REMORSE.
During the progress of the dialogue narrated in the conclusion of our
last chapter, Forrester had absented himself, as much probably with a
delicate sense of courtesy, which anticipated some further results than
came from it, as with the view to the consummation of some private
matters of his own. He now returned, and signifying his readiness to
Ralph, they mounted their horses and proceeded on a proposed ride out of
the village, in which Forrester had promised to show the youth a
pleasanter region and neighborhood.
This ride, however, was rather of a gloomy tendency, as its influences
were lost in the utterance and free exhibition to Ralph of the mental
sufferings of his companion. Naturally of a good spirit and temper, his
heart, though strong of endurance and fearless of trial, had not been
greatly hardened by the world's circumstance. The cold droppings of the
bitter waters, however they might have worn into, had not altogether
petrified it; and his feelings, coupled with and at all times acted upon
by a southern fancy, did not fail to depict to his own sense, and in the
most lively colors, the offence of which he had been guilty.
It was with a reproachful and troublesome consciousness, therefore, that
he now addressed his more youthful companion on the subject so fearfully
presented to his thought He had already, in their brief acquaintance,
found in Ralph a firm and friendly adviser, and acknowledging in his
person all the understood superiorities of polished manners and correct
education, he did not scruple to come to him for advice in his present
difficulties. Ralph, fully comprehending his distress, and conscious how
little of his fault had been premeditated,--estimating, too, the many
good qualities apparent in his character--did not withhold his counsel.
"I can say little to you now, Forrester, in the way of advice, so long
as you continue to herd with the men who have already led you into so
much mischief. You appear to me, and must appear to all men, while
coupled with such associates, as voluntarily choosing your ground, and
taking all the consequences of its position. As there would seem no
necessity for your dwelling longer among them, you certainly do make
your choice in thus continuing their associate."
"Not so much a matter of choice, now, 'squire, as you imagine. It was,
to be sure, choice at first, but then I did not know the people I had to
deal with; and when I did, you see, the circumstances were altered."
"How,--by what means?"
"Why, then,'squire, you must know, and I see no reason to keep the thing
from you, I took a liking, a short time after I came here, to a young
woman, the daughter of one of our people, and she to me--at least so she
says, and I must confess I'm not unwilling to believe her; though it is
difficult to say--these women you know--" and as he left the unfinished
sentence, he glanced significantly to the youth's face, with an
expression which the latter thus interpreted--
"Are not, you would say, at all times to be relied on."
"Why, no,'squire--I would not exactly say that--that might be something
too much of a speech. I did mean to say, from what we see daily, that it
isn't always they know their own minds."
"There is some truth, Forrester, in the distinction, and I have thought
so before. I am persuaded that the gentler sex is far less given to
deceit than our own; but their opinions and feelings, on the other hand,
are formed with infinitely more frequency and facility, and are more
readily acted upon by passing and occasional influences. Their very
susceptibility to the most light and casual impressions, is, of itself,
calculated to render vacillating their estimate of things and
characters. They are creatures of such delicate construction, and their
affections are of such like character, that, like all fine machinery
they are perpetually operated on by the atmosphere, the winds, the dew,
and the night. The frost blights and the sun blisters; and a kind or
stern accent elevates or depresses, where, with us, it might pass
unheeded or unheard.
"We are more cunning--more shy and cautious; and seldom, after a certain
age, let our affections out of our own custody. We learn very soon in
life--indeed, we are compelled to learn, in our own defence, at a very
early period--to go into the world as if we were going into battle. We
send out spies, keep sentinels on duty, man our defences, carry arms in
our bosoms, which we cover with a buckler, though, with the policy of a
court, we conceal that in turn with a silken and embroidered vestment.
We watch every erring thought--we learn to be equivocal of speech; and
our very hearts, as the Indians phrase it, are taught to speak their
desires with a double tongue. We are perpetually on the lookout for
enemies and attack; we dread pitfalls and circumventions, and we feel
that every face which we encounter is a smiling deceit--every honeyed
word a blandishment meant to betray us. These are lessons which society,
as at present constituted, teaches of itself.
