University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Ralph Colleton was once more in his dungeon
—alone—and without hope. For a moment during
the progress of his trial, and at the appearance
of Lucy, he deemed it possible that some providential
fortune might work a change in the aspect
of things, favourable to his escape from what,
to his mind, was far worse than any thought of
death, in the manner of his death. But when, after
a moment of reflection, he perceived that the feminine
delicacy of the maiden must suffer from any
further testimony from her lips—when he saw that,
most probably, in the minds of all who heard her
narration, the circumstance of her appearance in
his chamber and at such an hour of the night, and
for any object, would be fatal to her reputation—when
he perceived this consciousness, too,

weighing down even to agony the soul of the still
courageous witness—the high sense of honour
which had always prompted him, not less than the
chivalrous consideration of the sex taught in the
south among the earliest lessons of society to its
youth—compelled him to interpose, and prevent, if
possible, all further utterance, which, though possibly
all-important to him, would be fatally destructive
to her. He did so. He succeeded, and
he was in his dungeon—hope shut out from its
walls, and a fearful death and ignominy written
upon them. When the officers attending him had
retired—when he heard the bolt shot, and saw that
the eyes of curiosity were excluded—the firm spirit
fled which had supported him. A passing weakness
of heart grew uppermost, and he sunk down upon
the single chair allotted to his prison. He buried his
face in his hands, and the warm tears gushed freely
through his fingers. But he heard approaching footsteps,
and speedily recovered. The traces of his
weakness were sedulously brushed from his cheeks,
and the handkerchief employed for the purpose
studiously put out of sight. He was not ashamed of
the pang, but he was not willing that other eyes
should behold it. Such was the nature of his
pride—the pride of strength, moral strength, and
superiority over those weaknesses, which, however
natural they may be, are nevertheless not often
becoming in the man.

It was the pedler, Bunce, who made his appearance—choosing,
with a feature of higher characteristic
than would usually have been allotted him,
rather to cheer the prison hours of the unfortunate,
than to pursue his own individual advantages;
which, at such a time, might not have been inconsiderable.
The worthy pedler was dreadfully disappointed
in the result of his late adventure. He

had not given himself any trouble to inquire into
the nature of those proofs which Lucy Munro had
assured him were in her possesion; but satisfied as
much by his own hope as by her assurance, that
all would be as he wished it, he had been elevated
to a pitch of almost indecorous joy, which strongly
contrasted with his present depression. He had
little now to say in the way of consolation, and
that little was coupled with so much that was unjust
to the maiden, as to call forth, at length, the
rebuke of Colleton.

“Forbear on this subject, my good sir—she did
what she could, and what she might have said
would not have served me much. It was well she
said no more. Her willingness—her adventuring
so much in my behalf—should alone be sufficient
to protect her from every thing like blame. But
tell me, Bunce, what has become of her—where is
she gone, and who is now attending her?”

“Why, they took her back to the old tavern. A
great big woman took her there, and looked after
her. I did go and had a sight on her, and there,
to be sure, was Munro's wife, though her I did see,
I'll be sworn, in among the rocks, where they shut
us up.”

“And was Munro there?”

“Where—in the rocks?”

“No—in the tavern? You say his wife had
come back—did he trust himself there?”

“I rather guess not—seeing as how he'd stand
a close chance of 'quaintance with the rope. No,
neither him, nor Rivers, nor any of the regulators
—thank the powers—ain't to be seen nowhere.
They're all off—up into the nation, I guess, or off,
down in Alabam by this time, clear enough.”

“And who did you see at the rocks, and what
men were they that made you prisoners?”

“Men—if I said men, I was 'nation out, I guess.
Did I say men?”

“I understood you so.”

“'Twan't men at all. Nothing better than women,
and no small women neither. Didn't see a
man in the neighbourhood, but Chub, and he ain't
no man neither.”

“What is he?”

“Why, for that matter, he's neither one thing
nor another—nothing, no how. What they call a
hobbe-de-hoy will suit for his name sooner than any
other that I know on. For he ain't a man and he
ain't a boy; but jest a short, half-grown up chunk of
a fellow, with bunchy shoulders, and a big head,
with a mouth like an oven, and long lap ears like
saddle flaps.”

