youthful dreams, only to be revived once in a long time, by some sudden turn
of circumstances or some unforeseen providential occurrence.

We could multiply instances and illustrations, were we disposed to digress,
and show at the same time that “truth is stranger than fiction,” but we leave
the matter to be tested by the experience of each reader, and to be admitted
or thrown aside, as to each may seem best.

Though we will not intrude upon that portion of their discourse which occupied
a large part of the night, during this their delightful reunion, we must
nevertheless touch upon the conclusion of their meeting, because it bears
upon the subject of our narrative.

Frank had several times made an effort to tear himself away; he was at
last conscious that the night was far spent, but then the approaching departure
on the morrow furnished an admirable excuse. “Your father, too,” said
he, “is still at the Governor's, surely I may stay here as long as he stays there.”

“I will sit up all night if you choose, Frank,” replied Ellen, her hand
clasped in that of her lover, and her eyes looking so bright that one would
suppose that sleep never approached them, much less that they had lately
been dimmed by sickness and suffering.

The fact was, the old Doctor was long ago comfortably stowed in bed—he
had learned from the servant at the door that Mr. Lee was there, and supposing
how the matter stood, very discreetly retired and left them to themselves.

“No, no,” said Frank, “that would never do, it would dim your bright eyes
to-morrow before their time, for you must know, my Ellen, that I flatter myself

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that you will not see me again depart upon an indefinite absence without a
tear—just one little pearl.”

“Oh, Frank, how can you talk lightly upon such a subject, after such an
absence and such a return—bear with me,therefore, if I turn your gay thoughts
for a moment to a serious matter.”

“No, no, Ellen, no serious subjects to-night—I have resolved to be happy
while I may. For the brief hours, nay, minutes, that are left us, let dull care
be thrown aside.”

“But, Frank,” and she laid her hand imploringly upon his arm,” your
brother!”

He bounded to his feet in an instant, and strode through the room, and
sawed his arm vehemently in the air, as if he would dispel a disagreeable
spectre which she had conjured up, she following all the while, and her
countenance wholly changed from its late happy, placid expression to one
of anxiety and distress.

“Oh Ellen!” he at length exclaimed, “how could you obtrude that
hated name at such a time?”

“Hated, Frank?”

“Aye, hated!”

“What! hate your own brother, Frank? How different your present
feelings from your noble and magnanimous defence of him while in prison!”

“No, no, Ellen, hate is too strong a word, or, at all events, I will only
hate his actions, while I commiserate the man.”

“Ah, Frank! Frank! that is a nice distinction for so young a moralist—
search your heart, and see how inseparable are the actions and the
actor—it is a refinement, which I fear, Frank, is not only beyond your strength,
but beyond human power.”

“Well, my Ellen, what would you have me do? Must I profess to love
him, and clasp the monster to my heart, while my whole nature revolts at
the hypocrisy?”

“No! not that either, but forgive him, Frank, and do him justice.”

“Do him justice! then I should become his executioner; I should dye
my hands in his blood!”

Ellen shuddered at the ferocious expression of his countenance, which
she had never seen before; all formed for gentle emotions, as it seemed
to her, and ever ready to melt at a tale of sorrow and distress. She sat
down and covered her face with her hands. Seeing which, he approached
already softened and repentant.

“Forgive me, my Ellen—I have offended you?”

“No, not offended, Frank,” said she, and looking up with a tear glistening
in her eye, “but I confess to you that I am disappointed. I thought
that your trials had wholly changed that ardent and impetuous nature of yours.”

“Would you have my nature changed, Ellen?”

She returned his ardent and steady gaze for some moments, and then
laying her hand affectionately in his, she said steadily and firmly, “Yes!”

He let her hand drop, as he said, “Now, Ellen, I in my turn am disappointed.
I thought we knew each other thoroughly, and that in the language
of the marriage ceremony, we had determined `to take each other for better
for worse,' that you loved me for myself—as I am, with all my faults.”

“And so I do, Frank, and have said already—how often, I am ashamed to say,
that I will be yours `for better for worse' when you return, but—”

“Oh stop there, Ellen, and let me go now, let me depart to-morrow
with those sweet words still ringing in my ears,” and he imprinted a kiss
upon her lips, and broke away.

