Hansford: A Tale of Bacon's Rebellion

said the woman, in a low voice. “Thus the words run in my memory.”

“And it is indeed a true token,” said Virginia, “but once for all, I cannot consent to this singular request.”

“Decide not in haste, lest you repent at leisure,” returned the woman, “I will come to-night at ten o'clock to receive your final answer. And regret not, Virginia Temple, that your fate is thus linked with a brave man. The babe unborn will yet bless the rising in this country—and children shall rise up and call us blest.[36] And, oh! as you would prove worthy of him who loves you, abide not thou like Reuben among the sheep-folds to hear the bleating of the flocks, and you will yet live to rejoice that you have turned a willing ear to the words and the counsel of Sarah Drummond.”

There was a pause of some moments, during which Virginia was wrapt in her own reflections concerning the singular message of Hansford, rendered even more singular by the character and appearance of the messenger. Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the blast of a trumpet, and the distant trampling of horses' hoofs. Sarah Drummond also started at the sound, but not from the same cause, for she heard in that sound the blast of defiance—the trumpet of freedom, as its champions advanced to the charge.

“They come, they come,” she said, in her wild, shrill voice; “my Lord, my Lord, the chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof—I go, like Miriam of old, to prophecy in their cause, and to swell their triumph. Farewell. Remember, at ten o'clock to-night I return for your final answer.”

With these words she burst from the room, and Virginia soon seen her tall form, with hasty strides, moving toward the place from which the sound proceeded.

CHAPTER XXI.

There was the burley Richard Lawrence, not yet bent under the weight of his growing years. There was Carver, the bold, intrepid and faithful Carver, whose fidelity yet lives historically in his rough, home-brewed answer to the Governor, that “if he served the devil he would be true to his trust.” There too was the young and graceful form of one whose name has been honoured by history, and cherished by his descendants—whose rising glory has indeed been eclipsed by others of his name more successful, but not more worthy of success—nor can that long, pure cavalier lineage boast a nobler ancestor than the high-souled, chivalrous, and devoted Giles Bland. There too were Ingram, and Walklate, and Wilford, and Farloe, and Cheesman, and a host of others, whom time would fail us to mention, and yet, each one of whom, a pioneer in freedom's cause, deserves to be freshly remembered. And there too, and the heart of Virginia Temple beat loud and quick as she beheld him, was the gallant Hansford, whom she loved so well; and as she gazed upon his noble figure, now foremost in rebellion, the old love came back gushing into her heart, and she half forgave his grievous sin, and loved him as before.

These all passed on, and the well-regulated band of four hundred foot-soldiers, all armed and disciplined for action, followed on, ready and anxious to obey their noble leader, even unto death. Among these were many, who, through their lives had been known as loyalists, who upheld the councils of the colony in their long resistance to the usurpation of the Protector, and who hailed the restoration of their king as a personal triumph to each and all. There too were those who had admired Cromwell, and sustained his government, and some few grey-headed veterans who even remembered to have fought under the banner of John Hampden—Cavaliers and Roundheads, Episcopalians and Dissenters; old men, who had heretofore passed through life regardless of the forms of government under which they lived; and young men, whose ardent hearts burned high with the spirit of liberty—all these discordant elements had been united in the alembic of freedom, and hand-in-hand, and heart-in-heart, were preparing for the struggle. And Virginia Temple thought, as she gazed from the window upon their manly forms, that after all, rebellion was not confined to the ignoble and the base.

On, on, still on, and now they have reached the gate which is the grand entrance to the state-house square. The crowd of eager citizens throng after them, and with the fickle sympathy of the mob unite in loud shouts of “Long live Bacon, the Champion of Freedom.” And now they are drawn up in bristling column before the hall of the assembly, while the windows are crowded thick with the pale, anxious faces of the astounded burgesses. But see! the leaders dismount, and their horses are given in charge to certain of the soldiers. Conspicuous among them all is Nathaniel Bacon, from his proud and imperial bearing as he walks with impatient steps up and down the line, and reads their resolution in the faces of the men.

“What will he do!” is whispered from the white and agitated lips of the trembling burgesses.

“This comes of the faithless conduct of Berkeley,” says one.

“Yes; I always said that Bacon should have his commission,” says another.

“It is downright murder to deny him the right to save the colony from the savages,” says a third.

“And we must suffer for the offences of a despotic old dotard,” said the first speaker.

