The return—The young chief in confinement—Joe’s fun—His reward—The
ring—A discovery—William’s recognition—Memories of childhood—A
scene—Roughgrove’s history—The children’s parentage.
The party on their return did not travel so rapidly as they had
advanced. They moreover halted in a grove which they espied about
midnight, and finding a spreading tree that had entirely shielded a
small space of ground from the snow, they kindled a fire, arranged
their robes, and reposed a few hours. The captive chief was still
sullen and unresisting. He was suffered to recline in the sled
enveloped in skins, with his hands and feet yet bound, and an extra
cord passed round his body, the end of which Sneak held in his hand
while he slept. When daylight appeared, they set forward again in a
moderate pace, and arrived at Glenn’s domicil at evening twilight. The
neighbours that Sneak had enlisted departed for their homes, and Boone
and Col. Cooper, after bidding our hero, Roughgrove, and Mary, a hearty
adieu, without entering the inclosure, recrossed the river to their own
settlement.
The remainder of the party, except the oarsmen, accepted Glenn’s
invitation to remain with him till morning. When the gate was thrown
open, the faithful hounds manifested great delight to behold their
master again, and also Mary, for they pranced so much in the path
before them that it was almost impossible to walk. They barked in
ecstasy. The poor fawn had been forgotten, neglected, and had suffered
much for food. Mary placed her arm round its neck and wept. Glenn
ordered Joe, who was in the stable caressing the horses, to feed the
drooping pet instantly.
The party then entered the house, leading in the chief, and soon after
Sneak had a bright fire blazing on the hearth.
The food that remained from the last repast amply sufficed, the captive
refusing to partake with them, and Joe having dined during the last
twelve miles of the journey on the way.
“How we’ll be able to keep this Indian here, when we go out, I should
like to know,” said Joe, regarding the manly and symmetrical form of
the young chief, who was now unbound, and sat silent and thoughtful by
the fire.
“I think he ought to be killed,” said Sneak.
“Oh, no!” said Mary; “he is not bad like the other Indians.” The
Indian, for the first time since his capture, raised his head while she
spoke, and looked searchingly in her face. “Oh!” continued Mary,
thinking of the horrors of savage warfare, and bursting into tears,
“you will never attempt to kill any of us again, will you?”
“No!” said the chief, in a low but distinct tone. Every one in the
house but Mary started.
“You understand our language, do you? Then why did you not answer my
questions?” asked Roughgrove, turning to the captive. The young chief
made no answer, but sat with his arms folded, and still regarding the
features of Mary.
“He’s a perfect fool!” said Sneak.
“He’s a snake in the grass, and’ll bite some of us some of these times,
before we know any thing about it,” said Joe.
“Be silent,” said Glenn. “If the hope that fills my breast should be
realized, the young chief will cause more rejoicing than sorrowing
among us. The wisdom of Providence surpasses all human understanding.
Events that bear a frightful import to the limited comprehensions of
mortals, may nevertheless be fraught with inestimable blessings. Even
the circumstance of your capture, Mary, however distressing at the time
to yourself and to all your friends, may some day be looked upon as a
happy and fortunate occurrence.”
“I hope so,” said Mary.
“God is great—is present everywhere, and governs every thing—let us
always submit to his just decrees without murmuring,” said the old
ferryman, his eyes brightening with fervent devotion.
“They’ve a notion to preach a little, I believe,” whispered Sneak to
Joe.
“Let ’em go ahead, then,” replied Joe, who was busily engaged with a
long switch, that he occasionally thrust in the fire, and when the end
was burnt to a coal, slyly applied it to the heel of the young chiefs
moccasin.
“You’d better not let him ketch you at that,” said Sneak.
“He’ll think its a tick biting him—I want to see if the Indians scratch
like other people,” said Joe.
Mary, being so requested by her father, began to relate every thing
that transpired up to her rescue, while she was in the possession of
the savages. The Indian riveted his eyes upon her during the recital,
and seemed to mark every word. Whether he understood all she said, or
was enchanted with her soft and musical tones, could not be
ascertained; but the listeners more than once observed with
astonishment his gleaming eyes, his attentive attitude, and the intense
interest exhibited in his face. It was during a moment when he was thus
absorbed that he suddenly sprang erect. Joe threw down his switch,
convulsed with internal laughter. Sneak leaned back against the wall,
and while he grinned at the amusing scene, seemed curious to know what
would be the result. Mary paused, and Glenn inquired the cause of the
interruption.
