through Jones' mind, as he directed his steps towards the centre of the
village. Buoyant feelings and hopes, such as he had not experienced for
years before, suddenly filled his breast: glimmerings of bright thought
flashed on his mind; were speedily checked, and again burst forth. Some
of the people were lounging about their doors as he passed; but he
heeded not--he cared not. He felt happy. Visions of mild grey eyes and
chesnut ringlets engrossed his senses. They were Miss Manners'. A low
but sweet voice filled his ears. It was hers. His memory recalled
certain kindly expressions; and it was her lips that had uttered them.
On arriving at his lodging, he thought the way had been short; he
entered, and was welcomed by his old landlady, with whom he had lived
for years, and who was one of the few who would listen to nothing to his
discredit.
That night, Jones sat up long, and thought much. The window of his room
looked down upon the glen, the stream, the corn-mill, and across to the
high and wooded banks, and upwards to where, on this particular night,
the full round moon climbed, and threw a glittering bar of light upon
the water; and never, to the eye of our lonely muser, looked so lonely,
or shone upon so fair a scene. If, at that moment, he harboured an evil
thought or an angry feeling, it soon melted in the rising tide of holier
emotions. The quiet and softness of the night became, for the time, a
portion of his own being; and the pale light, resting on his features,
communicated to them much of its gentleness and beauty. For several
hours he continued in deep reverie. At length he began to feel chilly,
as the thin watery light, which precedes the dawn, made its appearance;
and he reluctantly withdrew to rest; but only to dream over the images
of beauty with which his mind was surcharged.
Next morning broke forth--a benign and balmy Sabbath. He was the
earliest at church, and lingered the latest in the church-yard. The
subject of Mr. Manners' discourse was charity; but when the people came
out, they passed by Jones with a scowl, and went on their several ways,
talking mysteriously together. Jones, however, had again seen Miss
Manners. It is uncertain whether or not he threw himself in her way;
but, whether from design or accident, their eyes met. She bowed
gracefully to him; but he was not prepared for this public recognition.
For the moment he felt confused, his heart fluttered, and he passed on
with two or three hurried steps. This incident, trifling as it was,
deprived him of a whole night's sleep. He feared he had betrayed some
awkwardness on the occasion; and yet, somehow or other, he had no
fear of obtaining her forgiveness. Often and often he walked in the
neighbourhood of the manse, avoiding being seen by her, but still seeing
her; or, if not, indulging the delight of being near her. He had no
heart to walk in any other direction. If he strolled out in the morning,
or in the quiet of the evening, he proceeded almost instinctively
towards the manse; and if he passed any distance beyond it, an
irresistible impulse caused him to retrace his steps.
These lonely walks, often at unseasonable hours, and without any
apparent object, were not unobserved by the villagers, and gave rise to
much speculation. Many weeks passed, and still the mystery continued;
and Jones found, ere long, that he was regarded not only with suspicion,
but terror. All the petty crimes, too, which occurred in the
neighbourhood, were set down to his charge; and time, which he thought
would clear his name, seemed only to blacken it the more. Every means,
too, were taken to persecute him, and drive him from the place; but
absence to him was now despair. He was chained to the spot by an
uncontrollable destiny; and felt that, although pressed to the
uttermost, he was yet wholly incapable of retreat.
Jones was proprietor of a small property in the village, which had
been left him by an uncle, and which first induced him to take up his
residence in that quarter; he had also a small sum of money laid out at
interest; and, both together, had hitherto yielded him a sufficient
competency.
One by one, however, the houses on which he chiefly relied became
tenantless, and nothing seemed to await him but poverty and
wretchedness.
But then Miss Manners! Like a star in the heavens, she became brighter
as his prospects darkened; and yet he feared that, like a star, he could
only admire her at a distance. He had told his love to the listening
winds; he had whispered it to his pillow; he had mingled his plaint
with that of the running brooks. But, to human ear, he had breathed it
neither in sighs nor words. Him, a wanderer and an outcast, what maid
could ever love? Could he have asked Miss Manners to share happiness
with him, the case might have been otherwise; but what must be his fate
when he had only wretchedness to offer? He thought of her till she
became purely a being of his imagination; and, being all that his
imagination could paint her, she became too much for him to hope ever
to possess.
