University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

As the sun went down upon the boisterous revellers
in the ancient city, and closed the festivities
of the day among the plebeians, the aristocracy
of the vice-regal court began to roll along the
streets in their carriages, and surround the door
of the stout old knight who represented the person
of his royal master in the colony. The members
of the Council and of the house of Burgesses, with
their wives and daughters, and all other citizens
and sojourners of distinction were among the number.
Now came the crash of carriages—swearing
of footmen—cracking of whips, rattling of wheels
—clattering of steps, and the pompous announcement
of the man in office, as each party was marshalled
into the long suite of apartments brilliantly
lighted for the occasion. At the head of the largest
room stood Sir William and Lady Berkley.
The old knight was dressed in a blue velvet doublet,
which being slashed below the belt or waistband,
protruded out all round so as to show
the yellow silk linings of the aforesaid garment,
fringing and ornamenting the waist. His breeches
were of pink satin, and were cut in what was called
at that day[1] “the petticoats;” they were tied to

the large mouthed silk hose with gay ribands, and
the lining of the breeches being longer than the
garment itself, formed a sort of ornament for the
overhanging hose; immediately over this row of
knotted ribands ornamenting the knee, his breeches
hung in ample folds. The sleeves of his doublet
reached nearly to the elbow, and from the end of
these the shirt was so fashioned as to bulge out in
large flowing plaits to his ruffled wrists. His stockings
were of white silk, and shoes ornamented with
a profusion of ribands, knotted and bound into the
shape of flowers. On one shoulder hung a short
mantle, reaching to the haunches and falling in
rich folds over one side of his person. Lady Berkley
appeared for the first time without her farthingale,
but still retained its cotemporary, the French
hood. In place of the starched ruff, she wore the
graceful and flowing collar, falling in folds and terminated
in rich pointed lace round the upper half
of the bust; she wore a stomacher indeed, but
greatly modified from the long strait jacket
fashion of the preceding reign.

A slight degree of pomp and formality characterized
the profound inclination of the knight's magisterial
person, as some guest of distinction was from
time to time announced, while his lady performed
her part of the ceremony in exact accordance with
the stately habits of her lord, but softened by a
native blandness of manner and sweetness of disposition.
She was a lady in the most refined and
polished acceptation of the term. They were both

just sufficiently advanced in years to add the dignity
of age to that resulting from their station, and
command respect from those who moved within
their sphere. The ladies began now to re-appear,
after the momentary retouch of the toilet, and arrange
themselves round the apartment apparently
appropriated to the dance, from a band of musicians
stationed some six feet above the floor in a
temporary orchestra. The first touch upon the
string of the leader's kit was magical—the chords
of every young female heart in the room vibrated
in unison. No letting down of one string and raising
of another was required to bring them to concert
pitch; like the blooded charger in the field,
in whose veins the first clang of the trumpet sends
the vital stream glistening to the very eye-balls,
their gayly decorated persons were at once glowing
with animation; their eyes sparkling and their
bosoms heaving with impatience, joy, and anticipated
triumph. But when the bow of an evident
master was drawn over the strings of his rusty
cremona in a long signal sweep, every heart palpitated
in eagerness. The eyes of the gentlemen
wandered over the multitude of youthful and lovely
faces beaming with a delighted expression, and
all were keenly alive to the coming pleasures of
the dance. But there was a precedence in the arrangement
of the first set which we must by no
means neglect. Virginia Fairfax, by right of birth
and consanguinity to the governor, invariably assumed
her aunt's place at the head of the set.
The blooming Hebe issued forth from the impenetrable
ranks of her compeers with the blushing
grace and beauty of a nymph—her hand was
slightly extended as though its owner were conscious
that scores of the opposite ranks would have
perilled life and fortune for its possession. She
was clad in simple white; not a colour marring
the chaste and perfect purity of her attire, save the
transparent shadow of a crimson tint which rose
and fell in vivid flashes over her complexion with
the rapidity of thought. Near her stood a youth,
his finely formed person set off to the best advantage
by the gay and tasteful fashion of his time,
and his dark hazel eye, brilliant with the momentary
fire of excitement. Instinctively he moved
forward to receive the outstretched and now trembling
little hand, but scarcely had he gained it before
a competitor appeared upon the field, of not
less personal and far more aristocratic pretension.
“With your leave, sir,” said Frank Beverly, with
a profound inclination of his finely dressed person,
as he took the hand which Bacon, in the abstraction
of the moment, was about to usurp. The latter retired
in the most undisguised mortification; his rival
moving to the head of the set with all the grace and
ease of self-possession, rank, and consciousness of
right in the present instanc.

