Hansford: A Tale of Bacon's Rebellion Part 9

"My child, my child," shrieked her mother, who was the first to speak, "what on earth is the matter?"

"Yes, Hansford, in the devil's name, what is to pay?" said the old colonel. "Why, Jeanie," he added, taking the fair girl tenderly in his arms, "you are not half the heroine you were when the Indians were here.

There now, that's a sweet girl, open your blue eyes and tell old father what is the matter."

"Nothing, dear father," said Virginia, faintly, as she slowly opened her eyes. "I have been very foolish, that's all."

"Nay, Jeanie, it takes more than nothing or folly to steal the bloom away from these rosy cheeks."

"Perhaps the young gentleman can explain more easily," said Bernard, fixing his keen eyes on his rival. "A little struggle, perhaps, between love and loyalty."

"Mr. Bernard, with all his shrewdness, would probably profit by the reflection," said Hansford, coldly, "that as a stranger here, his opinions upon a matter of purely family concern, are both unwelcome and impertinent."

"May be so," replied Bernard with a sneer; "but scarcely more unwelcome than the gross and continued deception practised by yourself towards those who have honoured you with their confidence."

Hansford, stung by the remark, laid his hand upon his sword, but was withheld by Colonel Temple, who cried out with impatience,

"Why, what the devil do you mean? Zounds, it seems to me that my house is bewitched to-day. First those cursed Indians, with their infernal yells, threatening death and destruction to all and sundry; then my daughter here, playing the fool before my face, according to her own confession; and lastly, a couple of forward boys picking a quarrel with one another after a few hours' acquaintance. d.a.m.n it, Tom, you were wont to have a plain tongue in your head. Tell me, what is the matter?"

"My kind old friend," said Hansford, with a tremulous voice, "I would fain have reserved for your private ear, an explanation which is now rendered necessary by that insolent minion, whose impertinence had already received the chastis.e.m.e.nt it deserves, but for an unfortunate interruption."

"Nay, Tom," said the Colonel, "no harsh words. Remember this young man is my guest, and as such, ent.i.tled to respect from all under my roof."

"Well then, sir," continued Hansford, "this young lady's agitation was caused by the fact that I have lately pursued a course, which, while I believe it to be just and honourable, I fear will meet with but little favour in your eyes."

"As much in the dark as ever," said the Colonel, perplexed beyond measure, for his esteem for Hansford prevented him from suspecting the true cause of his daughter's disquiet. "d.a.m.n it, man, Davus sum non dipus. Speak out plainly, and if your conduct has been, as you say, consistent with your honour, trust to an old friend to forgive you.

Zounds, boy, I have been young myself, and can make allowance for the waywardness of youth. Been gaming a little too high, hey; well, the rest[19] was not so low in my day, but that I can excuse that, if you didn't 'pull down the side.'"[20]

"I would fain do the young man a service, for I bear him no ill-will, though he has treated me a little harshly," said Bernard, as he saw Hansford silently endeavouring to frame a reply in the most favourable terms, "I see he is ashamed of his cause, and well he may be; for you must know that he has become a great man of late, and has linked his fate to a certain Nathaniel Bacon."

The old loyalist started as he heard this unexpected announcement, then with a deep sigh, which seemed to come from his very soul, he turned to Hansford and said, "My boy, deny the foul charge; say it is not so."

"It is, indeed, true," replied Hansford, mournfully, "but when-"

"But when the devil!" cried the old man, bursting into a fit of rage; "and you expect me to stand here and listen to your justification.

Zounds, sir, I would feel like a traitor myself to hear you speak. And this is the serpent that I have warmed and cherished at my hearth-stone.

Out of my house, sir!"

"To think," chimed in Mrs. Temple, for once agreeing fully with her husband, "how near our family, that has always prided itself on its loyalty, was being allied to a traitor. But he shall never marry Virginia, I vow."

"No, by G.o.d," said the enraged loyalist; "she should rot in her grave first."

"Miss Temple is already released from her engagement," said Hansford, recovering his calmness in proportion as the other party lost their's.

"She is free to choose for herself, sir."

"And that choice shall never light on you, apostate," cried Temple, "unless she would bring my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave."

"And mine, too," said the old lady, beginning to weep.

"I will not trouble you longer with my presence," said Hansford, proudly, "except to thank you for past kindness, which I can never forget. Farewell, Colonel Temple, I respect your prejudices, though they have led you to curse me. Farewell, Mrs. Temple, I will ever think of your generous hospitality with grat.i.tude. Farewell, Virginia, forget that such a being as Thomas Hansford ever darkened your path through life, and think of our past love as a dream. I can bear your forgetfulness, but not your hate. For you, sir," he added, turning to Alfred Bernard, "let me hope that we will meet again, where no interruption will prevent our final separation."

With these words, Hansford, his form proudly erect, but his heart bowed down with sorrow, slowly left the house.

"Are you not a Justice of the Peace?" asked Bernard, with a meaning look.

"And what is that to you, sir?" replied the old man, suspecting the design of the question.

"Only, sir, that as such it is your sworn duty to arrest that traitor. I know it is painful, but still it is your duty."

"And who the devil told you to come and teach me my duty, sir?" said the old man, wrathfully. "Let me tell you, sir, that Tom Hansford, with all his faults, is a d-d sight better than a great many who are free from the stain of rebellion. Rebellion!-oh, my G.o.d!-poor, poor Tom."

