Border beagles a tale of Mississippi |
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| 12. | CHAPTER XII. |
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 | CHAPTER XII. Border beagles |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
Than had a wolf stol'n to my teat in the night,
And robb'd me of my milk.”
John Webster.
Saxon knew, in fact, but little of the nature of
woman. Her heart was a fountain shut up, and a
book sealed to him. He had the arts which could win
—these, perhaps, are few and not difficult of attainment.
They may be acquired by almost every youth
of tolerable deportment and moderate common sense.
But those finer arts which may secure the possession,
and make the conquest permanent, he did not seem
to possess, and, indeed, did not seem to value. Men
who are rapid in their conquests, are not apt to value
them. “Easy won, easy lost,” is something of a
proverb, which holds no less good in the affairs of
the heart than in those of the purse. Had Saxon
been a more thorough examiner of that various province,—the
heart of a woman who loves;—could he
have looked deeply into its hopes and fears,—its tumultuous
passions, and capricious fancies—its suspicions,
which grow naturally out of a just feeling
of its dependance upon that arbitrary lord whom it
is born to serve and must suspect,—and which make
it a thing all watchfulness and jealousy;—he would
sensitive—no object so perfectly fearful,—when
touched rudely by reproach, or mocked by indifference
and scorn. Perhaps, had he not grown too
indifferent to the possession, he would have been
more considerate of the claims of that affection
which he once sought with avidity, and which was
never more truly and devotedly his than at the very
moment when he encountered it with a contumely
as reckless as it was underserved. He little knew
the fierce and uncontrollable spirit which he roused
in the bosom of Florence Marbois during the brief
interview which has been just recorded. She might
have forgiven the neglect which was only suspected
—she might have forgotten the partial inattention
of his regards, so long as he still returned, and
while his lips still yielded, however unfaithfully,
some vague assurances of his attachment. But when
he boldly declared his defection—when the vain
beauty was taught to know that there was a more
highly esteemed beauty, set up as her rival;—when
the devoted heart was rudely thrust from the altar,
where its tendrils were still resolute to cling,—when
love could no longer doubt its desertion—it was
then that another and a wilder nature, rose up,
gloomy and terrible, within her soul. Some glimpses
of this nature had been shown the outlaw a moment
ere their parting, but he had not seen them. These
had been the outbreakings of a spirit which could
not altogether be suppressed; but its language was
beyond his comprehension. He had heard so many
upbraidings from the lips of the neglected woman
that his ear had grown obtuse to their true signification.
He confounded the vindictive mutterings of a
passion which was scorned, with the tender reproaches
of a heart which was still allowed to hope.
Having denied hope, having trampled upon love, having
should have known that Hate would be the deity
most likely to be raised upon their ruins, by the spirit
which he had so rudely driven from all communion
with his own.
There is quite as little wisdom as virtue in injustice.
Perhaps it may be affirmed, with equal truth
and certainty, that it is also without cunning. The
wholesomest moral prudence is truth and good faith.
Had Saxon not been blinded by his resolution to do
wrong, he must have seen, in the keen yet composed
glance of the woman—in her deliberate accents—in
her slow, cold, resolved manner—that a sudden and
singular change had come over all her feelings in
the moment when he made his open avowal of injustice.
Her temper, passionate and deep, earnest,
and gushing—overflowing in its fulness, and always
warm in its expression in all ordinary cases of excitement—was
now, when the occasion became one,
perhaps, of the greatest and most painful provocation,
suddenly subdued—almost frigid—an embodiment,
in marble, of lofty elevation and dignified indifference.
The change in character should have
occasioned surprise; and reflection should have
taught the outlaw, that the woman he had wronged
had become an object of apprehension. But he had
none. He was too glad of an occasion to shake off
bonds which had become irksome, to see that, in
doing so, he had incurred the resentment of a heart
which could be as dangerous as it had been devoted.
This sudden obtuseness of intellect may be accounted
an essential part of that blindness and madness to
which the gods deliver over those whom they have
previously determined to destroy.
