 | CHAPTER XII The forsaken |  |
12. CHAPTER XII
This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried stand to
a true man.
Falstaff.
Paul Gordon, who has been mentioned in a preceding
chapter, might be compared to a problem in
metaphysics, for the more you reasoned concerning
him, the deeper you became involved. He was an engrossing
subject of conversation, but it was impossible
to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion as to his identity.
Every week furnished additional evidence of his
industry in his vocation, until his name excited more
terror among the yeomanry, than the approach of the
invading army. He roved the country fearlessly, and
in the tap-room of every inn was on terms of social intercourse
with those against whom he declared open
war upon the highway; and the simple farmer, as he
drank to their better acquaintance, little dreamt that he
would have reason to deplore a second meeting.
Paul, though not possessed of much of the dove-like
tenderness, was not “all unused to the melting mood;”
and in one of these moments of weakness, he had bestowed
a portion of his heart upon one of mother Eve's
frail daughters. Madge Haines, which was her name,
resided in a secluded cottage about two miles from the
public road, and as her means of support were not apparent,
she did not long enjoy a fair name among her
neighbours. Human nature is prone to condemn what
that a man at sunrise was seen to leave the cottage,
which occasioned at first many sage speculations, but
the mysterious visiter before long appeared so frequently,
that he was suffered to come and depart, without
being looked upon either as a comet or a spectre.
Such was the state of affairs at this period of our story.
Madge held but little intercourse with her more prudent
neighbours, and they had become weary of commenting
upon her conduct.
One evening, as she was sitting alone in her cottage,
impatient for the arrival of our knight of the stirrup, a
horseman rode up and tapped at the door. As she expected
no other visiter at that hour than Paul, she
opened it, but instead of him, she beheld a comely
youth, who was an entire stranger to her. As she
stood holding the door half open, and occupying the
whole aperture with her body, she presented a figure
not at all fitted to captivate such as have formed their
taste in these matters after the Medicean Venus.
Madge was tall and muscular, with an arm much
better calculated to wield the club of Hercules than a
distaff. Her hair, which was sandy, hung about in confusion
in defiance of a toothless comb stuck upon the
crown of her head, which by logical deduction was intended
for an ornament, as it could not possibly answer
any useful purpose. Her features were large, and not
of the most engaging cast of expression. Her arms
were bare to the elbow, the skin of which was profusely
besprinkled with freckles. A dirty kerchief was carelessly
thrown over her neck as a token of modesty, but
it served very imperfectly to conceal her bosom. A
short-gown and petticoat of the most homely materials,
and which, from the total absence of the effects of water,
appeared to have had a touch of the hydrophobia,
completed the figure of the Dulcinea of the chivalrous
Paul, who, in this instance, it cannot be denied, did not
matters.
The stranger having taken a hasty glance at the
figure of the fair Madge, demanded the distance to the
Lancaster road.
“Two short miles,” replied Madge, “by the horse-path,
could you strike into it.”
“That” replied the stranger, “I very much doubt,
for I am completely bewildered. Is there no one at
hand to direct me?”
“No one,” replied Madge, “I am a lone woman;
but if you go on to the next house, Joe the cow-boy
will put you into the right road for a trifle.”
The stranger demanded the way to the farm-house,
upon which Madge stepped from the door to point it
out to him.
As he turned the head of his horse in order to follow
her directions, the sound of some one rapidly approaching
was distinctly heard. The stranger paused.
“Why do you tarry?” said Madge, “the way to the
house lies straight before you. You cannot miss it.”
“There is some one coming,” replied the other,
“who, perhaps, may save me the trouble of going out
of the way.”
Madge betrayed some impatience at his remaining,
and urged his departure, telling him that “it was not a
step out of his way, as he would have to pass the house
before he could get into the lane that led to the main
road.”
“There can be no harm in waiting a few moments,
however,” replied the stranger, which he did, while
Madge, having returned to the house, stood with the
door half open, and stretching her tall figure, looked
impatiently in the direction whence the sounds proceeded.
In a few moments a horseman, mounted on a fine
animal, rode up to the door. He was apparently rising
six feet in height, and athletic in proportion. He wore
which gave him the appearance of a substantial farmer,
belonging to the society of Quakers. He checked his
horse, and said in a careless tone,—
“Good evening, friend, a pleasant time this for travelling.”
“A pleasant evening, sir, but I am at a loss to find
my way,” replied the stranger.
