In the suburbs of the capital of Virginia, there stood a one story building,
containing several rooms, rather neatly, but plainly fornished. This house
was separated from one of the back streets by a vegetable garden, of no very
tasteful arrangement, and through its centre led a grass walk, opening from
the street directly toward the main entrance.

In the only sitting room which it contained, were three persons. One was
an aged Indian female, seated in the chimney corner on a low stool, her elbows
on her knees, and her head resting upon her hands, so that she seemed almost
doubled into a knot, as she crouched over a few smoking chips in the hearth,
over which an iron kettle was suspended. She was totally blind, and in some
measure, helpless. The other two consisted of a male and female; the former
was John Spotswood, and the latter an Indian girl, about sixteen years of
age. She had the general appearance of her race, so far as color and general
outline of features went, but our readers must not suppose that she was an
ordinary young squaw, rolled in a blanket, for she had been delicately nurtured,
and had learned many of the customs, as well as the language and
costume of the whites. Her Anglicised name was Wingina, and she was a
sister of Chunoluskee the interpreter to the Queen, until lately a sort of companion
to Mrs. Stith at the College, and recently removed with her mother
and brother to their new house. She was dressed mostly after the European
fashion, with however a few remnants of her Indian taste still clinging about
her. Instead of shoes and stockings, she wore moccasins, on a pair of the
most diminutive feet imaginable; and over her ankles and wrists, broad silver
clasps, and large gold rings in her ears. Her hair was plaited, and usually
hung down her back; and round her neck were many strands of gaudy colored
beads. She was as perfect in feature as any of that race ever is; preserving
nevertheless, all their distinctive characteristics, such as the high cheek
bones and wide set eyes. These were softened by a childlike simplicity of
expression in her countenance, and a general air of dependence and deference
in her manners; acquired no doubt, from her isolated and forlorn condition, in
the midst of the most polished capital in America, without friends of her own
race and rank.

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Her position was a very peculiar one; while an inmate of Mrs. Stith's
household, she was half way between the two races—too elevated to associate
with the negroes, and scarcely considered equal to the whites. We have
already said, that she had been removed from the College from prudential
motives; her age, and accumulated personal attractions, having already subjected
her to very doubtful attentions from the gay youths of the capital; but
it was too late. In an evil hour, she in her guileless simplicity had listened
to professions from the young man before her, as ruinous to her, as they were
degrading to him.

John Spotswood was no premeditated seducor. He never for one moment
harbored the deliberate intention, indeed until it was too late he had never
analyzed his own feelings and intentions. He was as much overcome in an
evil hour, as his unfortunate victim; and he was consequently, a victim himself
of never ceasing remorse. His visit on the present occasion, was not of
his seeking, but had been brought about by the earnest solicitations of Wingina
herself. She seized the occasion of her brother's visit to Temple
Farm, to hold one more last interview with the youth who had unintentionally
wronged her; we say unintentionally, because he was under the influence of
wine at the time, and the world scarcely holds him a perfectly free agent, who
surrenders his reason into the keeping of such a master. Wingina's circumstances
were becoming desperate, and she sought very naturally the
council of the only one in all the world acqaainted with her secret.

Her brother, the proud and haughty young chief of the Shawnese, she knew
would put her to death upon the instant he learned her shame; and shall we
reveal the whole weakness of that poor, frail, half-civilized creature?—she
dreaded still more his vengeance against the repentant perpetrator of her
wrongs. Most willingly would she have planged headlong into the neighboring
river on either side of the city, but would this surely relieve her partner
in the transgression? This was one of the questions she wished to solve
by the interview. She had wrought up her mind to the necessary point of
daring and desperation for the deed, but she doubted the stability of that calmness
and stoicism with which young Spotswood might look upon it afterwards;
and she feared, instead of healing all difficulties, her death would only plunge
those whom she tenderly loved more irretrievably into ruin.

John had more than once generously offered to dare all consequences, and
reveal the true state of the case to her brother and his father, but her fears
would not suffer her to listen to this plan; besides, it promised nothing by
way of relief for their instant difficulties.

