 | CHAPTER VIII. The forsaken |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Like to the breach of wedlock; those injuries
Are writ in marble time shall ne'er rase out.
The hearts of such, if they be once divided,
Will ne'er grow one again—sooner you may
Call the spent day, or bid the stream return
That long since slid beside you.
Marmyon's Antiquary.
When Jurian left the hut, he withdrew beyond the
limits of the camp, for solitude to the morbid mind is
preferable to society, though it increases the disease
even while it seems to sooth. He sighed for a state of
nature, for it appeared to him that the evils arising from
society, as at present organized, far more than counterbalance
the benefits conferred. The strong are upheld,
while the weak are trampled on, and wealth is
lavished on the prosperous, while the indigent are suffered
to perish in their want. Presumptuous ignorance
puts wisdom to the blush, and knavery well clad is
noticed cap in hand, while honesty in rags is spurned
and spit upon. Reflections of this nature led him some
distance beyond the line of the encampment, and as he
emerged from a wood, he discovered in the valley beneath,
a horseman well mounted, in conversation with
a female, walking slowly beside the horse. A second
look satisfied him that it was Gordon and Alice Grey,
and when he recollected what had transpired when they
of the present interview. As Jurian approached, Gordon
descried him, and abruptly breaking off the conversation,
clapped spurs to his horse, and disappeared
along the winding of the valley, while Alice entered the
wood, and commenced gathering from beneath the
snow a bundle of the fallen branches, upon which she
was employed when Jurian approached. He accosted
her, and from her manner he did not suppose that she
was yet acquainted with his conduct toward Miriam,
for her answer was mild, and the passions that he believed
inseparable from her nature were apparently
subdued. Neither look nor motion betrayed what was
passing in her mind.
“Who was that parted from you, mother Alice, as I
descended the hill?”
“One who can feel for the forlorn state of the widow
and the orphan.”
“And yet a villain!”
“Of that I know not. Man may be an angel of
light to one, and yet a devil to the rest of the world.
By his acts towards me alone do I adjudge him, and
let others decide upon the evidence within their knowledge.”
“Beware, for I know the man.”
“Impossible, for there is not that man on earth that
another may say, `I know him.' We know not our own
hearts, with which we daily commune, and yet arrogantly
adjudge others from a single action that may
not accord with our unsettled notions of right and
wrong.”
Alice, as she spoke, turned not her head, but continued
gathering her bundle of faggots.
“For what purpose are you gathering that wood?”
demanded Jurian.
“To warm the dying, and keep the stream still flowing
that the hand of death has already chilled.”
“And who is it, good mother, that claims your pious
care?”
“One who has repeatedly called upon your name,
for he would see you again before his eyes are sealed
forever. I mean Corwin, that man of many woes.”
“Where is he? direct me to him, for him of all men
do I most desire to see.”
“Come along with me, and you shall be satisfied.”
She raised her billet of wood upon her shoulder, and
moved towards the path that led to the forge. Jurian
offered to relieve her of her burden, but she replied—
“No; let my sufferings be as bitter as adversity can
heap upon me; let my pride be prostrate, and my spirit
broken, that not one spark may remain of that earthly
vanity which leads to sin.”
They descended by the narrow path through the
wood into the valley, and after a silent walk of a few
minutes, they paused in front of a temporary shed which
had formerly been employed as a coal-house to the
neighbouring forge.
“Enter,” said Alice, “and you will find the wretched
man here.”
On a bundle of straw, wrapped up in a foul blanket,
lay the emaciated form of the suffering Corwin. In the
centre of the hovel were a few dying embers, the smoke
from which escaped by an aperture in the roof occasioned
by the storm. Alice threw down her faggot,
and bending by the fire began to rekindle it, while the
sick man raised his head, and inquired in a feeble voice
who had entered with her. On being answered, he
sighed—
“Thank God, I shall see the boy again before I die.”
Jurian approached the spot where Corwin was lying,
and taking his cold and bony hand, said—
“It grieves me to see that you have been so sorely
visited.”
