 | XLII.
THE WILDERNESS. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
42. XLII.
THE WILDERNESS.
I know not what discontent gnawed Mr. Dunbury's heart. If
the same that tortured him during his illness, and before the loss
of Camille, it had since become intensified to an insupportable
degree. By day his brow lowered with fiercest gloom. By
night he groaned and gnashed his teeth in sleep. “O, God! O,
God! O, God!” he would sometimes cry out, in his anguish.
His invalid wife was witness to these outbursts. Although
lying almost at the brink of the grave, — although her soul, hovering
'twixt life and death, seemed only to linger that it might
pray for those she loved until the end, — her heart was moved
with compassion for her husband; and, to quench the fires of his
remorse, to soothe and soften him, she would have imparted to
him the secret of Camille's rescue. But only once had she the
power to approach the subject — to mention Camille's name. He
tore himself fiercely from her. “Away!” he cried. “The fires
of hell are in me!”
One day he heard the vague rumor of a drowned body being
discovered, some miles below, at a place that had been flooded by
the recent freshet. Although scarce able as yet to ride, he
mounted his horse, and spurred with speed to the scene of the
excitement. The rumor proved well-founded. A frozen corpse
had been brought in from the interval. But it was the corpse
of a man. Mr. Dunbury recognized the lunatic, Edward Longman.
The friends of the deceased were advised of the event. Mr.
Longman and his daughter-in-law came from Canada; and the
funeral was attended in Mr. Dunbury's house.
In the midst of the ceremony, a rider arrived upon a reeking
and foaming horse, and, flinging himself down at the gate,
appeared abruptly before the astonished company. “Hector!”
articulated Mrs. Dunbury, reaching out her arms.
He was pale and stern of look. He heeded her not. He
strode to the coffin; he gazed on the face of the dead. The
invalid, feeble as she was, rose up, white and ghost-like, from her
couch, and tottered to his side! “My son! Hector! speak to me!
This is poor Edward, who was drowned. Charlotte —”
“Ay, where is she?” said Hector's hollow voice. He turned
upon his father: his look was terrible. “At your hands I
demand my wife!”
Mr. Dunbury stood speechless; the relations looking on with
consternation. Still the invalid clung to Hector, whose soul
knew her not. The clergyman, a mild and formal man, stepped
forward.
“Have respect for the dead!”
“'T is not my dead!” said Hector. “At your hands, sir,” he
repeated, standing before his father, “I demand my wife!”
“I do not know her!” broke forth Mr. Dunbury.
“You DID NOT know her!” answered Hector. “And it were
better for your soul had your eyes never beheld her! The dove
to whom you refused shelter, the lamb you drove out to the
wolves — my wife, whom your cruelty killed — I require her life
at your hands!”
“This — this is strange language to address to me, sir!”
gasped the father.
“It IS strange language! Would to God I had never lived to
speak it, or you to hear it! O, were you NOT my father!”
“My son! my child!” uttered the invalid, “listen a moment,
I beseech you! Charlotte — you have not heard all — you have
not heard aright —”
“I have heard! My father — MY FATHER — thrust her forth!
It is the village talk. With his curse she went! Her blood is
upon his hands! My wife! my wife! my wife! O, God! control
my soul!”
Covering his face, he rushed from the room, his mother crying
heard not, or heeded not. But, at one thrilling word her tongue
pronounced, he started, and gazed at her.
“Mother! did you say —”
“Lives!” she exclaimed, with exalted emotion.
“Lives! Charlotte! is it true?”—
“My son, it is heavenly true!”
“Where? speak at once!” As soon as she could gather
breath, the invalid told the tale. “O, mother!” said Hector,
with bursting joy, “the word is worth a hundred thousand
worlds! She lives!”
He sprang from her arms; he leaped upon his horse, and rode
northward with furious speed. When once more he drew rein
and flung himself from the saddle, it was at the door of Mr.
Rukely's house.
A beautiful snow-storm speckled the heavens, and whitened
all the ground. At the window of her room sat Camille, gazing
out upon the wondrous phenomenon of the northern winter.