Our readers must recollect the aristocratic notions of that day in Virginia,
to realize how utterly impracticable was the marriage of the parties, as a
remedy. Could the son of the chivalrous Governor of Virginia, take such a
wife to the proud home of his father?—could he make her an equal, and an associate,
with his innocent and accomplished sisters?—especially after the revelations
which a few months would add to his present difficulties. He saw that
it was next to impossible; yet, to do him justice, he thought it more feasible
than his innocent victim. She scarcely dared imagine such a thing; so far
did he appear elevated above her in social rank. The idea of clandestinely
making her his wife and then secluding her upon the frontiers, occurred to
him, but then the difficulties with which such a step would embarrass his
father's preparations for the great campaign, drove it from his thoughts. He
knew that the Governor mainly depended upon her brother, as a guide for the
expedition.

What was to be done under such distressing circumstances? This was the
question which racked the young man's brain, as he walked the floor. Oh,
how the stings of fruitless remorse writhed themselves into his innermost
heart. There sat the poor heart-stricken little stranger; a pensioner upon

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the bounty of his family, the holiday pet of his own sisters; ruined, past all
help, and by him, who ought and would have perilled life and limb for her
safety. Her head hung drooping upon her bosom, and her hands locked immovably
upon her lap, while the burning tears fell in a plentiful shower from
her eyes. Her plaited hair, curiously interwoven with beads and porcupine
feathers, hung on each side of her neck; and all together she presented a moving
picture of hopelessness and utter abandonment, even to an indifferent observer,
but to John the very sight of her was agony.

Every now and then he extended his walk to a small table in one corner of
the room, upon which stood a decanter of wine, and poured out and gulphed
down a measure of the liquid. This was the best remedy he knew of, for
that utter despondence which overwhelmed him; he resolved to adjourn the
wretchedness of to-day, for the accumulated sufferings of to-morrow; never
thinking, that while he thus drowned his sorrow, he also drowned his reason,
and thereby incapacitated himself from seeing clearly his position, and devising
the best means of escape.

Whichever way he turned his eyes, they were met by a picture, that might
have moved one less sensitive; the helplessly blind mother, and the scarcely
less helpless daughter. It is true, the old woman understood not his language,
and was therefore in blissful ignorance; but that circumstance rather added
to than lessened his remorse. He saw that in the day of full revelation before
the world, that ruined family of strangers, from a strange land, would create
a tale of wrong and outrage which would overwhelm him. He thought of
what would have been his own feelings of indignation against the perpetrator
of such a deed, and his own hand was almost ready to be raised against himself.

“Fool that I was,” muttered he, as wildly striding through that low narrow
apartment, “thus, for a momentary gratification, to peril all the brilliant
hopes and high aspirations of my life. Another might have committed such
a faux pas, and nothing have come of it, except, perhaps, a street brawl with
a young savage; but here am I, the man of all the world, in the position to
render the affair not only perilous to myself, but falling exceedingly heavy
upon my father. He is the great patron of these Indians; he has taken
them as hostages; they are therefore under trust to him, and to all connected
with him or under him. If this one false step could be retrieved, what a
millstone would be taken from about my neck? What a cruel fate was that,
which precipitated me into this cursed business?—a life blighted forever by
one false step; and that step so trifling when taken by others, so overwhelming
to me. It does seem as if a cruel and unrelenting destiny was mocking
at me! Are there not thousands of totally debased and profligate men, who
pursue long careers of wickedness and folly, without being thus overtaken?
Oh, it is hard to be borne! Great God! why was I reserved for a miserable
and degrading position like this? Was it because I can feel it? That little
bigotted twattler Ellen Evelyn, predicted that my sun would set in darkness.
Did she foresee the catastrophe? or was it a conclusion from general premises?
What is there in my life, my thoughts, my heart, from which any one
could predict such ruin? I love all mankind, and would any time rather do
an act of kindness than otherwise. I have wronged no one. Yes—I have
wronged this poor creature, but it was not a premediated wrong. Could she
draw the conclusion from my scepticism?—what has the ruin of this Indian
girl to do with my religious faith?—methinks these questions would puzzle
the old moralist at the College. What a mist we live in; how hard to draw
clear perceptions of moral obligation, from general providences? If sin were
always followed in this world by sharp and sure punishment, we might see the
hand of an all-wise and overruling power, but it is your generous-hearted
and unwary youths that are entrapped; your old lecher escapes scot free,
while the perpetrator of a single wrong is plunged to ruin. A man who

