University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The next morning Tyrrel rose with the sun. He had passed a restless
night, and now sought refreshment in the early breeze. With
this purpose he descended to the river, and strayed along the dewy
pathway which crept through the shrubbery on the right bank in
the direction of the Fawn's Tower. He had not wandered far before
he perceived a horseman moving along the road upon the opposite
side.

“Halloo, James Curry!—which way?—What news have you?”

“I seek you, sir, I was on my way to the Dove Cote,” replied the
horseman, who at the same time turned his horse's head to the river,
and, spurring the animal forward, plunged into the stream which
was here still and deep enough to reach above his saddle flaps.
After some floundering, the horse and rider gained the margin,
where Tyrrel awaited them! The vigor of the animal, as well as
the practised hand that held the rein, was shown in the boldness of
the attempt to climb the steep bank and break through the briers
and bushes that here guarded it. As soon as Curry reached the
level ground, he dismounted.

“In God's name, man, what is the matter with your face?” asked
Tyrrel.

“It is of that, amongst other things, that I came to speak to you,”
was the reply; “I have news for you.”

“Speak, without prelude. Tell me.”

“Major Butler slept last night at Mrs. Dimock's.”

“And is there still?”

“No, sir. He started at early dawn this morning.”

“To join Gates?”

“I think not. He talked of going to Ninety-Six—perhaps to
Georgia.”

“So, ho! The hawk hovers over that field! Does he travel
alone?”

“He has a giant in his company, a great ploughman by the name
of Horse Shoe Robinson. A quarrelsome rascal; he would needs
pick a quarrel with me last night. And in the skirmish I got this
face.”

“Did I not command you to bear yourself peaceably? Fool!
will you risk our lives with your infernal broils? Now, I would
wager you told the fellow your name.”

“Little need of that, sir. He told it to me: said he knew me
before. The fellow, for all his rough coat, is a regular trained soldier
in the rebel service, and has met me somewhere—Heaven knows!—
I don't remember him; yet he isn't a man to see once and forget
again.”

“And me, did he speak of me?”

“He knew that I was in the employ of an English gentleman who
was here at the Dove Cote. I have nothing especial to complain of
in the man. He speaks soldierly enough; he said he would take no
advantage of me for being here as long as our visit was peaceable.”

“Humph! And you believed him. And you must fight with
him, like a brawling knave. When will you get an ounce of wit into
that fool's head! What time of day was it when this Butler
arrived?”

“Long after night-fall.”

“Did you understand any thing of the purpose of his visit?”

“He talked much with Mistress Dimock, and I think their conversation
related to the lady at the Dove Cote. I could hear but
a few scattered words.”

“Away.—Here (throwing his purse to the horseman), pay up
your score at the inn, and at your greatest haste attend me on the
river bank, immediately below Mr. Lindsay's house. Ask Mrs.
Dimock to have a breakfast prepared for me.—Away, I will expect
you in half an hour.”

Curry mounted his horse, and choosing a more convenient ford
than that which he had passed (for the jutting rocks, on this side,
prevented his reaching Mrs. Dimock's without recrossing the river to
the road), he soon regained the track, and was seen, almost at high
speed, sweeping around the base of the Fawn's Tower.

Tyrrel returned hastily to the Dove Cote, and, seeking his valet,
gave orders to have his portmanteau packed, his horse saddled and
to be in waiting for him at the foot of the hill. These commands
were speedily obeyed, and everything was in readiness for his journey
before any of the family had made their appearance in the breakfast
room.

Whilst Tyrrel meditated writing a line to explain to Lindsay his
present sudden movement, and had drawn near a table for that purpose,
he was saluted by the voice of Henry, who had entered the
apartment, and stolen unobserved almost immediately behind his
chair.

“Booted and spurred, Mr. Tyrrel!” said Henry. “You are for
a ride. Will you take a fowling-piece? There are pheasants over
upon the hills.”

“Oh, ho! Master Henry, you are up! I am glad of it. I was
just writing a word to say that business calls me away this morning.
Is your father yet abed?”

“He is sound asleep,” said Henry; “I will wake him.”

“No, my lad. You must not do that. Say I have received news
this morning that has called me suddenly to my friends. I will
return before long. Is your sister stirring?”

