"Come, madness! come unto me senseless death,
I cannot suffer this! here, rocky wall,
Scatter these brains, or dull them."--_Baillie._
"I know not, I ask not,
If guilt's in thy heart--
I but know that I love thee,
Whatever thou art."--_Moore._
In a dark and gloomy apartment, whose grated windows and dreary walls
were hung here and there with blackening cobwebs--and whose darkness and
gloom were made visible by the pale rays of a glimmering lamp, sat the
young, the handsome, the graceful, the fascinating Bryant Clinton. He
sat, or rather partly reclined on the straw pallet, spread in a corner
of the room, propped on one elbow, with his head drooping downward, and
his long hair hanging darkly over his face, as if seeking to veil his
misery and shame.
It was a poor place for such an occupant. He was a young man of leisure
now, and had time to reflect on the past, the present, and the future.
The past!--golden opportunities, lost by neglect, swept away by
temptation, or sold to sin. The present!--detection, humiliation, and
ignominy. The future!--long and dreary imprisonment--companionship with
the vilest of the vile, his home a tomb-like cell in the
penitentiary--his food, bread and water--his bed, a handful of
straw--his dress, the felon's garb of shame--his magnificent hair shorn
close as the slaughtered sheep's--his soft white hands condemned to
perpetual labor!
As this black scroll slowly unrolled before his spirit's eye, this black
scroll, on which the characters and images gleamed forth so red and
fiery, it is no wonder that he writhed and groaned and gnashed his
teeth--it is no wonder that he started up and trod the narrow cell with
the step of a maniac--that he stopped and ground his heel in the
dust--that he rushed to the window and shook the iron bars, with
unavailing rage--that he called on God to help him--not in the fervor of
faith, but the recklessness of frenzy, the impotence of despair.
Suddenly a deadly sickness came over him, and reeling back to his
pallet, he buried his face in his hands and wept aloud--and the wail of
his soul was that of the first doomed transgressor, "My punishment is
greater than I can bear."
While there he lies, a prey to keen and unavailing agonies, we will take
a backward glance at the romance of his childhood, and the temptations
of his youth.
Bryant Clinton was the son of obscure parents. When a little boy, his
remarkable beauty attracted the admiration of every beholder. He was the
pet of the village school, the favorite on the village green. His
intelligence and grace were equal to his beauty, and all of these
attributes combined in one of his lowly birth, seemed so miraculous, he
was universally admitted to be a prodigy--a nonpareil. When he was about
ten years of age, a gentleman of wealth and high social standing, was
passing through the town, and, like all strangers, was struck by the
remarkable appearance of the boy. This gentleman was unmarried, though
in the meridian of life, and of course, uncontrolled master of all his
movements. He was very peculiar in character, and his impulses, rather
than his principles, guided his actions. He did not love his relatives,
because he thought their attentions were venal, and resolved to adopt
this beautiful boy, not so much from feelings of benevolence towards
him, as a desire to disappoint his mercenary kindred. Bryant's natural
affections were not strong enough to prove any impediment to the
stranger's wish, and his parents were willing to sacrifice theirs, for
the brilliant advantages offered to their son. Behold our young prodigy
transplanted to a richer soil, and a more genial atmosphere. His
benefactor resided in a great city, far from the little village where he
was born, so that all the associations of his childhood were broken up
and destroyed. He even took the name of his adopted father, thus losing
his own identity. Had Mr. Clinton been a man of pure and upright
principles, had he been faithful to the guardianship he had assumed,
and educated his _heart_, as well as his mind, Bryant might have been
the ornament instead of the disgrace, the blessing instead of the bane
of society. He had no salient propensities to evil, no faults which
righteous wisdom might not have disciplined. But indulged, caressed,
praised and admired by all around him, the selfishness inherent in our
nature, acquired a hot-bed growth from the sultry moral atmosphere which
he breathed.
