Hours passed away without either of the guilty parties
finding courage or inclination to address the other. The
hearts of both were too full for utterance--and yet did
they acknowledge no sympathy in common. Remorse, shame,
fear, regret, simultaneously assailed and weighed down
the mind of Gerald. Triumphant vengeance, unmixed with
any apprehension of self, reigned exclusively in the
bosom of Matilda. The intense passion of the former, like
a mist that is dissipated before the strong rays of the
sun, had yielded before the masculine and practical
display of the energetic hate of its object, while on
the contrary she, whose beauty of person was now to him
a thing without price, acknowledged no other feeling than
contempt for the vacillating character of her associate.
In this only did they agree that each looked upon each
in the light of a being sunk in crime--steeped in
dishonor--and while the love of the one was turned to
almost loathing at the thought, the other merely wondered
how one so feeble of heart had ever been linked to so
determined a purpose.
The only light admitted into the temple was through the
window already described, and this was so feeble as
scarcely to allow of the more distant objects in the room
being seen. Gradually, as the moon sunk beneath the
forest ridge, the gloom increased, until in the end the
darkness became almost profound. At their first entrance
Matilda, enshrouding herself in the folds of her cloak,
had thrown herself upon the sofa; while Gerald continued
to pace up and down the apartment with hurried steps,
and in a state of feeling it would be a vain attempt to
describe. It was now for the first time that, uninfluenced
by passion, the miserable young man had leisure to reflect
on the past, and the chain of fatality which had led to
his present disgraceful position. He recollected the
conversation he had held with his brother on the day
succeeding his escape from the storm; and as the pledge
which had been given in his name to his dying father,
that no action of his life should reflect dishonor on
his family now occurred to him in all its force, he
groaned in agony of spirit, less in apprehension of the
fate that awaited him than in sorrow and in shame that
that pledge should have been violated. By a natural
transition of his feelings, his imagination recurred to
the traditions connected with his family, and the dreadful
curse which had been uttered by one on whom his ancestor
was said to have heaped injury to the very extinction of
reason--and associating as he did Matilda's visit to the
Cottage at Detroit, on the memorable night when he had
unconsciously saved the life of Colonel Forrester, with
the fact of her having previously knelt and prayed upon
the grave that was known to cover the ashes of the unhappy
maniac, Ellen Halloway, he felt a shuddering conviction
that she was in some way connected with that wretched
woman. In the intenseness of his new desire to satisfy
his doubts--a desire which in itself partook of the
character of the fatality by which he was beset--he
overcame the repugnance he had hitherto felt to enter
into conversation with her, and advancing to the couch,
seated himself upon its edge at her side.
"Matilda" he said, after a few moments of silence, "by
all the love you once bore me, I conjure you answer me
one question while yet there is time."
"Fool," returned the American, "I never loved you. A soul
like mine feels passion but once. Hitherto I have played
a part, hut the drama approaches to a close, and disguise
of plot is no longer necessary. Gerald Grantham, you have
been my dupe,--you came a convenient puppet to my hands,
and as such I used you until the snapped wire proclaimed
you no longer serviceable. No further."
Shame, anguish, mortification--all the most humiliating
sensations natural to man, for a moment assailed the
breast of the unfortunate and guilty Grantham, rendering
him insensible even to the greater evil which awaited
him. In the bitterness of his agony he struck his clenched
hand against his forehead, uttering curses upon himself
for his weakness, in one breath, and calling upon his
God, in the next, to pardon him for his crime.
"This is good!" said Matilda. "To see you writhe thus,
under the wound inflicted upon your vanity, is some small
atonement for the base violation of your oath; yet what
question would you ask, the solution of which can so much
import one about to figure on the scaffold for a crime
he has not even had the courage to commit?"
The taunting manner in which the concluding part of the
sentence was conveyed, had the effect of restoring Gerald
in some degree to himself, and he said with considerable
firmness:
"What I would ask is of yourself,--namely, the relationship,
if any, you bear to those who lie within the mound on
which I beheld you kneeling, on the night of your first
attempt on Colonel Forrester's life."
