University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

While this conversation was going on, the arms
had been all examined, loaded, and ranged against
the wall, and due portions of powder and ball allotted
to each firelock. Their work being nearly completed,
Douglas was dispatched with some message
to his uncle. As he descended the stairs, he heard,
not without a smile, the quick impatient step of Arthur,
pacing to and fro, the length of a passage leading
from the front door through the building. Arthur
was just turning at the end next to the door,
when a rap on the knocker arrested him. The door
was instantly opened, and he was heard to ask some
one to walk in. It was night, and the passage was
dark. Arthur conducted the stranger to the door of
his uncle's study, which was his common reception
room, ushered him in, drew back, and having closed
the door behind him, resumed his musing promenade.

Douglas went on, suspecting nothing. He was
not aware that the servants had been cautioned
against admitting strangers; and poor Arthur was
not au fait to what was passing. He entered the
room. His uncle had risen from his chair in the
corner farthest from the door, and was standing behind
a large table, at which he usually wrote. He
heard him say: “Please to be seated, sir,” in a
voice between compliment and command, and with
a countenance in which courtesy and fierceness were
strangely blended. As the stranger, not regarding
this stern invitation, continued to advance, the glare
of the old man's eye became fearful, and he laid his
hand on a pistol which lay on the table before him.
“Stand back, sir,” said he, in a low and resolute
tone. “Stand back, on your life.”

The stranger wore a long surtout, in which Douglas,
dazzled by coming into the light, did not at first
discover the usual characteristics of an officer's undress.
It was thrown open in front, and the badges
of his rank were displayed to Mr. Trevor, who stood
before him. He was arrested by Mr. Trevor's startling
words and gesture, and was beginning to
speak, when Douglas exclaimed: “What does this
mean?”

The stranger turned, extended both his arms, and
Douglas rushed into them.

“My dear Trevor!” “My dear Whiting!” were

the mutual exclamations of two young men, who had
long been to each other as brothers.

“To what on earth,” asked Douglas, “do I owe
this pleasure?”

“I come,” said the other, with a melancholy
smile, and in the kindest tone, while he still held
the hand of Douglas, “to make you prisoner.”

Douglas started violently, and tried to disengage
his hand; but the other held him firmly and went
on: “Be calm, my dear fellow. I am your friend
as ever, but yet I do not jest. You are my prisoner,
on the absurd charge of high treason against
the United States. My warrant is against you and
your uncle. As it was thought a military force
might be wanted to support the arrest, I volunteered
myself to receive a deputation from the marshal,
that I might shield you both from any indignity.
You, on your part, I am sure, will do nothing to
make my task more painful than it is. Is not that
gentleman—bless me! where is he? Was not
that Mr. Bernard Trevor who just left the room?”

“I am Mr. Bernard Trevor,” said a voice behind.
Whiting turned again, and saw Mr. Trevor
standing where he had been before. He now observed
that there was a door beside him, at which
he had stepped out and returned. “I am Mr. Bernard
Trevor, sir, and am sorry that I cannot welcome,
as I would, the friend of my nephew. You see that
I have no mind to leave the room, and I therefore

hope you will content yourself to accept my invitation
to be seated. You say that you wish to shield
me from indignity. Of course, you will not unnecessarily
offer what I shall feel as such. The hand
of authority must not be laid on me.”

“I shall gladly dispense with an unpleasant form,
sir,” said Whiting, “and I trust I shall have the
satisfaction of convincing you that my errand,
though painful to all of us, is an errand of friendship.”

“I have no doubt of it, sir. I have heard of you
from my nephew, and from under your own hand, in
terms that give full assurance of that. I shall be
happy, therefore, to do by you all the duties of hospitality.
I merely ask of you to give your word of
honor, that, while charged with your present functions,
you will be careful not to touch my person.”

“I should be most happy,” said the young man,
“to take by the hand one whom I so highly respect,
but I find I must forego that pleasure; and I give
the required pledge most cheerfully.”

The courteous old gentleman now summoned
Tom, and ordered some refreshment for his guest;
then throwing into his manner all the frank courtesy
of a polished Virginian, he led the way in a desultory
conversation on all sorts of indifferent subjects. Half
an hour passed in this way, when Tom appeared and
summoned the gentlemen to supper.

