University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

When Mildred entered the library Lindsay was already there. He
stood before one of the ranges of book shelves, and held a volume in
his hand which, for a moment after his daughter's entrance, seemed
to engross his attention. Mildred was sufficiently astute to perceive
that by this device he struggled to compose his mind for an interview
of which she more than guessed the import. She was of a
constitution not easily to be driven from her self-possession; but the
consciousness of her father's embarrassment, and some perplexity in
her own feelings at this moment, produced by a sense of the difficult
part she had to perform, slightly discomposed her; there was something
like alarm in her step, and also in the expression of her
features, as she almost stealthily seated herself in one of the large
lounging chairs. For a moment she unconsciously employed herself
in stripping a little flower that she held in her hand of its leaves,
and looked silently upon the floor; at length, in a low accent, she
said, “Father, I am here at your bidding.” Lindsay turned quickly
round, and, throwing down the volume he had been perusing,
approached his daughter with a smile that seemed rather unnaturally
to play over his grave and almost melancholy countenance, and it
was with a forced attempt at pleasantry he said, as he took her
hand:—

“Now, I dare say, you think you have done something very
wrong, and that I have brought you here to give you a lecture.”

“I hope, father, I have done nothing wrong,” was Mildred's grave
and almost tremulous reply.

“Thou art a good child, Mildred,” said Lindsay, drawing a chair
close beside hers, and then, in a more serious tone, he continued,
“you are entirely sure, my daughter, that I love you, and devoutly
seek your happiness?”

“Dear father, you frighten me by this solemn air. Why ask me
such a question?”

“Pardon me, my girl, but my feelings are full with subjects of
serious import, and I would have you believe that what I have now
to say springs from an earnest solicitude for your welfare.”

“You have always shown it, father.”

“I come to speak to you, without reserve, of Tyrrel,” resumed
Lindsay; “and you will not respond to my confidence, unless you
answer me in the very truth of your heart. This gentleman, Mr.
Tyrrel, has twice avowed to me of late an earnest attachment to you,
and has sought my leave to prosecute his suit. Such things are not
apt to escape a woman's notice, and you have doubtless had some
hint of his predilection before he disclosed it to me.”

All the woman's bashfulness disappeared with this announcement.
Mildred grew erect in her seat, and as the native pride of her character
beamed forth from every feature of her face, she replied—

“He has never, father, vouchsafed to give me such a proof of his
good opinion. Mr. Tyrrel is content to make his bargain with you:
he is well aware that whatever hope he may be idle enough to cherish,
must depend more on your command than on my regard.”

“He has never spoken to you, Mildred?” asked Lindsay, without
making any comment on the indignant reception his daughter had
given to his disclosure. “Never a word? Bethink you, my daughter,
of all that has lately passed between you. A maiden is apt to
misconstrue attentions. Can you remember nothing beyond the
mere civilities of custom?”

“I can think of nothing in the conduct of Mr. Tyrrel but his devotion
to the purpose of embroiling my dear father in his miserable
politics. I can remember nothing of him but his low voice and
noiseless step, his mysterious insinuations, his midnight sittings, his
fulsome flattery of your services in the royal cause, the base means
by which he has robbed you of your rest and taken the color from
your cheek. I thought him too busy in distracting your peace to
cast a thought upon me. But to speak to me, father, of attachment,”
she said, rising and taking a station so near Lindsay's chair
as to be able to lean her arm upon his shoulder, “to breathe one
word of a wish to win my esteem, that he dared not do.”

“You speak under the impulse of some unnecessarily excited

feeling, daughter. You apply terms and impute motives that sound
too harsh from your lips, when the subject of them is a brave and
faithful gentleman. Mr. Tyrrel deserves nothing at our hands but
kindness.”

“Alas, my dear father, alas, that you should think so!”

“What have you discovered, Mildred, or heard, that you should
deem so injuriously of this man? Who has conjured up this unreasonable
aversion in your mind against him?”

“I am indebted to no sources of information but my own senses,”
replied Mildred; “I want no monitor to tell me that he is not to be
trusted. He is not what he seems.”

