 | CHAPTER II. The forsaken |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
'Tis better to suffer treason, than act the traitor.
—Rollo.
My heart with sorrow laden, is no more priz'd by thee:
Repeat the vows you made me, say, swear thy love is true;
Thy faithless vows betray'd me—they may betray her too.
But, no! may she ne'er languish, like me in shame and wo;
Ne'er feel the throbbing anguish that I am doom'd to know!
Leggett.
The night that Jurian was apprehended he was conducted
to the Walnut street prison, where he had leisure
to reflect upon the misery he had entailed upon
himself by his headlong passion. He felt that his motives
in visiting the city, while invested by the enemy,
were liable to be misconstrued, and he was fully conscious
of the odium he had entailed upon his name by
following the dictates of his feelings. He had betrayed
the confiding Miriam, and increased the sorrows of her
afflicted mother; forfeited the esteem of her he loved
most, and totally destroyed his hopes of ever obtaining
her hand. He had become the companion of a common
robber and a spy; had been his dupe, and was now at
his mercy, for he had sold himself to the enemy of his
country at a time when she most required his services,
and if betrayed, he must become a fugitive from the
land of his birth.
Such were his reflections on the evening to which
we have brought our narrative, and he was pacing his
the chain of thought was broken by the entrance of the
keeper of the prison, accompanied by an officer, whom
Jurian recognised to be the same that presided at the
council-board on the night he had entered the city.
The jailor withdrew and left them alone.
“I regret, Mr. Hartfield,” said the officer, “that
you have experienced such harsh treatment among us.
To-day, for the first time, it reached my ears, and I
have hastened to tender any amends that may be within
my power.”
“Your lordship is considerate,” replied Jurian, “but
you need not feel concerned at a circumstance that I
have reason to rejoice at. I view my imprisonment as
the most fortunate event that could have occurred.”
“How fortunate?”
“It has afforded me time for reflection, and calmly
to weigh the magnitude of the folly I have committed.
I have done so, and tremble as I contemplate the abyss
of degradation from which I have escaped.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“And yet my words are plain. My lord, I am not
suited to the office you have imposed upon me; and as
my crime has thus far been confined to thought only,
injuring no one but myself, I am resolved that it shall
never assume a more hateful aspect by being put in
execution.”
“Am I to understand that you are false to the faith
we have reposed in you?”
“Rather ask, whether I am true to my struggling
country, and I will answer.”
“And what is your answer?”
“That I would rather lay down my life this instant,
than place the slightest obstacle in her pathway to
freedom.”
“So patriotic! Reflect, sir, you have gone too far
to recede.”
“Perhaps so. The step I have taken cannot be recalled,
prefer that position to the one you would persuade me
to assume.”
“Are you aware of its danger? You reject our
friendship, and break your faith the same moment it is
plighted. Under these circumstances, can you hope
that what has passed between us will long remain concealed?
and if you return to the rebel ranks, daily
dread of exposure will render your life miserable.”
“Not more so,” replied Jurian, “than daily to mingle
with my countrymen, converse with them, feed with
them, and sleep in their tents for the base purpose of
betraying.”
“And to escape from that position you are ready to
become a double traitor; false to them and to us also.
This bat-like policy is the most despicable that can be
adopted.”
“You have made me a traitor, and are astonished at
the workmanship of your own hands.”
“I am indeed astonished. You are an apt scholar,
and are fit to take your degrees after a single lesson.”
“The praise is due to my preceptor,” replied Jurian,
sarcastically; “under different tuition, I might
have been a long time in acquiring the proficiency I
have already attained. In my turn permit me to offer
a precept, which may be of service to you in future.”
“I am all attention to so admirable a sophist.”
“Never place confidence in the man whose soul is
black enough to betray his country, for whenever he
finds it his interest, he will deceive both man and God
without compunction.”
“And this sage corollary you draw from your own
conduct?”
“No, sir, my conduct has been the reverse, for I
refuse to become the abhorred wretch that you would
make me; and though you may regret the failure of
your attempt, you cannot condemn the sentiments that
have led to its failure. You are aware of the arts employed
moment, and became the victim of my own feelings,
but happily I have had time to reflect before I had
gone too far, and while I labour to regain self-esteem,
my contempt is increased for those who so basely conspired
against me.”
“I have said your reward shall be munificent.”
“What is the wealth of the Indies to the slave who
has sold his life, conscience, and every earthly hope
for gold? I have received one bribe already, and my
only consolation is that I was not polluted by appropriating
it to my own use. It merely passed through
my hands to those of your instrument—the base contriver
of the plot against me. Still its stain is upon me,
and I shall not rest until the amount is restored to its
original owner, for until that is done we cannot meet
on equal terms.”
