Border beagles a tale of Mississippi |
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| 5. | CHAPTER V. |
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 | CHAPTER V. Border beagles |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
The law is satisfied: they can but die.”
The Old Law.
A new spirit rose in his bosom as he beheld this
movement. “Why should I not pursue?” was the
involuntary self-inquiry of his mind. He grew
stronger as he proposed it. The stiffness of his
wounded limb seemed to lessen, and grasping the
staff with which he had been wont to hobble across
his chamber in the last two days, he moved forward
with a degree of rapidity that was scarcely justified
by prudence. Unseen, he passed through the gallery,
descended the steps, followed the lightly-beaten footpath
which he had seen her take around the garden,
and was soon hidden in the same forests which yet
concealed her from his sight. A new thought entered
his mind at this moment. A keen pang of jealousy
thrilled through his heart. “What if I intrude
upon a sacred privacy? Goes she not to meet this
smiling fellow—this Saxon—this pleasing wordmonger?
Walk they not together daily? Wherefore
should I approach them?” Had the question
been answered by his reason merely, he would most
probably have returned to the dwelling without farther
search. But he remembered the backward
that memory, which answered nothing and told nothing,
had yet a signification of more effect upon his
heart than all the arguments of his mind to his understanding.
He went forward, and she had neither fled
so far nor so fast, but that he was able to overtake
her. She sat upon a fallen pine—one that the hurricane
had but lately wrested from its foundation, the
foliage yet green upon its branches. The long
leaves hung around, and half-shrouded her from his
sight. Him she saw not, but remained in her sitting
posture, unconscious of his approach, until he was
within a few paces of her. Then she started to her
feet—then he beheld that face—those eyes once
more turned upon him, and he fancied they had
been glistening with tears. But this might have
been a fancy only—what need had she to weep?
He saw no tears, and dismissed the suspicion from his
mind; but he could not doubt that her cheeks were
more pale than usual, and the languid brightness of
her eyes—their dewy softness—could not be mistaken.
There were certainly some keen sensibilities
at work within her bosom. He was moved instinctively
by this conviction—he felt that there were
some weaknesses in his own, but he strove to silence
and put down that ever ready consciousness which
is so apt, in every young man's bosom, to convert
into his special divinity the first passable damsel
whom he sees. Vernon was a youth of calm, good
sense, and he was determined to keep his emotions of
blood and fancy from having their own way. He
assumed a lightness and gayety of tone when he
addressed her, which called for an effort. He took
her hand, re-conducted her to her seat, and placed
himself beside her while he spoke.
“Give me joy, Miss Wilson, that I am at last able
to find out your favourite walks. I caught a glimpse
as I beheld the ease of your flight. I have long
envied you these walks,—let me make you my acknowledgments,
since it is, perhaps, owing to your
friendly cares that I am so soon able to enjoy them.”
“Not to mine—not to mine,” was her hasty reply.
“I have done but little, Mr. Vernon—I am
very happy that any thing that we could do should
have been agreeable to one to whom we owe so
much. You—”
“Ah! you would remind me of a happy moment
—but you need not; I am too proud of having
served you, however slightly, to forget my own
good deeds. I may not boast of them, but I need
no help to persuade me to remember them; they will
always form a part of that pleasant chronicle, Miss
Wilson, which the heart makes of its fortunate
events. I shall set them all down together with the
five days enjoyed in your cottage.”
“Enjoyed, Mr. Vernon?” was the smiling question.
“Endured, you mean.”
“No, enjoyed,” was the answer. “The pain of
the illness is soon forgotten in the cares of the nurse;
and the kindness which has soothed is always a
pleasure to be remembered, even when the pain is
forgotten. Let me say, then, how sweet to me is
the obligation of gratitude which I feel to you and
yours, for the pleasant cares which have ministered
to my feebleness and need.”
“Do not speak of it, Mr. Vernon. My father
has only done his duty. But for you, we know not
what might have happened to us. You saved us at
the hazard of your life, and what we have done
called for no hazard.”
“But much trouble—much annoyance—”
“No, no! Mr. Vernon—it was a pleasure, sir—
to—”
She paused—the jealousy of a nice maiden delicacy
became apprehensive that her gratitude might
express itself too warmly. Gratitude she knew was
justified, but that had its own language, and the caution
was only a proper one, lest she might employ for
its expression the language of a warmer sentiment.
Perhaps Vernon detected something of this consciousness,
for he put his hand upon hers with a
gentle effort to detain it in his grasp, as he said,
hurriedly—
“Speak, Miss Wilson—go on.”
