"Oh fear not but that it will soon heal," said Bernard. "The most dangerous wounds are inflicted here," laying his hand upon his heart; "a wound dealt not by a savage, but by an angel; not from the arrow of the ambushed Indian, but from the quiver of the mischievous little blind boy-and the more fatal, because we insanely delight to inflame the wound instead of seeking to cure it."

"Well really, Mr. Bernard," said Virginia, rallying the gay young euphuist, "the flowers of gallantry which you have brought from Windsor Court, thanks to your fostering care, flourish quite as sweetly in this wilderness of Windsor Hall. Take pity on an illiterate colonial girl, and tell me whether this is the language of Waller, Cowley or Dryden?"

"It is the language of the heart, Miss Temple, on the present occasion at least," said Bernard, gravely; "for I am admonished that it is time I should say farewell. Without flowers or poetry, Miss Virginia, I bid you adieu. May you be happy, and derive from your a.s.sociation with others that high enjoyment which you are so capable of bestowing. Farewell, Major Hansford, we may meet again, I trust, when it will not be necessary to invoke the interposition of a fair mediator to effect a reconciliation."

Hansford well understood the innuendo contained in the last words of Bernard, but taking the well-timed hint, refrained from expressing it more clearly, and gave his hand to his rival with every appearance of cordiality. And Virginia, misconstruing the words of the young jesuit, frankly extended her own hand, which he pressed respectfully to his lips, and then turned silently away.

"Well, I am delighted," said Virginia to her lover, when they were thus left alone, "that you are at last friends with Bernard. You see now that I was right and you were wrong in our estimates of his character."

"Indeed I do not, my dear Virginia; on the contrary, this brief interview has but confirmed my previously formed opinion."

"Oh! that is impossible, Hansford; you are too suspicious, indeed you are. I never saw more refinement and delicacy blended with more real candour. Indeed, Hansford, he is a n.o.ble fellow."

"I am sorry to differ with you, dearest; but to my mind his refinement is naught but Jesuitical craft; his delicacy the result of an educational schooling of the lip, to conceal the real feelings of his heart; and his candour but the gilt washing which appears like gold, but after all, only hides the baser metal beneath it."

"Well, in my life I never heard such perversion! Really, Hansford, you will make me think you are jealous."

"Jealous, Virginia, jealous!" said Hansford, in a sorrowful tone. "Alas!

if I were even capable of such a feeling, what right have I to entertain it? Your heart is free, and torn from the soil which once cherished it, may be transplanted elsewhere, while the poor earth where once it grew can only hope now and then to feel the fragrance which it sheds on all around. No, not jealous, Virginia, whatever else I may be!"

"You speak too bitterly, Hansford; have I not a.s.sured you that though a harsh fate may sever us; though parental authority may deny you my hand, yet my heart is unalterably yours. But tell me, why it is that you can see nothing good in this young man, and persist in perverting every sentiment, every look, every expression to his injury?"

Before Hansford could reply, the shrill voice of Mrs. Temple was heard, crying out; "Virginia Temple, Virginia Temple, why where can the child have got to!"-and at the same moment the old lady came bustling round the house, and discovered the unlawful interview of the lovers.

Rising hastily from her seat, Virginia advanced to her mother, who, without giving her time to speak, even had she been so inclined, sang out at the top of her voice-"Come along, my daughter. Here are the guests in your father's house kept waiting in the porch to tell you good-bye, and you, forsooth, must be talking, the Lord knows what, to that young scape-gallows yonder, who hasn't modesty enough to know when and where he's wanted."

"Dear mother, don't speak so loud," whispered the poor girl.

"Don't talk so loud, forsooth-and why? They that put themselves where they are not wanted and not asked, must expect to hear ill of themselves."

"There comes my pretty Jeanie," said her old father, as he saw her approach. "And so you found her at last, mother. Come here, dearest, we have been waiting for you."

The sweet tones of that gentle voice, which however harsh at times to others, were ever modulated to the sweetest music when he spoke to her, fell upon the ears of the poor confused and mortified girl, in such comforting accents, that the full heart could no longer restrain its gushing feelings, and she burst into tears. With swollen eyes and with a heavy heart she bade adieu to the several guests, and as Sir William Berkeley, in the mistaken kindness of his heart, kissed her cheek, and whispered that Bernard would soon return and all would be happy again, she sobbed as if her gentle heart would break.

"I always tell the Colonel that he ruins the child," said Mrs. Temple to the Governor, with one of her blandest smiles, on seeing this renewed exhibition of sensibility. "It was not so in our day, Lady Frances; we had other things to think about than crying and weeping. Tears were not so shallow then."

Lady Frances Berkeley nodded a stately acquiescence to this tribute to the stoicism of the past, and made some sage, original and relevant reflection, that shallow streams ever were the most noisy-and then kissing the weeping girl, repeated the grateful a.s.surance that Bernard would not be long absent, and that she herself would be present at the happy bridal, to taste the bride's cake and quaff the knitting cup,[46]

with other like consolations well calculated to restore tranquillity and happiness to the bosom of the disconsolate Virginia.

And so the unfortunate Berkeley commenced that fatal flight, which contributed so largely to divert the arms of the insurgents from the Indians to the government, and to change what else might have been a mere unauthorized attack upon the common enemies of the country into a protracted and b.l.o.o.d.y civil war.

Hansford did not long remain at Windsor Hall, after the departure of the loyalists. He would indeed have been wanting in astuteness if he had not inferred from the direct language of Mrs. Temple that he was an unwelcome visitant at the mansion. But more important, if not more cogent reasons urged his immediate departure. He saw at a glance the fatal error committed by Berkeley in his flight to Accomac, and the immense advantage it would be to the insurgents. He wished, therefore, without loss of time to communicate the welcome intelligence to Bacon and his followers, who, he knew, were anxiously awaiting the result of his mission.

Ordering his horse, he bade a cordial adieu to the good old colonel, who, as he shook his hand, said, with a tear in his eye, "Oh, my boy, my boy! if your head were as near right as I believe your heart is, how I would love to welcome you to my bosom as my son."

"I hope, my kind, my n.o.ble friend," said Hansford, "that the day may yet come when you will see that I am not wholly wrong. G.o.d knows I would almost rather err with you than to be right with any other man." Then bidding a kind farewell to Mrs. Temple and Virginia, to which the old lady responded with due civility, but without cordiality, he vaulted into the saddle and rode off-and as long as the house was still in view, he could see the white 'kerchief of Virginia from the open window, waving a last fond adieu to her unhappy lover.

FOOTNOTES:

[46] A cup drunk at the marriage ceremony in honour of the bride.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

"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, pa.s.s 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 personae 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 pet.i.tion of Morryson, Ludwell & Smith, for a reformed charter for the colony, the pet.i.tioners 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 t.i.tle of Queen of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, by the Grace of G.o.d, 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 const.i.tutional 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 a.s.sembly. It is but just to the memory of this great man to say, that this a.s.sembly, 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 const.i.tution 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.sed 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 x.x.xIII.

"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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s to victory."

"G.o.d bless your n.o.ble 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 const.i.tuted the incentives to Hansford. It was this that in the hour of their need sustained the heart of Hansford, while the more selfish but n.o.ble 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.s away and mingle with the dust of the veriest worm which crawls upon the earth. Oh, G.o.d! 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!"