 | Poems and prose writings |  |
TOM THORNTON.
And bounteous Fancy, for his glowing mind,
Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind.
Crabbe.
— defeated pride,
Prosperity subverted, maddening want,
Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned,
Love with despair, or grief in agony.
Wordsworth.
Gave the strong yearnings of a ruined mind.
Crabbe.
“Why, Mr. Thornton, are you dreaming?” said
Mrs. Thornton, trying to appear easy, and dropping
in her lap her work, which she had not set a stitch to
for the last half hour. — “I can't see to thread my
needle, for the wick has run up, till it looks like a
very cock's comb, and the fire is so low, that I hardly
feel the end of my fingers. 'T is exceedingly chilly
about the room — pray give me my shawl, or I shall
perish.”
“Do as other wise people do, my dear; look back
a little, and you will find your shawl on the bars of
your chair. As to the candle, I will see to that; and
easily, it would be equally well for your sight.”
“Ha! ha! Now, Mr. Thornton, you should'nt try
to be witty when you're vexed. You don't know
what bungling work angry folks make at wit.”
“True, my dear, — much the same as fond ones, at
government.”
Mr. Thornton took his feet down from the side of
the fire-place, and put his spectacles on his nose, at
the same time looking sharply through them, with
his gray eyebrows thrown into double arches.
“Upon my word, Mr. Thornton, I'm glad you're
at home again; for you sat there playing your spectacles
between your fingers, with nothing but a gruff
hum, now and then, as if you were miles off in the
woods, and contriving how to clear your wild lands.”
“I have enough growing wild at my own door to
see to, without taking to the woods, and harder to
bring into order, than any soil my trees grow upon,
however stubborn.”
Mrs. Thornton saw that she could not rid herself
of the difficulty by laughing. She coloured and remained
silent. She was conscious of being too
indulgent to her son; and might, perhaps, have been
brought to a wiser course towards him, had not her
husband's impatience of her weakness, and vehement
opposition to her folly, and a consequent harshness in
his bearing towards Tom, created a kind of party
feeling within her, which, with a common sort of
sophistry, she resolved wholly into pity for her child.
This was a bad situation for the boy, for the weakness
of his mother's conduct was easily perceived by
him, and looked upon with a little of contempt, at the
same time that it made for his convenience; while his
which he would gladly have been rid of, commanded
a qualified respect. This led him to like what was
agreeable, rather than what was right, and to lose the
distinction of principle in self-gratification. And
though all selfishness hardens the heart, there is no kind
of it which so hardens it as a contempt for those who
love us, and are fondly, though unwisely, contributing
to our pleasures. To hate our enemies is not so
bad as to despise our friends. The cold, hard triumph
of prosperity is a worse sin than that which eats
into us in the rancour of adversity; and it is more deceptive
too; for good fortune has something joyous in it,
even to the morose, who oftentimes mistake their
gladness for a general good will, while they play with
the miseries of some, only to make others laugh.
Even vehement and inconsiderate tempers, who
take fire as quick in another's cause as in their own,
lose their generosity, where too much is ministered
to their will; and what was only a warm resentment
of another's wrong, may come to be nothing else, but
a feeling of power and a love of victory.
Mr. Thornton saw the confused expression in his
wife's face, and his sharp, sudden look relaxed into
one of mild and melancholy reproach, while she sat
pricking her finger, as she tried to seem intent upon
hurrying on her work. He pulled out his watch, and
continued looking at it some time, taking an uneasy
kind of delight in seeing the minute-hand go forward,
and in wishing it later.
“It is not very late, I hope, Mr. Thornton.”
“O, no, — but a little past one — a very reasonable
hour for a boy to be out — and at a cockfight, too.”
“But, Mr. Thornton, had you heard how earneslty
him leave. He promised to return early. But
boys, you know, never think of time when about their
amusements.”
“It is not of much consequence that they should,
when their amusements are so humane and innocent.
A cockpit must be an excellent school for a lad of
Tom's mild disposition.”
Some couples have particular points of union, but
more have those of disagreement; and from the frequency
with which both return to their several kinds,
it would be hard to tell which kind affords the most
pleasure.
There was but one subject on which Mr. and Mrs.
Thornton were at odds with each other, but to make
up for the want of more, it was one of very frequent
occurrence; and had not Tom suddenly made his
appearance, there is no knowing how far the bitter
taunting of the old gentleman would have gone.
Tom entered the room, his crisp, black hair off his
forehead, his swarthy complexion flushed with excitement
from the conflict he had just witnessed; his
mouth firmly set, his nostrils expanded, and his eye
fiery and dilated. He had a marked cast of features,
the muscles of his face worked strongly, and his motions
were hasty, impetuous, and threatening. His
countenance was open and manly, and it seemed to
depend upon the mere turn of circumstances whether
he was to make a good, or a bad man. He was surprised,
and a little abashed for a moment, at finding
his father up. He looked at his mother, as if to say
she had betrayed him; and his mother looked at him,
as if to upbraid him for breaking his word by staying
so late, and thus bringing his father's displeasure upon
both.
“I suppose that I may go to bed now, as you have
seen fit to return home at last, my young gentleman?
And did you bet on the winning cock, or are you to
draw on me to pay off your debt of honour?”
“I betted no higher than I had money to pay;”
answered Tom, proudly: “and I care not if I go with
an empty pocket for a month to come, for he was a
right gallant fellow I lost upon.”
Angry as his father was, the careless generosity of
Tom's manner touched his pride. “You are malapert.
But this comes of late hours, and dissipation.
We'll have no more of it. Get you to bed, Sir; and
look to it that you do not gaff the old rooster, — I'll
have no blood spilt on my grounds.”
“Never without your leave, Sir,” said Tom, his
mouth drawing into a smile at his father's simplicity.
And glad to be let off so easily, he went to bed, laughing
at the thought of their old dunghill, blind of one
eye, dying game. “They must have been but simple
lads in my father's day,” said Tom to himself, as he
blew out his candle, and threw himself into bed to
dream over the fight.
“Tom is not so bad a boy, neither,” said Mr.
Thornton, putting the fender before the fire, and preparing
to go to bed. “And I see not why he should
not make a proper man enough, were there no one to
take all the pains in the world to spoil him.”
In a few minutes all was quiet in the house.
Tom had now reached that age, in which it is pretty
well determined whether the passions are to be our
masters or servants. He had never thought for a
moment of checking his; and if they were less violent
at one time than at another, it was because he
was swayed for the instant by some gentler impulse,
father's late mild treatment of him seemed to have a
softening effect upon his disposition, and for a few
days he appeared at rest, and free from starts of passion.
But some little incidents soon brought back his
father's severity of manner, and this the son's spirit
of opposition, the mother's weakness serving all the
while as a temptation to his love of power. Every
day occasioned a fresh difficulty. Tom decided all
the disputes in the school, it mattered little with him
whether by force or persuasion. And as he feared no
one living, and generally sided with the weakest,
partly from a love of displaying his daring and prowess,
and partly from a hatred of all tyranny but his
own, he frequently came home with his clothes torn
and face bloody and bruised. This, however, might
be said for Tom, he was the favourite of the smaller
boys. He cared not to domineer, where it showed
neither skill nor courage. His poor mother was filled
with constant trembling and alarm, which served as a
petty amusement to him; and, from the most violent
rage, after one of these contests, he often broke out
into a loud laugh at the plaintive sound of his mother's
lament over him.
Among Tom's other accomplishments, he was a
great whip. So, without saying a word to any one,
he contrived, with the assistance of a school-fellow as
wild as himself, to put a young, fiery horse, which his
father had just purchased, to a new gig. The horse
was restiff — Tom grew angry and whipped him — his
companion was thrown out and broke his arm; but
Tom, with the usual success of the active and daring,
cleared himself unhurt. The gig, however, was
dashed to pieces, and his father's fine horse ruined.
Not long after this, and before his father's anger
had time to cool, Tom, with some of his play-mates,
was concerned in breaking the windows of a miserly
neighbour, that they might make him loosen his purse
strings. One of the smallest boys was detected, and
upon refusing to give information of the rest, the
master began flogging him severely. Tom would have
taken the whipping himself, but he knew this would
not save the lad, unless he made the others known;
besides, he had an utter detestation of mean and cowardly
acts, and could not brook that the little fellow
should be punished for not turning traitor. Tom sprung
upon his seat, and crying out, “A rescue!” was followed
by the other boys; and in an instant the master
was brought to the floor. Lying upon one's back is
not a favorable posture for dignity — certainly not in
a schoolmaster. Though a good deal intimidated,
the master frowned and stormed and threatened; but
Tom was not to be frightened at words and looks.
Indeed, the ludicrous situation of his instructer, the
novelty of it, and his mock authoritative manner, put
Tom into such a fit of laughter, that he could hardly
utter his conditions of release. There was nothing
but shouting and uproar through the school; and it
was not till a promise of full pardon to all concerned,
that the master was allowed to rise.
Tom knew that this would end his school-boy days,
and so far, he was not sorry for what had happened;
for he longed to be free and abroad amid the adventures
of the world. “Let it all go,” said he, walking
forward with a full swing; “if I have been wild and
head-strong, I have not altogether wasted my time.
And I'll so better my instruction, that I will one day
be among men, what I have been among boys. And
who will dare say, Nay, to Tom Thornton?”
As he came in sight of the house, he slackened his
pace; and forgetting his views of power, began to
consider how he should meet his father.
“It will be all out in less than four and twenty
hours, and I had better have the merit of telling it
myself. This will go some way towards my pardon,
for the old man, with all his severity, likes openness,
— it has saved me many a whipping, when I was
younger. So, thou almost only virtue I possess, let
me make the most of thee while thou stickest by me.”
He was, indeed, a forthright lad, not because he
considered openness a virtue, but because it agreed
with the vehemence and daring of his character, and
gratified his pride.
With all his self-reliance, his heart beat quick as
he drew near the door. He thought of his father's
strict notions of government, his own numerous offences
of late, the sternness and quickness of his
father's temper, and the violence and obstinacy of his
own; and he could not but dread the consequences of
the meeting.
“Why should I stand like a coward, arguing the
matter with myself, when I know well enough that
there is but one way of acting? The sooner begun,
the sooner over; the worst has an end.”
So saying, he threw open the door, and went
directly to his father's room. Mr. Thornton was not
there. He passed as hastily from one room to another,
as if in pursuit of some one who was trying to escape
him, inquiring quickly for his father of every body he
met. He at last went to his mother's chamber, and
knocking, but scarcely waiting for an answer, entered,
and asked abruptly, “Where is he?”
“Who, my dear?”
“Dear me no dears, I'm not in a humour for it.
Where's my father?”
“Your father, child! He's gone to the village.
But what's the matter? Something dreadful, I'm
sure. O, Thomas, you make my life miserable.”
“Humph!” said Tom, drawing his lips close together.
“Gone to the village! Then every old
woman there has blabbed it over and over again in
his ears, and with a thousand lies tagged to it, and as
many malicious condolences about his hotheaded son.
Nothing puts my father into such a fury as the whining
of these old crones. Ah, I see the jig's up, and
all my honesty comes to nothing. Well, it can't be
helped; — it is coming.”
“What can't be helped? Why don't you speak to
me, Thomas, and tell me what's the matter?”
“Ah! mother, is it you? — I was thinking about
— What's the matter, ask you? Matter enough,
truly. There's young Star sold for a lame cart-horse
— a gallant fiery steed you were too, Star; — the gay
furbished gig dashed into as many fragments as your
chandelier, and gone with Pharaoh's chariot wheels,
for aught I know. Mother, I've been in too great a
hurry ever since, to ask your pardon for running foul
your chandelier yesterday. But my father came in so
close upon me, he liked to have cut his foot with the
pieces. There's another mark to my list of sins.
Then there's the breaking of Jack's head for not minding
me instead of my father, and a score more of worse
things, and all within these six days.”
“O, Thomas, Thomas, what will become of us?”
