 | CHAPTER XIV. Westward ho! |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
A criticism on epitaphs.
Though it was now hazy autumn, yet the
air in this mild climate was quite genial at
times, and the calm silence of the night in this
orderly little village invited to contemplation
as well as repose. The chamber of Virginia
looked into the churchyard of the little ancient
edifice, where reposed the ashes of the generations
that had passed away. The region of the
narrow house was marked by those expressive
little hillocks whose ominous size and shape
give token of the uses to which they are appropriated.
Nature, as if abhorring the very idea
of extinction, seldom, if ever, forms any thing
like a grave; and go where we will, in the
churchyard, the forest, or the field, we can tell
almost instinctively the spot where repose the
last remnants of mortality from all others.
Most of the graves were marked by a white
cross, the emblem of an ancient and respectable
faith; and a few distinguished by tombstones
of snowy marble, standing like sheeted
ghosts of dignity and distinction amid the lowly
plebeian race around them, affording significant
indications that pride as well as hope
looks beyond the grave. The little gray church,
unspoiled by paint, had an air of dignity derived
from its antique form and simple plainness,
ends to which it had been so long consecrated.
It called not up ideas of pride, or wealth, or
arrogance, but of primitive simplicity, dignified
poverty, and lowly humility, which better, far
better than all the vulgar trappings of decoration,
all the titles of ecclesiastical aristocracy,
accord with the vocation of those whose highest,
most endearing title is that of a shepherd,
whose most dignified employment that of tending
their flocks.
The night had been some time on the track
of morning as Virginia sat contemplating the
scene before her, and occasionally soaring into
the regions of the past or the future, as memory
or imagination took the reins. The waning
moon, “like sky-hung Indian bow,” was fast
sinking towards the western horizon, and the
long shadows began to be more and more indistinct.
Beyond the church she had a full view
of the river, across which a single line of light
threw its long narrow radiance, looking like a
silver bridge athwart some fabled tide, for the
nymphs and river-gods to enact their nightly
sports, or bask in the rays of the regent of the
starry empire.
Presently her attention was attracted by the
appearance of a figure bounding from the little
porch of the church, and bending its steps
among the quiet people; now stopping as if to
read the inscriptions; now hurrying from one
to another, and anon throwing itself full length
on a grave. The moon now sank behind the
Mamelles, and in the starry light she could not
distinguish whether it was man or woman;
for the indistinct murmurings of a human voice
fell faintly on her ear at intervals. After remaining
quiet on the bed of death, it started up
on a sudden, and seemed to be employed in digging
with its hands. Virginia was happily ignorant
of the refinements of a highly-cultivated
state of society, one of the indications of which
is the existence of a race of wretches who violate
the sanctity of the tomb, and bring about
an untimely resurrection of those sacred remains
which savages revere, and none but
Christians violate. Yet still she shuddered
with a vague horror at the midnight occupation
of the figure, which, after continuing awhile
apparently scratching up the earth, all of a sudden
ceased, on hearing the faint sound of oars
proceeding from a boat coming down the river,
and sought concealment in the place from
whence it had emerged. Curiosity retained
her at the window some time longer, but, seeing
it did not return, she sought her pillow;
and it was not till the first crowing of the cock
that the gentle visitant of night poured the blessing
of oblivion on her pillow.
She arose in the morning pale and languid,
and answered the inquiries of her friends by
relating what she had seen during the night.
Various were the conjectures of the parents, but
Leonard said nothing. He had his suspicions,
but wisely kept them to himself, as every discreet
man should. The honest landlord, however,
soon set them all to rights. It was a
ghost, which had appeared at about the same
the great consternation of the village.
“But Father Jacques will be here to-morrow,”
said he, “and soon settle his business.”
“Why don't you set a watch, and find out
who or what it is?” asked Colonel Dangerfield.
“Why, monsieur, we did; but somehow or
other, just before the time it generally comes
they all got so sleepy they couldn't keep their
eyes open; and as they couldn't well watch
with them shut, you know, monsieur, they
thought they might as well go home and sleep
quietly in their beds.”
