University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

I must now introduce my reader to the library described in the last
chapter, where, beside a small table covered with papers, and lighted
by two tall candles, sate Philip Lindsay, with a perplexed and
thoughtful brow. Opposite to him, in an easy chair, reclined his
guest, Mr. Tyrrel; a man whose appearance might entitle him to
claim something like thirty-five years; and whose shrewd and intellectual
expression of countenance, to which an air of decision was
given by what might be called an intense eye, denoted a person
conversant with the business of life; whilst an easy and flexible
address no less distinctly announced him one habituated to the
most polished society. The time of this meeting corresponded with
that of the interview of Arthur and Mildred, beneath the Fawn's
Tower.

It is necessary only to premise that these two had frequently conferred
together, within the last two or three days, upon the subject
with which they were now engaged.

“Sir Henry Clinton does me too much honor by this confidence,”
said Lindsay. “He overrates my influence amongst the gentlemen
of the province. Truly, Mr. Tyrrel, I am well persuaded that neither
my precept nor my example would weigh a feather in the scale
against the heady course of this rebellion.”

“We are seldom competent to judge of the weight of our own
influence,” said Tyrrel. “I might scarce expect you to speak otherwise
than you do. But I, who have the opportunity to know, take
upon myself to say that many gentlemen of note in this province,
who are at present constrained by the fear of the new government,
look with anxiety to you. They repose faith in your discretion, and
would follow your lead. If an excuse be necessary, you might afford

them some pretext of pastime to visit the Dove Cote. Here you
might concert your plan to co-operate with our friends in the south.”

“Tis a rash thought,” replied Lindsay. “This little nook of woodland
quiet has never yet been disturbed with the debates of men
who meditated the spilling of blood. God forbid that these peaceful
walls should hereafter echo back the words that speak of such a
purpose.”

“It is to spare the shedding of blood, Mr. Lindsay, and to bring
speedy peace to a distracted country that we invoke you and other
friends to counsel. A single battle may decide the question of mastery
over the province. We are well assured that the moment Lord
Cornwallis reaches the Roanoke”—

“Cornwallis has yet to win the ground he stands upon,” interrupted
Lindsay: “there may be many a deadly blow struck before
he slakes his thirst in the waters of that river: many a proud head
may be low before that day.”

“Think you, sir,” said Tyrrel, rising as he spoke, “that this
patched and ragged levy—this ague-stricken army that is now
creeping through the pines of North Carolina, under the command
of that pompous pretender, Gates, are the men to dispute with his
majesty's forces their right to any inch of soil they choose to occupy?
It will be a merry day when we meet them, Mr. Lindsay. We have
hitherto delayed our campaign until the harvest was gathered: that
is now done, and we shall speedily bring this hero of Saratoga to his
reckoning. Then, following at the heels of the runagates, his Lordship,
you may be prepared to hear, within two months from this day,
will be within friendly hail of the Dove Cote.”

“You speak like a boastful soldier, Mr. Tyrrel. It is not unlikely
that his lordship may foil Gates and turn him back; such I learn to
be the apprehension of the more sagacious amongst the continental
officers themselves; but whether that mischance is to favor your
incursion into this province may be worth a soberer study than, I
doubt, you have given the question. The path of invasion is ever a
difficult road when it leads against a united people. You mistake
both the disposition and the means of these republicans. They have
bold partisans in the field, and eloquent leaders in their senates. The
nature of the strife sorts well with their quick and earnest tempers;
and by this man's-play of war we breed up soldiers who delight in

the game. Rebellion has long since marched beyond the middle
ground, and has no thought of retreat. What was at first the mere
overflow of popular passion has been hardened into principle, like a
fiery stream of lava which first rolls in a flood, and then turns into
stone. The delusion of republicanism, like all delusions, is embraced
with more enthusiasm than men ever embrace truth. We deem too
lightly of these men and their cause, and we have already, more than
once, suffered for the error. When they expelled Dunmore they
committed treason against the British crown; and they are wise
enough to know that that cup, once tasted, must be drained to the
bottom: they have, therefore, imbrued their hands the deeper in
rebellion. They have raised their idol of democracy high, and have
fenced it about with the penalties of confiscation and death to those
who refuse to bow before it: and now they stand pledged to the
prosecution of their unnatural war, by such a bond of fate as unites
mariners who have rashly ventured forth upon a raging sea, in a
bark of doubtful strength; their minds braced up, by the thought
of instant perdition, to the daring effort necessary to reach their
haven.”

