University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

But Bess Matthews was not left to solitude, though
left by her lover. A new party came upon the scene,
in the person of Hugh Grayson, emerging from the
neighbouring copse, from the cover of which he had
witnessed the greater portion of the interview between
Harrison and the maiden. This unhappy young man,
always a creature of the fiercest impulses, in a moment
of the wildest delirium of that passion for Bess which
had so completely swallowed up his better judgment,
not less than all sense of high propriety, had been
guilty, though almost unconscious at the time of the
woful error, of a degree of espionage, for which, the
moment after, he felt many rebukings of shame and

conscience. Hurried on, however, by the impetuous
impulse of the passion so distracting him, the fine
sense, which should have been an impassable barrier
rising up like a wall in the way of such an act, had
foregone its better control for the moment, and he had
lingered sufficiently long under cover to incur the
stigma, as he now certainly felt the shame, of having
played the part of a spy. But his error had its punishment,
even in its own progress. He had seen that
which contributed still more to increase his mortification,
and to imbitter his soul against the more successful
rival, whose felicities he had beheld—scarcely
able to clinch the teeth in silence which laboured all
the while to gnash in agony. With a cheek in which
shame and a purposeless fury alike showed themselves,
and seemed struggling for mastery, he now
came forward; and approaching the maiden, addressed
her as he did so with some common phrase of formal
courtesy, which had the desired effect of making her
pause for his coming. He steeled his quivering
muscles into something like rigidity, while a vain and
vague effort at a smile, like lightning from the cloud,
strove visibly upon his features.

“It is not solitude, then,” said he, “that brings Miss
Matthews into the forest. Its shelter—its secrecy
alone, is perhaps its highest recommendation.”

“What is it that you mean, Master Grayson, by
your words?” replied the maiden, while something of
a blush tinged slightly the otherwise pale and lily complexion
of her face.

“Surely I have spoken nothing mysterious. My
thought is plain enough, I should think, were my only
evidence in the cheek of Miss Matthews herself.”

“My cheek speaks nothing for me, Master Grayson,
which my tongue should shame to utter; and if you have
spoken simply in reference to Gabriel—Master Harrison
I mean—you have been at much unnecessary trouble.
Methinks too, there is something in your own face
that tells of a misplaced watchfulness on your part,
where your neighbour holds no watch to be necessary.”

“You are right, Miss Matthews—you are right.
There is—there should be, at least—in my face, acknowledgment
enough of the baseness which led me as
a spy upon your path—upon his path!” replied the
young man, while his cheek grew once more alternately
from ashes to crimson. “It was base, it was unmanly
—but it has had its punishment—its sufficient punishment,
believe me—in the discovery which it has made.
I have seen that, Miss Matthews, which I would not
willingly have seen; and which the fear to see, alone,
led to the accursed survey. Pardon me, then—pity
me, pity if you can—though I can neither well pardon
nor pity myself.”

“I do pardon you, sir—freely pardon you, for an
error which I should not have thought it in your nature
intentionally to commit; but what to pity you for, saving
for the self-reproach which must come with your consciousness,
I do not so well see. Your language is
singular, Master Grayson.”

“Indeed! Would I could be so blind. You have
not seen, then—you know not? Look at me, Miss
Matthews—is there no madness in my eyes—on my
tongue—in look, word, action? Have I not raved in
your ears—never?”

“No, as I live, never!” responded the astonished
maiden. “Speak not in this manner, Master Grayson
—but leave me—permit me to retire.”

“Ha! you would go to him! Hear me, Bess Matthews.—Do
you know him—this stranger—this adventurer—this
haughty pretender, whose look is presumption?
Would you trust to him you know not? What
is he? Can you confide in one whom nobody speaks
for—whom nobody knows? Would you throw yourself
upon ruin—into the arms of a strange—a—”

“Sir, Master Grayson—this is a liberty—”

“License, rather, lady! The license of madness;
for I am mad, though you see it not—an abandoned
madman; degraded, as you have seen, and almost
reckless of all things and thoughts, as all may see in
time. God! is it not true? True it is, and you—you,
Bess Matthews—you are the cause.”

“I?—” replied the maiden, in unmixed astonishment.

