 | CHAPTER XVII. Westward ho! |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
A secret which Mrs. Judith would have given her ears
to hear.
Another autumn had now arrived with all
its mellow beauties, and the hazy Indian summer
threw its soft obscurity over the land, giving
to distant objects the tints of an early twilight,
and to those more near all the effect of
distance. The flowers were all gone, but the
rich and varied tints of the woods supplied their
places; and though the air was not so genial
as that of the laughing, jolly springtime, it possessed
an even, sober temperature, that without
relaxing the frame, disposed to exercise and
activity. Rainsford was now restored to perfect
health of mind and body, and Virginia to
the sober certainty of happiness. The colonel
and Mrs. Dangerfield felt their confidence in
the permanency of his recovery every day increasing,
and no longer opposed the union of
the lovers, who were soon to be united for ever.
Their hours passed cheeringly away in the enjoyment
of the society of each other, either
within doors or in rambles by the river-side.
The first time they visited the spot where the
demon of fanaticism had tempted him so sorely,
Rainsford shuddered at the recollection of that
hour. He remembered as a horrid dream his
feelings and his purpose at that time, and he
more touchingly than ever what he owed to the
kind being he had once devoted to destruction.
His heart overflowed with gratitude and tenderness;
he looked at her with his soul in his
eyes; and it was not so much the touching
beauty of her face, the perfection of her form,
nor all the harmony of female loveliness he saw
before him that occupied his mind, as the idea
of the faithful, gentle maiden, who had under so
many circumstances of discouragement consented
to trust her happiness to his care, and
contributed so materially to make him capable
of guarding so sacred a deposite. The fulness
of his heart overpowered him, and he dropped
his head on her shoulder.
Virginia was startled with the apprehension
that the sight of old scenes had recalled some
of those feelings and apprehensions which she
had hoped were now banished for ever from
his mind. She asked him fearfully what was
the cause of his emotions, and hinted at her
suspicions.
“It does, indeed,” said he, mournfully, and
raising his head, “it does, indeed, remind me
of what I would give all the world but you,
Virginia, to forget. But you shall know all.
You shall know the risk you once encountered
from me; but which, I have full faith in Heaven,
will never be encountered again. But you
shall know all—I will have no secrets from
thee, Virginia. Before you give yourself to me
for ever, it is proper, it is my sacred duty to disclose
what I have intended, as well as what I
have done. My honour demands it of me.”
He then detailed the turn given to his mind,
already almost overborne with the presentiment
which had poisoned so great a portion
of his cup of existence, by the fiery fanatic
who had preached in the village the year preceding.
He painted the struggles of his feelings;
the final adoption of his determination;
the time and manner in which he so nearly
completed his purpose; and his final abandonment,
after a contest which brought on the
fever, that, owing to the blessings of her fostering
care, had terminated in his restoration to
happiness. We have before observed, that
Rainsford had lost all recollection of the period
which elapsed between his first derangement
and his recovery.
“Now, Virginia, you know all, and here, on
the spot where you first pledged yourself to be
mine, do I now give you full liberty to withdraw
it. I love you with an affection made up of
every ingredient that can enter into the composition
of love; true, lasting, and unwavering
love. I will, if after this you dare trust me,
devote myself, my time, my talents, my very
soul, to your happiness. Whatever you wish
me to be, that will I be. If retirement, and domestic
occupations be your wish, so shall it be.
If honour, if ambition allure you, I feel I have
that within me can make me whatsoever I strive
to become; and you shall see me, if I live, take
any place wherever you point your finger.
Now, Virginia, once more my fate is in your
hands—decide, and for ever. Dare you trust
me after this?”
“As I did before it; as I shall for ever after
Rainsford clasped her, for the first time, in
his arms, and called her by every name dear to
the heart of woman.
“I have not broken my oath,” said he, releasing
her, “for I can now look back upon the
past, and forward to the future, with a confident
hope, a settled conviction that I have fulfilled
my destiny; I have a presentiment, dearest
Virginia.”
