 | CHAPTER VI. The forsaken |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
Thus on no proofs to nourish jealousy?
Grim, the Collier of Croyden.
As they rode along, the surgeon gradually became
more thoughtful, and as Jurian did not feel disposed to
interrupt his meditations, he finally lost sight of his
companion, and jogged on several miles without making
an observation. At length he exclaimed, as if
speaking to himself, “I have witnessed death in many
fearful shapes, but this was an awful scene. The struggle
of the noble animal, the gasping of the drowning
man was terrible! And the poor lunatic, Corwin—yes,
Corwin was the name—how desperately he strove to
do his duty as a man!” He rode a few yards farther
in silence, as if awaiting a reply, and then continued;
“The heart of that man has been finely disciplined, for
if, when deprived of reason, he still retains the better
feelings of humanity, what must have been its worth
before the blight of the world came over it!” Having
allowed due time for common courtesy to make some
comment, M`Crea raised his head and vociferated passionately,
“are you asleep or dead, sir?” but on casting
his eyes about he could discover no object to vent
his rising ire upon. He stopped, and standing erect in
his stirrups, stretched his neck to an inordinate length
to command a view of the surrounding country, and
who not appearing, he pronounced him an incorrigible
rebel, and clapping spurs to his horse, continued his
journey. We will suffer him to pursue his solitary ride,
for the present, and look after his lost companion.
Jurian had no sooner mounted the hill after crossing
the Schuylkill, and beheld the road leading to the
scene of his former happiness, than a thousand pleasing
and bitter recollections came to mind, and each remove
redoubled his inquietude. He was within half an
hour's ride of those dearest to him, and if the present
opportunity of seeing them was permitted to pass, he
knew not when another might occur. The unhappy
maid of the inn was uppermost in his thoughts. It was
in vain that he strove to disengage his mind from the
influence of their last interview. There was no cheering
sun to dissipate the clouds, and repeatedly the
words “Poor Miriam!” broke from his lips in sounds
almost inarticulate. More than once did he resolve to
abandon all hopes of Agatha. But then, as there was
evidently a daring rival in the case, would not such a
step, at this juncture, be attributed to pusilanimity,
especially after the threat that had been used? That
thought checked the virtuous resolution, and he determined
to see Agatha again, and ascertain from her
upon what footing this rival was received. The hope
of again meeting with the gentleman himself also had
its influence.
As Jurian was well acquainted with the country, he
had not proceeded more than a mile or two before he
recognised another road that led diagonally to the village.
M`Crea was at this time absorbed in meditation,
and his companion silently turned the head of his horse
towards the lane, and withdrew without the other being
conscious of his absence. As Jurian rode rapidly he
found himself in a short time on the highroad to the
village, where he overtook a countryman, well mounted,
trotting along at a slow pace with a pair of well
filled saddlebags thrown across the back of his horse.
“Whither in such haste, master Jurian?” exclaimed
the countryman. “Change your gait and I will accompany
you.” Jurian checked his horse. “I have
been,” continued Jones, for it was he, “to the city to
purchase a few necessaries for the 'squire's family, but
the times are so hard, that little is to be had for either
love or money. Every thing is dealt out by the small
measure now, but blood and confusion, and those we
have had by the quantity long enough.”
“You speak truly, Jones, but I fear much more blood
must be shed before the times grow better.”
“And you, I perceive, sir, intend to try your hand at
it,” replied Jones, pointing at his sword. “Have you
too turned soldier at last?”
“Even as you see. I shall sleep in the camp to-night,”
replied Jurian.
“A merry time attend you, sir; but from what I learn
there is not much merriment in the continental camp
at present. I was at the crossing of the river yesterday
as the army passed, and though their drums resounded,
and their fifes played briskly, upon my faith,
I have seen more merriment among the mourners at a
funeral.”
“Your comparison is a just one,” said Jurian, “for
were they not mourners also?”
“True, I had forgotten that; so their gloom was
quite natural,” said Jones, smiling sarcastically. “I
presume, sir, you intend paying Miss Agatha a visit,
before you put on sackcloth and ashes?”
