University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Virginia rose the next morning with better spirits.
Her “bosom's lord” sat somewhat lightlier upon its
throne. Sleep had refreshed and strengthened her,
and those dreams, those sweet, vague, twilight fancies
that came so commended to her heart by their
association with its own, as yet, unexpressed desires,
had given a warmer glow to her cheek than
it wore on the preceding evening. How soon youth
relieves itself from the pressure and weight of most
afflictions—with what elasticity it springs from the
earth, and shakes off the dew and the despondency,
and laughs aloud in the consciousness of a new
birth, as it prepares, like the swift arising sun, to set
forth on the glorious race of life. Sorrow to the
young is only one of those shadows that momentarily
cloud its skies. Wait but the morrow—nay,
wait but a single hour,—and the cloud has passed
away, the sun resumes his empire of light and
laughter and universal dominion; the stars sing out
a fresher song of rejoicing at the coming of the
moon-browed night; and the recollection of storm
passes away from the reviving spirit with the succeeding
glories of every changing moment. True

though it be, that memory may preserve the pain—
nay, the pain itself may still lurk within the heart,
—and yet, it is as a memory only—there is no
venom in the wound. The pure of heart sooner
than any other, relieve themselves from the heavier
pressure of their burdens. Like Christian in Bunyan,
every additional step, advancing up the hills of virtue,
diminishes the weight of that bundle which the
best of us are still compelled to carry.

The cheerfulness of the maiden was increased as
she found an improvement in her father's mood and
bearing. He had resumed the old smiles which he
was accustomed to wear in those more palmy days
of the heart to all parties, when fortune smiled upon
his household, and indiscretion had not as yet prepared
the way for guilt. The gloomy humours,
which had made contact with him for the last few
weeks unpleasant, even to a daughter so dutiful as
Virginia, were seemingly all dissipated; and before
breakfast was well over, the resumption of old aspects
in the little family, gradually had the effect of
softening what was strange, and providing what
was deficient, in their place of forest retreat. The
cares of the new household—the work of order—
occupied the morning, and employment is a choice
morality, as it promotes content. The furniture was
to be arranged; the pictures to be hung; the curtains
raised; the carpets laid, and a thousand little
matters to be attended to, which employed all parties,
and prevented that brooding gnawing thought,
which is quite as frequently the growth of the body's
idleness as of the mind's activity. Then, there was
the little garden to be looked at, and plans were to
be hit upon for disposing of its solid squares, and
cutting into angles, crescents, stars and circles, its
dead and uniform levels. To survey the little farm
in its whole extent, was the business of an hour, and

dinner time approached with a rapidity which was
unaccountable to all. After dinner the carriage
was prepared for a drive about the environs of Lucchesa,
and in a better mood for appreciating the
beauty of rural objects than she had been for weeks
before, Virginia took her seat in the airy vehicle,
from which the travelling top had been removed,
and prepared, with the more easily delighted Louisa,
to see all the charms of scenery of which her father's
taste and previous knowledge of the region,
made him a very able cicerone.

We have already afforded to the reader a brief
and passing glimpse of Lucchesa, on the approach
of Vernon to that lovely village. It will not surely
be supposed necessary that we should endeavour to
dilate upon this portion of our labours: since, with a
few small and partial exceptions, most country villages
have the same general outlines. Yet, as we
have said before, Lucchesa was a village among a
thousand, and stood almost alone in many respects
among most of the little villages of Mississippi. The
general aspects of a social settlement in countries
purely agricultural, are seldom very pleasing. The
proprietors of the land are better pleased to centre
around themselves, on their own plantations, their
resources and attractions. These persons seldom
dwell in communities, and villages are, accordingly,
with few exceptions, given up to such only as ply
the arts of trade, and subserve, in some central spot,
the wants and wishes of a populous surrounding
country. As this surrounding country is thickly or
sparsely settled,—as it is rich or poor—will be the
moral and social characteristics of the village which
looks to it for support. The occupants are usually
such as need has driven. They are not often natives
of the neighbourhood for which they toil; and until
very lately, but few tradesmen were known in the

southern country, who did not “hail from” New
England or New York. The exceptions to this general
rule were, perhaps, the blacksmith or the
wheelwright. The Yankee adventurer is seldom a
labourer. He is a trader, a tavernkeeper, a tailor,
a pedler—he will do any thing that will enable him
to avoid those heavier toils that call for great muscular
activity and power. He is a jobber, a contriver,
a calculator, an inventor—one of that cunning
class, which, like the fox, takes good care
always to employ another's fingers to draw his nuts
out of the fire.