“Its nothing, hardly,” said Sneak: “only a spark of fire got agin the
Indian’s foot. He ain’t as good pluck as the other one we had—he could
stand burning at the stake without flinching.”
“Did either of you _place_ the fire against his foot?” demanded Glenn,
in something like anger. But before he could receive an answer, the
young chief, who had whirled round furiously, and cast a fierce look at
his tormentor, relaxing his knit brows into an expression of contempt,
very deliberately took hold of Joe’s ear, and turning on his heel like
a pivot, forced him to make many circles round him on the floor.
“Let go my ear!” roared Joe, pacing round in pain.
“Hold your holt, my snarvilerous yaller prairie dog!” cried Sneak,
inexpressibly amused.
“Let go my ear, I say!” cried Joe, still trotting round, with both
hands grasping the Indian’s wrist. “Mr. Glenn! Mr. Glenn!” continued
Joe, “he’s pinching a hole through my ear! Shoot him down, shoot him
down. There’s my gun, standing against the wall—but its not loaded!
Take my knife—oh, he’s tearing my ear off!” When the Indian thought he
was sufficiently punished, he led him back to his seat, and
relinquished his hold. He then resumed his own seat, and composedly
turning his eyes to Mary, seemed to desire her to proceed with the
narration. She did so, but when she spoke of her attempt to escape in
the prairie, of the young chief’s noble conduct, and his admiration of
her ring (and she pulled off her glove and exhibited it as she spoke,)
he again rose from his seat, and walking, apparently unconsciously, to
where she reclined upon her father’s knees, fixed his eyes upon the
jewel in a most mysterious manner. He no longer dwelt upon the maiden’s
sweet tones. He did nothing but gaze at the ring.
“He’s got a notion to steal that ring!” said Joe, with a sneer.
“Shot your mouth!” said Sneak, observing that Mary looked reproachfully
at Joe, and paused.
“Don’t talk that way, Joe!” said the offended girl. “If he wanted it,
why did he not take it when I was his prisoner? I will freely let him
have it now,” she continued, slipping it off from her finger.
“No! keep it, child—it is a family ring,” said Roughgrove.
“I will lend it to him—I know he will give it me again,” she continued,
placing it in the extended hand of the young chief, who thanked her
with his eyes, and resumed his seat. He now seemed to disregard every
thing that was said or done, and only gazed at the ring, which he held
first in one hand and then in the other, with the sparkling diamond
uppermost. Sometimes he would press his forehead with his hand and
cover his eyes, and then gaze at the ring again. Then staring wildly
around, and slightly starting, he would bite his fingers to ascertain
whether the scene was reality or a dream. Finally, giving vent to a
piteous sigh, while a tear ran down his stained cheek, he placed his
elbows upon his knees, and, bending forward, seemed to muse over some
event of the past, which the jewel before him had called to
remembrance.
Glenn narrowly watched every look and motion of the young chief, and
when Mary finished the account of her capture, he introduced the
subject of the lost child, Mary’s brother, that Roughgrove had spoken
about before starting in pursuit of the war-party.
“I can remember him!” said Mary, “and mother, too—they are both in
heaven now—poor brother! poor mother!”
The young chief raised his head quickly, and staring at the maiden’s
face, seemed to regard her tears and her features with an interest
similar to that of a child when it beholds a rare and curious toy.
“Has it not occurred to you,” said Glenn, addressing Roughgrove, “that
this young chief might possibly be your own son?”
“No!” replied the old man, promptly, and partially rising, “_he_ my
son—_he_ Mary’s brother—and once in the act of plunging the tomahawk—”
“But, father,” interrupted Mary, “he would never have harmed me—I know
he would not—for every time he looked me in the face he seemed to pity
me, and sometimes he almost wept to think I was away from my friends,
among savages, cold and distressed. But I don’t think he can be my
brother—my little brother I used to love so much—yet I could never
think how he should have fallen in the river without my knowing it.
Sometimes I remember it all as if it were yesterday. He was hunting
wild violets—”
“Oh! oh!” screamed the young chief, springing from his seat towards
Mary. Fear, pain, apprehension, joy and affection, all seemed to be
mingled in his heaving breast.
“He’s crazy, dod”—the word died upon Sneak’s lip.
“I should like to know who burnt his foot then,” said Joe.
“Silence! both of you,” said Glenn.
