University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

For more than a week Frank Beverly lay in
the most precarious state, and more than once during
that period his friends were summoned to his
bed-side, expecting every moment to be his last.
Bacon, torn and racked with suspense, moved
about the house of his late patron like one distracted.
He had already made his peace with
Virginia, by explaining to her the unequivocal and
unconditional demand for satisfaction made upon
him by Beverly, as well as the unjustifiable taunt
upon the field, by which he had been driven from his
defensive attitude. But even her society failed in
its usual attractions, while Beverly remained in
danger. Doctor Roland, with all his technical formality,
was as indefatigable in his attentions as he
was oracular and mysterious in his announcements
from hour to hour, and day to day, concerning the
state of his patient. These, reported to his master
from the lips of Brien O'Reily, would form no unamusing
subject for the reader, were not our attention
called to the more important personages and
graver incidents of our narrative.

As Bacon had surmised, Sir William Berkley
was not long in understanding the real cause of

the quarrel; he had himself heard partial reports
of the affront and its cause on the night of its occurrence.
As Bacon had also expected, he seemed
to await the fate of his young kinsman, before
he took any farther steps towards promoting the
alliance between him and Virginia. This however
did not prevent him from giving way to the
most ungovernable rage at Frank's condescension
in meeting an adventurer, “the son of no one knew
whom.”

At length the invalid was unequivocally pronounced
to be out of danger, by Dr. Roland himself.
The Governor had no sooner received the
information, than he despatched a footman with
his most respectful compliments to Mrs. Fairfax,
and requested the pleasure of an hour's conversation
with her, on the most important business; in
answer to which, a message was returned to the
Governor, that she would be pleased to see him, at
any moment which might suit his convenience.
That time soon arrived, and the formal old gentleman,
after many apologies for the untimely intrusion
upon the privacy of her sorrows, and condolence
for their cause, thus introduced the subject
to which he solicited her attention.

“It was perhaps not known to you, Madam,
that your late lamented husband and myself had
long since formed a prospective arrangement, by
which we hoped to dispose of our fortunes in such
a manner as to add honour and dignity to our families,
at the same time that we should preserve

them united, and confer happiness upon our nearest
relatives and presumptive heirs. His will, as
I understand, has not yet been authenticated, but
doubtless when it is so you will find that he has
provided for the fulfilment of this design.”

“I do not fully comprehend your Excellency.”

“I mean, madam, that we contemplated uniting
in marriage, your fair daughter and my young
kinsman, Beverly; by this means I will be enabled
to entail my fortune on their male descendants,
which will meet all my desires concerning my
niece, at the same time that it will be doing no injustice
to my young relative.”

“The plan seems ingeniously contrived, Sir
William, to prevent future heart-burnings concerning
the disposal of your estate; but were the young
people to know nothing of the arrangement?”

“The knowledge of it was kept from them, at
the suggestion of your late lamented husband, in
order that they might imbibe no prejudices against
the scheme as they grew up, but rather be thrown
into each other's way, as the time for its consummation
approached, and thus perhaps discover its
propriety themselves. This has in part proved
true, for on the very day of the unfortunate accident
which deprived your house of its inestimable
head, I had the honour to lay Frank's proposals
before him.”

“Sir William—I do not know my daughter's
sentiments on the subject,—the fulfilment of the
scheme will depend entirely on her feelings.”

“With due deference, madam, would it not be
more politic to treat the matter as already, and
long since settled, between her father and myself,
and sacredly sealed by his death?”

“I must be plain and candid with your Excellency—I
have no desire to use policy in the affair;
if my daughter gives her free and hearty consent,
you have mine; but if the match is repugnant to
her feelings we will drop the subject, with many
thanks to your Excellency for your kind purposes,
and to Mr. Beverly for the intended honour.”

Virginia was now called in; but while the servant
performed that duty, Sir William replied,
“I am exceedingly mortified, madam, that you
seem to place the fulfilment of this long-treasured
scheme upon a contingency so light.”

“Do you then consider a young lady's being
permitted to have a voice in choosing her partner
for life, a light contingency, Sir William?”

