"LAST SCENE OF ALL."
There was no little stir in the village of Chestatee on the morning
following that on which the scene narrated in the preceding chapter had
taken place. It so happened that several of the worthy villagers had
determined to remove upon that day; and Colonel Colleton and his family,
consisting of his daughter, Lucy Munro, and his future son-in-law,
having now no further reason for delay, had also chosen it as their day
of departure for Carolina. Nor did the already named constitute the sum
total of the cavalcade setting out for that region. Carolina was about
to receive an accession in the person of the sagacious pedler, who, in a
previous conversation with both Colonel Colleton and Ralph, had made
arrangements for future and large adventures in the way of trade--having
determined, with the advice and assistance of his newly-acquired
friends, to establish one of those wonders of various combinations,
called a country store, among the good people of Sumter district. Under
their direction, and hopeful of the Colleton patronage and influence,
Bunce never troubled himself to dream of unprofitable speculations; but
immediately drawing up letters for his brother and some other of his
kinsmen engaged in the manufacture, in Connecticut, of one kind of
_notion_ or other, he detailed his new designs, and furnished liberal
orders for the articles required and deemed necessary for the wants of
the free-handed backwoodsmen of the South. Lest our readers should lack
any information on the subject of these wants, we shall narrate a brief
dialogue between the younger Colleton and our worthy merchant, which
took place but a few hours before their departure:--
"Well, Bunce, are you ready? We shall be off now in a couple of hours or
so, and you must not keep us waiting. Pack up at once, man, and make
yourself ready."
"I guess you're in a little bit of a small hurry, Master Colleton,
'cause, you see, you've some reason to be so. You hain't had so easy a
spell on it, no how, and I don't wonder as how you're no little airnest
to get off. Well, you won't have to wait for me. I've jest got through
mending my little go-cart--though, to be sure, it don't look, no how,
like the thing it was. The rigilators made awful sad work of the box and
body, and, what with patching and piecing, there's no two eends on it
alike."
"Well, you're ready, however, and we shall have no difficulty at the
last hour?"
"None to speak on. Jared Bunce aint the chap for burning daylight; and
whenever you're ready to say, 'Go,' he's gone. But, I say, Master Ralph,
there's one little matter I'd like to look at."
"What's that? Be quick, now, for I've much to see to."
"Only a minute. Here, you see, is a letter I've jest writ to my brother,
Ichabod Bunce, down to Meriden. He's a 'cute chap, and quite a Yankee,
now, I tell you; and as I knows all his ways, I've got to keep a sharp
look-out to see he don't come over me. Ah, Master Ralph, it's a hard
thing to say one's own flesh and blood aint the thing, but the truth's
the truth to be sure, and, though it does hurt in the telling, that's no
reason it shouldn't be told."
"Certainly not!"
"Well, as I say, Ichabod Bunce is as close and 'cute in his dealings as
any man in all Connecticut, and that's no little to say, I'm sartin.
He's got the trick, if anybody's got it, of knowing how to make your
pocket his, and squaring all things coming in by double multiplication.
If he puts a shilling down, it's sure to stick to another; and if he
picks one up, it never comes by itself--there's always sure to be two on
'em."
"A choice faculty for a tradesman."
"You've said it."
"Just the man for business, I take it."
"Jest so; you're right there, Master Colleton--there's no mistake about
that. Well, as I tell'd you now, though he's my own brother, I have to
keep a raal sharp look out over him in all our dealings. If he says two
and two makes four, I sets to calkilate, for when he says so, I'm sure
there's something wrong in the calkilation; and tho' to be sure I do
know, when the thing stands by itself, that two and two does make four;
yet, somehow, whenever he says it, I begin to think it not altogether so
sartain. Ah, he's a main hand for trade, and there's no knowing when
he'll come over you."
"But, Bunce, without making morals a party to this question, as you are
in copartnership with your brother, you should rather rejoice that he
possesses so happy a faculty; it certainly should not be a matter of
regret with you."
