Five years have passed away since then and now, when I again begin the recitation of the strange events of which my house was the centre, and I, who was then scarcely more than a child, have to record all that happened around me when I had developed into a woman.
By this period my dearly loved father had been long dead; had been, indeed, borne to his grave nearly four years ago, accompanied by all that ceremony with which a Virginian gentleman is always interred; and I ruled in his stead. Thus, you will comprehend, he had lived for some months after he had endeavoured to slay Mr. St. Amande for his assault upon me, and during those months we had received information about who and what he was, though there was still more to be learnt later on.
Indeed, he had not fled our house a week ere the courier brought a letter which had arrived from home; a letter sealed with a great seal as big as that of the Governor of Virginia, and addressed with much formal courtesy to "Nicholas Bampfyld, Esquire, Gentleman and Planter, of Pomfret Manor, on the James River, partly in King and Queen, and partly in King County, Virginia, etc." And when it was perused we found it did indeed contain strange matter, though, strange as it was, not difficult of understanding.
The Marquis, who wrote in his own hand, began by stating that, since all who bore the name of St. Amande were immediate kin of his, he thanked Mr. Bampfyld for in any way having shown kindness, which he was not called upon to show, to the youth, Roderick St. Amande. Yet, he proceeded to state, Mr. Bampfyld had in part been imposed upon by that young man, since, while he was in truth an heir of the title, he was by no means an immediate one, nor was his father really the Viscount St. Amande. The actual possessor of that title, his lordship said, was Gerald St. Amande, son of the late lord, his heir being (while Gerald was unmarried and without a son) his uncle Robert, falsely, at present, terming himself Lord St. Amande, and then, in succession to him, Roderick St. Amande.
"But," continued the Marquis, "it was indeed most remarkable that Mr. Bampfyld's letter should have arrived at the moment it did, for, while he stated that he had purchased Roderick St. Amande from the captain of a slave-trading vessel, they at home were under very grave fears that some similar disaster had befallen Gerald, the real lord, since he too was missing and no tidings could be gleaned of him. He had, however, disappeared from London and not from Dublin while left alone but a little while by a most faithful friend and companion of his (who was now as one distracted by his loss), and they could only conjecture that the young lord had either been stolen by kidnappers and sent to the West Indian or the American plantations, or else impressed for service in one of His Majesty's vessels, the press having been very hot of late."
The Marquis added that he felt little alarm at the young lord's future, since he knew it could only be a matter Of time as to his release, no matter where he had been taken to, while as to Mr. Roderick St. Amande he trusted Mr. Bampfyld would continue his kindness to him, put him in the way of returning to his family, and let him have what was necessary of money, for all of which he begged Mr. Bampfyld to draw upon him as he saw fit, and the drafts should be instantly honoured.
So, with profuse and reiterated thanks, this nobleman concluded his letter, and at the same time stated that Mr. Roderick St. Amande might not intentionally have intended to deceive Mr. Bampfyld as to his proper position, since, doubtless, his own father--who was a most unworthy and wicked person--had really fed the youth's mind with the idea that he was the heir-apparent to the peerage.
My father never did draw on the Marquis of Amesbury for the money he had expended, nor, indeed, would he have any mention ever made of Roderick St. Amande, though be commissioned Gregory to sit down and write to his lordship a full account of all the doings of that young libertine from the time he came to us until he left, and also bade my cousin not to omit how he had struck off his ear when he would, had he been able, have slain him. This letter of Gregory's was not answered until after my father had passed away, when we received another from the Marquis full of expressions of regret for the misbehaviour of his relative, and stating that, henceforth, he neither intended to acknowledge Roderick nor his father as kinsmen of his. Also, he remarked, that had Mr. Bampfyld killed the profligate he would have only accorded him his deserts, and could have merited no blame from honest men for doing so. Likewise, he told us that news had been heard of the real lord, Gerald, Viscount St. Amande, who had indeed been impressed for a seaman on board His Majesty's shipNamur, in which Admiral Sir Chaloner Ogle had hoisted his flag, and that, on the vessel having sailed the same night and he making known his condition to the Admiral, that illustrious officer had taken him under his charge and promised to treat him as a petty officer and promote him to better things should his command be a long one.
This was the last letter we had from home touching this strange matter--excepting a letter from the Marquis's secretary stating that his lordship had not as yet been called on to honour any draft of Mr. Bampfyld's, which he would very willingly do. Yet of the matter itself there was now to be more trouble, ay! more dreadful, horrid trouble than had happened up to now. This you shall see later. Meanwhile, our life went on very peacefully at the Manor, and, when I had reconciled myself to my dear father's loss, was not an unhappy one. Mary remained with me ever as my friend and companion, helping me to direct the household duties, singing and playing with me upon the spinet and the harpsichord, riding with me sometimes to Richmond, or Norfolk, or Williamsburg, sometimes called Middle Plantation, and assisting me in my garden, for which she constantly obtained from her friends in Bristol many of the dear old English plants and seeds. Yet I feared that the day must come ere long when she would cease to be an inmate of my house, tho' still a neighbour. For it was very evident that she had formed an affection, which was warmly returned, for the young Irish clergyman whom our neighbour, Mr. Cliborne, had brought out from England on his return from his last visit there, to replace the dissolute old man who had been Mr. St. Amande's friend and brother carouser. This young divine was a very different kind of man from that other, being most attentive in his duties and expounding the Word--according to the forms of the Established Church--most beautifully, and was, withal, a cheerful companion. He could also write sweet verses--whereby he partly gained, I think, Mary's heart--and he could take part in a catch or a glee admirably, so that, when in the evening we all sang together in the saloon, the blacks would gather round outside to hear and, sometimes, to hum in concert with us. To add to which his learning was profound.
