A New England Tale/Chapter X
CHAPTER X.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost,
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
The name of the stranger was Mary Oakley. Her parents had gone out adventurers to the West Indies, where, at the opening of flattering prospects, they both died victims to the fever of the climate, which seldom spares a northern constitution. Mary, then in her infancy, had been sent home to her grand-parents, who nursed this only relict of their unfortunate children with doating fondness. They were in humble life; and they denied themselves every comfort that they might gratify every wish, reasonable and unreasonable, of their darling child. She, affectionate and ardent in her nature, grew up impetuous and volatile. Instead of 'rocking the cradle of reposing age,' she made the lives of her old parents resemble a fitful April day, sunshine and cloud, succeeding each other in rapid alternation. She loved the old people tenderly—passionately, when she had just received a favour from them; but, like other spoiled children, she never testified that love by deferring her will to theirs, or suffering their wisdom to govern her childish inclinations. She grew up
"Fair as the form that, wove in fancy's loom,
Floats in light vision round the poet's head."
Most unhappily for her, there was a college in the town where she lived, and she very early became the favourite belle of the young collegians, whose attentions she received with delight, in spite of the remonstrances and entreaties of her guardians, who were well aware that a young and beautiful creature could not, with propriety or safety, receive the civilities of her superiors in station, attracted by her personal charms.
David Wilson, more artful, more unprincipled than any of his companions, addressed her with the most extravagant flattery, and lavished on her costly favours. Giddy and credulous, poor Mary was a victim to his libertinism. He soothed her with hopes and promises, till in consequence of the fear of detection in another transaction, where detection would have been dangerous, he left and returned to his mother's, without giving Mary the slightest intimation of his departure.
She took the desperate resolution of following him. She felt certain she should not survive her confinement, and hoped to secure the protection of Wilson for her infant. Her tenderness, we believe, more than her pride, induced her to conceal her miseries from her only true friends. She thought any thing would be easier for them to bear than a knowledge of her misconduct; and for the few days she remained under their roof, and while she was preparing a disguise for her perilous journey, she affected slight sickness and derangement. They were alarmed and anxious, and insisted on making a bed for her in their room: this somewhat embarrassed her proceedings; but, on the night of her escape, she told them, with a determined manner, that she could only sleep in her own bed, and alone in her own room. They did not resist her; they never had. Mary kissed them when she bade them good-night with unusual tenderness. They went sorrowing to their beds. She wrote a few incoherent lines, addressed to them, praying for their forgiveness; expressing her gratitude and her love; and telling them, that life before her seemed a long and a dark road, and she did not wish to go any further in it, and begging them not to search for her, for in one hour the waves would roll over her. She placed the scroll on her table, crept out of her window, and left for ever the protecting roof of her kind old parents.
When they awoke to a knowledge of their loss, they were overwhelmed with grief. Their neighbours flocked about them, to offer their assistance and consolation; and though some of the most penetrating among them, suspected the cause of the poor girl's desperation, more forbearing and kind than persons usually are, in such circumstances, they spared the old people the light of their conjectures.
Poor Mary persevered in her fatiguing and miserable journey, which was rendered much longer by her fearfully shunning the public road. She obtained a kind shelter at the farmers' houses at night, where she always contrived to satisfy their curiosity by some plausible account of herself. At the end of a week she arrived wearied and exhausted in the neighbourhood of Wilson. She watched for him in the evening near his mother's house, and succeeded in obtaining an interview with him. He was enraged that she had followed him, and said that it was impossible for him to do any thing for her. She told him, she asked nothing for herself; but she entreated him not to add to his guilt the crime of suffering their unhappy offspring to die with neglect. Utterly selfish and hard-hearted, the wretch turned from her without one word of kindness: and then recollecting that if she was discovered, he should be involved in further troubles, he returned, and gave her a direction, which he believed would enable her to find John's cottage on the mountain. If she gets there, thought he as he left her, whether she lives or dies, she will be far out of the way for the present—and the future must take care of itself.
Mary with a faint heart followed his direction, and the next day she was discovered by old John in the situation we have mentioned. Perhaps there are some who cannot believe that any being should be so utterly depraved as David Wilson. But let them remember, that he began with a nature more inclined to evil than to good, that his mother's mismanagement had increased every thing that was bad in him, and extinguished every thing that was good—that the continual contradictions of his mother's professions and life, had led him to an entire disbelief of the truths of religion, as well as a contempt of its restraints.
After the old man had finished Mary's story, or rather so much of it as he had been able to gather from her confessions, Jane asked him "Why she had been sent for?"
