PART IV
THE NARRATIVE OF JOICE BAMPFYLD CONTINUED
CHAPTER XXIX
HOMEWARD BOUND
It took not more than three months to put my house into a liveable condition once more, for, most happily, the injury which had been done to it in the Indian raid concerned more the woodwork and the fittings than aught else. Indeed, while this was a-doing, I also took occasion to have many improvements made in various portions of the manor that were sorely needed. Thus, in some of our upstairs rooms, our windows had in them nothing but oiled paper, while others were furnished with naught but Muscovy glass or sheets of mica, dating back from the time of the first Bampfyld who came to the colony. These I now replaced by crystal glass brought from England for the purpose.
Yet, in spite of changes and, I suppose, improvements, I could not restrain my tears when first I set eyes on my saloon again. Oh! how sad it was to see the spinet and the harpsichord broken to pieces-everything stood exactly as we had left it that night-to see also my choice Segodia carpets stained with the dried blood that had been shed, and to observe my window-sashes, with their pretty gildings, in splinters.
"Yet cheer up, sweetheart," my lord said to me, as, leaning on his arm, I looked round this ruin and let fall my tears. "It is not irreparable, and might have been worse. And, when we come back from England, we will bring such pretty toys and knick-knacks with us that you shall forget all you have lost. I promise you, sweet, you shall." After which he strove to kiss away my tears, though still they fell.
This took place directly after we had all ridden into the courtyard on our return from captivity. And when the gentlemen whose houses had also been attacked as mine had been (including poor Gregory, who seemed heart-broken at my having fallen in love, yet not with him), and the other colonists had dispersed to their own homes, or what remained of them, we had instantly begun to inspect the damage done. Of the negroes we could discover no signs, though Buck and young Lamb searched the whole house from the cellars to the garrets for them, the former roaring many terrible threats and strange ejaculations at their heads in the hopes they might be in hiding and, on hearing him, come forth; but all was of no avail. Nor, when they searched in the late slaves' and bond-servants' quarters were they any more successful. Christian Lamb, my own maid, soon, however, re-appeared, she having remained in the house the whole time, and though her brother swore at her for a chicken-hearted wench and called her many other hard names, such as traitress and deserter, I was most thankful to see her again, she being a good, faithful creature, though timorous.
From her we learned that after the departure of O'Rourke and my dear lord-the former of whom was now engaged in finding provisions for us, if any remained-the negroes had all sallied forth in a body towards the coast, some with the intention of escaping from their servitude and the others to find a home until I returned, if ever, of which they seemed most doubtful. After this, she told us, the house had been quite deserted, there being none in it but herself-the other white indented servant women having also betaken themselves to the village for safety. Yet she determined to remain until she heard some news of us and of the party that had set forth to rescue us. Moreover, her alarm was lessened by the fact that a squadron of the Virginian Light Horse, from Jamestown, had come into the village with a view of following us and effecting a rescue if possible, but, on learning that a considerable band had set out for the purpose, they had decided to remain where they were, for the present, at least, and to await results.
And now, when at the end of those months my house was once more fit for habitation, and when all signs of the horrible attack that had been made on it had been removed, Gerald, coming to me one evening when I was sitting by my wood fire-for the evenings were turning chilly-said:
"My dearest, are you ready? The time draws near."
"Must it be so soon?" I asked coyly, and with a blush upon my cheeks that was not caused by the blaze of the logs. "Must it be now?"
"In very truth it must," he answered. "I must away to England as swiftly as may be. See here, sweet, what I have found at Jamestown to-day." Then with one arm round my waist, he drew forth with his disengaged hand a packet of letters from his pocket and began to read them to me.
"The Marquis," he said first, "grows old, nay, has grown old; he is seventy-five if an hour. List what he says," and continued his reading of a letter from that noble kinsman:
"I would have you here ere I die so that I may publicly announce you as my heir, and this I will do in my own house when you return, though even then I can of no certainty promise that the Lords will enrol you as such immediately after my death, since they are not so easily persuaded as their brothers in Dublin. Yet come, I say, come as soon as may be. Your mother, too, grows more feeble, worn almost to her grave by the slanders which your uncle and the man Considine-who scruples not to say openly that you are none other than his son-puts about you; and in truth I do think these calumnies will kill her ere long. She rages terribly against them both, and calls on me and many of the peers in power to punish them; yet what are we to do?" "The vile wretches!" I exclaimed, as I nestled close to him. "Oh! the vile wretches! Oh! my darling, that thus your birthright should be so assailed."