It is difficult to say what, at this early stage of their acquaintance,
were Miss Manners' feelings towards Jones. Certain it is, however, that
she had conceived for him a kind of romantic interest. She was eccentric
in her disposition, but fervent in her attachments; and, without knowing
much about him, she had, partly from compassion and partly, perhaps,
from a secret love of being regarded singular, uniformly advocated his
cause whenever occasion offered.
One evening, two or three young girls were assembled at the manse. They
were the daughters of a person of some consideration in the place, and
Miss Manners' occasional associates. After tea, Mr. Manners withdrew to
his studies; and, as the evening had set in rather cold, the ladies drew
near the fire to converse.
"Come, now," said Miss Manners, as she stirred the fire till it blazed
and crackled right merrily, "let us make ourselves comfortable and
happy. Emily, here"--sitting down beside the dullest of her
guests--"looks as sad as if she had just lost her sweetheart."
"Oh, she'll be thinking of Willie Green!" said another of the girls.
A third giggled. Emily looked sad; and Miss Manners cheered her by
remarking that Willie was a very decent fellow.
"He's no sweetheart of mine," said Emily, indifferently, at the same
time glancing up to the ceiling.
An enormous "Good gracious!" or some such expression, rushed to the eyes
of another of the girls; but, as Miss Manners had checked her, she did
not get telling how often she had seen her and Willie together, and how
well known it was that the day was all but fixed.
"Now, don't tease her," said Miss Manners. "I see we must change the
subject."
Accordingly, Willie Green was dismissed, and William Jones introduced.
Every one, except Miss Manners, had something to say against him--some
frightful story to relate in which he had acted a principal part. One
told how, on one evening--darker than all other evenings--he had been
seen lounging in the neighbourhood of such and such a farm; and how,
next morning, one of the farmer's children died. Another related how he
had been heard to rave to himself when he thought no one was near; and
many were the extraordinary casualties in which he was declared to have
been concerned.
"Pshaw! idle tales," said Miss Manners, who had sat for some time
silent. "I have seen the man, and do not think him one-half so bad as he
is represented. Never yet have I met any one who had seen him do a wrong
action; and yet every one will swell the cry against him. O world!
world!"
The young ladies were somewhat surprised at the serious tone in which
Miss Manners spoke, but laughed it off, without attempting to argue
the matter. How little did they know--how little did Miss Manners
know--that, at that very time, the man they spoke of was wandering in
the darkness, not far off, with his eyes fixed on the lighted window of
the room in which they sat! And, O, what feelings would have filled the
breast of poor Jones, if he had known that the light on which he gazed
so intently was rendered still brighter by those eyes which he loved
best in the world being kindled in his defence.
However, the conversation soon took a lighter turn; and was only
interrupted, at length, by the appearance of Willie Green, who was
ushered in "by accident," and seemed very desirous to impress upon all
present that he had no particular errand. Sly looks were interchanged,
which no one, of course, saw; and Willie was speedily inducted as one of
the party. Supper followed, at which Mr. Manners was present; and, when
the hour of departure came, Miss Manners threw on her bonnet, to trot
them, as she expressed it, to the garden gate.
On going down the walk, Mr. Green, who was the pink of politeness,
offered Miss Manners his arm; but the latter knew she would not offend
him by refusing. One by one, he applied to the other girls; till, as a
last resource, he made an appeal to Emily, who, after some feeble show
of following their example, relented; and, while Miss Manners and the
rest proceeded onwards, Green and Emily lagged gradually behind. Miss
Manners escorted the party a considerable distance on their way, and
then bade them good night. Mr. Green offered to accompany her back; but
she broke off, saying she was not afraid. The night was rather dark;
but, in truth, it was not late; and she tripped on her way homewards
without fear of molestation.
As she approached the garden, however, she saw the figure of a man
walking on before her, with that slow and apparently lounging step which
indicates the absence of any pressing or definite object. It was Jones.
Her heart failed her for a moment; but, instantly recovering herself,
she proceeded on her way, and passed him. It was dark. There was no one
else near. A rush of frightful thoughts came upon her mind; her step
faltered; and she felt as if about to faint.
