University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

While Dr. Corrinton, wrapped in his cloak,
with his features concealed, was moving about
that evening among the groups of idlers who
were discussing the result of the trial, he twice
met a stranger, whose singular appearance attracted
attention.

This was a plainly-dressed individual, whose
threadbare coat was buttoned close about him,
and whose hair, in locks of mingled black and
gray, straggled from beneath a cap drawn over
his eyes. Once, when Corrinton met him, the
lamplight from a neighboring store fell upon
his face, which was pale and thin, and marked
with deep lines of suffering.

This strange man was no other than Mr.
Stripe, the vagabond. His appearance had
been somewhat improved, as respected his
dress, since his former visit to Verfield; but
his careworn face showed new wrinkles, and
he seemed bent by an additional weight of
misery.

Mr. Stripe passed from group to group, listening
to the conversation of the idlers with
strange interest. More than once he questioned
them with regard to the late murder, the trial,
and the prisoner who had been acquitted; and
all remarked his unsteady voice, his anxious,
careworn face, and his eagerness to hear the
details of the tragedy.

Late in the evening the group of gossips
began to disperse; the steps of favorite shops
and stores became depopulated; and only those
who found shelter from the chill night air in
the tavern or in private dwellings continued to
discuss the prevailing subject of conversation.
Mr. Stripe went to the tavern, paid for his lodging,
and at a late hour retired to the rude bed
in the rude garret, which the landlord kept for
the accommodation of the least respectable of
his customers.

All night the vagabond groaned, and turned
about, as if in great agony; and sometimes he
would start up suddenly, as if from sleep, and
cry aloud.

In the morning he breakfasted late, sitting
at the same table with Corrinton, from whose
face he could not take his eyes. The doctor,

thinking him some straggler, who had been
told the story of the murder, and who was
therefore curious to stare at the man who had
been tried for it, frowned upon him once, without
deigning to notice him further.

Of more than one the vagabond ventured to
inquire about the schoolmistress who taught in
the school house by the forest, over the hill,
during the summer, and learned from various
sources something of her supposed partiality
for Corrinton. Her school was closed for the
season, he was told; and, anxious to behold her
fair face again, he turned his footsteps towards
her uncle's house, where she resided.

For a long time the poor man wandered
about, taking broad circuits around Mr. Sorrel's
house, as if he feared to approach too
near, and yet could not go away without
seeing her he sought.

Once he sat down upon a low fence, in a
spot where the sun shone warmly, and which
commanded a tolerably fair view of Mr. Sorrel's
house. In this position he was aroused
by the harsh voice of a man who approached
him from behind. Turning, he started nervously,
and his brow contracted suddenly, when

he beheld the well-remembered features of Mr.
Roger Brance.

“What are you skulking about here for, sir?”
demanded that gentleman.

“Is this your land, too?” said the vagabond,
in a deep voice.

“Ha!” cried Mr. Brance; “it strikes me I
have seen you before!”

“I believe we have met twice,” answered Mr.
Stripe. “Twice you drove me off your premises.
If your land extends as far as here, you
can order me away again.”

“This is not my land — I have no desire to
drive you away. But I perceived you skulking
about,” said Mr. Brance, pompously, “and I
took the liberty to ask your business. You
appeared to be watching that house.”

“I comprehend you!” muttered the vagabond,
his eyes flashing fire. “I am told that
yonder lives a lady you intend making your
wife. And you are jealous that even the house
should be looked at and admired!”

“Insolence!”

Mr. Brance's brow was flushed with indignation:
the vagabond approached him, and, shaking
his bony fingers in his face, provoked him
still more.

“Call it insolence, or what you will,” said
the excited man, his haggard features working
with wrath, “I can speak my mind here,
and tell you truths. I hate your pride of
wealth — I detest your pompous manners.
And as for the woman who lives yonder, she
shall not marry you.”

“Curses on your tongue, beggarly fool!”
growled Mr. Brance, who was much impressed,
and a little frightened, at the wild
manner and the threatening language of the
stranger.

“You can curse my tongue, for it curses
you!” answered the vagabond firmly. “But
remember my words! While I live, you shall
not marry Mrs. Silby!”

With a look of intense hatred, the vagabond
dropped his hand, which had shaken defiance
at Mr. Brance, turned slowly, and strode away.
Angry, yet perplexed and awed, Mr. Brance
could not speak or move to stop him, but stood
gazing at him in silence until he was out
of sight.

The vagabond wandered about for half an
hour longer, apparently without an object. At
length he entered a woodland, where the sun

looked coldly through the dark, dreary trees,
and faded leaves strewed the ground. Sitting
down upon the trunk of a fallen oak, he rested
his chin upon his palms, while his pallid features
writhed with the agony of his soul.

From his mournful revery he was roused
by a sight which awakened in him a lively,
painful interest. Not far off, a well-remembered
female face and figure moved along a
path leading into the heart of the forest. It
was Alice. She did not discover the vagabond,
but tripped along among the trees, unconscious
of observation. Mr. Stripe started to his feet,
and followed in the direction she had taken.

