"Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woeful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale,
And then it left me free.
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns,
And till this ghastly tale is told
My heart within me burns."
_Rime of the Ancient Mariner._
The sun shone brightly the next morning, as it rose above the forest of
tall pines which surrounded the little village of Accomac; and as its
rays stained the long icicles on the evergreen branches of the trees,
they looked like the pendant jewels of amber which hung from the ears of
the fierce, untutored chieftains of the forest. The air was clear and
frosty, and the broad heaven, that hung like a blue curtain above the
busy world, seemed even purer and more beautiful than ever. There, calm
and eternal, it spread in its unclouded glory, above waters, woods,
wilds, as if unmindful of the sorrows and the cares of earth. So hovers
the wide providence of the eternal God over his creation, unmoved in its
sublime depths by the joys and woes which agitate the mind of man, yet
shining over him still, in its clear beauty, and beckoning him upwards!
But on none did the sun shine with more brightness, or the sky smile
with more bitter mockery, on that morning, than on the dark forms of
Arthur Hutchinson and his young pupil, Alfred Bernard, as they sat
together in the embrasure of the window which lightened the little room
of the grave old preacher. A terrible revelation was that morning to be
made, involving the fate of the young jesuit, and meting out a dread
retribution for the crime that he had committed. Arthur Hutchinson had
reserved for this day the narrative of the birth and history of Alfred
Bernard. It had been a story which he long had desired to know, but to
all his urgent inquiries the old preacher had given an evasive reply.
But now there was no longer need for mystery. The design of that long
silence had been fully accomplished, and thus the stern misanthrope
began his narrative:
"It matters little, Alfred Bernard, to speak of my own origin and
parentage. Suffice it to say, that though not noble, by the accepted
rules of heraldry, my parents were noble in that higher sense, in which
all may aspire to true nobility, a patent not granted for bloody feats
in arms, nor by an erring man, but granted to true honesty and virtue
from the court of heaven. I was not rich, and yet, by self-denial on the
part of my parents, and by strict economy on my own part, I succeeded in
entering Baliol College, Oxford, where I pursued my studies with
diligence and success. This success was more essential, because I could
look only to my own resources in my struggle with the world. But, more
than this, I had already learned to think and care for another than
myself; for I had yielded my young heart to one, who requited my
affection with her own. I have long denied myself the luxury of looking
back upon the bright image of that fair creature, so fair, and yet so
fatal. But for your sake, and for mine own, I will draw aside the veil,
which has fallen upon those early scenes, and look at them again.
"Mary Howard was just eighteen years of age, when she plighted her troth
to me; and surely never has Heaven placed a purer spirit in a more
lovely form. Trusting and affectionate, her warm heart must needs fasten
upon something it might love; and because we had been reared together,
and she was ignorant of the larger world around her, her love was fixed
on me. I will not go back to those bright, joyous days of innocence and
happiness. They are gone forever, Alfred Bernard, and I have lived, and
now live for another object, than to indulge in the recollection of joy
and love. The saddest day of my whole life, except one, and that has
darkened all the rest, was when I first left her side to go to college.
But still we looked onward with high hope, and many were the castles in
the air, or rather the vine clad cottages, which we reared in fancy, for
our future home. Hope, Alfred Bernard, though long deferred, it may
sicken the heart, yet hope, however faint, is better than despair.
"Well! I went to college, and my love for Mary spurred me on in my
career, and honours came easily, but were only prized because she would
be proud of them. But though I was a hard student, I was not without my
friends, for I had a trusting heart then. Among these, yes, chief among
these, was Edward Hansford."
Bernard started at the mention of that name. He felt that some dark
mystery was about to be unravelled, which would establish his connection
with the unhappy rebel. Yet he was lost in conjecture as to the
character of the revelation.
"I have never in my long experience," continued Hutchinson, smiling
sadly, as he observed the effect produced, "known any man who possessed,
in so high a degree, the qualities which make men beloved and honoured.
