University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The maiden was indeed silenced. If she did not
sympathize entirely with Barsfield, she at least saw what
a natural course had been his, under the dreadful indignities
which he had been made to suffer. She now looked
on him with a feeling of pain and mortification as he
paced the apartment to and fro; and her eyes more than
once filled with tears, as she thought how far guilty in
this transaction had been the father of her lover. At
length the tory captain turned to her once more. His
countenance had recovered something of its serenity—
though the cheek was yet unusually flushed, and when
he spoke there was a convulsive unevenness in his accent,
which denoted the yet unsubdued emotions of his
heart. Still, with a moral power which he certainly possessed,
however erringly applied, he subdued the feverish
impulse; and, after the pause of a few moments, which
the excited and wounded feelings of Janet did not suffer
her to interrupt, he proceeded to a more full development
of his purpose and his desire.

“I have said to you, Miss Berkeley, that I am commanded,
so soon as the condition of my prisoner will
permit, to convey him to the city. Are you aware with
what purpose?—have you any notion of his probable
destiny?”

The manner of the question alarmed the maiden much

more than the question itself. It was grave and mysteriously
emphatic. His face wore all the expression of
one conscious of the possession of a secret, the utterance
of which is to produce the most trying emotions in
the hearer, and which the possessor, at the same time,
however, does not yet dare to withhold. Janet was silent
for a few seconds while gazing into the countenance
of the speaker, as if seeking to gather from his
glance what she yet trembled to demand from his lips;
but remembering the solemn decision of her thoughts
when she granted the interview, to seek to know the
worst that her enemy could inflict, she recovered and
controlled her energies. With a firm voice, therefore,
unfaltering in a single accent, she requested him to proceed.

“I am not strong—not wise, Captain Barsfield, and
I am not able to say what my thoughts are now, or what
my feelings may be when I hear what you have to unfold.
But God, I trust, will give me strength to endure
well, if I may not achieve much. Your looks and manner,
more than your words, would seem to imply something
which is dangerous to me and mine. Speak it out
boldly, Captain Barsfield—better to hear the worst than
to imagine error, and find worse in wrong imaginings. I
am willing to hear all that you would say, and I beg that
you would say it freely, without hesitation.”

“I am glad that you are thus strong—thus prepared,
Miss Berkeley; for it pains me to think how deeply must
be your sorrow and suffering when you learn the truth.”

He paused, and with a hypocritical expression of sympathetic
wo in his countenance, approached her when he
had done speaking. His hand was even extended with
a condoling manner, as if to possess itself of hers; but
she drew herself up reservedly in her chair, and he halted
before her. Her words promptly followed the action—

“I am neither strong to endure much, nor prepared

to hear any particular cause of sorrow, as I can think of
none in particular. Speak it, however, Captain Barsfield,
since, whether strong or prepared, I am at least
desirous to know all which may concern my feelings in
the matter which you have to communicate.”

“You will think me precipitate in my communication
when you have heard it; and that you have not thought of
it hitherto, leads me to apprehend that you will even feel
it more forcibly than I had imagined. I deem it doubly
important, then, to bid you prepare for a serious evil.”

These preparatory suggestions, as they were designed
to do, necessarily stimulated still farther the anxieties and
apprehensions of the hearer, though she strove nobly, and
well succeeded, in mastering her emotions.

“Speak—speak—I pray you, sir,” she cried, almost
breathless.

“Do you know, then, Miss Berkeley, with what object
I am required to convey Mr. Mellichampe to the
city?”

“No, sir—object—what object—none in particular.
He is your prisoner—you convey him to prison,” was
the hurried reply.

“I do—I carry him to prison, indeed—but I also
carry him to trial.”

“To trial!”

“To trial as a spy.”

“A spy!—and what then?”

“He will be convicted.”

“Impossible! he is no spy—who will dare to utter
such a falsehood?”

“I will dare to utter such a truth. I will accuse—I
have accused him. I will prove my accusation; and
you, Miss Berkeley, can assist me in establishing the
proof. I could rest the entire proof upon your testimony.”

“Never—never! God help me, what audacity is
this! I scorn your assertion—I despise—I fear nothing

of your threats. I know better, and am not to be terrified
by a tale so idle as this.”

“It is no idle tale, Miss Berkeley, and you are terrified,
as you must feel conscious of its truth. You know
it to be true.”

“I know it to be false!—false as—Heaven forgive
me, but this insolence also makes me mad. But I have
done now, and you too, sir, have done, I trust. I am not
to be frightened by such stories as these; for, know, sir,
that when this strange tale was uttered by you before, I
had the assurance of Colonel Tarleton—your superior,
sir—that there was nothing in it, and that I must not suffer
myself to be alarmed. Colonel Tarleton's words,
sir, are remembered—he would not give them idly, and
I believe in him. He will be there to see justice done
to Mellichampe, and with his pledge, sir, I defy your
malice. I, too, will go to the city—though I tread every
step of the way on foot—I will see Colonel Tarleton,
and he will protect the man whom you hate—but whom
you dare not fairly encounter—from your dishonourable
malice.”

“That I dare meet him, Miss Berkeley, his present
situation attests—it was by my arm that he was stricken
down in fair conflict—”

“I believe it not—you dared not. Your myrmidons
beset him, while you looked on. It was many to one;
—but of this I think not. It is enough that I am required
to speak with one, and to look upon one, who has
sought to destroy him, and me in him. It is enough—
I would hear no more. I believe not in this trial—Colonel
Tarleton will not suffer it, and I will go to him.
He will see justice.”

