University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Ralph was not permitted to return to the village
that night—his sturdy friend Forrester insisting
upon his occupying with him the little lodge of his
own, resting on the borders of the settlement, and
almost embowelled in the forest. Here they conversed
until a late hour previous to their retiring;
the woodman entering more largely into his own
history than he had done before. He suffered painfully
from the occurrences of the day: detailed
the manner in which he had been worked upon by
Munro to take part in the more fearful transaction
with the guard—how the excitement of the approaching
conflict had defeated his capacities of
thought, and led him on to the commission of so
great a part of the general offence. Touching the
initial affair with the squatters, he had no compunctious
scruples. That was all fair game in his
mode of thinking, and even had blood been spilled
more freely than among them it was, he seemed
to think he should have had no remorse. But on

the subject of the murder of the guard, for so he
himself called his crime, his feeling was so intensely
agonizing that Ralph, though as much shocked as
himself at the events, found it necessary to employ
sedative language, and to forbear all manner of rebuke.
At an early hour of the morning, they proceeded
in company to the village—Forrester having
to complete certain arrangements prior to his
flight; which, by the advice of Colleton, he had at
once determined upon. Such, no doubt, was the
determination of many among them not having
those resources, in a familiarity with crime and
criminal associations, which were common to such
as Munro and Rivers.

The aspect of the village was somewhat varied
from its wont. Its people were not so far gone in
familiarity with occurrences like those of the
preceding day, as to be utterly insensible to
their consequences; and a chill inertness pervaded
all faces, and set at defiance every endeavour on the
part of the few who had led, to put the greater number
in better spirits, either with themselves or those
around them. They were men habituated, it may
be, to villanies; but of a petty description, and far
beneath that which we have just recorded. It is not
therefore to be wondered at, if, when the momentary
impulse had passed away, they felt numerous misgivings.
They were all assembled, as on the day
before—their new allies with them—arms in their
hands, but seemingly without much disposition for
their use. They sauntered unconsciously about
the village, in little groups or individually, without
concert or combination, and with suspicious or hesitating
eye. Occasionally, the accents of a single
voice broke the general silence among them, though
but for a single moment; and then, with a startling
and painful influence, which imparted a still deeper

sense of gloom to the spirits of all. It appeared to
come laden with a mysterious and strange terror,
and the speaker, aptly personifying the Fear in
Collins's fine Ode on the Passions, “shrunk from
the sounds himself had made.” Ralph, in company
with Forrester, made his appearance among
the squatters while thus situated. Seeing them
armed as on the previous day, he was apprehensive
of some new evil; and as he approached the
several stray groups, made known his apprehensions
to his companion in strong language. He
was not altogether assured of Forrester's own
compunction, and the appearance of those around
almost persuaded him to doubt his sincerity. “Why
are these people assembled, Forrester—is there
any thing new—is there more to be done—more
blood-letting—more crime and violence—are they
still unsatisfied?”

The earnestness of the inquirer was coupled with
a sternness of eye and a warmth of accent which
had in them much, that, under other circumstances
and at other times, would have been sorely offensive
to the sturdy woodman; whose spirit, any thing
in the guise of rebuke would have been calculated
to vex. But he was burdened with thoughts at
the moment, which, in a sufficiently monitorial
character, humbled him with a scourge that lacerated
at every stroke.

“God forbid, 'squire, that more harm should be
done. There has been more done already than
any of us shall well get rid of. I wish to heaven
I had taken caution from you. But I was
mad, 'squire—mad to the heart, and became the
willing tool of men not so mad, but more evil than
I! God forbid, sir, that there should be more harm
done.”

“Then why this assembly? Why do the villagers,

and these ragged and savage fellows whom
you have incorporated among you—why do they
lounge about idly, with arms in their hands, and
faces that still seem bent on mischief?”

