The renegade a historical romance of border life |
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 | CHAPTER III. The renegade |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
YOUNKER'S CABIN—THE INTERVIEW—THE TALE AND FATAL SECRET.
The dwelling of Benjamin Younker, as already mentioned, stood at the
base of a hill, on the margin of a beautiful valley, and within a hundred feet
of a lucid stream, whose waters finding their source in the neighbouring hills,
rushed down, all gleesome and sparkling, over a limestone bed, and
“From morn till night, from night till morn,”
The building itself though rough, both externally and internally, was
what at that period was termed a double cabin; and in this respect, entitled
to a superiority over most of its neighbors, which could only be defined in
the singular number. As this may serve for a representative of the houses
or cabins of the early settlers of Kentucky, we shall proceed to describe its
stucture and general appearance somewhat more minutely than might otherwise
be deemed necessary.
The sides of the cottage in question, were composed of logs—rough from
the woods where they had been felled—with the bark still clinging to them,
and without having undergone other transformation than being cut to a certain
length, and knotched at either end, so as to sink into each other, when
crossed at right angles, until their bodies met, thereby forming a structure
of compactness, strength and solidity. Some ten or twelve feet from the
ground, the two upper end logs of the cabin projected a foot or eighten inches
beyond the lower, and supported what were called butting poles—poles
which crossed these projections at right angles, and, extending along the
front and back of the building, formed the eves or basis of the roof. This
latter was constructed by gradually shortening the logs at either end, until
those which crossed them, as we said before, at right angles, came together at
an angle of forty-five degrees, and the last one formed the ridge-pole or
comb of the whole. On these logs, lapping one over the other, and the lower
tier resting against the butting poles, were laid slabs or clapboard—a species
of plank split from some stright-grained tree—about four feet long, and from
three to four wide. These were secured in their places by logs in turn
resting on them, at certain intervals, and answering the purpose of nails;
necessity requiring these latter articles of convenience to be dispensed with
in the early settlements of the West. As the cabin was double, two doors
gave enterance from without, one into either apartment. These entrances
were formed by cuting away the logs for the space of three feet by six, and
were closed by rude doors, made of rough slabs, pinned strongly to heavy
cross bars, and hung on hinges of the same material. These, like the rest
of the building, were rendered, by their thickness, bullet proof—so that when
closed and bolted, the house was capable of withstanding an ordinary attack
of the Indians. With the exception of one window, opening into the apartment
generally occupied by the family, and flanked by a heavy shutter, the
doors and chimney were the only means through which light and air were
admitted. These were all firmly secured at night—the unsettled and exposed
the ruthless savage, particularly those without the forts, rendering necessary,
on their part, the most vigilant caution.
The internal appearance of the cabin corresponded well with the external.
The apartment occupied by the family during the day, where the
meals where cooked and served, and the general household affairs attended
to, was very homely, and might, if contrasted with some of the present time,
be termed almost wretched; though considered at the period of which we
write, rather above than below the ordinary. The floor was composed of
what by the settlers were termed puncheons; which were made by splitting
in half trees of some eighten inches in diameter, and hewing the faces of
them as regular as possible with the broad-axe. These were laid, bark side
downward upon sleepers running crosswise for the purpose, and formed at
least a dry, solid and durable, if not polished, floor. At one end of the cabin
was the chimney, built of logs, outside the apartment, but connecting with
it by a space cut away for the purpose. The back, jambs, and hearth of
this chimney were of stone, and put together in a manner not likely to be
imitated by masons of the present day. A coarse kind of plaster filled up
the surrounding crevices, and served to keep out the air and give a rude
finish to the whole.