"With women the case is essentially different. They have few of these
influences to pervert and mislead. They have nothing to do in the
market-place--they are not candidates for place or power--they have not
the ambition which is always struggling for state and for self; but,
with a wisdom in this, that might avail us wonderfully in all other
respects, they are kept apart, as things for love and worship--domestic
divinities, whose true altar-place is the fireside; whose true sway is
over fond hearts, generous sensibilities, and immaculate honor. Where
should they learn to contend with guile--to acquire cunning and
circumspection--to guard the heart--to keep sweet affections locked up
coldly, like mountain waters? Shall we wonder that they sometimes
deceive themselves rather than their neighbors--that they sometimes
misapprehend their own feelings, and mistake for love some less
absorbing intruder, who but lights upon the heart for a single instant,
as a bird upon his spray, to rest or to plume his pinions, and be off
with the very next zephyr. But all this is wide of the mark, Forrester,
and keeps you from your story."
"My story isn't much, Master Colleton, and is easily told. I love Kate
Allen, and as I said before, I believe Kate loves me; and though it be
scarcely a sign of manliness to confess so much, yet I must say to you,
'squire, that I love her so very much that I can not do without her."
"I honor your avowal, Forrester, and see nothing unmanly or unbecoming
in the sentiment you profess. On the contrary, such a feeling, in my
mind, more truly than any other, indicates the presence and possession
of those very qualities out of which true manhood is made. The creature
who prides himself chiefly upon his insensibilities, has no more claim
to be considered a human being than the trees that gather round us, or
the rocks over which we travel."
"Well, 'squire, I believe you are right, and I am glad that such is your
opinion, for now I shall be able to speak to you more freely upon this
subject. Indeed, you talk about the thing so knowingly, that I should
not be surprised, 'squire, to find out that you too had something of the
same sort troubling your heart, though here you are travelling far from
home and among strangers."
The remark of Forrester was put with an air of arch inquiry. A slight
shadow passed over and clouded the face of the youth, and for a moment
his brow was wrinkled into sternness; but hastily suppressing the
awakened emotion, whatever its origin might have been, he simply
replied, in an indirect rebuke, which his companion very readily
comprehended:--
"You were speaking of your heart, I believe, Forrester, and not of mine.
If you please, we will confine ourselves to the one territory,
particularly as it promises to find us sufficient employment of itself,
without rendering it necessary that we should cross over to any other."
"It's a true word, 'squire--the business of the one territory is
sufficient for me, at this time, and more than I shall well get through
with: but, though I know this, somehow or other I want to forget it all,
if possible; and sometimes I close my eyes in the hope to shut out ugly
thoughts."
"The feeling is melancholy enough, but it is just the one which should
test your manhood. It is not for one who has been all his life buffeting
with the world and ill-fortune, to despond at every mischance or
misdeed. Proceed with your narrative; and, in providing for the future,
you will be able to forget not a little of the past."
"You are right, 'squire; I will be a man, and stand my chance, whether
good or ill, like a man, as I have always been. Well, as I was saying,
Kate is neither unkind nor unwilling, and the only difficulty is with
her father. He is now mighty fond of the needful, and won't hear to our
marriage until I have a good foundation, and something to go upon. It is
this, you see, which keeps me here, shoulder to shoulder with these men
whom I like just as little perhaps as yourself; and it was because the
soldiers came upon us just as I was beginning to lay up a little from my
earnings, that made me desperate. I dreaded to lose what I had been so
long working for; and whenever the thought of Kate came through my
brain, I grew rash and ready for any mischief--and this is just the way
in which I ran headlong into this difficulty."
"It is melancholy, Forrester, to think that, with such a feeling as that
you profess for this young woman, you should be so little regardful of
her peace or your own; that you should plunge so madly into strife and
crime, and proceed to the commission of acts which not only embitter
your life, but must defeat the very hopes and expectations for which you
live."
"It's the nature of the beast," replied the woodman, with a melancholy
shake of the head, in a phrase which has become a proverb of familiar
use in the South. "It's the nature of the beast, 'squire: I never seem
to think about a thing until it's all over, and too late to mend it.
It's a sad misfortune to have such a temper, and so yesterday's work
tells me much more forcibly than I can ever tell myself. But what am I
to do, 'squire? that's what I want to know. Can you say nothing to me
which will put me in better humor--can you give me no advice, no
consolation? Say anything--anything which will make me think less about
this matter."