But what interested me more than all was that Mr. Jonathan Kinchella--such being his name--was able to throw a thoroughly clear light upon the whole of the transactions connected with the St. Amande family; he could explain all that you, yourselves, know as to how the scapegrace, Roderick, came out to Virginia, and he told us of all the sufferings of that poor young man whom he always spoke of as Gerald, so that we could not but weep at their recountal. For what woman's heart, nay, what human heart, would not be touched by the description of that poor child torn from his mother's arms, living the life of a beggar in rags, and witnessing the funeral of his father conducted by charity? Oh! it was pitiful, we said to one another, pitiful; and when we knelt down to pray at night we besought a blessing on Mr. Kinchella and on that other good Christian, Quin, the butcher, for all that they had done for that unhappy young outcast.
But, previous to the arrival of this gentleman, I received a visit, of which I must speak, from another person, who also seemed much interested in those two cousins, and who, at the time when he came, I regarded as a most kind, benevolent gentleman.
Mary and I were seated one morning in our dining-saloon, it being then some months after my father's death, when Mungo entered the room and said that there was, without, a gentleman on his road to the proposed new settlement of Georgia. One who, the black added, would be very glad if I could accord him a moment's reception, since he was a friend of the St. Amande family, and that his name was Captain O'Rourke.
Bidding him be shown into the great saloon--for even now our curiosity was great to hear any news about this strange family, one of whose members, and he, doubtless, the worst, had dwelt with us--we entered that apartment shortly afterwards, and perceived our visitor standing at the long windows gazing down across the plantations to where the river ran. As he turned and made us a deep and most courtly bow, we observed that he was a gentleman of perhaps something more than middle age, with dark rolling eyes and a somewhat rosy face, and also that he was of large bulk. He was handsomely dressed in a dark blue riding-frock, gold laced; with, underneath, a crimson waistcoat, and his hat was also laced with gold.
"Ladies," he said, advancing with still another bow, "I know not which is Mistress Bampfyld, but I thank her for her courtesy in receiving me." Here I indicated that I was that person and that Mary was my friend, whereon he continued:
"Therefore, madam, I thank you. As I have told your domestic, I am a friend of the house of St. Amande, whereon, being on my way to Georgia on a mission concerning my friend, Mr. James Oglethorpe, member of Parliament for Haslemere in Surrey, I made bold to ride this way. For, madam, we have heard in England that it was under your hospitable roof, or your respected father's, that the Honourable Roderick found shelter."
"And have you heard, sir, how he repaid that shelter?" I asked.
"I have heard nothing, madam, of that, but I trust it was as became a gentleman."
"It was as became a villain!" exclaimed Mary.
"Heavens! madam," said the captain to her, looking most deeply shocked. "You pain as well as surprise me. As a villain! How we must all have been deceived in him. As a villain! Tut, tut!"
"But, sir," I asked, "you speak of him as the Honourable Roderick St. Amande. Yet the Marquis of Amesbury has written us that he is nothing of the sort, at present at least."
"Does he so? Does he, indeed? The Marquis! Ah! a noble gentleman and of great friendship with Sir Robert Walpole. And on what grounds, madam, does the Marquis write thus?"
"On the grounds that Mr. St. Amande's cousin, Gerald, is the present Viscount St. Amande--and that consequently----"
"Ha! ha!" he interrupted me, joyfully as it seemed, "so the Marquis does recognise Gerald! 'Tis well, very well." And here he nodded as though pleased. "Gerald was ever my favourite. A dear lad!"
"You knew him, sir?"
"Knew him, madam!" he exclaimed; "knew him! Why, he was my tenderest care. I was his governor for some time, and watched over him as though he had been my son."
At this moment Mungo brought in the refreshments which in Virginia are always offered to a caller, and the captain, seeing the various flasks of wine and the bottles, shook his head somewhat dubiously at them, saying he never drank till after the noon. Yet, upon persuasion, he was induced to try a little of the rum, which he pronounced to be excellent, and, doubtless, much relished by those who could stomach spirits, which he could rarely do.
As for Mary and myself we were determined to gather as much information as we could from this gallant gentleman who knew the St. Amande family so well (never suspecting, until later, how much he was gathering from us), so we continued our questions to him, asking him among others if Lord Gerald, as we termed him, was handsome.
"He was a most beautiful lad," said the captain, perceiving that our interests turned more to him than to his wretched cousin, "with exquisite features like his sweet mother, a much injured lady. But," changing the subject back again, "what has become of Roderick, for, in truth, I come more to seek after him than for aught else? His poor father has had no news of him now for some long time; not since he first arrived here and wrote home of all that had befallen him."
This astonished us greatly, for we had always figured to ourselves, when talking the matter over, that Mr. St. Amande must have somehow made his way back to Ireland in safety. So we told Captain O'Rourke of our surprise at his information.
"When he fled," I said, "he went first to an evil-living old man, our clergyman, now lying sick unto death from his debaucheries,"--the captain shook his head mournfully here--"who, however, beyond giving him a balsamic styptic for his ear would do no more, saying that he feared my father's wrath too much. Then we learnt afterwards that he went to the Pringle Manor, where he had become on terms of intimacy with the young men of the family, but they, on gathering what had happened, refused also to give him shelter, calling him vile and ungrateful. So he went forth and has never since been heard of, tho', indeed, sir, I do trust no ill has befallen him. Bad and wicked as he was, we would not have him fall into the hands of the Indians, as he might well have done."