“My trials have been many and severe,” said the
sick man, “but mourn not for me—rather rejoice, for
I am going where the weary are at rest.”
To Jurian's inquiry how he had escaped from the
wretch, and permitted to go at large, an opportunity
soon presented itself of passing the lines, and he
was urged to seize upon it from the restlessness of his
nature, though every spot on earth was alike to him.
“As the existence of each of us,” continued the
mendicant, “has in a very material degree governed
the fate of the other, I was anxious to make known to
you the circumstances of my life, while breath is spared
me. The brief career of thine is fully known. A cup
of water, Alice, for my lips are feverish, and my throat
so parched that I can scarcely breathe.” She brought
the water, and stood beside him in silence.
“Thank you.” He took the cup, but was unable to
drink. “Raise me gently; my frame is so wasted and
cramped with cold, that the slightest touch is torture.
Softly, or I shall expire.”
She raised him, and he drank, but the exertion
nearly exhausted his strength. While she was busy
about him, tears started in her eyes, and coursed down
the furrows in her cheeks, which Corwin beheld, but
breathed not a word of condolence. He desired Jurian
to approach, when Alice withdrew to the fire, and busied
herself in preparing some refreshment for the sick
man, who proceeded in his narrative in a tremulous and
broken voice—
“I was born in Virginia, of wealthy parentage, and
as I was an only child my education was suited to the
fortune I was to inherit. My parents were doatingly
fond of me, and their affection was not misplaced, for
every act of kindness made my heart swell with gratitude,
and I looked upon the world as a Paradise, without
a serpent in it. I had never felt a pang, and could
not conceive an idea of human suffering. Behold me
now!
“The first blow that awoke me from the bright vision
of this world, was the death of my venerated father.
It was a heavy one, but my mother was still
woman that had watched over my childhood, for what
are the vanities of this world to the widow! My mother
was perfectly resigned to her fate; fulfilled all the
duties of life; and mourned not her loss with irreligious
tears; but still her smiles were buried in the grave
with my father.
“My feelings towards the world were gradually
changed. The loss of one parent redoubled my solicitude
and affection for the other; but at the expiration
of three years her earthly sorrows terminated, and
mine increased to an appalling magnitude. When our
affections become bankrupt in this world, we naturally
turn to heaven for consolation—and no one, however
severely stricken, can ask for it in vain. I felt this
conviction, and thought that my life could not be better
employed than in endeavouring to persuade the skeptic
to the same opinion. I was still a young man of extensive
property when holy orders were conferred upon
me. This world again looked cheerful. I dwelt in the
mansion of my fathers, and `blessed was my basket
and my store.”'
Corwin paused to recover himself, for the effort of
speaking had exhausted his strength, and Alice concealed
her face in her lap and gave vent to her tears.
The attention of the sick man was awakened by her
sobbing; he cast a look at her; a tear started in his
eye, which he hastily wiped away, and proceeded with
his narrative.
“I will not attempt to describe the serenity of that
period, the comparison with the present might prove
too much for my feeble brain, for I have too often, in
the midst of my sufferings, impiously cried, `what is
my strength, that I should hope; and what is mine
end, that I should prolong my life?' But God gave
me strength to hope, and life, however abject, still
seemed a blessing—though I have seen friends pass
away as the course of the eagle, and have had this devoted
to the very bones. Had my strength been the strength
of stones, or my flesh of brass, I could not have endured
more patiently.” His recollection became painful,
and his imagination wandering: he sunk upon his pallet
of straw, until sufficiently recovered to proceed.
“About two years after I entered on my holy functions,
a young woman appeared in the village where I
resided. She was lovely, and her mind was above the
ordinary level;—it was, however, tinctured with melancholy,
which to me was an additional attraction,
and though an entire stranger, her manners and appearance
gained her the confidence and respect of the
most reputable families of the village. We became
intimate, and she gained my affections. My whole
soul was devoted to her, and we were married. Time
passed on swiftly, and each succeeding day awoke me
to new enjoyment. There was still a shade of melancholy
over the lovely features of my wife, but as I considered
it constitutional, I did not urge her to assign a
cause. I could not have conceived so angelic a being
capable of an action, the remembrance of which would
overcast her countenance with sorrow. My solicitude
gradually dissipated the gloom; at least she appeared
more cheerful when in my presence; and I flattered
myself her mind was perfectly restored.
