TYRREL RETREATS.
The next morning Tyrrel rose with the sun. He had passed a restless
night, and now sought refreshment in the early breeze. With this purpose
he descended to the river, and strayed along the dewy pathway which
crept through the shrubbery on the right bank in the direction of the
Fawn's Tower. He had not wandered far before he perceived a horseman
moving along the road upon the opposite side.
"Halloo, James Curry!--which way?--What news have you?"
"I seek you, sir, I was on my way to the Dove Cote," replied the
horseman, who at the same time turned his horse's head to the river,
and, spurring the animal forward, plunged into the stream which was here
still and deep enough to reach above his saddle flaps. After some
floundering, the horse and rider gained the margin, where Tyrrel awaited
them! The vigor of the animal, as well as the practised hand that held
the rein, was shown in the boldness of the attempt to climb the steep
bank and break through the briers and bushes that here guarded it. As
soon as Curry reached the level ground, he dismounted.
"In God's name, man, what is the matter with your face?" asked Tyrrel.
"It is of that, amongst other things, that I came to speak to you," was
the reply; "I have news for you."
"Speak, without prelude. Tell me."
"Major Butler slept last night at Mrs. Dimock's."
"And is there still?"
"No, sir. He started at early dawn this morning."
"To join Gates?"
"I think not. He talked of going to Ninety-Six--perhaps to Georgia."
"So, ho! The hawk hovers over that field! Does he travel alone?"
"He has a giant in his company, a great ploughman by the name of Horse
Shoe Robinson. A quarrelsome rascal; he would needs pick a quarrel with
me last night. And in the skirmish I got this face."
"Did I not command you to bear yourself peaceably? Fool! will you risk
our lives with your infernal broils? Now, I would wager you told the
fellow your name."
"Little need of that, sir. He told it to me: said he knew me before. The
fellow, for all his rough coat, is a regular trained soldier in the
rebel service, and has met me somewhere--Heaven knows!--I don't remember
him; yet he isn't a man to see once and forget again."
"And me, did he speak of me?"
"He knew that I was in the employ of an English gentleman who was here
at the Dove Cote. I have nothing especial to complain of in the man. He
speaks soldierly enough; he said he would take no advantage of me for
being here as long as our visit was peaceable."
"Humph! And you believed him. And you must fight with him, like a
brawling knave. When will you get an ounce of wit into that fool's head!
What time of day was it when this Butler arrived?"
"Long after night-fall."
"Did you understand any thing of the purpose of his visit?"
"He talked much with Mistress Dimock, and I think their conversation
related to the lady at the Dove Cote. I could hear but a few scattered
words."
"Away.--Here (throwing his purse to the horseman), pay up your score at
the inn, and at your greatest haste attend me on the river bank,
immediately below Mr. Lindsay's house. Ask Mrs. Dimock to have a
breakfast prepared for me.--Away, I will expect you in half an hour."
Curry mounted his horse, and choosing a more convenient ford than that
which he had passed (for the jutting rocks, on this side, prevented his
reaching Mrs. Dimock's without recrossing the river to the road), he
soon regained the track, and was seen, almost at high speed, sweeping
around the base of the Fawn's Tower.
Tyrrel returned hastily to the Dove Cote, and, seeking his valet, gave
orders to have his portmanteau packed, his horse saddled and to be in
waiting for him at the foot of the hill. These commands were speedily
obeyed, and everything was in readiness for his journey before any of
the family had made their appearance in the breakfast room.
Whilst Tyrrel meditated writing a line to explain to Lindsay his present
sudden movement, and had drawn near a table for that purpose, he was
saluted by the voice of Henry, who had entered the apartment, and stolen
unobserved almost immediately behind his chair.
"Booted and spurred, Mr. Tyrrel!" said Henry. "You are for a ride. Will
you take a fowling-piece? There are pheasants over upon the hills."
"Oh, ho! Master Henry, you are up! I am glad of it. I was just writing a
word to say that business calls me away this morning. Is your father yet
abed?"
"He is sound asleep," said Henry; "I will wake him."
"No, my lad. You must not do that. Say I have received news this morning
that has called me suddenly to my friends. I will return before long. Is
your sister stirring?"