“Because, 'squire, it's impossible to do otherwise.
We can't go to work, for the life of us, if we wished
to; we all feel that we have gone too far, and those,
whose own consciences do not trouble them, are
yet too much troubled by fear of the consequences
to be in any hurry to take up handspike or hammer
again in this quarter of the world.”

The too guilty man had indeed spoken his own
and the condition of the people among whom he
lived. They could now see and feel the fruits of
that rash error which had led them on; but their
consciousness came too late for retrieval, and they
now wondered, with a simplicity truly surprising
to those who know with what facility an uneducated
and warm people may be led to their own
ruin, that this consciousness had not come to them
before. Ralph, attended by Forrester, advanced
among the crowd; as he did so, all eyes were turned
upon him, and a sullen conference took place, having
a reference to himself, between Munro and a
few other of the ringleaders. This conference
was brief, and as soon as it was concluded, the
landlord turned to the youth, and spoke as follows:—

“You were a witness, Mr. Colleton, of this
whole transaction; and can say whether the soldiers
were not guilty of the most unprovoked assault
upon us, without reason or right.”

“I can say no such thing, sir,” was his reply.
“On the contrary, I am compelled to say, that a
more horrible and unjustifiable transaction I never
witnessed. I must say that they were not the
aggressors.”

“How unjustifiable, young sir,” quickly and

sternly retorted the landlord. “Did you not behold
us ridden down by the soldiery—did they not
attack us in our trenches—in our castle, as it were;
and have we not a right to defend our castle from
assailants. They took the adventure at their peril,
and suffered accordingly.”

“I know not what your title may be to the
grounds you have defended so successfully, and
which you have styled your castle—nor shall I
stop to inquire. I do not believe that your right
either gave you possession or authorized your defence
of them in this cruel manner. The matter,
however, is between you and your country. My
own impressions are decidedly against you; and
were I called upon for an opinion as to your mode
of asserting your pretended right, I should describe
it as brutal and barbarous, and wholly without excuse
or justification, whether examined by divine
or human laws.”

“A sermon—a sermon from the young preacher
—come, boys, let's give him Old Hundred. Really,
sir, you promise almost as well as the parson you
heard yesterday; and will take lessons from him, if
advised by me. But go on—come to a finish—
mount upon the stump, where you can be better
seen and heard.”

The cheek of the youth glowed with indignation
at the speech of the ruffian, but he replied with a
concentrated clamness that was full of significance:

“You mistake me greatly, sir, if you imagine I
am to be provoked into an indiscreet contest with
you by any taunt which you can utter. I pride
myself somewhat in the tact with which I discover
a ruffian, and having, at an early period of your
acquaintance, seen what you were, I cannot regard
you in any other than a single point of view.
Were you not what I know you to be, whatever

might have been the difference of force between us,
I should ere this have driven my dirk into your
throat.”

“Why, that's something like, now—that's what
I call manly. You do seem to have some pluck in
you, young sir, though you might make more use
of it. I like a fellow that can feel when he's
touched; and don't think a bit the worse of you
that you think ill of me, and tell me so. But that's
not the thing now. We must talk of other matters.
You must answer a civil question or two for the
satisfaction of the company. We want to know,
sir, if you are disposed to tell tales out of school
—if we may apprehend any interference on your
part between us and the state. Will you tell the
authorities what you saw?”

The youth made no answer to this question, but
turning contemptuously upon his heel, was about
to leave the circle, around which the assembly, in
visible anxiety for his reply, was now beginning to
crowd.

“Stay, young master, not so fast. You must
give us some answer before you are off. Let us
know what we are to expect. Whether, if called
upon by any authority, you would reveal what you
know of this business?” was the further inquiry of
Munro.

“I certainly should—every word of it. I should
at once say that you were all criminal, and describe
you as the chief actor and instigator in this unhappy
affair.”

