 | CHAPTER XII. The forsaken |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
The daughter of affliction! whelm'd with woes
So vast, humanity trembles to think her
Of its own species.
Hecuba, a tragedy.
Of Thessaly can ease my grief; the sea
Knows no such straight as I now labour in.
A Fine Companion.
In a few days Miriam was removed to the jail of
Chester county, whither Gordon had been previously
conveyed. She had been kindly treated at the farm
house, and her mind was now restored to a full sense
of her condition. There would have been relief in insanity.
Towards the close of the day after her removal
to prison, a horseman muffled up in a cloak, apparently
more closely than the piercing wind required, rode up
to the prison, dismounted, and knocked at the door.
This summons was immediately succeeded by the rattling
of keys and the creaking occasioned by the unbolting
of bars, when the door was opened, and the
turnkey demanded why he had been summoned.
“A friend would speak with Miriam Grey; can you
grant his request?”
“It is now the hour of closing up; if you had come
sooner”—
“I would but speak a few words to her,” replied the
Even that will be a solace to one afflicted as she is.”
“It will, so come in,” said the jailer, “for the poor
thing needs to be comforted.”
The stranger entered, the door was barred after him,
and he followed the jailer in silence to the room where
the wretched Miriam lay, and the door being opened,
he stood in the passage for a few moments contemplating
the scene that it presented to his view. On a
bed in one corner of the room lay the miserable girl,
whose figure was scarcely visible, by the feeble light
of a lamp placed on the hearth. In another corner was
a small rough table, upon which stood an earthen
pitcher and some broken bread. Miriam raised her
head as the door opened, and on perceiving that tall
lank figure of the jailer, faintly said—
“Mr. Foster, is that you? It is kind, for you cannot
think how weary I am of hearing no human voice!”
“Here is one would speak with you,” replied the
jailer, raising his lamp, the light from which fell upon
the muffled figure standing behind him; Miriam caught
a glimpse of it, and shrinking with fear, exclaimed—
“Ah! what man is that? Why is he here? Have
they sent already to drag me to trial? I am innocent—
I have told you over and over again I am innocent.
As God is my witness, I am no murderer.”
“Be pacified,” said Foster, in a soothing tone, “you
have nothing to alarm you yet.”
She concealed her face in her hands, and sobbed—
“O! do not take me to trial yet; spare me but this
one night, for I may die before to-morrow, and they
will not have to answer for my blood.”
“Raise your head, Miriam, for none but friends are
near you,” replied the stranger.
“Friends! I have no friends! Even heaven itself
has forsaken me!”
The stranger approached the bed, and called her
again by name. At the sound of his voice she raised
uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless upon
his bosom.
“The surprise has overcome her,” said the stranger.
“Bring the water, Foster, and bathe her temples.”
The jailor brought the pitcher from the table, and the
stranger bathed the pallid face of the unconscious Miriam,
who slowly revived.
“Miriam, Miriam, be collected—They are friends
who are with you.”
“That voice—I know that voice,” she faintly said,
“but then it sounds so hollow! It is no longer clear and
full as in former days. Speak to me again; I cannot
have been deceived.”
“Miriam!”
“It is he! But wherefore is he here? How did he
escape? And no sooner free than to rush upon ruin
for my sake! Wherefore have you done this?
“Silence, Miriam, we are not alone,” said Jurian in
a low voice, for it was he.
“Braved an ignominious death for my sake! A thing
so worthless!”
“Be composed—your emotion will betray me.”
“A joy so unlooked for! Praise to heaven, I am
not deserted yet!”
“Good Foster,” said Jurian, turning to the jailor,
“can you leave us together? I would speak alone with
her.”
“He will not refuse,” said Miriam, “for he has been
so kind to me, you cannot think how kind.”
“May heaven reward him!”
The jailor took his lamp and withdrew, leaving the
door partly open, and the room was now imperfectly
lighted by the dim lamp on the hearth. The wretched
pair remained silent for some moments, during which
Miriam examined with interest the altered countenance
of her lover.
“How pale you are!” she said; “and your cheeks
once added beauty and expression to your countenance,
is now swollen and painful to behold. How fearfully
that dark line contrasts with the waxen hue of your
skin! And your eyes too, Jurian, that once sparkled
with a fire that I imagined death alone could extinguish,
are now as the eyes of one that is dead.”
“True, they are dead, and buried too, my Miriam,”
he replied, forcing a smile, “deep sunken in my head.”
“O! do not smile! what is it has wrought this fearful
change?—not sorrow for me, I hope. Let me not
believe that I have done this. Cease to think of me,
Jurian, or if you needs must think, only remember me
as I was, and not as I am. That thought will not bring
you pain.”