“That haven shall they never reach,” cried Tyrrel impatiently.
“Let them invoke the aid of their patron devils! We have a spell
shall conjure them back again to their own hell, else there is no
virtue in the forged steel which these rebels have felt before.”

“The battle is not always to the strong,” said Lindsay, “nor is
the craft of soldiership without its chances.”

“If we had listened, my friend,” said Tyrrel, “to musty proverbs,
Charleston would have this day been in the secure and peaceful possession
of the enemy. All that you say against our present scheme
was heretofore urged, though not with such authority, perhaps,
against the invasion of Carolina. And yet how prettily have we
gainsaid the prophets! Look at their principal town surrendered—
all the country strongholds delivered up—the people flocking to our
standard for protection—and the whole province lifting up a voice
of gratitude for the deliverance we have wrought them. They are
even now arming themselves in our behalf, whilst the shattered
fragments of the rebel force are flying to the swamps and their mountain
fastnesses. Why should not the same game be as well played
in Virginia? Trust me, Mr. Lindsay, your caution somewhat overleaps

that wholesome moderation, which I do not deny is necessary
to check a too sanguine reckoning. Come, good sir, lend us a more
auspicious counsel. Sir Henry relies much upon your wisdom, and
will not, with good heart, forego your service.”

“Sir Henry has sadly disturbed my repose,” returned Lindsay.
“To tell the truth, I have no stomach for this business. Here, I am
native to the province: I have found old friends separated from me;
early associations torn up by the roots; and the elements which fed
my strongest personal attachments poisoned, by this accursed spirit
of revolution. I would hide my head from the storm and die in
these shades in peace.”

“It is not for Mr. Philip Lindsay, nor such as he,” replied Tyrrel,
“to desert his sovereign in his hour of need.”

“God forgive me for the thought, Mr. Tyrrel, but it remains yet
to be proved who most faithfully serve their sovereign; they who
counsel peace, or they who push war to its fatal extremes. There
lives not a man within the realm of England, to whom I would yield
in devotion to the glory of our country. One make it clear to my
judgment that we may hope to regain the lost allegiance of this
province by the sacrifice of life and fortune, and, dearly as I cherish
the welfare of those around me, I will obey the first summons to the
field, and peril this worthless existence of mine in bloody fight.
Yea, if need be, I will, with my own hand, apply the torch to this
peaceful abode, and give it over a smoking ruin to the cause.”

“I know you too well,” replied Tyrrel, “to doubt the sincerity of
your words. But is it not obvious that the war must inevitably
tend to this field? Having gained the Carolinas, should we turn
our backs as soon as we have reached the confines of Virginia? On
the contrary, does not every obligation of honor impel us to maintain
and protect our friends here? The conquest of Virginia is an
easier enterprise than you deem it. If the continentals can
muster ten thousand men, we, assuredly, may double that number,
counting our provincials levied in the south. We have money and
all the means of war, whilst this crippled Congress has drained from
the people their last groat; their wretched troops will disband from
mere want of supplies. They may expect no aid from the north;
for there Sir Henry will furnish them sufficient motive to stay at
home! We come animated by victories, full of mettle and vigor;

they meet us broken by defeats, dejected and torn to pieces by
mutiny. Never did treason or rebellion array itself with more certainty
of punishment than this!”

“I have read,” said Lindsay, “how John Hampden resisted the
exaction of twenty shillings of ship money, and for that pittance
dared the displeasure of Charles and his Star Chamber: how he
voted the impeachment of the judges who were supple enough to
warrant the imposition: how, in this cause, he drew the sword and
threw away the scabbard: how he brought Strafford to the block for
levying war against the commons of England: and through all that
disastrous time, have I read that Charles promised the cavaliers
splendid victories, and derided the feeble means of those who were
in arms against him; yet Hampden shrunk not from the struggle.
To me it seems there is a strange resemblance between the congress
now sitting at Philadelphia and the parliament of 1640; and this
George Washington might claim kindred with John Hampden. I
will not seek for further likenesses.”

“If I read that history right,” replied Tyrrel, “Hampden met
his reward at Chalgrove, and Cromwell turned his crop-eared parliament
out of doors. We may, perhaps, find a Chalgrove on this
continent;—and Sir Henry Clinton will most probably save the
wiseacres at Philadelphia from the intrusion of an upstart Cromwell.”

“It would be too bold in us to count on that, Mr. Tyrrel. I am
the enemy of these men and their purpose, but I cannot deem otherwise
of them than as misguided subjects of the king, frenzied by the
imagination of grievances. They are men of good intellects and
honest hearts, misled by passion. I would that we could give their
tempers time to cool. I would, even now, preach moderation and
compromise to his majesty's ministers.”

