University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH HIS EXCELLENCY GETS THE BETTER OF A CHILD.

Lord Dunmore stood motionless in his rich dress, by the
window, and neither deigned to bow or speak, when the
young officer turned to him.

Fauquier would have been at his side with a smile
and a welcome. Dunmore stood still and raised his head
haughtily.

This lofty expression, however, seemed to produce very
little effect on the intruder. For some time now he had
been accustomed to excellencies and honorables. He placed
the child on a settee, and made the ladies a profound bow.

“Your Excellency will pardon my unceremonious entrance,”
he said, coolly; “there was no one to announce
me, and this child had fainted.”

“Your entrance was very natural, and quite pardonable,
sir,” said Lord Dunmore, with an expression of mingled
hauteur and condescension; and then extending his hand

ceremoniously towards the young man, he added, “Lady
Dunmore, permit me to present to you, and my daughters,
Mr. St. John, lieutenant of my guards.”

The officer bowed low again, but it was easy to see from
the slight movement of his proud lip that something in the
title thus bestowed upon him was displeasing.

Lady Dunmore was about to speak, and from the amiable
smile upon her countenance, to refer, doubtless, to the pleasant
reception she had met with, and Mr. St. John's part
therein, when his Excellency forestalled such colloquy by
recalling attention to Blossom.

As he looked at the child there was as little evidence of
courtesy or amiability as in his address to Mr. St. John,
and he said, almost rudely—

“Is this young person hurt, sir? I confess I see no traces
of any accident, unless you call lassitude an accident.”

Mr. St. John's brow clouded more and more; for under
the circumstances of the case, the tone of Lord Dunmore
was as much an insult to himself as to the child; and the
young man did not seem to have been habituated to insult.
Before he could reply, however, the Governor turned away
from him to Blossom, and said, in the same careless and
rude tone:

“What happened to you?”

“I fainted, sir,” murmured the child, frightened at the
cold face and harsh voice, “in the crowd, sir.”

“A mere trifle! Where do you live—in Williamsburg?”

“No sir—I came to see the procession, and—”

“What! you had the imprudence to come to town thus!
Your parents show little sense in their government.”

“Paul was with me,” murmured Blossom—“we go
to school at Uncle Jimmy's, not far from here, and our
house is not so far as that. I think I can walk home
now, sir!”

And anxious to get away from the forbidding presence of
her interlocutor, Blossom rose to her feet, and made a step
toward the door. Her strength, however, was unequal to

the exertion, and she sank down again with an expression of
pain.

Mr. St. John, whose brow had assumed a darker and
darker cloud, as he stood listening to this conversation,
would have hastened to her, but he was forestalled by one
of the young ladies, who rose quickly, and in a moment was
at the child's side. It was the Lady Augusta whom Blossom
had met at the old school.

“Are you much hurt, Blossom?” she said, kindly and
softly; “don't try to walk yet.”

The child murmured something which was inaudible.

“Are you not sick?” asked the young lady, in the same
kind voice.

“No ma'am,” faltered Blossom.

“I'm afraid you are,” said the young lady, gazing at the
child with tender pity; “you must let his lordship send you
home in his chariot.”

“In his chariot, ma'am?”

“Certainly.”

Blossom murmured that she could walk; she was very
much obliged for her kindness; then the child paused, her
voice dying away in her throat.

The young lady had looked at her so kindly, and held
the small hand so lovingly in her own, that Blossom, in her
weak condition, had been too much affected to speak.

“Come, Lady Augusta,” said Lord Dunmore, coldly, “let
us prepare to receive the guests in the drawing-room. As
for this child—”

“Yes, yes, your lordship,” said the young lady submissively
and hurriedly, and turning to the child she said:

“Where do you live?”

“Just out of town, ma'am.”

“What is your name?”

“Beatrice, ma'am—but they call me Blossom.”

“Oh I know,” said the young lady, “but your other
name?”

“Beatrice Waters, ma'am.”

Lord Dunmore, who had turned stiffly away, wheeled
round as he heard this name.

“Did you say Waters?” he asked curtly.

“Yes, sir,” murmured Blossom.

“What Waters?”

“Sir?”

“I asked you what was the Christian name of you father.”

“Charles, sir—he is Mr. Charles Waters.”

His Excellency's brow clouded over, and he frowned.