The conscience of the unhappy criminal was indeed busy, and he spoke in
tones of deep, though suppressed emotion and energy. The youth did not
pretend to console--he well knew that the mental nature would have its
course, and to withstand or arrest it would only have the effect of
further provoking its morbidity. He replied calmly, but feelingly--
"Your situation is unhappy, Forrester, and calls for serious reflection.
It is not for me to offer advice to one so much more experienced than
myself. Yet my thoughts are at your service for what they are worth. You
can not, of course, hope to remain in the country after this; yet, in
flying from that justice to which you will have made no atonement, you
will not necessarily escape the consequences of your crime, which, I
feel satisfied, will, for a long season, rest heavily upon a spirit such
as yours. Your confederates have greatly the advantage of you in this
particular. The fear of human penalties is with them the only fear. Your
severest judge will be your own heart, and from that you may not fly.
With regard to your affections, I can say little. I know not what may be
your resources--your means of life, and the nature of those enterprises
which, in another region, you might pursue. In the West you would be
secure from punishment; the wants of life in the wilderness are few, and
of easy attainment: why not marry the young woman, and let her fly with
you to happiness and safety?"
"And wouldn't I do so, 'squire?--I would be a happy fellow if I could.
But her father will never consent. He had no hand in yesterday's
business, and I wonder at that too, for he's mighty apt at all such
scrapes; and he will not therefore be so very ready to perceive the
necessity of my flight--certainly not of hers, she being his only child;
and, though a tough old sort of chap, he's main fond of her."
"See him about it at once, then; and, if he does not consent, the only
difficulty is in the delay and further protraction of your union. It
would be very easy, when you are once well settled, to claim her as your
wife."
"That's all very true and very reasonable, 'squire; but it's rather
hard, this waiting. Here, for five years, have I been playing this sort
of game, and it goes greatly against the grain to have to begin anew and
in a new place. But here's where the old buck lives. It's quite a snug
farm, as you may see. He's pretty well off, and, by one little end or
the other, contrives to make it look smarter and smarter every year; but
then he's just as close as a corkscrew, and quite mean in his ways.
And--there's Kate, 'squire, looking from the window. Now, ain't she a
sweet creature? Come, 'light--you shall see her close. Make yourself
quite at home, as I do. I make free, for you see the old people have all
along looked upon me as a son, seeing that I am to be one at some time
or other."
They were now at the entrance of as smiling a cottage as the lover of
romance might well desire to look upon. Everything had a cheery,
sunshiny aspect, looking life, comfort, and the "all in all content;"
and, with a feeling of pleasure kindled anew in his bosom by the
prospect, Ralph complied readily with the frank and somewhat informal
invitation of his companion, and was soon made perfectly at home by the
freedom and ease which characterized the manners of the young girl who
descended to receive them. A slight suffusion of the cheek and a
downcast eye, upon the entrance of her lover, indicated a gratified
consciousness on the part of the maiden which did not look amiss. She
was seemingly a gentle, playful creature, extremely young, apparently
without a thought of guile, and altogether untouched with a solitary
presentiment of the unhappy fortunes in store for her.
Her mother, having made her appearance, soon employed the youth in
occasional discourse, which furnished sufficient opportunity to the
betrothed to pursue their own conversation, in a quiet corner of the
same room, in that under-tone which, where lovers are concerned, is of
all others the most delightful and emphatic. True love is always timid:
he, too, as well as fear, is apt to "shrink back at the sound himself
has made." His words are few and the tones feeble. He throws his
thoughts into his eyes, and they speak enough for all his purposes. On
the present occasion, however, he was dumb from other influences, and
the hesitating voice, the guilty look, the unquiet manner, sufficiently
spoke, on the part of her lover, what his own tongue refused to whisper
in the ears of the maiden. He strove, but vainly, to relate the
melancholy event to which we have already sufficiently alluded. His
words were broken and confused, but she gathered enough, in part, to
comprehend the affair, though still ignorant of the precise actors and
sufferers.
The heart of Katharine was one of deep-seated tenderness, and it may not
be easy to describe the shock which the intelligence gave her. She did
not hear him through without ejaculations of horror, sufficiently
fervent and loud to provoke the glance of her mother, who did not,
however, though turning her looks frequently upon the two, venture upon
any inquiry, or offer any remark. The girl heard her lover patiently;
but when he narrated the catastrophe, and told of the murder of the
guard, she no longer struggled to restrain the feeling, now too strong
for suppression. Her words broke through her lips quickly, as she
exclaimed--
"But you, Mark--you had no part in this matter--you lent no aid--you
gave no hand. You interfered, I am sure you did, to prevent the murder
of the innocent men. Speak out, Mark, and tell me the truth, and relieve
me from these horrible apprehensions."