“The die is long since cast,” said Tyrrel, “and all that
remains now is to take the hazard of the throw. At this moment,
whilst we debate, friend and foe are whetting their swords for a
deadly encounter on the fields of Carolina. It is too late to talk of
other arbitrement. Assuredly, my good friend, our destiny directs
us to this province: and the time has come when you must decide
what course you will take. It has been our earnest wish—Sir
Henry's letters, there upon the table, anxiously unfold it—to have

you up and active in the cause. Why will you disappoint so fair a
hope?”

“Alas! Mr. Tyrrel,—it is a thorny path you would have me
tread. Think you I am the man to win my way through these
intricacies? I that live in the shelter of these woods by sufferance
merely—an unmolested outlaw, to speak soberly, whom these
fanatics of liberty have forborne for the sake of past acquaintance
and present peaceful habits? Am I not girded round about with
the hot champions of independence? Look amongst these hills—
there is not a cabin, not a woodman's hut, no, nor stately dwelling,
whose roof defends one friend to the royal cause, but my own. My
lips are sealed; my very thoughts are guarded, lest I give room to
think I mean to fly from my neutrality. These papers that lie upon
that table might cost me my life: your presence here, were your
purpose known, might consign me to captivity or exile:—one
random word spoken might give me over to the censures of the
power that holds its usurped domination in the province. What
aid may be expected from one so guarded, fettered, watched and
powerless?”

“And can you patiently,” exclaimed Tyrrel, “bow to this oppression?
You, a native born freeman of the province—a Briton,
nursed in the sunny light of liberty! Shall your freedom of speech
be circumscribed, your footsteps be followed by spies and traitors,
your very inmost thoughts be read and brought up to the censure
of the judgment seat? Shall these things be, and the blood still
continue to run coolly and temperately through your veins! There
are ills, Mr. Lindsay, which even your calm philosophy may not
master. But, perhaps, I have mistaken your temper: these evidences,
at least, shall not put you in peril,” he said, as he took up
the letters from the table and held them over the candle, and then
threw the flaming mass upon the hearth. “That fear, I hope, is
removed; and as for my presence here, one word briefly spoken, and
it shall not longer jeopard your safety.”

Lindsay looked fixedly at his companion as he destroyed the
papers, and then said with a stern emphasis—

“Your duty, sir, is in the field. You have been bred to a profession
that teaches you blind obedience to orders. It is not your part
to weigh the right of the cause, nor to falter in the execution of any

foul purpose of blood, so that it come under the name of honorable
warfare. Therefore I excuse this unbecoming warmth: but do not
presume upon the hazardous nature of your calling, and fancy that
it implies more fidelity to the king than the allegiance of his more
peaceful subjects. It is a thought unworthy of you that fear of disaster
to myself—be it tenfold more imminent than it has yet been—
should arrest my step in that path where my country's honor, or
my sovereign's command, bids me advance.”

“Worthy and excellent friend,” said Tyrrel, taking Lindsay's
hand, “I have done you wrong. I am rash and headlong in my
temper, and my tongue often speaks what my heart disavows. I
am little better than a boy, Mr. Lindsay, and a foolish one; I
humbly crave your pardon.”

“Speak on,” said Lindsay.

“Then briefly this. Your situation is all that you have described
it. Sir Henry is aware of the trial he imposes upon you. He
would have you act with the caution which your wisdom dictates;
and if it should become necessary to speak that word which is to
bring the wrath of the rebels upon your head, remember there is
sanctuary and defence under the broad banner of England. Who
so welcome there as Philip Lindsay? Even at this moment our
councils should be tempered by your presence, and it becomes
almost a patriotic duty to pluck you from the seclusion of the Dove
Cote, and give you a share in the stirring events of the day. Sir,
the country has a claim upon your services, scarce compatible with
the idle contemplation of this momentous trial of strength.”

