FOOTNOTES:
[46] A cup drunk at the marriage ceremony in honour of the bride.
CHAPTER XXXII.
“The abstract and brief chronicle of the time.”
Hamlet.
It is not our purpose to trouble the reader with a detailed account of all the proceedings of the famous Rebellion, which forms the basis of our story. We, therefore, pass rapidly over the stirring incidents which immediately succeeded the flight of Sir William Berkeley. Interesting as these incidents may be to the antiquary or historian, they have but little to do with the dramatis personæ of this faithful narrative, in whose fate we trust our readers are somewhat interested. Accomac is divided from the mainland of Virginia by the broad Chesapeake Bay. Although contained in the same grant which prescribed the limits to the colony, and although now considered a part of this ancient commonwealth, there is good reason to believe that formerly it was considered in a different light. In one of the earliest colonial state papers which has been preserved, the petition of Morryson, Ludwell & Smith, for a reformed charter for the colony, the petitioners are styled the “agents for the governor, council and burgesses of the country of Virginia and territory of Accomac;” and although this form of phraseology appears in but few of the records, yet it would appear that the omission was the result of mere convenience in style, just as Victoria is more frequently styled the Queen of England, than called by her more formal title of Queen of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, by the Grace of God, Defender of the Faith. It was, therefore, not without reason, that Nathaniel Bacon, glad at least of a pretext for advancing his designs, should have considered the flight of Sir William Berkeley to Accomac as a virtual abdication of his authority, more especially as it had been ordained but two years before by the council at Whitehall, that the governor should be actually a resident of Virginia, unless when summoned by the King to England or elsewhere. At least it was a sufficient pretext for the young insurgent, who, in the furtherance of his designs did not seem to be over-scrupulous in regard to the powers with which he was clothed. But twelve years afterwards a similar pretext afforded by the abdication of James the Second, relieved the British government of one of the most serious difficulties which has arisen in her constitutional history.
Without proceeding on his expedition against the Indians, Bacon had no sooner heard of the abdication of the governor than he retired to the Middle Plantation, the site of the present venerable city of Williamsburg. Here, summoning a convention of the most prominent citizens from all parts of the colony, he declared the government vacated by the voluntary abdication of Berkeley, and in his own name, and the name of four members of the council, proceeded to issue writs for a meeting of the Assembly. It is but just to the memory of this great man to say, that this Assembly, convened by his will, and acting, as may well be conceived, almost exclusively under his dictation, has left upon our statute books laws “the most wholesome and good,” for the benefit of the colony, and the most conducive to the advancement of rational liberty. The rights of property remained inviolate—the reforms were moderate and judicious, and the government of the colony proceeded as quietly and calmly after the accomplishment of the revolution, as though Sir William Berkeley were still seated in his palace as the executive magistrate of Virginia. A useful lesson did this young colonial rebel teach to modern reformers who would defame his name—the lesson that reform does not necessarily imply total change, and that there is nothing with which it is more dangerous to tamper than long established usage. The worst of all quacks are those who would administer their sovereign nostrums to the constitution of their country.
The reader of history need not be reminded that the expedition of Bland and Carver, designed to surprise Sir William Berkeley in his new retreat, was completely frustrated by the treachery of Larimore, and its unfortunate projectors met, at the hands of the stern old Governor, a traitor's doom. Thus the drooping hopes of the loyalists were again revived, and taking advantage of this happy change in the condition of affairs, Berkeley with his little band of faithful adherents returned by sea to Jamestown, and fortified the place to the best of their ability against the attacks of the rebels.
Nor were the insurgents unwilling to furnish them an opportunity for a contest. The battle of Bloody Run is memorable in the annals of the colony as having forever annihilated the Indian power in Eastern Virginia. Like the characters in Bunyan's sublime vision, this unhappy race, so long a thorn in the side of the colonists, had passed away, and “they saw their faces no more.” But his very triumph over the savage enemies of his country, well nigh proved the ruin of the young insurgent. Many of his followers, who had joined him with a bona fide design of extirpating the Indian power, now laid down their arms, and retired quietly to their several homes. Bacon was thus left with only about two hundred adherents, to prosecute the civil war which the harsh and dissembling policy of Berkeley had invoked; while the Governor was surrounded by more than three times that number, with the entire navy of Virginia at his command, and, moreover, secure behind the fortifications of Jamestown. Yet did not the brave young hero shrink from the contest. Though reduced in numbers, those that remained were in themselves a host. They were all men of more expanded views, and more exalted conceptions of liberty, than many of the medley crew who had before attended him. They fought in a holier cause than when arrayed against the despised force of their savage foes, and, moreover, they fought in self-defence. For, too proud and generous to desert their leader in his hour of peril, each of his adherents lay under the proscriptive ban of the revengeful Governor, as a rebel and a traitor. No sooner, therefore, did Bacon hear of the return of Berkeley to Jamestown, than, with hasty marches, he proceeded to invest the place. It is here, then, that we resume the thread of our broken narrative.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
“When Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then.”
Byron.
It was on a calm, clear morning in the latter part of the month of September, that the little army of Nathaniel Bacon, wearied and worn with protracted marches, and with hard fought battles, might be seen winding through the woodland district to the north of Jamestown. The two cavaliers, who led the way a little distance ahead of the main body of the insurgents, were Bacon and his favourite comrade, Hansford—engaged, as before, in an animated, but now a more earnest conversation. The brow of the young hero was more overcast with care and reflection than when we last saw him. The game, which he had fondly hoped was over, had yet to be played, and the stake that remained was far more serious than any which had yet been risked. During the brief interval that his undisputed power existed, the colony had flourished and improved, and the bright dream which he had of her approaching delivery from bondage, seemed about to be realized. And now it was sad and disheartening to think that the battle must again be fought, and with such odds against him, that the chances of success were far more remote than ever. But Bacon was not the man to reveal his feelings, and he imparted to others the cheerfulness which he failed to feel himself. From time to time he would ride along the broken ranks, revive their drooping spirits, inspire them with new courage, and impart fresh ardor into their breasts for the glorious cause in which they were engaged. Then rejoining Hansford, he would express to him the fears and apprehensions which he had so studiously concealed from the rest.
It was on one of these occasions, after deploring the infatuated devotion of so many of the colonists to the cause of blind loyalty, and the desertion of so many on whom he had relied to co-operate in his enterprize, that he said, bitterly:
“I fear sometimes, my friend, that we have been too premature in our struggle for liberty. Virginia is not yet ready to be free. Her people still hug the chains which enslave them.”
“Alas!” said Hansford, “it is too true that we cannot endue the infant in swaddling bands with the pride and strength of a giant. The child who learns to walk must meet with many a fall, and the nation that aspires to freedom will often be checked by disaster and threatened with ruin.”
“And this it is,” said Bacon, sorrowfully, “that makes me sick at heart. Each struggle to be free sinks the chain of the captive deeper into his flesh. And should we fail now, my friend, we but tighten the fetters that bind us.”
“Think not thus gloomily on the subject,” replied Hansford. “Believe me, that you have already done much to develope the germ of freedom in Virginia. It may be that it may not expand and grow in our brief lives; and even though our memory may pass away, and the nation we have served may fail to call us blessed, yet they will rejoice in the fruition of that freedom for which we may perish. Should the soldier repine because he is allotted to lead a forlorn hope? No! there is a pride and a glory to know, that his death is the bridge over which others will pass to victory.”
“God bless your noble soul, Hansford,” said Bacon, with the intensest admiration. “It is men like you and not like me who are worthy to live in future generations. Men who, regardless of the risk or sacrifice of self, press onward in the discharge of duty. Love of glory may elevate the soul in the hour of triumph, but love of duty, and firmness resolutely to discharge it, can alone sustain us in the hour of peril and trial.”
This was at last the difference between the two men. Intense desire for personal fame, united with a subordinate love of country impelled Bacon in his course. Inflexible resolution to discharge a sacred duty, an entire abnegation of self in its performance, and the strongest convictions of right constituted the incentives to Hansford. It was this that in the hour of their need sustained the heart of Hansford, while the more selfish but noble heart of his leader almost sank within him; and yet the effects upon the actions of the two were much the same. The former, unswayed by circumstances however adverse, pressed steadily and firmly on; while the latter, with the calmness of desperation, knowing that safety, and (what was dearer) glory, lay in the path of success, braced himself for the struggle with more than his usual resolution.
“But, alas!” continued Bacon, in the same melancholy tone, “if we should fail, how hard to be forgotten. Your name and memory to perish among men forever—your very grave to be neglected and uncared for; and this living, breathing frame, instinct with life, and love, and glory, to pass away and mingle with the dust of the veriest worm which crawls upon the earth. Oh, God! to be forgotten, to leave no impress on the world but what the next flowing tide may efface forever. Think of it, realize it, Hansford—to be forgotten!”
“It would, indeed, be a melancholy thought,” said Hansford, with a deep sympathy for his friend—“if this were all. But when we remember that we stand but on the threshold of existence, and have a higher, a holier destiny to attain beyond, we need care but little for what is passing here. I have sometimes thought, my friend, that as in manhood we sometimes smile at the absurd frivolities which caught our childish fancy, so when elevated to a higher sphere we would sit and wonder at the interest which we took in the trifling pleasures, the empty honours, and the glittering toys of this present life.”
“And do you mean to say that honour and glory are nothing here?”
“Only so far as they reflect the honour and glory which are beyond.”
“Pshaw, man!” cried Bacon, “you do not, you cannot think so. You ask me the reason of this desire for fame and remembrance when we are dust. I tell you it is an instinct implanted in us by the Almighty to impel us to glorious deeds.”
“Aye,” said Hansford, quietly, “and when that desire, by our own indulgence, becomes excessive, just as the baser appetites of the glutton or the debauchee, it becomes corrupt and tends to our destruction.”
“You are a curious fellow, Hansford,” said Bacon, laughing, “and should have been one of old Noll's generals—for I believe you can preach as well as you can fight, and believe me that is no slight commendation. But you must excuse me if I cannot agree with you in all of your sentiments. I am sorry to say that old Butler's 'pulpit drum ecclesiastic' seldom beat me to a church parade while I was in England, and here in Virginia they send us the worst preachers, as they send us the worst of every thing. But a truce to the subject. Tell me are you a believer in presentiments?”
“Surely such things are possible, but I believe them to be rare,” replied his companion. “Future events certainly make an impression upon the animal creation, and I know not why man should be exempt entirely from a similar law. The migratory birds will seek a more southern clime, even before a change of weather is indicated by the wind, and the appearance of the albatross, or the bubbling of the porpoise, if we may believe the sailors' account, portend a storm.”
“These phenomena,” suggested Bacon, “may easily be explained by some atmospheric influence, insensible to our nature, but easily felt by them.”
“I might answer,” replied Hansford, “that if insensible to us, we are not warranted in presuming their existence. But who can tell in the subtle mechanism of the mind how sensitive it may be to the impressions of coming yet unseen events. At least, all nations have believed in the existence of such an influence, and the Deity himself has deigned to use it through his prophets, in the revelation of his purposes to man.”
“Well, true or not,” said Bacon, in a low voice, “I have felt the effect of such a presentiment in my own mind, and although I have tried to resist its influence I have been unable to do so. There is something which whispers to me, Hansford, that I will not see the consummation of my hopes in this colony—and that dying I shall leave behind me an inglorious name. For what at last is an unsuccessful patriot but a rebel. And oh, as I have listened to the monitions of this demon, it seemed as though the veil of futurity were raised, and I could read my fate in after years. Some future chronicler will record this era of Virginia's history, and this struggle for freedom on the part of her patriot children will be styled rebellion; our actions misrepresented; our designs misinterpreted; and I the leader and in part the author of the movement will be handed down with Wat Tyler and Jack Cade to infamy, obloquy and reproach.”
“Think not thus gloomily,” said Hansford, “the feelings you describe are often suggested to an excited imagination by the circumstances with which it is surrounded; just as dreams are the run mad chroniclers of our daily thoughts and hopes and apprehensions. You should not yield to them, General, they unman you or at least unfit you for the duties which lie before you.”
“You are right,” returned Bacon; “and I banish them from me forever. I have half a mind to acknowledge myself your convert, Hansford; eschew the gaily bedizzened Glory, and engage your demure little Quaker, Duty, as my handmaiden in her place.”
“I will feel but too proud of such a convert to my creed,” said Hansford laughing. “And now what of your plans on Jamestown?”
“Why to tell you the truth,” said Bacon gravely; “I am somewhat at fault in regard to my actions there. I could take the town in a day, and repulse those raw recruits of the old Governor with ease, if they would only sally out. But I suspect the old tyrant will play a safe game with me—and securely ensconced behind his walls, will cut my brave boys to pieces with his cannon before I can make a successful breach.”
“You could throw up breastworks for your protection,” suggested Hansford.
“Aye, but I fear it would be building a stable after the horse was stolen. With our small force we could not resist their guns while we were constructing our fortifications. But I will try it by night, and we may succeed. The d——d old traitor—if he would only meet me in open field, I could make my way 'through twenty times his stop.'”
“Well, we must encounter some risk,” replied Hansford. “I have great hopes from the character of his recruits, too. Though they number much more than ourselves, yet they serve without love, and in the present exhausted exchequer of the colony, are fed more by promises than money.”
“They are certainly not likely to be fed by angels,” said Bacon, “as some of the old prophets are said to have been. But, Hansford, an idea has just struck me, which is quite a new manœuvre in warfare, and from which your ideas of chivalry will revolt.”
“What is it?” asked Hansford eagerly.
“Why if it succeeds,” returned Bacon, “I will warrant that Jamestown is in our hands in twenty-four hours, without the loss of more blood than would fill a quart canteen.”
“Bravo, then, General, if you add such an important principle to the stock of military tactics, I'll warrant that whispering demon lied, and that you will retain both Glory and Duty in your service.”
“I am afraid you will change your note, Thomas, when I develope my plan. It is simply this—to detail a party of men to scour the country around Jamestown, and collect the good dames and daughters of our loyal councillors. If we take them with us, I'll promise to provide a secure defence against the enemies' fire. The besieged will dare not fire a gun so long as there is danger of striking their wives and children, and we, in the meantime, secure behind this temporary breastwork, will prepare a less objectionable defence. What think you of the plan, Hansford?”
“Good God!” cried Hansford, “You are not in earnest General Bacon?”
“And why not?” said Bacon, in reply. “If such a course be not adopted, at least half of the brave fellows behind us will be slaughtered like sheep. While no harm can result to the ladies themselves, beyond the inconvenience of a few hours' exposure to the night air, which they should willingly endure to preserve life.”
Hansford was silent. He knew how useless it was to oppose Bacon when he had once resolved. His chivalrous nature revolted at the idea of exposing refined and delicate females to such a trial. And yet he could not deny that the project if successfully carried out would be the means of saving much bloodshed, and of ensuring a speedy and easy victory to the insurgents.
“Why, what are you thinking of, man,” said Bacon gaily. “I thought my project would wound your delicate sensibilities. But to my mind there is more real chivalry and more true humanity in sparing brave blood to brave hearts, than in sacrificing it to a sickly regard for a woman's feelings.”
“The time has been when brave blood would have leaped gushing from brave hearts,” said Hansford proudly, “to protect woman from the slightest shadow of insult.”
“Most true, my brave Chevalier Bayard,” said Bacon, in a tone of unaffected good humor, “and shall again—and mine, believe me, will not be more sluggish in such a cause than your own. But here no insult is intended and none will be given. These fair prisoners shall be treated with the respect due to their sex and station. My hand and sword for that. But the time has been when woman too was willing to sacrifice her shrinking delicacy in defence of her country. Wot ye how Rome was once saved by the noble intercession of the wife and mother of Caius Marcus—or how the English forces were beaten from the walls of Orleans by the heroic Joan, or how—”
“You need not multiply examples,” said Hansford interrupting him, “to show how women of a noble nature have unsexed themselves to save their country. Your illustrations do not apply, for they did voluntarily what the ladies of Virginia must do upon compulsion. But, sir, I have no more to say. If you persist in this resolution, unchivalrous as I believe it to be, yet I will try to see my duty in ameliorating the condition of these unhappy females as far as possible.”
“And in me you shall have been a most cordial coadjutor,” returned Bacon. “But, my dear fellow, your chivalry is too shallow. Excuse me, if I say that it is all mere sentiment without a substratum of reason. Now look you—you would willingly kill in battle the husbands of these ladies, and thus inflict a life-long wound upon them, and yet you refuse to pursue a course by which lives may be saved, because it subjects them to a mere temporary inconvenience. But look again. Have you no sympathy left for the wives, no chivalry for the daughters of our own brave followers, whose hearts will be saved full many a pang by a stratagem, which will ensure the safety of their protectors. Believe me, my dear Hansford, if chivalry be nought but a mawkish sentiment, which would throw away the real substance of good, to retain the mere shadow reflected in its mirror, like the poor dog in the fable—the sooner its reign is over the better for humanity.”
“But, General Bacon,” said Hansford, by no means convinced by the sophistry of his plausible leader, “if the future chronicler of whom you spoke, should indeed write the history of this enterprise, he will record no fact which will reflect less honour upon your name, than that you found a means for your defence in the persons of defenceless women.”
“So let it be, my gallant chevalier,” replied Bacon, gaily, determined not to be put out of humour by Hansford's grave remonstrance. “But you have taught me not to look into future records for my name, or for the vindication of my course—and your demure damsel Duty has whispered that I am in the path of right. Look ye, Hansford, don't be angry with your friend; for I assure you on the honour of a gentleman, that the dames themselves will bear testimony to the chivalry of Nathaniel Bacon. And besides, my dear fellow, we will not impress any but the sterner old dames into our service. You know the older they are the better they will serve for material for an impregnable fortress.”
So saying, Bacon ordered a halt, and communicating to his soldiers his singular design, he detailed Captain Wilford and a party of a dozen men, selected on account of their high character, to capture and bring into his camp the wives of certain of the royalists, who, though residing in the country, had rallied to the support of Sir William Berkeley, on his return to Jamestown. In addition to these who were thus found in their several homes, the detailed corps had intercepted the carriage of our old friend, Colonel Temple; for the old loyalist had no sooner heard of the return of Sir William Berkeley, than he hastened to join him at the metropolis, leaving his wife and daughter to follow him on the succeeding day. What was the consternation and mortification of Thomas Hansford as he saw the fair Virginia Temple conducted, weeping, into the rude camp of the insurgents, followed by her high-tempered old mother, who to use the chaste and classic simile of Tony Lumpkin, “fidgeted and spit about like a Catherine wheel.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
“It is the cry of women, good, my lord.”
Macbeth.
Agreeably with the promise of Bacon, the captured ladies were treated with a respect and deference which allayed in a great degree their many apprehensions. Still they could not refrain from expressions of the strongest indignation at an act so unusual, so violent, and so entirely at war with the established notions of chivalry at the time. As the reader will readily conjecture, our good friend, Mrs. Temple, was by no means the most patient under the wrongs she had endured, and resisting the kind attentions of those around her, she was vehement in her denunciations of her captors, and in her apprehensions of a thousand imaginary dangers.
“Oh my God!” she cried, “I know that they intend to murder us. To think of leaving a quiet home, and being exposed to such treatment as this. Oh, my precious husband, if he only knew what a situation his poor Betsey was in at this moment; but never mind, as sure as I am a living woman, he shall know it, and then we will see.”
“My dear Mrs. Temple,” said Mrs. Ballard, another of the captives, “do not give way to your feelings thus. It is useless, and will only serve to irritate these men.”
“Men! they are not men!” returned the excited old lady, refusing to be comforted. “Men never would have treated ladies so. They are base, cruel, inhuman wretches, and, as I said before, if I live, to get to Jamestown, Colonel Temple shall know of it too—so he shall.”
“But reflect, my dear friend, that our present condition is not affected by this very natural resolution which you have made, to inform your husband of your wrongs. But whatever may be the object of these persons, I feel assured that they intend no personal injury to us.”
“No personal injury, forsooth; and have we not sustained it already. Look at my head-tire, all done up nicely just before I left the hall, and now scarcely fit to be seen. And is it nothing to be hauled all over the country with a party of ruffians, that I would be ashamed to be caught in company with; and who knows what they intend?”
“I admit with you, my dear madam,” said Mrs. Ballard, “that such conduct is unmanly and inexcusable, and I care not who hears me say so. But still,” she added in a low voice, “we have the authority of scripture to make friends even of the mammon of unrighteousness.”
“Friends! I would die first. I who have been moving in the first circles, the wife of Colonel Temple, who, if he had chosen, might have been the greatest in the land, to make friends with a party of mean, sneaking, cowardly ruffians. Never—and I'll speak my mind freely too—they shall see that I have a woman's tongue in my head and know how to resent these injuries. Oh, for shame! and to wear swords too, which used to be the badge of gentlemen and cavaliers, who would rather have died than wrong a poor, weak, defenceless woman—much less to rob and murder her.”
“Well, let us hope for the best, my friend,” said Mrs. Ballard; “God knows I feel as you do, that we have been grossly wronged; but let us remember that we are in the hands of a just and merciful Providence, who will do with us according to his holy will.”
“I only know that we are in the hands of a parcel of impious and merciless wretches,” cried the old lady, who, as we have seen on a former occasion, derived but little comfort from the consolations of religion in the hour of trial. “I hope I have as much religion as my fellows, who pretend to so much more—but I should like to know what effect that would have on a band of lawless cut-throats?”
“He has given us his holy promise,” said Virginia, in a solemn, yet hopeful voice of resignation, “that though we walk through the valley and the shadow of death, he will be with us—his rod and his staff will comfort us—yea, he prepareth a table for us in the presence of our enemies, our cup runneth over.”
“Well, I reckon I know that as well as you, miss; but it seems there is but little chance of having a table prepared for us here,” retorted her mother, whose fears and indignation had whetted rather than allayed her appetite. “But I think it is very unseemly in a young girl to be so calm under such circumstances. I know that when I was your age, the bare idea of submitting to such an exposure as this would have shocked me out of my senses.”
