55. CHAPTER LV.
WHICH COMMENCES THE SECOND PORTION OF THE HISTORY.
With the words which we have just written, we should
be glad to conclude our history. The young and kindhearted,
everywhere, would thank us, for, to this class, nothing
is so pleasant as happiness and sunshine. St. John would
be remembered as one happy in the possession of a true-hearted
woman; Bonnybel, as the bride of the man whom
she preferred, above all the world, for her husband.
But, alas! human life is not made up entirely of sunshine.
It is often when the day is brightest, that the dark folds of
the thunder cloud sweep from the horizon, and blacken the
most brilliant landscape. It was so in the lives of these
lovers, and the duty of their historian is to tell all he knows.
In some points of view, perhaps, this duty is of advantage
to the history. For this volume has two themes, two aims:
the story of a man and a woman; the history, also, of a
period in the annals of a nation.
We have followed the steps of these two persons toward
the point where their hands clasped; we have witnessed
the gradual narrowing of the space which separated two
lands from the battle-field, where hearts, long united, would
be torn asunder, where squadrons would clash, and blood
flow like water. Let us now look again on the columns
marching to the conflict, from which a new world was to
rise, like a colossal form of Victory, its face to the morning
and the stars of glory on its brow. Let us also see what
befell the two main personages of the history. There are
clouds and sunshine in both pictures.
For a month, St. John was wholly and completely happy.
If, before, the whole world appeared brighter and lovelier
in his eyes, it was now wholly transfigured, for he was
blessed with the fruition of his dearest wish. Like the sun
shining out after a storm, his present joy was more fresh
and brilliant for the hours of gloom which had preceded it.
The woman whom he loved, loved him in return, and every
one at Vanely sincerely rejoiced. The young man had
twined himself around the hearts of old and young, and the
parents of the young lady hailed with joy the closer bond
which was about to unite them to the young man; he had
been like a son always to them, now he would be really
such.
Bonnybel bore her “new honors” with some blushes, but
a serene, tranquil happiness. All her wildness and mischief
had departed; she no longer laughed or jested; she was
content to be silent and happy.
It was arranged that the marriage should take place at
the end of summer, and the young lady and her companion
had a hundred confidential talks on the arrangements which
that event would make necessary. It was at last decided
that, after a month spent at Vanely, they should go to
“Flower of Hundreds,” and settle down permanently; thus
Mr. St. John would be what he wished to be, an honest
country gentleman. He would cultivate his patrimonial
acres, and never dream of Indians or war any more!
His old ambition seemed to him, as he pondered and
smiled now, like a dream of the night, a mere foolish fancy.
Indians? That they should concern him was supremely
ridiculous! He had other things to think of—his wife!
Thus a month fled away, and one morning the young man
mounted “Tallyho” to go to Williamsburg, where he had
to attend to some pecuniary matters, and see to having the
old house of “Flower of Hundreds” refitted for the abode
of its future mistress.
“Are you sure you'll not forget me?” said Bonnybel,
archly, and blushing, as he bade her farewell; “a whole
week! what a long, long time!”
“It is a century to me,” he replied, gazing with pride
and admiration on the girl; “but I'll try not to forget you,
if you will promise me as much.”
The foollish, idle thought was not worth replying to, she
said, smiling; he would write to her?
“Every day—could she think he would neglect it?”
And with a heavy heart the young man vaulted into the
saddle. “Tallyho” departed at a gallop, but his master did
not see the road before him. His head was turned backward,
his eyes fixed on a woman, who waved her white
handkerchief; at last the forest intervened; they were
parted for the first time since that moonlit evening.
Let us now leave the happy fields of Vanely, and its cheerful
faces, and following St. John, reënter the old capital.
From this center and heart flows already the fiery blood of
revolution; here, also, fell that cloud, which we have spoken
of, on the young man who thought his life all sunshine.
It was the afternoon of the first of August when St.