“Become of us? Why, 't is none of your doings,
Mother. You never broke the gig, or lamed Star,
or cudgeled Jack, that I know of. But reserve your
grief awhile, for the worst is behind.”
“Worst, Thomas! I shall lose my senses. Your
father mutters about you in his very sleep; and he has
threatened of late to send you out of the house, if you
go on at such a rate.”
“I know it. Yet I hardly think he would turn me
adrift. What if he does? There is room enough;
and come fair or foul, I've a ready hand and a stout
heart.”
“You will certainly kill your unhappy mother if
you talk so. Your father says your conduct is all
owing to my indulgence, and you have no gratitude
or pity for me.”
“In faith, Mother, I fear my father has the right
on't. Come, come, don't make yourself miserable
about such an overgrown boy as I am, and I'll tell the
rest of my story.
“Mother, I'm a rebel and an outlaw; and the worst
of it is, my father's notions of government are as high
as the Grand Turk's. Yes, we had old pedagogue
flat on his back; and he could no more turn over than
a turtle. And such a sprawling as he made of it!
And when we let him up, could you but have seen how
he trembled, every joint of him, — knees and elbows!”
Here Tom fell a laughing, and his mother burst
into tears. Though her weak fondness for her son
took away from him nearly all respect for his mother,
still Tom loved her, and often blamed himself severely
that he had given her so much trouble, and so often
brought upon her his father's displeasure. His heart
was touched; and taking her hand, he asked forgiveness
for trifling with her feelings. “Do not think
that it is because I am careless of what concerns you.
You see I play the fool with my own troubles, and I
certainly am not indifferent about them.”
“I know, I know! my son. But you will meet with
nothing except evil in life, if you do not learn prudence
and self-control. You have a good heart, I believe;
yet you are giving constant pain and anxiety to your
best friends, and must, so long as your passions are
your masters, and you, violent and changing as the
sea.”
Her son promised to set seriously about subduing
his passions, and letting his reason have more sway.
As Tom conjectured, Mr. Thornton had heard the
whole story, and with the usual country-village colouring.
It was too much for his irascible temper, goaded
as it had been of late by his son's inconsiderate conduct.
He set off home in great wrath, hurrying over
Tom's misdeeds so rapidly and confusedly, that a
dozen multiplied and changed places with such swiftness,
they showed like a thousand. With his mind
thus filled with blind rage, and his body fevered with
the speed with which he walked, he entered the house,
a very unfit subject for Tom to begin the exercise of
his new resolutions upon.
Tom had seen his father coming along the road, and
had gone to his room, waiting his arrival, with a determination
to relate the whole affair, confess his error
in this and other instances, make known his resolution
to change his conduct, and humbly ask forgiveness for
the past, and all in a dutiful and composed manner.
Mr. Thornton seized the latch, but with a hand so
shaking with rage, that it did not rise at his touch.
Heated and impatient as he was, the least thing was
enough to make him furious; he thrust his foot against
the door, — it started the catch, and sent it half across
the room. The passing sense of shame at his uncontrolled
passion only increased his anger; and seeing
he cried, darting forward, till his face almost
touching Tom's, his clinched fists pressed convulsively
against his thighs, — “blockhead, dare you
fasten me out of my own room?”
The unexpected violence of Mr. Thornton's manner
rather surprised than irritated Tom, and he looked
at his father with a composed and slightly contemptuous
cast of expression, without making any reply.
Mr. Thornton was sensible how groundless his
charge was, the instant he uttered it. He was for a
moment discomposed, too, by his son's calm and
haughty bearing; and probably would have been glad
had Tom replied in the manner he sometimes did.
“Do you stand there to insult me, Sir? You may
well hold your peace; for what could you say to your
infamous and rebellious conduct?”
“Do you mean fastening your door, Sir?” asked
Tom.
“Door, door, puppy! Look ye, their hinges shall
rust off first, ere you shall open them again, unless
you mend your life.”
“Say but the word, Sir, and you need not be at the
trouble of fastening.”
“You're a cold-blooded, thankless wretch,” stormed
out his father. “You were born to be a curse, instead
of a blessing to me, and you joy in it. You
lead a life of violence and riot, and will live and die
a disgrace to your family.”
“I will do something to give it a name,” said Tom,
“if I hang for it. I'll not lead a milksop life of it,
to be called respectable by old dames, young sycophants,
and money-lenders.”
“A name, indeed! You'll go marked like Cain,
man's hand against you, and hang you will, that's past
doubt, unless you mend.”
“Better that, than without a name. And be a
halter my destiny,” said he, looking down upon his
manly figure with some complacency; “I shall become
a cart as well as another man.”
“Fop!” snapped out his father, enraged at Tom's
contemptuous, cool trifling.
“I'm no fop. If I'm a well made fellow, I thank
God for it; and where's the harm of that?”
“Do you repeat my words, Sir, and trifle with
your Maker, in my presence, and set all laws, divine
and human, at defiance? Is't not enough to break and
destroy what's mine, and keep all at home in an uproar,
but you must go abroad to disgrace me, and
make yourself the hate and dread of every body, by
your violence and rebellion? But you shall be humbled,
and that in the eyes of all the world. We'll
have that proud spirit of yours down, before it rides
over any more necks. Yes, my lad, it is all settled.
The whole school, with you at their head, (for you
shall be their leader in this, as you have been in every
thing else,) shall to-morrow morning down on their
knees before their master, and ask his pardon.”
“I! on my knees to that shadow of a man! No, in
faith, I'd stand as straight and stiff before him as a
drill-sergeant, till my legs failed, ere I'd nod my
head to him. What! he that would whip all faith
and honour out of a boy, till he left a soul in him no
bigger than his own! I'll bow to none but to Him
that made me, so help — ”
“Hold, hold, said the father, (whose passions were
now at their utmost,) have a care before you take an
unless you do it.”
“Then I'm my own master, and the ground I
stand on is my own; for, by my right hand, I'll ask
forgiveness of no man living,” said Tom, turning resolutely
away from his father, as if all was ended.
“Mad boy!” called out his father, “hear me now
for the last time; for unless you this instant promise
to obey, I'll never set eyes on you more; — and leave
this house you shall by to-morrow's light.”
“ 'T is a bright night,” said Tom, looking composedly
out of the window, “and the stars will serve as
well. Nor will I eat or sleep where I am not welcome,”
he added, taking up his hat and walking deliberately
out of the room.
His determined manner at once satisfied Mr. Thornton
that Tom would act up to what he had said; and
a father's feelings for the moment took possession of
him, with compunction for the violence which had
driven his son from him. He went toward the door
to call Tom back, but he was already out of hearing.
“Wilful and headstrong boy,” said the old man, turning
back and shutting the door, with a feeling of disappointment,
“time and suffering alone must cure you.”
Thus for the moment he eased his conscience, and
was saved the sacrifice of his pride.
Tom was passing through the entry with a hasty
step, and had nearly reached the outer door, when the
light caught his eye, as it shone from under the parlour
door. The sight recalled him to himself in an
instant, and stirred every home feeling within him.
He heard his mother's voice as she was reading aloud.
The blood throbbed to his very throat. The thought
that she should be so tranquil, and so unconscious of
him to the heart. If she had been a victim which he
was about to sacrifice, he could not have felt more
pain. He listened a moment. “I must not go without
seeing her, without taking her blessing with me, —
else I shall go accurst!” He laid his hand upon the
latch and raised it a little: — his mother still read on.
With all his violence and rudeness, Tom had a
strong affection for his mother. His feelings, too,
were now softened; for he was humbled and pained
at reflecting upon the unjust violence of a father, who,
though of a stern and hasty temper, he had heretofore
respected. To a mind not wholly depraved, the faults
of a parent are almost as mortifying and wounding as
its own; and Tom would have given the world, if the
wrong had now been in himself alone. — “I dare not
trust myself to see my mother now. She would make
a very child of me; my father would be sued too, and
then what would become of all my resolutions and
decision!” “Pshaw!” said he, dashing away a tear
with one hand, as the other dropped from the latch;
“is this the way for one like me to begin the world?”
He walked slowly out of the house, drew the door to
gently after him, and passed down the yard, unconscious
that he was moving forward, till he reached the
gate. He opened it mechanically, then leaning over
it, looked toward his home. “ 'T is an ill parting
with you, this,” said he; “yet I leave you not in
anger. Many a blessing I have had, and many a
happy time of it, and many more there might have
been for me, had I not been a froward child. There
are few such to come, I fear. He stood with his eyes
fixed on the house, while his mind wandered over the
past, and what awaited him. The light flashed out
leaves twinkled brightly in it. He cast his eyes round;
but the earth looked gloomy in the darkness, for no
lights were to be seen but those of the distant stars.
“I said that ye would serve me,” said he, looking
upward, “and if I spoke in anger, Heaven forgive
me for it. I must be on my way, and must go like a
man.”
In the midst of the most violent passions, it is curious
to see how quickly and with what care the mind
will sometimes lay its plans for future resources.
Tom Thornton, when much younger than at this
time, had been made a pet, that he might be used as
an instrument, by a lad a little older than himself, of
the name of Isaac Beckford. Isaac plotted most of
the mischief done at school, and applauded Tom for
his sagacity and intrepidity in the execution of it,
taking care not to demand any praise for his own ingenious
contrivances. In this way they became
necessary to each other; and after Isaac left school to
reside in the city with an uncle, of the same name,
whose ward he was, he wrote frequently to Tom,
urging him to come to town, and share in the amusements
in which a large fortune would soon enable
Isaac to indulge. Tom now resolved to make his
way to the city and have the benefit of his friend's
influence to put himself in a situation to rise in the
world.
Having made up his mind, though it was somewhat
of a journey on foot to the city, and he wholly ignorant
of the way, (the village in which he resided lying
far off from any great road,) Tom marched forward
as confidently as if the church spires of the town had
been in sight. The character of adventure, freedom
air, and the crowd and glitter of the stars in the sky,
gave an expanse and a vivid action to his mind, and
roused up the hopeful spirit which for a time had slept
within him. “Come, come,” said he to himself,
“you're a tall boy, Tom, better fitted to shoulder
your way through the world, than delve Greek under
a starveling pedant.”
So intent was he upon his schemes, that he took
little heed to the by-road he was travelling, and had
walked till about midnight without being conscious of
time or fatigue. The perfect stillness about him at
last drew his attention, and looking round, he found
himself on the top of a small hill, in the midst of a
country barren, broken into knolls, and covered, as
far as the eye could reach, with large, loose stones.
An old tree, at a distance, was all that showed life had
ever been here; and that, with its sharp, scraggy,
and barkless, gray branches shooting out uncouthly
towards the sky, looked like a thing accursed. — “A
hard and lonely life you must have had of it here,”
said Tom, “and been sadly off for music, if you
were at all particular about it; for I doubt whether
any sound has been heard for a long time in your
branches, but that of the ravens and the heavy winds.
It is as deadly still all around here, as the sky; I wish
I could say it looked as well. — What a pity that gibbets
are out of fashion, for this would be a choice
place for them; and could I but hear the creaking of
one, I should not have my ears so palsied with this
dreadful, intense silence. — There winds a yellow
cart-track from hill to hill, as far as I can see. It is
to the left, and omens ill. I'll take this, to the right —
whether to the world's end or not, time will tell.”
And forward he went. He at last grew weary;
and as his pace slackened, he began to think of his
home, his father and mother, and his many offences.
His conscience was touched, and he felt as if undeserving
the light of the quiet heavens that shone on
him. — “Can one prosper, as he goes, when his
father's anger and mother's grief follow him?” —
His heart began to fail, and a thought passed him
of finding his way back again. — “What, and have
my father taunt me, and call me a lad of metal?
And how like a whipped dog I should look, crawling
up the yard! And then that forked master, and
his pardon!” cried Tom, clinching his fists till the
nails nearly brought blood, and muttering a curse
between his teeth, as the tears started to his eyes,
part in grief, and part in unsated rage. — “Would
that I had you in my grapple once more, you soulless
wretch, and you should never make mischief between
men again, — you mere thing! — What, return to all
that! No, in faith, I'd sooner be thrown out here like
a dead beast, and lie till the bones in this body were
as bare and white as these stones, ere I'd go back
so.”