“True, he is not what he seems, but better. Tyrrel appears here
but as a simple gentleman, wearing, for obvious reasons, an assumed
name. The letters he has brought me avouch him to be a man of
rank and family, high in the confidence of the officers of the king,
and holding a reputable commission in the army: a man of note,
worthy to be trusted with grave enterprises, distinguished for sagacity,
bravery, and honor, of moral virtues which would dignify any
station, and, as you cannot but acknowledge from your own observation,
filled with the courtesy and grace of a gentleman. Fie,
daughter! it is sinful to derogate from the character of an honorable
man.”

“Wearing an assumed name, father, and acting a part, here, at
the Dove Cote! Is it necessary for his purpose that, under this
roof, he should appear in masquerade? May I know whether he
treats with you for my hand in his real or assumed character—does
he permit me to know who he is?”

“All in good time, Mildred. Content you, girl, that he has sufficiently
certified himself to me. These are perilous times, and
Tyrrel is obliged to practise much address to find his way along our
roads. You are aware it would not be discreet to have him known
even to our servants. But the time will come when you shall know
him as himself, and then, if I mistake not, your generous nature will
be ashamed to have wronged him by unworthy suspicions.”

“Believe me, father,” exclaimed Mildred, rising to a tone of animation
that awakened the natural eloquence of her feelings, and
gave them vent in language which more resembled the display of a
practised orator than the declamation of a girl, “believe me, he imposes

on you. His purposes are intensely selfish. If he has obtained
an authority to treat with you or others under an assumed
name, it has only been to further his personal ends. Already
has he succeeded in plunging you, against your will, into the depth
of this quarrel. Your time, my dear father, which once glided as
softly and as happily as yon sparkling waters through our valley,
is now consumed in deliberations that wear out your spirits: your
books are abandoned for the study of secret schemes of polities:
you are perplexed and anxious at every account that reaches us of
victory or defeat. It was not so, until you saw Tyrrel: your
nights, that once knew a long and healthful sleep, are now divided
by short and unrefreshing slumbers: you complain of unpleasant
dreams and you foretell some constantly coming disaster. Indeed,
dearest father, you are not what you were. You wrong yourself
by these cares, and you do not know how anxiously my brother
Henry and myself watch, in secret, this unhappy change in your
nature. How can I think with patience of this Tyrrel when I see
these things?”

“The times, Mildred, leave me no choice. When a nation struggles
to throw off the rule of lawful authority, the friends of peace
and order should remember that the riotous passions of the refractory
people are not to be subdued without personal sacrifices.”

“You promised yourself, father, here at the Dove Cote to live
beyond the sphere of these excitements. And, as I well remember,
you often, as the war raged, threw yourself upon your knees, and
taught us,—your children,—to kneel by your side, and we put up
our joint expressions of gratitude to God, that, at least, this little
asylum was undisturbed by the angry passions of man.”

“We did, we did, my dearest child. But I should think it sinful
to pray for the same quiet when my services might be useful to
restore harmony to a distracted and misguided country.”

“Do you now think,” asked Mildred, “that your efforts are or
can be of any avail to produce peace?”

“The blessing of heaven has descended upon the arms of our
sovereign,” replied Lindsay. “The southern provinces are subdued,
and are fast returning to their allegiance. The hopes of England
brighten, and a speedy close of this unnatural rebellion is at hand.”

“There are many valleys, father, amongst these mountains, and

the wide forests shade a solitude where large and populous nations
may be hid almost from human search. They who possess the valleys
and the wilderness, I have heard it said by wise men, will
for ever choose their own rulers.”

“Mildred, you are a dutiful daughter, and are not wont to oppose
your father's wishes. I could desire to see you, with that
shrewd apprehension of yours, that quick insight, and that thoughtful
mind, thoughtful beyond the quality of your sex, less favorably
bent towards the enterprise of these rebel subjects. I do utterly
loathe them and their cause, and could wish that child of mine
abated in no one jot of my aversion to them.”