Lindsay had advanced to the window, where he remained looking
over the moon-lit scene. His companion stood close beside him,
and after a short interval took his arm, when they stepped forth upon
the porch, and sauntered backward and forward, as Tyrrel continued,

“The government would not be unmindful of the benefits you
might confer. There are offices of trust and dignity to be filled in
this province when it shall be restored to its allegiance. The highest
post would not be unfitly bestowed, if it should be assigned to you.
Sir Henry Clinton bids me speak of that, as of a subject that has
already occupied his thoughts. It would give grace and dignity
to our resumed authority, to have it illustrated by the accomplished
scholar and discreet statesman, who has, before this, discharged

important and difficult trusts with a fidelity that has won all men's
esteem. And then, my dear sir,” he added after a pause, “who
may say that it shall not be Sir Philip Lindsay, or even something
yet higher?—a coronet would not be an honor unsuited even to the
wilds of Virginia. His majesty is not slow to discern worth, nor
backward to raise it to its proper station. These are toys and baubles
to you, Mr. Lindsay, but they are still worth the seeking. You
have a son to follow you.”

“Ah! there, Mr. Tyrrel, you touch me more nearly than you
imagine. You remind me by this language that I have also a
daughter. As to Henry, he has a temper and a capacity to make
his own way through the world. I fear not for him—nor would I
seek for honors to add to his name. But my Mildred! You know
not what emotions the thought of her, in these troubles, costs me.
Who shall guard and defend her, whilst I pursue this way-laid road
of ambition? What sanctuary would she find under a war-encircled
banner, should misfortune assail me, and adversity separate us?
Alas, alas!—that is the spell that, like a net cast over my limbs,
makes me feeble and submissive.”

“I have not been without my solicitude, Mr. Lindsay, on that subject,”
said Tyrrel. “You yesterday did me the honor to say that
my proposal in regard to Miss Lindsay was not distasteful to you.
Could my ardent wish but be accomplished, she should be placed in
safety, assured of ample and kind protection. If, haply, her thoughts
should incline to a favorable reception of my offer, which I would
fain persuade myself her reverence for you may render not altogether
improbable, when she knows that you deem well of my suit, we
might remove her to Charleston, where, secure amidst assiduous
friends, she would pass the brief interval of alarm, and leave you free
to act on this theatre as your honor and duty may impel you.”

“Mildred will not leave me,” said Lindsay; “my dear daughter
would suffer a thousand deaths in the anxiety of such a separation.”

“Then why not accompany her to Charleston?” asked Tyrrel.
“Your presence there would be equally efficient as at head-quarters
—perhaps more so.”

“There are other obstacles, Mr. Tyrrel. You talk of Mildred as
if her heart were to be disposed of at my bidding. You do not know
her. I have long struggled to subdue an attachment that has bound

her to our worst enemy, I fear with little success. I have trusted to
time to wear out what I deemed a mere girlish liking; but it seems
to me the traces fade but slowly from her heart.”

“I know of whom you speak,” said Tyrrel—“that harebrained
enthusiast Butler. It is a freakish and transient passion, and cannot
but fall into forgetfulness. Miss Lindsay has from circumstances been
but little conversant with the world, and, like an inexperienced girl,
has fostered in solitude a romantic affection. That alone should be
a motive to remove her into a busier scene. Besides, this Butler will
be himself forced to give over his hopeless aim—if he has not done
so before this: measures are already taken, and I do not scruple to
tell you, at my instance—to confiscate his lands in Carolina to his
majesty's use. The close of this war will find him penniless, and not
unlikely, my dear sir, I myself may be the possessor of his inheritance—I
have some pledge of the pre-emption of these lands at a
small fee.”

“It will win you no favor with Mildred,” said Lindsay, “to tell
her that you succeed by such a title to this man's wealth. She is a
wayward girl, and is not used to crosses. Her devotion to her purpose,
as it sometimes excites my admiration, gives me, in the present
case, cause of profound alarm.”

“You have spoken to her on this subject?”

“I have not,” replied Lindsay, “and almost fear to broach it. I
can, therefore, give you no encouragement. Some little time hence
—perhaps to-morrow—I may sound her feelings. But remember, as
her father, I claim no right beyond that of advice. I shall think
myself fortunate if, by giving a new direction to the current of her
affections, I can divert her mind from the thoughts of an alliance to
me the most hateful—to her full of future misery. A maiden's fancies
are scarcely intelligible even to a father.”

“These subjects require meditation,” said Tyrrel. “I will not
press them further upon your thoughts to-night.”

“Heaven guide us in the way of safety and happiness!” said
Lindsay, almost in a whisper. “Good night, my friend.”

When Tyrrel was left alone he strolled forward to the terrace, and
passing round to that end which overhung the cliff, near the door
that opened from the library, he leaned his breast upon the parapet
and looked down upon the wild and beautiful scenery of the valley.