It demanded brief time for our party to see the
whole extent of the little settlement; and this done,
as the afternoon was only half spent, the ride was
prolonged by a short ramble in the neighbouring
country. They had but a little while returned from
this ride before they were apprised by a talkative
African, who was employed as a sort of gardener,
of the events which had taken place at the tavern—
the arrest of Vernon—his supposed attempt to
escape, and the injuries which he received from the
officers in consequence. The tale did not lose in
the usual exaggerations, nor was it quite so briefly
narrated as it appears in this passage. It might be
easy for us to let Cudjo speak for himself, as it is
so favourite a custom with so many of our authors
to make the negro a conspicuous actor in their
scenes; and we see no good reason why a negro
who speaks better English, and wears breeches,
should not be quite as decent a personage in a modern
novel, as a naked Highlander. Besides, Cudjo
was an actor, and his animated gestures and fitting
action might be a very good lesson to many of
more pretension and a less imposing colour, who
have greater rights and make more use of them to
the great annoyance of deliberative assemblies. He

commenced his story with a serious bluster; something
like the manner of a northwester in its first
approaches. The restraints, self-imposed upon his
manner at first, were only intended to heighten the
Kean-like outbreaks toward the close. He was,
according to the prevailing rules among the stagestricken
heroes, simply reserving his powers for the
fifth act—and when he reached the part where he
proceeded to show the conflict between Vernon and
the officers—when he described their joint rush upon
him and the descending blow of the Irishman's shillelah—he
did it with such terrific truth, that Virginia
screamed aloud, and Mr. Wilson, grasping the
arm of the negro, demanded to know if the youth
was killed. But to this question he could obtain no
satisfactory answer. Cudjo knew, indeed, well
enough, but like a prudent narrator, he drew the
curtain over the scene at that point when the doubt
was most oppressive. He knew no more—he would
tell no more—but confined himself, when more particularly
examined, to simple reiterations of the part
into which he had studiously thrown his greatest
powers; and the renewal of which no persuasion
could move him to forego. He knew his strong
ground, and was resolved to make the most of it;
the more particularly when he found that he had
acquired, as well from the burden of his story as
from his manner of telling it, a fearful interest in the
eyes of his young mistress. The agitation and
alarm of Virginia Wilson were great, but natural
enough; and while her father stood looking with
equal surprise and indecision upon the reiterated
gestures of the slave which were made to supply
those breaks in his story where his language was
imperfect or incomprehensible, she clasped his arm,
motioned his dismissal of the negro, and proceeded,
though trembling with emotions of no ordinary character,
to remind him of the duties which lay before
him.

“You must seek this gentleman, my father. He
has saved us in a moment of great danger, at the
peril of his own life. You can only atone for the
seeming indifference with which you left him, sick
and wounded at Mr. Badger's, by attending to him
now.”

“How attending to him, Virginia? I am no
doctor.”

“Oh, sir!—O, my father!”

“Yes—I don't see, Virginia, what we are to do.”

“Oh, sir, but you cannot help seeing. He is at
this tavern—you know not in what condition. If he
be seriously hurt you must provide the physician,
and bring him to your house.”

“What, here, my child?”

“Yes, sir, here. What can the sick man expect
of comfort in a public tavern—in one where he can
have no attendance?”

“And what attendance can he have here, Virginia,
more than from a physician?”

“Your attendance—mine—Louisa's—the attendance
of a private family having more comforts at
command, and acknowledging a debt of gratitude to
this youth, whose weakness, and sickness, and injuries
may all arise from the very part which he took
in our rescue. He is charged with murder, and
what murder can it be but that of the man whom he
killed in preserving us? It is your duty to preserve,
and to succour, and to defend him. Your evidence,
alone, may save him from the punishment of that
deed, for the justification of which no one can offer
better proof than yourself. Go to him, my father,
bring him to your own house, and see to his injuries.
Our utmost pains will scarcely acquit us of the deep

debt of gratitude we owe him, and for which we
could not even before bestow our thanks.”

