Border beagles a tale of Mississippi |
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| 15. | CHAPTER XV. |
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 | CHAPTER XV. Border beagles |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
A woman of a most prodigious spirit.”
John Webster.
He also smiled as he appeared in sight, but smiled
in such a sort as to add fervour to her resolution.
There was a recklessness in the scorn which he now
betrayed to the woman he had once loved, which
was certainly as impolitic as ungenerous; but
having discarded his mask, Saxon seemed anxious
to show how ill-favoured had been the aspect he had
concealed beneath it. He was obtuse enough not to
see that the feelings he had trampled had risen up
in indignation. He was blind enough to mistake the
smile upon her lips for a return of her former feelings
of devotion. So it is, that the wisest of men
will err at those moments when they need all their
wisdom. Sagacious beyond most men of his sphere
and neighbourhood—particularly conversant, according
to his own notion, with women, he was
yet deceived, without effort, by one with whom his
communion had begun by his own successful deceptions.
She had been won in a moment—by a
word!—how idle to think that there were depths in
her mind which he could not sound, that there were
feelings written in her features which he could not
fault. There was that in the bosom of Florence
Marbois, which he could neither sound nor see; but
it was written that he should be blind in this, as in
other matters. She had been the victim of her
blindness—it was just, for the sake of retribution, that
he should have his moment of blindness also.
“Perhaps you believed me not, Florence, when I
spoke to you last; but I spoke nothing but the truth.
She is here—here in the swamp, beside you—the
woman whom I now love—your rival—your successor.”
It was thus he spoke, in the language of mockery.
Her eyes met his glance unshrinkingly. Her cheeks
were pale—very pale—for a single instant. In the
next moment they were flushed with a redness which
did not depart throughout the whole of their conference.
Her reply was uttered in tones of calmness
which surprised her seducer. He knew not where
she got the strength for such equability—he knew
not the deep, dark sources of her present consolation.
“You mistake, Edward Saxon. I believed you.
If I were a vain woman, it might be some gratification
to me to know that my frequent and previous
jealousies—idle as they were in some respects—were
yet not unfounded. I rightly judged your character.
My passions have not been wholly blind—they were
always capable of the task—perhaps, not a difficult
one—of estimating yours. I know you now, in that
matter, to be what I then believed you. If I erred in
my conjectures, I have already borne my punishment.
The time for error and regret, so far as you
are interested, is for ever past with me.”
“I am glad of it, upon my soul—very glad of it.
You speak now like a reasonable woman, Florence,
and I think the better of you. Now that I find you
more confidence. You must have discovered by
this time, as I have done, that these early notions of
love, that so mislead the dreaming girl and the desiring
boy, are only so many masks of passion—
masks under which the considerate nature disguises
those tumultuous phrensies which might terrify the
young from the paths of pleasure and true enjoyment,
much more frequently than they could ever
entice or gratify. As the experience grows, the
mask ceases to be necessary or even useful. It is
then that we cast it aside as an incumbrance which,
in fact, impedes possession and qualifies delight. I'm
sure, Florence, we shall enjoy ourselves much more
by understanding these things correctly.”
A faint smile covered her lips as she answered—
“At least, it is quite as well that we should think
so—that I should think so. With the conviction
that all is lost, a resignation to one's poverty is no
less becoming than necessary. But do you only
come to tell me this, Edward Saxon? Have you
not some other purpose? I knew all this before.”
“To say truth, Florence—I came to try you. To
see if you had got over that madness that used to
possess you in your days of jealousy—”
“And which it gave you pleasure to see.”
“Not so. It vexed—it worried me to bear with
your complaints—to listen to your harsh reproaches
—to hear your unfounded suspicions.”
“But they were not unfounded.”
“Till now they were. If I was ever true to woman,
Florence, I have been true to you till now.
Never had I thought to wander from you, till I met
with her.”
“And she—she has a name!” exclaimed Florence,
with something more of curiosity and interest in her
looks and language. “If I am to yield my place to
have been so well content hitherto to live, at least,
let me know something of her who rises on my
ruin? She is beautiful—that I know—that you have
told me—but her name? Who is she—what is her
family—where did you find her?”
“All in good time, Florence;—but you do me
wrong, and yourself wrong. She takes no place of
yours—she only shares it—and now that you show
so calm a temper on the subject, let me tell you that
you have risen greatly in my favour. This is the
condition of mind to which I would have brought
you years ago, if I could. It is the only condition of
mind which would make either of us happy. I am
one of those men who are always apt to resent and
fly from an effort to restrain my liberty. My heart
must share the freedom of my limbs, and that sort
of exacting love which suffers no exercise to my
eyes, my thoughts, my actions, is, of all others, so
tyrannous a bondage, that, to confess a truth to you,
Florence, you became hateful to me when you began
to exercise it.”
“Ha! Hateful!”
“It is true—too true. But do not understand me,
Florence, as applying to you any such epithet, now.