The gentle, yet restraining influence which woman, in her purity and
excellence, ever exerts, was unfortunately denied him. Mr. Clinton was a
bachelor, and the careful, bustling housekeeper, who kept his servants
and house in order, was not likely to burden herself with the charge of
young Bryant's morals. All that Mr. Clinton supervised, was his progress
at school, which surpassed even his most sanguine expectations. He was
still the prodigy--the nonpareil--and as he had the most winning,
insinuating manners--he was still the favorite of teachers and pupils.
As he grew older, he was taken much into society, and young as he was,
inhaled, with the most intense delight, the incense of female adulation.
The smiles and caresses bestowed upon the boy-paragon by beautiful and
charming women, instead of fostering his affections, as they would have
done, had they been lavished upon him for his virtues rather than his
graces, gave precocious growth and vigor to his vanity, till, like the
cedar of Lebanon, it towered above all other passions. This vanity was
only visible to others in an earnest desire to please--it only made him
appear more amiable and gentle, but it was so strong, so vital, that it
could not, "but by annihilating, die."
Another fatal influence acted upon him. Mr. Clinton, like most rich
bachelors, was fond of having convivial suppers, where wine and mirth
abounded. To these young Bryant was often admitted, for his beauty and
talents were the pride and boast of his adopted father. Here he was
initiated into the secrets of the gaming-table, not by practice, (for he
was not allowed to play himself,) but by observation, a medium of
instruction sufficiently transparent to his acute and subtle mind. Here
he was accustomed to hear the name of God uttered either in irreverence
or blasphemy, and the cold sneer of infidelity withered the germs of
piety a mother's hand had planted in his bosom. Better, far better had
it been for him, never to have left his parent's humble but honest
dwelling.
Just as he was about to enter college, Mr. Clinton suddenly died of a
stroke of apoplexy, leaving the youth whom he had adopted, exposed to
the persecutions of his worldly and venal relatives. He had resolved to
make a will, bequeathing his property to Bryant, as his sole heir; but
having a great horror of death, he could not bear to perform the act
which would remind him too painfully of his mortality.
"Time enough when I am taken sick," he would say, "to attend to these
things;" but the blow which announced the coming of death, crushed the
citadel of thought. There was no time for making wills, and Bryant was
left far poorer than his adopted father had found him, for he had
acquired all the tastes which wealth alone can gratify, and all the
vices, too.
When he returned, reluctant and disappointed, with alienated feelings,
to his native home, he found that his father was dead, and his mother a
solitary widow. By selling the little farm which had served them for a
support, and restricting herself of every luxury, and many comforts, she
could defray the expenses of a collegiate education, and this she
resolved to do. Bryant accepted the sacrifice without hesitation,
deeming it his legitimate right.
On his way to the university, which was still more remote from his
native village than that was from the home of his adopted father, he
conceived the design of imposing upon his new companions the story of
his Virginian birth--though born in reality in one of the Middle States.
He had heard so much of Virginian aristocracy, of the pride of tracing
one's descent from one of the _first families_ of Virginia, that he
thought it a pardonable deception if it increased his dignity and
consequence. He was ashamed of his parentage, which was concealed under
the somewhat patrician name of Clinton, and as he chose to change his
birth-place, it was not very probable that his real origin would be
discovered. He had previously ascertained that no boys were members of
the college, who had ever seen him before, or who knew any thing of the
region where he had dwelt. He soon became a star-scholar, from the
brilliancy of his talents, and a favorite, too, from the graceful
pliancy of his manners, and apparent sweetness of his disposition. But
with all his grace and sweetness, he was unprincipled and dissolute, and
exerted the commanding influence he had acquired over the minds of his
companions, to lead them into temptation, and lure them to sin. Yet he
had the art to appear himself the tempted, as well as they. His agency
was as invisible as it was powerful, and as fatal, too. When, with
seeming reluctance, he took his seat at the gaming-table and won, as he
invariably did, from his unsuspecting comrades, he manifested the
deepest regret and keenest remorse. No one suspected that it was through
his instrumentality they were seduced into error and ruin.
Louis, the impulsive, warm-hearted, and confiding Louis Gleason, was
drawn as if by fascination towards this young man. There was a luminous
atmosphere around him, that dazzled the judgment, and rendered it blind
to his moral defects. Dissipation appeared covered with a golden tissue,
that concealed all its deformity; and reckless prodigality received the
honors due to princely generosity.