"The Indians, madam!" exclaimed the captain, while I thought he grew pale as he spoke. "The Indians! Would that be possible here?"
"They are ever about," I replied; "sometimes in large bodies, sometimes creeping through the grass and the woods like snakes. When they are together they will attack villages and townships, and when alone, will carry off children or girls--there are many of both, who have been carried away, living amongst them now, and have themselves become savages--or they will steal cattle or shoot a solitary man for his pistol or his sword."
"Faith," said the captain, "a pleasant part of the world to reside in! Yet 'tis indeed a noble estate you have here--it reminds me somewhat of my own in the Wicklow Mountains."
"But, sir," said Mary, "what are the chances of Lord St. Amande obtaining his rights, now that the Marquis has declared for him? Surely his uncle can do nothing against the truth!"
The captain mused a moment, shaking his head meditatively and as though pondering sadly on all the wickedness that had been wrought against that poor youth, and then he said:
"'Tis hard to tell. I fear me his uncle is a bad man--he has, indeed, deceived me who trusted and believed in him, for he has over and over again sworn that Gerald was not his brother's child. And I trusted him, I say, tho' now I begin to doubt. Yet 'tis ever so in this world. We who are of an innocent and confiding nature are made the sport of the unscrupulous and designing."
"But," I exclaimed, "surely there is law and justice at home, and upright judges, especially with so good a king as ours on the throne, tho', under the wicked Stuarts, it might have been different. And the judges of England and Ireland, with whom you doubtless are well acquainted, would not let so base a villain as his uncle prevail."
The captain nodded and said he did indeed know many of the judges of both countries (we learnt afterwards that he spake perfect truth), yet he doubted. Their judgments and decisions were not always those which he thought right nor worthy of approval; but still, with so strong a champion as the Marquis of Amesbury at his back (who could influence Sir Robert) he must hope that the young man would come by his own. We pressed him to stay to dinner, to which he consented and did full justice to our viands, praising them in a hearty, jolly fashion, and consenting more readily than before to attempt the wines and spirits. He also expressed much curiosity as to our convict and bond-servant labour, taking great interest in the various characters described by us. Indeed, at one time he testified a desire to walk down and inspect them and their dwellings, but desisted at last, saying we had given him such excellent accounts that he felt as if he had seen these creatures with his own eyes. Of them all, the case of Peter Buck, a highwayman, seemed to interest him the most, and he asked many questions about him; as to when he had come out, what his appearance was, and so forth. But, still, he finally decided not to go down to the plantation and see him or the others, saying he was bound to join a company of gentlemen at Albemarle Sound that night if possible, who had a vessel full of Saltzburghers to be conveyed to Savannah.
"But," said he with a laugh, "I do trust, ladies, I shall meet with none of your Indians on my ride. In battle, or with highwaymen, I know how to comport myself, and so long as my sword is true and my pistols well primed can hold my own. But with savages I know not what I should do, unless it were to cut and run."
So he mounted his horse having first bade his hired guide do the same, while we told him that his road ran too far south-east towards the coast for him to encounter any savages; and then, having paid courteous farewells to Mary and me, and having tossed an English gold coin to Mungo, he saluted us once more most gracefully and rode away.
Now, when Mr. Kinchella had been brought from England by Mr. Cliborne--his maintenance--to be supplied amongst us--being fifteen thousand pounds of tobacco annually and the frame-house built for the minister--it was not long ere we learnt the true history of Captain O'Rourke. Nay, it was so soon as we began to speak of the St. Amande family, and Mr. Kinchella could not but laugh softly when we related to him the conversation we had had with our visitor.
"The rogue! The adventurer!" he exclaimed. "And acquainted with the judges, too. I' faith, he is. With everyone in the land, I should warrant. Yet, naturally, he might say what he would here; tell his own tale, chaunt his own song. How was he to suppose any poor student of Trinity should ever wander to Virginia who knew his history?"
Then after a little further talk he fell meditating aloud again, saying:
"He may be in truth in the service of Mr. Oglethorpe--a gallant gentleman who served under Prince Eugene, and is, they say, recommended for a Generalship--yet how can he have obtained such service? He has been highwayman, if all told of him is true--perhaps, for that reason he wished not to encounter Mr. Peter Buck--guinea dropper and kidnapper--as with Gerald. Nay, Heaven only knows what he has not been, to say nothing of 'political agent' on both sides. Well. Well. Let us hope he has turned honest at last. Let us hope so."