He travelled on, with a loose, irregular step. Sustaining
and hopeful feelings had left him, and melancholy
and self-accusing thoughts were passing in his
soul; yet his mind was made up, and supported by a
kind of dogged obstinacy. — “There will be no end
to this track, as I see. It winds round and over these
hundred hills, as if it were delighted at getting into
so pleasant a country.” He continued his route. —
“Must my voice lose itself for ever in the solitude of
this stillness? Is there a doom of eternal silence on
all things, where I go? Will nothing speak to me?”
He presently heard a low, rumbling sound, as if in
the earth under his feet. He started, but recovering
himself, walked on. It increased to a surly growl,
and seemed to spread underneath the hills and through
the hollows; and the earth jarred.— “Does nature
make experiments with her earthquakes in this out-of-the-way
place, before she overturns cities with
them?” said he, with a bitter scoff, feeling how little
he cared at the moment for what might happen to
him. As he came round a hill, the sound opened distinctly
upon him, sending up its roar into the air; and
raising his eyes, he saw at a distance a tall, giant pile,
looking black against the sky.— “So, my earthquake
turns out to be nothing but a waterfall. And why
cannot I be fooled again, and be made to believe that
clumsy factory, to be the huge castle of some big, hairy
manslayer and violator of damsels? What! shall I be
down-hearted now in my need!—I who have carried
a confident brow and a firm breast against whatever
opposed me! It must be that I need food, else how
could I be so melancholy? I'll have that and sleep
too before long, and a fresh body and bright morning
to start with to-morrow.”
So saying, he took his way toward the building.
The path led him to the stream, just above the fall.
It lay still and glassy to the very edge of the precipice,
down which it flung itself, roaring and foaming.
The trees and bushes hung lightly over it, and the
stars looked as thick in its depths, as in the sky above
him. He was about resting himself upon a stone;
but turning, he saw it was a grave-stone. — “It is a
holy thing,” said he, “and I will rest myself elsewhere.”
— He looked round, — there was not another
grave in sight. — “What, all alone? No companions
each other in the grave, yet there is something awful
in the thought of being laid in the ground away from
the dwellings of all the living, and not even the dead
by our side. But thou hast chosen thy habitation
well, for this stream shall sing a holier and longer
dirge by thee, than ever went up from man; yet this
shall one day be still, and its waters dried up; but
the spirit that was in thee shall live with God.”
He passed along the race-way. The water had
left it; and the grass was growing here and there in little
clumps in its gravelly bottom. Its planks and timbers,
forced up, forked out like a wreck, and the huge
wheel, which had parted from its axle, lay broken
and aslant the chasm. He looked toward the building.
The moon, which was just rising behind it, and
shining through its windows, made it appear like some
monster with a thousand eyes. Its door-path had
grown up, and nothing was heard but the wind passing
through its empty length, and here and there the
flapping of a window. He went round it, and saw
at a little distance, four or five long, low buildings
standing without order, upon little hillocks, without
fence or tree, or any thing near them but short withered
grass. — “One would have thought,” said Tom,
“that nature had done enough without art's coming
in to help the desolation. Not a light hereabouts!
This seems not much like either bed or supper.” Going
forward, he looked in at one house, then at another,
but nothing was to be seen except bare plastered walls.
At last, from one of the houses he spied a light gleaming
through a crevice. The sight warmed his heart.
He went to the door, and knocked.
“Who's there?” asked one, in a female voice.
“A friend.”
“More foes than friends abroad at this hour,
belike,” replied the person within.
“I've lost my way,” said Tom. “No harm shall
come to you, good woman, by letting in a traveller.”
“You promise well and in an honest voice,” said
she, as she opened the door. The light shone upon
her, and Tom saw before him a tall, masculine woman,
with strong features, but with a serious and subdued
cast of countenance.
“Who are you, young man? Out on no good intent,
I fear, at this time o'night.”
“I'm Thornton of Thorntonville,” said Tom, with
his usual readiness, “an you've ever heard of the
place. I was going to the city a-foot for once, and
have missed my way.”
“Thornton of Thorntonville?” said the old woman,
seeming to recollect herself; “I have seen your
father, then, down at the big house yonder. Come
in.”
“Your fire is comforting,” said Tom, sitting down
by it' “and it is the first comfortable thing I have
met with for many long hours past. But you have
made an odd choice of situations, my good woman.”
“The poor have not often their choice,” said she.
“And there are things sometimes which make the
bare heath dearer to us than garden or park.”
“They are sad things then,” said Tom.
“Sad indeed,” said the old woman, looking into
the fire. She sat silent a little time; then breathing
forth a low sigh that seemed to relieve the bosom of
its aching, she said to Tom, “You must be over
weary, and hungry too, if you are from Thorntonville
to-day, for it is a long walk; and you must have come
over the heath; and one may stand there as at sea, —
thing on one of them all, till they run into the very
sky. Wide as it is, it would hardly find summer feed
for my old Jenny, were it not for the circle of grass
that trims round a gray stone here and there.”
“There is not much to be said for its appearance,”
replied Tom. “I am not a little tired, too; and
though I cannot well tell how far I have walked,
there was hardly a streaked cloud in the west when I
left home.”
“It must have been a quick foot and a light heart
that brought you so long a way in so short a time,”
said she, as she was getting ready a bowl of bread
and milk. “The young hurry on, as if life would
ne'er run out; yet many fall by the way; and I have
lived to lay those in the ground, whom I looked to
have had one day put the sod over this gray head.”
Tom's thoughts had gone home, but the old woman's
last words were sounding in his ears. “And
who will do that last office for me, or for them?”
thought he. She saw the gloom over Tom's face;
and believing she had caused it — “Never mind,”
she said, “the complainings of one whose troubles
are nigh over. Here!” giving Tom the bowl. —
“You have but one dish to supper, yet that good of
its kind; for 't is short feed that makes the richest
milk.”
“Whose is that huge building to the left, that
creaks like a tavern sign?” asked Tom.
“It was his who would have made money out of
moonshine. But he has gone before his works.”
“He was not burried yonder, to be mocked by them,
I trust.”
“O, no,” answered the old woman. “She that I
Wentworth was of a meek and simple heart.”
“Forgive me, my good woman, I should not have
spoken of this, had I known how near to your heart
it was to you.”
“You have no forgiveness to ask of me. I am a
lone woman, and there seldom passes here one who
cares to be troubled with my griefs; and it is moisture
to this dried heart to talk to one who can feel for my
afflictions; for Sally was not only my child, but God
has seldom blessed a mother with such a child. When
he took from me my husband, I hope I did not forget
his goodness in what he left to me; yet he saw fit to
call her too, and his will be done. If grief had not
killed her, I could bear my lot better. But how
could it be other than it was, seeing that he whom she
loved was so cruelly taken from her?”
“She died of love, then?” said Tom. “It is a death
seldom met with, and bespeaks a rare mind.”
“I know it,” replied the mother. “True love is a
peculiar and a holy thing; yet those are said to love,
who can lay one in the ground, and look fondly on
another. O, I have seen it, and it has made me
shudder when I have thought of those in the grave.
Yes, and many too would scoff at them that were true
to the dead; yet they would not, were it given them
to know that the grief of such had that in it which was
dearer and better than all their joy. My Sally knew
it, and it has made her a spirit in heaven. I sit and
think over all that happened, but there is not a soul
on earth to whom I can tell it.”
“If you could think me worthy of it, I would ask
you to tell me her story.”
“'T is a sad one, but will not hold you long, for
Sally's life was a short and simple one.
“She was to have been married to an industrious
and kind-hearted lad. They knew each other when
quite children; and grew more and more into a
love for each other as they grew in years. And
if their attachment did not show the breaks and
passions of those which happen later, it was, I
think, deeper seated in its quiet, and seemed to
be a part of the existence of both of them. Could
you have seen them, as I have, sitting on that very
form, where you now sit, so gentle and happy in
each other, you would not wonder that it wrings
my heart, now they are both gone. But there was
a snake crawling and shining in the grass. His
eye fell before the pure eye of Sally, yet he could not
give over. I dare not speak his name, lest I should
curse him; and Sally forgave him, and prayed for his
soul on her death-bed. The Evil one was busy in his
heart, and thwarted and enraged, and with his passions
wrought up, he attempted that by force, which he did
not dare speak out to her. Though she was of a gentle
make, there was no want of spirit in her, and the
wretch liked to have fallen by her hand. `Thank
God,' she has said to me, `that I did not take his
life.'
“She came home, shaking and pale with what had
happened, and frightened at the danger she had
escaped. Frank met her at the door, and asked her
eagerly what was the matter; she hinted, hastily,
enough for him to guess the rest. He sprang from
the door, with an oath — the first I ever heard him
utter. — She called loudly after him, but he was out
of sight in an instant. She looked the way he had
gone, almost breathless. `I spared him,' said she,
at last, `but he may not — he may not.' It was but
into the house, and fell back into a chair.
`What have you done? Speak, tell me what you
have done,' cried Sally. `You have not, you have
not murdered' — Frank grasped his throat, to stop its
beating. `No, No,' said he, scarcely to be heard.
`I struck him but once, and he lay like a dead man
before me; and I thought it was all over with him;
but he presently opened his eyes upon me, and I
dared not stay, for I felt the spirit of a murderer at
my heart!' — He looked at the moment,” said the old
woman, “as if dropping the very knife from his hand.
“And here,” said she, “the storm began to gather
fast and hard. The coward villain found means to
raise suspicions against Frank, which threw him out
of his employments. Yet so secret was he, as not to
be suspected of the deed. The poor fellow wandered
over these bare hills day after day, without knowing
what to turn his hands to. In the midst of all
this trouble the wretch came to him, and begged forgiveness
for his conduct to Sally. `I can forgive you,'
said Frank, `but I do not like looking upon you.'
`That is not forgiveness,' said he, in a beseeching
tone. `I was a villain, for I would have done you
an injury past remedy. And it was more than I deserved,
that you should have spared my life when I
was down. I have not had a quiet rest since that
time, and never shall, if you do not suffer me to do
something to make amends.' `The best amends,'
said Frank, `will be a better life in you.' `I know it,'
he answered, `and I hope it will be so, if remorse can
give it. But you, too, must give me ease. Though
young, my allowance is large. Some evil mind has
worked you mischief, I am told, and you are poor. I
have no right to. But do at least show me that you
have so far forgiven me, as to suffer me to lend it to
you, and see you well established in your trade. It
is the only atonement left me; and you will not cut
me off from that?' Frank refused, and the villain
begged like a slave. Frank began to think it was
sinful pride, and he thought of Sally, and then he consented.
The money was lent, and as soon as Frank
had laid it out in stock for trade, the note was put in
suit, and he was stripped of all he had, and thrown into
gaol. Frank found a friend who released him; and
he went to sea. And think,” said she, turning to
Tom, “he that contrived it all, was scarcely older than
you are now; and yet he wears a gay heart and fair
outside.
“I need not tell of the parting. It was a bitter
one, and no meeting after it. There was a storm at
sea, and the ship went down. And many a night
have I lain and seen the body heaved up wave after
wave, as they took it, one after another, till they bore
it away, far, far out of sight. The news came at last;
yet she shed no tear, nor spoke a word; but her silence
was awful — it was like a spirit near me. For
many days she sat in that corner with her hands clasped
and resting on her knees, looking with a glazed
eye upon the fire; and I could see her pining away
before me as she sat there. At last she would leave
the house at night-fall, when it was chilly autumn,
and when the crisped, frozen grass would crumble
under her feet. And I have found her standing on
the top of a hill near, many and many a night, with
her eyes fixed on the moon, her lips moving and giving
a low sound, of what, I could not tell. Nor would she
home, and laid her shivering in her bed, and she
would take no heed of me. At last the cold winds and
the snow struck her. But as she lay there on the
bed, her mind opened:—it did not wander any more.