When Clinton accompanied Louis to his father's house, and beheld the
beautiful Mittie, gilt, as he first saw her by the rays of the setting
sun, he gave her the spontaneous homage which beauty ever received from
him. He admired and for a little time imagined he loved her. But she was
too easy a conquest to elate his vanity, and he soon wearied of her too
exacting love. Helen, the shy, child-like, simple hearted Helen, baffled
and interested him. She shunned and feared him, and therefore he pursued
her with increasing fervor of feeling and earnestness of purpose.
Finding himself terribly annoyed by Mittie's frantic jealousy, he
resolved to absent himself awhile till the tempest he had raised was
lulled, and urging Louis to be his companion, that he might have a plea
for returning, departed, as has been described, not to his pretended
home, but to haunts of guilty pleasure, where the deluded Louis
followed, believing in his infatuation that he was only walking side by
side with one sorely tempted, reluctantly transgressing, and as oft
repenting as himself.
With the native chivalry of his character, he refused to criminate his
_friend_, and justify his father's anger. It was to Clinton _his debts
of honor_ were chiefly due, and it was for this reason he shrunk from
revealing them to his father.
When Clinton found himself excluded from the presence of Helen, whose
love he was resolved to win, his indignation and mortification were
indescribable; but acknowledging no obstacles to his designs, he watched
his opportunity and entered Miss Thusa's cabin, as we have related in
the last chapter. He was no actor in that interview, for he really felt
for Helen, emotions purer, deeper and stronger than he had ever before
cherished for woman. He had likewise all the stimulus of rivalry, for he
believed that Arthur Hazleton loved her, that calm, self-possessed and
inscrutable being, whose dark, spirit-reaching eye his own had ever
shunned. Helen's unaffected terror, her repulsion and flight were
wormwood and gall to his pampered vanity and starving love. Her
undisguised emotion at the mention of Arthur, convinced him of his
ascendency over her heart, and the hopelessness of his present pursuit.
Still he lingered near the spot, unwilling to relinquish an object that
seemed more and more precious as the difficulty of obtaining it
increased. He stood by the window, watching, at times, glimpses of
Helen's sweet, yet troubled countenance, as the curtain flapped in the
wintry wind. It was then he heard Miss Thusa relate the secret of her
hidden wealth, and the demon of temptation whispered in his ear that the
hidden gold might be his. Helen cared not for it--she knew not its
value, she needed it not. Very likely when the wheel should come into
her possession, and she examined its mystery, if the legacy were
missing, she would believe its history the dream of an excited
imagination, and think of it no more. He had never stolen, and it did
seem low and ungentlemanlike to steal, but this was more like finding
some buried treasure, something cast up from the ocean's bed. It was not
so criminal after all as cheating at the gaming-table, which he was in
the constant habit of doing. Then why should he hesitate if opportunity
favored his design? Mr. Gleason had insulted him in the grossest manner,
Helen had rejected him, Louis had released himself from his thraldom.
There was no motive for him to remain longer where he was, and he was
assured suspicion would never rest on him, though he took his immediate
departure. The next night he attempted to execute his shameful purpose
by forging the note, sending it by an unsuspecting messenger, thus
despatching the young doctor, on a professional errand. Every thing
seemed to favor him. The woman whom Arthur had commanded to keep watch
during his absence had sunk back into a heavy sleep as soon as his voice
died on her ear--so there was nothing to impede the robber's entrance.
Clinton waited till he thought Arthur had had time to reach the place of
his destination, and then stole into the sick chamber with noiseless
steps. Miss Thusa was awakened by a metallic, grating sound, and beheld,
with unspeakable horror, her beloved wheel lying in fragments at the
feet of the spoiler. The detection, the arrest, the imprisonment are
already known.
