University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

At the hospitable board of Mr. Berkeley, to which
we now return, the parties appear seated precisely as
we left them. Their condition is not the same, however.
They have done full justice, during our absence, to the
repast, and to their own appetites, rendered more acute
from their active travel of the day. The first rude demands
of hunger had been satisfied; the urgent business
of the table was fairly over; and nothing now remained
to prevent the tory captain from playing the double part
of social guest and earnest lover. His position might
well have prompted him to an unwonted effort in the
presence of one whose favour he sought to win. Not
so, however. Barsfield, though bold and insolent
enough with a rude troop and in the forest, was yet
abashed in the presence of the beautiful and innocent
Janet. He was one of those instances, so frequently
to be met with, of a man possessed of energies of mind
calculated to reach distinction, but wanting in that delicacy
of feeling and demeanour, the result only of polished

society, which alone can sustain him there unembarrassed
and at ease. Too harsh in his habits to conciliate
without an effort, he was, at the same time, too
little familiar with the nice delicacies and acute sensibilities
of the female heart to make the attempt with
judgment; and we find him, accordingly, the well-dressed
boor, in a strange circle, endeavouring to disguise
his own consciousness of inadequacy by a dashing
and forward demeanour, which had all the aspect of impertinence.
He made sundry efforts to engage the
maiden and her young companion in the toils of conversation,
but proved far less successful than his second
in command, who led the way in the suggestion of topics,
caught up the falling ends of chit-chat, and, with all
the adroitness of an old practitioner, knotted them together
as fast as his superior, in his clumsy efforts to do
likewise, tore them asunder. Clayton was a lively,
brisk, ready youth, not over-well informed, but with just
sufficient reading and experience to while away a dull
hour with a thoughtless maiden. Janet heard him with
respect, but said little. Rose Duncan, however, had
few restraints—certainly none like those restraining the
former,—and she chatted on with as thoughtless a spirit
as if there had been no suffering in the land. Barsfield
envied his lieutenant the immense gift of the gab which
the latter possessed, and his envy grew into a feeling of
bitter mortification, when every effort of his own to
engage Janet in dialogue failed utterly, and, evidently,
quite as often from his own inefficiency, as from the
maiden's reluctance, to maintain it. A quiet “Yes” or
“No” was the only response which she appeared to
find necessary in answer to all his suggestions; and
these, too, were uttered so coldly and so calmly, as to
discourage the otherwise sanguine tory in the hope that
maiden bashfulness alone, and not indifference, was the
true cause of her taciturnity. The old man, her father,
as he saw the anxiety of Barsfield to fix his daughter's
attention, and, as he hoped to conciliate one having a
useful influence, strove to second his efforts by so directing
the course of the conversation as to bring out
the resources of the maiden; but even his efforts proved
in a great degree unsuccessful. Her mind seemed not
at home in all the scene, and exhibited but little sympathy
with those around her. To those who looked
closely, and could read so mysterious a language as that
of a young maiden's eye, it might be seen that, in addition
to her reluctance to converse with Barsfield, there
was also a creeping fear in her bosom, which chilled
and fevered all its elasticity. As the hour advanced,
this feeling showed itself by occasional unquiet movements
of her eye, which glanced its sweet fires fitfully
around, as if in searching for some object which it yet
dreaded to encounter. This state of disquietude did not
fail to strike the keen watchfulness of Barsfield, whose
own imperfect success only made him the more jealously
observant. Though unable to win the heart of a fair
lady, he was yet not altogether incapable of perceiving
its movements; and he soon discovered that, in addition
to the dislike which Janet entertained for his pretensions,
there was ground enough to imagine that she
had far less aversion to those of another. He watched
her the more closely from this reflection, and soon had
assurance doubly sure on the subject of his conjecture.

In the meanwhile the supper things had undergone
removal; the several persons of the party were disposed
about the room, the two ladies occupying the sofa, at
one arm of which, and immediately beside Rose Duncan,
sat Lieutenant Clayton, bending forward, and exchanging
with her a free supply of chit-chat, sentimental
and capricious. Barsfield, on the other hand, addressed
his regards only to Janet, who sat, statue-like and pale,
seemingly unmoved by all she heard, and with that air
of abstraction and anxiety which shows the thought to
be far distant. There was a dash of apprehension also

in her air, such as the young fawn, skirting the roadside
for the first time, might be supposed to exhibit,
under the suggestion of its own timid spirit, rather than
of any real danger from the approach of the hunter.
This expression of countenance, however the maiden
might labour for its concealment, was yet sufficiently
evident to one so jealously aroused and suspicious as
the tory captain; and he could not forbear, at length, as
he found that all other topics failed to bring about a
regular conversation with her, to insinuate his own doubts
of that perfect composure of her mind which, in reply to
his inquiry, her language had expressed, but which he
did not think, at the same time, that she really entertained.