She said that but one being had done her wrong, and
though it was an awful wrong, she was sure that she
forgave him, and would pray that he might be forgiven.
“Just before she died, she stretched out her hand
to me, — she saw me look at it. `It was a fresh hand
once, but is dead and shrunken now; and there are
the blue veins,' said she, tracing them with one of her
fingers, `where the blood used to flow warm and quick;
but they are dried up, though they stand out so. I
am going to peace, mother, and to him that loved me.'
The tears fell on her pillow, as she said, `But who
will take care of you now in your old age?' Then
looking upward, with a bright smile over her face,
and without turning toward me, — `God, my mother,
God will take care of you.' I felt it like a revelation
from heaven.
“She died, and I laid her where she wished to be
laid, in that grave you saw by the stream, — for you
spoke of one, did you not? I bring water from that
stream morning and night; and when the weather is
calm, I stop and pray at her grave, and in the driving
storm I utter my prayer in the spirit, as I pass by; —
and with God it is the same, if it comes from a sincere
heart. — My story is done.” “It is late, and you
have walked far, and there is a clean bed for you,
though a hard one, in the next room.” Tom wished
her good night; but she did not answer him: he
saw that she could not. “O, Isaac Beckford,” murmured
she, as Tom shut the door, “there is a heavy
you.” Tom did not hear the name, nor suspect his
friend.
Though he rose early, he found breakfast ready.
The hostess looked cheerful, for every affliction has
its comfort to the Christian. — “And now,” said he,
shoving back his chair from the table, “how am I to
find my way to the city?”
“Look,” said the old woman, going to the door,
“yonder you see the wood which borders this heath;
and there are the chimnies of Beckford mansion, and
the great road winds near it. You will see no smoke
there, though a clear morning. — It is an empty house
now. The heath brought you a short route, for it is
only a dozen miles or so to town. Nigh enough, I
fear, to such a place, for one who has passions like
yours.”
“What know you of my passions, good woman?
What have you heard of me?”
“Naught in the world. But do I not see them in
the moving of your lip, and the gleam of that eye?
Rein them with a steady hand, or they may prove of
too hot metal for you.” Tom thanked her, and then
offered her money. “You came as a cast-away,”
said she, “and I cannot take it.” He tendered it
again. “No, no, I can never take fare-money of
one who has listened to my story.” Tom urged her
no further, but wishing her, kindly, good morning, set
out on his way. As he drew near the city, the roads
became crowded, and his spirits rose. “What a
mighty stir is here — and what a medley! Things of
all sorts, from horse-cart and check frock, to coach
and laces! And who is merriest of the crowd, it
would be hard to tell. At last came the hubbub and
to be heard here,” thought Tom.
By dint of inquiry, a quick eye and ready mind, he
at last found the street, and the number of the house
of Beckford's guardian. The servant made Tom's
arrival known to Isaac. “What, my young protegé!”
exclaimed Isaac to himself — “And in good time;
for soon I shall be a free man, and he must minister
to my pleasure, as must every one whom I favour.
I must see that he is brought up in the way he should
go.”
With a deliberate step and plotting mind, he walked
down stairs; but rushing swiftly into the room, and
running to Tom, seized him round the shoulders, with
a hearty, God bless you, and how are you, my old
buck. This welcome was a cordial to Tom's heart;
for, with all his high spirits, the manner of his leaving
home, and what he had passed through since, had
depressed him and made him thoughtful; and he was
ill at ease with himself. After many questions about
old playmates, and jokes upon past school tricks,
Tom told Isaac that he wished to see him where
they should not be interrupted.
“To be sure you shall,” said Isaac, stepping into
a side room, and locking the door after them. “But
what is all this for? You have no game afoot here
already, surely? Or has some hare scaped you? If
so, 't is I must start her again. I've the scent of a
hound, Tom.”
“A good quality. Not wanted now, however
I will tell you what it is.” And he told the whole
story.
“A pretty child you, to quarrel with your bread
show his spirit, for the sake of getting a broken
head? You must put yourself under my care. I see
no reason why we should not live pleasantly enough
without the old folks, till your father repents; which
I warrant you will be shortly. In the mean time,”
said Isaac, scanning Tom as he spoke,” “there must
be a change from top to toe.”
“I have no money,” said Tom.
“I have, though,” said Isaac; “so give yourself
no concern.” Tom coloured. He had not thought
of this before. Isaac burst into a loud laugh.
“Give me leave,” said he, as soon as he could
speak. “Why, you look as you did when caught by
your master stealing his rod. There is no other way
for you — if you wo'nt suffer me a trifling favour,
you must bilk the tailor.”
“I tell you what,” said Tom; “I would be under
such obligations to no man living but you. And I
like not that even. Money favours are but poor bonds
of friendship.”
“Pshaw,” said Isaac, “your father will pay all;
and should he be stiff about it, if I credit him, and
lose, what's that to you? So, now for a merry year or
two to come.”
“Not so fast,” said Tom; “I want your assistance,
but in another way. You have influential friends.
I did not come here for sport. I am for sea, and sea
fights.” Isaac gave him a questioning look. “'T is
even so, I'm set upon it, Isaac.”
“Well then, so be it. But first, come, see my
guardian.”
Isaac was right in his conjecture about Mr. Thornton.
His wife's anxiety concerning the fate of her
unjust towards him, led the old gentleman to write to
Isaac's uncle; for he had little doubt whither Tom
had gone. Mr. Beckford stated, in his answer, Tom's desire to go into the navy; and it was concluded that
Tom should have a moderate supply of money, and
be furthered in his intent, without knowing any thing
of his father's share in the business. Isaac therefore
appeared as principal, and he took care to increase
his influence by it; but he could not turn Tom from his purpose, and he did not like to thwart his rich
uncle.
Thornton's mind was so full of ships and the seas,
of fights and promotion, that Isaac saw it was impossible
to sink him in dissipation at once. “Whatever
is that lad's object,” said Beckford, “is a passion with
him for the time. I must give him line.”
“Are you going to run me through, Tom?”
“I was only boarding the enemy.”
“That coat is of the true cut, Tom.”
“It sits no more to the shape of a man, than to a
partridge. When I am admiral, Isaac, — as I shall
be” —
“God save you, admiral!”
“I'll do.”
“What will you do?”
“Pay you the tailor's bill, for having made me such
a thing to show clothes on. Let's to the ship. — She
sits on the water,” said Tom, as they were carried
towards her, “as if she were born of the sea. And
then again so tall, and light, and graceful, she seems
a creature of the air.” —
A few days before sailing, he received a guarded
letter from his mother. He threw it angrily upon the
eye of my father.” And he wrote an answer full of
affection and high hopes.
As Tom had always resolved to command a ship of
war, he had made good use of his time at school to learn
all but what practice gives. With a quick insight
into whatever he turned his attention to, his many and
appropriate inquiries and close and wide observation
soon made him familiar with all that could be acquired
in port, and to be ready for much that the sea would
teach him.
There was a stiff breeze and a clear blue sky, and
the air was radiant with the sun, when he bade farewell
to Isaac. Tom's brave, fiery, open temper, made
young Beckford's sly, cautious, and vicious disposition
seem despicable and weak even to himself, and
he was fixed upon revenge. He was one of that race
who carry a hell within them — who, belonging to the
rank of ordinary beings, and wanting the bold and
sustaining spirit of open hostility, bear secret hate to
all above them.
“This is life,” said Tom, as he stood looking out
on the ocean. “The unseen winds make music over
head; the very ship rejoices in the element in which
she moves; and the sea on which we are opening,
looking limitless as eternity, heaves as if there were
life in it.”
Tom had high notions of a ship's discipline, and
submitted with a good grace. “And so will I
be obeyed,” thought he, “when my turn comes.”
Though among his fellow-officers his manner was too
impetuous, yet there was something so hearty and
frank in it, that they could not take offence. He
exacted perfect obedience where he commanded, but
of experienced officers; nor did he suffer the slightest
thing which could be of use, to escape his observation.
He visited foreign ports; and with a curiosity
all alive and perpetually gratified, this earth was like
a new world to him.
At last came the news of a war, and Tom rubbed
his hands like an epicure over a smoking dinner. “A
bloody battle, and I shall mount, — or fall, and another
walk over me: all the same to the world.” At last
was given the cry of `A sail;' and Tom saw a ship
ahead rising up, as it were, slowly and steadily out of
the sea, as she neared. As she tacked to the wind,
he gazed upon her almost with rapture. — “Queen of
the sea, cried he, “how silently and beautifully and
stately she bears herself!”
“A heavy ship,” said an older officer.
“She's a superb bird of passage,” answered Tom,
“fit messenger for the gods. 'T is a pity; but we
must bring her down.” — A distant fire was opened.
He looked disappointed and impatient that so little
was done.
“You will be gratified to your heart's content presently,
young man. We shall have no boys' play to-day.”
“Nor do I want it. Let it come hot and heavy.”
And his eye brightened and spirits rose, the harder
and closer the fight.
In the midst of this, the enemy's mainmast swayed
once or twice, then came a crash and a cry, and it
went by the board. Tom shuddered, and shut his
eyes convulsively, as he saw the poor fellows go with
it. All was in a moment forgotten, when the ship he
was in, falling on the other's bow, the cry, `to board,'
the spring of a tiger. They gave way. He was
foremost through the fight, with a wet brow and
clotted hand. In a few minutes the deck was cleared
of all but the dead and dying. All was bustle and
joy on one side; and Tom's heart swelled, when the
captain in his warmth shook him heartily by the hand.
But no one envied him, so meekly did he bear it. He
stepped back a little. A dying man gave his last groan
at his feet. Tom started, and looking down, saw the
sightless, open eyes of the dead man turned up toward
him. It shrunk his very heart up. “And has this
been my sport?” said he. “God forgive me.” Tom
went home, as one of the officers of the prize, with a
high commendation of his conduct.
“I am worn with this incessant heave of the sea,”
said he, as he hung over the ship's side, “and long
to be ashore, and smell the earth again, and mix in
the occupations of men. The moon shines as fair
here, and looks as happy, showing her dimpled face
in the water, as if she had all the world to worship
her. The sky and earth hold blessed and silent communion,
which we, who crawl about here, think not
of. Would I could share in it, and mingle with the
air, and be all a sensation too deep for sound — a
traveller among the stars, and filled with light. I am
a thing of clay—a creature of sin,” he murmured,
as he turned, and went to the cabin.
The rim of the sea was of gold, when the sun was
wheeled slowly up, and burnished the whole ocean.
The light flashed up into the cabin windows. Thornton's
soul enlarged itself as he looked out upon this
life of the world. Going upon deck, he found an
officer there.
“What, up before me?”
“Yes, I have been watching the harbour light, till
it went out like the morning star.” Tom turned,
and the gay islands that lay softly upon the sea,
looked to him like messengers sent to welcome him to
land; and as he made the shore, even the dark rocks
seemed sociable, as if they had come down to meet
him. He landed with an exulting spirit amidst the
cheers of the populace, and hearty congratulations of
the few acquaintances he had formerly left behind.
Isaac was not among them; and upon inquiry, Thornton
learned that he was out of town at old Mr. Beckford's,
late his guardian. As soon as Tom could leave
the city, he drove out thither.
As he dashed along with a speed that made the
fields and trees appear hurrying by him, he thought
of the time when he trudged the same road a-foot, and
an outcast, and not noticed of a passer-by. “I
always felt that I should rise, and make men look up
at me; and I will be higher yet ere long. Neither
will it be a gallows elevation, as my father prophesied
in his anger. What a triumph I have gained over
them! They shall not fail to hear of it in full, and
that shortly. What a selfish wretch am I! Whose
hearts, in all the world, will be prouder and gladder
than their's at my success?” — He whirled up the
circular way to the house, and sprang to the ground
as light as if buoyed by the air. There was one who
saw him from behind the window curtain. “What a
gallant fellow!” she cried. “He descended to the
earth like one of the gods. What a form! Who can
it be? It must be young Thornton. Yes, the whole
face tallies with what I've heard of his daring and
impetuous character. Heigh-ho, I wonder what 's
become of Mr. Henley. I hope he has not broken his
at once.”