She withdrew her hand—the flush was renewed
upon her face, but she said nothing. A moment followed
of awkward silence to them both, which was
only broken by a strong and decided effort on the
part of Vernon. His lively manner had utterly departed
in the first few moments of their interview,
and it was with a gravity natural on many accounts
to his situation that he renewed the conversation.
“Next,” he said, “to my acknowledgments for
your hospitality and kindness, Miss Wilson, is the
desire which I feel to place myself in a right point
of view before you. I would seek to assure and
convince you that your kindness has not been bestowed
upon a criminal, though I have no proof beyond
my own asseveration, by which to convince
you that I am utterly guiltless of this murder which
is laid to my charge.”
“Oh, think not, Mr. Vernon, that we believe—
that we can believe this foolish charge—I am sure
—I know that it is groundless.”
“On my honour, you do me only justice. The
shedding of blood—the taking of life—is an offence
against humanity from which my soul would shrink,
unless in a case of absolute necessity. The only
deed of the kind of which I have ever been guilty
is one that took place almost in your sight, and was
it.”
“Yes—yes!” faltered the maiden, with a shudder.
“The young man for whose death I have been
summoned to answer, was one of whom I knew but
little—nothing unfavourable—but on the contrary,
much which commanded my indulgence and regard.
I had neither quarrel to maintain against him, nor
interest to pursue; and my own objects, Miss Wilson,
were of a nature which made me particularly
desirous to avoid all strife and difficulty with any
and every body. That I have not been able to
avoid them, is due rather to my evil fortune than my
desire. I know nothing of the grounds upon which
this charge has been made against me, or of the parties
making it, but I trust soon, Miss Wilson, to
satisfy the judge of that innocence which you have
so kindly declared yourself willing to believe.”
“Oh, sir, we know—we hope it will be so. I am
sure there can be no doubt of it. My father says
he is certain you will be released, and Mr. Jamison
told me but yesterday that you no more committed
the crime than he did, and he will soon enough convince
the justice to that effect. He is very friendly
to you, sir, that Mr. Jamison.”
“A good fellow—a strange fellow, whom I never
saw before the evening of my arrival at Lucchesa;
but, like the frank men of our western forests generally,
he carries his heart in one hand and his weapon
in the other, always and equally ready whether for
friend or foe. I hope he may not be too sanguine in
this matter—I rely rather upon my own consciousness
of innocence than upon any knowledge of the
facts with which I am acquainted. I know nothing
of the circumstances upon which the accusation is
based.”
“Nor does he, I imagine; at least, he could tell
convictions in your favour seemed to arise from his
prepossessions; you are fortunate, Mr. Vernon, in
finding friends so readily—perhaps that fact alone
may be considered a presumption in your defence.”
“I am afraid it would go but a little way to my
acquittal; but then it can be nothing but a presumption
against me, and a presumption, unsupported
by strong circumstances, can do me little harm.
And yet, Miss Wilson, there is something in your
opinion which carries to my mind a hope scarce less
grateful than would be the assurance of my easy
escape from this cruel imputation.”
“What is that, sir?” she asked, innocently. The
question would have been left unspoken had she
looked up in his face when she replied, and beheld
the increasing brightness and piercing regard, contained
in his glance.
“That you found nothing strange or wonderful
—nothing unnatural or unexpected—in the supposed
facility with which I have secured the favouring
prepossessions of others. May I hope that he who
has won the friendship of the rude countryman, will
not be thought too presuming if he fancies that he
has also not vainly striven for that of the city maiden?
Your friendship, Miss Wilson, would be that
of beauty and youth, and education—taste without
artifice—opinion without rudeness, and intellectual
strength mingled with grace and sentiment. May
I hope for these—may I dream, in the vanity of a
too sanguine spirit, that in finding these qualities in
you, and estimating them at their true value when
found, I have not prayed in vain for the acquisition
of your regards. Your friendship—”
He paused—the sentence remained unfinished,
though its purport was no less clear to her mind
than it was in the mind of him who yet withheld its
more grateful it was, left unspoken, than if it had
been concluded. Vernon himself felt that it could
not be concluded as it then stood. It was too cold
a projected termination to matter that was naturally
rising into warmth, and a manner already warm
and beginning to be impassioned. He wisely stopped
short—short where he was—and she breathed less
freely under the pressure of a sentiment which was
strangely sweet, though almost suffocating. And
he—the glow upon his cheek made itself felt—the
tremors at his heart grew almost to a murmur like
the swift dropping of distant falling rain. Was it,
indeed, friendship that he solicited from the favouring
estimate of Virginia Wilson? At that moment
neither of them thought of friendship,—they thought
of any thing beside. The sympathy was of a
stronger sort which was stirring in the bosom of the
two, and it found its proper utterance at last.