Slowly, steadily, and one by one, the white flakes came fluttering
down; each falling and settling softly in its place, forming one
vast white robe of ermine for the earth. And she was thinking
how insignificant in itself seemed each feathery speck, yet how
necessary all to complete nature's fair device, and fulfil her wise
design. One went to ridge the rails of the olden fence; another
was lost in the infinity of the fields; another joined the busy
swarm that clustered on limb, and branch, and smallest quivering
twig, of the apple-tree; another fell by the kitchen, and was
trodden under foot. She called the snow HUMANITY, and looked
up in the cloud to find a representation of herself. She chose, by
chance, one minute speck from among the millions that darkened
the air; watched its slow increase, as it approached the earth;
saw it assume the spangled angles of a fair light flake, and sink
gently, steadily — into the well! She was wondering what it
meant; whether the well was death, or the bosom and source of
all humanity, or the heart of one, when the door of the chamber
was thrown suddenly open, and Bertha rushed in. Her speech
but too full of meaning.
“I don't know who it can be!” said Bertha. “I heard the
bell ring; I listened — mother was at the door — a voice
demanded you!”
“Perhaps,” faltered Camille's pale lips, “perhaps it is a
friend! O, if it were — Hector!”
“I will know!” exclaimed Bertha, agitated betwixt hope and
fear. Camille listened, as Bertha disappeared; heard eager
voices approaching presently, and a man's tread on the stairs.
The door opened again. Bertha flew in. She was followed by —
Robert Greenwich!
Marble cold with despair, Camille sank down upon the pillows
of the arm-chair, fixing her icy looks upon the comer.
“You are discovered!” uttered Bertha. “He has come to
warn you — to save you!”
“He!” repeated Camille, with a shudder.
“Even I!” said Robert, with looks intense and haggard.
“For God's sake, waste not a moment or a word! I thought
you dead. In that thought I have suffered more than death!
— a thousand deaths! Believe me, for your own sake! I am
in the confidence of the southern agents; they are on your track;
I have but five minutes the start of them. In five minutes it
will be too late!”
“O, Camille!” said Bertha, “why do you doubt! Surely, he
is your friend!”
“If I have an enemy in the whole world,” said Camille, “it is
he! He stands in my sight for all that is false and black in
humanity!”
“How? — O, no —” began Bertha.
“I told you of Mr. Roberts,” interposed Camille, firm in her
very despair. “I told you not half! Mr. Roberts and Robert
Greenwich are the same. Tell me, is he to be trusted?”
Bertha was struck dumb with this announcement.
“Do not make me worse than I am!” said Robert; “for, as
I have wronged you, all I live for now is to make atonement.
Your refusal will be to your own ruin, and to my eternal despair.
safety. If you are found here, nothing can save you! No
money, no influence, no law —”
“Tell us,” cried Bertha, “how she has been discovered.”
“By a bribe. Dickson fell in with Mr. Crumlett, —”
“O, Matilda!” Bertha cried out, “it is what I feared!”
“Since you required proof,” said Robert, “I have betrayed the
betrayer. How can you doubt?”
“I do not doubt,” answered Camille, faintly. “But I will stay,
and meet my fate.”
“Think of Hector!” pleaded Bertha.
“O, Hector!” — Camille's strength gave way; she wrung her
hands. — “But what can I do?”
“Escape!” And Bertha began hurriedly to wrap her in tippets
and shawls. “I know that you can trust him; I know that
he is sincere. — O, if Mr. Rukely would come!”
“Do with me as you will! My mind is weak as my frame!
But — do you go with me, Bertha!”
“Be sure I will stay by you.”
“O, sir!” and Camille turned her despairing eyes on Robert,
“if it is in your heart to deceive me now, do but look upon me —
consider what you do!”
He looked upon her, — so pale, so frail and helpless; and if
there was treachery in his heart, and had that heart been anything
but stone, it must have relented then. But neither by word nor
look did he evince any but the sincerest emotions. There was a
Bible on the stand; he seized it, and took oath thereupon to be
henceforth truth itself, in all his dealings with her whom he had
so wronged. He wished to carry Camille down stairs in his arms.
