University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

That night was passed under my own roof, in the family
circle. Although my presence on the estate was now generally
known, to all who were interested in it. I cannot say
that I thought much of the anti-renters, or of any risks incurred
by the discovery. The craven spirit manifested by
the `Injins' in presence of the Indians, the assumed before
the real, had not a tendency to awaken much respect for the
disaffected, and quite likely disposed me to be more indifferent

to their proceedings, than I might otherwise have been.
At all events, I was happy with Patt, and Mary, and my
uncle's wards, and did not give the disorganizers a thought,
until quite at the close of the evening. The manner in which
John went about to barricade the doors and windows, after
the ladies had retired, struck me unpleasantly, however, and
it did not fail to produce the same effect on my uncle. This
seemingly important duty was done, when my faithful maitre-d'hotel,
for such, in a measure, was the Englishman's
station, came to me, and my uncle, who were waiting for
his appearance in the library, armed like Robinson Crusoe.
He brought us each a revolving pistol, and a rifle, with a
proper allowance of ammunition.

“Missus,” so John persevered in calling my grandmother,
though it was very unlike an English servant to do so, after
he had been in the country three months—“Missus as hordered
harms to be laid in, in quantities, Mr. Hugh, and
hall of us has our rifles and pistols, just like these. She
keeps some for herself and Miss Martha, in her own room
still, but as she supposes you can make better use of these
than the maids, I had her orders to bring them down out of
the maids' room, and hoffer them to yourselves, gentlemen.
They are hall loaded, and smart weapons be they.”

“Surely there has been no occasion as yet, for using
such things as these!” exclaimed my uncle.

“One doesn't know, Mr. Roger, when the hinimy may
come. We have had only three alarms since the ladies arrived,
and most luckily no blood was shed; though we fired
at the hinimy, and the hinimy fired at us. When I says
no blood was spilt, I should add, on our side; for there was
no way to know how much the anti's suffered, and they
hadn't good stone walls to cover them, as we 'ad on our side.”

“Gracious Providence! I had no notion of this! Hugh,
the country is in a worse state than I had supposed, and
we ought not to leave the ladies here an hour after to-morrow!”

As the ladies who came within my uncle's category, did
not include Mary Warren, I did not take exactly the same
view of the subject as he did himself. Nothing further was
said on the subject, however; and shortly after each shouldered
his rifle, and retired to his own room.

It was past midnight when I reached my apartment, but
I felt no inclination for sleep. That had been an important
day to me, one full of excitement, and I was still too much
under the influence of its circumstances to think of my bed.
There was soon a profound silence in the house, the closing
of doors and the sound of footsteps having ceased, and I went
to a window, to gaze on the scene without. There was a
three-quarters' moon, which gave light enough to render all
the nearer objects of the landscape distinctly visible. The
view had nothing remarkable in it, but it was always rural
and pretty. The little river, and the broad meadows, were
not to be seen from my side of the house, which commanded
the carriage road that wound through the lawn—the farm-house—the
distant church—the neat and pretty rectory—
the dwelling of Mary, and a long reach of farms, that lay
along the valley, and on the broad breast of the rising
ground to the westward.

Everything, far and near, seemed buried in the quiet of
deep night. Even the cattle in the fields had lain down to
sleep; for, like man, they love to follow the law of nature,
and divide the hours by light and darkness. John had placed
the candles in my dressing-room, and closed the inner shutters;
but I had taken a seat by a window of the bed-room,
and sat in no other light but that which came from the moon,
which was now near setting. I might have been ruminating
on the events of the day half an hour or more, when I fancied
some object was in motion on a path that led towards
the village, but which was quite distinct from the ordinary
highway. This path was private, indeed, running fully a
mile through my own farm and grounds, bounded for a considerable
distance by high fences on each side of it, and running
among the copses and thickets of the lawn, as soon as
it emerged from the fields. It had been made in order to
enable my grandfather to ride to his fields, uninterrupted by
gates or bars; and issuing into the bit of forest already described,
it passed through that by a short cut, and enabled
us to reach the hamlet by a road that saved nearly a mile
in the whole distance. This path was often used by those
who left the Nest, or who came to it, in the saddle, but
rarely by any but those who belonged to the family. Though
old as the place itself, it was little known by others not suiting

the general taste for publicity, there not being a solitary
dwelling on it between the Nest House itself and the point
where it emerged into the highway, beyond the wood, which
was quite near to the village.