"Why, how--you wouldn't have me to be a mean-spirited fellow, who would
live all for money, and not care how it comes. I can't, sir--'tain't my
way, I assure you. I do feel that I wasn't born to live nowhere except
in the South; and so I thought when I wrote Ichabod Bunce my last
letter. I told him every man on his own hook, now--for, you see, I
couldn't stand his close-fisted contrivances no longer. He wanted me to
work round the ring like himself, but I was quite too up-and-down for
that, and so I squared off from him soon as I could. We never did agree
when we were together, you see--'cause naterally, being brothers and
partners, he couldn't shave me as he shaved other folks, and so, 'cause
he couldn't by nature and partnership come 'cute over me, he was always
grumbling, and for every yard of prints, he'd make out to send two yards
of grunt and growls, and that was too much, you know, even for a pedler
to stand; so we cut loose, and now as the people say on the river--every
man paddle his own canoe."
"And you are now alone in the way of trade, and this store which you are
about to establish is entirely on your own account?"
"Guess it is; and so, you see, I must pull with single oar up stream,
and shan't quarrel with no friend that helps me now and then to send the
boat ahead."
"Rely upon us, Bunce. You have done too much in my behalf to permit any
of our family to forget your services. We shall do all that we can
toward giving you a fair start in the stream, and it will not be often
that you shall require a helping-hand in paddling your canoe."
"I know'd it, Master Colleton. 'Tain't in Carolina, nor in Georgy, nor
Virginny, no--nor down in Alabam, that a man will look long for
provisions, and see none come. That's the people for me. I guess I must
ha' been born by nature in the South, though I did see daylight in
Connecticut."
"No blarney, Bunce. We know you--what you are and what you are
not!--good and bad in fair proportions. But what paper is that in your
hand?"
"Oh, that? That's jest what I was going now to ax you about. That's my
bill of particulars, you see, that I'm going to send on by the post, to
Ichabod Bunce. He'll trade with me, now we're off partnership, and be as
civil as a lawyer jest afore court-time. 'Cause, you see, he'll be
trying to come over me, and will throw as much dust in my eyes as he
can. But I guess he don't catch me with mouth ajar. I know his tricks,
and he'll find me up to them."
"And what is it you require of me in this matter?"
"Oh, nothing, but jest to look over this list, and tell me how you
'spose the things will suit your part of the country. You see I must try
and larn how to please my customers, that is to be. Now, you see,
here's, in the first place--for they're a great article now in the
country, and turn out well in the way of sale--here's--"
But we need not report the catalogue. Enough, that he proceeded to
unfold (dwelling with an emphatic and precise description of each
article in turn) the immense inventory of wares and merchandises with
which he was about to establish. The assortment was various enough.
There were pen-knives, and jack-knives, and clasp-knives, and
dirk-knives, horn and wooden combs, calicoes and clocks, and tin-ware
and garden seeds; everything, indeed, without regard to fitness of
association, which it was possible to sell in the region to which he was
going.
Ralph heard him through his list with tolerable patience; but when the
pedler, having given it a first reading, proposed a second, with passing
comments on the prospects of sale of each separate article, by way of
recapitulation, the youth could stand it no longer. Apologizing to the
tradesman, therefore in good set terms, he hurried away to the
completion of those preparations called for by his approaching
departure. Bunce, having no auditor, was compelled to do the same;
accordingly a few hours after, the entire party made its appearance in
the court of the village-inn, where the carriages stood in waiting.