"The very recollection of that ill-timed intrusion would
prevent me from satisfying your curiosity, did not
something whisper to me that, in so doing, I shall add
another pang to those you already experience," returned
the American with bitter sarcasm.
"You are right," said Gerald hurriedly; "my miseries need
but the assurance of your connexion with those mouldering
bones to be indeed complete."
"Then," said Matilda eagerly, and half raising her head,
"your cup of misery may yet admit of increase. My mother
and my father's mother both sleep within that grave."
"How knew you this?" demanded Gerald quickly. "Instinct
could not have guided you to the spot, and by your own
admission you were taken from the place of your home
while yet a mere child."
"Not instinct, but my father Desborough, pointed out the
spot, as he had long previously acquainted me with the
history of my birth."
"One question more--your grandmother's name?"
"Mad Ellen she was called, an English soldier's wife,
who died in giving birth to my father--and now that you
are answered, leave me."
"Almighty Providence," aspirated Gerald, in tones of
inconceivable agony; "it is then as I had feared, and
this woman has Destiny chosen to accomplish my ruin."
He quitted the sofa and paced up and down the room in a
state of mind bordering on distraction. The past crowded
upon his mind in all the confused manner of a dream, and
amid the chaos of contending feelings by which he was
beset, one idea only was distinct--namely, that the
wretched woman before him had been but the agent of Fate
in effecting his destruction. Strange as it may appear,
the idea, so far from increasing the acerbity of his
feelings, had the tendency to soften his heart towards
her. He beheld in her but a being whose actions had been
fated like his own, and although every vestige of passion
had fled--even although her surpassing beauty had lost
its subjugating influence, his heart yearned towards her
as one who, wrecked on the same shore, had some claim to
his sympathy and compassion. All that was now left them
was to make their peace with God, since with man their
final account would be so speedily closed, and with a
view to impress her with a sense of the religious aid
from which alone they could hope for consolation, he
again seated himself at her side on the edge of the sofa.
"Matilda," he said, in a voice in which melancholy and
sternness were blended, "We have been the children of
guilt--the victims of our own evil passions; but God is
merciful, and if our penitence be sincere, we may yet be
forgiven in Heaven, although on earth there is no hope--even
if after this we could wish to live. Matilda, let us pray
together."
There was no answer--neither did the slightest movement
of her form indicate consciousness that she was addressed.
"Matilda," repeated Gerald--still there was no answer.
He placed his hand upon her cheek, and thought the touch
was cold--he caught her hand, it too was cold and but
for the absence of rigidity he would have deemed her
dead.
Scarcely knowing what he did, yet with an indefinable
terror at his heart, he grasped and shook her by the arm,
and again, but with greater vehemence, pronounced her
name.
"Who calls?" she said, in a faint but deep tone, as she
raised her head slowly from the cushion which supported
it. "Ha! I recollect. Tell me," she added more quickly,
"was not the blow well aimed. Marked you how the traitor
fell. Villain, to accuse the woman whose only fault was
loving him too well, with ignominious commerce with a
slave!"
"Wretched woman," exclaimed Gerald with solemn emphasis,
"instead of exulting over the evil we have done, let us
rather make our peace with Heaven, during the few hours
we have yet to live. Matilda Desborough--daughter of a
murderer; thyself a murderess--the scaffold awaits us
both."
"Coward--fool--thou liest," she returned with suddenly
awakened energy. "For one so changeling as thyself the
scaffold were befitting;, but know, if I have had the
heart to do this deed, I have also had the head to provide
against its consequences--see--feel--."
One of her cold hands was extended in search of Gerald's.
They met, and a vial placed in the palm of the latter,
betrayed the secret of her previous lassitude and
insensibility.
Even amid all the horrors which environed him, and called
so largely on attention to his own personal danger, Gerald
was inexpressibly shocked.
"What! poisoned?" he exclaimed.
"Yes--poisoned!" she murmured, and her hand again sank
heavily at her side.
Gerald dashed the vial away from him to the farther end
of the apartment, and taking the cold hand of the unhappy
woman, he continued:
"Matilda--is this the manner in which you prepare yourself
to meet the presence of your God. What! add suicide to
murder?"