We have seen the result of this interview between
the reluctant father, and the resolute and well-minded
daughter. She gained her object, though not without
finding considerable difficulty in the coldness and
the fears of the conscious criminal. The very name
of a sheriff's officer distressed him—the idea of absolute
personal contact with them filled him with apprehensions,
and when Virginia suggested the probable
importance of his testimony in the youth's
defence, the image of the keen-eyed magistrate
looking into his own secret soul, re-awakened the
terrors which beset him on his flight. But the
maiden's mind was too firmly impressed with the
conviction of what was due by her father for himself
and his children to the daring stranger, and she
was too happy, even in spite of the youth's sufferings,
that the chance was afforded them to remove
the impression from his mind, that they—perhaps, if
the truth were properly written, it would read she—
had been ungrateful, in so speedily flying from one
who had done them such good service, without
speaking their acknowledgments—may, without
ministering to those hurts which he had suffered in
their defence. And yet, when her father had departed
on his mission of humanity, her heart began
to tremble with some new misgivings. Had she not
been too urgent in this business—had she not over-stepped
the nice boundaries of maidenly modesty in
pressing for the admission of this young man into
her father's dwelling? Might not the tavern be as
good as any other place for his recovery—as full of
aids and comforts? And, again, what if he were
not a gentleman? A man might be brave and
generous enough to risk his own life for the succour
of a stranger, yet lack all those more estimable

points of character, which would entitle him to the
freedom of a family—to an entrée into its sacred
retreats—to a seat beside its hearth—to the ministering
cares of its daughters. But such was not the
case with Vernon. Her convictions fought earnestly
against this suggestion. Her arguments were such
as, naturally enough, rise uppermost in the mind of
the young, the beautiful, the amiable, and true. He
was himself young, and his face, distinguished by
the clear skin and features of a nice symmetry,
wore an expression too unequivocally noble and
manly, even while his eyes were closed in the
swooning fit which had overcome him during their
brief ride to the house of Badger, to suffer her to
suppose him wanting in those advantages of birth,
education, and a proper taste and character, with
which her hoping fancy had already endowed him.
He, too, must be true and amiable, and with this
satisfactory conclusion to her thoughts and doubts,
it was still surprising to herself why her heart should
so flutter and beat, when she listened to her father's
narrative after his return, and when she knew that
the youth was already an inmate of the house.

But the agitation of her heart passed away when
she was informed of his condition—when she learned
that his hurts rendered it necessary that he should be
kept in a state of the utmost quiet, lest the delirium
which had already shown itself partially in his words
and actions, should be increased to an extent which
might baffle the powers of medicine. It was then
that she became the woman—that she threw off the
enfeebling apprehensions and fancies of the girl, and
following her father to the chamber of the patient
prepared to assist in the labours of the nurse.

The position in which Virginia found herself was
an intoxicating one. The strong man whose gallantry
had saved her father and herself, lay before

her, an unconscious dependent. To her feeble
strength and whispered will, he could oppose
neither strength nor will. She could look upon his
pale face and the subdued and silent features, without
challenging a returning glance. She could hear
the feeble moan and incoherent sentence that fell from
his lips and without being startled by a single consciousness
of the exquisite delicacy of her own position.
While he lay helpless and delirious, her emotions
were all of that serene order which belong to
the undisturbed performance of a single duty. There
was nothing to alarm her sensibilities—nothing to
make her look too narrowly into the propriety of
her position, or the seeming tenderness of that regard
which she persuaded herself, was the due of
gratitude—of humanity—any thing, in short, but the
ministrations of love. The affections of women are
usually unselfish. They love the more profoundly
the more they serve. Their love grows with their
labours—with their toil for the beloved—and, the
idea of all injustice or oppression excluded, their
passion is proportionately increased by their cares.
To be allowed to serve, is with them to love the object
of their devotion. It is for man to show himself
grateful for the service; this, perhaps, in the warmth
of their devoted homage, is the utmost that they ask.
Yet, even when this acknowledgment is withheld,
the greater number of them will still continue the
service. The service itself, to the dependent spirit,
is a joy; and they will ask little more than the vine
that only prays the privilege to be suffered to cling
around the tree. Perhaps the heart of the woman
who has once loved, will only cease to love when it
is denied to cling and to entwine itself. Even
when there is no returning caress, the sufferance of
love will still be a sweet privilege to the very dependent
spirit. How many are there who enjoy no
more than this—how many more are there who
merit, much more than man, that unceasing homage
which they are only suffered to bestow!