"She was in the garden but a moment since," replied Henry; and the young
man left the room, to which he returned after a short space. "Sister
Mildred is engaged in her chamber, and begs you will excuse her," said
he, as he again entered the door.
"Tush, Henry, I didn't tell you to interrupt your sister. Make her my
most respectful adieu. Don't forget it. I have all my way to win," he
said to himself, "and a rough road to travel, I fear."
Tyrrel now left the house and descended to the river, accompanied by
Henry, who sought in vain to know why he departed in such haste as not
to stay for breakfast. James Curry waited below; and, when Henry saw his
father's guest mount in his saddle and cross the ford, attended by his
two servants, he turned about and clambered up the hill again, half
singing and half saying to him self,--"I'm glad he's gone, I'm glad he's
gone," accompanied with a trolling chorus, expressive of the
satisfaction of his feelings at the moment. "He'd a got a flea in his
ear, if he had stay'd. I should like to know what Major Butler would say
to Mr. Tyrrel, if he was to meet him. Zooks! may be Butler will see him
this very morning at Mrs. Dimock's. Now, I wonder! Shall I whisper that
to sister Mildred? She would be glad, for one, I'll be bound! May be,
they might have a fight. And if they do, let Mr. Tyrrel look out! He
never had his bread so buttered in his life, as it would be then."
In such a strain of cogitation and conjecture, Henry reached the parlor,
where he found Mildred. The melancholy that hung upon her spirits, the
evening before, seemed to have been dispelled by the repose of the
night, and was doubtless relieved, in part, by the intelligence that
Tyrrel had quitted the Dove Cote.
"Come, sister," said Henry, throwing his arm round her waist, and almost
dancing, as he forced her through the open window, "come, it will be a
good while before father is ready for his breakfast. Let us look at your
flowers; I have something to tell you."
"You are quite an important personage, this morning," replied Mildred,
moving off towards the lawn with her brother. "Your face looks as wise
as a book of proverbs."
It was some time before the brother and sister returned to the parlor,
and when they did so, their father had not yet appeared. The delay was
unusual; for Lindsay generally rose at an early hour, and frequently
walked abroad before his morning meal. When he at last entered the room,
there was an expression of care and thought upon his brow that made him
haggard. Mildred, as was her custom, approached him with a kiss, and,
taking both of his hands, as she looked up in his face, she said, with
some earnestness:
"You are not well, my dear father."
Lindsay paused a moment, while he gazed affectionately upon her, and
then pressing her to his bosom, uttered in a low voice, with a smile,--
"God bless my dear child! How carefully does she read my looks! Come
hither, Henry," he continued, as he gave his son one hand, and still
held Mildred with the other, and then turned his eyes alternately upon
each. "Now, tell me, which of you love me best? Who has waited most
patiently for me this morning? I see by that glance of your blue eye,
master Henry, that you have been chiding your lazy father for lying so
long abed. Now, I dare say, if the truth were known, you have had your
rifle ready to go out and shoot squirrels an hour ago. I beg your
pardon, Mr. Sportsman--not to shoot the squirrel, but to shoot at him.
Or, perhaps, you mean to bring us a deer to-day; you know you have
promised to do that every morning for a week."
"You shall eat a slice from as fine a saddle of venison to-day, father,
as you ever saw smoke over a chafing-dish."
"In good truth, shall I, boy? You are a brave promiser! You remember
your own adage,--Brag was a good dog, but Holdfast was better."
"In right down earnest, father, you shall. You needn't laugh. Now,
you're thinking I have the deer to shoot; there's your mistake. The
saddle is this minute lying on the dresser in the kitchen. He was a
running buck yesterday; and I could tell where the powder and ball came
from (here Henry made the motion of opening a hunting pouch at his side)
that put an end to his capers."
"He is a monstrous braggart; is he not, Mildred?" said Lindsay,
directing a look of incredulity at his daughter.
"What Henry tells you is true," replied Mildred. "Stephen Foster was
here at sunrise with a part of a buck, which he says was shot
yesterday."
"Indeed! Then it is to Stephen's rifle we are indebted. You kill your
bucks by proxy, master."
"I'll bet," said Henry, "that Stephen Foster hasn't the impudence to
charge one penny for that venison. And why? Because, by the laws of
chace, one-half belongs to me."
