FOOTNOTES:
[43] An old English expression for a rough, honest fellow.
[44] A bludgeon.
[45] There may be danger in the design.
CHAPTER XXX.
“Ha! sure he sleeps—all's dark within save what
A lamp, that feebly lifts a sickly flame,
By fits reveals. His face seems turned to favour
The attempt. I'll steal and do it unperceived.”
Mourning Bride.
All were wrapt in silence and in slumber, save the weary sentinels, who paced drowsily up and down before the door of the house, humming in a low tone the popular Lillibullero, or silently communing with their brother sentry in the sky. The family, providing for the fatigues of the following day, had early retired to rest, and even Virginia, worn down by excitement and agitation, having been assured by her father of the certain safety of Hansford, had yielded to the restoring influences of sleep. How little did the artless girl, or her unsuspicious father, suppose that beneath their roof they had been cherishing a demon, who, by his wily machinations, was weaving a web around his innocent victim, cruel and inextricable.
We have said that all save the watchful sentinels were sleeping; but one there was from whose eyes and from whose heart revenge had driven sleep. Mamalis—the poor, hapless Mamalis—whose sorrows had been forgotten in the general excitement which had prevailed—Mamalis knew but one thought, and that was no dream. Her brother, the pride and refuge of her maiden heart, lay stiff and murdered by the way-side—his death unwept, his dirge unsung, his brilliant hopes of fame cut off ere they had fully budded. And his murderer was near her! Could she hesitate? Had she not been taught, in her simple faith, that the blood of the victim requires the blood of his destroyer? The voice of her brother's blood called to her from the ground. Nor did it call in vain. It is true, he had been harsh, nay sometimes even cruel to her, but when was woman's heart, when moved to softness, ever mindful of the wrongs she had endured? Ask yourself, when standing by the lifeless corse of one whom you have dearly loved, if then you can remember aught but kindness, and love, and happiness, in your association with the loved one. One gentle word, one sweet smile, one generous action, though almost faded from the memory before, obscures forever all the recollection of wrongs inflicted and injuries endured.
She was in the room occupied by Virginia Temple. Oh, what a contrast between the two! Yes, there they were—Revenge and Innocence! The one lay pure and beautiful in sleep; her round, white arm thrown back upon the pillow, to form a more snowy resting place for her lovely cheek. From beneath her cap some tresses had escaped, which, happy in release, were sporting in the soft air that wooed them through the open window. Her face, at other times too spiritually pale, was now slightly flushed by the sultry warmth of the night. A smile of peaceful happiness played around her lips, as she dreamed, perhaps, of some wild flower ramble which in happier days she had had with Hansford. Her snowy bosom, which in her restlessness she had nearly bared, was white and swelling as a wave which plays in the calm moonlight. Such was the beautiful being who lay sleeping calmly in the arms of Innocence, while the dark, but not less striking, form of the Indian girl bent over, to discover if she slept. She was dressed as we have before described, with the short deer-skin smock, extending to her knees, and fitted closely round the waist with a belt of wampum. Her long black hair was bound by a simple riband, and fell thickly over her shoulders in dark profusion. In her left hand she held a lamp, and it was fearful to mark, by its faint, glimmering light, the intense earnestness of her countenance. There were some traces of tears upon her cheek, but these were nearly dried. Her bright black eyes were lighted by a strange, unnatural fire, which they never knew before. It seemed as though you might see them in the dark. In her right hand she held a small dagger, which he had given her as a pledge of a brother's love. Fit instrument to avenge a brother's death!
She seemed to be listening and watching to hear or see the slightest movement from the slumbering maiden. But all was still!
“I slept not thus,” she murmured, “the night I heard him vow his vengeance against your father. Before the birds had sung their morning song I came to warn you. Now all I loved, my country, my friends, my brother, have gone forever, and none shares the tears of the Indian maiden.”
She turned away with a sigh from the bedside of Virginia, and carefully replaced the dagger in her belt. She then took a key which was lying on the table and clutched it with an air of triumph. That key she had stolen from the pocket of Alfred Bernard while he slept—for what will not revenge, and woman's revenge, dare to do. Then taking up a water pitcher, and extinguishing the light, she softly left the room.
As she endeavoured to pass the outer door she was accosted by the hoarse voice of the sentinel—“Who comes there?” he cried.
“A friend,” she answered, timidly.
“You cannot pass, friend, without a permit from the Governor. Them's his orders.”
