"Farewell and blessings on thy way,
Where'r thou goest, beloved stranger,
Better to sit and watch that ray,
And think thee safe though far away,
Than have thee near me and in danger."
_Lalla Roohk._
Moonlight at Windsor Hall! The waning, January moon shone coldly and
brightly, as it rose above the dense forest which surrounded the once
more peaceful home of Colonel Temple. The tall poplars which shaded the
quiet yard were silvered with its light, and looked like medieval
knights all clad in burnished and glistening mail. The crisp hoarfrost
that whitened the frozen ground sparkled in the mellow beams, like
twinkling stars, descended to earth, and drinking in with rapture the
clear light of their native heaven. Not a sound was heard save the
dreary, wintry blast, as it sighed its mournful requiem over the dead
year, "gone from the earth for ever."
Virginia Temple had not yet retired to rest, although it was growing
late. She was sitting alone, in her little chamber, and watching the
glowing embers on the hearth, as they sparkled for a moment, and shed a
ruddy light around, and then were extinguished, throwing the whole room
into dark shadow. Sad emblem, these fleeting sparks, of the hopes that
had once been bright before her, assuming fancied shapes of future joy
and peace and love, and then dying to leave her sad heart the darker for
their former presence. In the solitude of her own thoughts she was
taking a calm review of her past life--her early childhood--when she
played in innocent mirth beneath the shade of the oaks and poplars that
still stood unchanged in the yardher first acquaintance with Hansford,
which opened a new world to her young heart, replete with joys and
treasures unknown before--all the thrilling events of the last few
months--her last meeting with her lover, and his prayer that she at
least would not censure him, when he was gone--her present despondency
and gloom--all these thoughts came in slow and solemn procession across
her mind, like dreary ghosts of the buried past.
Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the sound of a low, sweet,
familiar voice, beneath her window, and, as she listened, the melancholy
spirit of the singer sought and found relief in the following tender
strains:
"Once more I seek thy quiet home,
My tale of love to tell,
Once more from danger's field I come,
To breathe a last farewell!
Though hopes are flown,
Though friends are gone;
Yet wheresoe'r I flee,
I still retain,
And hug the chain
Which binds my soul to thee.
"My heart, like some lone chamber left,
Must, mouldering, fall at last;
Of hope, of love, of thee bereft,
It lives but in the past.
With jealous care,
I cherish there
The web, however small,
That memory weaves,
And mercy leaves,
Upon that ruined wall.
"Though Tyranny, with bloody laws,
May dig my early grave,
Yet death, when met in Freedom's cause,
Is sweetest to the brave;
Wedded to her,
Without a fear,
I'll mount her funeral pile,
Welcome the death
Which seals my faith,
And meet it with a smile.
"While, like the tides, that softly swell
To kiss their mother moon,
Thy gentle soul will soar to dwell
In visions with mine own;
As skies distil
The dews that fill
The blushing rose at even,
So blest above,
I'll mourn thy love
And weep for thee in heaven."
It needed not the well-known voice of Hansford to assure the weeping
girl that he was near her. The burden of that sad song, which found an
echo in her own heart, told her too plainly that it could be only he. It
was no time for delicate scruples of propriety. She only knew that he
was near her and in danger. Rising from her chair, and throwing around
her a shawl to protect her from the chill night air, she hastened to the
door. In another moment they were in each other's arms.
"Oh, my own Virginia," said Hansford, "this is too, too kind. I had only
thought to come and breathe a last farewell, and then steal from your
presence for ever. I felt that it was a privilege to be near you, to
watch, unseen, the flickering light reflected from your presence. This
itself had been reward sufficient for the peril I encounter. How sweet
then to hear once more the accents of your voice, and to feel once more
the warm beating of your faithful heart."
"And could you think," said Virginia, as she wept upon his shoulder,
"that knowing you to be in danger, I could fail to see you. Oh,
Hansford! you little know the truth of woman's love if you can for a
moment doubt that your misfortune and your peril have made you doubly
dear."
"Yet how brief must be my stay. The avenger is behind me, and I must
soon resume my lonely wandering."
"And will you again leave me?" asked Virginia, in a reproachful tone.
"Leave you, dearest, oh, how sweet would be my fate, after all my cares
and sufferings, if I could but die here. But this must not be. Though I
trust I know how to meet death as a brave man, yet it is my duty, as a
good man, to leave no honourable means untried to save my life."
"But your danger cannot be so great, dearest," said Virginia, tenderly.