But let us abridge the scene. Love passages are
rarely of interest to third parties; and either glide
into the bright fantastics, such as glow in the ethereal
world and season of a Romeo, or become, in
the measured economy of the modern calculator, a
question of portion, pin-money and proper establishment.
In either case, the reader or speculator yawns
in weariness or disgust, and is satisfied with those
results which tend to a final dismissal of all the parties.
We might hope—we certainly should pray—
for a better interest with these. Vernon was no
lovesick fantastic, though warmed by a temperament
never subdued, not always measured, and
sometimes endowed with no limited tongue for utterance;
but his passions were perhaps more governable
than those of most young men, and he had
gone through a long course of severe self-study, by
which they had not only been regulated to a certain
to a certain supremacy. This self-acquired power
kept his utterance within the bounds of good taste
and propriety—his love was that of the man and
the gentleman—his passions were those of civilization.
He had learned to know that blood frequently
presumes in the language of affection, and becomes
obtrusive because of a selfishness which it disguises
by another name,—he also knew that the first lesson
which true love has ever taught, is one of humility—
but that humility which is always allied to hope. Love
is the religion of the passions, and its zeal, though
warm and fiery, is still that of one officiating at high
altars, where the first sign of the advent of the god
is shown by the submission of the worshipper. By
gradual transitions—by the one mystic key-note—
the look, the word, which, here and there, suggests
the stages by which two hearts, having the same
journey to take, are gradually brought together—an
interest grew up in the breast of each, leading to a just
comprehension of the other; and ere the one spoke,
the other felt. Vernon, to his own surprise, discovered
that he had won a heart long before he ever
dreamed of looking for one; and Virginia Wilson—
certainly, until she met with our hero, she had never
thought it worth while to take any care of that, which
she now discovered it to be so seriously sweet a
business to surrender.
Though we have denied ourselves the pleasure of
beholding the love scene and hearkening to the love
dialogue between the parties, there was another
who, “squat like a toad” in the cover of the neighbouring
foliage, had no such scruples as restrain us.
He heard and witnessed all. This was the outlaw
Saxon. He had followed their footsteps, and had
penetrated to a spot which would enable him to arrive
at a knowledge as vexing to his spirit as was
He heard, with ill-suppressed fury, the whispered
word, half doubt, half tenderness—he saw the
smile which trembled in the eye it lightened—the
gentle meeting of those mingling hands, which,
under Love's slightest pressure, become instincts
themselves and of the most sensitive character;—
and no less new than bitter was the pang that went
through his own breast, as he beheld the happiness
he envied. He had only of late grown conscious
of a passion such as he had never felt before. He
had sought Virginia Wilson daily from the first
hour that her presence had shone upon his sight;
and under the pretence of an interest in his wounded
fellow-traveller, he had obtained access to her dwelling
with the purpose of pressing those attentions by
which he hoped to secure an interest in her heart.
He had joined her in her daily walks—was not
without that easy dialogue and graceful manner
which are of all things most essential to success
with women; and had striven with his best powers
to commend himself to her regards. Yet she had
shrunk from his pursuit; had discouraged the intimacy
at which he aimed—had responded coldly
to his conversation, and shown herself more than
commonly obtuse whenever he had striven to be
more than commonly intelligible. Yet, here was
one, who, almost without his own consciousness—
certainly, without design—had succeeded in that
which had tasked his utmost ability under the guidance
of a settled purpose and a deliberate scheme.
The mortification of his pride increased the pang of
his disappointment, and the vindictive determination
with which he had before regarded Vernon, now
assumed a deeper character in his mind.
“It is well,” was his thought, as he surveyed
the pair—“but the hour of vengeance is at hand.
shall see. Artful, and strong, and sagacious, as you
think yourself, you are in the toils. Deceived by
one traitor, Clement Foster will scarcely suffer himself,
hand and foot, to be manacled by another.
Pliant once, he is now unyielding; and by all that
is sacred in the love of the saint and the fear of the
sinner, you shall pay the penalty of your presumption
by your life. You would hunt the bear in his
native brake, beware of his embrace.”
He left the place of his concealment with a stealthy
step, and without disturbing the lovers, who were
now but too much absorbed with one another to
have senses for the rustling branches, or the slight
motion of a gliding form among the leaves. He
proceeded to the tavern with all the impatience of
hate and summoned his confederates, who played
the part of the officers of justice. To them he issued
his commands, and described the place in
which the lovers were still to be found.