The furniture of the Younkers, if the title be not too ambiguous, would
scarcely have been coveted by any of our modern exquisities, even had they
been living in that ago of straight-forward common sense. A large rough
slab, split from some tree, and supported by round legs set in auger holes,
had the honor of standing for a table—around which, like a brood of chickens
around their mother, were promiscuously collected several three-legged
stools of similar workmanship. In one corner of the room were a few
shelves, on which were ranged some wooden trenchers, pewter plates, knives
and forks, and the like necessary articles, while a not very costly collection of
pots and kettles took a less dignified and prominent position beneath. Another
corner was occupied by a bed, the covering of which was composed of
skins of different animals, with sheetings of home-made linen. In the vicinity
of the bed, along the wall, was a row of pegs, suspending various garments
of the occupants, all of which—with the exception of a few articles,
beloging to Ella, procured for her before the death of her father—were of
the plainest and coarsest description. A churn—a clock—the latter a very
rare thing among the pioneers of Kentucky—a footwheel for spinning flax—
a small mirror—together with several minor articles of which it is needless
to speak—completed the inventory of the apartment. From this room were
two exits, beside the outer door—one by a ladder leading above to a sort of
attic chamber, where were two beds; and the other through the wall into
the adjoining cabin, whither our hero had been borne in a state of insensibility
on the night of his mishap, and where he was for the second time presented
to the reader. This latter place was graced with a bed—a loom for
weaving—a spinning-wheel—a large oaken chest, and a few rough benches.
Such, reader, as our description has set forth, was the general appearance
of Younker's dwelling, both without and within, in the year of our Lord 1781;
and, moreover, a facsimile of an hundred others of the period in question—
so arbitrary was necessity in making one imitate the other. But to resume
our story.
In the after part of a day as mild and beautiful as the one with which we
opened our narrative, but some four weeks later, Ella Barnwell, needle,
work in hand, was seated near the open door leading from the apartment
first described to the reader. Her head was bent forward, and her eyes
a close observer might have detected furtive glances occasionally thrown
upon a young man, with a pale and somewhat agitated countenance, who
was pacing to fro on the ground without. With the exception of these two,
no person was within sight—though the rattling of aloom in the other apartment
or cabin, betokened the vicinity of the industrious hostess.
For some moments the young man,—a no less personage than our
hero—paced back and forth like one whose mind is harrowed by some disagreeable
thought; then suddenly halting in front of the doorway, and in a
voice which, though not intended to be so, was slightly tremulous, he addressed
himself to the young lady, in words denoting a previous conversation.
“Then I must have said some strange things Ella—I beg pardon—Miss
Barnwell.”
“Have I not requested you, Mr. Reynolds, on more than one occasion,
to callme Ella, instead of using the formality of miss, which rather belongs to
strangers in fashionable society, than to those dwelling beneath the same
roof, in the wilds of Kentucky?” responded the person addressed, in a tone
of pique, while she raised her head and let her soft, dark eyes rest reproachfully
on the other.
“Well, well, Ella,” rejoined Reynolds, “I crave pardon for my heedlessness,
and promise you, on that score at least, no more cause for offence in
future.”
“Offence!” said Ella quickly, catching at the word: “O no—no—not offence,
Mr. Reynolds! I should be sorry to take offence at what was meant in
all kindness, and with true respect; but somehow I—that is—perhaps it may
not appear so to others—but I—to me it appears studied—and—and—cold;”
and as she concluded, in a hesitating manner, she quickly bent her head forward,
while her cheek crimsoned at the thought, that she might, perhaps, have
ventured too far, and laid herself liable to misconstruction.
“And yet, Ella,” returned Reynolds, somewhat playfully, “you resemble
many others I have known, in preaching what you do not practice. You
request me to lay aside all formality, and address you by your name only;
while you, in that very request, apply to me the title you consider as studied,
formal and cold.”
“You have reference to my saying Mr. Reynolds, I presume,” answered
Ella; “but I see no analogy between the two; as in addressing you thus, I do
but what, under the circumstances, is proper; and what, doubtless, habit has
rendered familiar to your ear; while, on the other hand, no one ever thinks
of calling me any thing but Ella,—or at the extreme, Ella Barnwell—and
hence all superfluities grate harshly.”
“Even complimentary adjectives, eh?” asked Reynolds, with an arch look.
“Even those, Mr. Reynolds; and those most of all are offensive I assure
you.”
“I thought all of your sex were fond of flattery.”
“Then have you greatly erred in thinking.”
“But thus says general report.”
“Then, sir, general report is a slanderer, and should not be credited.
Those who court flattery, are weak-minded and vain; and I trust you do
not so consider all our sex.”
“God forbid,” answered Reynolds, with energy, “that I should think thus
of all, or judge any too harshly!—but there may be causes to force one into
the conviction, that the exceptions are too few to spoil the rule.”
“I trust such is not your case,” responded, Ella, quickly, while her eyes
rested on the other with a searching glance.
