 | CHAPTER X. The forsaken |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
With your jealous humours.
—Cynthia's Revels.
Paul Gordon had of late become more remiss in
his attentions to Mistress Haines, who did not fail to
upbraid him with his faithlessness in order to reclaim
him to his allegiance; but it is the decided opinion of
Socrates, that when the blandishments of love cease
to have an influence, it is in vain to attempt to bully a
man into affection. Mistress Haines, however, differed
from the philosopher, and was unwilling to consider
the point as fully settled: accordingly, the perjured
Paul, when on his amorous visits, instead of meeting
with such a reception as he had reason to expect from
a disciple of the sea-froth goddess, was obliged to
buckle on his armour and withstand the sharp encounter
of an Achilles in petticoats. This for a short time
Paul considered the very spice of life, but as it daily
became more highly seasoned, he found it rather unpalatable,
and felt uncomfortable after partaking of the
repast. In proportion as his visits became less frequent,
Madge seasoned the entertainment, which finally
became so pungent, that even the fireproof palate of
Paul could not bear it; and Mistress Haines found too
late that man is faithless, and woman is born to trouble
as the sparks fly from them.
On the night to which we have brought our narrative,
Madge, while ruminating alone in her cottage,
listening to the pelting storm, and watching the blaze
which occasionally arose from the embers, mouldering
in the huge fireplace, and after playing for a few moments
about the surface of the ashes, and casting fantastic
shadows over the smoke-dried room, would go
out and leave all in total darkness—the pensive damsel
was disturbed by a gentle tap at the door, which at
first was scarcely audible, owing to the continued pattering
of the rain upon the roof of the cottage. The
knock was repeated and the door was opened, when
Miriam Grey entered, drenched with rain and nearly
fainting with fatigue. She sunk exhausted upon a seat
which stood beside the door, and it was some moments
before she recovered sufficient strength to apologise
for the unceremonious intrusion. When she
raised her head her countenance was pale and melancholy,
and her eyes were red with weeping, and tears
were still trickling from them—
“I hope you will excuse the liberty I have taken,”
she said, “but the night is a frightful one, and I feel
I have already gone beyond my strength.”
“You are welcome to my poor hovel,” replied
Madge, “for the night is too stormy for any christian
soul to be abroad, much less a feeble woman. Come,
draw your stool to the hearth while I rake the coals
together.”
“The blessings of heaven be on you: I thought I
should have perished in the woods this night, but your
charity has saved me.”
Madge drew the coals together, and threw some
light wood upon them, which speedily blazed up.
“Come, you are shivering with cold; draw up to
the fire and warm yourself. Doubt not your welcome.”
Miriam rose, but reseated herself immediately, being
unable to walk to the fire. Madge observed her
distress, and said—
“You appear quite overcome with fatigue.”
“I am, indeed,” replied the other faintly.
“Lean on me; poor soul, how pale she looks, and
how feeble.”
With the assistance of Madge, the sick woman supported
herself to the fire, and sunk upon a stool which
the other had placed in the corner to receive her.
“Thank you, thank you, heaven's blessing be on
you,” said Miriam, with a feeble and faltering voice.
“Your cloak is dripping with rain: take it off, and
I will hang it behind the door to dry.”
“You are kind, but I fear I am troublesome.”
“Don't think of it. Come, give me your cloak, for
if you sit longer in your wet clothes, you will take
your death of cold.”
Miriam untied her cloak and handed it to the other,
who scrutinized her figure as if she recollected having
seen her before.
“Which way are you travelling?”
“To Lancaster; but I fear I shall never reach it.”
“It is a long journey for a lone woman and a young
one; and you are already worn down with fatigue.
Have you any friends in the place you are going to?”
“Friends! alas! I have none on earth!” replied
Miriam, and began weeping.
“So young, and so forlorn! Where do you intend
sleeping to-night?”
“I know not; in my grave, if I am turned from your
door. But I care not, though it be in the grave.”