Virginia could not help thinking, that considering the lapse of time since her mother was a young girl, there had been marvellously little change wrought in her keen sensibility to exposure; for she was already evidently “shocked out of her senses.” But she refrained from expressing such a dangerous opinion, and replied, in a sad tone—
“And can you think, my dearest mother, that I do not feel in all its force our present awful condition! But, alas! what can we do. As Mrs. Ballard truly says, our best course is to endeavour to move the coarse sympathies of these rebels, and even if they should not relent, they will at least render our condition less fearful by their forbearance and respect. Oh, my mother! my only friend in this dark hour of peril and misfortune, think not so harshly of your daughter as to suppose that she feels less acutely the horrors of her situation, because she fails to express her fears.” And so saying, the poor girl drew yet closer to her mother, and wept upon her bosom.
“I meant not to speak unkindly, dear Jeanie,” said the good-hearted old lady, “but you know, my child, that when my fears get the better of me, I am not myself. It does seem to me, that I was born under some unlucky star. Ever since I was born the world has been turning upside down; and God knows, I don't know what I have done that it should be so. But first, that awful revolution in England, and then, when we came here to pass our old days in peace and quiet, this infamous rebellion. And yet I must say, I never knew any thing like this. There was at least some show of religion among the old Roundheads, and though they were firm and demure enough, and hated all kinds of amusement, and cruel enough too with all their psalm singing, to cut off their poor king's head, yet they always treated women with respect and decency. But, indeed, even the rebels of the present day are not what they used to be.”
Virginia could scarcely forbear smiling, amid her tears, at this new application of her mother's favourite theory. The conversation was here interrupted by the approach of a young officer, who, bowing respectfully to the bevy of captive ladies, said politely, that he was sorry to intrude upon their presence, but that, as it was time to pursue their journey, he had come to ask if the ladies would partake of some refreshment before their ride.
“If they could share the rough fare of a soldier, it would bestow a great favour and honour upon him to attend to their wishes; and indeed, as it would be several hours before they could reach Jamestown, they would stand in need of some refreshment, ere they arrived at more comfortable quarters.”
“As your unhappy prisoners, sir,” said Mrs. Ballard, with great dignity, “we can scarcely object to a soldier's fare. Prisoners have no choice but to take the food which the humanity of their jailers sets before them. Your apology is therefore needless, if not insulting to our misfortunes.”
“Well, madam,” returned Wilford, in the same respectful tone, “I did not mean to offend you, and regret that I have done so through mistaken kindness. May I add that, in common with the rest of the army, I deplore the necessity which has compelled us to resort to such harsh means towards yourselves, in order to ensure success and safety.”
“I deeply sympathize with you in your profound regret,” said Mrs. Ballard, ironically. “But pray tell me, sir, if you learned this very novel and chivalric mode of warfare from the savages with whom you have been contending, or is it the result of General Bacon's remarkable military genius?”
“It is the result of the stern necessity under which we rest, of coping with a force far superior to our own. And I trust that while your ladyships can suffer but little inconvenience from our course, you will not regret your own cares, if thereby you might prevent an effusion of blood.”
“Oh, that is it,” replied Mrs. Ballard, in the same tone of withering irony. “I confess that I was dull enough to believe that the self-constituted, self-styled champions of freedom had courage enough to battle for the right, and not to screen themselves from danger, as a child will seek protection behind its mother's apron, from the attack of an enraged cow.”
“Madam, I will not engage in an encounter of wits with you. I will do you but justice when I say that few would come off victors in such a contest. But I have a message from one of our officers to this young lady, I believe, which I was instructed to reserve for her private ear.”
“There is no need for a confidential communication,” said Virginia Temple, “as I have no secret which I desire to conceal from my mother and these companions in misfortune. If, therefore, you have aught to say to me, you may say it here, or else leave it unexpressed.”
“As you please, my fair young lady,” returned Wilford. “My message concerns you alone, but if you do not care to conceal it from your companions, I will deliver it in their presence. Major Thomas Hansford desires me to say, that if you would allow him the honour of an interview of a few moments, he would gladly take the opportunity of explaining to you the painful circumstances by which you are surrounded, in a manner which he trusts may meet with your approbation.”
“Say to Major Thomas Hansford,” replied Virginia, proudly, “that, as I am his captive, I cannot prevent his intrusion into my presence. I cannot refuse to hear what he may have to speak. But tell him, moreover, that no explanation can justify this last base act, and that no reparation can erase it from my memory. Tell him that she who once honoured him, and loved him, as all that was noble, and generous, and chivalric, now looks back upon the past as on a troubled dream; and that, in future, if she should hear his name, she will remember him but as one who, cast in a noble mould, might have been worthy of the highest admiration, but, defaced by an indelible stain, is cast aside as worthy alike of her indignation and contempt.”
As the young girl uttered the last fatal words, she sank back into her grassy seat by her mother's side, as though exhausted by the effort she had made. She had torn with violent resolution from her breast the image which had so long been enshrined there—not only as a picture to be loved, but as an idol to be worshipped—and though duty had nerved and sustained her in the effort, nothing could assuage the anguish it inflicted. She did not love him then, but she had loved him; and her heart, like the gloomy chamber where death has been, seemed more desolate for the absence of that which, though hideous to gaze upon, was now gone forever.
Young Wilford was deeply impressed with the scene, and could not altogether conceal the emotion which it excited. In a hurried and agitated voice he promised to deliver her message to Hansford, and bowing again politely to the ladies, he slowly withdrew.
In a few moments one of the soldiers came with the expected refreshment, which certainly justified the description which Wilford had given. It was both coarse and plain. Jerked venison, which had evidently been the property of a stag with a dozen branches to his horns, and some dry and moulding biscuit, completed the homely repast. Virginia, and most of her companions, declined partaking of the unsavoury viands, but Mrs. Temple, though bitterly lamenting her hard fate, in dooming her to such hard fare, worked vigorously away at the tough venison with her two remaining molars—asserting the while, very positively, that no such venison as that existed in her young days, though, to confess the truth, if we may judge from the evident age of the deceased animal, it certainly did.
CHAPTER XXXV.
“Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation,—and a broken claim;
Though the grave closed between us, 'twere the same.”
Childe Harold.
The daylight had entirely disappeared, and the broad disc of the full September moon was just appearing above the eastern horizon, when Bacon and his followers resumed their march. Each of the captive ladies was placed upon a horse, behind one of the officers, whose heavy riding cloak was firmly girt to the horse's back, to provide a more comfortable seat. Thus advancing, at a constant, but slow pace, to accommodate the wearied soldiers, they pursued their onward course toward Jamestown. It was Bacon's object to arrive before the town as early as possible in the night, so as to secure the completion of their intrenchments and breastworks before the morning, when he intended to commence the siege. And now, as they are lighted on their way by the soft rays of the autumnal moon, let us hear the conversation which was passing between one of the cavaliers and his fair companion, as they rode slowly along at some distance from the rest.
We may well suppose that Thomas Hansford, forced thus reluctantly to engage in a policy from which his very soul revolted, would not commit the charge of Virginia's person to another. She, at least, should learn, that though so brutally impressed into the service of the rebel army, there was an arm there to shield her from danger and protect her from rudeness or abuse. She, at least, should learn that there was one heart there, however despised and spurned by others, which beat in its every throb for her safety and happiness.
Riding, as we have said, a little slower than the rest, so as to be a little out of hearing, he said, in a low voice, tremulous with half suppressed emotion, “Miss Temple cannot be ignorant of who her companion is?”
“Your voice assures me,” replied Virginia, “that my conjecture is right, and that I am in the presence of one who was once an honoured friend. But had your voice and form changed as entirely as your heart, I could never have recognized in the rebel who scruples not to insult a defenceless woman, the once gallant and chivalrous Hansford.”
“And do you, can you believe that my heart has indeed so thoroughly changed?”
“I would fain believe so, else I am forced to the conclusion that I have, all my life, been deceived in a character which I deemed worthy of my love, while it was only the more black because it was hypocritical.”
“Virginia,” said Hansford, with desperation, “you shall not talk thus; you shall not think thus of me.”
“As my captor and jailer,” returned the brave hearted young maiden, “Mr. Hansford may, probably, by force, control the expression of my opinions—but thank God! not even you can control my thoughts. The mind, at least, is free, though the body be enslaved.”
“Nay, do not mistake my meaning, dear Virginia,” said her lover. “But alas! I am the victim of misconstruction. Could you, for a moment, believe that I was capable of an act which you have justly described as unmanly and unchivalrous?”
“What other opinion can I have?” said Virginia. “I find you acting with those who are guilty of an act as cowardly as it is cruel. I find you tacitly acquiescing in their measures, and aiding in guarding and conducting their unhappy captives—and I received from you a message in which you pretend to say that you can justify that which is at once inexcusable before heaven, and in the court of man's honour. Forgive me, if I am unable to separate the innocent from the guilty, and if I fail to see that your conduct is more noble in this attempt to shift the consequences of your crime upon your confederates.”
“Now, by Heaven, you wrong me!” returned Hansford. “My message to you was mistaken by Captain Wilford. I never said I could justify your capture; I charged him to tell you I could justify myself. And as for my being found with those who have committed this unmanly act, as well might you be deemed a participator in their actions now, because of your presence here. I remonstrated, I protested against such a course—and when at last adopted I denounced it as unworthy of men, and far more unworthy of soldiers and freemen.”
“And yet, when overwhelmed by the voices of others, you quietly acquiesce, and remain in companionship with those whose conduct you had denounced.”
“What else could I do?” urged Hansford. “My feeble arm could not resist the action of two hundred-men; and it only remained for me to continue here, that I might secure the safety and kind treatment of those who were the victims of this rude violence. Alas! how little did I think that so soon you would be one of those unhappy victims, and that my heart would deplore, for its own sake, a course from which my judgment and better nature already revolted.”
The scales fell from Virginia's eyes. She now saw clearly the bitter trial through which her lover had been called to pass, and recognized once more the generous, self-denying nature of Hansford. The stain upon his pure fame, to use her own figure, was but the effect of the false and deceptive lens through which she had looked, and now that she saw clearly, it was restored to its original purity and beauty.
“And is this true, indeed?” she said, in a happy voice. “Believe me, Hansford, the relief which I feel at this moment more than compensates for all that I have endured. The renewed assurance of your honour atones for all. Can you forgive me for harbouring for a moment a suspicion that you were aught but the soul of honour?”
“Forgive you, dearest?” returned Hansford. “Most freely—most fully! But scarcely can I forgive those who have so wronged you. Cast in a common lot with them, and struggling for a common cause, I cannot now withdraw from their association; and indeed, Virginia, I will be candid, and tell you freely that I would not if I could.”
“Alas!” said Virginia, “and what can be the result of your efforts. Sooner or later aid must come from England, and crush a rebellion whose success has only been ephemeral. And what else can be expected or desired, since we have already seen how lost to honour are those by whom it is attempted. Would you wish, if you could, to subject your country to the sway of men, who, impelled only by their own reckless passions, disregard alike the honour due from man and the respect due to woman?”
“You mistake the character of these brave men, Virginia. I believe sincerely that General Bacon was prompted to this policy by a real desire to prevent the unnecessary loss of life; and though this humanity cannot entirely screen his conduct from reprehension, yet it may cast a veil over it. Bold and reckless though he be, his powerful mind is swayed by many noble feelings; and although he may commit errors, they nearly lose their grossness in his ardent love of freedom, and his exalted contempt of danger.”
“His love of freedom, I presume, is illustrated by his forcible capture of unprotected females,” returned Virginia; “and his contempt of danger, by his desire to interpose his captives between himself and the guns of his enemies.”
“I have told you,” said Hansford, “that this conduct is incapable of being justified, and in this I grant that Bacon has grievously erred.”
“Then why continue to unite your fortunes to a man whose errors are so gross and disgraceful, and whose culpable actions endanger your own reputation with your best friends?”
“Because,” said Hansford, proudly, “we are engaged in a cause, in the full accomplishment of which the faults and errors of its champion will be forgotten, and ransomed humanity will learn to bless his name, scarcely less bright for the imperfections on its disc.”
“Your reasoning reminds me,” said Virginia, “of the heretical sect of Cainites, of whom my father once told me, who exalted even Judas to a hero, because by his treason redemption was effected for the world.”
“Well, my dear girl,” replied Hansford, “you maintain your position most successfully. But since you quote from the history of the Church, I will illustrate my position after the manner of a sage old oracle of the law. Sir Edward Coke once alluded to the fable, that there was not a bird that flitted through the air, but contributed by its donations to complete the eagle's nest. And so liberty, whose fittest emblem is the eagle, has its home provided and furnished by many who are unworthy to enjoy the home which they have aided in preparing. Admit even, if you please, that General Bacon is one of these unclean birds, we cannot refuse the contribution which he brings in aid of the glorious cause which we maintain.”
“Aye, but he is like, with his vaulting ambition, to be the eagle himself,” returned Virginia; “and to say truth, although I have great confidence in your protection, I feel like a lone dove in his talons, and would wish for a safer home than in his eyrie.”
“You need fear no danger, be assured, dearest Virginia,” said Hansford, “either for yourself or your mother. It is a part of his plan to send one of the ladies under our charge into the city, to apprise the garrison of our strange manœuvre; and I have already his word, that your mother and yourself will be the bearers of this message. In a few moments, therefore, your dangers will be past, and you will once more be in the arms of your noble old father.”
“Oh thanks, thanks, my generous protector,” cried the girl, transported at this new prospect of her freedom. “I can never forget your kindness, nor cease to regret that I could ever have had a doubt of your honour and integrity.”
“Oh forget that,” returned Hansford, “or remember it only that you may acknowledge that it is often better to bear with the circumstances which we cannot control, than by hasty opposition to lose the little influence we may possess with those in power. But see the moonlight reflected from the steeple of yonder church. We are within sight of Jamestown, and you will be soon at liberty. And oh! Virginia,” he said sorrowfully, “if it should be decreed in the book of fate, that when we part to-night we part forever, and if the name of Hansford be defamed and vilified, you at least, I know, will rescue his honour from reproach—and one tear from my faithful Virginia, shed upon a patriot's grave, will atone for all the infamy which indignant vengeance may heap upon my name.”
So saying, he spurred his horse rapidly onward, until he overtook Bacon, who, with the precious burden under his care, as usual, led the way. And a precious burden it might well be called, for by the light of the moon the reader could have no difficulty in recognizing in the companion of the young general of the insurgents, our old acquaintance, Mrs. Temple. In the earlier part of their journey she had by no means contributed to the special comfort of her escort—now, complaining bitterly of the roughness of the road, she would grasp him around the waist with both arms, until he was in imminent peril of falling from his horse, and then when pacified by a smoother path and an easier gait, she would burst forth in a torrent of invective against the cowardly rebels who would misuse a poor old woman so. Bacon, however, while alike regardless of her complaints of the road, the horse, or himself, did all in his power to mollify the old lady, by humouring her prejudices as well as he could; and when he at last informed her of the plan by which she and her daughter would so soon regain their liberty, her temper relaxed, and she became highly communicative. She was, indeed, deep in a description of some early scenes of her life, and was telling how she had once seen the bonnie young Charley with her own eyes, when he was hiding from the pursuit of the Roundheads, and how he commended her loyalty, and above all her looks; and promised when he came to his own to bestow a peerage on her husband for his faithful adherence to the cause of his king. The narrative had already lasted an hour or more when Hansford and Virginia rode up and arrested the conversation, much to the relief of Bacon, who was gravely debating in his own mind whether it was more agreeable to hear the good dame's long-winded stories about past loyalty, or to submit to her vehement imprecations on present rebellion.
The young general saluted Virginia courteously as she approached, expressing the hope that she had not suffered from her exposure to the night air, and then turned to Hansford, and engaged in conversation with him on matters of interest connected with the approaching contest.
But as his remarks will be more fully understood, and his views developed in the next chapter, we forbear to record them here. Suffice it to say, that among other things it was determined, that immediately upon their arrival before Jamestown, Mrs. Temple and Virginia, under the escort of Hansford, should be conducted to the gate of the town, and convey to the Governor and his adherents the intelligence of the capture of the wives of the loyalists. We will only so far anticipate the regular course of our narrative as to say, that this duty was performed without being attended with any incident worthy of special remark; and that Hansford, bidding a sad farewell to Virginia and her mother, committed them to the care of the sentinel at the gate, and returned slowly and sorrowfully to the insurgent camp.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
“How yet resolves the Governor of the town?
This is the latest parle we will admit.
If I begin the battery once again,
I will not leave the half achieved Harfleur,
Till in her ashes she lie buried.”
King Henry V.
And now was heard on the clear night air the shrill blast of a solitary trumpet breathing defiance, and announcing to the besieged loyalists, the presence of the insurgents before the walls of Jamestown. Exhausted by their long march, and depressed by the still gloomy prospect before them, the thinned ranks of the rebel army required all the encouraging eloquence of their general, to urge them forward in their perilous duty. Nor did they need it long. Drawing his wearied, but faithful followers around him, the young and ardent enthusiast addressed them in language like the following:
“Soldiers,”
“Animated by a desire to free your country from the incursions of a savage foe, you have crowned your arms with victory and your lives with honor. You have annihilated the Indian power in Virginia, and in the waters of the brook which was the witness of your victory, you have washed away the stains of its cruelty. The purple blood which dyed that fatal stream, has even now passed away; Yet your deeds shall survive in the name which you have given it. And future generations, when they look upon its calm and unstained bosom, will remember with grateful hearts, those brave men who have given security to their homes, and will bless your patriot names when they repeat the story of Bloody Run.
“For this you have been proclaimed traitors to your country and rebels to your king. Traitors to a country within whose borders the Indian war whoop has been hushed by your exertions! Rebels to your king for preserving Virginia, the brightest jewel in his crown, from inevitable ruin! But though you have accomplished much, much yet remains undone. Then nerve your stout hearts and gird on your armour once more for the contest. Though your enemies are not to be despised, they are not to be feared. They fight as mercenaries uninspired by the cause which they have espoused. You battle for freedom, for honor and for life. Your freedom is threatened by the oppressions of a relentless tyrant and a subservient Assembly. Your honor is assailed, for you are publicly branded as traitors. Your lives are proscribed by those who have basely charged your patriotism as treason, and your defence of your country as rebellion. Be not dismayed with the numbers of your foes. Think only that it is yours to lessen them. Remember that Peace can never come to you, though you woo it never so sweetly. You must go to it, even though your way thither lay through a sea of blood. You will find me ever where danger is thickest. I will share your peril now and your reward hereafter.”
Inspired with new ardour, by the words and still more by the example of their leader, the soldiers proceeded to the task of constructing a breastwork for their defence. Bacon himself at imminent risk to his person, drew with his own hands the line for the entrenchment, while the soldiers prepared for themselves a secure defence from attack by a breastwork composed of felled trees, earth, and brushwood. It was a noble sight, I ween, to see these hardy patriots of the olden time, nearly sinking under fatigue, yet working cheerfully and ardently in the cause of freedom—to hear their axes ringing merrily through the still night air, and the tall forest trees falling with a heavy crash, as they were preparing their rude fortifications; and to look up on the cold, silent moon, as she watched them from her high path in heaven, and you might almost think, smiled with cold disdain, to think that all their hopes would be blasted, and their ardour checked by defeat, while she in her pride of fulness would traverse that same high arch twelve hundred times before the day-star of freedom dawned upon the land.
Meantime the besieged loyalists having heard with surprise and consternation, the story of Mrs. Temple and Virginia, were completely confounded. Fearing to fire a single gun, lest the ball intended for their adversaries might pierce the heart of some innocent woman, they were forced to await with impatience the completion of the works of the insurgents. The latter had not the same reason for forbearance, and made several successful sorties upon the palisades, which surrounded the town, effecting several breaches, and killing some men, but without loss to any their own party. Furious at the successful stratagems of the rebels and fearing an accession to their number from the surrounding country, Sir William Berkeley at length determined to make a sally from the town, and test the strength and courage of his adversaries in an open field. Bacon, meanwhile, having effected his object in securing a sufficient fortification, with much courtesy dismissed the captive ladies, who went, rejoicing at their liberation, to tell the story of their wrongs to their loyal husbands.
The garrison of Jamestown consisting of about twenty cavalier loyalists, and eight hundred raw, undisciplined recruits, picked up by Berkeley during his stay in Accomac, were led on firmly towards the entrenchments of the rebels, by Beverley and Ludwell, who stood high in the confidence of the Governor, and in the esteem of the colony, as brave and chivalrous men. Among the subordinate officers in the garrison was Alfred Bernard, rejoicing in the commission of captain, but recently conferred, and burning to distinguish himself in a contest against the rebels. From their posts behind the entrenchment, the insurgents calmly watched the approach of their foes. Undismayed by their numbers, nearly four times as great as their own, they awaited patiently the signal of their general to begin the attack. Bacon, on his part, with all the ardour of his nature, possessed in an equal degree the coolness and prudence of a great general, and was determined not to risk a fire, until the enemy was sufficiently near to ensure heavy execution. When at length the front line of the assailants advanced within sixty yards of the entrenchment, he gave the word, which was obeyed with tremendous effect, and then without leaving their posts, they prepared to renew their fire. But it was not necessary. Despite the exhortations and prayers of their gallant officers, the royal army, dismayed at the first fire of the enemy, broke ranks and retreated, leaving their drum and their dead upon the field. In vain did Ludwell exhort them, in the name of the king, to return to the assault; in vain did the brave Beverley implore them as Virginians and Englishmen not to desert their colors; in vain did Alfred Bernard conjure them to retrieve the character of soldiers and of men, and to avenge the cause of wronged and insulted women upon the cowardly oppressors. Regardless alike of king, country or the laws of gallantry, the soldiers ran like frightened sheep, from their pursuers, nor stopped in their flight until once more safely ensconced behind their batteries, and under the protection of the cannon from the ships. The brave cavaliers looked aghast at this cowardly defection, and stood for a moment irresolute, with the guns of the insurgents bearing directly upon them. Bacon could easily have fired upon them with certain effect, but with the magnanimity of a brave man, he was struck with admiration for their dauntless courage, and with pity for their helplessness. Nor was he by any means anxious to pursue them, for he feared lest a victory so easily won, might be a stratagem of the enemy, and that by venturing to pursue, he might fall into an ambuscade. Contenting himself, therefore, with the advantage he had already gained, he remained behind his entrenchment, determined to wait patiently for the morrow, before he commenced another attack upon the town.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
“Let's leave this town; for they are hairbrained slaves,
And hunger will enforce them to be more eager.