Tom followed the servant, and came so suddenly
upon Isaac, that he was not prepared to make his usual
demonstrations of joy. Tom felt it for an instant. But
Isaac, seeing his error, began repairing it, by asking
question after question, hardly giving Tom time to
answer one of them, and expressing all the while the
warmest joy at his success.
“Well, Tom, half a dozen years have done much
for you.”
“Yes, and I mean that six to come shall do
more.”
“Well resolved, as usual, and surely, I have no
doubt; for you have fire and skill to melt and cast to
your liking. Come along, and take a look at my fair
cousin — cousin I call her, though a third remove.
But, have a care, my boy, for her worn out rake of a
husband knows what a woman is, and has a lynx's
eye.”
There is nothing better calculated to put a man in
a woman's power, than bidding him be on his guard
against her; for he at once imagines that he may be
an object of interest to her, and that there is something
in her worth being a slave to.
When Thornton entered the room, the sun was
down, but the deep clouds were on fire with his light
and threw their warm glow upon a rich crimson sofa,
on which rested, clad in white drapery, the beautiful
Mrs. Henley. She was leaning on her elbow which
sunk into a cushion, raising her a little, and giving a
luxurious curvature to the body, and showing the
limbs in all their fine proportions and fulness. Her
wrist, a little bent, shone with a dazzling whiteness,
a costly book. Her fairy foot, in a white satin
slipper, was playing in the deep flounce of the sofa,
and as she rose with a pretended embarrassment, the
exquisitely turned ancle glanced for an instant on
Thornton's sight. Something shot through his breast
with the acuteness of an electric shock; and it was
with difficulty that he could give utterance to the
passing compliments. His confusion was not unobserved
by Isaac or the lady; and they were both determined
to turn it to their several purposes; but from
very different motives.
Mrs. Henley lived in Isaac's neighbourhood long
before her marriage; and her fine person and beautiful
face, and the slow, wavy outline which deep passion
gave to her movements, had excited in him, to
an intense degree, all that he was capable of feeling
for a woman. The loose and evil passions were strong
in him; and as he was withouttrue courage, he gratified
them by ingenuity and trick. When such persons
are understood, the men despise, and the women
loathe them. All his endeavours to ingratiate himself
with his cousin, only made him the more disgusting
to her; for when he was most intent upon
pleasing her, his manner was a mixture of fawning
and condescension, which moved her contempt and
touched her pride. Sometimes she revenged herself
by cold disdain, at others, by turning him to ridicule
with her playful and ready wit. But Isaac could
submit to be trodden on, so he could gain his object,
or compass his revenge; and he swore Fanny should
be Mrs. Beckford, or rue the day she married another.
He had failed in his first purpose, and was now
wholly bent on vengeance. He saw the effect that
Isaac's plan was formed; and though he
had determined to make Tom a mere instrument for
his own end, he hated him for that very preference
which had been shown to him, though it made him
more easily his tool.
Fanny, with all her hate of Isaac, would have been
Mrs. Beckford, had no better establishment offered.
She was selfish, of strong passions, regardless of
principles, of unbounded extravagance and ambition,
with a mind somewhat tasteful, yet fond of the showy,
of high spirit, and of quick intellect (which is every
thing in fashionable society,) and with art to appear
whatever she chose to be at the time. She was balancing
in secret the pros and cons of a marriage with
Isaac, when Mr. Henley, who had wasted one fortune
early in life, now suddenly presented himself
with a broken constitution and fretfu disposition, but
with a large estate, to which he had just succeeded;
and she in due time became Mrs. Henley. She soon
devoted herself to spending his fortune, and leaving
him to his doctor and nurse.
“Why, Tom,” said Isaac, in a laughing way, but
with a malignant purpose, “you were as careless and
easy in company of the ladies before you went to sea,
as you were at your whist club; but you look as awkward
now as some Jonathan, who is working himself
up to a tender of himself and kine to a country
maiden. Does the salt water always have such an
effect?”
“If it does,” said Fanny, “there are more virtues
in a sea voyage than I have before heard of; and it
might be a benefit to some whom I had long put
down on the list of incurables.
“Why, coz, one so pretty as you should only shoot
cupid's arrows, and not wound us with those of wit.”
“'T is pity it should have mischiefed you; I but
shot it o'er the house.”
“And wounded your brother.”
“Something too much akin, that, Isaac.”
“Then you are not for the platonics?”
“Not with a handsome youth like you.” — Isaac
bit his lip; and Tom laughed.
“Why, Isaac, did I ever before see you so foiled?
Your have grown dull since I left you. Have your
wits sharpened — have them sharpened, Isaac.”
“So do, Isaac, and on your heart,” she whispered;
“it will serve.”
“I will,” he muttered to himself, “and to your cost,
you shall find, ye silly ones.”
At that moment Mr. Henley entered, leaning on
the arm of old Mr. Beckford, who, now far advanced
in life, was of a cheerful, fresh and benevolent aspect,
Mr. Beckford shook Thornton heartily by the hand,
and welcomed him well ashore. The other was a tall,
stooping, gaunt figure, with a sallow and thin face,
dark, hanging eyebrows and a glancing, cautious eye.
With all this, he showed the remains of a handsome
person, and was what is commonly called a polished
gentleman. He received Tom with a courtly distance.
“My dear,” said his wife, affecting concern, “you
don't know how uneasy I have been about you.”
“Perhaps not,” he replied, without seeming to
regard her.
“I am really afraid you have caught your death
this cool evening.”
“O, you are too anxious about me, he answered;
I do not feel myself dying quite yet.” Tom ground
replies.
They met at breakfast. The rich evening dress
was changed for a simple robe; and Fanny looked
as fresh as if she had bathed in the dew of roses.
When the uncle and the husband were out of the way,
Isaac gave such a turn to the conversation, as would
lead to his object. Then he proposed a walk in the little
wood near the house; and when they had entered it,
suddenly remembered some particular business, and
left Tom and Mrs. Henley together. The light shawl
caught in the branches, and what less could Tom do,
than adjust it carefully over the finest shoulders in the
world, unless we except the Venus — but hers are not
living shoulders. There was a brook to pass, and an
unsightly tree lying rudely across the path, and last of
all happened that fatal though common accident —
and the shoe lacing was seen trailing the ground.
Before many days Tom had lost all control over
himself. He had but one feeling and one thought.
Isaac saw that affairs were going too fast. “The
husband will be upon the trail and the sport be all
up. We must have doublings and crossings!
The husband was not so quicksighted as Isaac feared.
He had always been jealous of his wife, and
not without reason. Jealousy, however, like most
passions, discriminates but poorly; and Mr. Henley
had been as much alarmed and as impatient at little
circumstances, a thousand times before, as he was at
what was passing now.
The uncle who was a looker-on, and knew well the
wife's character and Tom's ardent temperament, joined
with Isaac, though from opposite motives, in urging
Tom to hasten his visit to his father from whom he
not lost his affection for his parents, but he was completely
infatuated. Day after day was fixed for
the visit, and it was as many times put off. “I will
propose going with him, and to-morrow,” said Isaac to
himself. “I am not ready for the catastrophe. He
must be more in my power. He must rake, he must
game, he must want money.” For the passion which
Isaac saw in his cousin, for young Thornton, had
worked up towards him the hate of a fiend.
After much urging, Tom was ready, and they
started. It was in vain that Isaac endeavoured to
draw him into conversation. At length his home appeared
in sight. It gave Tom the first happy feeling
he had been conscious of since leaving Beckford
house. It was with sincere joy he saw his parents,
and his mother's tears touched his heart. With all his
affection, he grew restless in a day or two, and pleaded
his duties as a reason for his return. The old gentleman
had received from Mr. Beckford a letter hinting
at Tom's dangerous situation. He took his son aside,
and talked kindly and earnestly with him upon the
subject. Tom at first denied that there was any thing
to fear. “Look carefully into your heart,” said his
father. Tom did, and then swore that he would think
no more of her. — “Oaths will not do it, my son; the
mind must be bent up to fly the temptation, or you
run to your ruin.” — He promised to himself and to
his father that he would; but the next day hastened
to it with speed of fire. — “I cannot show her indifference
at meeting, but at least I will appear composed,”
thought he.
Upon reaching the house, Isaac went immediately
to his chamber, and Thornton, upon entering the
hastily towards him; then shrinking back, and glowing
with what Tom took for shame, let fall her beautifully
fringed lids. He spoke in a tremulous voice.
She uttered a broken word or two; then lifting her
eyes to his, showed them drinking deep of passion.
He would that instant have folded her to him, but a
step was heard in the room. He darted out of the house,
muttering between his teeth something about his
disappointment, and a curse on the fool who caused it.
He walked on, his brain maddened with the tumult
of passions within him. He was not sensible whither
he was going, till he suddenly saw at his feet the
grave of Sally Wentworth. He recoiled from it like
a fallen angel from the presence of the holy; and his
abominations rose up black and awful before him.
He felt like an outcast from heaven; as if the very
dead condemned him, and shut him out as a creature
unfit to lie down to rest with them.
“The dead, the dead, no passions are torturing
them; but shall I ever shake off mine?” He was
leaning upon the grave stone, — his eyes fixed on the
grave, — shuddering at his own passions, and thinking
on the quiet below him, when some one spoke. —
“Thomas Thornton,” said the voice “it is well for us
to be here.” He turned suddenly, and met the solemn,
but mild countenance of Sally's mother. She observed
the dark expression of his face.
“That should not be the face of one who holds communion
with the dead. What ails thee, man? Thou
lookest like one condemned for his crimes, yet afraid
to die. It is an awful thing so to live, as to fear to die.”
“It is not death I fear, good mother, it is life, — it
is myself.”
“And dare you fear to live, and yet not dread to
die, Thornton? There is a double and a woful curse
upon thee then.”
“Do not you curse me, and standing here, too,
lest the dead sanction it.”
“I curse thee? She that lies here, cursed not
him that brought misery upon her. Neither would I,
thee. It becomes not us to condemn one another.
But I fear for you, Thornton, I fear for you. And
did I not, the morning you left me, warn you take
heed to your passions? — I cannot talk with others
here,” she said, looking on her daughter's grave. —
She turned away, and he followed her.
“I have looked to see you, day after day,” she continued,
as they walked towards the house; “for I
have taken more concern in you, than I ever thought
to again in fellow-mortal. It has been whispered me,
how you left home the night you knocked at my door;
and it did my heart good to hear, a few days ago, that
you had gone to see your father and mother. Nor for
that alone was I glad, but that it might break the web
which I saw a subtle spider weaving round you.”
Thornton coloured. “You have not darkened this
door,” said she, as they drew up to the cottage. “My
eye has been upon you, nevertheless, at the house
yonder.” They both turned toward it.
“'T is she!” cried out Thornton, “Where can she
have been?”
“Here, no doubt, and for no good purpose, I fear.
For little have I seen of her for months past; and now
she has but just missed you,” added the old woman,
casting a look of rebuke upon Tom. His cheek
flushed a burning red; but his eager and impatient
eye was fixed, like a hound in leash, on the figure at
forward. “How this heath opens wide round
about her, that the world may see her move! I must
be gone, good mother.”
“Hold, hold!” said the old woman, laying her
hand on his arm, and fastening her eye on his fiery
countenance, “Art mad?”
“Mad? Ay, mad as the winds. She'll be beyond
reach instantly. I must go.”
“By the spirit of her whose grave you just stood
by, I bid you stay.” — His hands fell powerless, but
his eye still rested on the object. She was ascending
a rising ground; and as she reached the top of it, and
her form appeared against a burnished evening sky,
her long purple mantle waving in the winds, “She
touches not earth,” he cried, “but moves in glory
amidst the very clouds.”