“I think, madam, that her parents are more
capable of making a selection which will confer
honour upon them and her, than she can possibly
be. Our best families would soon arrive at a very
plebeian level, were every female descendant to be
permitted to indulge her love sick fancies, instead
of consulting the interest and honour of her house.
But it may be that this discussion is useless in the
present instance. Here, madam, comes your daughter,
who will decide.”

Virginia entered, pale and trembling with alarm
and vague presentiments of evil; her hands were

crossed upon her breast, and her eyes downcast.
After making a reverential courtesy to the Governor,
she instinctively stood before him, awaiting
his commands as one upon trial. However harsh
the Governor's opinions to the mother, policy
dictated a very different course toward the daughter;
he accordingly led her to a seat beside himself,
and with the most bland and courteous manner,
thus addressed her,

“I come, my niece, as an ambassador from poor
Frank, with full powers to ask of your mother
this fair hand in marriage; and I must take the
same opportunity to declare the happiness it would
give Lady Berkley and myself, to receive you into
our mansion as the wife of our kinsman, and the
daughter of our affections.”

The mildness and the unusual condescension of
her formal uncle completely threw Virginia from
the stately and unequivocal answer which she had
meditated when first summoned; for it will be recollected
that she had already had an intimation
of his intentions. She could do no less than feel
grateful for his own undoubted affection, and she
felt it extremely difficult properly to express this
feeling, connected as it must be with the overthrow
of his dearest hopes. After the most painful
embarrassment, she was enabled to answer: “To
you, my dear uncle, I have always felt grateful
for the more than paternal affection which you
have shown to me, and I must feel not less
so for the motives which prompted you to

undertake the present mission; but with all my
affection for yourself and desire to please you, and
all my gratitude to Mr. Beverly for the honour
which he intended me, I must beg leave to decline
his offer.”

“Wherefore must you decline it, Virginia?”
asked Sir William, with the most evident chagrin
and surprise.

“Simply because I cannot reciprocate the affection
which I am informed Mr. Beverly entertains
for me.”

“You have never made the trial, niece; you
have not taken five minutes to consider the importance
of the proposition which I have had the
honour to lay before you. Reconsider your hasty
answer; take time to form a mature opinion of the
many advantages which the connexion holds out.
See Frank himself when he recovers, and my word
for it, he will make as many love-sick speeches as
would woo a lady from Charles' court.”

“It is not necessary, my dear uncle; I have long
meditated upon the subject, having by accident
heard of the proposed union before you were
pleased to communicate it in person.”

“What is your objection to Frank? It is certainly
no satisfactory answer, to say you cannot
reciprocate his affection, when you have never
yet given him an opportunity to plead his cause
in person. He is unquestionably as well favoured
a youth in regard to personal attributes, as any in

the Colony, and I flatter myself as well born and
of as bright expectations?”

“I have no objections to urge, Sir William;
Mr. Beverly is undoubtedly all that you say he is,
but he never can be more to me than he is at present;
for this determination I have many reasons
satisfactory to my own sense of propriety, but
which it is neither necessary nor proper for me to
urge. One I will however give you, with the hope
of for ever setting the question at rest. My affections
are already engaged!”

Had a thunderbolt hurled the old Cavalier from
his seat, he could not have been more astounded.
Mrs. Fairfax was scarcely less so. Sir William
glanced from her countenance to that of her daughter,
as if he expected the former to overwhelm her
daughter with reproaches, his own anger all the
while displaying itself in the contortions of his inflamed
and glowing countenance. But seeing her
astonishment subsiding into complacency instead
of anger, his own broke forth—

“What! bestow your affections unasked? and
upon whom pray!”

“I have not bestowed them unasked, Sir.”

“Has any gentleman asked and obtained permission
of you, to address your daughter?” he
inquired, turning to Mrs. Fairfax.

“None, Sir.”

“Who then is the favoured swain? Who has dared
to interfere in this matter unauthorized by the

consent of your only surviving parent or myself?”

“For him I have neither the right nor the will
to speak. At the proper time he will doubtless
do it for himself,” said Virginia, as she arose with
offended dignity to leave the room.