“Lady Augusta,” he said, “do you know who you are
fondling?”

The young lady turned a frightened look upon her father,
and murmured some inaudible words.

“You are bestowing your caresses upon the daughter of
the most dangerous—yes! the blackest-hearted rebel in this
colony! A man,” added Lord Dunmore, with growing
choler, “who is a firebrand of sedition, and who will swing
from the gallows if my authority lasts, and I lay hands on
him! It is his offspring that my daughter, madame, is bestowing
her attentions upon!”

His Excellency was mastered by one of those sudden fits
of anger to which he was constitutionally subject. His
countenance reddened, and became puffed up; the vein in
his forehead was swollen, and his small keen eyes flashed,
as he spoke in his tone of disdainful roughness and anger.

His family were accustomed to humor him when these fits
seized upon him; and by submitting, to thus divert and
dissipate those domestic thunderbolts of his lordship.

One person present, however, did not seem to have been
trained to this species of deference. Mr. St. John had apparently
been in an ill-humor all day; moreover, he seemed
to be accustomed, himself, to courtesy at the very least,
and the utter want of ceremony on the part of his lordship,
added to the unfeeling insults directed toward his young
protegeé, produced in Mr. St. John's countenance an expression
of impetuous anger and no little disdain.

“Perhaps your lordship is mistaken in the individual
who is this child's father,” he now said, with cold courtesy.

“Impossible, sir! I'm not mistaken!” replied his Excellency,
surveying the young man with a look which seemed
to ask if he had the presumption to address him in that
tone.

Mr. St. John's brow darkened more and more.

“At least this girl does not resemble a very dangerous
rebel,” he said, with an imperceptible shade of sarcasm in
his voice, which made the Governor's cheek flush with
rage.

“Mr. St. John!” he said.

“Your Excellency,” was the cold reply.

“This is a singular colloquy! Your meaning, if you
please, in reading me a lecture, sir!”

“I read no lecture to your lordship,” replied the young
man, with a haughty look, and without lowering his eyes;
“my meaning simply is, that whatever may be the character
of this child's father—his dangerous character—your
lordship can't possibly be afraid of the child herself.”

For a moment his Excellency's countenance resembled
a thunder-cloud from which a flash of lightning was about
to dart. The vein in his forehead turned black, and his
frame trembled with anger. But his prudence suddenly
came to control him; he seemed to feel the bad policy of
a quarrel with Mr. St. John; and passing from rage to hauteur,
he endeavored to speak in a tone of insulted dignity.

“I am not in the habit of entering into debates with
young men, sir,” he said, “and I must beg that this discussion
may here end. I am sorry to say, Mr. St. John,
that I find you, like other gentlemen of this colony, inclined
to oppose my opinions and wishes, as well as strangely neglectful
of that ceremony and respect which are due to
myself, as a peer of the realm and the representative of his
majesty! I pass over this occasion, sir, and trust that you
will perceive the necessity of not holding arguments with
me in future, especially in the presence of my family.”

“I did not wish to argue with your lordship; you questioned
me—I replied,” said the young man, with internal
rage, but outwardly as cold as ice. “If any thing which I
have said, has wounded the feelings of your lordship's
family, I most humbly pray them to pardon me.”

“Enough, sir,” returned the Governor, in no degree mollified,
if any thing, more haughtily than before; “the Countess
of Dunmore and my daughters are not accustomed to
have their feelings wounded by everybody; you may be at
rest upon that score, sir. Now let this conversation end.”

“I ask nothing more!” replied Mr. St. John, flushing
with anger and disdain at the tone of the Governor.

“I will see that this young person is conveyed home—if
the man Waters does not conceal his abode—but I certainly
shall not send my chariot and servants to the house of a
traitor!”

“Your Excellency need put yourself to no trouble—my
own carriage is at hand, and I take charge of the child.”

“Do so, sir; and permit me to congratulate you upon
making the friendly acquaintance of a treason-monger! It
is quite in character to allow his helpless daughter to wander
about unprotected. A traitor makes a heartless father,
and a bad man.”