“No one is required to criminate himself in law,” replied Reynolds, evasively,
with a sigh; and then immediately added, as if anxious to change the
topic: “But I am eager for you to inform me what I said during my delirium.”
“O many things,” returned Ella, “the half of which I could not repeat;
but more particularly you spoke of troubles at home, and often repeated the
name Elvira, with great bitterness. Then you would run on incoherently,
for some time, about pistols, and swords, and end by saying that the quarrel
was just—that you were provoked to it, until it became almost self defence—
and that if he died, his blood would be on his own head.”
“Good heavens, Ella! did I indeed say this?” exclaimed Reynolds, with
a start, while his features became deadly pale. “Did I say more? did I mention
farther particulars?—speak! tell me—tell me truely!”
“Not in my hearing,” answered Ella, while her own face blanched at the
sudden vehemence of the other.
“Well, well, do not be alarmed!” said Reynolds, evidently somewhat relieved,
and softening his voice, as he noticed the change in her countenance;
“people sometimes say strange things, when reason, the great regulator of
the tongue, is absent. What construction did you put upon my words, Ella?”
“Why in sooth,” replied Ella, watching his features closely as she spoke,
“I thought nothing of them, other than to suppose you might formerly have
had some trouble; and that in the chaos of wild images crowding your brain.
after being attacked and wounded by savages, it was natural some of these
images should be of a bloody nature.”
“Then you did not look upon the words as having reference to a reality.”
“No! at the time I did not.”
“At the time?” repeated Reynolds, with a slight fall of countenance; “have
you then seen or heard any thing since to make you suspicious?”
“Nothing—until—”
“Well, well,” said Reynolds, quickly, as she hesitated, “speak out and
fear nothing!”
“Until but now, when you became so agitated, and spoke so vehemently
on my repeating your delirious language,” added Ella, concluding the sentence.
“Ha!” ejaculated Reynolds, as if to himself, “sanity has done more to
betray me than delirium. Well, Ella,” continued he, addressing her more
direct, “you have heard enough to make you doubtful of my character;
therefore you must needs hear the whole, that you may not judge me worse
than I am; but remember, withal, the tale is for your ear alone.”
“Nay, Mr. Reynolds, if it be a secret I would rather not have it in
keeping,” answered Ella.
“It is a secret,” returned Reynolds, solemnly, with his eyes cast down in
a dejected manner; “a secret, I would to God I had not myself in keeping!
but hear it you must, Ella, for various reasons, from my lips, and then we
part—(his voice slightly faltered) we part—forever!”
“Forever!” gasped Ella, quickly, with a choking sensation, while her
features grew pale, and then suddenly flushed, and her work unconsciously
dropped from her hand. Then, as if ashamed of having betrayed her feelings,
she became confused and endeavored to cover the exposure by adding
with a forced laugh: “But realy, Mr. Reynolds, I must crave pardon for
my silly behavior—but your manner of speaking, somehow, startled me—
and—and I—before I was aware—really, it was very silly—indeed it was,
and I pray you overlook it!”
“Were circumstances not as I have too much reason to fear they are,”
and even tenderly upon the other, “I would not exchange that simple
expression of yours, Ella, for a mine of gold. By that alone you have spoken
volumes, and told me what I already feared was true, but hoped was
otherwise. Nay, turn not your head away, Ella,—dear Ella, if you will
allow me so to address you—it is better, under the circumstances, that we
speak plain and understandingly, as the time of our final separation draweth
near. I fear that my manner and language have hitherto too much expressed
my feelings, and encouraged hopes in you that can never be realized.
Oh! Ella, if such be the case, I would to God, for your dear sake, we
had never met!—and the thought hereafter, that I have caused you a pang,
will add its weight of anguish to my already bitter lot. The days that I
have spent beneath this hospitable roof, and in your sweet presence, are so
many of bright sunshine, in a life of cloud and storm; but will only serve, as
I recal them, to make the remainder, by contrast, seem more dark and
dreary. From the first I learned you were an orphan, and my sympathy
was aroused in your behalf; subsequently, I listened to your recital of grief
and trouble and cold treatment by the world,—told in an artless manner—
and in spite of me, in spite of my struggles to the contrary, I discovered
awakening in my breast a feeling of a stronger nature. Had my wound permitted,
I should have torn myself from your presence then, with the endeavor,
if such a thing were possible, to forget you; but, alas! fate ordered
otherwise, and the consequence I fear will be to add sorrow to both. But one
thing, dear Ella, before I go farther, let me ask: Can you, and will you forgive
me, for the manner in which I have conducted myself in your company?”