“Say you so, masters,” cried out old Presley, wedging his huge form between two of his brethren at the window—and all his loyalty of the preceding night having oozed out at his fingers' ends, like Bob Acres' courage, at the first approach of danger—“say you so; then, by God, it is my advice to let him put out the fire of his own raising.”

But see there! Bacon and his staff are conferring together. It will soon be known what is his determination. It is already read in his fierce and angry countenance as he draws his sword half way from its scabbard, and frowns upon the milder councils of Hansford and Bland. Presently a servant of one of the members comes in with pale, affrighted looks, and whispers to his master. He has overheard the words of Bacon, which attended that ominous gesture.

“I will bear a little while. But when you see my sword drawn from my scabbard, thus, let that be the signal for attack. Then strike for freedom, for truth, and for justice.”

The burgesses look in wild alarm at each other. What is to be done? It were vain to resist. They are unarmed. The rebels more than quadruple Governor, Council, and Assembly. Let those suffer who have incurred the wrath of freemen. Let the lightning fall upon him who has called it down. For ourselves, let us make peace.

In a moment a white handkerchief suspended on the usher's rod streams from the window, an emblem of peace, an advocate for mercy, and with one accordant shout, which rings through the halls of the state-house, the burgesses declare that he shall have his commission.

Bacon sees the emblem. He hears the shout. His dark eye flashes with delight as he hails this bloodless victory over the most formidable department of the government. The executive dare not hold out against the will of the Assembly. But the victory is not yet consummated.

Suddenly from the lips of the excited soldiery comes a wild cry, and following the direction of their eyes, he sees Sir William Berkeley standing at the open window of the Council Chamber. Yes, there stands the proud old man, with form erect and noble—his face somewhat paler, and his eagle eye somewhat brighter than usual. But these are the only signs he gives of emotion, as he looks down upon that hostile crowd, with a smile of bitter scorn encircling his lip. He quails not, he blenches not, before that angry foe. His pulse beats calmly and regularly, for it is under the control of the brave great heart, which knows no fear. And there he stands, all calm and silent, like a firm-set rock that defies in its iron strength the fury of the storm that beats against it.

Yet Berkeley is in danger. He is the object, the sole object, of the bitter hate of that incensed and indignant soldiery. He has pledged and he has broken his word to them, and when did broken faith ever fail to arouse the indignation of Virginians? He has denied them the right to protect, by organized force, their homes and their firesides from the midnight attacks of ruthless savages. He has advised the passage of laws restricting their commerce, and reducing the value of their staples. He has urged the erection of forts throughout the colony, armed with a regular soldiery, supported in their idleness by the industry of Virginians, and whose sole object is to check the kindling flame of liberty among the people. He has sanctioned and encouraged the exercise of power by Parliament to tax an unrepresented colony. He has advised and upheld His Majesty in depriving the original patentees of immense tracts of land, and lavishing them as princely donations upon fawning favourites. He has refused to represent to the king the many grievances of the colony, and to urge their redress, and, although thus showing himself to be a tyrant over a free people, he has dared to urge, through his servile commissioners, his appointment as Governor for life.

Such were some of the many causes of discontent among the colonists which had so inflamed them against Sir William Berkeley. And now, there he stood before them, calm in spite of their menaces, unrelenting in spite of their remonstrances. Without a word of command, and with one accord a hundred fusils were pointed at the breast of the brave old Governor. It was a moment of intense excitement—of terrible suspense. But even then his courage and his self-reliance forsook him not. Tearing open his vest, and presenting himself at the window more fully to their attack, he cried out in a firm voice:

“Aye, shoot! 'Fore God, a fair mark. Infatuated men, bury your wrongs here in my heart. I dare you to do your worst!”

“Down with your guns!” shouted Bacon, angrily. But it needed not the order of their leader to cause them to drop their weapons in an instant. The calm smile which still played around the countenance of the old Governor, the unblenching glance of that eagle eye, and the unawed manner in which he dared them to revenge, all had their effect in allaying the resentment of the soldiers. And with this came the memory of the olden time, when he was so beloved by his people, because so just and gentle. Something of this old feeling now returned, and as they lowered their weapons a tear glistened in many a hardy soldier's eye.

