MILDRED IN GRIEF.--SHE IS NEAR MAKING A DISCLOSURE.--A VISITOR ARRIVES
AT THE DOVE COTE.
"Then in that hour remorse he felt,
And his heart told him he had dealt
Unkindly with his child."--_Rogers._
On the following day Mildred confined herself to her chamber. She had
passed a sleepless night, and the morning found her a pale, anxious, and
distressed watcher of the slow approach of light. Her thoughts were busy
with the fate of Butler. This topic overwhelmed all other cares, and
struck deep and unmitigated anguish into her mind. The hints that had
been so indiscreetly dropped by her father, more than if the whole tale
had been told, had worked upon her imagination, and conjured up to her
apprehension the certain destruction of her lover. In her interview with
Lindsay, her emotions had been controlled by the extreme difficulty of
her situation. The fear of rousing in her father that deep and solemn
tone of passion, which had now become the infirmity of his mind, and
almost threatened to "deprive his sovereignty of reason," and of which
she was painfully aware, had subdued the strength of her own
feelings--so far, at least, as to inculcate a more seeming moderation
than, in other circumstances, she could have exhibited. It was the
struggle between filial affection and duty on the one side, and an
ardent, though tremblingly acknowledged, attachment on the other. The
course that she had previously determined to pursue, in reference to the
many earnest and assiduous efforts of Lindsay to persuade her from her
love, was steadily to persevere in the open acknowledgment of her
plighted vow, and endeavor to win her father's favor by a calm and
gentle expostulation; or to seek, in a respectful silence, the means of
averting the occasion of that gusty and moody outbreak of temper, which
the peculiar exacerbation of his mind was apt to make frequent. She
would have resorted to this silence in the late communion with Lindsay,
if he had not, with an unusual bitterness, denounced Arthur Butler as
the author of a hateful crime; a crime which she knew had been foully
insinuated against him by a man of whose subtle wickedness she was
persuaded, and whom, of all others, she most heartily execrated. She
was, therefore, led indignantly, though temperately, to repel the
slander by which her father's hatred had been artfully envenomed. But
when, in the fierce fervor of his displeasure, Lindsay had announced to
her the danger that had befallen Butler, the disclosure opened to her
mind a world of misery. The late silence of her lover had already
alarmed her fears, and this announcement suggested the worst of the many
anxious conjectures which her brooding spirit had imagined as the cause
of that absence of tidings. Her emotions upon this disclosure were those
of a bursting heart that dared not trust itself with words; and when her
father, seeing the unlooked-for mischief he had done, sought to temper
his speech, and retract some of the harshness of his communication, by
an explanation, the only effect was, for the moment, to take off the
edge of her keenest grief. But when she left his presence, and recovered
herself sufficiently to recall all that had passed, the dreadful thought
of disaster to Butler, came back upon her imagination with all the
horrors which a fond heart could summon around it. A weary hour was
spent in sobs and tears; and it was only by the blandishments of her
brother Henry's kind and earnest sympathy, when the youth found her in
the parlor thus whelmed in sorrow, and by his manly and cheering
reckoning of the many chances of safety that attend the footsteps of a
prudent and a brave man, that she began to regain that resolute
equanimity that was a natural and even predominating attribute of her
character.
When Lindsay came into the parlor with the tidings of the victory at
Camden, such was the state in which he found her; and whilst he
announced to her that event which had given him so much joy, he was not
unheedful of the pang he had previously inflicted, and now endeavored to
make amends by throwing in some apparently casual, though intentional,
reference to the condition of Butler, who, he doubted not, would now be
disposed of on easy terms. "Perhaps," he continued, "as the war was
drawing to a close, and the royal clemency had been singularly
considerate of the mistaken men who had taken arms against their king,
he would in a little while be discharged on his parole." This reluctant
and forced crumb of comfort fell before one who had but little appetite
to take it, and Mildred received it only in cold silence. Henry,
however, made better use of the event, and by that assiduity which, in
true and gentle friendships, never wearies, and never misses its aim,
when that aim is to revive a sinking hope, succeeded in lifting both his
father and sister into a kindlier climate of feeling. But solitude and
her pillow ravelled all this work of charity. Fancy, that stirring
tormentor of acute minds, summoned up all its phantoms to Mildred's
waking fears, and the night was passed by her as by one who could not be
comforted. In the morning she was ill, and therefore, as I have said,
remained in her chamber.
Lindsay, ever solicitous for the happiness of his children, and keenly
sensitive to whatever gave them pain, now that the turbid violence of
his passion had subsided into a clearer and calmer medium, applied
himself by every art which parental fondness could supply, to mitigate
the suffering of his daughter. Like a man who, in a reckless and
ungoverned moment, having done an injury which his heart revolts at, and
having leisure to contemplate the wrong he has inflicted, hastens to
administer comfort with an alacrity which even outruns the suggestions
of ordinary affection, so did he now betake himself to Mildred's
chamber, and, with sentiments of mixed alarm and contrition, seek her
forgiveness for what he acknowledged a rash and unbecoming assault upon
her feelings.