“Our loves were blessed with a daughter. Who
can describe the feelings of a parent upon the birth of
his first offspring! Until that occurrence my feelings
had been in the bud; but they now blossomed. I
was awakened to new life; and looked upon the
world through different optics. If I loved my wife before,
I now adored her, and my soul was never at rest
but when hovering around her and child. My measure
of earthly joy was full; but there was a smack of
bitter in the cup that poisoned all.
“About three years after my marriage, a traveller
rode up to my door and alighted; as I went out to
shook me cordially by the hand, and expressed his satisfaction
at our meeting. I retained a faint recollection
of his features, but could not remember where I
had seen him before. Perceiving my embarrassment,
he introduced himself by name, and proved to be an
early college acquaintance, and one for whom I had
entertained sentiments of regard. I had not seen him
since he was a youth of seventeen, and ten years had
expired, making a considerable alteration in his features.
I rejoiced at the meeting, and pressed him, if
it would not interfere with his business, to pass some
days with me. He stated that he was travelling to the
south, but his business was not so urgent but that he
could accept of my invitation. His horse was taken to
a stable, and we proceeded to the parlour where I had
left my wife sewing but a few moments before. She
was still seated on the sofa, engaged with her needle,
when we entered. She arose to receive us. I introduced
my friend by name; she uttered a piercing
shriek, and fainted on the sofa.
“The stranger had skill in medicine—he applied
the remedies the nature of the case required, and my
wife was speedily restored to her senses. She was
still much agitated and feeble, and apologised for the
awkward occurrence, which she attributed to recent
sickness, which she said had shattered her nervous
system to an alarming degree. I credited it all; for I
should as soon have questioned the veracity of a saint,
as suppose my wife capable of dissimulation. As she
still felt faint, she excused herself and retired to her
chamber to recover her spirits, assuring us that an
hour's rest would perfectly restore her.
“The stranger and myself walked out to view my
improvements, and talk of our early recollections, and
the events of our lives since we separated at college.
Meetings of this kind, are as rays of light crossing the
gloomy pathway of life. When at college he was a
prescribed, and was considered a libertine both in
principle and practice. His manners were fascinating,
and his conversation pleasing and instructive. He was
generous and brave—romantically so—but his religious
principles were vague, and his moral conduct undecided.
He was a polished scholar, and even at that
early age could read character intuitively, and had the
power to make whomsoever he pleased his friend. I
became sincerely attached to him.
“Ten years had made a striking change in his deportment.
The levity of youth had disappeared, and the
sedateness of age was already on his brow. He appeared
ten years older than he actually was; and his
mind had improved in the same proportion. Wisdom
dwelt upon his lips, and virtue now found an advocate
in his tongue. I hailed his conversion with a glad
heart, and imagined I beheld in the friend of my youth
a suitable companion for my riper years. My wife appeared
at the tea table perfectly recovered, and more
cheerful than usual, though still pale, which I attributed
to her indisposition in the morning. The stranger was
at first reserved, but gradually entered with spirit into
conversation. He had travelled much, and nothing
seemed to have escaped his penetrating observation;—
he had read much, and profited by what he read. We
listened to him with delight, and new life seemed to
kindle in the eyes of my wife as the words flowed from
his tongue.
“Two months had passed away cheerfully, when
one evening he expressed his intention of proceeding
on his journey the following day. My wife changed
colour, and faltered out, `you will not leave us yet?'
It came to my senses as nothing more than an expression
of civility, though to him it conveyed a far different
meaning. I also entreated him to prolong his visit, but
he excused himself by saying, that though his wishes
inclined that way, his affairs would not admit of it.
