University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

The evening was far advanced, when Douglas
again reached his uncle's house. He went immediately
to his room, and sent to request a private
interview with Mr. Trevor. He was accordingly
invited into the little study of the old gentleman,
where he commonly sat surrounded by books and
papers. On entering the room, he observed an
elderly gentleman, whom he had never seen before,
pass out at a door communicating with the drawingroom.

Douglas now silently handed his father's letter to
his uncle. Mr. Trevor read it attentively, and again
and again looked over it, resting his eye on particular
passages, as if to possess himself of the full
meaning of every expression. The subject was in
itself interesting, and quite new to him. But he felt
a yet deeper interest in the obscure intimations of a
change in his brother's mind in regard to those matters
about which they had so long and so painfully

differed. Even if he was mistaken in this, it was
consoling to find himself rising in the estimation of
Mr. Hugh Trevor; no longer regarded by him as
rash, reckless, and inconsiderate, but consulted as a
“clear-sighted and sagacious man” in an affair of
very great importance. He alone, who has been
conscious of being thus undervalued by a friend at
once beloved and respected, can estimate the satisfaction
which Mr. Trevor felt at that moment. If
there was any mixture of alloy with this pleasure, it
flowed from self-reproach. He had sometimes found
it impossible to repress some little risings of resentment,
at finding his judgment habitually disabled by
his elder brother. He had indeed been once a little
white-headed boy, when the other was a highly intelligent
and promising youth. But, at sixty, he was
not quite content to be still looked on as a child.
Yet, when he remarked the candor of his brother's
language, and the self-abasing sadness of his tone,
he was vexed to think that one unkind thought toward
him had ever entered his mind.

At length, he interrupted this train of thought, to
ask of Douglas an explanation of the President's letter.
In answer, he received a detailed account of
the scene at the falls, and was permitted to read the
correspondence which had grown out of it.

“I have heard something of this before,” said
Mr. Trevor. “Delia told me all that passed in her
presence, and showed me Baker's palinode, which is

rather the most extraordinary document that I ever
saw. Why, the dog acknowledges that he actually
intended to insult a lady. He might, at least, have
had the grace to lie about it. False shame is better
than no shame at all.”

“He would have been glad to put the matter on
that footing,” said Douglas, “could he have got
leave to do so. He sent me such a paper as you
suppose, but I refused to receive it. His apology
to me I knew to be false. It was, therefore, the more
satisfactory because the more humiliating. But I
sent him word that I would not take any thing to
my cousin but the truth. Here,” continued Douglas,
“is his first projet of an apology, and of my
rejection of it.

Mr. Trevor read them, and then said: “This is
well. I knew you had acted handsomely, but how
handsomely, I had not conceived of. But let me
hear, I pray you, how all this has been tortured into
an offence against majesty.”

Douglas colored slightly at the word, and handed
his uncle a copy of the President's first letter to his
father. He had but to add an account of his subsequent
conversation with his father, and Mr. Trevor
was in possession of the whole affair.

“You see,” said Douglas, “that I am referred to
you for advice, and that you are invited to say to me,
unreservedly, what you will.”

“I do see,” replied Mr. Trevor, “that I have

carte blanche, as far as depends on your father. But
there are some things I would now say to his son,
which it would not be proper to say to a soldier of
the United States. I cannot, therefore, discard all
reserve, but all that he has ever imposed on me, I
now shake off. Indeed, I should have done this
now, without his permission. You are my son, as
well as his. You have shown that you know how to
protect my daughter, and have fairly earned a right
to protect her through life. Nay, no raptures;
no thanks! The exercise of this right must be
postponed until affairs have taken a different shape
from that they bear at present. But, revenons a nos
moutons!” The question is, what you are to do to
save this despicable, heartless wretch, from the necessity
of offending a wretch even baser than himself,
whom even he despises.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Douglas.

“I mean,” replied the other, “the President and
the elder Baker, that tame slave of power, that
shameless, mercenary pander, who, having both talent
and reputation, sold the one and sacrificed the
other for office and infamy.”

“And is it for such a man,” exclaimed Douglas,
“that I am required to make disclosures before a
court of inquiry, or a court-martial, which delicacy
and self-respect forbid? Never! Be the alternative
what it may, I shall never consent to it.”