“I have nothing to forgive; and had I, it should be forgiven,” answered
Ella, sweetly, in a timid voice, her hands unconsciously toying with her
needle-work, and her face half averted, whereon could be traced the suppressed
workings of internal emotion.
“Thank you, Ella—thank you, for taking a weight from my heart. And
now, ere I proceed with what to both of us will prove a painful revelation,
let me make one request more—a foolish one I know—but one I trust you
will grant nevertheless.”
“Name it,” said Ella, timidly, as the other paused.
“It is, simply, that in judging me by the evidence I shall give against myself,
you will lean strongly to the side of mercy, and, when I am gone, think
of me rather as an unfortunate than criminal being.”
“You alarm me, Mr. Reynolds, with such a request!” answered Ella,
looking up to the other with a pale, anxious countenance. “I know not the
meaning of it! and, as I said before, I would rather not have your secret in
keeping—the more so as you say the revelation will be a painful one to both.”
For a moment the young man paused, as though undecided as to his reply,
while his countenance expressed a look of mortified regret really painful to
behold—so much so, that Ella, moved by this to a feeling of compassion,
said:
“I perceive my answer wounds your feelings—I meant no harm; go on
with your story—I will listen, and endeavor to concede all you desire.”
“Thank you—again thank you!”—returned the other energetically, with
emotion. “I will make my narative brief as possible.” Saying which, he
entered the apartment where the other was sitting, and seating himself
a few feet distant from her, after some little hesitation, as if to bring his resolution
to the point, thus began.
“I shall pass over all miner affairs of my life, and come at once to the
period and event which changed me from a happy youth, blessed with home
earth. I was born in the state of Connecticut, A. D. 1759; and my father
being a man of property, determined on giving his childern (of whom there
were two, one older than myself) a liberal education, I was at an early agesent
to a neighboring school, where I remained until turned of eighteen, and
then returned to my parents.
“About this period, an old, eccentric lady—a maiden aunt of my father—
died, bequeathing to me, or rather to the second born of her nephew, Albert
Reynolds, which chaneed to be myself—the bulk of her property—in value
some fifty thousand dollars; on condition, that between the ages of eighteen
and twenty-two, I should marry a certain Elvira Longworth—a lady some
three years my junior, for whom my great aunt had formed a strong attachment.
And the will further provided. That in case the said second born of
Albert Reynolds, either through the intervention of Providence, in removing
him from off the face of the earth, (so it was worded) and from among the
living, or through a mutual dislike of the parties concerned, did not between
the specified ages, celebrate, with due rejoicing, the said nuptials with the
said Elvira Longworth, the sum of twenty thousand dollars should be paid
over to the said Elvira, if living, and the remainder of the property (or in
case she was deceased) the whole should revert to the regular heirs at law.
“Such was the will—one of the most singular perhaps on record—which,
whatever the design of its author, was destined, by a train of circumstances
no one could forsee, to result in the most terrible consequences to those it
should have benefited. On the reading thereof, no little dissatisfaction was
expressed in regard to it, by numerous relatives of the deceased, each of
whom, as a matter of course, was expecting a considerable share of the old
lady's property, and all of whom, with but few exceptions, were nearer
akin than myself, and therefore, in that respect, more properly entitled to
it. As a consequence of the will, I, though innocent of its construction—for
none could be more surprised at it than myself—became a regular target
for the ridicule, envy and hate of those who chanced to be disappointed
thereby. At the outset, I had no intention of seeking a title to the property,
by complying with the specification set forth at the instance of its late
owner, and only looked upon it as a piece of crack-brained folly, that would
serve for a nine days' comment and jest, and then be forgotten; but when I
saw, that instead of being treated with the courtesy and respect no conscious
act of mine had ever forfeited, I was ridiculed, sneered at, and looked upon
with jealousy and hate by those whose souls were too narrow to believe in
a noble action—and who, measuring and judging me by their own sordid
standards of avaricious justice, deemed I would spare no pains to legally rob
them, as they termed it,—when I saw this, I say, my blood became heated,
my fiercer passions were roused, and I inwardly swore, that if it were now
in my power to accomplish what they feared, I would do it, though the lady
in question were a fright to look upon. In this decision I was rather
encoursged by my father, who being at the time somewhat involved, thought
it a feasible plan of providing for me, and then, by my aid, recovering from
his own peeuniary embarrassment.