But she spoke not--presently the hand he clasped sank
heavily from his touch. Then there was a spasmodic
convulsion of the whole frame. Then there burst a piercing
shriek from her lips, as she half raised herself in agony
from the sofa, and then each limb was set and motionless
in the stern rigidity of death.
While Gerald was yet bending over the body of his
unfortunate companion, shocked, grieved and agitated
beyond all expression, the door of the temple was unlocked,
and a man enveloped in a cloak, and bearing a small dark
lantern, suddenly appeared in the opening. He advanced
towards the spot where Gerald, stupified with the events
of the past night, stood gazing upon the corpse, almost
unconscious of the presence of the intruder.
"A pretty fix you have got into, Liftenant Grantham,"
said the well known voice of Jackson, "and I little
calculated, when I advised you to make love to the Kentucky
gals to raise your spirits, that they would lead you into
such a deuced scrape as this."
"Captain Jackson," said Gerald imploringly; "I am
sufficiently aware of all the enormity of my crime, and
am prepared to expiate it; but in mercy spare the bitterness
of reproach."
"Now as I'm a true Tennessee man, bred and born, I meant
no reproach, and why should I, since you could'nt help
her doing it, (and he pointed to Matilda), yet you know
its sometimes dangerous to be found in bad company. Every
body might'nt believe you so innocent as we do.
"Innocent! Captain Jackson," exclaimed Gerald, losing
sight of all other feelings in unfeigned surprise--"I
cannot say that I quite understand you."
"Why, the meaning's plain enough, I take it. Others might
be apt, I say, to think you had something to do with the
thing as well as she, and therefore its just as well you
should make yourself scarce. The Colonel says he would'nt,
on any account, you shall even be suspected."
"The Colonel says--not suspected," again exclaimed Gerald
with increasing astonishment--then, suddenly recollecting
the situation of the latter--"tell me," he continued,
"is Colonel Forrester in danger--is his life despaired of?"
"Worth a dozen dead men yet, or you would'nt see me taking
the thing so coolly. The dagger certainly let the day
light into him, but though the wound was pretty considerably
deep, the doctors say its not mortal. He thinks it might
have been worse if you had not come up, and partly stopped
her arm when she struck at him."
Gerald was deeply affected by what he had just heard. It
was evident that Colonel Forrester had, with a generosity
to which no gratitude of his own could render adequate
justice, sought to exonerate him from all suspicion of
participation in the guilty design upon his life, and as
he glanced his eye again for a moment upon the lifeless
form of his companion, he was at once sensible that the
only being who could defeat the benevolent object of his
benefactor had now no longer the power to do so.
"She sleeps sound enough now," said Jackson, again pointing
to the ill-fated and motionless girl, "but she'll sleep
sounder still before long, I take it."
"She will never sleep sounder than at this moment, Captain
Jackson," said Gerald, with solemn emphasis.
"Why, you don't mean to say she has cheated the hangman,
Liftenant."
As he spoke, Jackson approached the sofa, and turning
the light full upon the face, saw indeed that she was
dead. Gerald shuddered as the rays from the lamp revealed
for the first time the appalling change which had been
wrought upon that once beautiful countenance. The open
and finely formed brow was deeply knit, and the features
distorted by the acute agony which had wrung the shriek
from her heart at the very moment of dissolution, were
set in a stern expression of despair. The parted lips
were drawn up at the corners in a manner to convey the
idea of the severest internal pain, and there was already
a general discoloration about the mouth, betraying the
subtle influence of the poison which had effected her
death.
Gerald, after the first glance, turned away his head in
horror from the view; but the Aid-de-Camp remained for
some moments calmly regarding the remains of all that
had once been most beautiful in nature.
"She certainly is not like what she was when Colonel
Forrester first knew her," he said, in the abstracted
tone of one talking without reference to any other auditor
than himself; "but this comes of prefering a nigger to
a white man. Such unnatural courses never can prosper,
I take it."
"Captain Jackson," said Gerald, aroused by this remark,
and with great emphasis of tone, while he laid his hand
impressively on the shoulder of the other, "you do her
wrong. Guilty she has been, fearfully guilty, but not in
the sense you would imply."
"How do you know this?" asked the Aid-de-Camp.