Sir William himself bent his dignity to enjoy
this scene, the most evident satisfaction beaming
upon his countenance as he cast an intelligent glance
toward his lady.

Our heroine had been too finely schooled in the
etiquette and manners of the ball-room, to allow
the most penetrating observer any means of ascertaining
whether the incident just related was as
pleasing to her as to her partner. Bacon's mortification
was not long visible, for with a desperate
sort of boldness, quite foreign to his general demeanour,
he crossed the room and approached a
young lady whose beauty shone conspicuous amid
all the gay throng by which she was surrounded.
Harriet Harrison was the daughter of one of the
proudest and most wealthy families in the colony.
They moved in the front ranks of those who radiated
around the fashionable orbit of which the
Governor and his family were the principal luminaries,
and were esteemed by them as among their
most honoured friends and supporters. Harriet
was the intimate friend of Virginia Fairfax, and,
after her mother, the most esteemed repository of
her confidence. Though an idea of rivalry in any
shape or form had never entered their young and
guileless hearts, the youthful Cavaliers who floated
upon the same fashionable tide, had frequently
placed them in this attitude in their private discussions
of the various personal and mental attractions
of the maidens, each in her turn proving the
reigning favourite, as their respective admirers
happened to possess the supremacy over the minds
of their companions. She was near the same age
with Virginia, and undoubtedly possessed attractions
of the most captivating quality, both in mind

and person, yet they were finely contrasted with
those of her friend. Harriet's complexion was
brunette—her hair dark and shining as the raven's
plumage—her eye black, keen and sparkling, her
finely pencilled brows beautifully overshadowing
the native archness of her countenance, and her
mouth always expressive of amiable feelings, just
sufficiently characterized perhaps by a dash of innocent
humour and coquetry; or rather that coquetry
which is the result of archness and humour
as distinguished from premeditated design. Her
figure was slight but finely proportioned. As
Bacon approached this laughing little belle, his
boldness visibly diminished beneath her sparkling
eye, and his petition for her hand was uttered
with the most courtly and deferential humility.
The brunette east a significant glance toward her
friend at the head of the set, and then with promptitude
accepted the offered partner, her intelligent
and sparkling countenance turning towards Charles
Dudley, who stood near, with a speaking archness,
which conveyed as plainly as it could have been
in words, her perfect understanding of the byplay
which was going on at the expense of his
friend. The set being completed, the music now
struck up its enlivening notes, and the various contending
passions and emotions of those engaged
were soon lost for the time in the giddy whirl of
excitement which succeeded. Every countenance
was clad in joy and hilarity—Bacon himself seeming
to forget, in the secret pleasure created by the
occasional touch of Virginia's hand, that he himself
was not the honoured partner. Nor was the
exhilirating effect of the dance confined to those
who partook in the exercise—the young enjoyed
it present, the old by retrospection. The latter
lived over again the gay and brilliant dreams of
their own youth, and were what they beheld.
The music perhaps touched upon some long forgotten
associations of other days and other friends,
when and with whom they had mingled in the
merry dance under circumstances like the present.
These hallowed and blessed associations were not
unmixed with melancholy, but it was of the softest
and most soothing kind; the tide of feeling flowed
over the heart to the cadences of the music, rising
and swelling like the waves of the subsiding storm,
and irresistibly inviting to mental calm and repose.
The elder matrons sat under its influence—
their eyes half closed in a sort of pleasing abstraction—while
a gentle and subdued smile of mixed
emotions played upon their lips. They lived
again in the persons of their gay and happy daughters,
and with no more selfish wish than to see
their offspring following quietly in their own footsteps.