“What, is that you, Mr. Hartfield?” exclaimed the
new comer. “No, I am not mistaken,” he continued,
eagerly shaking Jurian's hand, for it was he. “Well,
in truth this is a lucky meeting; as lucky as though it
had been planned.”
Jurian, on a second glance at the stranger, recognised
in him the man who had saved his life on the night
of the massacre, and delivered the letter which was the
cause of his absence from the army.
“I am glad to meet with you,” said Jurian, “for I
need not tell you that I came in pursuit of you.”
“I reckoned as much,” was the reply.
“But you have the advantage of me in knowing my
name,” said Jurian.
“Oh! for that matter,” returned the other, “I have the
advantage of most of my acquaintance. I know every
man, woman, and child, in this and the adjoining counties,
and yet am known to but very few. Captain
Swain knows me bravely; ay, much better than his
creed, I'll warrant you.”
“Your name, pray?”
“Fairfield—farmer Fairfield.”
“Fairfield?” repeated Jurian, “I never heard the
name in all my life.”
“May be not, may be not,” said the other, “for
though you are considered a knowing one in these
parts, there are many things that your books do not
speak of, and I am among the number. But which way
are you travelling at this hour, sir?”
“Surely, you know my errand.”
“True, true. It is strange I should forget. You'll
find that I am not so dull a fellow, but that you might
have a worse companion; but as a spur in the head is
worth two in the heel, we may as well dismount, and
ask our hostess here to arm us for travelling before we
proceed any further.”
“By all means, gentlemen,” replied Madge, dropping
a curtsey, “you may command my poor cottage,
and all it contains.”
Jurian opposed the measure, but as the other urged
that his horse required a breathing moment, they dismounted,
fastened their animals to the fence by the roadside,
and entered the cottage.
“Come, bustle about, good hostess,” said the stranger,
as he seated himself in the darkest corner of the
room, drew his large beaver over his forehead, and
folded his arms upon his bosom. “Bustle about, and
let us see what your cupboard contains in the drinking
way, for we have no time to waste upon the contents
of your larder.”
Madge placed a bottle upon the table, and left the
room with a pitcher in her hand, for the purpose of getting
some water. A pause ensued, after which the
stranger carelessly observed—
“You are melancholy, Mr. Hartfield.”
“Am I not on a melancholy errand? You best can
tell.”
“I have always heard that it is a melancholy thing
for a man to lose his father, but this is the first time I
ever heard that it was the same case in finding one.
Cheer up, sir, you should be merry.”
Madge returned with a pitcher of water, which she
placed upon the table and bade them drink, at the same
time removing the light to the adjoining room, where
she placed it in such a position, that it faintly glimmered
into both apartments, the door between being open.
The stranger arose from the dark corner where he was
seated, and approaching the table poured some of the
“And now,” he added, “I will give you a
toast that you will pledge me in, whether whig or tory—
the rightful cause.”
“That is a pliable toast, indeed,” said Jurian, “but
as I believe the cause in which my fortunes are launched
to be the rightful one, I pledge you with all my heart.”
They had no sooner made an end of drinking, than
Madge's voice was heard from the inner room—
“Out on you now, does this become a christian and a
soldier, to be drinking and guzzling, without having a
fellow-feeling for the poor dumb beasts that serve you
so faithfully from sunrise to sunset, without being able to
speak their wants?”
“What's in the wind now, good woman?” cried the
stranger, a storm is not a-brewing, I hope, for we have
a long ride before us yet to-night.”
“The greater reason,” continued Madge, “that you
should attend to your horses. The black by the gardengate
is becoming quite restive for a drink, but you have
had your fill, and leave them to suffer.”
“Really a considerate woman this,” said the stranger,
in an under-tone. “The horse is yours, Mr. Hartfield,
and as he requires water, you had better lead him
to the stream a few yards beyond the house.” Jurian
left the room to attend to his horse, and Madge
no sooner heard the door close after him than she
entered, with tokens of an approaching storm strongly
depicted upon her countenance.
“Well, sir, you condescend to show yourself again,
after ten days' absence. I was almost inclined to think
that the gallows had got its due, and forgave your neglect
of me; but to find that you have been all the time
in good health and spirits, is too much for patience to
bear!”
“A tender reception, truly, after so long an absence.
But, my dear, as to the gallows having its due, I hope
you have not been in jeopardy of late.”
“Paul Gordon,” cried the amazon, standing more
erect, and throwing back the carroty locks that hung
about her face, “Paul Gordon, I scorn your words—
the gallows!—I would have you to know, that until I
met with you, I was well to do in the way of making
an honest living, with a fair character and an untainted
reputation. I would have you remember this when you
talk again of the gallows.”