“Sackcloth and ashes!”
“In other words, join this train of mourners as you
call them.”
Jurian was somewhat startled at the bluntness of the
question, but replied with an air of carelessness, that
it would give him pleasure at all times to see Miss
Morton, and especially then, as he might not have
another opportunity for a long time. There was enough
whenever an occasion offered sufficiently robust for
his rude mind to seize upon. He accordingly replied—
“And I dare say, sir, she would have no dislike to
seeing you at present.”
“I hope not; but what reason have you for this
supposition?”
“Why, sir,” continued Jones, “you know the rugged
arbour you made with the branches of trees, two years
ago, in the grove on the bank of the creek, where you
all went of an afternoon with your flutes and books,
and had such merry times of it.”
“Those happy hours cannot easily be forgotten;
but pray what do you argue from all this?”
“That Miss Agatha's memory is as fresh as your
own, sir. She still frequents that arbour, and often do
I hear her playing your favourite airs upon her flageolet,
and then she returns to the house thoughtful and melancholy.
She is not the same person she was a year
ago. She was then gay and light of heart, but now
she avoids a smile as carefully as if it were high treason
to be otherwise than sad.”
It was pleasing intelligence to Jurian, that his mistress
experienced some pain at their separation, and
Jones, who was quick to perceive the effect of his
statement, true or false, continued—
“Such is her liking to that spot, that I would wager
an even bet that she is there at this moment.”
“You would have a desperate odds against you.”
“O, sir, I understand calculating chances as well as
some who have had more experience. She was there
yesterday, and the day before at this hour, so you perceive,
a bold gamester might prudently venture on a
more desperate hazard.”
Jones discovered, from the expression of his companion's
countenance, that he admitted his reasoning to
be as logical as the unravelling of a problem in Euclid.
Jurian replied, smiling—
“You would make a desperate gamester, indeed, if
willing to trust fortune with more than the colour of a
card, or the turn of a die.”
“Fortune!” exclaimed Jones, “I have no faith in
the jade. She has played me too many slippery tricks
in my time. I should make the bet upon my confidence
in dame nature, who is always the same, whether clad
in a rough outside, or a smooth one.”
“Education, then, in your estimation goes for nothing?”
replied Jurian.
“A stone, sir, is but a stone, polish it as you may;
and even the most brilliant is but a worthless pebble,
after all said and done,” replied Jones.
Jurian's opinion responded to this sentiment. Various,
we may say countless, as are the works of the
master-hand, each belongs to its own particular species,
and no matter what imaginary value man may be willing
to concede to it, there is no human act that can by
any possibility change its original nature. The sparkling
diamond and the dull granite bear an affinity in
their formation; the link between the lordly lion and
the foolish ass is not to be broken, and disguise the
truth as you may, beneath purple and gold, the monarch
of a world of slaves, at last, is nothing more than the
brother of the beggar starving by the highway. This
is a truth that the world has been slow to discover, but
when discovered, it will be as slow to forget. Man,
from the days of Aaron, has been willing to contribute
his mite to the formation of a golden calf, and then fall
down and worship, unmindful of the material of which
it was composed, and the hand that fashioned it. That
day of darkness, it is to be hoped, is now passing away.
Our hero and his companion rode for some time in
silence, which was abruptly broken by Jones—
“There is a matter, master Jurian, has been upon
my mind for some time, and though my heart has ached
to make its feelings known, I could never pluck up the
courage to speak to you.”
“And why not, Jones? No man should be afraid
to make his thoughts known to another, for as you say,
even a brilliant is but a worthless stone at last.
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade.”
“You will be astonished, no doubt, sir,” continued
Jones, “when I tell you that you have injured me, and
are daily continuing to do so; but as I believe it to be
unknowingly, I am encouraged to speak to you on the
subject.”
“If I have wronged you, it was unwittingly, I assure
you, and should be glad to know in what manner, that
I may avoid repeating it.” Jones hesitated. “Of
what have you to complain?”