“Seek him there,” said the vindictive outlaw;
“and seize on him at once. Give him no indulgence
—drag him away, though you find him in her arms.
Hear none of his promises—hearken to none of her
entreaties. The scoundrel is a spy upon us—another
Hurdis; and he deserves no mercy at our hands.
Away! you know the place.”
He saw them depart in the same instant, and
waited with malicious impatience, the result of his
previous mandate. The lovers meanwhile had prepared
to return to the cottage. They were already
on their way—the hand of the maiden in that of
Vernon's; her eyes cast upon the ground as she
listened to those accents so dear to the young heart
—those idle words and whispers, which, though
they sound sillily enough in the ears of third persons,
seem to the initiate more precious than manna in
by the ruffians who stood suddenly in the path
before them. Virginia shrunk back in alarm, while
a faint scream issued from her lips.
“How now, fellows! What mean you?” demanded
Vernon, who did not at first recognise
them.
“Fellows! indeed!” said one. “We'll see who's
the better fellow when Judge Nawls sets eyes upon
us. That's for being civil to you, I suppose, and
letting you off when we had you. But there's an
end to that. You must go along with us.”
“Along with you! Who are you?”
“Oh, you've no memory of us. I shouldn't be
surprised if you've forgot yourself too. You're not
Mr. Harry Vernon, that killed one Thomas Horsey,
and we aint the men that 'Squire Nawls sent to catch
you. Come, come, young 'un, that's not doing the
thing handsomely—that's not keeping to your promise.
You must go along with us at once, so drop the
young lady's arm, and here's our'n. It aint quite so
soft a one, it's true, but, by the hokey, it's better able
to help you, and then you know, need must when the
devil drives—so no grumbling.”
The action of the ruffian corresponded with his
words. His hand was already extended toward the
collar of Vernon's coat, when, stepping back a pace,
the indignant youth lifted his staff with a promptness
and determination which drove the fellow back much
faster than he had advanced. In another instant,
however, a calmer mood filled the mind of Vernon.
“This is all idle. I certainly do not mean to resist
these men—I have no reason to fear the magistrate.”
Such were his thoughts as he turned to Virginia.
“Miss Wilson, forgive me. I am giving you a
needless alarm. These are the officers of justice,
and seeing me well enough to travel, they naturally
to the house?—I will follow you. I would speak
with them awhile.”
He led her forward until they had passed the officers,
then left her to proceed alone while he returned
to them.
“Gentlemen, I will be ready to go with you in an
hour;—I will but return to the dwelling of Mr. Wilson,
and at the end of that time will meet you at
the tavern.”
“Twont do, my boy,” was the answer, “you're
too ready with your stick to be trusted. You must
go with us now. We can't trust you out of our
sight.”
The youth would have expostulated, but while he
spoke one of the ruffians threw himself upon him,
bore him to the earth, and, in spite of all his assurances
that he would quietly accompany them, proceeded
to bind his arms with a cord which the providence
of Saxon had procured for the purpose, and
which the assistance of his companion enabled him
to use in spite of the angry but feeble resistance of
the prisoner. When bound, they lifted him to his
feet, and placing themselves, one on each hand, commanded
him to move forward in the direction of the
tavern. He did so with as much quietness of temper
as he could command under the reasonable anger
which naturally followed the provocation. He tried
to convince himself that they were doing nothing
more than their duty—that they had yielded him all
reasonable indulgence; and were bound, as soon as
they discovered his ability to travel, to secure his
person against the chances of escape. But the sedative
effect of his own reasonings was very partial.
He still could not resist the wish that his arms were
once more free, and his staff once more in his hands.
“My staff should make ye skip,” thought he, in the
a desire which he felt to be no less idle than
hopeless, and tried to obtain his remedy in another
way. “A civil answer turneth away wrath,” and
he had long known that a civil tongue will carry a
man unscotched through the whole western country.
Assuming the men beside him to be no other than
what they professed to be, he determined to reason
with them as persons who could have no motive for
refusing any indulgence to a prisoner which was not
inconsistent with the security of their trust.
“You are unnecessarily hard with me, men,” he
said quietly. “You can have no reason for thinking
I would run away, since, if such had been my desire,
I could have been off at daylight, and none had
been the wiser. Why then would you make an enemy
of a man who can be your friend—who is willing
to reward you? Suffer me to go back to the
dwelling of Mr. Wilson for an hour only. You, in
the meantime, can watch the dwelling on all sides.