It might have been that Virginia Wilson would
have soon forgotten Vernon, had they not a second
time encountered. Love is not a thing of first sight,
though first impressions, confirmed by a subsequent
knowledge of the object, will very commonly ripen
into love. However favourable had been the impressions
made upon Virginia by the appearance of
the handsome stranger, changing scenes, objects,
and circumstances, must soon have erased them, or
subdued the vivid colours in which they were first
made. But the cares of tendance upon the sick-bed
of the youth—the deep and difficult respiration of
his breast, labouring under the fever which assailed
him—his languid but incoherent utterance—the occasional
moan and whisper which escaped his lips, and
those broken words which had a meaning she would
have given worlds to understand—these were all
circumstances which, as they denoted his dependance
upon her, increased her interest in him; and no
hours were more sweet during the time of his illness
than those in which she was suffered to watch beside
his couch. But the crisis was soon over—a
few days effected a favourable change—the returning
consciousness of the patient, in freeing her from
her attendance, deprived her of the sweet privilege
which his situation had afforded; and the languid
eyes of Vernon looked round him vainly and impatiently
for that lovely countenance of which he had
some sweet and partial glimpses in the intervals of
his disease. In place of these he encountered no
forms more interesting than those of Mr. Wilson, or
the little Louisa, or the sturdy Alabamian, or the
more wily Saxon, the outlaw—both of these last
being necessarily admitted to visit at the house of

Wilson, as friends of the invalid. As Vernon grew
better, his anxieties at his situation were renewed
He felt the difficulties in crease of declaring his true
character, as the agent of justice, to his hospitable
entertainer; and the annoying character of this feeling
was not a little heightened as he looked upon the
bewitching grace, and encountered the timid glances
of his lovely daughter. There was another circumstance
that also afflicted him. He could not mistake
the interest with which the keen eyes of Saxon
followed the movements of Virginia Wilson; nor
suppress the involuntary pang with which he listened
to the language of the outlaw, subdued, conciliatory,
yet free and graceful, which he held with her. Saxon,
too, sometimes enjoyed a privilege, which, in his
feeble state, was necessarily denied to him. He
could attend her in those afternoon walks, when the
sun, sinking behind the forests, left only a few glimmering
tokens of his light to soften the scene, and
beguile the musing and melancholy spirit into groves,
which, shady, sweet, and solitary, seemed more than
all other scenes beside, to harmonize kindred spirits,
and bring them into a more near communion with
each other. Vernon, he knew not why himself,
felt uneasy at these rambles. Not that they were
frequent. Had he been a just as well as a close observer,
he would have discovered that, on those evenings
when Saxon returned with the maiden from her
walk, she always came back at a much earlier hour,
and her reserve was no less obvious than the obtrusive
attention of her companion. Could he have
been permitted a glance at them in their rambles, he
would have been as much struck with the cold courtesy
of her tones in replying to her companion, and
the evident unwillingness which she displayed to receive
those thousand little attentions which are so
apt, where the parties incline to each other, to
sweeten the dull ramble, and shorten the prolonged
paths of the forest. But Vernon already watched all
things with eyes readily disposed to see them
through a false medium, and a spirit that conjectured
the worst of all things which it is not permitted
to see. His inability to share in the rambles of the
maiden necessarily increased his apprehensions of
the more fortunate person who happened to be her
companion; and his distrust of the outlaw, which
had been a sort of instinct, making him reluctant to
assimilate with that person from the first, was now
heightened to a feeling of positive dislike, as he contemplated
the superior advantages which he possessed,
and dreaded the events which might spring
out of them. Assuming that the attentions of Saxon
were as grateful to Virginia as they seemed imposing
in his own eyes, he suffered his annoyance to show
itself, sometimes, in a cold glance and colder speech
to the maiden herself, at moments when the jealous
fit was particularly active in his bosom; and it was
only by a strong and resolute exercise of that manly
sense, which was the prevailing characteristic of his
mind, that he could see, and seek to repair by an
immediate change of deportment, the brutality of
which he felt himself guilty. On such occasions her
eyes would sink to the floor—her voice, which had
urged its inquiry in a tremulous tone that might have
conveyed a grateful meaning to the heart of any
lover, not blinded and made obtuse by other and
perverse feelings, would become silent; and she
would seize an early opportunity to retire from the
eyes of all, and in the solitude of her chamber pore
over those mysterious emotions which oppressed
her, without remedy; and wonder at the excitement
in her heart, for which she felt unable to account.
Why had the words of Vernon such power over
her? Why did she shrink from his gentler glances
—why did she suffer at his cold ones? Why was
it such a pleasure to hear that voice, the sounds of
which yet made her tremble? It was not long before
circumstances provided her with a reply.