Florence Marbois watched at her window while
the night faded away; yet she seemed utterly unconscious
of its passing hours. She was unconscious
changed within her, and bitter thoughts and envenomed
resolutions were growing up, and taking
the place of those which, but a short time before,
had been only those of tenderness and love. The
cruel iron of desertion, and the sharp steel of scorn,
had entered deeply into her soul, and left nothing but
rankling irritation where they went. Desolation she
had endured for him—but desertion by him was unendurable;
and wild, vague, changing, but always
hostile measures presented themselves to her mind,
as she brooded, in the darkness and stillness of the
night, over her wrongs, and the bitter-sweet hope
which she indulged of redressing them.
“There are means,” she murmured at intervals,
“there must be means every where provided to
humble the oppressor—to revenge the injured. I
am weak—I am woman—but God has not left me
utterly helpless, if he has made me destitute. I
know that I can have my revenge—I know that I
can strike—that I can triumph;—and here—here in
the darkness of this hour, and in the presence of
such spirits of evil or of good—I care not which—
as travel the eternal realms of space, I swear that,
sleeping or waking, my prayer, my dream, my desire—my
only study, as it is my only hope—shall
be in what way to revenge my wrong—to bring
this proud, insolent man to the dust—to deprive
him of those joys of which he has for ever deprived
me!”
By what means she hoped to effect her object,
may not even be conjectured in this early stage of
her resolution; but no one could have hearkened
to the tone of her accents, or beheld the fixed expression
of decision in her eyes, and reject the conviction
that she was as solemnly sworn to her revenge,
as if the demons of the air whom she
the oath. They did so; and it may be that, ministers
of justice, no less than of evil, they wrought in
behalf of the deserted leman of the outlaw, when
the ordinary powers of society would have failed,
and the laws would still have been, as they had ever
been before, objects of scorn and mockery to the
reckless spirit who had so long held them in defiance.
But let us not anticipate.
In leaving her that night, he also left the encampment
to which had been given the ambitious title of
Cane Castle. Another brief conference with his
coadjutor, Jones—that dexterous agent, who had so
successfully entrapped and deceived the unwary actor—by
which he was provided with final instructions
for the future dispensations of that unconscious
worthy; and then the outlaw sped off to those other
performances, which have been already narrated,
and which ended in the arrest of Harry Vernon.
The next day rose upon Horsey, still as Hamlet.
The grave habit of the Prince of Denmark was
that which, in all his wardrobe, came nearest to
the guise of a simple citizen; and half reconciled to
the costume in character, from a pleasant conviction
which the flatteries of Jones encouraged, that he
looked a marvellous proper man in it, the worthy
actor renewed the search after his ordinary garments
with something more of equanimity than he
had shown on the preceding night. Still, he did not
hesitate to speak of the robbery in proper terms.
“The mere loss of the clothes is nothing, Jones,”
said he, “but that we have thieves in the company
is most shocking. There must be a stir about it—the
rogue must be found out, and we must purge ourselves
of the connexion as soon as possible. Our
profession is one quite too noble for any such communion.”
Jones fully agreed with him that it was shocking
indeed; but suggested the difficulty of finding out the
thief, and the awkwardness of any direct inquiries.
It was agreed upon, that their conduct was to be
governed by circumstances; and, meanwhile, a
sharp look-out was to be maintained upon the movements
of all suspicious persons;—Jones confessing
that there were some two or three of the band
whom he really believed to be no better than they
should be.
“Now, that bull-headed fellow, Bull, I take to
be one of these suspicious persons,” said the actor,
remembering the annoyances of the previous night;
“a fellow that gets drunk and makes a beast of himself,
will be very apt to steal. Don't you think so,
Jones?”
“I do,” replied the other, very courteously. “As
a general rule, Mr. Horsey, a drunkard is bad
enough to be a thief; but there are exceptions to
all general rules, and Bull is one of them. He's
a genius, Mr. Horsey, as I said before—an immense
genius. You may see nothing of it for some days;
but he'll break out at last, and overwhelm you.
He's the very impersonation of fun, farce, and
frolic.”