“Hear me yet a moment,” cried Sir William,
with the most ill disguised efforts to appear calm.
“If the person, who has thus intruded into your
family, is of proper birth, connexions, and expectations,
and his suit should meet with your mother's
approbation, I of course have no right to interfere.
But remember, should you attempt to form an alliance
with an individual who would disgrace my family,
to which you are nearly connected, I will, if
there be none other to perform the office, with
mine own hands tear him from the very foot of the
altar, and mete to him such a reward as his temerity
demands.”

At this moment the door opened, and Nathaniel
Bacon entered, with an expression of unalloyed
delight upon his countenance. He had just heard
the joyful tidings from the medical attendant of
his rival. He met Virginia face to face, just within
the sweep of the door, and perceiving no other
object at the moment, attempted gayly to seize
her hand, but no corresponding movement being
perceptible, he paused to examine her countenance,
at the same time glancing at the offended visiter,
whose scowling eyes were fixed upon him. Virginia's
countenance was like a mirror to reflect her

feelings, and had there been no intelligible expression
upon the face of the Governor, Bacon would
readily have comprehended the attitude of the various
parties. These observations, however, were
the work of an instant, for Sir William no sooner
perceived his presence, than he sprung to his feet,
his brow growing darker every moment. He
had entirely misinterpreted Bacon's appearance at
that critical juncture. His suspicions had all along
pointed to him, and he now imagined that his presence
was the result of preconcerted design. “To
what motive, Sir,” he cried, “am I indebted
for this intrusion? Have you come to congratulate
me upon the recovery of my young kinsman,
of whom your murderous hand had well nigh deprived
me?”

Bacon wheeled partly upon his heel, as if endeavouring
to force himself out of the room, without
answering the choleric old Cavalier, but seeing
Virginia turn her head and cast an indignant glance
at the offender, his own hard schooled feelings
broke forth also. “To no particular motive, Sir,
are you indebted for this visit: it was the result of
the purest accident. I knew not that your Excellency
was in the house, and came into this room
in the ordinary free and unchallenged mode of intercourse,
to which the inmates of this most hospitable
and generous family are accustomed.”

“Ay, Sir Stripling, and unless I am grossly
deceived, your intercourse has not gone unchallenged
for nothing.”

“To what is your Excellency pleased to allude.”

“Have you not studiously endeavoured to undermine
the most important family arrangements
of those who cherished and protected your infancy?
Have you not stung the bosom that warmed you
into existence? Have you not been callous to the
claims of gratitude, due alike to the living and the
dead? Have you not attempted to beguile the
only daughter of your patron into a disgraceful
alliance?”

Bacon resisted the mild and persuasive endeavours
of Mrs. Fairfax to lead him from the room,
whence Virginia had already departed, while he
replied, drawing himself up to an erect and perfectly
composed and dignified attitude,

“If your Excellency chooses so far to forget,
what is alike due to your station—to yourself, to
the present company, and to me, as to permit yourself
to ask such questions, you cannot expect me
so far to forget myself as to answer them!” and
with this reply he left the room.

The Governor, after indulging in the most vehement
bursts of passion, and threats of vengeance
against Bacon, should he dare to connect himself
with his family, and in vain endeavours to
extort a promise from Mrs. Fairfax, never to give
her consent, left the house in the most towering
and ungovernable rage.

He had scarcely crossed the threshold, before
Bacon returned to the same room, leading Virginia
by the hand, having held a very interesting conversation

with her in another apartment. Mrs.
Fairfax was sitting apparently absorbed in the
most painful reflections. As the youthful pair entered,
a slight clearing away of the clouds which
had gathered upon her countenance might be perceived.
They walked deliberately up to where
she sat, and seated themselves one on each side of
her: when Bacon thus spoke—

“It was not my intention, dear madam, thus to
intrude upon your sorrows, but I may be pardoned
for presenting myself as a petitioner at your
feet, when another, high in station and dignity,
has thought proper to forget those claims. Had he
confined himself to the legitimate object of his mission,
I had perhaps still forborne, but when he has
stepped out of his way rudely to thrust me before
you as the disorganizer of your family arrangements,
and as the serpent who has stolen into your
house in order to poison your brightest hopes and
fondest anticipations, I have thought it became me
at once to state to you how far I have offended.