In this manner the pedler informed Ralph of all
those previous particulars with which he had not
till then been acquainted. This having been done,
and the dialogue having fairly reached its termination—the
words of the two having now but occasional
utterance, and the youth exhibiting some
strong symptoms of weariness—Bunce took his
departure for the present, not, however, without
again proffering his services. These Ralph did
not scruple to accept—giving him, at the same
time, sundry little commissions, and among them,
a message of thanks and respectful consideration
to Miss Munro.

She, in the meanwhile, had, upon fainting in the
court-room, been borne off in a state of utter insensibility
to the former residence of Munro, to
which place, as the pedler has already informed us,
the wife of the landlord had that very morning returned,
resuming, precisely as before, all the previous
order of her domestic arrangements. The
reason for this return may be readily assigned.

The escape of the pedler and of Lucy from their
place of temporary confinement had completely
upset all the prior arrangements of the outlaws.
They now conceived it no longer safe as a retreat;
and failing as they did to overtake the fugitives, it
was determined that in the disguises which had
been originally suggested for their adoption, they
should now venture into the village, as many of
them as were willing, to obtain that degree of information
which would enable them to judge what
further plans to adopt. As Rivers had conjectured,
Chub Williams, so far from taking for the
village, had plunged deeper into the woods, flying
to former and well known haunts, and regarding
the face of man as that of a natural enemy. The
pedler had seen none but women, or those so disguised
as such as to seem none other than what
their guise indicated--while Lucy had been permitted
to see none but her uncle and aunt, and one
or two persons she had never seen before. Under
these circumstances, Rivers individually felt no
apprehensions that his wild refuge would be
searched; but Munro, something older, less sanguine,
and somewhat more timid than his colleague,
determined no longer to risk it; but having, as we
have seen, effectually checked the utterance of that
evidence which, in her unconscious excitation, must
have involved him more deeply in the meshes of
the law, besides indicating his immediate and near
neighbourhood, he made his way, unobserved, from
the village, having first provided for her safety,
and, as he had determined to keep out of the way
himself, having brought his family back to their
old place of abode. He had determined on this
course from a variety of considerations. Nothing,
he well knew, could affect his family. He had
always studiously kept them from any participation
in his offences. The laws had no terror for
them, and untroubled by any process against him,
they could still remain and peaceably possess his
property, of which he well knew, in the existing
state of society in the south, no legal outlawry of
himself would ever avail to deprive them. This
could not have been his hope in their common flight.
Such a measure, too, would only have impeded his
progress, in the event of his pursuit, and have burdened
him with incumbrances which would perpetually
have involved him in difficulty. He calculated
differently his chances. His hope was to
be able, when the first excitements had overblown,
to return to the village, and, at least, quietly to
effect such a disposition of his property, which
was not inconsiderable, as to avoid the heavy and
almost entire loss which would necessarily follow
any other determination. In all this, however, it
may be remarked that the reasonings of Rivers,
rather than his own, determined his conduct.
That more adventurous ruffian had, from his superior
boldness and greater capacities in general,
acquired a singular and large influence over his
companion: he governed him, too, as much by
his desire of gain, as by any distinct superiority
which he himself possessed: he stimulated his
avarice with the future results of their enterprises
in the same region after the passing events were
over; and thus held him still in that fearful bondage
of subordinate villany, whose inevitable tendency
is to become the creature, and finally the victim.
The gripe which, in a moral sense and with a
slight reference to character, Rivers had upon the
landlord, was as tenacious as that of death—but
with this difference, that it was death prolonged,
through a fearful, and though not a protracted, yet
much too long a life. The determination of Munro
was made accordingly; and, following hard upon
the flight of Lucy from the rocks, we find the landlady
quietly reinstated in her old home as if nothing
had happened. Munro did not, however, return
to the place of refuge; he had no such confidence
in circumstances as Rivers; his fears had
grown active in due proportion with his increase
of years; and, with the increased familiarity with
crime, had grown up in his mind a corresponding
doubt of all persons, and an active suspicion which
trusted nothing; his abode in all this time was
uncertain; he now slept at one deserted lodge,
and now at another—now in the disguise of one
and now of another character; now on horse-back,
now on foot—but in no two situations taking
the same feature or disguise. In the night-time, he
sometimes adventured, though with great caution,
to the village, and made inquiries. On all hands,
he heard of nothing but the preparations making
against the clan of which he was certainly one of
the prominent heads. The state was going on with
activity, and a proclamation of the governor, offering
a high reward for the discovery and detention
of any persons having a hand in the murder of the
Guard, was on one occasion put into his hands.
All these things made caution necessary, and,
though venturing still very considerably at times,
he was yet seldom entirely off his guard.

