82. CHAPTER LXXXII.
HOW LINDON LEFT WILLIAMSBURG, AND WHOM HE CONVERSED
WITH AT AGINCOURT.
The prophecy was destined soon to be fulfilled. Dunmore
vainly thought that compliance with the demands of
the Hanoverians, in the matter of the powder, would quiet
the colony and disarm revolution.
Things had gone too far; the times were ripe now, and
nothing could divert the storm about to burst. The Assembly
was summoned, the Governor made a diplomatic speech,
with Lord North's famous “olive branch” proposal in his
hand, but it was all of no avail.
Virginia was aroused in its whole length and breadth, and
arms were in every hand, soon, as we shall see, to be used.
Let us proceed, however, to relate the events which befell
the personages of our narrative, before we chronicle the
outburst of the storm. For, after all, it is a family history
which we relate—the joys and sorrows of unhistorical personages
is our chief subject.
Let us follow now the events which brought all things to
an issue here too; like the whole land, our small domain
had its convulsion and its tragedy, and this we shall now
proceed to relate.
About three weeks after the scene which we have just
witnessed at Doncastle's Ordinary, Lindon one morning
presented himself before Lord Dunmore, and requested
leave of absence for a fortnight.
This leave was graciously accorded by his lordship, who
thought he would have at present no use for his mercenaries;
and on the same afternoon, Lindon mounted his horse,
and crossing the James at Burwell's ferry, set forward in a
south-westerly direction over the main road of Isle of Wight
county.
Busy with the events befalling our chief characters, we
have not been able to expend, upon this gentleman and his
affairs, that attention, which, in view of their connection
with our history, they demand at our hands.
Lindon had, time after time, renewed his addresses to
Bonnybel, and repulse seemed only to arouse still more
deeply the profound passion of his nature. Driven back
upon every occasion—rejected time after time, and always
with increased coldness and decision by the girl—he had
come at last to regard it as a single combat between them
for the victory, and in the depths of his heart he registered
a silent oath that he would conquer the girl's resolution or
die in the attempt. There was still another reason in addition,
which impelled him to persevere.
The large property which he inherited from his father,
had, by successive mortgages, been almost wholly alienated;
and such had been the success of the owner, that his
affairs were now hopelessly embarrassed. To preserve his
station, and not be turned as a beggar on the world, it was
necessary that he should look around him speedily for some
means of fortifying his position; and this he found in a
marriage with Bonnybel. Were he to secure the hand of
that young lady, the wealth and influence of Colonel Vane
would be at his command; and he could easily induce his
creditors to delay the threatened sale of all his property.
They had already forced him to sell nearly every servant
which he possessed; and he was scarcely left now with a
handful. A union with Bonnybel was thus equally desirable
in a business point of view; and with passion and
cupidity working together, the whole energies of this man's
nature were put forth to attain his object.
Let us follow him, and see whither he goes.
About sunset, Lindon reached his house of “Agincourt,”
which was a fine old mansion, erected upon a lofty hill; and
as he rode up, the dying sunset gilded the roofs and the
many out-houses attached to the homestead.
With an air of fiery impatience which had become habitual
with him of late, he threw the bridle of his horse to
a rough-looking man, and said briefly:
“You have watched carefully, as I ordered you?”
“Yes sir,” replied the man, doffing his cap; “she has
been rather more restive to-day, and I had some trouble, as
usual; but I think she sees there's no hope.”
“That's well,” said Lindon; “now order some dinner
for me, I'm nearly broken down. Go!”
The man touched his forehead, and Lindon entered the
house.
It was elegantly arranged, and the furniture of the great
apartment which he entered, though rather too gaudy for
good taste, displayed every mark of wealth.
Lindon threw himself upon a velvet sofa, and ringing for
wine, which a servant brought him upon a silver waiter,
took great gulps of the liquid, and then seemed to reflect.
“Things are coming to a crisis,” he muttered at length;
“and if I act at all, I must act quickly. Those scoundrels
will sell me out, if I do not prevent them; and there's but
one way now—this marriage! How can I achieve it?
