Hansford: A Tale of Bacon's Rebellion Part 15

"And long shall the maidens remember her love, And heroes shall dwell on his story; She died in her constancy like the lone dove, But he like an eagle in glory.

"Oh let the dark cypress mourn over her grave, And light rest the green turf upon her; While over his ashes the laurel shall wave, For he sleeps in the proud bed of honour."

The reader need not be told that this simple little ballad derived new beauty from the feeling with which Virginia sang it. The remote connection of its story with her own love imparted additional sadness to her sweet voice, and as she dwelt on the last line, her eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled. Bernard marked the effect which had been produced, and a thrill of jealousy shot through his heart at seeing this new evidence of the young girl's constancy.

But while he better understood her feelings than others around her, all admired the plaintive manner in which she had rendered the sentiment of the song, and attributed her emotion to her own refined appreciation and taste. Many were the compliments which were paid to the fair young minstrel by old and young; by simpering beaux and generous maidens. Sir William Berkeley, himself, gallantly kissed her cheek, and said that Lady Frances might well be jealous of so fair a rival; and added, that if he were only young again, Windsor Hall might be called upon to yield its fair inmate to adorn the palace of the Governor of Virginia.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"Give me more love or more disdain, The torrid or the frozen zone; Bring equal ease unto my pain, The temperate affords me none; Either extreme of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate."-_Thomas Carew._

While Virginia thus received the meed of merited applause at the hands of all who were truly generous, there were some then, as there are many now, in whose narrow and sterile hearts the success of another is ever a sufficient incentive to envy and depreciation. Among these was a young lady, who had hitherto been the especial favourite of Alfred Bernard, and to whom his attentions had been unremittingly paid. This young lady, Miss Matilda Bray, the daughter of one of the councillors, vented her spleen and jealousy in terms to the following purport, in a conversation with the amiable and accomplished Caroline Ballard.

"Did you ever, Caroline, see any thing so forward as that Miss Temple?"

"I am under a different impression," replied her companion. "I was touched by the diffidence and modesty of her demeanor."

"I don't know what you call diffidence and modesty; screeching here at the top of her voice and drowning every body's conversation. Do you think, for instance, that you or I would presume to sing in as large a company as this-with every body gazing at us like a show."

"No, my dear Matilda, I don't think that we would. First, because no one would be mad enough to ask us; and, secondly, because if we did presume, every body would be stopping their ears, instead of admiring us with their eyes."

"Speak for yourself," retorted Matilda. "I still hold to my opinion, that it was impertinent to be stopping other people's enjoyment to listen to her."

"On the contrary, I thought it a most welcome interruption, and I believe that most of the guests, as well as Sir William Berkeley, himself, concurred with me in opinion."

"Well, I never saw any body so spiteful as you've grown lately, Caroline. There's no standing you. I suppose you will say next that this country girl is beautiful too, with her cotton head and blue china eyes."

"I am a country girl myself, Matilda," returned Caroline, "and as for the beauty of Miss Temple, whatever I may think, I believe that our friend, Mr. Bernard, is of that opinion."

"Oh, you needn't think, with your provoking laugh," said Miss Bray, "that I care a fig for Mr. Bernard's attention to her."

"I didn't say so."

"No, but you thought so, and you know you did; and what's more, it's too bad that you should take such a delight in provoking me. I believe it's all jealousy at last."

"Jealousy, my dear Matilda," said her companion, "is a jaundiced jade, that thinks every object is of its own yellow colour. But see, the dance is about to commence again, and here comes my partner. You must excuse me." And with a smile of conscious beauty, Caroline Ballard gave her hand to the handsome young gallant who approached her.

Bernard and Virginia, too, rose from their seats, but, to the surprise of Matilda Bray, they did not take their places in the dance, but walked towards the door. Bernard saw how his old flame was writhing with jealousy, and as he pa.s.sed her he said, maliciously,

"Good evening, Miss Matilda; I hope you are enjoying the ball."

"Oh, thank you, exceedingly," said Miss Bray, patting her foot hysterically on the floor, and darting from her fine black eyes an angry glance, which gave the lie to her words.

Leaving her to digest her spleen at her leisure, the handsome pair pa.s.sed out of the ball-room and into the lawn. It was already thronged with merry, laughing young people, who, wearied with dancing, were promenading through the gravelled walks, or sitting on the rural benches, arranged under the spreading trees.

"Oh, this is really refreshing," said the young girl, as she smoothed back her tresses from her brow, to enjoy the delicious river breeze.

"Those rooms were very oppressive."

"I scarcely found them so," said Bernard, gallantly; "for when the mind is agreeably occupied we soon learn to forget any inconvenience to which the body may be subjected. But I knew you would enjoy a walk through this fine lawn."

"Oh, indeed I do; and truly, Mr. Bernard," said the ingenuous girl, "I have much to thank you for. Nearly a stranger in Jamestown, you have made my time pa.s.s happily away, though I fear you have deprived yourself of the society of others far more agreeable."