“I fear,” said Whiting, “I am abusing my authority
over my poor fellows without. I have a sergeant
and half a dozen men waiting at the gate,
on whose behalf I would fain invoke your hospitality.
But it would be much more agreeable to me,
if you and my friend Douglas will pass your words
that their aid shall not be necessary, and permit me
to order them back to the next public house.”

“I am sorry to say,” replied Mr. Trevor, “that
I cannot do either; but I pray you to postpone the
discussion until after supper.”

“How, sir?” exclaimed Whiting. “You surely
do mean to try to escape me.”

“Nothing is farther from my thoughts, sir,” said
the old man, with a proud smile, “than to try to
escape you, or permit you to escape me.”

“To escape you, sir! What do you mean?” asked
Whiting.

“I mean not to wound your ear with a word I
would not have endured to have applied to myself.
I will not say that you are my prisoner; but I will say
that we will leave this house as free as you entered
it. Come, my dear sir, while I endeavor to requite
your courtesy, permit me also to appropriate your
words, and say, as you said to Douglas, that I trust
you will not render it necessary to avail ourselves of
our superior force.”

“I am not sure you possess that superiority,” said
Whiting; “I have a strong guard without.”

“But they are without, and you are within. Besides,
you will be readily excused from availing yourself
of them, when it is known that they are prisoners,
in close custody.”

“Prisoners!” exclaimed Whiting. “To whom?”

“To my negroes,” said Mr. Trevor.

“Regular soldiers prisoners to negroes!” said
Whiting, in amazement. “It is not credible; and
you manifestly speak by conjecture, as you have had
no means of communicating with your friends without.”

“I am not in the habit, young gentleman,” said
Mr. Trevor, in a tone of grave rebuke, “of speaking
positively, when I speak by conjecture. My
orders were, that I should not be called to supper
until they were secured. As to the strangeness of
the affair,” continued he, resuming his cheerful and
good-humored smile, “think nothing of that. Remember
that night is what the negroes call `their time
of day.' The eagle is no match for the owl in the
dark. The thing is as I tell you; so make yourself
easy, and let me have the pleasure of doing the duties
of hospitality by my nephew's friend. You shall not
be unnecessarily detained. We must ask the pleasure
of your company for a three hours' ride across the
line in the morning. I will there give you a clear
acquittance against all the responsibility you may
have incurred, for what you have done, or left undone;

and, as soon as you return, to restrain your men
from acts of license, they shall be given up to you.”

There was no remonstrating against this arrangement;
and Lieutenant Whiting, putting the best face
he could on the matter, permitted himself to be conducted
to supper.

At the head of the supper table stood, as usual,
Mrs. Trevor. She seemed some six inches higher
than common, her cheek flushed, her nostril spread,
her eye beaming; yet with all her high feelings subdued
to the duties of hospitality and courtesy. She
met and returned the salutation of Whiting with the
stately grace of a high-bred lady, and then her eye
glanced to her husband with a look of irrepressible
pride. His glance answered it, and, as they stood
for a moment facing each other at the opposite ends
of the table, Whiting felt a sense of admiring awe,
such as the presence of majesty in full court had
never inspired. But this feeling, in a moment, passed
away, with its cause. The urbanity of the gentleman
and the suavity of the lady soon removed all
the painfulness of constraint, and the evening passed
as it should pass between persons who in heart
were friends.

Neither Mr. B— nor Arthur made their appearance.
The girls, indeed, were present. The air
and manner of Delia reflected those of her mother.
Virginia looked a little alarmed, and Lucia blushing,
tender, and abstracted. The interest of the realities

that surrounded her could not quite dispel the visions
of excited fancy.

With these exceptions, which a stranger would not
observe, every thing passed as in the company of an
invited and cherished guest, and Whiting could not
be sorry, at heart, that he had been baffled in his
attempt to disturb so sweet a domestic party. The
evening wore away not unpleasantly, and he retired
to rest in the same room with Douglas, to guard him,
or be guarded by him, according as it suited his
fancy to consider himself or his friend as the other's
prisoner.

A word of explanation is due on the subject of
the captive guard, which will be given in the next
chapter.