The response of Colleton had been unhesitating
and immediate; and having given it, he passed
through the throng and left the crowd, which, sullenly
parting, made way for him in front. Guy
Rivers, in an under-tone, muttered in the ear of
Munro as he left the circle—“That, by the eternal

God, he shall never do. Are you satisfied now of
the necessity of silencing him.” Munro simply
made a sign of silence, and took no seeming note
of his departure; but his determination was made,
and there was now no obstacle in that quarter to
the long-contemplated vengeance of his confederate.
While this matter was in progress among
the villagers, Counsellor Pippin vexed himself and
his man Hob not a little with inquiries as to the
manner in which he should contrive to make some
professional business grow out of it. He could not
well expect any of the persons concerned voluntarily
to convict themselves; and his thoughts
turned necessarily upon our hero, as the only one
on whom he could rest his desire in this particular.
We have seen with what indifferent success his
own adventure on the field of action, and when the
danger was all well over, was attended; but he
had heard and seen enough to persuade himself
that but little was wanting, without appearing in
the matter himself, to induce Ralph to prosecute
Rivers for the attempt upon his life, a charge which,
in his presence, he had heard him make. He calculated
in this way to secure himself in two jobs—
as magistrate, to institute the initial proceedings by
which Rivers was to be brought to trial, and the
expense of which Ralph was required to pay—
and, as an attorney at law, and the only one of
which the village might boast, to have the satisfaction
of defending and clearing the criminal. Such
being the result of his deliberations, he despatched
Hob with a note to Ralph, requesting to see him at
the earliest possible moment, upon business of the
last importance. Hob arrived at the inn just at
the time when, in the court in front, Ralph, in company
with the woodman, had joined the villagers
there assembled. Hob, who from long familiarity
with the habits of his master, had acquired something
of a like disposition, felt exceedingly anxious
to hear what was going on; but knowing his situation,
and duly valuing his own importance as the
servant of so great a man as the village lawyer, he
conceived it necessary to proceed with due and
proper caution. It is more than probable that his
presence would have been unregarded had he made
his approaches freely and with confidence; but
Hob was outrageously ambitious, and mystery was
delightful. He went to work in the Indian manner,
and what with occasionally taking the cover,
now of a bush, now of a pine-tree, and now of a
convenient hillock, Hob had got himself very comfortably
lodged in the recess of an old ditch, originally
cut to carry off a body of water which rested
on what was now in part the public mall. Becoming
interested in the proceedings, and hearing of
the departure of Ralph, to whom he had been despatched,
his head gradually assumed a more elevated
position—he soon forgot his precaution, and
the shoulders of the spy, neither the most diminutive
nor graceful, becoming rather too protuberant,
were saluted with a smart assault, vigorously kept
up by the assailant, to whom the use of the hickory
appeared a familiar matter. Hob roared lustily,
and was dragged from his cover. The note was
found upon him, and still further tended to exaggerate
the hostile feeling which the party now entertained
for the youth. Under the terrors of the
lash, Hob confessed a great deal more than was
true, and roused into a part forgetfulness of their
offence by the increased prospect of its punishment,
which the negro had unhesitatingly represented
as near at hand, they proceeded to the office
of the lawyer. It was in vain that Pippin denied
all the statements of his negro—his note was thrust
into his face; and without scruple, seizing upon
his papers, they consigned to the flames, deed, process,
and document—all the fair and unfair proceedings
alike, of the lawyer, collected carefully
through a busy period of thirty years' litigation.
They would have proceeded in like manner to the
treatment of Ralph, but that Guy Rivers himself
interposed to allay, and otherwise direct their fury.
The cunning ruffian well knew that Forrester
would stand by the youth, and unwilling to incur
any risk, where the game in another way seemed
so secure, he succeeded in quieting the party, by
claiming to himself the privilege, on the part of his
wounded honour, of a fair field with one who had
so grievously assailed it. Taking the landlord aside,
therefore, they discussed various propositions for
taking the life of one hateful to the one person and
dangerous to them all. Munro was now not unwilling
to recognise the necessity of taking him off; and
without entering into the feelings of Rivers, which
were almost entirely personal, he gave his assent to
the deed, the mode of performing which was somewhat
to depend upon circumstances. These will
find their due development as we proceed, and it is
not necessary that we should speak further of them
now.