“A very judicious decision, certainly. But
didn't the Yankee curiosity induce some of
them to see it out?”
“O no, monsieur; the Yankees don't believe
in any thing, I think. They doubt the divine
right of the king and the infallibility of the pope.
Diable! I was wrong; they do believe in roads,
canals, and the blessings of liberty.”
The appearance of the ghost made Leonard
Dangerfield more anxious than ever to leave
the village, and he pressed it with such earnestness,
that Virginia could not help asking,—
“Why, Leonard, what has come over you?
I never saw you in a fidget before. I do believe
you are frightened at the prospect of a
visit from the ghost.”
“Perhaps I am,” said he, with a sad sort of
smile.
“Well, for my part, I have not seen a place
since we left home I like so well as this little,
odd, old-fashioned village; it is so quiet and so
idle, that I feel infected with a delightful inclination
of my life.”
But Leonard urged their departure so strenuously,
and gave so many good reasons that
were good for nothing, that it was at length
settled to leave the village immediately after
breakfast. Accordingly, after receiving the compliments
of mine host, who declared to Mrs.
Dangerfield he was much puzzled to tell the
mother from the daughter; and to Virginia,
laying his hand on his heart, that he was in
despair at her going; they set out on their return
to St. Louis. Immediately on their arrival,
Leonard discovered the loss of his pocketbook,
and declared the necessity of returning to
look for it. Virginia laughed, which she had
seldom done of late.
“Well, I declare I'm almost glad of it. Never
let me hear you again scold me for dropping a
handkerchief, or tell me to my face that one
quarter of my life has been spent in looking for
lost keys. If you do, I shall certainly quote the
incident of the pocket-book. Shall I lend you
some money to pay your expenses? Poor
man!”
“Some young men would be willing to lose
their pocket-books for such a smile as that,”
said Leonard, gayly.
This speech turned the current of her thoughts
into their accustomed channel, and checked her
vivacity in a moment. She thought of who it
was that once valued her smiles, and soon became
lost in a labyrinth of doubts and anxieties
as to what had become of him. The stream
that has been diverted from its course by artificial
its wonted channel, carrying all before it, and
deepening its bed.
Leonard Dangerfield lost no time in returning
to the village, where he found his pocketbook
without difficulty, but did not find poor
Rainsford, who, except when compelled by
hunger, never appeared; for it seemed he had
some secret haunt which no one had discovered,
or indeed thought worth seeking. His
hopes now rested on the night, and he stationed
himself at a window which commanded a view
of the churchyard, with a resolution to watch
as ong as he could keep himself awake. It
was after midnight, and the silence of death
reigned in the village, when he saw something
moving about among the tombstones and
graves with little white crosses. Determined
at once to satisfy his doubts as to the nature
of this mystery, he sallied forth and cautiously
entered the churchyard, where,shrouded among
the high grass he at length discovered the object
of his search, lying with his face upwards,
as he had described himself in his interview
with the landlord.
“Rainsford! Rainsford!” said Leonard, in a
gentle tone.
“Whose ghost are you?” exclaimed he, bounding
on his feet; “if you're a lawyer, here's
your fee; if a doctor, you must demand it of
the good folks hereabouts. You'll find all your
patients here.”
“Don't talk so madly, Rainsford; you know
who I am well enough.”
“Yes, I know you; you're the preacher that
Bible that I had nothing but texts in it for a
month. But you needn't come here, for these
people never subscribe to build churches, or
print tracts. Let the old worm-eaten trunks
alone, can't you.”
“Come with me, Rainsford, come into the
house and they will give you a comfortable bed,
come.”
“Pooh! don't you see I am digging my grave?
when I've done it I shall come and bury myself
slyly, for fear of the doctors. You must know,
old black coat, this is consecrated ground, and
your true orthodox worm won't eat a heretic.
So I shall be safe enough, like a mole, if I only
once get under ground.”
“Rainsford, dear Rainsford! come with me.”
“How often must I tell you my name is not
Rainsford? that is the name of a race that all
ran mad. Now I, sir, Mr. Snortgrace I mean,
I am as much in my senses as the man in the
moon himself. Come, come, sit down here,
and we'll have a talk; a little piece of secret
biography, for there's nobody to blab here.”