This was a moment, with Jones, of intense--of overwhelming emotion. He
had heard her light step behind him, but knew not that it was hers. No
sooner, however, had her graceful form caught his eye, than a strange
wildness of thought and feeling seized him, approaching almost to
delirium. She was alone. He had long wished for such an opportunity to
declare his passion; and yet, now that it had arrived, he trembled to
embrace it. To allow it to pass was, in all probability, to entail upon
himself many more weeks or months of racking anxiety, uncertainty, and
suspense; and yet to embrace it was, perhaps, to set the last seal to
his despair. On such a subject he could have debated for weeks; but now,
the least hesitation, and the opportunity was lost.
While these contending thoughts distracted his mind, Miss Manners
started, and almost paused, as if seized with a sudden panic. This fixed
his resolution.
"Dear lady!" he said, in a bland and tremulous voice, "you seem
frightened. I trust it is not of me you are afraid. Believe me, you are
near one who would protect, not harm you."
"Who are you?" she inquired, faintly.
"Who am I?" he replied. "In truth, I can hardly tell you who I am. I am
one, madam, lost both to himself and the world--an outcast--a wanderer
in solitary places--a madman--a dreamer! O, sweet lady!--but I am wrong
to speak thus."
"I know you now," she said, gaining courage; "your name is Jones, is it
not?"
"Ay, madam," he answered, "that is my unfortunate name; but, if the
world knew all--or if you knew all, I would not care for the world."
"Tell me," she said, but with some hesitation, as if in doubt whether it
was proper to stay.
"I will, if you'll forgive me," he said; "but my story is, perhaps,
long. Will you walk on?"
Miss Manners proceeded slowly along, with Jones at her side.
"I have now," resumed the latter, "resided for nearly six years in this
village. In my intercourse with the world I had been unfortunate, and
retirement was what I sought. I found it here; and, between the study of
books and nature, I felt myself happy, and associated but little with my
neighbours. I do not weary you?"
"No," said Miss Manners; "go on."
"At length," he continued, "I began to feel that marriage would be an
addition to my happiness; and, accordingly, I cast my eyes round among
the fair maidens of the village. They fell upon the unfortunate Jessie
Renton. She lived within a few doors of me, and I had often seen and
admired her in my walks. I thought I loved her--for, at that time, I had
not learned what true love was--and offered to make her my wife. I
dealt candidly and openly with her. In education, I need not say that I
knew she was much beneath me; but she seemed warm-hearted and docile,
and I thought it would be a loving pastime for me to make her my pupil.
I was not ignorant, however, that she had other lovers; and, although
she certainly encouraged my addresses, I saw reason to discontinue my
suit. About this time, the awful event took place, the particulars of
which are already known to you; and, simply because I had been abroad on
the evening of the murder, and near the fatal spot, and partly, no
doubt, from the circumstance of my attachment, which I had taken no
pains to conceal, suspicion fastened upon me. I will not--indeed I
cannot--tell you what laceration of feeling--what distraction of mind--I
have since suffered. But you--you, O lady! is it wonderful that I should
love you?--you who, when all the world was against me, spoke kindly to
me?--you----forgive me, but I love--I adore you; day and night you have
been my dream--my idol! But I rave; and yet, do not think me quite mad;
for I know I am partly so, and madness knows not itself. O lady!--pardon
me! but my heart will not let my tongue speak, lest it should wrong
it--could my _heart_ speak, could"----
"Sir--sir!" interrupted Miss Manners; "this is frenzy! I beg, sir, you
will desist. So sudden--so"----
"Sudden!" exclaimed Jones. "My love may have been sudden; but, for
weeks, for months, it has taken possession of me. But, pardon me,
madam," he added, in a calmer tone. "Do not mistake me. I know too well
that I dare not hope; but an humble offering may be laid upon a lofty
shrine. All I ask is your compassion; say only you pity me, and I shall
embalm the words in my memory for ever!"
Miss Manners _did_ pity him; but begged him, as he valued his own
happiness, to banish from his mind all such thoughts as he had
expressed.
"Ah, madam," said he, "ask me to part with life, and I may obey you;
but, while life remains, I never can cease to love you."
