University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Violent was the struggle of contending emotions
within the bosom of Virginia Fairfax, when
she had gained her own apartment, and strove to
form her determination in the matter proposed by
Nathaniel Baoon. On such occasions feeling usurps
the place of reason, and the longer we deliberate,
the more perplexing seem to grow our doubts and
difficulties. If, however, there were powerful feelings
contending against the enterprise, there were
equally if not more powerful ones operating in its
favour. Not the least among these was the estimation
in which she held both him who proposed
the nocturnal expedition and him whose advice
and aid were expected to be gained. Bacon himself,
it was generally believed, had acquired most
of his knowledge of books from the mysterious
personage alluded to, and he in his turn had been
the instructer of his fair young associate and playmate.
It is true that these relations of the several
parties had somewhat changed of late years, as the
two younger ones approached the age at which
their continuance might be deemed improper, to
say nothing of any little misgivings of which, they
might themselves be conscious, as to the nature of
many strange and novel impressions, the growth
of years and intimacy, perhaps, but not suspected

until with advancing years came change of relative
situation and prospect for the future.

All the various relations of our heroine to the
other parties presented themselves in successive
aspects to her view, as she endeavoured honestly to
decide the matter according to the dictates of duty.
While she was thus deliberating, the usual evening
meal was announced. As she entered the apartment,
and beheld her father and mother waiting for her
to assume the head of the table, which on account
of the latter's delicate health had been her custom
of late, all the contending emotions which had so
lately occupied her mind were renewed with increasing
force by the sight of the beloved objects
in whose behalf she was solicited to undertake the
strange adventure.

Gideon Fairfax, the father of Virginia, was one of
the Cavaliers, before alluded to, who fled to Jamestown
during the interregnum. He was brother-in-law
to the Governor of the colony, and was, at the
time of which we write, a member of the council.
He was one of that remarkable race of men which
has so powerfully influenced the destinies of the
Ancient Dominion from that day to the present.
He was rather above the medium height, with light
hair and eyes, and although he had considerably
passed the prime of life, there was a sparkling of
boyish vivacity in his eyes, and a cheerful expression
always hovering about his mouth, which instantly
dispelled any thing like formality in his intercourse
with others. Yet withal there was a bold,

reckless daring in his look, together with an openhearted
sincerity which served to give a manly
dignity to the lighter expressions already mentioned.
To his only daughter he was most devotedly
attached.

Mrs. Emily Fairfax seemed about the same age
as her husband, and though she still preserved
some evidence of former beauty, her countenance
was now mostly indebted for any charm that it
possessed to a mild, lady-like and placid serenity,
which was occasionally shadowed by an air of
melancholy so profound, that more than once
her friends were alarmed for her reason. As
Virginia assumed her place at the board, the conflict
in her mind was in nowise subdued by observing
that one of these melancholy visitations
was just settling upon her mother's countenance;
indeed there seemed to be a mutual discovery on
the part of mother and daughter, that each had
some secret cause of uneasiness; but the effect was
by far the most painful to the mother's heart, as it
was the first time that she had ever seen her
daughter's gay and happy temperament seriously
disturbed. The parting hour for the night arrived,
without making either of them wiser as to
the cause of the other's pre-occupation and evident
anxiety; the mother having sought an explanation
in vain, and the daughter being too much accustomed
to her present state of mind to intrude farther
upon her sorrows, whatever might be their
cause or nature. Bacon's arguments prevailed, and

long before the hour appointed, Virginia was sit
ting at the window, her light extinguished, mantle
drawn close around her to exclude the damp air
from the river, and her hat tied on in readiness
for the expedition.

At length the town clock began to send its slow
and solemn sounds across the water. The house
was still and dark, and the inmates apparently
wrapped in profound slumber. Her own clandestine
movements, so new to her, seemed like the
trampling of armed heels rather than the footfalls
of her own slight figure. More than once she was
on the point of retracing her steps, so tumultuous
and painful were her emotions in prosecuting an
adventure which still appeared to her of such questionable
propriety. The servants' hall, garden, and
postern gate were all passed without the slightest
interruption, save an occasional start at her own
shadow, or the impetuous beating of her agitated
heart. The moon was at her zenith, and the clouds
coursing high in the heavens, so as every now and
then to obscure her reflected beams, and present
alternate and fantastic contrasts of light and shade
upon the surrounding objects. The river for one
moment looked like a dark abyss, and the next
a mirror of light as the silver rays fell sparkling
upon the rippling waters beneath the bridge. The
interminable forest beyond was at one moment dark
as Erebus, and the next as light as fairy land. There
is no appearance of the heavens, perhaps, which