“As yet I had never seen Elvira—she living in an adjoining county, some
fifty miles distant, where my aunt, on a visit to a distant relative, first made
her acquaintance, and formed that singular attachment, peculiar to eccentric
temperaments, which had resulted in the manner already shown. Accordingly,
one fine spring morning, I mounted my horse, and set forth to
seek my intended, and behold what manner of person she was of. Late at
night I arrived at the village where she resided—stabled my beast—took
following, made my obeisance in her presence, with that bashful, awkward
grace—if I may be allowed so paradoxical a term—which my youth, present
purpose, and former good breeding combined, were calculated to produce.
I was more embarassed still a minute after, when having given my name,
and hinted at the singular document of the old lady deceased, I found my
fair intended, as well as her family, in total ignorance of my meaning; and
could I at the moment have been suddenly transferred to my horse, I do not
think I should have paused to make the necessary explanation. As it was,
there was no alternative; and accordingly begging a private interview with
Elvira, I disclosed the whole secret, which she listened to for a time with
unfeigned surprise, and then bursting into a wild, ringing laugh, declared
it to be `The funniest and most ridiculous thing she ever heard of.'
“She was a gay, airy, beautiful being—fresh in the bloom of some fifteen
summers—with a bright, sparkling, roguish eye—long, floating, auburn
ringlets—a musical voice—a ringing laugh—the latter frequent and long,—
so that I soon felt it needed not the stimulating desire of wealth and revenge
to urge me on to that, which, under any circnmstances, would have been
by no means disagreeable. To make a long story short, I called upon her
at stated periods, and within a year from our first acquaintance, we were
plighted to each other. About this time my father, together with some
influential friends, procured me a lieutenancy, to serve in our present
struggle for the maintainance of that glorious independence, drawn up by
the immortal Jefferson, and signed by the noble patriots, without a trembling
hand, unless caused by age, some two years before. I served a two
years' campaign, and fought in the unfortunate and bloody battle of Camden,
which resulted, as doubtless you have heard, in great loss and defeat to the
American arms. Shortly after the action commenced, our captain was
killed, and the command of the company devolved on me. I fulfilled my
duties to the best of my ability, and myself and men were in the hottest of
the fight. But from some alledged misdemeanor, whereof I can take my
oath I was guiltless, I was afterward very severely censured by one of my
superior officers, which so wounded my feelings, that I at once resigned
my commission and returned to my native state.
“On arriving at home, to my surprise and mortification, I learned that
my intended was just on the eve of marriage with a cousin of mine—a worthless
fellow—who, urged on by the relatives interested, and his own desire
of acquiring the handsome competence of twenty thousand dollars, had taken
advantage of my absence to calumniate me, (in which design he had been
aided by several worthy assistants) and supplant me in the good graces—I
will not say affections, as I think the term too strong—of Elvira Longworth.
“The lady in question I do not think I ever loved—at least as I understand
the meaning of that term—and now—that she had listened to slander
against me while absent, and without waiting to know whether it would be
refuted on my return, had engaged herself to another—I cared less for than
before;—but my pride was touched, that I should be thus tamely set aside
for one I heartily despised; and this, together with my desire to thwart the
machinations of the whole intriguing clique arrayed against me, determined
me, if feasible, to regain the favor of Elvira, and have the ceremony performed
as soon as possible. This, Ella, I know you think, and I am ready
to admit, was wrong—very wrong;—but I make no pretensions to be other
than a frail mortal, liable to all the crrors appertaining thereto; and were
this the only sin to be laid to my charge, my conscience were far less
troublesome than now.
“I determined, I say, to regain my former place in her favor or affection—whichever
you like—and, to be brief, I apparently succeeded. The
day was set for our marriage, which, for several reasons unnecessary to bedetailed,
was to take place at the residence of my father; and, as the will
specified it should be with all due rejoicings, great preparations were
accordingly made, and a goodly number of guests invited.
