NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE.
A day more had elapsed, and the bustle in the little village was
increased by the arrival of other travellers. A new light came to the
dungeon of Ralph Colleton, in the persons of his uncle and cousin Edith,
whom his letters, at his first arrest, had apprized of his situation.
They knew that situation only in part, however; and the first intimation
of his doom was that which he himself gave them.
The meeting was full of a painful pleasure. The youth himself was
firm--muscle and mind all over; but deeply did his uncle reproach
himself for his precipitation and sternness, and the grief of Edith,
like all deep grief, was dumb, and had no expression. There was but the
sign of wo--of wo inexpressible--in the ashy lip, the glazed, the
tearless and half-wandering eye, and the convulsive shiver, that at
intervals shook her whole frame, like strong and sudden gusts among the
foliage. The youth, if he had any at such an hour, spared his
reproaches. He narrated in plain and unexaggerated language, as if
engaged in the merest narration of commonplace, all the circumstances of
his trial. He pointed out the difficulties of his situation, to his mind
insuperable, and strove to prepare the minds of those who heard, for the
final and saddest trial of all, even as his own mind was prepared. In
that fearful work of preparation, the spirit of love could acknowledge
no restraining influence, and never was embrace more fond than that of
Ralph and the maiden. Much of his uncle's consolation was found in the
better disposition which he now entertained, though at too late a day,
in favor of their passion. He would now willingly consent to all.
"Had you not been so precipitate, Ralph--" he said, "had you not been so
proud--had you thought at all, or given me time for thought, all this
trial had been spared us. Was I not irritated by other things when I
spoke to you unkindly? You knew not how much I had been chafed--you
should not have been so hasty."
"No more of this, uncle, I pray you. I was wrong and rash, and I blame
you not. I have nobody but myself to reproach. Speak not of the matter;
but, as the best preparation for all that is to come, let your thought
banish me rather from contemplation. Why should the memory of so fair a
creature as this be haunted by a story such as mine? Why should she
behold, in her mind's eye, for ever, the picture of my dying
agonies--the accursed scaffold--the--" and the emotion of his soul, at
the subject of his own contemplation, choked him in his utterance, while
Edith, half-fainting in his arms, prayed his forbearance.
"Speak not thus--not of this, Ralph, if you would not have me perish. I
am fearfully sick now, my head swims, and all is commotion at my heart.
Not water--not water--give me hope--consolation. Tell me that there is
still some chance--some little prospect--that some noble people are
striving in your cause--that somebody is gone in search of evidence--in
search of hope. Is there no circumstance which may avail? Said you not
something of--did you not tell me of a person who could say for you that
which would have done much towards your escape? A woman, was it
not--speak, who is she--let me go to her--she will not refuse to tell me
all, and do all, if she be a woman."
Ralph assured her in the gentlest manner of the hopelessness of any such
application; and the momentary dream which her own desires had conjured
into a promise, as suddenly subsided, leaving her to a full
consciousness of her desolation. Her father at length found it necessary
to abridge the interview. Every moment of its protraction seemed still
more to unsettle the understanding of his daughter. She spoke wildly and
confusedly, and in that thought of separation which the doom of her
lover perpetually forced upon her, she contemplated, in all its fearful
extremities, her own. She was borne away half delirious--the feeling of
wo something blunted, however, by the mental unconsciousness following
its realization.
Private apartments were readily found them in the village, and having
provided good attendance for his daughter, Colonel Colleton set out,
though almost entirely hopeless, to ascertain still farther the
particulars of the case, and to see what might be done in behalf of one
of whose innocence he felt perfectly assured. He knew Ralph too well to
suspect him of falsehood; and the clear narrative which he had given,
and the manly and unhesitating account of all particulars having any
bearing on the case which had fallen from his lips, he knew, from all
his previous high-mindedness of character, might safely be relied on.
Assured of this himself, he deemed it not improbable that something
might undergo development, in a course of active inquiry, which might
tend to the creation of a like conviction in the minds of those in whom
rested the control of life and judgment.
His first visit was to the lawyer, from whom, however, he could procure
nothing, besides being compelled, without possibility of escape, to
listen to a long string of reproaches against his nephew.