John rode into Williamsburg and stopped at the Raleigh
tavern.
As he approached the door, a concourse of gentlemen
were issuing forth, and he recognized the members of the
House of Burgesses, which Dunmore had dissolved more
than two months before.
Suddenly he saw, in front of him, the stranger of the old
church at Richmond.
The stranger was talking with one of the members, but
his clear, penetrating eye having caught sight of St. John,
he ended his colloquy and approached the young man.
“Welcome, friend,” he said, in his deep, calm voice; “I
have not seen you of late, as was very natural. You have
recovered?”
“Yes, perfectly. So you knew of my accident?”
“Of course; the whole province knows it. Your adversary
has just gotten out again.”
“Well, I'm glad of that, and accounts are closed, I think,
between us. But this meeting, this assemblage!”
“It is the first Virginia Convention. You arrive too late.”
“I am sorry, but I can at least compliment you on your
foresight. This is the second prediction which you made;
both, I see, are now accomplished.”
“My prediction?” said the stranger; “it was scarcely
such. Prophets are inspired, and speak from their inspiration.
I was simply informed in advance. I have an advantage
over you. To the uneducated eye of the mere looker
on, Virginia advances blindly, and without knowing what
she does; to me, as to those who know, her whole career is
the result of a logical, mathematical set of premises; the accomplishment,
in open day, of what Henry and the great
leaders have resolved on in council.”[1]
“Ah, I understand!”
“This was to do—it is done,” continued the stranger;
“the sword was drawn, the blow has now been struck. Do
you know what the blow is?”
“Tell me.”
“This convention of delegates, elected by the people of
Virginia, has just affirmed the action of the House, making
common cause with the people of Boston to the very death,
and breaking off wholly all commercial connection with England.”
“That is well.”
“What remains is better. Do you remember that the
articles of association, on the occasion of the dissolution, recommended
a general congress?”
“I remember.”
“Well, that congress is now resolved on. Delegates have
just been appointed: Peyton Randolph, Richard Henry Lee,
George Washington, Patrick Henry, Richard Bland, Benjamin
Harrison, and Edmund Pendleton.”
“A noble array of names.”
“A constellation of glory and victory!” said the stranger,
in his deep, earnest voice; “our Virginia noblemen, by
God's patent, not the king's! Do you know the instructions
they carry in their hands? Listen to the ending—I
have it by heart: `If the said General Gage conceives he is
empowered to act in this manner, as the commander-in-chief
of his Majesty's forces in America, this odious and illegal
proclamation must be considered as a plain and full declaration
that this despotic viceroy will be bound by no law, nor
regard the constitutional rights of his Majesty's subjects
whenever they interfere with the plans he has formed for
oppressing the good people of Massachusetts Bay, and, therefore,
the executing, or attempting to execute, such proclamation
will justify resistance and reprisal.' This is what
the delegates of Virginia take to the general continental
congress, to meet in Philadelphia on the 5th of September,
and it is enough! No matter whether 't is General Gage,
or the government represented by him, which we are to resist
and execute reprisals on! I defy a million casuists to
change the issue when the cannon begin to roar!”
“You are right,” said St. John, thoughtfully, “it is really
England which these instructions defy.”
“Nothing less,” replied the stranger, opening a pamphlet
which he carried folded in his hand, “and here is the defiance
at greater length.”
“What is that?”
“See! `A Summary View of the Rights of British
America.'”
“By whom?”
“Mr. Thomas Jefferson.”
“Ah! the man of the mathematical logic, the irreverent
genius, the overturner!”
“Yes, the pick-ax, as Henry is the gunpowder. Take
this pamphlet and read it, friend. See its noble sentiments:
`the whole art of government consists in the art of being
honest!' Weigh attentively its inexorable logic, treading
upon thrones and principalities! See how I uttered the
simplest truth when I told you that this man, Jefferson,
would be one of the eagles of the storm! In this pamphlet,
which will probably cause his attainder for treason, the great
issue is defined with irresistible vigor and unflinching exactness;
these pages are the statement of the quarrel, the
watch-word of resistance — revolution![2]
Every moment
that revolution advances! We have looked for it almost
with tears and groans! Now it comes, with gigantic strides,
as I speak! Ten years ago, Patrick Henry said to me:
`Even now you may scent the odor of the coming storm!'