“Ah! Rainsford, beware of presentiments.
If they are ever prophetic, it is that they contribute,
like prophecies, to their own fulfilment.
I am convinced that the true source of various
maladies of mind and body, is in the predisposition
given by a presentiment that they will
surely happen.”
“True—most certain—where did you become
so wise,” said Rainsford, smiling.
“Have I not a wise and virtuous mother?”
was the sensible reply. “But now that you
have told your secret, I will tell you mine.”
“Yours? you secrets too? Beware, or I
shall take you for another Mrs. Judith Paddock.”
“Yes, I; I knew of the intention you have
just disclosed, at the time.”
“You? you?” cried he, in astonishment.
“You knew it?”
“Yes, Rainsford; you thought I was looking
at the evening star, when you held the
weapon over me. But I saw it.”
“And neither shrieked, nor fled nor fainted
at the time; nor hated me afterwards! O, Virginia,
was it possible?”
“You forget,” said she, modestly, “who, and
what I am; I call myself a daughter of Old
Kentucky. You forget that when we first
came hither, danger walked like the pestilence,
in daylight and in darkness, through these
forests; that we never laid down at night without
the expectation that before morning we
should be roused by the yell of death; that we
never, for years, could calculate an hour on the
possession of life; and that I, yes, Rainsford, I
and my dear mother, have more than once
stood by our husband and father, when the
savages were approaching to set fire to our
house, loading the guns that he and his people
were discharging at the painted warriors. You
forget that we had become familiar with death,
and that the spot on which we stand is part of
that region called the `dark and bloody
ground.' Are you not afraid I shall shoot you
one of these days?” added she, playfully.
“No, by Heaven! I am only afraid I shall
always, when I approach you, feel as the fox
did when he came into the presence of the lion.”
“O yes! I thank you. But don't you remember
how soon the fox got over this?”
“Well, well, my sweetest, best Virginia,
though I may not fear, I hope you will allow
me to worship you?”
“O, by all means, provided you won't treat
me as the worshippers of idols sometimes do
their wooden divinities, when they don't grant
their unreasonable desires.”
The horn, which it was customary to blow,
dinner, now echoed far and wide, reminding
them of the progress of the time, and they
turned towards home with lighter steps and
lighter hearts than they had known for many
a day.
On a certain Christmas eve, Virginia, having
completed her twentieth year, which put her
in possession, as Rainsford now learned for the
first time, of a handsome fortune, left her by an
aunt, when but a year old, resigned to his care
a heart worth all the jewels of the Persian diadem,
a person lovely and pure as the first flower
of spring. We will not describe her dress, or
that of the bridegroom, for we fear they were
both deplorably deficient in fashion and material.
We have heard confidentially that the costume
of the bride contained no more than
twelve yards of muslin, which the milliners,
whom we consider the highest authority, assure
us, is one-third less than appertains to a reasonable
woman, meaning a woman of reasonable
dimensions. As for master Dudley Rainsford,
he had no whiskers, and that is quite enough
to consign him to utter oblivion in the ranks of
fashion. There was neither waltz nor gallopade
danced on the occasion, but of all the
happy faces and white teeth ever exhibited in
this new world those that peeped into the
doors, and eke the windows too, of Colonel
Dangerfield, were the happiest and the whitest.
There stood Pompey Ducklegs the Great,
who still lives, and if it is in our power to
make him, shall live for ever, whose masticators
still held out in all their glorious array
stood Pompey the Little; and by his side the
gentle dusky Venus, yclept Cora, waiting-maid
to the beauteous bride, partaking in her dignity,
and as it were, a portion of the wedding itself; and
here, and there, and everywhere, peeped forth
faces that shone like lumps of anthracite coal,
or well-blacked boots, all with eyes dancing out
of their heads; and all with hearts gladdened
at the happy wedding of young missee. And
well might they love her, for she was kind to
them all.
