 | CHAPTER I. The forsaken |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
There's not a house but shelters stout adherents.”
The Regent, a tragedy.
More than half a century ago, there stood in Darby,
a small village near Philadelphia, an humble inn, denominated
“The Hive;” which name the house acquired
in consequence of a rude sign, that yielding to every
blast of wind, creaked in front of the building; although
one who was not a connoisseur in painting, might have
mistaken the hive for a hay-cock, and the bees for
partridges, had not the ingenious artist, to prevent all
mistakes of this nature, judiciously painted, in capital
letters, the name of his design, which at once put an
end to the illiberal cavilling of such critics as could
decipher the alphabet.
Alice Grey, the hostess of the Hive, had evidently
been a sufferer by the vicissitudes of fortune; and
every line of her countenance denoted that she had
felt, in all its bitterness, the visitations of sorrow and
disappointment. She had arrived at the village a few
years before, totally destitute, accompanied by her
of age. No one knew whence she came, and on that
subject her lips were most religiously sealed. She
lingered about the town a short time without any definite
object, until several of the more wealthy neighbours,
from motives of compassion, placed her in the
situation in which she then resided, and where she was
enabled to gather sufficient from the weary traveller
and the gossipping politician, to support her little
daughter Miriam and herself, without having the scanty
meal embittered with the conviction that she was indebted
for it to the labour and charity of another. An
unknown had contributed liberally towards the accomplishment
of this object. Alice was about the age
of forty, tall of stature, and of a spare habit, as the
workings of her mind were too unceasing to permit
health to make its appearance. There were still the
traces of former beauty in that wo-worn countenance,
which is spite of her present condition, plainly indicated
the class to which she once belonged. Her features
were regular, of the Italian cast; her eyes large, black,
and piercing, and her forehead high and smooth. Her
hair was still abundant, and glossy as the plumage of
the raven. Her countenance was inflexibly stern. The
only one who possessed the power to relax its severity,
in the slightest degree, was the gentle Miriam. There
was an occasional wildness in her actions, and incoherency
in her conversation, that led the more superstitious
part of the villagers to believe that Alice held
communion with the evil one, while others who examined
her condition more narrowly, were of opinion
that these hallucinations were the result of long mental
suffering.
Miriam was at this time about sixteen; a pretty
black-eyed girl, bearing a strong resemblance to what
her mother must have been at the same age. Her person
was tall and graceful. Her countenance was naturally
sedate, still it possessed sufficient sprightliness
mother's austerity. She was the core of her mother's
heart, and it is scarcely necessary to surmise that she
was quite as dear to several swains of the village as to
her unhappy mother. Among these, Jurian Hartfield
was secretly the most favoured; we say secretly, for
his passion was unknown to all save the being who had
inspired it, but the happy Jurian was not without a rival
ever ready to assert his own claim to the beauteous
prize.
It was on the evening of the 11th of September, 1777,
that the gossips of Darby were assembled in the tap-room
of the Hive, expressing their sentiments of the
dangers of the times, and searching for philosophy at
the bottom of their cups. They were seated around
the pine table, and Miriam was performing the duty of
an active bar-maid, while her stricken mother, with her
face bent to her lap, unconscious of the surrounding
scene, was either dreaming of the past, or endeavouring
to penetrate the darkness of the future.
“Miriam, brave lass, my can wants replenishing,”
cried a short thick-set man, in a pompous tone, with a
weather-beaten countenance, and clad as if he had stolen
his wardrobe from a gibbet. He had a coarse rifle
shirt about him, and his legs were kept in durance by a
huge pair of spatterdashes, which extended above the
knee, and gratified the vanity of the wearer, who
contemplated their remarkable dimensions with evident
satisfaction. One side of his hat was completely covered
with a cockade, composed of white linen, which
added considerably to the military appearance of the
soldier, while upon the spatterdash of his left leg, reposed
his well-tempered Andrew Ferrara, as if satiated
with blood and weary of the toils of battle. This slumbering
weapon was of astonishing longitude, and of
such a polish that the owner did not apprehend its being
tarnished either by the dews of the night, or the
blood of its numberless victims. A broken pipe was
from which ascended volumes of execrable smoke, and
enveloped the rafters above him.