But she would not suffer him. With the help of Bertha and Mrs.
Wing, she reached the door. “And you, Bertha?”
“I had forgotten!” said Bertha.
“A moment's delay may ruin all!” said Robert.
Bertha ran for her bonnet and cloak. Camille had suffered
herself to be placed in the cutter, and wrapped in its robes. Robert
leaped in. Bertha did not appear.
“We cannot wait!” The horse sprang. Camille uttered a
there stood the wondering old lady; then Bertha ran hurriedly
from the house. It was too late. The gate was passed; the
cutter flew over the ground; and the white storm settled down
between Camille and the only haven of safety she knew in the
wide world.
A rash and hasty step; in avoiding an uncertain danger, to
rush into the very face of a certain one! So thought Bertha,
after Camille was gone. And Bertha, wild with excitement, accused
herself as of some unpardonable crime. In her agitation
she ran out to find Matilda, who had gone to do an errand in the
village. She met Miss Fosdick hurrying home through the
storm.
“What is it?” cried Matilda. “I 'm sure as I ever was of
anything in my life that Charlotte Woods was in the cutter that
just passed!”
“She was!” uttered Bertha. “And you — you — Matilda —
why did you tell that she was here?”
“I, tell!” echoed Matilda. “I never did! I hope to die! I
never lisped it to a soul!”
“True, Matilda? — never to any one?”
“Never! sure as I live!”
“Not even to Enos?”
“Did n't I tell you I would n't?” But Matilda's voice faltered,
and she looked troubled.
“O, then,” said Bertha, “we have been deceived! Robert
guessed where she was, and made up the story. Run for Mr.
Rukely! He is at the conference. Make haste, Matilda!”
“Why,” cried Miss Fosdick, “who said I told Enos Crumlett?
I can't think that I ever breathed a syllable to him about it; and
if I had, he would n't gone and told.”
Bertha hurried back to the house, in greater trouble than before,
believing that she had been duped by Robert's confident air
and protestations of friendship; and that, through her, Camille
had been betrayed. A sudden change was given to the current
of her thoughts, however, when, arriving at the house, she found
old lady frightened; and Dickson furious at discovering that
once more the bird had flown.
Beyond the village, Robert pursued an unfrequented road, and,
turning into a forest, followed a winding, irregular track, among
the trees.
“Where are you taking me?” implored Camille.
“To the only spot I know where you can spend the night in
safety,” answered Robert. In safety! The word sounded hollow
as mockery in her ear; — as if there could be safety for her anywhere,
with him!
He drove on. The woods stood strangely still in the storm;
there seemed no motion but the falling of the snowy cloud, no
sound save that of hoofs and runners among the dark columns of
the forest. The road was one that had been beaten by wood-cutters;
it was rough and uneven; and Robert, who found it necessary
to proceed slowly, occupied the time in endeavoring to reassure
Camille. That he had suffered pangs of remorse on her
account, she could not doubt; but, knowing him to be a slave to
selfishness and passion, not one spark of genuine faith or hope
could she draw from his most earnest vows. As they penetrated
further and further the gloom of the woods, deeper and darker
became her despair. “O, Hector! Hector!” called her soul, in
its helplessness; “come to me! come to me!”
At length they turned into a path so narrow that the cutter
touched the bushes on each side, as they passed. They were in
the midst of a thicket that had overgrown an ancient clearing.
“Here,” said Robert, “we are beyond pursuit.”
“What is here?” uttered the shuddering fugitive.
“A refuge — a home — a protector!” — and Robert pointed
out a log-hut, which appeared suddenly to view, as they turned a
point in the tangled wild. It was a dismal spot; the hut had a
dreary, ruined, uninhabited aspect; the gloom, the storm, the savage
loneliness of the wood, which Camille's eye beheld on every
side, added terrors to her situation. She had resolved in her
heart not to leave the cutter, unless dragged from it by force;
when, to her astonishment, Robert, leaping upon the ground,
slowly opened, and a chubby female face appeared, accompanied
by an uncovered head, and a short, plump figure, carelessly
attired.
