"An old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,--
With an old lady whose anger one word assuages,--
Like an old courtier of the queen's,
And the queen's old courtier."
_Old Ballad._
A pleasant home was that old Windsor Hall, with its broad fields in
cultivation around it, and the dense virgin forest screening it from
distant view, with the carefully shaven sward on the velvet lawn in
front, and the tall forest poplars standing like sentries in front of
the house, and the venerable old oak tree at the side, with the rural
wooden bench beneath it, where Hansford and Virginia used to sit and
dream of future happiness, while the tame birds were singing sweetly to
their mates in the green branches above them. And the house, too, with
its quaint old frame, its narrow windows, and its substantial furniture,
all brought from England and put down here in this new land for the
comfort of the loyal old colonist. It had been there for years, that old
house, and the moss and lichen had fastened on its shelving roof, and
the luxuriant vine had been trained to clamber closely by its sides,
exposing its red trumpet flowers to the sun; while the gay humming-bird,
with her pretty dress of green and gold, sucked their honey with her
long bill, and fluttered her little wings in the mild air so swiftly
that you could scarcely see them. Then there was that rude but
comfortable old porch, destined to as many uses as the chest of drawers
in the tavern of the Deserted Village. Protected by its sheltering roof
alike from rain and sunshine, it was often used, in the mild summer
weather, as a favorite sitting-room, and sometimes, too, converted into
a dining-room. There, too, might be seen, suspended from the nails and
wooden pegs driven into the locust pillars, long specimen ears of corn,
samples of grain, and different garden seeds tied up in little linen
bags; and in the strange medley, Mrs. Temple had hung some long strings
of red pepper-pods, sovereign specifics in cases of sore throat, but
which seemed, among so many objects of greater interest, to blush with
shame at their own inferiority. It was not yet the season when the broad
tobacco leaf, brown with the fire of curing, was exhibited, and formed
the chief staple of conversation, as well as of trade, with the old
crony planters. The wonderful plant was just beginning to suffer from
the encroaches of the worm, the only animal, save man, which is
life-proof against the deadly nicotine of this cultivated poison.
In this old porch the little family was gathered on a beautiful evening
towards the close of June, in the year 1676. The sun, not yet set, was
just sinking below the tall forest, and was dancing and flickering
gleefully among the trees, as if rejoicing that he had nearly finished
his long day's journey. Colonel Temple had just returned from his
evening survey of his broad fields of tobacco, and was quietly smoking
his pipe, for, like most of his fellow colonists, he was an inveterate
consumer of this home production. His good wife was engaged in knitting,
an occupation now almost fallen into disuse among ladies, but then a
very essential part of the duties of a large plantation. Virginia, with
her tambour frame before her, but which she had neglected in the reverie
of her own thoughts, was caressing the noble St. Bernard dog which lay
at her feet, who returned her caresses by a grateful whine, as he licked
the small white hand of his mistress. This dog, a fine specimen of that
noble breed, was a present from Hansford, and for that reason, as well
as for his intrinsic merits, was highly prized, and became her constant
companion in her woodland rambles in search of health and wild flowers.
With all the vanity of a conscious favorite, Nestor regarded with well
bred contempt the hounds that stalked in couples about the yard, in
anxious readiness for the next chase.
As the young girl was thus engaged, there was an air of sadness in her
whole mien--such a stranger to her usually bright, happy face, that it
did not escape her father's notice.
"Why, Jeanie," he said, in the tender manner which he always used
towards her, "you are strangely silent this evening. Has anything gone
wrong with my little daughter?"
"No, father," she replied, "at least nothing that I am conscious of. We
cannot be always gay or sad at our pleasure, you know."
"Nay, but at least," said the old gentleman, "Nestor has been
disobedient, or old Giles is sick, or you have been working yourself
into a sentimental sadness over Lady Willoughby's[3] troubles."
"No, dear father; though, in reality, that melancholy story might well
move a stouter heart than mine."
"Well, confess then," said her father, "that, like the young French
gentleman in Prince Arthur's days, you are sad as night only for
wantonness. But what say you, mother, has anything gone wrong in
household affairs to cross Virginia?"
"No, Mr. Temple," said the old lady. "Certainly, if Virginia is cast
down at the little she has to do, I don't know what ought to become of
me. But that's a matter of little consequence. Old people have had their
day, and needn't expect much sympathy."
"Indeed, dear mother," said Virginia, "I do not complain of anything
that I have to do. I know that you do not entrust as much to me as you
ought, or as I wish. I assure you, that if anything has made me sad, it
is not you, dear mother," she added, as she tenderly kissed her mother.
"Oh, I know that, my dear; but your father seems to delight in always
charging me with whatever goes wrong. Goodness knows, I toil from Monday
morning till Saturday night for you all, and this is all the thanks I
get. And if I were to work my old fingers to the bone, it would be all
the same. Well, it won't last always."
