University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

We have seen, pending the pursuit, that Mellichampe
had coolly kept his way through the garden until he
reached the forest that lay immediately behind it. Here
he paused—he felt himself secure from any night search
by such a force as that under Barsfield. A huge gum
that forked within a few feet of its base, diverging then
into distinct columns, afforded him a tolerable forest seat,
into which, with a readiness that seemed to denote an old
familiarity with its uses, the fugitive leaped with little
difficulty. The undergrowth about him was luxuriant,
and almost completely shut in the place of his concealment
from every glance, however far-darting, of that
bright moon which was now rising silently above the
trees. But a sharper eye than hers had been upon the
youth from the first moment of his flight from the garden.
The trusty Thumbscrew was behind him, and a
watcher, like himself. He had hurried from the conference
with Humphries; and, heedful of his friend, for
whose safety he felt all a parent's anxiety, he had pressed
forward to the plantation of Mr. Berkeley, and to
those portions of it in particular which, as they had been
frequently traversed by both of them before, he well
knew would be the resort of Mellichampe now. Still,
though resolute to serve the youth, and having no more
selfish object, he did not dare to offend him by exposing
his person to his sight. He arrived at a convenient
place of watch just as the pursuit of Barsfield was at
its hottest. He saw the flight of the fugitive from the
garden, and, himself concealed, beheld him take his old
position in the crotch of the gum. His first impulse
was to advance and show himself; but, knowing the nature

of his companion well, he felt assured he should
only give offence, and do no service. His cooler decision
was to lie snugly where he was, and await the
progress of events.

At length the torches disappeared from the garden,
and it was not long after when the lights seemed extinguished
in the house—all but one; a candle—a pale and
trembling light—was still to be seen in one window of
the dwelling, and to this the eyes of Mellichampe turned
with as fond a glance as ever Chaldean shepherd
sent in worship to the star with which he held his fate
to be connected. The light came from the chamber of
Janet Berkeley. It was the light of love to Mellichampe,
and it brought a sweet promise and a pleasant
hope to his warm and active fancy.

Not long could he remain in his quiet perch after beholding
it. He leaped down, glided around the garden
paling, and took his way to the park in front, keeping on
the opposite side of the fence which divided the ground
immediately about the dwelling from the forest and the
fields. The fence, as is common to most fences of
like description in the luxuriant regions of the south, was
thickly girdled with brush, serving admirably the purpose
of concealment. Pursuing it with this object, in all its
windings, he at length approached the park where the
British troops were encamped. Well and closely did
he scan their position; and, with the eye of a partisan,
he saw with how much ease a force of but half the
number, properly guided, might effect their discomfiture.
He did not linger, however, in idle regrets of his inability;
but, moving around the chain of sentries, he ascertained
that their position had undergone no alteration,
and felt assured that he could now penetrate the garden
safely. This done, he made his way back to the place
of his concealment.

In the examination which he had just taken, he had
been closely watched and followed by the faithful

Thumbscrew. The movements of the youth regulated
duly those of his attendant. When the former halted
the latter fell back behind the brush, advancing when he
advanced, and checking his own progress whenever the
dusky shadow of Mellichampe appeared to linger even
for an instant in the moonlight. He escaped detection.
He played the scout with a dexterity and ease that
seemed an instinct, and hovered thus around the footsteps
of his daring friend throughout his whole progress,
to and fro, in the adventures of that night.

From the outside to the inside of the garden was but
a step, and in a trice Mellichampe went over the fence.
Watching heedfully until the youth was out of sight and
hidden within its intricacies, Thumbscrew followed his example,
and was soon wending after him, close along its
shady alleys. A dense and double line of box, which,
from having been long untrimmed, had grown up into so
many trees, afforded an admirable cover; and, pausing
at every turning, he looked forth only sufficiently often
to keep the course of the lover for ever in his sight.

In the meantime Mellichampe made his way to the
garden entrance. Here he stopped with an unwonted
degree of prudence, for which Thumbscrew gave
him due credit; he forbore to press forward, as the latter
feared he might do—seeking to cross the court,
which, though interspersed with trees, was yet not sufficiently
well covered to afford the necessary concealment.
Keeping within the garden, therefore, he gave the signal,
the first sounds of which chilled and warmed with
contradictory emotions the bosom of the sweet maiden
to whose ears it was addressed. The breath almost
left her as she heard it, and she gasped with her apprehensions.