"Surely my father--"
"Would feel it his duty," said Hansford, interrupting her, "to deliver
me up to justice; and feeling it to be such, he would have the moral
firmness to discharge it. Poor old gentleman! like many of his party,
his prejudice perverts his true and generous heart. My poor country must
suffer long before she can overcome the opposition of bigoted loyalty.
Forgive me for speaking thus of your noble father, Virginia--but
prejudices like these are the thorns which spring up in his heart and
choke the true word of freedom, and render it unfruitful. Is it not so,
dearest?"
"You mistake his generous nature," said Virginia, earnestly. "You
mistake his love for me. You mistake his sound judgment. You mistake his
high sense of honour. Think you that he sees no difference between the
man who, impelled by principle, asserts what he believes to be a right,
and him, who for his own selfish ends and personal advancement, would
sacrifice his country. Yes, my dear friend, you mistake my father. He
will gladly interpose with the Governor and restore you to happiness, to
freedom, and to--"
She paused, unable to proceed for the sobs that choked her utterance,
and then gave vent to a flood of passionate grief.
"You would add, 'and to thee,'" said Hansford, finishing the sentence.
"God knows, my girl, that such a hope would make me dare more peril than
I have yet encountered. But, alas! if it were even as you say, what
weight would his remonstrance have with that imperious old tyrant,
Berkeley? It would be but the thistle-down against the cannon ball in
the scales of his justice."
"He dare not refuse my father's demands," said Virginia. "One who has
been so devoted to his cause, who has sacrificed so much for his king,
and who has afforded shelter and protection to the Governor himself in
the hour of his peril and need, is surely entitled to this poor favour
at his hands. He dare not refuse to grant it."
"Alas! Virginia, you little know the character of Sir William Berkeley,
when you say he dares not. But the very qualities which you claim, and
justly claim, for your father, would prevent him from exerting that
influence with the Governor which your hopes whisper would be so
successful--'His noble nature' would prompt him at any sacrifice to
yield personal feeling to a sense of public duty. 'His love for you'
would prompt him to rescue you from the _rebel_ who dared aspire to your
hand. 'His sound judgment' would dictate the maxim, that it were well
for one man to die for the people; and his 'high sense of honour' would
prevent him from interposing between a condemned _traitor_ and his
deserved doom. Be assured, Virginia, that thus would your father reason;
and with his views of loyalty and justice, I could not blame him for the
conclusion to which he came."
"Then in God's name," cried Virginia, in an agony of desperation, for
she saw the force of Hansford's views, "how can you shun this
threatening danger? Whither can you fly?"
"My only hope," said Hansford, gloomily, "is to leave the Colony and
seek refuge in Maryland, though I fear that this is hopeless. If I fail
in this, then I must lurk in some hiding place until instructions from
England may arrive, and check the vindictive Berkeley in his ruthless
cruelty."
"And is there a hope of that!" said Virginia, quickly.
"There is a faint hope, and that slender thread is all that hangs
between me and a traitor's doom. But I rely with some confidence upon
the mild and humane policy pursued by Charles toward the enemies of his
father. At any rate, it is all that is left me, and you know the
proverb," he added, with a sad smile, "'A drowning man catches at
straws.' Any chance, however slight, appears larger when seen through
the gloom of approaching despair, just as any object seems greater when
seen through a mist."
"It is not, it shall not be slight," said the hopeful girl, "we will lay
hold upon it with firm and trusting hearts, and it will cheer us in our
weary way, and then--"
But here the conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching
footsteps, and the light, graceful form of Mamalis stood before them.
The quick ear of the Indian girl had caught the first low notes of
Hansford's serenade, even while she slept, and listening attentively to
the sound, she had heard Virginia leave the room and go down stairs.
Alarmed at her prolonged absence, Mamalis could no longer hesitate on
the propriety of ascertaining its cause, and hastily dressing herself,
she ran down to the open door and joined the lovers as we have stated.
"We are discovered," said Hansford, in a surprised but steady voice.
"Farewell, Virginia." And he was about to rush from the place, when
Virginia interposed.
"Fear nothing from her," she said. "Her trained ear caught the sounds of
our voices more quickly than could the duller senses of the European.
You are in no danger; and her opportune presence suggests a plan for
your escape."
"What is that?" asked Hansford, anxiously.
"First tell me," said Virginia, "how long it will probably be before the
milder policy of Charles will arrest the Governor in his vengeance."