“They are united, Miriam, by a link never to be
broken.”
“This is madness! What comfort will it afford me
to know that you are wretched? It is enough for one
to suffer, and if there be any virtue in penitence, surely
what I have endured should be sufficient to expiate our
crime. There is no hope for me, Jurian, in this world,
then why should two lives be sacrificed? It is enough,
I say, that one should feel condemned in the eye of
heaven for an offence committed against the laws of
man.”
“Speak no more of it. Think not of me.”
“What else have I to think of on earth! and when
I behold this change can I do otherwise than speak?
But a few weeks have passed since we parted, and
your frame has wasted away—your voice is so hollow
that I scarcely recognise its familiar tones,—and your
hands—behold those swollen veins, attenuated fingers,
and discoloured nails!—it is the hand of age already.”
“Too much thought has made me ill, Miriam, since
we parted.”
“You must have been very ill to have produced so
great a change!”
“Doubtless, and yet I knew it not.” She brought
the light, and examined his countenance intently—
“What new lines are here! Familiar as that face
is to me, I never before beheld those lines. Your hair
has lost its gloss, it no longer curls as formerly, and—
gracious heavens! it is sprinkled with gray!”
“I knew not that. Put down the light, Miriam, put
down the light.” She did so, and reseated herself beside
him—
“Were you not formerly acquainted with Foster?”
“I was,” replied Jurian; “I knew him well. You
remember but a few years ago he lived in our neighbourhood.”
“I remember.”
“Then wherefore the question?”
“I thought it strange that he did not recognise you,
but even I did not know you at first, which was more
strange.”
The conversation was now changed, and Jurian related
the manner of his escape from his place of confinement
at the Valley Forge. The evening preceding,
Alice Grey called at the hut in which he was confined,
and demanded of the guard permission to see her son.
Honest Talman was on duty, and though he had discontinued
the habit of smoking ever since the destruction
of his meerschaum, it was remarked that on this
occasion he had a pipe in his mouth; the same that
Jurian had bestowed upon him years before. He also
abounded in anecdote of the juvenile adventures of our
hero, and if they did not appear more remarkable than
were ever before performed by infant prodigy, it was
not the fault of the partial narrator. Poor Mauns was
not in the habit of talking much, but when on this
theme, he would talk until his own eyes overflowed,
and those of his hearers were closed, for there was
scarcely a wild duck or a rockfish taken by Jurian,
whose fate did not call forth the most minute description.
Actions trifling in themselves, assume an aspect
feel an interest.
The wishes of Alice were no sooner made known to
the sergeant than complied with. She entered the hut,
and Mauns sat smoking at the door, the pipe, that
through the misfortunes of the donor, had become
dearer to him than ever was his favourite meerschaum.
A few minutes after Alice had entered, Jurian came
forth enveloped in her cloak; it was the dusk of the
evening, and the sergeant being too single-minded to
suppose that any thing like deception would be practised,
satisfied himself with casting his eye on the
figure, and perceiving the same dress, felt persuaded
that all was well, while Jurian passed on to a spot beyond
the limits of the camp, where he found M`Crea,
with a horse and cloak, in waiting, who directed him
to fly and conceal himself, until such time as he might
appear in safety, assuring him that when the extent of
his offence should be fully known, he did not doubt
that all proceedings against him would be discontinued.
The first use he made of his liberty was to visit Miriam,
whose fate he had learnt from M`Crea.
“Then my mother is still alive!” exclaimed Miriam,
as he ceased speaking; “but driven from her home to
wander through a scoffing world, with a daughter's
shame added to her own sorrows—she cannot bear it
long, and I shall have murdered her. That thought
will kill me yet. O! Jurian, does she still think of me
with kindness, or as a wretch who had doubly imbittered
the last hours of a life of sorrow?”
“She loves you as her child, and nothing but the
hope of seeing you sustains her beneath her load of
calamity.”
“How had I the heart to forsake so good a mother!
And yet, Jurian, even she has been cruel to me—but
her cruelty was meant in kindness. When I last parted
from you, I met her at the prison door, with Gordon—
that wicked man, whose arts have destroyed my happiness
and forced me along the street to where my mother
lodged. Gordon then left me alone with my mother,
and she spoke not until he returned. O! Jurian, there
was the concentrated agony of a whole life, in the few
moments that I sat silent and self-condemned in the
presence of my mother. I dared not to raise my eyes
until Gordon returned. There was a man with him, a
clergyman they said, who had come to make me the
wife of him whom most on earth I abhorred.”
“And you are now the wife of that guilty man?”