About this time another party left the village, though in a different
direction. It consisted of old Allen, his wife, and daughter Kate. In
their company rode the lawyer Pippin, who, hopeless of elevation in his
present whereabouts, was solicitous of a fairer field for the exhibition
of his powers of law and logic than that which he now left had ever
afforded him. He made but a small item in the caravan. His goods and
chattels required little compression for the purposes of carriage, and a
small _Jersey_--a light wagon in free use in that section, contained all
his wardrobe, books, papers, &c.--the heirlooms of a long and carefully
economized practice. We may not follow his fortunes after his removal to
the valley of the Mississippi. It does not belong to the narrative; but,
we may surely say to those in whom his appearance may have provoked some
interest, that subsequently he got into fine practice--was notorious for
his stump-speeches; and a random sheet of the "Republican Star and
Banner of Independence" which we now have before us, published in the
town of "Modern Ilium," under the head of the "Triumph of Liberty and
Principle," records, in the most glowing language, the elevation of
Peter Pippin, Esq., to the state legislature, by seven votes majority
over Colonel Hannibal Hopkins, the military candidate--Pippin 39,
Hopkins 32. Such a fortunate result, if we have rightly estimated the
character of the man, will have easily salved over all the hurts which,
in his earlier history, his self-love may have suffered.
But the hour of departure was at hand, and assisting the fair Edith into
the carriage, Ralph had the satisfaction of placing her beside the
sweetly sad, the lovely, but still deeply suffering girl, to whom he
owed so much in the preservation of his life. She was silent when he
spoke, but she looked her replies, and he felt that they were
sufficiently expressive. The aunt had been easily persuaded to go with
her niece, and we find her seated accordingly along with Colonel
Colleton in the same carriage with the young ladies. Ralph rode, as his
humor prompted, sometimes on horseback, and sometimes in a light gig--a
practice adopted with little difficulty, where a sufficient number of
servants enabled him to transfer the trust of one or the other
conveyance to the liveried outriders. Then came the compact, boxy,
buggy, buttoned-up vehicle of our friend the pedler--a thing for which
the unfertile character of our language, as yet, has failed to provide a
fitting name--but which the backwoodsman of the west calls a go-cart; a
title which the proprietor does not always esteem significant of its
manifold virtues and accommodations. With a capacious stomach, it is
wisely estimated for all possible purposes; and when opened with a
mysterious but highly becoming solemnity, before the gaping and
wondering woodsman, how "awful fine" do the contents appear to Miss
Nancy and the little whiteheads about her. How grand are its treasures,
of tape and toys, cottons and calicoes, yarn and buttons, spotted silks
and hose--knives and thimbles--scissors and needles--wooden clocks, and
coffee-mills, &c.--not to specify a closely-packed and various
assortment of tin-ware and japan, from the tea-kettle and coffee-pot to
the drinking mug for the pet boy and the shotted rattle for the infant.
A judicious distribution of the two latter, in the way of presents to
the young, and the worthy pedler drives a fine bargain with the parents
in more costly commodities.
The party was now fairly ready, but, just at the moment of departure,
who should appear in sight but our simple friend, Chub Williams. He had
never been a frequent visiter to the abodes of men, and of course all
things occasioned wonder. He seemed fallen upon some strange planet, and
was only won to attention by the travellers, on hearing the voice of
Lucy Munro calling to him from the carriage window. He could not be made
to understand the meaning of her words when she told him where she was
going, but contented himself with saying he would come for her, as soon
as they built up his house, and she should be his mother. It was for
this purpose he had come to the village, from which, though surprised at
all things he saw, he was anxious to get away. He had been promised, as
we remember, the rebuilding of his cabin, by the men who captured
Rivers; together with sundry other little acquisitions, which, as they
were associated with his animal wants, the memory of the urchin did not
suffer to escape him. Ralph placed in his hands a sum of money, trifling
in itself, but larger in amount than Chub had ever seen at any one time
before; and telling him it was his own, rejoined the party which had
already driven off. The pedler still lingered, until a bend in the road
put his company out of sight; when, driving up to the idiot, who stood
with open mouth wondering at his own wealth, he opened upon him the
preliminaries of trade, with a respectful address, duly proportioned to
the increased finances of the boy.