“You are right, my son,” said Mr. Trevor, “nor

can I relieve you from the difficulty by authorizing
the profanation of my daughter's name, to which
such an investigation would lead. My duty on that
head is peremptory, not discretionary. If your father
were any thing but the perfect gentleman he is,
I might suspect that his reference to me was intended
to elicit some such suggestion. But I know
him better. I infer from his letter more than you
discover there; and I am not sure that the advice
which I am most disposed to give, is that which he
would be best pleased to see you follow.”

“What would that advice be?” asked Douglas,
anxiously.

“Nay,” replied the old gentleman, “when I have
made up my mind, you shall know.”

“But why not give me your thoughts,” said the
youth, “and let us discuss them?”

“Because, circumstanced as you are, we cannot
properly discuss them. I can but give you my judgment,
when I have formed it, and leave you to find
out reasons for it.”

“My own first thought,” said Douglas, “is to
resign. Let us discuss that.”

“It was mine too,” said the uncle, “and there is
therefore no occasion to discuss it. Though I had
not sufficiently matured my opinion to announce it to
you, I think I may promise, that if you come to
that conclusion, I shall not dissent from it.”

“The only difficulty that I see in the way,” said

Douglas, “is that an offer to resign is, under such
circumstances, generally understood as a shrinking
from inquiry.”

“It is so; and the opinion is so far right, that,
when the charge is infamous, resignation doubles
the infamy. It is a tacit consent to be infamous,
only on condition that one may be safe.”

“You state the point with startling force,” said
the youth. “And how would you distinguish this
case from the one you suppose?”

“By distinguishing the accusation from one of
falsehood, peculation, or cowardice. Should you
plead guilty to such charges as these, or seek to
evade them by resignation, you stand dishonored.
But read over the President's bill of indictment.
Now suppose it true that you had entertained and
avowed the sentiments there imputed to you, would
there be any dishonor in that?”

“Certainly not; unless my being an officer of
the United States would make a difference.”

“Should that prevent you from thinking, or take
away a freeman's right to express his thoughts?”

“It would seem not. But does it not make some
difference?”

“Certainly. Shall I tell you what it is? Such
sentiments would make it your duty (not to the
United States, but to Virginia and to yourself,) to
resign. Now, it is because I have no mind to seduce
a soldier from his standard, that I have been

careful not to infuse such sentiments into you. If
once you lay aside the panoply of the uniform, and
throw away the amulet of the commission, I would
not ensure you against opinions which you may have
to maintain at the hazard of your life. But time
presses. Your own suggestion disposes me to speak
more promptly and decidedly than I should otherwise
have done. I therefore say, tender your resignation.
But, if you have no objection, I should like
to consult a friend, on whose most hasty opinions I
rely more than on the coolest judgment of others.”

“If you mean my aunt,” said Douglas, “I know
few persons on whose instinctive sense of propriety I
should place more reliance.”

“She would well deserve your confidence; but I
mean the gentleman who left the room as you entered.
He has been her friend for thrity years, and mine for
more than half that time.”

“But to me,” said Douglas, “he is an utter
stranger, and I feel some delicacy in consulting a
stranger on such an occasion.”

“You forget,” said Mr. Trevor, “that all there
is of delicacy in the case touches me as nearly as
you. It is not you, a stranger, but I, an intimate
friend, who propose to ask his advice. Charge
that matter to my account, then, and merely decide
for yourself, whether it may not be desirable to have
the counsel of one as remarkable for scrupulous
delicacy, as for sagacity and resource?”

“There can be but one answer to that question,”
replied Douglas, “and I shall therefore gladly take
the benefit of his advice.”

The hand-bell sounded, and the ever-ready Tom
appeared. “My respects to Mr. B—,” said Mr.
Trevor. “Ask him, if he pleases, to walk into this
room.”

Tom disappeared, and soon returned marshalling
in Mr. B—. He was a man apparently of sixty years
of age, or more, slightly formed, but tall, erect, clean-limbed,
and sinewy. His vigor seemed little impaired
by time, though his high and strong features
made him look at least as old as he was. A light
blue eye, clear and sparkling, quick in its glance,
but settled and searching in its gaze, was the striking
feature of his face. The sun had burned out all
traces of his original complexion, and a silver hue
had usurped the color of his hair. His whole appearance
was imposing, and while it commanded the
respect due to the wisdom of age, seemed to claim
no pity for its infirmities. To this sentiment, which
enters so largely into the composition of that character
which the world calls venerable, he certainly made
no pretensions. No one would have called him
venerable, though no man was held in higher veneration
by those who knew him.