As she spoke, her small hand rested upon his wrist with a passionate
energy, in full accordance with the spirit of her language. The head of
the unhappy man sank upon his breast; his eyes, dewily suffused, were
cast upon the floor, and he spoke nothing, or inarticulately, in reply.
"What means this silence--what am I to believe--what am I to think, Mark
Forrester? You can not have given aid to those bad men, whom you
yourself despise. You have not so far forgotten yourself and me as to go
on with that wicked man Rivers, following his direction, to take away
life--to spill blood as if it were water! You have not done this, Mark.
Tell me at once that I am foolish to fear it for an instant--that it is
not so."
He strove, but in vain, to reply. The inarticulate sounds came forth
chokingly from his lips without force or meaning. He strode impatiently
up and down the apartment, followed by the young and excited maiden, who
unconsciously pursued him with repeated inquiries; while her mother,
awakened to the necessity of interference, vainly strove to find a
solution of the mystery, and to quiet both of the parties.
"Will you not speak to me, Mark? Can you not, will you not answer?"
The unhappy man shook his head, in a perplexed and irritated manner,
indicating his inability to reply--but concluding with pointing his
finger impatiently to Ralph, who stood up, a surprised and anxious
spectator of the scene. The maiden seemed to comprehend the intimation,
and with an energy and boldness that would not well describe her
accustomed habit--with a hurried step, crossed the apartment to where
stood the youth. Her eye was quick and searching--her words broken, but
with an impetuous flow, indicating the anxiety which, while it accounted
for, sufficiently excused the abruptness of her address, she spoke:--
"Do, sir, say that he had no hand in it--that he is free from the stain
of blood! Speak for him, sir, I pray you; tell me--he will not tell
himself!"
The old lady now sought to interpose, and to apologize for her daughter.
"Why, Kate, Katharine--forgive her, sir; Kate--Katharine, my dear--you
forget. You ask questions of the stranger without any consideration."
But she spoke to an unconscious auditor; and Forrester, though still
almost speechless, now interposed:--
"Let her ask, mother--let her ask--let her know it all. He can say what
I can not. He can tell all. Speak out, 'squire--speak out; don't fear
for me. It must come, and who can better tell of it than you, who know
it all?"
Thus urged, Ralph, in a few words, related the occurrence. Though
carefully avoiding the use of epithet or phrase which might color with
an increased odium the connection and conduct of Forrester with the
affair, the offence admitted of so little apology or extenuation, that
the delicacy with which the details were narrated availed but little in
its mitigation; and an involuntary cry burst from mother and daughter
alike, to which the hollow groan that came from the lips of Forrester
furnished a fitting echo.
"And this is all true, Mark--must I believe all this?" was the inquiry
of the young girl, after a brief interval. There was a desperate
precipitance in the reply of Forrester:--
"True--Katharine--true; every word of it is true. Do you not see it
written in my face? Am I not choked--do not my knees tremble? and my
hands--look for yourself--are they not covered with blood?"
The youth interposed, and for a moment doubted the sanity of his
companion. He had spoken in figure--a mode of speech, which it is a
mistake in rhetoricians to ascribe only to an artificial origin, during
a state of mental quiet. Deep passion and strong excitements, we are
bold to say, employ metaphor largely; and, upon an inspection of the
criminal records of any country, it will be found that the most common
narrations from persons deeply wrought upon by strong circumstances are
abundantly stored with the evidence of what we assert.
"And how came it, Mark?" was the inquiry of the maiden; "and why did you
this thing?"
"Ay, you may well ask, and wonder. I can not tell you. I was a fool--I
was mad! I knew not what I did. From one thing I went on to another, and
I knew nothing of what had been done until all was done. Some devil was
at my elbow--some devil at my heart. I feel it there still; I am not yet
free. I could do more--I could go yet farther. I could finish the damned
work by another crime; and no crime either, since I should be the only
victim, and well deserving a worse punishment."