"I say, now, Chub--seeing you have the raal grit, if it ain't axing too
much, what do you think to do with all that money? I guess you'd like to
lay out a little on't in the way of trade; and as I ain't particular
where I sell, why, the sooner I begin, I guess, the better. You ain't in
want of nothing, eh? No knife to cut the saplings, and pare the nails,
nor nothing of no kind? Now I has everything from--"
Bunce threw up the lid of his box, and began to display his wares.
"There's a knife for you, Chub Williams--only two bits. With that knife
you could open the stone walls of any house, even twice as strong as Guy
Rivers's. And there's a handkerchief for your neck, Chub--Guy'll have to
wear one of rope, my lad: and look at the suspenders, Chub--fit for the
king; and--"
Where the pedler would have stopped, short of the display and
enumeration of all the wares in his wagon, it is not easy to say, but
for an unexpected interruption. One of the outsiders of the Colleton
party, galloped back at this moment, no other indeed, than our former
acquaintance, the blacky, Cæsar, the fellow whose friendship for Ralph
was such that he was reluctant to get him the steed upon which he left
his uncle's house in dudgeon. Ralph had sent him back to see what
detained the pedler, and to give him help in case of accident.
Cæsar at once divined the cause of the pedler's delay, as he saw the box
opened, and its gaudy contents displayed before the eyes of the
wondering idiot. He was indignant. The negro of the South has as little
reverence for the Yankee pedler as his master, and Cæsar was not slow to
express the indignation which he felt.
"Ki! Misser Bunce, aint you shame for try for draw de money out ob the
boy pocket, wha' massa gee um?"
"Why, Cæsar, he kaint eat the money, old fellow, and he kaint wear it;
and he'll have to buy something with it, whenever he wants to use it."
"But gee um time, Misser Bunce--gee um time! De money aint fair git warm
in de young man pocket. Gee um time! Le' um look 'bout um, and see wha'
he want; and ef you wants to be friendly wid um, gee um somet'ing
youse'f--dat knife burn bright in he eye! Gee um dat, and le's be
moving! Maussa da wait! Ef you's a coming for trade in we country, you
mus' drop de little bizness--'taint 'spectable in Car'lina."
The pedler was rebuked. He looked first at Cæsar, then at Chub, and
finally handed the boy the knife.
"You're right. There, Chub, there's a knife for you. You're a good
little fellow, as well as you knows how to be."
Chub grinned, took the knife, opened both blades, and nodding his head,
made off without a word.
"The etarnal little heathen! Never to say so much as thank ye."
"Nebber mind, Misser Bunce; dat's de 'spectable t'ing wha' you do. Always
'member, ef you wants to be gempleman's, dat you kaint take no money
from nigger and poor buckrah. You kin gib um wha' you please, but you
mustn't 'speck dem to be gibbing you."
"But in the way of _trade_, Cæsar," said the pedler, putting his horse
in motion.
"Der's a time for _trade_, and a time for _gib_, and you must do de
genteel t'ing, and nebber consider wha's de 'spense of it, or de profit.
De nigger hab he _task_ in de cornfiel', and he hab for do um; but
'spose maussa wants he nigger to do somet'ing dat aint in he task--dat's
to say in de nigger own time--wha' den? He _pays_ um han'some for it.
When you's a trading, trade and git you pay, but when you's a trabelling
with gemplemans and he family, da's no time for trade. Ef you open you
box at dem times, you must jest put in you hand, and take out de t'ing
wha' you hab for gib, and say, 'Yer Cæsar--somet'ing for you, boy!'"
"Hem! that's the how, is it?" said the pedler with a leer that was
good-humoredly knowing. "Well, old fellow, as you've given me quite a
lesson how to behave myself, I guess I must show you that I understand
how to prove that I'm thankful--so here, Cæsar, is a cut for you from
one of my best goods."