It was a great day for the great Pompey
Ducklegs, that last remnant of the Old Virginia
aristocracy. He bustled and bragged
away about old times, and after telling the
young fry about his travels to St. Louis, and
all that, concluded by solemnly giving it as his
opinion, “that after all there was nothing like
Old Phiginny, Icod! she never tire, I say dat
for she.” Pompey the Little (it was at supper
where the ebony race crowded as much enjoyment
in an hour as other people do in a whole
winter of dissipation) Pompey the Little,
however affirmed, that for his part he thought
young Miss Phiginny worth a dozen of Old Phiginny.
Whereupon the great Ducklegs corrected
himself, and magnanimously acceded to
the amendment, at the same time asserting the
dignity of age, by reminding the young “racksal,”
how he disgraced his family, by losing
the great race of Barebones against lady Molly
Magpie. These merry varlets kept up the rout
and revelry in the kitchen, hours after that
period in the history of lovers which all discreet
of their readers.
“Why is marriage like death?” said Caroline
Lilliwhite to Rodolph, Count of Sweighausenbergenstein.
“Because,” said the count, “all romances end
with one or the other.”
In deference to such high authority as the
count, who has the finest crop of whiskers in
town, and reads Goëthe, we shall here close our
tale, which, the reader is assured, we could with
perfect ease carry through two more volumes,
if necessary. But we cannot part with some
of our old acquaintance for ever without a passing
notice and farewell.
Mr. Ulysses Littlejohn is, or was a few years
ago, one of the oldest, and, if not one of the
wisest, certainly one of the happiest old men in
all “Old Kentuck.” That lucky indifference
to the little rubs and crosses of life, which is a
better shield than the hide of Achilles or the
presumptuous affectation of philosophy, preserves
him even from the pettishness of age and
infirmity. There is, moreover, a sort of easy,
old-shoe character about him that fits everybody
and pinches nobody. Even his growing
infirmities have not spoiled his temper, and he
is wont to felicitate himself on the indolent
habits of his life, which, now that he is unable
to take exercise, relieve him from the impatience
of idleness and inactivity. One day, old Pompey,
who still flourishes his duck legs in immortal
youth, was condoling with him on not being
as active as himself.
“Ah! Massa Leetlejohn, what pity you no
good leg.”
“Pomp,” replied Ulysses, “I wouldn't have
such a pair of legs as yours for a gift; why,
they're just the shape of a gourd. I was reckoned
once to have the handsomest leg in all
Prince William.”
“Eh! once 'pon a time worst time in the
world. Once 'pon a time catch massa one of
dese days.”
“Well, let him, Pomp; I won't run away.”
“No, ecod; I tink massa no run from Old
Death himself.”
Mrs. Judith Paddock—but she's dead, rest
her soul! we killed her off some time ago. But
Master Zeno still lives in the anticipation that
New Pekin will yet fulfil its glorious destiny.
He has, indeed, strong reasons to anticipate the
speedy arrival of this great consummation; for
though not above ten years have elapsed since
the foundation of this illustrious city, it did at
one time actually contain three log houses.
True it is, they were swept away one day by
an inundation, and floated down Big Dry River
in great style, until they were arrested and converted
into pigsties. But their having once
been built is a good omen; and Master Zeno
is, or was not many years since, keeping an
hotel in a broad-horn moored in Big Dry, near
the site of the great city, where he sells whis
key and other necessaries of life to the boatmen,
and is one of the happiest of men, in the anticipation
of the future glories of New Pekin. He
no longer prints the Western Sun, for that was
extinguished by the freshet which destroyed
his types, his printing-press, and his printer's
devil.
That worthy Scot, Kenneth Mactabb, having
grown immensely rich, was in the decline of
his days mortally smitten with the Swiss malady.