And now the unhappy young man lay on his bed of straw, in an ignominious
cell, cursing the gold that had tempted, and the weakness and folly that
had yielded and rushed into the snare. Louis had visited him, but his
visit had afforded no consolation. What was pity or sympathy without the
power to release him? Nothing, yea, worse than nothing. He could not
tell the hour, for time, counted by the throbs of an agonized heart,
seems to have the attribute of eternity--endless duration. He knew it
was night by the lamp which had been brought in with the bread and
water, which stood untasted by him. He had not noticed the darkening
shadow stealing over the grated windows, his soul was so dark within. He
knew, too, that it must be somewhat late, for the lamp grew dimmer and
dimmer, capped by a long, black wick, with a hard, fiery crest.
He heard the key twisting in the rusted lock, the door swinging heavily
open, and supposed the jailor was examining the cells before retiring to
rest. He was confirmed in this belief by seeing his figure through the
opening, but when another figure glided in, and the jailor retreated,
locking the door behind him, he knew that his prison had received an
unexpected guest. He could not imagine what young boy had thought of
visiting his cell, for he knew not one of the age this youth appeared to
be. He was wrapped in a dark cloak, so long that it swept the prison
floor, and a dark fur cap pulled far over the forehead, shaded his face.
Clinton raised himself on his elbow and called out, in a gloomy tone,
"Who is there?"
The youth advanced with slow steps, gathering up the sweeping folds of
his cloak as he walked, and sunk down upon the wooden bench placed
against the damp brick wall. Lifting his hands and clasping them
together, he bowed his face upon them, while his frame shook with
imprisoned emotion. The hands clasped over his face gleamed like snow in
the dim cell, and they were small and delicate in shape, as a woman's.
The dejected and drooping attitude, the downcast face, the shrouded and
trembling form, the feminine shame visible through the disguise,
awakened a wild hope in his heart. Springing up from his pallet, he
eagerly approached the seeming boy, and exclaimed--
"Helen, Helen--have you relented at last? Do you pity and forgive me? Do
you indeed love me?"
"Ungrateful wretch!" cried a voice far different from Helen's. The
drooping head was quickly raised, the cap dashed from the head, and the
cloak hurled from the shoulders. "Ungrateful wretch, as false as vile,
do you know me now?"
"Mittie! is it indeed you?" said Clinton, involuntarily recoiling a few
steps from the fiery glance that flashed through her tears. "I am not
worthy of this condescension."
"Condescension!" repeated she, disdainfully. "Condescension! Yes--you
say well. You did not expect me!" continued she, in a tone of withering
sarcasm. "I am sorry for your disappointment. I am sorry the gentle
Helen did not see fit to leave her downy bed, and warm room, braving the
inclemency of the wintry blast, to minister to her waiting lover. It is
a wondrous pity."
Then changing her accent, and bursting into a strain of the most
impassioned emotion--
"Oh, my soul! was it for this I came forth alone, in darkness and
stealth, like the felon whose den I sought? Is it on such a being as
this, I have wasted such boundless wealth of love? Father, mother,
brother, sister--all vainly urged their claims upon my heart. It was
marble--it was ice to them. They thought I was made of stone, granite;
would to Heaven I were. But you, Clinton; but you breathed upon the
rock, you softened, you warmed; and now, wretch, you grind it into
powder. You melted the ice--and having drained the waters, you have left
a dry and burning channel--here."
Mittie pressed her hand upon her heart, with a gesture of pain, and
began to traverse wildly the narrow cell; her cloak, which had fallen
back from her shoulders, sweeping in the dust. Every passion was
wrestling for mastery in her bosom.
"Why," she exclaimed, suddenly stopping and gazing fixedly upon him,
"why did you make me conscious of this terrible vitality? What motive
had you for crossing my path, and like Attila, the destroyer, withering
every green blade beneath my feet? I had never wronged you. What motive,
I ask, had you for deceiving and mocking me, who so madly trusted, so
blindly worshipped?"
"Spare me, Mittie," exclaimed the humbled and convicted Clinton.
"Trample not on a fallen wretch, who has nothing to say in his defence.