He accompanied the words with a smart stroke of his whip, a totally
unexpected salutation, over the shoulders, which set the negro off in a
canter. Bunce, however, called him back; holding up a flaming
handkerchief of red and orange, as a means of reconciliation. Cæsar was
soon pacified, and the two rode on together in a pleasant companionship,
which suffered no interruptions on the road; Cæsar all the way
continuing to give the pedler a proper idea of the processes through
which he might become a respectable person in Carolina.
There are still other parties to our story which it is required that we
should dispose of according to the rules of the novel.
Let us return to the dungeon of the outlaw, where we behold him in a
situation as proper to his deserts as it is new to his experience.
Hitherto, he has gone free of all human bonds and penalties, save that
of exile from society, and a life of continued insecurity. He has never
prepared his mind with resignation to endure patiently such a condition.
What an intellect was here allowed to go to waste--what fine talents
have been perverted in this man. Endowments that might have done the
country honor, have been made to minister only in its mischiefs.
How sad a subject for contemplation! The wreck of intellect, of genius,
of humanity. Fortunate for mankind, if, under the decree of a saving and
blessing Providence, there be no dark void on earth--when one bright
star falls from its sphere, if there is another soon lighted to fill its
place, and to shine more purely than that which has been lost. May we
not believe this--nay, we must, and exult, on behalf of humanity--that,
in the eternal progress of change, the nature which is its aliment no
less than its element, restores not less than its destiny removes. Yet,
the knowledge that we lose not, does not materially lessen the pang when
we behold the mighty fall--when we see the great mind, which, as a star,
we have almost worshipped, shooting with headlong precipitance through
the immense void from its place of eminence, and defrauding the eye of
all the glorious presence and golden promise which had become associated
with its survey.
The intellect of Guy Rivers had been gigantic--the mistake--a mistake
quite too common to society--consisted in an education limited entirely
to the mind, and entirely neglectful of the _morale_ of the boy. He was
taught, like thousands of others; and the standards set up for his moral
government, for his passions, for his emotions, were all false from the
first. The capacities of his mind were good as well as great--but they
had been restrained, while the passions had all been brought into
active, and at length ungovernable exercise. How was it possible that
reason, thus taught to be subordinate, could hold the strife long, when
passion--fierce passion--the passion of the querulous infant, and the
peevish boy, only to be bribed to its duty by the toy and the
sugarplum--is its uncompromising antagonist?
But let us visit him in his dungeon--the dungeon so lately the abode of
his originally destined, but now happily safe victim. What philosophy is
there to support _him_ in _his_ reverse--what consolation of faith, or
of reflection, the natural result of the due performance of human
duties? none! Every thought was self-reproachful. Every feeling was of
self-rebuke and mortification. Every dream was a haunting one of terror,
merged for ever in the deep midnight cry of a fateful voice which bade
him despair. "Curse God and die!"
In respect to his human fortunes, the voice was utterly without pity. He
had summed up for himself, as calmly as possible, all his chances of
escape. There was no hope left him. No sunlight, human or divine,
penetrated the crevices of his dungeon, as in the case of Ralph
Colleton, cheering him with promise, and lifting his soul with faith and
resignation. Strong and self-relying as was his mind by nature, he yet
lacked all that strength of soul which had sustained Ralph even when
there seemed no possible escape from the danger which threatened his
life. But Guy Rivers was not capable of receiving light or warmth from
the simple aspects of nature. His soul, indurated by crime, was as
insusceptible to the soothing influence of such aspects, as the cold
rocky cavern where he had harbored, was impenetrable to the noonday
blaze. The sun-glance through the barred lattice, suddenly stealing,
like a friendly messenger, with a sweet and mellow smile upon his lips,
was nailed as an angelic visiter, by the enthusiastic nature of the one,
without guile in his own heart. Rivers would have regarded such a
visiter as an intruder; the smile in his eyes would have been a sneer,
and he would have turned away from it in disgust. The mind of the strong
man is the medium through which the eyes see, and from which life takes
all its color. The heart is the prismatic conductor, through which the
affections show; and that which is seared, or steeled, or
ossified--perverted utterly from its original make--can exhibit no
rainbows--no arches of a sweet promise, linking the gloomy earth with
the bright and the beautiful and the eternal heavens.