To this assault Colonel Temple knew the best plan was not to reply. He
had learned from sad experience the truth of the old adages, that
"breath makes fire hotter," and that "the least said is soonest mended."
He only signified his consciousness of what had been said by a quiet
shrug of the shoulders, and then resumed his conversation with Virginia.
"Well then, my dear, I am at a loss to conjecture the cause of your
sadness, and must throw myself upon your indulgence to tell me or not,
as you will. I don't think you ever lost anything by confiding in your
old father."
"I know I never did," said Virginia, with a gentle sigh, "and it is for
the very reason that you always make my foolish little sorrows your own,
that I am unwilling to trouble you with them. But really, on the present
occasion--I scarcely know what to tell you."
"Then why that big pearl in your eye?" returned her father. "Ah, you
little rogue, I have found you out at last. Mother, I have guessed the
riddle. Somebody has not been here as often lately as he should. Now
confess, you silly girl, that I have guessed your secret."
The big tears that swam in his daughter's blue eyes, and then rolling
down, dried themselves upon her cheek, told the truth too plainly to
justify denial.
"I really think Virginia has some reason to complain," said her mother.
"It is now nearly three weeks since Mr. Hansford was here. A young
lawyer's business don't keep him so much employed as to prevent these
little courteous attentions."
"We used to be more attentive in our day, didn't we, old lady?" said
Colonel Temple, as he kissed his good wife's cheek.
This little demonstration entirely wiped away the remembrance of her
displeasure. She returned the salutation with an affectionate smile, as
she replied,
"Yes, indeed, Henry; if there was less sentiment, there was more real
affection in those days. Love was more in the heart then, and less out
of books, than now."
"Oh, but we were not without our little sentiments, too. Virginia, it
would have done you good to have seen how gaily your mother danced round
the May-pole, with her courtly train, as the fair queen of them all; and
how I, all ruffs and velvet, at the head of the boys, and on bended
knee, begged her majesty to accept the homage of our loyal hearts. Don't
you remember, Bessy, the grand parliament, when we voted you eight
subsidies, and four fifteenths to be paid in flowers and candy, for your
grand coronation?"
"Oh, yes!" said the old lady; "and then the coronation itself, with the
throne made of the old master's desk, all nicely carpeted and decorated
with flowers and evergreen; and poor Billy Newton, with his long, solemn
face, a paste-board mitre, and his sister's night-gown for a pontifical
robe, acting the Archbishop of Canterbury, and placing the crown upon my
head!"
"And the game of Barley-break in the evening," said the Colonel, fairly
carried away by the recollections of these old scenes, "when you and I,
hand in hand, pretended only to catch the rest, and preferred to remain
together thus, in what we called the hell, because we felt that it was a
heaven to us."[4]
"Oh, fie, for shame!" said the old lady. "Ah, well, they don't have such
times now-a-days."
"No, indeed," said her husband; "old Noll came with his nasal twang and
puritanical cant, and dethroned May-queens as well as royal kings, and
his amusements were only varied by a change from a hypocritical sermon
to a psalm-singing conventicle."
Thus the old folks chatted on merrily, telling old stories, which,
although Virginia had heard them a hundred times and knew them all by
heart, she loved to hear again. She had almost forgotten her own sadness
in this occupation of her mind, when her father said--
"But, Bessy, we had almost forgotten, in our recollections of the past,
that our little Jeanie needs cheering up. You should remember, my
daughter, that if there were any serious cause for Mr. Hansford's
absence, he would have written to you. Some trivial circumstance, or
some matter of business, has detained him from day to day. He will be
here to-morrow, I have no doubt."
"I know I ought not to feel anxious," said Virginia, her lip quivering
with emotion; "he has so much to do, not only in his profession, but his
poor old mother needs his presence a great deal now; she was far from
well when he was last here."
"Well, I respect him for that," said her mother. "It is too often the
case with these young lovers, that when they think of getting married,
and doing for themselves, the poor old mothers are laid on the shelf."
"And yet," continued Virginia, "I have a kind of presentiment that all
may not be right with him. I know it is foolish, but I can't--I can't
help it?"
"These presentiments, my child," said her father, who was not without
some of the superstition of the time, "although like dreams, often sent
by the Almighty for wise purposes, are more often but the phantasies of
the imagination. The mind, when unable to account for circumstances by
reason, is apt to torment itself with its own fancy--and this is wrong,
Jeanie."
"I know all this," replied Virginia, "and yet have no power to prevent
it. But," she added, smiling through her tears, "I will endeavor to be
more cheerful, and trust for better things."
"That's a good girl; I assure you I would rather hear you laugh once
than to see you cry a hundred times," said the old man, repeating a
witticism that Virginia had heard ever since her childish trials and
tears over broken dolls or tangled hair. The idea was so grotesque and
absurd, that the sweet girl laughed until she cried again.