“But the heroine, Jones—sha'n't I have a talk
with her to-day? It's strange that all your firstrates
should be so eccentric.”
“Natural enough—they all know their value.
You would not think it strange, when you know
them as I do, and know the extent of their popularity.”
“And what do you call her—what's her name?”
“Her name?—oh, yes—her name's Clifford—
Mrs. Clifford—Mrs. Ellen Clifford—she's married,
you know I told you, and—another reason why you
should be cautious in approaching her, and why she
worse than a Turk for jealousy. He flames
up, like a rocket, on the smallest occasions. Nay,
it is said he gave a poor fellow three inches of his
bowie-knife in Natchy, only for praising her beauty
off the stage. You see she's very beautiful.”
“What a d—d fool. Egad, I'd like no better fun
than just to plague such a fellow; and if you had no
other reason than his jealousy to keep me from looking
her up, I'd be at her in twenty minutes. Can't
you get me a chance to talk with her. I'd like to
see what sort of stuff she's made of.”
“Time enough to-morrow. Let us go now and
see after the boys. We have a boat here on the
bayou—a little dug-out—and, if you say so, we'll
take our fishing-tackle, and get some fish. Fishing
here is our most profitable idleness, as, indeed, it is
every where else; and, if you like it half so much
as I do, you will not think much of the manager's
absence.”
“But my Hamlet!” exclaimed the actor, looking
at the costly garment. “Such a dress as this,
Jones, won't do for every day. The d—d strange-looking
green and yellow mud of this river—the
water, if I'm splashed—will play the very d—l with
my Hamlet.”
“Won't splash you,” said Jones, hurrying along.
“I'm like a bird in a boat—can't be said to dip a
wing, even when I take my fish. I handle a dug-out,
Mr. Horsey—not to compare low things to
high—with almost as much grace as you do the
foils in Hamlet. But come on—fear nothing, and
if we get no fish, why, you can give us the grave
scene, which shall make our time pass with less
gravity.”
The last suggestion was the finishing stroke, and
Horsey followed without farther opposition, though
suffer some hurts much too serious for any smoothing
or stitching, even from hands so white and dextrous
as those of Mary Stinson. Many a compunctious
glance did he give to his inexpressibles as
he went forward, following his cunning confederate
through bog, bush and briar, until they reached the
muddy mouth of the narrow creek where lay the
egg-like skiff which was to bear the twain to the
main trunk of the Chitta-Loosa. Here they embarked
in the trembling fabric, the heart of Horsey
rising to his throat, with every roll and reel of the
frail vessel; while his eyes, drawn by a natural attraction
to the banks, surveyed, with momently increasing
disquiet, the yellowish slime upon their surface;
the soft miry ooze of which seemed for all
the world as if it were intended to receive with
close embrace and a most yielding compliance, the
pressure of any derelict body, the waif or tribute of
the slow and turbid river which had left it where it
lay. But that which disturbed the composure of the
actor had no effect upon his companion. His muscular
arms sent the little dug-out through the narrow
passage, with a dexterity no less prompt than fearless,
and Horsey had not drawn a second breath,
before the boat quivered upon its centre, and hung
suspended for a moment in its course, as, leaving the
sluggish canal through which it had emerged, it felt
the downward rush of the main current, in its restless
passage to the Mississippi.
Florence Marbois, as soon as she discovered that
Jones had left the island—a knowledge obtained without
difficulty by one who was so well served as the
lady in question—immediately went forth from her
little habitation to a spot, the path to which seemed
familiar, where she found the dwarf Stillyards, busy
mending his nets. He stood up as he beheld her,
was not wont to show to all other persons.
“Richard,” she said, “I have need of you again:
are you ready?”
“Soon will be, ma'am—have nothing to do but
tie a few threads, and lay a draw-cord through the
end-loops of the net. This hole here would let a
dozen jacks through; and there's not a suckfish
in Big Black that wouldn't laugh at this for gill-tackle.”
“Richard,” continued the lady, in tones at once
of command and entreaty—“put by your net for
the present,—I would speak with you.”