"Oh, I understand," interrupted Lindsay, with affected gravity; "it is a
matter of great doubt which of you shot it. You both fired at once; or,
perhaps, Stephen first, and you afterwards; and the poor animal dropped
the moment you took your aim,--even before your piece went off. You know
your aim, Harry, is deadly,--much worse than your bullet."
"There is no doubt who killed him," said Henry; "for Stephen was on that
side of the hill, and I was a little below him, and the buck ran right
to Stephen, who, of course, gave him the first shot. But there was I,
father, just ready, if Stephen had missed, to bring old Velvet-Horns to
the ground, before he could have leaped a rod."
"But, unluckily, Stephen's first shot killed him?"
"I don't know that," replied Henry. "Another person's knife might have
done the business; for the deer jumped down the bank into the road, and
there"--
Mildred cast a sidelong look of caution at her brother, to warn him
against alluding to a third person, whom it was not discreet to mention.
"And there," said Henry, taking the sign, "when I got up to him he was
stone dead. I would almost think a deer couldn't be shot dead so
suddenly. But Stephen can pitch his lead, as he calls it, just where he
likes."
"Well, it isn't fair to inquire who killed him," said Lindsay. "One
hunter often turns the game to the other's rifle. And, at all events,
your dogs, Henry, I dare say, did as much as either of you."
"Hylas was just at his heels when he was shot," replied Henry; "and a
better dog there isn't in Amherst, or Albemarle to boot."
"Well, well! Let us to breakfast. Where is our guest? Tyrrel is surely
out before this."
"He has been gone from the Dove Cote more than an hour," said Henry. "He
told me to say, that some sudden news took him off in haste. I would
have waked you, but he forbade it. His man, Curry, who was waiting for
him at the ford, I dare say, brought him some dispatches."
"It was very sudden," said Lindsay, musing; "the great game will be
shortly played."
"My dear father, you have not your usual look of health," said Mildred
again. "I fear something disturbs you."
"A slight cold, only, from exposure to the night air, perhaps. You did
not see Tyrrel this morning, Mildred?"
"I did not wish to see him, father. I was up when he set out, but I was
not in his way."
"Fie, girl, you almost speak crossly! Tyrrel, I must think, is not a man
to win his way with ladies. But he is a loyal subject to his king. I can
tell you, Mildred, loyalty is a virtue of good associations in these
times."
"It is the last virtue, my dear father, that a woman ever writes down in
the list of noble qualities. We generally forget it altogether. History
is so full of the glory of disloyal heroes, that the indiscriminate and
persevering loyalty of brave men has come to be but little noticed.
Brutus was disloyal, and so was Tell; and the English barons, of whom
you boast so much, when you call them sturdy, were disloyal; and
Washington--who knows, my dear father, but that he may be written down
by some future nation, (and she laid an emphasis on this word,) as
another name to give credit to this word, disloyal."
"Thou art a shrewd orator, Mildred," exclaimed her father, as he sought
to change the subject, "and I doubt not, if Heaven had made you man, you
would now be flattering these rebels by persuading them they were all
born for heroes. We may thank the gods that they have given you the
petticoat instead of the soldier's cloak, and placed you at the head of
a breakfast table instead of a regiment."
"I do not think," replied Mildred smiling, "that I should altogether
disgrace the cloak now, woman as I am, if the occasion required me to
put it on."
"Pray drop this subject, my dear child; you know it makes me sad. My
family, I fear, are foredoomed to some strange mishap from these civil
broils. Attend me presently in the library, I have matters to
communicate that concern you. Henry, my boy," Lindsay continued, as he
rose from his breakfast, "pay Stephen Foster the full value of the
venison; as a sportsman you have a right perhaps to your share of the
game, but a gentleman shows his courtesy by waiving such claims; he
should suffer no friend to be his creditor, even in opinion. Stephen may
not expect to be paid; no matter, it concerns your own character to be
liberal."
"I have promised Stephen a new rifle," replied Henry; "since they have
elected him lieutenant of the Amherst Rangers he wants something better
than his old deer gun."