“Inexplicable man, I neither ask nor expect you to
return the money. It is yours.”
“No, sir, it is not mine, nor shall it be. I am unwilling
to compromise my standing with any man. We
all are equal, and he is a fool, who, Esau-like, sells his
birthright for a mess of pottage. Suffer me to go at
liberty, and the money shall be immediately returned.”
“That I cannot do. You are either our friend, or
our prisoner.”
“Prisoner be it then,” replied Jurian, “for that, in
the worst condition, is a better title than that of traitor
in the best.”
“How can the name of traitor attach itself to a man
for an act by which he evinces his loyalty to his
king?”
“But when that king is not recognised, and his sovereignty
is looked upon as a presumptuous claim,
which neither the laws of nature nor man acknowledge—how
then? Passion, sir, may at times lead me
astray in spite of reason, but sophistry never on a subject
changed by the erroneous views of others.”
“You then consider the rebellion of the colonies as
justifiable resistance?”
“That, sir, is a weak phrase, and scarcely embraces
my view of the subject.”
“What stronger language would you employ?”
“I should pronounce it tyrannical invasion on the
part of the British, for what can be more preposterous
than the claim of a small island, so far removed, to an
extensive continent in a different quarter of the globe?
The pretension is too absurd to be recognised for a
moment, for the laws of both nature and man declare
against it, and I should rather suppose the arrogant
isle itself was originally designed for a province, and
not for the lawless usurper over both land and sea,
that she has become. But this is not the only instance
in which the order of nature has been perverted by the
visionary notions of man.”
“In the intercourse between nations there is but
one rule which has been reduced to a homely proverb—`might
makes right,' and as this war must terminate
in the reduction of the colonies to their former
allegiance, it is useless to argue on the validity of your
pretension to become an independent nation. The
thing in itself is too chimerical, and the only hope that
remains is for them to acknowledge the errors of their
ways, before they have strayed too far from the path
to return. The door may not long remain open.”
“Still the stale prejudices of the old world! As to
closing the door, we wish it closed, for it would be
better for us to be shut out from you forever; and in
return for the friendly advice you have given, I will
presume to offer mine. Do not smile when I tell you
to embark for Europe without delay—before your shipping
crumbles to ashes on our coast, and the blood of
your armies fattens the soil they have pillaged and
attempted to render desolate.”
“Pardon me, sir, I must smile, even while I admire
your ardour.”
“Then, sir, you will smile on when I predict that
the time must come when this nation will give a tone to
all Europe. It is idle to judge of the effect of this revolution
from the result of those in the old world.
Governments have been overthrown, one system has
succeeded another, and the people remained the same
moral agents, having effected nothing more than a
mere change of masters. And this is readily accounted
for—they received their tone from the nations by
which they were surrounded, and it required too powerful
a struggle for the mind wholly to disengage itself
from its chains. With us it is different; we are removed
from this influence, and are at liberty to think
for ourselves—and what is the consequence? A spirit
is already abroad that no earthly power can suppress—
you may check it for a time, but it must continue its
progress, and will not rest until the mind becomes regenerate,
and freed from the mouldy and bigoted opinions
that have been blindly handed down from father
to son, for ages. When such a revolution begins, there
is no foreseeing where it will end, for even sceptres
and crowns must crumble before it.”
“I deplore this misdirected zeal, for it is worthier of
a better cause. I will take my leave, for while your
mind is engrossed with these visionary notions, it is in
vain for me to endeavour to reclaim you to a course
that might tend to your elevation.”
“By the neck, I presume you mean, my lord,” replied
Jurian, smiling.
“Reflect on what I have said,” continued the officer,
“and when next we meet, I trust our opinions
will not be so widely at variance. Farewell sir.”
Jurian bowed, and the officer withdrew; and a few
moments afterwards the jailor again appeared conducting
Miriam, who, pale and still trembling from the
fright she had undergone, stood beside Jurian in silence,
ever been.
“This is kind and unlooked for, Miriam,” he said,
as the jailor withdrew.
“I came to see whether I can be of any service to
you,” she meekly replied, “for as you are deprived of
your liberty, even I may be of service.”
“I wished for a friend, and you have come opportunely.
You have doubtless, ere this, heard of the
disgrace that I have brought upon myself.”
“I have not, nor do I desire to hear it, even from
your lips. I have been so long accustomed to hear
nothing but praise connected with your name, that I
should now doubt my senses to hear disgrace attached
to it.”