Rivers kept close in the cover of his den. That
den had numberless ramifications, however, known
only to himself; and his calm indifference was the
result of a conviction that it would require two
hundred men, properly instructed, and all at the
same moment, to trace him through its many sinuosities.
He too, sometimes, carefully disguised,
adventured into the village, but never much in the
sight of those who were not bound to him by a

common danger. To Lucy he did not appear on
such occasions, though he did to the old lady, and
even at the family fireside.

Lucy, indeed, had eyes for few objects, and
thoughts but for one. She sat as one stupified
with danger—yet sufficiently conscious of it as to
be conscious of nothing beside. She was bewildered
with the throng of horrible circumstances
which had been so crowded on her mind and memory
in so brief a space of time. At one moment
she blamed her own weakness in suffering the trial
of Ralph to progress to a consummation which she
shuddered to reflect upon. Had she a right to
withhold her testimony—testimony so important
to the life and the honour of one, whose life and
honour were no less dear to her heart than they
could possibly be to his? Had she performed her
duty in suffering his case to go to judgment? and
such a judgment—so horrible a doom! Should
she now suffer it to go to its dreadful execution,
when a word from her would stay the hand of the
officer, and save the life of the condemned. But
would such be its effect? What credence would
be given now to one, who, in the hall of justice,
had sunk down like a criminal herself—withholding
the truth, and contradicting it at every word
of her utterance? To whom then could she apply
—who could hear her plea—even though she boldly
narrated all the truth—in behalf of the prisoner?
She maddened as she thought on all these difficulties—her
blood grew fevered—a thick haze overspread
her senses, and she raved at last in the most
wild delirium.

Some days went by in her unconsciousness, and
when she at length grew calm—when the fever of
her mind had somewhat subsided,—she opened her
eyes and found, to her great surprise, her uncle

sitting beside her couch. It was midnight; and
this was the hour he had usually chosen when making
his visits to his family. In these stolen moments,
his attendance was chiefly given to that
hapless orphan, whose present sufferings he well
knew were in great part attributable to himself.
The thought smote him, for, in reference to her, all
feeling had not departed from his soul. There
was still a lurking sensibility—a lingering weakness
of humanity—one of those pledges which
nature gives of her old affiliation, and which she
never entirely takes away from the human heart.
There are still some strings, feeble and wanting in
energy though they be, which bind even the most
reckless outcast in some little particular to humanity;
and, however time, and the world's variety of
circumstance may have worn them and impaired
their firm hold, they still sometimes, at unlooked-for
hours, regrapple the long rebellious subject, and
make themselves felt and understood as in the first
moments of their creation. Such now was their
resumed sway with Munro. While his niece--the
young, the beautiful, the virtuous—so endowed by
nature—so improved by education—so full of those
fine graces, beyond the reach of any art, lay before
him insensible--her fine mind spent in incoherent
ravings; her gentle form racked with convulsive
shudderings—the still small monitorial voice,
unheard so long, spoke out to him in terrible rebukings.
He felt in those moments how deeply he had
been a criminal; how much, not of his own, he had
appropriated to himself and sacrificed—and how
sacred a trust he had abused, in the person of the
delicate creature before him, by a determination
the most cruel and perhaps unnecessary. Days
had elapsed in her delirium; and such were his
newly awakened feelings, that each night brought
him, though at considerable risk, an attendant by
her bed. His hand administered—his eyes watched
over; and in the new duties of the parent, he acquired
a feeling of domesticity, the pleasures of
which he had never felt before. But she grew conscious
at last—and her restoration relieved his
mind of one apprehension which had sorely troubled
it. Her condition, during her illness, was
freely described to her. But she thought not of
herself—she had no thought for any other than the
one for whom thoughts and prayers promised now
to avail but little.

“Uncle—” she spoke at last—“you are here,
and I rejoice to see you. I have much to say—
much to beg at your hands—Oh, let me not
beg in vain. Let me not find you stubborn to
that which may—not make me happy—I say not
that, for happy I never look to be again—but to
make me as much so as human power can make
me. When—” and she spoke hurriedly, while a
strong and aguish shiver went through her whole
frame—“when is it said that he must die?”