“Heaven, father, and your good tutoring have made me what I
am,” returned Mildred, calmly; “I am but a woman, and speak with
a weak judgment and little knowledge. To my unlearned mind it
seems that the government of every nation should be what the people
wish it. There are good men here, father, amongst your friends—
men, who, I am sure, have all kindness in their hearts, who say
that this country has suffered grievous wrongs from the insolence
of the king's representatives. They have proclaimed this in a
paper which I have heard even you say was temperate and thoughtful:
and you know nearly the whole land has roused itself to say
that paper was good. Can so many men be wrong?”

“You are a girl,” replied Lindsay, “and a subtile one: you are
tained with the common heresy. But what else might I expect!
There are few men who can think out of fashion. When the multitude
is supposed to speak, that is warrant enough for the opinions
of the majority. But it is no matter, this is not a woman's
theme, and is foreign to our present conference. I came to talk
with you about Tyrrel. Upon that subject I will use no persuasions,
express no wish, not in the slightest point essay to influence
your choice. When he disclosed his purpose to me, I told
him it was a question solely at your disposal. Thus much it is my
duty to say, that should his suit be favored”—

“From the bottom of my heart, father,” interrupted Mildred
eagerly, and with increasing earnestness, “I abhor the thought.
Be assured that if age, poverty, and deformity were showered upon
me at once, if friends abandoned me, if my reason were blighted,
and I was doomed to wander barefooted amongst thorns and briers,

I would not exchange that lot, to be his wife amidst tenfold his
honors and wealth. I never can listen to his hateful proposal:
there is that in my condition which would make it wicked. Pray,
dearest father, as you love your daughter, do not speak of it to me
again.”

“Resume your calmness, child: your earnestness on this subject
afflicts me; it has a fearful omen in it. It tells of a heart fatally
devoted to one whom, of all men, I have greatest reason to hate.
This unhappy, lingering passion for the sworn enemy of his king
and country, little becomes my daughter, or her regard for me. It
may rouse me, Mildred, to some unkind wish against thee. Oh, I
could curse myself that I ever threw you in the way of this insidious
rebel, Butler. Nay you need not conceal your tears; well do
they deserve to flow for this persevering transgression against the
peace of your father's house. It requires but little skill to read the
whole history of your heart.”

Lindsay now walked to and fro across the apartment, under the
influence of emotions which he was afraid to trust himself to utter.
At length resuming his expostulation, in a somewhat moderate tone,
he continued:

“Will no lapse of time wear away this abhorred image from
your memory? Are you madly bent on bringing down misery on
your head? I do not speak of my own suffering. Will you for
ever nurse a hopeless attachment for a man whom, it must be apparent
to yourself, you can never meet again? Whom if the perils
of the field, the avenging bullet of some loyal subject, do not bring
him merited punishment, the halter may reward, or, in his most
fortunate destiny, disgrace, poverty, and shame pursue. Are you
for ever to love that man?”

Mildred stood before her father as he brought this appeal to a
close; her eyes filled with tears, her breast heaving as if it would
burst; and summoning up all her courage for her reply, when this
last question was asked, she looked with an expression of almost
angry defiance in his face, as she answered “For ever, for ever,” and
hastily left the room.

The firm tone in which Mildred spoke these last words, her proud
and almost haughty bearing, so unlike anything Lindsay had ever
seen before, and her abrupt departure from his presence, gave a

check to the current of his thoughts that raised the most painful
emotions. For an instant a blush of resentment rose into his
cheeks, and he felt tempted to call his daughter back that he might
express this sentiment: it was but of a moment's duration, however,
and grief, at what he felt was the first altercation he had
ever had with his child, succeeded, and stifled all other emotions.
He flung himself into the chair, and, dropping his forehead upon
his hand, gave way to the full tide of his feelings. His spirits
gradually became more composed, and he was able to survey with
a somewhat temperate judgment the scene that had just passed.
His manner, he thought, might have been too peremptory—perhaps
it was harsh, and had offended his daughter's pride: he should
have been more conciliatory in his speech. “The old,” he said,
“are not fit counsellors to the young; we forget the warmth of their
passions, and would reason when they only feel. How small a
share has prudence in the concerns of the heart!” But then this
unexpected fervor of devotion to Butler—that alarmed him, and he
bit his lip, as he felt his anger rising with the thought. “Her repugnance
to Tyrrel, her prompt rejection of his suit, her indignant
contempt for the man, even that I could bear with patience,” he
exclaimed. “I seek not to trammel her will by any authority of
mine. But this Butler! Oh! there is the beginning of the curse
upon my house! there is the fate against which I have been so
solemnly warned! That man who had been the author of this
unhappiness, and whose alliance with my name has been denounced
by the awful visitation of the dead,—that Mildred should cherish his
regard, is misery. It cannot and shall not be!”