How conquer that diabolical resolution of a mere love-sick
girl, dreaming, I have no doubt, of that pale-faced hero, forsooth!
She loves him, and she scorns me! Curse him!
he's the stumbling-block in all my schemes, and eternally
opposes and conquers me! Why didn't I run him through
the heart yonder, and so end him? Shall I now? He is
still weak from his sickness, and I could do it! I'll think
about it!”
And with a heavy from upon his brow, Lindon was
silent for some moments, reflecting.
“No!” he growled, at length, with an oath; “no! curse
him! I'd like to put an end to his scheming; but what
good would that do? It would only make the marriage
more difficult, and I've no time to attend to such things.
In a fortnight, perhaps, Dunmore will be driven from Virginia,
and I was a fool to attach myself to such a coward as
he is! I thought he would bolster me up, but he can't
protect himself from these canaille! This fine hero, St.
John, this Lord Bolingbroke! well, he shall escape me for
the present, though I shall not forget him. I must think of
something more important.”
He was interrupted by the summons to the table, whither
he proceeded and rapidly devoured his meal, washing it
down with large draughts of wine. He then returned to
the sofa, and, with knit brows, again reflected:
“Well, I'm determined, at last!” he said, with a face
flushed by the thought in his mind more than by the wine
which he had drunk; “it is the only way that's left to me,
and I'll do it and take the consequences! Now I'll go and
see madame,” with which words he rose, with a sinister
smile, from the sofa, and left the room.
He ascended the great stair-case, and, taking a key from
his pocket, opened a room directly over the one he had
just left.
It was a chamber elegantly furnished, and, in a corner,
sat—Miss Carne, the Vanely seamstress.
The woman sat crouched down and leaned her elbows on
her knees. Her hair, falling in disordered masses on her
bosom, completely concealed her countenance—the brows
resting upon her white and nervous hands.
As Lindon entered she half raised her head, and, when
she saw who her visitor was, raised it entirely erect.
The face thus revealed was scarcely recognizable. Formerly,
this woman had been almost beautiful, and an expression
of tranquillity and content characterized her entire
appearance. Now, however, all this had disappeared. Her
face was haggard and furrowed by passion, and her dark
eyes burned with a sullen and lurid flame which seemed to
flash up and glitter as she looked upon Lindon.
He entered with a sarcastic smile, and, approaching the
woman, said, satirically,
“How is my pretty bird to-day—how is madame the vulture?
Have my people supplied all her wants and complied
with her wishes?”
A lurid flash, brighter than the former, darted from the
eyes of Miss Carne.
“Madame seems silent,” said Lindon in the same tone of
sarcasm.
There was no reply.
With cheeks flushed with wine, and a gait unsteady from
the same cause, Lindon drew nearer to the woman, and, at
last, placed one hand carelessly on her head.
Before he could complete the caress which he attempted,
the woman rose to her feet, with a spring like a wild cat,
and uttered a hoarse cry which was scarcely human.
“Don't touch me!” she said. “Touch me at you peril!”
and, with bloodshot eyes, hair hanging in disorder, and
lips writhing with convulsive passion, she seemed ready to
spring upon Lindon and throttle him.
“Ah! our pretty hawk is angry,” he said, with a sarcastic
grin; “our lady bird intends to show her claws. Come to
its deary—deary won't let anybody hurt his turtle-dove,”
and again he attempted to touch her hair.
With one bound the woman sprang to a table upon
which a knife had been left, and, clutching it, confronted
her persecutor.
Lindon regarded her, for a moment, with drunken gravity,
and then said, soothingly,
“Come, don't let us have any scenes.”
“I wish to have none!” said the woman, hoarsely, “but
before you shall touch me I will plunge this knife into your
heart. I hate you! I detest you! The very sight of you
makes me sick!”
“Ah! does it?” said Lindon, approaching her cautiously
but with apparent carelessness.