“Too—too rash, Ernest!” she exclaimed in a low
tone, as it reached her ears, and her hands were involuntarily
clasped together. “Too rash—too daring—too
heedless, for me as for thyself. Ah! dearly indeed am

I taught how much you love me, when you make these
reckless visits, when you wantonly brave these dangers!
But I must go!” she exclaimed, hurriedly, as she heard
the signal impatiently repeated; “I must go—I must
meet him, or he will seek me here. He will rush into
yet greater dangers; he will not heed these soldiers;
and his old hatred to Barsfield, should he have distinguished
him to-night, will prompt him, I fear me much,
to seek him out even where his enemies are thickest.”

Thus soliloquizing, she approached the couch where
Rose Duncan was sleeping.

“Rose—Rose!” She called to her without receiving
any answer. Assured that she slept, Janet did not seek
to disturb her, but, after a hurried prayer, which she
uttered while kneeling by the bedside, she rose with new
courage, and, without farther hesitation, unclosed the
door, passed into the corridor, and descended to meet
her daring lover. Little did she dream that the eyes of
hate and jealousy were upon her,—that a malignant foe
was no less watchful than a fervent lover,—that one
stood in waiting, seeking her love, and, at the same
time, no less earnestly desirous of the heart's blood of
her lover.

She emerged into the court, which she hurried over
incautiously, and was received by Mellichampe at the
entrance of the garden. He took her to his arms,—he
led her away to the shelter of the great magnolias that
towered in a frowning group from its centre; and the
joy of their meeting, in that season and country of peril,
almost took away the sting and the sorrow which had
followed their separation, and now necessarily came
with their present dangers. The happiness of Mellichampe
was a tumult that could only speak in broken
exclamations of delight; that of Janet was a subdued
pleasure—a sort of bright, spiritual, moonlight gleam,
that came stealing through clouds, was mingled with
falling drops, that were only not oppressive as they
seemed to fall from heaven.

“Dear, dearest Janet—my own Janet—my only!—
I have you at last; your hand is in mine,—your eyes
look into my own. I cannot doubt that you are with
me now. I believe it—I know it, by this newborn joy
which is beating in my heart. Ah, dearest, but for that
tory reptile, this rapture would have been mine before.
But you are here at last, and, while you are with me, I
will not think of him. I will think of nothing to vex,—
I will know but one thought—but one feeling—the long-cherished,
dearest of all, Janet,—the feeling of adoration,
of devoted love, which my bosom bears for you.”

The youth, as he spoke, had clasped her hands both
in his, and his eyes looked for hers, which were cast
down upon the grass below them. When she looked up,
and they met his glance, he saw that they were glistening
with tears.

“You weep—you weep, Janet: I vex you with my
love,—you are unhappy. Speak—say to me, dearest,
what new affliction—what new strife and sorrow? What
do these tears mean?—say out—I am used to hear of
evil—it will not disturb me now. Is there any new
stroke in store for me? Do not fear to name it—any
thing,—only, only, Janet, if I am to suffer, let it not be
your hand which is to deal it.”

“There is none—none that I have to deal—none
that I know of—”

“Then there is none—none that should trouble me—
none that should make you weep. No tears, Janet, I
pray you. We meet so seldom, that there should be no
cloud over our meeting. See, love, how clear, how
beautiful is this night. There were several clouds hanging
about the moon at her rising, but they are all gone,
and now hang like so much silver canopy above her
head: she is almost full and round; and there is something
of promise in her smile for us,—so, dearest, it
appears to me. Smile with me, smile with her, my beloved,
and forget your griefs, and dismiss your tears.”

“Alas, Ernest! how can I smile when all things alarm
me for you? The pursuit to-night,—your vindictive
enemy Barsfield,—oh, Ernest, why will you be so headstrong—so
rash?”

“There is no danger. I fear him not, Janet; but
he shall learn to fear me,—he does fear me, and hence
it is that he hates and pursues me. But the fugitive will
turn upon his pursuer yet. The time is coming, and,
by the God of heaven—”

She put her hand upon his arm, and looked appealingly
into his eyes, but spoke not.

“Well, well, say nothing—forgive me, dearest—I
will speak no more of him—I will not vex you with his
name; you are now sufficiently vexed with his presence:
but the time will come, Janet, and, by Heaven—if I
mistake not greatly Heaven's justice—it cannot be far
off, when he shall render me a fearful account of all his
doings to me and mine. He has now the power—the
men, the arms,—but there will be some lucky hour
which shall find him unprovided, when—”

She again appealed to the youth, whose impetuosity
was again becoming conspicuous.