His soothing did not reach the disease. They could give her no assurance
of Butler's safety; and on that point alone all her anguish turned. "My
dear, dear father," she said, with a feeble and dejected voice, "how do
you wrong me, by supposing I could harbor a sentiment that might cause
me to doubt the love I bear you! I know and revere the purity of your
nature, and need no assurance from you that your affection itself has
kindled up this warmth of temper. But you have opened a fountain of
bitterness upon my feelings," she added, sobbing vehemently, "in what
you have divulged relating to a man you loathe, and one, dear
father--take it from me now, as the expression of a sacred duty--one
that I must ever love. Call it fate--call it infatuation; say that it
does not befit my womanly reserve to avow it--but if misfortune and
death have fallen upon the head of Arthur Butler, there is that bond
between us, that I must die. Oh, father--"
As Mildred pronounced these words she had gradually raised herself into
a sitting posture in her bed, and, at the conclusion, fell back
exhausted upon her pillow. The enthusiasm, the violence and the
intensity of her emotions had overborne her strength, and for some
moments she lay incapable of speech.
"Mildred, Mildred! daughter!" exclaimed Lindsay, in alarm, "I forgive
you, my child. Great heaven, if this should be too much for her
sensitive nature, and she should die before my eyes! Dear Mildred," he
said in a softer accent, as he kissed her pale forehead, "but look up,
and never, never more will I oppose your wish."
"Father," she uttered, in a scarce audible whisper.
"Thank God, she revives! Forbear to speak, my love; that is enough. Do
not exhaust your strength by another effort."
"Father!" she repeated in a firmer accent.
"There, there, my child," continued Lindsay, fanning the air before her
face with his hand.
"Father," again uttered Mildred, "tell me of Arthur."
"He is safe, my love--and thou shalt yet be happy. Daughter--no more;
compose yourself--nor attempt again to speak." And saying these words,
Lindsay stole out of the chamber and summoned one of the domestics to
administer a cordial to the exhausted patient; and then gave orders that
she should be left to recruit her strength by sleep.
Mildred by degrees revived. Jaded by mental affliction, she had sunk
into repose; and when another morning arrived, the lustre had returned
to her eye, and her recovery was already well advanced. She did not yet
venture from her chamber, but she was able to leave her bed and take the
fresh air at her window.
Whilst she sat in the loose robe of an invalid, towards noon, looking
out upon the green forest and smiling fields around her, with Henry
close by her side, seeking to soothe and amuse her mind, they were
enabled to descry a horseman, attended by a single servant, making his
way up the hill from the ford, by the road that led directly to the
door.
"As I live, sister," ejaculated Henry, "there is Tyrrel, covered with
dust, and his horse all but worn down by travel."
"Heaven forbid that it should be Tyrrel indeed!" said Mildred, growing
paler, and trembling as she spoke. "Oh, what ill fortune brings him
hither?"
"I'll be bound," replied Henry, "that he comes with a whole budget of
lies and foul thoughts. He has a knavish look, sister, and has been
hatching mischief with every step of his horse. I, for one, will not see
him; unless I can't help it. And you, sister, have an excuse to keep
your room: so, he is like to have cold comfort here, with his rascally
news of victory. We shall hear enough of Camden now. By-the-by, sister,
I should like much to see our account of that business. I would bet it
gives another face to the matter. These Tories do so bespatter his
lordship with praises, and tell such improbable things about their
victories! I will not see Tyrrel, that's flat."
"Nay, brother, not so fast. You must see him, for my sake. He has
something to tell of Arthur. Persuade my father to ask him: tell him, if
need be, that I requested this. And, Henry, if he says that Arthur is
safe and well, if he has heard anything of him, knows anything of him,
fly to and tell me it all. And, remember, brother," she said earnestly,
"tell me all--whether it be good or bad."
"This is a new view of the case," said Henry. "Mildred, you are a wise
woman, and think more ahead than I do. I did not reflect that this
fellow might know something of Major Butler, though I am pretty sure he
kept as clear of the major as a clean pair of heels would allow him.
And, moreover, I take upon me to say, that he will bring as little good
news of our Arthur in this direction, as he ever did of a good act in
his life. But I will spy him out, sister, and report like a--like
a--forty-two pounder, or the dispatch of a general who has won a fight.
So, adieu, sister."
By the time that Henry had reached the porch, Tyrrel was already there.
He had dismounted, and his weary steed stood panting on the grave walk,
while the servant stripped him of his baggage.
"Well met, good master Henry!" said Tyrrel approaching, and offering the
youth his hand, "I am somewhat of a soiled traveller, you see. Is your
father at home? And your sister, how is she?"
"My father is at home," replied Henry, dropping the proffered hand of
the visitor, almost as soon as it had touched his own. "I will send him
to you, sir."
"But you have not asked me the news, Henry," said Tyrrel, "and, seeing
that I have come from the very theatre of war, I could tell you
something good."