Of old I know them; rather with their teeth
The walls they'll tear down, than forsake the siege.”
King Henry VI.
It was very late, but there were few in Jamestown on that last night of its existence that cared to sleep. Those who were not kept awake by the cares of state or military duties, were yet suffering from an intense apprehension, which denied them repose. There was “hurrying to and fro,” along Stuart street, and “whispering with white lips,” among the thronging citizens. Ever siding with the stronger party, and inclined to attribute to the besieged Governor the whole catalogue of evils under which the colony was groaning, many of the lower classes of the citizens expressed their sympathy with Nathaniel Bacon, and only awaited a secret opportunity to desert to his ranks. A conspiracy was ripening among the soldiery to open the gates to the insurgents, and surrender at once the town and the Governor into their hands—but over-awed by the resolute boldness of their leader, and wanting in the strength of will to act for themselves, they found it difficult to carry their plan into execution.
Sir William Berkeley, with a few of his steady adherents and faithful friends, was anxiously awaiting, in the large hall of the palace, the tidings of the recent sally upon the besiegers. Notwithstanding the superior numbers of his men, he had but little confidence either in their loyalty or courage, while he was fully conscious of the desperate bravery of the insurgents. While hope whispered that the little band of rebels must yield to the overwhelming force of the garrison, fear interposed, to warn him of the danger of defection and cowardice in his ranks. As thus he sat anxiously endeavouring to guess the probable result of his sally, heavy footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. The heart of the old Governor beat thick with apprehension, and the damp drops wrung from him by anxiety and care, stood in cold beads upon his brow.
“What news?” he cried, in a hoarse, agitated voice, as Colonel Ludwell, Robert Beverley, and Alfred Bernard entered the room. “But I read it in your countenances! All is lost!”
“Yes, Governor Berkeley,” said Philip Ludwell, “all is lost! we have not even the melancholy consolation of Francis, 'that our honour is preserved.' The cowardly hinds who followed us, fled from the first charge of the rebels, like frightened hares. All attempts to rally them were in vain, and many of them we understand have joined with the rebels.”
As the fatal tidings fell upon his ear, Berkeley pressed his hand to his forehead, and sobbed aloud. The heart of the brave old loyalist could bear no more—and all the haughty dignity of his nature gave way in a flood of bitter tears. But the effect was only transient, and nerving himself, he controlled his feelings once more by the energy of his iron will.
“How many still remain with us?” he asked, anxiously, of Ludwell.
“Alas! sir, if the rumour which we heard as we came hither be true—none, absolutely none. There was an immense crowd gathered around the tavern, listening to the news of our defeat from one of the soldiers, and as we passed a loud and insulting cry went up of “Long live Bacon! and down with tyranny!” The soldiers declared that they would not stain their hands with the blood of their fellow-subjects; the citizens as vehemently declared that the town itself should not long harbour those who had trampled on their rights. Treason stalks abroad boldly and openly, and I fear that the loyalty of Virginia is confined to this room.”
“Now, Heaven help me,” said Berkeley, sadly, “for the world has well nigh deserted me. And yet, if I fall, I shall fall at my post, and the trust bestowed upon me by my king shall be yielded only with my life.”
“It were madness to think of remaining longer here,” said Beverley; “the rebels, with the most consummate courage, evince the most profound prudence and judgment. Before the dawn they will bring their cannon to bear upon our ships and force them to withdraw from the harbour, and then all means of escape being cut off, we will be forced to surrender on such terms as the enemy may dictate.”
“We will yield to no terms,” replied Berkeley. “For myself, death is far preferable to dishonour. Rather than surrender the trust which I have in charge, let us remain here, until, like the brave senators of Rome, we are hacked to pieces at our posts by the swords of these barbarians.”
“But what can you expect to gain by such a desperate course,” said old Ballard, who, though not without a sufficient degree of courage, would prefer rather to admire the heroism of the Roman patriots in history, than to vie with them in their desperate resolution.
“I expect to retain my honour,” cried the brave old Governor. “A brave man may suffer death—he can never submit to dishonour.”
“My honoured Governor,” said Major Beverley, whose well-known courage and high-toned chivalry gave great effect to his counsel; “believe me, that we all admire your steady loyalty and your noble heroism. But reflect, that you gain nothing by desperation, and it is the part of true courage not to hazard a desperate risk without any hope of success. God knows that I would willingly yield up my own life to preserve unsullied the honour of my country, and the dignity of my king; but I doubt how far we serve his real interests by a deliberate sacrifice of all who are loyal to his cause.”
“And what then would you advise?” said the Governor, in an irritated manner. “To make a base surrender of our persons and our cause, and to grant to these insolent rebels every concession which their insolence may choose to demand? No! gentlemen, sooner would William Berkeley remain alone at his post, until his ashes mingled with the ashes of this palace, than yield one inch to rebels in arms.”
“It is not necessary,” returned Beverley. “You may escape without loss of life or compromise of honour, and reserve until a future day your vengeance on these disloyal barbarians.”
Berkeley was silent.
“Look,” continued Beverley, leading the old loyalist to the window which overlooked the river; “by the light of dawn you can see the white sails of the Adam and Eve, as she rests at anchor in yonder harbor. There is still time to escape before the rebels can suspect our design. Once upon the deck of that little vessel, with her sails unfurled to this rising breeze, you may defy the threats of the besiegers. Then once more to your faithful Accomac, and when the forces from England shall arrive, trained bands of loyal and brave Britons, your vengeance shall then be commensurate with the indignities you have suffered.”
Still Berkeley hesitated, but his friends could see by the quiver of his lip, that the struggle was still going on, and that he was thinking with grim satisfaction of that promised vengeance.
“Let me urge you,” continued Beverley, encouraged by the effect which he was evidently producing; “let me urge you to a prompt decision. Will you remain longer in Jamestown, this nest of traitors, and expose your faithful adherents to certain death? Is loyalty so common in Virginia, that you will suffer these brave supporters of your cause to be sacrificed? Will you leave their wives and daughters, whom they can no longer defend, to the insults and outrages of a band of lawless adventurers, who have shown that they disregard the rights of men, and the more sacred deference due to a woman? We have done all that became us, as loyal citizens, to do. We have sustained the standard of the king until it were madness, not courage, further to oppose the designs of the rebels. Beset by a superior force, and with treason among our own citizens, and defection among our own soldiers—with but twenty stout hearts still true and faithful to their trust—our alternative is between surrender and death on the one hand, and flight and future vengeance on the other. Can you longer hesitate between the two? But see, the sky grows brighter toward the east, and the morning comes to increase the perils of the night. I beseech you, by my loyalty and my devotion to your interest, decide quickly and wisely.”
“I will go,” replied Berkeley, after a brief pause, in a voice choking with emotion. “But God is my witness, that if I only were concerned, rebellion should learn that there was a loyalist who held his sacred trust so near his heart, that it could only be yielded with his life-blood. But why should I thus boast? Do with me as you please—I will go.”
No sooner was Berkeley's final decision known, than the whole palace was in a state of preparation. Hurriedly putting up such necessaries as would be needed in their temporary exile, the loyalists were soon ready for their sudden departure. Lady Frances, stately as ever, remained perhaps rather longer before her mirror, in the arrangement of her tire, than was consistent with their hasty flight. Virginia Temple scarcely devoted a moment for her own preparations, so constantly was her assistance required by her mother, who bustled about from trunk to trunk, in a perfect agony of haste—found she had locked up her mantle, which was in the very bottom of an immense trunk, and finally, when she had put her spectacles and keys in her pocket, declared that they were lost, and required Virginia to search in every hole and corner of the room for them. But with all these delays—ever incident to ladies, and old ones especially, when starting on a journey—the little party were at length announced to be ready for their “moonlight flitting.” Sadly and silently they left the palace to darkness and solitude, and proceeded towards the river. At the bottom of the garden, which ran down to the banks of the river, were two large boats, belonging to the Governor, and which were often used in pleasure excursions. In these the fugitives embarked, and under the muscular efforts of the strong oarsmen, the richly freighted boats scudded rapidly through the water towards the good ship “Adam and Eve,” which lay at a considerable distance from the shore, to avoid the guns of the insurgents.
Alfred Bernard had the good fortune to have the fair Virginia under his immediate charge; but the hearts of both were too full to improve the opportunity with much conversation. The young intriguer, who cared but little in his selfish heart for either loyalists or rebels, still felt that he had placed his venture on a wrong card, and was about to lose. The hopes of preferment which he had cherished were about to be dissipated by the ill fortune of his patron, and the rival of his love, crowned with success, he feared, might yet bear away the prize which he had so ardently coveted. Virginia Temple had more generous cause for depression than he. Hers was the hard lot to occupy a position of neutrality in interest between the contending parties. Whichever faction in the State succeeded, she must be a mourner; for, in either case, she was called upon to sacrifice an idol which she long had cherished, and which she must now yield for ever. They sat together near the stern of the boat, and watched the moonlight diamonds which sparkled for a moment on the white spray that dropped from the dripping oar, and then passed away.
“It is thus,” said Bernard, with a heavy sigh. “It is thus with this present transient life. We dance for a moment upon the white waves of fortune, rejoicing in light and hope and joy—but the great, unfeeling world rolls on, regardless of our little life, while we fade even while we sparkle, and our places are supplied by others, who in their turn, dance and shine, and smile, and pass away, and are forgotten!”
“It is even so,” said Virginia, sadly—then turning her blue eyes upward, she added, sweetly, “but see, Mr. Bernard, the moon which shines so still and beautiful in heaven, partakes not of the changes of these reflected fragments of her brightness. So we, when reunited to the heaven from which our spirits came, will shine again unchangeable and happy.”
“Yes, my sweet one,” replied her lover passionately, “and were it my destiny to be ever thus with you, and to hear the sweet eloquence of your pure lips, I would not need a place in heaven to be happy.”
“Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, “is this a time or place to speak thus? The circumstances by which we are surrounded should check every selfish thought for the time, in our care for the more important interests at stake.”
“My fair, young loyalist,” said Bernard, “and is it because of the interest excited in your bosom by the fading cause of loyalty, that you check so quickly the slightest word of admiration from one whom you have called your friend? Nay, fair maiden, be truthful even though you should be cruel.”
“To be candid, then, Mr. Bernard,” returned Virginia, “I thought we had long ago consented not to mention that subject again. I hope you will be faithful to your promise.”
“My dearest Virginia, that compact was made when your heart had been given to another whom you thought worthy to reign there. Surely, you cannot, after the events of to-night oppose such an obstacle to my suit. Your gentle heart, my girl, is too pure and holy a shrine to afford refuge to a rebel, and a profaner of woman's sacred rights.”
“Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, “another word on this subject, and I seek refuge myself from your insults. You, who are the avowed champion of woman's rights, should know that she owns no right so sacred as to control the affections of her own heart. I have before told you in terms too plain to be misunderstood, that I can never love you. Force me not to repeat what you profess may give you pain, and above all force me not by your unwelcome and ungenerous assaults upon an absent rival to substitute for the real interest which I feel in your happiness, a feeling more strong and decided, but less friendly.”
“You mean that you would hate me,” said Bernard, cut to the heart at her language, at once so firm and decided, yet so guarded and courteous. “Very well,” he added, with an hauteur but illy assumed. “I trust I have more independence and self-respect than to intrude my attentions or conversation where they are unwelcome. But see, our journey is at an end, and though Miss Temple might have made it more pleasant, I am glad that we are freed from the embarrassment that we both must feel in a more extended interview.”
And now the loud voice of Captain Gardiner is heard demanding their names and wishes, which are soon told. The hoarse cable grates harshly along the ribs of the vessel, and the boats are drawn up close to her broadside, and the loyal fugitives ascending the rude and tremulous rope-ladder, stand safe and sound upon the deck of the Adam and Eve.
Scarcely had Berkeley and his adherents departed on their flight from Jamestown, when some of the disaffected citizens of the town, seeing the lights in the palace so suddenly extinguished, shrewdly suspected their design. Without staying to ascertain the truth of their suspicions, they hastened with the intelligence to General Bacon, and threw open the gates to the insurgents. Highly elated with the easy victory they had gained over the loyalists, the triumphant patriots forgetting their fatigue and hunger, marched into the city, amid the loud acclamations of the fickle populace. But to the surprise of all there was still a gloom resting upon Bacon and his officers. That cautious and far-seeing man saw at a glance, that although he had gained an immense advantage over the royalists, in the capture of the metropolis, it was impossible to retain it in possession long. As soon as his army was dispersed, or engaged in another quarter of the colony, it would be easy for Berkeley, with the navy under his command, to return to the place, and erect once more the fallen standard of loyalty.
While then, the soldiery were exulting rapturously over their triumph, Bacon, surrounded by his officers, was gravely considering the best policy to pursue.
“My little army is too small,” he said, “to leave a garrison here, and so long as they remain thus organized peace will be banished from the colony; and yet I cannot leave the town to become again the harbour of these treacherous loyalists.”
“I can suggest no policy that is fit to pursue, in such an emergency,” said Hansford, “except to retain possession of the town, at least until the Governor is fairly in Accomac again.”
“That, at best,” said Bacon, “will only be a dilatory proceeding, for sooner or later, whenever the army is disbanded, the stubborn old governor will return and force us to continue the war. And besides I doubt whether we could maintain the place with Brent besieging us in front, and the whole naval force of Virginia, under the command of such expert seamen as Gardiner and Larimore, attacking us from the river. No, no, the only way to untie the Gordian knot is to cut it, and the only way to extricate ourselves from this difficulty is to burn the town.”
This policy, extreme as it was, in the necessities of their condition was received with a murmur of assent. Lawrence and Drummond, devoted patriots, and two of the wealthiest and most enterprising citizens of the town, evinced their willingness to sacrifice their private means to secure the public good, by firing their own houses. Emulating an example so noble and disinterested, other citizens followed in their wake. The soldiers, ever ready for excitement, joined in the fatal work. A stiff breeze springing up, favored their design, and soon the devoted town was enveloped in the greedy flames.
From the deck of the Adam and Eve, the loyalists witnessed the stern, uncompromising resolution of the rebels. The sun was just rising, and his broad, red disc was met in his morning glory with flames as bright and as intense as his own. The Palace, the State House, the large Garter Tavern, the long line of stores, and the Warehouse, all in succession were consumed. The old Church, the proud old Church, where their fathers had worshipped, was the last to meet its fate. The fire seemed unwilling to attack its sacred walls, but it was to fall with the rest; and as the broad sails of the gay vessel were spread to the morning breeze, which swelled them, that devoted old Church was seen in its raiment of fire, like some old martyr, hugging the flames which consumed it, and pointing with its tapering steeple to an avenging Heaven.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
“We take no note of time but by its loss.”
Young.
It is permitted to the story teller, like the angels of ancient metaphysicians, to pass from point to point, and from event to event, without traversing the intermediate space or time. A romance thus becomes a moving panorama, where the prominent objects of interest pass in review before the eyes of the spectator, and not an atlas or chart, where the toiling student, with rigid scrutiny must seek the latitude and longitude of every object which meets his view.
Availing ourselves of this privilege, we will pass rapidly over the events which occurred subsequently to the burning of Jamestown, and again resume the narrative where it more directly affects the fortunes of Hansford and Virginia. We will then suppose that it is about the first of January, 1677, three months after the circumstances detailed in the last chapter. Nathaniel Bacon, the arch rebel, as the loyal historians and legislators of his day delighted to call him, has passed away from the scenes of earth. The damp trenches of Jamestown, more fatal than the arms of his adversaries, have stilled the restless beating of that bold heart, which in other circumstances might have insured success to the cause of freedom. An industrious compiler of the laws of Virginia, and an ingenious commentator on her Colonial History, has suggested from the phraseology of one of the Acts of the Assembly, that Bacon met his fate by the dagger of the assassin, employed by the revengeful Berkeley. But the account of his death is too authentic to admit of such a supposition, and the character of Sir William Berkeley, already clouded with relentless cruelty, is happily freed from the foul imputation, that to the prejudices and sternness of the avenging loyalist he added the atrocity of a malignant fiend. We have the most authentic testimony, that Nathaniel Bacon died of a dysentery, contracted by his exposure in the trenches of Jamestown, at the house of a Dr. Pate, in the county of Gloucester; and that the faithful Lawrence, to screen his insensate clay from the rude vengeance of the Governor, gave the young hero a grave in some unknown forest, where after life's fitful fever he sleeps well.
The cause of freedom, having lost its head, fell a prey to discord and defection. In the selection of a leader to succeed the gallant Bacon, dissensions prevailed among the insurgents, and disgusted at last with the trials to which they were exposed, and wearied with the continuance of a civil war, the great mass of the people retired quietly to their homes. Ingram and Walklate, who attempted to revive the smouldering ashes of the rebellion, were the embodiments of frivolity and stupidity, and were unable to retain that influence over the stern and high-toned patriots which was essential to united action. Deprived of their support, as may be easily conjectured, there was no longer any difficulty in suppressing the ill-fated rebellion; and Walklate, foreseeing the consequences of further resistance, resolved to make a separate peace for himself and a few personal friends, and to leave his more gallant comrades to their fate. The terms of treaty proposed by Berkeley were dispatched by Captain Gardiner to the selfish leader, who, with the broken remnant of the insurgents, was stationed at West Point. He acceded to the terms with avidity, and thus put a final end to a rebellion, which, even at that early day, was so near securing the blessings of rational freedom to Virginia.
Meantime, the long expected aid from England had arrived, and Berkeley, with an organized and reliable force at his command, prepared, with grim satisfaction, to execute his terrible vengeance upon the proscribed and fugitive insurgents. Major Beverley, at the head of a considerable force, was dispatched in pursuit of such of the unhappy men as might linger secreted in the woods and marshes near the river—and smaller parties were detailed for the same object in other parts of the colony. Many of the fugitives were captured and brought before the relentless Governor. There, mocked and insulted in their distress, the devoted patriots were condemned by a court martial, and with cruel haste hurried to execution. The fate of the gallant Lawrence, to whom incidental allusion has been frequently made in the foregoing pages, was long uncertain—but at last those interested in his fate were forced to the melancholy conclusion, that well nigh reduced to starvation in his marshy fastness, with Roman firmness, the brave patriot fell by his own hand, rather than submit to the ruthless cruelty of the vindictive Governor.
Thomas Hansford was among those who were proscribed fugitives from the vengeance of the loyalists. He had in vain endeavoured to rally the dispirited insurgents, and to hazard once more the event of a battle with the royal party. He indignantly refused to accept the terms, so readily embraced by Walklate, and determined to share the fate of those brave comrades, in whose former triumph he had participated. And now, a lonely wanderer, he eluded the vigilant pursuit of his enemies, awaiting with anxiety, the respite which royal interposition would grant, to the unabating vengeance of the governor. He was not without strong hope that the clemency which reflected honour on Charles the Second, towards the enemies of his father, would be extended to the promoters of the ill-fated rebellion in Virginia. In default of this, he trusted to make his escape into Maryland, after the eagerness of pursuit was over, and there secretly to embark for England—where, under an assumed name, he might live out the remnant of his days in peace and security, if not in happiness. It was with a heavy heart that he looked forward to even this remote chance of escape and safety—for it involved the necessity of leaving, for ever, his widowed mother, who leaned upon his strong arm for support; and his beloved Virginia, in whose smiles of favour, he could alone be happy. Still, it was the only honourable chance that offered, and while as a brave man he had nerved himself for any fate, as a good man, he could not reject the means of safety which were extended to him.
While these important changes were taking place in the political world, the family at Windsor Hall were differently affected by the result. Colonel Temple, in the pride of his gratified loyalty, could not disguise his satisfaction even from his unhappy daughter, and rubbed his hands gleefully as the glad tidings came that the rebellion had been quelled. The old lady shared his happiness with all her heart, but mingled with her joy some of the harmless vanity of her nature. She attributed the happy result in a good degree to the counsel and wisdom of her husband, and recurred with great delight to her own bountiful hospitality to the fugitive loyalists. Nay, in the excess of her self-gratulation, she even hinted an opinion, that if Colonel Temple had remained in England, the cause of loyalty would have been much advanced, and that General Monk would not have borne away the palm of having achieved the glorious restoration.
But these loyal sentiments of gratulation met with no response in the heart of Virginia Temple. The exciting scenes through which she had lately passed had left their traces on her young heart. No more the laughing, thoughtless, happy girl whom we have known, shedding light and gaiety on all around her, she had gained, in the increased strength and development of her character, much to compensate for the loss. The furnace which evaporates the lighter particles of the ore, leaves the precious metal in their stead. Thus is it with the trying furnace of affliction in the formation of the human character, and such was its effect upon Virginia. She no longer thought or felt as a girl. She felt that she was a woman, called upon to act a woman's part; and relying on her strengthened nature, but more upon the hand whose protection she had early learned to seek, she was prepared to act that part. The fate of Hansford was unknown to her. She had neither seen nor heard from him since that awful night, when she parted from him at the gate of Jamestown. Convinced of his high sense of honour, and his heroic daring, she knew that he was the last to desert a falling cause, and she trembled for his life, should he fall into the hands of the enraged and relentless Berkeley. But even if her fears in this respect were groundless, the future was still dark to her. The bright dream which she had cherished, that he to whom, in the trusting truth of her young heart, she had plighted her troth, would share with her the joys and hopes of life, was now, alas! dissipated forever. A proscribed rebel, an outcast from home, her father's loyal prejudices were such that she could never hope to unite her destiny with Hansford. And yet, dreary as the future had become, she bore up nobly in the struggle, and, with patient submission, resigned her fate to the will of Heaven.