I could see the whole line of this private path, with the
exception, here and there, of intervals that were hid by trees
and thickets, from the point where it terminated until it entered
the wood. There could be no mistake. Late as was
the hour, some one mounted was galloping along that path,
winding his or her way among the rails of the fences; now
plainly visible, then lost to view. I had caught a glimpse
of this phantom, (for at that unusual hour, and by that delusive
light, it required no great effort of the imagination thus
to fancy the equestrian,) just as it emerged from the wood,
and could not well be mistaken as to the accuracy of my
discovery. The path led through a pretty wooded ravine
in the lawn, and no sooner did I lose sight of this strange
object than I turned my eyes eagerly to the spot where it
ought to reappear, on emerging from its cover.

The path lay in shadow for twenty rods on quitting the
ravine, after which it wound across the lawn to the door,
for about twice that distance, in full moonlight. At the termination
of the shadow there was a noble oak, which stood
alone, and beneath its wide branches was a seat much frequented
by the ladies in the heats of summer. My eye kept
moving from this point, where the light became strong, to
that where the path issued from the ravine. At the latter
it was just possible to distinguish a moving object, and, sure
enough, there I got my next view of the person I was watching.
The horse came up the ascent on a gallop — a pace
that was continued until its rider drew the rein beneath the
oak. Here, to my surprise, a female sprang from the saddle
with great alacrity, and secured her steed within the
shadow of the tree. This was no sooner done than she
moved on towards the house, in much apparent haste. Fearful
of disturbing the family, I now left my room on tiptoe,
and without a candle, the light of the moon penetrating the
passages in sufficient quantity to serve my purpose, descending
as fast as possible to the lower floor. Swift and prompt
as had been my own movement, it had been anticipated by
another. To my great surprise, on reaching the little side-door

to which the path led, and where the ladies had long
been accustomed to get into the saddle, when they used it,
I found a female figure, with her hand on the massive lock,
as if ready to turn its key at some expected summons. To
my great astonishment, on drawing nearer, I recognised, by
the faint light that penetrated through a little window over
the door, the person of Mary Warren!

I certainly started at this unexpected discovery, but, if she
who caused that start in me submitted to any similar emotion,
I did not discover it. She may have heard my step,
however, descending the stairs, and have been prepared for
the meeting.

“You have seen her, too, have you, Mr. Littlepage!”
exclaimed Mary, though she used the precaution to speak in
a suppressed tone. “What can have brought her here at
this late hour?”

“You know who it is, then, Miss Warren?” I answered,
feeling an indescribable pleasure succeed my surprise, as I
remembered the dear girl, who was fully dressed, just as
she had left the drawing-room an hour before, must have
been gazing out upon the moonlight view as well as myself;
a species of romance that proved something like a similarity
of tastes, if not a secret sympathy between us.

“Certainly,” returned Mary, steadily. “I cannot well
be mistaken in the person, I think. It is Opportunity Newcome.”

“My hand was on the key, and I turned it in the lock.
A bar remained, and this I also removed, when we opened
the door. Sure enough, there came the person just named,
within ten feet of the steps, which she doubtless intended to
ascend. She manifested surprise on ascertaining who were
her porters, but hastened into the house, looking anxiously
behind her, as if distrustful of pursuit or observation. I led
the way to the library, lighted its lamp, and then turned to
my two silent companions, looking a request for explanation.

Opportunity was a young woman, in her twenty-sixth
year, and was not without considerable personal charms.
The exercise and excitement through which she had just
gone had heightened the colour in her cheeks, and rendered
her appearance unusually pleasing. Nevertheless, Opportunity

was not a woman to awaken anything like the passion
of love in me, though I had long been aware such was
her purpose. I suspected that her present business was
connected with this scheme, I will own, and was prepared
to listen to her communication with distrust. As for Opportunity
herself, she hesitated about making her disclosures,
and the very first words she uttered were anything but delicate
or feminine.

“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Opportunity, “I did not
expect to find you two alone at this time of night!”

I could have given her tongue a twitch to cure it of its
propensity to speak evil, but concern for Mary Warren, induced
me to turn anxiously towards her. Never did the
steady self-possession of perfect innocence better assert itself
than in the dear girl at this rude assault; the innocence
which can leave no latent intention, or wish, to alarm the
feelings.

