University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

During the progress of the dialogue narrated in
the conclusion of our last chapter, Forrester had
absented himself, as much probably with a delicate
sense of courtesy, which anticipated some further
results than came from it, as with the view to the
consummation of some private matters of his own.
He now returned, and signifying his readiness to
Ralph, they mounted their horses and proceeded on
a proposed ride out of the village, in which Forrester
had promised to show the youth a pleasanter
region and neighbourhood. This ride, however,
was rather of a gloomy tendency, as its influences
were lost in the utterance and free exhibition to
Ralph of the mental sufferings of his companion.
Naturally of a good spirit and temper, his heart,

though strong of endurance and fearless of trial,
had not yet been greatly hardened by the world's
circumstance. The cold droppings of the bitter
waters, however they might have worn into, had
not altogether petrified it; and his feelings, coupled
with and at all times acted upon by a southern
fancy, did not fail to depict to his own sense, and in
the most lively colours, the offence of which he had
been guilty. It was with a reproachful and troublesome
consciousness, therefore, that he now addressed
his more youthful companion on the subject
so fearfully presented to his thought. He had
already, in their brief acquaintance, found in Ralph
a firm and friendly adviser, and acknowledging in
his person all the understood superiorities of polished
manners and correct education, he did not
scruple to come to him for advice in his present
difficulties. Ralph, fully comprehending his distress,
and conscious how little of his fault had
been premeditated,—estimating, too, the many good
qualities apparent in his character—did not withhold
his counsel.

“I can say little to you now, Forrester, in the
way of advice, so long as you continue to herd
with the men who have already led you into so
much mischief. You appear to me, and must appear
to all men, while coupled with such associations,
as voluntarily choosing your ground, and
taking all the consequences of its position. As
there would seem no necessity for your dwelling
longer among them, you certainly do make your
choice in thus continuing their associate.”

“Not so much a matter of choice, now, 'squire,
as you imagine. It was, to be sure, choice at first,
but then I did not know the people I had to deal
with; and when I did, you see, the circumstances
were altered.”

“How, and by what means?”

“Why, then, 'squire, you must know, and I see
no reason to keep the thing from you, I took a liking,
a short time after I came here, to a young woman,
the daughter of one of our diggers, and she
to me—at least so she says, and I must confess I'm
not unwilling to believe her; though it is difficult
to say—these women you know—” and as he left
the unfinished sentence, he glanced significantly to
the youth's face with an expression which the latter
thus interpreted—

“Are not, you would say, at all times to be
relied on.”

“Why, no, 'squire—I would not exactly say
that—that might be something too much of a speech.
I did mean to say, from what we see daily, that it
isn't always they know their own minds.”

“There is some truth, Forrester, in the distinction,
and I have thought so before. I am persuaded
that the gentler sex is far less given to deceit than
our own; but their opinions and feelings on the
other hand, are formed with infinitely more frequency
and facility, and more readily acted upon
by passing and occasional influences. Their very
susceptibility to the most light and casual impressions,
is, of itself, calculated to render vacillating
their estimate of things and characters. They are
creatures of such delicate construction, and their
affections are of such like character, that, like all
fine machinery, they are perpetually operated on
by the atmosphere, the winds, the dew, and the
sunshine. The frost blights and the sun blisters;
and a kind or stern accent elevates or depresses,
where, with us, they might pass unheeded or unheard.
We are more cunning—more shy and
cautious; and seldom, after a certain age, let our
affections out of our own custody. We learn

very soon in life—indeed, we are compelled to learn,
in our own defence, at a very early period—to go
into the world as if we were going into battle. We
send out spies, keep sentinels on duty, man our defences,
carry arms in our bosoms, which we cover
with a buckler, though, with the policy of a court,
we conceal that in turn with a silken and embroidered
vestment. We watch every erring thought
—we learn to be equivocal of speech; and our
very hearts, as the Indians phrase it, are taught to
speak their desires with a double tongue. We are
perpetually on the look-out for enemies and attack;
we dread pitfalls and circumventions, and we feel
that every face which we encounter is a smiling
deceit—every honeyed word a blandishment meant
to betray us. These are lessons which society, as
at present constituted, teaches of itself. With women
the case is essentially different. They have
few of these influences to pervert and mislead.
They have nothing to do in the market-place—
they are not candidates for place or power—they
have not the ambition which is always struggling
for state and for self; but with a wisdom in this,
that might avail us wonderfully in all other respects,
they are kept apart, as things for love and worship
—domestic divinities, whose true altar-place is the
fireside; whose true sway is over fond hearts, generous
sensibilities, and immaculate honour. Where
should they learn to contend with guile—to acquire
cunning and circumspection—to guard the heart—
to keep sweet affections locked up coldly, like mountain
waters? Shall we wonder that they sometimes
deceive themselves rather than their neighbours—
that they sometimes misapprehend their own feelings,
and mistake for love some less absorbing intruder,
who, but lights upon the heart for a single
instant, as a bird upon his spray, to rest or to plume
his pinions, and be off with the very next zephyr.
But all this is wide of the mark, Forrester, and keeps
you from your story.”