The mind of Guy Rivers had been one of the strongest make--one of large
and leading tendencies. He could not have been one of the mere ciphers
of society. He must be something, or he must perish. His spirit would
have fed upon his heart otherwise, and, wanting a field and due
employment, his frame must have worn away in the morbid repinings of its
governing principles. Unhappily, he had not been permitted a choice. The
education of his youth had given a fatal direction to his manhood; and
we find him, accordingly, not satisfied with his pursuit, yet resolutely
inflexible and undeviating in the pursuit of error. Such are the
contradictions of the strong mind, to which, wondering as we gaze, with
unreasonable and unthinking astonishment, we daily see it subject. Our
philosophers are content with declaiming upon effects--they will not
permit themselves or others to trace them up to their causes. To heal
the wound, the physician may probe and find out its depth and extent;
the same privilege is not often conceded to the physician of the mind or
of the morals, else numberless diseases, now seemingly incurable, had
been long since brought within the healing scope of philosophical
analysis. The popular cant would have us forbear even to look at the
history of the criminal. Hang the wretch, say they, but say nothing
about him. Why trace his progress?--what good can come out of the
knowledge of those influences and tendencies, which have made him a
criminal? Let them answer the question for themselves!
The outlaw beheld the departing cavalcade of the Colletons from the
grated window. He saw the last of all those in whose fortunes he might
be supposed to have an interest. He turned from the sight with a bitter
pang at his heart, and, to his surprise, discovered that he was not
alone in the solitude of his prison. One ministering spirit sat beside
him upon the long bench, the only article of furniture afforded to his
dungeon.
The reader has not forgotten the young woman to whose relief, from fire,
Ralph Colleton so opportunely came while making his escape from his
pursuers. We remember the resignation--the yielding weakness of her
broken spirit to the will of her destroyer. We have seen her left
desolate by the death of her only relative, and only not utterly
discarded by him, to whose fatal influence over her heart, at an earlier
period, we may ascribe all her desolation. She then yielded without a
struggle to his will, and, having prepared her a new abiding-place, he
had not seen her after, until, unannounced and utterly unlooked-for,
certainly uninvited, she appeared before him in the cell of his dungeon.
Certainly, none are utterly forgotten! There are some who remember--some
who feel with the sufferer, however lowly in his suffering--some who can
not forget. No one perishes without a tearful memory becoming active
when informed of his fate; and, though the world scorns and despises,
some one heart keeps a warm sympathy, that gives a sigh over the ruin of
a soul, and perhaps plants a flower upon its grave.
Rivers had not surely looked to see, in his dungeon, the forsaken and
the defrauded girl, for whom he had shown so little love. He knew not,
at first, how to receive her. What offices could she do for him--what
influence exercise--how lighten the burden of his doom--how release him
from his chains? Nothing of this could she perform--and what did she
there? For sympathy, at such a moment, he cared little for such
sympathy, at least, as he could command. His pride and ambition,
heretofore, had led him to despise and undervalue the easy of
attainment. He was always grasping after the impossible. The fame which
he had lost for ever, grew doubly attractive to his mind's eye from the
knowledge of this fact. The society, which had expelled him from its
circle and its privileges, was an Eden in his imagination, simply on
that account. The love of Edith Colleton grew more desirable from her
scorn;--and the defeat of hopes so daring, made his fierce spirit writhe
within him, in all the pangs of disappointment, only neutralized by his
hope of revenge. And that hope was now gone; the dungeon and the doom
were all that met his eyes;--and what had she, his victim, to do in his
prison-cell, and with his prison feelings--she whom Providence, even in
her own despite, was now about to avenge? No wonder he turned away from
her in the bitterness of the thought which her appearance must
necessarily have inspired.