That an intimacy should spring up between us and Mr. Kinchella was not to be wondered at, nor, indeed, that he also became popular among many other families in the counties before mentioned. For, independently of his own merits, the case of Mr. Roderick St. Amande and our charity and friendliness to him, as well as his base repayment of them, had made much talk in all the country round, not only with the gentry but among others. Even the convicts, we knew, talked about it, as did the bond-servants; and Christian Lamb, my maid, told me that her brother had often seen the late lord who died in such poverty ruffling it in London, where he was well known in gay circles. Indeed, Mr. Kinchella became mightily liked everywhere and was always welcome at the houses of his flock. For, besides his gifts of writing-verses and playing the fiddle and singing agreeably--which, simple accomplishments as they were, proved mighty acceptable in a community like ours, where we found the winter evenings long, and the summer ones, too, for the matter of that--besides all these, I say, and far above them, was his real goodness as well as sound piety. His sermons were easy and flowing, suitable alike to the educated and the simple; he expounded the Word most truthfully, and he never failed to exhort us to remember that we were Christian English folk, although in a new land, and that we owed it as a duty to our ancestors to remain such and to be a credit to the country which had sent us forth. Thus he struck a note that found an echo in all our hearts, since nothing was felt more strongly in Virginia than the sense of loyalty to our old home and home-government. 'Tis true that, in other states farther north, there were to be found those who talked wildly, and as though their minds must be distraught, of forming what they termed an American Union which should cast off the rule of our mother country; but their words were as idle breath and not to be regarded nor considered seriously. King George II. was firmly seated on his throne--as anyone might see who read the beautiful odes and other things written by Mr. Cibber, which were printed in the London news-journals, and, so, occasionally reached us--and all Virginians who went to and fro betwixt here and London spake highly of that great monarch, and of how he received the colonists graciously and spoke them fair.
For the ruse which had been played on Roderick St. Amande and his father, whereby the young lord had been saved from kidnapping and his miserable cousin sent in his place, there was little condemnation, but rather approval amongst our friends and neighbours; and, had it been possible for Mr. Quin to find his way amongst us, it would have been easy for him to establish himself comfortably in our colony.
"Although," said Mr. Kinchella, "that it was a wrong thing to do nobody can deny; yet, when Gerald came and told me of it, I could not find it in my heart to chide him or his friend, Quin, and so I let him go without a word of reproof. Yet now he is gone, too, and I know not where he may be. Sir Chaloner Ogle has the reputation of a fighting sailor, and, once his flag is hoisted at the main topmast-head, he may take his fleet around the world in search of adventure, and poor Gerald with it."
And now have I arrived at the year 1732, when I was twenty-three years of age--the year which was to be, perhaps, the most important in my life, and after which, when I have related all that occurred in it, I shall have but little more to tell.
In the early months of that year nothing happened worthy of record, except that our mastiffs were found poisoned in February in their kennels, as well as were those of Mr. Cliborne. This led us to fear the Indians might be meditating an attack on us, since they dreaded these animals more than anything else, and would, by hook or crook, invariably get them destroyed if possible before making a raid. Their method was for one of them to creep into the settlements and approach the kennels, when the poison could be easily cast in on some tempting pieces of meat. Then, the time of year when the nights were dark and long was that generally selected, as leaving them less open to observation. On such nights as these all the colonists would be huddled round their respective hearths, the convicts and bond-servants having great fires made for them in their outhouses, and the negroes still greater ones in their quarters. Amongst the gentry, too, the cold was also combated as best might be; huge wood fires blazed in every room, while, in the saloons, to add to the warmth and induce forgetfulness of the winter, games of all descriptions, as well as dances, would be indulged in. The Virginia reel shared with "Wooing a Widow," "Grind the Bottle," and "Brother, I am bobbed," the task of passing the long evenings, and those evenings were generally brought to a conclusion by hearty suppers, and, for the gentlemen, plentiful libations of brandy, rum from the West Indies, old Mountain wine imported from England, to which place it was sent from Malaga, tobacco, and so on. While such jollities as these prevailed indoors an Indian might easily creep about the plantations, survey the houses from the outside, and destroy or steal the live-stock.
The poisoning of our hounds led, however, to no further trouble at the time, and so the winter slipt away, and, at last, we burst into the glorious Virginian spring, a season when all Nature awakes and breaks into golden luxuriance. Then the pines begin to put on their fresh green cones and the gum-trees their leaves, the flowers spring forth as though born in a night, the creepers clothe themselves in tender green, and all the woods become gay with the songs of birds--the golden oriole, the mock-bird, and the whip-poor-will. And over and around all is the balmy warmth of a southern spring, the brightness of a southern sun, and the clear, blue atmosphere of a southern sky.
It was on such a day as this, in the afternoon, that I going down to see if my roses, which grew on that side of the lawn by which the road passed, were budding, observed a gentleman ride up the road, and, dismounting from his horse, take off his hat and advance to me.
"Madam," he said, "I think, from what I gathered in your village, that I am not mistaken. This is Pomfret Manor, is it not?"
This young gentleman--for I guessed he was but little older than I--was so handsome and bewitching to look upon, that, as I answered him, I could but gaze at him. His face, from which shone forth two eyes that to my foolish fancy seemed like stars, was oval, and his complexion, though much browned, very clear, while his other features were most shapely. He wore no wig--which seemed strange to a Virginian, where the wig is considered the certain mark, or necessary accompaniment, of a gentleman--yet he did well not to do so, for, besides considering the warmth of the day, his hair was most beautiful to see, since it hung down in dark brown curls to his shoulders where it reposed in a great mass. His apparel was plain, being a dark green riding-suit trimmed with silver lace, and he wore riding-boots of a handsome shape, while by his side he carried a small sword.
"It is Pomfret Manor, sir," I replied, noticing all these things. "May I ask what is your will?"
"I come, madam," he said, "first with the desire to renew a friendship with one for whom I cherish the warmest recollections; ay! for one who was my friend when I had scarce another, or only one other, in the world; and secondly, to pay my respects to Mr. Nicholas Bampfyld, to whom my family owe a debt."
