 | CHAPTER VI. Westward ho! |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
Proving that the fear of evil is the worst of evils.
During the progress of the events recorded
in our last chapter, little apparent change had
taken place in the outward deportment of
Rainsford; but if it had been possible to penetrate
the recesses of his mind, it would have
been discovered, that as the period to which he
looked forward as the crisis of his fate approached
more nearly, his terrors increased.
To those who watched him narrowly, as
did the mother of Virginia more especially,
there occasionally appeared inconsistencies in
his conduct, distorted opinions, and an equivocal
expression of the eye, that, all combined,
produced a suspicion in her mind that all was
not right with him. And indeed it was so.
He enjoyed not the present, he shrunk from the
future. The delight of being beloved, the
beauties of nature, the prospect of happiness
that seemed to await him, all turned to waters
of bitterness when connected with the dark
and dismal prospect which closed the train of
anticipations.
“How beautiful,” exclaimed Virginia, one
evening as they were contemplating the glowing
splendours of the setting sun, reflected in
the clouds, in a thousand glorious tints, which
baffle the power of language, and bid defiance
“How beautiful! I never look on such a
scene as this without feeling a capacity to enjoy
the blessings of Providence with a sweeter relish.
I seem to identify myself with all nature,
which looks so smiling and happy that I cannot
help sympathizing with her.”
“How different it is with me,” replied Rainsford,
in a melancholy tone. “To me the sunshine,
the shade, the flowing river, the smiling
earth, the starry heavens, and all the glorious
panoply of nature, are but as dear objects, dear
friends with whom I must soon part for ever.
As I look on them, I am reminded by the fiend
that is always at my elbow, whispering in my
ear, that the time is now at hand when, in all
human probability, this combination of order
and beauty, this masterpiece of the Divine
Architect, teeming with subjects for reason
and fancy to dilate upon, and exhibiting to the
senses all that is lovely to the eye, sweet to
the smell, harmonious to the ear, will be to
me but as a howling wilderness, a chaos
like my mind, in which atoms will war with
atoms; and where the throne of the presiding
Divinity will be buried in its own
ruins. The wretched being who stands under
the gallows, on the brink of atoning for his
crimes, might as well expect to enjoy the last
light of the sun, or the first breath of spring,
as I.”
“O Rainsford! I thought—I hoped you were
looking forward to happiness!” said Virginia,
deeply affected with his melancholy. “For
my sake, for your own sake, I beseech you to
is not certain, nay, I feel a presentiment it will
not be. Exert yourself, dear Rainsford.”
“I do—I have. Never man sustained such a
struggle as I have done, as I do now, and every
moment of my life. Sometimes I succeed in
whipping the hovering demons from my brow,
but they come again, and find me only the
weaker for my useless victory. Sometimes, as
in a dream, I am taken up and carried away
to the regions of hope, but, like the prisoner
enjoying a few minutes respite from his dungeon,
it is only to be brought back into darkness,
the more dismal from the contrast of light he
has enjoyed. Sometimes I lose for a moment
the clew of my eternal thoughts, but it is only
to find it again, and be dragged along with
greater violence than ever.” He paused awhile;
Virginia could not answer for her emotions.
“Virginia,” continued he, with a sad solemnity,
“I must leave this place at once, and for
ever; or at least until the hour is past. You,
that have known and cherished me as a rational
being, worthy to be one day the guardian of
your happiness, must not see me when I
shall, in all human probability, become an object
of fear, horror, disgust. No, no, you shall
not see me gnash my teeth; foam at the mouth;
twist myself into a thousand contortions;
roar—rave—blaspheme, tear my flesh; bite the
dust; and, perhaps, in some cunning paroxysm,
escape the watchful eye of affection, only
to commit violence on those I best love.”
“O don't talk so, don't talk so! or I shall go
mad myself,” cried Virginia.
“Ay, madness is catching; it runs in the
blood they say. But surely a wife cannot
take it from her husband. If she can it will
be a rare conjunction, you and I. Whoever is
born under it will be a philosopher.”
“What—what are you talking of, Dudley?”
“Ay, true—I am only taking a step before
old time; but there's no occasion, it will come
soon enough—no danger of that—for they say,
they do say—”
His wanderings were arrested by an exclamation
of anguish from Virginia, who sunk
down on the ground, overpowered by the terrible
conviction that his malady had in truth
come upon him. He placed his hand on his
brow, rubbed his eyes, then knelt down beside
her, and by degrees came to himself
again.
“I was only jesting, Virginia. I am not
mad yet, indeed I am not. I was only rehearsing
the tragedy,” added he, bitterly.
“Then let me beseech you, never to jest
with me thus again. I am not lead, nor marble,
nor a fool, to be thus played with. O,
Rainsford, spare me such jests in future. I
cannot bear them.”
He led her to a seat, and proceeded,
“We must part, Virginia; I feel if I wish to
spare you the last drop in the cup of bitterness,
we must part at once. If my calamity overtakes
me here—”
“And what if it overtakes you elsewhere?”
asked Virginia, suddenly interrupting him.
“No matter; it will be among strangers, or
perhaps in some wild solitude of the woods
horror. They may find me some day or
other, but they cannot tell my bones.”
“Why, why will you talk thus? But listen
to me, Rainsford; I do not, I cannot believe in
the truth of your presentiment. I am satisfied
if you can only keep your mind from the
anticipation, the reality will never come.”
“Ay, there's the difficulty; perhaps that very
anticipation is a part of my malady?”
