University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

It was now the month of February; and a pleasant
day had tempted our young people to a jaunt
of amusement to the head of the falls. Mr. Baker,
stealing away from his duties as a legislator, was one
of the party. Repulsed by Delia, he was beginning
an attempt on the heart of Virginia, of whose loyalty,
as the daughter of Mr. Hugh Trevor, he could entertain
no doubt.

Here his reception would have been little better
than with the other, had not Virginia been held in
check by a respect for the supposed opinions of her
father. Born at the very moment when the good
old gentleman was in the act of making up his mind
to sacrifice the sovereignty of his native State to the
necessity of preserving the Union, he seemed to seize
on the opportunity of compensating the impiety to
which he felt himself driven, by giving to his infant
daughter the name he had so long cherished and honored.
It was a moment of one of those relentings
of the heart, in which nature asserts her supremacy,

and compels its homage to those whom we have
been accustomed to reverence and obey. If even the
prodigal or the traitor be subject to be so affected,
how much stronger must be such an impulse in the
mind of a pure and upright man, impelled by a sense
of duty to his country to dishonor her venerated
name. This poor tribute was as the kiss of peace
with which the executioner implores the pardon of
some illustrious victim of State policy, who is about
to bleed under his hand. Had he yielded to his feelings,
he would have taken up the self-accusing lamentation
of the returning prodigal. But his sense
of duty was deep and abiding, and was always most
sure to command his exact obedience when the duty
was most painful. He could not doubt the correctness
of a conviction, which even his cherished devotion
to his native State could not make him shake off
entirely. In such a case, to doubt was, with him, to
be convinced.

But the name thus bestowed upon his daughter was
not without an effect on her mind. She knew little
of politics, but, from her very infancy, self-love had
made her jealous of the honor of the State whose
name she bore. The name itself was a spell of
power on the heart of Delia. It had disposed her
to love her cousin before she knew her. It had
drawn them together on their first acquaintance, and
had often been the theme of conversation between
them. Somewhat older, and much the superior in

intellectual power, Delia had, unwittingly, exercised
an influence over the mind of Virginia which inclined
her to listen favorably to all that could be urged
against the usurper's claim to a dominion, unchecked
by the authority of the State.

For more than a year past, Mr. Trevor had himself
begun to doubt the wisdom of his former opinions.
Doubting, he was silent, but he had not been
unwilling to subject his daughter to the action of her
cousin's more vigorous mind. For many years, he
would as soon have exposed his children to the contagion
of the plague, as permit them to visit their
uncle. During the last summer he had suffered Arthur
and Virginia to spend a month with him; and he
was not sorry to observe that the former came home
with deeper thoughts than he chose to express. Of
their love and admiration of their uncle neither made
any secret. He was not only unlike their father, but
so unlike any other man, that he had been a curious
study to them during their whole visit. The originality
of his thoughts, and the vividness with which
he expressed them, afforded them constant amusement.
He had that faculty of making truth look
like truth, in the exhibition of which the young mind
so much delights. Then he was so frank, so ardent,
and withal so kind, that it was impossible to know
and not to love him.

After all this, the reader will not be like to partake
of the surprise of Mr. Philip Baker, when he found,

on shifting his battery, that he was not much more
in favor with Virginia Trevor than with her cousin.
The consequence was, that whenever he attempted,
in company, to attach himself to the immediate party
of these young ladies, he was apt to find himself a
supernumerary. But, as Virginia had shown no
marked dislike to him, his vanity easily adopted the
idea that she considered him as the property of
Delia. He took some pains to undeceive her, and
would have been mortified at her unconcern on the
occasion, had he not thought some allowance should
be made for her indifference to a man who did but
take her as a pis aller. He did not, therefore, at once
withdraw himself from their coterie, but continued to
hang about, and take his part in conversation, whenever
nothing particularly exclusive in the manner of
the interlocutors forbade it. He could not come
between whispers; but he could answer any observation
that met his ear. Being, as I have said,
something between a proser and a declaimer, he
thought himself eloquent, and would seize occasions
to hold forth to the general edification, in a style intended
to dazzle the bystanders.

On the day of which we speak, he had been in
close attendance on Virginia, until, rather by address
than by direct repulse, she had contrived to shake
him off. It so happened, that the rest of the company
were all paired off, leaving him in the enviable
condition of a half pair of shears, when relief

appeared in the person of a gentleman just from
Richmond.

This gentleman, originally one of the devisers of
the pic nic, had staid behind for the mail, and now
arrived with the news alluded to in the last chapter.
Baker, being disengaged at the moment, was the first
to receive the intelligence, and he lost no time in
awakening the attention of the company by volleys of
oaths and imprecations. While he continued to exercise
himself in calling down the vengeance of “the
Eternal,” according to the most approved formula of
the old court, on those whom he denounced as traitors,
the rest listened in amazement, disgust, or alarm, to
this boisterous effusion of his rage. At length, as
he stopped to take breath, Douglas availed himself
of the pause to ask what was the matter. The
whole story now came out, and Mr. Baker, having
put his audience in possession of his text, went on
with his discourse. Unmindful of the presence of
the ladies, he vented his wrath in language with
which I do not choose to stain my paper. Every
man who had held a conspicuous place among the
advocates of State rights for the last twenty years,
was condemned, ex cathedra. The dead were especially
recommended to the tender mercies of the
devil, in whose clutches he supposed them to be;
while the living were indiscriminately devoted to the
same doom.