“What does he mean?” at length asked Roughgrove, staring at the young
chief.
“Let us be patient, and see,” said Glenn.
Ere long the Indian turned his eyes slowly downward, and resumed his
seat mournfully and in silence.
“Oh!” said Mary, “if he _is_ my poor brother, my heart will burst to
see him thus—a wild savage.”
“How old are you, Mary?” asked Glenn.
“Nineteen,” said she.
“Your brother, then, has been lost thirteen years. He may yet be
restored to you—re-taught our manners and speech—bless his aged
father’s declining years, and merit sister’s affection.”
“Oh! Mr. Glenn! is he then alive? is this he?” cried Mary.
“No, child!” said Roughgrove, “do not think of such a thing, for you
will be most bitterly disappointed. Your brother was _white_—look at
this Indian’s dark face!”
Glenn approached the chief, extending his hand in a friendly manner. It
was frankly grasped. He then gently drew the furs aside and exposed the
young man’s shoulder. It was as white as his own! Roughgrove, Mary, and
all, looked on in wonder. The young chief regarded it with singular
emotions himself. He seemed to associate it in some manner with the
ring he held, for he glanced from one to the other alternately.
“Did Mary wear that ring before the child was lost?” asked Glenn.
“No,” replied Roughgrove, “but her mother did.”
“I believe he is your son!” said Glenn. “Mary,” he continued, “have you
any trinkets or toys you used to play with?”
“Yes. Oh, let me get them!” she replied, and running to a corner of the
room where her father’s chests and trunks had been placed, she produced
a small drum and a brass toy cannon. “He used to play with these from
morning till night,” she continued, placing them on the floor. She had
not taken her hand away from them, before the young chief sprang to her
side and cried out—
“They’re mine! they’re mine! they’re William’s!”
“What was the child’s name?” asked Glenn, quickly.
“William! William!” cried Mary. “It is my brother! it is my poor
brother William!” and without a moment’s hesitation she threw her arms
round his neck, and sobbed upon his breast!
“The poor, poor child!” said Roughgrove, in tremulous tones, embracing
them both, his eyes filled with tears.
“Sister! sister!” said the youth, gazing in partial bewilderment at
Mary.
“Brother, brother! I am your sister!” said Mary, in tones of thrilling
tenderness.
“But mother! where’s mother?” asked the youth. The father and sister
bowed their heads in silence. The youth, after clinging fondly to Mary
a few minutes, started up abruptly and looked amazed, as if waking from
a sweet dream to the reality of his recent dreadful condition.
“Brother, why do you look so coldly at us? Why don’t you press us to
your heart?” said Mary, still clinging to him. The youth’s features
gradually assumed a grave and haughty cast, and, turning away, he
walked to the stool he had occupied, and sat down in silence.
“I will win him from the Indians,” said Mary, running after him, and
sitting down at his side.
“Ugh!” exclaimed the youth in displeasure, and moved a short distance
away.
“He’s not true grit—I ’most wish I had killed him,” said Sneak.
“Yes, and pinch me if I don’t burn him again, if I get a chance,” said
Joe.
“Silence!” said Glenn, sternly. For many minutes not a word was spoken.
At length Mary, who had been sobbing, raised her head and looked
tenderly in the face of her brother. Still he regarded her with
indifference. She then seized the toy-drum, which with the other
articles had been thrust out of view, and placed them before him. When
his eyes rested upon them; the severe and wild expressions of his
features again relaxed. The young war-chief was a child again. He
abandoned his seat and sat down on the floor beside his sister. Looking
her guilelessly in the face, an innocent and boyish smile played upon
his lips.
“You won’t go away again and leave your poor sister; will you,
William?” said Mary.
“No, indeed. And when the Indians come we’ll run away and go to mother,
won’t we, Mary?” said the youth, in a complete abandonment of time and
condition.
“He _is_ restored—restored at last!” exclaimed Roughgrove, walking
across the room to where the brother and sister sat. The youth sprang
to his feet, and darted a look of defiance at him. “Oh! wretched man
that I am! the murderous savages have converted the gentle lamb into a
wolf!” Roughgrove then repeated his words to the youth in the Osage
language. The youth replied in the same language, his eyes flashing
indignantly. He said it was not true; that the red man was great and
noble, and the pale face was a beast—and added that he had another
tomahawk and bows and arrows in his own country, and might see the day
when this insult would be terribly resented. The old man sank down on
his rude seat, and gave way to excruciating grief.
