University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The reflections of Barsfield were by no means consolatory
or grateful on his return to the mansion. A
few moments were devoted to Blonay, of whom the tory
felt perfectly secure, and the two then separated for the
night, seeking their several chambers. In the morning
the latter was up betimes, and, descending to the breakfast-room,
the first person who encountered his glance
was the fair Janet Berkeley. She was alone. A slight
flush overspread her cheek as he entered the apartment;
but he was not the person exactly who could greatly
disturb her equanimity. Her eye was cold and unshrinking,
and her courtesy as easy, unconstrained, and
distant as ever. The case was widely different with him.
He started as he beheld her—turned away without the
usual salutation—then, suddenly conscious of his rudeness,
he wheeled round, as if about to charge an enemy,
confronted her valiantly enough, and bowed stiffly, and
with evident effort. For a few moments no word passed
between the two, and this time was employed by Barsfield
in pacing to and fro along the apartment. At
length, muttering something to himself, the sounds of
which were only just audible to the maiden, he walked
into the corridor, looked hastily around, and then quickly,
as if he wished to anticipate intrusion, re-entered the
room, and at once approached the maiden.

“Miss Berkeley,” he said, “it is unnecessary that I
should remind you of last evening's adventure. The
circumstances cannot have been forgotten, though the
singular composure of your countenance this morning
would seem to imply a strange lack of memory on your
part, or a far stranger indifference to its intimations.”

He paused, as if in expectation of some reply, and she
did not suffer him long to wait. Her response was instantaneous,
and her equable expression of countenance
unbroken.

“There is nothing strange, sir, I believe, if you will
consider well the subject of which you speak. I know
of no circumstances so strong in my memory which
should disturb my composure, however some of them
may affect yours. Are you not suffering from some
mistake, sir?”

“Scarcely, scarcely, Miss Berkeley,” he exclaimed,
hurriedly; “though, I must confess, your reply astounds
me not less now than your composure at our first meeting.
Will you pretend, Miss Berkeley, that you were
not in the garden at a late hour of last night?”

“I saw, sir, that you must labour under some mistake,
and such is certainly the case when you presume to examine
me thus. But I will relieve the curiosity which
seems to have superseded all your notions of propriety,
and at once say that I was in the garden last night.”

“'Tis well—and there you saw another.”

“True, sir. I then and there saw another.”

“A rebel—a lurking rebel, Miss Berkeley.”

“A brave man, a gentleman, an honest citizen, sir.
My friend—my father's friend—”

“Say not so, for your father's sake, Miss Berkeley, I
pray you. It would greatly endanger the safety of your
father, were it known in the councils of Cornwallis that
the son of the notorious Max Mellichampe was his friend;
and, still more, were it known that they were in intimate
communion.”

“I said not that, Captain Barsfield, I said not that,”
was the hasty reply of Janet, in tones and with a manner
that showed how much she apprehended the consequences
which might arise from such an interpretation of
her remark. Barsfield smiled when he saw this, as he
felt the consciousness of that power which her words had
given him over her. She continued—“Do not, I pray
you, think for a moment that my father knows any thing
of the visits of Mr. Mellichampe. He came only to
see me—”

The tory interrupted her with a sarcastic smile and
speech—

“And I am to understand that the dutiful Miss Berkeley
consents to receive the visits of a gentleman without
the concurrence, and against the will, of her father?—a
dilemma, is it not, Miss Berkeley?”

“I will not submit to be questioned, sir,” was her
prompt reply; and her eye glanced a haughty fire, before
which that of the lowly-bred tory quailed utterly. “You
again mistake me, sir, and do injustice to my father,
when you venture such an inquisition into my habits. I
am free, sir, to act as my own sense and discretion shall
counsel. My father is not unwilling that I should obey
my own tastes and desires in the selection of my associates,
and to him alone am I willing to account.”

She turned away as she spoke, and busied herself,
or seemed to busy herself, with some of the affairs of the
household, with the object, evidently, of arresting all farther
conversation. But, with the pause of a few moments,
in which he seemed to be adjusting in his own
mind the doubt and difficulty, Barsfield put on an air of
decision, and readvanced to the maiden.

“Hear me but a few moments, Miss Berkeley, and
be not impatient—and, should any of my words be productive
of annoyance, I pray you to overlook them, in
consideration of the difficulties which, as you will see,
may soon lie before you.”

“Difficulties!—but go on, sir.”

“I need not say that I was a witness to your conference
with this young man last night.”

“You need not, sir,” was her reply, with a manner
that gave life to the few words she uttered. A scowl
went over the tory's face, obscuring it for a moment, but
he recovered instantly.

“I heard you both, and I felt sorry that you should
have risked your affections so unprofitably.”

The maiden smiled her acknowledgments, and he
proceeded—

“Fortunately, however, for you at least, such ties as
these, particularly where the parties are so young as in
the present instance, are of no great strength, and are
seldom durable. They can be broken, and usually are,
with little detriment to either party.”

“I purpose, on my part, sir, nothing of the kind,”
was her cool reply, interrupting him, as he was about to
continue in a speech of so much effrontery, and which
was so little gratifying to his auditor; “I purpose not
to try the strength or durability of any of the ties which
I have made, Captain Barsfield.”

“But you will, Miss Berkeley—you must, as soon as
you discover that such ties are unprofitable, and beyond
any hope of realization. The man with whom your
pledge is exchanged is a doomed man!”