The formality which had somewhat characterized
the opening ceremonies was entirely banished
—it could not live in the atmosphere of music and
the dance. Sir William and his compeers in

dignity seemed early to be sensible of this, for
no sooner had the motion of “hands round” commenced,
than he collected his forces, and retreated
to the card room, where, from the excitement of
the game and wine, they endeavoured to compensate
themselves for their want of the more sentimental
retrospects of their ladies.

Conversation, which till now had flagged under
the withering influence of etiquette, burst forth in
all the vivacity of unrestrained and unsophisticated
nature. The eyes of Harriet Harrison sparkled
like gems, as she and Virginia laughed and chatted
together, when they occasionally met in the figures
of the dance. But with all Virginia's hilarity,
an acute observer might have perceived a shade
more than once passing over the sunshine of her
countenance; whether owing to some vague presentiment
of coming evil—to better defined apprehensions
from those events which had so lately
passed under her eyes—to the mysterious injunctions
of the Recluse, or to some not altogether
satisfactory arrangements of the dance, we shall
leave the sagacity of the reader to determine.
Certain it is, however, that she underwent no
little badinage from her lively friend and confidant.

A certain emphatic declination in the notes of
the leader, which all the initiated will understand,
warned those in possession of the floor, that there
is an order of rotation in happiness on these joyful

occasions, a cadence, any thing but musical to
those happily and mutually suited in partners,
while to those not so fortunately coupled, it was a
joyful relief. Each gentleman led his partner to
her seat, which she had scarcely taken, perhaps,
if one of the favoured few, before new applications
for the honour of her hand were laid at her feet.
Bacon had no sooner escorted Harriet to her place,
than turning to her friend he again put in his
claim in more formal parlance than his former
instinctive aspirations, but again he was doomed
to disappointment; Philip Ludwell on this occasion,
with a smirking smile upon his countenance,
claiming a prior engagement. Bacon scowled upon
him with mingled scorn and rage, as he turned
upon his heel and besought the honour of the first
hand within his reach. But if he was disappointed,
his friend Dudley seemed more fortunate, for at
the same moment that the former led out his
partner, he encountered the latter escorting the
pretty Harriet—and certainly no one in the room
claimed a larger portion of his sympathy. But
he was struck with the change in the countenance
of the lively brunette in the very short time
which had elapsed between the two sets. During
the first, there was a free, untramelled, mischievous
expression in her countenance, which was now
merged in one of partial embarrassment. The
guileless and confiding air with which she had
looked into the face of her former partner, was
now exchanged for one of consciousness, as if the
lively little belle expected retributive justice from
her friends for her own previous badinage. The
unpractised Dudley interpreted these appearances
any thing but favourably to his own ardent hopes.

Bacon was more deeply studied in the workings
of the “human face divine,” especially when feeling
no personal interest in their meaning, and he
therefore amused himself in his ungrateful situation,
by watching the changes of his friend's arch
little mistress. He doubtless considered it a
beautiful and interesting development of character,
to see this lively little romp—so lately overflowing
with vivacity and animal spirits—all at once transformed
into the sensitive, sedate, and downcast
maiden. He was certainly not less amused to
perceive that these two interesting young personages
were unconsciously playing at cross purposes.
First the gentleman became cold and moody at
the reserve exhibited by his mistress, which did
undoubtedly exist, but from which his jealous
anxiety made him draw a most erroneous conclusion;
while she, on the other hand, resented this
apparently ungrateful return for a partiality which
her own consciousness induced her to believe was
perceptible to its object; indeed this very fear of
his knowledge was perhaps the moving impulse
of her own wayward conduct. The resentment
occasioned by his apparent coldness, and assumed
indifference, produced a corresponding feeling in
her bosom, and thus they mutually acted and reacted