“Yes! you tempted me to crime! you took advantage
of my treacherous nature! you made me the tool of your
villainy by appealing to my avarice, and now—”
“You've not even the consolation of the reward, eh?”
said Lindon, satirically; “is that your meaning?” and,
with the same air of carelessness, he approached nearer
still.
“Yes!” said the woman, hoarsely; “you made a devil
of me, and now you turn me loose without the money for
which I sold myself!”
“Turned you loose, my pretty bud? Isn't that a slight
mistake?”
And he drew nearer still.
“Yes!” said the woman, with sullen passion, “you are
right! I am not free; I am a prisoner here under a brutal
jailor.”
“And can't go and tell the world of my depravity, eh?”
“It shall know all yet, and you will be punished! If the
world does not do it I will!”
And an angry clutch of the knife showed the meaning of
the speaker.
“Ah? You will?”
“Yes!”
“You will punish me?”
“Yes!”
“Perhaps stab me?”
“If you tempt me!”
“Well, I will!”
And Lindon, who had approached nearer and nearer as
he uttered these words, suddenly sprang upon the woman,
and wrenching the knife from her grasp, broke the blade by
striking it on the table.
He then confined the wrists of the furious woman in his
own, and forcing her writhing form violently into a chair,
said,
“Now, my pretty lady-bird, I've blunted your claws! In
future you had better watch better!”
He continued to hold her thus until she ceased struggling,
and then finding her apparently subdued, released
his hold.
“My dear Madame Carne, or Madame In-What-Ever-Other-Name-Thou-Rejoicest,”
he said, “you perceive that
after all I am more than a match for you in deviltry. It is
true I never could have accomplished what you did, and there
I accord you every praise. Your boldness and treachery and
cunning were admirable, and extort my highest admiration.
You effected your object, and I confess that the thousand
pound note which I promised you ought to have been forthcoming.
You know it became absolutely necessary to confine
you here afterwards, and here you will still remain until
I've finished a little affair which I may as well tell you
of as a friend. You can not report it, fortunately, and I'm
ennuyé this evening. Come, I'll sit here and tell you all
about it!”
With these words Lindon coolly sat down opposite to
Miss Carne, upon whose countenance the sullen and lurid
look had taken the place of the fiery passion, and thus, reposing
gracefully, her persecutor spoke at length upon the
“little affair.”
At ten o'clock he rose, and said,
“I think the thing looks promising; don't you? You
know the old adage, `faint heart never won a fair lady yet,'
and I need not tell so intimate a friend as yourself—one so
well acquainted with my private affairs—that 't is absolutely
necessary for me to take some acred young lady to wife. I
am determined to have this one, and I've told you the means
I shall employ. Of course your thousand pounds will be
punctually paid, and I shall escort you gallantly to the seaboard,
and see you depart. I trust 't will so end; but perhaps
you will not permit it. I see a gleam in your fair eyes
which may make it necessary to suppress you. Do you
know the meaning of that word? I've a fellow here who
has an original genius for murder; of course, however, I
shall not employ him. You won't be revengeful, dear lady-bird,
but profit by the thing and go away.”
Having thus spoken in the same tone of mocking sarcasm,
Lindon yawned and declared his intention to retire.
The woman did not reply. Still crouching in her seat,
and looking at him fixedly with her bloodshot eyes, she resembled
a panther about to spring.
Lindon rose and made her a low, mock, ceremonious
bow.
“I trust your ladyship will have pleasant dreams,” he
said, “and I now have the honor of respectfully bidding
you adieu.”
As he closed the door and disappeared, the woman rose
to her feet, and with an indescribable expression of hatred,
looked at the spot where he had passed from her sight.
At the same moment the key turned, the heavy bolt was
shot into its place, and Lindon retreated, singing in a harsh
and drunken voice, a bacchanalian song.
The woman shook her clenched fist at the door, and with
lips convulsed by passion, muttered hoarsely,
“You said I was cunning—wait and see!”
And her sinister eyes betrayed the fixed resolution which
she had made.