“Poor wretch! I am not so hard-hearted; my own
sufferings have taught me to feel for others. Would
you have any thing to eat?”
“Nothing: rest is all I require, for I feel very
faint.”
The door now opened, and Paul Gordon entered.
He shook the rain from his broad brimmed hat, which
he hung upon a peg behind the door; and as he approached
the blazing hearth, Miriam raised her languid
head, and immediately shrunk back with horror,
her persecutor Jones—though his Quaker apparel was
well calculated to deceive a less scrutinizing eye. She
involuntarily articulated his name, and averted her
face, and though she spoke almost inaudibly, the name
fell distinctly upon the watchful ear of the jealous and
neglected Madge. Paul, as he stood spreading his
large form before the cheerful blaze of the fire, pretended
not to recognise in the miserable being who sat
trembling beside him, the once lovely and innocent
object of his persecution. He said, in a careless tone—
“A rough night this, stranger, to be abroad, and I
thank Fortune that I have got under cover at last.”
Miriam made no reply, for the well known tones of
his voice only served to increase her terror and agitation;
and as Paul himself did not feel altogether unconcerned
at her presence, a profound silence prevailed
for some moments. After having warmed himself,
he said—
“It is growing late, and my ride through the storm
has chilled and wearied me, so good night to both;
I will go to bed.”
He entered the adjoining room, but on closing the
door he cast a look upon the unfortunate wanderer,
which did not escape the notice of his Dulcinea, who
followed him with a light.
“So; you are acquainted with this trull too it
seems,” said Madge, after a pause, which was spent
in working herself into a passion.
“I have seen the poor girl before,” replied our
knight of the stirrup.
“And will see her again?”
“Doubtless!”
“But never under this roof.”
“Then she will have to be very expeditious in departing,”
replied Paul.
“And so she shall: for out she goes this instant.”
“No; she shall not.”
“Who will prevent it?”
“Your heart.”
“Pshaw! my heart! You make us devils, and yet
expect to find us angles. My heart!”
“If your's wont, mine will.”
“Your's! ha! ha! ha! a highwayman preaching
mercy and charity. What has the Devil to do with the
pater-noster?”
“Nothing, that I know of,” said Paul, gravely.
“Or you with morality and a feeling heart?”
“Humph! I can't boast much of either.”
“Then out she goes.”
“No; that's a mistake, as I have already said.”
“Am I the mistress of this miserable hovel or not?”
“You are.”
“Then I will do as I please here.”
“Not always.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am master of both you and the miserable
hovel,” replied the other sternly.
During this dialogue Paul had seated himself upon
the foot of the bed, and was proceeding leisurely to undress
himself. His last remark completely silenced
the enraged woman, who, however, gave him a glance
which superseded the necessity of wasting words. Paul
observed it, and having read that book often, was at no
loss to understand its meaning: he therefore thought
it prudent to allay the storm while brewing, rather than
encounter it in its fury. He proceeded in a more conciliating
tone—
“Man seldom becomes so debased, as to be wholly
deprived of the feelings of humanity.”
“True.”
“And woman, as long as the milk of human kindness
flows from her bosom, no matter how great the
account between heaven and herself, is an idol for man
to worship.”
“Very fine: but what's that to me?”
“It goes to prove that I still love you, for I know
you have a feeling heart.”
“Pshaw! come round to the point. Who is this
wench?”
“Miriam Grey.”
“I have heard of her. And you would have her
stay here to-night?”
“She appears feeble and sick; and might perish, if
turned out to wander in the storm.”
“Well; her death would not be at my door.”
“No; but certainly on your conscience.”
“Conscience, mercy, and charity!” exclaimed
Madge, with a sneer;” the man is better calculated
for the pulpit than the highway. Well; you shall be
obeyed; I will make her a bed in the adjoining room
by the fire.”
“Right, my brave girl! Faith, I love you now better
than ever, for woman never looks so much like an angel
as when administering to the wants of a fellow
being.”