“Why! is it you? Who have you got with you?” The face
struck Camille peculiarly; she had seen it somewhere; and, at
the sound of the voice, a flood of recollections rushed over her.
— “Dear me! Miss Woods!”
“I had forgotten that you were old friends,” said Robert. “So
much the better.”
“Does my husband know?” — and the chubby face turned to
Robert with a look of trepidation.
“There was no time to consult him,” said Robert.
“I 'm afraid he won't like it — I — it is so sudden!” — and, turning
to Camille again, the chubby face tried to smile. “This is a
surprise, is n't it? How do you do? How have you been? Are
you pretty well? Has your health been good since — it is quite
unexpected, finding me in such a place, is n't it? Who ever
thought you would visit me? How well you are looking!”
“She is just up from a sick bed,” said Robert. “Make way,
and place a chair.”
“Why, is she ill?” cried the excited little woman. “Who
would have thought? How feeble you do look! Excuse appearances;
we are — my husband has a fancy for rural spots, — we 're
here only temporarily, you know. How did you leave Canada?”
The interior of the hut was in keeping with the exterior; the
walls were of plastered logs, the floor of rough plank, the furniture
scanty and rude. But a blazing fire in the chimney cast a
glow of comfort upon the scene; and the chubby little woman
hastened to place an old-fashioned arm-chair before the hearth for
Camille. Having seen his companion seated, Robert went out to
take care of his horse. The door was shut and fastened. Then
Camille held eagerly upon the arm of the duchess, who was removing
her things.
“Dear Mrs. Sperkley!” said she, `I think you are my friend!
Explain this to me! It seems so strange that I should be brought
here, — that I should find you!”
“Bless me!” cried the duchess, “you know more about it than
I do! I never was so astonished in my life! Is 't an elopement?
Excuse me. I mean, are you married?”
“You have not heard, then, that I have been pursued —
hunted —”
“Heavens, no! How? when? where? Have you passed — any
of — it?”
“Have you heard nothing? — how they came to take me —
how I escaped?”
“Not a word! How was you found out? How much was
there of it? Where did you pass it? O,” exclaimed the duchess,
turning all sorts of colors, and exhibiting signs of consternation
in every look and gesture, “my husband said 't would be so!
If ever we was found out, 't would be through him! Why did he
bring you here? We shall all be taken together! He 's the most
rashest, inconsiderit man that ever I see! Are they following
you now? Can they track you here?”
“I do not know; my mind seems all confused! Either I do
not understand you, else you do not understand me.”
“Did n't you know what kind it was when you passed it?”
“What are you saying?”
“Why!” cried the duchess, “was n't it for passing?”
“I do not know what you mean by passing. I am — I was —
they call me — a fugitive — a slave! They have come to claim
me, — to take me back!”
“You! Mercy! is that it? I thought — dear me, what have
I been talking? Then you have n't had any of it? But what
should he bring you here for?”
“He is coming; he will explain to you; I cannot,” said poor
Camille. “But, O, Mrs. Sperkley! you are a woman; you will
be my friend!”
“Wait!” said the duchess. “There 's his knock.” She
sprang to undo the fastenings of the door. At sight of Robert
entering, Camille's vision grew dark, and a few minutes later, with
but a dim consciousness of what had taken place, she found herself
lying upon a bed, in a strange apartment, with Robert bending
over her, while Mrs. Sperkley bathed her lips and temples.
“Drink,” said Robert, holding a glass to her lips. “It will do
you good.”
“No, — leave me,” entreated Camille.
“It is a simple restorative; you need it much,” insisted
Robert.
“Perhaps; but I will not drink.”
“Go!” — Mrs. Sperkley pushed Robert away. — “I can manage
her!” And the little woman presented the draught with one
of her most confident and persuasive smiles. To her astonishment,
it was still refused. “Why, 't an't bad! Jest taste it.”
