 | CHAPTER III. Westward ho! |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
A half-confidence is worse than none, which is not the
case with half a loaf of bread.
Much of the succeeding night was passed by
Virginia in wakeful anxiety. She did not regret
the engagement just entered into, but it weighed
heavily on her heart. There was a fearful responsibility
attending it, a risk so much greater
than even that which ever accompanies the
surrender of our happiness to the keeping of
another, that she almost shuddered when it presented
itself in the solitude of reflection and
darkness. Yet there was something of touching
and exquisite tenderness in the idea of
watching over the welfare of one so circumstanced
as Rainsford; a thrilling gratification
in the hope that he might yet, under her gentle
pilotage, steer clear of the rock on which his
family had all been wrecked, one after the
other. She resolved to watch over him, as a
mother over a sickly child; to devote herself
as far as might be, to his amusement; and to
lure him, if possible, from his bitter customary
contemplations, by holding up a glass which
should reflect the future in fairer and more
alluring colours.
When she met the family in the morning, the
colonel saluted her, as usual, with a kiss, but
not precisely such a kiss as she had been accustomed
in the timid consciousness with which
Virginia poured out the tea, that she had something
on her mind she did not dare to disclose.
“But she will tell it the first opportunity,”
thought the good mother; “for she has never
yet had any secrets from me.” Virginia, however,
did not tell her the first opportunity, and
her maternal anxiety was awakened to a watchfulness
she never thought necessary before.
Rainsford now visited more frequently, and
it was plain to Virginia that the hope which
animated him had a most favourable influence
on his mind and spirits. He indulged himself
in occasional humorous sallies, displayed various
indications of gentlemanly accomplishments,
which hitherto he had not the heart to
draw forth, and sometimes spread his wings in
such almost fearful flights of fancy, that he
seemed to be just hovering over the confines of
rational perception. She shuddered,she thrilled,
and she admired; but it was with that feeling
with which we behold the seaboy toppling high
on the topgallant-mast in a tempest, or the gambols
of a thoughtless child on the verge of a
precipice. In a little time, however, the perpetual
watchfulness she practised gradually produced
a feeling in the tender and virtuous heart
of Virginia, which partook almost equally of the
warmth of a mistress, the untiring, sleepless,
holy, guardian care of a mother. It could
hardly be called love that she felt; there was
too great an infusion of anxiety, of care; too
much of solemnity to admit of the buoyant
bubbles which float on the surface of the sweetest
form its only ingredients.
The colonel and Mrs. Dangerfield could not
but notice what was passing; and though the
supervision of parents over their children, more
especially their daughters, is not so rigid and
watchful in this country, nor, happily for us,
so necessary, as in many others, still the former
could not refrain from occasional hints, nay, surmises,
about young ladies having their own secrets,
and being too wise to consult their parents
on the most important occasions of their lives.
The mother said nothing; but in the language
of the most beautiful, the most natural, and the
most affecting of all ballads ever written, Virginia
might have said, as she felt,—
“She look'd in my face, till I thought my heart would break.”
day more and more painful, and she at length
threw herself on the generosity of Rainsford, to
be relieved from her obligation of secrecy.
“I cannot live in this way much longer. I
have never before had a secret from my parents,
and the thought of living every day in their
sight, sharing their affections, receiving their
bounty, and having that in my heart which I
dare not, or at least am not permitted, to disclose,
sickens me of my life. I cannot look
them in the face without a consciousness that
sinks my eyes to the ground, and they know it.
I can disclose our engagement without—without
betraying your—the reasons for postponing
—I—I—you know what I wish to say, though
I cannot say it.”
Rainsford struggled with his feelings for a
while, and then answered,—
“Virginia, I will not be the cause of more
suffering to your gentle spirit than must be the
inevitable result of our engagement, for a time
at least, until—until my fate is decided. But
consider, dearest girl, that unless you tell all,
you will still have a secret—and such a secret!”
“Yes, but my heart will be relieved from its
heaviest burthen, a wilful, unnecessary denial
of confidence. Cannot I tell my secret without
exposing yours?”
Again Rainsford struggled with his insuperable
horror of disclosing, or consenting to any
measure that might possibly lead to a disclosure
of his family history. But the generosity of
his nature at length overcame the selfish feeling,
and he consented that she should tell all,
and in her own way. “But,” added he, “I foresee
that it will lead to our everlasting separation.”
Virginia sought her mother, sat down to her
sewing, made sad work of it, pricked her finger,
and screamed a little, as young ladies are wont.
“What is the matter?” asked the old lady,
pushing her spectacles up on her forehead.
“My dear mother, I have a secret to tell you.
O dear, how I have pricked my finger!”
“Is that your great secret, Virginia?”
“No, indeed, mother; but—but what do you
think of Mr. Rainsford? Dear me, how my
finger bleeds!”
“Why, I think Mr. Rainsford is in love with
Virginia Dangerfield, and that she is not much
behindhand with him.”
“Lord, mother, how can you talk so? But
what a fool I am!” She approached her mother,
threw her arms about her neck, kissed her, and
wept. But soon drying her tears, she began,
with the dignified firmness of a virtuous maid,
conscious that in disclosing the inmost secrets
of her soul she had no occasion to blush or be
ashamed. Frankly and fairly she told her engagement;
but at the same time, being determined
not to betray the history confided to her
by Rainsford, unless it should become absolutely
necessary to her peace of mind, she merely
stated that their union was not to take place
until the expiration of a certain period, and not
then without the entire approbation of her parents.
“A certain period! and how long first, Virginia?”
