University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Let us now return to Janet Berkeley and the wounded
Mellichampe. Tarleton had not deceived the maiden.
The hurts of her lover, though serious and painful,
were yet not dangerous, unless neglected; and as the
privilege was accorded her—the sweetest of all privileges
to one who loves truly—of being with and tending
upon the beloved one, there was no longer reason to
apprehend for his safety from the injuries already received.
The apprehensions of Janet Berkeley were,
naturally enough, all addressed to the future. She knew
the enemy in whose custody he lay; and, though half
consoled by the positive assurances of Tarleton, and
compelled, from the necessity of the case, to be satisfied,
she was yet far from contented with the situation
of her lover.

His first moment of perfect consciousness, after his
wounds had been dressed, found her, a sweet minister,
waiting at his side. Her hand bathed his head and
smoothed his pillow,—her eye, dewy and bright, hung
like a sweet star of promise above his form,—her watchful
care brought him the soothing medicine,—her voice
of love cheered him into hope with the music of a
heaven-born affection. Every whisper from her lips
was as so much melody upon his ear, and brought with
it a feeling of peace and quiet to his mind, which had
not often been a dweller there before. Ah, surely, love
is the heart's best medicine! It is the dream of a perfect
spirit—the solace of the otherwise denied—the first,
the last hope of all not utterly turned away from the
higher promptings and better purposes of a divine humanity.

How sweet became his hurts to Mellichampe under
such attendance! The pain of his wounds and bruises
grew into a positive pleasure, as it brought her nigh
to him—and so nigh!—as it disclosed to his imagination
such a long train of enjoyments in the future, coming
from the constant association with her. Love no
longer wore her garb of holyday, but, in the rustic and
unostentatious dress of home, she looked more lovely to
his sight, as she seemed more natural. Hitherto, he
had sought her only for sweet smiles and blessing words;
now she gave him those cares of the true affection which
manifested its sincerity—which met the demand for
them unshrinkingly and with pleasure,—and which bore
their many tests, not only without complaint or change,
but with a positive delight. It was thus that her heart
proved its disinterestedness and devotion; and though
Mellichampe had never doubted her readiness to bestow
so much, he yet never before had imagined the extent
of her possession, and of the sweet liberality which
kept full pace with her affluence. Until now, he had
never realized, in his most reaching thought, how completely
he should become a dependant upon her regards
for those sweet sympathies, without which life is a barren
waste, having the doom of Adam—that of a stern labour—without
yielding him any of the flowers of Eden,
and certainly withholding all, if denying that most cherished
of all its flowers which he brought with him from
its garden—the flower of unselfish love. To be able to
confide is to be happy in all conditions, however severe;
and this present feeling in his heart—the perfect reliance
upon her affection—assured and strengthened the warm
passion in his own, until every doubt and fear, selfishness
and suspicion, were discarded from that region,
leaving nothing in their place but that devotedness to the
one worthy object which, as it is holy in the sight of
Heaven, must be the dearest of all human possessions
in the contemplation of man.

With returning consciousness, when he discovered
how she had been employed, he carried her hand to his
lips and kissed it fervently. He felt too much for several
minutes to speak to her. When he did, his words
were little else than exclamations.

“Ah, Janet—my own—my all!—ever nigh to me,
as you are ever dear—how can I repay, how respond
to, such sweet love? I now feel how very poor—how
very dependant—how very destitute I am!”

These were almost the first words which he uttered
after awakening from a long, deep, and refreshing sleep,
into which he had been thrown by an opiate judiciously
administered for that object. She had no reply, but,
bending down to his pillow, her lips were pressed upon
his forehead lightly, while her uplifted finger warned him
into silence. He felt a tear—but a single tear, upon his
cheek, while her head hung above him; and so far from
being destitute, as he had avowed himself before, he now
felt how truly rich he was in the possession of such dear
regards.