"I have heard my father speak of your good news," answered Henry,
carelessly, "I do not serve under the same colors with you, sir."
And the youth left the porch to announce the arrival of the traveller to
Lindsay.
"There spoke the rebel Mildred," muttered Tyrrel, as Henry left his
presence.
In an instant, Lindsay hastened from the library and received his guest
with a warm welcome.
The first cares of his reception, and some necessary order relating to
his comfort, being despatched, Tyrrel began to disburden himself of his
stock of particulars relating to the great and important movements of
the opposing armies in the south. He had left Cornwallis a few days
after the battle, and had travelled with post haste to Virginia, on a
leave of absence. He described minutely the state of things consequent
upon the recent victory; and it was with a tone of triumphant exultation
that he frequently appealed to his predictions as to the course of
events, when last at the Dove Cote. The conversation soon became too
confidential for the presence even of Henry, who sat greedily devouring
every word that fell from the lips of the narrator, and the further
interview was transferred to the library.
Henry hastened back to Mildred.
"The fellow is so full of politics, sister," said the eager scout, "that
he has not dropped one solitary word about Butler. He talks of the
province being brought back to a sense of its duty, and public sentiment
putting an end to this unnatural war forsooth! And his majesty reaping
fresh laurels on the fields of Virginia! Let his majesty put in his
sickle here--he shall reap as fine a crop of briers to bind round his
brow, as ever grew in a fence-corner! But Butler! Oh, no, he has nothing
to say of Butler. He is a cunning man, sister, and keeps out of the
major's way, take my word for that."
"Brother, get you again to my father, and say to him that I desire to
know what tidings Mr. Tyrrel brings us. Say it in his ear privately,
Henry."
The young emissary again took his leave, and, without apology, entered
the library.
Mildred, in the meantime, restless and impatient, applied herself to the
duties of the toilet, and, with the assistance of her maid, was soon in
a condition to leave her chamber. She had, almost unwittingly, and in
obedience to her engrossing wish to know something of Butler, made these
preparations to appear in the parlor, without thinking of her repugnance
to meet Tyrrel. And now, when she was on the point of going forth, her
resolve changed, and she moved through the chamber like a perturbed
spirit, anxiously waiting the return of Henry. She walked to the window,
whence, looking out towards the terrace she perceived that her father
and his guest had strolled out upon the lawn, where they were moving
forward at a slow pace, whilst their gesticulations showed that they
were engaged in an earnest conference.
Henry's footsteps at the same moment were heard traversing the long
passage, and Mildred, no longer able to restrain her eagerness, hastily
left her room and met her brother, with whom she returned to the parlor.
"My news, upon the whole, is good," said Henry, as he put his arm round
Mildred's waist. "When I entered the library, and took a seat by my
father, he suddenly broke up some long talk that was going on, in which
he looked very grave, and, as if he knew what I came for--he is an
excellent, kind father, sister, for all his moping and sad humors, and
loves both you and me."
"He does, Henry, and we must never forget it."
"I would fight for him to the very death, Mildred. So, seeing that I
looked as if you had sent me to him, he turned, in a kind of careless
way, and asked Tyrrel if he had heard anything lately of Butler."
"Well--brother."
"'I scarce thought to mention it, answered Tyrrel, 'but the man'--think
of that way of speaking of Major Butler--'the man had the temerity to
push himself amongst the loyal troops, and was made a prisoner; he was
suspected to be a spy, and there was, as I have understood, an idea of
trying him by court-martial for it, and for other misdemeanors, of which
I wrote you some particulars. I believe indeed, he was tried, and would,
perhaps, have been shot.'"
"Oh, heaven! brother, can this be true?" exclaimed Mildred, as the color
deserted her cheek.
"I give you exactly Tyrrel's words," replied Henry, "but the court were
attacked, said he, by some bands of Whigs who stole a march upon them."
"And Arthur escaped? Kind heaven, I thank thee!" almost screamed
Mildred, as she clasped her hands together.
"So Tyrrel thinks," continued Henry. "At all events they did not shoot
him, like a pack of cowardly knaves as they were. And as some Tory
prisoners were taken and dragged away by our good friend General
Sumpter, who was the man, Tyrrel says, that set upon them, it is
considered good policy--these were his words, sister--to spare the
unnecessary effusion of blood on both sides. And then my father asked
Tyrrel if Cornwallis knew of these doings, and he answered, not--that it
was the indiscreet act of some mountain boys, who were in the habit of
burning and slaying, against the wish of his Lordship: that the regular
officers disapprove of harsh measures, and that peace now reigns all
through the province."
"When they make a desert of the land, they call it peace," said Mildred
thoughtfully, quoting a translation of the beautiful passage of Tacitus.
"This war is a dreadful trade."
"For us, sister, who stay at home," replied Henry. "But God is good to
us, and will favor the right, and will protect the brave men who draw
their swords to maintain it."
"From treachery, ambuscade, and privy murder--I thank you, brother, for
that word. Heaven shield us, and those we love! But these are fearful
times."