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murders a single individual, is most sure to swing for it; while your wholesale
butcher is glorified as a hero. This life is but a mockery surely; a bitter
jest; we are but laughing stocks for the universe. And yet some people
manage to make a beautiful illusion of it! Dr. Blair for instance—Dr. Evylin—
my father and my sisters—my pure and innocent sisters—the dream of
life is really beautiful as illustrated by them. Why has the dark destiny
fallen to my lot alone?—can it be, as Ellen Evylin says, that it is our religious
faith that shapes our destiny, and that there is indeed an overruling
providence which superintends not only the general movement of worlds,
but the most minute details, even to the falling of a hair, as the Bible hath it.
Can it be possible that it is I who labor under the delusion, and that they are
right after all?—absurd! It is nevertheless a pleasing dream; and I would
that my stern philosophy would sleep a while and let me become a Goody Two
Shoes, to be tied to my lady-mother's apron string, and dole out charities on a
pony, by the side of my sisters, and the two old twattlers now at the Farm.
Ha, ha, ha, what a ridiculous idea, and where the devil could it have come from
in such a scene as this, with ruin and despair staring me in the face. There
sits that Indian girl, a picture of wo; she, too, was being reared to join the
happy few, who believe in the protective and conservative power of religion;
and I, like a man fool, must pull down what they were so carefully rearing.
Curse my ill-starred destiny, that I should be reserved for such a hang-dog
fate. What a mystery is it, this fitful dream of life; but, thank fortune, it has
one speedy solution within the reach of the feeblest hand. Here within this
vest, I carry a small steel talisman which may unriddle the secrets beyond the
grave before their time.” Saying which, he drew a small glittering dagger,
and held it up admiringly to the light, which Wingina no sooner saw, than she
rushed towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, and burying her head
in his bosom, crying—“Oh, Captain Spotswood, let me be the victim, I alone
am to blame!”

“Poh, poh,” said the young man, moving her away with his left hand, and
holding her at arm's length, “I mediated nothing just now, I but talked to this
little silent friend of mine; but tell me, Wingina, have you really no fear of
death?—you look desperate enough, indeed, to dare it. Can such a frail, feeble
thing brave the king of terrors? Do you yet retain enough of the heroism
of your ancestors, to lay down this life when it is a burthen to you?”

“All that I know, Captain Spotswood, of suicide, I have learned from you
and your race. The warriors from which I sprung, consider that an act of
cowardice, which you have called heroism.”

“Aye, aye, here is another school of philosophy; one of nature's teaching;
let us learn of it also! It seems I am destined always to be schooled of
a petticoat, why not this poor Indian girl, as well as her superiors? Perhaps
she has drawn some wholesome truths from the Great Book, whose edges are
bound by the sea, and gilt by the sun. Tell me, girl, whence come the notions
of your race against self-destruction?

“An Indian thinks outside, and a white man inside.”

“Ah, I see, I see—their whole thoughts are occupied externally, and the
reflective faculties are not cultivated; then their opposition to suicide, is only
after all, because they never reflect sufficiently to become desperate.”

“Sir!'

“Your race never commits self-murder, because they never feel wretched
enough to loathe this life—that is only a result of our boasted civilization.”

“Captain Spotswood, it is I only that should make these complaints of your
race—you have taught me to suffer, and God knows I have learned little else.”

“Poor Wingina, my teaching has been sad indeed.”

“Oh, sir, pity me not; it makes me all a woman again; just now I could
have rendered up my life, if only to convince you that a poor Indian girl

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could die as heroically as one of your own proud race. I could dare it yet,
but from another motive which you have never understood, I fear.”

“And what is that Wingina?”

Laying her hand gently upon his arm, which had now fallen by his side,
and looking up winningly and beseechingly in his face, she said softly, “I
could die for you.”

“You could die for me? poor girl!”

“Aye, and will too; only assure me that my death would remove all these
troubles of which you complain so grievously, and the summer flower is not
gone more rapidly.”

The desperate young man looked long and searchingly in her face, and
then suddenly grasped her by the arm, as he said, “And do you indeed love
me still Wingina, after all that has passed?”

“Better than the Great Spirit—more than I love that poor blind old mother,
and a brother that became a captive for my sake. I would this instant forsake
all, if you will follow me to the wigwam of the Indian, and become a great
chief among my people.”

