 | CHAPTER X. A New-England tale, or, Sketches of New-England character and manners. |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Romeo and Juliet.
The name of the stranger was Mary Oakley.
Her parents had gone out adventurers to the West
Indies, where, at the opening of flattering prospects,
they both died victims to the fever of the
climate, which seldom spares a northern constitution.
Mary, then in her infancy, had been sent
home to her grand-parents, who nursed this only
relict of their unfortunate children with doating
fondness. They were in humble life; and they
denied themselves every comfort, that they might
gratify every wish, reasonable and unreasonable,
of their darling child. She, affectionate and ardent
in her nature, grew up impetuous and volatile.
Instead of `rocking the cradle of reposing
age,' she made the lives of her old parents resemble
a fitful April day, sunshine and cloud, succeeding
each other in rapid alternation. She loved
the old people tenderly—passionately, when she
had just received a favour from them; but, like
other spoiled children, she never testified that love
wisdom to govern her childish inclinations. She
grew up
Floats in light vision round the poet's head.”
Most unhappily for her, there was a college in
the town where she lived, and she very early became
the favourite belle of the young collegians,
whose attentions she received with delight, in spite
of the remonstrances and entreaties of her guardians,
who were well aware that a young and beautiful
creature could not, with propriety or safety,
receive the civilities of her superiors in station,
attracted by her personal charms.
David Wilson, more artful, more unprincipled
than any of his companions, addressed her with
the most extravagant flattery, and lavished on her
costly favours. Giddy and credulous, poor Mary
was a victim to his libertinism. He soothed her
with hopes and promises, till in consequence of
the fear of detection in another transaction, where
detection would have been dangerous, he left—
and returned to his mother's, without giving Mary
the slightest intimation of his departure.
She took the desperate resolution of following
him. She felt certain she should not survive her
confinement, and hoped to secure the protection
of Wilson for her infant. Her tenderness, we
believe, more than her pride, induced her to conceal
her miseries from her only true friends. She
thought any thing would be easier for them to bear
few days she remained under their roof, and while
she was preparing a disguise for her perilous journey,
she affected slight sickness and derangement.
They were alarmed and anxious, and insisted on
making a bed for her in their room: this somewhat
embarrassed her proceedings; but, on the
night of her escape, she told them, with a determined
manner, that she could only sleep in her
own bed, and alone in her own room. They did
not resist her; they never had. Mary kissed them
when she bade them good-night with unusual tenderness.
They went sorrowing to their beds.
She wrote a few incoherent lines, addressed to
them, praying for their forgiveness; expressing
her gratitude and her love; and telling them, that
life before her seemed a long and a dark road, and
she did not wish to go any further in it, and begging
them not to search for her, for in one hour
the waves would roll over her. She placed the
scroll on her table, crept out of her window, and
left for ever the protecting roof of her kind old
parents.
When they awoke to a knowledge of their loss,
they were overwhelmed with grief. Their neighbours
flocked about them, to offer their assistance
and consolation; and though some of the most
penetrating among them, suspected the cause of
the poor girl's desperation, more forbearing and
kind than persons usually are, in such circumstances,
they spared the old people the light of
their conjectures.
Poor Mary persevered in her fatiguing and
miserable journey, which was rendered much
longer by her fearfully shunning the public road.
She obtained a kind shelter at the farmers' houses
at night, where she always contrived to satisfy
their curiosity by some plausible account of herself.
At the end of a week she arrived wearied
and exhausted in the neighbourhood of Wilson.
She watched for him in the evening, near his mother's
house, and succeeded in obtaining an interview
with him. He was enraged that she had
followed him, and said that it was impossible for
him to do any thing for her. She told him, she
asked nothing for herself; but she entreated him
not to add to his guilt the crime of suffering their
unhappy offspring to die with neglect. Utterly
selfish and hard-hearted, the wretch turned from
her without one word of kindness: and then recollecting
that if she was discovered, he should be
involved in further troubles, he returned, and gave
her a direction, which he believed would enable
her to find John's cottage on the mountain. If
she gets there, thought he as he left her, whether
she lives or dies, she will be far out of the way for
the present—and the future must take care of
itself.
Mary with a faint heart followed his direction,
and the next day she was discovered by old John
in the situation we have mentioned. Perhaps
there are some who cannot believe that any being
should be so utterly depraved as David Wilson.
But let them remember, that he began with a
mother's mismanagement had increased every
thing that was bad in him, and extinguished every
thing that was good—that the continual contradictions
of his mother's professions and life, had led
him to an entire disbelief of the truths of religion,
as well as a contempt of its restraints.
After the old man had finished Mary's story, or
rather so much of it as he had been able to gather
from her confessions, Jane asked him “Why she
had been sent for?”
“Why Miss,” he replied, “after the poor thing
had come to herself, all her trouble seemed to be
about her baby, and I did not know what to advise
her; my woman and I might have done for it
for the present, but our sun is almost set, and we
could do but a little while. I proposed to her to
go for Wilson, and I was sure the sight of her
might have softened a heart of flint; but she
shivered at the bare mention of it: she said “No,
no; I cannot see that cruel face upon my deathbed.”