In the mean while, Ralph had returned to the village
inn, encountering, at the first step, upon entering
the threshold, the person of the very interesting
girl, almost the only redeeming spirit of that
establishment. She had heard of the occurrence,
as who, indeed, had not—and the first expression of
her face as her eyes met those of Ralph, though with
a smile, had in it something of a rebuke for not having
taken the counsel which she had given him on
his departure from the place of prayer. With a
gentleness strictly in character, he conversed with

her for some time on indifferent topics—surprised
at every uttered word from her lips—so musical, so
true to the modest weaknesses of her own, yet so
full of the wisdom and energy which is the more
legitimate characteristic of the other sex. At
length she brought him back to the subject of the
recent strife.

“You must go from this place, Mr. Colleton—you
are not safe in this house—in this country. You
can travel now without inconvenience from your
late injuries, which do not appear to affect you;
and the sooner you are gone the better for your
safety. There are those here”—and she looked
around with a studious caution as she spoke, while
her voice sunk into a whisper—“who only wait the
hour and the opportunity to—” and here her voice
faltered as if she felt the imagined prospect—“to
put you to a merciless death. Believe me, and in
your confident strength do not despise my warnings.
Nothing but prudence and flight can save
you.”

“Why,” said the youth, smiling, and taking her
hand in reply, “why should I fear to linger in a
region, where one so much more alive to its sternnesses
than myself may yet dare to abide. Think
you, fair Lucy, that I am less hardy—less fearless
of the dangers and the difficulties of this region
than yourself. You little know how much at this
moment my spirit is willing to encounter”—and
as he spoke, though his lips wore a smile, there was
a stern sadness in his look, and a gloomy contraction
of his brow, which made the expression one of
the fullest melancholy.

The girl looked upon him with an eye full of a
deep, though unconscious interest. She seemed
desirous of searching into that spirit which he had
described as so reckless. Withdrawing her hand

suddenly, however, as if now for the first time
aware of its position, she replied hastily:—

“Yet, I pray you, Mr. Colleton, let not any sorrow
make you indifferent to the warning I have
given you. There is danger—more danger here
to you than to me—though to me—” the tears
filled in her eyes as she spoke, and her head sunk
down on her breast with an air of the deepest mental
abandonment—“there is more than death.”

The youth again took her hand warmly. He
understood too well the signification of her speech,
and the sad sacrifice which it referred to; and an
interest in her fate was awakened in his bosom,
which made him for a moment forget himself and
the gentle Edith of his own dreams.

“Command me, Miss Munro, though I peril my
life in your behalf; say that I can serve you in any
thing, and trust me to obey.”

She shook her head mournfully, but without
reply. Again he pressed his services, which were
still refused. A little more firmly, however, she
again urged his departure.

“My solicitations have no idle origin. Believe
me, you are in danger, and have but little time for
delay. I would not thus hurry you, but that I
would not have you perish. No, no! you have
been gentle and kind, as few others have been, to
the poor orphan. And, though I would still see
and hear you, I would not that you should suffer.
I should rather suffer myself.”

Much of this was evidently uttered with the
most childish unconsciousness. Her mind was
obviously deeply excited with her fears, and when
the youth assured her, in answer to her inquiries,
that he should proceed in the morning on his journey,
she interrupted him quickly—

“To-day—to-day—now—do not delay, I pray

you. You know not the perils which a night may
bring forth.”

When assured that he himself could perceive
no cause of peril, and when, with a manner sufficiently
lofty, he gave her to understand that a feeling
of pride alone, if there were no other cause,
would prevent a procedure savouring so much of
flight, she shook her head mournfully, though saying
nothing. In reply to his offer of service, she
returned him her thanks, but assuring him he could
do her none, she retired from the apartment.