“Brother William!” cried Mary, tapping the drum. The youth cast down
his eyes to where she sat, and their fierceness vanished in a
twinkling. She placed the toy in his possession, and rose to bring some
other plaything she remembered.
“Sister, don’t go—I’ll tell mother!” cried the youth, in infantile
earnestness.
“I’ll come back presently, brother,” said Mary, tripping across the
room and searching a trunk.
“Make haste—but I’m not afraid—I’ll frighten all the Indians away.”
Saying this, he rattled the drum as rapidly as possible.
“See what I’ve got, brother,” said Mary, returning with a juvenile
book, and sitting down close at his side. He thrust the drum away, and,
laughing heartily, placed his arm round his sister and said: “Mother’s
got _my_ book; but you’ll let me look at yours, won’t you, sister?”
“Yes that I will, brother—see, this is the little old woman, and
there’s her dog—”
“Yes, and there’s the peddler,” cried the youth, pointing at the
picture.
“Now can’t you read it, brother?”
“To be sure I can—let me read:
“‘There was a little woman
As I have heard tell,
She went to market
Her eggs for to sell.’
“See! there she goes, with a basket on her arm and a cane in her hand.”
“Yes, and here she is again on this side, fast asleep, and her basket
of eggs sitting by her,” said Mary; “now let me read the next:
“‘She went to market,
All on a market day,
And she fell asleep
On the king’s highway.”
Now do you read about the peddler, brother. Mother used to say there
was a naughty word in it.”
“I will,” cried the youth, eagerly; but he paused and looked
steadfastly at the picture before him.
“Why don’t you read?” asked Mary, endeavouring to confine his thoughts
to the childish employment.
“That’s a pretty _skin_, ain’t it?” said he, pointing to the red shawl
painted on the picture.
“_Skin_!” said Mary; “why, that’s her shawl, brother.”
“I’ll steal one for my squaw,” said he.
“_Steal_, brother!” said the trembling girl.
“No I won’t, either, sister—don’t you know mother says we must never
steal, nor tell stories, nor say bad words.”
“That’s right, brother. But you haven’t got an ugly _squaw_, have you?”
“No indeed, sister, that I haven’t!”
“I thought you wouldn’t have any thing to do with the ugly squaws.”
“That I wouldn’t—mine’s a pretty one.”
“Oh, heaven!” cried the weeping girl, throwing herself on her brother’s
bosom. He kissed her, and strove to comfort her, and turned to the book
and continued to turn over the leaves, while Mary sat by in sadness,
but ever and anon replying to his childish questions, and still
striving to keep him thus diverted.
“Have you any of the clothes you wore when he was a child?” asked
Glenn, addressing Roughgrove.
“Yes,” replied the old man; and seizing upon the thought, he unlocked
the trunk that contained them, and put them on.
“Where’s mother?” suddenly asked the young chief.
“Oh, she’s dead!” said Mary.
“Dead? I know better!” said he, emphatically.
“Indeed she is, brother,” repeated Mary, in tears.
“When did she die?” he continued, in a musing attitude.
“A long time ago—when you were away,” said she.
“I wasn’t gone away long, was I?” he asked, with much simplicity.
“Oh, very long—we thought you were dead.”
“He was a very bad Indian to steal me away without asking mother. But
where’s father? Is he dead, too?” he continued, lifting his eyes and
beholding Roughgrove attired in a suit of velvet, and wearing broad
silver knee buckles. “Father! father!” he cried, eagerly clasping the
old man in his arms.
“My poor boy, I will be your father still!” said Roughgrove.
“I know you will,” said the youth, “for you always loved me a great
deal, and now that my poor mother’s dead, I’m sure you will love sister
and me more than ever.”
“Indeed I will, poor child! But you must not go back to the naughty
savages any more.”
The youth gazed round in silence, and made no reply. He was evidently
awakening to a consciousness of his condition. A frown of horror
darkened his brow as he contemplated the scenes of his wild abode among
the Indians; and, when he contrasted his recent mode of life with the
Elysian days of his childhood, now fresh in his memory, mingled
emotions of regret, fear, and bliss seemed to be contending in his
bosom. A cold dampness settled upon his forehead, his limbs trembled
violently, and distressful sighs issued from his heaving breast.
Gradually he sank down on a couch at his side, and closed his eyes.
When some minutes had elapsed, during which a death-like silence was
maintained, Mary approached lightly to where her father stood, and
inquired if her brother was ill.