"Turn not away!--speak to me, Guy--speak to me, if you have pity in your
soul! You shall not drive me from you--you shall not dismiss me now. I
should have obeyed you at another time, though you had sent me to my
death--but I can not obey you now. I am strong now, strong--very strong
since I can say so much. I am come to be with you to the last, and, if
it be possible, to die with you; and you shall not refuse me. You shall
not--oh, you will not--you can not--"
And, as she spoke, she clung to him as one pleading herself for life to
the unrelenting executioner. He replied, in a sarcasm, true to his
general course of life.
"Yes, Ellen! your revenge for your wrongs would not be well complete,
unless your own eyes witnessed it; and you insist upon the privilege as
if you duly estimated the luxury. Well!--you may stay. It needed but
this, if anything had been needed, to show me my own impotence."
"Cruel to the last, Guy--cruel to the last! Surely the few hours between
this and that of death, are too precious to be employed in bitterness.
Were not prayer better--if you will not pray, Guy, let me. My prayer
shall be for you; and, in the forgiveness which my heart shall truly
send to my lips for the wrongs you have done to me and mine, I shall not
altogether despair, so that you join with me, of winning a forgiveness
far more important and precious! Guy, will you join me in prayer?"
"My knees are stiff, Ellen. I have not been taught to kneel."
"But it is not too late to learn. Bend, bow with me, Guy--if you have
ever loved the poor Ellen, bow with her now. It is her prayer; and, oh,
think, how weak is the vanity of this pride in a situation like yours.
How idle the stern and stubborn spirit, when men can place you in
bonds--when men can take away life and name--when men can hoot and hiss
and defile your fettered and enfeebled person! It was for a season and a
trial like this, Guy, that humility was given us. It was in order to
such an example that the Savior died for us."
"He died not for me. I have gained nothing by his death. Men are as bad
as ever, and wrong--the wrong which deprived me of my right in
society--has been as active and prevailing a principle of human action
as before he died. It is in his name now that they do the wrong, and in
his name, since his death, they have contrived to find a sanction for
all manner of crime. Speak no more of this, Ellen; you know nothing
about it. It is all folly."
"To you, Guy, it may be. To the wise all things are foolish. But to the
humble heart there is a truth, even in what are thought follies, which
brings us the best of teachings. That is no folly which keeps down, in
the even posture of humility, the spirit which circumstances would only
bind and crush in every effort to rise. That is no folly which prepares
us for reverses, and fortifies us against change and vicissitude. That
is no folly which takes away the sting from affliction--which has kept
me, Guy, as once before you said, from driving a knife into your heart,
while it lay beating against the one to which yours had brought all
manner of affliction. Oh, believe me, the faith and the feeling and the
hope, not less than the fear, which has made me what I am now--which has
taught me to rely only on the one--which has made me independent of all
things and all loves--ay, even of yours, when I refer to it--is no idle
folly. It is the only medicine by which the soul may live. It is that
which I bring to you now. Hear me, then--Guy, hear the prayer of the
poor Ellen, who surely has some right to be heard by you. Kneel for me,
and with me, on this dungeon floor, and pray--only pray."
"And what should I pray for, and what should I say--and whom should I
curse?"
"Oh, curse none!--say anything you please, so that it have the form of a
prayer. Say, though but a single sentence, but say it in the spirit
which is right."
"Say what?"
"Say--'the Lord's will be done,' if nothing more; but say it in the true
feeling--the feeling of humble reliance upon God."
"And wherefore say this? His will must be done, and will be done,
whether I say it or not. This is all idle--very idle--and to my mind
excessively ridiculous, Ellen."