“It was a calm evening in autumn,—the moon was
shining serenely, and invited us to walk abroad. We
strolled along the banks of a river which flowed in front
of my dwelling, and as we drew near the humble cottage
of one of my parishioners, a child ran towards us,
and exclaimed, sobbing—`Oh! sir, my grandmother is
dying, and wishes to see you before she dies.' I desired
my friend and wife to pursue their walk, while I
followed the weeping child to attend to my parochial
duties. I found an aged woman at the point of death,
and her descendants mourning around her. I administered
hope to the troubled spirit, and remained with
her about an hour when she breathed her last. I then
withdrew, that I might not interrupt the feelings of the
mourners; for grief is not to be subdued at the flood
with consolation.
“When I arrived at my home, the lights had burnt
nearly to the socket, and my wife had not returned. I
was astonished at the length of her absence, but imagined
she had visited some one of my neighbours, and
with this thought I sat down contentedly to read. Another
hour elapsed, and still they did not return. My
astonishment increased, and my alarm was excited lest
some accident had occurred, and accordingly I called
up one of my men-servants to go out with me to ascertain
the cause of their absence. We met them at the
door; there was evident confusion in the countenances
of both, but as they stated they had passed the evening
at the house of a neighbour, and had hurried home on
discovering the night so far advanced, I attributed their
excitement to this cause. We retired to rest, and the
following morning our guest took his departure.
“From that hour my wife relapsed into her former
melancholy, which I in vain endeavoured to dispel, for
my solicitude only served to increase her sorrow. Every
attempt to probe the cause proved fruitless: she constantly
evaded my questions, and appeared relieved
when the subject was changed. She never mentioned
she betrayed an involuntary shudder. I accidentally
met the neighbour, at whose house they gave me to
understand they had passed the evening. I rallied him
for keeping such unseasonable hours, and detaining
systematic housewives from their families; but he recollected
nothing of the visit, and stated my wife
had not been at his house for a month previous. This
was to me inexplicable,—and the doubt arose, `Has
she then been guilty of falsehood!' but my heart disclaimed
the suspicion, and I returned to my fireside—
she was seated there, her needle in her hand. I fixed
my eyes upon her countenance—it was melancholy.
She raised her eyes to mine, and she never appeared
half so dear to me as at that moment. I turned from
her gaze, and sighed, `if this be guilt, what garb must
innocence assume?' I then kissed her, resolving to
banish all suspicion, and my conduct towards her was
now more affectionate than before, if possible.”
“It was, it was,” cried Alice, “to the grave I shall
never forget it.” The foregoing recital was repeatedly
interrupted by the sobbings of Alice, which became
loud and bitter as memory recalled the scenes of happiness
that her guilt had destroyed. Corwin proceeded—
“A month passed away, and the melancholy of my
wife increased. My solicitude was redoubled, but she
received with coldness all my attentions, and my caresses
with disgust. I proposed travelling, to divert
her mind, but she declined it. I pressed her to make
known to me her secret cause of grief, if any existed;
and she fell upon my neck in tears, and then withdrew
to her chamber. She remained there for several hours,
and when I sought her again to sooth her feelings, I
found her employed in writing. She extended her
hand to me as I entered, and said she felt better, but
desired to be alone. I kissed her and left her. She
again sat down at her desk and continued writing, and
the tea-table, and conversed more cheerfully than
usual. She caressed our little daughter repeatedly,
and handed her to me to receive my blessings. I shall
never forget that evening. The child was more playful
than usual; and as I turned to my wife, and reflected
that she was the mother of that child, my love increased
almost to adoration. It was the happiest hour I ever
experienced, but it was the last hour of happiness I
have known. We retired to rest at the usual hour;
but the next morning when I awoke both my wife and
child were missing, and no trace remained of the direction
they had taken.