“No,” said Roughgrove, in a whisper; “he only sleeps; but it is a very
sound slumber.”
“Now let us take off his Indian dress,” said Glenn, “and put on him
some of my clothes.” This was speedily effected, and without awaking
the youth, whose senses were benumbed, as if by some powerful opiate.
“Now, Mary,” said Roughgrove, “you must likewise have repose. You are
almost exhausted in body and mind. Sleep at your brother’s side, if you
will, poor girl.” Mary laid her head on William’s pillow, and was soon
in a deep slumber.
For several moments Roughgrove stood lost in thought, gazing
alternately at the reposing brother and sister, and Glenn. He looked
also at Sneak and Joe reclining by the fire; both were fast asleep. He
then resumed his seat, and motioned Glenn to do likewise. He bowed his
head a brief length of time in silence, apparently recalling to mind
some occurrence of more than ordinary import.
“My young friend,” said he, at length, while he placed his withered
hand upon Glenn’s knee, “do you remember that I said there was
_another_ secret connected with my family?”
“Distinctly,” replied Glenn; “and I have since felt so much anxiety to
be acquainted with it that I have several times been on the eve of
asking you to gratify my curiosity; but thinking it might be
impertinent, I have forborne. It has more than once occurred to me that
your condition in life must have been different from what it now is.”
“It has been different—far different. I will tell you all. I am a
native of England—a younger brother, of an ancient and honourable
family, but much decayed in fortune. I was educated for the ministry.
Our residence was on the Thames, a few miles distant from London, and I
was early entered in one of the institutions of the great city. While
attending college, it was my practice twice a month to visit my
father’s mansion on foot. I was fond of solitary musings, and the
exercise was beneficial to my weak frame. It was during one of those
excursions that I rescued a young lady from the rude assaults of two
ruffians. After a brief struggle, they fled. I turned to the one I had
so opportunely served, and was struck with her unparalleled beauty.
Young; a form of symmetrical loveliness; dark, languishing eyes, a
smooth forehead of lily purity, and auburn hair flowing in glossy
ringlets—it was not strange that an impression should be made on the
heart of a young student. She thanked me for my generous interposition
in such sweet and musical tones, that every word thrilled pleasantly
through my breast. She prevailed upon me to accompany her to her
mother’s cottage, but a few hundred paces distant; and during our walk
thither, she hung confidingly on my arm. Her aged mother overwhelmed me
with expressions of gratitude. She mildly chid her daughter for
wandering so far away in quest of flowers, and then withdrawing, left
us alone. Again my eyes met those of the blushing maiden—but it is
useless to dwell upon the particulars of our mutual passion. Suffice it
to say that she was the only child of her widowed mother, in moderate
but independent circumstances, and being hitherto secluded from the
society of the other sex, soon conceived (for my visits were frequent)
an affection as ardent as my own. At length I apprized my father of the
attachment, and asked his consent to our union. He refused to sanction
the alliance in the most positive terms, and commanded me never to
mention the subject again. He said that I was poor, and that he would
not consent to my marriage with any other than an heiress. I returned
to London, resolved to disobey his injunction, for I felt that my
happiness entirely depended upon my union with the lovely Juliet. But I
had never yet definitely expressed my desire to her. Yet there could be
no doubt from her smiles that my wishes would willingly be acceded to.
I determined to arrange every thing at our next interview, and a few
weeks afterwards I repaired to the cottage for that purpose. Instead of
meeting me with her ever blissful face, I found my Juliet in tears! She
was alone; but in the adjoining chamber I heard a man’s voice, and
feared that it was my father. I was mistaken. Juliet soon brushed away
her tears, and informed me that she had been _again_ assailed by the
same ruffians, and on the lawn within sight of the cottage. She said
that the gentleman in the next room was her deliverer. I seized her
hand, and when about to propose a plan to secure her against such
annoyances for ever, her mother entered and introduced the stranger to
me. His name was Nicholson, and he stated that he was a partner in a
large banking establishment in Lombard Street. He was past the bloom of
youth, but still his fine clothes and his reputed wealth were
displeasing to me. I was especially chagrined at the marked attention
shown him by Juliet’s mother. And my annoyance was increased by the
frequent lascivious glances he cast at the maiden. The more I marked
him, the more was my uneasiness. It soon occurred to me that I had seen
him before! He resembled a person I had seen driving rapidly along the
highway in a chariot, on the morning that I first beheld my Juliet. But
my recollection of his features was indistinct. There was a
condescending suavity in his manners, and sometimes a positive and
commanding tone in his conversation, that almost roused my enmity in
spite of my peaceful calling and friendly disposition. It was my
intention to remain at the cottage, and propose to Juliet after he had
departed. But my purpose was defeated, for he declared his intention to
enjoy the country air till evening, and I returned, disappointed and
dispirited, to the city.