There was but little of the angel in the appearance
of Madge, or painters have flattered the sublimated
race outrageously; still, she believed there was both
justice and sincerity in the remark of Paul.
“You have a flattering tongue,” said she, “and if
you please to wheedle, I can refuse you nothing.”
“So, the storm has fortunately gone by,” said our
hero to himself, as Madge entered the adjoining room
to prepare a bed for the sick woman; but Paul, with
all his observation, had not yet discovered that usually
a dead calm prevails throughout nature, immediately
preceding the most violent tempest. Madge rebuilt
the fire upon the hearth, and prepared a bed for the
unhappy girl, who appeared to be too much engrossed
with her own feelings to attend to the movements of
her hostess. The bed being finished, Madge wished
her `good night,' and withdrew into her own room and
assumed a smile which was as welcome to Paul as the
clouds, had prepared himself to encounter a war of the
elements.
It was broad daylight the following morning when
our hero awoke, and after stretching himself, he started
up in the bed and exclaimed, “Zounds, Madge, I
have overslept myself,” but as no answer was returned,
he looked around, and discovered that his fair
partner was not quite as much of a sluggard as himself.
She had already arisen and left the room. Paul
dressed himself, and on entering the room in which
Miriam had slept, discovered that she also had disappeared.
He called aloud, but no answer was returned.
He opened the door, but there was no sign of either of
the fugitives. “What the Devil is the meaning of all
this,” said Paul to himself, as he took a seat, and began
to cogitate, in hopes of resolving the mystery;
but the more he thought, the more he became perplexed,
and he finally abandoned it in despair, and exclaimed,
“I might as well attempt to find out the longitude
as the motive of a woman's actions: so if she has
gone, even let her go, and the Devil go with her, for
he has got his due, and I am fairly rid of a termagant.”
Such is the plastic and accommodating nature of
the human mind, that man will become reconciled to
any affliction or privation which heaven in its wisdom
may deem proper to impose; and to such an extent
has this praiseworthy resignation been carried in modern
times, that it is not unusual to see a tender husband
following his beloved wife to the grave with cheerfulness;
and a young widow, turning to her dower to
console herself for the loss of her aged spouse; a brother
beholding, with christianlike calmness, the ruin
of a brother; and a dutiful son, in the fulness of his
grief, dancing with all his might, like the man after
God's own heart, upon the tomb of his wealthy
parent.
Paul had no sooner become reconciled to his loss
philosophy again, to aid him in a more arduous trial.
He had resolved to take his final departure from the
spot, and forget Mistress Haines forever; but at the
moment he rose to put this resolution into execution
she entered, with her skinny face crimpled into what
she considered an engaging smile, but it must be admitted,
that those who are familiar alone with the
laughing dimples of a rosy-cheeked Hebe, would have
been at a loss to comprehend the peculiar expression
of Madge's countenance. Paul looked rather abashed
at this ill-timed apparition, for his mind fell headlong,
as it were from a pinnacle to a bottomless pit, and he
would not have felt half as foolish had he been taken
in the act of picking a pocket. He was prepared for
her loss, but not for her recovery, and in evident confusion
he stammered out—
“You are stirring early, mistress; what business
could have taken you abroad at this hour of the morning?”
“I have been to the next neighbour's, to provide a
breakfast for you,” replied Madge.
“Considerate girl! Well, how have you succeeded?”
“I will not speak as to the quality of the fare, but
you will have enough to digest, I warrant you,” she
replied, at the same time placing the half consumed
brands which lay promiscuously about the hearth together.
“Right,” exclaimed Paul, “homely fare is the best
suited to a wholesome stomach; but be stirring, the
sun is high, and I should have been on the road at
least an hour ago.”
“You are always impatient to leave me, in spite of
all I can do to detain you.”
“No, on my life, sweet Madge, but pleasure you
know must give place to business, or I would not be
absent a moment from this delightful spot.”