"Sir," I said, "whatever your debt may be to Mr. Bampfyld it can never be paid now. My father has been dead these three years."
He looked surprised, and then said, "Dead! Madam, I grieve to hear it. I had hoped to see him. And Mr. Kinchella, the friend I seek, he, I hope and trust, is well."
"He is very well," I answered, "and is now in my house with my friend, Miss Mills, to whom he is under engagement to be shortly married."
"To be married," he said, with a smile, tho' a grave one; "to be married! This is indeed good news. He should make a worthy husband if ever man did."
As he had been speaking there had come across my mind a sudden thought--a wonderment! And--why, I have never known even to this day!--I fell a-trembling at that wonderment as to whom he should be. Was he, I asked myself,--he--was he----?
"Sir," I said, "you shall be brought to Mr. Kinchella. What name shall be announced to him?"
"I am called Lord St. Amande," he said quietly, while it seemed to me that he sighed as he spake.
"Called Lord St. Amande," I repeated in my surprise. "Lord Gerald St. Amande."
Once again he smiled, saying, "Not Lord Gerald St. Amande, though my name is Gerald. But I perceive Mr. Kinchella has been talking to you about me. Perhaps telling you my history. Well!" to himself, "heaven knows it has been common talk enough."
I think--looking back as I do now to those far-off years and to that happy, sunny day when first he came among us--that, in my heart, there was some little disappointment at seeing him whom we had pitied so looking thus prosperous. For although we knew that his great relative, the Marquis, had espoused his cause and taken him by the hand, it was ever as the poor outcast youth that we had thought of him. Yes, as an outcast roaming the streets of Dublin, or as a poor wandering sailor tossed on stormy seas, our hearts had gone out to him--and now, to see him standing before me, bravely apparelled and looking, indeed, as I thought, an English lord should look (for I had never before seen one), caused me, as I say, a disappointment. It may be that it did so because it seemed as though our pity was not needed. But, even as this passed through my mind, I reflected that it was no true Virginian hospitality to let him stand there holding his horse's bridle and waiting to see what welcome he might expect, so, calling to the negro gardener who was busy amongst the vines to take his steed, I bade him follow me. As we went to the great steps of the porch I laughed with joy at thinking what a pleasant surprise this would be for his friend, and felt glad, I knew not why, that it had fallen to my lot to be the first to see him and to bring those two together; therefore I said to him:
"I will not have you announced, but, if it pleases you, will bring you straight into the saloon. It will be good to see Mr. Kinchella's pleasure when you stand before him. It was but recently he wondered if he should ever see you again, and now you are here close to him."
"Do with me as you will," he said, "and I thank you for doing so much."
So we went up the steps together, when, drawing him behind the blue tatula bush that was now coming into flower with the warm spring, I bade him look within and he should see his friend. Seated by the harpsichord he saw him, his sweetheart sitting by his side, and he looking brave and happy, and dressed in his black silk coat and scarf.
"I should scarce have known him," whispered my lord, "he has changed so. His pallor is gone--it may be love has made him rosy--and he is fuller and plumper. It seems a crying shame to disturb him when he has so sweet a companion."
I laughed and said, "You will be easily absolved. To see you again is always his most earnest desire, while, for Mary, you are a hero of romance of whom she dreams often."
He looked at me from behind the bush, so that I thought he was wondering if it was to Mary alone such dreams came; and then, saying:
"Madam, I fear I shall be made vain here," he begged me to permit him to enter and greet his friend.
That greeting it was good to see. Mr. Kinchella gazed for a moment at the stranger entering so abruptly and then, springing to his feet, exclaimed, "Gerald! Gerald!" and folded him in his arms, while Mary, who had also risen hastily, repeated him, crying, "'Gerald!' Is this indeed Lord St. Amande?"
"Dear lad, dear heart!" said Mr. Kinchella, who, after his embrace, held the other at arm's length so as to survey him. "It is indeed you! And how you are grown; a man and a handsome one. But how you came here passes my understanding. Yet how I rejoice. How I do rejoice. Oh! Gerald! Gerald! this is a day of days." Then he went on, "Mistress Bampfyld, I see already you know; this other lady is my future wife, Miss Mills," whereon his lordship bowed with most stately grace while Mary curtsied low.
"But tell me, tell us," continued her lover, "what brings you here. We knew not, I knew not where you were. The last heard of you was that you had been impressed for the sea and had sailed under Sir Chaloner Ogle, who had testified a kindly disposition to you. But to what part of the world you had sailed, we did not know. Papers reach here but fitfully, and, though a friend of mine does sometimes send meThe London Journal, owned by that sturdy writer, Mr. Osborne, I have seen nothing that told me of your fleet."
"'Tis not so far off now," said his lordship, with his grave smile, "I being at the moment on leave from it. I have adopted the calling of a sailor--what use to haunt the streets of London idly waiting until the House of Lords shall do me justice, if ever?"---there was a bitterness in his tone as he spake that we all well understood--"and I am now master's-mate in theNamur, with promise of a lieutenancy from Sir Chaloner. As for the fleet itself, a portion of it is at Halifax and a portion off Boston, while theNamuris at the mouth of the James River waiting to capture some of the pirates that still haunt the spot."
"You have a long leave, I hope, Lord St. Amande," I said, though I knew that I blushed, as I did so. "You must not quit Mr. Kinchella for some time, and, in Virginia, we love to show hospitality to our friends or friends' friends."