“But what, if I loved you not in return?”

The poor girl staggered from his side and reeled into her former seat, and
there sat with her head drooping as before, and her hands locked in the attitude
of despair.

Spotswood saw that the unpremediated blow had struck home—that despair
was in every expression of her eye and countenance, and his own turbulent
passions grew fiercer from the contagion. He strode up to where she was
sitting, and drew a chair and seated himself so as to bring his lips almost
touching her ear, and said in a tremulous whisper, “Wingina, though I love
you not well enough to brave the scoffs and jeers of my race, I do love you
well enough; at least, I am struck with admiration enough for you to dare
death in your company, what say you?”

Her hand was instantly clasped in his, with emotion, as of one who desires
to close a bargain only held to her option for the moment, exclaiming at the
same time, “Oh how cheerfully.”

“Enough!” said he, rising to depart, “when all things are ready—when
the storm which is now rising in black clouds round the horizon, shall have
closed over head, and all is dark whichever way we look, and just ready
to burst, then I will come to you to redeem my promise. Consider my faith
as pledged to it; farewell, poor wronged, betrayed Wingina; we will seal the
solemn covenant of our marriage, by a ceremony that if the world approves
not, it cannot laugh at. Our races were never formed to amalgamate in this:
world, let us then adjourn our cases to that immortal tribunal, so much talked
of.” “Surely,” said he, as he left the door, and walked musingly toward the
street; “surely that great many headed monster will be satisfied with the
sacrifice I propose to offer upon its unholy altar; the perpetual fires of which
are lighted by the devil himself.”

The sun was by this time sinking behind the horizon, and the shadows of
night stealing over the silent and sombre scene, chiming too well with the
darker shadows fast gathering over the hopes and fortunes of that once
bright youth. As was too often of late the case, he bent his footsteps to the
principal tavern of the place, and there met at the threshold Bernard Moore,
just from Temple Farm. “Oh Moore!” said John, “by heavens I am glad to
see you; it is a long time since we have had a night together; now we will
indeed revive the memory of those good old times, to which you alluded
so often on that damned dull morning after I had been moped to death
all day and night, between old Dr. Blair on one side, and Dr. Evylin
on the other. How come on the old twattlers, and how is my father and the
family?”

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“All well, John, but I fear I cannot join in your revelry to-night—I come
upon pressing business of the Governor's.”

“What's in the wind now?”

“A proclamation calling upon the young gentry of the Colony, to come
out in favor of the tramontaine expedition, and to such of them as have succeeded
in enlisting fifty followers, to march to the capital forthwith. It is a
fine chance for you now, John, to distinguish yourself, and to grow rich besides.”

“O curse the tramontaine expedition; I have breakfasted, dined, and supped
on nothing else for the last three hundred and sixty-five days, until I really
believe that I have got a young mountain growing up in my stomach, and
made of lime too, for it is eternally parched up with thirst; but tell me how I
may grow rich by this eternal crossing of the mountains? that's a new maggot
in my good dad's knowledge box.”

“It is a project of his new private secretary, Mr. Hall—it is to give magnificent
donations of land to all who will comply with the proposed terms.”

“And who the devil is Mr. Hall? I never heard of him before.”

“A very extraordinary young man, I assure you. He arrived at York with
the Scotch emigrants, and applied for a tutor's place over master Bob. He
has completely captivated the Governor.”

“Oh, aye, any body could do that who would affect strongly the mountain
frenzy; tell me now, was that not the way the thing was done?”

“I believe you are partly right, but he exhibited some very curious tricks
of fence with the small sword too, which finished what the other left undone.”

“Some rascally impostor I'll warrant; but he will not impose on me with
his mountain enthusiasm, nor his second hand tricks with the small sword
either.”

“I tell you, John, he is a match for the Governor himself, and toasted me
like a roasted goose with the spit run through him. Your father tried him
also at mathematics, and the Commissary at the classics, and in all he was
their equal.”

“And yet you say he is a poor adventurer. How does he dress and behave?”

“His dress is rather seedy, to tell you the truth, but he has the manners of
a gentleman.”

“It is all very strange, but let me see the proclamation; that too is his
handy work, I suppose?”

