FOOTNOTES:
[16] Fact.
[17] This was also the name of the only son of the great Powhatan, as appears by John Smith's letter to the Queen, introducing the Princess Pocahontas.
[18] In the foregoing scene the language of Mamalis has been purposely rendered more pure than as it fell from her lips, because thus it was better suited to the dignity of her theme. As for the creed itself, it is taken from so many sources, that it would be impossible, even if desirable, to quote any authorities. The statements of Smith and Beverley, are, however, chiefly relied upon.
CHAPTER XI.
“And will you rend our ancient love asunder,
And join with men in scorning your poor friend.”
Midsummer Night's Dream.
While Virginia was thus engaged, she was surprised by hearing a light step behind her, and looking up she saw Hansford pale and agitated, standing in the room.
“What in the world is the matter?” she cried, alarmed at his appearance; “have the Indians—”
“No, dearest, the Indians are far away ere this. But alas! there are other enemies to our peace than they.”
“What do you mean?” she said, “speak! why do you thus agitate me by withholding what you would say.”
“My dear Virginia,” replied her lover, “do you not remember that I told you last night that I had something to communicate, which would surprise and grieve you. I cannot expect you to understand or appreciate fully my motives. But you can at least hear me patiently, and by the memory of our love, by the sacred seal of our plighted troth, I beg you to hear me with indulgence, if not forgiveness.”
“There are but few things, Hansford, that you could do,” said Virginia, gravely, “that love would not teach me to forgive. Go on. I hear you patiently.”
“My story will be brief,” said Hansford, “although it may involve sad consequences to me. I need only say, that I have felt the oppressions of the government, under which the colony is groaning; I have witnessed the duplicity and perfidy of Sir William Berkeley, and I have determined with the arm and heart of a man, to maintain the rights of a man.”
“What oppressions, what perfidy, what rights, do you mean?” said Virginia, turning pale with apprehension.
“You can scarcely understand those questions dearest. But do you not know that the temporizing policy, the criminal delay of Berkeley, has already made the blood of Englishmen flow by the hand of savages. Even the agony which you this morning suffered, is due to the indirect encouragement given to the Indians by his fatal indulgence.”
“And you have proved false to your country,” cried Virginia. “Oh! Hansford, for the sake of your honour, for the sake of your love, unsay the word which stains your soul with treason.”
“Nay, my own Virginia, understand me. I may be a rebel to my king. I may almost sacrifice my love, but I am true, ever true to my country. The day has passed, Virginia, when that word was so restricted in its meaning as to be confounded with the erring mortal, who should be its minister and not its tyrant. The blood of Charles the First has mingled with the blood of those brave martyrs who perished for liberty, and has thus cemented the true union between a prince and his people. It has given to the world, that useful lesson, that the sovereign is invested with his power, to protect, and not to destroy the rights of his people; that freemen may be restrained by wholesome laws, but that they are freemen still. That lesson, Sir William Berkeley must yet be taught. The patriot who dares to teach him, is at last, the truest lover of his country.”
“I scarcely know what you say,” said the young girl, weeping, “but tell me, oh, tell me, have you joined your fortunes with a rebel?”
“If thus you choose to term him who loves freedom better than chains, who would rather sacrifice life itself than to drag out a weary existence beneath the galling yoke of oppression, I have. I know you blame me. I know you hate me now,” he added, in a sad voice, “but while it was my duty, as a freeman and a patriot, to act thus, it was also my duty, as an honourable man, to tell you all. You remember the last lines of our favourite song,
“I had not loved thee dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.”
“Alas! I remember the words but too well,” replied Virginia, sadly, “but I had been taught that the honour there spoken of, was loyalty to a king, not treason. Oh, Hansford, forgive me, but how can I, reared as I have been, with such a father, how can I”—she hesitated, unable to complete the fatal sentence.
“I understand you,” said Hansford. “But one thing then remains undone. The proscribed rebel must be an outlaw to Virginia Temple's heart. The trial is a sore one, but even this sacrifice can I make to my beloved country. Thus then I give you back your troth. Take it—take it,” he cried, and with one hand covering his eyes, he seemed with the other to tear from his heart some treasured jewel that refused to yield its place.