This resignation on your part to my will, places you
in a very favourable position; and if you keep in
this mood, there can be no good reason, why we
should not be to each other as before. Let it be
understood, that I am to do as I please, and feel as
I please, and go where I please, without having
that d—d hunchback at my heels, and without being
compelled to hearken to the perpetual growlings of
suspicion and complaint,—and nobody could love you
better than myself; and if you will only promise me
to yield to my wishes—to haunt me no more with
reproaches—”
“Be sure, Edward Saxon, I never will,” said the
unhappy woman, with solemnity. “Jealousy of you
will never more fill the heart of Florence Marbois
—reproaches will never reach your ears from her
lips. I have seen the folly of such conduct.”
“Why, Florence, this is wisdom. We shall do
well after this; and you can bear now to behold me
in the arms of Virginia.”
“Virginia! is that her name?” asked Florence,
with a continued effort at calmness, which, had the
outlaw been studiously observant, would never have
concealed the tremulous curiosity that filled the
heart of the speaker.
“It is a sweet name, Florence, but not so sweet
as herself. But you shall see her with your own eyes.
You shall behold her charms, if you are willing and
can keep down your jealousy—if you can still continue
unmoved—if you will not hate her.”
“Hate her! I hate her? Why should I hate her,
Edward Saxon? In what has she wronged me?
No! no! I will not hate her—I cannot.”
“Well, this is the right temper. By heavens,
Florence, but you are wondrously changed for the
better within a week. But will you love her, Florence?
You should—she is so beautiful, so gentle,
and will make you so excellent a companion.”
“I cannot promise that until I know—”
The speaker stopped abruptly.
“Know what, Florence?”
“Does she love you?”
The more obvious signification of this question
was grateful to the outlaw's vanity. He laughed
aloud, as he replied—
“Ah, traitor! what would you have? Suppose
I tell you, that she does not love me.”
“You jest with me.”
“Gad, I know not that, Florence. I don't know
whether I can say with safety, that she does love
me.”
“How then came she here?”
“Hum!—I brought her; and, to tell you the truth,
not altogether with her own consent. But I doubt
if her opposition was earnest, Florence. Like most
women—like yourself, Florence—she probably hides
the real sentiment under the disguise of one which
she does not truly feel. There was no small portion
of this sort of trickery in yourself, Florence, when
we first met—when we used to meet by the lake—
the little lake—”
“Remind me not, I pray you,” said the outcast
woman, with a sternness of accent that caused the
outlaw to gaze at her in suspicious silence for several
seconds. With a countenance only half assured,
he proceeded:
“Florence, I half suspect you now. I doubt you
are only striving at composure. Your jealousies
are returning, and the old reproaches will be renewed—”
“Never! Edward Saxon, never! Before heaven
I swear that I can never reproach you again; and
as for jealousy—”
“Enough! I am too willing to believe you to insist
upon too many assurances.”
The outlaw did not see the contemptuous scorn
upon the lips which concluded fitly the unspoken
sentence.
“I can be happy with you, Florence—nay, I
could have been happy with contented with you all
along, but that your unwise suspicions and goading
jealousies drove me from your side, and made me
not only indifferent to your society but anxious to
escape it. Now that you have grown wiser, I trust
either of us less happy, than we should and may be.
With Virginia and yourself—”
“But, if she loves you not?” said Florence,
coldly.
“I have not said it, Florence; nay—I am not
willing to say, and still less to believe it. True, I
brought her with less willingness on her part than I
should have desired to see; but now that she is here
—in my power—at my mercy—she will see—her
own common sense—”
“Edward Saxon! you surely mean no violence
to the girl?”
“Why, Florence!” exclaimed the outlaw, as he
read the horror in her countenance, which was not
wanting to the accents of her voice. “Do you
think it so hard to persuade the maiden, that I am
as proper a man as she could find among a thousand?
She, I doubt not, will be as flexible as yourself,
when the season comes. Nay, have I not told
you already, that I look upon her reluctance as nothing
more than that disguise which women naturally
put on to hide their real sentiments. She will
love me quite as well as another, when she has paid
those due sacrifices to false delicacy which form a
part of the social religion of the sex. You are all
alike, Florence—all alike. Virginia, like yourself,
will go through the various stages of passion—first,
a pretty fear, that woos you to pursue while it only
affects to fly; then a yielding gust of tenderness,
that is all tears for a season—then a glow of greater
delight—the intoxication of new passion, which is
all smiles and burning blushes—then comes the deliberate
devotion—then, the jealousy, Florence—the
jealousy—which is as certain as the upward progress
of the sparks; and, until this stage is over, no peace
for either party. Then, as in your case again, and
which is resolved to take it on the easiest terms—to
suppose it nothing but what it should be, and believe,
with the poet, in love, as in the case of higher
destinies, that `whatever is, is right.' You can't
conceive, my dear Florence, how much I am rejoiced
by the change in you.”
“I'm very glad of it,” was the reply.