Against the person by whom the treaty was said

to have been negotiated, his wrath burned most
fiercely. In the midst of one of his most savage
denunciations of that gentleman, he happened to recollect
having heard Delia speak of him as the intimate
friend of her father. The thought turned his
eye upon her. She was already pale and trembling
with emotion, when she caught his insulting glance.
In an instant the blood gushed to her face, and tears
to her eyes. He saw it, and went on to comprehend in
his denunciation all the aiders, abettors, and friends
of the traitor, whom in one breath he devoted to the
gallows.

This was more than Delia could bear, and more
than Douglas was disposed to suffer. He had caught
the glance which Baker had cast at his cousin; he
saw the effect on her feelings; he witnessed her increasing
emotion, and felt it his duty to come to her
relief. He approached Baker, and passing him, as
if with no particular design, touched him gently, and
said in a low voice: “Such language is improper in
this company.”

“How so,” exclaimed Baker, aloud. “I hope
there is no man here disposed to take the part of a
traitor.”

Douglas turned, and, biting his lip, said in a tone
not loud, but from its distinctness and marked emphasis,
audible to all present: “I spoke so as to be
heard by none but you, and invited you by a sign to
go apart where I might explain my meaning in

private. But, as you will have the explanation here,
I say, that you know there is no man here disposed
to take the part of a traitor. If you had thought
there was, sir, I suspect your denunciations would
have been less violent.”

“I don't understand you, sir,” said Baker, reddening.

“My meaning is as plain as becomes this presence,”
said Douglas, coldly, and again walking
away. Baker looked around, and read in every eye
that he was expected to follow. He did so, and,
joining Douglas, they both walked on together.

“I shall be glad to receive a farther explanation,
sir,” said he in an agitated tone.

“Speak lower, then,” replied Douglas, calmly,
slipping his arm within that of Baker; “and use no
gesture. My meaning is this: That he who is
regardless of the presence and feelings of a lady, is
not apt to overlook those of a man. To make my
meaning yet plainer, sir, your language would have
been more guarded, had my uncle been represented
here, not by a daughter, but by a son.”

The quiet tone of Douglas's voice, the equivocal
meaning of the first words he had uttered, and the
pacific action intended to deceive those who looked on,
had calmed for a moment the alarm of Baker. He
had recovered himself before he was made to perceive
what was really meant; and ere he had time to
reflect on his situation, the dangerous temptation of

a repartee assailed him. Glancing back at the company,
he said: “If I may judge by appearances,
sir, you have the right as well as the inclination to
assume that character.”

Douglas had turned his head, instinctively, as
Baker looked back, and saw that they had rounded a
point of rock, and were out of sight. In an instant,
he disengaged his arm with a push that nearly
threw the legislator down the bank, and stepping
back, glared upon him with an eye that instantly
brought the other to his senses. While he stood
blenching and cowering under this fierce glance,
Douglas recovered his self-command, and said, with
stern calmness: “You had nearly made me forget
myself, sir. But we understand each other now.
Take a turn along the shore to compose yourself. I
will wait here for you, and we will return to the company
together.”

He seated himself on a rock, and the other obeyed
mechanically. How he succeeded in recovering his
composure is another affair. He walked on, and on,
and fain would he have followed the course of the
river to the mountain cave from which it issues, there
to hide himself from the consequences of his own
folly and impertinence. What would he not have
given to recall that last speech? Until then, he was
the party aggrieved. Douglas's offence against him
had not been so gross as to admit of no explanation;
and, to all appearance, an amicable one had been

given. The truth might not have come out until he
had had time to escape to his constituents; and before
the next session the affair might have been forgotten.
But now, Douglas had been insulted, and how he felt,
and how he would resent the insult, was awfully
certain.

Baker continued his walk so far, that the girls
became uneasy at the absence of the two young
men. They begged some of the gentlemen to go in
quest of them, but the request was evaded. At last,
they rose from their seats on the rocks, and declared
they would themselves go. They accordingly set
out, followed by the rest, and in a few yards came to
where Douglas was quietly seated on a flat stone,
and playing checks with pebbles on the smooth
sand.

“Where is Mr. Baker?” exclaimed Virginia,
eagerly.

“Yonder he goes,” replied Douglas, calmly. “He
has a mind for a longer walk than I like; and I am
just waiting for him here. But I must not detain
you, girls. His taste for the picturesque will probably
be satisfied by the time we get to our horses,
and he will soon overtake us.”

He said this with an air so careless as to deceive
every person present but Delia. But the heart will
speak from the eye, and a glance at her, as she
searched his countenance, unconsciously said: “I
have redressed you.” Coloring deeply, she strove

to hide her emotion,—taking his arm and busying
herself at the same time with the adjustment of her
veil. In spite of some undefined apprehensions, she
was grateful, relieved, and pleased; and a slight
pressure on the arm she held, spoke her feelings
perhaps as distinctly as they were understood by
herself.

Douglas returned the pressure with more energy.
The words of Baker yet tingled in his ears; and
while they burned with the insult, the pain was more
than soothed by the thoughts they had awakened.
Were then the day-dreams of his boyhood to become
realities? He was not, as yet, conscious of any but
a cousin's love for Delia. He could impute no other
feeling to her. But should this mutual affection
ripen into a more tender sentiment! With whom
could a man pass his days more happily, than with a
woman so intelligent, so amiable, so prudent, so
much a lady? He did not love her. But he felt
that to love her, and be beloved by her, would be a
happy lot. The slight weight she rested on his arm
was sweet to him. He wished the pressure was
heavier. But she walked on, self-poised, and with
a light and steady step over the rugged ground.
Was not that step more confident, because she felt
that he was there to aid her in case of need? Even
so, she seemed sufficient for herself in the resources
of her own mind. Yet had she needed and accepted,
and gratefully, though silently, acknowledged his

protection. He was happy in having had occasion
to protect her. Was not she the happier for it
too? The heart will ask questions. Time gives the
answer.