"Why Miss," he replied, "after the poor thing had come to herself, all her trouble seemed to be about her baby, and I did not know what to advise her; my woman and I might have done for it for the present, but our sun is almost set, and we could do but a little while. I proposed to her to go for Wilson, and I was sure the sight of her might have softened a heart of flint; but she shivered at the bare mention of it: she said "No, no; I cannot see that cruel face upon my deathbed." And then I thought of you, and I told her if there was any body could bring him to a sense of right it was you, and that at any rate you might think of some comfort for her; for I told her every body in the village knew you for the wisest and discreetest, and gentlest. At first she relucted, and then the sight of her baby seemed to persuade her, and she bade me go, but she gave me a strict charge that no one should come with you; for she said she wished her memory buried with her in the grave. When I left her to go to you, I hoped you might speak some words of comfort to her that would be better than medicine for her, and heal the body as well as the mind; but when I came back, there was a dreadful change—the poor little one had gone into a fit, and she would take it from my wife into her arms, and there it died more than an hour ago; and she sits up in the bed holding it yet, and she has not spoken a word, nor turned her eyes from it; her cheeks look as if there was a living fire consuming her. Oh, Miss Jane, it is awful to look upon such a fallen star! Now you are prepared—come in—may be the sight of you will rouse her."
Jane followed John into his little habitation. The old couple had kindly resigned their only bed to the sufferer. She was sitting as John had described her, fixed as a statue. Her beautiful black glossy curls, which had been so often admired and envied, were in confusion, and clustered in rich masses over her temples and neck. A tear that had started from the fountain of feeling, now sealed for ever, hung on the dark rich eye-lash that fringed her downcast eye. Jane wondered that any thing so wretched could look so lovely. Crazy Bet was kneeling at the foot of the bed, and apparently absorbed in prayer, for her eyes were closed, and her lips moved, though they emitted no sound. The old woman sat in the corner of the fire-place, smoking a broken pipe, to sooth the unusual agitation she felt.
Jane advanced towards the bed. "Speak to her," said John. Jane stooped, and laid her hand gently on Mary's. She raised her eyes for the first time, and turned them on Jane with a look of earnest inquiry, and then shaking her head, she said in a low mournful voice—"No, no; we cannot be parted; you mean to take her to heaven, and you say I am guilty, and must not go. They told me you were coming—you need not hide your wings—I know you—there is none but an Angel would look upon me with such pity."
"Oh!" exclaimed Jane in an agony, "can nothing be done for her? at least let us take away this dead child, it is growing cold in her arms." She attempted to take the child, and Mary relaxed her hold; but as she did so, she uttered a faint scream—became suddenly pale as 'monumental marble,'—and fell back on the pillow.
"Ah, she is gone!" exclaimed John.
Crazy Bet sprang on her feet, and raised her hand—"Hush!" said she, "I heard a voice saying, 'Her sins are forgiven'—she is one 'come out of great tribulation.'"
There were a few moments of as perfect stillness as if they had all been made dumb and motionless by the stroke of death. Jane was the first to break silence—"Did she," she inquired of the old man, "express any penitence—any hope?"
John shook his head. "Them things did not seem to lay on her mind; and I did not think it worth while to disturb her about them. Ah, Miss, the great thing is how we live, not how we die."
Jane felt the anxiety, so natural, to obtain some religious expression, that should indicate preparation in the mind of the departed.
"Surely," said she, "it is never too late to repent—to beg forgiveness."
"No, Miss;" replied John, who seemed to have religious notions of his own—"especially when there has been such a short account as this poor child had; but the work must be all between the creature and the Creator, and for my part, I don't place much dependance on what people say on a death-bed. I have lived a long life, Miss Jane, and many a one have I seen, and heard too, when sickness and distress were heavy upon them, and death staring them in the face, and they could not sin any more—they would seem to repent, and talk as beautiful as any saint; but if the Lord took his hand from them, and they got well again, they went right back into the old track. No, Miss Jane, it is the life—it is the life, we must look to. This child," he added, going to the bed, and laying his brown and shrivelled hand upon her fair young brow, now 'chill and changeless,' "this child was but sixteen, she told me so. The Lord only knows what temptations she has had; He it is, Miss Jane, that has put that in our hearts that makes us feel sorry for her now; and can you think that He is less pitiful than we are? I think she will be beaten with few stripes; but," he concluded solemnly, covering his face with his hands,—"we are poor ignorant creatures; it is all a mystery after this world; we know nothing about it."
"Yes," said Jane, "we do know, John, that all will be right."
"True," be replied; "and it is that should make us lay our fingers on our mouths and be still."
Jane had been so much absorbed in the mournful scene, that the necessity of her return before the breaking of day bad not occurred to her mind, and would not, perhaps, if John bad not, after a few moments pause, reminded her of it, by saying, "I am sorry Miss Jane, you have had such a walk for nothing; but," added he, "to the wise nothing is vain, and you are of so teachable a make, that you may have learned some good lessons here; you may learn, at least, that there is nothing to be much grieved for in this world but guilt; and some people go through a long life without learning that. You had better return now; I will go round the hill with you, and show you the path this crazy creature should have led you. She is in one of her still fits now; there is nothing calms her down like seeing death; she will not move from here till after the burying."