"I positively forbid it," interrupted Lindsay hastily, returning towards
the middle of the room from the door through which he was about to
depart. "What! would you purchase weapons for those clowns to enable
them to shoot down his majesty's liege subjects? to make war upon their
rightful king, against his laws and throne? to threaten your life, your
sister's and mine, unless we bowed to this impious idol of democracy,
which they have set up--this Washington?"
"My dear, dear father," interposed Mildred as she came up to him and
flung her arms about his neck. "Consider, Henry is a thoughtless boy,
and does not look to consequences."
"Heaven bless you both, my children! I beg your pardons. I am over
captious. Henry, pay Stephen for the venison, and give him something
better than a rifle. Mildred, I will see you presently."
When Lindsay had left the parlor Mildred besought her brother, in the
most earnest terms, to be more guarded against giving expression to any
sentiment which might bring their father's thoughts to the existing war.
Her own observation had informed her of the nature of the struggle that
agitated his mind, and her effort was continually directed to calm and
soothe his feelings by the most unremitting affection, and thus to
foster his resolution against taking any part in those schemes in which,
she shrewdly guessed, it was the purpose of the emissaries of the royal
party to involve him.
Her attachment to Arthur Butler she feared to mention to her father,
whilst her self-respect and her conviction of her duty to a parent who
loved her with unbounded devotion, would not allow her altogether to
conceal it. Upon this subject, Lindsay had sufficiently read her heart
to know much more about it than she chose to confess; and it did not
fail to kindle up in his mind a feverish excitement, that occasionally
broke forth in even a petulant reproof, and to furnish the only occasion
that had ever arisen of serious displeasure against his daughter. The
unhappy association between this incident in the life of Mildred, and
the current of a feeling which had its foundation in a weak piece of
superstition, to which I have alluded in a former chapter, gave to the
idea of Mildred's marriage with Butler a fatal complexion in Lindsay's
thoughts. "For what purpose," he asked himself, "but to avert this
ill-omened event could I have had such an extraordinary warning?" It had
occurred to him that the surest method of protecting his family against
this misfortune would be to throw Mildred into other associations, and
encourage the growth of other attachments, such as might be expected to
grow up in her heart out of the kindness of new friendships. He had even
meditated removing her to England, but that plan became so repulsive to
him when he found the mention of it distasteful to his children, and it
suited so little his own fondness for the retirement he had already
cultivated, that he had abandoned it almost as soon as it occurred to
him. His next alternative was to favor--though he did so with no great
zeal--the proposal lately made by Tyrrel. He little knew the character
of the woman he had to deal with. Never was more devotion enshrined in a
woman's heart than in Mildred's. Never was more fixed and steady purpose
to encounter all hazards and hold cheap all dangers more deeply rooted
in man's or woman's resolution, than was Mildred's to cherish the love
and follow the fortunes of Arthur Butler.
This conflict between love and filial duty sadly perplexed the
daughter's peace; and not less disturbing was the strife between
parental affection and the supposed mandate of fate, in the breast of
the father.
Henry protested his sorrow for his recent indiscretion and promised more
caution for the future, and then recurring to what more immediately
concerned his sister's interest, he said, "I do much wonder what
Tyrrel's man had to say this morning; it took our good gentleman away so
suddenly. I can't help thinking it has something to do with Butler and
Horse Shoe. They must have been seen by Curry at Mrs. Dimock's, and old
Tony knows the major very well, and has told his name. Besides, do you
know, sister, I think Curry is a spy? Else, why should he be left at
Mrs. Dimock's always? There was room enough here for both of Mr.
Tyrrel's servants. I have a thought that I will reconnoitre: I will ride
over to the Blue Ball, and see what I can learn."
"Do, my good brother," replied Mildred, "and in the meantime I must go
to my father, who has something disagreeable to tell me--so I
fear--concerning that busy plotter who has just left us. My spirits grow
heavy at the thought of it. Ah, Henry, if I could but speak out, and
unpack my heart, what a load would I throw off! How does it grieve me to
have a secret that I dare not tell my dear father! Thank heaven,
brother, your heart and mine have not yet had a secret that they could
not whisper to each other!"
"Give care the whip, sister," said Henry, like a young gallant, "it
belongs to the bat family and should not fly in day-time. Farewell for
the next two hours!" and saying these words the sprightly youth kissed
his hand, and, with an alert step, left the room.
Mildred now retired to prepare for the interview with her father.