The young girl approached a ravine; and
there the vagabond, watching her fair form as
it glided down a path beaten out beneath the
bluff which bounded the hollow, saw her no
more. Alice had reached the spot which the
lovers called “Shadowland,” and which Corrinton,
writing to Alice from prison, described
as “that cool retreat, sheltered by woodland
heights on either side, where sunshine never
falls.”

The vagabond approached the verge of the
bluffs, and looked down into the ravine. He

saw not whom he sought; but voices, coming
from beneath the bank on which he stood,
reached his ear with distinctness.

“I cannot tell you how much I thank you
for this interview, dearest Alice,” said a manly
voice. “It teaches me that the prejudice of
others cannot influence your mind — that you
have indeed some regard for me.”

“Some regard for you, Dr. Corrinton!” repeated
the silvery tones of a girl. “You may
well say that! What else could induce me
to trangress the etiquette of the world, the
cold rules of modesty, to ask and appoint
this meeting? What else but regard for you
could make me rebel against my mother's will,
whom I never disobeyed before?”

“O Alice! can it be —”

“That I have disobeyed her? Yes, Albert,
I have. Heaven forgive me for it!”

“Heaven must, Alice; for when you — so
noble, so generous, so wise and good — when
you disobey a parent's commands, it must be
from some cause which justifies the step.”

“My conscience tells me I have not done
wrong,” said Alice, quickly, as if her heart was
swelling with the pride and high resolve which

such noble hearts feel when conscious of having
acted rightly. “Albert, I thought of all
you have suffered — unjustly suspected of a
crime of which my heart knows you to be innocent;
I knew you suffered still, for there are
stubborn souls that will yet believe you guilty;
I imagined that the sympathy, and confidence,
and approbation of even one heart as poor as
mine might take a portion of the weight of
misery from yours —”

“O, God bless you, Alice! God bless you!”
cried the manly voice, choked by manly emotion.
“Your sympathy, your confidence, your
approbation outweights a world's hatred, a
world's suspicion, a world's disdain.”

“I considered all things,” pursued Alice, in
low, tremulous tones, which were yet loud
enough to thrill every fibre of the vagabond's
frame; “I felt that I owed you something; I
knew that the coldness of a suspicious world
would be hard to bear alone; and when even
my mother repulsed you harshly — when she
would not permit you to come to me, I resolved
to come to you.”

“O, you love me, then — dearest Alice, you
love me!”

“I do — I do! I never told you so before.
I should not tell you so now, were it not that,
while you imagine that the world hates you,
you should know that there is one who loves
you. Yes, Albert, you have my warmest friendship,
my highest esteem, my purest love.”

“What happiness is this!” murmured Corrinton,
in tones vibrating with the deepest joy.
“My Alice! You whom I have learned to regard
as the best, the most perfect of womankind
— you love a weak man like me — and in
my misfortunes, too! I do not dream — tell
me that my senses have not deceived me! But
what am I saying? O Alice, I am the most
wretched of men.”

“Then I flattered myself with a vain hope,
when I dreamed I could make you happy,”
replied Alice, sadly.

“No — no! I am happy, too happy, to know
that you love me! But a moment's reflection
fills my heart with forebodings and regrets. I
would wish to make you my wife, dearest; I
can never be happy without you; but it would
be the worst of selfishness for me to expect or
ask you to be mine. I am an outcast from the
world — I shall be suspected and despised —

perhaps forever! And can I ask you to share my
wretchedness? My heart sickens. O Alice!”

“You need not ask me to share your lot if
it is wretched, Albert. I will not wait for you
to ask me. In prosperity, you should have
come to me to plead; in your adversity, I come
to you to offer and ask to share those sorrows
which you are not willing to divide with me.
I love you better than the world, Albert; I will
therefore come out from the world and be on
your side. I will be your wife, Albert, if you
will accept me!”

“How noble — glorious girl!” murmured the
vagabond, shedding tears like rain.

“O, how gladly do I!” cried Albert, under
the bluff. “But can I — ought I? Should a
poor outcast accept a jewel which the touch of
his garment will soil?”

“We will love each other and be happy,” replied
the rich, clear tones of Alice. “We will
outlive suspicion.”

“But think of what must be endured! I
shall have to struggle against poverty. Five
months ago, my prospects were bright enough;
my practice was successful, and I was in the
path of fortune. Now, who will employ me?

Were I to sit in my office a year, the world
would scorn me, and I would starve alone.”

“We will go where we are not known, then,
Albert — where the unjust suspicions which
drive you hence will not reach you. We will
both labor, and the world shall let us live.”

“My own noble Alice!” cried Corrinton; “it
shall be so, if you will. You shall go with me,
and be my wife, and share my fortunes; and
I will study to make you happy, in return for
the sacrifice you so generously make for me.”

The vagabond turned away. He heard no
more; his heart was already full of emotions,
that struggled with each other, like the opposing
elements of fire and water. His lips quivered,
his eyes were wet; but on his furrowed
brow there was a gleam of light, as if the
wretched wanderer had still one purpose and
one hope.