"Nay, then, sir," said Bernard, meekly, "I beg your pardon. I only felt it my duty to remind you of what you might have forgotten. G.o.d forbid that I should wish to endanger the life of a poor young man, whose only fault may be that he was too easily led away by others."

"You are right, by G.o.d," said the Colonel, quickly. "He is the victim of designing men, and yet I never said a word to reclaim him. Oh, I have acted basely and not like a friend. I will go now and bring him back, wife; though if he don't repent-zounds!-neither will I; no, not for a million friends."

So saying, the n.o.ble-hearted old loyalist, whose impulsive nature was as prompt to redeem as to commit an error, started from the room to reclaim his lost boy. It was too late. Hansford, antic.i.p.ating the result of the fatal revelation, had ordered his horse even before his first interview with Virginia. The old Colonel only succeeded in catching a glimpse of him from the porch, as at a full gallop he disappeared through the forest.

With a heavy sigh he returned to the study, there to meet with the consolations of his good wife, which were contained in the following words:

"Well, I hope and trust he is gone, and will never darken our doors again. You know, my dear, I always told you that you were wrong about that young man, Hansford. There always seemed to be a lack of frankness and openness in his character, and although I do not like to interpose my objections, yet I never altogether approved of the match. You know I always told you so."

"Told the devil!" cried the old man, goaded to the very verge of despair by this new torture. "I beg your pardon, Bessy, for speaking so hastily, but, d.a.m.n it, if all the angels in Heaven had told me that Tom Hansford could prove a traitor, I would not have believed it."

And how felt she, that wounded, trusting one, who thus in a short day had seen the hopes and dreams of happiness, which fancy had woven in her young heart, all rudely swept away! 'Twere wrong to lift the veil from that poor stricken heart, now torn with grief too deep for words-too deep, alas! for tears. With her cheek resting on her white hand, she gazed tearlessly, but vacantly, towards the forest where he had so lately vanished as a dream. To those who spoke to her, she answered sadly in monosyllables, and then turned her head away, as if it were still sweet to cherish thus the agony which consumed her. But the bitterest drop in all this cup of woe, was the self-reproach which mingled with her recollection of that sad scene. When he had frankly given back her troth, she, alas! had not stayed his hand, nor by a word had told him how truly, even in his guilt, her heart was his. And now, she thought, when thus driven harshly into the cold world, his only friends among the enemies to truth, his enemies its friends, how one little word of love, or even of pity, might have redeemed him from error, or at least have cheered him in his dark career.

But bear up bravely, sweet one; for heavier, darker sorrows yet must cast their shadows on thy young heart, ere yet its warm pulsations cease to beat, and it be laid at rest.

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Rest was the prescribed limit to the size of the venture.

[20] To pull down the side was a technical term with our ancestors for cheating.

CHAPTER XII.

"Wounded in both my honour and my love; They have pierced me in two tender parts.

Yet, could I take my just revenge, It would in some degree a.s.suage my smart."

_Vanbrugh._

It was at an early hour on the following morning that the queer old chariot of Colonel Temple-one of the few, by the way, which wealth had as yet introduced into the colony-was drawn up before the door. The two horses of the gentlemen were standing ready saddled and bridled, in the care of the hostler. In a few moments, the ladies, all dressed for the journey, and the gentlemen, with their heavy spurs, long, clanging swords, and each with a pair of horseman's pistols, issued from the house into the yard. The old lady, declaring that they were too late, and that, if her advice had been taken, they would have been half way to Jamestown, was the first to get into the carriage, armed with a huge basket of bread, beef's tongue, cold ham and jerked venison, which was to supply the place of dinner on the road. Virginia, pale and sad, but almost happy at any change from scenes where every object brought up some recollection of the banished Hansford, followed her mother; and the large trunk having been strapped securely behind the carriage, and the band-box, containing the old lady's tire for the ball and other light articles of dress, having been secured, the little party were soon in motion.

The hope and joy with which Virginia had looked forward to this trip to Jamestown had been much enhanced by the certainty that Hansford would be there. With the joyousness of her girlish heart, she had pictured to herself the scene of pleasure and festivity which awaited her. The Lady Frances' birth-day, always celebrated at the palace with the voice of music and the graceful dance-with the presence of the n.o.blest cavaliers from all parts of the colony, and the smiles of the fairest damsels who lighted the society of the Old Dominion-was this year to be celebrated with unusual festivities. But, alas! how changed were the feelings of Virginia now!-how blighted were the hopes which had blossomed in her heart!

Their road lay for the most part through a beautiful forest, where the tall poplar, the hickory, the oak and the chestnut were all indigenous, and formed an avenue shaded by their broad branches from the intense rays of the summer sun. Now and then the horses were startled at the sudden appearance of some fairy-footed deer, as it bounded lightly but swiftly through the woods; or at the sudden whirring of the startled pheasant, as she flew from their approach; or the jealous gobble of the stately turkey, as he led his strutting dames into his thicket-harem.

The nimble grey squirrel, too, chattered away saucily in his high leafy nest, secure from attack from his very insignificance. Birds innumerable were seen flitting from branch to branch, and tuning their mellow voices as choristers in this forest-temple of Nature. The song of the thrush and the red-bird came sweetly from the willows, whose weeping branches overhung the neighbouring banks of a broad stream; the distant dove joined her mournful melody to their cheerful notes, and the woodp.e.c.k.e.r, on the blasted trunk of some stricken oak, tapped his rude ba.s.s in unison with the happy choir of the forest.