And then I thought of you, and I told her
if there was any body could bring him to a sense
of right it was you, and that at any rate you might
think of some comfort for her; for I told her
every body in the village knew you for the wisest
and discreetest, and gentlest. At first she relucted,
and then the sight of her baby seemed to persuade
her, and she bade me go, but she gave me a strict
charge that no one should come with you; for she
said she wished her memory buried with her in
the grave. When I left her to go to you, I hoped
that would be better than medicine for her, and
heal the body as well as the mind; but when I
came back, there was a dreadful change—the poor
little one had gone into a fit, and she would take
it from my wife into her arms, and there it died
more than an hour ago; and she sits up in the bed
holding it yet, and she has not spoken a word, nor
turned her eyes from it; her cheeks look as if
there was a living fire consuming her. Oh, Miss
Jane, it is awful to look upon such a fallen star!
Now you are prepared—come in—may be the
sight of you will rouse her.”
Jane followed John into his little habitation.
The old couple had kindly resigned their only
bed to the sufferer. She was sitting as John had
described her, fixed as a statue. Her beautiful
black glossy curls, which had been so often admired
and envied, were in confusion, and clustered
in rich masses over her temples and neck.
A tear that had started from the fountain of feeling,
now sealed for ever, hung on the dark rich
eye-lash that fringed her downcast eye. Jane
wondered that any thing so wretched could look
so lovely. Crazy Bet was kneeling at the foot of
the bed, and apparently absorbed in prayer, for her
eyes were closed, and her lips moved, though they
emitted no sound. The old woman sat in the
corner of the fire-place, smoking a broken pipe,
to sooth the unusual agitation she felt.
Jane advanced towards the bed. “Speak to
her,” said John. Jane stooped, and laid her hand
first time, and turned them on Jane with a look of
earnest inquiry, and then shaking her head, she
said in a low mournful voice—“No, no; we cannot
be parted; you mean to take her to heaven,
and you say I am guilty, and must not go. They
told me you were coming—you need not hide
your wings—I know you—there is none but an
angel would look upon me with such pity.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Jane in an agony, “can nothing
be done for her? at least let us take away
this dead child, it is growing cold in her arms.”
She attempted to take the child, and Mary relaxed
her hold; but as she did so, she uttered a faint
scream—became suddenly pale as `monumental
marble,'—and fell back on the pillow.
“Ah, she is gone!” exclaimed John.
Crazy Bet sprang on her feet, and raised her
hand—“Hush!” said she, “I heard a voice saying,
`Her sins are forgiven'—she is one `come
out of great tribulation.' ”
There were a few moments of as perfect stillness
as if they had all been made dumb and motionless
by the stroke of death. Jane was the first to
break silence—“Did she,” she inquired of the
old man, “express any penitence—any hope?”
John shook his head. “Them things did not
seem to lay on her mind; and I did not think it
worth while to disturb her about them. Ah, Miss,
the great thing is how we live, not how we die.”
Jane felt the anxiety, so natural, to obtain some
in the mind of the departed.
“Surely,” said she, “it is never too late to
repent—to beg forgiveness.”
“No, Miss;” replied John, who seemed to have
religious notions of his own—“especially when
there has been such a short account as this poor
child had; but the work must be all between the
creature and the Creator, and for my part, I don't
place much dependance on what people say on a
death-bed. I have lived a long life, Miss Jane,
and many a one have I seen, and heard too, when
sickness and distress were heavy upon them, and
death staring them in the face, and they could not
sin any more—they would seem to repent, and
talk as beautiful as any saint; but if the Lord took
his hand from them, and they got well again, they
went right back into the old track. No, Miss
Jane, it is the life—it is the life, we must look to.
This child,” he added, going to the bed, and laying
his brown and shrivelled hand upon her fair
young brow, now `chill and changeless,' “this child
was but sixteen, she told me so. The Lord only
knows what temptations she has had; He it is,
Miss Jane, that has put that in our hearts that
makes us feel sorry for her now; and can you
think that He is less pitiful than we are? I think she
will be beaten with few stripes; but,” he concluded
solemnly, covering his face with his hands,—
“we are poor ignorant creatures; it is all a mystery
after this world; we know nothing about it.”
“Yes,” said Jane, “we do know, John, that
all will be right.”
“True,” he replied; “and it is that should
make us lay our fingers on our mouths and be
still.”
Jane had been so much absorbed in the mournful
scene, that the necessity of her return before the
breaking of day had not occurred to her mind,
and would not, perhaps, if John had not, after a
few moments pause, reminded her of it, by saying,
“I am sorry Miss Jane, you have had such a walk
for nothing; but,” added he, “to the wise nothing
is vain, and you are of so teachable a make, that
you may have learned some good lessons here;
you may learn, at least, that there is nothing to be
much grieved for in this world but guilt; and some
people go through a long life without learning
that. You had better return now; I will go
round the hill with you, and show you the path
this crazy creature should have led you. She is
in one of her still fits now; there is nothing calms
her down like seeing death; she will not move
from here till after the burying.”