“Heaven bless you, my angel,” he continued, “but
I must talk to you, unless you will to me. Speak to
me,—tell me all,—let me know what has passed. What
of Major Singleton and our men?”

“They are gone—safe.”

“Ah!—that is good. But Witherspoon—what of
him?—he was fighting, when I saw him last, with two:
they were pressing him hard, and I—I could give him
no aid. What of him—is he safe? Tell me; but do
not say that harm has befallen him.”

“He, too, is safe, dear Ernest; I saw him as he
fled.”

“Ha! did he leave me, then—and where? I looked
not for that from him. Perhaps—it is so—he brought
me to you,—did he not?”

“He did not, but then he could not, dearest. He

was compelled to fly in haste. I saw him while he fled,
and the dragoons came fast after him.”

He would have put a thousand other questions, and
vainly she exhorted him to silence. She was compelled
to narrate all she knew, in order to do that which her
entreaties, in the great anxiety and impatience of his
mind, failed to effect. She told him of the continued
fight in the avenue,—of the approach of Tarleton,—and
how, when the enemy had gone in pursuit of the flying
partisans, she had sought and found him. Of these
events he had no recollection. She suppressed, however,
all of those matters which related to the second
attempt of Barsfield upon his life while he lay prostrate,
and of her own interposition, which had saved him; and
took especial care to avoid every topic which could
stimulate his anger or increase his anxiety. Of the
conduct of Tarleton, so unusual and generous, she gave
a full account,—an account which gave the hearer quite
as much astonishment as pleasure. It certainly presented
to his mind's eye a new and much more agreeable
feature in the character of that famous, or rather infamous,
soldier.

So sweet was it for him thus to hear, and so grateful
to her to have such a pleased auditor, that the hours
flew by imperceptibly, and their mutual dream of love
would not soon have been disturbed but for the sounds
of Barsfield's voice, which came from the passage-way,
while he spoke in harsh dictation to the sentinels who
watched the chamber of the wounded Mellichampe.

The youth started as the well-known and hated accents
met his ears. His brow gathered into a cloud,
and he half raised himself from his pillow, while his eye
flashed the fire of battle, and his fingers almost violently
grasped the wrist of the maiden, under the convulsive
spasm of fury which seized upon and shook his enfeebled
frame.

“That voice is Barsfield's. Said you not, Janet,
that I was Colonel Tarleton's prisoner?”

She answered him quickly, and with an air of timid
apprehension—

“I did, dear Ernest; but Colonel Tarleton has gone
in pursuit of General Marion—”

“And I am here, at the mercy of this bloody wretch
—this scoundrel without soul or character,—at his mercy—without
strength—unable to lift arm or weapon, and
the victim of his will. Ha! this is to be weak—this
is to be a prisoner, indeed!”

Bitterly and fiercely did he exclaim, as he felt the
true destitution of his present condition.

“Not at his will—not at his mercy, dear Ernest.
Colonel Tarleton has promised me that you shall be
safe—that he dare not harm you.”

She spoke rapidly in striving to reassure her lover.
Her arm encircled his neck—her tears flowed freely
upon his cheeks, while her voice, even while it uttered
clearly the very words of assurance which Tarleton had
expressed, trembled as much with the force of her own
secret fears as at the open expression of his. But her
lover remained unsatisfied. He did not know the nature
of those securities which Barsfield tacitly placed in
the hands of his superior.

“Alas, Janet, I know this monster but too well not
to apprehend the worst at his hands. He is capable of
the vilest and the darkest wrongs where he hates and
fears. But why should I fear? The power of the
base and the tyrannical, thank Heaven! has its limits,
and he can but—”

“Say not, Ernest—say not. He dare not—he will
not. I believe in Colonel Tarleton.”

“So do not I; but I fear not, my beloved. I have
dared death too often already—I have seen him in too
many shapes, to tremble at him now. I fear him not:
but to die like a caged rat, cooped in a narrow dungeon,

and only preparing myself for the knife of the murderer,
is to die doubly; and this, most probably, is the doom
reserved for me.”