The violence of his manner, even more than the fatal words he had spoken, alarmed Virginia, and with a wild scream, that rang through the old hall, she threw herself fainting upon his neck. The noise reached the ears of the party, who remained above stairs, and Colonel Temple, his wife, and Bernard, threw open the door and stood for a moment silent spectators of the solemn scene. There stood Hansford, his eye lit up with excitement, his face white as ashes, and his strong arm supporting the trembling form of the young girl, while with his other hand he was chafing her white temples, and smoothing back the long golden tresses that had fallen dishevelled over her face.
“My child, my child,” shrieked her mother, who was the first to speak, “what on earth is the matter?”
“Yes, Hansford, in the devil's name, what is to pay?” said the old colonel. “Why, Jeanie,” he added, taking the fair girl tenderly in his arms, “you are not half the heroine you were when the Indians were here. There now, that's a sweet girl, open your blue eyes and tell old father what is the matter.”
“Nothing, dear father,” said Virginia, faintly, as she slowly opened her eyes. “I have been very foolish, that's all.”
“Nay, Jeanie, it takes more than nothing or folly to steal the bloom away from these rosy cheeks.”
“Perhaps the young gentleman can explain more easily,” said Bernard, fixing his keen eyes on his rival. “A little struggle, perhaps, between love and loyalty.”
“Mr. Bernard, with all his shrewdness, would probably profit by the reflection,” said Hansford, coldly, “that as a stranger here, his opinions upon a matter of purely family concern, are both unwelcome and impertinent.”
“May be so,” replied Bernard with a sneer; “but scarcely more unwelcome than the gross and continued deception practised by yourself towards those who have honoured you with their confidence.”
Hansford, stung by the remark, laid his hand upon his sword, but was withheld by Colonel Temple, who cried out with impatience,
“Why, what the devil do you mean? Zounds, it seems to me that my house is bewitched to-day. First those cursed Indians, with their infernal yells, threatening death and destruction to all and sundry; then my daughter here, playing the fool before my face, according to her own confession; and lastly, a couple of forward boys picking a quarrel with one another after a few hours' acquaintance. Damn it, Tom, you were wont to have a plain tongue in your head. Tell me, what is the matter?”
“My kind old friend,” said Hansford, with a tremulous voice, “I would fain have reserved for your private ear, an explanation which is now rendered necessary by that insolent minion, whose impertinence had already received the chastisement it deserves, but for an unfortunate interruption.”
“Nay, Tom,” said the Colonel, “no harsh words. Remember this young man is my guest, and as such, entitled to respect from all under my roof.”
“Well then, sir,” continued Hansford, “this young lady's agitation was caused by the fact that I have lately pursued a course, which, while I believe it to be just and honourable, I fear will meet with but little favour in your eyes.”
“As much in the dark as ever,” said the Colonel, perplexed beyond measure, for his esteem for Hansford prevented him from suspecting the true cause of his daughter's disquiet. “Damn it, man, Davus sum non Œdipus. Speak out plainly, and if your conduct has been, as you say, consistent with your honour, trust to an old friend to forgive you. Zounds, boy, I have been young myself, and can make allowance for the waywardness of youth. Been gaming a little too high, hey; well, the rest[19] was not so low in my day, but that I can excuse that, if you didn't 'pull down the side.'”[20]
“I would fain do the young man a service, for I bear him no ill-will, though he has treated me a little harshly,” said Bernard, as he saw Hansford silently endeavouring to frame a reply in the most favourable terms, “I see he is ashamed of his cause, and well he may be; for you must know that he has become a great man of late, and has linked his fate to a certain Nathaniel Bacon.”
The old loyalist started as he heard this unexpected announcement, then with a deep sigh, which seemed to come from his very soul, he turned to Hansford and said, “My boy, deny the foul charge; say it is not so.”
“It is, indeed, true,” replied Hansford, mournfully, “but when—”
“But when the devil!” cried the old man, bursting into a fit of rage; “and you expect me to stand here and listen to your justification. Zounds, sir, I would feel like a traitor myself to hear you speak. And this is the serpent that I have warmed and cherished at my hearth-stone. Out of my house, sir!”
“To think,” chimed in Mrs. Temple, for once agreeing fully with her husband, “how near our family, that has always prided itself on its loyalty, was being allied to a traitor. But he shall never marry Virginia, I vow.”