“That curse is spared me! Heaven gave me strength
to avoid that misery. Three times, Jurian, was the
ceremony repeated, while my mother stood calmly by,
without a sign of mercy in that face that hitherto had
beamed alone with tenderness and love. My soul sunk,
still I summoned all my strength to answer when the
fearful question was proposed, and thrice I shrieked,
`death sooner! death sooner!' Finding me resolute,
Gordon and the clergyman left us, and my mother used
every argument to convince me that the step was for
my own salvation. Three days I was confined, during
which her entreaties were unceasing; threats were resorted
to, and the following day was fixed upon for the
consummation of my fate, but that very night means
of escape occurred, and I availed myself of it; whether
for the better or the worse it is hard to tell.”
“Had you remained, Miriam, we might have been
spared an accumulation of suffering and guilt.”
“O suffering, but not of guilt. Since that time, I
have led a life of sincere penitence, and not of guilt. O!
no, I have done nothing but weep and pray, but even
when my thoughts were most free from sin, I am supposed
to have been most guilty.”
“The child, Miriam, the child?”
“You cannot think me such a wretch! If you can
doubt my innocence, what have I to hope from my
judges?”
“Miriam!”
“Jurian, you have known me in my days of purity,
when my heart did not harbour a single thought it
would have concealed from the world. I need not say
how madly I have loved you—more than any thing on
earth, and at times, I fear, more than any thing in
heaven. Then can you think I would have sought the
life of the child of one so beloved, at a time when the
little innocent was all that remained to me of you?”
“Do not imagine that such a thought could enter my
mind. No, Miriam, I know you are innocent of the
fearful charge, but I would hear from your own lips all
that occurred on that fatal night, that your innocence
may be made manifest to the world.”
“And wherefore? what is life to me? A name once
deeply stained can never be purified; and it matters
little whether falsehood has stamped the blot, or the
the frailty of human nature has occasioned it. Few
gain credit for their good actions, their evil ones are
never to be forgotten; and though my innocence be
made as clear as noonday, I shall never again raise my
head among those who were the witnesses of my
shame.”
“Still, Miriam, remember you are about to answer a
fearful charge, and I am here to save you, if possible,
from a death of shame.”
“True, true, and few have the fortitude not to struggle
for life, even while they wish for death. I will recount
to you all that I remember of that dreadful night.
I had been turned from the house where I had sought
shelter, for the mistress of it had discovered my shame,
and had no mercy for the frailties of others, even while
she expected it of heaven for her own. She closed her
doors upon me with revilings, and though I was scarcely
able to stand, and sick to the soul, I dragged my feeble
limbs about a mile from the house, when I sunk exhusted
upon the ground, where I lay near an hour, and
earnestly did I pray to die. God willed it otherwise.
was every prospect that unless I found shelter my
prayer would be heard before the morning. I have said
we struggle for life even while we pray for death. I
arose, and having been driven from the door of the
prosperous, I determined to appeal to the compassion
of the poor, whose sufferings had taught them to feel
for others. After wandering for some time, the rain
began to fall in torrents, the night was dark, and my
strength had nearly failed, when I was attracted by a
light to Gordon's cottage, and I knocked at the door
and entered. Rather would I have stayed in the wood
and perished than have entered there.”
“Go on, Miriam, go on.”
“The woman was at first kind to me, but I had
not been seated long before Gordon came. At the
sight of him I felt ready to die with terror, and
was so feeble and distressed that I could scarcely
move. On the instant the woman's conduct changed
towards me. They retired together, and I fancied I
overheard him mention my name. My fears increased,
and even when left alone to sleep, I could not close my
eyes. Before day the woman passed through the room
where I lay, and left the house. The thought of being
alone with my persecutor awakened my terrors to such
a degree, that I silently arose and crawled into the
wood, preferring any situation to that in which I was.
The exertion was too much for me. I was seized with
racking pains; my brain was wandering—there was but
one idea that it could grasp, and that was, that I was
hunted by my worst foe. I struggled and writhed in
agony, for I thought he had fastened his fangs upon
me, and was tearing me limb from limb. What I fled
from, I knew not, for all was vague; still there was an
undefined feeling that I contended in mortal strife with
the most appalling creature that imagination could
form. O God! Jurian, what I did suffer on that night!
Long I contended; I thought the strife would never be
me to bear up against the tortures I endured. At
length the agonies of death came over me; I shrieked
—it was the only shriek I had uttered—it was followed
by a momentary consciousness, and I swooned. How
long I remained in this state I know not, but when I
awoke it was daylight, and I felt as though I were in
heaven. My relief was but momentary, for the first
object that struck my sight was a dead infant beside
me, and madness returned.”