Jane looked for the last time on the beautiful form before her, and with the ingenuous and keen feeling of youth, wept aloud.
"It is indeed a sore sight," said John; "it makes my old eyes run over as they have not for many a year. The Lord have mercy on her destroyer! Oh, Miss! it is sad to see this beautiful flower cut down in its prime; but who would change her condition for his? He may go rioting on, but there is that gnawing at his heart's core that will not be quieted."
Jane told the kind old man that she was now ready to go, and they left the hut together. He led her by a narrow foot-path around the base of the mountain, till they came to a part of the way that was known to Jane. She then parted from her conductor, after inquiring of him if he could inter the bodies secretly? He replied, that he could without much difficulty; and he certainly should, for he had given his promise to the young creature, who seemed to dread nothing so much as a discovery which might lead to her old parents knowing her real fate.
Anxious to reach home in time to avoid the necessity of any disclosures, Jane hastened forward, and arrived at her aunt's before the east gave the slightest notice of the approach of day. She entered the house carefully, and turned into the parlour to look for some refreshment in an adjoining pantry. A long walk, and a good deal of emotion, we believe, in real life, are very apt to make people, even the most refined, hungry and thirsty.
Jane had entered the parlour, and closed the door after her, before she perceived that she was not the only person in it; but she started with alarm, which certainly was not confined to herself, when she saw standing at Mrs. Wilson's desk, which was placed at one corner of the room, her son David, with his mother's pocket-book in his hand, from which he was in the act of subtracting a precious roll of bank bills that had been deposited there the day before. Jane paused for a moment, and but for a moment, for as the truth flashed on her, she sprang forward, and seizing his arm, exclaimed, "For heaven's sake, David, put back that money! Do not load yourself with any more sins."
He shook her off, and hastily stuffing the money in his pocket, said, that he must have it; that his mother would not give him enough to save him from destruction; that he had told her, ruin was hanging over his head; that she had driven him to help himself; and, "as to sin," he added fiercely, "I am in too deep already to be frightened by that thought."
It occurred to Jane that he might have been driven to this mode of supplying himself, in order to relieve the extreme need of Mary Oakley; and she told him, in a hurried manner, the events of the night. For a moment he felt the sting of conscience, and, perhaps, a touch of human feeling; for, he staggered back into a chair, and covering his face with his hands, muttered, "dead! Mary dead! Good God! Hell has no place bad enough for me;" and then rousing himself, he said, with a deep tone, "Jane Elton, I am a ruined, desperate man. You thought too well of me, when you imagined it was for that poor girl I was doing this deed. No, no! her cries did not trouble me; but there are those whose clamours must be hushed by money—curse on them!"
"But," said Jane, "is there no other way, David? I will entreat your mother for you."
"You! yes, and she will heed you, as much as the vulture does the whining of his prey. I tell you, I am desperate, Jane, and care not for the consequences. But," he added, "I will run no risk of discovery," and as he spoke, he drew a pistol from beneath his surtout, and putting the muzzle to his breast, said to Jane, "give me your solemn promise, that you will never betray me, or I will put myself beyond the reach of human punishment."
"Oh!" said Jane, "I will promise any thing. Do not destroy your soul and body both."
"Do you promise then?"
"I do, most solemnly."
"Then," said he, hastily replacing the pistol, and locking the desk with the false key he had obtained; "then all is as well as it can be. My mother will suspect, but she will not dare to tell whom; and your promise, Jane, makes me secure."
Jane saw he was so determined, that any further interposition would be useless, and she hurried away to her own apartment, where she threw herself upon her bed, sorrowing for the crimes and miseries of others. Quite exhausted with the fatigues of the night, she soon fell asleep.
She was too much distressed and terrified, to reflect upon the bad effects that might result from the exacted promise. She had, doubtless, been unnecessarily alarmed by David's threat of self-slaughter; for, confused and desperate as he was, he would hardly have proceeded to such an outrage; and, besides, we have reason to believe the pistol was neither primed nor loaded; but, that he had provided himself with it for emergencies which might occur in the desperate career in which he had engaged. He had been concerned with two ingenious villains in changing the denomination of bank bills. His accomplices had been detected and imprisoned, and they were now exacting money from him by threatening to disclose his agency in the transaction.
Always careless of involving himself in guilt, and goaded on by the fear of the state-prison, he resolved, without hesitation, on this robbery, which would not only give him the means of present relief, but would supply him with a store for future demands, which he had every reason to expect from the character of his comrades.