"I could, and would have saved him, Colonel Colleton, if the power were
in mortal," was the self-sufficient speech of the little man; "but he
would not--he broke in upon me when the very threshold was to be passed,
and just as I was upon it. Things were in a fair train, and all might
have gone well but for his boyish interruption. I would have come over
the jury with a settler. I would have made out a case, sir, for their
consideration, which every man of them would have believed he himself
saw. I would have shown your nephew, sir, riding down the narrow trace,
like a peaceable gentleman; anon, sir, you should have seen Forrester
coming along full tilt after him. Forrester should have cried out with a
whoop and a right royal oath; then Mr. Colleton would have heard him,
and turned round to receive him. But Forrester is drunk, you know, and
will not understand the young man's civilities. He blunders out a volley
of curses right and left, and bullies Master Colleton for a fight, which
he declines. But Forrester is too drunk to mind all that. Without more
ado, he mounts the young gentleman and is about to pluck out his eyes,
when he feels the dirk in his ribs, and then they cut loose. He gets the
dirk from Master Colleton, and makes at him; but he picks up a hatchet
that happens to be lying about, and drives at his head, and down drops
Forrester, as he ought to, dead as a door-nail."
"Good heavens! and why did you not bring these facts forward? They
surely could not have condemned him under these circumstances."
"Bring them forward! To be sure, I would have done so but, as I tell
you, just when on the threshold, at the very entrance into the
transaction, up pops this hasty young fellow--I'm sorry to call your
nephew so, Colonel Colleton--but the fact is, he owes his situation
entirely to himself. I would have saved him, but he was obstinately bent
on not being saved; and just as I commenced the affair, up he pops and
tells me, before all the people, that I know nothing about it. A pretty
joke, indeed. I know nothing about it, and it my business to know all
about it. Sir, it ruined him. I saw, from that moment, how the cat would
jump. I pitied the poor fellow, but what more could I do?"
"But it is not too late--we can memorialize the governor, we can put
these facts in form, and by duly showing them with the accompanying
proofs, we can obtain a new trial--a respite."
"Can't be done now--it's too late. Had I been let alone--had not the
youth come between me and my duty--I would have saved him, sir, as under
God, I have saved hundreds before. But it's too late now."
"Oh, surely not too late! with the facts that you mention, if you will
give me the names of the witnesses furnishing them, so that I can obtain
their affidavits--"
"Witnesses!--what witnesses?"
"Why, did you not tell me of the manner in which Forrester assaulted my
nephew, and forced upon him what he did as matter of self-defense? Where
is the proof of this?"
"Oh, proof! Why, you did not think that was the true state of the
case--that was only the case I was to present to the jury."
"And there is, then, no evidence for what you have said?"
"Not a tittle, sir. Evidence is scarcely necessary in a case like this,
sir, where the state proves more than you can possibly disprove. Your
only hope, sir is to present a plausible conjecture to the jury. Just
set their fancies to work, and they have a taste most perfectly
dramatic. What you leave undone, they will do. Where you exhibit a
blank, they will supply the words wanting. Only set them on trail, and
they'll tree the 'possum. They are noble hands at it, and, as I now live
and talk to you, sir, not one of them who heard the plausible story
which I would have made out, but would have discovered more common sense
and reason in it than in all the evidence you could possibly have given
them. Because, you see, I'd have given them a reason for everything.
Look, how I should have made out the story. Mr. Colleton and Forrester
are excellent friends, and both agree to travel together. Well, they're
to meet at the forks by midnight. In the meantime, Forrester goes to see
his sweetheart, Kate Allen--a smart girl, by the way, colonel, and well
to look on. Parting's a very uncomfortable thing, now, and they don't
altogether like it. Kate cries, and Forrester storms. Well, _must_ come
comes at last. They kiss, and are off--different ways. Well, grief's but
a dry companion, and to get rid of him, Forrester takes a drink; still
grief holds on, and then he takes another and another, until grief gets
off at last, but not before taking with him full half, and not the worst
half either, of the poor fellow's senses. What then? Why, then he
swaggers and swears at everything, and particularly at your nephew, who,
you see, not knowing his condition, swears at him for keeping him
waiting--"
"Ralph Colleton never swears, Mr. Pippin," said the colonel, grimly.