Meanwhile, Vernon improved hourly, and the
attendance of the physician ceased to be necessary.
The hour was approaching when the officers of the
law would claim their prisoner, though this conviction
was productive of more disquietude in his mind
because of the pleasant communion which it was
destined to disturb, than because of any danger in
which his arrest promised to involve him. That he
should be seriously made to answer for the death of
Horsey, he did not suffer himself to think for an instant;
yet, he did not, because of his confidence in
himself, neglect those duties, the performance of
which arose out of his present situation. He prepared
letters to his friend and patron, Carter, giving
a succinct detail of his wanderings and adventures,
up to the very moment of his writing, omitting no
event which might be held worthy of communication,
excepting such details as belonged to the conferences
which he had had with Badger and Rawlins
on the subject of the banded robbers of the
country. On this head he deemed it prudent to
forbear all remark in a letter which was to be entrusted
to the ordinary post; particularly, indeed,
as Carter was not greatly interested in any such
matters. With respect to the fate of Horsey, he
related all that had reached him and all that he
knew—detailed the chief particulars of their dialogues
where they threw any light upon the purposes
or course of that erratic youth, described the
circumstances under which they parted, and, after
relating the affair of young Mabry, and the assault of
the latter upon himself, suggested a surmise—which
he would yet have willingly foreborne—that this

young man himself might have been the murderer;
for the probabilities strongly inclined to this opinion.
“I know,” he continued—“I know, my dear sir, that
you will not need my solemn assurance,—which I
yet make—that my hands are utterly guiltless of
this young man's death. I trust to make this appear
in my examination before the justice, and I
am scarcely less anxious that you should do your
best to convince his worthy old parents to the same
effect. Next to the pain of this most humiliating
situation in which I find myself, is the deep sorrow
which I should ever feel at incurring, however unjustly,
the suspicions of the good people whose kindness
to me was not the less grateful to my heart, because
it was comparatively unimportant to my interests.
I must pray you then to spare no effort, by
an array of all the favourable facts which you possess,
and a careful display of those arguments which
you understand as well as myself, and which conclusively
establish the folly and impolicy of such a
deed, to acquit me, in their eyes, of the cruel imputation.
I write,” he continued, “from the house of
William Maitland, himself, with whose family I
have been an inmate for the last five days. I am
in part indebted to his hospitable care for my improved
health and recovery from my hurts. As yet
he knows nothing of me, of my connexion with you,
or of my objects. My developement of the latter, in
such a manner as to effect your generous intentions
towards his children—both of whom are females—
and to escape the reproach of requiting good with
evil, shall be my study between this and the period,
when, in compliance with the demands of the officers
of justice, I shall be compelled to leave him.
My position is one of considerable delicacy, and
my course, therefore, must be the result of a calm
and serious consideration.”

Such was a portion of the elaborate letter which
Vernon prepared for the persual of his guardian.
Could it be imputed as insincerity, or an improper
suppression of necessary particulars, that the writer
said not a word more on the subject of those children
of Ellen Taylor, in whom Carter had such a prevailing
interest and to whom he was disposed to exhibit
a degree of generosity no less novel than extreme?
Vernon's own conscience smote him for the suppression
of particulars which he knew must interest
his patron to know; but he strove in vain to overcome
a reluctance, the sources of which he was unwilling
to examine.

He was yet writing, when he heard the fall of a
light footstep passing through the gallery. He knew
the step—and he hurried to the window with a
movement, which, in his feeble state, it required
some effort to make. His eyes followed the slowly
moving form—the form of perfect symmetry—the
movement of perfect grace. Her course lay through
the garden to the shrouding woods beyond it. This
was her accustomed walk. He forgot himself while
he gazed—his thoughts were steeped in the dews of
a most elysian fancy—his worship was oblivious of
all other objects than the one of its adoration. On
a sudden she looked behind her—she looked upward—their
eyes encountered, and then she fled—
fled even as the young fawn, that, wandering forth
from the forest for a single instant, and for the first
time—in that single instant, encounters the glance
of the hunter.