“I go to bring some water for the sick maiden,” she said earnestly, showing him the pitcher. “She is far from well. Let her not suffer for a draught of water.”
“Well,” said the pliant soldier, yielding; “you are a good pleader, pretty one. That dark face of yours looks devilish well by moonlight. What say you; if I let you pass, will you come and sit with me when you get back? It's damned lonesome out here by myself.”
“I will do any thing you wish when I return,” said the girl.
“Easily won, by Wenus,” said the gallant soldier, as he permitted Mamalis to pass on her supposed errand.
Freed from this obstruction, she glided rapidly through the yard, and soon stood before the door of the small house which she had learned was appropriated as the prison of Berkenhead. Turning the key softly in the lock, she pulled the latch-string and gently opened the door. A flood of moonlight streamed upon the floor, encumbered with a variety of plantation utensils. By the aid of this light Mamalis soon recognized the form and features of the fated Berkenhead, who was sleeping in one corner of the room. She knelt over him and feasted her eyes with the anticipation of her deep revenge. Fearing to be defeated in her design, for with her it was the foiled attempt and “not the act which might confound,” she bared his bosom and sought his heart. The motion startled the sleeping soldier. “The devil,” he said, half opening his eyes; “its damned light.” Just as he pronounced the last word the fatal dagger of Mamalis found its way into his heart. “It is all dark now,” she said, bitterly, and rising from her victim, she glided through the door and left him with his God.
With the native shrewdness of her race, Mamalis did not forget that she had still to play a part, and so without returning directly to the house, she repaired to the well and filled her pitcher. She even offered the sentinel a drink as she repassed him on her return, and promising once more to come back, when she had carried the water to the “sick maiden,” she stole quietly into the room occupied by Bernard, replaced the key in his pocket as before, and hastened up stairs again.
And there seated once more by the bedside of the sleeping Virginia, the young Indian girl sang, in a low voice, at once her song of triumph and her brother's dirge, in that rich oriental improvisation for which the Indians were so remarkable. We will not pretend to give in the original words of this beautiful requiem, but furnish the reader, in default of a better, with the following free translation, which may give some faint idea of its beauty:—
“They have plucked the flower from the garden of my heart, and have torn the soil where it tenderly grew. He was bright and beautiful as the bounding deer, and the shaft from his bow was as true as his unchanging soul! Rest with the Great Spirit, soul of my brother!
“The Great Spirit looked down in pity on my brother; Manitou has snatched him from the hands of the dreadful Okee. On the shores of the spirit-land, with the warriors of his tribe he sings the song of his glory, and chases the spirit deer over the immaterial plains! Rest with the Great Spirit, soul of my brother!
“But I, his sister, am left lonely and desolate; the hearth-stone of Mamalis is deserted. Yet has my hand sought revenge for his murder, and my bosom exults over the destruction of his destroyer! Rest with the Great Spirit, soul of my brother!
“Rest with the Great Spirit, soul of Manteo, till Mamalis shall come to enjoy thy embraces. Then welcome to thy spirit home the sister of thy youth, and reward with thy love the avenger of thy death! Rest with the Great Spirit, soul of my brother!”
As her melancholy requiem died away, Mamalis rose silently from the seat, and bent once more over the form of the sleeping Virginia. As she felt the warm breath of the pure young girl upon her cheek, and watched the regular beating of her heart, and then contrasted the purity of the sleeping maiden with her own wild, guilty nature, she started back in horror. For the first time she felt remorse at the commission of her crime, and with a heavy sigh she hurriedly left the room, as though it were corrupted by her presence.
CHAPTER XXXI.
“And smile, and smile, and smile, and be a villain.”
King John.