With the quick perception of true genius, Nathaniel Bacon saw the effect produced. Well aware of the volatile materials with which he had to work, he dreaded a revolution in the feelings of the men. Anxious to smother the smouldering ashes of loyalty before they were fanned into a flame, he cried with a loud voice,

“Not a hair of your head shall be touched. No, nor of any man's. I come for justice, not for vengeance. I come to plead for the mercy which ill-judged and cruel delay has long denied this people. I come to plead for the living—my argument may be heard from the dead. The voices of murdered Englishmen call to you from the ground. We demand a right, guarantied by the sacred and inviolable law of self-preservation! A right! guarantied by the plighted but violated word of an English knight and a Virginia Governor. A right! which I now hold by the powerful, albeit unwritten, sanction of these, the sovereigns of Virginia.”

The last artful allusion of Bacon entirely restored the confidence of his soldiers, and with loud cries they shouted in chorus, “And we will have it!—we will have it!”

Berkeley listened patiently to this brief address, and then turned from the window where he was standing, and took his seat at the council-table. Here, too, he was surrounded by many who, either alarmed at the menaces of the rebels, and convinced of the futility of resisting their demands, or, what is more probable, who had a secret sympathy in the causes of the rebellion, exerted all their influence in mollifying the wrath and obstinacy of the old Governor. But it was all in vain. To every argument or persuasion which was urged, his only reply was,

“To have forced from me by rebels the trust confided in me by my king! To yield to force what I denied to petition! No, Gentlemen; 'fore God, if the authority of my master's government must be overcome in Virginia, let me perish with it. I wish no higher destiny than to be a martyr, like my royal master, Charles the First, to the cause of truth and justice. Let them rob me of my life when they rob me of my trust.”

While thus the councillors were vainly endeavoring to persuade the old man to yield to the current which had so set against him, he was surprised by a slight touch on his shoulder, and on looking up he saw Alfred Bernard standing before him. The young man bent over, and in a low whisper uttered these significant words:

“The commission, extorted by force, is null and void when the duress is removed.”

Struck by a view so apposite to his condition, and so entirely tallying with his own wishes, the impetuous old Governor fairly leaped from his chair and grasped the hand of his young adviser.

“Right, by God!” he said; “right, my son. Gentlemen, this young man's counsel is worth all of your's. Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings—however, Alfred, you would not relish a compliment paid at the expense of your manhood.”

“What does the young man propose?” drawled the phlegmatic old Cole, who was one of the council board.

“That I should yield to the current when I must, and resist it when I can,” cried Berkeley, exultingly. “Loyalty must only bow to the storm, as the tree bows before the tempest. The most efficient resistance is apparent concession.”

The councillors were astounded. Sprung from that chivalric Anglo-Saxon race, who respected honour more than life, and felt a stain like a wound, they could scarcely believe their senses when they thus heard the Governor of Virginia recommending deceit and simulation to secure his safety. To them, rebellion was chiefly detestable because it was an infraction of the oath of loyalty. It could scarcely be more base than the premeditated perjury which Sir William contemplated. Many an angry eye and dark scowl was bent on Alfred Bernard, who met them with an easy and defiant air. The silence that ensued expressed more clearly than words the disapprobation of the council. At length old Ballard, one of the most loyal and esteemed members of the council, hazarded an expression of his views.

“Sir William Berkeley, let me advise you as your counsellor, and warn you as your friend, to avoid the course prescribed by that young man. What effect can your bad faith with these misguided persons have, but to exasperate them?—and when once aroused, and once deceived, be assured that all attempts at reconciliation will be vain. I speak plainly, but I do so because not only your own safety, but the peace and prosperity of the colony are involved in your decision. Were not the broken pledges of that unhappy Stuart, to whom you have referred, the causes of that fearful revolution which alienated the affections of his subjects and at length cost him his life? Charles Stuart has not died in vain, if, by his death and his sufferings, he has taught his successors in power that candour, moderation and truth are due from a prince to his people. But, alas! what oceans of blood must be shed ere man will learn those useful lessons, which alone can ensure his happiness and secure his authority.”

“Zounds, Ballard,” said the incensed old ruler, “you have mistaken your calling. I have not heard so fine a sermon this many a day, and, 'fore God, if you will only renounce politics, and don gown and cassock, I will have you installed forthwith in my dismal Hutchinson's living. But,” he added, more seriously, as the smile of bitter derision faded from his lips, “I well e'en tell you that you have expressed yourself a matter too freely, and have forgotten what you owe to position and authority.”

“I have forgotten neither, sir,” said Ballard, firmly but calmly. “I owe respect to position, even though I may not have it for the man who holds that position; and when authority is abused, I owe it alike to myself and to the people to check it so far as I may.”