Brave, generous, and chivalrous; brilliant in genius, classical in
attainment, profound in intellect. His person was a fit palace for such
a mind and such a heart. Yes, I can think of him now as he was, when I
first knew him, before crime of the deepest dye had darkened his soul. I
loved him as I never had loved a man before, as I never can love a man
again. I might forgive the past, I could never trust again.
"Edward returned my love, I believe, with his whole heart. Our studies
were the same, our feelings and opinions were congenial, and, in short,
in the language of our great bard, we grew 'like a double cherry, only
seeming parted.' I made him my confidant, and he used to laugh, in his
good humoured way, at my enthusiastic description of Mary. He threatened
to fall in love with her, himself, and to win her heart from me, and I
dared him to do so, if he could; and even, in my joyous triumph, invited
him home with me in vacation, that he might see the lovely conquest I
had made. Well, home we went together, and his welcome was all that I or
he could wish. Mary, my sweet, confiding Mary, was so kind and gentle,
that I loved her only the more, because she loved my friend so much. I
never dreamed of jealousy, Alfred Bernard, or I might have seen
beforehand the wiles of the insidious tempter. How often have I looked
with transport on their graceful forms, as they stood to watch the
golden sunset, from that sweet old porch, over which the roses clambered
so thickly.
"But why do I thus delay. The story is at last a brief one. It wanted
but two days of our return to Oxford, and we were all spending the day
together at old farmer Howard's. Mary seemed strangely sad that evening,
and whenever I spoke to her, her eyes filled with tears, and she
trembled violently. Fool that I was, I attributed her tears and her
agitation to her regret at parting from her lover. Little did I suspect
the terrible storm which awaited me. Well, we parted, as lovers part,
with sighs and tears, but with me, and alas! with me alone in hope.
Edward himself looked moody and low-spirited, and I recollect that to
cheer him up, I rallied him on being in love with Mary. Never will I
forget his look, now that the riddle is solved, as he replied, fixing
his clear, intense blue eyes upon me, 'Arthur, the wisest philosophy is,
not to trust your all in one venture. He who embarks his hopes and
happiness in the heart of one woman, may make shipwreck of them all.'
"'And so you, Mr. Philosopher,' I replied, gaily, 'would live and die an
old bachelor. Now, for mine own part, with little Mary's love, I promise
you that my baccalaureate degree at Oxford will be the only one to which
I will aspire.'
"He smiled, but said nothing, and we parted for the night.
"Early the next morning, even before the sun had risen, I went to his
room to wake him--for on that day we were to have a last hunt. We had
been laying up a stock of health, by such manly exercises for the coming
session. Intimate as I was with him, I did not hesitate to enter his
room without announcing myself. To my surprise he was not there, and the
bed had evidently not been occupied. As I was about to leave the room,
in some alarm, my eye rested upon a letter, which was lying on the
table, and addressed to me. With a trembling hand I tore it open, and
oh, my God! it told me all--the faithlessness of my Mary, the villainy
of my friend."
"The perfidious wretch," cried Bernard, with indignation.
"Beware, Alfred Bernard," said the clergyman; "you know not what you
say. My tale is not yet done. I remember every word of that brief letter
now--although more than thirty years have since passed over me. It ran
thus:
"'Forgive me, Arthur; I meant not to have wronged you when I came, but
in an unhappy moment temptation met me, and I yielded. My perfidy cannot
be long concealed. Heaven has ordained that the fruit of our mutual
guilt shall appear as the witness of my baseness and of Mary's shame.
Forgive me, but above all, forgive her, Arthur.'
"This was all. No name was even signed to the death warrant of all my
hopes. At that moment a cold chill came over my heart, which has never
left it since. That letter was the Medusa which turned it into stone. I
did not rave--I did not weep. Believe me, Alfred Bernard, I was as calm
at that moment as I am now. But the calmness was more terrible than open
wrath. It was the sure indication of deep-rooted, deliberate revenge. I
wrote a letter to my father, explaining every thing, and then saddling
my horse, I turned his head towards old Howard's cottage, and rode like
the lightning.
"The old man was sitting in his shirt sleeves, in the porch. He saw me
approach, and in his loud, hearty voice, which fell like fiendish
mockery upon my ear, he cried out, 'Hallo, Arthur, my boy, come to say
good-bye to your sweetheart again, hey! Well, that's right. You couldn't
part like loveyers before the stranger and the old folks. Shall I call
my little Molly down?"