produces a greater tendency in the mind to undefined
and superstitious terror than that which we
have attempted to describe. Our own shadow, visible
as it is only for an instant, will startle us; and
the ill-omened birds of night acquire huge and unnatural
proportions as they flit swiftly by on noiseless
wings in this rapid alternation of light and
gloom. The wolves and other beasts of prey might
be heard at long intervals, as their wild and savage
howls broke upon the ear, reverberating from cliff
to cliff as they fell upon and were borne across the
water. Under these circumstances it may be readily
imagined that our heroine was not a little relieved
at the sight of Bacon leaning against the
nearest abutment of the bridge, anxiously watching
for her approach. In a few moments he had seated
his companion in the boat, upon a cushion formed
of his cloak, and was rapidly approaching the
opposite shore. When they arrived at the appointed
rendezvous, a very unexpected source of uneasiness
was speedily discovered. As has been already
intimated, Bacon had early in the evening despatched
his usual attendant, Brian O'Reily, across
the bridge to wait their arrival. The horses were
indeed there—and O'Reily was there, but so intoxicated
as to be apparently in no condition to
guide the motions of a horse, even should he be
able to keep the saddle. Bacon lost all patience at
this discovery, and would perhaps have taken summary
and not very agreeable means to sober his
attendant, had he not been reminded by his gentle
companion of the peculiar and privileged position
which Brian had from time immemorial enjoyed
in his service, as well as that of their own family.
“How comes it, sir,” said the young man, “that
I find you in this predicament when I gave you
such strict injunctions to keep yourself sober? Now
of all other times!—when I had taken so much
trouble to instruct you whom you were to guard,
and upon what expedition?”

“By the five crasses but you've hit the very
nail upon the head. By the contints of the book
but that's the very rason I took a dhrop of the crathur!”

“What is the reason, you drunken old fool?”

“The business were an to be sure! you wouldn't
be after axing a sinner like Brian O'Reily to ixpose
himself to sich a timptation widout taking a dhrop,
and may be your haner would do that same for all
your spaking aginst it so intirely.”

“And what may the nature of the temptation
be of which you speak?”

“And is it Brian you're after axin? O be gorra,
but that's runnin away wid the story intirely, so
it is; sure it's me should be axin your haner after
that same!”

“None of your subterfuges, sir! I am determined
to know your ideas of this dreadful temptation.”

“By my purty an is it Brian's idaas you're axin
after, divil a miny o' them he's got any way,
barrin a small bit of a smotherin about the heart

whenever I think of the business we're on, and
the gintleman we're goin to see, savin your prisence
and the beauty o' the world by your side.”

“What gentleman—speak out and I will forgive
your drunkenness, provided you give me up that
bottle I see peeping from the pouch of your jerkin.”

“An is'nt it the man widout the shadow you're
after making a tay party wid?”

“And who is the man without a shadow, Brian?”
inquired Virginia, willing to forget her own
misgivings in the more ludicrous superstition of
the son of the Emerald Isle, whose countrymen, it
may be remarked, formed no inconsiderable part
of the inferior population of the city at that day.

“Oh bad cess to me, but I'm as glad to see you
as two tin pinnies, you beauty o' the world; but it
bates all the love I had for you and ever had these
ten years past to see where you'r going.”

“Well, where is it, Brian?”

“Hav'nt I tould your ladyship it was to a tay
party wid the inimy himself.”

“Come, see if you can assist Virginia to the
pillion,” said Bacon, as he sprang into the saddle.

“By my purty and I'll do that same;” kneeling
upon one knee and taking one foot in his hand,
and then seating her as easily and gracefully as if
he had been a stranger to the bottle for a month.

“I had no idea that you were such a coward,
Brian,” continued his master.

“Sorra a dhrop o' coward's blood runs in Brian
O'Reily's heart, iny way. It's one thing to trate

the grate inimy with dacent respect, and its another
to fight the yellow nagres that go dodgin
from tree to tree like so many frogs; the devil fly
away wid the one and the t'other o' them for me,
I say.”

“And who is the great enemy?”

“Sure hav'nt I tould your haner and the beauty
o' the world by your side, it was the man widout
a shadow what lives in the stone house widout windows,
as well he may, seein the light o' his own
counthenance may be seen across the river the darkest
night any day.”

“Sit your horse straight, you drunken piece of
stupidity, or you will break your neck.”

“Oh! an if Brian never breaks his neck till he
falls from a horse, sure he'll live to take many a
dhrop of the crathur yet before he dies. Sure I
was only crassin myself, divil a word o' lie's in
that, iny way.”

“There, I have broken one of your necks at
least,” said Bacon, as with the butt of his riding
whip he struck the neck from a bottle which every
now and then peeped from Brian's pocket as the
motions of the horse raised him in the saddle.

“Oh! murther all out, but you'll come to want
yet before you die. Oh sure, but the crathur's safe
after all. Wo, ye divil of a baste, don't you hear
the crathur all runnin down the wrang side o' me,
Wo, I say! Oh but the bottle sticks as tight to
the pouch as if it growed there. Oh murther all
out, I'm ruined, I'm ruined intirely.”

“Draw your arm from your jerken, Brian, and
then you can drink out of your pocket,” said Virginia,
suppressing a laugh.

“Oh you beauty o' the world, see what it is to
have the larnin,” replied the Irishman, immediately
adopting the expedient; but here a new difficulty
presented itself. “Oh murther, but the gable
end's all knocked off and fax the chimney went
along with it. Oh, but the crokery sticks up all
round like pike staffs. Wo you murthur'n baste;
Now I've got it, now I've got it, you beauty; sorra
one of the lane cows at Jamestown gives sich milk
as that, fax if they did, I'd be head dairyman to
the Governor any way.”

Thus our adventurers beguiled the way through
a dreary and-trackless forest of some miles, until
they approached a spot where Bacon signified to
the party that they had accomplished so much of
their journey as was to be performed on horseback.
What farther befell them will be described in the
ensuing chapter.