“Monster!” cried the old woman, in a tone of horror,
“can you look yonder, and worship any but
God?” The voice went through him like a word from
heaven.
“Mother, forgive me,” said he, humbled and
ashamed.
“Ask forgiveness of Him you have offended, and
not of me.” As she looked upon him, her heart
yearned towards him as a mother's for her child. —
He raised his eyes timidly towards the west once
more, but she, whom he sought, had gone down the
hill, and was out of sight. His countenance fell.
“Would that she could pass so from your mind!”
“Would that I could be taught to wish it,” he murmured.
“Turn then,” said she, pointing to the sky, “and
learn to love the works that God has made, and still
messengers to us, the ministers of his power, the revealers
of his love for us. To rejoice in them, to
feel the heart thus moved by them, is true worship.
O! I have stood, at an hour like this, and looked, till I
have thought the light of heaven was opening upon
me, and God was near me.” — She turned once more
toward Thornton. His countenance had become
calm and elevated. — “My son, could you learn to
fill yourself with such thoughts as are now within you,
the allurements of the world would be a tasteless
show to you. But the heart must love something, —
it must be sin or goodness.” — There was a short
pause. At last said the old woman, “She you hunt
after is another's. She vowed herself his at the altar;
and if it is a stain on her soul, would it for that be
less a sin in you to wrong him?”
“I would wrong no man,” said Thornton.
“What! can you say how far you will go, when
you cannot stop now?”
“I will, I will, even now.”
“Beware that you stumble not through too much
confidence. Turn away from the temptation; for she
who tempts you, I fear, is eager to draw you on. I
would not speak it of her but for your good;” said the
old woman, the colour coming to her pale cheek —
“for she was my foster-child, and has slept in these
arms, and I loved her next to my own. But ambition
and vanity and all unchecked passions have been busy
at her heart. It was for houses and lands and a high
place in the world, that she bartered herself; and
she who will do that by holy covenant, may one day
do it without bond. You are now going into the
world again; but carry with you, if you would have
keep it with you, so will heaven bless you.”
He grasped her hand; and then turned and walked
homeward. She looked after him till he was lost in
the twilight; then shut her door with a misgiving
heart.
Thornton went directly to his chamber. He was
afraid of Isaac's ridicule, and dared not trust himself
with a sight of Mrs. Henley. He was melancholy
and humble; but there was a virtue in his state of
mind, which made him less impatient of himself than
he had been for many weeks past. He thought of
the widow and her daughter — of death, and what is
to come, and his passions subsided, and the storm of
the mind seemed clearing and settling away, and he
had the quiet sleep of a good man. But the light
and stir of day, which scatter our resolves and fill us
with the present, came on; and the gay and beautiful
vision of Fanny broke upon him with the morning sun.
He sprang from bed; and in his eagerness to hasten
down stairs, every thing was out of place, and fretting
him with delay. None but the domestics were up. He
walked out a few steps, returned, then went out again;
and thus continued till the breakfast hour arrived. He
met only Mr. Beckford and Isaac at table. His eye
was constantly on the door. — “Mr. Henley and lady
left us about dusk last night, for the city,” said the
old gentleman. Thornton's countenance changed. —
“I fear you will never be a gallant,” said Isaac.
“To think that you should not be here, to bid so fair
a lady farewell! But you may make such amends as
you can, for we all move town-ward to-morrow.”
The next day they reached the city. — “Make yourself
ready,” said Isaac, “for we are to go to Henley's
streets, the brilliantly lighted shops, the gay faces and
the talk within them, and then the shadow of a building
thrown in straight line across the pavement, and
some one stealing through it in silence, gave a sudden
contrast, and a strange mixture of open gayety,
and mysterious stillness to the scene, which excited
Thornton's mind, at the same time that he felt a cautiousness
stealing over him. Then was heard the
distant rumbling of a carriage. Presently it would
shoot by them with a stunning rattling of the wheels,
and sharp clatter of the horses' hoofs, now and then
striking fire, and all would die away again in the
darkness and distance.
They at length reached the superb mansion of Mr.
Henley. It was like entering into broad daylight.
It shone like a fairy palace in the Arabian Nights.
And there stood Mrs. Henley under a large chandelier,
richly and splendidly dressed; her fair skin
sparkling with an almost metallic brightness, and her
eyes full of light and action. At the first glance she
coloured; but recovering herself with a practised
readiness, gave Thornton a frank welcome, at the
same time introducing him to the circle about her.
Those who observed his confusion, set it down to
bashfulness, and as such, passed it by. She was in
full spirits, talked much and brilliantly; and his fine
figure and face, his honest vehemence and hearty good
nature, drew round them the choicest part of the company.
Then came the dance with all its windings
and wavy motions; and her soft hand rested too long
in his. The fingers of each trembled, and told what
they should not. The flame was again lighted up
within him, and it rose and swept along with the rush
as Isaac dared let him; and was at last half drawn
away by him from the house. He passed the remainder
of the night, at one time calling himself a madman
and villain, and then, in his hot impatience, swearing
that no earthly power should bar him his way. The
thought of her now fully possessed him. She saw the
power she had over him, and loved it too well to risk
it, by too easily yielding to his passion. He had no
rest out of her presence, followed her wherever she
went, and was at her house morning and evening.
“Tom,” said Isaac, one day, “do you know that
the world begin to talk about you, and my sweet coz?”
“I care not for their talk. What have they to do
with me or with her?”
“Much, my young blood, so long as you make a
part of the world. And it is something to me, Tom,
and touches me nearly. You know not your danger;
but I must not let you bring disgrace upon any of our
relations, however distant. Besides, the husband
grows suspicious; and would you spill his blood, or
throw so fine a girl out from fortune?”
“God forbid,” said he warmly. “Yet, I know
not, Isaac, — my power over myself is gone. Save
me, save me.”
“And so I will, if you will be a man. We must
change the scene; and you shall see some good fellows,
and be as merry as ever, I warrant you. Come
along with me.”
Tom followed as if his self-will was lost. He
talked and laughed and had his joke, and was called
a lad of spirit. He drank to excess, and grew restiff.
The cool Isaac kept an eye upon him, without being
observed, and took him off in time. “This will suffice
will minister a little more freely next time.”
Thornton waked languid, and full of remorse; still
he found himself in a few hours at Henley's house.
Isaac did not try to prevent it. He was only retarding
the accomplishment of Tom's wishes, that he
might ruin him altogether. Then came more riot and
excess, and lastly, gambling. And Tom played rashly
and lost; for he was trying to fly from himself, and
cared not for fortune. And Isaac lent him money
now and then, and oftener found other friends to
furnish him. — All was ripening for Isaac's purposes.
In the midst of this, Tom received a letter from his
father, written in the anguish of the mind, and calling
upon his son, if he would not blast an old man's hopes,
to leave the city and come to him. The letter spoke
of Tom's mother, her distress, and the fondness with
which, in the midst of it, she clung to her only child.
Tom stamped upon the floor, with vexation and shame;
cursing himself as the vilest wretch alive. “I will
go to them,” cried he, “I'll go, by to-morrow's light.”
The morning came, and then he thought of taking an
eternal farewell, and the like. He lingered, and Mrs.
Henley's carriage drove by. There was a familiar
nod, and a smile, and his resolutions were again gone
with the wind. That night he played, and lost, and
grew angry almost to madness. Then came a duel.
He was wounded, and called a man of honour.
In a few days, however, he was able to visit at
Henley's. Nothing interests a fashionable woman half
so much, as a genteel young fellow with his arm in a
sling, particularly if he received his hurt in a duel.
Mrs. Henley turned pale when she saw Thornton;
spoke breathingly of his wound, and asked a thousand
too low, methinks; let me shorten the handkerchief.”
And standing by his side, her arms were round his
neck, as she was trying to untie the knot. Their
hearts beat quick. Thornton could control himself
no longer, but pressed her madly to him. Her head
sunk upon his shoulder, while she murmured that he
would be her ruin. There were vows of eternal love,
and protestations of honour, and an assignation. The
last at least, was not kept, for Mr. Henley left town
early the next day, compelling his wife to accompany
him. He had heard and seen enough to raise his
suspicions. He did not want courage to call Tom
out, but relished little the thought of being pointed at
as the unhappy man who had been engaged in an affair
of honour with his wife's friend.
When Thornton called in the morning, the house
was shut up. He rung, but no one came to the door.
After walking some time before the house, he returned
to inquire of Isaac whither they had gone. Isaac
could only conjecture. Tom uttered the direst imprecations
upon the jealous dolt's head. Isaac affected
to be amused at Tom's wrath.
“Why, the wench has jilted you, my young sprig.
You stood shill-I-shall-I too long.” But he bit his
lips, and swore inwardly; for all his plotting had come
to nothing.
“I'll hunt them the world through,” cried Tom,
“ere I'll be thus thwarted.”
He went to his chamber, and found on his table a
letter showing the greatest alarm in his mother, for
his father's life. “What! does death cross between
me and her,” exclaimed he, wildly. His blood curdled
with horror at the thought of what he had uttered. —
agony of the passions fighting within him. “Let me
be gone, let me be gone from this place of sin.” He
reached home in time to close his father's eyes and
lay him in his grave. There was something more
than grief in him for his father's death. It was the
fear that he had hastened it on. “He was proud of
me,” said Tom to himself, “harebrained as I was.
And I gave him hope, and in the midst of it, let a
woman, who perhaps has forgotten me, cut it off; and
I have laid him in his grave, sorrowful and disappointed.
He had a soul of honour; and I, who was
his son, did all I could to wound him.”
The grief of his mother and her imploring helplessness
took Thornton's mind off from its regret and
painful thoughts, while it softened his heart, and laid
it open to those kind and gentle affections, against
which it had for a long time been shut. His manner
to her was as mild, and soothing, and regardful, as if
no headlong passions had ever stirred him: There
was something almost parental in it. And when the
time came that he should adjust his father's affairs,
in order to go to sea again, he was delicate and generous
towards his mother, to an extreme.
When the hour arrived for him to leave her, she
hung round him, and wept bitterly. “There is now
no one in all the earth left for me to lean upon, but
you, Thomas; and my soul cleaves to you as all
betwixt me and death. Remember your fond old
mother, when you are gone from her. You will
think of me on the seas, but, forgive me, Tom, you
may not in the city.”
“Think not so hardly of me, my mother; my heart is
not all seared yet. Can I lose all thought of you
from his lash, “It is I who have made you so soon to
be alone? No, I will remember you not only in sorrow
and in hours of solitude and thoughtfulness, but
bear you with me in my daily life, and think how dear
are a mother's pride and joy in a good son.”
And when he left her, he begged her blessing with
as submissive and meek a feeling as ever entered
man's soul. Intimate affections and beautiful thoughts
were forever shooting up within him; but his passions
would sweep over them like a strong wind, and leave
them torn and dead in the dust.
He reached the city a few days before sailing.
His composed, serious manner awed Isaac, and made
him hate him more than ever. Thornton discharged
his debts contracted with money-lenders, and found
enough left out of his father's estate to pay Isaac.
Isaac would have put off receiving it. — “I shall never
forget your kindness,” said Tom. “But I cannot see
why you would keep a friend under such an obligation,
and that too unnecessarily, and against his will.”
Isaac took the money without farther parley, with a
resolution of perseverance in Tom's ruin, which, in a
good cause, would have done honour to a saint.
Thornton more than once passed Henley house, as
he strolled out in the night; and he would stand and
look toward it, till the bright figure of her he thought
on grew luminous to his mind; and he would follow
it till his eyeballs ached, as it past off into the darkness.
The passion had been laid for a time, but only
to burst out more violently than ever. Before, it
took possession of him in the uproar of the mind, but
now, it had become mixed with his deepest sensations
and most serious purposes.
