University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
LAST EVENING AT THE CAPITAL.

Since we last presented the Governor's daughters to our readers, they had
suffered the first great afiliction of their lives. 'Tis an era in the life of
every one, and by its results may be marked the forming character of either sex.

Kate's life hitherto had been unusually brilliant and happy, not a cloud
obscured her serene horizon—every thing was seen couleur de rose, and the
native enthusiasm of her character had burst into full fruition, unchecked by
the frowns of fortune or misadventures of a tenderer sort. If we have succeeded
in presenting her properly before our readers, they have seen in the
records of her young, and innocent, and happy life, almost a perfect contrast
to the melancholy and heart-stricken experience of her intimate friend.
Happy was she, that such a one was near her, and that she knew what misfortunes
were, or the blow would have been more dreadful than it really was.
For a brief space, they had almost changed places, and while Ellen's prospects
brightened, she became the constant comforter of her sanguine and
enthusiastic friend. True, their trials were somewhat different—the one
bemoaned an absent lover, but not entirely without hope, and the other mourned
a brother. It may be well imagined, then, that the first sight of Wingina,
ushered into Kate's presence without notice or warning, was anything but
soothing to the lacerated feelings of the poor girl. She hid her face and
wept afresh, when she saw her—for she had heard the whole of the sad
story of her shame—indeed her appearance began now to put secrecy any
longer out of the question. It was impossible for Kate to allude to the melancholy
affair, and she could only weep and wring the hand of the poor forlorn
creature. Kate looked and expressed in pantomine a thousand promises of sympathy
and protection, but she could do no more. Dorothea left the room,she could
not look upon the sister of her brother's murderer with the same Christian
forbearance as her sister. She expressed no feelings of hatred or indignation,
but obeyed her youthful impulses, and left the room upon the instant. Poor
Wingina could not fully understand all this—she could not appreciate the
feelings of either sister; for though brought up in many of the outward and
conventional forms of civilized life, her education had been very defective in
all that touches the heart, either through the ministrations of religion, or even
the refinement which may be acquired without them. There was no sentimentality
about her. It is true, indeed, that a rude and savage heart may be
touched by an influence from above, which softens and humanizes the character,
but even then, there is something still wanting in the point we have
alluded to. We have never seen an Indian, converted or not, possessing
this delicacy of feeling. But Wingina could not comprehend the full measure
of her disgrace. Her previous distraction was made up of fear of her
brother, and dread of being separated from the one she loved, and but for her
subdued and meek natural deportment, might have been considered brazenfaced
and shameless. She could not comprehend her fallen position in the
eyes of those around her; she felt bereaved, but much in the way she would
have done had she lost a husband, after the aboriginal manners and customs.
All through the house she met the silent tear and the averted face, and perhaps
the patronising air of pity and commiseration. Lady Spotswood could
not see her at all. This was all very different from her former reception in
the same place and from the same people, and she was about to make a speedy
retreat; but Kate seeing the nature of the case, begged her to wait a few
moments, and she sat down and wrote a note by her to Ellen. As this note
was somewhat characteristic, and at the same time expressed better than we
can do the state of feeling we have attempted to describe, we shall transcribe
it. It ran as follows:

This note was sealed and handed to Wingina, who was nothing loth to
depart—in fact, she was more than half offended, and arrived at the Doctor's
in rather a sullen mood. She found Ellen herself not in the most amiable
state of calmness and repose. She, too, was beginning to be offended in
another quarter. She had expected a visit from Hall, and was disappointed
that he did not come. Her father made many excuses for him—mentioned
the meeting at the capital among others, but they were not satisfactory. She
had reasons of her own for wishing to see him previous to that very meeting,
and he had reasons of his own why he wished to avoid it, until that meeting
was over. Our readers will soon perceive that his were substantial ones. He
was engaged during the remainder of the afternoon in one of the upper rooms
of the Palace, before a large table entirely covered with printed and manuscript
papers, from which, from time to time, he took notes, while others he
tied up in a bundle, and marked for use. Occasionally he rose from his
engrossing occupation and strode through the room under an excitement of
feeling, which he strove in vain to calm. He was, in fact, laboring under
the most painful suspense as to the result of his message to York. Could
he have been assured that all was right in that quarter, he might have prepared
himself for the coming contest more calmly. He knew that the crisis
of his fate had arrived, and under his present want of recent information
from Europe, he knew not what evidence might be brought against him for
the share he had taken in the affair of Gen. Elliot. He knew not but his
enemies might prove him an attainted rebel, and thus baffle one of the greatest
desires of his life, (to bear an active part in the tramontane expedition,) as
well as throw him out once more from the association of that circle which he
loved so well.