“You promised me, Ernest.”

“Forgive me, dearest—I did promise you, and I will
forbear to speak of the reptile; but my blood boils when
I but hear his name, and I forget myself for the moment.”

“Ah, Ernest, you are but too prone to forgetting.”

“Perhaps so, Janet: your charge is true; but you
I never forget; my love for you goes along with every
thought, and forms a part of the predominant mood,
whatever that may be. Thus, even when I think of this
man, whose name inflames my blood until I pant for
the shedding of his, one of the influences which stimulates
my anger is the thought of you. He comes between
us,—he fills your father's mind with hostility to
me; and he seeks you, Janet—he seeks you for his
own.”

“Nay, Ernest, why should you think so? He has
made no avowal; and I am sure the regard of my father
for you has undergone no change.”

“It is so, nevertheless; and your father is too weak
and too timid, whatever may be his affections, to venture
to maintain opinions in hostility to those who command
him when they please. He has denounced me
to your father, that I know,—he seeks you, I believe,—
and much I fear me, Janet, your father will yield to his
suggestions in all cases, and both of us will become the
victims.”

As the youth thus addressed her, the tears departed
from her eyes, and the expression which followed upon
her face was calm and pleasantly composed. There
was no rigidity in its muscles; each feature seemed to
maintain its natural place; and her words were slow, and
uttered in the gentlest tones.

“Have no fear of this, Ernest, I pray you. Should
this man—should my father—should all, so far mistake
me as to entertain a thought that I could yield to a
union with Barsfield, do not you mistake me. I will
not vow to you, Ernest; I have no protestations to
make—I know not how to make them; but you will
understand, and you will believe me in the assurance
which I now give you, that I cannot hold my senses
and consent to any connexion with the person you
speak of.”

“Bless you, dear Janet, but I needed no such assurance.
I only feared that you might be driven by circumstances,
by trick, by contrivances, to make a sacrifice
of yourself for the good of another.”

“Alas, Ernest—I now know what you would say.
You would tell me that my father, at the mercy of this
man, as he is, may require me as the offering by which
he is to be saved. God help me! it is a strait I have
not thought upon—I will not—I dare not think upon it!
Let us speak no more of this.”

Gloomily and sternly the youth replied—

“But you will think upon it, Janet; it may be required
of you ere long. Think upon it, and provide
your strength.”

“God forbid, Ernest; God forbid! Let me die first.
Let me perish before it becomes a question with me,
whether to sacrifice peace, hope, the proper delicacy of
my sex, and all that I live for, and all that I would love,
to the safety of an only parent. Oh, how false I should
be to promise love to a being whom I could only hate
or despise. What a daughter could I be to resist the
prayers of a father requiring me to do so. Alas, Ernest!
you bring me every form of trial. You make me
most unhappy. You come rashly into the clutches of
your deadly foe, and I tremble hourly, however I may
rejoice, when I hear that you are coming. I dread to see
you perish before my eyes under the weapons of these
men; and, when you come, what is it that I am compelled
to hear! what fears are before me—what horrors!
Ah, if love be a treasure—if it be a joy to love and to be
loved, it is so much the harder to think hourly of its
loss, and of its so unguarded condition. Better not to
feel—better to be hollow-hearted and insensible, than
thus continually to dread, and as continually to desire—
to fear with every hope, and to weep even where you
would smile the most.”

She buried her face in his bosom as she spoke, and
her sobs were audible. His arm gently supported
while enclasping her, and her afflictions greatly tended
to subdue the impetuous character of his previous mood.
He replied to her fondly, in those low tones which only
the rich sensibility can understand, and the generous,
warm spirit employ understandingly.

“And yet, dearest, those very sorrows have a sweetness.
Privation, pain, denial, even the lost love, Janet,
are nothing to the choice spirit which has faith along
with its sympathy. What consoles me? What has consoled

me in the perils and the pains, the losses and the
sorrows, which I have undergone in this warfare, and
within the last two years? My confidence in you—my
perfect faith that, however desolate, poor, denied, and
desperate; however parted by enemies or distance, I
was still secure of your love. I still knew that nothing—
no, not even death, my Janet, could deprive me of that.
If you have that confidence in me, my beloved, these sorrows,
these trials, are only so many strengtheners. You
will then find that the sorrows of love, borne well and
without despondence, are the sweetest triumphs of the
true affection. They are the honours which time can
never tarnish; they are the spoils which last us for ever
after. Janet, if, like you, I doubted—if I did not feel
assured of your unperishing truth—I should rush this
night, madly, and with but one hope of death, upon the
swords of these tory troopers. I should freely perish
under your eyes, with but one prayer, that you might be
able to behold me to the last.”