“If so, you will not deny me the pleasure of your
company half an hour longer?”
“Certainly not, certainly not,” said Gordon, at the
same time resolving that it should be the last favour
she should have an opportunity of requesting of him.
He was anxious to know what had become of Miriam,
but feared to broach the subject.
“You are already equipped for starting; pray, put
down your arms, for it appears as if you begrudged me
the few moments you stay with me.”
“You shall be gratified every way,” replied Paul,
taking off the belt by which his pistols were secured,
and laying the weapons upon the table.
“I will put them out of sight, for they only serve to
remind me that I am to lose you in a few moments,”
said Madge, and carried them into the adjoining
room.
“How fond the hussy is of me,” said Paul to himself;
and he felt an unusual degree of self-importance,
as the idea came across his mind. “How fond the
hussy is of me.” It is a nice point, and still unsettled,
whether man or woman is possessed of the greater
portion of vanity.
Madge immediately returned, and standing behind
the chair upon which Paul was seated, began to fondle
upon him.
“You are loving, you rogue; you are loving.”
“What fools we women are for our pains,” said
Madge, “one half the trouble that we take to secure
an old lover would obtain us twenty new ones.” This
was accompanied by a kiss, and our hero turned up the
whites of his eyes; put on a gracious smile, and endeavoured
to look as fascinating as a man could possibly
look in such a dilemma. His arms were suspended
over the back of the chair upon which he was
seated, and his hands were twined within each other.
Madge slyly slipped a noose over both hands while in
this position,—
“What frolic are you about?” cried Paul, gaily, as
she drew the cord tight around his wrists.
“As I have lost all hold upon you,” replied Madge,
laughing, “I have taken the surest mode of securing
you for the future.”
“A merry joke, faith; a merry joke; but, zounds,
you hurt my wrists; don't draw the cord so tight, my
angel. Damn it, I say, don't draw the cord so tight.”
“You are surely jesting,” said the other, “you can
release yourself from these fetters as easily as you
have from mine.”
“For all that, sweet Madge, devil a peg can I stir.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“As sure as I am my name is Paul Gordon.”
“Then I will call some one to your assistance.
Hallo! the lion's in the toil.” The door was burst
open, and three or four countrymen rushed in, armed
with guns, and in their rear the valiant corporal Drone,
flourishing his rusty sword.
“Down with the Philistine,” cried the corporal;
“shoot him; strike, and spare not.” The guns were
instantly presented towards the breast of the highwayman,
who attempted in vain to rise, as the false Delilah
exercised all her strength to keep him stationary.
“Hold!” cried his betrayer, “spare his life, he is
perfectly secure.”
“Sampson has lost all his hair,” cried the corporal,
“then let me at him.”
“Gadfly, begone! Traitress, let go your hold that
I may tread him out.”
Gordon made a violent exertion to rise, and sprang
to his feet, his hands still secured behind him. The
corporal slunk back, not emulous of being the first to
encounter his fury, should he by possibility regain his
freedom; but in his retreat he called loudly upon the
others to advance and secure him. Paul rushed towards
the adjoining room.
“Do not let him enter there,” cried Madge, “or
figure between him and the door.
“Out of the way, you treacherous hag, or I will
trample your lights out,” shouted Paul.
He pressed upon her, a struggle ensued, and the
woman in order to escape his fury darted into the adjoining
room, but before she could close the door, Paul
followed and dashed it to after him. The next moment
the falling of a heavy bar was heard, and the countrymen
on trying the door found it secured.
“Cowards!” cried the corporal, “you have suffered
him to escape. Had I attempted to take him alone
this would not have happened. But I am rightly served.
This comes of trusting to others to do what I could
have done myself,” saying which, he strutted about the
room in as great a huff as did a certain distinguished
character, who has been likened unto `a roaring lion,'
on a memorable occasion.
“Help, help!” cried the woman from within, “or
he will murder me.”
“Break open the door,” shouted the corporal, and
they battered against it with the butts of their guns,
while Madge continued to cry for assistance.