The flush of passion mounted to the brow of Berkeley, as he listened to these words; but with a violent effort he checked the angry retort which rose to his lips, and turning to the rest of the council, he said:

“Well, gentlemen, I will submit the proposition to you. Shall the commission of General of the forces of Virginia be granted to Nathaniel Bacon?”

“Nay, Governor,” interposed another of the council, “we would know whether you intend—”

“It is of my actions that you must advise. Leave my motives to me. What do you advise? Shall the commission be granted?”

“Aye,” was responded in turn by each of the councillors at the board, and at the same moment the heavy tramp of approaching footsteps was heard, and Bacon, attended by Lawrence, Bland and Hansford, entered the chamber.

The council remained seated and covered, and preserved the most imperturbable silence. It was a scene not unlike that of that ancient senate, who, unable to resist the attack of barbarians, evinced their pride and bravery by their contemptuous silence. The sun was shining brightly through the western windows of the chamber, and his glaring rays, softened and coloured by the rich red curtains of damask, threw a deeper flush upon the cheeks of the haughty old councillors. With their eyes fixed upon the intruders, they patiently awaited the result of the interview. On the other hand, the attitude and behaviour of the rebels was not less calm and dignified. They had evidently counselled well before they had determined to intrude thus upon the deliberations of the council. It was with no angry or impatient outburst of passion, with no air of triumph, that they came. They knew their rights, and had come to claim and maintain them.

There were two men there, and they the youngest of that mixed assembly, who viewed each other with looks of darker hatred than the rest. The wound inflicted in Hansford's heart at Windsor Hall had not yet been healed—and with that tendency to injustice so habitual to lovers, with the proclivity of all men to seek out some one whom they may charge as the author of their own misfortune, he viewed Bernard with feelings of distrust and enmity. He felt, too, or rather he feared, that the heart left vacant by his own exclusion from it, might be filled with this young rival. Bernard, on the other hand, had even stronger reason of dislike, and if such motives could operate even upon the noble mind of Hansford, with how much greater force would they impress the selfish character of the young jesuit. The recollection of that last scene with Virginia in the park, of her unwavering devotion to her rebel lover, and her disregard of his own feelings came upon him now with renewed force, as he saw that rebel rival stand before him. Even if filial regard for her father's wishes and a sense of duty to herself would forever prevent her alliance with Hansford, Alfred Bernard felt that so long as his rival lived there was an insuperable obstacle to his acquisition of her estate, an object which he prized even more than her love. Thus these two young men darted angry glances at each other, and forgot in their own personal aggrievements, the higher principles for which they were engaged of loyalty on the one hand, and liberty on the other.

Bacon was the first to break silence.

“Methinks,” he said, “that your honours are not inclined to fall into the error of deciding in haste and repenting at leisure.”

“Mr. Bacon,” said Berkeley, “you must be aware that the appearance of this armed force tends to prejudice your claims. It would be indecorous in me to be over-awed by menaces, or to yield to compulsion. But the necessities of the time demand that there should be an organized force, to resist the encroachments of the Indians. It is, therefore, not from fear of your threats, but from conviction of this necessity that I have determined to grant you the commission which you ask, with full power to raise, equip, and provision an army, and with instructions, that you forthwith proceed to march against the savages.”

Bacon could scarcely suppress a smile at this boastful appearance of authority and disavowal of compulsion, on the part of the proud old Governor. It was with a thrill of rapture that he thus at last possessed the great object of his wishes. Already idolized by the people, he only needed a legal recognition of his authority to accomplish the great ends that he had in view. As the commission was made out in due form, engrossed and sealed, and handed to him, he clutched it eagerly, as though it were a sceptre of royal power. Little suspecting the design of the wily Governor, he felt all his confidence in him restored at once, and from his generous heart he forgave him all the past.

“This commission, though military,” he said, proudly, “is the seal of restored tranquillity to the colony. Think not it will be perverted to improper uses. Royalty is to Virginians what the sun is to the pious Persian. Virginia was the last to desert the setting sun of royalty, and still lingered piously and tearfully to look upon its declining rays. She was the first to hail the glorious restoration of its light, and as she worshipped its rising beams, she will never seek to quench or overcloud its meridian lustre. I go, gentlemen, to restore peace to the fireside and confidence to the hearts of this people. The sword of my country shall never be turned against herself.”