He bowed graciously to me and told me he was entitled to many days' leave of absence, since he had had none in their long cruise, except now and then a day or so ashore; and then Mary, whose vivacity I always envied, asked him why the House of Lords behaved so ill to him and did not put him in possession of his rights.
"For," said she, "it would be the most idle affectation to pretend that here, far away as we are from England, we do not take the deepest interest in your affairs. Virginia has, and this portion of it particularly, been so much mixed up with your family and so interested in it by the fact of your friend, Mr. Kinchella, coming here, that it seems as though we, too, had some concern in those affairs."
"The House of Lords in Ireland has done me justice," he replied, "as I learnt but recently, since they had pronounced me to be what in very truth I am, my father's son. In England the House will not yet, however, decide that I am heir to the Marquis of Amesbury--though he hesitates not to acknowledge me--and it may not do so for years. Yet even my present title is disputed by my villainous uncle, Robert, who now has another son by his second wife, whom he proclaims as heir. For," addressing us all, "that the wretch, Roderick, is dead there can be, I imagine, no doubt; and his father amongst others believes so."
"'Tis thought so," we answered, while Mr. Kinchella added that many enquiries had been made for, him, not only in Virginia but in other colonies, and no word could be heard of him. "So that," he continued, "there can be no further thought but that he is dead."
"Even so," said my lord, "'twere best. For a wretch such as he death alone is fitting. And, madam, from the Marquis I have heard by letter of all the villainies he committed here, and, as one of his blood and race, I now tender you my apologies for his sins and wickedness."
"Oh, sir," I cried out with emotion, "I pray you do not so. He is gone and I have forgotten him; since he must surely be dead I have also forgiven him. I beg of you not to sully your fair fame by associating your name with his, nor your honour by deeming yourself accountable for his misdeeds."
Whereon, as I spake, his lordship, taking my hand in his, raised it to his lips and said he thanked me for my gracious goodness.
"How easily," said Lord St. Amande to me one summer night, two months later, as we sat upon the porch outside the saloon, "how easily may one be inspired with the gift of prophecy! Who, looking in at those two and knowing their characters, could not predict their future?"
He spake of Mr. Kinchella and Mary who were within, she sitting at the spinet while he, bending over her, was humming the air of a song he had lately written preparatory to her singing it.
"One can see," went on my lord, "all that that future shall be. They have told their love to one another, soon that love will blossom into marriage, even as I have seen your daturas and your roses blossom forth since first I came amongst you--that marriage will bring happiness of days and years to them, in which in honour and peaceful joys they will go on until life's close. Happy, happy pair--happy Kinchella to love and be beloved, to love and dare to tell his love."
And my lord sighed as he spoke.
"All men may tell their love, surely," I said. "Why should they not?"
"All men may not tell their love, Mistress Joice," he replied; "all men may not ask for love in return. Over some men's lives there is so deep a shadow that it precludes them from asking any woman to share their lot--sometimes it is best that those men go through life alone, unloved and with no other's lot bound up with theirs. But, hark, she is going to sing that song he wrote for her."
Through the warm air Mary's voice arose as he stood by her; through the quiet of the night when nought was heard but the distant barking of the dogs, which were strangely restless this evening, and nought seen but the fireflies, she sang his little song:
"If we should part--some day of daysWe might stand face to face again,And, dear, my eyes I scarce could raiseTo yours without a bitter pain.For memory then must backward turnTo all the love that went before,While thoughts our hearts would sear and burnMaking our meeting still more sore.So shall we part? Ah. No, Love, no.Or shall we stay and still be true,Shall one remain--the other go,Or shall I still rest close to you?"If we should part--could I rejoiceIf by some chance I saw your face?Or if you, too, should hear my voiceCold and without one plea for grace.Such as in days agone I soughtCraving one whispered word from you;Would not your heart with grief be fraughtRecalling all the love we slew.So shall we part? Ah. No, Love, no.Or shall we stay and still be true,Shall one remain--the other go,Or shall I still rest close to you?"Ah! best it is we never part,Better by far that we keep true,Clasp hand to hand, bind heart to heart,As in the past we used to do.So murmur, sweet, the words once more,Breathe them to me again, again,Whisper you love me as before,Proclaim Love's victory over pain.And we'll not part. Ah. No, Love, no.'Tis best to stay for ever true.Since you remain, I cannot go,But ever must rest close to you."
"If we should part--some day of daysWe might stand face to face again,And, dear, my eyes I scarce could raiseTo yours without a bitter pain.For memory then must backward turnTo all the love that went before,While thoughts our hearts would sear and burnMaking our meeting still more sore.
So shall we part? Ah. No, Love, no.Or shall we stay and still be true,Shall one remain--the other go,Or shall I still rest close to you?
"If we should part--could I rejoiceIf by some chance I saw your face?Or if you, too, should hear my voiceCold and without one plea for grace.Such as in days agone I soughtCraving one whispered word from you;Would not your heart with grief be fraughtRecalling all the love we slew.
So shall we part? Ah. No, Love, no.Or shall we stay and still be true,Shall one remain--the other go,Or shall I still rest close to you?
"Ah! best it is we never part,Better by far that we keep true,Clasp hand to hand, bind heart to heart,As in the past we used to do.So murmur, sweet, the words once more,Breathe them to me again, again,Whisper you love me as before,Proclaim Love's victory over pain.
And we'll not part. Ah. No, Love, no.'Tis best to stay for ever true.Since you remain, I cannot go,But ever must rest close to you."