“A few days afterwards I visited the cottage again. What was my
surprise and vexation to behold Mr. Nicholson there! He was seated,
with his patronizing smile, between Juliet and her mother, and
presenting them various richly bound books, jewels, &c., which seemed
to me to be received with much gratification. I was welcomed with the
usual frankness and pleasure by Juliet, but I thought her mother’s
reception was less cordial, and Mr. Nicholson regarded me with manifest
indifference. I made an ineffectual effort at vivacity, and after an
hour’s stay, during which my remarks gradually narrowed down to
monosyllables, (while Mr. Nicholson became excessively loquacious,) I
rose to depart. Juliet made an endeavour to accompany me to the door,
where I hoped to be assured of her true affection for me by her own
lips, but some pointed inquiry (I do not now recollect what) from
Nicholson, which was seconded in a positive manner by her mother,
arrested her steps, and while she hesitated, I bad her adieu, and
departed for the city, resolved never to see her again.
“It was about a month after the above occurrence that my resolution
gave way, and I was again on the road to the cottage, with my mind made
up to forgive and forget every thing that had offended me, and to offer
my hand where my heart seemed to be already irrevocably fixed. When I
entered who should I see but the eternal thwarter of my happiness, the
ever-present Nicholson! But horror! he was now the wedded lord of
Juliet! The ceremony was just over. There were but two or three
strangers present besides the clergyman. Bride, groom, guests, and all
were hateful to my sight. The minister, particularly, I thought had a
demoniac face, similar to that of one of the ruffians who had tested
the quality of my cane. Juliet cast a look at me with more of sadness
than joy in it. She offered me her hand in silent salutation, and it
trembled in my grasp. The deed was done. Pity for the maiden who had
been thus sacrificed to secure a superabundance of wealth which could
never be enjoyed, and sorrow at my own forlorn condition, weighed
heavily, oh, how heavily! on my heart. I returned to my lonely and
desolate lodgings without a malicious feeling for the one who had
robbed me of every hope of earthly enjoyment. I prayed that he might
make Juliet happy.
“But, alas! her happiness was of short duration. Scarce six months had
passed before Mr. Nicholson began to neglect his youthful and confiding
bride. She had still remained at her mother’s cottage, while, as she
stated, his establishment was being fitted up in town for their
reception. He at first drove out to the cottage every evening; but soon
afterwards fell into the habit of visiting his bride only two or three
times a week. He neither carried her into society nor brought home any
visitors. Yet he seemed to possess immense wealth, and bestowed it upon
Juliet with a liberal, nay, profuse hand. My young friend, what kind of
a character do you suppose this Mr. Nicholson to have been?” said the
old man, pausing, and turning to Glenn, who had been listening to the
narrative with marked attention.
“He was an impostor—a gambler,” replied Glenn, promptly.
“He _was_ an impostor! but no adventurous gambler, as you suppose. I
will proceed. About seven months after his marriage, he abandoned
Juliet altogether! Yet he did not forget her entirely. He may have felt
remorse for the ruin he had wrought—or perhaps a slight degree of
affection for his unborn—; and costly presents, and many considerable
sums of money, were sent by him to the cottage. But neither the aged
mother nor the deserted wife found the consolation they desired in his
prodigal gifts. They sent me a note, informing me of their distressful
condition, and requesting me to ascertain the locality of Mr.
Nicholson’s establishment, and, if possible, to find out the cause of
his unnatural conduct. I did all in my power to accomplish what they
desired. I repaired to the cottage, unable to give the least
intelligence of Mr. Nicholson. I had not been able to find any one who
had ever heard of him. Juliet became almost frantic. She determined to
seek him herself. At her urgent solicitation, I accompanied her to the
city in an open curricle. A pitying Providence soon terminated her
insupportable suspense. While we were driving through Hyde Park, we
were forcibly stopped to permit, among the throng, the passage of a
splendid equipage. The approaching carriage was likewise an open one.