The night was calm and full of splendor. The tops of the trees that
grew in the ravine, almost perpendicularly beneath his eye, here and
there caught the bright moon-beam where it glowed like silver, and
the shades, rendered deeper by the contrast, seemed to brood over a
black and impenetrable abyss. Occasional glimpses were seen of the
river below, as it sparkled along such portions of its channel as were
not hidden in darkness. The coolness of the hour and the solitude
of the spot were not ungrateful to the mood of Tyrrel's mind, whilst
the monotonous music of the river fell pleasantly upon his ear. He
was not unheedful of these charms in the scene, though his thoughts
were busily employed with a subject foreign to their contemplation.

“Have I advanced,” was the tenor of his present self-communion,
“the purpose I have so much at heart, by this night's conference?
Could I but engage Lindsay in the issues of this war, so commit him
in its purposes and its plots as to render his further residence at the
Dove Cote insecure, then would I already have half-compassed my
point. Where could he remove but to Charleston? And there,
amidst the blandishments of friends and the allurements of gay
society, I might make sure of Mildred. There, cut off from all
means of hearing of this Butler, and swayed, as she must necessarily
be, by the current of loyal feelings, she would learn to detest
his foul rebellion, and soon lose her favor for the rebel. Then, too,
the confiscation of his lands—but I am not so sure of that!—she is
rich and would make a merit of sharing her fortune with a man whose
brave resistance of oppression—for so, doubtless, Butler persuades
her it is—has cost him his wealth: the confiscation should not seem,
at least, to be my doing. Well, well, let her be brought to Charleston.
Any change were better than to remain here, where anxiety
and suspense and solitude nurse and soften her woman's affections,
and teach her to fancy her lover whatsoever her imagination delights
to think on. Then may not the chances of war assist me? This
Butler, all men say, is brave and adventurous. He should be shortlived.
Whatever ill may befall him cannot but work good to me.
Yet Lindsay has such a sickly caution—such scruple against
involving himself in the scheme—I could almost find it in my
heart to have it told amongst his neighbors that he is in correspondence
with the enemy. Ha, that would be a bright device!—inform
against myself! No, no, I will not abuse his generous nature. Let

him come fairly into the fold, and I will guard his gentle lambkin
like a very shepherd. Then if we make him governor of the province—that
will work well. Mildred will thank me for my zeal in
that good purpose, at least, and I will marry her and possess her
estate, if it be only to enable her to be grateful to me. 'Twill be a
brave reward, and bravely shall it be won.”

As Tyrrel ruminated over these topics, in the strain indicated by
this sketch, the noise of footsteps ascending the rugged stairway of
the cliff, and the opening of the iron wicket, but a short distance
from where he leaned over the parapet, roused his attention, and
put an end to this insidious and selfish communion with his own
heart.

The cause of this interruption was soon apparent. Henry and
Mildred entered through the gate, and hurried along the path to that
part of the terrace where Tyrrel stood. The shade of the house concealed
him from their view until they were within a few paces.
“Ha, Miss Lindsay! You are a late rambler,” he said, in a tone of
gallantry. “The dampness of the valley, at this hour, is not altogether
safe; the ague is a sore enemy to romance; beware of it.”

“I am not afraid of the night,” replied Mildred, as she increased
the rapidity of her gait; then, turning immediately upon the porch,
she almost ran, leaving Henry and Tyrrel in pursuit, until she
reached the farthest window which was heard descending the moment
she passed through it into the parlor. When Tyrrel and Henry
entered the same apartment, she had disappeared.

“My sister is not well this evening,” said Henry. “We strolled
too late upon the river bank.”

“It was still an over-hasty retreat,” muttered Tyrrel to himself.
“It bodes not well for me. I will wager, Henry,” he said, raising
his voice, “that I can guess what you and your sister have been
talking about.”

“Let me hear,” said Henry.

“First,” replied Tyrrel, “she repeated some verses from Shakspeare
about the moonlight sleeping on the bank—this is just the night for
poetry—and then you both fell to talking sentiment, and then, I'll
be bound, you had a ghost story, and by that time, you found you
had got too far from the house and were a little frightened, and so
came back as fast as you could.”

“You are wrong,” said Henry. “I have been telling sister Mildred
how to bob for eels. Did you know that an eel will never pass a
streak of moonlight for fear of being found out by the watchers?”

“Indeed I did not.”

“Well, sister Mildred is wiser than you are; and as I have taught
you that, I will go to bed.”

Tyrrel was again left to resume his meditations, and to hatch his
plots for invading the peace of the Dove Cote, on his pillow. To
that sleepless pillow he now betook himself.