University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.

—Rogers.

On the following day Mildred confined herself to her chamber.
She had passed a sleepless night, and the morning found her a
pale, anxious, and distressed watcher of the slow approach of light.
Her thoughts were busy with the fate of Butler. This topic over-whelmed
all other cares, and struck deep and unmitigated
anguish into her mind. The hints that had been so indiscreetly
dropped by her father, more than if the whole tale had been told,
had worked upon her imagination, and conjured up to her apprehension
the certain destruction of her lover. In her interview
with Lindsay, her emotions had been controlled by the extreme
difficulty of her situation. The fear of rousing in her father that
deep and solemn tone of passion, which had now become the
infirmity of his mind, and almost threatened to “deprive his
sovereignty of reason,” and of which she was painfully aware, had
subdued the strength of her own feelings—so far, at least, as to
inculcate a more seeming moderation than, in other circumstances,
she could have exhibited. It was the struggle between filial affection
and duty on the one side, and an ardent, though tremblingly
acknowledged, attachment on the other. The course that she had
previously determined to pursue, in reference to the many earnest
and assiduous efforts of Lindsay to persuade her from her love,
was steadily to persevere in the open acknowledgment of her
plighted vow, and endeavor to win her father's favor by a calm
and gentle expostulation; or to seek, in a respectful silence, the
means of averting the occasion of that gusty and moody outbreak

of temper, which the peculiar exacerbation of his mind was apt to
make frequent. She would have resorted to this silence in the
late communion with Lindsay, if he had not, with an unusual
bitterness, denounced Arthur Butler as the author of a hateful
crime; a crime which she knew had been foully insinuated against
him by a man of whose subtle wickedness she was persuaded,
and whom, of all others, she most heartily execrated. She was,
therefore, led indignantly, though temperately, to repel the slander
by which her father's hatred had been artfully envenomed. But
when, in the fierce fervor of his displeasure, Lindsay had announced
to her the danger that had befallen Butler, the disclosure opened
to her mind a world of misery. The late silence of her lover
had already alarmed her fears, and this announcement suggested
the worst of the many anxious conjectures which her brooding
spirit had imagined as the cause of that absence of tidings. Her
emotions upon this disclosure were those of a bursting heart
that dared not trust itself with words; and when her father, seeing
the unlooked-for mischief he had done, sought to temper his
speech, and retract some of the harshness of his communication,
by an explanation, the only effect was, for the moment, to take
off the edge of her keenest grief. But when she left his presence,
and recovered herself sufficiently to recall all that had
passed, the dreadful thought of disaster to Butler, came back
upon her imagination with all the horrors which a fond heart
could summon around it. A weary hour was spent in sobs and
tears; and it was only by the blandishments of her brother
Henry's kind and earnest sympathy, when the youth found her in
the parlor thus whelmed in sorrow, and by his manly and
cheering reckoning of the many chances of safety that attend the
footsteps of a prudent and a brave man, that she began to regain
that resolute equanimity that was a natural and even predominating
attribute of her character.

When Lindsay came into the parlor with the tidings of the
victory at Camden, such was the state in which he found her; and
whilst he announced to her that event which had given him so
much joy, he was not unheedful of the pang he had previously
inflicted, and now endeavored to make amends by throwing in
some apparently casual, though intentional, reference to the condition

of Butler, who, he doubted not, would now be disposed of on
easy terms. “Perhaps,” he continued, “as the war was drawing
to a close, and the royal elemency had been singularly considerate
of the mistaken men who had taken arms against their king, he
would in a little while be discharged on his parole.” This
reluctant and forced crumb of comfort fell before one who had but
little appetite to take it, and Mildred received it only in cold silence.
Henry, however, made better use of the event, and by that assiduity
which, in true and gentle friendships, never wearies, and never
misses its aim, when that aim is to revive a sinking hope, succeeded
in lifting both his father and sister into a kindlier climate of
feeling. But solitude and her pillow ravelled all this work of
charity. Fancy, that stirring tormentor of acute minds, summoned
up all its phantoms to Mildred's waking fears, and the night was
passed by her as by one who could not be comforted. In the morning
she was ill, and therefore, as I have said, remained in her chamber.

Lindsay, ever solicitous for the happiness of his children, and
keenly sensitive to whatever gave them pain, now that the turbid
violence of his passion had subsided into a clearer and calmer
medium, applied himself by every art which parental fondness could
supply, to mitigate the suffering of his daughter. Like a man who,
in a reckless and ungoverned moment, having done an injury which
his heart revolts at, and having leisure to contemplate the wrong
he has inflicted, hastens to administer comfort with an alacrity
which even outruns the suggestions of ordinary affection, so did he
now betake himself to Mildred's chamber, and, with sentiments of
mixed alarm and contrition, seek her forgiveness for what he
acknowledged a rash and unbecoming assault upon her feelings.