Her chief employment now was to train the mind of the young Mamalis to truth, and in this sacred duty she derived new consolation in her affliction. The young Indian girl had made Windsor Hall her home since the death of her brother. The generous nature of Colonel Temple could not refuse to the poor orphan, left alone on earth without a protector, a refuge and a home beneath his roof. Nor were the patient and prayerful instructions of Virginia without their reward. The light which had long been struggling to obtain an entrance to her heart, now burst forth in the full effulgence of the truth, and the trusting Mamalis had felt, in all its beauty and reality, the assurance of the promise, “Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Her manners, which, with all of her association with Virginia, had something of the wildness of the savage, were now softened and subdued. Her picturesque but wild costume, which reminded her of her former life, was discarded for the more modest dress which the refinement of civilization had prescribed. Her fine, expressive countenance, which had often been darkened by reflecting the wild passions of her unsubdued heart, was now radiant with peaceful joy; and as you gazed upon the softened expression, the tranquil and composed bearing of the young girl, you might well “take knowledge of her that she had been with Jesus.”
CHAPTER XXXIX.
“Farewell and blessings on thy way,
Where'r thou goest, beloved stranger,
Better to sit and watch that ray,
And think thee safe though far away,
Than have thee near me and in danger.”
Lalla Roohk.
Moonlight at Windsor Hall! The waning, January moon shone coldly and brightly, as it rose above the dense forest which surrounded the once more peaceful home of Colonel Temple. The tall poplars which shaded the quiet yard were silvered with its light, and looked like medieval knights all clad in burnished and glistening mail. The crisp hoarfrost that whitened the frozen ground sparkled in the mellow beams, like twinkling stars, descended to earth, and drinking in with rapture the clear light of their native heaven. Not a sound was heard save the dreary, wintry blast, as it sighed its mournful requiem over the dead year, “gone from the earth for ever.”
Virginia Temple had not yet retired to rest, although it was growing late. She was sitting alone, in her little chamber, and watching the glowing embers on the hearth, as they sparkled for a moment, and shed a ruddy light around, and then were extinguished, throwing the whole room into dark shadow. Sad emblem, these fleeting sparks, of the hopes that had once been bright before her, assuming fancied shapes of future joy and peace and love, and then dying to leave her sad heart the darker for their former presence. In the solitude of her own thoughts she was taking a calm review of her past life—her early childhood—when she played in innocent mirth beneath the shade of the oaks and poplars that still stood unchanged in the yardher first acquaintance with Hansford, which opened a new world to her young heart, replete with joys and treasures unknown before—all the thrilling events of the last few months—her last meeting with her lover, and his prayer that she at least would not censure him, when he was gone—her present despondency and gloom—all these thoughts came in slow and solemn procession across her mind, like dreary ghosts of the buried past.
Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the sound of a low, sweet, familiar voice, beneath her window, and, as she listened, the melancholy spirit of the singer sought and found relief in the following tender strains:
“Once more I seek thy quiet home,
My tale of love to tell,
Once more from danger's field I come,
To breathe a last farewell!
Though hopes are flown,
Though friends are gone;
Yet wheresoe'r I flee,
I still retain,
And hug the chain
Which binds my soul to thee.
“My heart, like some lone chamber left,
Must, mouldering, fall at last;
Of hope, of love, of thee bereft,
It lives but in the past.
With jealous care,
I cherish there
The web, however small,
That memory weaves,
And mercy leaves,
Upon that ruined wall.
“Though Tyranny, with bloody laws,
May dig my early grave,
Yet death, when met in Freedom's cause,
Is sweetest to the brave;
Wedded to her,
Without a fear,
I'll mount her funeral pile,
Welcome the death
Which seals my faith,
And meet it with a smile.
“While, like the tides, that softly swell
To kiss their mother moon,
Thy gentle soul will soar to dwell
In visions with mine own;
As skies distil
The dews that fill
The blushing rose at even,
So blest above,
I'll mourn thy love
And weep for thee in heaven.”
It needed not the well-known voice of Hansford to assure the weeping girl that he was near her. The burden of that sad song, which found an echo in her own heart, told her too plainly that it could be only he. It was no time for delicate scruples of propriety. She only knew that he was near her and in danger. Rising from her chair, and throwing around her a shawl to protect her from the chill night air, she hastened to the door. In another moment they were in each other's arms.
“Oh, my own Virginia,” said Hansford, “this is too, too kind. I had only thought to come and breathe a last farewell, and then steal from your presence for ever. I felt that it was a privilege to be near you, to watch, unseen, the flickering light reflected from your presence. This itself had been reward sufficient for the peril I encounter. How sweet then to hear once more the accents of your voice, and to feel once more the warm beating of your faithful heart.”
“And could you think,” said Virginia, as she wept upon his shoulder, “that knowing you to be in danger, I could fail to see you. Oh, Hansford! you little know the truth of woman's love if you can for a moment doubt that your misfortune and your peril have made you doubly dear.”
“Yet how brief must be my stay. The avenger is behind me, and I must soon resume my lonely wandering.”
“And will you again leave me?” asked Virginia, in a reproachful tone.
“Leave you, dearest, oh, how sweet would be my fate, after all my cares and sufferings, if I could but die here. But this must not be. Though I trust I know how to meet death as a brave man, yet it is my duty, as a good man, to leave no honourable means untried to save my life.”
“But your danger cannot be so great, dearest,” said Virginia, tenderly. “Surely my father—”
“Would feel it his duty,” said Hansford, interrupting her, “to deliver me up to justice; and feeling it to be such, he would have the moral firmness to discharge it. Poor old gentleman! like many of his party, his prejudice perverts his true and generous heart. My poor country must suffer long before she can overcome the opposition of bigoted loyalty. Forgive me for speaking thus of your noble father, Virginia—but prejudices like these are the thorns which spring up in his heart and choke the true word of freedom, and render it unfruitful. Is it not so, dearest?”
“You mistake his generous nature,” said Virginia, earnestly. “You mistake his love for me. You mistake his sound judgment. You mistake his high sense of honour. Think you that he sees no difference between the man who, impelled by principle, asserts what he believes to be a right, and him, who for his own selfish ends and personal advancement, would sacrifice his country. Yes, my dear friend, you mistake my father. He will gladly interpose with the Governor and restore you to happiness, to freedom, and to—”
She paused, unable to proceed for the sobs that choked her utterance, and then gave vent to a flood of passionate grief.
“You would add, 'and to thee,'” said Hansford, finishing the sentence. “God knows, my girl, that such a hope would make me dare more peril than I have yet encountered. But, alas! if it were even as you say, what weight would his remonstrance have with that imperious old tyrant, Berkeley? It would be but the thistle-down against the cannon ball in the scales of his justice.”
“He dare not refuse my father's demands,” said Virginia. “One who has been so devoted to his cause, who has sacrificed so much for his king, and who has afforded shelter and protection to the Governor himself in the hour of his peril and need, is surely entitled to this poor favour at his hands. He dare not refuse to grant it.”
“Alas! Virginia, you little know the character of Sir William Berkeley, when you say he dares not. But the very qualities which you claim, and justly claim, for your father, would prevent him from exerting that influence with the Governor which your hopes whisper would be so successful—'His noble nature' would prompt him at any sacrifice to yield personal feeling to a sense of public duty. 'His love for you' would prompt him to rescue you from the rebel who dared aspire to your hand. 'His sound judgment' would dictate the maxim, that it were well for one man to die for the people; and his 'high sense of honour' would prevent him from interposing between a condemned traitor and his deserved doom. Be assured, Virginia, that thus would your father reason; and with his views of loyalty and justice, I could not blame him for the conclusion to which he came.”
“Then in God's name,” cried Virginia, in an agony of desperation, for she saw the force of Hansford's views, “how can you shun this threatening danger? Whither can you fly?”
“My only hope,” said Hansford, gloomily, “is to leave the Colony and seek refuge in Maryland, though I fear that this is hopeless. If I fail in this, then I must lurk in some hiding place until instructions from England may arrive, and check the vindictive Berkeley in his ruthless cruelty.”
“And is there a hope of that!” said Virginia, quickly.
“There is a faint hope, and that slender thread is all that hangs between me and a traitor's doom. But I rely with some confidence upon the mild and humane policy pursued by Charles toward the enemies of his father. At any rate, it is all that is left me, and you know the proverb,” he added, with a sad smile, “'A drowning man catches at straws.' Any chance, however slight, appears larger when seen through the gloom of approaching despair, just as any object seems greater when seen through a mist.”
“It is not, it shall not be slight,” said the hopeful girl, “we will lay hold upon it with firm and trusting hearts, and it will cheer us in our weary way, and then—”
But here the conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and the light, graceful form of Mamalis stood before them. The quick ear of the Indian girl had caught the first low notes of Hansford's serenade, even while she slept, and listening attentively to the sound, she had heard Virginia leave the room and go down stairs. Alarmed at her prolonged absence, Mamalis could no longer hesitate on the propriety of ascertaining its cause, and hastily dressing herself, she ran down to the open door and joined the lovers as we have stated.
“We are discovered,” said Hansford, in a surprised but steady voice. “Farewell, Virginia.” And he was about to rush from the place, when Virginia interposed.
“Fear nothing from her,” she said. “Her trained ear caught the sounds of our voices more quickly than could the duller senses of the European. You are in no danger; and her opportune presence suggests a plan for your escape.”
“What is that?” asked Hansford, anxiously.
“First tell me,” said Virginia, “how long it will probably be before the milder policy of Charles will arrest the Governor in his vengeance.”
“It is impossible to guess with accuracy—if, indeed, it ever should come. But the king has heard for some time of the suppression of the enterprise, and it can scarcely be more than two weeks before we hear from him. But to what does your question tend?”
“Simply this,” returned Virginia. “The wigwam of Mamalis is only about two miles from the hall, and in so secluded a spot that it is entirely unknown to any of the Governor's party. There we can supply your present wants, and give you timely warning of any approaching danger. The old wigwam is a good deal dilapidated, but then it will at least afford you shelter from the weather.”
“And from that ruder storm which threatens me,” said Hansford, gloomily. “You are right. I know the place well, and trust it may be a safe retreat, at least for the present. But, alas! how sad is my fate,—to be skulking from justice like a detected thief or murderer, afraid to show my face to my fellow in the open day, and starting like a frightened deer at every approaching sound. Oh, it is too horrible!”
“Think not of it thus,” said Virginia, in an encouraging voice. “Remember it only as the dull twilight that divides the night from the morning. This painful suspense will soon be over; and then, safe and happy, we will smile at the dangers we have passed.”
“No, Virginia,” said Hansford, in the same gloomy voice, “you are too hopeful. There is a whispering voice within that tells me that this plan will not succeed, and that we cannot avoid the dangers which threaten me. No,” he cried, throwing off the gloom which hung over him, while his fine blue eye flashed with pride. “No! The decree has gone forth! Every truth must succeed with blood. If the blood of the martyrs be the seed of the Church, it may also enrich the soil where liberty must grow; and far rather would I that my blood should be shed in such a cause, than that it should creep sluggishly in my veins through a long and useless life, until it clotted and stagnated in an ignoble grave.”
“Oh, there spoke that fearful pride again,” said Virginia, with a deep sigh; “the pride that pursues its mad career, unheeding prudence, unguided by judgment, until it is at last checked by its own destruction. And would you not sacrifice the glory that you speak of, for me?”
“You have long since furnished me the answer to that plea, my girl,” he replied, pressing her tenderly to his heart. “Do you remember, Lucasta,
'I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.'
Believe me, my Virginia, it is an honourable and not a glorious name I seek. Without the latter, life still would be happy and blessed when adorned by your smiles. Without the former, your smile and your love would add bitterness to the cup that dishonour would bid me quaff. And now, Virginia, farewell. The night air has chilled you, dearest—then go, and remember me in your dreams. One fond kiss, to keep virgined upon my lips till we meet again. Farewell, Mamalis—be faithful to your kind mistress.” And then imprinting one long, last kiss upon the fair cheek of the trusting Virginia, he turned from the door, and was soon lost from their sight in the dense forest.
Once more in her own little room, Virginia, with a grateful heart, fell upon her knees, and poured forth her thanks to Him, who had thus far prospered her endeavours to minister to the cares and sorrows of her lover. With a calmer heart she sought repose, and wept herself to sleep with almost happy tears. Hansford, in the mean time, pursued his quiet way through the forest, his pathway sufficiently illumined by the pale moonlight, which came trembling through the moaning trees. The thoughts of the young rebel were fitfully gloomy or pleasant, as despondency and hope alternated in his breast. In that lonely walk he had an opportunity to reflect calmly and fully upon his past life. The present was indeed clouded with danger, and the future with uncertainty and gloom. Yet, in this self-examination, he saw nothing to justify reproach or to awaken regret. He scanned his motives, and he felt that they were pure. He reviewed his acts, and he saw in them but the struggles of a brave, free man in the maintenance of the right. The enterprise in which he had engaged had indeed failed, but its want of success did not affect the holiness of the design. Even in its failure, he proudly hoped that the seeds of truth had been sown in the popular mind, which might hereafter germinate and be developed into freedom. As these thoughts passed through his mind, a dim dream of the future glories of his country flashed across him. The bright heaven of the future seemed to open before him, as before the eyes of the dying Stephen—but soon it closed again, and all was dark.
The wigwam which he entered, after a walk of about half an hour, was desolate enough, but its very loneliness made it a better safeguard against the vigilance of his pursuers. He closed the aperture which served for the door, with the large mat used for the purpose; then carefully priming his pistols, which he kept constantly by him in case of surprise, and wrapping his rough horseman's coat around him, he flung himself upon a mat in the centre of the wigwam, and sank into a profound slumber.
CHAPTER XL.
“He should be hereabouts. The doubling hare,
When flying from the swift pursuit of hounds,
Baying loud triumph, leaves her wonted path,
And seeks security within her nest.”
The Captive.
On the evening which followed the events narrated in the last chapter, a party of half a dozen horsemen might be seen riding leisurely along the road which led to Windsor Hall. From their dress and bearing they might at once be recognized as military men, and indeed it was a detachment of the force sent by Sir William Berkeley in search of such of the rebels as might be lurking in different sections of the country. At their head was Alfred Bernard, his tall and graceful form well set off by the handsome military dress of the period. Dignified by a captaincy of dragoons, the young intriguer at last thought himself on the high road to success, and his whole course was marked by a zealous determination to deserve by his actions the confidence reposed in him. For this his temper and his cold, selfish nature eminently fitted him. The vindictive Governor had no fear but that his vengeance would be complete, so long as Alfred Bernard acted as his agent.
As the party approached the house, Colonel Temple, whose attention was arrested by such an unusual appearance in the then peaceful state of the country, came out to meet them, and with his usual bland courtesy invited them in, at the same time shaking Bernard warmly by the hand. The rough English soldiers, obeying the instructions of their host, conducted their horses to the stable, while the young captain followed his hospitable entertainer into the hall. Around the blazing fire, which crackled and roared in the broad hearth, the little family were gathered to hear the news.
“Prythee, Captain Bernard, for I must not forget your new title,” said the colonel, “what is the cause of this demonstration? No further trouble with the rebels?”
“No, no,” replied Bernard, “except to smoke the cowardly fellows out of their holes. In the words of your old bard, we have only scotched the snake, not killed it—and we are now seeking to bring the knaves to justice.”
“And do you find them difficult to catch?” said the Colonel. “Is the scotched snake an 'anguis in herba?'”
“Aye, but they cannot escape us. These worshippers of liberty, who would fain be martyrs to her cause, shall not elude the vigilance of justice. I need not add, that you are not the object of our search, Colonel.”
“Scarcely, my lad,” returned Temple, with a smile, “for my mythology has taught me, that these kindred deities are so nearly allied that the true votaries of liberty will ever be pilgrims to the shrine of justice.”
“And the pseudo votaries of freedom,” continued Bernard, “who would divide the sister goddesses, should be offered up as a sacrifice to appease the neglected deity.”
“Well, maybe so,” returned Temple; “but neither religion nor government should demand human sacrifices to a great extent. A few of the prominent leaders might well be cut off to strike terror into the hearts of the rest. Thus the demands of justice would be satisfied, consistently with clemency which mercy would dictate.”
“My dear sir, a hecatomb would not satisfy Berkeley. I am but his minister, and could not, if I would, arrest his arm. Even now I come by his express directions to ascertain whether any of the rebels may be secreted near your residence. While he does not for a moment suspect your loyalty, yet one of the villains, and he among the foremost in the rebellion, has been traced in this direction.”
“Sir,” cried Temple, colouring with honest indignation; “dare you suspect that I could harbour a rebel beneath my roof! But remember, that I would as lief do that, abhorrent though it be to my principles, as to harbour a spy.”
“My dear sir,” said Bernard, softly, “you mistake me most strangely, if you suppose that I could lodge such a suspicion for a moment in my heart; nor have I come as a spy upon your privacy, but to seek your counsel. Sir William Berkeley is so well convinced of your stern and unflinching faith, that he enjoins me to apply to you early for advice as to how I should proceed in my duty.”
“Well, my dear boy,” said Temple, relapsing into good humour, for he was not proof against the tempting bait of flattery, “you must pardon the haste of an old man, who cannot bear any imputation upon his devotion to the cause of his royal master. While I cannot aid you in your search, my house is freely open to yourself and your party for such time as you may think proper to use it.”
“You have my thanks, my dear sir,” said Bernard, “and indeed you are entitled to the gratitude of the whole government. Sir William Berkeley bade me say that he could never forget your kindness to him and his little band of fugitives; and Lady Frances often says that she scarcely regrets the cares and anxiety attending her flight, since they afforded her an opportunity of enjoying the society of Mrs. Temple in her own home, where she so especially shines.”
“Indeed, we thank them both most cordially,” said Mrs. Temple. “It was a real pleasure to us to have them, I am sure; and though we hardly had time to make them as comfortable as they might have been, yet a poor feast, seasoned with a warm welcome, is fit for a king.”
“I trust,” said Bernard, “that Miss Virginia unites with you in the interest which you profess in the cause of loyalty. May I hope, that should it ever be our fortune again to be thrown like stranded wrecks upon your hospitality, her welcome will not be wanting to our happiness.”
“It will always give me pleasure,” said Virginia, “to welcome the guests of my parents, and to add, as far as I can, to their comfort, whoever they may be—more particularly when those guests are among my own special friends.”
“Of which number I am proud to consider myself, though unworthy of such an honour,” said Bernard. “But excuse me for a few moments, ladies, I have somewhat to say to my sergeant before dinner. I will return anon—as soon as possible; but you know, Colonel, duty should ever be first served, and afterwards pleasure may be indulged. Duty is the prim old wife, who must be duly attended to, and then Pleasure, the fair young damsel, may claim her share of our devotion. Aye, Colonel?”
“Nay, if you enter the marriage state with such ideas of its duties as that,” returned the Colonel, smiling, “I rather think you will have a troublesome career before you. But your maxim is true, though clothed in an allegory a little too licentious. So, away with you, my boy, and return as soon as you can, for I have much to ask you.”
Released from the restraints imposed by the presence of the Colonel and the ladies, Bernard rubbed his hands and chuckled inwardly as he went in search of his sergeant.
“I am pretty sure we are on the right scent, Holliday,” he said, addressing a tall, strapping old soldier of about six feet in height. “This prejudiced old steed seemed disposed to kick before he was spurred—and, indeed, if he knew nothing himself, there is a pretty little hind here, who I'll warrant is not so ignorant of the hiding-place of her young hart.”
“But I tell you what, Cap'n, it's devilish hard to worm a secret out of these women kind. They'll tell any body else's secret, fast enough, but d—n me if it don't seem as how they only do that to give more room to keep their own.”
“Well, we must try at any rate. It is not for you to oppose with your impertinent objections what I may choose order. I hope you are soldier enough to have learned that it is only your duty to obey.”
“Oh! yes, Cap'n. I've learned that lesson long ago—and what's more, I learned it on horseback, but, faith, it was one of those wooden steeds that made me do all the travelling. Why, Lord bless me, to obey! It's one of my ten commandments. I've got it written in stripes that's legible on my shoulders now. 'Obey your officers in all things that your days may be long and your back unskinned.'”
“Well, stop your intolerable nonsense,” said Bernard, “and hear what I would say. We stay here to-night. There is an Indian girl who lives here, a kind of upper servant. You must manage to see her and talk with her. But mind, nothing of our object, or your tongue shall be blistered for it. Tell her that I wish to see her, beneath the old oak tree to night, at ten o'clock. If she refuses, tell her to 'remember Berkenhead.' These words will act as a charm upon her. Remember—Hush, here comes the Colonel.”
It will be remembered by the reader that the magic of these two words, which were to have such an influence upon the young Mamalis, was due to the shrewd suspicion of Alfred Bernard, insinuated at the time, that she was the assassin of the ill-fated Berkenhead. By holding this simple rod, in terrorem, over the poor girl, Bernard now saw that he might wield immense power over her, and if the secret of Hansford's hiding-place had been confided to her, he might easily extort it either by arousing her vengeance once more, or in default of that by a menace of exposure and punishment for the murder. But first he determined to see Virginia, and make his peace with her; and under the plausible guise of sympathy in her distress and pity for Hansford, to excite in her an interest in his behalf, even while he was plotting the ruin of her lover.
With his usual pliancy of manner, and control over his feelings, he engaged in conversation with Colonel Temple, humouring the well-known prejudices of the old gentleman, and by a little dexterous flattery winning over the unsuspicious old lady to his favor. Even Virginia, though her heart misgave her from the first that the arrival of Bernard boded no good to her lover, was deceived by his plausible manners and attracted by his brilliant conversation. So the tempter, with the graceful crest, and beautiful colours of the subtle serpent beguiled Eve far more effectually, than if in his own shape he had attempted to convince her by the most specious sophisms.