Jane looked for the last time on the beautiful
form before her, and with the ingenuous and keen
feeling of youth, wept aloud.
“It is indeed a sore sight,” said John; “it
makes my old eyes run over as they have not for
many a year. The Lord have mercy on her destroyer!
Oh, Miss! it is sad to see this beautiful
flower cut down in its prime; but who would
change her condition for his? He may go rioting
will not be quieted.”
Jane told the kind old man that she was now
ready to go, and they left the hut together. He
led her by a narrow foot path around the base of
the mountain, till they came to a part of the way
that was known to Jane. She then parted from
her conductor, after inquiring of him if he could
inter the bodies secretly? He replied, that he
could without much difficulty; and he certainly
should, for he had given his promise to the young
creature, who seemed to dread nothing so much
as a discovery which might lead to her old parents
knowing her real fate.
Anxious to reach home in time to avoid the necessity
of any disclosures, Jane hastened forward,
and arrived at her aunt's before the east gave the
slightest notice of the approach of day. She entered
the house carefully, and turned into the parlour
to look for some refreshment in an adjoining
pantry. A long walk, and a good deal of emotion,
we believe, in real life, are very apt to make people,
even the most refined, hungry and thirsty.
Jane had entered the parlour, and closed the
door after her, before she perceived that she was
not the only person in it; but she started with
alarm, which certainly was not confined to herself,
when she saw standing at Mrs. Wilson's desk,
which was placed at one corner of the room, her
son David, with his mother's pocket-book in his
hand, from which he was in the act of subtracting
a precious roll of bank bills that had been deposited
and but for a moment, for as the truth flashed
on her, she sprang forward, and seizing his arm,
exclaimed, “For heaven's sake, David, put back
that money! Do not load yourself with any more
sins.”
He shook her off, and hastily stuffing the money
in his pocket, said, that he must have it; that his
mother would not give him enough to save him
from destruction; that he had told her, ruin was
hanging over his head; that she had driven him to
help himself; and, “as to sin,” he added fiercely,
“I am in too deep already to be frightened by that
thought.”
It occurred to Jane that he might have been
driven to this mode of supplying himself, in order
to relieve the extreme need of Mary Oakley; and
she told him, in a hurried manner, the events of
the night. For a moment he felt the sting of conscience,
and, perhaps, a touch of human feeling;
for, he staggered back into a chair, and covering
his face with his hands, muttered, “dead! Mary
dead! Good God! Hell has no place bad enough
for me;” and then rousing himself, he said, with
a deep tone, “Jane Elton, I am a ruined, desperate
man. You thought too well of me, when you
imagined it was for that poor girl I was doing this
deed. No, no! her cries did not trouble me; but
there are those whose clamours must be hushed by
money—curse on them!”
“But,” said Jane, “is there no other way, David?
I will entreat your mother for you.”
“You! yes, and she will heed you as much as
the vulture does the whining of his prey. I tell
you, I am desperate, Jane, and care not for the
consequences. But,” he added, “I will run no
risk of discovery,” and as he spoke, he drew a pistol
from beneath his surtout, and putting the muzzle
to his breast, said to Jane, “give me your
solemn promise, that you will never betray me,
or I will put myself beyond the reach of human
punishment.”
“Oh!” said Jane, “I will promise any thing.
Do not destroy your soul and body both.”
“Do you promise then?”
“I do, most solemnly.”
“Then,” said he, hastily replacing the pistol,
and locking the desk with the false key he had obtained;
“then all is as well as it can be. My
mother will suspect, but she will not dare to tell
whom; and your promise, Jane, makes me secure.”
Jane saw he was so determined, that any further
interposition would be useless, and she hurried
away to her own apartment, where she threw herself
upon her bed, sorrowing for the crimes and
miseries of others. Quite exhausted with the fatigues
of the night, she soon fell asleep.
She was too much distressed and terrified, to
reflect upon the bad effects that might result
from the exacted promise. She had, doubtless,
been unnecessarily alarmed by David's threat of
self-slaughter; for, confused and desperate as he
was, he would hardly have proceeded to such an
the pistol was neither primed nor loaded; but,
that he had provided himself with it for emergencies
which might occur in the desperate career in
which he had engaged. He had been concerned
with two ingenious villains in changing the denomination
of bank bills. His accomplices had been
detected and imprisoned, and they were now exacting
money from him by threatening to disclose
his agency in the transaction.
Always careless of involving himself in guilt,
and goaded on by the fear of the state-prison, he
resolved, without hesitation, on this robbery,
which would not only give him the means of present
relief, but would supply him with a store for
future demands, which he had every reason to expect
from the character of his comrades.
| CHAPTER X. A New-England tale, or, Sketches of New-England character and manners. | |