“We had all retired,” answered the pure-minded girl,
“and everybody on my side of the house is in bed and
asleep, I believe; but I did not feel any drowsiness, and was
sitting at a window, looking out upon the view by this lovely
moonlight, when I saw you ride out of the woods, and follow
the lane. As you came up to the oak I knew who it was,
Opportunity, and ran down to admit you; for I was certain
something extraordinary must bring you here at this late
hour.”

“Oh! nothing extraordinary, at all!” cried Miss Opportunity,
in a careless way. “I love moonlight as well as
yourself, Mary, and am a desperate horsewoman, as you
know. I thought it would be romantic to gallop over to the
Nest, and go back between one and two in the morning.
Nothing more, I can assure you.”

The coolness with which this was said amazed me not a
little, though I was not so silly as to believe a syllable of it.
Opportunity had a great deal of vulgar sentimentalism
about her, it is true — such as some girls are apt to mistake
for refinement; but she was not quite so bad as to travel
that lane, at midnight, and alone, without some special
object. It occurred to me that this object might be connected
with her brother, and that she would naturally wish
to make her communications privately. We had all taken

seats at a table which occupied the centre of the room, Mary
and myself quite near each other, and Opportunity at a distant
angle. I wrote on a slip of paper a short request for
Mary to leave me alone with our visiter, and laid it under
her eyes, without exciting Opportunity's suspicion; talking
to her, the whole time, about the night, and the weather,
and her ride. While we were thus engaged, Miss Warren
rose, and quietly glided out of the room. So silently was
this done, that I do not believe my remaining companion
was conscious of it at the moment.

“You have driven Mary Warren away, Miss Opportunity,”
I remarked, “by the hint about our being alone to-gether.”

“Lord! there's no great harm in that! I am used to
being alone with gentlemen, and think nothing of it. But,
are we really alone, Mr. Hugh, and quite by ourselves?”

“Quite, as you see. Our two selves and Mary Warren
I believe to be the only persons in the house, out of our
beds. She has left us, a little hurt, perhaps, and we are
quite alone.”

“Oh! As for Mary Warren's feelings, I don't mind
them much, Mr. Hugh. She's a good critter” — yes, this
elegant young lady actually used that extraordinary word
— “and as forgiving as religion. Besides, she 's only the
episcopal clergyman's daughter; and, take your family
away, that 's a denomination that would not stand long at
Ravensnest, I can tell you.”

“I am very glad, then, my family is not away, for it is
a denomination I both honour and love. So long as the
grasping and innovating spirit of the times leaves the Littlepages
anything, a fair portion of their means shall be
given to support that congregation. As for Miss Warren,
I am pleased to hear that her temperament is so forgiving.”

“I know that well, and did not speak in the hope of
making any change in your views, Mr. Hugh. Mary Warren,
however, will not think much of my remark to-morrow;
I do not believe she thought half as much about it to-night
as I should have done, had it been made to me.”

I fancy this was quite true; Mary Warren having listened
to the insinuation as the guileless and innocent hear
innuendos that bring no consciousness with them, while Opportunity's

spirit would have been very apt to buckle on the
armour which practice had rendered well-fitting.

“You have not taken this long ride merely to admire the
moon, Miss Opportunity,” I now carelessly remarked, willing
to bring things to a head. “If you would favour me
with its real object, I should be pleased to learn it.”

“What if Mary should be standing at the keyhole, listening?”
said this elegant `critter,' with the suspicion of a
vulgar mind. “I wouldn't have her hear what I 've got to
tell you, for a mint of money.”

“I do not think there is much danger of that,” I answered,
rising notwithstanding, and throwing open the door.
“You perceive there is no one here, and we can converse
in safety.”

Opportunity was not so easily satisfied. Of a gossiping,
craving disposition herself, in all things that pertain to curiosity,
it was not easy for her to imagine another could be
less guided by that feeling than herself. Rising, therefore,
she went on tiptoe to the passage, and examined it for
herself. Satisfied, at length, that we were not watched,
she returned to the room, closed the door softly, motioned
for me to be seated, placed herself quite near me, and then
appeared disposed to proceed to business.