His soothing did not reach the disease. They could give her no
assurance of Butler's safety; and on that point alone all her
anguish turned. “My dear, dear father,” she said, with a feeble
and dejected voice, “how do you wrong me, by supposing I could
harbor a sentiment that might cause me to doubt the love I bear
you! I know and revere the purity of your nature, and need no
assurance from you that your affection itself has kindled up this
warmth of temper. But you have opened a fountain of bitterness
upon my feelings,” she added, sobbing vehemently, “in what you
have divulged relating to a man you loathe, and one, dear father

—take it from me now, as the expression of a sacred duty—one
that I must ever love. Call it fate—call it infatuation; say that it
does not befit my womanly reserve to avow it—but if misfortune
and death have fallen upon the head of Arthur Butler, there is
that bond between us, that I must die. Oh, father—”

As Mildred pronounced these words she had gradually raised
herself into a sitting posture in her bed, and, at the conclusion, fell
back exhausted upon her pillow. The enthusiasm, the violence
and the intensity of her emotions had overborne her strength, and
for some moments she lay incapable of speech.

“Mildred, Mildred! daughter!” exclaimed Lindsay, in alarm, “I
forgive you, my child. Great heaven, if this should be too much
for her sensitive nature, and she should die before my eyes! Dear
Mildred,” he said in a softer accent, as he kissed her pale forehead,
“but look up, and never, never more will I oppose your wish.”

“Father,” she uttered, in a scarce audible whisper.

“Thank God, she revives! Forbear to speak, my love;
that is enough. Do not exhaust your strength by another
effort.”

“Father!” she repeated in a firmer accent.

“There, there, my child,” continued Lindsay, fanning the air
before her face with his hand.

“Father,” again uttered Mildred, “tell me of Arthur.”

“He is safe, my love—and thou shalt yet be happy. Daughter
—no more; compose yourself—nor attempt again to speak.” And
saying these words, Lindsay stole out of the chamber and summoned
one of the domestics to administer a cordial to the exhausted
patient; and then gave orders that she should be left to
recruit her strength by sleep.

Mildred by degrees revived. Jaded by mental affliction, she had
sunk into repose; and when another morning arrived, the lustre
had returned to her eye, and her recovery was already well advanced.
She did not yet venture from her chamber, but she was
able to leave her bed and take the fresh air at her window.

Whilst she sat in the loose robe of an invalid, towards noon,
looking out upon the green forest and smiling fields around her,
with Henry close by her side, seeking to soothe and amuse her
mind, they were enabled to descry a horseman, attended by a

single servant, making his way up the hill from the ford, by the
road that led directly to the door.

“As I live, sister,” ejaculated Henry, “there is Tyrrel, covered
with dust, and his horse all but worn down by travel.”

“Heaven forbid that it should be Tyrrel indeed!” said Mildred,
growing paler, and trembling as she spoke. “Oh, what ill fortune
brings him hither?”

“I'll be bound,” replied Henry, “that he comes with a whole
budget of lies and foul thoughts. He has a knavish look, sister,
and has been hatching mischief with every step of his horse. I,
for one, will not see him; unless I can't help it. And you, sister,
have an excuse to keep your room: so, he is like to have cold
comfort here, with his rascally news of victory. We shall hear
enough of Camden now. By-the-by, sister, I should like much to
see our account of that business. I would bet it gives another
face to the matter. These Tories do so bespatter his lordship with
praises, and tell such improbable things about their victories! I
will not see Tyrrel, that's flat.”

“Nay, brother, not so fast. You must see him, for my sake.
He has something to tell of Arthur. Persuade my father to ask
him: tell him, if need be, that I requested this. And, Henry, if
he says that Arthur is safe and well, if he has heard anything of
him, knows anything of him, fly to and tell me it all. And, remember,
brother,” she said earnestly, “tell me all—whether it be good
or bad.”

“This is a new view of the case,” said Henry. “Mildred, you
are a wise woman, and think more ahead than I do. I did not
reflect that this fellow might know something of Major Butler,
though I am pretty sure he kept as clear of the major as a clean
pair of heels would allow him. And, moreover, I take upon me
to say, that he will bring as little good news of ourArthur in this direction,
as he ever did of a good act in his life. But I will spy him out,
sister, and report like a—like a—forty-two pounder, or the dispatch
of a general who has won a fight. So, adieu, sister.”

By the time that Henry had reached the porch, Tyrrel was
already there. He had dismounted, and his weary steed stood
panting on the grave walk, while the servant stripped him of
his baggage.

“Well met, good master Henry!” said Tyrrel approaching, and
offering the youth his hand, “I am somewhat of a soiled traveller,
you see. Is your father at home? And your sister, how is she?”

“My father is at home,” replied Henry, dropping the proffered
hand of the visitor, almost as soon as it had touched his own. “I
will send him to you, sir.”

“But you have not asked me the news, Henry,” said Tyrrel,
“and, seeing that I have come from the very theatre of war, I
could tell you something good.”

“I have heard my father speak of your good news,” answered
Henry, carelessly, “I do not serve under the same colors with
you, sir.”