“Speak not thus!” she exclaimed, with a shudder,
looking around her as she spoke; “and do not think,
Ernest, from what I have said, that I have not the same
perfect faith in you that you feel in me;—but I despair
of all our hope. I am truly a timid maiden, and I am
always fancying a thousand woes and sorrows. I cannot
dare to believe otherwise than that our loves are
unblessed—I cannot hope that we shall realize them:
and oh, Ernest, your rashness, more than all things beside,
tends to confirm in me these apprehensions. Why
will you come to me when your enemies are abroad?
Promise me, dear Ernest, to fly from this neighbourhood
until the danger has gone over. There is no dishonour
—none.”

“Ay, but there is, Janet; but of this we need say
nothing. I could tell you much of friends, and good
service to be done, but may not. Let us speak of
more pleasant matters: of our hopes, not of our fears:

of our joys, not of our sorrows; of the future, too, in
exclusion of the present.”

And thus, loving and well beloved, the two discoursed
together; she sadly and despondingly, but with a true
devotedness of heart throughout; and he, warm in all
things, impetuously urging his love, his hope, his hatred
to his enemies, his promises of vengeance, and his fixed
determination to pursue the war in the neighbourhood, in
spite even of her solicitations that he should fly to a region
of greater security.

Thumbscrew, meanwhile, had been any thing but remiss
in his guard. He had cautiously pursued his
youthful associate, keeping close upon his heels, yet
narrowly watching to avoid discovery. Though a bold
and daring man, he yet esteemed the feelings and desires
of Mellichampe with a sentiment of respect little short
of awe; the natural sentiment of one, brought up as he
had been, to regard the family of his wealthy neighbour
as superior beings in many respects. Apart from this,
the quick, impetuous spirit of the youth exacted its own
observance; and, as his commands had been positive
to his comrade not to attend him, and urged in a manner
sufficiently emphatic to enforce respect, the more
humble companion felt the necessity of seeming submissive
at least. We have seen that his regard trampled
over his obedience, and it was well perhaps that it
did so. It was not long that Thumbscrew had maintained
his watch, before his quick ear detected the approach
of footsteps. He ventured to peep out from his
bush, and he was able to see the distinct outline of the
intruder's person. He saw him approach the long alley
in which he himself was sheltered, and within a few paces
of the lovers; and he immediately changed his own
position. Barsfield—for it was he—came on, passed
the spot which sheltered the scout, and, stealing heedfully
around a clump of orange, made his way to the
rear of the thick bower in which Janet and Mellichampe

were seated. The scout tracked him with no less caution
and much more adroitness. He placed himself in
cover, and coolly awaited the progress of events. The
impatient spirit of Barsfield did not suffer him to wait
long. The tory, it is probable, heard something of the
dialogue between the two, and his movement seemed
prompted at the particular moment when it took place by
some remark of Mellichampe which, from the exclamation
of Barsfield as he rushed upon the youth, had
touched the eavesdropper nearly. Leaping forward
from behind one of the magnolias where he had been
screened, with drawn sword, and a movement sufficiently
hurried to pass the ground which separated them in
the course of a few seconds, he cried to his rival in a
bitter but suppressed tone of voice,

“You shall pay dearly for that lie, Mellichampe.”

In the next moment, a buffet from an unseen hand,
that might have felled an ox, saluted his ear, and he
stumbled unharmingly forward at the feet of the man
whom he had sought to slay.

“Save me,—oh, Ernest, save me,—fly—fly,—away,
Ernest,—it is Barsfield!”

Screaming thus, at the first alarm, the maiden clung
to the youth, and trembled with affright. He, on the
instant, had drawn his dirk, and, putting her aside
almost sternly, threw himself upon the half-stunned person
of the tory: but his hand was seized by the watchful
attendant.

“Let me fix him, Airnest, boy,—I knows how to
manage the varmint.”

“You here, Witherspoon?” demanded the youth.