As Miriam concluded, Foster again appeared in the
passage, and opened the door of a cell opposite to that
in which she was confined. Jurian turned at the
sound, and both doors being partly open, he caught a
glimpse of Gordon in the opposite room, secured with
shackles. Foster placed a pitcher of water upon the
table, and demanded of the prisoner whether he desired
any thing further, as it was time to lock up for the night.
“In good faith, Foster,” replied Gordon, “you are
too humane by half for your calling, and appear unwilling
to lose sight of your old acquaintance Jones in the
highwayman Gordon; however, I shall not trouble you
again to-night.” As the jailor was about returning,
Gordon perceived Jurian, and demanded of Foster who
he was.
“A friend of Miriam's,” replied the other, “who has
come to consult with her on the subject of her approaching
trial, and I hope he may be able to make out a good
defence.”
“Do you know who it is?” demanded Gordon, keeping
his eyes fixed upon the figures in the opposite
room.
“He is a stranger to me,” replied Foster, “though
he bears some resemblance to Jurian Hartfield. I
would have spoken to him for master Jurian, but that
this man is ten years older at least than the other. I
suppose it is some lawyer who intends to undertake the
defence of poor Miriam.”
“If so, Foster, he will not object to having two
clients, nor I to an additional counsel. Will you permit
me to say a word to him? for I would secure the
whole bar, and judges and jury too, if it were practicable,
for I fear my case will require pretty strong argument.”
“I am for letting every man have a fair chance for
his life, Gordon, and if you think that this gentleman
will be able to throw dust in the eyes of the jury, tell
him your story and set him to work.”
Gordon approached the door slowly; he was heavily
ironed, and the clanking of his chains awakened the
attention of Miriam, who recoiled as he approached.
He stood silent in the door-way, and his hard features
denoted something like feeling, as he contemplated the
forlorn state of the miserable girl. Foster intimated
to Jurian that the prisoner wished to speak to him, and
he rose and approached the spot where Gordon stood.
“Do not leave me,” cried Miriam, clinging to him.
“I shall not leave you; but why do you tremble?”
“The sight of that man recalls all that I have suffered.
O do not leave me for an instant; do not speak
to him! He has been the bane of your life, and if possible
he will sting you to death before he dies. Avoid
him as you would certain ruin.”
“Be pacified; what have I to fear?”
“I know not, but the sight of him has stricken such
terror to my soul, that I feel convinced if you speak to
him, you are lost. Your names have already been
linked together, and beware how you give malice another
hold upon you.”
“What hold, Miriam?”
“Remember, he is supposed to be a British spy;—
he is about to answer the insulted laws of his country—
and your name connected with that of a wretch like
this, under existing circumstances, may prove fatal. He
hates you, and will not die without showing it.”
“Be it so; but his malice cannot reach me.”
“Be not so confident, for even the poisonous spider
can weave a powerful web from frail material.”
This conversation, though carried on in an undertone,
did not escape the quick ear of Gordon, and a
change in his countenance indicated that jealousy and
hate were already contending in his bosom. Jurian
drew nigh to him, and said—
“You desire to speak to me?”
“I do, but in any other place than this, I should almost
question whether you are the man. Can a few
weeks have done the work of years?”
“Spare your comments, and speak to the point.”
“I shall be brief, sir, but I cannot refrain from expressing
my astonishment at this change. I may presume,
from the hazard you have run this night, that you still
love Miriam, and as ardently as ever?”
A slight shudder ran through the frame of Jurian,
which he in vain endeavoured to conceal, as the other
fixed his cold gray eye upon him.
“Did you call me to catechise me?” demanded Jurian;
“if so, farewell.”
“Be not so hasty,” continued Gordon. “Though
you may not love her as ardently as formerly, you doubtless
have still sufficient regard remaining, to attempt to
rescue her from her impending fate, since even I,
though rather like the blustering November than the
showery April, could weep for her.”
“Her safety is the object of my visit here.”
“It can be effected—draw this way. You are not
aware that the evidence against her is strong enough
to consign her to the gallows. She privately buried
the child, at least so the law will say, and was absconding
to conceal its death, when apprehended. Trust
not to a jury, or her fate is certain.”
“What hope has she but in the justice of her cause?”
“Law and justice will not shake hands in the present
case. But you know the statute better than I can
explain. I remember, some three years ago, Mary
Thorp, though as innocent as her dead babe of the
upon slighter testimony than will appear against
Miriam. You remember poor Mary, therefore trust
not to a jury, I say, while there are means more certain.”
“What means?”
