University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

I should detain the reader with matters not
worthy of a place in this grave history, if I descended
to the particulars of the intercourse between
Douglas Trevor and his charming cousin. It is
enough to say, that he found himself, daily, more and
more happy in her society; and was more and more
convinced that it was a necessary ingredient in his
happiness. It was not long before he concluded that
he would not live without her; and, having told her
so, was referred by her to her father.

Nothing doubting that his communication would
be favorably received, Douglas was eager to break
the matter to his uncle, and ask his approbation of
his suit. To his utter amazement, the old gentleman,
assuming an air at once serious and tender,
said: “My dear boy, had I the world to choose from,
there is no man to whom I would sooner trust my
daughter's happiness. But circumstances forbid

your union. I speak advisedly and sadly. I have
seen what was passing. I anticipated this communication,
and deliberately decided on my answer.

“For God's sake, sir!” exclaimed Douglas,
trembling with impatience, “what do you mean;
and what is your answer?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Trevor, “and my answer is,
that circumstances forbid it.”

“Surely,” said Douglas, “your objection is not
to the nearness of blood.”

“I am not addicted to any such exploded superstition,”
said Mr. Trevor. “But my daughter must
never marry one that wears that dress.”

“I like my profession, sir,” said Douglas, “but
will change it without hesitation.”

“God forbid!” replied the old gentleman. “I
would not have you do so; and were you so inclined,
it would not be in your choice.”

“I can resign when I will, and my resignation
will certainly be accepted.”

“Still you would be a soldier, and you must be a
soldier. Peace is not in our choice, and the time is
at hand when every man, who can wield a sword,
must do so.”

“I do not understand you, sir,” said Douglas in
amazement.

“I am aware you do not. It is time you should.
You have now a right to understand me; and I have
a right to be understood by you. We are on the

eve of what you will call rebellion. I shall call it a war
of right and liberty. I am old and infirm; but I am
not always imprisoned by the gout; and nothing but
physical inability shall keep me from sustaining,
with my sword, a cause that I have always advocated
with tongue and pen. It will be bad enough
to meet the sons of my brother in arms against my
country. That I cannot help. But it is in my
choice whether I shall thus meet my daughter's husband.
That must never be.”

He ceased to speak, and the young man, dizzy
with mixed thoughts and feelings, sat gazing at him
in mute astonishment. At length, starting up, he
was about to leave the room, when the old gentleman
held out his hand. Douglas gave his, and his
uncle, pressing it cordially, went on: “My son,”
said he, “you are the only male of my race in whom
I recognize any thing which tells me that the same
blood flows in our veins. We cannot help the selfishness
that disposes us to love those who resemble
us even in our faults. It might be better for you not
to resemble me, and perhaps I ought to wish that
you did not. But I cannot. I find it easier to forget
that you are not my son, and to love you as if
you were. The hope that you may yet be so, is
hardly less dear to me than to you. That you will
be so, if `you outlive the envy' of those awful
events which shall open your eyes, I can hardly
doubt. But these things must do their work. The

convictions which shall make you throw off the
badges of allegiance to him whose sworn foe I am,
must come of themselves. While you wear them, I
am bound to respect your honor by saying nothing to
shake your faith in him, and to his cause. In the
mean time, I can but hope for the best. I do hope;
and I invite you to hope. But for the present, hope
must be our all. Things must remain as they are
until it pleases God so to order events as to make
your sense of duty to your country consistent with
that which, as my daughter's husband, you will owe
to her and to her father.”

I leave the reader to imagine the consternation of
Douglas at this decisive condemnation of his proposed
plan of happiness, and at the astounding intelligence
that accompanied it. He saw plainly that
his uncle spoke not conjecturally, but from certain
knowledge; and he was sure, that under such circumstances,
no attachment could tempt Delia to
marry him. He did not therefore attempt to continue
the discussion of the subject, but left the house
and wandered into the fields.

The tumult of his mind rendered him incapable of
reflection. I shall not attempt to analyze the chaos
of his thoughts. But light, not darkness, floated on
the surface. The hand of Delia was indeed withheld
for a season, but he was not forbidden to hope
that it might one day or other be his. Should it
even be true that rebellion was awake, and that civil

war was at hand, he was not told that fidelity to his
standard would be imputed to him as a crime. The
strife must end one way or the other, and that being
past, he would no longer be condemned to the hard
alternative of relinquishing the object of his most
ardent wish, or exhibiting the shocking spectacle of
a husband warring against the father of his wife.

But what was to be done in the mean time?
Should the old gentleman take the field, he must
find some other theatre of action, and his father's influence
with the President would readily procure him
that indulgence. As to the idea of renouncing what
he had been taught to call his allegiance to the
Federal Government, and aiding to maintain the dishonored
sovereignty of his native State, it did not
enter his mind. Yet there was something in its
workings that suddenly awakened an undefined interest
in the late correspondence between his father
and the President. He no sooner thought of this,
than his restless wanderings received a definite direction
to the neighboring post-office.

He there found a letter from his father, containing
little more than the copy of one from the President.
Its contents were as follows:

To this copy Mr. Trevor added these words:

“The discretion, good sense, and proper feeling
you have already manifested in this affair, have been
so conspicuous, that I choose rather to trust its future
conduct entirely to yourself than to embarrass you by
any advice of mine. Yet, there is one person, my dear
boy, with whom I would have you to advise. Your
uncle has been a soldier in his youth, and is profoundly
versed in all matters of military etiquette.
He is, moreover, a clear-sighted and sagacious man,
who will, at once, see this matter in all its bearings
and relations to other subjects. His views are not
only, in general, more comprehensive than mine, but
I suspect he is, at this moment, aware of considerations
which might properly influence you, and which
are hidden from me. I know his guarded and delicate
reserve, in all his communications with my
children, where he apprehends a difference of opinion
between himself and me. Tell him that he has my
thanks for it; but that I shall be yet more obliged,
if, in this instance, he will cast it aside entirely, and
give you the benefit of all his thoughts, as if you
were his own son. I fear my last days may be spent
in bitter regrets that I myself have not heretofore
made more avail of them.”