Her voice ceased and we could see her fond face turned up to his and observe the look of love in her dark eyes. And my lord, sitting in the deep chair which had been my father's in other days, murmured to himself, "'If we should part! If we should part!' Ah, well! they need never part. Never, never."
I know not why, that evening, all our thoughts and talk had been upon that silly theme, Love. It had begun at supper--which, in Virginia, we generally took at seven in the evening--and had been continued afterwards in the garden and on the porch, and came, I think, from the fact that Lord St. Amande and Mr. Kinchella had that day been to see a ship which had come from England laden with furniture. His lordship lived with Mr. Kinchella in his minister's house in the village, and, although he generally spent his days with many of the other gentry dwelling around, amongst whom he was very welcome, he could sometimes induce his friend to give up one day to him when they would go off together for rides and walks, as they had done on this occasion when they had ridden to Norfolk. Their evenings they spent almost invariably at Pomfret Manor, as they were doing on this night. But, as I say, at supper this evening there had been much talk of what Mr. Kinchella had purchased from the trader for beautifying his house, such as a beautiful Smyrna carpet, some tapestry hangings, chimney glasses and sconces, a stone-grate and some walnut-tree chairs and East Indian screens, all of which were to be shown to us when they arrived by the waggon and were placed in his home. For their marriage-day was drawing near now, and was, indeed, settled for the beginning of September.
"So that," said his lordship, "when that time arrives, Mistress Joice," as he had come to call me, "must be left all alone in her great house."
"'Tis her own fault," exclaimed Mary; "many are the excellent offers she has had, yet she will take none. Her cousin Gregory has over and over again told her she should wed with him, their interests being similar and their estates adjoining, and two of the Pringles have asked her for wife. But, although in Virginia a maiden who is not married by twenty is deemed to have passed her day, she will not look at them. Oh! 'tis a shame. A Shame."
I had blushed at all this and reproved Mary for telling my lord my secrets; but now, on the porch, he referred to the subject again and asked why none of these gentlemen found favour in my eyes. "Only," I replied, "because in my heart there is no love for them. Surely no girl should wed with one she cannot love?"
"'Tis true," he answered, gravely, as he always spake; "'tis true. And the day will come when you will love someone. It must needs come."
Alas! I wonder that he did not know that already it had come. I should have thought, indeed, did often think, that I had betrayed myself and shown him that the love he spoke of had grown up in my heart for him. He must have seen that which I could not hide, try as I would; my eager looking for his coming in those soft summer evenings, my great joy in his company, my sympathy with him in all that he had known and suffered, and my tell-tale blushes whenever his eyes fell on me. Yet if he knew he gave no sign of knowing, and, although he ever sought my side and passed the hours with me, as those others passed theirs together, he said no word.
But now, as we sat there on the porch silent though, sometimes, our eyes would meet in the glow of the lamp from within, there fell upon the silence of the night the clatter of a horse's hoofs up the road, of a horse coming on at a great pace as though ridden by one who spurred it to its best efforts and sought its greater speed.
"Who can ride here at such a pace to-night?" I said, as still the clatter drew nearer and we heard the horse turn off from the road into our plantations, and so into the stables at the back, while a moment later a voice was heard demanding to see Mistress Bampfyld.
"That voice!" exclaimed Lord St. Amande, springing from his chair and reaching for his sword, which stood in a corner of the balcony. "That voice! Though I have not heard it for years I should know it in a thousand. 'Tis the villain, O'Rourke. Heaven hath delivered him into my hands at last. Now will I have a full revenge on him."
"Oh sir," I said, as he drew his blade, "Oh! sir, oh! my lord, take no revenge on him here, I beseech you. Stain not this house with his blood. No life has ever yet been taken in it since it was brought over. And, oh! remember, he came here before and was well received and hospitably treated--he cannot know that you should also have found your way here--he may well expect to receive the same treatment, the same hospitality again."
"It must be as you command in your house," my lord replied, "yet he shall not escape me, and, when he leaves this place, his punishment shall be well assured." Then he called softly to Kinchella, and, in a few hurried words, told him of who was without. But, ere the latter could express his astonishment--as, indeed, it was astonishing that these three should now be come together!--we heard O'Rourke's voice exclaiming:
"Lead me to her at once, I say. There is no moment to be lost. They may be here at any moment of the night. I have seen them, nay, barely escaped from them; they are on their way--hundreds of them."
"Great God!" exclaimed Mary, who had now come forth with her lover and heard his words, "'tis the Indians he speaks of. It can be no others."
"Indeed it must be," I answered. "Heaven grant that the village is well prepared. For ourselves we must take immediate steps. We must apprise the overseers below and bid them arm the servants and convicts--they will fight for us against the Indians, hate us though they may."
"First," said my lord, who was very cool, "let us hear the ruffian himself, the gallant 'captain.' But, since our presence might somewhat disturb his narrative, let him not see us yet, Kinchella," and as he spake he drew his friend back behind the shutters of the windows while we two went into the saloon.
And now the adventurer came into the apartment once again, though not as he had come before, his manner being very flustered and uneasy, his face covered with perspiration from hard riding on a summer night, and with his wig gone. While, without stopping for any salutation he, on seeing me, began at once:
"Madam, I have ridden hot haste to apprise you of a terrible fact which has come to my knowledge, and to offer you, if you will have them, my services. The Indians are out, madam; they are coming this way; I have seen them. Heavens and earth! 'twas an awful sight to observe the painted devils creeping through the woods, ay! and a thing to freeze one's blood, even on such a night as this, to hear them yell as they saw me. But, fortunately, they are not mounted, and thus I out-distanced their arrows and musket balls which they sent after me. And therefore am I here to warn you, and, since I know you have no men about but your bond-servants and negroes, to help you if I may."