“Think not so—think not so, Ernest—I pray you,
think not so. God keep me from the horrible thought!
It cannot be that Tarleton will suffer it—it cannot be
that God will suffer it. I would not that you should
speak so, Ernest; and I cannot think that this bad man
—bad enough, though I believe him to be, for any thing
—will yet dare so far to incur the danger of offending
his superior as to abuse his trust and gratify his malignity
in the present instance. Oh, no! he greatly fears
Colonel Tarleton; and, could you but have seen the
look that Tarleton gave him, as he ordered him to take
all care of you,—had you but heard his words to me
and to him both,—you would not feel so apprehensive;
and then, you know, Colonel Tarleton's own surgeon is
left with you, and none are to be permitted to see you
but myself and such persons as he thinks proper.”

“I fear nothing, Janet, but distrust every thing that
belongs to this man Barsfield. Colonel Tarleton, I
doubt not, has taken every precaution in my favour,
though why he should do so I am at a loss to determine;
but all precautions will be unavailing where a
man like Barsfield is bent upon crime, and where, in addition
to his criminal propensity, he has the habitual
cunning of a man accustomed to its indulgence. He
will contrive some means to shift the responsibility of
the charge, in some moment or other, to other shoulders,
and will avail himself of that moment to rid himself
of me, if he possibly can. We must only be heedful
of all change of circumstances, and seek to apprize
Witherspoon of my situation. He will not be far off, I
well know; for he must be miserable in my absence.”

“Oh, trust me, Ernest, I shall watch you more
closely than those sentinels. Love, surely, can watch
as well as bate.”

“Better—better, my Janet. May I deserve your
care—your love. May I always do you justice, living
or dying.”

Her cheek rested upon his, and she wept freely to
hear his words. He continued—

“I know that you will watch over me, and I chafe
not more at my own weakness than at the charge and
care that this dreary watch must impose upon you.”

“A sweet care—a dear, not a dreary, watch. Oh!
Ernest—it is the sweetest of all cares to watch for the
good of those we love.”

“I feel it sweet to be thus watched, dearest; so
sweet that, under other circumstances, I feel that I
should not be willing to relieve you of the duty. But
you have little strength—little ability, in correspondence
even with your will to serve me. This villain will elude
your vigilance—he will practise in some way upon you;
and oh, my Janet, what if he succeed in his murderous
wish—what if—”

With a convulsive sob, that spoke the fulness of her
heart and its perfect devotion, she threw herself upon
his bosom, and her lips responded to his gloomy anticipations
while interrupting them.

“I am not strong enough to save you, Ernest, and to
contend with your murderer, if such he should become;
but there is one thing that I am strong enough for.”

“What is that, dearest?”

“To die for you at any moment.”

And, for an hour after, a tearful silence, broken only
by an occasional word, which spoke, like a long gathering
tear, the overcrowding emotions to which it brought
relief, was all the language of those two loving hearts,
thus mingling sweetly together amid the strife and the
storm—the present evil, the impending danger, and the
ever threatening dread. The strife and the hate without
brought neither strife nor hate to them; and, like
twin forms, mutually devoted to the last, amid the raging

seas and on a single spar, they clung to each
other, satisfied, though the tempest raged and the waves
threatened, to perish, if they might perish together.
They were not, in those sad moments, less confident
and conscious of the sweets of a mutual love, though
filled with anticipations of evil, and though they well knew
that a malignant and unforgiving Hate stood watching at
the door. And the affection was not less sweet and sacred
that it was followed by the thousand doubts and
apprehensions which at no moment utterly leave the
truly devoted, and which, in the present instance, came
crowding upon them with a thousand auxiliar terrors
to exaggerate the form of the danger, and to multiply the
accumulating stings of fear.