He knew perfectly of whom she spoke, but felt
reluctant to indulge her mind in a reference to a
subject which had already exercised so large an
influence over it. But he knew little of the distempered
heart, and fell into an error by no means
uncommon with society. She soon convinced him
of this, when his prolonged silence left it doubtful
whether he contemplated an answer.

“Why are you silent—do you fear to speak?
Have no fears now. We have no time for fear. We
must be active—ready—bold. Feel my hand—it
trembles no longer. I am no longer a weak-hearted
woman.”

He again doubted her sanity, and spoke to her
soothingly, seeking to divert her mind to indifferent

subjects; but she smiled on the endeavour, which
she readily understood, and putting aside her aunt,
who pressed forward with a like object, she again
addressed her uncle.

“Doubt me not, uncle—I rave no longer. I am
now calm—calm as it is possible for me to be, having
such a sorrow as mine struggling at my heart.
Why should I hide it from you? It will not be
hidden. I love him—love him as woman never
loved man before—with a soul and spirit, all and
unreservedly his, and with no thought in which he is
not always the principle. I know that he loves another—I
know that the passion which I feel I must
feel and cherish alone; that it must burn itself away,
though it burns away its dwelling-place. I am
resigned to such a fate; but I am not prepared
for more. I cannot bear that he too should die—
and such a death. He must not die--he must not
die, my uncle; though we save him--ay, save him
--for another.”

“Shame on you, my daughter—how can you confess
so much. Think on your sex—your youth—”
was the somewhat strongly worded rebuke of the
old lady.

“I have thought on all—on every thing. I feel
all that you have said, and the thought and the feeling
have been my madness. I must speak, or I
shall again go mad. I am not the tame and cold
creature that the world calls woman. I have been
differently made. I can love in the world's despite.
I can feel through the world's freeze—I can
dare all, when my soul is in it, though the world
sneer in scorn and contempt. But what I have
said, is said to you. I would not—no—not for
worlds, that he should know I said it—not for
worlds!”—and her cheeks were tinged slightly,

while her head rested slightly and for a single
instant upon the pillow.

“But all this is nothing,” she started up, and
again addressed herself to the landlord. “Speak,
uncle, tell me, is there yet time--yet time to save
him--when is it that they say he must die?”

“On Friday next, at noon.”

“And this—?”

“Is Monday.”

“He must not die—no,—not die, then, my uncle.
You must save him—you must save him. You
have been the cause of his doom—you must preserve
him from its execution. You owe it him as
a debt--you owe it me--you owe it to yourself.
Believe not, my uncle, that there is no other day
than this—no other world—no other penalties than
belong to this. You read no Bible, but you have a
thought which must tell you that there are worlds
—there is a life yet to come. I know you cannot
doubt--you must not doubt--you must believe.
Have a fear of its punishments—have a hope of
its rewards—and listen to my prayer. You must
save Ralph Colleton—ask me not how—talk not
of difficulties. You must save him—you must—
you must.”

“Why, you forget, Lucy—my dear child—you
forget that I too am in danger. This is midnight
--it is only at this hour that I can steal into the village—and
how, and in what manner shall I be able
to do as you require?”

“Oh, man!--man!—forgive me, dear uncle, I
would not vex you. But if there were gold in that
dungeon—broad bars of gold, or shining silver, or
a prize that would make you rich, would you ask
me the how and the where? Would that clumsy
block, and those slight bars, and that dull jailer be
an obstacle that would keep you back? Would

you need a poor girl like me to tell you that the
blocks might be pierced—that the bars might be
broken—that the jailer might be won to the mercy
which would save. You have strength—you have
skill—you have the capacity, the power—there is
but one thing wanting to my prayer—the will, the
disposition.”

“You do me wrong, Lucy—great wrong, believe
me. I feel for this young man, and the thought
has been no less painful to me than to you, that
my agency has contributed in great measure to his
danger. But what if I were to have the will, as
you say—what if I went forward to the jailer and
offered a bribe--would not the bribe which the
State has offered for my arrest be a greater attraction
than any in my gift? To scale the walls and
break the bars, or in any forcible manner to effect
the purpose, I must have confederates, and in
whom could I venture to confide? The few to
whom I could entrust such a design are, like myself,
afraid to adventure or be seen, and such a
design would be defeated by Rivers himself, who
so much hates the youth, and is bent on his
destruction.”