“As you see him, Airnest,—but take care of the gal,
and send her safe home and quietly to bed. Ax pardon,
Miss Janet, for scaring you, but 'twas the only way to
manage the critter; but you had better run now, while
I put what I calls my screwbolt upon the tory's jaw.
Airnest, boy, let me have your handkerchief, since I
may want another. There.”

With his knee upon the bosom of the tory, he busied
himself meanwhile in bandaging his mouth. The intruder
did not submit quietly, but began to show some
few signs of dissatisfaction. His movement provoked
an additional pressure of the knee of his assailant upon
his breast, while the huge handkerchief which was employed
upon his mouth, as he endeavoured to cry out,
was thrust incontinently into it. He was a child in the
hands of his captor.

“Easy now, Mr. Barsfield,—be quiet and onconsarned,
and no harm shall come to you; but, if you're
at all obstropolous, I shall be bound to take up a stitch
or two in your jaw here, that'll be mighty disagreeable
to both of us. Airnest, now, boy, don't stop for last
words, but let's be off, or we'll have all the cubs looking
after the great bear. I'll hold the lad quiet till you see
the gal safe to the gate, but don't go further.”

He kept his word and his good-nature, in spite of all
the struggles of his prisoner. Once, and once only, he
seemed to become angry, as the tory gave him something
more than the customary annoyance; but a judicious
obtrusion of a monstrous knife, which was made
to flash in the moonlight before the eyes of the captive,
was thought sufficient by the scout in the way of exhortation.

“It's a nasty fine piece of steel, now, captain, and if
you gives me much more trouble I shall let you have a
small taste of its qualities; so you had better lay still
till I lets you off, which won't be long, for you're of no
more use to me here than a dead 'possum in a hollow
thirty miles off. If I had you in the swamp now,
I could drive a little trade in your skin. I could swap
you for some better man than yourself; but I'm your
friend here, for, to say the gospel truth to you, captain,
if I didn't stand between you and Airnest Mellichampe,
you wouldn't see what hurt you: he'd be through you
like a ground mole, though in much shorter time; and

there wouldn't be an inch of your heart that his dirk
wouldn't bite into. But you're safe, you see, as you're
my prisoner—the captive, as they used to say in old
times, of my bow and spear—though, to be sure, it was
only my fist that did your business.”

It was thus that, like a good companion as he was,
Thumbscrew regaled the ears of his prisoner with a
commentary upon the particulars of his situation. In
the meantime Mellichampe conducted, or rather supported,
the maiden to the garden entrance. When there
she recovered her strength, as she perceived that he designed
attending her to the dwelling. This she resisted.

“No, Ernest, no!—risk no more,—I will not see—
I will not suffer it. Let us part now—in danger still,
as we have ever been. In sorrow let us separate,—
alas! I fear, in sorrow to meet again, if again we ever
meet.”

“Speak not thus,” he replied, hoarsely;—“why these
sad misgivings—is our love so much a sorrow, my
Janet?”

“Sorrow or pleasure, Ernest, it is still our love—a
love that I shall die in, and fear not to die for. But do
not linger, I pray you; remember that Witherspoon is
waiting for your return before he can release that man.”

“Release him!” was the stern exclamation, and a
fierce but suppressed laugh of bitterness fell from the
lips of Mellichampe with the words.

“Ay, release him, Ernest. What mean you by those
words—that laugh? Surely, surely, Ernest, you do not
mean him harm?”

“Would he not harm us?—has he not harmed me
already? Janet, you must remember—I had a father
once.”

“I do—I do; but oh, Ernest, dismiss your thoughts,
which I see are fearful now. Promise me, Ernest, that
you will do this man no harm.”

Her hand earnestly pressed his arm as she entreated
him. He was silent.

“Ernest,” she exclaimed, solemnly,—“Ernest—
remember! the hand of Janet Berkeley can never be
won by crime.”

He released her hand, which till this moment he had
held. There was a strife going on within his bosom.
She gazed on him suspiciously, and with terror.

“I leave you, Ernest,” she whispered,—“I leave
you; but do that man no harm.”

There was a solemnity in her tones that rebuked his
thoughts. She was leaving him, but turned back with a
gentler tone—

“I doubt you not, dear Ernest—I doubt you not
now. Forgive me that I did so for an instant; and, oh,
Ernest, come not again into this neighbourhood till
these men are gone. Promise me—promise me, dear
Ernest.”

What would not love promise at such a moment?
Mellichampe promised—he knew not what. His
thoughts were elsewhere; and he felt not, that, in kissing
her cheek as they parted, his lips had borne away
her tears.