Chapter 47

_Isabella._ "Yet show some pity.

_Angelo._ I show it most of all when I show justice." _Measure for Measure._

That evening Sir William Berkeley was sitting in the private room at the tavern, which had been fitted up for his reception. He had strictly commanded his servants to deny admittance to any one who might wish to see him. The old man was tired of counsellors, advisers, and petitioners, who harassed him in their attempt to curb his impatient ire, and he was determined to act entirely for himself. He had thus been sitting for more than an hour, looking moodily into the fire, without even the officious Lady Frances to interfere with his reflections, when a servant in livery entered the room.

"If your Honour please," said the obsequious servitor, "there is a lady at the door who says she must see you on urgent business. I told her that you could not be seen, but she at last gave me this note, which she begged me to hand you."

Berkeley impatiently tore open the note and read as follows:--

"By his friendship for my father, and his former kindness to me, I ask for a brief interview with Sir William Berkeley. "VIRGINIA TEMPLE."

"Fore God!" said the Governor, angrily, "they beset me with an importunity which makes me wretched. What the devil can the girl want! Some favour for Bernard, I suppose. Well, any thing for a moment's respite from these troublesome rebels. Show her up, Dabney."

In another moment the door again opened, and Virginia Temple, pale and trembling, fell upon her knees before the Governor, and raised her soft, blue eyes to his face so imploringly, that the heart of the old man was moved to pity.

"Rise, my daughter," he said, tenderly; "tell me your cause of grief. It surely cannot be so deep as to bring you thus upon your knees to an old friend. Rise then, and tell me."

"Oh, thank you," she said, with a trembling voice, "I knew that you were kind, and would listen to my prayer."

"Well, Virginia," said the Governor, in the same mild tone, "let me hear your request? You know, we old servants of the king have not much time to spare at best, and these are busy times. Is your father well, and your good mother? Can I serve them in any thing?"

"They are both well and happy, nor do they need your aid," said Virginia; "but I, sir, oh! how can I speak. I have come from Windsor Hall to ask that you will be just and merciful. There is, sir, a brave man here in chains, who is doomed to die--to die to-morrow. Oh, Hansford, Hansford!" and unable longer to control her emotion, the poor, broken-hearted girl burst into an agony of tears.

Berkeley's brow clouded in an instant.

"And is it for that unhappy man, my poor girl, that you have come alone to sue?"

"I did not come alone," replied Virginia; "my father is with me, and will himself unite in my request."

"I will be most happy to see my old friend again, but I would that he came on some less hopeless errand. Major Hansford must die. The laws alike of his God and his country, which he has trampled regardless under foot, require the sacrifice of his blood."

"But, for the interposition of mercy," urged the poor girl, "the laws of God require the death of all--and the laws of his country have vested in you the right to arrest their rigour at your will. Oh, how much sweeter to be merciful than sternly just!"

"Nay, my poor girl," said Sir William, "you speak of what you cannot understand, and your own griefs have blinded your mind. Justice, Virginia, is mercy; for by punishing the offender it prevents the repetition of the offence. The vengeance of the law thus becomes the safeguard of society, and the sword of justice becomes the sceptre of righteousness."

"I cannot reason with you," returned Virginia. "You are a statesman, and I am but a poor, weak girl, ignorant of the ways of the world."

"And therefore you have come to advocate this suit instead of your father," said Berkeley, smiling. "I see through your little plot already. Come, tell me now, am I not right in my conjecture? Why have you come to urge the cause of Hansford, instead of your father?"

"Because," said Virginia, with charming simplicity, "we both thought, that as Sir William Berkeley had already decided upon the fate of this unhappy man, it would be easier to reach his heart, than to affect the mature decision of his judgment."

"You argued rightly, my dear girl," said Berkeley, touched by her frankness and simplicity, as well as by her tears. "But it is the hard fate of those in power to deny themselves often the luxury of mercy, while they tread onward in the rough but straight path of justice. It is ours to follow the stern maxim of our old friend Shakspeare:

'Mercy but murders, pardoning those who kill.'"

"But it does seem to me," said the resolute girl, losing all the native diffidence of her character in the interest she felt in her cause--"it does seem to me that even stern policy would sometimes dictate mercy. May not a judicious clemency often secure the love of the misguided citizen, while harsh justice would estrange him still farther from loyalty?"

"There, you are trenching upon your father's part, my child," said the Governor. "You must not go beyond your own cue, you know--for believe me that your plea for mercy would avail far more with me than your reasons, however cogent. This rebellion proceeded too far to justify any clemency toward those who promoted it."

"But it is now suppressed," said Virginia, resolutely; "and is it not the sweetest attribute of power, to help the fallen? Oh, remember," she added, carried away completely by her subject,

"'Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won, Than in restoring such as are undone; Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear, But man alone can, when he conquers, spare.'"

"I did not expect to hear your father's daughter defend her cause by such lines as these. Do you know where they are found?"

"They are Waller's, I believe," said Virginia, blushing at this involuntary display of learning; "but it is their truth, and not their author, which suggested them to me."

"Your memory is correct," said Berkeley, with a smile, "but they are found in his panegyric on the Protector. A eulogy upon a traitor is bad authority with an old cavalier like me."

"If, then, you need authority which you cannot question," the girl replied, earnestly, "do you think that the royal cause lost strength by the mild policy of Charles the Second? That is authority that even you dare not question."

"Well, and what if I should say," replied Berkeley, "that this very leniency was one of the causes that encouraged the recent rebellion? But go, my child; I would rejoice if I could please you, but Hansford's fate is settled. I pity you, but I cannot forgive him." And with a courteous inclination of his head, he signified his desire that their interview should end.

"Nay," shrieked Virginia, in desperation, "I will not let you go, except you bless me," and throwing herself again upon her knees, she implored his mercy. Berkeley, who, with all his sternness, was not an unfeeling man, was deeply moved. What the result might have been can never be known, for at that moment a voice was heard from the street exclaiming, "Drummond is taken!" In an instant the whole appearance of the Governor changed. His cheek flushed and his eye sparkled, as with hasty strides he left the room and descended the stairs. No more the fine specimen of a cavalier gentleman, his manner became at once harsh and irritable.

"Well, Mr. Drummond," he cried, as he saw the proud rebel led manacled to the door. "'Fore God, and I am more delighted to see you than any man in the colony. You shall hang in half an hour."

"And if he do," shrieked the wild voice of a woman from the crowd, "think you that with your puny hand you can arrest the current of liberty in this colony? And when you appear before the dread bar of God, the spirits of these martyred patriots will rise up to condemn you, and fiends shall snatch at your blood-stained soul, perfidious tyrant! And I will be among them, for such a morsel of vengeance would sweeten hell. Ha! ha! ha!"

With that wild, maniac laugh, Sarah Drummond disappeared from the crowd of astounded spectators.

History informs us that the deadly threat of Berkeley was carried into effect immediately. But it was not until two days afterwards that William Drummond met a traitor's doom upon the common gallows.

Virginia Temple, thus abruptly left, and deprived of all hope, fell senseless on the floor of the room. The hope which had all along sustained her brave young heart, had now vanished forever, and kindly nature relieved the agony of her despair by unconsciousness. And there she lay, pale and beautiful, upon that floor, while the noisy clamour without was hailing the capture of another victim, whose fate was to bring sorrow and despair to another broken heart.