upon each other, departing farther and farther
from a mutual understanding at every renewed
attempt, until at the close of the set, Dudley retired,
as he imagined, irreconcilably offended, folding
his arms upon his breast, and looking the very
picture of love in despair. While in this mood
Bacon approached him, and tapped him on the
shoulder, saying, “Hah, Charles, would'st drown
thyself? Thou dost not set thy life at a pin's fee
I'll warrant me. Why, what would'st thou have,
man? Thou would'st not have her forward and
pert enough to run unbidden into thy arms?”

“Run into my arms, forsooth! I think she was
nearer running into thine own.”

“Tut man, does thy knowledge of the sex extend
no farther? Dost not know thou art quarrelling
with the light of thine own eyes? Art thou
not yet acquainted with the windings and apparent
inconsistencies of the female heart? I say apparent,
because when the primum mobile is once
understood, all these little perversities of lovers'
quarrels are beautifully consistent, and always
traceable to the one great original cause. Once
gain an insight of this leading motive, and you will
admire where you now condemn—you will attribute
to maidenly modesty and proper reserve,
what you now censure as perverse and whimsical.”

“I understand you not, Sir Professor.”

“No, because you are interested in the matter.
You cannot truly place the small end of the telescope
to your eye, and see yourself at the other.

You cannot stand, for instance, as I stand, and see
yourself as I see you. But study the subject a
little before you give way to the identical petulant
humours with which you would quarrel in your
mistress.”

“And how long is it, pray, Sir Sage, since you
took the beam from your own eye. If mine deceived
me not, I saw you but a little while since
swelling with all the offended dignity of majesty
itself—merely because some more fortunate swain
had previously secured the hand of the Governor's
fair niece.”

“You are as far wrong in my affairs, Charles,
as you were just now in your own. You seem peculiarly
predisposed to-night, to see only the surface
of things. Suppose that some half a dozen
of those butterflies who are now congregating
round Lady Berkley, were to form a plot by
which you were to be deprived of the hand of that
lady whom you most desired to lead to the dance?
Nay, more, suppose that you considered it all important
to your interests that you should possess
the hand on this particular night, and that you
should be thwarted by such a contrivance of sub
vice-royalty! What would you do? Would you
content yourself with spending your rage upon
your own lips between your teeth?”

“No, by heavens, I would tweak the nose of a
small sprig of royalty itself.”

“What, under the circumstances and responsibilities
that environ us to-night?”

“No! not to-night certainly; there is no hurry
in the business—his nasal organ will be as tangible
a week hence as now, I suppose; but who is
it that has done this deed? I see you have many
rivals.”

“Frank Beverly, to be sure.”

“I supposed as much.”

“You see,” continued Bacon, “that I have
now removed the mote from my own eye, and
that you did in my case exactly what you did in
your own—you looked only at the surface. But
really, Charles, between ourselves, I begin to entertain
some fears that they will at last affect Virginia
with their own aristocratic notions and pretensions,
for the absence of which we have so
often praised her. I have seen a strange unusual
something stealing over her countenance whenever
I have approached her of late, which I do not like.
She evidently struggles with it herself, but it has
obtained the mastery in every instance, so far.
Think you they will succeed at last?”

“I know not, my friend! but step with me
into the entry—a word in your ear.” The parties
stepped just behind the easings to the door of the
room in which they had been dancing, so as to
occupy a small entry-way between the two largest
apartments of the mansion, and there Dudley
continued in an under tone.—

“Do you think they will dare the deed tonight?”

“As sure as there is truth in that strange old
man—and he has never yet deceived me!”

“Tis well! and are all things prepared for their
reception?”

“They are! As for myself, never did such occasion
come more opportunely. I will raise a
bloody monument to perpetuate the events of this
night upon more than one memory in yonder gay
assembly! And since the thought strikes me,
Dudley, tis pity I disturbed the savage moroseness
which was just stealing over you; however I shall
retain a quantum sufficit for us both!”