In a few days the ship bore him from shore. He
was gone two years; but in all countries, through the
hot and successful fight, in storm and calm, the sense
of this woman clung to him like his very being. And
when at last, he once more spied the gay city rising
as it were out of the water, he leaped, like a child,
for joy. — “Neither man, nor land, nor sea, shall
keep me from her longer. Some devil may have possessed
me, but I cannot, I will not struggle any more.
She's mine, come on't what may.” — And he was
given over to his terrible passions, with little to thwart
them; for he found the elegant Mrs. Henley a gay
and splendid widow.
Thornton had returned, it was true, without money,
but then he had the grandest face and figure in the
world, and he was the talk of every body. Besides,
as fascinating as the widow was, few men liked her
extravagant and high spirit.
Isaac put in for her favours, and was repulsed.
He was silent, but the wound rankled. Old Mr.
Beckford warned Thornton. Tom grew angry and
avoided him; and Isaac helped on the match without
appearing to do so. The old gentleman gave Mrs.
Thornton notice; and she wrote to her son, imploring
him to come to her, or, at least, not to plunge himself
headlong into ruin. She called upon him in the
name of his father, and as he cared for her life. It
was all in vain; he would hear nothing, he would see
nothing; he was married, and undone.
For a time, all was blaze and motion and sound.
No house was furnished like the dashing Mrs. Thornton's,
no parties half so splendid; and no dinners so
costly, and got up in such taste, as the Thorntons'; and
no one drove such a four-in-hand. And if high life
to live than the Thorntons. But it becomes our disease,
it breaks up our thoughts, and kills our hearts,
and makes what should be individual and fresh in us,
common and stale. Politeness becomes feigning,
and the play of the affections is lost in the practice of
forms.
Thornton began soon to find it so; and to relieve
its satiety, he pushed father into excesses. A kind
of feeling, too, rather than reflection, was growing up
in him, that beauty, and high spirits, and a bright,
ready intellect in a woman, would not stand in the
stead of principle, and delicacy, and a fond heart.
His pride also was hurt, that instead of being looked
up to with kind regard, he was treated rather as an
important part in a splendid establishment; that his
fine person was praised, and elegant manners admired,
and even his very mind valued, just so far as they
served for an ornament, and a help to notoriety.
He received frequent letters from his mother complaining
of his seldom writing, and of his not coming to
visit her in her deserted state. She spoke of her low
spirits, her feeble health, and her concern for him.
Melancholy reflections were made, of a general nature,
but such as he well knew how to apply to himself.
He saw that her love of him, her disappointment
and anxiety, were wearing her away; and the
awful thought that he was hurrying her to the grave,
crossed him in his riot and excess.
His power over himself was gone; he had become
the slave of his passions; and they bore him along
with a never resting swiftness. He found the woman,
for whom he had sacrificed all that was worthy in his
character, selfish and regardless of his feelings. The
the craving appetite of a diseased man; and Isaac
was always a friend at hand, to assist him. His wife
was no less extravagant than he; and at last came
borrowing and mortgages; and squandering seemed
to increase as their fortune lessened. He ran into
gaming to retrieve his circumstances, but with galled
feelings and a fevered brain; and it made his condition
the more desperate.
Isaac's spirits rose, as he saw Thornton sinking.
He assisted him as before in procuring loans, and lent
him money besides. — “The day is near,” said Isaac,
to himself, “in which I shall live to see that lordly
spirit brought down. And my other end shall be compassed
too, let it cost me ever so dear. Yes, my
proud madam must be supported in her magnificence;
but the scorned and loathed Isaac must be wooed then
like the dearest of men. What care I, though she
feign it like the commonest of her sex, while in the
bitterness of her heart, she secretly curses me in the
midst of it? Does it not make fuller my revenge!”
And on he went, wily and playfully, to his object.
Though he had a spirit of avarice not to be glutted,
yet he would throw out his wealth like water, to sate
his hate or lust. He caused information of Thornton's
circumstances to be given to one of the creditors.
He took care to be at the house when service
was made. Thornton's wrath was beyond all bounds;
he threatened the officer's life, swore it was his wife
who had brought him to disgrace and ruin, and cursed
his folly that he had ever married. She said something
sneeringly about half-pay officers. Tom's eyes
flashed fire, and Isaac became mediator. — “Upon
my word, Thornton, my dear friend, you must command
be on you, like harpies. For heaven's sake, command
yourself. — My dear Sir, how great is the
debt? Upon my soul, no trifling sum. Let me see —
I have a deposit for a certain purpose. I must contrive
to meet that in another way; my friend must not
be ruined thus.” He made himself answerable to
the officer. — “And here, Tom, you must give this
as hush-money to the man. You have used him too
roughly.” — All this was done in the presence of the
wife.
Affairs had now nearly reached the worst; and
Thornton's disappointments and troubles had almost
made a madman of him. When heated with wine, or
loss at play, his rage made him dangerous, and he
became the dread of his companions. Nothing but
Isaac's plausible and smooth manner had any control
over him; and with Isaac, Thornton was like a tiger
with his keeper.
Old Mr. Beckford, with the best intentions, frequently
wrote Tom's mother about him. It only served
to hasten the wretched woman's decline, and drive
him on the faster, that he might shake off the remorse
which his mother's letters caused him.
Isaac never shut his eyes upon his object; and as
Tom's utter ruin drew on, and the time had nearly
come for Isaac's fulfilling his plans, and accomplishing
his last wish, it required all the hypocrisy of his nature
not to break his purpose too soon to the wife.
He knew that he had no strong virtue to struggle
against, but something as stubborn, a woman's dislike.
And he played his part well; he was humble, he was
grieved for their situation, he spoke timidly of his long
contest with himself to overcome his love for her, and
saw scorn on her lip. Then he spoke of his fortune,
and his wish that he had been worthy to have saved
such a woman from poverty, and the neglect which a
hard world might one day show her. And so he
wound his way.
She hid not her contempt from him; she scrupled
not to say that it was dread of poverty and of a fall
from high life, that made her yield to the man she despised;
that she had seen through his designs long
ago. Still he supplied her with money to support her
extravagance; and she made him throw her husband's
obligations into the fire, before her, with his own
hands. She yielded, and the man obtained that for
which he had hunted hard for years, and the devil
had his triumph.
It lasted not long. Thornton's suspicions were
awakened. He did not burst out in fury. Every
passion within him settled down into a deathlike stillness.
His mind seemed suddenly to take all the
shrewdness and ingenuity of the crazed in effecting
their object. And he traced out, step by step, the
windings of the subtle Isaac.
At last, he tracked him to the place of assignation.
The entrance was barred. He broke it down with the
strength of an enraged giant. Isaac fled through
another passage, as Thornton entered. Thornton
heeded not his wife; his soul was bent up to a single
purpose, and that a terrible one, and he saw no other
object in the world. He followed with the speed of
lightning; but passing swiftly by a narrow, dark side-passage,
through which Isaac had escaped, missed
his prey. He wound through the passages of the
house, with the eagerness of a blood-hound, — then
house. He asked of the servants, in a composed
manner, for Mr. Beckford. He had gone out some
time before, and had not returned. Thornton saw
that they were not deceiving him. He walked the
city the rest of the day, and returned at night to prepare
himself for a journey, for he then concluded that
Isaac must have left town. In a little while he was
ready; but passed the night in further search. In
going to and from the house, he did not seem to be
sensible of the absence of his wife, or so much as to
recollect that he had one.
In the course of the morning, he learned that one of
Beckford's best horses was missing. In an instant
he was mounted, and was soon out of sight of the city.
Yet he could only conjecture Isaac's route. He continued
his pursuit till about night-fall, in perfect silence,
and with his mind full of undefined thoughts of
vengeance.
He was riding along a dangerous, narrow track,
near the edge of a precipice, at the foot of which was
running a swift current, when, just as he was turning
the corner of a rock, his horse's head suddenly crossed
the neck of another horse, held by a man who
was walking cautiously by his side. Though it was
growing dark, and the man was muffled, Thornton
knew him the instant his eye fell upon him; and springing
to the ground, with a shout, stood full before Isaac.
The great coat fell from Isaac's ashy face. He could
neither speak nor move. — “Have I you then?” cried
Thornton, grappling the trembling wretch by the
throat, and lifting him upright off his feet. He gave
a keen glance, for an instant, down the precipice,
without speaking, and then looked doubtingly. — “No,
curse of man,” said he, drawing out his pistols, and
handing one to Isaac. Isaac put out his hand to take
it, without seeming to be conscious of what was to be
done. “Stand there,” said Thornton, “and make
sure your aim, for the last hour of one or both of us is
come.” — Isaac's hand trembled so that his pistol fell
to the ground. — “Have ready, man, or you're gone,”
screamed Thornton, frantic with rage. Isaac could
not move. — “Down then,” cried Thornton; and the
fire of the pistol flashed over Isaac's wild eyes and
convulsed, open jaws. His arms tossed upward in the
agony of terror and death, and he fell over into the
stream. His horse, rearing with fright, plunged with
his master.
Thornton looked over the precipice. Nothing was
to be seen or heard but the whirl and rush of the dark
tide. — “And can we go so quickly from life to death?
Why then should a man live to misery?”
He turned slowly away. The intense longing for
revenge was satisfied, and he was now left feeble as
a child. He mounted his horse with difficulty, and
turned homeward, his brain stunned with horror. At
last his mind grew slowly more distinct; and with the
recollection of what had past, came frightful figures,
which fell away, then suddenly rose again, and spread
themselves close before him. He pressed his eyeballs
till they darted fire, then passed his hand quickly before
his face, as if to drive away what he saw; but
the terrible sight returned upon him.
He delayed entering the city, till about dark the
next day. As he entered it, the sudden change from
the quiet of the country to the noise, the quick and
various movements of the crowd, the broken lights and
of his mind, till it so wandered, that he scarcely
knew where he was when he reached his own
door.
He leaned forward on his horse for some time,
trying to regain his self-possession. At last, looking
up at the house, and observing it quite still and dark,
the thought of his wife crossed him, for the first time.
He leaped from his horse, and rushing up the steps,
rang violently at the door. It was opened cautiously
by one he had never seen before; but such was the
state of his mind that he paid no regard to the circumstance.
Throwing open the door of the sitting room,
he found it stripped of all its furniture. He hurried
from room to room; all was bare and deserted. Then
came the dreadful truth upon him, that he was beggared.
The shock nearly unsettled him.
He ran toward the street door, scarcely knowing
whither he was going, when he was arrested by a
couple of men, for debt. He made no resistance,
but talking incoherently to himself, suffered them to
carry him peaceably to prison. He laid down upon
the bed that was furnished him, and soon fell asleep
as quietly as if in his own house; for both body and
mind had lost their sensibility, through violent effort
and fatigue.
The sun had shot into his prison with a red and
dusty ray, before he awoke; and for a long time he
could not recollect where he was, or what had passed.
“In prison, and for murder, and die on a gallows!”
— The turning of the key roused him a little. —
“My brain's disordered.” — A man handed him a
letter, and left the room. He gazed on it some time,
without noticing whose hand it was.— “My God, my
murderer too!”
Mrs. Thornton had heard from old Mr. Beckford of
the attachment laid upon her son's property immediately
after his leaving the city, and she had written in
a state of mind that showed she could not much longer
endure her sufferings. Mr. Beckford, at her
earnest request, had gone to her. His nephew had
left town unexpectedly; but the only suspicion was
that he had fled with Mrs. Thornton, and that her
husband had now returned, after an unsuccessful
search. Thornton's anguish was dreadful. His
mother dangerously ill, and made so by him, and yet
he not allowed to see her.— “She will die, believing
that I cared not for her; and yet I dare not let her
know why I cannot see her.”
In a day or two came another letter, and from Mr.
Beckford; for the mother was too feeble to write.
Thornton's impatience was now almost maddening.
At times he raved like a maniac, then suddenly sunk
down into a state of torpor, till the remembrance of
his father, his leaving home, the misery he had
brought upon himself and his friends, again rushed
upon him. Then would suddenly appear the face of
Isaac, as he saw him die; and he would spring up,
and stand as if frozen with horror.