“And yet, sooner or later you must hear it.”
“But not now. Let that unwelcome tale be put off
as long as possible, for it will reach me soon enough
without your aid. You say I have come opportunely;
what would you have me do?”
“Can you find some one to bear a message from
me to captain Swain or surgeon M`Crea?”
“I can do it myself, and then I shall be certain that
your messenger is faithful.”
“You, Miriam! You are not aware of what you
will have to encounter on your way to the army. The
season is far advanced, a lawless soldiery are prowling
in all directions, and an unprotected female to be exposed
to insult and danger on my account! Miriam,
I cannot think of it.”
“I have no fears, if I can serve you.”
“Find some other who will undertake it.”
“I may—possibly I may. What message would
you have delivered?”
“Tell them I am not ungrateful for the many services
they have already rendered me. Tell them, this
favour may be the last I shall ever tax their friendship
with, and that it is to redeem my honour that I again
again, but imprisoned as I am, I have no other resource.”
“How can they aid you?”
“By loaning me what money they can conveniently
command. My honour, perhaps my life, is in pledge;
to redeem that I call upon them, though the bauble is
scarcely worth redeeming.”
“On such a mission, Jurian, I could wish that the
wings of the swallow were mine, for my speed will
never keep pace with my impatience.”
“How can I ever repay you for the interest you
still feel in one so unworthy! one who has done you
irreparable wrong.”
“Suffer those thoughts to rest while they may,” she
replied. “I have never blamed you, Jurian, nor do I.
The fault was in the weakness of my own heart, and
on it, alone, must the crime and the shame fall. I did
not err from ignorance of the consequences attendant
upon guilt, for they were daily before my eyes in their
most distressing form—a mother's incurable anguish!—
and yet I had not the virtue to turn from sin. I beheld
how her mind had been prostrated, and knew
there was but one course that could have wrought so
complete a ruin in a mind like her's—at times I trembled
to behold the fearful workings of her remorse, and
with this lesson, daily before me, I have pulled down
ruin on myself. I am to blame, and I only.”
“Have you seen your mother since you left your
home?”
“Not yet, and may heaven spare me the anguish of
that meeting, for there is nothing on earth I dread
more. I cannot support the idea of being humbled in
her sight, for such was her blind partiality, that she
thought me incapable of error; and now to appear before
her, fallen and degraded!—Kind heaven! spare
me that pang—I shall never be able to bear the glance
of her eye again.”
“She was never harsh to you?”
“All kindness and love! It is that, it is that!—
Had she not been the best of mothers—did I expect
to hear reproaches, I might bear all. But she will be
as kind as ever—I know she will, though I have broken
her heart. O! my poor mother!”
“Return to her, Miriam, return.”
“I cannot. I have more than once resolved to do
so, but my soul sunk at the thought, and my courage
failed. It is impossible, Jurian. Dear as she is to me,
I shall never venture to see her more. Duplicity towards
her, at a time when she thought me devoid of
guile, was insupportable, and drove me from her sight,
then how shall I stand in her presence, overwhelmed
with shame! I cannot, I cannot!”
Tears trickled down her pale cheeks, but there were
no violent signs of emotion, for the channel had been
so long open that they flowed freely from her wounded
heart, without even a sob or a sigh.
“Is Gordon acquainted with your feelings?” demanded
Jurian.
“Gordon! who is he? I know no one of that
name.”
“Poor girl! you know not then half the extent of
his villany. I mean Jones; is he acquainted with your
sufferings?”
“I fear he is, for this evening I met him, and he
appeared familiar with circumstances that I thought
hidden from the world. But why do you single him
out for such a question? A man from whom my soul
recoils in horror.”
“Is there no reason that he should be singled out,
Miriam?”
“None, unless it is because I fear him more than
all mankind.”
“And wherefore do you fear him? Should not his
presence rather create confidence than fear?”
“Confidence! There is a meaning in your words I
but how it came to his knowledge, I know not. You
could not have betrayed me to such a wretch, and yet
he knows it. Speak, Jurian, what covert meaning is
there in your words?”
“Should he not know it, Miriam?”
“You torture me. Explain.”
“Have you not deceived me in relation to that man;
and notwithstanding your affected dislike, is he not
even now in the full possession of your heart?”
“O, Jurian! have I lived to be doubted by you!”
“I have his word for it.”
“His word! what weight should be attached to the
word of one so unprincipled?”
“But there is other evidence that carries full conviction
upon the face of it; evidence than cannot lie.”