"Well, well, if he didn't swear then, he might very well have sworn, and
I'll be sworn but he did on that occasion; and it was very pardonable
too. Well, he swears at the drunken man, not knowing his condition, and
the drunken man rolls and reels like a rowdy, and gives it to him back,
and then they get at it. Your nephew, who is a stout colt, buffets him
well for a time, but Forrester, who is a mighty, powerful built fellow,
he gets the better in the long run, and both come down together in the
road. Then Forrester, being uppermost, sticks his thumb into Master
Colleton's eye--the left eye, I think, it was--yes, the left eye it
was--and the next moment it would have been out, when your nephew, not
liking it, whipped out his dirk, and, 'fore Forrester could say Jack
Robinson, it was playing about in his ribs; and, then comes the hatchet
part, just as I told it you before."
"And is none of this truth?"
"God bless your soul, no! Do you suppose, if it was the truth, it would
have taken so long a time in telling? I wouldn't have wasted the breath
on it. The witnesses would have done that, if it were true; but in this
was the beauty of my art, and had I been permitted to say to the jury
what I've said to you, the young man would have been clear. It wouldn't
have been gospel, but where's the merit of a lawyer, if he can't go
through a bog? This is one of the sweetest and most delightful features
of the profession. Sir, it is putting the wings of fiction to the
lifeless and otherwise immovable body of the fact."
Colonel Colleton was absolutely stunned by the fertility and volubility
of the speaker, and after listening for some time longer, as long as it
was possible to procure from him anything which might be of service, he
took his departure, bending his way next to the wigwam, in which, for
the time being, the pedler had taken up his abode. It will not be
necessary that we should go with him there, as it is not probable that
anything materially serving his purpose or ours will be adduced from the
narrative of Bunce. In the meantime, we will turn our attention to a
personage, whose progress must correspond, in all respects, with that of
our narrative.
Guy Rivers had not been unapprized of the presence of the late comers at
the village. He had his agents at work, who marked the progress of
things, and conveyed their intelligence to him with no qualified
fidelity. The arrival of Colonel Colleton and his daughter had been made
known to him within a few hours after its occurrence, and the feelings
of the outlaw were of a nature the most complex and contradictory.
Secure within his den, the intricacies of which were scarcely known to
any but himself, he did not study to restrain those emotions which had
prompted him to so much unjustifiable outrage. With no eye to mark his
actions or to note his speech, the guardian watchfulness which had
secreted so much, in his association with others, was taken off; and we
see much of that heart and those wild principles of its government, the
mysteries of which contain so much that it is terrible to see. Slowly,
and for a long time after the receipt of the above-mentioned
intelligence, he strode up and down the narrow cell of his retreat; all
passions at sway and contending for the mastery--sudden action and
incoherent utterance occasionally diversifying the otherwise monotonous
movements of his person. At one moment, he would clinch his hands with
violence together, while an angry malediction would escape through his
knitted teeth--at another, a demoniac smile of triumph, and a fierce
laugh of gratified malignity would ring through the apartment, coming
back upon him in an echo, which would again restore him to
consciousness, and bring back the silence so momentarily banished.
"They are here; they have come to witness his degradation--to grace my
triumph--to feel it, and understand my revenge. We will see if the proud
beauty knows me now--if she yet continues to discard and to disdain me.
I have her now upon my own terms. She will not refuse; I am sure of her;
I shall conquer her proud heart; I will lead her in chains, the heaviest
chains of all--the chains of a dreadful necessity. He must die else! I
will howl it in her ears with the voice of the wolf; I will paint it
before her eyes with a finger dipped in blood and in darkness! She shall
see him carried to the gallows; I shall make her note the halter about
his neck--that neck, which, in her young thought, her arms were to have
encircled only; nor shall she shut her eyes upon the last scene, nor
close her ears to the last groan of my victim! She shall see and hear
all, or comply with all that I demand! It must be done: but how? How
shall I see her? how obtain her presence? how command her attention?