The offender was deeply excited, and felt poignantly. For some time it
tasked all the powers of Ralph's mind, and the seductive blandishments
of the maiden herself, to allay the fever of his spirit; when, at
length, he was something restored, the dialogue was renewed by an
inquiry of the old lady as to the future destination of her anticipated
son-in-law, for whom, indeed, she entertained a genuine affection.
"And what is to be the end of all this, Mark? What is it your purpose to
do--where will you fly?"
"To the nation, mother--where else? I must fly somewhere--give myself up
to justice, or--" and he paused in the sentence so unpromisingly begun,
while his eyes rolled with unaccustomed terrors, and his voice grew
thick in his throat.
"Or what--what mean you by that word, that look, Mark? I do not
understand you; why speak you in this way, and to me?" exclaimed the
maiden, passionately interrupting him in a speech, which, though
strictly the creature of his morbid spirit and present excitement, was
perhaps unnecessarily and something too wantonly indulged in.
"Forgive me, Katharine--dear Katharine--but you little know the madness
and the misery at my heart."
"And have you no thought of mine, Mark? this deed of yours has brought
misery, if not madness, to it too; and speech like this might well be
spared us now!"
"It is this very thought, Kate, that I have made you miserable, when I
should have striven only to make you happy. The thought, too, that I
must leave you, to see you perhaps never again--these unman--these
madden me, Katharine; and I feel desperate like the man striving with
his brother upon the plank in the broad ocean."
"And why part, Mark? I see not this necessity!"
"Would you have me stay and perish? would you behold me, dragged perhaps
from your own arms before the stern judge, and to a dreadful death? It
will be so if I stay much longer. The state will not suffer this thing
to pass over. The crime is too large--too fearful. Besides this, the
Pony Club have lately committed several desperate offences, which have
already attracted the notice of the legislature. This very guard had
been ordered to disperse them; and this affair will bring down a
sufficient force to overrun all our settlements, and they may even
penetrate the nation itself, where we might otherwise find shelter.
There will be no safety for me."
The despondence of the woodman increased as he spoke; and the young
girl, as if unconscious of all spectators, in the confiding innocence of
her heart, exclaimed, while her head sunk up in his shoulder:--
"And why, Mark, may we not all fly together? There will be no reason now
to remain here, since the miners are all to be dispersed."
"Well said, Kate--well said--" responded a voice at the entrance of the
apartment, at the sound of which the person addressed started with a
visible trepidation, which destroyed all her previous energy of manner;
"it is well thought on Kate; there will, sure enough, be very little
reason now for any of us to remain, since this ugly business; and the
only question is as to what quarter we shall go. There is, however just
as little reason for our flight in company with Mark Forrester."
It was the father of the maiden who spoke--one who was the arbiter of
her destinies, and so much the dictator in his household and over his
family, that from his decision and authority there was suffered no
appeal. Without pausing for a reply, he proceeded:--
"Our course, Mark must now lie separate. You will take your route, and I
mine; we can not take them together. As for my daughter, she can not
take up with you, seeing your present condition. Your affairs are not as
they were when I consented to your engagement; therefore, the least said
and thought about past matters, the better."
"But--" was the beginning of a reply from the sad and discarded lover,
in which he was not suffered to proceed. The old man was firm, and
settled further controversy in short order.
"No talk, Mark--seeing that it's no use, and there's no occasion for it.
It must be as I say. I cannot permit of Kate's connection with a man in
your situation, who the very next moment may be brought to the halter
and bring shame upon her. Take your parting, and try to forget old
times, my good fellow. I think well of, and am sorry for you, Mark, but
I can do nothing. The girl is my only child, and I must keep her from
harm if I can."
Mark battled the point with considerable warmth and vigor, and the scene
was something further protracted, but need not here be prolonged. The
father was obdurate, and too much dreaded by the members of his family
to admit of much prayer or pleading on their part. Apart from this, his
reason, though a stern, was a wise and strong one. The intercession of
Colleton, warmly made, proved equally unavailing; and after a brief but
painful parting with the maiden, Forrester remounted his horse, and, in
company with the youth, departed for the village. But the adieus of the
lovers, in this instance, were not destined to be the last. In the
narrow passage, in which, removed from all sight and scrutiny, she hung
droopingly, like a storm-beaten flower, upon his bosom, he solicited,
and not unsuccessfully, a private and a parting interview.
"To-night, then, at the old sycamore, as the moon rises," he whispered
in her ear, as sadly and silently she withdrew from his embrace.