"Give me more love or more disdain,
The torrid or the frozen zone;
Bring equal ease unto my pain,
The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate."--_Thomas Carew._
While Virginia thus received the meed of merited applause at the hands
of all who were truly generous, there were some then, as there are many
now, in whose narrow and sterile hearts the success of another is ever a
sufficient incentive to envy and depreciation. Among these was a young
lady, who had hitherto been the especial favourite of Alfred Bernard,
and to whom his attentions had been unremittingly paid. This young lady,
Miss Matilda Bray, the daughter of one of the councillors, vented her
spleen and jealousy in terms to the following purport, in a conversation
with the amiable and accomplished Caroline Ballard.
"Did you ever, Caroline, see any thing so forward as that Miss Temple?"
"I am under a different impression," replied her companion. "I was
touched by the diffidence and modesty of her demeanor."
"I don't know what you call diffidence and modesty; screeching here at
the top of her voice and drowning every body's conversation. Do you
think, for instance, that you or I would presume to sing in as large a
company as this--with every body gazing at us like a show."
"No, my dear Matilda, I don't think that we would. First, because no one
would be mad enough to ask us; and, secondly, because if we did
presume, every body would be stopping their ears, instead of admiring us
with their eyes."
"Speak for yourself," retorted Matilda. "I still hold to my opinion,
that it was impertinent to be stopping other people's enjoyment to
listen to her."
"On the contrary, I thought it a most welcome interruption, and I
believe that most of the guests, as well as Sir William Berkeley,
himself, concurred with me in opinion."
"Well, I never saw any body so spiteful as you've grown lately,
Caroline. There's no standing you. I suppose you will say next that this
country girl is beautiful too, with her cotton head and blue china
eyes."
"I am a country girl myself, Matilda," returned Caroline, "and as for
the beauty of Miss Temple, whatever I may think, I believe that our
friend, Mr. Bernard, is of that opinion."
"Oh, you needn't think, with your provoking laugh," said Miss Bray,
"that I care a fig for Mr. Bernard's attention to her."
"I didn't say so."
"No, but you thought so, and you know you did; and what's more, it's too
bad that you should take such a delight in provoking me. I believe it's
all jealousy at last."
"Jealousy, my dear Matilda," said her companion, "is a jaundiced jade,
that thinks every object is of its own yellow colour. But see, the dance
is about to commence again, and here comes my partner. You must excuse
me." And with a smile of conscious beauty, Caroline Ballard gave her
hand to the handsome young gallant who approached her.
Bernard and Virginia, too, rose from their seats, but, to the surprise
of Matilda Bray, they did not take their places in the dance, but walked
towards the door. Bernard saw how his old flame was writhing with
jealousy, and as he passed her he said, maliciously,
"Good evening, Miss Matilda; I hope you are enjoying the ball."
"Oh, thank you, exceedingly," said Miss Bray, patting her foot
hysterically on the floor, and darting from her fine black eyes an angry
glance, which gave the lie to her words.
Leaving her to digest her spleen at her leisure, the handsome pair
passed out of the ball-room and into the lawn. It was already thronged
with merry, laughing young people, who, wearied with dancing, were
promenading through the gravelled walks, or sitting on the rural
benches, arranged under the spreading trees.
"Oh, this is really refreshing," said the young girl, as she smoothed
back her tresses from her brow, to enjoy the delicious river breeze.
"Those rooms were very oppressive."
"I scarcely found them so," said Bernard, gallantly; "for when the mind
is agreeably occupied we soon learn to forget any inconvenience to which
the body may be subjected. But I knew you would enjoy a walk through
this fine lawn."
"Oh, indeed I do; and truly, Mr. Bernard," said the ingenuous girl, "I
have much to thank you for. Nearly a stranger in Jamestown, you have
made my time pass happily away, though I fear you have deprived yourself
of the society of others far more agreeable."
"My dear Miss Temple, I will not disguise from you, even to retain your
good opinion of my generosity, the fact that my attention has not been
so disinterested as you suppose."
"I thank you, sir," said Virginia, "for the compliment; but I am afraid
that I have not been so agreeable, in return for your civility, as I
should. You were witness to a scene, Mr. Bernard, which would make it
useless to deny that I have much reason to be sad; and it makes me more
unhappy to think that I may affect others by my gloom."
"I know to what you allude," replied Bernard, "and believe me, fair
girl, sweeter to me is this sorrow in your young heart, than all the
gaudy glitter of those vain children of fashion whom we have left. But,
alas! I myself have much cause to be sad--the future looms darkly before
me, and I see but little left in life to make it long desirable."