"Not so, Guy, as your own sense will inform you. True, his will must be
done; but there is a vast difference between desiring that it be done,
and in endeavoring to resist its doing. It is one thing to pray that his
will have its way without stop, but quite another to have a vain wish in
one's heart to arrest its progress. But I am a poor scholar, and have no
words to prove this to your mind, if you are not willing to think upon
the subject. If the danger is not great enough in your thought--if the
happiness of that hope of immortality be not sufficiently impressive to
you--how can I make it seem different? The great misfortune of the
learned and the wise is, that they will not regard the necessity. If
they did--if they could be less self-confident--how much more readily
would all these lights from God shine out to them, than to us who want
the far sense so quickly to perceive and to trace them out in the thick
darkness. But it is my prayer, Guy, that you kneel with me in prayer;
that you implore the feeling of preparedness for all chances which can
only come from Heaven. Do this for me, Guy--Guy, my beloved--the
destroyer of my youth, of all my hope, and of all of mine, making me the
poor destitute and outcast that you find me now--do this one, one small
kindness for the poor Ellen you have so much wronged, and she forgives
you all. I have no other prayer than this--I have no other wish in
life."
As she spoke, she threw herself before him, and clasped his knees firmly
with her hands. He lifted her gently from the floor, and for a few
moments maintained her in silence in his arms. At length, releasing her
from his grasp, and placing her upon the bench, on which, until that
moment, he had continued to sit, he replied:--
"The prayer is small--very small, Ellen--which you make, and I know no
good reason why I should not grant it. I have been to you all that you
describe me. You have called me truly your destroyer, and the
forgiveness you promise in return for this prayer is desirable even to
one so callous as myself. I will do as you require."
"Oh, will you? then I shall be so happy!--" was her exclamation of
rejoicing. He replied gravely--
"We shall see. I will, Ellen, do as you require, but you must turn away
your eyes--go to the window and look out. I would not be seen in such a
position, nor while uttering such a prayer."
"Oh, be not ashamed, Guy Rivers. Give over that false sentiment of pride
which is now a weakness. Be the man, the--"
"Be content, Ellen, with my terms. Either as I please, or not at all. Go
to the window."
She did as he directed, and a few moments had elapsed only when he
called her to him. He had resumed his seat upon the bench, and his
features were singularly composed and quiet.
"I have done something more than you required, Ellen, for which you will
also have to forgive me. Give me your hand, now."
She did so, and he placed it upon his bosom, which was now streaming
with his blood! He had taken the momentary opportunity afforded him by
her absence at the window to stab himself to the heart with a penknife
which he had contrived to conceal upon his person. Horror-struck, the
affrighted woman would have called out for assistance, but, seizing her
by the wrist, he sternly stayed her speech and action.
"Not for your life, Ellen--not for your life! It is all useless. I first
carefully felt for the beatings of my heart, and then struck where they
were strongest. The stream flows now which will soon cease to flow, and
but one thing can stop it."
"Oh, what is that, Guy?--let me--"
"Death--which is at hand! Now, Ellen, do you forgive me? I ask no
forgiveness from others."
"From my heart I do, believe me."
"It is well. I am weak. Let me place my head upon your bosom. It is some
time, Ellen, since it has been there. How wildly does it struggle! Pray,
Ellen, that it beat not long. It has a sad office! Now--lips--give me
your lips, Ellen. You have forgiven me--all--everything?"
"All, all!"
"It grows dark--but I care not. Yet, throw open the window--I will not
rest--I will pursue! He shall not escape me!--Edith--Edith!" He was
silent, and sunk away from her embrace upon the floor. In the last
moment his mind had wandered to the scene in which, but an hour before,
he had witnessed the departure of Edith with his rival, Colleton.
The jailer, alarmed by the first fearful cry of Ellen succeeding this
event, rushed with his assistants into the cell, but too late. The
spirit had departed; and they found but the now silent mourner, with
folded arms, and a countenance that had in it volumes of unutterable wo,
bending over the inanimate form of one whose life and misnamed love had
been the bane of hers.
THE END.