These and many such reflections passed through Lindsay's mind,
and had roused his feelings to a tone of exacerbation against Arthur
Butler, far surpassing any displeasure he had ever before indulged
against this individual. In the height of this self-communion
he was interrupted by the return of Mildred to the apartment,
almost as abruptly as she had quitted it. She approached his chair,
knelt, laid her head upon his lap, and wept aloud.

“Why, my dear father,” she said, at length, looking up in his
face while the tears rolled down her cheeks, “why do you address
language to me that makes me forget the duty I owe you? If
you knew my heart, you would spare and pity my feelings. Pardon

me, dear father, if my conduct has offended you. I knew not
what I spoke; I am wretched, and cannot answer for my words.
Do not think I would wound your affection by unkindness; but in
deed, indeed, I cannot hear you speak of Tyrrel without agony.”

“Rise, daughter,” said Lindsay, almost lifting her up, “I do not
chide you for your repugnance to Tyrrel. You mistake me if you
think I would dictate to your affections: my grief has a deeper
source. This Arthur Butler”—

“Spare that name, father?” interrupted Mildred, retiring to a
seat near the window and covering her face with her hands.

“Curse him!” exclaimed Lindsay. “May all the plagues that
torment the human bosom fall upon him! Mark me, daughter, I
trust I am not an unreasonable father; I know I am not an
unkind one; there are few requests that you could make which
I would not freely grant. But to hear with patience the
name of that man on your lips, to think of him as allied to you by
any sympathy, as sharing any portion of your esteem—him, a
rebel traitor who has raised his sacrilegious hand against his
king, who has sold his name to infamy, who has contributed to
fill these peaceful provinces with discord, and to subvert the happiness
of this land, which heaven had appointed to be an asylum
where man, disgusted with the lusts, rapine, and murder of his fellow,
might betake himself as a child to the bosom of his parent—I
cannot endure the thought of him! Never again, Mildred, I
charge you, never allude to him again!”

“If I could but tell you all!” interrupted Mildred, sobbing, “if
I could but patiently have your hearing.”

“Never a word of him! as you desire to preserve my affection.
I will not hear. Get to your chamber,” said Lindsay, almost sternly.
“Get to your chamber, this perverse and resolute temper of
thine, needs the restraint of solitude.”

Mildred rose from her chair and moved towards the door, and as
she was about to depart she turned her weeping countenance towards
her father.

“Come hither,” he said, “thou art a foolish girl, and would
bring down wretchedness and woe upon thee. God forgive you!
from the bottom of my heart, I forgive you. This thing is not of
your own imagining: some malignant spirit has spread his baleful

wing above our house. Go, child, forget what has been said, and
believe that your father buffets thus harshly with fate for your own
welfare. Kiss me, and may heaven shield you against this
impending ill!”

“Dear father, hear me,” said Mildred, as Lindsay imprinted a
kiss upon her forehead.

“Away, away!” interrupted Lindsay, “I would be temperate,
nor again forget myself. In all love, Mildred, away.”

Mildred left the room, and Lindsay, to restore the equanimity of
his temper, which had been so much overthrown by this interview,
wandered forth into the valley, whence it was some hours before he
returned.

It was not long after the termination of this conference before
Henry rode up to the door. The clatter of his horse's hoofs
brought Mildred from her chamber into the parlor.

“What! sister, your eyes red with tears?” said Henry. “Who
has distressed you?”

“Ah, brother, I have had a weary time in your absence. Our
poor father is sadly displeased with me.”

“Have you told him all?” asked Henry, with an expression of
anxiety.

“He bade me,” replied Mildred, “never mention Arthur's name
again. He would not hear me speak of Arthur. Have I not
reason, dear brother, to be miserable?”