“My story isn't much, Master Colleton, and is
easily told. I love Kate, and as I said before, I
believe Kate loves me; and though it be scarcely
a sign of manliness to confess so much, yet I must
say to you, 'squire, that I love her so very much
that I cannot do without her.”

“I honour your avowal, Forrester, and see nothing
unmanly or unbecoming in the sentiment you
profess. On the contrary, such a feeling, in my
mind, more truly than any other, indicates the presence
and possession of those very qualities out of
which true manhood is made. The creature who
prides himself chiefly upon his insensibilities, has
no more claim to be considered a human being
than the trees that gather around us, or the rocks
over which we travel.”

“Well, 'squire, I believe you are right, and I am
glad that such is your opinion, for now I shall be
able to speak to you more freely upon this subject,
Indeed, you talk about the thing so knowingly, that
I should not be surprised, 'squire, to find out that
you too had something of the same sort troubling
your heart, though here you be travelling far from
home and among strangers.”

The remark of Forrester was put knowingly,
and with an air of arch inquiry. A slight shadow
passed over and clouded the face of the youth, and
for a moment his brow was wrinkled into sternness;
but hastily suppressing the awakened emotion,
whatever its origin might have been, he simply
replied, in an indirect rebuke, which his companion
very readily comprehended—

“You were speaking of your own heart, I believe,
Forrester, and not of mine. If you please,

we will confine ourselves to the one territory, particularly
as it promises to find us sufficient employment
of itself, without rendering it necessary that
we should cross over to any other.”

“It's a true word, 'squire—the business of the
one territory is sufficient for me, at this time, and
more than I shall well get through with; but
though I know this, somehow or other, I want to
forget it all, if possible; and sometimes I close my
eyes in the hope to shut out ugly thoughts.”

“The feeling is melancholy enough, but it is just
the one which should test your manhood. It is
not for one who has been all his life buffeting with
the world and ill-fortune, to despond at every mischance
or misdeed. Proceed with your narrative;
and in providing for the future, you will be able to
forget not a little of the past.”

“You are right, 'squire, I will be a man, and
stand my chance, whether good or ill, like a man,
as I have always been. Well, as I was saying,
Kate is neither unkind nor unwilling, and the only
difficulty is with her father. He is now mighty
fond of the needful, and won't hear to our marriage
until I have a good foundation, and something to
go upon. It is this, you see, which keeps me here,
shoulder to shoulder with these men, whom I like
and love just as little perhaps as yourself; and it was
because the soldiers came upon us just as I was beginning
to lay up a little from my earnings, that
made me desperate. I dreaded to lose what I had
so long been working for, and whenever the thought
of Kate came through my brain, I grew rash and
ready for any mischief; and this is just the way in
which I ran headlong into this difficulty.”

“It is melancholy, Forrester, to think, that with
such a feeling as that you profess for this young
woman, you should be so little regardful of her

peace or your own—that you should plunge so
madly into strife and crime, and proceed to the
commission of acts which not only embitter your
life, but must defeat the very hopes and expectations
for which you live.”

“It's the nature of the beast,” replied the woodman,
with a melancholy shake of the head, in a
phrase which has become a proverb of familiar use
in the south. “`It's the nature of the beast,' 'squire
—I never seem to think about a thing until it's all
over, and too late to mend it. It's a sad misfortune
to have such a temper, and yesterday's work
tells me so much more forcibly than I can ever tell
myself. But what am I to do, 'squire? that's what
I want to know. Can you say nothing to me
which will put me in better humour with myself—
can you give me no advice, no consolation. Say
any thing—any thing which will make me think less
about this matter.”