"Oh, say not so," said Virginia, moved by the air of deep melancholy
which Bernard had assumed, but mistaking its cause. "You are young yet,
and the future should be bright. You have talents, acquirements,
everything to ensure success; and the patronage and counsel of Sir
William Berkeley will guide you in the path to honourable distinction.
Fear not, my friend, but trust hopefully in the future."
"There is one thing, alas!" said Bernard, in the same melancholy tone,
"without which success itself would scarcely be desirable."
"And what is that?" said the young girl, artlessly. "Believe me, you
will always find in me, Mr. Bernard, a warm friend, and a willing if not
an able counsellor."
"But this is not all," cried Bernard, passionately. "Does not your own
heart tell you that there must be something more than friendship to
satisfy the longings of a true heart? Oh, Virginia--yes, permit me to
call you by a name now doubly dear to me, as the home of my adoption and
as the object of my earnest love. Dearest Virginia, sweet though it be
to the heart of a lonely orphan, drifting like a sailless vessel in this
rugged world, to have such a friend, yet sweeter far would it be to live
in the sunlight of your love."
"Mr. Bernard!" exclaimed Virginia, with unfeigned surprise.
"Nay, dearest, do you, can you wonder at this revelation? I had striven,
but in vain, to conceal a hope which I knew was too daring. Oh, do not
by a word destroy the faint ray which has struggled so bravely in my
heart."
"Mr. Bernard," said Virginia, as she withdrew her arm from his, "I can
no longer permit this. If your feelings be such as you profess, and as I
believe they are--for I know your nature to be honorable--I regret that
I can only respect a sentiment which I can never return."
"Oh, say not thus, my own Virginia, just as a new life begins to dawn
upon me. At least be not so hasty in a sentence which seals my fate
forever."
"I am not too hasty," replied Virginia. "But I would think myself
unworthy of the love you have expressed, if I held out hopes which can
never be realized. You know my position is a peculiar one. My hand but
not my heart is disengaged. Nor could you respect the love of a woman
who could so soon forget one with whom she had promised to unite her
destiny through life. I have spoken thus freely, Mr. Bernard, because I
think it due to your feelings, and because I am assured that what I say
is entrusted to an honourable man."
"Indeed, my dear Miss Temple, if such you can only be to me," said her
wily lover, "I do respect from my heart your constancy to your first
love. That unwavering devotion to another, whom I esteem, because he is
loved by you, only makes you more worthy to be won. May I not still hope
that time may supply the niche, made vacant in your heart, by another
whose whole life shall be devoted to the one object of making you
happy?"
"Mr. Bernard, candour compels me to say no, my friend; there are vows
which even time, with its destroying hand can never erase, and which are
rendered stronger and more sacred by the very circumstances which
prevent their accomplishment. Fate, my friend, may interpose her stern
decree and forever separate me from the presence of Mr. Hansford, but
my heart is still unchangeably his. Ha! what is that?" she added, with a
faint scream, as from the little summer-house, which we have before
described, there came a deep, prolonged groan.
As she spoke, and as Bernard laid his hand upon his sword to avenge
himself upon the intruder, a dark figure issued from the door of the
arbor, and stood before them. The young man stood appalled as he
recognized by the uncertain light of a neighbouring lamp, the dark,
swarthy features of Master Hutchinson, the chaplain of the Governor.
"Put up your sword, young man," said the preacher, gravely; "they who
use the sword shall perish by the sword."
"In the devil's name," cried Bernard, forgetful of the presence of
Virginia, "how came you here?"
"Not to act the spy at least," said Hutchinson, "such is not my
character. Suffice it to say, that I came as you did, to enjoy this
fresh air--and sought the quiet of this arbour to be free from the
intrusion of others. I have lived too long to care for the frivolities
which I have heard, and your secret is safe in my breast--a repository
of many a darker confidence than that." With these words the bent form
of the melancholy preacher passed out of their sight.
"A singular man," said Bernard, in a troubled voice, "but entirely
innocent in his conduct. An abstracted book-worm, he moves through the
world like a stranger in it. Will you return now?"
"Thank you," said Virginia, "most willingly--for I confess my nerves are
a little unstrung by the fright I received. And now, my friend, pardon
me for referring to what has passed, but you will still be my friend,
won't you?"
"Oh, certainly," said Bernard, in an abstracted manner. "I wonder," he
muttered "what he could have meant by that hideous groan?"
And sadly and silently the rejected lover and his unhappy companion
returned to the heartless throng, who still lit up the palace with their
hollow smiles.
Alike the joyous dance, the light mirth, and the splendid entertainment
passed unheeded by Virginia, as she sat silently abstracted, and
returned indifferent answers to the questions which were asked her. And
Bernard, the gay and fascinating Bernard, wandered through the crowd,
like a troubled spectre, and ever and anon muttered to himself, "I
wonder what he could have meant by that hideous groan?"