“She was in the garden but a moment since,” replied Henry;
and the young man left the room, to which he returned after a short
space. “Sister Mildred is engaged in her chamber, and begs you
will excuse her,” said he, as he again entered the door.

“Tush, Henry, I didn't tell you to interrupt your sister. Make
her my most respectful adieu. Don't forget it. I have all my way
to win,” he said to himself, “and a rough road to travel, I fear.”

Tyrrel now left the house and descended to the river, accompanied
by Henry, who sought in vain to know why he departed in
such haste as not to stay for breakfast. James Curry waited below;
and, when Henry saw his father's guest mount in his saddle and
cross the ford, attended by his two servants, he turned about and
clambered up the hill again, half singing and half saying to himself,—“I'm
glad he's gone, I'm glad he's gone,” accompanied with
a trolling chorus, expressive of the satisfaction of his feelings at the
moment. “He'd a got a flea in his ear, if he had stay'd. I should
like to know what Major Butler would say to Mr. Tyrrel, if he was

to meet him. Zooks! may be Butler will see him this very morning
at Mrs. Dimock's. Now, I wonder! Shall I whisper that to
sister Mildred? She would be glad, for one, I'll be bound! May
be, they might have a fight. And if they do, let Mr. Tyrrel look
out! He never had his bread so buttered in his life, as it would
be then.”

In such a strain of cogitation and conjecture, Henry reached the
parlor, where he found Mildred. The melancholy that hung upon
her spirits, the evening before, seemed to have been dispelled by the
repose of the night, and was doubtless relieved, in part, by the intelligence
that Tyrrel had quitted the Dove Cote.

“Come, sister,” said Henry, throwing his arm round her waist,
and almost dancing, as he forced her through the open window,
“come, it will be a good while before father is ready for his breakfast.
Let us look at your flowers; I have something to tell you.”

“You are quite an important personage, this morning,” replied
Mildred, moving off towards the lawn with her brother. “Your face
looks as wise as a book of proverbs.”

It was some time before the brother and sister returned to the
parlour, and when they did so, their father had not yet appeared.
The delay was unusual; for Lindsay generally rose at an early hour,
and frequently walked abroad before his morning meal. When he
at last entered the room, there was an expression of care upon his
brow and thought that made him haggard. Mildred, as was her
custom, approached him with a kiss, and, taking both of his hands,
as she looked up in his face, she said, with some earnestness,—

“You are not well, my dear father.”

Lindsay paused a moment, while he gazed affectionately upon her,
and then pressing her to his bosom, uttered in a low voice, with a
smile,—

“God bless my dear child! How carefully does she read my
looks! Come hither, Henry,” he continued, as he gave his son one
hand, and still held Mildred with the other, and then turned his eyes
alternately upon each. “Now, tell me, which of you love me best?
Who has waited most patiently for me this morning? I see by that
glance of your blue eye, master Henry, that you have been chiding
your lazy father for lying so long abed. Now, I dare say, if the
truth were known, you have had your rifle ready to go out and shoot

squirrels an hour ago. I beg your pardon, Mr. Sportsman—not to
shoot the squirrel, but to shoot at him. Or, perhaps, you mean to
bring us a deer to-day; you know you have promised to do that
every morning for a week.”

“You shall eat a slice from as fine a saddle of venison to-day,
father, as you ever saw smoke over a chafing-dish.”

“In good truth, shall I, boy? You are a brave promiser! You
remember your own adage,—Brag was a good dog, but Holdfast
was better.”

“In right down earnest, father, you shall. You needn't laugh.
Now, you're thinking I have the deer to shoot; there's your mistake.
The saddle is this minute lying on the dresser in the kitchen. He
was a running buck yesterday; and I could tell where the powder
and ball came from (here Henry made the motion of opening a
hunting pouch at his side) that put an end to his capers.”

“He is a monstrous braggart; is he not, Mildred?” said Lindsay,
directing a look of incredulity at his daughter.

“What Henry tells you is true,” replied Mildred. “Stephen Foster
was here at sun-rise with a part of a buck, which he says was
shot yesterday.”

“Indeed! Then it is to Stephen's rifle we are indebted. You
kill your bucks by proxy, master.”

“I'll bet,” said Henry, “that Stephen Foster hasn't the impudence
to charge one penny for that venison. And why? Because,
by the laws of chance, one-half belongs to me.”