“This has been a dreadful day, Mr. Hugh,” the young
woman now commenced, actually looking sorrowful, as I
make little doubt she really felt. “Who could have thought
that the street-musician was you, and that old German pedlar
of watches, Mr. Roger! I declare, the world seems to
be getting upside-down, and folks don't know when they 're
in their right places?”

“It was a foolish adventure, perhaps; but it has let us
into some most important secrets.”

“That 's just the difficulty. I defend you all I can,
and tell my brothers that you 've not done anything they
would n't do in a minute, if only half a farm depended on it,
while, in your case, it may be more than a hundred.”

“Your brothers then complain of my having appeared
among the anti-renters, in disguise?”

“They do, desperately, Mr. Hugh, and seem quite put
out about it. They say it was ungenerous to come in that
way into your own country, and steal their secrets from

them! I say all I can in your favour, but words wont pass
for much with men in such a taking. You know, Mr.
Hugh, I 've always been your friend, even from our childish
days, having got myself into more than one scrape to get
you out of them.”

As Opportunity made this declaration, one a little loose
as to facts, by the way, she sighed gently, dropped her eyes,
and looked as conscious and confused as I believe it was at
all in her nature to appear. It was not my cue to betray undue
bashfulness at such a moment, and as for any scruples
on the subject of misleading a confiding heart, I should as
soon have thought of feeding an anaconda or a boa constrictor
with angle-worms. I look the young lady's hand,
therefore, squeezed it with as sentimental a pressure as I
knew how to use, and looked green enough about the eyes,
I dare say.

“You are only too good, Opportunity,” I answered.
“Yes, I have ever relied on you as a friend, and have never
doubted you would defend me, when I was not present to
defend myself.”

Here I released the hand, a little apprehensive I might
have the young lady sobbing on my shoulder, unless some
little moderation were observed. Opportunity manifested a
reluctance to let go her hold, but what could a young woman
do, when the gentleman himself exhibited so much discretion?

“Yes, Seneky, in particular, is in a dreadful taking,” she
resumed, “and to pacify him, I consented to ride over myself,
at this time of night, to let you know what is threatened.”

“That is most kind of you, Opportunity; and, as it is so
late, had you not better tell your story at once, and then go
to a room and rest yourself, after so sharp a ride?”

“Tell my tale I will, for it 's high time you heard it; but,
as for rest, I must jump on my horse and gallop back the
moment the moon sets; sleep I must in my own bed this
night. Of course you and Mary Warren will both be silent
as to my visit, since it has been made for your good.”

I promised for myself and Mary, and then pressed my
companion to delay no longer in imparting the information
she had ridden so far to bring. The story was soon told,

and proved to be sufficiently alarming. One portion of the
facts I got directly from Opportunity herself, while another
has been subsequently gleaned from various sources, all
being certain. The particular circumstances were these:—

When Seneca followed the band of “Injins” and his coanti-renters,
in their precipitate retreat on the hamlet, his
revelations produced a general consternation. It then became
known that the young Paris spendthrift was on his
own estate, that he had actually been among the disaffected
that day, had learned many of their secrets, and had probably
made black marks against certain of the tenants, whose
leases were nearly expired. Bad as this was, of itself, it
was not the worst of the matter. Nothing was more certain
than the fact that this young landlord knew a few of those
who had committed felony, and might have sundry highly
probable suspicions as to others. The guilty lay at his
mercy, as a matter of course; and there was a sufficiency
of common sense left among these conspirators, to understand
that a man, who must feel that attempts were making
to rob him of his estate, would be very likely to turn the
tables on his assailants, did an occasion offer. When men
embark in an undertaking as innately nefarious as that of
anti-rentism certainly is, when it is stripped of its pretensions
and stands in its naked deformity, they are not apt to stop
at trifles. To this desperate character of its mischief, the
country owes the general depression of truth that has accompanied
its career, its false and dangerous principles, its
confusion between right and wrong, and finally its murders.
It has been the miserable prerogative of demagogues alone,
to defend its career and its demoralization. Thus has it happened,
that the country has seen the same quasi legislators—
legislators, by the vote of a party and the courtesy of the
country, if by no other tenure—supporting, with an air of
high pretension, the very doubtful policy of attempting to
make men moral by statute law, on the one side, while
they go the full length of these property-depredators, on the
other! In such a state of society, it is not surprising that
any expedient should be adopted to intimidate and bully me
into silence. It was consequently determined, in a conclave
of the chiefs, that a complaint should be made against my
uncle and myself, before an anti-rent justice of the peace,