Before Mr. St. John could speak, another voice was heard
—it was Blossom's. The child had listened with pale
cheeks, and a frightened look, to the fiery colloquy, and
had not dared to open her lips. But now her father was
insulted more grossly than before; his very affection for her
was called in question; the little heart boiled over with pain
and anguish; and clasping her hands Blossom cried:

“Oh no, sir! indeed, indeed papa's not bad! He loves
me dearly, and he did n't know I came, sir.”

“Enough of your childish twaddle!” said Dunmore contemptuously.
“I'm not here to be wearied by it. I'll
make your rebel father whine, too, before I have done
with him!”

“Oh me!” sobbed Blossom, “please let me go, sir!

I do not feel well. I ought not to stay and hear papa
abused.”

“Go, then!”

Blossom rose quickly, with a flood of tears, and turned toward
the door. But again her strength failed her; she
turned deadly pale as her bruised foot touched the carpet,
and fell back sobbing.

The arms of Mr. St. John received her, and thus standing,
with pale face and fiery eyes bent on the Governor, his indignation
and disdain were imperial.

He would have spoken, but his pale lips refused their
office. With a single look of defiance at his Excellency, the
young man raised the form of the child completely in his
arms, and left the apartment and the palace.

He passed rapidly with the sobbing girl along the graveled
walk beneath the lindens, and issued from the great gate.
Without pausing, he strode along Gloucester street, followed
by wondering eyes, and soon reached the Raleigh
Tavern.

In fifteen minutes a handsome chariot, with four splendid
bay horses, stood before the door, and Mr. St. John deposited
the child in the vehicle. Her delicate form sunk into the
luxurious velvet seat as into a bed of down, and Mr. St.
John took his place by her side. He then gave an order to
the negro driver, and the chariot proceeded slowly out of
the town in a westerly direction.

The young man had made but one allusion to the scene
at the palace; uttered but one word; that word was—

“Vulgarian!”

It was Mr. St. John's honest opinion of his Excellency
Lord Dunmore.

The evening was a lovely one, and the sun had sunk beyond
the belt of forests, leaving the sky rosy and brilliant,
and swimming in a gentle mist. The birds sang merrily,
and the woodland road unwound itself like a ribbon before
them as they penetrated into the leafy depths of the forest.

The anger and disdain of Mr. St. John slowly disappeared,
and he seemed to enjoy the freshness and innocence of his
little companion. At last they reached Blossom's abode.
It was a small cottage, fronting south, and had about it an
air of home comfort which was very attractive. The tender
foliage of May appeared to wreathe the small portico, the
drooping eaves, and even the old chimneys; and a thousand
flowers, chiefly early roses, studded the diminutive lawn,
and filled the warm air of evening with their fragrance.

Blossom had indeed told her companion that the cottage
was called “Roseland,” and the name was perfectly appropriate.

On the threshold was no less a personage than Mr. Paul,
in an attitude of profound despair. He had just returned
to the cottage, hoping to find his companion, from whom he
had been separated in the crowd, and not finding her was
about to go back to the town, he declared, and find her or
perish in the attempt. That was happily unnecessary, St.
John said, with a smile; and so, with mutual good will, the
young man and the children parted.

St. John returned in his chariot to Williamsburg.

The town was brilliantly illuminated. From every window
along the main thoroughfare lights blazed in honor of
his Excellency and his family.[1] The crowd of revelers was
greater than ever, and the palace of the Governor was one
mass of light—more especially the great drawing-room,
where, under the globe lamps, and fronting the portraits of
the king and queen, the amiable countess, supported by
her daughters, received the congratulations of the gentry
of the colony upon her reunion with his Excellency.

Dismissing his chariot, Mr. St. John went and gazed for
some moments at the brilliant front of the palace.

“The silly masquerade may go on its way without my
assistance,” he muttered, coldly. “I'll not go there and
bow and simper when his lordship's put a slight on me—

insulted me! Hang him! let the rest pay him their respects—I
won't, and there's an end on 't.”

With these words Mr. St. John retraced his steps to the
Raleigh Tavern, and sitting down, demanded a bottle of
wine and some biscuits.

Having finished his repast, he went out, passed down
Gloucester street, and entered a house, whose second floor
he occupied. Throwing himself upon a lounge, he tossed his
hat and sword on the floor, and looked through the window.

“I'm the only one who do n't illuminate,” he said. “Well,
so let it be.”

And leaning back, he closed his eyes—meditated, and
from meditation glided into sleep.