“Oh, I understand,” interrupted Lindsay, with affected gravity;
“it is a matter of great doubt which of you shot it. You both
fired at once; or, perhaps, Stephen first, and you afterwards; and
the poor animal dropped the moment you took your aim,—even before
your piece went off. You know your aim, Harry, is deadly,
—much worse than your bullet.”

“There is no doubt who killed him,” said Henry; “for Stephen
was on that side of the hill, and I was a little below him, and the
buck ran right to Stephen, who, of course, gave him the first shot.
But there was I, father, just ready, if Stephen had missed, to bring
old Velvet-Horns to the ground, before he could have leaped a
rod.”

“But, unluckily, Stephen's first shot killed him?”

“I don't know that,” replied Henry. “Another person's knife
might have done the business; for the deer jumped down the bank
into the road, and there”—

Mildred cast a sidelong look of caution at her brother, to warn
him against alluding to a third person, whom it was not discreet to
mention.

“And there,” said Henry, taking the sign, “when I got up to him
he was stone dead. I would almost think a deer couldn't be shot
dead so suddenly. But Stephen can pitch his lead, as he calls it,
just where he likes.”

“Well, it isn't fair to inquire who killed him,” said Lindsay.
“One hunter often turns the game to the other's rifle. And, at all
events, your dogs, Henry, I dare say, did as much as either of you.”

“Hylas was just at his heels when he was shot,” replied Henry;
“and a better dog there isn't in Amherst, or Albemarle to boot.”

“Well, well! Let us to breakfast. Where is our guest? Tyrrel
is surely out before this.”

“He has been gone from the Dove Cote more than an hour,”
said Henry. “He told me to say, that some sudden news took him
off in haste. I would have waked you, but he forbade it. His man,
Curry, who was waiting for him at the ford, I dare say, brought
him some dispatches.”

“It was very sudden,” said Lindsay, musing; “the great game
will be shortly played.”

“My dear father, you have not your usual look of health,” said
Mildred again. “I fear something disturbs you.”

“A slight cold, only, from exposure to the night air, perhaps.
You did not see Tyrrel this morning, Mildred?”

“I did not wish to see him, father. I was up when he set out,
but I was not in his way.”

“Fie, girl, you almost speak crossly! Tyrrel, I must think, is
not a man to win his way with ladies. But he is a loyal subject to
his king. I can tell you, Mildred, loyalty is a virtue of good associations
in these times.”

“It is the last virtue, my dear father, that a woman ever writes
down in the list of noble qualities. We generally forget it altogether.
History is so full of the glory of disloyal heroes, that the
indiscriminate and persevering loyalty of brave men has come to be

but little noticed. Brutus was disloyal, and so was Tell; and the
English barons, of whom you boast so much, when you call them
sturdy, were disloyal; and Washington—who knows, my dear
father, but that he may be written down by some future nation,
(and she laid an emphasis on this word,) as another name to give
credit to this word, disloyal.”

“Thou art a shrewd orator, Mildred,” exclaimed her father, as he
sought to change the subject, “and I doubt not, if heaven had made
you man, you would now be flattering these rebels by persuading
them they were all born for heroes. We may thank the gods that
they have given you the petticoat instead of the soldier's cloak, and
placed you at the head of a breakfast table instead of a regiment.”

“I do not think,” replied Mildred smiling, “that I should altogether
disgrace the cloak now, woman as I am, if the occasion
required me to put it on.”

“Pray drop this subject, my dear child; you know it makes me
sad. My family, I fear, are foredoomed to some strange mishap
from these civil broils. Attend me presently in the library, I have
matters to communicate that concern you. Henry, my boy,”
Lindsay continued, as he rose from his breakfast, “pay Stephen
Foster the full value of the venison; as a sportsman you have a right
perhaps to your share of the game, but a gentleman shows his
courtesy by waiving such claims; he should suffer no friend to be
his creditor, even in opinion. Stephen may not expect to be paid;
no matter, it concerns your own character to be liberal.”

“I have promised Stephen a new rifle,” replied Henry, “since
they have elected him lieutenant of the Amherst Rangers he wants
something better than his old deer gun.”