CHAPTER XLI.
“Was ever woman in this humour wooed?”
Richard III.
Dinner being over, the gentlemen remained according to the good old custom, to converse over their wine, while Virginia retired to the quiet little parlour, and with some favourite old author tried to beguile her thoughts from the bitter fears which she felt for the safety of Hansford. But it was all in vain. Her eyes often wandered from her book, and fixed upon the blazing, hickory fire, she was lost in a painful reverie. As she weighed in her mind the many chances in favour of, and against his escape, she turned in her trouble to Him, who alone could rescue her, and with the tears streaming down her pale cheeks, she murmured in bitter accents, “Oh, Lord! in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded.” Even while she spoke, she was surprised to hear immediately behind her, the well-known voice of Alfred Bernard, for so entirely lost had she been in meditation that she had not heard his step as he entered the room.
“Miss Temple, and in tears!” he said, with well assumed surprise. “What can have moved you thus, Virginia?”
“Alas! Mr. Bernard, you who have known my history and my troubles for the last few bitter months, cannot be ignorant that I have much cause for sadness. But,” she added, with a faint attempt to smile, “had I known of your presence, I would not have sought to entertain you with my sorrows.”
“The troubles that you speak of are passed, Miss Temple,” said Bernard, affecting to misunderstand her, “and as the Colony begins to smile again in the beams of returning peace, you, fair Virginia, should also smile in sympathy with your namesake.”
“Mr. Bernard, you must jest. You at least should have known, ere this, that my individual sorrows are not so dependent upon the political condition of the Colony. You at least should have known, sir, that the very peace you boast of may be the knell of hopes more dear to a woman's heart than even the glory and welfare of her country.”
“Miss Temple,” returned Bernard, with a grave voice, “since you are determined to treat seriously what I have said, I will change my tone. Though you choose to doubt my sincerity, I must express the deep sympathy which I feel in your sorrows, even though I know that these sorrows are induced by your apprehensions for the fate of a rival.”
“And that sympathy, sir, is illustrated by your present actions,” said Virginia, bitterly. “You would be at the same time the Judean robber and the good Samaritan, and while inflicting a deadly wound upon your victim, and stripping him of cherished hopes, you would administer the oil and wine of your mocking sympathy.”
“I might choose to misunderstand your unkind allusions, Miss Temple,” replied Bernard, “but there is no need of concealment between us. You have rightly judged the object of my mission, but in this I act as the officer of government, not as the ungenerous rival of Major Hansford.”
“So does the public executioner,” replied Virginia, “but I am not aware that in its civil and military departments as well as in the navy, our government impresses men into her service against their will.”
“You seem determined to misunderstand me, Virginia,” said Alfred, with some warmth; “but you shall learn that I am not capable of the want of generosity which you attribute to me. Know then, that it was from a desire to serve you personally through your friend, that I urged the governor to let me come in pursuit of Major Hansford. Suppose, instead, he should fall in the hands of Beverley. Cruel and relentless as that officer has already shown himself to be, his prisoner would suffer every indignity and persecution, even before he was delivered to the tender mercies of Sir William Berkeley—while in me, as his captor, you may rest assured that for your sake, he would meet with kindness and indulgence, and even my warm mediation with the governor in his behalf.”
“Oh, then,” cried Virginia, trusting words so softly and plausibly spoken, “if you are indeed impelled by a motive so generous and disinterested, it is still in your power to save him. Your influence with the Governor is known, and one word from your lips might control the fate of a brave man, and restore happiness and peace to a broken-hearted girl. Oh! would not this amply compensate even for the neglect of duty? Would it not be far nobler to secure the happiness of two grateful hearts, than to shed the blood of a brave and generous man, and to wade through that red stream to success and fame? Believe me, Mr. Bernard, when you come to die, the recollection of such an act will be sweeter to your soul than all the honour and glory which an admiring posterity could heap above your cold, insensate ashes. If I am any thing to you; if my happiness would be an object of interest to your heart; and if my love, my life-long love, would be worthy of your acceptance, they are yours. Forgive the boldness, the freedom with which I have spoken. It may be unbecoming in a young girl, but let it be another proof of the depth, the sincerity of my feelings, when I can forget a maiden's delicacy in the earnestness of my plea.”
It was impossible not to be moved with the earnest and touching manner of the weeping girl, as with clasped hands and streaming eyes, she almost knelt to Bernard in the fervent earnestness of her feelings. Machiavellian as he was, and accustomed to disguise his heart, the young man was for a moment almost dissuaded from his design. Taking Virginia gently by the hand, he begged her to be calm. But the feeling of generosity which for a moment gleamed on his heart, like a brief sunbeam on a stormy day, gave way to the wonted selfishness with which that heart was clouded.
“And can you still cling with such tenacity to a man who has proven himself so unworthy of you,” he said; “to one who has long since sacrificed you to his own fanatical purposes. Even should he escape the fate which awaits him, he can never be yours. Your own independence of feeling, your father's prejudices, every thing conspires to prevent a union so unnatural. Hansford may live, but he can never live to be your husband.”
“Who empowered you to prohibit thus boldly the bans between us, and to dissolve our plighted troth?” said Virginia, with indignation.
“You again mistake me,” replied Bernard. “God forbid that I should thus intrude upon what surely concerns me not. I only expressed, my dear friend, what you know full well, that whatever be the fate of Major Hansford, you can never marry him. Why, then, this strange interest in his fate?”
“And can you think thus of woman's love? Can you suppose that her heart is so selfish that, because her own cherished hopes are blasted, she can so soon forget and coldly desert one who has first awakened those sweet hopes, and who is now in peril? Believe me, Mr. Bernard, dear as I hold that object to my soul, sad and weary as life would be without one who had made it so happy, I would freely, aye, almost cheerfully yield his love, and be banished for ever from his presence, if I could but save his life.”
“You are a noble girl,” said Alfred, with admiration; “and teach me a lesson that too few have learned, that love is never selfish. But, yet, I cannot relinquish the sweet reward which you have promised for my efforts in behalf of Hansford. Then tell me once more, dear girl, if I arrest the hand of justice which now threatens his life; if he be once more restored to liberty and security, would you reward his deliverer with your love?”
“Oh, yes!” cried the trusting girl, mistaking his meaning; “and more, I would pledge his lasting gratitude and affection to his generous preserver.”
“Nay,” said Bernard, rather coldly, “that would not add much inducement to me. But you, Virginia,” he added, passionately, “would you be mine—would the bright dream of my life be indeed realized, and might I enshrine you in my faithful heart, as a sacred idol, to whom in hourly adoration I might bow?”
“How mean you, sir,” exclaimed Virginia, with surprise. “I fear you have misunderstood my words. My love, my gratitude, my friendship, I promised, but not my heart.”
“Then, indeed, am I strangely at fault,” said Bernard, with a sneering laugh. “The love you would bestow, would be such as you would feel towards the humblest boor, who had done you a service; and your gratitude but the natural return which any human being would make to the dog who saves his life. Nay, mistress mine, not so platonic, if you please. Think you that, for so cold a feeling as friendship and gratitude, I would rescue this skulking hound from the lash of his master, which he so richly deserves, or from the juster doom of the craven cur, the rope and gallows. No, Virginia Temple, there is no longer any need of mincing matters between us. It is a simple question of bargain and sale. You have said that you would renounce the love of Hansford to save his life. Very well, one step more and all is accomplished. The boon I ask, as the reward of my services, is your heart, or at least your hand. Yield but this, and I will arrest the malice of that doting old knight, who, with his fantastic tricks, has made the angels laugh instead of weep. Deny me, and by my troth, Thomas Hansford meets a traitor's doom.”
So complete was the revulsion of feeling from the almost certainty of success, to the despair and indignation induced by so base a proposition, that it was some moments before Virginia Temple could speak. Bernard mistaking the cause of her silence, deemed that she was hesitating as to her course, and pursuing his supposed advantage, he added, tenderly,—“Cheer, up Virginia; cheer up, my bride. I read in those silent tears your answer. I know the struggle is hard, and I love you the more that it is so. It is an earnest of your future constancy. In a short time the trial will be over, and we will learn to forget our sorrows in our love. He who is so unworthy of you will have sought in some distant land solace for your loss, which will be easily attained by his pliant nature. A traitor to his country, will not long mourn the loss of his bride.”
“'Tis thou who art the traitor, dissembling hypocrite,” cried Virginia, vehemently. “Think you that my silence arose from a moment's consideration of your base proposition? I was stunned at beholding such a monster in the human form. But I defy you yet. The governor shall learn how the fawning favourite of his palace, tears the hand that feeds him—and those who can protect me from your power, shall chastise your insolence. Instead of the love and gratitude I promised, there, take my lasting hate and scorn.”
And the young girl proudly rising erect as she spoke, her eyes flashing, but tearless, her bosom heaving with indignation, her nostrils dilated, and her hand extended in bitter contempt towards the astonished Bernard, shouted, “Father, father!” until the hall rung with the sound.
Happily for Alfred Bernard, Colonel Temple and his wife had left the house for a few moments, on a visit to old Giles' cabin, the old man having been laid up with a violent attack of the rheumatics. The wily intriguer was for once caught in his own springe. He had overacted his part, and had grossly mistaken the character of the brave young girl, whom he had so basely insulted. He felt that if he lost a moment, the house would be alarmed, and his miserable hypocrisy exposed. Rushing to Virginia, he whispered, in an agitated voice, which he failed to control with his usual self-command,
“For God's sake, be silent. I acknowledge I have done wrong; but I will explain. Remember Hansford's life is in your hands. Come, now, dear Virginia, sit you down, I will save him.”
The proud expression of scorn died away from the curled lips of the girl, and interest in her lover's fate again took entire possession of her heart. She paused and listened. The wily Jesuit had again conquered, and He who rules the universe with such mysterious justice, had permitted evil once more to triumph over innocence.
“Yes,” repeated Bernard, regaining his composure with his success; “I will save him. I mistook your character, Miss Temple. I had thought you the simple-hearted girl, who for the sake of her lover's life would sell her heart to his preserver. I now recognize in you the high-spirited woman, who, conscious of right, would meet her own despair in its defence. Alas! in thus losing you for ever, I have just found you possessed of qualities which make you doubly worthy to be won. But I resign you to him whom you have chosen, and in my admiration for the woman, I have almost lost my hatred for the man. For your sake, Miss Temple, Major Hansford shall not want my warm interposition with the Governor in his behalf. Let my reward be your esteem or your contempt, it is still my duty thus to atone for the wound which I have unfortunately inflicted on your feelings. You will excuse and respect my wish to end this painful interview.”
And so he left the room, and Virginia once more alone, gave vent to her emotions so long suppressed, in a flood of bitter tears.
“Well, Holliday,” said Bernard, as he met that worthy in the hall, “I hope you have been more fortunate with the red heifer than I with the white hind—what says Mamalis?”
“The fact is, Cap'n, that same heifer is about as troublesome a three year old as I ever had the breaking on. She seemed bent on hooking me.”
“Did you not make use of the talisman I told you of?” asked Bernard.
“Well, I don't know what you call a tell-us-man,” said Holliday, “but I told her that you said she must remember Backinhead, and I'll warrant it was tell-us-woman soon enough. Bless me, if she didn't most turn white, for all her red skin, and she got the trimbles so that I began to think she was going to have the high-strikes—and so says she at last; says she, in kind of choking voice like, 'Well, tell him I will meet him under the oak tree, as he wishes.'”
“Very well,” said Bernard, “we will succeed yet, and then your hundred pounds are made—my share is yours already if you be but faithful to me—I am convinced he has been here,” he continued, musing, and half unconscious of Holliday's presence. “The hopeful interest that Virginia feels, her knowledge of the fact that he still lives and is at large, and the apprehensions which mingle with her hopes, all convince me that I'm on the right track. Well, I'll spoil a pretty love affair yet, before it approaches its consummation. Fine girl, too, and a pity to victimize her. Bless me, how majestic she looked; with what a queen-like scorn she treated me, the cold, insensate intriguer, as they call me. I begin to love her almost as much as I love her land—but, beware, Alfred Bernard, love might betray you. My game is a bold and desperate one, but the stake for which I play repays the risk. By God, I'll have her yet; she shall learn to bow her proud head, and to love me too—and then the fair fields of Windsor Hall will not be less fertile for the price which I pay for them in a rival's blood—and such a rival. He scorned and defied me when the overtures of peace were extended to him; let him look to it, that in rejecting the olive, he has not planted the cypress in its stead. Thus revenge is united with policy in the attainment of my object, and—What are you staring at, you gaping idiot?” he cried, seeing the big, pewter coloured eyes of Holliday fixed upon him in mute astonishment.
“Why, Cap'n, damme if I don't believe you are talking in your sleep with your eyes open.”
“And what did you hear me say, knave?”
“Oh, nothing that will ever go the farther for my hearing it. It's all one to me whether you're working for your country or yourself in this matter, so long as my pretty pounds are none the less heavy and safe.”
“I'm working for both, you fool,” returned Bernard. “Did you ever know a general or a patriot who did not seek to serve himself as well as his country?”
“Well, no,” retorted the soldier, “for what the world calls honour, and what the rough soldier calls money, is at last only different kinds of coin of the same metal.”
“Well, hush your impudence,” said Bernard, “and mind, not a word of what you have heard, or you shall feel my power as well as others. In the meantime, here is a golden key to lock your lips,” and he handed the fellow a sovereign, which he greedily accepted.
“Thank you, Cap'n,” said Holliday, touching his hat and pocketing the money; “you need not be afraid of me, for I've seen tricks in my time worth two of that. And for the matter of taking this yellow boy, which might look to some like hush-money, the only difference between the patriot and me is, that he gets paid for opening his mouth, and I for keeping mine shut.”
“You are a saucy knave,” said Bernard, reassured by the fellow's manner; “and I'll warrant you never served under old Noll's Puritan standard. But away with you, and remember to be in place at ten o'clock to-night, and come to me at this signal,” and he gave a shrill whistle, which Holliday promised to understand and obey.
And so they separated, Bernard to while away the tedious hours, by conversing with the old Colonel, and by endeavouring to reinstate himself in the good opinion of Virginia, while Holliday repaired to the kitchen, where, in company with his comrades and the white servants of the hall, he emptied about a half gallon of brown October ale.
CHAPTER XLII.
“He sat her on a milk-white steed,
And himself upon a grey;
He never turned his face again,
But he bore her quite away.”
The Knight of the Burning Pestle.
“Oh, woe is me for Gerrard! I have brought
Confusion on the noblest gentleman
That ever truly loved.”
The Triumph of Love.
The night, though only starry, was scarce less lovely for the absence of the moon. So bright indeed was the milky way, the white girdle, with which the night adorns her azure robe, that you might almost imagine the moon had not disappeared, but only melted and diffused itself in the milder radiance of that fair circlet.
As was always the custom in the country, the family had retired at an early hour, and Bernard quietly left the house to fulfil his engagement with Mamalis. They stood, he and the Indian girl, beneath the shade of the old oak, so often mentioned in the preceding pages. With his handsome Spanish cloak of dark velvet plush, thrown gracefully over his shoulders, his hat looped up and fastened in front with a gold button, after the manner of the times, Alfred Bernard stood with folded arms, irresolute as to how he should commence a conversation so important, and requiring such delicate address. Mamalis stood before him, with that air of nameless but matchless grace so peculiar to those, who unconstrained by the arts and affectations of society, assume the attitude of ease and beauty which nature can alone suggest. She watched him with a look of eagerness, anxious on her part for the silence to be broken, that she might learn the meaning and the object of this strange interview.
Alfred Bernard was too skillful an intriguer to broach abruptly the subject which, most absorbed his thoughts, and which had made him seek this interview, and when at last he spoke, Mamalis was at a loss to guess what there was in the commonplaces which he used, that could be of interest to him. But the wily hypocrite led her on step by step, until gradually and almost unconsciously to herself he had fully developed his wishes.
“You live here altogether, now, do you not?” he asked, kindly.
“Yes.”
“Are they kind to you?”
“Oh yes, they are kind to all.”
“And you are happy?”
“Yes, as happy as those can be who are left alone on earth.”
“What! are there none of your family now living?”
“No, no!” she replied, bitterly; “the blood of Powhatan now runs in this narrow channel,” and she held out her graceful arms, as she spoke, with an expressive gesture.
“Alas! I pity you,” said Bernard, sighing. “We are alike in this—for my blood is reduced to as narrow a channel as your own. But your family was very numerous?”
“Yes, numerous as those stars—and bright and beautiful as they.”
“Judging from the only Pleiad that remains,” thought Bernard, “you may well say so—and can you,” he added, aloud, “forgive those who have thus injured you?”
“Forgive, oh yes, or how shall I be forgiven! Look at those stars! They shine the glory of the night. They vanish before the sun of the morning. So faded my people before the arms of the white man—and yet I can freely forgive them all!”
“What, even those who have quenched those stars!” said Bernard, with a sinister meaning in his tone.
“You mistake,” replied Mamalis, touchingly. “They are not quenched. The stars we see to-night, though unseen on the morrow, are still in heaven.”
“Nay, Mamalis,” said Bernard, “the creed of your fathers taught not thus. I thought the Indian maxim was that blood alone could wipe out the stain of blood.”
“I love the Christian lesson better,” said Mamalis, softly. “And you, Mr. Bernard, should not try to shake my new born faith. 'Love your enemies—bless them that curse you—pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you—that you may be the children of your Father which is in heaven.' The orphan girl on earth would love to be the child of her father in heaven.”
The sweet simplicity with which the poor girl thus referred to the precepts and promises of her new religion, derived more touching beauty from the broken English with which she expressed them. An attempt to describe her manner and accent would be futile, and would detract from the simple dignity and sweetness with which she uttered the words. We leave the reader from his own imagination to fill up the picture which we can only draw in outline. Bernard saw and felt the power of religion in the heart of this poor savage, and he hesitated what course he should pursue. He knew that her strongest feeling in life had been her affection for her brother. That had been the chord which earliest vibrated in her heart, and which as her heart expanded only increased in tension that added greater sweetness to its tone. It was on this broken string, so rudely snapped asunder, that he resolved to play—hoping thus to strike some harsh and discordant notes in her gentle heart.
“You had a brother, Mamalis,” he said, abruptly; “the voice of your brother's blood calls to you from the ground.”
“My brother!” shrieked the girl, startled by the suddenness of the allusion.
“Aye, your murdered brother,” said Bernard, marking with pleasure the effect he had produced, “and it is in your power to avenge his death. Dare you do it?”
“Oh, my brother, my poor lost brother,” she sobbed, the stoical indifference of the savage, pressed out by the crushed heart of the sister, “if by this hand thy death could be avenged.”
“By your hand he can be avenged,” said Bernard, seeing her pause. “It has not yet been done. That stupid knave, in a moment of vanity, claimed for himself the praise of having murdered a chieftain, but the brave Manteo fell by more noble hands than his.”
“In God's name, who do you mean?” asked Mamalis.
“I can only tell you that it is now in your power to surrender his murderer to justice, and to his deserved fate.”
Mamalis was silent. She guessed that it was Hansford to whom Bernard had thus vaguely alluded. The struggle seemed to be a desperate one. There in the clear starlight, with none to help, save Him, in whom she had learned to trust, she wrestled with the tempter. But that dark scene of her life, which still threw its shadow on her redeemed heart, again rose up before her memory. The lesson was a blessed one. How often thus does the recollection of a former sin guard the soul from error in the future. Surely, in this, too, God has made the wrath of man to praise him. With the aid thus given from on high, the trusting soul of Mamalis triumphed over temptation.
“I know not why you tempt me thus, Mr. Bernard,” she said, more calmly, “nor why you have brought me here to-night. But this I know, that I have learned that vengeance belongs to God. It were a crime for mortal man, frail at best, to usurp the right of God. My brother is already fearfully avenged.”
Twice beaten in his attempt to besiege the strong heart of the poor Indian, by stratagem, the wily Bernard determined to pursue a more determined course, and to take the resisting citadel by a coup d'etat. He argued, and argued rightly, that a sudden charge would surprise her into betraying a knowledge of Hansford's movements. No sooner, therefore, had the last words fallen from her lips, than he seized her roughly by the arm, and exclaimed,
“So you, then, with all your religious cant, are the murderess of Thomas Hansford!”
“The murderess! Of Hansford! Is he then dead,” cried the girl, bewildered by the sudden charge, “How did they find him?”
“Find him!” cried Bernard, triumphantly, “It is easy finding what we hide ourselves. We have proven that you alone are aware of his hiding place, and you alone, therefore, are responsible for his safety. It was for this confession that I brought you here to-night.”
“So help me Heaven,” said the trembling girl, terrified by the web thus woven around her, “If he be dead, I am innocent of his death.”
“The assassin of Berkenhead may well be the murderess of Hansford,” said Bernard. “It is easier to deny than to prove. Come, my mistress, tell me when you saw him.”
“Oh, but this morning, safe and well,” said Mamalis. “Indeed, my hand is guiltless of his blood.”
“Prove it, then, if you can,” returned Bernard. “You must know our English law presumes him guilty, who is last with the murdered person, unless he can prove his innocence. Show me Hansford alive, and you are safe. If I do not see him by sunrise, you go with me to answer for his death, and to learn that your accursed race is not the only people who demand blood for blood.”
Overawed by his threats, and his stern manner, so different from the mild and respectful tone in which he had hitherto addressed her, Mamalis sank upon the ground in an agony of alarm. Bernard disregarded her meek and silent appeal for mercy, and sternly menaced her when she attempted to scream for assistance.
“Hush your savage shrieking, you bitch, or you'll wake the house; and then, by God, I'll choke you before your time. I tell you, if the man is alive, you need fear no danger; and if he be dead, you have only saved the sheriff a piece of dirty work, or may be have given him another victim.”
“For God's sake, do me no harm,” cried Mamalis, imploringly. “I am innocent—indeed I am. Think you that I would hurt a hair of the head of that man whom Virginia Temple loves?”