"'Old man,' I said, in a hollow, sepulchral voice, 'you have no
daughter'--and throwing myself from my horse, I rushed into the house.
"I will not attempt to describe the scene which followed. How the old
man rushed to her room, and the truth flashed upon his mind that she had
fled with her guilty lover. How he threw himself upon the bed of his
lost and ruined daughter, and a stranger before to tears, now wept
aloud. And how he prayed with the fervor of one who prays for the
salvation of a soul, that God would strike with the lightning of his
wrath the destroyer of his peace, the betrayer of his daughter's virtue.
Had Edward Hansford witnessed that scene, he had been punished enough
even for his guilt.
"Well, he deserted the trusting girl, and she returned to her now
darkened home; but, alas, how changed! When her child was born, the
innocent offspring of her guilt, in the care attending its nurture, the
violent grief of the mother gave way to a calm and settled melancholy.
All saw that the iron had entered her soul. Her old father died,
blessing and forgiving her, and with touching regard for his memory, she
refused to desecrate his pure name, by permitting the child of shame to
bear it. She called it after a distant relation, who never heard of the
dishonour thus attached to his name. A heart so pure as was the heart of
Mary Howard, could not long bear up beneath this load of shame. She
lingered about five years after the birth of her boy, and on her dying
bed confided the child to me. There in that sacred hour, I vowed to rear
and protect the little innocent, and by God's permission I have kept
that vow."
"Oh, tell me, tell me," said Bernard, wildly, "am I that child of guilt
and shame."
"Alas! Alfred, my son, you are," said the preacher, "but oh, you know
not all the terrible vengeance which a mysterious heaven will this day
visit on the children of your father."
As the awful truth gradually dawned upon him, Bernard cried with deep
emotion.
"And Edward Hansford! tell me what became of him?"
"With the most diligent search I could hear nothing of him for years. At
length I learned that he had come to Virginia, married a young lady of
some fortune and family, and had at last been killed in a skirmish with
the Indians, leaving an only son, an infant in arms, the only remaining
comfort of his widowed mother."
"And that son," cried Bernard, the perspiration bursting from his brow
in the agony of the moment.
"Is Thomas Hansford, who, I fear, this day meets his fate by a brother's
and a rival's hand."
"I demand your proof," almost shrieked the agitated fratricide.
"The name first excited my suspicion," returned Hutchinson, "and made me
warn you from crossing his path, when I saw you the night of the ball at
Jamestown. But confirmation was not wanting, for when this morning I
visited his cell to administer the last consolations of religion to him,
I saw him gazing upon the features in miniature of that very Edward, who
was the author of Mary Howard's wrongs."
With a wild spring, Alfred Bernard bounded through the door, and as he
rushed into the street, he heard the melancholy voice of the preacher,
as he cried, "Too late, too late."
Regardless of that cry, the miserable fratricide rushed madly along the
path which led to the place of execution, where the Governor and his
staff in accordance with the custom of the times had assembled to
witness the death of a traitor. The slow procession with the rude sledge
on which the condemned man was dragged, was still seen in the distance,
and the deep hollow sound of the muffled drum, told him too plainly that
the brief space of time which remained, was drawing rapidly to a close.
On, on, he sped, pushing aside the surprised populace who were
themselves hastening to the gallows, to indulge the morbid passion to
see the death and sufferings of a fellow man. The road seemed
lengthening as he went, but urged forward by desperation, regardless of
fatigue, he still ran swiftly toward the spot. He came to an angle of
the road, where for a moment he lost sight of the gloomy spectacle, and
in that moment he suffered the pangs of unutterable woe. Still the
muffled drum, in its solemn tones assured him that there was yet a
chance. But as he strained his eyes once more towards the fatal spot,
the sound of merry music and the wild shouts of the populace fell like
horrid mockery on his ear, for it announced that all was over.
"Too late, too late," he shrieked, in horror, as he fell prostrate and
lifeless on the ground.