“Yes—here it is.” Handing him a copy of the paper, which John glanced
over hastily and contemptuously, and then handed it back and took Moore's
arm as he said, “Enough, Bernard, enough—the very thoughts of the mountain
expedition has made me as thirsty as a lime kiln—what shall I order up?
port, sherry, madeira, or claret—or will you go with me to the palace? I am
all alone there, and we can send out and have as fine a set of fellows in half an
hour as ever sung a song or told a story; and, by heavens, we will begin upon
the oysters to-night.”

“No, John, no—I cannot join you at either place to-night, I am on business
of importance, and must hurry back in the morning. I have to send an
express to some of the remote counties before I start; of course I shall be
engaged until late at night, in giving instructions to these messengers, part of
whom are already in the house.”

“No matter about that, we will make them all gloriously drunk, and then
pack them off at cross purposes; ten to one but they all bring up at Temple
Farm in the morning, and get put in the stocks for their pains; a capital
place, I'm told, to get sober. It keeps the blood upon a dead spirit level, so
you see it prevents determination to the head.”

“Why, John, I think you must have dined out already—you seem disposed
to make merry of everything, from the Governor down.”

“Egad you are right—I have been out and have supped upon horrors—the

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very recollection of which smacks of brimstone, and that's the reason I'm so
thirsty now. Come, you shall not escape me, I swear, if I have to sit and
hear your instructions to every one of these express riders. I will have you
still. Come down to the palace, order these fellows down there, where we
can have the whole house to ourselves. I am determined to make a night of it.”

Moore seeing that he must either comply or quarrel with his old friend,
determined upon the former for many reasons, and therefore set to work in
earnest with his business, determined to despatch that before he should be
engaged with one so likely to pledge him in deep cups. He was not more
than half inclined to join him at all—not that he did not enjoy a carouse to some
extent, like other youths, but there was a wildness, a desperation about John,
which pained as well as alarmed him.

They were soon seated over their wine in one of the most luxurious rooms
of the Governor's palace, each with a pipe in his mouth and servants
standing ready to obey the slightest command. It was an evening to enjoy
luxuriously a glass of wine, a cheerful fire, and the soothing repose
induced by the glorious Virginia weed, and Moore seemed disposed to
make the best of his capture and enjoy these good things like a rational
creature, using the wine and tobacco rather as mental than physical stimulants,
and plying them lazily and luxuriously along as the conversation
flagged. Not so with his friend—he was disposed for desperate and deep
potations, he was restless and uneasy, and all the luxury in the world could
not have produced in him a sensation of caimness and repose. He scarcely
seemed fitted for conversation—he wanted roistering companions, and noisy
sport, and practical jokes—and nothing prevented him from having them
but the declaration of Moore, that he would only spend a social evening
with him in the present way and no other. The only thing therefore for
John, was to make up in the depth and frequency of his libations for
want of more jovial company, with the faint hope at the same time that
Moore would soon be brought to that point of excitement, when he, too,
would be led to seek stirring adventure.

Still he sat and sipped his wine, or puffed his pipe, his feet cased in
slippers, and his legs over the seat of a chair, while his head was thrown
back in the attitude of luxurious repose.

“Come Moore,” said John, “let's drink a bumper to the success of
that expedition which the Governor seems to have innoculated you with,
like all others who come within the reach of his influence.”

“With all my heart, John, I will drink to its success, but no more bumpers
for me. I do not want to look in the morning as if the devil had sent me a
case knife to cut my own throat.”

“Lord, Moore, you have sung psalms and hymns with old Dr. Blair and
Dr. Evylin, until you are becoming, I fear, one of those nice, moral young
men, praised by the old ladies, and held up as patterns by our dads, for imitation.
You are becoming evangelical, is that not the word?”

“Pshaw, John, you are suffering yourself to fall off too far to the other
extreme, you know very well that I am no stickler for propriety and decorum,
farther than they are necessary as the barriers between the various orders of
society?”

“Oh, damn the barriers of social order. If I had my way, I would cement
the whole of them with the hot fumes of wine into one great social circle of
democracy—with our joy in common, our property in common; in short, I
would revolutionize your social structure: I would wipe out old things, and
begin all anew again.”

“Why, John, you are a madman!

“Egad, I have thought that myself sometimes, but that is always in my
dark hour.”

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