Chapter 18

"And first she pitched her voice to sing, Then glanced her dark eye on the king, And then around the silent ring, And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say Her pretty oath, by yea and nay, She could not, would not, durst not play." _Marmion._

"How did _you_ like Major Presley's song?" said Bernard to Virginia, as he leaned gracefully over her chair, and played carelessly with the young girl's fan.

"Frankly, Mr. Bernard," she replied, "not at all. There was only one thing which seemed to me appropriate in the exhibition."

"And what was that?"

"The coarse language and sentiment of the song comported well with the singer."

"Oh, really, Miss Temple," returned Bernard, "you are too harsh in your criticism. It is not fair to reduce the habits and manners of others to your own purer standard of excellence, any more than to censure the scanty dress of your friend Mamalis, which, however picturesque in itself, would scarcely become the person of one of these fair ladies here."

"And yet," said Virginia, blushing crimson at the allusion, "there can be no other standard by which I at least can be governed, than that established by my own taste and judgment. You merely asked me _my_ opinion of Major Presley's performance; others, it is true, may differ with me, but their decisions can scarcely affect my own."

"The fact that there is such a wide variance in the taste of individuals," argued Bernard, "should, however, make us cautious of condemning that which may be sustained by the judgment of so many. Did you know, by the way, Miss Virginia, that 'habit' and 'custom' are essentially the same words as 'habit' and 'costume.' This fact--for the history of a nation may almost be read in the history of its language--should convince you that the manners and customs of a people are as changeable as the fashions of their dress."

"I grant you," said Virginia, "that the mere manners of a people may change in many respects; but true taste, when founded on a true appreciation of right, can never change."

"Why, yes it can," replied her companion, who delighted in bringing the young girl out, as he said, and plying her with specious sophisms. "Beauty, certainly, is an absolute and not a relative emotion, and yet what is more changeable than a taste in beauty. The Chinese bard will write a sonnet on the oblique eyes, flat nose and club feet of his saffron Amaryllis, while he would revolt with horror from the fair features of a British lassie. Old Uncle Giles will tell you that the negro of his Congo coast paints his Obi devil white, in order to inspire terror in the hearts of the wayward little Eboes. The wild Indians of Virginia dye their cheeks--"

"Nay, there you will not find so great a difference between us," said Virginia, interrupting him, as she pointed to the plastered rouge on Bernard's cheek. "But really, Mr. Bernard, you can scarcely be serious in an opinion so learnedly argued. You must acknowledge that right and wrong are absolute terms, and that a sense of them is inherent in our nature."

"Well then, seriously, my dear Miss Temple," replied Bernard, "I do not see so much objection to the gay society of England, which is but a reflection from the mirror of the court of Charles the Second."

"When the mirror is stained or imperfect, Mr. Bernard, the image that it reflects must be distorted too. That society which breaks down the barriers that a refined sentiment has erected between the sexes, can never develope in its highest perfection the purity of the human heart."

"Well, I give up the argument," said Bernard, "for where sentiment is alone concerned, there is no more powerful advocate than woman. But, my dear Miss Temple, you who have such a pure and correct taste on this subject, can surely illustrate your own idea by an example. Will you not sing? I know you can--your mother told me so."

"You must excuse me, Mr. Bernard; I would willingly oblige you, but I fear I could not trust my voice among so many strangers."

"You mistake your own powers," urged Bernard. "There is nothing easier, believe me, after the first few notes of the voice, which sound strangely enough I confess, than for any one to recover self-possession entirely. I well remember the first time I attempted to speak before a large audience. When I arose to my feet, my knees trembled, and my lips actually felt heavy as lead. It seemed as though every drop of blood in my system rushed back to my heart. The vast crowd before me was nothing but an immense assemblage of eyes, all bent with the most burning power upon me; and when at length I opened my mouth, and first heard the tones of my own voice, it sounded strange and foreign to my ear. It seemed as though it was somebody else, myself and yet not myself, who was speaking; and my utterance was so choked and discordant, that I would have given worlds if I could draw back the words that escaped me. But after a half dozen sentences, I became perfectly composed and self-possessed, and cared no more for the gaping crowd than for the idle wind which I heed not. So it will be with your singing, but rest assured that the discord of your voice will only exist in your own fancy. Now will you oblige me?"

"Indeed, Mr. Bernard, I cannot say that you have offered much inducement," said Virginia, laughing at the young man's description of his forensic debut. "Nothing but the strongest sense of duty would impel me to pass through such an ordeal as that which you have described. Seriously you must excuse me. I cannot sing."

"Oh yes you can, my dear," said her mother, who was standing near, and heard the latter part of the conversation. "What's the use of being so affected about it! You know you can sing, my dear--and I like to see young people obliging."

"That's right, Mrs. Temple," said Bernard, "help me to urge my petition; I don't think Miss Virginia can be disobedient, even if it were in her power to be disobliging."

"The fact is, Mr. Bernard," said the old lady, "that the young people of the present day require so much persuading, that its hardly worth the trouble to get them to do any thing."

"Well, mother, if you put it on that ground," said Virginia, "I suppose I must waive my objections and oblige you."

So saying, she rose, and taking Bernard's arm, she seated herself at Lady Frances' splendid harp, which was sent from England as a present by her brother-in-law, Lord Berkeley. Drawing off her white gloves, and running her little tapering fingers over the strings, Virginia played a melancholy symphony, which accorded well with the sad words that came more sadly on the ear through the medium of her plaintive voice:--

"Fondly they loved, and her trusting heart With the hopes of the future bounded, Till the trumpet of Freedom condemned them to part, And the knell of their happiness sounded.

"But his is a churl's and a traitor's choice, Who, deaf to the call of duty, Would linger, allured by a syren's voice, On the Circean island of beauty.

"His country called! he had heard the sound, And kissed the pale cheek of the maiden, Then staunched with his blood his country's wound, And ascended in glory to Aidenn.

"The shout of victory lulled him to sleep The slumber that knows no dreaming, But a martyr's reward he will proudly reap, In the grateful tears of Freemen.

"And long shall the maidens remember her love, And heroes shall dwell on his story; She died in her constancy like the lone dove, But he like an eagle in glory.

"Oh let the dark cypress mourn over her grave, And light rest the green turf upon her; While over his ashes the laurel shall wave, For he sleeps in the proud bed of honour."

The reader need not be told that this simple little ballad derived new beauty from the feeling with which Virginia sang it. The remote connection of its story with her own love imparted additional sadness to her sweet voice, and as she dwelt on the last line, her eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled. Bernard marked the effect which had been produced, and a thrill of jealousy shot through his heart at seeing this new evidence of the young girl's constancy.

But while he better understood her feelings than others around her, all admired the plaintive manner in which she had rendered the sentiment of the song, and attributed her emotion to her own refined appreciation and taste. Many were the compliments which were paid to the fair young minstrel by old and young; by simpering beaux and generous maidens. Sir William Berkeley, himself, gallantly kissed her cheek, and said that Lady Frances might well be jealous of so fair a rival; and added, that if he were only young again, Windsor Hall might be called upon to yield its fair inmate to adorn the palace of the Governor of Virginia.