"It is impossible to guess with accuracy--if, indeed, it ever should
come. But the king has heard for some time of the suppression of the
enterprise, and it can scarcely be more than two weeks before we hear
from him. But to what does your question tend?"
"Simply this," returned Virginia. "The wigwam of Mamalis is only about
two miles from the hall, and in so secluded a spot that it is entirely
unknown to any of the Governor's party. There we can supply your present
wants, and give you timely warning of any approaching danger. The old
wigwam is a good deal dilapidated, but then it will at least afford you
shelter from the weather."
"And from that ruder storm which threatens me," said Hansford, gloomily.
"You are right. I know the place well, and trust it may be a safe
retreat, at least for the present. But, alas! how sad is my fate,--to be
skulking from justice like a detected thief or murderer, afraid to show
my face to my fellow in the open day, and starting like a frightened
deer at every approaching sound. Oh, it is too horrible!"
"Think not of it thus," said Virginia, in an encouraging voice.
"Remember it only as the dull twilight that divides the night from the
morning. This painful suspense will soon be over; and then, safe and
happy, we will smile at the dangers we have passed."
"No, Virginia," said Hansford, in the same gloomy voice, "you are too
hopeful. There is a whispering voice within that tells me that this plan
will not succeed, and that we cannot avoid the dangers which threaten
me. No," he cried, throwing off the gloom which hung over him, while his
fine blue eye flashed with pride. "No! The decree has gone forth! Every
truth must succeed with blood. If the blood of the martyrs be the seed
of the Church, it may also enrich the soil where liberty must grow; and
far rather would I that my blood should be shed in such a cause, than
that it should creep sluggishly in my veins through a long and useless
life, until it clotted and stagnated in an ignoble grave."
"Oh, there spoke that fearful pride again," said Virginia, with a deep
sigh; "the pride that pursues its mad career, unheeding prudence,
unguided by judgment, until it is at last checked by its own
destruction. And would you not sacrifice the glory that you speak of,
for me?"
"You have long since furnished me the answer to that plea, my girl," he
replied, pressing her tenderly to his heart. "Do you remember, Lucasta,
'I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.'
Believe me, my Virginia, it is an honourable and not a glorious name I
seek. Without the latter, life still would be happy and blessed when
adorned by your smiles. Without the former, your smile and your love
would add bitterness to the cup that dishonour would bid me quaff. And
now, Virginia, farewell. The night air has chilled you, dearest--then
go, and remember me in your dreams. One fond kiss, to keep virgined upon
my lips till we meet again. Farewell, Mamalis--be faithful to your kind
mistress." And then imprinting one long, last kiss upon the fair cheek
of the trusting Virginia, he turned from the door, and was soon lost
from their sight in the dense forest.
Once more in her own little room, Virginia, with a grateful heart, fell
upon her knees, and poured forth her thanks to Him, who had thus far
prospered her endeavours to minister to the cares and sorrows of her
lover. With a calmer heart she sought repose, and wept herself to sleep
with almost happy tears. Hansford, in the mean time, pursued his quiet
way through the forest, his pathway sufficiently illumined by the pale
moonlight, which came trembling through the moaning trees. The thoughts
of the young rebel were fitfully gloomy or pleasant, as despondency and
hope alternated in his breast. In that lonely walk he had an opportunity
to reflect calmly and fully upon his past life. The present was indeed
clouded with danger, and the future with uncertainty and gloom. Yet, in
this self-examination, he saw nothing to justify reproach or to awaken
regret. He scanned his motives, and he felt that they were pure. He
reviewed his acts, and he saw in them but the struggles of a brave, free
man in the maintenance of the right. The enterprise in which he had
engaged had indeed failed, but its want of success did not affect the
holiness of the design. Even in its failure, he proudly hoped that the
seeds of truth had been sown in the popular mind, which might hereafter
germinate and be developed into freedom. As these thoughts passed
through his mind, a dim dream of the future glories of his country
flashed across him. The bright heaven of the future seemed to open
before him, as before the eyes of the dying Stephen--but soon it closed
again, and all was dark.
The wigwam which he entered, after a walk of about half an hour, was
desolate enough, but its very loneliness made it a better safeguard
against the vigilance of his pursuers. He closed the aperture which
served for the door, with the large mat used for the purpose; then
carefully priming his pistols, which he kept constantly by him in case
of surprise, and wrapping his rough horseman's coat around him, he flung
himself upon a mat in the centre of the wigwam, and sank into a profound
slumber.