This last remark was by no means calculated to make her peace with Bernard; but his only reply was by the shrill whistle which had been agreed upon as a signal between Holliday and himself. True to his promise, and obedient to the command of his superior, the soldier made his appearance on the scene of action with a promptitude that could only be explained by the fact that he had concealed himself behind a corner of the house, and had heard every word of the conversation. Too much excited to be suspicious, Bernard did not remark on his punctuality, but said, in a low voice:
“Go wake Thompson, saddle the horses, and let's be off. We have work before us. Go!” And Holliday, with habitual obedience, retired to execute the order.
“And now,” said Bernard, in an encouraging tone, to Mamalis, “you must go with me. But you have nothing to fear, if Hansford be alive. If, however, my suspicions be true, and he has been murdered by your hand, I will still be your friend, if you be but faithful.”
The horses were quickly brought, and Bernard, half leading, half carrying the poor, weeping, trembling maiden, mounted his own powerful charger, and placed her behind him. The order of march was soon given, and the heavy sound of the horses' feet was heard upon the hard, crisp, frozen ground. Mamalis, seeing her fate inevitable, whatever it might be, awaited it patiently and without a murmur. Never suspecting the true motive of Bernard, and fully believing that he was bona fide engaged in searching for the perpetrators of some foul deed, she readily consented, for her own defence, to conduct the party to the hiding place of the hapless Hansford. Surprised and shocked beyond measure at the intelligence of his fate, she almost forgot her own situation in her concern for him, and was happy in aiding to bring to justice those who, as she feared, had murdered him. She was surprised, indeed, that she had heard nothing of the circumstance from Virginia, as she would surely have done, had Bernard mentioned it to the family. But in her ignorance of the rules of civilized life, she attributed this to the forms of procedure, to the necessity for secrecy—to anything rather than the true cause. Nor could she help hoping that there might be still some mistake, and that Hansford would be found alive and well, thus establishing her own innocence, and ending the pursuit.
Arrived nearly at the wigwam, she mentioned the fact to Bernard, who in a low voice commanded a halt, and dismounting with his men, he directed Mamalis to guide them the remaining distance on foot. Leaving Thompson in charge of the horses, until he might be called to their assistance, Bernard and Holliday silently followed the unsuspecting Indian girl along the narrow path. A short distance ahead, they could discern the faint smoke, as it curled through the opening at the top of the wigwam and floated towards the sky. This indication rendered it probable that the object of their search was still watching, and thus warned them to greater caution in their approach. Bernard's heart beat thick and loud, and his cheek blanched with excitement, as he thus drew near the lurking place of his enemy. He shook Holliday by the arm with impatient anger, as the heavy-footed soldier jarred the silence by the crackling of fallen leaves and branches. And now they are almost there, and Mamalis, whose excitement was also intense, still in advance, saw through a crevice in the door the kneeling form of the noble insurgent, as he bowed himself by that lonely fire, and committed his weary soul to God.
“He is here! he lives!” she shouted. “I knew that he was safe!” and the startled forest rang with the echoes of her voice.
“The murder is out,” cried Bernard, as followed by Holliday, he rushed forward to the door, which had been thrown open by their guide; but ere he gained his entrance, the sharp report of a pistol was heard, and the beautiful, the trusting Mamalis fell prostrate on the floor, a bleeding martyr to her constancy and faith. Hansford, roused by the sudden sound of her voice, had seized the pistol which, sleeping and waking, was by his side, and hearing the voice of Bernard, he had fired. Had the ball taken effect upon either of the men, he might yet have been saved, for in an encounter with a single man he would have proved a formidable adversary. But inscrutable are His ways, whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, and all that the puzzled soul can do, is humbly to rely on the hope that
“God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.”
And she, the last of her dispersed and ruined lineage, is gone. In the lone forest, where the wintry blast swept unobstructed, the giant trees moaned sadly and fitfully over their bleeding child; and the bright stars, that saw the heavy deed, wept from their place in heaven, and bathed her lovely form in night's pure dews. She did not long remain unburied in that forest, for when Virginia heard the story of her faith and loyalty from the rude lips of Holliday, the pure form of the Indian girl, still fresh and free from the polluting touch of the destroyer, was borne to her own home, and followed with due rites and fervent grief to the quiet tomb. In after days, when her sad heart loved to dwell upon these early scenes, Virginia placed above the sacred ashes of her friend a simple marble tablet, long since itself a ruin; and there, engraven with the record of her faith, her loyalty and her love, was the sweet assurance, that in her almost latest words, the trusting Indian girl had indeed become one of “the children of her Father which is in Heaven.”
CHAPTER XLIII.
“Let some of the guard be ready there.
For me?
Must I go like a traitor thither?”
Henry VIII.
The reader need not be told that Hansford, surprised and unarmed, for his remaining pistol was not at hand, and his sword had been laid aside for the night, was no match for the two powerful men who now rushed upon him. To pinion his arms closely behind him, was the work of a moment, and further resistance was impossible. Seeing that all hope of successful defence was gone, Hansford maintained in his bearing the resolute fortitude and firmness which can support a brave man in misfortune, when active courage is no longer of avail.
“I suppose, I need not ask Mr. Bernard,” he said, “by what authority he acts—and yet I would be glad to learn for what offence I am arrested.”
“The memory of your former acts should teach you,” returned Bernard, coarsely, “that your offence is reckoned among the best commentators of the law as high treason.”
“A grievous crime, truly,” replied Hansford, “but one of which I am happily innocent, unless, indeed, a skirmish with the hostile Indians should be reckoned as such, or Sir William Berkeley should be presumptuous enough to claim to be a king; in which latter case, he himself would be the traitor.”
“He is at least the deputy of the king,” said Bernard, haughtily, “and in his person the majesty of the king has been assailed.”
“Unfortunately, for your reasoning,” replied Hansford, “the term for which Berkeley was appointed governor has expired some years since.”
“That miserable subterfuge will scarcely avail, since you tacitly acknowledged his authority by acting under his commission. But I have no time to be discussing with you on the nature of your offence, of which, at least, I am not the judge. I will only add, that conscious innocence is not found skulking in dark forests, and obscure hiding places. Call Thompson, with the horses, Holliday. It is time we were off.”
“One word, before we leave,” said Hansford, sadly. “My pistol ball took effect, I know; who is its victim?”
“A poor Indian girl, who conducted us to your fastness,” said Bernard. “I had forgotten her myself, till now. Look, Holliday, does she still live?”
“Dead as a herring, your honour,” said the man, as he bent over the body, with deep feeling, for, though accustomed to the flow of blood, he had taken a lively interest in the poor girl, from what he had seen and overheard. “And by God, Cap'n, begging your honour's pardon, a brave girl she was, too, although she was an Injin.”
“Poor Mamalis,” said Hansford, tenderly, “you have met with an early and a sad fate. I little thought that she would betray me.”
“Nay, wrong not the dead,” interposed Bernard, “I assure you, she knew nothing of the object of our coming. But all's fair in war, Major, and a little intrigue was necessary to track you to this obscure hold.”
“Well, farewell, poor luckless maiden! And so I've killed my friend,” said Hansford, sorrowfully. “Alas! Mr. Bernard, my arm has been felt in battle, and has sent death to many a foe. But, God forgive me! this is the first blood I have ever spilt, except in battle, and this, too, flows from a woman.”
“Think not of it thus,” said Bernard, whose hard nature could not but be touched by this display of unselfish grief on the part of his prisoner. “It was but an accident, and should not rest heavily on your soul. Stay, Holliday, I would not have the poor girl rot here, either. Suppose you take the body to Windsor Hall, where it will be treated with due respect. Thompson and myself can, meantime, attend the prisoner.”
“Look ye, Cap'n,” said Holliday, with the superstition peculiar to vulgar minds; “'taint that I'm afeard exactly neither, but its a mighty dissolute feeling being alone in a dark night with a corp. I'd rather kill fifty men, than to stay by myself five minutes, with the smallest of the fifty after he was killed.”
“Well, then, you foolish fellow, go to the hall to-night and inform them of her death, and excuse me to Colonel Temple for my abrupt departure, and meet me with the rest of the men at Tindal's Point as soon as possible. I will bide there for you. But first help me to take the poor girl's body into the wigwam. I suppose she will rest quietly enough here till morning. Major Hansford,” he added, courteously, “our horses are ready I perceive. You can take Holliday's there. He can provide himself with another at the hall. Shall we ride, sir?”
With a sad heart the captive-bound Hansford mounted with difficulty the horse prepared for him, which was led by Thompson, while Bernard rode by his side, and with more of courtesy than could be expected from him, endeavoured to beguile the way with conversation with his prisoner.
Meanwhile Holliday, whistling for company, and ever and anon looking behind him warily, to see whether the disembodied Mamalis was following him, bent his steps towards the hall, to communicate to the unsuspecting Virginia the heavy tidings of her lover's capture. The rough soldier, although his nature had been blunted by long service and familiarity with scenes of distress, was not without some feelings, and showed even in his rude, uncultivated manners, the sympathy and tenderness which was wanting in the more polished but harder heart of Alfred Bernard.
CHAPTER XLIV.
“Go to Lord Angelo,
And let him learn to know, when maidens sue,
Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,
All their petitions are as freely theirs,
As they themselves would owe them.”
Measure for Measure.
It were impossible to describe the silent agony of Virginia Temple, when she learned from Holliday, on the following morning, the capture of Hansford. She felt that it was the wreck of all her hopes, and that the last thread which still hung between her and despair was snapped. But even in that dark hour, her strength of mind, and her firmness of purpose forsook her not. There was still a duty for her to perform in endeavouring to procure his pardon, and she entertained, with the trusting confidence of her young heart, the strong hope that Berkeley would grant her request. On this sacred errand she determined to go at once. Although she did not dream of the full extent of Bernard's hypocrisy, yet all his efforts had been unavailing to restore full confidence in his sincerity. She dared not trust a matter of such importance to another, especially when she had reason to suspect that that other was far from being friendly in his feelings towards her lover. Once determined on her course, she lost no time in informing her parents of her resolution; and so, when they were all seated around the breakfast-table, she said quietly, but firmly—
“I am going to Accomac to-day, father.”
“To where!” cried her mother; “why surely, child, you must be out of your senses.”
“No, dearest mother, my calmness is not an indication of insanity. If I should neglect this sacred duty, you might then indeed tremble for my reason.”
“What in the world are you thinking of, Jeanie!” said her father, in his turn surprised at this sudden resolution; “what duties can call you to Accomac?”
“I go to save life,” replied Virginia. “Can you wonder, my father, that when I see all that I hold dearest in life just trembling on the verge of destruction, I should desire to do all in my power to save it.”
“You are right, my child,” replied her father, tenderly; “if it were possible for you to accomplish any good. But what can you do to rescue Hansford from the hand of justice?”
“Of justice!” said Virginia, “and can you unite with those, my dear father, who profane the name of justice by applying it to the relentless cruelty with which blind vengeance pursues its victims?”
“Ah, Jeanie!” said her father, smiling, as he pressed her hand tenderly; “you should remember, in language of the quaint old satirist, Butler,
'No thief e'er felt the halter draw,
With good opinion of the law;'
and although I would not apply the bitter couplet to my little Jeanie in its full force, yet she must own that her interest in its present application, prevents her from being a very competent judge of its propriety and justice.”
“But surely, dear father, you cannot think that these violent measures against the unhappy parties to the late rebellion, are either just or politic?”
“I grant, my child, that to my own mind, a far more humane policy might be pursued consistent with the ends of justice. To inspire terror in a subject is not the surest means to secure his allegiance or his love for government. I am sure, if you were afraid of your old father, and always in dread of his wrath and authority, you would not love him as you do, Jeanie—and government is at last nothing but a larger family.”
“Well, then,” returned the artless girl, “why should I not go to Sir William Berkeley, and represent to him the harshness of his course, and the propriety of tempering his revenge with mercy?”
“First, my daughter, because I have only expressed my private opinion, which would have but little weight with the Governor, or any one else but you and mother, there. Remember that we are neither the framers nor the administrators of the law. And then you would make but a poor mediator, my darling, if you were to attempt to dissuade the Governor from his policy, by charging him with cruelty and injustice. Think no more of this wild idea, my dear child. It can do no good, and reflects more credit on your warm, generous heart, than on your understanding or experience.”
“Hinder me not, my father,” said Virginia, earnestly, her blue eyes filling with tears. “I can but fail, and if you would save me from the bitterness of self-reproach hereafter, let me go. Oh, think how it would add bitterness to the cup of grief, if, when closing the eyes of a dead friend, we should think that we had left some remedy untried which might have saved his life! If I fail, it will at least be some consolation, even in despair, that I did all that I could to avert his fate; and if I succeed—oh! how transporting the thought that the life of one I love had been spared through my interposition. Then hinder me not, father, mother—if you would not destroy your daughter's peace forever, oh, let me go!”
The solemn earnestness with which the poor girl thus urged her parents to grant her request, deeply affected them both; and the old lady, forgetting in her love for her daughter the indelicacy and impropriety of her plan, volunteered her very efficient advocacy of Virginia's cause.
“Indeed, Colonel Temple,” she said, “you should not oppose Virginia in this matter. You will have enough to reproach yourself for, if by your means you should prevent her from doing what she thinks best. And, indeed, I like to see a young girl show so much spirit and interest in her lover's fate. It is seldom you see such things now-a-days, though it used to be common enough in England. Now, just put it to yourself.”
The Colonel accordingly did “put it to himself,” and, charmed with his daughter's affection and heroism, concluded himself to accompany her to Accomac, and exert his own influence with the Governor in procuring the pardon of the unhappy Hansford.
“Now that's as it should be,” said the old lady, gratified at this renewed assurance of her ascendency over her husband. “And now, Virginia, cheer up. All will be right, my dear, for your father has great influence with the Governor—and, indeed, well he might have, for he has received kindness enough at our hands in times past. I should like to see him refuse your father a favour. And I will write a note to Lady Frances myself, for all the world knows that she is governor and all with her husband.”
“Ladies generally are,” said the Colonel, with a smile, which however could not disguise the sincerity with which he uttered the sentiment.
“Oh, no, not at all,” retorted the old lady, bridling up. “You are always throwing up your obedience to me, and yet, after all said and done, you have your own way pretty much, too. But you are not decent to go anywhere. Do, pray, Colonel Temple, pay more respect to society, and fix yourself up a little. Put on your blue coat and your black stock, and dress your hair, and shave, and look genteel for once in your life.” Then, seeing by the patient shrug of her good old husband that she had wounded his feelings, she patted him tenderly on the shoulder, and added, “You know I always love to see you nice and spruce, and when you do attend to your dress, and fix up, I know of none of them that are equal to you. Do you, Virginia?”
Before the good Colonel had fully complied with all the toilet requisitions of his wife, the carriage was ready to take the travellers to Tindal's Point, where there was luckily a small sloop, just under weigh for Accomac. And Virginia, painfully alternating between hope and fear, but sustained by a consciousness of duty, was borne away across the broad Chesapeake, on her pious pilgrimage, to move by her tears and prayers the vindictive heart of the stern old Governor.
CHAPTER XLV.
“Why, there's an end then! I have judged deliberately, and the result is death.” The Gamester.
Situated, as nearly as might be, in the centre of each of the counties of Virginia, was a small settlement, which, although it aspired to the dignity of a town, could scarcely deserve the name. For the most part, these little country towns, as they were called, were composed of about four houses, to wit: The court house, dedicated to justice, where sat, monthly, the magistrates of the county, possessed of an unlimited jurisdiction in all cases cognizable in law or chancery, not touching life or murder, and having the care of orphans' persons and estates; the jail, wherein prisoners committed for any felony were confined, until they could be brought before the general court, which had the sole criminal jurisdiction in the colony; the tavern, a long, low wooden building, generally thronged with loafers and gossips, and reeking with the fumes of tobacco smoke, apple-brandy and rye-whiskey; and, finally, the store, which shared, with the tavern, the patronage of the loafers, and which could be easily recognized by the roughly painted board sign, containing a catalogue of the goods within, arranged in alphabetical order, without reference to any other classification. Thus the substantial farmer, in search of a pound of candy for his little white headed barbarians, whom he had left at play, must needs pass his finger over “cards, chains, calico, cowhides, and candy;” or, if he had come to “town” to purchase a bushel of meal for family use, his eye was greeted with the list of M's, containing meal, mustard, mousetraps, and molasses.
It was to the little court house town of the county of Accomac, that Sir William Berkeley had retired after the burning of Jamestown; and here he remained, since the suppression of the rebellion, like a cruel old spider, in the centre of his web, awaiting, with grim satisfaction, the capture of such of the unwary fugitives as might fall into his power.
“Well, gentlemen, the court martial is set,” said Sir William Berkeley, as he gazed upon the gloomy faces of the military men around him, in the old court house of Accomac. In that little assembly, might be seen the tall and manly form of Colonel Philip Ludwell, who had been honoured, by the especial confidence of Berkeley, as he was, afterwards, by the constant and tender love of the widowed Lady Frances. There, too, was the stern, hard countenance of Major Robert Beverley, whose unbending loyalty had shut his eyes to true merit in an opponent. The names of the remaining members of the court, have, unfortunately, not found a place in the history of the rebellion. Alfred Bernard, on whom the governor had showered, with a lavish hand, the favours which it was in his power to bestow, had been promoted to the office of Major, in the room of Thomas Hansford, outlawed, and was, therefore, entitled to a seat at the council which was to try the life of his rival. But as his evidence was of an important character, and as he had been concerned directly in the arrest of the prisoner, he preferred to act in the capacity of a witness, rather than as a judge.
“Let the prisoner be brought before the court,” said Berkeley; and in a few moments, Hansford, with his hands manacled, was led, between a file of soldiers, to the seat prepared for him. His short confinement had made but little change in his appearance. His face, indeed, was paler than usual, and his eye was brighter, for the exciting and solemn scene through which he was about to pass. But prejudged, though he was, his firmness never forsook him, and he met with a calm, but respectful gaze, the many eyes which were bent upon him. Conspicuous among the rebels, and popular and beloved in the colony, his trial had attracted a crowd of spectators; some impelled by vulgar curiosity, some by their loyal desire to witness the trial of a rebel to his king, but not a few by sympathy for his early and already well known fate.
As might well be expected, there was but little difficulty in establishing his participation in the late rebellion. There were many of the witnesses, who had seen him in intimate association with Bacon, and several who recognized him as among the most active in the trenches at Jamestown. To crown all, the irresistible evidence was introduced by Bernard, that the prisoner had actually brought a threatening message to the governor, while at Windsor Hall, which had induced the first flight to Accomac. It was useless to resist the force of such accumulated testimony, and Hansford saw that his fate was settled. It were folly to contend before such a tribunal, that his acts did not constitute rebellion, or that the court before whom he was arraigned was unconstitutional. The devoted victim of their vengeance, therefore, awaited in silence the conclusion of this solemn farce, which they had dignified by the name of a trial.
The evidence concluded, Sir William Berkeley, as Lord President of the Court, collected the suffrages of its members. It might easily be anticipated by their gloomy countenances, what was the solemn import of their judgment. Thomas Ludwell, the secretary of the council, acted as the clerk, and in a voice betraying much emotion, read the fatal decision. The sympathizing bystanders, who in awful silence awaited the result, drew a long breath as though relieved from their fearful suspense, even by having heard the worst. And Hansford was to die! He heard with much emotion the sentence which doomed him to a traitor's death the next day at noon; and those who were near, heard him sob, “My poor, poor mother!” But almost instantly, with a violent effort he controlled his feelings, and asked permission to speak.
“Surely,” said the Governor, “provided your language be respectful to the Court, and that you say nothing reflecting on his majesty's government at home or in the Colony of Virginia.”
“These are hard conditions,” said Hansford, rising from his seat, “as with such limitations, I can scarcely hope to justify my conduct. But I accept your courtesy, even with these conditions. A dying man has at last but little to say, and but little disposition to mingle again in the affairs of a world which he must so soon leave. In the short, the strangely short time allotted to me, I have higher and holier concerns to interest me. Ere this hour to-morrow, I will have passed from the scenes of earth to appear before a higher tribunal than yours, and to answer for the forgotten sins of my past life. But I thank my God, that while that awful tribunal is higher, it is also juster and more merciful than yours. Even in this sad moment, however, I cannot forget the country for which I have lived, and for which I must so soon die. I see by your countenances that I am already transcending your narrow limits. But it cannot be treason to pray for her, and as my life has been devoted to her service, so will my prayers for her welfare ascend with my petitions for forgiveness.
“I would say a word as to the offence with which I have been charged, and the evidence on which I have been convicted. That evidence amounts to the fact that I was in arms, by the authority of the Governor, against the common enemies of my country. Is this treason? That I was the bearer of a threatening message to the Governor from General Bacon, which caused the first flight into Accomac. And here I would say,” and he fixed his eyes full on Alfred Bernard, as he spoke, who endeavoured to conceal his feelings by a smile of scorn, “that the evidence on this point has been cruelly, shamefully garbled and perverted. It was never stated that, while as the minister of another, I bore the message referred to, I urged the Governor to consider and retract the proclamation which he had made, and offered my own mediation to restore peace and quiet to the Colony. Had my advice been taken the beams of peace would have once more burst upon Virginia, the scenes which are constantly enacted here, and which will continue to be enacted, would never have disgraced the sacred name of justice; and the name of Sir William Berkeley would not be handed down to the execrations of posterity as a dishonoured knight, and a brutal, bloody butcher.”
“Silence!” cried the incensed old Governor, in tones of thunder, “or by the wounds of God, I'll shorten the brief space which now interposes between you and eternity. Is this redeeming your promise of respect?”