The conscience of the unhappy criminal was indeed
busy, and he spoke in tones of deep, though
suppressed emotion and energy. The youth did
not pretend to console—he well knew that the mental
nature would have its course, and to withstand
or arrest it would only have the effect of further
provoking its morbidity. He replied calmly, but
feelingly—

“Your situation is unhappy, Forrester, and calls
for serious reflection. It is not for me to offer
much, if any advice, to one so much more experienced
than myself. Yet my thoughts are at your
service for what they are worth. You cannot, of
course, hope to remain in the country after this;
yet, in flying from that justice to which you will
have made no atonement, you will not necessarily
escape the consequences of such a crime, which, I
feel satisfied, will, for a long season, rest heavily

upon a spirit such as yours. Your confederates
have greatly the advantage of you in this particular.
The fear of human penalties is with them the
only fear. Your severest judge will be your own
heart, and from that you may not fly. With regard
to your affections I can say little. I know not
what may be your resources—your means of life,
and the nature of those enterprises which, in another
region, you might pursue. In the west, you
would be secure from punishment—the wants of
life in the wilderness are few, and of easy attainment—why
not marry the young woman, and let
her fly with you to happiness and safety.”

“And wouldn't I do so, 'squire?—I would be a
happy fellow if I could. But her father will never
consent. He had no hand in yesterday's business,
and I wonder at that too, for he's mighty apt at all
such scrapes; and he will not therefore be so very
ready to perceive the necessity of my flight—certainly
not of hers, she being his only child; and
though a tough old sort of chap, he's main fond of
her.”

“See him about it at once, then, and if he does
not consent, the only difficulty is in the delay
and further protraction of your union. It would
be very easy, when you are once well-settled, to
claim her as your wife.”

“That's all very true and very reasonable, 'squire
—but it's rather hard, this waiting. Here, for five
years, have I been playing this sort of game, and
it goes greatly against the grain to have to begin
anew and in a new place. But here's where the
old buck lives. It's quite a snug farm, as you may
see. He's pretty well off, and by one little end or
the other, contrives to make it look smarter and
smarter every year—but then he's just as close as a
corkscrew, and quite mean in his ways. And—

there's Kate, 'squire, looking from the window.
Now, an't she a sweet creature? Come, 'light—
you shall see her close. Make yourself quite at
home, as I do. I make free, for you see the old
people have all along looked upon me as a son,
seeing that I am to be one at some time or other.”

They were now at the entrance of as smiling
a cottage and settlement as a lover of romance
might well desire to look upon. Every thing had
a cheery, sunshiny aspect, looking life, comfort, and
the “all in all content”—and with a feeling of pleasure
kindled anew in his bosom by the prospect,
Ralph complied readily with the frank and somewhat
informal invitation of his companion, and was
soon made perfectly at home by the freedom and
ease which characterized the manners of the young
girl who descended to receive them. A slight suffusion
of the cheek and a downcast eye, upon the
entrance of her lover, indicated a gratified consciousness
on the part of the maiden which did not
look amiss. She was seemingly a gentle, playful
creature, extremely young, apparently without a
thought of guile, and altogether untouched with a
solitary presentiment of the unhappy fortunes in
store for her. Her mother having now made her
appearance, soon employed the youth in occasional
discourse, which furnished sufficient opportunity to
the betrothed to pursue their own conversation, in
a quiet corner of the same room, in that under-tone
which, where lovers are concerned, is of all others
the most delightful and emphatic. True love is
always timid; he too, as well as fear, is apt to
shrink back at the “sound himself has made.” His
words are few and the tones feeble. He throws
his thoughts into his eyes, and they speak enough
for all his purposes. On the present occasion, however,
he was dumb from other influences, and the

hesitating voice, the guilty look, the unquiet manner,
sufficiently spoke on the part of her lover
what his own tongue refused to whisper in the ears
of the maiden. He strove, but vainly, to relate
the melancholy event to which we have already
sufficiently alluded. His words were broken and
confused, but she gathered enough, in part, to comprehend
the affair, though still ignorant of the precise
actors and sufferers. The heart of Katharine
was one of deep-seated tenderness, and it may
not be easy to describe the shock which the intelligence
gave her. She did not hear him through
without ejaculations of horror, sufficiently fervent
and loud to provoke the glance of her mother, who
did not, however, though turning her looks inquiringly
and frequently upon the two, venture upon
any inquiry, or offer any remark. The girl heard
her lover patiently, but when he narrated the catastrophe,
and told of the murder of the guard, she
no longer struggled to restrain the feeling, now too
strong for suppression. Her words broke through
her lips quickly, as she exclaimed—

“But you, Mark—you had no part in this matter
—you lent no aid—you gave no hand. You interfered,
I am sure you did, to prevent the murder of
the innocent men. Speak out, Mark, and tell me
the truth, and relieve me from these horrible apprehensions.”