But one thing I will say, I have not intended to deceive you. I did love
you, and felt at the time all that I professed. Had you loved me less, I
had been more constant. But why, let me ask, have you sought me here, to
upbraid me for my inconstancy? What good can it do to you or to me? You
call me a wretch: and I acknowledge myself to be one, a vile, ungrateful
wretch. Call me a thief, if you will, if the word does not blister your
tongue to utter it. I confess it all. Now leave me to my fate."
"Confess one thing more," said Mittie, "speak to me as if it were your
dying hour--for you will soon be dead to me, and tell me, if it is for
the love of Helen you abandon mine?"
Clinton hesitated, a red color flushed his pallid cheek. He could not at
that moment, in the presence of such deep and true passion, utter a
falsehood; and degraded as he was, he could not bear to inflict the pain
an avowal of the truth might cause.
"Speak," she urged, "and speak truly. It is all the atonement I ask."
"My love can only reflect disgrace on its object. Rejoice that it rests
on her, rather than yourself. But she has avenged your wrongs. She
rejected me before my hand was polluted with this last foul crime. She
upbraided me for my perfidy to you, and fled from my sight with horror.
Had she loved me, I might have been saved--but I am lost now."
Mittie stood immovable as a statue. Her eyes were fixed upon the floor,
her brow contracted and her lips firmly closed. She appeared to be going
through a petrifying process, so marble was her complexion, so rigid her
features, so unchanging her attitude.
"'Twas but a moment o'er her soul
Winters of memory seemed to roll,"
congealing her as they rolled. As Clinton looked upon her and contrasted
that pale and altered form, with the resplendent figure that he had
beheld like an embodied rainbow on the sun-gilded arch, his conscience
stung him with a scorpion sting. He had said to himself, while parlying
with the tempter about the gold, that he had never _stolen_. He now felt
convicted of a far worse robbery, of a more inexpiable crime--for which
God, if not man, would judge him--the theft of a young and trusting
heart, of its peace, its confidence and hope, leaving behind a cold and
dreary void. He could not bear the sight of that desolate figure, so
lately quickened with glowing passions.
"Clinton," said Mittie, breaking the silence in a low, oppressed voice,
"I see you have one virtue left, of the wreck of all others. I honor
that one. You asked me why I came. I will tell you. I knew you guilty,
steeped in ignominy, the scorn and by-word of the town, guilty too of a
crime more vile than murder, for murder may be committed from the wild
impulse of exasperated passion--but theft is a cold, deliberate,
selfish, coward act. Yet knowing all this, I felt willing to brave every
danger, to face death itself, if it were necessary, to release you from
the horrid doom that awaits you--to save you from the living grave which
yawns to receive you. I am willing still, in spite of your alienated
affection, your perjured vows and broken faith--so mighty and
all-conquering is even the memory of the love of woman. Here, wrap this
cloak about you, pull this cap over your brows--your long, dark hair
will aid the disguise. The jailer will not detect it, or mark your
taller figure, by this dim and gloomy light. He is sleepy and weary, and
I know his senses are deadened by brandy; I perceived its burning fumes
as we walked that close and narrow passage. Clinton, there is no danger
to myself in this release, you know there is not. The moment they
discover me, they will let me go. Hasten, for he will soon be here."
"Impossible," exclaimed Clinton, "I cannot consent; I cannot leave you
in this cell--this cold, fireless cell, on such a night as this. I
cannot expose you to your father's displeasure, to the censures of the
world. No, Mittie, I am not worthy of this generous devotion; but from
my soul I bless you for it. Besides, it would be all in vain. A
discovery would be inevitable."
"Escape would be certain," she cried, with increasing energy. "I marked
that jailer well--his senses are too much blunted for the exercise of
clear perception. You are slender and not very tall; your face is as
fair as mine, your hair of the same color. If you refuse, I will seek a
colder couch than that pallet of straw; I will pass the night under the
leafless trees, and my pillow shall be the snowy ground. As for my
father's displeasure, I have incurred it already. As for the censures of
the world, I scorn them. What do you call the world? This village, this
town, this little, narrow sphere? I live in a world of my own, as high
above it as the heavens are above the earth."