“I positively forbid it,” interrupted Lindsay hastily, returning
towards the middle of the room from the door through which he
was about to depart. “What! would you purchase weapons for
these clowns to enable them to shoot down his majesty's liege
subjects? to make war upon their rightful king, against his laws and
throne? to threaten your life, your sister's and mine, unless we
bowed to this impious idol of democracy, which thay have set up—
this Washington?”

“My dear, dear father,” interposed Mildred as she came up to

him and flung her arms about his neck. “Consider, Henry is a
thoughtless boy, and does not look to consequences.”

“Heaven bless you both, my children! I beg your pardons.
I am over captious. Henry, pay Stephen for the venison, and give
him something better than a rifle. Mildred, I will see you
presently.”

When Lindsay had left the parlor Mildred besought her brother,
in the most earnest terms, to be more guarded against giving
expression to any sentiment which might bring their father's
thoughts to the existing war. Her own observation had informed
her of the nature of the struggle that agitated his mind, and her
effort was continually directed to calm and soothe his feelings by
the most unremitting affection, and thus to foster his resolution
against taking any part in those schemes in which, she shrewdly
guessed, it was the purpose of the emissaries of the royal party to
involve him.

Her attachment to Arthur Butler she feared to mention to her
father, whilst her self-respect and her conviction of her duty to a
parent who loved her with unbounded devotion, would not allow
her altogether to conceal it. Upon this subject, Lindsay had
sufficiently read her heart to know much more about it than she
chose to confess; and it did not fail to kindle up in his mind a
feverish excitement, that occasionally broke forth in even a petulant
reproof, and to furnish the only occasion that had ever arisen of
serious displeasure against his daughter. The unhappy association
between this incident in the life of Mildred, and the current of a
feeling which had its foundation in a weak piece of superstition, to
which I have alluded in a former chapter, gave to the idea of
Mildred's marriage with Butler a fatal complexion in Lindsay's
thoughts. “For what purpose,” he asked himself, “but to avert
this ill-omened event could I have had such an extraordinary
warning?” It had occurred to him that the surest method of protecting
his family against this misfortune would be to throw
Mildred into other associations, and encourage the growth of other
attachments, such as might be expected to grow up in her heart out
of the kindness of new friendships. He had even meditated removing
her to England, but that plan became so repulsive to him when
he found the mention of it distasteful to his children, and it suited so

little his own fondness for the retirement he had already cultivated,
that he had abandoned it almost as soon as it occurred to him.
His next alternative was to favor—though he did so with no great
zeal—the proposal lately made by Tyrrel. He little knew the
character of the woman he had to deal with. Never was more
devotion enshrined in a woman's heart than in Mildred's. Never
was more fixed and steady purpose to encounter all hazards and
hold cheap all dangers more deeply rooted in man's or woman's
resolution, than was Mildred's to cherish the love and follow the
fortunes of Arthur Butler.

This conflict between love and filial duty sadly perplexed the
daughter's peace; and not less disturbing was the strife between
parental affection and the supposed mandate of fate, in the breast of
the father.

Henry protested his sorrow for his recent indiscretion and
promised more caution for the future, and then recurring to what
more immediately concerned his sister's interest, he said, “I do
much wonder what Tyrrel's man had to say this morning; it took
our good gentleman away so suddenly. I can't help thinking it has
something to do with Butler and Horse Shoe. They must have
been seen by Curry at Mrs. Dimock's, and old Tony knows the
major very well, and has told his name. Besides, do you
know, sister, I think Curry is a spy? Else, why should he
be left at Mrs. Dimock's always? There was room enough here
for both of Mr. Tyrrel's servants. I have a thought that I will
reconnoitre: I will ride over to the Blue Ball, and see what I can
learn.”

“Do, my good brother,” replied Mildred, “and in the meantime
I must go to my father, who has something disagreeable to tell me
—so I fear—concerning that busy plotter who has just left us. My
spirits grow heavy at the thought of it. Ah, Henry, if I could but
speak out, and unpack my heart, what a load would I throw off!
How does it grieve me to have a secret that I dare not tell
my dear father! Thank heaven, brother, your heart and
mine have not yet had a secret that they could not whisper to each
other!”

“Give care the whip, sister,” said Henry, like a young gallant,
“it belongs to the bat family and should not fly in day-time.

Farewell for the next two hours!” and saying these words the
sprightly youth kissed his hand, and, with an alert step, left the
room.

Mildred now retired to prepare for the interview with her father.