“The prison is not well guarded, and the door would
soon yield before an axe or two.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I have always admired your courage, Mr. Hartfield,
and now you have an opportunity of exercising it
to some purpose. You know that the day after to-morrow
her trial will take place.”
“I know it, I know it.”
“Follow my instructions, and in a few hours you
will find yourself at the head of twenty determined men,
and if led on by one of your spirit, the project cannot
fail. To-morrow night attack the prison, and take my
word for it, you will find it a surer way to save Miriam
than trusting to law and justice.”
“And is it for the sake of that poor girl, or your own,
that I am to mingle with your unprincipled associates?”
“For both; and surely you cannot refuse to save the
life of one you love, because in doing so you may possibly
benefit one you hate.”
“Gordon, I have been your dupe more than once,
but as my conduct heretofore has not been criminal, do
not suppose from what has past, that I am ready to
become the guilty instrument of a wretch so abandoned.”
“Why give way to passion? What I propose is for
your own good. Turn not away, but bethink you, if
she dies, her blood will be upon your soul.” Jurian
made no reply, but entered the room where Miriam was
and closed the door after him. “And dare the moral
idiot spurn my proposal!” exclaimed Gordon in a rage,
“but he shall learn that I am not to be so easily foiled
against the door, and it flew open.
“Come, sir,” he continued, “old friends should not
part so soon and unceremoniously. I have a word or
two more to say to you, so come and hear me.”
“Do not stir from me,” exclaimed Miriam in agitation.
“Let it not be said that you communed with
that man in secret here, or utter ruin must follow.”
“Peace, abandoned girl,” exclaimed Gordon, “lest
your voice awaken the slumbering devil in my heart.
Come, sir, I would speak to you, I say, and must I call
a second time? You forget you are in my power.”
“I despise your threats,” replied Jurian. “Foster,
take that villain to his cell, that we may no longer be
subjected to outrage.”
“This from one who already has the halter around
his neck! Be warned in time, for there is that within
my bosom, which, if spoken—”
“Begone, and do the worst your malice can suggest.”
“Has the gallows then no terrors?” demanded Gordon,
“or are you already steeped so deep in infamy, as to
brave an ignominious death with composure? Reflect
upon the course you have adopted: I would be your
friend; be careful how you make me your foe.”
“Better have him your foe than friend,” exclaimed
Miriam, and clung around the neck of the young man.
“Girl,” replied Gordon, his gray eye kindling with
rage, “better that he had been your foe than friend;
but if you have a spark of mercy for yourself or him
remaining, raise not your feeble voice against me.”
Miriam shrunk from his gaze, and concealed her face
in Jurian's bosom.
“Begone, villain,” cried Jurian, “and cease to insult
this injured being, or I will strike you prostrate.”
The eyes of Gordon flashed for a moment, and suddenly
all was calm again.
“Keep your temper,” he said, “for neither you nor
myself will profit much by a war of words or blows. In
bury our animosity. Again I will ask you to extend the
hand of fellowship, and promise to befriend me. You
know the way I mean.”
“Never.”
“Decide not rashly; weigh the matter well and dispassionately,
for life or death depends upon your answer.
Pause, I say, for you know me well enough to
be convinced that I will not die singly.”
“You have had your answer; leave the room.”
“Have you no pity for my condition?”
“Begone!”
“No mercy for yourself?”
“Leave the room, I say.”
“No compassion for your sister?” saying which, he
pointed his finger at Miriam, and the young man immediately
sprang upon his throat, exclaiming—
“Infernal fiend! could you not have spared me this?”
The struggle was of short continuance, for Jurian's
strength had been reduced by previous sickness, and
the agony of his present feelings soon exhausted it.
Gordon thrust him from him, and he fell to the floor.
“His sister! what horrid tale is this!” shrieked Miriam.
“There lies the son of old Alice Grey,” replied
Gordon, coolly, “at least so the story goes, and he has
received a lesson that will make him a better man for
the future; and should he at any time stand in need of
mercy, he will be ready to extend it towards others.”
Miriam stood for a few moments petrified with horror,
and then fell senseless upon the body of Jurian.
“My errand is performed,” continued Gordon, turning
to Foster. “My words are verified; I said I would
not die alone. Think you not the shaft is there, old
boy? and am I not a sure marksman to the last? Now
lead me to my cell, for I grow weary; it is time to rest.”
“What can all this mean?” demanded Foster in astonishment.
“No matter, for the present,” replied Gordon, “but
you must admit that he is a good marksman who can
bring down two at a shot; say you not so, old boy?”
Then slapping the jailor familiarly on the shoulder, he
entered his cell.
| CHAPTER XII. The forsaken | |