“He will,” said Barsfield, coolly, in reply to the passionate
and unlooked-for vehemence of the maiden—so
unlike her usual calm gravity of deportment.

“Colonel Tarleton will do justice, Miss Berkeley—
it is my hope that he will do so. I have his words for

it, indeed, and it is from him the orders come which call
for the trial of the prisoner.”

“The orders—Colonel Tarleton!” were the simple
exclamations of the maiden, as she listened to the assertion.
Barsfield calmly drew the paper from his pocket,
and placed it in her hands. As she read, the letters
swam before her eyes; and, when she had finished, the
document fell from her nerveless fingers, and she stood
like a dumb imbodiment of wo, gazing with utter vacancy
upon her companion. There were the orders,
plainly and unequivocally written by Tarleton, as Barsfield
had said. Not a word wanting—not a sentence
doubtful in its import. Tarleton, who had promised her
that her lover was secure, or had led her, by his language
and general manner, to believe so, had commanded his
trial. Recalling all her energies, with eyes that never
once were removed from the countenance of Barsfield,
she again took the paper from his hands, as he was lifting
it from the floor, and once more read it carefully
over—counting the words—almost spelling them—in the
hope to find some little evasion of the first meaning—
some loop-hole for escape—some solitary bough upon
which a found hope might perch and rest itself. But in
vain. The letter was a stern and business-like one.

She closed her eyes, gave back the paper, and
clasped her hands in prayer to Heaven, as the last reliance
of earth seemed to be taken away. She had so
confidently rested upon the personal assurances of Tarleton,
that she had almost dismissed entirely from her
thought the charge in question; and which Barsfield had
originally made when the legionary colonel was at
“Piney Grove.” Now, when she read these orders,
she wondered at herself for so implicitly confiding in the
assurances of one so habitually distrusted by the Americans,
and so notoriously fond of bloodshed. Yet, why
had he deemed it necessary to give these assurances to
a poor maiden—one not a party to the war, and to
whom he could have no cause of hostility. Why practise
thus upon an innocent heart and a young affection?
Could he be so wanton—so merciless—so fond of all
forms of cruelty? These thoughts—these doubts, all
filled the brain of the maiden, confusedly and actively,
during the brief moments in which she stood silently in
the presence of Barsfield, after having possessed herself
of the orders with regard to Mellichampe. Her fears
had almost stupified her, and it was only the voice of the
tory which seemed to arouse her to a full consciousness,
not less of the predicament in which her lover stood,
than of the presence of his enemy. She raised her
eyes, and, without a word, listened anew to the suggestions
of Barsfield; who, speaking, as he did, ungrateful
and unpleasant things, had assumed his most pleasant
tones, and put on a deportment the most courteous and
respectful.

“You doubt not now, Miss Berkeley?—the facts are
unquestionable. These are direct and positive orders,
and must be obeyed. In a few days Mr. Mellichampe
must be conveyed to the city—his trial must immediately
follow, and I need not say how immediately thereupon
must follow his conviction and—”

“Say no more—say no more,” shrieked, rather than
spoke, his auditor.

“And yet, Miss Berkeley—”

“Yet what?” she demanded, hurriedly.

“These dangers may be averted. The youth may be
saved.”

She looked up doubtingly, and, as she saw the expression
in his eyes, she shook her head in despair. She
read at a glance the conditions.

“I see you understand me, Miss Berkeley.”

“I cannot deny that I think I do, sir,” was her prompt
reply.

“And yet, as you may not, better that I speak my
thoughts plainly. I can save Mr. Mellichampe—I am
ready to do so,—for, though my enemy, I feel that I love
another far more than I can possibly hate him. I will
save him for that other. Does Miss Berkeley hear—
will she heed?”

Barsfield might well ask these questions, for the
thoughts of Janet were evidently elsewhere. His finger
rested upon her hand, and she started as from a sudden
danger. There was a bitter smile upon the lips of the
tory, as he noticed the shuddering emotion with which
she withdrew her hand. Her attention, however, seeming
now secured, he continued his suggestions.

“I will save the life of the prisoner—he shall be free
as air, Miss Berkeley, if, in return, you will—”

“Oh, Captain Barsfield, this is all very idle, and not
less painful than idle. You know it cannot be. You
know me not if you can think it for a moment longer.
It is impossible, sir, that I can survive Mellichampe—
still more impossible that I can survive his love, or give
my own to another. Leave me now, sir, I pray you.
Leave me now. We can speak no more together. You
can have nothing farther to say, as you can have nothing
worse to communicate.”

“But, Miss Berkeley—”

He would have spoken, but she waved her hand impatiently.
He saw, at a glance, how idle would be all
farther effort, and the murderous nature within him grew
active with this conviction. His hate to Mellichampe
was now shared equally with his betrothed. The parting
look which he gave her, as he left the apartment, did
not encounter any consciousness in hers, or she might
have dreaded, in the next instant, to feel the venomous
fang of the serpent. Her strength failed her after his
departure. Restrained till then, her emotions grew insupportable
the moment she was left alone; and when
Rose Duncan, apprized of Barsfield's absence, sought
her in the room where the conference had taken place,
she found her stretched upon the floor, only not enough
insensible to escape from the mental agony which the
new situation of things had forced upon her.