"Yet will I have vengeance," he exclaimed, while his eyes glowed with resentment. "Yet shall the fellow Considine regret that he has ever dared to call me his son. His-his. God! My uncle's drunken pander!" and for a while his rage was terrible to witness.
Then, taking up another letter, he said, "This also I found at Jamestown to-day. It is from her, from my mother."
She, too, wrote saying how earnestly she desired that he might soon be able to return home, and more especially so as she heard that the fleet under Sir Chaloner Ogle was about to do so. Then, after mentioning somewhat the same news as the Marquis had done, she went on:
"Oh! my dearest child, can'st thou picture to thyself all the horrors that I have endured since first you were impressed and torn away from me again, after our short but happy meeting? I think it cannot be that you do so. For five years have I, with my wasted frame and ill health ever to contend against, pleaded your cause, worked hard to produce evidence of your birth, and was even so successful with the Marquis's aid as to defeat your vile uncle in the Irish courts and induce the Lords there to enrol you as Lord St. Amande. Yet, as I have thus striven, think of what else I have had to fight against. That most abhorred and execrable villain, Wolfe Considine, has thrown away the mask-if he ever wore it-and has now for two or three years boldly said-God! how can I write the words? – that when your erring father was petitioning the House of Lords for a divorce I was his, Considine's, friend, and that you are his son."
The paper shook in my loved one's hands as he read these words, and he muttered, "Considine, Considine, if ever you come within the point of my sword it shall go hard with you," and then went on with the perusal of the letter:
"That no one believes him-for none do so-matters not. The odium is still the same, and there are some in existence who remember how, at Bath and Tunbridge Wells, ere I had met your father, the wretch persecuted me with his attentions, which I loathed. Also, I remember that, on my becoming affianced to your father, he swore that I should rue it and regret it on my knees, even though he had to wait twenty years for his revenge. Alas! alas! I have rued it and regretted it again and again, though not as he intended. Yet, my child, and only one, if I could but see you properly acknowledged as the Marquis's heir and as such accepted, then would I forget my rue, then could I die happy-the end is not far off now. But ere that end comes, oh! my child, my child of many tears, come back to me, I beseech you. Let me once more clasp you to my arms and let me hear your kinsman proclaim you as his successor. It is for that I wait, for that I long unceasingly."
There was more in her letter saying, amongst other things, how Mr. Quin, whom afterwards I came to know and to respect most deeply, never slackened in his watchfulness over her; of how he was always in attendance on her and what services he performed for her. But what he had read was sufficient.
"You must go to England, Gerald," I said; "at all costs, you must go. Will the Admiral give you leave?"
He laughed aloud at this, saying: "Will the Admiral give me leave? Why, Joice, Sir Chaloner Ogle sailed a month ago, leaving me ere he went his consent to my being absent as long as necessary on urgent private affairs. He knows well how I stand, and wishes me well, too. And, dear heart, as you say, I must go-only I will not go alone."
I well understood his meaning yet could find no answer to his words. So again he went on whispering them in my ear. "No, not alone. My wife must go with me. And, Joice, to-night I will tell Kinchella to make all ready, to proclaim our banns, and to prepare to make us one. It shall be so, my sweet saint, my tender Virginian rose, my heart's best and only love; it shall be so, shall it not?"
What could I say but yes-what other answer make? No woman who had loved him as I had loved him (even ere I knew him, I think) – no woman who had dreamt of his sad story and then come to know him and see his beauty and grace and his fierce bravery exacted on her behalf, but must have answered yes, as I did. For he was all a woman's heart most longs for; all that she most aspires to possess; handsome and brave, yet gentle; fierce as the lion when roused, yet how tender and how true. So I whispered "Yes," and murmured my love to him and the compact was made; our fond troth plighted again with many a kiss.