The heightened colour of his cheek, and the bright flashing of his eye, bespoke the pride and delight of his heart. With a profound bow he turned from the room, and with his aids, he descended to rejoin his anxious and expectant followers. In a few moments the loud shout of the soldiery was heard testifying their satisfaction at the result. The names of Berkeley and of Bacon were upon their lips—and as the proud old Governor gazed from the window at that happy crowd, and saw with the admiring eye of a brave man, the tall and martial form of Nathaniel Bacon at their head, he scarcely regretted in that moment that his loyal name had been linked with the name of a traitor.

CHAPTER XXII.

We return to Virginia Temple, who, although not an eye-witness of the scene which we have just described, was far from being disinterested in its result. The words of the singular woman, with whom she had conversed, had made some impression upon her mind. Although disgusted with the facility with which Dame Drummond had distorted and perverted Scripture to justify her own wild absurdities, Virginia still felt that there was much cause for self-reproach in her conduct to her lover. She felt every assurance that though he might err, he would err from judgment alone; and how little did she know of the questions at issue between the aroused people and the government. Indeed, when she saw the character of those with whom Hansford was associated—men not impelled by the blind excitement of a mob, but evidently actuated by higher principles of right and justice, her heart misgave her that, perhaps, she had permitted prejudice to carry her too far in her opposition to their cause. The struggle in her mind was indeed an unequal one. It was love pleading against ignorant prejudice, and that at the forum of a woman's heart. Can it be wondered at that Virginia Temple, left to herself, without an adviser, yielded to the powerful plea, and freely and fully forgave her rebel lover? And when she thought, too, that, however guilty to his country, he had, at least, been ever faithful to her, she added to her forgiveness of him the bitterest self-reproach. On one thing she was resolved, that notwithstanding the apparent indelicacy of such a course, she would grant him the interview which he requested, and if she could not win him from his error, at least part from him, though forever, as a friend. She felt that it was due to her former love, and to his unwavering devotion, to grant this last request.

Once determined on her course, the hours rolled heavily away until the time fixed for her appointment with Hansford. Despite her attempt to prove cheerful and unconcerned, her lynx-eyed mother detected her sadness, but was easily persuaded that it was due to a slight head-ache, with which she was really suffering, and which she pleaded as an excuse. The old lady was more easily deceived, because it tallied with her own idea, that Jamestown was very unhealthy, and that she, herself, could never breathe its unwholesome air without the most disastrous consequences to her health.

At length, Colonel Temple, having left the crowd of busy politicians, who were discussing the events of the day in the hall, returned with his good wife to their own room. Virginia, with a beating heart, resumed her watch at the window, where she was to await the coming of Sarah Drummond. It was a warm, still night. Scarcely a breath of air was stirring the leaves of the long line of elms that adorned the street. She sat watching the silent stars, and wondering if those bright worlds contained scenes of sorrow and despair like this; or were they but the pure mansions which the Comforter was preparing in his heavenly kingdom for those disconsolate children of earth who longed for that peace which he had promised when he told his trusting disciples “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” How apt are the sorrowing souls of earth to look thus into the blue depths of heaven, and in their selfishness to think that Nature, with her host of created beings, was made for them. She chose from among those shining worlds, one bright and trembling star, which stood apart, and there transported on the wings of Fancy or Faith, she lived in love and peace with Hansford. Sweet was that star-home to the trusting girl, as she watched it in its slow and silent course through heaven. Free from the cares which vex the spirit in this dark sin-world, that happy star was filled with love, and the blissful pair who knew it as their home, felt no change, save in the “grateful vicissitude of pleasure and repose.” Such was the picture which the young girl, with the pencil of hope, and the colours of fancy painted for her soul's eye. But as she gazed, the star faded from her sight, and a dark and heavy cloud lowered from the place where it had stood.

At the same moment, as if the vision in which she had been rapt was something more than a dream, the door of her chamber opened, and Sarah Drummond entered. The heart of Virginia Temple nearly failed her, as she thought of the coincidence in time of the disappearance of the star and the summons to her interview with Hansford. Her companion marked her manner, and in a more gentle voice than she had yet assumed, she said,

“Why art thou cast down, maiden? Let not your heart sink in the performance of a duty. Have you decided?”

“Must I meet him alone?” asked Virginia. “Oh, how could he make a request so hard to be complied with!”