And the youth left the porch to announce the arrival of the
traveller to Lindsay.

“There spoke the rebel Mildred,” muttered Tyrrel, as Henry
left his presence.

In an instant, Lindsay hastened from the library and received
his guest with a warm welcome.

The first cares of his reception, and some necessary order relating
to his comfort, being despatched, Tyrrel began to disburden
himself of his stock of particulars relating to the great and important
movements of the opposing armies in the south. He had
left Cornwallis a few days after the battle, and had travelled with
post haste to Virginia, on a leave of absence. He described minutely
the state of things consequent upon the recent victory; and it
was with a tone of triumphant exultation that he frequently
appealed to his predictions as to the course of events, when last at
the Dove Cote. The conversation soon became too confidential
for the presence even of Henry, who sat greedily devouring every
word that fell from the lips of the narrator, and the further interview
was transferred to the library.

Henry hastened back to Mildred.

“The fellow is so full of politics, sister,” said the eager scout,
“that he has not dropped one solitary word about Butler. He
talks of the province being brought back to a sense of its duty,
and public sentiment putting an end to this unnatural war forsooth!
And his majesty reaping fresh laurels on the fields of Virginia!
Let his majesty put in his sickle here—he shall reap as fine a

crop of briers to bind round his brow, as ever grew in a fence-corner!
But Butler! Oh, no, he has nothing to say of Butler.
He is a cunning man, sister, and keeps out of the major's way,
take my word for that.”

“Brother, get you again to my father, and say to him that I
desire to know what tidings Mr. Tyrrel brings us. Say it in his
ear privately, Henry.”

The young emissary again took his leave, and, without apology,
entered the library.

Mildred, in the meantime, restless and impatient, applied herself
to the duties of the toilet, and, with the assistance of her maid,
was soon in a condition to leave her chamber. She had, almost
unwittingly, and in obedience to her engrossing wish to know
something of Butler, made these preparations to appear in the
parlor, without thinking of her repugnance to meet Tyrrel. And
now, when she was on the point of going forth, her resolve changed,
and she moved through the chamber like a perturbed spirt,
anxiously waiting the return of Henry. She walked to the window,
whence, looking out towards the terrace she perceived that
her father and his guest had strolled out upon the lawn, where they
were moving forward at a slow pace, whilst their gesticulations
showed that they were engaged in an earnest conference.

Henry's footsteps at the same moment were heard traversing
the long passage, and Mildred, no longer able to restrain her
eagerness, hastily left her room and met her brother, with whom
she returned to the parlor.

“My news, upon the whole, is good,” said Henry, as he put his
arm round Mildred's waist. “When I entered the library, and took
a seat by my father, he suddenly broke up some long talk that
was going on, in which he looked very grave, and, as if he knew
what I came for—he is an excellent, kind father, sister, for all his
moping and sad humors, and loves both you and me.”

“He does, Henry, and we must never forget it.”

“I would fight for him to the very death, Mildred. So, seeing
that I looked as if you had sent me to him, he turned, in a kind
of careless way, and asked Tyrrel if he had heard anything lately
of Butler.”

“Well—brother.”

“`I scarce thought to mention it, answered Tyrrel, `but the
man'—think of that way of speaking of Major Butler—`the man
had the temerity to push himself amongst the loyal troops, and
was made a prisoner; he was suspected to be a spy, and there was,
as I have understood, an idea of trying him by court-martial for
it, and for other misdemeanors, of which I wrote you some particulars.
I believe indeed, he was tried, and would, perhaps, have
been s ot.”

“Oh, heaven! brother, can this be true?” exclaimed Mildred,
as the color deserted her cheek.

“I give you exactly Tyrrel's words,” replied Henry, “but the
court were attacked, said he, by some bands of Whigs who stole a
march upon them.”

“And Arthur escaped? Kind heaven, I thank thee!” almost
screamed Mildred, as she clasped her hands together.

“So Tyrrel thinks,” continued Henry. “At all events they did
not shoot him, like a pack of cowardly knaves as they were. And
as some Tory prisoners were taken and dragged away by our
good friend General Sumpter, who was the man, Tyrrel says, that
set upon them, it is considered good policy—these were his words,
sister—to spare the unnecessary effusion of blood on both sides.
And then my father asked Tyrrel if Cornwallis knew of these
doings, and he answered, not—that it was the indiscreet act of some
mountain boys, who were in the habit of burning and slaying,
against the wish of his Lordship: that the regular officers disapprove
of harsh measures, and that peace now reigns all through
the province.”

“When they make a desert of the land, they call it peace,” said
Mildred thoughtfully, quoting a translation of the beautiful passage
of Tacitus. “This war is a dreadful trade.”

“For us, sister, who stay at home,” replied Henry. “But God
is good to us, and will favor the right, and will protect the brave
men who draw their swords to maintain it.”

“From treachery, ambuscade, and privy murder—I thank you,
brother, for that word. Heaven shield us, and those we love!
But these are fearful times.”