“Well, my love,” replied Paul, dryly, “I do remember
when I first beheld that lovely countenance,
you were a fish-dealer, in the small way, with a reputation
as untainted as your merchandise in the dog-days.
But you should not be eternally twitting me with this,
for I go to the extent of my tether in order to express
my gratitude for the numberless sacrifices you have
made for my sake.”
“There was a time,” replied Madge, “when you
thought you could not do too much for me, but now”—
“Why now,” continued Paul, seizing her hand, “I
will do more for you than ever; the times are daily becoming
more disturbed in this neighbourhood, and you
know I delight to fish in troubled water, my darling—
so in a short time I will deny you nothing.”
“Grant me one request now,” said Madge.
“Well, name it,” said Paul.
“Nothing more than to get rid of that youngster
without delay, and return as soon as possible.”
“I shall,” replied Paul, “and return perhaps to-morrow,
my angel.”
“To-morrow! you will not leave me to-night,” exclaimed
Madge.
“I must, my charmer.”
“Must! then why did you come at all?”
“To change my pistols, my angel, this brace is out
of repair. They are the tools of my trade, and I am
as much at a loss without them as a tailor without his
shears, or a cobbler without his awl or lapstone.” Saying
which, he arose from his seat and entered the adjoining
haggard, yet penetrating eye, riveted on the door at
which he disappeared. In a few moments he returned,
fixing his pistols in a leathern belt around his waist,
which was concealed by the large drab coat that he
usually wore. He approached the chair upon which
he had been seated, and Madge kept her eyes upon
him in silence, until he resumed his seat. On raising
his eyes, Paul observed the well known tokens of discontent
depicted in the countenance of his Dulcinea.
“How now, sweetheart,” said our hero, “you appear
displeased because business calls me from you—
well, I have no reason to complain, as it denotes your
affection for me, but as a smile becomes you so much
more than a frown, I beg you to look as cheerful as
possible at parting.”
“She looked at him steadfastly in silence for a few
moments, and then calmly addressed him:—
“I know your character now, and before long you
may become acquainted with mine. You begin
to despise me, but have a care that I return not your
due in the like coin. There is some one who has found
more favour in your eyes than myself; I know it; but
mark me, I will find her out, and, as I am a woman,
my revenge shall not fall short of my injury.”
Paul listened to this address with all the phlegm of
a stoic philosopher, for as it was not the first time he
had been saluted with similar language, it had lost
the charm of novelty. He approached the table, and
silently washed it down with another potation of liquor.
Madge, on beholding his indifference, eyed him in silence,
until her passion arose to the point of explosion.
She drew herself up, and was just preparing to bid the
thunder roar, when the entrance of Jurian protected
the devoted Paul from the impending storm. The
amazon turned away, and entered the adjoining room
to conceal her mortification at this intrusion; but the
from which he had been so opportunely rescued.
He felt little inclination to brave its fury, and showed
some impatience to escape as soon as possible.
“Well, Mr. Hartfield,” he exclaimed aloud, as
Madge's murmurings became more audible, “it is time
for us to be moving.”
“Cannot the explanation take place here?”
“Not here, not here,” replied Paul, his impatience
increasing, “the Crooked Billet was the place appointed.
Night is closing in, therefore the sooner we are
jogging the better for both of us. Our horses have had
time to breathe, and thanks to our hostess, we have had
our glass, so let us lose no time.” He suited the word
to the action, and approached the door; Madge entered,
and hastily passing between our hero and the door, demanded,
in a tone not altogether as fascinating as that
of the fabulous sea-damsels, whether he was really
going; which inquiry was accompanied with a look but
little calculated to induce our rover to stay. Paul answered
in the affirmative, and pushing towards the door,
bade her “good night” rather unceremoniously, and
mounted his horse, while she stood in the door, looking
steadfastly at him, in hopes that her parting look,
though not sufficiently attractive to detain him, might
induce to a speedy return. Paul dashed his spurs
into the flanks of his horse, at he same time shouting
“good night,” which tender adieu, however, was lost
in the noise of the animal's hoofs. Jurian followed,
and Madge, muttering something, which we do not
think proper to stain our paper with, dashed the door
to in a rage, and went to indulge her feelings in solitude,
where we will leave her for the present, and recount
the adventures of the travellers.
| CHAPTER XII The forsaken | |