“Ay, you. Hear me. I love—I loved you, Miss
Matthews—have long loved you. We have been together
almost from infancy; and I had thought—forgive
the vanity of that thought, Bess Matthews—I
had thought that you might not altogether have been
unkind to me. For years I had this thought—did you
not know it?—for years I lived on in the sweet hope—
the dear promise which it hourly brought me—for years
I had no life, if I had not this expectation! In an evil
hour came this stranger—this Harrison—it is not long
since—and from that moment I trembled. It was an
instinct that taught me to fear, who had never feared
before. I saw, yet dreaded to believe in what I saw.
I suspected, and shrunk back in terror from my own
suspicions. But they haunted me like so many damned
spectres. They were everywhere around me, goading
me to madness. In my mood, under their spur, I sunk
into the spy. I became degraded,—and saw all—all!
I saw his lip resting upon yours—warmly, passionately—and
yours,—yours grew to its pressure, Bess
Matthews, and did not seek to be withdrawn.”

“No more of this, Master Grayson—thou hast
thought strange and foolish things, and though they
surprise me, I forgive them—I forgive thee. Thou
hadst no reason to think that I was more to thee than
to a stranger, that I could be more—and I feel not any
self-reproach, for I have done naught and said naught
which could have ministered to thy error. Thy unwise,
not to say thy unbecoming and unmanly curiosity,
Master Grayson, makes me the less sorry that thou
shouldst know a truth which thou findest so painful to
know.”

“Oh, be less proud—less stern, Bess Matthews.
Thou hast taken from this haughty stranger some of
his bold assumption of superiority, till thou even forgettest
that erring affection may have its claim upon
indulgence.”

“But not upon justice. I am not proud—thou dost
me wrong, Master Grayson, and canst neither understand

me nor the noble gentleman of whom thy words
are disrespectful.”

“And what is he, that I should respect him? Am
I not as free—a man,—an honest man—and what is
he more,—even if he be so much? Is he more ready
to do and to dare for thee?—Is he stronger?—Will he
fight for thee? Ha! if he will!—”

“Thou shalt make me no game-prize, even in thy
thought, Master Grayson—and thy words are less than
grateful to my ears. Wilt thou not leave me?”

“Disrespectful to him, indeed—a proud and senseless
swaggerer, presuming upon his betters. I—”

“Silence, sir! think what is proper to manhood, and
look that which thou art not,” exclaimed the aroused
maiden, in a tone which completely startled her companion,
while she gathered herself up to her fullest
height, and waved him off with her hand. “Go, sir—
thou hast presumed greatly, and thy words are those
of the ruffian, as thy late conduct has been that of the
hireling and the spy. Thou think that I loved thee!
—that I thought of a spirit so ignoble as thine;—and it
is such as thou that wouldst slander and defame my Gabriel,—he,
whose most wandering thought could never
compass the tithe of that baseness which makes up thy
whole soul.” And as she spoke words of such bitter
import, her eye flashed and the beautiful lips curled in
corresponding indignation, while her entire expression
of countenance was that of a divine rebuke. The
offender trembled with convulsive and contradictory
emotions, and for a few moments after her retort had
been uttered, remained utterly speechless. He felt
the justice of her severity, though every thought and
feeling, in that instant, taught him how unequal he
was to sustain it. He had, in truth, spoken without
clear intent, and his language had been in no respect
under the dominion of reason. But he regained his
energies as he beheld her, with an eye still flashing
fire and a face covered with inexpressible dignity,
moving scornfully away. He recovered, though with a
manner wild and purposeless—his hands and eyes lifted
imploringly—and chokingly, thus addressed her:—

“Leave me not—not in anger, Bess Matthews, I
implore you. I have done you wrong—done him
wrong:” with desperate rapidity he uttered the last
passage—“I have spoken unjustly, and like a madman.
But forgive me. Leave me not therefore, with
an unforgiving thought, since, in truth, I regret my error
as deeply as you can possibly reprove it.”

Proud and lofty in her sense, the affections of Bess
Matthews were, nevertheless, not less gentle than
lofty. She at once turned to the speaker, and the
prayer was granted by her glance, ere her lips had
spoken.

“I do—I do forgive thee, Master Grayson, in consideration
of the time when we were both children.
But thou hast said bitter words in mine ear, which thou
wilt not hold it strange if I do not over-soon forget. But
doubt not that I do forgive thee; and pray thee for thy
own sake—for thy good name, and thy duty to thyself
and to the good understanding which thou hast, and the
honourable feeling which thou shouldst have,—that
thou stray not again so sadly.”

“I thank thee—I thank thee,”—was all he said, as
he carried the frankly-extended hand of the maiden to
his lips, and then rushed hurriedly into the adjacent
thicket.