"You mistake, sir," said his lordship, quietly, coming forward into the room with his drawn sword glistening in his hand, while behind him stepped Mr. Kinchella. "You mistake, sir. There are others besides yourself."
If a spectre had arisen before O'Rourke I know not if it could have produced a more terrifying effect on him. For a moment he gazed at his lordship, his lips parted and one hand raised to shield his eyes, as though that way they might see clearer, while on his face there came fresh drops of perspiration. And then he muttered hoarsely:
"Gerald St. Amande! Gerald here! Here! Here in Virginia!"
"Ay," said my lord, confronting him and with the point of his sword lowered to the ground. "Ay! Gerald St. Amande, none other. You execrable villain, we stand face to face at last as man to man, not man to boy as it once was. And what villainy are you upon now in this land? Answer me ere I slay you, as I intend to do ere long."
For reply the other said:
"'Tis so. We stand face to face at last. And the hour is yours. Your sword is drawn, mine is in its sheath, my pistols are unloaded since I fired them at the savages who pursued me. So be it. As well die by the hand of him I injured as by the torture or the weapons of those howling wolves who are on their way here----"
He paused a moment and then, loosening the cross-belt or scarf in which were two great pistols, he flung it and them at his lordship's feet, while at the same time he opened his waistcoat and tore aside his muslin ruffles.
"Now, Gerald St. Amande," he said, "as we stand face to face--'tis your own word--do your worst. If I have been a villain I am at least no coward. Do your worst."
'Twas indeed a strange scene--a fitting prelude to others still more strange that were to follow. This man, this robber--who when he first came among us we had deemed a courtly gentleman--stood there, tall and erect, with no muscle quivering, nay, almost with a look of scorn upon his face. In front of him, his sword still lowered, stood the other whom he invited to be his executioner, his eyes no longer flashing fire but dwelling upon his old enemy as though in wonder. Behind were Mary and myself trembling with apprehension and Mr. Kinchella whispering to his friend, "Gerald, forbear, forbear. Remember, vengeance is to the Lord. He will repay."
Though I felt no fear--since he had given me his promise--that his lordship would do justice upon O'Rourke now, I also took heart to whisper to him, "Is he beyond forgiveness, or at least so bad that he may not go in peace?"
But then Lord St. Amande spoke, saying: "That I should slay you now is impossible. In this house your life is sacred--at her prayer," and he pointed to me. "And, Since you are so bold a man, why such a villain? O'Rourke, seeing you as you are to-night I do believe you might have been worthy of better things. What had I, a helpless child, ever done to you that you should have sought my death as you did?"
"You had done nothing," the other replied, still standing in the same position as when he last spoke, "but your father was always my enemy, while your uncle was my friend. And I wanted money--when was there ever the time I did not want it until now, when I have taken honest service under Mr. Oglethorpe!--money for my sick daughter who is now dead so that I care not if I die too. Your uncle gave it to me largely to remove you."
"You swear that? If we should both live to reach England again would you swear that?"
"Both of us will never reach England again. I have said farewell to that country and to the old world for ever. Yet--yet--if it might be so done that I could keep my credit in Georgia and with my employers, if I might end my days there under the garb of an honest man, I could tell much that would help you to your rights."
"In return for your life being spared?" his lordship asked.
"No. I have not asked you to spare my life. Not in return for that, but as some mitigation of my past. But, come, we trifle time," and he picked up his cross-belt, and, adjusting it, drew forth his pistols and primed and loaded them. "You have had your opportunity of slaying me--that opportunity is past. Henceforth, except for the wrong I did you, we are equal. Now, madam," he said, turning to me, "I am at your disposal and ready to help you defend your house should it be surrounded. You received me as a gentleman when I first came to you";--he put a bitter emphasis on the word "gentleman";--"as a gentleman I will do my best to repay your courtesy."
"If you are a villain you are a bold one," said Lord St. Amande. "Ill luck take you for not being a better man."
"It would be best," said O'Rourke to me, ignoring his lordship, "to go call up the convicts, I think. There is one down there who, if he has not forgotten me--the man Peter Buck of whom you spoke once--will stand side by side with me whatever may happen. I knew him well in the past. And then, madam, the windows should be shuttered----"
"By your leave, sir," Lord St. Amande exclaimed now, "I purpose to undertake the defence of this house for----"
But, ere he could finish his speech, from Mary there came the most agonising scream while, with her eyes almost starting from her head she shrunk back to Mr. Kinchella, and, pointing with her hand to the lower part of the window, she shrieked, "Look! Look!"
And following the direction she indicated we saw the cause of her horror. For there, its almond-shaped eyelids half closed, though still enough open to show the glittering eyes within, its face hideously painted with white and red streaks, and its hair twisted into a knot on the top of its head, we saw the form of a savage crouched down on the porch and peering into the saloon.
In a moment O'Rourke had seen it, too, as she screamed and pointed, for, an instant later, there rang through the room the report of one of the pistols he had loaded, and, when the smoke cleared away, we saw the savage writhing on the porch while from his head gushed a great stream of blood.
"A fair hit," called out O'Rourke. "A fair hit. Od's bobs, my right hand has not forgot its cunning after all."