And above that dense crowd, unheeding the wild shout of gratified
vengeance that went up to heaven in that fearful moment, the soul of the
generous and patriotic Hansford soared gladly on high with the spirits
of the just, in the full enjoyment of perfect freedom.
<tb>
Reader my tale is done! The spirits I have raised abandon me, and as
their shadows pass slowly and silently away, the scenes that we have
recounted seem like the fading phantoms of a dream.
Yet has custom made it a duty to give some brief account of those who
have played their parts in this our little drama. In the present case,
the intelligent reader, familiar with the history of Virginia, will
require our services but little.
History has relieved us of the duty of describing how bravely Thomas
Hansford met his early fate, and how by his purity of life, and his
calmness in death, he illustrated the noble sentiment of Corneile, that
the crime and not the gallows constitutes the shame.
History has told how William Berkeley, worn out by care and age, yielded
his high functions to a milder sway, and returned to England to receive
the reward of his rigour in his master's smile; and how that Charles
Stuart, who with all his faults was not a cruel man, repulsed the stern
old loyalist with a frown, and made his few remaining days dark and
bitter.
History has recorded the tender love of Berkeley for his wife, who long
mourned his death, and at length dried her widowed tears on the warm and
generous bosom of Philip Ludwell.
And lastly, history has recorded how the masculine nature of Sarah
Drummond, broken down with affliction and with poverty, knelt at the
throne of her king to receive from his justice the broad lands of her
husband, which had been confiscated by the uncompromising vengeance of
Sir William Berkeley.
Arthur Hutchinson, the victim of the treachery of his early friends,
returned to England, and deprived of the sympathy of all, and of the
companionship of Bernard, whose society had become essential to his
happiness, pined away in obscurity, and died of a broken heart.
Alfred Bernard, the treacherous friend, the heartless lover, the
remorseful fratricide, could no longer raise his eyes to the betrothed
mistress of his brother. He returned, with his patron, Sir William
Berkeley, to his native land; and in the retirement of the old man's
desolate home, he led a few years of deep remorse. Upon the death of his
patron, his active spirit became impatient of the seclusion in which he
had been buried, and true to his religion, if to naught else, he
engaged in one of the popish plots, so common in the reign of Charles
the Second, and at last met a rebel's fate.
Colonel and Mrs. Temple, lived long and happily in each other's love;
administering to the comfort of their bereaved child, and mutually
sustaining each other, as they descended the hill of life, until they
"slept peacefully together at its foot." The events of the Rebellion,
having been consecrated by being consigned to the glorious _past_,
furnished a constant theme to the old lady--and late in life she was
heard to say, that you could never meet now-a-days, such loyalty as then
prevailed, nor among the rising generation of powdered fops, and
flippant damsels, could you find such faithful hearts as Hansford's and
Virginia's.
And Virginia Temple, the gentle and trusting Virginia, was not entirely
unhappy. The first agony of despair subsided into a gentle melancholy.
Content in the performance of the quiet duties allotted to her, she
could look back with calmness and even with a melancholy pleasure to the
bright dream of her earlier days. She learned to kiss the rod which had
smitten her, and which blossomed with blessings--and purified by
affliction, her gentle nature became ripened for the sweet reunion with
her Hansford, to which she looked forward with patient hope. The human
heart, like the waters of Bethesda, needs often to be troubled to yield
its true qualities of health and sweetness. Thus was it with Virginia,
and in a peaceful resignation to her Father's will, she lived and passed
away, moving through the world, like the wind of the sweet South,
receiving and bestowing blessings.
THE END.
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| Tanscriber's Notes: |
| Left inconsistent use of punctuation. |
| Page 19: Changed Virgnia to Virginia. |
| Page 210: Changed wantlng to wanting. |
| Page 228: Changed afaid to afraid. |
| Page 233: Changed Britian to Britain. |
| Page 242: Changed beseiged to besieged. |
| Page 246: Left quote as: It is the cry of women, good, my lord |
| Page 278: Changed tinings to tidings. |
| Page 281: Changed requium to requiem. |
| Page 351: Changed pefidious to perfidious |
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