As she spoke, her small hand rested upon his
wrist with a passionate energy, in full accordance
with the spirit of her language. The head of the
unhappy man sunk upon his breast—his eyes, dewily
suffused, were cast upon the floor, and he spoke
nothing, or inarticulately, in reply.

“What means this silence—what am I to believe—what
am I to think, Mark Forrester? You
cannot have given aid to those bad men, whom you

yourself despise. You have not so far forgotten
yourself and me as to go on with that wicked man,
Rivers, following his direction, to take away life—
to spill blood as if it were water. You have not
done this, Mark. Tell me at once that I am foolish
to fear it for an instant—that it is not so.”

The person addressed strove, but in vain, to
reply. The inarticulate sounds came forth chokingly
from his lips without feature or substance.
He strode impatiently up and down the apartment,
followed by the young and excited maiden, who
unconsciously pursued him with repeated inquiries;
while her mother, awakened to the necessity of interference,
vainly strove to find a solution of the
mystery, and to quiet both of the parties.

“Will you not speak to me, Mark. Can you not
—will you not answer?”

The unhappy man shook his head, in a perplexed
and irritated manner, indicating his inability
to reply—but concluding with pointing his finger
impatiently to Ralph, who stood up, a surprised
and anxious spectator of the scene. The maiden
seemed to comprehend the intimation, and with an
energy and boldness that would not well describe
the accustomed habit of the young girl, with a hurried
but firm step, she crossed the apartment to
where stood the youth. Her eye was quick and
searching—her words broken, but with an impetuous
flow, indicating the anxiety and excitement
which, while it accounted for, sufficiently excused
the abruptness of her address, she spoke—

“Do, sir—say for this man that he had no hand
in the matter—that he is free from the stain of
blood. Speak for him, sir, I pray you—tell me
that which he will not tell himself.”

The old lady now sought to interpose, and to
apologize for her daughter.

“Why, Kate, Katharine—forgive her, sir—Kate
—Katharine, my dear—you forget. You ask
questions of the stranger without any consideration.”

But she spoke to unconscious auditors, and Forrester,
though still almost speechless, now interposed—

“Let her ask, mother—let her ask—let her know
it all. He can say what I cannot. He can tell all.
Speak out, 'squire—speak out—don't fear for me.
It must come, and who can better tell of it than
you who know it all.”

Thus urged, Ralph, in few words, related the
occurrence. Though carefully avoiding the use
of epithet or phrase which might colour with an
increased odium the connexion and conduct of
Forrester with the affair, the offence admitted of
so little apology or extenuation, that the delicacy
with which the details were narrated availed but
little in its mitigation; and an involuntary cry
burst from mother and daughter alike, to which the
hollow groan that came from the lips of Forrester
furnished a fitting echo.

“And this is all true, Mark—must I believe all
this?” was the inquiry of the young girl, after a
brief interval. There was a desperate precipitance
in the reply of Forrester—

“True—Katharine—true, every word of it is
true. Do you not see it written in my face. Am
I not choked—do not my knees tremble—and my
hands—look for yourself—are they not covered
with blood?”

The youth interposed, and for a moment doubted
the sanity of his companion. He had spoken
in figure—a mode of speech, which, it is a mistake
in rhetoricians to ascribe only to an artificial origin,
during a state of mental quiet. Deep passion and

strong excitements, we are bold to say, employ
metaphor largely; and, upon an inspection of the
criminal records of any country, it will be found
that the most common narrations from persons
deeply wrought upon by strong circumstances are
abundantly stored with the evidence of what we
assert.

“And how came it, Mark?”—was the inquiry
of the maiden—“and why did you this thing?”

“Ay, you may well ask, and wonder. I cannot
tell you. I was a fool—I was mad! I knew not
what I did. From one thing I went on to another,
and I knew nothing of what had been done until
all was done. Some devil was at my elbow—
some devil at my heart. I feel it there still—I am
not yet free. I could do more—I could go yet farther.
I could finish the damned work by another
crime; and no crime either—since I should
be myself the only victim, and well deserving a
worse punishment.”

The offender was deeply excited, and felt poignantly.
For some time it tasked all the powers of
Ralph's mind, and the seductive blandishments of
the maiden herself, to allay the fever of his spirit;
when at length he was something restored, the
dialogue was renewed by an inquiry of the old
lady as to the future destination of her anticipated
son-in-law, for whom indeed she entertained
a genuine affection.