Great was the horror of the loyalists, on the following morning, at the discovery of the horrible crime which had been perpetrated; but still greater was the mystery as to who was the guilty party. There was no mode of getting admittance to the house in which Berkenhead was confined, except through the door, the key of which was in the possession of Alfred Bernard. Even if the position and standing of this young man had not repelled the idea that he was cognizant of the crime, his own unfeigned surprise at the discovery, and the absence of any motive for its commission, acquitted him in the minds of all. And yet, if this hypothesis was avoided, it was impossible to form any rational theory on the subject. There were but two persons connected with the establishment who could be presumed to have any plausible motive for murdering Berkenhead. Hansford might indeed be suspected of a desire to suppress evidence which would be dangerous to his own safety, but then Hansford was himself in close confinement. Mamalis, too, had manifested a spirit, the evening before, towards the unhappy man, which might very naturally subject her to suspicion; but, besides that, she played her part of surprise to perfection—it could not be conceived how she had gotten possession of the key of the room. The sentinel might indeed have thrown much light upon the subject, but he kept his own counsel for fear of the consequences of disobedience to orders; and he boldly asserted that no one had left the house during the night. This evidence, taken in connection with the fact that the young girl was found sleeping, as usual, in the little room adjoining Virginia's chamber, entirely exculpated her from any participation in the crime. Nothing then was left for it, but to suppose that the unhappy man, in a fit of desperation, had himself put a period to his existence. A little investigation might have easily satisfied them that such an hypothesis was as groundless as the rest; for it was afterwards ascertained by Colonel Temple, after a strict search, that no weapon was found on or near the body, nor in the apartment where it lay. But Sir William Berkeley, anxious to proceed upon his way to Accomac, and caring but little, perhaps, for the fate of a rebel, whose life was probably shortened but a few hours, gave the affair a very hurried and summary examination. Bernard, with his quick sagacity, discovered, or at least shrewdly suspected, the truth, and Mamalis felt, as he fixed his dark eyes upon her, that he had read the mystery of her heart. But, for his own reasons, the villain for the present maintained the strictest silence on the subject.
But this catastrophe, so fatal to Berkenhead, was fortunate for young Hansford. The Governor, more true to his word to loyalists than he had hitherto been to the insurgents, released our hero from imprisonment, in the absence of any testimony against him. And, to the infinite chagrin of Alfred Bernard, his rival, once more at liberty, was again, in the language of the treacherous Plantagenet, “a very serpent in his way.” He had too surely discovered, that so long as Hansford lived, the heart of Virginia Temple, or what he valued far more, her hand, could never be given to another; and yet he felt, that if he were out of the way, and that heart, though widowed, free to choose again, the emotions of mistaken gratitude would prompt her to listen with favour to his suit. With all his faults, too, and with his mercenary motives, Bernard was not without a feeling, resembling love, for Virginia. We are told that there are fruits and flowers which, though poisonous in their native soil, when transplanted and cherished under more genial circumstances, become at once fair to the eye and wholesome to the taste. It is thus with love. In the wild, sterile heart of Alfred Bernard it had taken root, and poisoned all his nature; but yet it was the same emotion which shed a genial influence over the manly heart of Hansford. If it had been otherwise, there were some as fair, and many far more wealthy, in his adopted colony, than Virginia Temple. But she was at once adapted to his interests, his passions, and his intellect. She could aid his vaulting ambition by sharing with him her wealth; she could control, by the strength of her character, and the sweetness of her disposition, his own wild nature; and she could be the instructive and congenial companion of his intellect. And all this rich treasure might be his but for the existence, the rivalry of the hated Hansford. Still his ardent nature led him to hope. With all his heart he would engage in quelling the rebellion, which he foresaw was about to burst upon the colony; and then revenge, the sweetest morsel to the jealous mind, was his. Meantime, he must look the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it; and curbing his own feelings, must, under pretence of friendship and interest for a rival, continue to plot his ruin. Alfred Bernard was equal to the task.
It was with these feelings that he sought Virginia Temple on the eve of his departure from Windsor Hall. The young girl was seated, with her lover, on a rude, rustic bench, beneath the large oak where Bernard had, the evening before, had an interview with the unfortunate Berkenhead. As he approached, she rose, and with her usual winning frankness of manner, she extended her hand.
“Come, Mr. Bernard,” she said, “I have determined that you and Major Hansford shall be friends.”
“Most willingly, on my part,” said the smooth-tongued Bernard. “And I think I have given the best evidence of my disposition to be so, by aiding feebly in restoring to Miss Temple an old friend, when she must now so soon part with her more recent acquaintance.”
“I am happy to think,” said Hansford, whose candour prevented him from suppressing entirely the coldness of his manner, “that I am indebted to Mr. Bernard for any interest he may have taken in my behalf. I hope, sir, you will now add to the obligation under which I at present rest to you, by apprising me in what manner you have so greatly obliged me.”
“Why, you must be aware,” replied Bernard, “that your present freedom from restraint is due to my interposition with Sir William Berkeley.”
“Oh yes, indeed,” interposed Virginia, “for I heard my father say that it was Mr. Bernard's wise suggestion, adopted by the Governor, which secured your release.”