for felony under the recent statute, in appearing “diguised
and armed,” as a means of preventing our complaints
against the real offenders. It is true, we were not in masks;
but our disguises, nevertheless, were so effectual as possibly
to meet the contingency contemplated by the law, had we
been armed. As to weapons, however, we had been totally
and intentionally without anything of the sort; but oaths
cost villains, like those engaged in this plot, very little.
Those oaths had been taken, and warrants were actually
signed by the magistrate, of which the service was suspended
at Seneca's solicitation, merely to enable the last to effect
a compromise. It was not thought sufficient, however, to
menace my uncle and myself with a prosecution of this
nature; intimidation of another sort was to be put in requisition,
to enforce the dread of the legal proceedings; a measure
which should let us see that our assailants were in
downright earnest. Opportunity had ascertained that something
serious was to be attempted, and she believed that very
night, though what it was precisely was more than she knew;
or, knowing, was willing to communicate.

The object of this late visit, then, was to make terms for
her brother, or brothers; to apprize me of some unknown
but pressing danger, and to obtain all that influence in my
breast that might fairly be anticipated from services so material.
Beyond a question, I was fortunate in having such
a friend in the enemy's camp, though past experience had
taught me to be wary how I trusted my miserable and sensitive
heart within the meshes of a net that had been so often
cast.

“I am very sensible of the importance of your services,
Miss Opportunity,” I said, when the voluble young lady had
told her tale, “and shall not fail to bear it in mind. As for
making any direct arrangement with your brother Seneca,
that is out of the question, since it would be compromising
felony, and subject me to punishment; but I can be passive,
if I see fit, and your wishes will have great weight with me.
The attempt to arrest my uncle and myself, should it ever
be made, will only subject its instigators to action for malicious
prosecutions, and gives me no concern. It is very
doubtful how far we were disguised, in the sense of the
statute, and it is certain we were not armed, in any

sense. Without perjury, therefore, such a prosecution must
fail—”

“Folks take desperate oaths in anti-rent times!” interrupted
Opportunity, with a significant look.

“I am quite aware of that. Human testimony, at the
best, is very frail, and often to be distrusted; but in seasons
of excitement, and passion, and cupidity, it is common to
find it corrupt. The most material thing, at present, is to
know precisely the nature of the evil they meditate against
us.”

Opportunity's eye did not turn away, as mine was fastened
on her while she answered this question, but retained
all the steadiness of sincerity.

“I wish I could tell you, Mr. Hugh,” she said; “but I
can say no more than I have. Some injury will be attempted
this night, I feel certain; but what that injury will be, is
more than I know myself. I must now go home; for the
moon will be nearly down, and it would never do for me to
be seen by any of the antis. The little I have said in favour
of the Littlepages has made me enemies, as it is; but I never
should be forgiven, was this ride to be known.”

Opportunity now rose, and smiling on me, as any other
rover might be supposed to fire a parting broadside, in order
to render the recollection of her presence as memorable as
possible, she hurried away. I accompanied her to the oak,
as a matter of course, and assisted her into her saddle. Sundry
little passages of country coquetry occurred during these
movements, and the young lady manifested a reluctance to
depart, even when all was ready, though she was in so great a
hurry. Her game was certainly as desperate as that of the
anti-renters themselves, but it was a game she was determined
to play out. The moon was not yet quite down, and
that circumstance served as a pretence for delay, while I
fancied that she might still have something in reserve to
communicate.

“This has been so kind in you, dear Opportunity,” I
said, laying my hand gently on the one of hers which held
the bridle—“so like old times—so like yourself, indeed—
that I scarce know how to thank you. But we shall live to
have old-fashioned times again, when the former communications
can be opened among us. Those were happy days,

when we all went galloping over the hills together; mere
boys and girls, it is true, but delighted boys and girls I hope
you will allow.”

“That they was” — Opportunity's education and graces
did not extend to good grammar, in her ordinary discourse,
which many persons among us seem to fancy is anti-republican—“That
they was! And I should like to live 'em over
again. Never mind, Hugh; you 'll live to put down these
people, and then you 'll settle and marry. You mean to
marry, of course?”