“Alone!” said Sarah, with a sneer. “Yes, silly girl, reared in the school that would teach that woman's virtue is too frail even to be tempted. Yes, alone! She who cannot trust her honour to a lover, knows but little of the true power of love.”

“I will follow you,” replied Virginia, firmly, and throwing a shawl loosely around her, she rose from her seat and prepared to go.

“Come on, then,” said Sarah, quickly, “there is no time to be lost. In an hour, at most, the triumphant defenders of right will be upon their march.”

The insurgents, wearied with their long march the night and day before, and finding no accommodation for their numbers in the inn, or elsewhere, had determined to seek a few hours repose in the green lawn surrounding the state-house, previous to their night march upon the Indians. It was here that Hansford had appointed to meet and bid farewell to his betrothed Virginia. Half leading, half dragging the trembling girl, who had already well nigh repented her resolution, Sarah Drummond walked rapidly down the street, in the direction of the state-house. Arrived at the gate, their further progress was arrested by a rough, uncouth sentinel, who in a coarse voice demanded who they were.

“I am Sarah Drummond,” said the woman, promptly, “and this young maiden would speak with Major Hansford.”

“Why, 'stains, dame, what has become of all your religion, that you should turn ribibe on our hands, and be bringing young hoydens this time o' night to the officers. For shame, Dame Drummond.”

“Berkenhead,” cried the woman, fiercely, “we all know you for a traitor and a blasphemer, who serve but for the loaves and fishes, and not for the pure word. You gained your liberty, you know, by betraying your fellows in the insurrection of '62, and are a base pensioner upon the bounty of the Assembly for your cowardice and treason. But God often maketh the carnal-minded of this world to fulfil his will, and so we must e'en bear with you yet a little while. Come, let us pass.”

“Nay, dame,” said the old soldier, “I care but little for your abuse; but duty is duty, and so an' ye give me not the shibboleth, as old Noll's canters would say, you may e'en tramp back. You see, I've got some of your slang, and will fight the devil with his own fire: 'And there fell of the children of Ephraim, at the passage of the Jordan—'”

“Hush, blasphemer!” said Sarah, impatiently. “But if you must have the pass before you can admit us, take it.” And she leaned forward and whispered in his ear the words, “Be faithful to the cause.”

“Right as a trivet,” said Berkenhead, “and so pass on. A fig for the consequences, so that my skirts are clear.”

Relieved from this embarrassment, Sarah Drummond and her trembling companion passed through the gate, and proceeded up the long gravelled walk which led to the state-house. They had not gone far before Virginia Temple descried a dark form approaching them, and even before she could recognize the features, her heart told her it was Hansford. In another moment she was in his arms.

“My own Virginia, my loved one,” he cried, regardless of the presence of Mrs. Drummond, “I scarcely dared hope that you would have kept your promise to say farewell. Come, dearest, lean on my arm, I have much to tell you. You, my kind dame, remain here for a few moments—we will not detain you long.”

Quietly yielding to his request, Virginia took her lover's arm, and they walked silently along the path, leaving the good dame Drummond to digest alone her crude notions about the prospects of Israel.

“Is it not singular,” said Hansford at length, “that before you came, I thought the brief hour we must spend together was far too short to say half that I wish, and now I can say nothing. The quiet feeling of love, of pure and tranquil love, banishes every other thought from my heart.”

“I fear—I fear,” murmured Virginia, “that I have done very wrong in consenting to this interview.”

“And why, Virginia,” said her lover, “even the malefactor is permitted the poor privilege of bidding farewell forever to those around him—and am I worse than he?”

“No, Hansford, no,” replied Virginia, “but to come thus with a perfect stranger, at night, and without my father's permission, to an interview with one who has met with his disapprobation—”

“True love,” replied Hansford, sadly, “overleaps all such feeble barriers as these—where the happiness of the loved one is concerned.”

“And, therefore, I came,” returned the young girl, “but you forget, Hansford, that the relation which once existed between us has, by our mutual consent, been dissolved—what then was proper cannot now be permitted.”

“If such be the case,” replied Hansford, in an offended tone, “Miss Temple must be aware that I am the last person to urge her to continue in a course which her judgment disapproves. May I conduct you to your companion?”

Virginia did not at first reply. The coldness of manner which she had assumed was far from being consonant with her real feelings, and the ingenuous girl could no longer continue the part which she attempted to represent. After a brief pause, the natural affection of her nature triumphed, and with the most artless frankness she said,

“Oh, no, Hansford, my tongue can no longer speak other language than that which my heart dictates. Forgive me for what I have said. We cannot part thus.”