His reasons for not presenting himself at the Doctor's house, were the
farthest possibly removed from ingratitude. He thought of the interpretation
which Miss Evylin and the Doctor might put upon his conduct, but he
resolved to risk their present displeasure for their future approval. Such,
indeed, was the whole constitution and character of his mind—he had ever
sought future good by present sacrifices, and denied himself that others might
be gratified.

It will be readily gathered from what has been said, and from what is
already known of his past history, that he was in a poor state of preparation

for a defence of all that was dear in life to him. He was about to throw off
a masquerading dress, which had been adopted at first from the sternest
necessity, and perhaps place himself thereby in defiance of the laws of his
country—those laws for which he had now come to feel an uncommon reverence.
Now, he knew what it was to attempt in the roisterous and thoughtless
days of youth to revolutionize the whole current of society, according
to the immature views of that period—he knew that it was better to suffer
partial evils, in an otherwise wholesome and benign government, for the general
good, rather than that every mad youth should set himself up for lawgiver
and judge. In short, his futile aims at unattainable perfections were put to
flight by the most profound consideration of the utter debasement of human
nature. This is a point of knowledge not often attained in young life, without
bitter personal experience; and he that comes into active life without this
experience, and after sailing always upon summer seas, is very apt to become
an amiable (but nevertheless) fool.

But, however much his spirit was grieved, and the immature notions of his
sanguine youth ground down, he had yet to suffer for the follies which they
had engendered. Repentance, alone, will not always answer in this world—
there must be restitution, and retribution, as far as possible. Hall's business
now was with the present, and not with the past. He was now to chalk out
a new career for himself, but he had first to overcome the one great error of
his youth, and to which he could now distinctly trace all his subsequent misfortunes.
He reviewed hastily his past career—thought over the successive
difficulties in which he had been involved, and from the most important of
which he had just been delivered by a manifest interference of Providence.
This conviction nerved his heart for the contest, and all his late despondency
and want of confiding trust in a benign and overruling power vanished. He
rose up from his papers re-invigorated, and thrusting his bundle into his pocket,
walked down stairs. He had not been there long before he was called out
by a servant—he was met at the door by the messenger who had been despatched
to York, who placed in his hands a large paper package, covered
with tape and sealing wax, and a note of apparently more recent date. He
tore open the latter, and read it by the light of the lamp, (for it was growing
dark.) The old Governor had followed him, and was anxiously waiting to
hear the result of his message. Hall did not appear to be aware of his presence,
or if he was, forgot in the exultation of the moment. He jumped
straight up from the floor, whirled himself round—kissed the letter, and then
ran out upon the green, where he walked rapidly among the trees for ten or
fifteen minutes talking away and gesticulating to himself in the strangest manner
and performing anties, which not a little surprised if they did not amuse
the old veteran who was still eyeing him. At length he became conscious of
the ridiculous figure which he was cutting, and walked back to the Palace and
met the Governor at the portico, and seizing his hand, wrung it warmly with
the simple exclamation, “It is all right, Sir,—all right—now, indeed, I am a
free man.”

“I am none the less rejoiced,” said his Excellency, “that I know not the
cause of your wild exultation, but I trust it bears upon the point we talked of
during the day.”

“It does—it does—and right to the point—strikes the nail right upon the
head.”

The Capitol bell was now pouring a merry peal over the tewn, and announcing
to the young chivalry of the Colony, that the time appointed for their
meeting had arrived. The carriage soon alter drove up to the door, and not
many minutes had elapsed before Dr. Evylin's also drove up, to accompany
the party from the Palace. Hall walked to the window, the blinds of which
had been let down, and shook hands with the Doctor, but Ellen did not extend

hers, contenting herself with a slight inclination of the head. The cause of
this we will explain at another time, but our readers should not attach inconsistency
to our favorite, from which, indeed, none of her sex was more free.
The party from the Palace was soon made up, and as the carriages turned
from the avenue into Gloucester street, they encountered many more pursuing
the same route.

Seldom, since the foundation of the Colony, had there been a meeting
which attracted so large a share of public attention. It was the last meeting
of those who were to set out on the morrow for the mountains, an undertaking
at that day quite as perilous as one in ours to the Rocky Mountains. Indeed
the route was far less known, and had never been traversed at all by that
Anglo-Saxon race which was and is destined to appropriate such a large portion
of the Globe to themselves, and to disseminate their laws, their language,
and their religion, over such countless millions. Grand and enthusiastic as
were the conceptions of Sir Alexander Spotswood and his young followers, they
had little idea that they were then about to commence a march which would be
renewed from generation to generation, until, in the course of little more than
a single century, it would transcend the Rio del Norte, and which perhaps in
half that time may traverse the utmost boundaries of Mexico. But the sober
old granddads of the Colony thought the Governor visionary enough in his
present views, bounded as they were by the Apalachee and the Mississippi,
and that he had led the youngsters of the Colony sufficiently astray already,
without extending his prophetic vision to Texas and Mexico.