“This is cruel!” replied Miriam, and burst into
tears. “If you seek for an excuse to cast me from
you, it is useless to resort to such means, for I shall
not trouble you. Be happy where you may, I shall
never bring a pang to your heart, or a cloud to your
brow. Farewell.”
“Stay one moment, and answer me, have you not
written to him?”
“Never; and there is nothing could have called
forth so acute a sense of my shame as such a question.”
“Then how did he become possessed of a letter
from you, Miriam?”
“A letter from me! I have already said I never
wrote to him; then why trample on me to make me
feel that I am as a worm beneath your feet?”
“Reflect, Miriam, reflect.”
The poor girl struggled for a moment with her feelings,
and then calmly replied—
“Farewell, Jurian. I perceive that I have lost your
confidence, it is therefore time that we part, and I
place. Farewell.”
“Before you go, answer me. Is there any means
by which he could have obtained such a letter without
your knowledge?”
“I know not—he may have forged it.”
“This was no forgery; I knew the characters too
well.”
Miriam's agitation increased, and it was some time
before she recovered herself sufficiently to make a
reply.
“I recollect now—a few weeks ago I handed him a
letter to deliver to you.”—
“To me!”
“I had not seen you for several days, and my
anxiety became insupportable; I wrote to you, and
sent the letter by Jones, who told me that he would
see you in the city. He may possibly have kept it.”
“He did, he did! Fool that I have been to be
duped by so shallow an artifice!”
“This then accounts for his knowledge of what I
hoped was concealed, and I have published my own
shame.”
“Unprincipled villain! Justice shall yet overtake
him, and I trust I may be the instrument she will employ.
Miriam, you have relieved my mind from a
painful burden.”
“And you have cast an additional weight on mine,
for I supposed I should still possess your confidence,
though all the world distrusted me. But even that last
delusion is at length broken.”
“Thou deeply injured and betrayed one, I am sensible
of the enormity of my conduct towards you, and
abhor myself for having so long delayed to do you justice.
But from this hour I cast off all other considerations,
and as I hope to prosper, it shall be done.”
“Justice—is that in the power of a human being?
state from which I fell? There is none.”
The calm countenance, steady eye, and low unfaltering
voice in which she spoke, denoted that there
was no hope remaining.
“Are you not my wife, by the divine law, as firmly
so as any human institution could render you? It is
written, that `thou shalt be my wife, because I have
humbled thee, and I may not put thee away all my
days.' The obligation is positive, it is the divine command,
and no human law can weaken its force.”
“Still the decree is no longer recognised, and it is
hard to believe conduct innocent in the sight of heaven,
which man, with one consent, has stigmatised as criminal.”
“It is not in the power of men to invent sins, Miriam,
and then charge them upon the consciences of
their fellow mortals to their condemnation before
God.”
“Few minds can sustain themselves against the
opinions of the world, however fortified by a consciousness
of right.”
“And what is the opinion of the world! As well
might we make the chamelion the standard of colour
as human opinion the standard of truth, for it varies in
every age and every section of country. The Hindu
widow goes to heaven by mounting the funeral pyre
of her husband, while the christian is condemned to
everlasting punishment by committing suicide. And
this is human opinion. Still, Miriam, the world is before
us, and if our happiness is destroyed in one part,
we can fly to another in search of it.”
“But shall we find it there, unless we carry it with
us?”
“We shall be together, and while that is the case,
Miriam, can we be otherwise than happy?”
“That rests with you, Jurian. The time may come
when the thought will occur, that for me you sacrificed
brought you in return.”
“Never, Miriam, never.”
“A stranger in a strange land, without friends and
destitute of the means of support, your present
thoughts must give place to others of a less generous
nature.”
“Fear not that, Miriam; he is but a fool who
starves with the wide world before him.”
“And yet many starve with the world before them.”
“But I am not that fool. While I live I will have
my share of the benefits that nature has bestowed in
common upon all, and when I die, I will venture to say
I shall take as much out of the world as the wealthiest.
Since I know not my parentage, I shall be true to my
mother Nature, who will ever find me her own child.”
“Visionary man!”
“And what is the world but a vision, crowded with
ideal beings whose real characters are never ascertained
from the time of entering upon the scene until they
pass away. Many a coward is looked upon as a hero,
dressed in his laced coat and feathers: hypocrites as
saints beneath their long robes, and fools in purple and
gewgaw crowns, as demi-gods, until death strips them
of their masquerading dress, and the poor players mingle
in the tiring room upon a par together. The world
at large is indeed but the archetype of the stage, where
he who seizes upon the most prominent character,
figures to the greatest advantage, and has the merriest
time of it, until the curtain falls.”