Clinton's opposition weakened before her commanding energy. The hope of
freedom kindled in his breast, and lighted up his countenance.
"But you," said he, irresolutely, "even if you could endure the horrors
of the night, cannot be concealed on his entrance. How can you pass for
me?" he cried, looking down on her woman's apparel, for she had thrown
the cloak over his arm, and stood in her own flowing robes.
"I will throw myself on the pallet, and draw the blankets over me. My
sable locks," gathering them back in her hand, for they hung loosely
round her face--"are almost the counterpart of yours. I can conceal
their length thus." Untying the scarf which passed over her shoulders
and encircled her waist, she folded it over her flowing hair. "When the
blanket is over me," she added, "I shall escape detection. Hasten! Think
of the long years of imprisonment, the solitary dungeon, the clanking
chains, the iron that will daily enter your soul. Think of all this, and
fly! Hark! I hear footsteps in the passage. Don't you hear them? My God!
it will be too late!"
Seizing the cloak, she threw it over his shoulders, snatched up the cap,
and put it upon his head, which involuntarily bent to receive it, and
wildly tearing herself from the arms that wrapped her in a parting
embrace, sprang to the pallet, and shrouded herself in the dismal folds
from which Clinton had shrunk in disgust.
Clinton drew near the door. It opened, and Arthur Hazleton entered the
cell. The jailer stood on the outside, fumbling at the lock, turning the
massy key backward and forward, making a harsh, creaking sound. His head
was bent close to the lock, in which there appeared to be some
impediment. The noise which he made with the grating key, the stooping
position he had assumed, favored the escape of Clinton.
As Arthur entered, he glided out, unperceived by him, for the jailer had
brought no light, and the prisoner was standing in the shadow of the
wall.
"There," grumbled the jailer, "I believe that will do--I must have this
lock fixed to-morrow. Here, doctor, take the key, I can trust _you_, I
know. When you are ready to go, drop it in my room, just underneath
this. I mean drop in, and give it to me, I am sick to-night. I am
obliged to go to bed."
Arthur assured him that he would attend faithfully to his directions,
and that he might retire in perfect security. Then locking the door
within, he walked towards the pallet, where the supposed form of the
prisoner lay, in the stillness of dissembled sleep. His face was turned
towards the straw, the bed cover was drawn up over his neck, nothing was
distinctly visible in the obscurity but a mass of dark, gleaming hair,
reflecting back the dim light from its jetty mirror.
Arthur did not like to banish from his couch, that
"Friend to the wretch, whom every friend forsakes."
He seated himself on the bench, folded his cloak around him, and awaited
in silence the awakening of the prisoner. He had come, in obedience to
the commands of his Divine Master, to visit those who are in prison, and
minister unto them. Not as Mittie had done, to assist him in eluding the
just penalty of the offended majesty of the laws. He did not believe the
perpetrator of such a crime as Clinton's entitled to pardon, but he
looked upon every son of Adam as a brother, and as such an object of
pity and kindness.
While he sat gazing on the pallet, watching for the first motion that
would indicate the dispersion of slumber, he heard a cough issuing from
it, which his practiced ear at once recognized as proceeding from a
woman's lungs. A suspicion of the truth flashed into his mind. He rose,
bent over the couch, and taking hold of the covering, endeavored to draw
it back from the face it shrouded. He could see the white hands that
clinched it, and a tress of long, waving hair, loosened by the motion,
floated on his sight.
"Mittie--Mittie Gleason!" he exclaimed, bending on one knee, and trying
to raise her--"how came you here? Yet, why do I ask? I know but too
well--Clinton has escaped--and you--"
"_I am here!_" she cried, starting to her feet, and shaking back her
hair, which fell in a sable mantle over her shoulders, flowing far below
the waist. "I am here. What do you wish of me? I am not prepared to
receive company just yet," she added, deridingly; "my room is rather
unfurnished."
She looked so wild and unnatural, her tone was so mocking, her glance so
defying, Arthur began to fear that her reason was disordered. Fever was
burning on her cheeks, and it might be the fire of delirium that
sparkled in her eyes. He took her hand very gently, and tried to count
the beatings of her pulse, but she snatched it from him with violence,
and commanded him to leave her.