“Something surely has occurred to trouble you, Miss
Berkeley—some unlucky disaster, no doubt? Your favourite
nonpareil has broken bonds, perhaps—your
mocking-bird has sung his last song before strangling
himself between his wires,—something equally, if not
more sad, has fastened itself upon your spirits, and taken
the wonted colour from your cheeks. Let me sympathize
with you in your misfortune, I pray you; let me
know the extent and the cause of your affliction.”

How bitterly ironical was the glance which accompanied
this speech.

“Rather say,” replied the laughing Rose, quickly
and archly, as she beheld the annoyance which the
words of the tory had brought to her cousin,—“rather
say that she dreads some danger to her favourite—that
she has seen some threatening hawk hovering over her
dovecot, and dreads momently that he will pounce
upon the covey, and—”

“Rose! Rose Duncan!” hurriedly exclaimed Janet,
with a most appealing glance of her eye, for she knew
the playful character of her companion; “No more of
this, Rose, I beg you. I am not in the humour for

sport this evening. I beg that you will desist. I am
not well.”

“Oh, if you beg so prettily, and so humbly too, I
have done, coz. I would not vex you for the world,
particularly when you surrender so quietly at discretion.
But, really, I have no other way to revenge myself for
the sarcasms I am made to endure by Mr. Clayton; he is
really so witty—so very excruciating.”

She turned, as she spoke, with a full glance of her
arch blue eye upon Clayton, and with an expression of
face so comically sarcastic, that she even succeeded in
diverting the glance of Barsfield from the face of her
cousing to that of his lieutenant. Clayton laughed sillily
in reply, and strove to meet the sarcasm with as much
good-nature as would disarm it. He replied at the
same time playfull to Rose, and the conversation
went on between them. This little episode—the allusion
of Rose, though innocently made on her part, was
calculated to increase as well the apprehensions of Janet
as the suspicions of Barsfield; and he determined
not to yield the point, but, if possible, pressing it still
more home, to see if he could not elicit some few more
decided proofs of that disquiet of the heart under
which Janet so evidently laboured. He was not troubled
with those gentlemanly scruples which should have
produced a pause, if not a direct arrest, of such a determination.
On the contrary, he knew of no principles
but those which were subservient to the selfish purposes
of a coarse, unpolished soul.

“This allegory of your fair friend, Miss Berkeley,
would seem not altogether wanting in some direct application,
if one may judge from the degree of annoyance
which it occasions you. Is it true that some favourite
dove is in danger—does the hawk really hang
over head; and am I to trace in the likeness of the one,
a wild rebel, an outlaw of the land—some sentimental
robber of the swamp—and, in the other, the vigilant

sentinel of an indulgent monarch, keeping watch over
the fold and protecting it against the excursive marauder?
If so, in which of these two shall I hold Miss
Berkeley to be so greatly interested?”

Mr. Berkeley eagerly bent forward to hear the answer
of his daughter; and even Blonay, who had
withdrawn himself humbly into a corner of the room,
seemed to comprehend something of the matter in hand,
and stretched out his long neck, while his blear eyes
peered into those which the maiden now fixed upon her
questioner.

“I am not good, sir, at solving riddles,” was her
calm reply; “and really cannot undertake to say to
what your present remark should refer. Perhaps you
are right, however, in comparing to the innocent bird,
in danger from the lurking fowler, the outlaw whom you
call the rebel. The hawk, sir, stands well enough for
the pursuer. But, if these comparisons be true, there
is no danger to us, I assure you, as I myself believe,
even should the outlaw become the marauder.”

And here she paused, and her eyes were withdrawn
from the person to whom she had spoken. The tory
bit his lip; and, though he strove with that object, failed
to suppress the dissatisfaction which her speech had occasioned.
Taking up her reply, which had been evidently
left unfinished, he proceeded to carry out the
sentence.

“But there is danger, you would say, from the latter.
Let me remove your fears, Miss Berkeley. The hawk
will watch over his charge without preying upon it, as
you shall see. I am not unwilling to appear before you
as one of the brood, and you and yours shall be secure
in the protection I shall bring you against any lurking
rebel in your swamps.”