“No, by God,” said the enraged loyalist; “she should rot in her grave first.”
“Miss Temple is already released from her engagement,” said Hansford, recovering his calmness in proportion as the other party lost their's. “She is free to choose for herself, sir.”
“And that choice shall never light on you, apostate,” cried Temple, “unless she would bring my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.”
“And mine, too,” said the old lady, beginning to weep.
“I will not trouble you longer with my presence,” said Hansford, proudly, “except to thank you for past kindness, which I can never forget. Farewell, Colonel Temple, I respect your prejudices, though they have led you to curse me. Farewell, Mrs. Temple, I will ever think of your generous hospitality with gratitude. Farewell, Virginia, forget that such a being as Thomas Hansford ever darkened your path through life, and think of our past love as a dream. I can bear your forgetfulness, but not your hate. For you, sir,” he added, turning to Alfred Bernard, “let me hope that we will meet again, where no interruption will prevent our final separation.”
With these words, Hansford, his form proudly erect, but his heart bowed down with sorrow, slowly left the house.
“Are you not a Justice of the Peace?” asked Bernard, with a meaning look.
“And what is that to you, sir?” replied the old man, suspecting the design of the question.
“Only, sir, that as such it is your sworn duty to arrest that traitor. I know it is painful, but still it is your duty.”
“And who the devil told you to come and teach me my duty, sir?” said the old man, wrathfully. “Let me tell you, sir, that Tom Hansford, with all his faults, is a d—d sight better than a great many who are free from the stain of rebellion. Rebellion!—oh, my God!—poor, poor Tom.”
“Nay, then, sir,” said Bernard, meekly, “I beg your pardon. I only felt it my duty to remind you of what you might have forgotten. God forbid that I should wish to endanger the life of a poor young man, whose only fault may be that he was too easily led away by others.”
“You are right, by God,” said the Colonel, quickly. “He is the victim of designing men, and yet I never said a word to reclaim him. Oh, I have acted basely and not like a friend. I will go now and bring him back, wife; though if he don't repent—zounds!—neither will I; no, not for a million friends.”
So saying, the noble-hearted old loyalist, whose impulsive nature was as prompt to redeem as to commit an error, started from the room to reclaim his lost boy. It was too late. Hansford, anticipating the result of the fatal revelation, had ordered his horse even before his first interview with Virginia. The old Colonel only succeeded in catching a glimpse of him from the porch, as at a full gallop he disappeared through the forest.
With a heavy sigh he returned to the study, there to meet with the consolations of his good wife, which were contained in the following words:
“Well, I hope and trust he is gone, and will never darken our doors again. You know, my dear, I always told you that you were wrong about that young man, Hansford. There always seemed to be a lack of frankness and openness in his character, and although I do not like to interpose my objections, yet I never altogether approved of the match. You know I always told you so.”
“Told the devil!” cried the old man, goaded to the very verge of despair by this new torture. “I beg your pardon, Bessy, for speaking so hastily, but, damn it, if all the angels in Heaven had told me that Tom Hansford could prove a traitor, I would not have believed it.”
And how felt she, that wounded, trusting one, who thus in a short day had seen the hopes and dreams of happiness, which fancy had woven in her young heart, all rudely swept away! 'Twere wrong to lift the veil from that poor stricken heart, now torn with grief too deep for words—too deep, alas! for tears. With her cheek resting on her white hand, she gazed tearlessly, but vacantly, towards the forest where he had so lately vanished as a dream. To those who spoke to her, she answered sadly in monosyllables, and then turned her head away, as if it were still sweet to cherish thus the agony which consumed her. But the bitterest drop in all this cup of woe, was the self-reproach which mingled with her recollection of that sad scene. When he had frankly given back her troth, she, alas! had not stayed his hand, nor by a word had told him how truly, even in his guilt, her heart was his. And now, she thought, when thus driven harshly into the cold world, his only friends among the enemies to truth, his enemies its friends, how one little word of love, or even of pity, might have redeemed him from error, or at least have cheered him in his dark career.
But bear up bravely, sweet one; for heavier, darker sorrows yet must cast their shadows on thy young heart, ere yet its warm pulsations cease to beat, and it be laid at rest.