“At length the day came—the eventful day. Never shall I forget it;
nor with what feelings, at the appointed hour, I entered the crowded hall,
where the ceremony was to take place, with Elvira leaning tremblingly on
my arm, her features devoid of all color, and approached the spot where
the divine stood ready to unite us forever. All eyes were now fixed upon
us, and the marriage rite was begun amid that deep and almost awful solemnity,
which not unfrequently characterizes such proceedings on peculiar
occasions, when every spectator, as well as the actors themselves, feel a
secret awe steal over them, as though about to witness a tragic, rather than
a civil performance.
“I have mentioned that Elvira trembled violently when we entered the
hall; but this became increased after the divine commenced the ritual; so
that when I had answered in the affirmative the solemn question pertaining
to my taking the being by my side as mine till death, her trepidation had
become so great that it was with difficulty I could support her; and when
the same interrogative was put to her, a silence of some moments followed,
and then the answer came forth, low and trembling, but still sufficiently
distinct to be generally understood, and was, to the unbounded astonishment
of all, in the negative!”
“In the negative!” exclaimed Ella, suddenly, who had during the last
fow sentences been unconsciously leaning forward, as though to devour each
syllable as it was uttered, and who now resumed her former position with a
long drawn breath. “In the negative say you, Alger—a—a—Mr. Reynolds?”
“Call me Algernon, Ella, I pray you; it sounds more sweet and friendly.
Ay, she answered in the negative. Heavens! what a shock was there for
my proud nature! To be thus publicly insulted and rejected—to be thus
made the butt and ridicule of fools and knaves—a mark for the jests and
sneers of friend and foe! Gods! how my blood boiled and coursed in lava
streams through my heated veins! I saw it all. I was the dupe of some
artful design, intended to stigmatise me forever; and wild with a thousand
terrible brain-searing thoughts. I rushed from the hall to my own apartment,
seized upon my pistols, and was just in the act of putting a period to my
existence, when my arm was suddenly grasped, and my hated rival and
cousin stood before me.
“ `Fiend!' cried I in frenzy, `devil in human shape!—do you seek me in
the body? What want you here?”
“His features were pale with excitement, and his lips quivered as he
made answer: `Be calm, Algernon, be calm; it was meant but in jest!'
“ `Jest!' screamed I; `do you then own to a knowledge of it, villain?—were
you its author?—then take that, and answer it as you dare!'—and as I spoke,
with the breech of my undischarged pistol, I stretched him senseless at my
feet. Under the excitement of the moment, I was about to take more terrible
revenge, when others suddenly rushed in—seized and disarmed me—
bore my rival from my sight—and, to conclude, placed me in bed, where I
was confined for three weeks by a delirious fever, and then only recovered
as it were by a miracle.
“During my convalescence, I learned that my cousin, soon after my
return, had been privately married to Elvira; and prompted by his evil
the result of which has already been briefly narrated. I do not think she
did it through malice, and doubtless little thought of the consequences that
were destined to follow; but whether so or no, her punishment has, I think,
been fully adequate to her crime; for the last I heard of her, she was an
inmate of a mad-house,—remorse for her conduct, the abuse heaped upon
her by society, and her own severe fright at the termination of the stratagem,
naving driven her insane. Now comes the most tragic part of my
narrative.
“When so far recovered as to again be abroad, I was cautioned by my
parents against any rash act; and for their sakes, I promised to be temperate
in all my movements; but, alas! how little we know when we promise,
what we may be in sooth destined to perform. On my father's estate, about
a mile distant from his residence, was a beautiful grove—whither, for recreation,
I was in the habit of repairing at all periods of my life; and where,
so soon as my strength permitted, after my sickness, I rambled daily. About
ten days from my recovery, as I was taking my usual stroll through these
grounds, I was suddenly confronted by my cousin. His cheeks were hollow
and pale, and his whole appearance haggard in the extreme. His eyes, too,
seemed to flash, or burn, as it were, with an unearthly brightness; and his
voice, as he addressed me, was hoarse, and his manner hurried.
“ `We meet well,' he said, `well! I have watched for you long.'
“ `Away I' cried I, `tempt me no more—or something will follow I may
regret hereafter!'
“ `Ha, ha, ha!' laughed he, in derision, with that peculiar hollow sound,
which even now, as I recall it, makes my blood run cold:—`Say you so,
cousin?—I came for that;' and again he laughed as before. `See here—
see here!' and he presented, as he spoke, with the butts towards me, a brace
of pistols. `Here is what will settle all our animosities,' he continued;
`take your choice and be quick, or perchance we may be interrupted.'