“Thanks, my dearest girl,” he cried, “for this assurance. The future is already too dark, for the light of hope to be entirely withdrawn. These troublous times will soon be over, and then—”

“Nay, Hansford,” said Virginia, interrupting him, “I fear you cannot even then hope for that happiness which you profess to anticipate in our union. These things I have thought of deeply and sorrowfully. Whatever may be the issue of this unnatural contest, to us the result must be the same. My father's prejudices—and without his consent, I would never yield my hand to any one—are so strong against your cause, that come what may, they can never be removed.”

“He must himself, ere long, see the justice of our cause,” said Hansford, confidently. “It is impossible that truth can long be hid from one, who, like your noble father, must ever be desirous of its success.”

“And do you think,” returned Virginia, “that having failed to arrive at your conclusions in his moments of calm reflection, he will be apt to change his opinions under the more formidable reasoning of the bayonet? Believe me, Hansford, that scenes like those which we have this day witnessed, can never reconcile the opposing parties in this unhappy strife.”

“It is true, too true,” said Hansford, sorrowfully; “and is there then no hope?”

“Yes, there is a hope,” said Virginia, earnestly. “Let not the foolish pride of consistency prevent you from acknowledging an error when committed. Boldly and manfully renounce the career into which impulse has driven you. Return to your allegiance—to your ancient faith; and believe me, that Virginia Temple will rejoice more in your repentance than if all the honours of martial glory, or of civic renown, were showered upon you. She would rather be the trusting wife of the humble and repentant servant of his king, than the queen of a sceptered usurper, who clambered to the throne through the blood of the martyrs of faith and loyalty.”

“Oh, Virginia!” said Hansford, struggling hard between duty and love.

“I know it is hard to conquer the fearful pride of your heart,” said Virginia; “but, Hansford, 'tis a noble courage that is victorious in such a contest. Let me hear your decision. There is a civil war in your heart,” she added, more playfully, “and that rebel pride must succumb to the strong arm of your own self-government.”

“In God's name, tempt me no further!” cried Hansford. “We may well believe that man lost his high estate of happiness by the allurements of woman, since even now the cause of truth is endangered by listening to her persuasions.”

“I had hoped,” replied the young girl, aroused by this sudden change of manner on the part of her lover, “that the love which you have so long professed was something more than mere profession. But be it so. The first sacrifice which you have ever been called upon to make has estranged your heart forever, and you toss aside the love which you pretended so fondly to cherish, as a toy no longer worthy of your regard.”

“This is unkind, Virginia,” returned Hansford, in an injured tone. “I have not deserved this at your hands. Sorely you have tempted me; but, thank God, not even the sweet hope which you extend can allure me from my duty. If my country demand the sacrifice of my heart, then let the victim be bound upon her altar. The sweet memories of the past, the love which still dwells in that heart, the crushed hopes of the future, will all unite to form the sad garland to adorn it for the sacrifice.”

The tone of deep melancholy with which Hansford uttered these words showed how painful had been the struggle through which he had passed. It had its effect, too, upon the heart of Virginia. She felt how cruel had been her language just before—how unjust had been her charge of inconstancy. She saw at once the fierce contest in Hansford's breast, in which duty had triumphed over love. Ingenuous as she ever was, she acknowledged her fault, and wept, and was forgiven.

“And now,” said Hansford, more calmly, “my own Virginia—for I may still call you so—in thus severing forever the chain which has bound us, I do not renounce my love, nor the deep interest which I feel in your future destiny. I love you too dearly to wish that you should still love me; find elsewhere some one more worthy than I to fill your heart. Forget that you ever loved me; if you can, forget that you ever knew me. And yet, as a friend, let me warn you, with all the sincerity of my heart, to beware of Alfred Bernard.”

“Of whom?” asked Virginia, in surprise.

“Of that serpent, who, with gilded crest and subtle guile, would intrude into the garden of your heart,” continued Hansford, solemnly.

“Why, Hansford,” said Virginia, “you scarcely know the young man of whom you speak. Like you, my friend, my affections are buried in the past. I can never love again. But yet I would not have you wrong with unjust suspicions one who has never done you wrong. On the contrary, even in my brief intercourse with him, his conduct towards you has been courteous and generous.”