Pshaw! shall a few beardless soldiers keep me back, and baffle me in
this? Shall I dread the shadow now, and shrink back when the sun shines
out that makes it? I will not fear. I will see her. I will bid defiance
to them all! She shall know my power, and upon one condition only will I
use it to save him. She will not dare to refuse the condition; she will
consent; she will at last be mine: and for this I will do so much--go so
far--ay, save him whom I would yet be so delighted to destroy!"
Night came; and in a small apartment of one of the lowliest dwellings of
Chestatee, Edith and her father sat in the deepest melancholy, conjuring
up perpetually in their minds those images of sorrow so natural to their
present situation. It was somewhat late, and they had just returned from
an evening visit to the dungeon of Ralph Colleton. The mind of the youth
was in far better condition than theirs, and his chief employment had
been in preparing them for a similar feeling of resignation with
himself. He had succeeded but indifferently. They strove to appear firm,
in order that he should not be less so than they found him; but the
effort was very perceptible, and the recoil of their dammed-up emotions
was only so much more fearful and overpowering. The strength of Edith
had been severely tried, and her head now rested upon the bosom of her
father, whose arms were required for her support, in a state of
feebleness and exhaustion, leaving it doubtful, at moments, whether the
vital principle had not itself utterly departed.
At this period the door opened, and a stranger stood abruptly before
them. His manner was sufficiently imposing, though his dress was that of
the wandering countryman, savoring of the jockey, and not much unlike
that frequently worn by such wayfarers as the stagedriver and carrier of
the mails. He had on an overcoat made of buckskin, an article of the
Indian habit; a deep fringe of the same material hung suspended from two
heavy capes that depended from the shoulder. His pantaloons were made of
buckskin also; a foxskin cap rested slightly upon his head, rather more
upon one side than the other; while a whip of huge dimensions occupied
one of his hands. Whiskers, of a bushy form and most luxuriant growth,
half-obscured his cheek, and the mustaches were sufficiently small to
lead to the inference that the wearer had only recently decided to
suffer the region to grow wild. A black-silk handkerchief, wrapped
loosely about his neck, completed the general outline; and the _tout
ensemble_ indicated one of those dashing blades, so frequently to be
encountered in the southern country, who, despising the humdrum monotony
of regular life, are ready for adventure--lads of the turf, the
muster-ground, the general affray--the men who can whip their weight in
wild-cats--whose general rule it is to knock down and drag out.
Though startling at first to both father and daughter, the manner of the
intruder was such as to forbid any further alarm than was incidental to
his first abrupt appearance. His conduct was respectful and
distant--closely observant of the proprieties in his address, and so
studiously guarded as to satisfy them, at the very outset, that nothing
improper was intended. Still, his entrance without any intimation was
sufficiently objectionable to occasion a hasty demand from Colonel
Colleton as to the meaning of his intrusion.
"None, sir, is intended, which may not be atoned for," was the reply. "I
had reason to believe, Colonel Colleton, that the present melancholy
circumstances of your family were such as might excuse an intrusion
which may have the effect of making them less so; which, indeed, may go
far toward the prevention of that painful event which you now
contemplate as certain."
The words were electrical in their effect upon both father and daughter.
The former rose from his chair, and motioned the stranger to be seated;
while the daughter, rapidly rising also, with an emotion which gave new
life to her form, inquired breathlessly--
"Speak, sir! say--how!"--and she lingered and listened with figure bent
sensibly forward, and hand uplifted and motionless, for reply. The
person addressed smiled with visible effort, while slight shades of
gloom, like the thin clouds fleeting over the sky at noonday, obscured
at intervals the otherwise subdued and even expression of his
countenance. He looked at the maiden while speaking, but his words were
addressed to her father.
"I need not tell you, sir, that the hopes of your nephew are gone. There
is no single chance upon which he can rest a doubt whereby his safety
may be secured. The doom is pronounced, the day is assigned, and the
executioner is ready."
"Is your purpose insult, sir, that you tell us this?" was the rather
fierce inquiry of the colonel.
"Calmly, sir," was the response, in a manner corresponding well with the
nature of his words; "my purpose, I have already said, is to bring, or
at least to offer, relief; to indicate a course which may result in the
safety of the young man whose life is now at hazard; and to contribute,
myself, to the object which I propose."