This was not to endure long. Mr. Beckford wrote
a letter to him, stating that his release was procured,
and urging him to set off immediately by the conveyance
furnished; for that his mother, unfortunately,
had heard of his imprisonment, and that the shock
had been a violent one to her, in her weak condition.
Thornton was standing in a state of apparent insensibility,
did not notice that any one was in the room; but
when his eye fell upon it, as it was handed to him, he
seized it as a caged lion would his food. He ran his
fiery eyes over it, then shook it from his hand as if it
had been a snake he held.— “This is not her blood,”
muttered he, looking closely at one hand, then at the
other, as if counting the spots. “No, no, this is
Isaac's, I know it well — my old school-fellow, Isaac's
blood.” He stood a few minutes perfectly still, then
pressed his hand to his forehead, as if trying to recollect
himself.— “Where have I been? — Ha! I remember
now.”
“My horse, my horse, — is he ready?” he asked
eagerly of the servant, who was entering the apartment.
“At the gate, Sir. But you are not ready.”
“True, true!” And he suffered the man to equip
him. He looked at himself for a moment, as if not
knowing for what purpose he was so dressed. Then,
as the thought struck him, he darted out of the prison,
and running to the gate, threw himself upon the horse,
and dashing the rowels into his sides, was out of sight
in a moment.
There was now but one purpose in his mind, and
he clung to it with a spasmodic grasp; and the speed
with which he rode, and his intense eagerness, nearly
fired his brain. His eye was fixed on home — he
saw nothing round him — he minded not hill nor hollow.
The horse's nostrils closed and dilated fast, and the
sweat ran down his hoofs, when Thornton came in
sight of the house. Once more he urged him on; —
and then he reached the door. He tossed the reins
off, was in an instant at the head of the stairs.
The chamber door was shut. As he flung it open,
he rushed toward the foot of the bed. On it lay,
with a white sheet over it, the corpse of his mother.
His hands spread, his eyes glared wide, and his hair
stood on end. One shudder passed through his frame
as if it would have snapped every stretched fibre.
Tearing with a grasp the hair from his head, he gave
a shriek, enough to have awakened the dead, and ran,
mad, from the chamber.
Old Mr. Beckford, hearing a noise over-head, stepped
to the parlour door, and saw Thornton coming
down stairs. He called out. Thornton said not a word,
but rushed by him, the hair sticking to his clinched
fingers. As he passed, he turned his eyes on the old
man — the sockets sent out nothing but flame. The
old gentleman followed, trembling, to the door, and
looked out, but he was gone. The noise came and
went like a thunder-clap, and all was still again.
He pushed eagerly on, not regarding whither he
was going; and the horse took the same course Thornton
did the first time he left home.
At last Thornton struck upon the heath, and rode
onward till he came where the way forked. His recollection
returned in an instant. He checked his
horse suddenly, and looked over the track he had once
passed. His lip quivered, and tears stood in his
eyes. “Ages of misery have rolled over me since
then,” said he, looking forward upon the track till it
was lost in the distance. “To the left, to the left,”
cried he to his horse, pressing him on; “for that, I
then said, was ill omen, and now it suits me.”
After Mr. Beckford had laid the unhappy mother
some information concerning her son, he went to the
city to make inquiries about his nephew.
The horse was washed up near the precipice, but
Isaac's body was never found. It was supposed that
the animal had taken fright, and had fallen with his
rider into the stream.
Mrs. Thornton was soon heard of as appearing the
dashing mistress of a young man in a distant city.
Her extravagance and violent temper caused frequent
changes in this sort of connexion, and she soon sank
down into the lowest class of females of her order, and
died as they die.
As no account of Thornton could be gained, it was
conjectured that he had either destroyed himself, or
had wandered away a maniac. It was autumn when
he disappeared; the winter had set in stormy and
cold, and some supposed he might have perished.
In the early part of the day, towards the close of
spring, as the widow Wentworth was taking care of
a brood of chickens just hatched, a man, in a fisher's
garb, drove up to her door. He was seated in a light
horse-cart, old and shattered, and drawn by a small,
lean horse. He inquired whether she could inform
him where lived a woman of the name of Wentworth.
“It is for me you are looking, I suppose, good man.
What is your will?”
“I would ask you to give me a morsel,” said he,
getting down from his cart, “before I tell my errand;
for I have rode ever since daybreak, and it has been
but a chilly morning.”
After finishing his meal, he began as follows: —
“There was a strange young man made his appearance
in our parts last Autumn; and he has been thereabouts
right here,” said the man, touching his forehead;
“but then he would harm nobody, and kept
wandering about all alone; and so we never troubled
him.”
“Well, what of him?” said the old woman eagerly;
— for she immediately conjectured who it might be.
“I fear he's dying,” said the man. “He was
not seen all along shore for many days; and some of
us went to his hut; and there he was lying, looking
like one of the dead. But he was sensible enough
then, and begged that we would find a widow of the
name of Wentworth, (who I thought from his account
must live hereabouts,) and bring her to him before
he died; `for,' said he, `she is the only one of all the
living that has any love for me.' ”
“And did he tell his name?”
“No,” said the man. “We asked him; but he
said it was no matter, and that you would remember
him to whom you told your story, and talked so holily
when the sun was going down. `She'll not have forgotten
it,' he said, `as I did, when I most needed it.' ”
“And think you he's dying?” asked she. — “It
matters not,” she said to herself.
“There must be life in him yet,” replied the fisher.
“I saw the tear glisten in his eye,” she continued
to herself, “when I told him of Sally; and I have
talked with him by her grave; and I will lay him in
the ground, too, when he dies. — Which way, and
how far is it to the place, good man?”
“A dozen miles, or so, due east, as I guess.”
“How am I to get there and back?” asked she.
“Even with me,” he answered; “for this is the
only coach in all our neck of land, and this the only
man's; and he's in no better condition now.”
The old woman having found a friend to take charge
of her house, began her journey.
“We were all out a fishing, except our old woman,”
said the man, as they rode along. “When we got
back, she told us that a young man, a gentleman, and
well dressed, had been to the hut two or three times
for food, and that he always took it away with him.
She would not receive his money, for he appeared
not to be in his right mind. But he never failed leaving
some on the table. Whether or not he knew of
our return, I can't say; but we saw nothing of him,
till one day, passing an old hut which we had left for
a better, we spied him sitting at the door, and his
horse feeding on the coarse grass near it. As soon
as he discovered us, he went in, and he ever shunned
us. We have seen him looking for shellfish among
the rocks, and carrying home wreck-wood for firing.
How he kept himself warm through the nights of
winter, I cannot tell. But for aught we could find,
dried seaweed must have been his bedding. We have
sometimes left food near his hut; and his horse used
now and then to share the scant fare of this pony
here; for I could not but pity him, though a beast,
when the sleet drove sharp against him.”
As they drew near the shore a heavy sea-fog was
coming in. In a few minutes the sun was hid, and
the damp stood on the nag's long, shaggy coat, like
rain-drops. They soon heard the low growl of the
sea; and turning a high point of land, they saw near
them multitudes of breakers, foaming and roaring,
and flinging themselves ashore, like sea-monsters
after their prey.
They were descending slowly through the heavy
sands to the beach, when they heard two persons calling
to each other in a sharp, high key. The voices sounded
as at a great distance; but in a moment, they saw
just ahead of them, and coming towards them, out of
the spray and mist, a man, in a sailor's jacket, and a
woman in one of the same, with a man's hat fastened
under her chin by a red handkerchief. A startling,
mysterious feeling passed over the old woman, as if
those she saw were something more than human, and
were given another nature to be dwellers in the sea.
“Is there life in him?” cried her guide, as they
passed.— “Scant alive,” called out the woman. The
old widow looked back. They were passing into the
mist, and were instantly lost sight of.
They had not ridden far along the beach, before the
fog began to break away, and the sea and sand flashed
upon them with a blinding brightness. They dragged
on a mile or two further, when the sky became
gloomy, and the wind began to rise.
“And is all as desolate as this?” asked the
old woman, looking over the shapeless sand-hills,
which stretched away, one behind another, without
end, and seeming as if heaved up and washed by the
sea, then left bare to sight.
“There is little that's better,” answered the man.
“And have you no other growth than this yellowish,
reedy grass, that spears up so scantily out of these
sand-hills?”
“'T is not so ill a sight to us, neither, who have
nothing greener,” answered the man, a little hurt.
“And there's a bright red berry that looks gay enough
amongst it. But peace,” said he, “for here's the
dwelling of the dying man.”
The building was of rough boards, some of which
hung loose and creaking in the wind. It was turned
almost black, except on the side towards the sea,
which shone with a grayish crust; and a corner of a
decayed chimney was seen just above the roof. On
the ridge of one of the sand-hills by the house, stood,
with his drooping head from them, the starved, sharp-boned
horse, the sand whirling round him like drifting
snow. — “Poor fellow,” said the man; “when I first
saw him, he was full of metal, and snuffed the air and
looked with pricked ears and wild eye out upon the
sea, as if he would bound over it.”
The old woman opened the door cautiously. A
gray-headed man was sitting by a sort of crib of
rough boards, in which lay Thomas Thornton, his
eyes closed, his cheek hollow and pale, and his mouth
relaxed and open.
“Is this he,” said she to herself, as she looked
upon him, “of the burning eye and hot cheek and
firm set mouth, of fiery and untamed passions? I did
not look to see you come to such an end, much as I
feared for you. — May your suffering here be some
atonement for your sins. — All was not evil in you.
Many have died happier than you, who had less of
good in them; and have left a better name behind
them than you will leave.” — A tear dropped from
her on his forehead. He opened his eyes sleepily
upon her. The colour came to his cheek; he lifted
his hand to hers with a weak motion, and looked towards
the old man. — “Leave us alone a little while,”
said the widow.
He spoke. “I have been a sinful man,” he said
in a faint, broken voice. He paused, and his look became
wild. — “My father, — and Isaac, Isaac — he
eye appeared to fasten on an object in the distance.
He then closed his lids hard, as if trying to shut out
something frightful.
“What looked you at?” asked the widow.
“O, you could not see her. She is seen of none
but me. I've looked upon the sight a thousand times.
I've seen her shrouded body rising and falling with
the waves, stretched out as it was on her death-bed;
and it has bent not, and it has floated nearer and nearer
to me, till I could look no longer. — And there, too, has
she stood for hours on that small white rock yonder,
that rises out of the sea,” said he, trying eagerly
to raise himself, and look out towards it. “Yes,
there has she stood beckoning me when the sun beat
upon it; and I was made to look on it till its glare
turned all around me black. I've tried to rush into
the sea to her, though the waves ran so heavy between
us; but I was held back till the sweat streamed
down my body, and I fell on the sand.” — He gasped
for breath, and lay panting. At last he recovered a
little; and opening his eyes, looked slowly about him.
His lips moved. The old woman bent over him, and
heard him breathe out, “God forgive my sins.”
“God will forgive the repentant, however wicked
they have been,” said the widow. He gave a look
of hope. — I've asked it of Him day and night, when
I had my mind; I've prayed to Him, stretched on
the bare, cold rocks, and when I dared not look up.
Will not you pray for me? Will none of the good
pray for me?”
She knelt down by him, with her hands clasped,
and looking upward. There was an agony of soul
for a moment — she could not speak. The tears
aloud. And from the shore went up a prayer fervent
and holy as ever ascended from the house of God.
And the dying man prayed with her, in the spirit. She
ended, and laying her hand on his forehead, said in a
solemn voice, “My son, I trust there is mercy for
you with God.”
He looked upward and tried to clasp his hands. It
was his last effort, and he sunk away with a countenance
as placid, as if falling into a gentle sleep.
The old widow stood for a few minutes gazing on
the lifeless body. At last she said to herself, without
turning away, — “He must not lie here, as an outcast;
for the sands will drive over him, and there will be
no mark where he rests. I will take him with me,
and lay him by the stream near my home. And when
I die, I will be gathered with him and with my child
to the same grave.”
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