“Miriam, fill my mug again,” he cried a second time,
as no attention had been paid to the first summons.
“Out upon you, corporal Drone,” exclaimed one of
the company. “We might have expected better things
from a soldier of your appearance than to call a pretty
girl to wait upon him,”—saying which, he pointed in
ridicule at the tattered apparel of the son of Mars, who,
whatever might have been his merit in the essential
part, it must be acknowledged did not possess a large
share of the commanding appearance of his god-like
prototype.
“My rifle shirt is ragged, and the night is a cold and
dreary one; so child, fill up my can again.” The corporal
was one of that numerous class who never lose
any thing for the want of perseverance. As Miriam
approached to obey the summons, a countryman, with
a ruddy, open countenance, and of colossal stature, interfered,
and vociferated with an oath, that she should
not; if the corporal were so devoid of gallantry, he
himself would fulfil the office of tapster. “As you
please,” retorted the other gravely, at the same time
regaling his nostrils with an armoatic stream of tobacco
smoke—“As you please; so that I mend my draught,
I care not who performs the office of Ganymede. But
drink I must, for this is the night of all others on which
I would indulge in potations.”
“And why on this night in particular? I imagined
all nights were the same to you, corporal.”
“Why, as to that, it must be a bad occasion, indeed,
that affords no excuse for drinking. But on this day,
a battle has been fought, and patriot blood has been
shed. I would drink to the brave. Hard, hard fate!
why was I absent at such a time!”
“Because you considered it safer than being present,”
from Miriam, and which he still held in his hand.
“Another such insinuation, master Jones, and I
cleave thee from the chine, and make mincement of
thee for a dog's festival.” Jones smiled at the threat
of the corporal, and the gentle voice of Miriam was
heard inquiring of the latter, whether he had seen Jurian
during the day.
“It is not an hour since I met him beyond the
creek,” was the reply. “Was he not here this afternoon?”
“It is nearly a week since he was here,” replied
Miriam, slightly blushing. “Do you know whether
he has heard how captain Swain fared in this day's
conflict?”
“The old soldier escaped unharmed, and did his
duty like a man.”
“That he will always do. Praised be Heaven, my
mother's benefactor is still alive?”
“The old hot-headed fool had better attend to his
business of fattening cattle instead of marching about
the country in a bad cause,” exclaimed Jones.
“Don't speak against the cause,” said the corporal,
cocking his arms akimbo, and throwing as much fierceness
into his countenance as nature would admit—
“Don't speak against the cause, for it is as honest a
cause as ever sword was drawn in.”
“If you think so,” replied Jones, “why does that
terrible weapon of yours remain slumbering in its
scabbard? and why do you figure in a tap-room, instead
of upon the banks of the Brandywine, where you
would not be at a loss for employment at present?”
The corporal touched the basket-hilt of his sword,
bit his under lip and frowned; and after making an
ugly face at the other, which was intended to convey
a proper sense of the contempt his corporalship felt at
the moment, he sneeringly said—
“Jones! you are as arrant a tory as old 'squire
without rations for a week to see you strung up together:—or
if”—he paused and half drew his sword,
which action was accompanied by an alarming frown.—
“But no! you are unworthy of a brave man's anger.”—
He sheathed his sword, threw one leg across the other,
leaned back, and smoked his pipe most vigorously.
“No more, thou mighty man of war,” exclaimed
Jones, “you know my pacific disposition, and should
not trample on it.”
“Enough,” said the corporal gravely, at the same
time relaxing, in some degree, the severity of his brow:
“Enough—I am pacified.”
One of the company, a diminutive old man, dressed
in quaker apparel, with a fox-like countenance, a complexion
resembling scorched parchment, and a pair of
spindle shanks not unlike drumsticks, who had for
some time been contemplating, in silence, the striking
and manly countenance of Jones, now approached
him, and said in a hesitating voice as shrill as the
whistle of a November wind through a keyhole—
“Friend, unless I greatly mistake, this is not the
first time we have met.”
“Likely, likely,” replied the other carelessly, at the
same time glancing his large gray eyes at the person
who accosted him. The man involuntarily shrunk
from his gaze.