It was in the old church, from the wooden tower of which the cannon had been fired so often on that dreadful night of death and horror, that we were married. As was the custom of the colony-though one, I think, that might well be changed-the minister took the first kiss from me, while my husband kissed my bridesmaid, Mary, and afterwards I had to submit to being kissed by every gentleman present, while all the while I wanted no other embrace than that of my dear lord. Yet it had to be borne, and one of the first to avail himself of this privilege was Gregory, who kissed me sadly, saying as he did so:
"Ah, Joice, 'twas otherwise I had hoped some day to kiss thy sweet brow. Yet 'twas not to be and so I must bear it as best I may," and he passed sadly down the aisle and away home, tarrying not for the drinkings nor merry-makings that afterwards set in. But, poor lad, he struggled with his love for me so well that at last he conquered it, and certainly his disappointment made no difference in his friendship for me or my husband. During our absence in England he managed my property as carefully as though it had been his own, and regularly sent us an exact account of all he had done, so that 'twas easy to see, and to admire in seeing, that his unaccepted love had not made an enemy of him.
Mr. Kinchella and Mary Mills we saw married a week after our own nuptials, so we left them also happy and content-which was a great joy to us to do. O'Rourke, too, we parted from as friends part from one another, he setting out for Savannah where he purposed to instal himself as agent of Mr. Oglethorpe and bidding us an affectionate farewell ere doing so. He also made an affidavit before an attorney at Jamestown of all he knew of the villainies of Robert St. Amande and the wretch Considine, and swore as well that, from the intimate knowledge he had of my lord's family, and also from having had him once in his charge, the Viscount St. Amande was most undoubtedly the lawfully born child of the late lord. Moreover, he also swore (and produced letters from Considine proving his oath, which letters he gave to Gerald) that, during the separation of Lady St. Amande from her husband, he, Considine, was living an outlaw at Hamburg with a price upon his head, so that he could never have even seen her during that time.
The overseers of the bond-servants being, like all the others, free men now, were provided with means whereby either to establish themselves in the colony or to go elsewhere, though they, in common with the others, elected to remain as hired hands on my estate during my absence. Buck, however, who seemed never to have lost his rollicking disposition, being also provided with some money wherewith to adventure on his own account, bought the lease of the tavern in the village, and changed its name from that of the King's Head to the St. Amande Arms. Lamb, who had once been a sailor, became again one, while his sister, Christian, took passage with us to England as my maid.
CHAPTER XXX
IN THE LAND WHERE THEIR FATHERS DWELT
How shall I, brought up a plain colonial maiden, who had never seen anything more grand than the opening of our Virginian Assembly by the Governor, nor anything more of great life than an assembly ball or the meeting together of our first families at the races, dare to describe the wonders and splendours of London. For wonderful and splendid everything was, and marvellous to behold. From where we were at first installed until the Marquis could arrive in London from his country seat, namely, a busy inn called the Hercules Pillars, at Hyde Park Corner, a spot which my dear father had often told me was the centre of fashion, I saw so much going on that my head was ever in a whirl. Here from morn till night, under the balcony of our sitting-room windows, went on such a clatter and a dashing by of vehicles, including the fast coaches coming in and going out of London, and of huge carriages and carts and horses, that there was no peace, though, in dear truth, I loved to lean over that balcony and watch the turmoil. In the early November mornings-for 'twas that month ere we reached London-first would come lumbering by great carts piled high with vegetables, all of which, my lord said, London would have eaten up by nightfall-a thing not wonderful to understand, seeing that it was asserted that there were nearly half a million people in the town, or one-twelfth part of the whole country. Then great droves of beasts would pass, and sometimes-oh! sad sight-a wretched highwayman with his hands tied behind his back and escorted by the thief-catchers, while the passers-by hooted at him or beat at him with sticks and whips, or flung refuse at him.
"Such was Buck once," Gerald would say when he saw one of these; "and, perhaps O'Rourke, though I think he was more the spy. Ah! well, it is better to be honest men in Virginia or Georgia than like this."