“I believe not that we have much to fear from that
quarter, Mr. Barsfield, provided none but Marion's men
get into them. They never trouble us.”

“But, my dear,” said the old gentleman, “we are
none the less indebted to Captain Barsfield for his aid
and assistance. It is true, captain, we have not suffered
much if any loss yet from the people who are out;
but times may change, captain, and there's no knowing
how soon your kind assistance may be of the utmost
importance. We should not be ungrateful, Janet.”

“I would not, father,” responded the maiden, meekly;
“Captain Barsfield has my thanks for the aid he
has proffered us, though I still think we shall not find it
necessary. Our home has always been a quiet one, and
has been respected by all parties. My father,” and
here she turned to Barsfield with a free and fearless
glance, “My father is an invalid, and cannot take any
part in the war which is going on; and while he extends
his hospitality to all, without distinction, he may well
hope to need little of the aid of either in defending him
from any. It is as little, under these circumstances, as
we can require, that our guest shall forbear the use of
language which might either give us pain, as it refers
contemptuously or unjustly to our friends and those whom
we esteem, or must involve us in the controversy which
we should better avoid. Captain Barsfield will forgive
me if I am unwilling to listen to the abuse of my countrymen.”

The manner of the maiden was so dignified as to silence
farther controversy. Barsfield submitted with a
very good grace, though inwardly extremely chafed at
the resolute and unreserved manner in which she spoke
of those whom he had denounced as rebels, and to
whose patriotic conduct his own had been so unhappily
opposed. He strove, however, not merely to subdue
his ill-humour, but to prove to her that it had given way
to better feelings; and, with a due increase of courtesy,
he arose, and would have conducted her to the fine
old harpsichord, which formed a most conspicuous article
of the household furniture in the apartment. She declined,

however, to perform, in spite of every compliment
which he could bestow upon her skill and voice,
with both of which he appeared to be familiar. Her
father added his solicitations also; but she pleaded unpreparedness
and her own indisposition so firmly, that
the demand was at length given up. The lieutenant,
however, was more successful with the inconsiderate and
laughing girl who sat beside him. She offered no scruples—said
she loved to play and sing of all things in the
world; and, taking her seat in the midst of her own jest
and laughter, touched the keys with a free finger, that
seemed perfectly at home, while she sang the following
little ditty, with a fine clear voice which filled the
apartment:—

While the song of Rose was yet trilling in their ears,
a faint but distinct whistle penetrated the apartment.
The quick and jealous sense of Barsfield was the
very first to hear it; and, from the corner where he sat
crouching, the long neck of Blonay might have been
seen suddenly thrust out, as his head leaned forward to
listen. The eye of the tory captain involuntarily turned
upon the face of Janet Berkeley: a deeper paleness
had overshadowed it; and, though she did not, and dared
not, look in the direction of her observer, she well knew
that his gaze was fastened upon her, and this knowledge
increased her confusion. The suspicions of Barsfield,
always active, were doubly aroused at the present moment,
though, with the policy of a practised soldier, he
yet took especial care to conceal them.

It was curious to look on the Half-Breed all the while.
The instinct of the scout had awakened into a degree of
consciousness with that whistle, which all the sweet
music of Rose Duncan, to which he had been listening,
could never have provoked. His thought was already
in the woods; and, like some keen hound, his mood
began to grow impatient of restraint, and to hunger after
the close chase and the bloody fray. The eye of Barsfield,
turning from the face of the maiden, was fixed
upon him, and, with his habitual caution, Blonay, as he
saw himself observed, drew in his head, which now
rested with his usual listlessness upon his shoulder,

while he seemed to lapse away into his accustomed
stupor.

The signal, if such it were, was again repeated, and
closer at hand. A faint smile curled the lips of the
tory captain, and his glance again settled upon the face
of Janet. She strove to encounter that glance of inquisitive
insolence, but her heart was too full of its fears.
She could not—her eye sank away from the encounter,
and the suspicions of the tory were confirmed.

“There's a signal for somebody,” was his careless
remark.

“A signal!” exclaimed Clayton and Rose, in the same
breath.

“A signal!” said Mr. Berkeley, in alarm.

“Yes, a signal—and the signal of one of Marion's
men,” was the reply of Barsfield. “He has strayed
this time into the wrong grounds, and will be laid by his
heels if he heed not his footsteps.”

The hands of Janet were clasped involuntarily, and a
prayerful thought was rapidly springing in her mind,
while her heart beat thick with its apprehensions.