He accordingly paid a visit to his early
home; but he found, to his cost, that after a
man has been forty years absent from his country,
he may as well stay away altogether; for
he will return only to visit the graves of his
early associates. Disappointed at finding himself
alone, even on the spot of his nativity, and
too old to begin to plant the seed of affection in
a new soil, with any hope of ever living to taste
the fruits, he came back to America, and ended
his days on the banks of James River. He did
many generous acts worthy of record, but never
could thoroughly get the better of his old habit
of saving a penny. The last clause of his
will forgave an old friend a debt of thousands,
and the last act of his life was stooping to pick
up a pin.
Conversing with a Missouri trader some years
ago, we accidentally heard news of our old acquaintance
Bushfield. It seems he had gradually
receded, as the tide of white population
flowed onwards, towards the setting sun, and
at length established himself somewhere in the
vicinity of one of our most remote military posts
on the Missouri, where he frequently came to
exchange his game and furs for powder, lead,
and other indispensable articles. His luxuriant
head of hair had become as white as the driven
snow; his keen, watchful, deep-blue eye, though
resolute expression; and his person was as
straight as an arrow. He regularly hunted on
the confines of those vast plains where the buffaloes
still lingered, and his great complaint
was, that he could scarcely hear his dog bark
or his gun go off in this tarnation place, where
there was no echo, and where the sounds never
came back again, but were lost in the interminable
vastness of space.
“One morn they miss'd him;” another and
another came, and he did not appear. This
excited no attention, as he was often absent for
weeks together. Shortly after, however, a party
of hunters from the fort discovered him sitting
upright against a tree, his rifle between his legs,
and resting on his shoulder. He had shot his
last shot, killed his last buffalo, and sunk into
his last sleep. The animal was lying at a little
distance, and his dog crouching at his feet, unconscious
that the repose of his master was to
last until the day of judgment. They buried
him among the graves of their dead comrades,
and many a hardy soldier said to himself,
“Peace to the remains of the old hunter, one
of the last of the companions of Boone!”
Did Colonel and Mrs. Dangerfield ever live
to regret their consent, or did Virginia receive
the reward of her tenderness, her gratitude, her
perseverance, and her strong faith? We are
happy in being able to reply to the first interrogatory
in the negative, to the second in the
affirmative. Some years have now elapsed,
and Virginia and Rainsford become more happy
every passing year, as their confidence in each
be idle, as it would not be true, to say that this
happiness was not at first shaded by occasional
painful recollections of the past and apprehensions
of the future. But these carried with
them their own antidotes, in the increased tenderness
and solicitude of Virginia to administer
to the happiness of Rainsford, and his profound
gratitude and affection when he remembered
the debt he owed her. In short, the present
content and fruition at length swallowed up the
recollection of past sorrows, dispersed the clouds
of the future, and laid the foundation of a solid,
permanent reliance on the goodness of Providence.
Virginia has of late encouraged Rainsford to
employ his ample wealth in the improvement
of the surrounding country, and his fine talents
in public life. Both Leonard Dangerfield and
himself are now running a brilliant career in
goodly fellowship; and Virginia sees with delight,
that while the mind of her husband is
occupied in grasping the vast magnitude of
those subjects which connect themselves with
the welfare and glory of our native land, it
gathers strength, and acquires new brilliancy
in the exercise. He no longer broods over himself
and his petty apprehensions, but forgets
them all in the noble ambition of being useful
to others. Our heroine is rewarded as she deserves
to be, for she leads a life of love and
virtue, and her path is illuminated by the consciousness
of having persevered in the payment
of a debt of gratitude. She still lives, and we
trust long will live, happy in the devoted affection
proud; in the full enjoyment of a woman's best
dower,—the love of her parents, her brother,
her neighbours, and her dependants.
The moral of our tale will, we trust, be found
in the warning it holds forth against the approaches
of fanaticism, the weak indulgence
of PRESENTIMENTS OF EVIL; the testimony
it bears, that while there is life there is hope,
and that nothing is more worthy the special
interposition of a gracious Providence in our
behalf than a perseverance in all the kind offices
of humanity towards those on whom the hand
of misfortune hath been heavily laid.
| CHAPTER XVII. Westward ho! | |