Then, as the day went on, and a poor, thin sun struggled out of the mist, making some brightness around, there would ride forth gentlemen who were going a-hunting at Richmond, or Hampton, or Hounslow, very splendid in their coats. Others, too, would come down to ride in the park most beautifully dressed, and some would stroll along on foot, talking and laughing, and bowing to ladies in their chaises, or taking off their hats to a portly bishop who passed our inn every morning in a coach and six. And sometimes, too, a great lady or so would also go by in her coach and six, with, seated on the steps outside, a page, or sometimes a little black boy with a silver chain around his neck, and I never understood then why Gerald would pull me back into the room as though he wished me not to see these dames. Yet, when I learnt afterwards that one was the Countess of Suffolk and another the horrid woman, Melusina Schulemberg, I did comprehend his reason. And, even in the three days we lay at this inn, I learnt to hate the latter, for, going past one morning, she observed my handsome Gerald on the balcony and kissed her hand to him-as they say she did to any well-favoured gentleman she saw-and afterwards always peered out of the carriage as though seeking for him.
Soon, however, my pleasures of witnessing the bustle of this place came to an end. One dull November morning there drove up to the door of the Hercules Pillars a great coach and six, all emblazoned with coats-of-arms and decorated with rich hangings and much gilding, with, before it, three panting footmen, who, poor creatures, had always to run in front of it, and with, seated within it, a grave and soberly-clad gentleman.
"Why," exclaimed Gerald, who did not share my surprise at this gorgeous and, it seemed to me, sinfully extravagant spectacle-for why could not the gentleman travel as we do in Virginia, either a-horseback or on foot! "Why! 'Tis the Marquis. Joice, go, put on thy best dress-no! stay just as you are; faith, you are fair enough to charm any man." And then he ran downstairs to meet his kinsman and presently brought him to our parlour.
"This is my wife, my lord," he said, presenting me to him, "of the family of Bampfyld, of Virginia."
Whereon the Marquis bowed to me with most stately grace in reply to my curtsey, and, taking my hand, kissed it. "Madam," he said, "we are honoured by an alliance with you. There is no better English blood than that of the Bampfylds, and sure there can be no fairer woman than the Lady St. Amande. Are all women as fair as your ladyship in the colonies?"
I simpered and blushed and knew not what to say, when Gerald diverted his attention by exclaiming, with a smile:
"Her name is Joice, my lord. Will you not, as the head of our family, thus call her?"
"Indeed I will. Joice-Joice; 'tis a pretty name, and well befits its pretty owner. And so, Joice," turning to me and speaking as though he had known me from a child, yet all the time with a most courtly manner, "you have finally determined to throw in your lot with my young kinsman, in spite of his troubles?"
"Oh! sir," I said; "oh! my lord, what woman who had ever seen or known him could refuse to love him? And I owe him my life; I would lay it down for him now if he willed it. He fought for me and mine, ay! shed his dear blood for me. I have a dress at home all stained with it which I will never part with. He sought for me amongst my capturers and would have rescued me if they had not been mercifully disposed; he was as a god in my eyes, and now he is my husband and I love him more than aught else upon this earth. Oh! sir, I do love him so."
Both he and Gerald smiled gently at my ardour, which, indeed, I could not repress, and then he said:
"Doubtless, Joice, doubtless. 'Tis perhaps not strange. And, child, you wish to see him righted thoroughly; is it not so?"
"Indeed, indeed, my lord!" I cried, "such is ever my fervent prayer. Yes, morning, noon, and night. And, surely, since the Irish Lords have acknowledged his right to the title he bears, those in England will not refuse to regard him as your heir."
"We must do our best. Yet, even if they will not give him my title when I am gone, I can do much for him. Providence hath greatly benefited me. There is much I can bequeath to him, and, for the rest, I can provide that if he gets it not none other shall. Above all, the Scoundrel Robert shall never have it."
"God bless you!" my husband and I exclaimed. "God bless you!"
"Now, listen," he continued, "to what I propose. Your mother follows me but a few stages behind-poor Louise! she is marvellously stirred at the thought of seeing her son again-and when she is arrived in town this is what I will do. 'Tis what I intended five years ago, had not Sir Chaloner's men impressed you and made a sailor of you. I will have a meeting of many peers of my acquaintance-Sir Robert" – he meant the great Sir Robert Walpole-"has promised that he will come as well as some others who will be useful-and then I will publicly acknowledge you as my successor. But," he went on, "there is something else to be done."
Gerald looked enquiringly at him as though doubtful as to what he was about to say, when the Marquis again took up the word.