This was a pretty plain demonstration; but I was used to
it, as what young man of fortune is not? — and a danger
known is a danger avoided. I pressed the hand I held gently,
relinquished it, and then observed, in a somewhat disappointed
tone—

“Well, I ought not to ask again, what is the particular
injury I am to expect to-night. A brother is nearer than a
friend, I know; and I can appreciate your difficulties.”

Opportunity had actually given the spirited beast she
rode the rein, and was on the point of galloping off, when
these last words touched her heart. Leaning forward, and
bending her head down, so as to bring our faces within a
foot of each other, she said, in a low voice—

“Fire is a good servant, but a hard master. A tea-kettle
of water thrown on it, at first, would have put out the last
great conflagration in York.”

These words were no sooner uttered than the bold young
woman struck her horse a smart blow, and away she went,
galloping over the turf with an almost noiseless hoof. I
watched her for a moment, and saw her descend into the
ravine; when, left quite alone, there was abundant opportunity
for reflection, though no longer any Opportunity to
look at.

“Fire!”—That was an ominous word. It is the instrument
of the low villain, and is an injury against which it is
difficult, indeed, to guard. It had been used in these anti-rent
troubles, though less, perhaps, than would have been the
case in almost any other country; the institutions of this,
even if they have introduced so many false and exaggerated
notions of liberty, having had a most beneficial effect in
lessening some of the other evils of humanity. Still, fire

had been resorted to, and the term of `barn-burner' had got
to be common among us; far more common, I rejoice to
say, than the practice which gave it birth. Nevertheless,
it was clearly of the last importance to certain persons at
Ravensnest to frighten me from complaining, since their
crimes could only lead them to the State's prison, were justice
done. I determined, therefore, not to lay my head on
a pillow that night, until assured that the danger was past.

The moon had now set, but the stars shed their twinkling
rays on the dusky landscape. I was not sorry for the
change, as it enabled me to move about with less risk of
being seen. The first thing was to seek some auxiliaries to
aid me in watching, and I at once decided to look for them
among my guests, the Indians. If “fire will fight fire,”
`Indian' ought to be a match for `Injin' any day. There
is just the difference between these two classes of men, that
their names would imply. The one is natural, dignified,
polished in his way—nay, gentleman-like; while the other
is a sneaking scoundrel, and as vulgar as his own appellation.
No one would think of calling these last masquerading
rogues “Indians;” by common consent, even the most
particular purist in language terms them “Injins.” “Il y a
chapeau et chapeau,” and there are “Indian and Injin.”

Without returning to the house, I took my way at once
towards the quarters of my red guests. Familiar with every
object around me, I kept so much within the shadows, and
moved across the lawn and fields by a route so hidden, that
there was not much risk of my being seen, even had there
been enemies on the look-out. The distance was not great,
and I soon stood at the foot of the little knoll on which the
old farm-house stood, sheltered in a manner by a dark row
of aged currants, which lined the bottom of an old and half-deserted
garden. Here I paused to look about me, and to
reflect a moment, before I proceeded any further.

There stood the good, old, substantial residence of my
fathers, in shadowy outline, looming large and massive in its
form and aspect. It might be fired, certainly, but not with
much facility, on its exterior. With the exception of its
roof, its piazza, and its outside-doors, little wood was exposed
to an incendiary without; and a slight degree of watchfulness
might suffice against such a danger. Then the law

punished arson of an inhabited dwelling with death, as it
should do, and your sneaking scoundrels seldom brave such
a penalty in this country. Much is said about the impotency
of the punishment of the gallows, but no man can tell
how many thousand times it has stayed the hand and caused
the heart to quail. Until some one can appear among us,
who is able to reveal this important secret, it is idle to talk
about the few cases in which it is known that the risk of
death has been insufficient to prevent crime. One thing we
all know; other punishments exist, and crime is perpetrated
directly in their face, daily and hourly; and I cannot see
why such a circumstance should not be just as much of an
argument against the punishment of the penitentiary, as
against punishment by the gallows. For one, I am clearly
for keeping in existence the knowledge that there is a power
in the country, potent to sweep away the offender, when
cases of sufficient gravity occur to render the warning
wholesome.