Juliet glanced at the inmates, and uttering a wild piercing shriek,
fainted in my arms. I looked, and saw her quondam husband! He was
decked in the magnificent insignia of ROYALTY. Nobles were bowing,
high-born ladies smiling, and the multitude shouted, ‘There comes his
royal highness, the Prince of—’
“Man cannot punish him,” continued Roughgrove, “but God can. HE will
deal justly, both with the proud and the oppressed. But to return. He
saw Juliet. A few minutes after the gorgeous retinue swept past, one of
the prince’s attendants came with a note. Juliet was insensible. I took
it from the messenger’s hand, and started when I looked the villain in
the face. He had been the parson! He smiled at the recognition! I
hurled my cane at his head, and hastened back to the cottage with a
physician in attendance. Juliet soon recovered from her swoon. But a
frenzied desperation was manifest in her pale features. I left her in
her mother’s charge, and returned in agony to my lodgings. That night a
raging fever seized upon my brain, and for months I was the victim of
excruciating disease. When convalescent, but still confined to my room,
I chanced to run my eye over one of the daily papers, and was petrified
to see the name of Mrs. Nicholson, in the first article that attracted
my attention, in connection with an attempt upon the life of the king!
She had been seized with a fit of temporary insanity, and driving to
town, sought her betrayer with the intention of shedding his blood. She
waited at the gate of St. James’s palace until a carriage drove up in
which she expected to find the prince. It was the king—yet she did not
discover her error until the blow was made. The steel did not perform
its office, as you are aware from the history of England, in which this
event is recorded. The king humanely pardoned her on the spot. A single
word she uttered acquainted him with her history, and her piteous looks
made an extraordinary impression on his mind. He too, had, perhaps,
sported with innocent beauty. And now the spectre of the weeping maniac
haunted his visions. Soon he became one himself. The name of Juliet
fortunately was not published in the journals. It was by some means
incorrectly stated that the woman who attacked the king was named
_Margaret_ Nicholson, and so it remains on the page of history.
“As soon as I was able to leave my chamber, I repaired to the cottage.
Juliet was a _mother_. Reason had returned, and she strove to submit
with Christian humility to her pitiable lot. She received me with the
same sweet smile that had formerly beamed on her guileless face. Her
mother, the promoter of the fancied advantageous alliance, now seemed
to suffer most. They both clung to me as their only remaining friend,
and in truth I learned that all other friends had forsaken them. I
looked upon the deceived, outraged, but still innocent Juliet, with
pity. Her little cherub twins—”
“Twins!” echoed Glenn.
“Ay, twins,” replied Roughgrove, “and they lie behind you now, side by
side, on yonder bed.”
Glenn turned and gazed a moment in silence on the sleeping forms of
William, and Mary.
“Her poor little ones excited my compassion. They were not blamable for
their father’s crime, nor could they enjoy the advantages of his
exalted station. They were without a protector in the world. Juliet’s
mother was fast sinking under the calamity she had herself in a great
measure wrought. My heart melted when I contemplated the sad condition
of the only female I had ever loved. It was not long before the fires
of affection again gleamed brightly in my breast. Juliet had committed
no crime, either in the eyes of man or God. She did not intend to err.
She had acted in good faith. She had never designed to transgress
either the laws of earth or heaven, and although the disguised prince
did not wholly possess her heart, yet she deemed it a duty to be
governed by the advice of her parent. These things I explained to her,
and when her conscience was appeased by the facts which I demonstrated,
her peace in some measure returned, but she was still subject to
occasional melancholy reflections. Perhaps she thought of me—how my
heart had suffered (for, young as I was, the occurrence brought
premature gray hairs; and even now, although my head is white, I have
seen but little more than forty years)—and how happy we might have
travelled life’s journey together. I seized such a moment to renew my
proposals. She declined, but declined in tears. I returned to the city
with the intention to repeat the offer the next time we met. Not many
weeks elapsed before her aged mother was consigned to the tomb. Poor
Juliet’s condition was now immeasurably lamentable. She had neither
friend nor protector. I again urged my suit, and was successful. But
she required of me a promise to retire from the world for ever. I
cheerfully agreed, for I was disgusted with the vanity and wickedness
of my species. We came hither. You know the rest.”
When Roughgrove ceased speaking, the night was far advanced, and a
perfect silence reigned. Without uttering another word, he and Glenn
rose from their seats, and repairing to the remaining unoccupied couch,
ere long yielded to the influence of tranquil slumber.