"Go on--go on, sir, if you please, but spare all unnecessary reference
to his situation," said the colonel, as a significant pressure of his
arm on the part of his daughter motioned him to patience. The stranger
proceeded:--
"My object in dwelling upon the youth's situation was, if possible, by
showing its utter hopelessness in every other respect, to induce you the
more willingly to hear what I had to offer, and to comply with certain
conditions which must be preparatory to any development upon my part."
"There is something strangely mysterious in this. I am willing to do
anything and everything, in reason and without dishonor, for the safety
of my nephew; the more particularly as I believe him altogether innocent
of the crime laid to his charge. More than this I dare not; and I shall
not be willing to yield to unknown conditions, prescribed by a stranger,
whatever be the object: but speak out at once, sir, and keep us no
longer in suspense. In the meantime, retire, Edith, my child; we shall
best transact this business in your absence. You will feel too acutely
the consideration of this subject to listen to it in discussion. Go, my
daughter."
But the stranger interposed, with a manner not to be questioned:--
"Let her remain, Colonel Colleton; it is, indeed, only to her that I can
reveal the mode and the conditions of the assistance which I am to
offer. This was the preliminary condition of which I spoke. To her alone
can my secret be revealed, and my conference must be entirely with her."
"But, sir, this is so strange--so unusual--so improper."
"True, Colonel Colleton; in the ordinary concerns, the everyday offices
of society, it would be strange, unusual, and improper; but these are
not times, and this is not a region of the world, in which the common
forms are to be insisted upon. You forget, sir, that you are in the wild
abiding-place of men scarcely less wild--with natures as stubborn as the
rocks, and with manners as uncouth and rugged as the woodland growth
which surrounds us. I know as well as yourself that my demand is
unusual; but such is my situation--such, indeed, the necessities of the
whole case, that there is no alternative. I am persuaded that your
nephew can be saved; I am willing to make an effort for that purpose,
and my conditions are to be complied with: one of them you have
heard--it is for your daughter to hear the rest."
The colonel still hesitated. He was very tenacious of those forms of
society, and of intercourse between the sexes, which are rigidly
insisted upon in the South, and his reluctance was manifest. While he
yet hesitated, the stranger again spoke:
"The condition which I have proposed, sir, is unavoidable, but I ask you
not to remove from hearing: the adjoining room is not so remote but that
you can hear any appeal which your daughter may be pleased to make. Her
call would reach your ears without effort. My own security depends, not
less than that of your nephew, upon your compliance with the condition
under which only will I undertake to save him."
These suggestions prevailed. Suspecting the stranger to be one whose
evidence would point to the true criminal, himself an offender, he at
length assented to the arrangement, and, after a few minutes' further
dialogue, he left the room. As he retired, the stranger carefully locked
the door, a movement which somewhat alarmed the maiden; but the
respectful manner with which he approached her, and her own curiosity
not less than interest in the progress of the event, kept her from the
exhibition of any apprehensions.
The stranger drew nigh her. His glances, though still respectful, were
fixed, long and searchingly, upon her face. He seemed to study all its
features, comparing them, as it would seem, with his own memories. At
length, as with a sense of maidenly propriety, she sternly turned away,
he addressed her:--
"Miss Colleton has forgotten me, it appears, though I have some claim to
be an old acquaintance. I, at least, have a better memory for my
friends--I have not forgotten _her_."
Edith looked up in astonishment, but there was no recognition in her
glance. A feeling of mortified pride might have been detected in the
expression of his countenance, as, with a tone of calm unconsciousness,
she replied--
"You are certainly unremembered, if ever known, by me, sir. I am truly
sorry to have forgotten one who styles himself my friend."
"Who was--who is--or, rather, who is now willing again to be your
friend, Miss Colleton," was the immediate reply.
"Yes, and so I will gladly call you, sir, if you succeed in what you
have promised."
"I have yet promised nothing, Miss Colleton."
"True, true! but you say you have the power, and surely would not
withhold it at such a time. Oh, speak, sir! tell me how you can serve us
all, and receive my blessings and my thanks for ever."