“Why, that—that depends on circumstances
beyond Mr. Rainsford's control at present.”
“And what are they, my daughter?”
“I cannot disclose them, dear madam, as yet.”
“You say—that is, he says, he is wealthy,
of age, his own master; why should he wish to
delay his marriage to an indefinite period?”
“That is a secret.”
“I don't like secrets, my dear, nor postponements,
without some good, sufficient, avowed
reasons. I have no objection to Mr. Rainsford;
indeed, since the obligation he conferred upon
us all, I have wished that he might like you,
and you him. But I cannot help thinking his
conduct somewhat singular. Do you know his
reasons, Virginia?”
“I do.”
“And you dare not disclose them? Perhaps
he will not permit you?”
“He has consented, if it should be absolutely
necessary. But I—I confess, my dear mother,
I had rather, and so would he, that they should
be secret for a time. One day you shall know
all. Either I will tell you, or—or circumstances
will disclose it.” And she sighed at the possibility
that the latter might come to pass.
Mrs. Dangerfield shook her head.
“Virginia, I dislike the whole course of your
wooing. Deceit is too often at the bottom of
mystery. I cannot help suspecting that he
is playing on the simplicity of your character,
if not betraying the tenderness of your
affections.”
“Oh! no, indeed, mother; if you only knew
all you would pity him, as I do.” And she cast
herself on the mother's bosom, and sobbed as
if her heart would break the while.
“Forgive me, dear mother!”
“I do forgive you, Virginia; but your father
must know all this; and now I think of it, he
has not for a long time past appeared to treat
Mr. Rainsford as a man like him seems to have
a right to be treated by one on whom he has
conferred so great an obligation. Have you
any objection I should tell him?”
“None; I wished you to do so; and I should
have told you all that you now know some time
ago, but that Mr. Rainsford exacted a promise
of secrecy, from which he only just now released
me.”
“Again, another secret!” exclaimed Mrs. Dangerfield,
and she remained musing for some
we shall see what he thinks of all this. Had
you rather remain or retire while we talk over
the subject?”
“I think I'd better retire.” Virginia went towards
the door, but returned, and, taking her
mother's hand, looked up in her face with a
bewitching, beseeching eye. “You are not angry
with me, dear mother?”
“No, indeed I am not, Virginia.” She kissed
her affectionately, and they separated.
The colonel received the communications of
Mrs. Dangerfield with rather a bad grace. There
was something mysterious about Rainsford. He
had come among them without letters; and
though the hospitable habits of Kentucky rendered
them quite unnecessary in ordinary cases,
still he must know more of him before he consented
to give him his daughter. It was true
he had saved her life, and that entailed upon
them everlasting gratitude; but still this was
not a sufficient guarantee to his fortune and
character. His professed object in coming here
was to purchase and settle; yet he seemed to
have neither inclination, nor habits, nor any
thing else necessary to the success of such a
plan; nay, he appeared to have almost forgotten
that he ever entertained it. Besides, from
something he had learned a good while ago
of Zeno Paddock, he could not help sometimes
entertaining a vague suspicion, which, were it
not for the unspeakable benefit he had conferred
on them all, would have caused him, Colonel
Dangerfield, to institute an inquiry, which, if
not properly answered, would have led to a
more. He did not feel himself at liberty to
state what Zeno had told him. In the first
place, it might not be true, for the man was
a great busybody, and did not always talk
gospel; and in the second place, if true, it only
amounted to a surmise rather than an absolute
ground of suspicion.
“I must know more of this mysterious young
man, whom, however, I can't help liking for his
intelligence and amiable qualities, independently
of the obligations of gratitude. My friendship
is, and my purse would be, at his service if he
required it; but he has a command of large
funds, I know; yet, when it comes to giving
away my only daughter, it is another affair,
and requires every degree of rational circumspection.
I shall not fail to take advantage of
the first opportunity that presents itself to ask
him some questions about himself and his
family, which I have never done before, because
I don't think it becoming in a gentleman born
in Old Virginia, and residing in Kentucky, to
be inquisitive about a guest. It looks as if he
was not welcome for himself alone, as a fellow-creature,
as a mere man. But this is another
affair. I have sufficient confidence in Virginia
not to forbid their intercourse or break their
engagement; but the marriage shall never take
place with my consent till I know who Mr.
Rainsford is, whence he comes, what is his family,
and, above all, what is his character. In
the mean time I shall have an eye upon him,
though I confess it goes to my conscience to
suspect a man for an instant without telling
of vindicating himself.”
The reader will perhaps observe a change in
the character and style of Colonel Dangerfield
when he compares his conversation and conduct
with certain dialogues and incidents recorded
in the commencement of our story. It
is even so. Change of situation, duties, and
modes of life do not make less impression on
the mind than they do on the body. From the
moment the colonel parted with his estate, his
neighbours, and above all with Barebones, and
dashed into the wilderness, his character resumed
that native sagacity and vigour which
wealth, indulgence, and, above all, idleness,
had lulled to sleep with their syren lullabies.
His mind rose with the exigences of the
occasion; and whether as a soldier braving the
dangers and toils of a forest war, a magistrate
ruling the wild region around him more by the
force of his personal authority than that of the
laws, a father instructing or providing for the
wants of his children, or a husband fulfilling
the duties of a household divinity, he was
equally an example. His old friends on the
borders of James River would hardly have
known him now; and we ourselves, intimate
as we were with this worthy gentleman, cannot
help sometimes almost doubting his identity.
| CHAPTER III. Westward ho! | |