“Why do you think it a signal of Marion's men, captain?”
was the inquiry of Clayton; “may it not be the
whistle of some idler among our own?”

“No; he might run some risk of a bullet if that were
the case. Our loyalists know these sounds too well not
to prick their ears when they hear them. That whistle
is peculiar, and not so easily imitated. There—you
hear it again! The enemy is daring, if he be an enemy;
if a friend, he is not less so.”

“It may be one of the negroes,” was the timidly-expressed
suggestion of Mr. Berkeley.

“Miss Berkeley will scarcely concur with you in that
conjecture,” was the sarcastic response of Barsfield,
while his eye scrutinized closely and annoyingly the
rapidly changing colour upon her cheeks. As he gazed
her emotion grew almost insupportable, and her anxiety

became so intense as to be perceptible to all. Her eyes
seemed not to regard the company, but were fixed and
wild in their frozen stare upon a distant window of the
apartment. That glance, so immoveable and so full of
earnest terror, proved a guide to that of the tory. He
read, in its intensity of gaze, a farther solution of the
mystery; and, turning suddenly in the same direction,
the secret was revealed. The distant, but distinct and
well-known features of Ernest Mellichampe were clearly
seen through the pane, looking in over the head of
Blonay, from the piazza to which he had ascended.
The movement of Barsfield was instantaneous. With a
fierce oath he dashed from his seat, and, seizing his
sabre, which lay upon a neighbouring table, rushed
towards the entrance. The movement of Janet Berkeley
was not less sudden. She darted with a wild cry, something
between a shriek and a prayer, and stood directly
in his pathway—her eye still fixed upon the window
where her lover stood,—her heart still pleading for his
safety,—her arm uplifted for his defence.

“Let me pass, Miss Berkeley,” were the hurried
words and stern demand of the tory.

“Never—never—I will perish first,” she exclaimed,
incoherently and unconsciously, in reply.

He extended his arm to put her aside, and by this
time the whole party had arisen from their seats, wondering
at what they saw, for they were ignorant of the
knowledge possessed by the tory. The father of the
maiden would have interposed, and Rose Duncan, surprised
and terrified, also came forward; but Janet
Berkeley heeded them not. Furious at the interruption,
Barsfield cried out to Clayton to pursue.

“The rebel Mellichampe!” was his cry;—“he is in
the piazza now,—he was but this instant at the window.
Pursue him with all the men—cut him to pieces—give
him no quarter—fly!”

The form of Janet filled the doorway: her arms were
extended.

“Mercy!” she cried,—“mercy—mercy! Fly not,—
pursue him not: he is gone,—he is beyond your reach.
Mercy—have mercy!”

They put her aside, and Barsfield hurried through the
door. She caught his arm with a nervous grasp, and
clung to him in the fervour of a desperation growing
out of her accumulating terrors. He broke furiously
away from her hold, and she sank, fainting and exhausted,
but still conscious of her lover's danger, at full
length along the floor. They were gone in the pursuit,
the tory captain and his lieutenant; but Blonay, though
he had risen with the rest, still remained in the apartment.
The old father tottered to his daughter in consternation,
and strove, with the assistance of Rose, to
lift her from the ground. In his own rude way, and
trembling, too, at the idea of his near approach to one
so superior, Blonay proffered his assistance.

“The poor gal,” he exclaimed, in tones of unwonted
pity, while lifting her to the sofa,—“the poor gal, she's
main frightened now, I tell you!”

“My child—my child!—speak to me, my Janet!—
look upon me!—it is your father, Janet!—look up to
me, my daughter!”

Her eyes unclosed, and her lips were moved in correspondence
with the agonizing thoughts and apprehensions
of her soul.

“Mellichampe—rash, rash Mellichampe!—oh, father,
they will take—they will murder him!”

“Fear not, my child, fear not,” was the father's reply,
his own accents full of that very fear which he required
that she should not feel. Fear nothing; this is
my house—these are my grounds. They shall not—
no, my daughter, they dare not—touch a hair of the
head of Mellichampe.”

But the daughter knew better than her father his own
weakness and the insecurity of her lover, and she shook
her head mournfully, though listening patiently to all his

efforts at consolation. In that moment the father's love
of his child grew conspicuous. He hung over her, and
sobbed freely like an infant. He said a thousand
soothing things in her ears; predicted a long life of happiness
with her lover; strove to reassure her on every
topic of their mutual apprehension; and, on his own
tottering frame, with the assistance of Rose Duncan,
helped her to the chamber whose repose she seemed so
imperatively to require.