Camille glanced suspiciously at Robert's retreating figure. “I
have heard,” she whispered, “of people being drugged! O, Mrs.
Sperkley, you will be true to me! and, if I should not be all the
time in my right mind, you will not let me take any hurtful drink,
— tell me that!”
“Who ever heard of such a thing?” ejaculated the duchess.
“Look!” and she drank the potion at a breath. “It 's wine,
right from my husband's bottle. He always has the best o' wine.
You shall see me pour some for you.”
After that, Camille drank. The wine revived and warmed her.
She wished then to be left alone, and Mrs. Sperkley withdrew.
She was lying languidly upon the bed, with her eyes closed, thinking
unutterable thoughts, and searching deeply within herself for
the light of Wisdom to guide and sustain her, when the creaking
of the door, and a footstep by the bed, startled her. She looked
up, and saw Robert entering softly.
“I am sorry if I disturb you,” he said, in a low tone. “If you
can sleep, let me sit here and watch.”
“I prefer to be alone,” answered Camille, closing her eyes
again, and covering her face. He dropped upon his knees by her
side. He groaned; his frame shook; she heard the gnashing of
his teeth. “Will you leave me, sir?” she said, more firmly than
before.
“Yes, since you wish it.” But he did not move. There was a
long pause. “O, God!” he burst forth at length, “why are you
so beautiful? why are you so lovely?”
“Robert Greenwich!” she cried, starting up, “will you go?”
“Camille,” he answered, in tones stifled by passion, “I have
sworn, and I will keep my word. But hear me one moment.
Your only safety is in me. You shall rest here until to-morrow;
but Canada must be reached; there is danger in delay. We
will go together. The service, the love, the life of a great soul,
is yours, if you will accept it. Have I not shown my devotion
to-day? Do you not think differently of me? Am I not worthy
at least to be your servant?”
“No!” said Camille. “Tempter! I will not hear you!”
“You still have hope of Hector. But he cannot save you. His
attempt to purchase you has proved abortive. No wealth could
satisfy your owner. If you are taken, you must return to slavery.
This is hard language, but it is the truth. I wish you to know
your danger, and to know me.”
“My danger is in you — I know no other! O, it is you who
have done me treacherous wrong; it is to you I owe so much
suffering! Perhaps what you tell me is true; perhaps Hector
could not save me, were he here; but, sir, rather than live your
favorite, even your wife, I would die beneath the feet of swine!
Why will you not understand me? Why will you not believe
the testimony of my soul? It is my whole nature, my life, my
very being, that rises up against you!”
Robert struggled with himself, striving, perhaps, to keep the
oath which he had not indeed taken in idle mood. But resolution
was weak. Passion was mighty. He saw Camille in his power.
The gulf of temptation opened beneath him like a hell. He
seized her hand.
“Touch me not!” she cried. “Serpent!”
And, feeble as she was, she sprang up, flying from his approach.
“Greenwich!” called the duchess, from without. Robert made
no response; she then began to knock violently, and shake the
door, which — as Camille discovered, to her dismay — had been
bolted on the inner side.
“What do you want?” demanded Robert.
“Do come out!” whispered the duchess. “There 's a sleigh
in the bush. Some men are coming to the door, and I 'm frightened
to death!”
A shadow swept over Robert's face. “How many?”
“Three or four. They 're knocking! What shall I do?”
Robert slipped back the bolt, glided from the chamber, and
obtained a hasty glimpse at the party, through a loophole near
the outer door of the hut. The knocking was repeated.
“Shall I open?” whispered the agitated duchess.
He put her off, and hastened back to Camille. “That accursed
Dickson! They have tracked us by the snow. Shall I save
you?”
“Save me! how?” said the pallid girl.
“Say but the word, and 't is done! There 's not an instant to
lose!”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at me! You have distrusted, scorned me, spat upon
me! I 'm not the fool to serve you for such pay. Choose now
your fate!”
“How — choose?”
“Between me and slavery! Between me and perhaps a dozen
brutal masters! Speak — at once!”