“And why are you ambitious of joining in a farce
like this?”
“Because the player is the only one who profits by
it, while the mere spectator is cheated of his time and
money. Yes, Miriam, I shall join in it for your sake,
and the character I shall assume shall not be a subordinate
one I promise you. I doubt not that I shall acquit
myself with applause, stimulated by your presence,
dim eye sparkle with delight, your mind throw off the
cloud that now envelopes it, and my Miriam become
the same bright being that nature had formed before
the blight of the world had tarnished the exquisite
workmanship.”
“Enthusiast!”
“There is much still in store for us. The stormy
night may be succeeded by a cloudless day, and even
the most desolate winter must give place to a blooming
and joyous spring. Look forward, Miriam, it shall not
be always winter with us, for our hearts shall peep
forth as smilingly as the spring flowers when the snow
wastes away, and their songs shall be as cheerful as
those of the bluebird as he plumes himself in the vernal
breeze. Look forward, Miriam; the birds, the
trees, the brooks, the earth, the air, all nature teaches
us to look forward, then do not close your mind against
the inspiring lesson, for spring must return.”
“The picture you have drawn is a bright one, Jurian,
but unhappily there is one figure you have omitted.
Agatha, where is she?”
“That name, dear as it is to me, awakens the recollection
of feelings that never can be revived. I can
hear it now calmly, and while I repeat it, my pulse
beats as temperately as ever.”
“Still the spell is not broken.”
“She herself has broken it, and pointed out the path
I must pursue. Her innocent bosom would recoil from
one stained with perfidy towards her own sex. My
thoughts are changed—the hopes that led me to forget
what is due to you have vanished, and I blush that
they ever found entrance in my bosom. But they are
gone—and henceforth I shall study how to heal the
heart that I have so mercilessly wounded.”
“Still the spell is not broken, for she is as dear to
you as ever.”
“She can never be otherwise than dear to me, but
my feelings may change.”
“And why should they change? She is as unspotted
and lovely and innocent as ever. Your hearts have
been intertwined from infancy, and her love is still as
holy as in the days of childhood. Then why talk of
change? No earthly power can weaken the ties between
you. You may be sunk in poverty; steeped to
the very lips in guilt, and she will love you still. Such
is woman's love, while man can calmly talk of transferring
his fickle heart from such a being.”
“Miriam, hear me.”
“Deal with my heart as you please, Jurian, for it is
but a toy that you received as it were but yesterday.
But do not talk of crushing feelings for my sake that
you have nurtured for years, and watched over from
the germ to the very hour of fruition—do not permit
me to believe you capable of such an effort, lest I too
should learn to change.”
“Noble-minded girl.”
“And why this sacrifice of two hearts—to heal a
wound that knows no cure? You may remember,
Jurian, the favourite hyacinth that grew in our little
garden last spring.”
“I do; the stem was broken by the storm.”
“You may also remember that we propped it with
care, and used every art to restore it, and still the
flower withered and died.”
“Miriam, what mean you?”
“That I shall never hold up my head again in this
world. Sustain me as you may, I shall droop as did
that flower, upon which you tried your skill and failed;
it is useless to try it again.” Her voice was low and
unfaltering, and her dark eye steady and mild. She
continued, “It is time that we separate. Farewell!
Your mission shall be fulfilled.”
“Miriam do not leave me thus; your voice freezes
than a cold farewell?”
“And how should we part?”
“O, Miriam! and cannot your heart direct you?”
“It is a lesson that it has not yet acquired, and one
that it did hope it would never be obliged to learn.
Farewell!”
“No more than that!”
“Again, farewell!”
She slowly withdrew and closed the door after her,
while Jurian stood petrified with astonishment at the
calmness of her manner. She who had so repeatedly
evinced the warmest affection and entire devotion to
him, had parted from him, and perhaps for the last
time, as if he had been a perfect stranger. Was her
heart estranged from him? He knew that could never
be; but passion had had its day, folly came next, and
that in its turn gave place to despair. The most violent
ebullition of feeling could not have awakened so
keen a sense of remorse, as did the calm and collected
manner of the heart-broken girl.
Many minutes had not elapsed before a shriek was
heard in the street in front of the prison. Jurian recognised
the voice of Miriam, and on looking through
the grated window, he beheld her in the presence of
Gordon and her mother, who had awaited her coming
forth. She struggled to escape, but the attempt was
fruitless, and in a few moments they moved off together.
| CHAPTER II. The forsaken | |