"My dear Miss Temple, I will not disguise from you, even to retain your good opinion of my generosity, the fact that my attention has not been so disinterested as you suppose."

"I thank you, sir," said Virginia, "for the compliment; but I am afraid that I have not been so agreeable, in return for your civility, as I should. You were witness to a scene, Mr. Bernard, which would make it useless to deny that I have much reason to be sad; and it makes me more unhappy to think that I may affect others by my gloom."

"I know to what you allude," replied Bernard, "and believe me, fair girl, sweeter to me is this sorrow in your young heart, than all the gaudy glitter of those vain children of fashion whom we have left. But, alas! I myself have much cause to be sad-the future looms darkly before me, and I see but little left in life to make it long desirable."

"Oh, say not so," said Virginia, moved by the air of deep melancholy which Bernard had a.s.sumed, but mistaking its cause. "You are young yet, and the future should be bright. You have talents, acquirements, everything to ensure success; and the patronage and counsel of Sir William Berkeley will guide you in the path to honourable distinction.

Fear not, my friend, but trust hopefully in the future."

"There is one thing, alas!" said Bernard, in the same melancholy tone, "without which success itself would scarcely be desirable."

"And what is that?" said the young girl, artlessly. "Believe me, you will always find in me, Mr. Bernard, a warm friend, and a willing if not an able counsellor."

"But this is not all," cried Bernard, pa.s.sionately. "Does not your own heart tell you that there must be something more than friendship to satisfy the longings of a true heart? Oh, Virginia-yes, permit me to call you by a name now doubly dear to me, as the home of my adoption and as the object of my earnest love. Dearest Virginia, sweet though it be to the heart of a lonely orphan, drifting like a sailless vessel in this rugged world, to have such a friend, yet sweeter far would it be to live in the sunlight of your love."

"Mr. Bernard!" exclaimed Virginia, with unfeigned surprise.

"Nay, dearest, do you, can you wonder at this revelation? I had striven, but in vain, to conceal a hope which I knew was too daring. Oh, do not by a word destroy the faint ray which has struggled so bravely in my heart."

"Mr. Bernard," said Virginia, as she withdrew her arm from his, "I can no longer permit this. If your feelings be such as you profess, and as I believe they are-for I know your nature to be honorable-I regret that I can only respect a sentiment which I can never return."

"Oh, say not thus, my own Virginia, just as a new life begins to dawn upon me. At least be not so hasty in a sentence which seals my fate forever."

"I am not too hasty," replied Virginia. "But I would think myself unworthy of the love you have expressed, if I held out hopes which can never be realized. You know my position is a peculiar one. My hand but not my heart is disengaged. Nor could you respect the love of a woman who could so soon forget one with whom she had promised to unite her destiny through life. I have spoken thus freely, Mr. Bernard, because I think it due to your feelings, and because I am a.s.sured that what I say is entrusted to an honourable man."

"Indeed, my dear Miss Temple, if such you can only be to me," said her wily lover, "I do respect from my heart your constancy to your first love. That unwavering devotion to another, whom I esteem, because he is loved by you, only makes you more worthy to be won. May I not still hope that time may supply the niche, made vacant in your heart, by another whose whole life shall be devoted to the one object of making you happy?"

"Mr. Bernard, candour compels me to say no, my friend; there are vows which even time, with its destroying hand can never erase, and which are rendered stronger and more sacred by the very circ.u.mstances which prevent their accomplishment. Fate, my friend, may interpose her stern decree and forever separate me from the presence of Mr. Hansford, but my heart is still unchangeably his. Ha! what is that?" she added, with a faint scream, as from the little summer-house, which we have before described, there came a deep, prolonged groan.

As she spoke, and as Bernard laid his hand upon his sword to avenge himself upon the intruder, a dark figure issued from the door of the arbor, and stood before them. The young man stood appalled as he recognized by the uncertain light of a neighbouring lamp, the dark, swarthy features of Master Hutchinson, the chaplain of the Governor.

"Put up your sword, young man," said the preacher, gravely; "they who use the sword shall perish by the sword."

"In the devil's name," cried Bernard, forgetful of the presence of Virginia, "how came you here?"

"Not to act the spy at least," said Hutchinson, "such is not my character. Suffice it to say, that I came as you did, to enjoy this fresh air-and sought the quiet of this arbour to be free from the intrusion of others. I have lived too long to care for the frivolities which I have heard, and your secret is safe in my breast-a repository of many a darker confidence than that." With these words the bent form of the melancholy preacher pa.s.sed out of their sight.

"A singular man," said Bernard, in a troubled voice, "but entirely innocent in his conduct. An abstracted book-worm, he moves through the world like a stranger in it. Will you return now?"

"Thank you," said Virginia, "most willingly-for I confess my nerves are a little unstrung by the fright I received. And now, my friend, pardon me for referring to what has pa.s.sed, but you will still be my friend, won't you?"

"Oh, certainly," said Bernard, in an abstracted manner. "I wonder," he muttered "what he could have meant by that hideous groan?"