The knocking at the door had become loud and violent. Robert
grasped Camille's arm, as she supported herself by the bed. Her
suffering and terror were extreme; but, in the midst of all, she
kept her bright unchanging look on his, and a resistless spiritual
power seemed poured upon her, as she spoke.
“Come a thousand evils, come slavery, come death! — I can
die, but I cannot sin!”
Dickson's party thundered at the door.
“Consider!” said Robert, with flaming eyes. “In their hands
you will be lost. Vengeance and hatred are hungry for you!
There is in this house a place of concealment, which I would defy
an army of Dicksons to discover! Once there, you are safe.
Promise me your love, and nothing shall harm you!”
“I cannot resist wrong with wrong; I cannot promise falsely!”
answered Charlotte. “Save me for justice, for mercy, — I will
thank you; but, if for your own selfishness, I shall scorn you the
more!”
Blows shook the door of the hut, and voices called and threatened.
Mrs. Sperkley ran to and fro, beside herself with terror.
“Is this your answer?” hissed Robert.
“It is my answer!” came the firm response.
Robert rushed to the door, and threw it broadly open. “Dickson,”
said he, “I 'm glad to see you.”
“Greenwich!” said Dickson, with a ferocious look, “I 'm
glad to see you! A mighty fine trick you 've played us!”
“It 's a trick for which you 'll thank me!”
“With a vengeance!” growled Dickson. “Where 's that gal?”
“In a safe place — for you. Crumlett has flunked; he warned
her to escape. Mrs. Rukely called to me for help, as I was riding
by. I brought her here, — to keep her until word could be got to
you. If this is the way I am thanked, — there is your prey;
clutch her, and good luck to you!” And, as the human hounds,
cheered on by the stanch Oliver Dole, rushed into the chamber
of the defenceless fugitive, the traitor Robert turned his back,
and fled. He ran to a hovel in the thicket close by; there stood
his horse, where he had left him; he brought him out, leaped
into the sleigh, lashed him with his whip, and, dashing past the
house, and along the narrow, winding path, reached the road,
and returned the way he came.
The storm had ceased. Before him spread the woodland, calm
and still. Over the whited ground, beneath the snow-laden
boughs, amid the solemn trunks that stood amazed as he passed,
he urged his horse's speed with whip and rein. The snow seemed
a mantle dropped from heaven for his destruction. It had sailed
down before him, to receive the fatal print of his hoofs and runners
in the woods; but it had failed to cover his track, when he
passed on. It was the flight of guilt, of fear, of baffled rage and
shame: to quit the scenes of his unmanly acts, to fly his native
land, to leave the past and remorse forever behind him! O, that
whirlwinds would blow! that the trees would groan and roar!
that howling storms would cover his track with drifts! He
approached an opening of the wood. Beyond, above the shaggy
mountain side, glowed the subdued fire of the afternoon sun through
banks of gilded cloud, shooting mild rays athwart the forest tops,
Overhead the myriad curving branches, the infinite net-work of
silver-lined boughs, the roof of ebon tracery edged with pearl,
opened, and brightened, and smiled in the blushing light. His
career seemed all the more fearful and guilty from contrast with
this beauty. Perhaps he felt the eye of Deity looking down upon
him then, or the bright heaven his sin had forfeited smiling in
pity upon his flight.
He lashed his horse, and was soon out of the wood. He had
turned down the western track before he observed a horseman
riding fast between him and the sun. He was approaching; they
met; lightning glances of recognition passed between them;
Robert whipped on more furiously than before; and the other,
wheeling short on his course, spurred after him.
The race was brief; but already the competitors had passed
the village, astonishing spectators by the unusual scene, when the
pursuer, galloping to the head of Robert's horse, grasped the rein,
and with a sudden wrench, bearing the poor animal sheer from
the track, broke his perilous speed against the road-side fence.
The shafts were splintered, the cutter overturned, the rider hurled
headlong; and Hector, wheeling again, leaped down from his
palpitating steed, just as Robert, snow-covered, bruised, bewildered,
was struggling to his feet.
| XLII.
THE WILDERNESS. Neighbor Jackwood | |