“Was thee not last Second day, about sundown, on
the Lancaster road?” continued the man, retreating a
step.
“Quite likely,” said Jones, “as I go to the city
every day or two to buy marketing and groceries for
the 'squire's family. But why do you ask all these
questions of me, neighbour?”
“Supposing thee had been there,” replied the man,
taking another step backwards, and fixing his small
twinkling eyes intently upon the countenance of the
other, “thee might know something of an outrageous
a farmer, who had sold his crop, and was returning
home from the city.”
“Why, darn it,” said Jones, “it runs in my head I
heard a report of the kind. Let me think:—Corporal,
didn't you say something to me about the matter?”
“You are right,” said the corporal. “I told you
that the person robbed had offered a reward of five
pounds, hard money, for the apprehension of Paul
Gordon, which you may see posted there against the
wainscot; and those five pounds will be in my shot-pouch
before ten days pass away, or I will eat the hilt
of this weapon”—saying which, he raised his eyes to
the smoky rafters, which were ornamented with pig
faces and other meat drying, and assumed a countenance
that would have done credit to the sternest warrior
that frowned on the siege of Troy.
“And I will pay it on the nail,” said Ephraim,
“should it take the last shilling I have in the world.”
“Then, likely, you are the man that was robbed,”
said Jones, with a vacant stare.
“I am,” replied the other, “and I reckon thee knew
as much from the first.”
“Anan!” ejaculated Jones, dropping his lower jaw,
and looking the man full in the face—“Wasn't it Paul
Gordon, the highwayman, robbed you?”
“Paul Gordon, or Paul Devil,” squeaked the disciple
of Penn, waxing warm, “you look as much alike as
two peas.”
“For certain you don't take Jones, the ploughman,
for Gordon, the highwayman,” replied the other.
“Ho! ho! ho!” roared the corporal, “you might
as well be taken for the Dey of Algiers.” Several
others, who were acquainted with the accused, joined
with the corporal in laughing at the absurd accusation.
“What is it you laugh at?” inquired Ephraim.
“Never trust my eyes, if he is not the very picture of
the robber.”
“As much like him as chalk is like cheese,” added
the corporal, in a decided tone.
“Mayhap thee is acquainted with Paul Gordon,”
said Ephraim, addressing the corporal.
“You may say that,” replied the other, “and he is
acquainted with corporal Drone too. He is a man
much about my make, remarkably captivating in his
appearance.”
“Now, darn it,” exclaimed the Quaker, “he is the
illest looking dog I ever clapped my eyes upon.”
“Polite in his address,” continued the corporal—
“daring as a lion—possessing the true mettle of a
soldier—but, withal, far inferior to me at the game of
broad-sword.”
As he concluded, he drew his sword, flourished it
over his head, and made a tierce at Jones, who ran
alarmed into a corner of the room, where he crouched
and extended his hands for protection. Drone made
several passes at the trembling countryman, who exclaimed—
“Lord, corporal, mind what you are doing; you are
so furious that you will be after hurting one.”
Drone after amusing himself and the company for
some time in this manner, sheathed his rusty weapon
with an air of importance, saying—
“Fear not, poor fellow. This well-tried blade
drinks richer and nobler beverage than courses through
your veins;” and then turning to Jones's accuser, said,
“Is that the man who robbed you?”
“No!” exclaimed Ephraim, somewhat abashed, and
scratching his head; “I am a non-combatant, it is
true; but I was never robbed by the like of him.”
Jones came sullenly from the corner, whither he
had fled before the sword of the blustering corporal,
and, approaching his accuser, muttered—
“Though the times are troubled, there is such a
thing still as law in the land, and some folks shall learn
for nothing.”
Ephraim made an awkward apology, while Jones
continued muttering—“I am the best ploughman in
these parts, as 'squire Morton will testify, and all my
neighbours will give me as good a character for honesty
and civility, as any man of my calling need as for;
but to be torn up root and branch in this manner, and
all for nothing, is a notch beyond my learning; but I
reckon there are those who will be able to understand it.”