“How hard is it for innocence to suspect guile,” said Hansford. “My sweet girl, these very professions of generosity towards me, have but sealed my estimate of his character. For me he entertains the deadliest hate. Against me he has sworn the deadliest vengeance. I tell you, Virginia, that if ever kindly nature implanted an instinct in the human heart to warn it of approaching danger, she did so when first I looked upon that man. My subsequent knowledge of him but strengthened this intuition. Mild, insinuating, and artful, he is more to be feared than an open foe. I dread a villain when I see him smile.”

“Hush! we are overheard,” said Virginia, trembling, and looking around, Hansford saw Arthur Hutchinson, the preacher, emerging from the shadow of an adjacent elm tree.

“Young gentleman,” said Hutchinson, in his soft melodious voice, “I have heard unwillingly what perhaps I should not. He who would speak in the darkness of the night as you have spoken of an absent man, does not care to have many auditors.”

“And he who would screen himself in that darkness, to hear what he should not,” retorted Hansford, haughtily, “is not the man to resent what he has heard, I fear. But what I say, I am ready to maintain with my sword—and if you be a friend of the individual of whom I have spoken, and choose to espouse his quarrel, let me conduct this young lady to a place of safety, and I will return to grant such satisfaction as you or your principal may desire.”

“This young maiden will tell you,” said Hutchinson, “that I am not one of those who acknowledge that bloody arbiter between man and man, to which you refer.”

“Oh, no!” cried Virginia, in an agitated voice; “this is the good parson Hutchinson, of whom you have heard.”

“And you, maiden,” said Hutchinson, “are not in the path of duty. Think you it is either modest or becoming, to leave your parents and your home, and seek a clandestine interview with this stranger. Return to your home. You have erred, grossly erred in this.”

“Nay,” cried Hansford, in a threatening voice, “if you say ought in reproach of this young lady, by heavens, your parson's coat will scarce protect you from the just punishment of your insolence;” then suddenly checking himself, he added, “Forgive me, sir, this hasty folly. I believe you mean well, although your language is something of the most offensive. And say to your friend Mr. Bernard, all that you have heard, and tell him for Major Hansford, that there is an account to be settled between us, which I have not forgotten.”

“Hansford!” cried the preacher, with emotion, “Hansford, did you say? Look ye, sir, I am a minister of peace, and cannot on my conscience bear your hostile message. But I warn you, if your name indeed be Hansford, that you are in danger from the young man of whom you speak. His blood is hot, his arm is skilful, and towards you his purpose is not good.”

“I thank you for your timely warning, good sir,” returned Hansford, haughtily; “but you speak of danger to one who regards it not.” Then turning to Virginia, he said in a low voice, “'Tis at least a blessing, that the despair which denies to the heart the luxury of love, at least makes it insensible to fear.”

“And are you such an one,” said Hutchinson, overhearing him; “and is it on thee that the iniquities of the father will be visited. Forbid it, gracious heaven, and forgive as thou would'st have me forgive the sins of the past.”

“Mr. Hutchinson,” said Hansford, annoyed by the preacher's solemn manner and mysterious words, “I know nothing, and care little for all this mystery. Your brain must be a little disordered—for I assure you, that as I was born in the colony, and you are but a recent settler here, it is impossible that there can be any such mysterious tie between us as that at which you so darkly hint.”

“The day may come,” replied Hutchinson, in the same solemn manner, “when you will know all to your cost—and when you may find that care and sorrow can indeed shake reason on her throne.”

“Well, be it so, but as you value your safety, urge me no further with these menaces. But pardon me, how came you in this enclosure? Know you not that you are within the boundaries of the General's camp, against his strict orders?”

“Aye,” replied the preacher, “I knew that the rebels were encamped hereabout, but I did not, and do not, see by what right they can impede a peaceful citizen in his movements.”

“Reverend sir,” said Hansford, “you have the reputation of having a sound head on your shoulders, and should have a prudent tongue in your head. I would advise you, therefore, to refrain from the too frequent use of that word 'rebel,' which just fell from you. But it is time we should part. I will conduct you to the gate lest you find some difficulty in passing the sentry, and you will oblige me, kind sir, by seeing this young lady to her home.” Then turning to Virginia, he whispered his brief adieu, and imprinting a long, warm kiss upon her lips, he led the way in silence to the gate. Here they parted. She to return to her quiet chamber to mourn over hopes thus fled forever, and he to forget self and sorrow in the stirring events of martial life.