“O, sir, the cause is nearest my heart. So delicate
a one that I scarcely can trust my tongue to give it utterance.”
The rude and manly features of Jones were
overcast with sadness as he spoke. Jurian was struck
with the change, as he had always appeared to him a
light-hearted careless fellow, with a constant smile on
his lips, which the natural sternness of the upper half
of his countenance could not dissipate. Still it was
plain to see there was no sympathy between the eye
and the lip. His eye never smiled.
“Tell me in what manner I have wronged you?”
repeated Jurian.
“You can answer that point yourself, sir, when I
mention Miriam Grey.”
“Miriam! what of Miriam?” exclaimed Jurian, endeavouring
to conceal the interest that her name had
excited.
“The merest trifle, sir, cannot escape the eye of
jealousy. I have discovered your apparent partiality
for her, though it is a secret to the rest of the village.
I also fear that your views are such as may not result
in her happiness; and attached to her, as you must be
have made me.”
“You are a fellow of some discernment, I find,” replied
Jurian, forcing a smile, “and are disposed to see
more than the rest of the world.”
“I am glad to see you treat the matter so lightly,
sir,” continued Jones, “as it convinces me that I have
been mistaken. Had I reflected for a moment on your
avowed attachment to Miss Morton, I should have been
convinced that my fears were groundless. And moreover,
as Miriam can never by any possibility become
your wife—”
“And wherein lies the impossibility?” demanded
Jurian, in a tone that betrayed his feelings.
“The inequality of the match. You aim at something
higher,” replied Jones.
“Is this all? more was implied by your words and
tone of voice. Go on.”
“Your long attachment to Miss Agatha.”
“Jones you prevaricate. More I am certain was
intended than met the ear. Explain your meaning.”
His dark eye kindled and his face became flushed.
Jones replied, with downcast look, and in a low
voice—
“Fate has destined her to become mine.”
“Fate! you speak in riddles.”
“She was fair game, sir, and the best marksman was
to have her—that is all.”
“Villain, have you wronged her?”
“Mr. Hartfield do not press this matter any farther,
If I had thought your feelings were so deeply enlisted
I should have been as silent as the dead. Rest satisfied,
she must be mine.”
“Must be! Answer me, have you wronged her?”
“The wrong is such,” said Jones, in a low faltering
voice, “as shall be repaired in a few days. I intend
to marry her.”
As he pronounced these words, Jurian leaped from
frame seemed to enlarge, and the passion of a fiend
was depicted in his countenance. He seized upon the
colossal figure of Jones, who astonished by the sudden
transition, was, for a moment, as a child in his grasp,
and was dragged an unresisting mass to the earth. Jurian
bestrode him, and drew his sword.
“For God's sake, what do you mean to do! Not to
murder me?” cried Jones.
“Ay, to murder you, wretch,” said Jurian, in a solemn
tone, “or be satisfied that you have not traduced
that unhappy girl. Do not attempt to deceive me, for
it is as much as your life is worth to belie what you
have said—and I fear,” he added in a low voice, “as
mine is to prove it true. Proceed, and bear in mind,
it is a matter of life and death between us: so speak
truly.”
“What evidence can I possibly have of the truth of
my assertion? What stronger proof would you have
of her attachment than being daily with me?”
“Do not prevaricate, but give me such damning evidence
as will remove all doubt. My sword is drawn;
trifle not, or it may soon be sheathed in a bloody scabbard.”
“Do not, I beseech you,” continued Jones, “drive
me to the unpleasant necessity of exposing her whose
reputation is dearer to me than life.” He still lay on
the ground, without making even an attempt at resistance,
while the expression of his countenance indicated
that his passiveness was rather assumed than the
effect of fear. He lay as one who felt confident that
the power was in his own hand, whenever disposed to
exercise it.