“We shall be as happy in the swamp as if the
world was in our grasp. With Virginia on one
hand, and you, Florence, on the other—satisfied as
you both should be, that the heart of a man is capacious
enough for both—I could pass my days, I
think, without any sentiment but that of contented
enjoyment, and my nights with no other dreams
than those of security and bliss. You have read,
Florence—nay, you have heard and seen something
of those gay rovers of the gulf—that were kings
upon its billows, and, fierce in war—as fierce as its
own storms—were yet as peaceful as its hours of
calm, when they surrendered themselves, upon the
green palm-covered island, to the embraces of
beauty—lying beneath the shade of the plantain and
the fig, and, with lip to lip, and heart, melting as it
were, into the dissolving sweetness of the mutual
heart, they gave up life to the sweet delirium—the
pleasant repose—the happy confidence of love. Shall
we not have these joys again, Florence? No storms,
no fear, no scolding, no caprices—nay, turn not
away, my girl—forget that there have been words
or looks of unkindness between us. Now, that you
have come to a right understanding of what should
be the condition of our ties, there can be no cause
of discontent or strife hereafter. A kiss, a sweet
embrace, dear Florence, in token that there is peace
between us.”
As these words were spoken, he drew nigh to the
he spoke. A tempest was in her heart the while,
and a vexing commotion and a burning heat within
her brain. Her hand trembled within her bosom,
that trembled also with a degree of emotion which
shook her whole frame. Meanwhile, the outlaw,
utterly deceived by her deportment, and, perhaps,
quite as much deceived by his own desires on the
subject—pleased to find her so easily reconciled, and
beholding her now, in this alteration of her mood,
with something like the renewal of an ancient sentiment—intoxicated
no less with the warm fancies
which he had been breathing in her ears—approached
her, and, passing his arm suddenly about her waist,
drew her towards his bosom.
“Yes, dear Florence,” he continued, “let this embrace
renew the pleasures of the past, and this kiss
be the token that all unkindness is forgotten, and
there is nothing now but peace between us.”
A shadder passed over her frame as she felt his
arm encircle her—for a moment she seemed desirous
to shrink from his embrace; but, in another instant,
turning as if to requite it, she suddenly extricated
one of her arms, which she threw behind her as she
exclaimed—
“Ay, Edward Saxon, peace it shall be, but it
shall be the peace of death. Take this!—this! Let
this be the token of my forgiveness. This for my
wrong. This to the heart that could not value the
sole, the worshipping devotion of such a heart as
mine.”
She struck as she spoke with the little dagger
which she had concealed within her bosom. Twice,
thrice she struck, and for a moment the outlaw spoke
not—moved not. Astonishment seemed to possess
and overcome his faculties. But when she had
given the third blow, he threw her from his arms
wall; where she stood, glaring upon him like a
tigress, her eyes starting from their orbs with an
expression of mingled hate and horror. But Saxon
fell not—he seemed not even to be hurt. He advanced
to her without discomposure or irregularity of step,
yet every blow had been planted by the hand of the
most determined hostility upon his heart.
“Your arm is feebler than your soul, Florence
Marbois, else had your hateful purpose been accomplished.
Woman, how have you deceived me!”
She lifted the dagger again as he approached her,
but, as it met her eyes, she flung the worthless weapon
from her hand with a scream that denoted the disappointed
fury in her bosom. The steel, small and
slender, having met with the resistance of a button
when she struck, had yielded and curled up at the
contact, without penetrating more deeply than his
outer garment. He was utterly unharmed.
“Florence, you are mad,” was the remark of
Saxon. “This attempt—”
“Ay, man, monster, villain,—I am mad. But who
has maddened me—who has driven me to this? I
am doubly mad that I have failed in what I have
sought to do. Feeble hand—worthless steel! But
why stand you looking on me, Edward Saxon?—
Will you not kill?—Here, I am ready—my heart is
open—my bosom is bared to the blow. Strike, and
strike quickly—it is your only chance—for I have
sworn, Edward Saxon—sworn by heaven and by
hell—by all powers that may yield me power for
revenge—that the world shall not contain us both—
that one of us must die. I am ready now, Edward
Saxon!—I would not live—I hate you too much to
breathe with you the same atmosphere of life.
Strike! strike! You would have given me peace
just now—it is not too late! I wish no other.”
With a desperate hand she tore open the vest
which covered her bosom, and the white realm—
still so full of beauty and sweetness, if not of innocence
and love—those heaving hills on which his
head had so often rested in other days—lay bare
before his sight. He turned from them without a
word. The picture reminded even his cold and
careless bosom too warmly of that past, in which
his betrayal of her love had so amply justified her
present hate.
“I leave you, Florence—I leave you and forgive
you.” He said no more as he parted from her presence,
leaving her where she stood—her hair dishevelled,
her bosom bare, her eyes wild like those of
the maniac, but her ear too dull to hear his last
words,—her thoughts any where but where they
should be, and her whole brain in the wildest commotion.
| CHAPTER XV. Border beagles | |