My horse is at the tavern—you can secure him, and
without a horse I cannot fly very far. I wish but to
make my acknowledgments to the family which has
treated me with so much kindness.”
“You ought t' have done all that before, my lark
—there's no time for you now. So set forward. I
tell you there's no trusting you. You clipped me
over my noddle already, the first day I set hands on
you, and my jaw isn't quite smooth yet; and you
forget, just a bit ago, you'd have tried it again with
that stout hickory that helped you forward. Twice
warned is enough for me—I don't risk a third scuffle
with any man if I can help it. So, look you, give
but a single flirt again, and here's into you.”
The fellow showed a monstrous bowie-knife as
he spoke these words, and by his reckless expression
of countenance, suited to his bold and unfeeling
policy was to obey quietly. He went forward, and
encountered the hardy Alabamian, Jamison, who
was just about setting out for Wilson's, on his customary
afternoon visit to his friend. Saxon was
nowhere to be seen. Nothing could exceed the
rage of the Alabamian, as he witnessed the degrading
situation in which his friend stood. He
was at once for fighting the officers, and nothing
but the most earnest appeals from Vernon kept him
from violence. One thing, however, he was resolved
to do, and in this particular our hero was
satisfied he should have his own way—that was
to cut the cords which bound the arms of the prisoner.
He drew his knife for the purpose, and was
advancing, when the constables both opposed him
with like weapons. But he was not to be intimidated
by this show of valour.
“There's two of you,” he said, “but I count myself
good for three, at least, such slender chaps as
you; so here goes at your kidneys, and one drive
of my six pounder will let more sins out of your
carcasses than all the saints could ever put in virtues.”
With an earnestness which left nothing to conjecture,
the stout-hearted Alabamian, wielding his
knife in air,—a huge, bright instrument, with a
back-bone like that of a butcher's cleaver, so heavy
that its own weight, if falling, must have made its
wounds deadly—prepared to rush forward upon
the constables. But these worthies were not willing
to wait for such an encounter. Receding from
their posts, they clamoured to the bystanders for
protection, crying out a “rescue”—a “rescue.”
Without heeding their clamour, or suffering any
thing to divert him from his purpose until it was finished,
Jamison cut the cords of the prisoner, and seizing
and most remote, he whispered in his ear—
“Be off now, Harry Vernon—there's my own
horse hitched close beside you, and I'll keep off the
rascals while you're mounting. Show 'em clean
heels, and I'll be after you with your own nag, and
will join you at Buzzard Roost in two hours. They're
afraid of me, the niggers, and you see I aint afraid
of them. D—n 'em, I don't mind half-a-dozen of
them, fair front and no dodging. So go ahead, my
boy, and leave the scatteration to me. You're too
weak to fight now, so there's no reason or right to
expect it of you.”
The Alabamian was astounded when Vernon
thanked him, but declared he had no purpose of the
kind.
“I am innocent of the charge, Mr. Jamison, and
do not fear to meet it.”
“Oh, well! That's right enough; but guilty or
innocent, you see, Harry, when they're for putting
ropes on a freeman, that's a time to be off, or to fight
with tiger's tusk. I'm all grinders after that, and a
ridge saw that works along the middle.”
Meanwhile the clamours of the constables were
gathering a crowd about them.
“He has cut the prisoner loose—the man that
murdered Tom Horsey—help!—seize!—catch the
murderer,” &c.
“Shut up, you yelping pugnose!” cried the indignant
Alabamian, “and none of your d—d lies about
a business you can't understand. Look you, men,
they had the gentleman corded up as if he had been
a panther of the wilderness—roped his hands behind
him,—and he just out of a sick bed, and making no
resistance, and telling them all the while he was
ready to go along with 'em. It's only they're sich
blasted cowards, afraid of a sick man—afraid of
didn't borrow a pen-knife to do the business. This
bowie-blade is a'most too big for such etarnal small
souls as they've got.”
“You hear him confess he drew his knife upon
us?” said one of the officers to the crowd.
“Ay,” said Jamison, “and how it scared the niggers
white when they saw it.”
“He rescued the prisoner from us.”
“A lie, nigger—he's at your service—he says it
himself—so bring out his horse; and I'll tell you
another thing—I'm at your service too. I'll ride along
with you and see fair play, and if you've got any
thing to say agin Dick Jamison, let it out as loud as
you please when you stand before the judge.”
The scene ended with the quiet departure of Vernon,
accompanied by his friend Jamison, under the
enforced escort of the officers.
| CHAPTER V. Border beagles | |