The foot of the dwarf turned the net over a low
bush; his hands would have done it more effectually,
but his vanity was unwilling that he should stoop,
in the sight of a lady, to a performance, in which his
physical deformities became only the more conspicuous.
His manner the while was that of the most
respectful deference. He declared himself ready at
that instant to obey her commands, and made some
rude assurances of his great willingness at all times
to do her service.
“I know it, Richard,—I know that you have always
served me faithfully,—and believe that you
will continue to do so in this, probably, the last task
which I shall ever give you again.”
“Ma'am! Heh—what?”
She did not seem to heed the interruption or the
exclamation, but proceeded:
“You have kept my secrets, Richard, and always
made, I have good reason to believe, a faithful report
of what you saw. Here is some money for
you. It is more than I promised you, but not more
than you deserve, and not near so much as you shall
have when you have done for me another service,
and as I said, most probably, the last.”
“The last, ma'am?”
“Yes, Richard, my fears will be soon at an end,”
replied the lady—“she should surely cease to fear,
who has at length ceased to hope.”
The dwarf looked up, wondering more at the
looks and accents of the speaker, than at the words
she uttered. She continued:
“Did you know that Saxon was here last night?”
He nodded assent.
“He went before daylight,” continued the lady.
“He went from me for ever—we are no longer one,
—we are parted,—parted for ever.”
The dwarf grinned, but not with any pleasure.
The expression of his face was that of good-natured
incredulity.
“You smile,—you believe me not, Richard.”
“Ah, ma'am Florence,—how can I believe you
—you know how often you've said the same thing.
Every time you've sent me to look after him.”
A faint smile passed over the lady's lips as she
listened.
“You are only right to doubt, Richard. I have
indeed too often spoken only, when I should have
performed. I will not seek now, by any new assurances,
to make you believe my present resolution.
Whether you believe or not—whether he believes—is
of little importance to either of us now.
But there's some difference of circumstances, Richard,
of which you may have no knowledge. Hitherto,
I may have done him wrong by my suspicions—
now I can do him none. Last night he told me that
he loved another.”
“He!”
“Ay, he! Edward Saxon, for whom I gave up
all—friends, family, good life, good name—hope,
truth and innocence! He has forgotten the sacrifice,
which, indeed, I too had forgotten so long as
to him as I have been so long lost to all. I have
nothing now left me but to die.”
“Nothing, ma'am Florence, nothing! Sure—”
“Ay, there is something, Richard—there is something
more. It is a woman's feeling, Richard, to
desire some knowledge of her rival—to desire to
see her, to know if she is beautiful, to hear her
speak, and hearken if her accents be sweet; and,
perhaps,—but I need not say more of this to you,
Richard.”
“Oh, yes, ma'am Florence—I beg you do.”
“No, no!” was the rather stern reply. “It
needs not. It was only of another feeling—they
call it a woman's feeling too—that I would have
spoken—that I would gratify. But here it shall remain—secret
from you—secret from all—doubly
sweet to myself that it is so secret!—until the blessed
day, which shall enable me to realise my last hope
—the hope of—”
The word was unspoken, but the vindictive gleaming
of the eye, and the convulsive quiver of her lips
while she shut them together, as if to prevent utterance,
were sufficiently conclusive that “revenge” was the
only word which could have properly finished the
sentence. Her heart heaved with the suppressed
secret—her hand was clenched, and for a moment
she stood gazing on the dwarf with an expression of
face, which almost startled him with a feeling of
personal apprehension.
“Richard—you must follow Saxon—once more
you must follow him. Find out where he goes—
whom he seeks. Look not on her—so that you
may not be won by her beauty also, to betray the
poor Florence,—then come to me—come back and
get your reward. You shall have money and
jewels—all the jewels and money that I have,
must be sure and tell me where he hides her—when
he brings her here, and how soon I may look upon
the woman whose feet have trodden upon my heart.
Go! let me hear your horse's tread immediately.
Away, Richard, sleep not as you go—God be with
me and strengthen me, for well I know, I shall never
sleep till you return—even if I sleep then. Away!”
| CHAPTER XII. Border beagles | |