“ `Are you mad,' cried I, `that you thus seek my life, after the wrongs
you have done me?'
“ `Mad!—ha, ha!—yes!—yes!—I believe I am,' he answered; `and my
wife is mad also. I did you wrong, I know—I went to apologiso for it, and
you struck me down. Whatever the offence, a blow I never did and never
will forgive;—so take your choice, and be quick, for one or both of us must
never quit this place alive!'
“ `Away!' cried I, turning aside, `I will not stain my hands with the
blood of my kin. Go! the world is large enough to hold us both.'
“ `Coward!' hissed he; `take that then, and bare what I have borne;'
and with the palm of his hand he smote me on the cheek.
“Gods! I could bear no more!—I was no longer myself—I was maddened
with passion—and snatching a pistol from his hand, which was still
extended towards me, without scarcely knowing what I did, I exclaimed,
`Your blood be on your own head!'—and—and—Oh God!—pardon me,
Ella—I—shot him through the body.”
Ella, who had partly risen from her seat, and was listening with breathless
attention, now uttered an exclamation of horror and sunk back, with
features ghastly pale; while the other, burying his face in his hands, shook
his whole frame with convulsive sobs. For some time neither spoke; and
then the young man, slowly raising his face, which was now a sad spectacle
of the workings of grief and remorse, again proceeded.
“Horror stricken—aghast at what I had done—I stood for a moment,
gazing upon him weltering in his blood, with eyes that burned and seemed
rushing to, I endeavored to raise him, and learn the extent of his injury.
“ `Fly!' said he, faiutly, as I bent over him—`fly for your life! I have
got my due—I am mortally wounded—and if you remain, you will surely
be arrested as my murderer. Farewell, Algernon—the faull was mine—
but this you cannot prove; and so leave me—leave me, while you have
opportunity.'
His words were true,—I felt them in force,—if he died I would be
arraigned as his murderer,—I had no proof to the contrary,—circumstances
would be against me,—I should be imprisoned—condemned—perhaps executed—a
loathsome sight for gaping thousands;—I could not bear the thought
—I might escape—ay, would escape—and bidding him a hasty farewell, I
turned and fled. Not a hundred rods distant I met my father; and falling
on my knees before him, I hurriedly related what had transpired, and begged
advice for myself, and his immediate attendance upon my cousin. He turned
pale and trembled violently at my narration, and, as I concluded, drew forth
a purse of gold, which he chanced to have with him, and placing it in my
hand, exclaimed:
“ `Fly—son—child—Algernon—for God's sake, fly!'
“ `Whither, father?'
“ `To the far western wilds, beyond the reach of civilization—at least
beyond the reach of justice—and spare my old eyes the awful sight of seeing
a beloved son arraigned as a criminal!'
“ `And my mother?'
“ `You cannot see her—it might cost you your life,—farewell!' and with
the last word trembling on his lips, he embraced me fondly, and we parted—
perchance forever.
“I fled, feeling that the brand of Cain was on me; that henceforth my life
was to be one of remorse and misery; that I was to be a wanderer upon the
face of the earth—mayhap an Ishmael, with every man's hand against me.
To atone in a measure to my conscience for the awful deed I had committed,
I knelt upon the earth and swore, by all I held sacred, in time and
eternity, that if the wound inflicted upon my cousin should prove mortal, I
would live a life of celibacy, and become a wandering pilgrim in the western
wilds of America, till God should see proper to call me hence.”
“And—and did the wound prove mortal?” asked Ella, breathlessly.
“Alas! I know not, Ella, and I fear to know. Four months have passed
since then; and after many adventures, hardships, sufferings, and hair-breadth
escapes, you see me here before you, a miserable man.”
“But not one guilty of murder, Algernon,” said Ella, energetically.
“I know not that—God grant it true!”
“O then do not despair, Algernon!—trust in God, and hope for the best.
I have a presentiment that all will yet be well.”
“Amen to that, dear Ella; and a thousand, thousand thanks, for your
sweet words of hope; they are as balm to my torn and bleeding heart; but
until I know my fate, we must not meet again; and if, oh God! and if the
worst be true,—then—then farewell forever? But who comes here?”
| CHAPTER III. The renegade | |