“I beg pardon,” said Hansford, undaunted by the menace. “Excuse me, if I cannot speak patiently of cruelty and oppression. But let this pass. That perfidious wretch who would rise above my ruins, never breathed a word of this, when on the evangelist of Almighty God he was sworn to speak the truth. But if such evidence be sufficient to convict me of treason now, why was it not sufficient then? Why, with the same facts before you, did you, Sir William Berkeley, discharge the traitor in arms, and now seek his death when disarmed and impotent? One other link remains in the chain, this feeble chain of evidence. I aided in the siege of Jamestown, and once more drove the Governor and his fond adherents from their capital, to their refuge in the Accomac. I cannot, I will not deny it. But neither can this be treason, unless, indeed, Sir William Berkeley possesses in his own person the sacred majesty of Virginia. For when he abdicated the government by his first flight from the soil of Virginia, the sovereign people of the Colony, assembled in solemn convention, declared his office vacant. In that convention, you, my judges, well know, for you found it to your cost, were present a majority of the governor's council, the whole army, and almost the entire chivalry and talent of the colony. In their name writs were issued for an assembly, which met under their authority, and the commission of governor was placed in the hands of Nathaniel Bacon.”
“By an unauthorized mob,” said Berkeley, unable to restrain his impatience.
“By an organized convention of sovereign people,” returned Hansford, proudly. “You, Sir William Berkeley, deemed it not an unauthorized mob, when confiding in your justice, and won by your soft promises, a similar convention, composed of cavaliers and rich landholders, confided to your hands, in 1659, the high trust which you now hold. If such a proceeding were unauthorized then, were you not guilty in accepting the commission? If authorized, were not the same people competent to bestow the trust upon another, whom they deemed more worthy to hold it? If this be so, the insurgents, as you have chosen to call them, were not in arms against the government at the siege of Jamestown. And thus the last strand in the coil of evidence, with which you have involved me, is broken, as withs are severed at the touch of fire. But light as is the testimony against me, it is sufficient to turn the beam of justice, when the sword of Brennus is cast into the scale.
“One word more and I am done; for I see you are impatient for the sacrifice. I had thought that I would have been tried by a jury of my peers. Such I deemed my right as a British subject. But condemned by the extraordinary and unwarranted proceedings of this Star Chamber”—
“Silence!” cried Berkeley, again waxing wroth at such an imputation.
“I beg pardon once more,” continued Hansford, “I thought the favourite institution of Charles the First would not have met with so little favour from such loyal cavaliers. But I demand in the name of Freedom, in the name of England, in the name of God and Justice, when was Magna Charta or the Petition of Right abolished on the soil of Virginia? Is the Governor of Virginia so little of a lawyer that he remembers not the language of the stout Barons of Runnymede, unadorned in style, but pregnant with freedom. 'No freeman may be taken or imprisoned, or be disseised of his freehold or liberties, or his free-customs, or be outlawed or exiled, or in any manner destroyed, but by the lawful judgment of his peers, or by the law of the land.' Excuse me, gentlemen, for repeating to such sage judges so old and hackneyed a fragment of the law. But until to-day, I had been taught to hold those words as sacred, and as indeed containing the charter of the liberties of an Englishman. Alas! it will no longer be hackneyed nor quoted by the slaves of England, except when they mourn with bitter but hopeless tears, for the higher and purer freedom of their ruder fathers. Why am I thus arraigned before a court-martial in time of peace? Am I found in arms? Am I even an officer or a soldier? The commission which I once held has been torn from me, and given, as his thirty pieces, to you dissembling Judas, for the price of my betrayal. But I am done. Your tyranny and oppression cannot last for ever. The compressed spring will at last recoil with power proportionate to the force by which it has been restrained—and freed posterity will avenge on a future tyrant my cruel and unnatural murder.”
Hansford sat down, and Sir William Berkeley, flushed with indignation, replied,
“I had hoped that the near approach of death, if not a higher motive, would have saved us from such treasonable sentiments. But, sir, the insolence of your manner has checked any sympathy which I might have entertained for your early fate. I, therefore, have only to pronounce the judgment of the court; that you be taken to the place whence you came, and there safely kept until to-morrow noon, when you will be taken, with a rope about your neck, to the common gallows, and there hung by the neck until you are dead. And may the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on your soul!”
“Amen!” was murmured, in sad whispers, by the hundreds of pale spectators who crowded around the unhappy prisoner.
“How is this!” cried Hansford, once more rising to his feet, with strong emotion. “Gentlemen, you are soldiers, as such I may claim you as brethren, as such you should be brave and generous men. On that generosity, in this hour of peril, I throw myself, and ask as a last indulgence, as a dying favour, that I may die the death of a soldier, and not of a felon.”
“You have lived a traitor's, not a soldier's life,” said Berkeley, in an insulting tone. “A soldier's life is devoted to his king and country; yours to a rebel and to treason. You shall die the death of a traitor.”
“Well, then, I have done,” said Hansford, with a sigh, “and must look to Him alone for mercy, who can make the felon's gallows as bright a pathway to happiness, as the field of glory.”
Many a cheek flushed with indignation at the refusal of the governor to grant this last petition of a brave man. A murmur of dissatisfaction arose from the crowd, and even some sturdy loyalists were heard to mutter, “shame.” The other members of the court were seen to confer together, and to remonstrate with the governor.
“'Fore God, no,” said Berkeley, in a whisper to his advisers. “Think of the precedent it will establish. Traitor he has lived, and as far as my voice can go, traitor he shall die. I suppose the sheep-killing hound, and the egg-sucking cur, will next whine out their request to be shot instead of hung.”
So great was the influence of Berkeley, over the minds of the court, that, after a feeble remonstrance, the petition of the prisoner was rejected. Old Beverley alone, was heard to mutter in the ear of Philip Ludwell, that it was a shame to deny a brave man a soldier's death, and doom him to a dog's fate.
“And for all this,” he added, “its a damned hard lot, and blast me, but I think Hansford to be worth in bravery and virtue, fifty of that painted popinjay, Bernard, whose cruelty is as much beyond his years as his childish vanity is beneath them.”
“Well, gentlemen, I trust you are now satisfied,” said Berkeley. “Sheriff, remove your prisoner, and,” looking angrily around at the malecontents, “if necessary, summon an additional force to assist you.”
The officer, however, deemed no such precaution necessary, and the hapless Hansford was conducted back to his cell under the same guard that brought him thence; there to await the execution on the morrow of the fearful sentence to which he had been condemned.
CHAPTER XLVI.
Isabella. “Yet show some pity."
Angelo. I show it most of all when I show justice.”
Measure for Measure.
That evening Sir William Berkeley was sitting in the private room at the tavern, which had been fitted up for his reception. He had strictly commanded his servants to deny admittance to any one who might wish to see him. The old man was tired of counsellors, advisers, and petitioners, who harassed him in their attempt to curb his impatient ire, and he was determined to act entirely for himself. He had thus been sitting for more than an hour, looking moodily into the fire, without even the officious Lady Frances to interfere with his reflections, when a servant in livery entered the room.
“If your Honour please,” said the obsequious servitor, “there is a lady at the door who says she must see you on urgent business. I told her that you could not be seen, but she at last gave me this note, which she begged me to hand you.”
Berkeley impatiently tore open the note and read as follows:—
“By his friendship for my father, and his former kindness to me, I ask for a brief interview with Sir William Berkeley.
“Virginia Temple.”
“Fore God!” said the Governor, angrily, “they beset me with an importunity which makes me wretched. What the devil can the girl want! Some favour for Bernard, I suppose. Well, any thing for a moment's respite from these troublesome rebels. Show her up, Dabney.”
In another moment the door again opened, and Virginia Temple, pale and trembling, fell upon her knees before the Governor, and raised her soft, blue eyes to his face so imploringly, that the heart of the old man was moved to pity.
“Rise, my daughter,” he said, tenderly; “tell me your cause of grief. It surely cannot be so deep as to bring you thus upon your knees to an old friend. Rise then, and tell me.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, with a trembling voice, “I knew that you were kind, and would listen to my prayer.”
“Well, Virginia,” said the Governor, in the same mild tone, “let me hear your request? You know, we old servants of the king have not much time to spare at best, and these are busy times. Is your father well, and your good mother? Can I serve them in any thing?”
“They are both well and happy, nor do they need your aid,” said Virginia; “but I, sir, oh! how can I speak. I have come from Windsor Hall to ask that you will be just and merciful. There is, sir, a brave man here in chains, who is doomed to die—to die to-morrow. Oh, Hansford, Hansford!” and unable longer to control her emotion, the poor, broken-hearted girl burst into an agony of tears.
Berkeley's brow clouded in an instant.
“And is it for that unhappy man, my poor girl, that you have come alone to sue?”
“I did not come alone,” replied Virginia; “my father is with me, and will himself unite in my request.”
“I will be most happy to see my old friend again, but I would that he came on some less hopeless errand. Major Hansford must die. The laws alike of his God and his country, which he has trampled regardless under foot, require the sacrifice of his blood.”
“But, for the interposition of mercy,” urged the poor girl, “the laws of God require the death of all—and the laws of his country have vested in you the right to arrest their rigour at your will. Oh, how much sweeter to be merciful than sternly just!”
“Nay, my poor girl,” said Sir William, “you speak of what you cannot understand, and your own griefs have blinded your mind. Justice, Virginia, is mercy; for by punishing the offender it prevents the repetition of the offence. The vengeance of the law thus becomes the safeguard of society, and the sword of justice becomes the sceptre of righteousness.”
“I cannot reason with you,” returned Virginia. “You are a statesman, and I am but a poor, weak girl, ignorant of the ways of the world.”
“And therefore you have come to advocate this suit instead of your father,” said Berkeley, smiling. “I see through your little plot already. Come, tell me now, am I not right in my conjecture? Why have you come to urge the cause of Hansford, instead of your father?”
“Because,” said Virginia, with charming simplicity, “we both thought, that as Sir William Berkeley had already decided upon the fate of this unhappy man, it would be easier to reach his heart, than to affect the mature decision of his judgment.”
“You argued rightly, my dear girl,” said Berkeley, touched by her frankness and simplicity, as well as by her tears. “But it is the hard fate of those in power to deny themselves often the luxury of mercy, while they tread onward in the rough but straight path of justice. It is ours to follow the stern maxim of our old friend Shakspeare:
'Mercy but murders, pardoning those who kill.'”
“But it does seem to me,” said the resolute girl, losing all the native diffidence of her character in the interest she felt in her cause—“it does seem to me that even stern policy would sometimes dictate mercy. May not a judicious clemency often secure the love of the misguided citizen, while harsh justice would estrange him still farther from loyalty?”
“There, you are trenching upon your father's part, my child,” said the Governor. “You must not go beyond your own cue, you know—for believe me that your plea for mercy would avail far more with me than your reasons, however cogent. This rebellion proceeded too far to justify any clemency toward those who promoted it.”
“But it is now suppressed,” said Virginia, resolutely; “and is it not the sweetest attribute of power, to help the fallen? Oh, remember,” she added, carried away completely by her subject,
“'Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won,
Than in restoring such as are undone;
Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear,
But man alone can, when he conquers, spare.'”
“I did not expect to hear your father's daughter defend her cause by such lines as these. Do you know where they are found?”
“They are Waller's, I believe,” said Virginia, blushing at this involuntary display of learning; “but it is their truth, and not their author, which suggested them to me.”
“Your memory is correct,” said Berkeley, with a smile, “but they are found in his panegyric on the Protector. A eulogy upon a traitor is bad authority with an old cavalier like me.”
“If, then, you need authority which you cannot question,” the girl replied, earnestly, “do you think that the royal cause lost strength by the mild policy of Charles the Second? That is authority that even you dare not question.”
“Well, and what if I should say,” replied Berkeley, “that this very leniency was one of the causes that encouraged the recent rebellion? But go, my child; I would rejoice if I could please you, but Hansford's fate is settled. I pity you, but I cannot forgive him.” And with a courteous inclination of his head, he signified his desire that their interview should end.
“Nay,” shrieked Virginia, in desperation, “I will not let you go, except you bless me,” and throwing herself again upon her knees, she implored his mercy. Berkeley, who, with all his sternness, was not an unfeeling man, was deeply moved. What the result might have been can never be known, for at that moment a voice was heard from the street exclaiming, “Drummond is taken!” In an instant the whole appearance of the Governor changed. His cheek flushed and his eye sparkled, as with hasty strides he left the room and descended the stairs. No more the fine specimen of a cavalier gentleman, his manner became at once harsh and irritable.
“Well, Mr. Drummond,” he cried, as he saw the proud rebel led manacled to the door. “'Fore God, and I am more delighted to see you than any man in the colony. You shall hang in half an hour.”
“And if he do,” shrieked the wild voice of a woman from the crowd, “think you that with your puny hand you can arrest the current of liberty in this colony? And when you appear before the dread bar of God, the spirits of these martyred patriots will rise up to condemn you, and fiends shall snatch at your blood-stained soul, perfidious tyrant! And I will be among them, for such a morsel of vengeance would sweeten hell. Ha! ha! ha!”
With that wild, maniac laugh, Sarah Drummond disappeared from the crowd of astounded spectators.
History informs us that the deadly threat of Berkeley was carried into effect immediately. But it was not until two days afterwards that William Drummond met a traitor's doom upon the common gallows.
Virginia Temple, thus abruptly left, and deprived of all hope, fell senseless on the floor of the room. The hope which had all along sustained her brave young heart, had now vanished forever, and kindly nature relieved the agony of her despair by unconsciousness. And there she lay, pale and beautiful, upon that floor, while the noisy clamour without was hailing the capture of another victim, whose fate was to bring sorrow and despair to another broken heart.
CHAPTER XLVII.
“His nature is so far from doing harm,
That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty
My practices ride easy.”
King Lear.
When Virginia aroused again to consciousness, her eyes met the features of Alfred Bernard, as he knelt over her form. Not yet realizing her situation, she gazed wildly about her, and in a hoarse, husky whisper, which fell horridly on the ear, she said, “Where is my father?”
“At home, Virginia,” replied Bernard, softly, chafing her white temples the while—“And you are here in Accomac. Look up, Virginia, and see that you are not without a friend even here.”
“Oh, now, yes, now I know it all,” she shrieked, springing up with a wild bound, and rushing like a maniac toward the door. “They have killed him! I have slept here, instead of begging his life. I have murdered him! Ha! you, sir, are you the jailer? I should know your face.”
“Nay, do not speak thus, Virginia,” said Bernard, holding her gently in his arms, “Hansford is yet alive. Be calm.”
“Hansford! I thought he was dead!” said the poor girl, her mind still wandering. “Did not Mamalis—no—she is dead—all are dead—ha? where am I? Sure this is not Windsor Hall. Nay, what am I talking about. Let me see;” and she pressed her hand to her forehead, and smoothed back her fair hair, as she strove to collect her thoughts. “Ah! now I know,” she said at length, more calmly, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bernard, I have acted very foolishly, I fear. But you will forgive a poor distracted girl.”
“I promised you my influence with the governor,” said Bernard, “and I do not yet despair of effecting my object. And so be calm.”
“Despair!” said Virginia, bitterly, “as well might you expect to turn a river from the sea, as to turn the relentless heart of that bigoted old tyrant from blood. And yet, I thank you, Mr. Bernard, and beg that you will leave no means untried to preserve my poor doomed Hansford. You see I am quite calm now, and should you fail in your efforts to procure a pardon, may I ask one last melancholy favour at your hands! I would see him once more before we part, forever.” And to prove how little she knew her own heart, the poor girl burst into a renewed agony of grief.
“Calm your feelings, then, dear Virginia,” said Bernard, “and you shall see him. But by giving way thus, you would unman him.”
“You remind me of my duty, my friend,” said Virginia, controlling herself, with a strong effort, “and I will not again forget it in my selfish grief. Shall we go now?”
“Remain here, but a few moments, patiently,” he replied, “and I will seek the governor, and urge him to relent. If I fail, I will return to you.”
Leaving the young girl once more to her own sad reflections, Alfred Bernard left the room.
“Virtue has its own reward,” he muttered, as he walked slowly along. “I wonder how many would be virtuous if it were not so! Self is at last the mainspring of action, and when it produces good, we call it virtue; when it accomplishes evil, we call it vice; wherein, then, am I worse than my fellow man? Here am I, now, giving this poor girl a interview with her rebel lover, and extracting some happiness for them, even from their misery. And yet I am not a whit the worse off. Nay, I am benefited, for gratitude is a sure prompter of love; and when Hansford is out of the way, who so fit to supply the niche, left vacant in her heart, as Alfred Bernard, who soothed their mutual grief. Thus virtue is often a valuable handmaid to success, and may be used for our purposes, when we want her assistance, and afterwards be whistled to the winds as a pestilent jade. Machiavelli in politics, Loyola in religion, Rochefoucault in society, ye are the mighty three, who, seeing the human heart in all its nakedness, have dared to tear the mask from its deformed and hideous features.”
“What in the world are you muttering about, Alfred?” said Governor Berkeley, as they met in the porch, as Bernard had finished this diabolical soliloquy.
“Oh nothing,” replied the young intriguer. “But I came to seek your excellency.”
“And I to seek for you, my sage young counsellor; I have to advise with you upon a subject which lies heavy on my heart, Alfred.”
“You need only command my counsel and it is yours,” said Bernard, “but I fear that I can be of little assistance in your reflections.”
“Yes you can, my boy,” returned Berkeley, “I know not whether you will esteem it a compliment or not, Alfred, but yours is an old head on young shoulders, and the heart, which in the season of youth often flits away from the sober path of judgment, seems with you to follow steadily in the wake of reason.”
“If you mean that I am ever ready to sacrifice my own selfish impulses to my duty, I do esteem it as a compliment, though I fear not altogether deserved.”
“Well, then,” said the Governor, “this poor boy, Hansford, who is to suffer death to-morrow, I have had a strange interview concerning him since I last saw you.”
“Aye, with Miss Temple,” returned Bernard. “She told me she had seen you, and that you were as impregnable to assault as the rock of Gibraltar.”
“I thought so too, where treason was concerned,” said Berkeley. “But some how, the leaven of the poor girl's tears is working strangely in my heart; and after I had left her, who should I meet but her old father.”
“Is Colonel Temple here?” asked Bernard, surprised.
“Aye is he, and urged Hansford's claims to pardon with such force, that I had to fly from temptation. Nay he even put his plea for mercy upon the ground of his own former kindness to me.”
“The good old gentleman seems determined to be paid for that hospitality,” said Bernard, with a sneer. “Well!”
“Well, altogether I am almost determined to interpose my reprieve, until the wishes of his majesty are known,” said Berkeley, with some hesitation.
Bernard was silent, for some moments, and the Governor continued.
“What do you say to this course Alfred?”
“Simply, that if you are determined, I have nothing to say.”
“Nay, but I am not determined, my young friend.”
“Then I must ask you what are the grounds of your hesitation, before I can express an opinion?” said Bernard.
“Well, first,” said the Governor, “because it will be a personal favour to Colonel Temple, and will dry the tears in those blue eyes of his pretty daughter. His kindness to me in this unhappy rebellion would be but poorly requited, if I refused the first and only favour that he has ever asked of me.”
“Then hereafter,” returned Bernard, quietly, “it would be good policy in a rebellion, for half the rebels to remain at home and entertain the Governor at their houses. They would thus secure the pardon of the rest.”
“Well, you young Solomon,” said Berkeley, laughing, “I believe you are right there. It would be a dangerous precedent. But then, a reprieve is not a pardon, and while I might thus oblige my friends, the king could hereafter see the cause of justice vindicated.”
“And you would shift your own responsibility upon the king,” replied Bernard. “Has not Charles Stuart enough to trouble him, with his rebellious subjects at home, without having to supervise every petty felony or treason that occurs in his distant colonies? This provision of our charter, denying to the Governor the power of absolute pardon, but granting him power to reprieve, was only made, that in doubtful cases, the minister might rely upon the wisdom of majesty. It was never intended to shift all the trouble and vexation of a colonial executive upon the overloaded hands of the king. If you have any doubt of Hansford's guilt, I would be the last to turn your heart from clemency, by a word of my mouth. If he be guilty, I only ask whether Sir William Berkeley is the man to shrink from responsibility, and to fasten upon his royal master the odium, if odium there be, attending the execution of the sentence against a rebel.”
“Zounds, no, Bernard, you know I am not. But then there are a plenty of rebels to sate the vengeance of the law, besides this poor young fellow. Does justice demand that all should perish?”
“My kind patron,” said Bernard, “to whom I owe all that I have and am, do not further urge me to oppose feelings so honorable to your heart. Exercise your clemency towards this unhappy young man, in whose fate I feel as deep an interest as yourself. If harm should flow from your mercy, who can censure you for acting from motives so generous and humane. If by your mildness you should encourage rebellion again, posterity will pardon the weakness of the Governor in the benevolence of the man.”
“Stay,” said Berkeley, his pride wounded by this imputation, “you know, Alfred, that if I thought that clemency towards this young rebel would encourage rebellion in the future, I would rather lose my life than spare his. But speak out, and tell me candidly why you think the execution of this sentence necessary to satisfy justice.”
“You force me to an ungrateful duty,” replied the young hypocrite, “for it is far more grateful to the heart of a benevolent man to be the advocate of mercy, than the stern champion of justice. But since you ask my reasons, it is my duty to obey you. First, then, this young man, from his talent, his bravery, and his high-flown notions about liberty, is far more dangerous than any of the insurgents who have survived Nathaniel Bacon. Then, he has shown that so far from repenting of his treason, he is ready to justify it, as witness his speech, wherein he predicted the triumph of revolution in Virginia, and denounced the vengeance of future generations upon tyranny and oppression. Nay, he even went farther, and characterized as brutal bloody butchers the avengers of the broken laws of their country.”
“I remember,” said Berkeley, turning pale at the recollection.
“But there is another cogent reason why he should suffer the penalty which he has so richly incurred. If your object be to secure the returning loyalty and affection of the people, you should not incense them by unjust discrimination in favour of a particular rebel. The friends of Drummond, of Lawrence, of Cheeseman, of Wilford, of Bland, of Carver, will all say, and say with justice, that you spared the principal leader in the rebellion, the personal friend and adviser of Bacon, while their own kinsmen were doomed to the scaffold. Nor will those ghosts walk unavenged.”