“Run round the house,” cried the corporal, “and
if he will not surrender, shoot him through the window.”
Two were about to obey this order, when they were
arrested by the report of a pistol in the adjoining room,
which was succeeded by a heavy fall upon the floor.
“He has murdered the woman,” cried the corporal.
“Down with the door, I say.”
The bar across the door was now raised, the door
flew open, and Madge came forth, her hair and apparel
in great disorder, that indicated the violence of the
struggle she had encountered. In her left hand she
held Paul's belt with a pistol in it, and in the other the
remaining pistol, which was still reeking from the recent
discharge. The countrymen rushed into the
room, and found Paul upon the floor. He had succeeded
about springing to his feet as they entered, but they
pointed the muzzles of their guns to his broad and
bloody chest, and he remained in that attitude without
attempting to rise. His hands were still bound behind
him.
“Fire,” cried Paul, “if you please;” and he fixed
his unwavering eyes fiercely upon his captors.
“Shoot him down,” cried the corporal, peeping in at
the door.
“Spare his life,” cried Madge, approaching, “you
can secure him now.”
“Hell-cat, begone!” shouted Paul, and sprung to
his feet. Madge retreated, and the corporal withdrew
his head.
“Surrender, or we fire,” cried one of the countrymen.
“Then fire, for that were a more welcome death than
upon the gibbet.”
“Spare his life,” repeated Madge, “for what have
you to fear from a wounded man with his hands tied?”
“The devil's dam has turned oracle,” said Paul, in
bitter irony; “what have you to fear from one whom a
woman mastered?”
They laid hold of him, and he suffered himself to be
secured without further resistance. They now opened
his bosom to examine the state of his wound, and discovered
that the ball had passed through the fleshy
part of the right breast, and grazed the right arm near
the shoulder.
“The wound is not fatal, I hope,” said Madge.
“Well aimed, devil, but not fatal,” replied Paul.
“Come, cover up the scratch the hell-cat gave me,
and let us begone.”
“Paul, you know I would not have fired, had it not
been to save my life,” said Madge, in a penitent tone.
“And that alone saved it,” replied Paul; “but for that,
you should not have triumphed in your treachery,”
The corporal, perceiving that there was now no danger,
ventured to come forward, and after reconnoitring
the captive for some time, was amazed on recognizing
in the terror of the country his quondam acquaintance
Jones. He gazed in mute astonishment, with eyes and
mouth both open, and seemed to question the evidence
of his own senses, but when fully satisfied that it was
no illusion, he exclaimed—
“Damn it, Jones, and is it you after all who have
keen kicking up such a confounded dust that no man
could travel the highway with comfort! But give us
your hand, old boy—I am heartily glad to see you, for
months have elapsed since we have had a social cup
together. Give us your hand.”
Drone took him familiarly by the hand, and he of
whom the whole neighbourhood had for months stood
in awe, was now divested of his terrors even in the eyes
of the cowardly corporal.
“By the beard of Aaron,” continued Drone, “if I
had but known that honest Jones was the bugbear all
this while, I should have settled the hash long ago.”
Truly has it been said, that no man is a hero to his valet
de chambre.
The corporal took Paul's belt from the woman, and
buckling it around his waist, strutted fiercely about the
room, issuing his orders to the countrymen, and occasionally
exclaiming, “If I had but known that this fearless
desperado had been no other than my pot-companion
Jones, I should have settled his business in short
order.”
Even Paul smiled at the consequential airs of the
corporal, as he strutted about in Ephraim's plain coat,
begirt with the highwayman's belt and pistols. To complete
the anomaly, a long sword was hanging by his
side, and portions of his tattered rifle shirt were seen
beneath his anti-warlike apparel. They finally concluded
to lodge the prisoner in Chester county jail,
and they left the cottage with that intent, the corporal
walking beside Paul, and chatting familiarly with him.
| CHAPTER X. The forsaken | |