Ephraim perceiving the charge to assume an unfavourable
aspect, made every concession to appease the
dogged resentment of Jones, who finally, though
reluctantly, suffered himself to be reconciled to the
insult; and the Quaker, in order to drown all latent
animosity, proposed to drink with the countryman, considering
the custom to have the same influence among
the christians, as that of eating salt among the Arabs.
The proposition was no sooner made than complied
with, and good-humour was again restored to the company.
“This is all very well,” cried the corporal; “but
my mug wants replenishing.” Miriam again advanced
to fulfil her duty, but Jones stepped before her, hastily
picked up the mug, and entered the tap-room. He
returned in a few moments, and replacing it before
Drone, exclaimed—
“Here, old thirsty-soul, moisten that weather-beaten
carcass of yours, and I will pledge you in a draught
much better suited to my palate.”—Saying which, he
threw his arms around the waist of the bar-maid, and
as she resisted his rudeness, a struggle ensued.
Alice was awakened from her dreaming by the noise
occasioned by the struggle between her daughter and
her rustic admirer. She arose from the low seat, where
she had remained in silence, during the foregoing scene.
A flash of animation passed over her countenance, as
she threw back from her high pale forehead the black
fixed upon her tall attenuated figure; she paused for a
moment, and then hastily gliding towards Jones, fixed
her long fingers in the collar of his shirt, and holding
him at arms-length, exclaimed—
“Insolent craven, hast thou the heart to insult the
widow's defenceless child?” with which, she dashed
him from her, and Jones retired to the extremity of the
room, considerably abashed at the unfavourable result
of the amatory adventure. “The lip of woman,” continued
Alice, “should be kept as sacred as the holy altar,
for she who idly prostitutes its purity, trifles with her
soul's eternal worth.” As she concluded, an involuntary
shudder agitated her slender frame, and she immediately
afterwards resumed her seat by the fire-side.
It was now growing late; Ephraim paid his score and
left the inn. He mounted his horse, and trotted off at
a round gait toward his residence, which stood north of
the Lancaster road about ten miles from Philadelphia.
As Ephraim left the inn, the trampling of a horse
was heard approaching, which was immediately succeeded
by a knocking at the door, which on being
opened, a man indistinctly seen through the darkness
of the night, mounted on a spirited black horse, and
whose dress was concealed by a long blue surtout, inquired
the way to 'squire Morton's residence.
“Hellward you'll find the tory,” shouted the corporal.
Jones approached and demanded of the stranger
whether he was alone, who returned answer that he
was.
“Friend or foe, spy or open enemy, let him answer
that,” growled forth Drone.
“I am a benighted traveller,” returned the stranger,
“and ask to be directed to 'squire Morton's; will any
one oblige me by complying with my request?”
“Not I,” cried Drone, “if you are a friend I could
not find it in my heart to do you such an injury; if an
enemy, you are doubtless going to the devil fast enough
fellow of a different creed, who would guide you
to the gallows for a guinea.”—Jones now offered his
services, remarking that he was in Mr. Morton's employ,
and intended returning home in a few moments;
he then left the inn, walking beside the stranger's horse,
but before they had proceeded a great distance, their
conversation proved they were not entire strangers to
each other. They entered the lane leading to Mr.
Morton's mansion, which stood at a short distance from
the main road, and as they approached the house, a
figure was indistinctly seen, leisurely crossing the field
towards the village.
“Who is that?” inquired the stranger.
“Look again, sir, and you will be able to answer
the question.”
The stranger checked his horse and fixed his eyes
upon the figure grandually receding, and then exclaimed—
“That reptile Jurian! Is it not?”
“Right: I knew you would hit the mark,” said Jones
coolly.
“Presumptuous rebel! By heavens, this very instant—”
He turned his horse towards the figure.
Jones checked him, and said—
“Is a very unfit one for you to expose yourself. It
would not be altogether agreeable that he should know
that you are in the neighbourhood at present, for in
that case you might possibly make a longer visit than
you originally designed.”
With this remark, he again turned the head of the
horse towards the house; the stranger did not oppose
it, but moved on, and in a few moments alighted at the
door and entered.
| CHAPTER I. The forsaken | |