“Hardly so,” returned Hansford, “even if such were his disposition. But, if I am rightly informed, your assistance only extended to a very natural request, that I should not be judged guilty so long as there was no evidence to convict me. If I am indebted to Mr. Bernard for impressing upon the mind of the Governor a principle of law as old, I believe, as Magna Charta, I must e'en render him the thanks which are justly his due, and which he seems so anxious to demand.”
“Mr. Hansford,” said Virginia, “why will you persist in being so obstinate? Is it such a hard thing, after all, for one brave man to owe his life to another, or for an innocent man to receive justice at the hands of a generous one? And at least, I should think, she added, with the least possible pout, “that, when I ask as a favour that you should be friends, you should not refuse me.”
“Indeed, Miss Virginia,” said Alfred Bernard, without evincing the slightest mark of displeasure; “you urge this reconciliation too far. If Major Hansford have some secret cause of enmity or distrust towards me, of which I am ignorant, I beg that you will not force him to express a sentiment which his heart does not entertain. And as for his gratitude, which he seems to think that I demand, I assure you, that for any service which I may have done him, I am sufficiently compensated by my own consciousness of rectitude of purpose, and nobly rewarded by securing your approving smile.”
“Nobly, generously said, Mr. Bernard,” replied Virginia, “and now I have indeed mistaken Mr. Hansford's character if he fail to make atonement for his backwardness, by a full, free, and cordial reconciliation.”
“I must needs give you my left hand, then,” said Hansford, extending his hand with as much cordiality as he could assume; “my right arm is disabled as you perceive, by a wound inflicted by one of the enemies of my country, against whom it would seem it is treason to battle.”
“Nay, if you go into that hateful subject again,” said Virginia, “I fear there is not much cordiality in your heart yet.”
“Oh! you are mistaken, Miss Temple,” said Bernard, gaily; “you must remember the old adage, that the left is nearest to the heart. Believe me, Major Hansford and myself will be good friends yet, and when we hereafter shall speak of our former estrangement, it will only be to remember by whose gentle influence we were reconciled. But permit me to hope, Major, that your wound is not serious.”
“A mere trifle, I believe, sir,” returned Hansford, “but I am afraid I will suffer some inconvenience from it for some time, as it is the sword arm; and in these troublous times it may fail me, when it should be prepared to defend.”
“An that were the only use to which you would apply it,” said Virginia, half laughing, and half in earnest, “I would sincerely hope that it might never heal.”
“Oh fear not but that it will soon heal,” said Bernard. “The most dangerous wounds are inflicted here,” laying his hand upon his heart; “a wound dealt not by a savage, but by an angel; not from the arrow of the ambushed Indian, but from the quiver of the mischievous little blind boy—and the more fatal, because we insanely delight to inflame the wound instead of seeking to cure it.”
“Well really, Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, rallying the gay young euphuist, “the flowers of gallantry which you have brought from Windsor Court, thanks to your fostering care, flourish quite as sweetly in this wilderness of Windsor Hall. Take pity on an illiterate colonial girl, and tell me whether this is the language of Waller, Cowley or Dryden?”
“It is the language of the heart, Miss Temple, on the present occasion at least,” said Bernard, gravely; “for I am admonished that it is time I should say farewell. Without flowers or poetry, Miss Virginia, I bid you adieu. May you be happy, and derive from your association with others that high enjoyment which you are so capable of bestowing. Farewell, Major Hansford, we may meet again, I trust, when it will not be necessary to invoke the interposition of a fair mediator to effect a reconciliation.”
Hansford well understood the innuendo contained in the last words of Bernard, but taking the well-timed hint, refrained from expressing it more clearly, and gave his hand to his rival with every appearance of cordiality. And Virginia, misconstruing the words of the young jesuit, frankly extended her own hand, which he pressed respectfully to his lips, and then turned silently away.
“Well, I am delighted,” said Virginia to her lover, when they were thus left alone, “that you are at last friends with Bernard. You see now that I was right and you were wrong in our estimates of his character.”
“Indeed I do not, my dear Virginia; on the contrary, this brief interview has but confirmed my previously formed opinion.”
“Oh! that is impossible, Hansford; you are too suspicious, indeed you are. I never saw more refinement and delicacy blended with more real candour. Indeed, Hansford, he is a noble fellow.”
“I am sorry to differ with you, dearest; but to my mind his refinement is naught but Jesuitical craft; his delicacy the result of an educational schooling of the lip, to conceal the real feelings of his heart; and his candour but the gilt washing which appears like gold, but after all, only hides the baser metal beneath it.”