After a long and fruitless search, I returned disconsolate
and heart-broken. I entered my study, and as I
threw myself in a chair in an agony of grief, I beheld a
letter lying on the table before me. It was in my wife's
handwriting, and addressed to me. I trembled in every
limb as I broke the seal, and my eyes wandered vacantly
over the characters. She stated that a sense of
her own worthlessness had driven her from me, for she
could no longer endure a life of duplicity. That my
caresses were torture, since she had wronged me, and
was a guilty and heart-broken being; for the friend I
had received at my fireside had betrayed me. She conjured
me to forget her, but was that in nature! The
paper fell from my hand, for my whole frame shook as
if the palsy of age had smitten it; my brain whirled in
the confusion of half formed thought. I laughed wildly,
for I saw madness coming on, and at every stride I
laughed and laughed, until the horrid vacancy of my
own voice startled me back to a sense of reason; and
then I stood before my God, awed as if his finger had
been laid upon me, and from the very depth of my soul
I called upon him to curse the guilty pair.”
“And the malediction was heard, for he has cursed
them,” exclaimed Alice.
“May endless remorse corrode the hearts of the
Jurian.
“Peace, peace, thou deserted one,” cried Corwin,
“they should be curst, they have been curst, but not
by thee, O no! not by thee.”
“By every one who has a sense of virtue—may heaven
in its justice—”
“Hold, hold, unnatural boy—you know not what
you do—they were your parents,” exclaimed a voice
from another part of the building.
“God of heaven!”—Jurian turned and discovered
that the voice proceeded from M`Crea, who had entered
unperceived during the foregoing.
“The serpent has come in time to see the end of his
own work,” cried Corwin, and laughing wildly, fell exhausted
upon his pallet of straw.
“Father and mother both,” exclaimed M`Crea,
“now while before you, complete the punishment due
to their offence, and curse them. It is right that guilt
should create its own punishment, and the fruits of
guilt curse the guilty.”
“Ay, let the fruits of guilt curse the guilty,” cried
the maniac, and the building again resounded with the
wildness of his laughter.
“Father and mother both!” uttered Jurian, in a voice
nearly choked with emotion—“art thou my mother?”
“I know not that,” replied Alice; “he best can tell,
for he had charge of the evidence of our crime.”
“She is your mother,” replied M`Crea. “Thou art
her first born—a child of shame, for she was a mother
before she beheld that injured man.”
Jurian stood silent and motionless as a statue, while
horror was strongly depicted in his countenance. Corwin
continued to laugh convulsively, and Alice proceeded
in hurried and wild accents that betrayed her
remorse—
“O God! that I had never seen him—never wronged
him—never reduced him to this abject condition! I
approached Jurian, who still stood as motionless as if
he had been transformed to stone: “But you, my son,
will not despise and shun me. I have been guilty—
too guilty to hope for pardon; but I have been penitent
and wretched—so wretched that my heart has been
broken with the fulness of my affliction.”
“And mine has been broken too,” cried Corwin, and
laughed aloud.
“The world has heaped reproaches on me,” continued
Alice—“mankind has persecuted and trampled
on me. I merited all, and bore all without repining.
But you, my son, will not spurn me, you will not despise
and upbraid me. Let me sink to the grave, and
do not reproach my ashes.”
“Let me sink to the grave, let me sink to the grave,”
responded Corwin.
Alice fell upon the neck of the youth, but he was
still silent and motionless, as though a thunderbolt had
transfixed him to the earth.
“Speak to me, my son,” she continued, “it matters
not how great my offences against the rest of the world,
nothing can dissolve the link that exists between us.
Though degraded and guilty, remember I am your
mother still, and to embitter the remnant of my life is
to entail a curse upon thy own head. One that you
may not hope to escape, for it will surely light upon
you before you reach the grave. Speak to me, I conjure
you, speak to me.”
Jurian remained insensible to the appeal, and apparently
unconscious of what was passing before him.
Alice turned from him in despair—
“He will not speak to me! The guilty mother
kneels to her son in vain—the offspring spurns the
author of his being!”