“And what is to be the end of all this, Mark?
What is it you propose to do—where will you
fly?”

“To the nation, mother—where else? I must
fly somewhere—give myself up to justice, or—”
and he paused in the sentence so unpromisingly
begun, while his eyes rolled with unaccustomed
terrors, and his voice grew thick in his throat.

“Or, what—what mean you by that word, that
look, Mark? I do not understand you—why speak
you in this way, and to me?”—exclaimed the
maiden, passionately interrupting him in a speech,
which, though strictly the creature of his morbid
spirit and present excitement was perhaps unnecessarily
and something too wantonly indulged in.

“Forgive me, Katharine—dear Katharine—but
you little know the madness and the misery at my
heart.”

“And have you no thought of mine, Mark? this
deed of yours has brought misery, if not madness
to it too—and speech like this might well be spared
us now!”

“It is this very thought, Kate, which now increases
my anguish. It is the thought that I have
made you miserable, when I should have striven
only to make you happy. The thought, too, that I
must leave you—to see you perhaps never again
—these unman—these madden me, Katharine;
and I feel desperate like the man striving with
his brother upon the plank in the broad ocean.”

“And why part, Mark?—I see not this necessity!”

“Would you have me stay and perish? would
you behold me, dragged perhaps from your own
arms before the stern judge, and to a dreadful death?
It will be so if I stay much longer. The State will
not suffer this thing to pass over. The crime is
too large—too fearful. Besides this, the Pony
Club have lately committed several desperate
offences, which have already attracted the notice
of the Legislature. This very guard had been
ordered to disperse them; and this affair will
bring down a sufficient force to overrun all our
settlements, and they may even penetrate the nation

itself, where we might otherwise find shelter.
There will be no safety for me.”

The despondence of the woodman increased as
he spoke; and the young girl, as if unconscious of
all spectators, in the confiding innocence of her
heart, exclaimed, while her head sunk upon his
shoulder—

“And why, Mark, may we not all fly together?
There will be no reason now to remain here, since
the miners are all to be dispersed.”

“Well said, Kate—well said—” responded a
voice at the entrance of the apartment, at the
sound of which, the person addressed started with
a visible trepidation, which destroyed all her previous
energy of manner—“It is well thought on,
Kate—there will, sure enough, be very little reason
now for any of us to remain, since this ugly
business; and the only question is as to what
quarter we shall go. There is, however, just as
little reason for our flight in company with Mark
Forrester.”

It was the father of the maiden who spoke—
one who was the arbiter of her destinies, and so
much the dictator in his household and over his
family, that from his decision and authority there
was suffered no appeal. Without pausing for a
reply, he proceeded:—

“Our course, Mark, must now lie separate.
You will take your route and I mine—we cannot
take them together. As for my daughter, she
cannot take up with you, seeing your present condition.
Your affairs are not as they were when I
consented to your engagement; therefore, the
least said and thought about past matters, the
better.”

“But—” was the beginning of a reply from the
sad and discarded lover, in which he was not

suffered to proceed. The old man was firm, and
settled further controversy in short order.

“No talk, Mark—seeing that it's no use, and
there's no occasion for it. It must be as I say.
I cannot permit of Kate's connexion with a man
in your situation, who the very next moment may
be brought to the halter and bring shame upon
her. Take your parting, and try to forget old
times, my good fellow. I think well of and am
sorry for you, Mark, but I can do nothing. The
girl is my only child, and I must keep her from
harm, if I can.”

Mark battled the point with considerable warmth
and vigour, and the scene was something further
protracted, but need not here be prolonged. The
father was obdurate, and too much dreaded by the
members of his family to admit of much prayer or
pleading on their part. Apart from this, his reason,
though a stern, was a wise and a strong one. The
intercession of Colleton warmly made, proved
equally unavailing, and after a brief but painful
parting with the maiden, Forrester remounted his
horse, and in company with the youth departed
for the village, distant some few miles. But the
adieus of the lovers, in this instance, were not destined
to be the last. In the narrow passage in
which, removed from all sight or scrutiny, she
hung droopingly like a storm-beaten flower upon
his bosom, he solicited, and not unsuccessfully, a
private and a parting interview.

“To-night, then, at the old sycamore, as the
moon rises,”—he whispered in her ear, as sadly
and silently she withdrew from his embrace.