“Well, in my life I never heard such perversion! Really, Hansford, you will make me think you are jealous.”
“Jealous, Virginia, jealous!” said Hansford, in a sorrowful tone. “Alas! if I were even capable of such a feeling, what right have I to entertain it? Your heart is free, and torn from the soil which once cherished it, may be transplanted elsewhere, while the poor earth where once it grew can only hope now and then to feel the fragrance which it sheds on all around. No, not jealous, Virginia, whatever else I may be!”
“You speak too bitterly, Hansford; have I not assured you that though a harsh fate may sever us; though parental authority may deny you my hand, yet my heart is unalterably yours. But tell me, why it is that you can see nothing good in this young man, and persist in perverting every sentiment, every look, every expression to his injury?”
Before Hansford could reply, the shrill voice of Mrs. Temple was heard, crying out; “Virginia Temple, Virginia Temple, why where can the child have got to!”—and at the same moment the old lady came bustling round the house, and discovered the unlawful interview of the lovers.
Rising hastily from her seat, Virginia advanced to her mother, who, without giving her time to speak, even had she been so inclined, sang out at the top of her voice—“Come along, my daughter. Here are the guests in your father's house kept waiting in the porch to tell you good-bye, and you, forsooth, must be talking, the Lord knows what, to that young scape-gallows yonder, who hasn't modesty enough to know when and where he's wanted.”
“Dear mother, don't speak so loud,” whispered the poor girl.
“Don't talk so loud, forsooth—and why? They that put themselves where they are not wanted and not asked, must expect to hear ill of themselves.”
“There comes my pretty Jeanie,” said her old father, as he saw her approach. “And so you found her at last, mother. Come here, dearest, we have been waiting for you.”
The sweet tones of that gentle voice, which however harsh at times to others, were ever modulated to the sweetest music when he spoke to her, fell upon the ears of the poor confused and mortified girl, in such comforting accents, that the full heart could no longer restrain its gushing feelings, and she burst into tears. With swollen eyes and with a heavy heart she bade adieu to the several guests, and as Sir William Berkeley, in the mistaken kindness of his heart, kissed her cheek, and whispered that Bernard would soon return and all would be happy again, she sobbed as if her gentle heart would break.
“I always tell the Colonel that he ruins the child,” said Mrs. Temple to the Governor, with one of her blandest smiles, on seeing this renewed exhibition of sensibility. “It was not so in our day, Lady Frances; we had other things to think about than crying and weeping. Tears were not so shallow then.”
Lady Frances Berkeley nodded a stately acquiescence to this tribute to the stoicism of the past, and made some sage, original and relevant reflection, that shallow streams ever were the most noisy—and then kissing the weeping girl, repeated the grateful assurance that Bernard would not be long absent, and that she herself would be present at the happy bridal, to taste the bride's cake and quaff the knitting cup,[46] with other like consolations well calculated to restore tranquillity and happiness to the bosom of the disconsolate Virginia.
And so the unfortunate Berkeley commenced that fatal flight, which contributed so largely to divert the arms of the insurgents from the Indians to the government, and to change what else might have been a mere unauthorized attack upon the common enemies of the country into a protracted and bloody civil war.
Hansford did not long remain at Windsor Hall, after the departure of the loyalists. He would indeed have been wanting in astuteness if he had not inferred from the direct language of Mrs. Temple that he was an unwelcome visitant at the mansion. But more important, if not more cogent reasons urged his immediate departure. He saw at a glance the fatal error committed by Berkeley in his flight to Accomac, and the immense advantage it would be to the insurgents. He wished, therefore, without loss of time to communicate the welcome intelligence to Bacon and his followers, who, he knew, were anxiously awaiting the result of his mission.
Ordering his horse, he bade a cordial adieu to the good old colonel, who, as he shook his hand, said, with a tear in his eye, “Oh, my boy, my boy! if your head were as near right as I believe your heart is, how I would love to welcome you to my bosom as my son.”
“I hope, my kind, my noble friend,” said Hansford, “that the day may yet come when you will see that I am not wholly wrong. God knows I would almost rather err with you than to be right with any other man.” Then bidding a kind farewell to Mrs. Temple and Virginia, to which the old lady responded with due civility, but without cordiality, he vaulted into the saddle and rode off—and as long as the house was still in view, he could see the white 'kerchief of Virginia from the open window, waving a last fond adieu to her unhappy lover.