At that moment they were about to return to
the party which they had left, when Dudley elevating
his finger, said, “Hist!”—and Bacon heard
his own name pronounced, just on the other side of
the partition against which they were leaning.
The voice was Ludwell's. “Can you tell me Beverly,”
said he, “the reason why Bacon does not
wear the love lock!”

“Yes, I can, nature stamped him for a Roundhead
and Crop-ear at his birth. Have you not
observed how obstinately his curling locks are
matted to his head? I'll warrant me if the truth
could be known, his father was as pestilent a
Rumper as ever sung a psalm on horseback.”

Bacon heard no more; he was seized with the
most ungovernable rage, and the utmost endeavours
and remonstrances of his friend could scarcely
prevent him from bursting in upon the speakers.
In his endeavours to effect this object he

forced his person partly in front of the doorway,
just sufficiently to perceive that Virginia sat near,
for whom, he doubted not these observations were
intended. Again he became nearly unmarrageable,
until Dudley said to him in a harsh tone.
“Rash man, would you sacrifice the whole colony
for the purpose of chastising a piece of unmannerly
insolence upon the spur of the moment, when you
can as well do it to-morrow? Nay, it is the more
manly course of the two.”

Bacon by a powerful effort seemed to master his
feelings, and compressing his lips, and folding his
arms so as entirely to deceive his companion, he
marched deliberately into the room, as if he intended
to cross to the opposite side. But when not
more than three paces from the door, he wheeled
suddenly round and addressed Beverly. “This
is no place for a personal rencounter, Sir Slanderer,
and I will no farther break through the rules of
good breeding than to hurl defiance in your teeth,
and even this much I would not do, only that the
defiance may go abroad with the calumny;” and
with these words he flung his glove in the face of
him to whom they were addressed. Beverly was
taken entirely by surprise; and for some moments
did not seem to realize the extent of the insult,
and the greater personal indignity which had been
offered to him. He was not long, however, in
comprehending the nature of the case, and deliberately
stooping to pick up the glove he answered,
“This, as you have better said than acted, is no

place to quarrel, but I accept your gage, and dearly
shall it be redeemed on your part.”

During this short but pertinent dialogue, Virginia
screamed and ran to the protection of her father
and uncle, followed by the other ladies in that
part of the room. A crowd instantly collected
round each of the parties to hear their statements
of the case. But Sir William, always prompt and
energetic, ordered the orchestra to strike up and
the dance to be resumed, which had ceased for
the purpose of affording refreshment. “A mere
boy's quarrel,” said the old Knight with smiling
visage, and the dance was resumed, as if nothing
unusual had occurred.

General joy and hilarity were soon restored, for
though the serenity and happiness of several important
personages of our narrative might have been
disturbed, there were still plenty of those left who
were both light of heart and nimble of foot. The
dance was again going round, wine circulating, wit
sparkling, and merry faces and loud voices in all
quarters, when a sudden explosion like the discharge
of a broadside from a line of battle ship, seemed to
shake the very foundations of the earth; windows
rattled and fell—plastering came tumbling down—
and ladies screamed and leaped from the casements,
while others were borne off fainting to their friends.
Bacon seized Virginia and Harriet, one under each
arm, and bore them to a carriage, while Mr.
Fairfax and Governor Berkley forced their ladies
into the same vehicle, ordering the driver to speed

for his life to the residence of the former. A
bright red light in the midst of a dark column of
smoke was now seen to ascend from behind the
Governor's house. The powder magazine had
been fired by the Cromwellians who were now in
open revolt against the government. The schemes
which they had been so long meditating, and which
Bacon so truly anticipated, had now arrived at the
crisis—the struggle was commenced which was to
test whether a few scores of misguided but brave
zealots were to triumph over the constituted authorities
of the land, as they had before done in
England.