"The two scoundrels, Robert St. Amande and Wolfe Considine, must be brought to bay; above all, the latter must be made to retract the villainous falsehoods he has spread about your mother."
"Ay, retract!" interrupted Gerald, hotly, "retract. He shall, indeed, or I will tear his lying tongue-"
"Nay, nay!" said his kinsman, putting up his hand. "Nay, hear me."
"I ask your lordship's pardon."
"This is my plan, agreed to by your injured mother. They are both in London now, ever spreading their calumnies about, though I hear that none heed them, and Robert St. Amande endeavours unsuccessfully to borrow money on what he terms his succession. Now, we have decided to ask both these men to attend at my house on the same morning on which I intend to proclaim you-only they are not to know that there will be any other persons present but themselves. Thus, they will suddenly find that they are surrounded by auditors, as well as some witnesses who knew you in your childhood. There will be, also, the papers you have forwarded me signed and testified to by O'Rourke, and by these means we hope either to extort the truth from them, or at least so to strike terror to them, that they shall prevaricate and contradict their own lying statements. And, remember, there will be a strong array against them."
"The idea is most excellent," exclaimed Gerald. "Surely thus they must be beaten down. And will my mother be there, my lord?"
"Your mother will be there, but her presence will be unknown to them. Yet she vows that, if Considine does not deny before all assembled the wickedness of the slanders he has put about, she will come forward and confront him and dare him to utter them to her face.
"'Twill be a terrible ordeal for her," my husband said. "Heaven grant she may be able to endure it."
"She will endure it; she will so string herself up that none regarding her will be able to imagine her a weak woman who sometimes cannot raise herself even from her bed. Yet, since she has dwelt under my care-"
"For which I say again God bless you-for that and all the other luxuries and comforts you have surrounded her with."
"'Tis but little," replied the Marquis. "And she is desolate and the mother of my heir. 'Tis nothing. But, as I say, since she hath been with me I have seen some most marvellous moments of recovery with her, moments when she would suddenly exclaim that she was once more well and strong. And, to show me that she was so, she would lift some great weight or walk up and down her chamber a dozen times, yet ever afterwards there came directly a relapse when she would again sink into her chair helpless as a babe once more."
"Ay," said my husband thoughtfully, "so have I seen her too. Nor do I doubt that if she stands face to face with that craven hound, she will lack no strength to cow him."
In a little while you shall see that that strength was not lacking, you shall see how it was exerted against the miserable wretch who had blighted her life. But the place to tell it is not here.
And now the Marquis bade us prepare to accompany him to that great mansion of his in Lincoln's Inn Fields, of which my dear lord had told me; and, ere long, Gerald's servant and Christian Lamb between them had packed up our effects, we going in the gorgeous emblazoned coach and they following in a hackney. As we went I observed how great a man this noble kinsman of ours was, for many, both gentle and simple, raised their hats to the carriage as it passed along, and in the great square, which they call the Fields, there was quite a concourse to witness our arrival; the poor people shouting for the noble Marquis and cheering the Government, while his running footmen threw, by his orders, some silver pieces amongst them.
Oh, 'twas indeed a joyful day! – joyful in many ways-for, besides showing to us that which truly I had never had any doubts of, namely, that the Marquis of Amesbury was all for Gerald and determined, if he could, to right him, it brought together that poor mother and son who had so often and so long been parted. Nor could I restrain my tears, nor fail to weep for joy, as I saw them folded once more in each other's arms, and heard her whisper her love and fondness for him and murmur that, at last, they would never more be parted in this world.
"Never more be parted in this world." That was what she said. "Never more to be parted in this world." Verily she spake as a prophet, or as one who could divine the future.
And there was still one other meeting that took place which joyed my heart to see. 'Twas that of my husband and his faithful, old friend, Mr. Quin; the man who had sheltered him when he was a beggar, who had been as a father or an elder brother to him, and who, when 'twas no longer possible that he should serve Gerald, had transferred his honest, faithful allegiance to Gerald's mother. It pleasured me, I say, to see those two embrace each other, to hear my husband call him his old friend and protector, and to see the joy upon the other's face as he returned that embrace and told him how handsome he had grown and how noble-looking a man he had become.