"This is my sanctuary," she cried. "You have no right to intrude into
it. Begone!--I will be alone."
"Mittie, I will not leave you here--you must return with me to your
father's house. Think of the obloquy you may incur by remaining. Come,
before another enters."
"If I go, _you_ will be suspected of releasing the prisoner, and suffer
the penalty due for such an act. No, no, I have braved all consequences,
and I dare to meet them."
"Then I leave you to inform the jailer of the flight of the prisoner. It
is my duty."
"You will not do so mean and unmanly a deed!" springing between him and
the door, and pressing her back against it. "You will not basely inform
of him whom a young girl has had the courage to release. _You_--a man,
will not do it. _Will you?_"
"An act of justice is never base or cowardly. Clinton is a convicted
thief, and deserves the doom impending over such transgressors. He is an
unprincipled and profligate young man, and unworthy the love of a
pure-hearted woman. He has tempted your brother from the paths of
virtue, repaid your confidence with the coldest treachery, violated the
laws of God and man, and yet, unparalleled infatuation--you love him
still, and expose yourself to slander and disgrace for his sake."
He spoke sternly, commandingly. He had tried reason and persuasion, he
now spoke with authority, but it was equally in vain.
"Who told you that I love him?" she repeated. "'Tis false. I hate him. I
hate him!" she again repeated, but her lips quivered, and her voice
choked.
Arthur hailed this symptom of sensibility as a favorable omen. He had
never intended to inform the jailer of Clinton's escape. He would not be
instrumental to such an event himself, knowing, as he did, his guilt,
but since it had been effected by another, he could not help rejoicing
in heart. Perhaps Clinton might profit by this bitter lesson, and
"reformation glittering over his faults"--efface by its lustre the dark
stain upon his name. And while he condemned the rashness and mourned for
the misguided feelings of Mittie, he could not repress an involuntary
thrill of admiration for her deep, self-sacrificing love. What a pity
that a passion so sublime in its strength and despair should be
inspired by a being so unworthy.
"Will you not let me pass?" said he.
"Never, for such a purpose."
"I disclaim it altogether, I never intended to put in execution the
threat I breathed. It was to induce you to leave this horrible place
that I uttered it. I am ashamed of the subterfuge, though the motive was
pure. Mittie, I entreat you to come with me; I entreat you with the
sincerity of a friend, the earnestness of a brother. I will never
breathe to a human being the mystery of Clinton's escape. I will guard
your reputation with the most jealous vigilance. Not even my blind Alice
shall be considered a more sacred trust than you, if you confide
yourself to my protecting care."
"Are you indeed my friend?" she asked, in a softened voice, with a
remarkable change in the expression of her countenance. "I thought you
hated me."
"Hated you! What a suspicion!"
"You have always been cold and distant--never sought my friendship, or
manifested for me the least regard. When I was but a child, and you
first visited our family, I was attracted towards you, less by your
gentle manners than your strong, controlling will. Had you shown as much
interest in me as you did in Helen, you might have had a wondrous
influence on my character. You might have saved me from that which is
destroying me. But it is all past. You slighted me, and lavished all
your care on Helen. Every one cared for Helen more than me, and my heart
grew colder and colder to her and all who loved her. What I have since
felt, and why I have felt it for others, God only knows. Others! Why
should I say others? There never was but one--and that one, the false
felon, whom I once believed an angel of light. And he, even he has
thrown my heart back bleeding at my feet, for the love he bears to
Helen."
"Which Helen values not," said the young doctor, half in assertion and
half in interrogation.
"No, no," she replied, "a counter influence has saved her from the
misery and shame."
Mittie paused, clasped her hands together, and pressed them tightly on
her bosom.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "it is no metaphor, when they talk of arrows
piercing the breast. I feel them here."
Her countenance expressed physical suffering as well as mental agony.
She shivered with cold one moment, the next glowed with feverish heat.