"The reward is great--very great--but not greater--perhaps not as great,
as I may demand for my services. But we should not be ignorant of one
another in such an affair, and at such a time as this. Is it true, then,
that Miss Colleton has no memory which, at this moment, may spare me
from the utterance of a name, which perhaps she herself would not be
altogether willing to hear, and which it is not my policy to have
uttered by any lips, and far less by my own? Think--remember--lady, and
let me be silent still on that one subject. Let no feeling of pride
influence the rejection of a remembrance which perhaps carries with it
but few pleasant reflections."
Again were the maiden's eyes fixed searchingly upon the speaker, and
again, conflicting with the searching character of his own glance, were
they withdrawn, under the direction of a high sense of modest dignity.
She had made the effort at recognition--that was evident even to
him--and had made it in vain.
"Entirely forgotten--well! better that than to have been remembered as
the thing I was. Would it were possible to be equally forgotten by the
rest--but this, too, is vain and childish. She must be taught to
remember me."
Thus muttered the stranger to himself; assuming, however, an increased
decision of manner at the conclusion, he approached her, and tearing
from his cheeks the huge whiskers that had half-obscured them, he spoke
in hurried accents:--
"Look on me now, Miss Colleton--look on me now, and while you gaze upon
features once sufficiently well known to your glance, let your memory
but retrace the few years when it was your fortune, and my fate, to
spend a few months in Gwinnett county. Do you remember the time--do you
remember that bold, ambitious man, who, at that time, was the claimant
for a public honor--who was distinguished by you in a dance, at the ball
given on that occasion--who, maddened by wine, and a fierce passion
which preyed upon him then, like a consuming fire, addressed you, though
a mere child, and sought you for his bride, who--but I see you remember
all!"
"And are you then Creighton--Mr. Edward Creighton--and so changed!" And
she looked upon him with an expression of simple wonder.
"Ay, that was the name once-but I have another now. Would you know me
better--I am Guy Rivers, where the name of Creighton must not again be
spoken. It is the name of a felon--of one under doom of outlawry--whom
all men are privileged to slay. I have been hunted from society--I can
no longer herd with my fellows--I am without kin, and am almost without
kind. Yet, base and black with crime--doomed by mankind--banished all
human abodes--the slave of fierce passions--the leagued with foul
associates, I dared, in your girlhood, to love you; and, more daring
still, I dare to love you now. Fear not, lady--you are Edith Colleton to
me; and worthless, and vile, and reckless, though I have become, for you
I can hold no thought which would behold you other than you are--a
creature for worship rather than for love. As such I would have you
still; and for this purpose do I seek you now. I know your feeling for
this young man--I saw it then, when you repulsed me. I saw that you
loved each other, though neither of you were conscious of the truth. You
love him now--you would not have him perish--I know well how you regard
him, and I come, knowing this, to make hard conditions with you for his
life."
"Keep me no longer in suspense--speak out, Mr. Creighton"--she cried,
gaspingly.
"Rivers--Rivers--I would not hear the other--it was by that name I was
driven from my fellows."
"Mr. Rivers, say what can be done--what am I to do--money--thanks, all
that we can give shall be yours, so that you save him from this fate."
"And who would speak thus for me? What fair pleader, fearless of man's
opinion--that blights or blesses, without reference to right or
merit--would so far speak for me!"
"Many--many, Mr. Rivers--I hope there are many. Heaven knows, though I
may have rejected in my younger days, your attentions, I know not many
for whom I would more willingly plead and pray than yourself. I do
remember now your talents and high reputation, and deeply do I regret
the unhappy fortune which has denied them their fulfilment."
"Ah, Edith Colleton, these words would have saved me once--now they are
nothing, in recompense for the hopes which are for ever gone. Your
thoughts are gentle, and may sooth all spirits but my own. But sounds
that lull others, lull me no longer. It is not the music of a rich
dream, or of a pleasant fancy, which may beguile me into pleasure. I am
dead--dead as the cold rock--to their influence. The storm which
blighted me has seared, and ate into the very core. I am like the tree
through which the worm has travelled--it still stands, and there is
foliage upon it, but the heart is eaten out and gone. Your words touch
me no longer as they did--I need something more than words and mere
flatteries--flatteries so sweet even as those which come from your
lips--are no longer powerful to bind me to your service. I can save the
youth--I will save him, though I hate him; but the conditions are fatal
to your love for him."
