University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

But the swoon of joy occasions no apprehensions.
My bonds were severed, and Helen recovered,
so that we were enabled to return together
to the cottage of her father. He was
kind to me, but grave. It is not improbable that
Bud Halsey had succeeded in filling him with
some of the base suspicions which were strong
in his own bosom. Helen was happy, with a
sort of uneasy happiness. Whether she seemed
to doubt the reality of the event, or that she felt
that my consent to the marriage with her had
been somewhat extorted, in spite of my avowals,
I cannot say,—but, though smiling and declaring
herself blest, there was a restless, feverish excitability

in her action and movements which did not
usually mark them. For my own part, I was
sore equally in mind and body. The latter had
not passed through the humiliating scenes just
described without undergoing some hurts and
bruises. But these were as nothing to the mental
annoyances which the same events had produced.
I had been trampled upon—dishonored
—my person degraded by the hands of ruffians,
and by the shameful and defiling rope. I
felt mean and humbled, and, it may be, that,
showing something of this feeling, in my intercourse
with Helen, I had caused in her that appearance
of inquietude which marred, in some degree,
the more grateful appearance of her happiness.
But I must not linger on this matter. Bud
Halsey was a man to move with all imaginable
promptness, and that very night he made his appearance
at the cottage, accompanied by a young
man, decently clad in black, with something of
the outward appearance of a Divine. Such he
was, if we may be permitted to make certain allowances,
of which more hereafter. He was introduced
to me as the Rev. Mr. Mowbray—a
gentleman of the Episcopal persuasion. He was
a fine looking young man of florid complexion, a
bright blue eye with a restless roving twinkle,
which betrayed an unsettled and capricious disposition.
His temperament and the general expression
of his features, showed the presence of
strong, unregulated passions. Surprised at seeing
him where he was, and procured with so much
readiness, I was still more surprised to learn that
he was a regular resident of the swamp—one of
the community—sharing in its spoils, and, possibly,
though of this I could say nothing, partaking
in all its miserable practices. The singular moral
anomaly of the criminal, influenced by superstition,
and insisting upon having a sort of religion of his
own, even while engaged in the grossest violation
of all moral and divine laws, is too well known
and of too frequent occurrence, to render necessary
here any elaborate metaphysics. Perhaps,
the wonder is, that such contradiction should be
found among a Protestant people. In such countries
as Italy and Spain, the anomaly, if still difficult
of explanation, is yet, because of our familiarity
with its occurrence, of less startling effect and
character. There, it has been usual to refer it
to the mixed influences of a bad political government,
and the habitual training of a priesthood,
forever indefatigable in the maintenance of its
powers. The crime is partly the result of necessity
and circumstances,—the superstition of mixed
ignorance and training. The same anomaly in
America, and with the descendants of the ancient
Puritans, must find some other explanation. Here,
it was, undeniably; and I soon found that the
Reverend Mr. Mowbray, was not only useful (?)
where he was, but that there were frequent occasions
for his services. The sick had his prayers,
and the burial at which he did not officiate was a
subject of no little dissatisfaction among the living
friends of the deceased. On the Sabbath, when
the business of the community was not urgent,
his preaching was well attended. Subsequently,
I was given to understand, that, it was owing to
the expression of some discontent on the part of
one of the assistants, that I was not to be allowed
the ghostly help of this gentleman, on the morning
of my execution, that led to the delay in carrying
into effect the sentence of the Outlaw Chief,
and so, accordingly, to my rescue. Complying
with the suggestion of the subordinate, Bud Halsey
sent for his chaplain, and thus my danger became
noised abroad, so as to reach the ears of
Helen and her father, in season to bring them to
my rescue. You may take for granted, that, from
that moment, I readily recognised the importance
of a regular chaplain to a band of robbers. My
bride made her appearance in all her beauty, and
with all the usual becoming blushes. Beautiful
she was, and the simplicity of her costume, amply
set off and distinguished the peculiarity of her
charms. I forgot, as I surveyed her, the painful
circumstances which had conducted me to this
event. I thought of nothing but the passion with
which she now filled me—how lovely she was in
my eyes—how precious to my heart. I took her
hand with rapture, and, for a moment, had no
feeling but one of unalloyed happiness. But, even
as the service proceeded, while my lips uttered
the sacred responses, a dark cloud passed over
my imagination. My eyes ceased to behold the
actual, surrounding objects. I was transported to
another region. I beheld another and very different
sight. The good old, well ordered, well
adorned Hall at Leaside, with all its images of
solemnity mixed with comfort, rose up before my
glance. My father and my mother—the one
sternly contemplative—the other sad, but smiling,
as if in spite of the numerous apprehensions that
struggled about her maternal heart. Ah! could
they conjecture where I stood and how engaged
—in what ceremony—so awful, so irrevocable,
so important to their son,—so interesting to themselves—in
which they were not permitted to partake—of
which they were not permitted to know!
I felt a growing weakness in my eyes,—mastered
my resolution, spoke audibly the last responses,
and clasped my bride to my bosom. With the
kiss which I then pressed upon her lips, came a
crowd of confused thoughts and inquiries. I was
a husband at eighteen. An outlaw's daughter
was my bride. Had I left the home of my father
for this? What had I become? What was I to
become? What was to be the fruit of this affair?
What fate was before me? Was I, too, to become
an outlaw? Was I forever cut off from society
and my father's home? I could not answer these
inquiries, and—which was worse—I could not dismiss
them. Was I happy? That was another
question, the answer to which must be confided
to the future!