They had now reached the entrance to the garden; and Miss Manners held
out her hand, saying--
"Good night."
Jones took the hand. There was no glove on it; and, gently raising it,
he pressed it to his lips.
"Madam," he articulated, "good night; farewell. While you are asleep, I
shall be thinking of you. On this road, gazing on the window of the room
in which I think you are, I shall enjoy more rest than anywhere else I
can go."
He was about to add something more; but his utterance became choked;
and, again pressing her hand to his lips, while a tear fell on it, he
turned abruptly away. Miss Manners said not a word--her heart was too
full--but closed the gate behind her and disappeared. Jones listened. He
heard her step as she went up the gravel walk, and he heard nothing
more. The night was, by this time, fearfully dark, and everything around
him was silent. He walked on a short distance, returned, and again
walked on. His mind was whirling and confused. He tried to recollect
every word which Miss Manners had said, and by this means to get at the
real state of her feelings; but he was too much agitated for reflection.
On gaining his lodging, he felt faint, and put himself immediately to
bed. All night long he tossed about in sleepless excitement; and, in the
morning, fell into a feverish doze, broken by unintelligible dreams.
When he awoke, he rose up, and felt so giddy as to be unable to stand,
and again went to bed. During the day, he felt shivering and unwell;
and, the next day, the same symptoms continued, and with increased
violence. Another day arrived--another, and another--and all
consciousness left him. Several weeks elapsed, and found him still
bedridden, but convalescent; and it was nearly three months before he
was enabled to venture out, and then only when the sun was warm.
"You have been long out, Marion," said Mr. Manners to his daughter, as
she returned from her accidental interview with Jones. "I was afraid
some accident had befallen you."
"No," said Miss Manners, whose eyes were slightly inflamed; for, somehow
or other, she had wept before entering the house: "no accident."
"Child," said her father, "what has happened--you look ill!"
Miss Manners told all--her meeting with Jones, and his passionate
declaration; but, notwithstanding that her father conjured her not to
think of him, she thought of him all night long.
The news of Jones' illness spread rapidly through the village; but, as
might be expected, excited little sympathy. With the exception of Mr.
Manners and the surgeon of the village, no one looked near his abode;
and many were the remarks made by the gossips, that few tears would be
shed for him, and that he might bless heaven he was allowed to die in
bed. From the manse, however, he received much attention. Anxious
inquiries concerning the state of his health were made almost daily,
accompanied, occasionally, with presents of wine and jellies. This
afforded Jones delightful materials for reflection; and, while his
health continued to improve, he occupied his mind with dreams of the
future, which his better judgment told him were too bright ever to be
realised.
It was on a mild spring morning that the poor invalid sallied forth, for
the first time, since his illness. He was still rather pale and feeble;
but the air was warm for the season, and he felt happy on being released
from his confinement. His appearance, as he walked through the village,
brought the people to their doors as before; and the old remarks about
"the man that was tried for murder," were made from mouth to mouth.
Nevertheless, he was allowed to pass unmolested, and was soon clear
of the houses. The effect of natural scenery, and more particularly,
perhaps, of the weather, on the animal spirits, has often been remarked,
and the pleasing train of thought which now passed through the mind of
our hero, might partly have arisen from this cause. The sun was
unshaded, and the road warm and dry. On either side, the leaves were
budding from the hedges, and the cheerful warbling of birds infused a
delicious and summer-like feeling into his heart. He had gone out
without any precise object, and merely to enjoy a walk in the fresh
air--so delightful after long confinement to a sick chamber; but his
steps had led him almost involuntarily in the direction of the manse. On
reaching the gate, he stopped, loitered on for a few yards, and again
stopped. He then turned back and hesitated, and at last made bold to
enter. As he wound his way slowly up the walk, which was neatly laid off
on either side with flowers and shrubbery, he felt more collected than,
under the circumstances, he could have imagined possible; and, in a few
moments, he was seated in the neat drawing-room of the manse, pouring
out his gratitude to Miss Manners for the kindness and attention he had
experienced during his illness.