There was much in this speech to offend and annoy the hearer; but she
steeled herself to listen, and it cost her some effort to reply.
"I can listen--I can hear all that you may say having reference to him.
I know not what you may intend; I know not what you may demand for your
service. But name your condition. All in honor--all that a maiden may
grant and be true to herself, all--all, for his life and safety."
"Still, I fear, Miss Colleton--your love for him is not sufficiently
lavish to enable your liberality to keep pace with the extravagance of
my demand--"
"Hold, sir--on this particular there is no need of further speech.
Whatever may be the extent of my regard for Ralph, it is enough that I
am willing to do much, to sacrifice much--in return for his rescue from
this dreadful fate. Speak, therefore, your demand--spare no word--delay
me, I pray, no longer."
"Hear me, then. As Creighton, I loved you years ago--as Guy Rivers I
love you still. The life of Ralph Colleton is forfeit--for ever
forfeit--and a few days only interpose between him and eternity. I alone
can save him--I can give him freedom; and, in doing so, I shall risk
much, and sacrifice not a little. I am ready for this risk--I am
prepared for every sacrifice--I will save him at all hazards from his
doom, upon one condition!"
"Speak! speak!"
"That you be mine--that you fly with me--that in the wild regions of the
west, where I will build you a cottage and worship you as my own forest
divinity, you take up your abode with me, and be my wife. My wife!--all
forms shall be complied with, and every ceremony which society may call
for. Nay, shrink not back thus--" seeing her recoil in horror and scorn
at the suggestion--"beware how you defy me--think, that I have his life
in my hands--think, that I can speak his doom or his safety--think,
before you reply!"
"There is no time necessary for thought, sir--none--none. It can not be.
I can not comply with the conditions which you propose. I would die
first."
"And he will die too. Be not hasty, Miss Colleton--remember--it is not
merely your death but his--his death upon the gallows--"
"Spare me! spare me!"
"The halter--the crowd--the distorted limb--the racked frame--"
"Horrible--horrible!"
"Would you see this--know this, and reflect upon the shame, the mental
agony, far greater than all, of such a death to him?"
With a strong effort, she recovered her composure, though but an instant
before almost convulsed--
"Have you no other terms, Mr. Rivers?"
"None--none. Accept them, and he lives--I will free him, as I promise.
Refuse them--deny me, and he must die, and nothing may save him then."
"Then he must die, sir!--we must both die--before we choose such terms.
Sir, let me call my father. Our conference must end here. You have
chosen a cruel office, but I can bear its infliction. You have
tantalized a weak heart with hope, only to make it despair the more. But
I am now strong, sir--stronger than ever--and we speak no more on this
subject."
"Yet pause--to relent even to-morrow may be too late. To-night you must
determine, or never."
"I have already determined. It is impossible that I can determine
otherwise. No more, sir!"
"There is one, lady--one young form--scarcely less beautiful than
yourself, who would make the same--ay, and a far greater--sacrifice than
this, for the safety of Ralph Colleton. One far less happy in his love
than you, who would willingly die for him this hour. Would you be less
ready than she is for such a sacrifice?"
"No, not less ready for death--as I live--not less willing to free him
with the loss of my own life. But not ready for a sacrifice like
this--not ready for this."
"You have doomed him!"
"Be it so, sir. Be it so. Let me now call my father."
"Yet think, ere it be too late--once gone, not even your words shall
call me back."
"Believe me, I shall not desire it."
The firmness of the maiden was finely contrasted with the disappointment
of the outlaw. He was not less mortified with his own defeat than awed
by the calm and immoveable bearing, the sweet, even dignity, which the
discussion of a subject so trying to her heart, and the overthrow of all
hope which her own decision must have occasioned, had failed utterly to
affect. He would have renewed his suggestions, but while repeating them,
a sudden commotion in the village--the trampling of feet--the buzz of
many voices, and sounds of wide-spread confusion, contributed to abridge
an interview already quite too long. The outlaw rushed out of the
apartment, barely recognising, at his departure, the presence of Colonel
Colleton, whom his daughter had now called in. The cause of the uproar
we reserve for another chapter.