“I love you, Mildred,” said Henry, kissing his sister, “and what's
more, I love Arthur Butler, and will stand up for him against the
world. And I have a good mind to go to my father and tell him I
am man enough to think for myself—and more than that—that I,
for one, believe these rebels, as he calls them, have the right of it.
Why shouldn't I? Can't I shoot a rifle as well as the best of
them, and stand by a friend in a quarrel, and make good my words
as well as many a man who writes twenty years to his age? Tush! I
am tired of this boy-play—shooting with blunted arrows, and riding
with my father's hand ever on the neck of my horse, as if I could
not hold the reins. Give me sharp steel, Mildred, and throw me on
the world, and I'll be bound I make my way as well as another.”

“We are surrounded with difficulties, brother,” said Mildred,
“and have a hard part to perform. We must soothe our dear

father's feelings, for he loves us, Henry; and if he could but think
as we do, how happy should we be! But there is something
fearful in his passions, and it makes me tremble to see them
roused.”

“This all comes,” replied Henry, “from that devil's imp Tyrrel.
Oh, I could find it in my heart to trounce that fellow, sister. But
you hav'n't asked me about my reconnoitring! I'll tell you.
Tyrrel's man, Curry, talked a great deal to old Tony and Mrs.
Dimock both, about our friends who went there last night, and
found out their names and all about them: and there was some
fray between Horse Shoe and Curry, in which, I'll warrant you,
Horse Shoe gave him a drubbing; so Tony told me. Well, Butler
and Horse Shoe set out this morning at daylight. And Tyrrel
went over there to breakfast: and you may suppose he was lucky
in not meeting the major, for I am sure there would have been a
spot of work if he had. Furthermore, I found out that Tyrrel
followed on the same road after Butler, so they may meet yet, you
know.”

“I pray not,” said Mildred.

“Why pray not, sister? I pray they may meet. Let Tyrrel
have all the good of it. There, now I believe I have given you all
the news, sister exactly as I picked it up. But here is a trifle I
forgot,” said Henry, producing a letter addressed to Mildred.
“Ah, ha, you brighten up now! This was left by the major with
Mrs. Dimock, to be forwarded to you with care and speed.”

Mildred tore open the letter, and eagerly perused its contents.
They consisted of a few lines hastily penned by Butler, at early
dawn, as he was about mounting his horse for the prosecution of
his journey. Their purpose was to apprise her of the discovery
Robinson had made of the true character of Curry, and also to
express his fears that this latter person might disclose to Tyrrel the
fact of his, Butler's, visit. He cautioned her to observe the conduct
of Tyrrel, and to communicate with him at Gates's head-quarters
where he expected to be delayed a few days on his journey: her
letter, he said, might be forwarded by some of the parties who at
that time were continually passing southward: Henry might look
to this; and he concluded by assuring her that he would write as
often as he might find means of conveying a packet to the care

of good Mistress Dimock, who was sufficiently in the interest of the
lovers to keep faithfully any secret which they might confide to
her.

This letter served to explain the cause of Tyrrel's sudden
departure, and to confirm Mildred in the opinion, which she had
before expressed, that this guest of her father was not ignorant of
the interest Butler had in her regard. Her determination therefore
was to watch his motions narrowly, and to make her lover
acquainted with whatever she might discover.

“It is even so,” she said musing; “Tyrrel either fears or hates
Arthur. I shudder to think that that man should have any motive
supplied him to contrive against the peace or safety of one so dear
to me. Wretch,” she exclaimed, “that he should be insolent
enough to hope for my regard! Oh! my father, my father, what
a snare has been spread for you by this man! Thank you,
brother,” she continued, addressing Henry. “You have well
executed your mission. Be discreet and ready: I shall have much
need of your head and hand both: your heart is mine already,
good brother.”

“I will ride for you, sister,” said Henry, “I will run for you,
speak for you, pray for you—if my prayers be worth anything—
and strike for you, if need be. If I am but turned of sixteen, I am
a man, I trow; and that's more than you are. Good bye! a soldier
ought to look after his horse, you know.”

“God bless you, dear brother, for an excellent boy,” said Mildred
smiling, “man I mean—aye and a brave one!”

Henry now walked away, and Mildred betook herself to other
cares.