"Besides," added her father, "I heard yesterday that that pestilent
fellow, Bacon, was in arms again, and it may be necessary for Berkeley
to use some harsh means to punish his insolence. I would not be at all
surprised if Hansford were engaged in this laudable enterprise."
"God, in his mercy, forbid," said Virginia, in a faint voice.
"And why, my daughter? Would you shrink from lending the services of him
you love to your country, in her hour of need?"
"But the danger, father!"
"There can be but little danger in an insurrection like this. Strong
measures will soon suppress it. Nay, the very show of organized and
determined resistance will strike terror into the white hearts of these
cowardly knaves. But if this were not so, the duty would be only
stronger."
"Yes, Virginia," said her mother. "No one knows more than I, how hard it
is for a woman to sacrifice her selfish love to her country. But in my
day we never hesitated, and I was happy in my tears, when I saw your
father going forth to fight for his king and country. There was none of
your 'God forbid' then, and you need not expect to be more free from
trials than those who have gone before you."
There was no real unkindness meant in this speech of Mrs. Temple, but,
as we have before reminded the reader, she took especial delight in
magnifying her own joys and her own trials, and in making an invidious
comparison of the present day with her earlier life, always to the
prejudice of the former. Tenderly devoted to her daughter, and deeply
sympathizing in her distress, she yet could not forego the pleasure of
reverting to the time when she too had similar misfortunes, which she
had borne with such exemplary fortitude. To be sure, this heroism
existed only in the dear old lady's imagination, for no one gave way to
trials with more violent grief than she. Virginia, though accustomed to
her mother's peculiar temper, was yet affected by her language, and her
tears flowed afresh.
"Cheer up, my daughter," said her father, "these tears are not only
unworthy of you, but they are uncalled for now. This is at last but
conjecture of mine, and I have no doubt that Hansford is well and as
happy as he can be away from you. But you would have proved a sad
heroine in the revolution. I don't think you would imitate successfully
the bravery and patriotism of Lady Willoughby, whose memoirs you have
been reading. Oh! that was a day for heroism, when mothers devoted their
sons, and wives their husbands, to the cause of England and of loyalty,
almost without a tear."
"I thank God," said the weeping girl, "that he has not placed me in such
trying scenes. With all my admiration for the courage of my ancestors, I
have no ambition to suffer their dangers and distress."
"Well, my dear," replied her father, "I trust you may never be called
upon to do so. But if such should be your fate, I also trust that you
have a strong heart, which would bear you through the trial. Come now,
dry your tears, and let me hear you sing that old favorite of mine,
written by poor Dick Lovelace. His Lucasta[5] must have been something
of the same mind as my Virginia, if she reproved him for deserting her
for honour."
"Oh, father, I feel the justice of your rebuke. I know that none but a
brave woman deserves the love of a brave man. Will you forgive me?"
"Forgive you, my daughter?--yes, if you have done anything to be
forgiven. Your old father, though his head is turned gray, has still a
warm place in his heart for all your distresses, my child; and that
heart will be cold in death before it ceases to feel for you. But come,
I must not lose my song, either."
And Virginia, her sweet voice rendered more touchingly beautiful by her
emotion, sang the noble lines, which have almost atoned for all the
vanity and foppishness of their unhappy author.
"Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
If from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
"True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
The sword, the horse, the shield.
"Yet, this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more!"
"Yes," repeated the old patriot, as the last notes of the sweet voice
died away; "yes, 'I had not loved thee, dear, so much, loved I not
honour more!' This is the language of the truly noble lover. Without a
heart which rises superior to itself, in its devotion to honour, it is
impossible to love truly. Love is not a pretty child, to be crowned with
roses, and adorned with trinkets, and wooed by soft music. To the truly
brave, it is a god to be worshipped, a reward to be attained, and to be
attained only in the path of honour!"
"I think," said Mrs. Temple, looking towards the wood, "that Virginia's
song acted as an incantation. If I mistake not, Master Hansford is even
now coming to explain his own negligence."
FOOTNOTES:
[3] I have taken these beautiful memoirs, now known to be the production
of a modern pen, to be genuine. Their truthfulness to nature certainly
will justify me in such a liberty.
[4] The modern reader will need some explanation of this old game, whose
terms seem, to the refined ears of the present day, a little profane.
Barley-break resembled a game which I have seen played in my own time,
called King Cantelope, but with some striking points of difference. In
the old game, the play-ground was divided into three parts of equal
size, and the middle of these sections was known by the name of hell.
The boy and girl, whose position was in this place, were to attempt,
with joined hands, to catch those who should try to pass from one
section to the other. As each one was caught, he became a recruit for
the couple in the middle, and the last couple who remained uncaught took
the places of those in hell, and thus the game commenced again.
[5] The lady to whom the song is addressed. It may be found in Percy's
Reliques, or in almost any volume of old English poetry.