Arthur took off his cloak, and folded it round her, and she offered no
resistance. She was sinking into that passive state, which often
succeeds too high-wrought emotion.
"You are very kind," said she, "but _you_ will suffer."
"No--I am accustomed to brave the elements. But if you think I suffer,
let us hasten to a warmer region. Give me your hand."
Firmly grasping it, he extinguished the lamp, and in total darkness they
left the cell, groped through the long, narrow passage, down the winding
stairs, at the foot of which was the jailer's room. Arthur was familiar
with this gloomy dwelling, so often had he visited it on errands of
mercy and compassion. It was not the first time he had been entrusted
with the key of the cells, though he suspected that it would be the
last. The keeper, only half awakened, received the key, locked his own
door, and went back to his bed, muttering that "there were not many men
to be trusted, but the young doctor was one."
When Arthur and Mittie emerged from the dark prison-house into the
clear, still moonlight, (for the moon had risen, and over the night had
thrown a veil of silvery gauze,) Arthur's excited spirit subsided into
peace, beneath its pale, celestial glory. Mittie thought of the
fugitive, and shrunk from the beams that might betray his flight. The
sudden barking of the watch-dog made her tremble. Even their own shadows
on the white, frozen ground, she mistook for the avengers of crime, in
the act of pursuit.
"What shall we do?" said Arthur, when, having arrived at Mr. Gleason's
door, they found it fastened. "I wish you could enter unobserved."
Mittie's solitary habits made her departure easy, and her absence
unsuspected, but she could not steal in through the bolts and locks that
impeded her admission.
"No matter," she cried, "leave me here--I will lie down by the
threshold, and wait the morning. All places are alike to me."
Louis, whose chamber was opposite to Mittie's, in the front part of the
house, and who now had many a sleepless night, heard voices in the
portico, and opening the window, demanded "who was there?"
"Come down softly and open the door," said Arthur, "I wish to speak to
you."
Louis hastily descended, and unlocked the door.
His astonishment, on seeing his sister with Arthur Hazleton, at that
hour, when he supposed her in her own room, was so great that he held
the door in his hand, without speaking or offering to admit them.
"Let us in as noiselessly as possible," said Arthur. "Take her directly
to her chamber, kindle a fire, give her a generous glass of Port wine,
and question her not to-night. Let no servant be roused. Wait upon her
yourself, and be silent on the morrow. Good-night."
"It is too bright," whispered she, as Louis half carried her up stairs,
stepping over the checker-work the moon made on the carpet.
"What is too bright, Mittie?"
"Nothing. Make haste--I am very cold."
Louis led Mittie to a chair, then lighting a candle, he knelt down and
gathered together the still smoking brands. A bright fire soon blazed on
the hearth, and illuminated the apartment.
"Now for the wine," said he.
"He is gone, Louis," said she, laying her hand on his arm. "He is fled.
I released him. Was it not noble in me, when he loves Helen, and he a
thief, too?"
Louis thought she spoke very strangely, and he looked earnestly at her
glittering eyes.
"I am glad of it!" he exclaimed--"he is a villain, but I am glad he is
escaped. But you, Mittie--you should not have done this. How could you
do it? Did Arthur Hazleton help you?"
"Oh, no! I did it very easily--I gave him your cloak and cap. You must
not be angry, you shall have new ones. They fitted him very nicely. He
would run faster, if my heart-strings did not get tangled round his
feet, all bleeding, too. Don't you remember, Miss Thusa told you about
it, long ago?"
"My God, Mittie! what makes you talk in that way? Don't talk so. Don't
look so. For Heaven's sake, don't look so wild."
"I can't help it, Louis," said she, pressing her hands on the top of her
head, "I feel so strange here. I do believe I'm mad."
She was indeed delirious. The fever which for many days had been burning
in her veins, now lighted its flames in her brain, and raged for more
than a week with increasing violence.
She did not know, while she lay tossing in delirious agony, that the
fugitive, Clinton, had been overtaken, and brought back in chains to a
more hopeless, because doubly guarded captivity.
Justice triumphed over love.
He who sows the wind, must expect to reap the whirlwind.