“Well, whether it be or not, if the worst
should come, the worse it is the more you will
require some one to watch over you; to abide
by you in your hours of depression; and to assist
in all that may administer to your comfort.
I owe you this good turn and will pay it.”
“You, you, Virginia, with those delicate
fingers, those slender limbs, that soft and gentle
heart! No, no, I must have chains, and giants
to put them on. Go, go, tell your parents all,
and let them drive me away, for I am bitten, as
sure as there is a Providence above us whose
decrees are irreversible. I heard a voice last
night telling me to make my peace with Heaven,
while yet I was responsible for my acts:
and I will do it. I'll go to church to-morrow,
and pray that I may die without the guilt of
blood upon my head or hands; and then, the
day after, bid you all farewell, and launch my
boat among the stormy billows of the world,
haply without rudder or compass to direct her
course. Perhaps, some time hence you may
hear of a starving, ragged wanderer, roaming
among the distant regions, chattering disjointed
nonsense to a troop of ragged boys, and having
then, Virginia?”
Virginia could not answer. She was silent,
motionless, in the numb palsy of despair. The
conviction of his ultimate fate had come upon
her, and hope took its flight for ever. She
grasped his arm with trembling hesitation, and
begged they might return home. That evening
the conduct of Rainsford was so strange,
and he spoke so confidently of going away
soon, that both the colonel and Mrs. Dangerfield
were surprised, anxious, and almost offended.
The depression, the paleness, and the
traces of tears on the face of Virginia also
caught their attention; and when the young
man retired, and Mrs. Dangerfield sought her
room, the unhappy girl followed, and throwing
herself into her arms, sobbed as if her heart
would break. She told her mother all, and the
mother discreetly, tenderly, yet firmly, advised
her to let Rainsford go; nay, to encourage his
going; the sooner the better.
“Were it poverty, sickness, imprudence,
any thing but guilt,” said she, “I would not
urge you to break your engagement. But
this, this is too terrible; no pledge, no obligation
ought to be considered binding in a case
like this; since nothing can be more certain,
my dear, than that, without administering in
the least to his happiness, you must inevitably
sacrifice your own.”
“But, dear mother, perhaps my presence,
my affectionate attentions, my watchful cares,
my never-ceasing kindness, might do something
towards his happiness. It may be only a constitutional
hypochondria; and physicians say, that the best
way of curing this is to call up agreeable impressions
and anticipations. Let me try; do,
dearest mother!”
The mother sighed, and shook her head.
“Ah! Virginia, yours are but the dreams of
youth—and female youth. To you, and such
as you, love is the soul of existence, the object
and the end of life. It can do all with you,
and you think it can do the like with all. But
there are miracles it cannot perform, and this
is one. Know you not that when the mind is
fairly unhinged, and swings with creaking
harshness from its usual bearings, nine times
in ten the objects of our dearest love become
those of our deepest hate. Insanity distorts
every thing, and this among the rest. It
must be so: you must be separated.”
“But whither can he go?” exclaimed Virginia,
in anguish. “He has no kindred, no
friends; nay, scarcely an acquaintance but ourselves;
for his peculiar situation has kept him, he
says, aloof from all association with his fellow-creatures.
What will become of him should
his malady overtake him among strangers?”
“Be not afraid, my dearest daughter. Go
where he may, he will find good hearts to pity,
and afford him all the cares and comforts of
which he may be susceptible.”
“Yes, a chain, a cell, and a grave,” sighed
Virginia; “a strait waistcoat, a cudgel, and a
brute to lay it on.”
“Necessity, my love, has no law of kindness
or forbearance.”
“Yet, I cannot but think that kindness and
forbearance might often take the place of brutal
force. Let me try, O let me try, dear
mother! a little while, only a little while—
until we see the end.”
“The risk is too great; the penalty that
may be paid for it too dear. Neither I nor thy
father can consent to it. But enough for tonight,
to-morrow all must be settled. Good
night, my love; and may angels watch over
thy innocence.”
“Good night, dear mother.” She kissed her
mother, and reposed her head a moment on her
bosom. “Good night, dear mother,” repeated
she once more, and slowly left the room. She
sat a long while at the window, pondering
over her unhappy situation, and shuddering
at the prospect before poor Rainsford. Nature
seemed to lower in sympathy with her sad forebodings,
for the night was one of pitchy darkness
and death-like repose, save when the
flashes of zig-zag lightning passed like fiery serpents,
with forked tongues, athwart the lowering
clouds rearing their heavy volumes above
the cliffs on the other side of the river, followed
by the distant thunder, which ever and anon
grew louder, and more near. By the light of
one of the flashes she thought she saw a figure,
stalking near the window which looked out
upon the little greensward. She was somewhat
alarmed; when a well-known voice addressed
her in an under tone.
“Virginia, know you what day of the week
and month this is?”
“Saturday, the tenth of May,” she replied.
“Ay, I thought I was right in my reckoning;
it is the glorious anniversary,—it is the day on
which my last brother, the last of all but me,
died, as I shall die.”
“O, don't break my heart! go home, I beseech
you, Rainsford. The storm is coming across
the river, and you will be drenched with rain.
Quick, quick, there's not a moment to be lost.”
“Well, let it come; the rain will cool my
brains, and if the wind should be strong, it may
blow down some high tree, and dash them out.
Farewell, farewell.”
She saw him dart away into the forest, and
the gentle, blessed guest, the cherub sleep,
visited not her pillow that long melancholy
night, during a great part of which the heavens
seemed on fire, and the earth shivering beneath
the crash of the angry thunders.
| CHAPTER VI. Westward ho! | |