While the two sat conversing together, Mr. Manners entered. He
congratulated Jones on his recovery; but the latter did not fail to
observe that his manner towards him was less frank than formerly. The
truth is, that the old man was a good deal alarmed for his daughter,
whom he had warned to discourage his addresses; and, although desirous
to treat him with kindness, endeavoured to avoid everything which might
seem an approval of his suit. Jones had the good sense not to prolong
his visit; and, after cordially repeating his thanks for the various
acts of kindness he had experienced, rose up and took his leave.
To her poor lover, Miss Manners had never appeared so lovely as on this
occasion. He left the house with the intention of never beholding her
more; but scarcely had he quitted her presence, than he felt that to
remain long away were impossible. Her beauty; her goodness; her kind
words; her kinder looks; all--all rushed to his mind; and his feelings,
which had been somewhat calmed by his illness, acquired even more than
their wonted fire. Day after day, as he continued to gather strength, he
revisited all his old haunts, and felt as if he had just returned from a
sojourn in a distant land. Everything was new and fresh; but, with every
scene, old feelings were associated. To him Miss Manners was still the
presiding genius of the place, from whom it derived all its beauty, and
to whom the worship of his heart was involuntarily offered.
Meanwhile, Miss Manners had received strict injunctions from her father
not to receive his visits except when he himself was at home. To this
course he had been urged, not so much by his own feelings towards him,
as by the advice of his friends. Indeed, Jones was rather a favourite
with him. He would willingly have done much to serve him; and yet, when
the happiness of his daughter was at stake, he often reflected on the
awful consequences which might ensue, if he were really the guilty
wretch whom so many suspected he was.
About this time a circumstance occurred, which put an end to his doubts.
Among those who mourned the unhappy fate of the poor village maiden,
the grief of her lover, George Merrideth, had been observed to be the
wildest. For some days, he had wandered about like one demented; and
all who witnessed, respected and commiserated his anguish. Latterly,
however, he had disappeared entirely from the public view; and it was
hinted by some, that his mind had been seriously affected by the
occurrence. One morning, Mr. Manners was suddenly sent for to attend at
his deathbed. When he entered, the patient had fallen into a kind of
dozing sleep; and he was motioned to a seat near the bed. The light was
almost entirely excluded from the chamber; and the only other person
present was the mother of the dying lad, who was a widow. She was wasted
with grief and watching, and seemed just such a figure as a painter
would have chosen to heighten the melancholy of such a scene. As she
came round and whispered some scarcely articulate words into the
clergyman's ear, her son murmured in his sleep, became restless, and
woke as in terror. Mr. Manners spoke to him in soothing words, and
referred to a state of happiness hereafter.
"Aha!" cried he, "can I enter heaven with my hand bloody? Her spirit is
sainted. I could not go near it. Oh no--no--never--never."
"Of what is it he speaks?" inquired Mr. Manners.
"Oh, sir!" answered his mother, "his thoughts are wandering. I canna
think he killed the lassie he loved."
"Ay, mother," said the youth, with an effort, "this hand did it. O
fool!--cut it off--off with it--it is not my hand--my hand never would
have done it. Oh--oh--mother--Jessie."
Mr. Manners was dumb with amazement. It was but too evident from whence
the agony of the youth flowed, and he sat regarding him with looks of
awe and terror.
"It grows dark," continued the patient; "but, softly. You know I loved
you when you were a child; but now you love another!--ay, that's it--you
will not be mine! It grows still darker!--ha, ha, ha!--fly--fly!--it is
done! O God! if I could draw back!"
The dying man waxed wilder in his ravings. After a time, however, he
became comparatively calm; and, on Mr. Manners addressing him,
recognised his voice.
"Ah, that voice!" he said. "I have often heard it. I have not attended
to its counsel; but if it could console--oh, no, I cannot be consoled.
Your hand, sir!--forgive--forgive."
"Do not ask forgiveness of me," said Mr. Manners. "May God in his mercy
pardon you!"
The wretched youth muttered a kind of incoherent prayer, while his
mother dropped on her knees by the bed-side. All afterwards was wildness
and despair, only relieved by intervals of exhaustion. Mr. Manners
continued to administer such consolation as the circumstances of the
case admitted of, and did not leave the house till the voice of the
guilty man had become hushed in death, and nothing broke the silence but
the moanings of the afflicted mother.