“Speak not of him—say to him nothing—you
must do it yourself, if you do it at all. You can
effect much if you seriously determine. You can
design and execute all, and find ready and able
assistance, if you once willingly set about it. I
am not able to advise, nor will you need my
counsel. Assure me that you will make the effort
—that you will put your whole heart into it, and I
have no fears--I feel confident of his escape.”

“You think too highly of my ability in this respect.
There was a time, Lucy, when such a
design had not been so desperate, but now—”

“Oh, not so desperate now, uncle, uncle—I
could not live--not a moment—were he to perish

in that dreadful manner. Have I no claim upon
your mercy—will you not do for me what you
would do for the attainment of money—what you
have done, at the bidding of that dreadful wretch,
Rivers? Nay, look not away, I know it all—I
know that you had the dagger of Colleton—that
you put it into the hands of the wretch who struck
the man—that you saw him strike—that you strove
not to stop his hand. Fear you not I shall reveal
it? Fear you not?—but I will not—I cannot.
But this should be enough to make you strive in
this service. Heard you not, too, when he spoke,
knowing that my word would have saved him—
rather than see me brought to the dreadful trial
of telling what I knew of that night—that awful
night, when you both sought his life? Oh, I could
love him for this—for this one thing—were there
nothing else beside worthy of my love.”

The incident to which she referred had not been
unregarded by the individual she addressed, and
while she spoke his looks assumed a meditative
expression, and he spoke as in soliloquy, and in
broken sentences:—

“Could I pass to the jail unperceived—gain admittance—then--but
who would grapple with the
jailer--how manage that?—let me see—but no—
no—that is impossible!”

“What is impossible?--no—nothing is impossible
in this, if you will but try. Do not hesitate,
dear uncle—it will look easier if you will but for
a while reflect upon it. You will see many ways
of bringing it about. You can get aid if you want
it. There's the pedler, who is quite willing, and
Chub—Chub will do much if you can only find
him out.”

The landlord smiled as she named these two
accessaries. “Bunce—why what could the fellow

do?—he's not the man for such service—now
Chub might be of value, if he'd only follow orders:
but that he won't do. I don't see how we're to
work it, Lucy—it looks more difficult the more I
think on it.”

“Oh, if it's only difficult—if it's not impossible—it
will be done. Do not shrink back, uncle, do not
scruple. The youth has done you no wrong—
you have done him much. You have brought him
where he is—he would have been safe otherwise.
You must save him. Save him, uncle—and hear
me as I promise. You may then do with me as
you please. From that moment I am your slave,
and then, if it must be so—if you will then require
it, I am willing then to become his slave too—
him whom you have served so faithfully and so unhappily
for so long a season.”

“Of whom speak you?”

“Guy Rivers! yes—I shall then obey you,
though the funeral come with the bridal.”

“Lucy!”

“It is true. I hope not to survive it. It will be
a worse destiny to me than even the felon death to
the youth, whom I would save. Do with me as
you please then—but let him not perish. Rescue
him from the doom you have brought upon him—and
oh, my uncle, in that other world—if there we meet
—the one good deed shall atone, in the thought of
my poor father, for the other most dreadful sacrifice
to which his daughter now resigns herself.”

The stern man was touched. He trembled, and
his lips quivered convulsively as he took her hand
into his own. Recovering himself, in a firm tone,
not less solemn than that which she had preserved
throughout the dialogue, he replied,—

“Hear me, Lucy, and believe what I assure
you. I will try to save this youth. I will do

what I can, my poor child, to redeem the trust of
your father. I have been no father to you heretofore—not
much of one, at least—but it is not too
late, and I will atone. I will do my best for Colleton—the
thing is full of difficulty and danger,
but I will try to save him. All this, however, must
be unknown—not a word to anybody; and Rivers
must not see you happy, or he will suspect. Better
not be seen—still keep to your chamber, and rest
assured that all will be done, in my power, for the
rescue of the youth.”

“Oh, now you are, indeed, my father—yet—
uncle, shall I see you at the time when it is to be
done? Tell me at what moment you seek his
deliverance, that I may be upon my knees. Yet
say not to him that I have done any thing or said any
thing which has led to your endeavours. He will
not think so well of me if you do—and, though he
may not love, I would have him think always of
me as if—as if I were a woman.”

She was overcome with exertion, and the revived
hope had, by its struggles, still further exhausted
her. She sank back in slumbers far more
sweet than those for some time preceding, when
Munro and his wife retired from the apartment.