“I see, I see,” cried Berkeley, grasping Bernard warmly by the hand. “You have saved me, Alfred, from a weakness which I must ever afterwards have deplored, and at the expense of your own feelings, my boy.”
“Yes, my dear patron,” replied Bernard, with a sigh, “you may well say at the expense of my own feelings. For I too, have just witnessed a scene which would have moved a heart of stone; and it was at the request of that poor, weeping, broken-hearted girl, to save whom from distress, I would willingly lay down my life—it was at her request that I came to beg at your hands the poor privilege of a last interview with her lover. Even Justice, stern as are her decrees, cannot deny this boon to Mercy.”
“You have a generous heart, my dear boy,” said the Governor, with the tears starting from his eyes. “There are not many men who would thus take delight in ministering consolation to the heart of a successful rival. You have my full and free permission. Go, my son, and through life may your heart be ever thus awake to such generous impulses, yet sustained and controlled by your unwavering devotion to duty and justice.”
CHAPTER XLVIII.
“My life, my health, my liberty, my all!
How shall I welcome thee to this sad place—
How speak to thee the words of joy and transport?
How run into thy arms, withheld by fetters,
Or take thee into mine, while I'm thus manacled
And pinioned like a thief or murderer?”
The Mourning Bride.
How different from the soliloquy of the dark and treacherous Bernard, seeking in the sophistry and casuistry of philosophy to justify his selfishness, were the thoughts of his noble victim! Too brave to fear death, yet too truly great not to feel in all its solemnity the grave importance of the hour; with a soul formed for the enjoyment of this world, yet fully prepared to encounter the awful mysteries of another, the heart of Thomas Hansford beat calmly and healthfully, unappalled by the certainty that on the morrow it would beat no more. He was seated on a rude cot, in the room which was prepared for his brief confinement, reading his Bible. The proud man, who relying on his own strength had braved many dangers, and whose cheek had never blanched from fear of an earthly adversary, was not ashamed in this, his hour of great need, to seek consolation and support from Him who alone could conduct him through the dark valley of the shadow of death.
The passage which he read was one of the sublime strains of the rapt Isaiah, and never had the promise seemed sweeter and dearer to his soul than now, when he could so fully appropriate it to himself.
“Fear not for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by my name; thou art mine.
“When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burnt; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.
“For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy one of Israel, thy Saviour.”
As he read and believed the blessed assurance contained in the sacred promise, he learned to feel that death was indeed but the threshold to a purer world. So absorbed was he in the contemplation of this sublime theme, that he did not hear the door open, and it was some time before he looked up and saw Alfred Bernard and Virginia Temple, who had quietly entered the room.
Virginia's resolution entirely gave way, and violently trembling from head to foot, her hands and brow as white and cold as marble, she well nigh sank under the sickening effect of her agony. For all this she did not weep. There are wounds which never indicate their existence by outward bleeding, and such are esteemed most dangerous. 'Tis thus with the spirit-wounds which despair inflicts upon its victim. Nature yields not to the soul the sad relief of tears, but falling in bitter drops they petrify and crush the sad heart, which they fail to relieve.
Hansford, too, was much moved, but with a greater control of his feelings he said, “And so, you have come to take a last farewell, Virginia. This is very, very kind.”
“I regret,” said Alfred Bernard, “that the only condition on which I gained admittance for Miss Temple was, that I should remain during the interview. Major Hansford will see the necessity of such a precaution, and will, I am sure, pardon an intrusion as painful to me as to himself.”
The reader, who has been permitted to see the secret workings of that black heart, which was always veiled from the world, need not be told that no such precaution was proposed by the Governor. Bernard's object was more selfish; it was to prevent his victim from prejudicing the mind of Virginia towards him, by informing her of the prominent part that he had taken in Hansford's trial and conviction.
“Oh, certainly, sir,” replied Hansford, gratefully, “and I thank you, Mr. Bernard, for thus affording me an opportunity of taking a last farewell of the strongest tie which yet binds me to earth. I had thought till now,” he added, with emotion, “that I was fully prepared to meet my fate. Well, Virginia, the play is almost over, and the last dread scene, tragic though it be, cannot last long.”
“Oh, God!” cried the trembling girl, “help me—help me to bear this heavy blow.”
“Nay, speak not thus, my own Virginia,” he said. “Remember that my lot is but the common destiny of mankind, only hastened a few hours. The leaves, that the chill autumn breath has strewn upon the earth, will be supplied by others in the spring, which in their turn will sport for a season in the summer wind, and fade and die with another year. Thus one generation passes away, and another comes, like them to live, like them to die and be forgotten. We need not fear death, if we have discharged our duty.”
With such words of cold philosophy did Hansford strive to console the sad heart of Virginia.
“'Tis true, the death I die,” he added with a shudder, “is what men call disgraceful—but the heart need feel no fear which is sheltered by the Rock of Ages.”
“And yours is sheltered there, I know,” she said. “The change for you, though sudden and awful, must be happy; but for me! for me!—oh, God, my heart will break!”
“Virginia, Virginia,” said Hansford, tenderly, as he tried with his poor manacled hands to support her almost fainting form, “control yourself. Oh, do not add to my sorrows by seeing you suffer thus. You have still many duties to perform—to soothe the declining years of your old parents—to cheer with your warm heart the many friends who love you—and, may I add,” he continued, with a faltering voice, “that my poor, poor mother will need your consolation. She will soon be without a protector on earth, and this sad news, I fear, will well nigh break her heart. To you, and to the kind hands of her merciful Father in heaven, I commit the charge of my widowed mother. Oh, will you not grant the last request of your own Hansford?”
And Virginia promised, and well and faithfully did she redeem that promise. That widowed mother gained a daughter in the loss of her noble boy, and died blessing the pure-hearted girl, whose soothing affection had sweetened her bitter sorrows, and smoothed her pathway to the quiet grave.
“And now, Mr. Bernard,” said Hansford, “it is useless to prolong this sad interview. We have been enemies. Forgive me if I have ever done you wrong—the prayers of a dying man are for your happiness. Farewell, Virginia, remember me to your kind old father and mother; and look you,” he added, with a sigh, “give this lock of my hair to my poor mother, and tell her that her orphan boy, who died blessing her, requested that she would place it in her old Bible, where I know she will often see it, and remember me when I am gone forever. Once more, Virginia, fare well! Remember, dearest, that this brief life is but a segment of the great circle of existence. The larger segment is beyond the grave. Then live on bravely, as I know you will virtuously, and we will meet in Heaven.”
Without a word, for she dared not speak, Virginia received his last kiss upon her pale, cold forehead, and cherished it there as a seal of love, sacred as the sign of the Redeemer's cross, traced on the infant brow at the baptismal font.
CHAPTER XLIX.
“Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woeful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale,
And then it left me free.
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns,
And till this ghastly tale is told
My heart within me burns.”
Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
The sun shone brightly the next morning, as it rose above the forest of tall pines which surrounded the little village of Accomac; and as its rays stained the long icicles on the evergreen branches of the trees, they looked like the pendant jewels of amber which hung from the ears of the fierce, untutored chieftains of the forest. The air was clear and frosty, and the broad heaven, that hung like a blue curtain above the busy world, seemed even purer and more beautiful than ever. There, calm and eternal, it spread in its unclouded glory, above waters, woods, wilds, as if unmindful of the sorrows and the cares of earth. So hovers the wide providence of the eternal God over his creation, unmoved in its sublime depths by the joys and woes which agitate the mind of man, yet shining over him still, in its clear beauty, and beckoning him upwards!
But on none did the sun shine with more brightness, or the sky smile with more bitter mockery, on that morning, than on the dark forms of Arthur Hutchinson and his young pupil, Alfred Bernard, as they sat together in the embrasure of the window which lightened the little room of the grave old preacher. A terrible revelation was that morning to be made, involving the fate of the young jesuit, and meting out a dread retribution for the crime that he had committed. Arthur Hutchinson had reserved for this day the narrative of the birth and history of Alfred Bernard. It had been a story which he long had desired to know, but to all his urgent inquiries the old preacher had given an evasive reply. But now there was no longer need for mystery. The design of that long silence had been fully accomplished, and thus the stern misanthrope began his narrative:
“It matters little, Alfred Bernard, to speak of my own origin and parentage. Suffice it to say, that though not noble, by the accepted rules of heraldry, my parents were noble in that higher sense, in which all may aspire to true nobility, a patent not granted for bloody feats in arms, nor by an erring man, but granted to true honesty and virtue from the court of heaven. I was not rich, and yet, by self-denial on the part of my parents, and by strict economy on my own part, I succeeded in entering Baliol College, Oxford, where I pursued my studies with diligence and success. This success was more essential, because I could look only to my own resources in my struggle with the world. But, more than this, I had already learned to think and care for another than myself; for I had yielded my young heart to one, who requited my affection with her own. I have long denied myself the luxury of looking back upon the bright image of that fair creature, so fair, and yet so fatal. But for your sake, and for mine own, I will draw aside the veil, which has fallen upon those early scenes, and look at them again.
“Mary Howard was just eighteen years of age, when she plighted her troth to me; and surely never has Heaven placed a purer spirit in a more lovely form. Trusting and affectionate, her warm heart must needs fasten upon something it might love; and because we had been reared together, and she was ignorant of the larger world around her, her love was fixed on me. I will not go back to those bright, joyous days of innocence and happiness. They are gone forever, Alfred Bernard, and I have lived, and now live for another object, than to indulge in the recollection of joy and love. The saddest day of my whole life, except one, and that has darkened all the rest, was when I first left her side to go to college. But still we looked onward with high hope, and many were the castles in the air, or rather the vine clad cottages, which we reared in fancy, for our future home. Hope, Alfred Bernard, though long deferred, it may sicken the heart, yet hope, however faint, is better than despair.
“Well! I went to college, and my love for Mary spurred me on in my career, and honours came easily, but were only prized because she would be proud of them. But though I was a hard student, I was not without my friends, for I had a trusting heart then. Among these, yes, chief among these, was Edward Hansford.”
Bernard started at the mention of that name. He felt that some dark mystery was about to be unravelled, which would establish his connection with the unhappy rebel. Yet he was lost in conjecture as to the character of the revelation.
“I have never in my long experience,” continued Hutchinson, smiling sadly, as he observed the effect produced, “known any man who possessed, in so high a degree, the qualities which make men beloved and honoured. Brave, generous, and chivalrous; brilliant in genius, classical in attainment, profound in intellect. His person was a fit palace for such a mind and such a heart. Yes, I can think of him now as he was, when I first knew him, before crime of the deepest dye had darkened his soul. I loved him as I never had loved a man before, as I never can love a man again. I might forgive the past, I could never trust again.
“Edward returned my love, I believe, with his whole heart. Our studies were the same, our feelings and opinions were congenial, and, in short, in the language of our great bard, we grew 'like a double cherry, only seeming parted.' I made him my confidant, and he used to laugh, in his good humoured way, at my enthusiastic description of Mary. He threatened to fall in love with her, himself, and to win her heart from me, and I dared him to do so, if he could; and even, in my joyous triumph, invited him home with me in vacation, that he might see the lovely conquest I had made. Well, home we went together, and his welcome was all that I or he could wish. Mary, my sweet, confiding Mary, was so kind and gentle, that I loved her only the more, because she loved my friend so much. I never dreamed of jealousy, Alfred Bernard, or I might have seen beforehand the wiles of the insidious tempter. How often have I looked with transport on their graceful forms, as they stood to watch the golden sunset, from that sweet old porch, over which the roses clambered so thickly.
“But why do I thus delay. The story is at last a brief one. It wanted but two days of our return to Oxford, and we were all spending the day together at old farmer Howard's. Mary seemed strangely sad that evening, and whenever I spoke to her, her eyes filled with tears, and she trembled violently. Fool that I was, I attributed her tears and her agitation to her regret at parting from her lover. Little did I suspect the terrible storm which awaited me. Well, we parted, as lovers part, with sighs and tears, but with me, and alas! with me alone in hope. Edward himself looked moody and low-spirited, and I recollect that to cheer him up, I rallied him on being in love with Mary. Never will I forget his look, now that the riddle is solved, as he replied, fixing his clear, intense blue eyes upon me, 'Arthur, the wisest philosophy is, not to trust your all in one venture. He who embarks his hopes and happiness in the heart of one woman, may make shipwreck of them all.'
“'And so you, Mr. Philosopher,' I replied, gaily, 'would live and die an old bachelor. Now, for mine own part, with little Mary's love, I promise you that my baccalaureate degree at Oxford will be the only one to which I will aspire.'
“He smiled, but said nothing, and we parted for the night.
“Early the next morning, even before the sun had risen, I went to his room to wake him—for on that day we were to have a last hunt. We had been laying up a stock of health, by such manly exercises for the coming session. Intimate as I was with him, I did not hesitate to enter his room without announcing myself. To my surprise he was not there, and the bed had evidently not been occupied. As I was about to leave the room, in some alarm, my eye rested upon a letter, which was lying on the table, and addressed to me. With a trembling hand I tore it open, and oh, my God! it told me all—the faithlessness of my Mary, the villainy of my friend.”
“The perfidious wretch,” cried Bernard, with indignation.
“Beware, Alfred Bernard,” said the clergyman; “you know not what you say. My tale is not yet done. I remember every word of that brief letter now—although more than thirty years have since passed over me. It ran thus:
“'Forgive me, Arthur; I meant not to have wronged you when I came, but in an unhappy moment temptation met me, and I yielded. My perfidy cannot be long concealed. Heaven has ordained that the fruit of our mutual guilt shall appear as the witness of my baseness and of Mary's shame. Forgive me, but above all, forgive her, Arthur.'
“This was all. No name was even signed to the death warrant of all my hopes. At that moment a cold chill came over my heart, which has never left it since. That letter was the Medusa which turned it into stone. I did not rave—I did not weep. Believe me, Alfred Bernard, I was as calm at that moment as I am now. But the calmness was more terrible than open wrath. It was the sure indication of deep-rooted, deliberate revenge. I wrote a letter to my father, explaining every thing, and then saddling my horse, I turned his head towards old Howard's cottage, and rode like the lightning.
“The old man was sitting in his shirt sleeves, in the porch. He saw me approach, and in his loud, hearty voice, which fell like fiendish mockery upon my ear, he cried out, 'Hallo, Arthur, my boy, come to say good-bye to your sweetheart again, hey! Well, that's right. You couldn't part like loveyers before the stranger and the old folks. Shall I call my little Molly down?”
“'Old man,' I said, in a hollow, sepulchral voice, 'you have no daughter'—and throwing myself from my horse, I rushed into the house.
“I will not attempt to describe the scene which followed. How the old man rushed to her room, and the truth flashed upon his mind that she had fled with her guilty lover. How he threw himself upon the bed of his lost and ruined daughter, and a stranger before to tears, now wept aloud. And how he prayed with the fervor of one who prays for the salvation of a soul, that God would strike with the lightning of his wrath the destroyer of his peace, the betrayer of his daughter's virtue. Had Edward Hansford witnessed that scene, he had been punished enough even for his guilt.
“Well, he deserted the trusting girl, and she returned to her now darkened home; but, alas, how changed! When her child was born, the innocent offspring of her guilt, in the care attending its nurture, the violent grief of the mother gave way to a calm and settled melancholy. All saw that the iron had entered her soul. Her old father died, blessing and forgiving her, and with touching regard for his memory, she refused to desecrate his pure name, by permitting the child of shame to bear it. She called it after a distant relation, who never heard of the dishonour thus attached to his name. A heart so pure as was the heart of Mary Howard, could not long bear up beneath this load of shame. She lingered about five years after the birth of her boy, and on her dying bed confided the child to me. There in that sacred hour, I vowed to rear and protect the little innocent, and by God's permission I have kept that vow.”
“Oh, tell me, tell me,” said Bernard, wildly, “am I that child of guilt and shame.”
“Alas! Alfred, my son, you are,” said the preacher, “but oh, you know not all the terrible vengeance which a mysterious heaven will this day visit on the children of your father.”
As the awful truth gradually dawned upon him, Bernard cried with deep emotion.
“And Edward Hansford! tell me what became of him?”
“With the most diligent search I could hear nothing of him for years. At length I learned that he had come to Virginia, married a young lady of some fortune and family, and had at last been killed in a skirmish with the Indians, leaving an only son, an infant in arms, the only remaining comfort of his widowed mother.”
“And that son,” cried Bernard, the perspiration bursting from his brow in the agony of the moment.
“Is Thomas Hansford, who, I fear, this day meets his fate by a brother's and a rival's hand.”
“I demand your proof,” almost shrieked the agitated fratricide.
“The name first excited my suspicion,” returned Hutchinson, “and made me warn you from crossing his path, when I saw you the night of the ball at Jamestown. But confirmation was not wanting, for when this morning I visited his cell to administer the last consolations of religion to him, I saw him gazing upon the features in miniature of that very Edward, who was the author of Mary Howard's wrongs.”
With a wild spring, Alfred Bernard bounded through the door, and as he rushed into the street, he heard the melancholy voice of the preacher, as he cried, “Too late, too late.”
Regardless of that cry, the miserable fratricide rushed madly along the path which led to the place of execution, where the Governor and his staff in accordance with the custom of the times had assembled to witness the death of a traitor. The slow procession with the rude sledge on which the condemned man was dragged, was still seen in the distance, and the deep hollow sound of the muffled drum, told him too plainly that the brief space of time which remained, was drawing rapidly to a close. On, on, he sped, pushing aside the surprised populace who were themselves hastening to the gallows, to indulge the morbid passion to see the death and sufferings of a fellow man. The road seemed lengthening as he went, but urged forward by desperation, regardless of fatigue, he still ran swiftly toward the spot. He came to an angle of the road, where for a moment he lost sight of the gloomy spectacle, and in that moment he suffered the pangs of unutterable woe. Still the muffled drum, in its solemn tones assured him that there was yet a chance. But as he strained his eyes once more towards the fatal spot, the sound of merry music and the wild shouts of the populace fell like horrid mockery on his ear, for it announced that all was over.
“Too late, too late,” he shrieked, in horror, as he fell prostrate and lifeless on the ground.
And above that dense crowd, unheeding the wild shout of gratified vengeance that went up to heaven in that fearful moment, the soul of the generous and patriotic Hansford soared gladly on high with the spirits of the just, in the full enjoyment of perfect freedom.
Reader my tale is done! The spirits I have raised abandon me, and as their shadows pass slowly and silently away, the scenes that we have recounted seem like the fading phantoms of a dream.
Yet has custom made it a duty to give some brief account of those who have played their parts in this our little drama. In the present case, the intelligent reader, familiar with the history of Virginia, will require our services but little.
History has relieved us of the duty of describing how bravely Thomas Hansford met his early fate, and how by his purity of life, and his calmness in death, he illustrated the noble sentiment of Corneile, that the crime and not the gallows constitutes the shame.
History has told how William Berkeley, worn out by care and age, yielded his high functions to a milder sway, and returned to England to receive the reward of his rigour in his master's smile; and how that Charles Stuart, who with all his faults was not a cruel man, repulsed the stern old loyalist with a frown, and made his few remaining days dark and bitter.
History has recorded the tender love of Berkeley for his wife, who long mourned his death, and at length dried her widowed tears on the warm and generous bosom of Philip Ludwell.
And lastly, history has recorded how the masculine nature of Sarah Drummond, broken down with affliction and with poverty, knelt at the throne of her king to receive from his justice the broad lands of her husband, which had been confiscated by the uncompromising vengeance of Sir William Berkeley.
Arthur Hutchinson, the victim of the treachery of his early friends, returned to England, and deprived of the sympathy of all, and of the companionship of Bernard, whose society had become essential to his happiness, pined away in obscurity, and died of a broken heart.
Alfred Bernard, the treacherous friend, the heartless lover, the remorseful fratricide, could no longer raise his eyes to the betrothed mistress of his brother. He returned, with his patron, Sir William Berkeley, to his native land; and in the retirement of the old man's desolate home, he led a few years of deep remorse. Upon the death of his patron, his active spirit became impatient of the seclusion in which he had been buried, and true to his religion, if to naught else, he engaged in one of the popish plots, so common in the reign of Charles the Second, and at last met a rebel's fate.
Colonel and Mrs. Temple, lived long and happily in each other's love; administering to the comfort of their bereaved child, and mutually sustaining each other, as they descended the hill of life, until they “slept peacefully together at its foot.” The events of the Rebellion, having been consecrated by being consigned to the glorious past, furnished a constant theme to the old lady—and late in life she was heard to say, that you could never meet now-a-days, such loyalty as then prevailed, nor among the rising generation of powdered fops, and flippant damsels, could you find such faithful hearts as Hansford's and Virginia's.
And Virginia Temple, the gentle and trusting Virginia, was not entirely unhappy. The first agony of despair subsided into a gentle melancholy. Content in the performance of the quiet duties allotted to her, she could look back with calmness and even with a melancholy pleasure to the bright dream of her earlier days. She learned to kiss the rod which had smitten her, and which blossomed with blessings—and purified by affliction, her gentle nature became ripened for the sweet reunion with her Hansford, to which she looked forward with patient hope. The human heart, like the waters of Bethesda, needs often to be troubled to yield its true qualities of health and sweetness. Thus was it with Virginia, and in a peaceful resignation to her Father's will, she lived and passed away, moving through the world, like the wind of the sweet South, receiving and bestowing blessings.
THE END.
Transciber's Notes:
Left inconsistent use of punctuation.
Page 19: Changed Virgnia to Virginia.
Page 210: Changed wantlng to wanting.
Page 228: Changed afaid to afraid.
Page 233: Changed Britian to Britain.
Page 242: Changed beseiged to besieged.
Page 246: Left quote as: It is the cry of women, good, my lord
Page 278: Changed tinings to tidings.
Page 281: Changed requium to requiem.
Page 351: Changed pefidious to perfidious