“How, sir?—speak!”

“He fights with a halter about his neck, and his appearance
last night in the neighbourhood of my troop is
of itself sufficient for his condemnation, as it leads to his
conviction as a spy.”

“I can share his doom, Captain Barsfield, though I
believe not that such is within your power. I cannot
think that Lord Cornwallis has conferred upon you any
such authority.”

“This parchment, this commission, and these more
expressive orders, Miss Berkeley, would tell you even

more—would tell you that your own father is at my
mercy at this very moment, as one, under your own
avowal, privy to the presence of a rebel as a spy upon
my command. My power gives me jurisdiction even
over his life, as you might here read for yourself, were
not my words sufficient.”

“They are not—they are not,” she exclaimed, hastily,
and trembling all over. “I will not believe it; let me see
the paper.”

“Pardon me, Miss Berkeley, but I may not now. It
is sufficient for me that I know the extent of my power,
and its limits. It is not necessary that I should unfold
it.”

“I will not believe it, then—I will not trust a word
that you have said. I cannot think that the British general
can have thought a thing so barbarous—so dishonourable.”

“It is so, nevertheless, Miss Berkeley; but there
will be little or no danger to the father, if the daughter
will listen to reason. Will you hear me?”

“Can I do less, Captain Barsfield?—go on, sir.”

“I accept the permission, however ungraciously given.
Hear me, then. These vows—the ties of childhood,
and restraining none but children—can hardly be considered,
when circumstances so bear against them. I
have a perfect knowledge of all the circumstances between
yourself and this rebel Mellichampe.”

“You have not said, sir, and I marvel at the omission,
with what wonderful ingenuity your knowledge was obtained.”

“Your sarcasm is pointless, Miss Berkeley, when we
know that a time like the present not only sanctions, but
calls for and commands, all those little arts by which intelligence
of one's enemies is to be obtained. Is it my
offence or my good fortune to have heard more than
concerned the cause for which I contend? Certainly not
my offence—it is for you to say how far it may be for
my good fortune.”

“To the point—to the point, Captain Barsfield, if you
please.”

“It is quite as well,” he responded, with a sullen air
of determination, as the impatient manner of Janet
showed how unwillingly she listened; “'tis quite as
well that I should; and all I ask from you now, Miss
Berkeley, is simply that you should heed and deliberate
upon what I unfold, and make no rash nor ill-considered
decision upon it. First, then, let me say, that your father
is in my power—but in mine alone. I am willing
to be his friend henceforward, as I have been heretofore.
I am able and desirous to protect him, as well against
the rebels as from the injustice of such loyalists as might
presume upon his weakness to do him wrong; but I am
not sufficiently his friend, or my own enemy, to do all
this without some equivalent—there must be a consideration.”

He paused; and, as the maiden perceived it, she spoke,
while a smile of the most provoking indifference, suddenly,
though for a moment only, curled the otherwise calm
and dignified folds of her lips—

“I can almost conjecture what you would say, Captain
Barsfield; but speak on, sir, I pray you—let there
be an end of this.”

“I can scruple little to say out what you assume to
have conjectured so readily, Miss Berkeley; and I speak
my equivalent the more readily, as you seem so well
prepared to hear it. You, then, are the equivalent for
this good service, Miss Berkeley. Your hand will be
my sufficient reward, and my good services shall ever
after be with your father for his protection and assistance.”

“Think of something else, Captain Barsfield,” she
replied, with the utmost gravity; “something better worthy
of the service—something better suited to you. I
am not ambitious, sir, of the distinction you would confer
upon me. My hopes are humble, my desires few;

and my father—but here he comes. I will speak of
this affair no farther.”

And she turned away with the words, just as the old
man, entering, met the baffled tory with some usual inquiry
as to the manner in which he had slept, and if his
bed had been pleasant; and all with that provoking simplicity
that was only the more annoying to Barsfield, as
it brought the commonest matters of daily life into contrast
and collision with those more important and interesting
ones, in the discussion and urging of which he had
but a few moments before been so earnest. He replied
as well as he could to the old gentleman, who complained
bitterly of his own restlessness during the night, and of
strange noises that had beset his ears, and so forth—a
long string of details, that silenced all around, without the
usual advantage which such narrations possess, towards
nightfall, of setting everybody to sleep. But the signal
was now given for breakfast, and the lively Rose
Duncan made her appearance, bright and smiling as
ever; then came Lieutenant Clayton; and lastly, our old
acquaintance Blonay. Breakfast was soon despatched,
and was scarcely over when Barsfield, who had given
orders for his troop to move, took Mr. Berkeley aside.
Their conversation was long and earnest, though upon
what subject remained, for a season at least, entirely
unknown to the household. Janet, however, could not
but remark that a deeper shadow rested upon the visage
of her father; and even Rose Duncan, playful and
thoughtless as she ever was, complained that during the
whole day her uncle had never once asked her for a
song, or challenged her to a game at draughts.

“Something wrong, Janet,” she exclaimed to her
companion, after freely remarking upon the condition of
things; “something wrong, I'm certain. This tory
lover of yours is at the bottom of it.” And, without
pausing for reply, she whirled away in all the evolutions
of the Meschianza, humming, like some errant bird, a

wild song, that did not materially disagree with the capricious
movement. Janet only answered with a sigh as
she ascended to her chamber.