Chapter 40

"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.