“Wretch, do you hesitate!” exclaimed Jurian, seizing
him by the collar, and raising his sword in a threatening
posture. Every muscle of his face was swoln with
passion, and his light frame seemed to be endowed
with supernatural strength. He raised the huge mass
Jones endeavoured to release himself, until apparently
overcome with the struggle, he faintly said—
“Unhand me, and you shall be satisfied.”
Jurian released him; Jones sullenly rose from the
ground, and after searching his pockets, produced a
paper, saying, “Since you will have it, there it is in
black and white. If you know her hand, I fancy the
evidence will be conclusive—but, as you are a man of
honour, it must go no farther.”
Jurian snatched the paper as it was extended towards
him, and his hand shook violently as he opened it. His
agitation increased as his eyes wandered hastily over
the lines, and he murmured to himself, “O God! these
characters are too familiar to me to be mistaken.” He
then proceeded to read as follows:—
“I am wretched and heart-broken. From your
coldness towards me, when we last parted, I have too
much reason to fear that the loss of innocence will
quickly be followed with the loss of your affection. If
so, I feel I merit it, but I shall never be able to support
the loss. I do not reproach you with unkindness towards
me; I do not blame you for having wronged one
so vile; I reproach myself alone. But see me once
again: in mercy see me, for if this suspense continues
much longer I shall lose my senses.”
The paper was not signed, but the handwriting was
that of Miriam Grey. Jurian stood aghast as he perused
it. He glanced over it a second time, as if to be
assured that there was no deception, and then tore it
into pieces. This act was unaccompanied by any outward
evidence of passion. Had it been a blank piece of
paper he could not have betrayed less feeling. Still the
volcano was raging within. Jones had removed a few
paces from him, and leaning against his horse, he smiled,
and his large gray eyes kindled with delight as he
beheld the misery he had occasioned. They remained
silent for a few moments, during which the flushed countenance
Jones, with his head bent, kept his eyes fixed upon
him, and demanded whether he was yet satisfied.
“Perfectly—perfectly satisfied,” calmly replied the
other.
“I am glad of it; but you have forced me to an act,
Mr. Hartfield, for which I will despise myself as long
as I breathe. I have betrayed a trust that I should have
suffered you to have torn from my heart before it passed
my lips.”
“You have.”
“The fault, sir, was yours. Do not betray my baseness
to Miriam, for she would despise me, and never
forgive me.”
“Your secret is safer in my bosom than in your
own.”
“You will not betray me, then?”
“I have said your secret is safe, for I would not
have that infatuated girl know how unworthily she has
chosen.”
Jones was astonished at his placid manner, and the
calmness of his voice. He had expected to encounter
a torrent of violence, and it was beyond his skill in metaphysics
to reconcile this sudden transition from one
extreme to another. He gazed at him in silent wonder
a few moments, and then continued—
“There is one thing more, sir. Do not designedly
throw yourself in her way. You can readily conceive
my fears, and the reason of this request. She has betrayed
her frailty, and is in your power.”
A slight glow passed over the ashy cheek of Jurian,
but he suppressed the indignation he felt at the insinuation
that he was capable of using that power to her injury.
He calmly replied, while a smile of utter scorn
curled his lips—
“I understand your meaning. Set your mind at
rest; you will have nothing to fear from me.”
“I must feel satisfied with a pledge thus given,” said
compromise his own honour, nor that of another.” The
submissive manner of Jones during the foregoing conversation,
could not altogether conceal the sarcasm
contained in this remark. He continued—
“Your frankness, sir, has relieved my mind from a
heavy burden. I rejoice to find that my fears were
groundless.”
“Have you any thing more to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Then in my turn I have one request to make. Do
her justice, I mean that miserable mockery of justice
which is all that now lies within your power to perform.
Make her your wife.”
Friendly advice, indeed, thought Jones, but not exactly
even-handed justice. One word for me, and two
for himself, as he gets rid of his wench by the bargain.
He replied—
“I promise you whatever is due from me to Miriam
shall be scrupulously performed.” They then remounted
their horses, and each pursued his separate
way.
| CHAPTER VI. The forsaken | |