Corwin called to M`Crea, in a voice scarcely articulate;
the surgeon turned to him, and the wretched man
beings before him—
“This is your work, this is your work! The ways
of crime are seldom so intricate but they may be unravelled
at last. This is your work, I say, this is your
work!”
His voice was lost in the rattling in his throat, and
was succeeded by a vacant chuckling laugh. He
stretched his emaciated limbs, and a convulsive shudder
agitated his whole frame, but still he kept his
eye fixed on Alice and Jurian. M`Crea stood mutely
beside him, horror-struck at the fatal consequences of
his crime. He watched the changes in the maniac's
countenance, and taking his hand, of which the other
appeared unconscious, felt his pulse, which throbbed as
a single thread along his shrunken limb. He then laid
his hand upon the bosom of the dying man, to feel the
pulsations of his heart. Alice seated herself at his
feet, but Jurian had not yet moved, for there was one
thought that absorbed every faculty. She is my mother;
then what is Miriam! The rattling in Corwin's
throat increased, and he breathed with greater difficulty.
“You are dying,” said M`Crea, in a low voice.
“I know it—could my mother have foreseen that
such would have been my death-bed, would she have
rejoiced, think you, when I was born?”
“Pray, Corwin, pray.”
“And what is there in a death-bed prayer? Thank
God I have prayed through life.”
“And have you forgiven those who wronged you?”
“Heaven is no place for earthly passion,” replied
the dying man. “Be all animosities settled in this
world. Mine are settled; and now there is but one to
stand between me and my God.”
“And he?—”
“Will plead for me.”
“Press my hand in token that you die in peace with
all mankind.”
Corwin stretched out his hand, already as cold as
stone, which the surgeon eagerly grasped, but the other
was too feeble to return the pressure.
“Press it,” repeated the surgeon, “or make some
sign that you forgive.”
Corwin struggled to speak, his lips moved, but no
sound passed them; still the expression of his countenance
denoted that every spark of rancour had departed
from his bosom. M`Crea again pressed the cold
hand with energy—his heart was too full to speak, and
he fixed his eyes on those of the dying man, who steadfastly
returned the gaze, and appeared to read what
was passing in the mind of the penitent M`Crea. A
guard now entered the building with captain Graham at
their head, who approached Jurian, and said—
“Lieutenant Hartfield, we are come in pursuit of
you, with orders to place you under arrest.”
Jurian turned to him with a vacant look, that betrayed
that he did not understand the import of what was said.
Alice was roused by their entrance, and started to her
feet.
“Upon what charge?” demanded M`Crea.
“One that I trust can never be substantiated,” replied
Graham, “he is accused of being a spy in the British
service.”
“And who has ventured to make so preposterous a
charge?”
“There stands his accuser,” replied Graham, pointing
at Alice, whose restless glance passed rapidly from
one object to another, and every moment became
wilder and wilder.
“Woman, can this be so? and have you attempted
the life of your own son?” demanded M`Crea.
“Her own son!” exclaimed all present in amazement.
“We have reached the last link in the chain of
crime,” muttered Corwin, in a voice scarcely above his
breath.
“Speak, wretched woman, what led you to commit
an act so unnatural as this?”
“Madness!” shrieked Alice. “I am destined through
life to commit crime after crime, and each succeeding
act is more appalling than that which has gone before.
Murder my own son! husband and son both murdered
by me! What is there left for me to perpetrate more
damning than that already done. Point it out; I am
ready; there is no escape—my destiny must be fulfilled.
My own life by my own hand, is the only deed
worthy of one so blackened, and that would insure the
punishment merited by a career of ignominy and guilt.”
“Lead me to prison,” said Jurian to Graham.
“Do not leave me,” cried Alice, throwing herself
upon his neck, “do not leave me—no sooner found
than lost! O! Jurian, I will forswear what I have
said. Hear me, he is as innocent as the babe unborn.
I was mad when I accused him—I did it in obedience
to the malice of another, but now I say it is false.
Hear me! Ye will not take away the life of a man
upon the testimony of one too guilty herself to live!”