“It is true, dear madam, that I have not been insensible
to the many charms of your daughter's
person and disposition. You have witnessed, I
would fain hope, not unobservantly, the dear delights
of our first childish intercourse, when our
minds and hearts were drawn together by an affection
and a congeniality of taste and sentiment
which we supposed, if we thought of it at all, was
purely fraternal; and then when our minds began to
expand, and our affections to assume and to display

their real character, and finally when we came
thoroughly to understand each other and ourselves,
you were not a heedless spectator of these progressive
changes and developments; and having
seen, I cannot believe that you would have permitted
this mutual affection to grow to its present
maturity and strength, intending to deny its sanction
at the last, when the cure might so easily have
been made by nipping the tender flower in the
bud. Speak, I pray you madam! Our fate hangs
upon your words!”

“I will not pretend to you, my children, that I
have not observed the mutual affection which has
grown up between you from its earliest dawn.
Nor will I disguise from you that it gave me pleasure
mingled with much pain. Many long and
dreary nights have I lain upon my pillow, anticipating
what I then supposed would be the fierce
struggles of this moment. I calculated with the
usual short sightedness of mortals, that he who
will ne'er partake in our councils more, would have
been here to decide upon your wishes.

“I supposed that his own family pride would first
have been to conquer, then I thought of the fierce
resistance which the greater pride of his kinsman,
Sir William, would offer—the interview of this
morning shows how truly. After all these painful
misgivings, however, and the maturest judgment
that I could bestow upon the subject, I came
to the resolution to suffer what seemed the predestined
current of events to run its course. Providence

has by a most painful process removed the
only obstacle you had to fear, my children, and
he, had he been alive, would doubtless have finally
given his consent rather than attempt to tear up
forcibly by its roots a passion like yours, the
growth of years and intimate knowledge of each
other. I therefore give you my consent, my children,
that you be united in marriage, and the sooner
the better, as the first storm upon its announcement
once over, all these contending passions which drive
you into broils and strife will cease.”

As she concluded speaking, Virginia, down
whose cheeks the tears had been rapidly coursing
each other, sunk upon her knees, in which position
she was instantly joined by her now acknowledged
and betrothed lover. Mrs. Fairfax placed her
hands upon their heads, tears bedimming her own
eyes, and blessed them, and then kissed her daughter
as she was about to leave the room. When she
was gone, Bacon resumed the subject of their discourse.
“O say, dear Madam, how soon will you
consent to the completion of our happiness? I address
myself to you in the first instance, in order
that I may use your name in my appeal to your
daughter for an early day.”

“As soon as you can persuade Virginia to consent.
I would seriously and earnestly recommend
two things with regard to your nuptials, the rest I
leave to yourselves, namely, that they take place
as privately as possible, for fear of Sir William's
violence; and secondly, as soon as possible, in order

that you may anticipate the complete recovery
of young Mr. Beverly.”

“Oh, madam, may Heaven bless your wisdom
and benevolence. I am now doubly armed, and
will seek your daughter, and I hope soon return
with a favourable answer.”

Accordingly he flew out of the room, and in a
few moments she heard him loudly calling her
daughter's name through all the portals of the
house, and rapping at every door, but no Virginia
was to be found. At length, however, he sallied
forth into the garden, when he found her in her
summer-house, apparently in profound study of
some favourite Author's new publication, perhaps
Milton's “Paradise Regained.” His arguments
fell apparently upon a deaf ear. She continued
to read, regardless of his passionate gesticulations
and burning words. Her cheeks glowed vividly
enough, but she gave no other evidence that she
was conscious of his presence. At length he
seized her hand, and forcibly but gently led her
before her mother, like a culprit, as she doubtless
felt herself, for her eyes were downeast, and
a crimson blush suffused her neck and temples.
Mrs. Fairfax attempted in vain to assume a grave
and judicial expression. She succeeded, however,
in convincing the young pair that the safety and
the peace of many of their family circle depended
upon their speedy nuptials. It was doubtless for
these reasons alone, that they soon agreed amicably

upon an early day, until which time we will leave
the imagination of the reader to follow the young
pair through flowery beds of roses and tulips, and
the more flowery anticipations of “Love's young
dream.”