CHAPTER XXXI.
“And smile, and smile, and smile, and be a villain.”
King John.
Great was the horror of the loyalists, on the following morning, at the discovery of the horrible crime which had been perpetrated; but still greater was the mystery as to who was the guilty party. There was no mode of getting admittance to the house in which Berkenhead was confined, except through the door, the key of which was in the possession of Alfred Bernard. Even if the position and standing of this young man had not repelled the idea that he was cognizant of the crime, his own unfeigned surprise at the discovery, and the absence of any motive for its commission, acquitted him in the minds of all. And yet, if this hypothesis was avoided, it was impossible to form any rational theory on the subject. There were but two persons connected with the establishment who could be presumed to have any plausible motive for murdering Berkenhead. Hansford might indeed be suspected of a desire to suppress evidence which would be dangerous to his own safety, but then Hansford was himself in close confinement. Mamalis, too, had manifested a spirit, the evening before, towards the unhappy man, which might very naturally subject her to suspicion; but, besides that, she played her part of surprise to perfection—it could not be conceived how she had gotten possession of the key of the room. The sentinel might indeed have thrown much light upon the subject, but he kept his own counsel for fear of the consequences of disobedience to orders; and he boldly asserted that no one had left the house during the night. This evidence, taken in connection with the fact that the young girl was found sleeping, as usual, in the little room adjoining Virginia's chamber, entirely exculpated her from any participation in the crime. Nothing then was left for it, but to suppose that the unhappy man, in a fit of desperation, had himself put a period to his existence. A little investigation might have easily satisfied them that such an hypothesis was as groundless as the rest; for it was afterwards ascertained by Colonel Temple, after a strict search, that no weapon was found on or near the body, nor in the apartment where it lay. But Sir William Berkeley, anxious to proceed upon his way to Accomac, and caring but little, perhaps, for the fate of a rebel, whose life was probably shortened but a few hours, gave the affair a very hurried and summary examination. Bernard, with his quick sagacity, discovered, or at least shrewdly suspected, the truth, and Mamalis felt, as he fixed his dark eyes upon her, that he had read the mystery of her heart. But, for his own reasons, the villain for the present maintained the strictest silence on the subject.
But this catastrophe, so fatal to Berkenhead, was fortunate for young Hansford. The Governor, more true to his word to loyalists than he had hitherto been to the insurgents, released our hero from imprisonment, in the absence of any testimony against him. And, to the infinite chagrin of Alfred Bernard, his rival, once more at liberty, was again, in the language of the treacherous Plantagenet, “a very serpent in his way.” He had too surely discovered, that so long as Hansford lived, the heart of Virginia Temple, or what he valued far more, her hand, could never be given to another; and yet he felt, that if he were out of the way, and that heart, though widowed, free to choose again, the emotions of mistaken gratitude would prompt her to listen with favour to his suit. With all his faults, too, and with his mercenary motives, Bernard was not without a feeling, resembling love, for Virginia. We are told that there are fruits and flowers which, though poisonous in their native soil, when transplanted and cherished under more genial circumstances, become at once fair to the eye and wholesome to the taste. It is thus with love. In the wild, sterile heart of Alfred Bernard it had taken root, and poisoned all his nature; but yet it was the same emotion which shed a genial influence over the manly heart of Hansford. If it had been otherwise, there were some as fair, and many far more wealthy, in his adopted colony, than Virginia Temple. But she was at once adapted to his interests, his passions, and his intellect. She could aid his vaulting ambition by sharing with him her wealth; she could control, by the strength of her character, and the sweetness of her disposition, his own wild nature; and she could be the instructive and congenial companion of his intellect. And all this rich treasure might be his but for the existence, the rivalry of the hated Hansford. Still his ardent nature led him to hope. With all his heart he would engage in quelling the rebellion, which he foresaw was about to burst upon the colony; and then revenge, the sweetest morsel to the jealous mind, was his. Meantime, he must look the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it; and curbing his own feelings, must, under pretence of friendship and interest for a rival, continue to plot his ruin. Alfred Bernard was equal to the task.
It was with these feelings that he sought Virginia Temple on the eve of his departure from Windsor Hall. The young girl was seated, with her lover, on a rude, rustic bench, beneath the large oak where Bernard had, the evening before, had an interview with the unfortunate Berkenhead. As he approached, she rose, and with her usual winning frankness of manner, she extended her hand.
“Come, Mr. Bernard,” she said, “I have determined that you and Major Hansford shall be friends.”
“Most willingly, on my part,” said the smooth-tongued Bernard. “And I think I have given the best evidence of my disposition to be so, by aiding feebly in restoring to Miss Temple an old friend, when she must now so soon part with her more recent acquaintance.”
“I am happy to think,” said Hansford, whose candour prevented him from suppressing entirely the coldness of his manner, “that I am indebted to Mr. Bernard for any interest he may have taken in my behalf. I hope, sir, you will now add to the obligation under which I at present rest to you, by apprising me in what manner you have so greatly obliged me.”
“Why, you must be aware,” replied Bernard, “that your present freedom from restraint is due to my interposition with Sir William Berkeley.”