He drew Leonard towards a grave, who, being
determined to humour him, sat down by his
side.
“Yes, here, here—no, here on this grave—
there's one below that broke his mother's heart,
and yet he escaped hanging, and got an excellent
epitaph. I wonder if the worms have any
stomach for such rascals. Just here is another
pretty boy that was hanged for murder,
yet they gave him a public funeral, and made
a saint of him afterwards. And here's a precious
for a poor widow, and then pocketed the whole
on pretence that her dead husband owed him
money. Yet he got a funeral sermon, and was
buried with the honours of war.”
Leonard again urged him to go into the
house, for the morning air was becoming raw
and cold, and the white fogs were rising lazily
from the river, with fever and agues on their
wings.
“What!” cried he, “are you afraid of your
precious bones? My bones are of steel, and
my heart is flint, and so when I feel cold I've
nothing to do but strike fire with them and
warm myself. Don't you think that an economical
way of making fire, old Snortgrace? I'll
not stir a peg; go to bed yourself, if you had
rather sleep than talk reason. If you'd only
stay I'd tell you why one star is bigger than
another. I am in jolly company, and see how
gloriously my drawing-room is lighted. No
wonder your ghosts of any taste love to walk
by moonlight.”
Just then a cloud darkened the low waning
moon.
“Ay, ay, my lady! you may well hide your
face. I'll swear there is something villanous
going on in the world just now; and you
turn your back, like a watchman, that you
may pretend not to see it. Some plunderer is
abroad; adultery and seduction is going on
somewhere; or else—yes, that must be it;
some murderer is lifting his knife to send some
one to kingdom-come before his time. I'll tell
you what, Snortgrace, if there is any part of
from midnight to daylight.”
Here he fumbled about very busily for a few
moments, paying no attention to the persuasions
and remonstrances of Dangerfield.
“I wish I could find it.”
“What?” said the other.
“It is erected to the glorious memory of a
fellow that cheated his orphan sisters out of
fifty thousand dollars, and tried to cheat heaven
by making it an accomplice, and building
a church with part of the money. It would
surprise you to read what a good man he was
for all that; he built this church with part of
his sisters' portion. They lie somewhere yonder,
without a memorial; but I've an idea they
don't howl quite so musically as some folks.
See! the business is done,” continued he, as the
moon emerged from the cloud; “there's some
poor damsel the worse for the last half hour;
or what's just as likely, there's hot blood smoking
on some knife that will be used to cut bread
with next Sunday.”
Leonard was becoming chilled with cold,
and impatient withal at this rambling folly, and
asked him,
“Will you go home with me, for the last
time?”
“No, I scorn to accept bed or board from any
man. I am a fellow of clear estate, and pay
my way as I go. I owe nobody a shilling, and
here I mean to sleep till doomsday, which is the
day before to-morrow, according to last years'
almanac—hic jacet—look here—here I am,”
the ground: “Here, between two capital fellows;
on one side is a lawyer, who never exerted
himself but in a bad cause; and on the
other a client, who was ruined by gaining a
lawsuit. Worshipful company! Good night,
Snortgrace, I must to my studies, now I think
of it, and not lie idle here. There's a learned
mouse discussing the folios, yonder; I must go
and assist him, for some passages are a little
too hard for his teeth. Good day, good day,
old Snortgrace.”
He attempted to rise, but the stiffness occasioned
by the chill of the night, added to the
exhaustion of his frame by abstinence the whole
day, and violent declamations during the preceding
interview, had so worn him out that he
sunk down again, and became perfectly silent.
On attempting to raise him, Dangerfield found
his limbs were entirely relaxed, and that
he had become insensible. He exerted his
strength, lifted his light emaciated body from
the ground, and bore him into the house, where
he laid him on his own bed, and roused the
landlord to his assistance. By degrees he recovered
his animation, but his pulse was high,
his skin burnt like fire, and a physician being
sent for in the morning, pronounced him in a
high fever.
| CHAPTER XIV. Westward ho! | |