An hour afterwards he returned, and gazed upon the now black and dreary
looking house, wrapped in profound darkness. Well was it that he did so—

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most providential was the prompting that led him to that spot at such a late
hour of the night, or rather morning; for he had not stood there many
moments ere he saw a light spring up in a wing of the Doctor's house, the
lower part of which was the old physician's office, and the upper scarcely
ever used. He watched it from the time it was no bigger than his hand,
until the whole curtain was in a bright blaze, and he could no longer doubt.
He sounded the alarm of fire, and running to the enclosure, laid his hand
upon it and sprung lightly over. He was very much surprised to hear the
tramp of several horses feet leaving the enclosure as he entered. If it were
the old Doctor just setting out upon one of his nightly pilgrimages, why did
he not return, at the alarm of fire? He repeated the cry still louder than
before, and several voices in the street re-echoed it, and he could hear the
people running in towards the front entrance, but still the flying horsemen
seemed but to increase their speed. He found the back door of the wing,
where he had seen the fire, wide open—he ran up stairs, the first to arrive
there, and found the curtains of the window and those of the bed, from
which some person seemed just to have escaped, all in a blaze. He tore
down the fast consuming combustibles, and with such things as he could
hastily find, thrust out the sashes and the burning fragments after them;
and with the assistance of others, who now arrived on the spot, soon tumbled
the burning bed-clothes and the curtains out of the window. In a
shorter time than we have taken to relate it, the fire, except the burning
things in the yard below, was entirely extinguished; and in a very few
moments after, the old Doctor in his nightcap, and Ellen in her dishabille,
entered. Their whole concern and anxiety were for Wingina, whom Ellen
said she saw safely in bed herself not an hour before. Frank was as much
surprised to see the old Doctor as he was to see Frank, the latter supposing
the old Doctor cantering away upon an errand of life and death, while
the Doctor thought Frank snugly in bed at the Palace. Diligent search
was now made for Wingina. It was supposed, that frightened at the fire,
she had run out into the grounds below, or perhaps into the street. Her
outer garments were still hanging over the chair, where Ellen had seen her
place them when she retired to bed.

While they were yet prosecuting the search in the court below, the
garden and the shrubbery, several reports of fire-arms were heard in quick
succession, which those present most conversant in such matters pronounced
to be by the picket guards beyond the College. Our readers must know
that the little army then encamped in and around the city, was already
assuming that order and discipline for which the old chief in command was
so noted. Notwithstanding this rigid military discipline, it now became
pretty evident to Frank Lee and the Doctor, who were holding together
anxious council on the subject, that those lines had been surreptitiously
entered by the Indians, and Wingina spirited away by her brother. Such
were their hasty surmises, and they were speedily confirmed by the reports
which soon came in from the sentinels. It appeared that the horsemen,
whose retreating figures Frank Lee had really seen, were those of a party
of the dare devils headed by Chunoluskee—that he bore his sister on the
horse before him, and that they had dashed through the line of sentinels
without sustaining any material damage, though repeatedly fired at. It
now became a matter of anxious inquiry, how they had obtained ingress; and
when the business was investigated, it turned out that the footsteps of the
Indians as usual were tracked in blood. A drowsy sentinel had been
stolen upon and tomahawked before any alarm could be given, and thus
they had found their way into the very heart of the city, and borne off the
prize—hostage or victim, as the case might prove.

This daring deed, upon the eve of the march of the expedition, opened

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the eyes of the careless young cavaliers, upon whom mainly rested its fate.
Many of them were carousing in their tents at the very hour when they
had been stolen upon.

The novelty of a camp life, and some difficulty in procuring lodgings,
had induced many of them thus early to spread their canvass upon the common,
and some were sleeping, some drinking, and some singing and telling
stories of adventure, when the report of fire-arms startled them from
their various attitudes. Some forty or fifty of them were speedily mounted,
Frank Lee among the number, taking the road indicated by the sentinels,
in pursuit. How well Frank remembered that road! He had but
recently travelled it—first flying from prison, and then returning to it again
in irons. Dark as it was, he knew every foot of it. How gaily
bounded his steed, and how elastic his spirits now, in comparison with what
they were then. Even a night alarm and a recent murder scarcely threw
a shadow across his bright visions of the future. It must be confessed, too,
that his thoughts were scarcely, as they should have been, devoted solely to
the enterprise in hand—they were still lingering in the capital. Yet he rode
first of the band, spurring on his mettled charger. We pity the horse of a
lover, for he is required to keep pace with the thoughts of his rider. Frank
would have ridden, perhaps, till day-light, and never perceived that his companions
had halted, had they not shouted after him. It was found, after
several miles pursuit, to be a vain effort. The road had been examined
several times, and the trail was already lost. Doubtless the marauders had
taken to the woods, as soon as they left the capital. It was therefore determined
to return to the city.