"From her own solemn declaration at a moment when deception
could avail her not. Even before she swallowed the fatal
poison, her horror at the imputation, which drove her to
the perpetration of murder, was expressed in terms of
indignant warmth that belong to truth alone."
"If this be so," said Jackson, musingly, "she is indeed
a much injured woman, and deep I know will be the regret
of Colonel Forrester when he hears it, for he himself
has ever believed her guilty. But come, Liftenant Grantham,
we have no time to lose. The day will soon break, and I
expect you must be a considerable way from Frankfort
before sunrise."
I--from Frankfort--before sunrise!" exclaimed Gerald, in
perfect astonishment.
"Why, it's rather short warning to be sure; but the
Colonel thinks you'd better start before the thing gets
wind in the morning; for as so many of the niggers say
you wore a sort of a disguise as well as the poor girl,
he fears the citizens may suspect you of something more
than an intrigue, and insult you desperately."
"Generous, excellent man!" exclaimed Gerald, "how can I
ever repay this most unmerited service?"
"Why, the best way I take it, is to profit by the offer
that is made you of getting back to Canada as fast as
you can."
"But how is this to be done, and will not the very fact
of my flight confirm the suspicion it is intended to
remove?"
"As for the matter of how it is to be done, Liftenant,
I have as slick a horse waiting outside for you as man
ever crossed--one of the fleetest in Colonel Forrester's
stud. Then as for suspicion, he means to set that at
rest, by saying that he has taken upon himself to give
you leave to return on parole to your friends, who wish
to see you on a case of life and death, and now let's be
moving."
Oppressed with the weight of contending feelings, which
this generous conduct had inspired, Gerald waited but to
cast a last look upon the ill-fated Matilda; and then
with a slow step and a heavy heart for ever quitted a
scene fraught with the most exciting and the most painful
occurrences of his life. The first rays of early dawn
beginning to develop themselves as they issued from the
temple, Jackson extinguished his lamp, and leading through
the narrow pass that conducted to the town, made the
circuit of the ridge of hills until they arrived at a
point where a negro (the same who had led the party that
bore Matilda and himself to the temple) was in waiting,
with a horse ready saddled and the arms and accoutrements
of a rifleman.
The equipment of Gerald was soon completed, and with the
shot-bag and powder-horn slung over his shoulder, and
the long rifle in his hand, he soon presented the appearance
of a backwoodsman hastening to the theatre of war.
When he had seated himself in the saddle, Jackson drew
forth a well filled purse, which he said he had been
directed by Colonel Forrester to present him with to
defray the expences of his journey to the frontier.
Deeply affected by this new proof of the favor of the
generous American, Gerald received the purse, saying, as
he confided them to the breast of his hunting frock--
"Captain Jackson, tell Colonel Forrester from me, that
I accept his present merely because in doing so I give
the best evidence of my appreciation of ALL he has done
for me on this trying occasion. In his own heart, however,
he must look for the only reward to which this most noble
of actions justly entitles him."
The frank-hearted Aid-de-Camp promised compliance with
this parting message, and after pointing out the route
it would be necessary to follow, warmly pressed the hand
of his charge in a final grasp, that told how little he
deemed the man before him capable of the foul intention
with which his soul had been so recently sullied.
How often during those hours of mad infatuation, when
his weakened mind had been balancing between the possession
of Matilda at the price of crime, and his abandonment of
her at that of happiness, had the observation of the Aid-
de-Camp, on a former occasion, that he "was never born
to be an assassin," occurred to his mind, suffusing his
cheek with shame and his soul with remorse. Now, too,
that conscious of having fallen in all but the positive
commission of the deed, he saw that the unsuspecting
American regarded him merely as one whom accident or
intrigue had made an unwilling witness of the deadly act
of a desperate woman, his feelings were those of profound
abasement and self disesteem.
There was a moment, when urged by an involuntary impulse,
he would have undeceived Captain Jackson as to his positive
share in the transaction; but pride suddenly interposed
and saved him from the degradation of the confession.
He returned the pressure of the American's hand with
emphasis, and then turning his horse in the direction
which he had been recommended to take, quitted Frankfort
for ever.