Well, friend, that odor gathers closer and more intense, but
it is not suffocating! It fills the veins of thousands with fierce
heat—of thousands who are taking down their old swords and
fire-arms. The gloomy cloud droops above, and the world
lies in darkness, but wait, friend, wait! be not doubtful!
From this gloom will leap the lightning of an oppressed people's
indignation; woe to those who are struck by the bolt!”
“You speak in a voice which leaves no room for answer,”
said his companion. “I will take this pamphlet and read
it; but I fear I shall be a worthless proselyte.”
“No, you belong to Virginia, and will take your part.”
St. John smiled.
“Do you know why I think I shall not accomplish much,
friend?” he said.
“No.”
“I am happy.”
And the young man's eyes wandered, with a tranquil light
in them, toward the far south-west.
“You have been frank with me, friend,” he said to the
stranger; “you unrolled before me your whole past life—I
will not be so unfriendly as to conceal my own. I love and
am beloved by the noblest woman in the land, and in her love
I find the consummation of my hopes and dreams. Do you
understand now why I am a bad instrument of revolution?”
And the young man looked at the stranger with an air of
tranquil happiness.
The stranger for a time did not speak, but gazing at his
companion, seemed to muse sadly. This expression of sadness
deepened into sorrow as he reflected, and at last, shaking
his head, he muttered,
“Youth! youth! what a grand thing it is! how full of
trust!”
“What did you say?” asked St. John; “speak out your
thoughts.”
“Perhaps I had better not, friend,” said the stranger,
sadly; “they are not happy thoughts.”
“Let me share at least your griefs.”
“I have none, and I only mused, as do all men who have
seen wither and fade the blossoms and flowers of their
dreams.”
“Speak, friend!” said St. John, “I wish to hear your
thought.”
“It will not appear rational to you, but I may as well
utter it. Well, you think the future is clear and happy, do
you not?”
“Yes.”
“That you are assured of this happiness—certain to
reap?”
“I think I am.”
“You think that no clouds can rise, no thunderbolts descend?”
“No clouds which love can not dissipate, no thunderbolts
which happiness will not turn aside.”
The stranger shook his head.
“I thought so once, too,” he muttered, “but it came.
Take care! be not too certain! Do not think that Heaven
will permit you to withdraw yourself from the contest.”
St. John smiled.
“You speak to a man demented by a possessing thought,
a single image,” he said; “your words do not convince me.”
“Well, perhaps they had better have not been uttered.
But the future is dark—we know not what may happen. I
see that for the present I have lost a coadjutor, for you are
happy and content. If that happiness changes to sadness,
that content to suffering and pain, then you will come back
to the struggle from which you are now taken. If that
event happens, come and put your hand on my shoulder—I
will support you. My words seem idle, friend, but they
may be the best rationality for you if the darkness comes.
Do you see that tall house yonder rising above the suburbs?
That is my working place, you know, and there you will
find me! I hope you will not come. I trust I may be a
mere raven, like Virgil's, croaking from the hollow tree;
but the future for all of us lies in the hand of God. Now
I will take my leave, as I have much to attend to. I shall
see you again.”
And exchanging a grasp of the hand with St. John, the
stranger left him, and disappeared in the moving throng before
the door of the tavern.
The young man looked after him with a sad smile.
“There goes one who has suffered much,” he muttered,
“and he fears that I will suffer. He does not know the
depth and security of my happiness, poor heart! He does
not know that Bonnybel and myself are united by a tie
which destiny itself is powerless to burst asunder!”
He spoke with a smile, and so went into the Raleigh.