Jurian released her hold and beckoned to M`Crea
to receive her, and then turning to captain Graham,
said—
“I am ready; do your duty,” and they moved a few
paces towards the entrance to the building.
“Hold, ye men of blood!” cried Alice, ye would
not have a mother murder her own son! Hear me, I
say he is innocent. Ye will not drag him to a death
of shame upon the accusation of one whose life has
been one unbroken tissue of shame! Are ye men, and yet
destitute of mercy? Ye shall not tear us asunder; if he is
to die, let me die with him.” She broke from M`Crea,
and again threw her arms frantically around the neck
of Jurian.
“Take her away,” said the young man, in a cold
tone, that chilled for a moment the fervid feelings of
Alice. “And now,” continued he, “take me away
also.”
“That voice freezes my blood! Stay, stay, my son,
nor hasten to a death of shame!”
“Mother,” replied Jurian, calmly, “I owe to you a
life of shame, and it is right that I should be indebted
to you for a shameful death also.”
Alice sunk into the arms of M`Crea, while Jurian
motioned to the guard to conduct him from the building,
and his miserable parents were left alone. The
shades of night were fast approaching, and the piercing
wind carried along with it a dirgelike strain as it swept
over the waste of snow. The wretched pair stood
silent until the receding tread of the soldiers, breaking
through the encrusted surface, was no longer heard,
and they hung upon that sound as though it had been
a note of joy, for it seemed to disarm despair of half its
poignancy. The wretched never feel the extent of
their wretchedness until left to commune with their own
thoughts, where no human sound may reach them, and
call them back to what is passing in this world. When
the footsteps of the soldiers were no longer heard,
Alice turned to M`Crea, and said in a low tremulous
voice—
“How silent it is!—Speak to me, M`Crea, though
you heap reproaches on me—I care not, so I hear a
human voice, for it is as fearfully silent here as though
we were among the dead.”
“And we are with the dead,” responded M`Crea.
She turned her eyes towards Corwin, who had expired,
and seeing that he lay motionless, she hurried to him,
and placed her hand upon his forehead, but recoiled at
the touch, and shrieked—
“Cold as stone! the damps of death are there! his
eyes are fixed and glazed! O God! he has gone
without pardoning me!”
“Not so; your fault was forgiven; he died in peace
with all mankind.”
“Impossible! He has not, he could not pardon me,
but has died with all his bitter feelings towards me still
evidence against me in heaven, as they have been in
this world. I did hope that offence might have been expiated
here, but he is dead, and now there is no hope left.”
“I say he pardoned you, and his last breath was a
prayer for those who wronged him.”
“What is there on earth that I would not give to
have heard that prayer!” She gazed fixedly upon the
face of Corwin, and bursting into an agony of tears,
kissed him repeatedly, all the while exclaiming, “O!
that I had heard that prayer!”
When her feelings had in some measure subsided,
M`Crea proposed going to the camp to procure assistance
to remove the body, and leave Alice to watch by
it until his return. “I fear not the living,” she replied,
“but I may not stay alone with the dead.” He then
directed her to go and acquaint Mauns Talman with
what had occurred, and he would await her return.
Alice left the building, and he rekindled the fire, and
seated himself beside the inanimate clay, and communed
with it, as though it still retained all the faculties
of life. And where is he who has not spoken to the
dead, and for a moment fancied that he was understood!
While gazing on the deserted tenement of the soul, it
requires a struggle to believe that the form, but late
elastic with life, and through which the ethereal essence
moved so mysteriously, imparting its influence to every
atom, that they appeared to be one and indivisible—the
master-work of the master-hand—it requires a struggle,
I say, to reconcile the mind to the idea that an
eternal divorce has taken place, that all the exquisite
faculties of that complicated work have been in an instant
paralyzed and forever, and that he who had
usurped all things to his own use, has been hurled from
the summit of his arrogance to the insignificance of
the clod of the valley, without a solitary attribute
remaining superior to the dust with which he is doomed
to mingle.
| CHAPTER VIII. The forsaken | |