I lost no time in inquiring after the divinity who had engaged my heart, and learnt that she was the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman, a widower. I learnt also that her pecuniary expectations were not great. But what was this to me? I had enough for us both. Besides, what lover of one-and-twenty ever inquired into his mistress’s rent-roll, or sought for other treasures than were contained in her own lovely self? She had a brother, about a year older than herself. I wrote to my parents, to obtain their approbation of my choice: it was easily granted, and I assailed my charmer with all love’s artillery of sighs, and entreaties, and letters, and every thing which I thought might win her smile. I was not altogether without success. She listened to me with patience, and, I flattered myself, with pleasure: I pressed my suit, and, at last, she acknowledged that she loved me.
Beautiful visions of former happiness! why must my reminiscences of joy be ever accompanied with a pang at the comparison of my past and present state? Yet, though I reflect on it with the severest pain, there are thoughts connected with the subject, which I dwell upon, if not with pleasure, yet with something approaching to it. I cannot help feeling a complacent emotion at remembering, that a being like Mary did not think me unworthy her esteem and affection. I love to think of the walks we have had together, when the mournful rustling of winds among the trees and long grass, and the lengthening shadows, told us the approach of evening. I cannot forget the feelings with which I then looked upon the beauties of Nature. My heart had not then lost its facility of receiving such impressions; it was not blunted with the attacks of grief, nor jaundiced with the bitterness of disappointment. Those were happy days — when, with her hand clasped in mine, and her beautiful eyes beaming love, we wandered o’er plains and vallies —
—— Where streamy mountains swell
Their shadowy grandeur o’er the narrow dell;
Where mouldering piles, and forests intervene,
Mingling with darker tints the living green;
No circling hills the ravish’d eye to bound,
Heaven, Earth, and Ocean blazing all around!
Such was my first love; and there are feelings in a first love which no subsequent attachment can yield. The realization of those visions that the imagination has long been wont to create, and the mind to dwell upon; the floating and indistinct ideas (more beautiful from their very undefinedness) of rapture, and confidence, and happiness, which the warmth of youthful feeling infuses into youthful hearts; the novelty of the emotion; the exquisite vibration of hope, and fear, and joy, and sadness; the devotedness with which the soul is given up to one object, and one passion, conspire to give charms to the dream of first love, which are but faintly shadowed in a subsequent attachment.
The day was fixed for our marriage. I anticipated it, as may be conceived, with ecstatic joy. I thought my bliss was certain. Alas! how soon was I to find the futility of such hopes! The evening before the appointed day, I walked out alone, to enjoy, uninterrupted, the pleasure of my varied emotions. Mary was at home, reading a new work I had procured for her. It was a lovely summer’s evening. The sun had set; the day had been intensely hot, and the lightning blazed from the sky in vivid sheets. I gazed on it with pleasure as it flashed from the ether, and was reflected on the rippling waves of the river, which ran beside me. On the banks of the stream dark evergreens lifted their frowning tops, mingled with the lighter green of the willow and the beech. A lovely country spread itself around me in every direction, and the view was terminated by the dusky blue mountains that rose in dim majesty, scarcely distinguishable from the clouds that rolled on their tops. I stood to look on the scene, and enjoy the freshness of the air. I was filled with pleasant musings. I was in a state of what might be called affluence. I was a lover and beloved, and the next day was to crown my happiness. How little I imagined what to-morrow would bring forth — that I should be a fugitive and a wanderer!
While I was thus engaged, a female passed by me, at a little distance. She was above the middle size, of a commanding appearance, and the most expressive countenance I think I ever beheld. She was not, perhaps, what many might call beautiful, but I never knew any one who possessed so much the power of interesting at a first look. Her face was rather pale, but the features were striking, and her dark eye threw a vivid intelligence over their expression. Her black hair was curled in ringlets that clustered about her temples, and one lock waved down upon a beautifully shaped neck. There was perceivable too a lurking trace of the darker passions, which seemed to be disguised under an habitually assumed look of softness. By her dress, she appeared below the middle station of society; but there was a dignity, an ease in her manner, which repelled the idea. I certainly, for the time, forgot the subjects of which I had been thinking — even Mary’s image slipped from my mind.
As she was pursuing her road, her foot slipped, and she fell. I flew to assist her, and inquired if her fall had done her injury. She complained of having sprained her ankle, and I offered her my arm, which, after some excuses and apologies, she accepted. I really cannot tell how it was, but I felt a strange emotion at being thus situated. I was pleased — (I certainly ought not then to have been pleased, at least peculiarly pleased, by the society of any woman but one) — I said I was pleased, but it was a pleasure mixed with something like fear. There was something unaccountable about her, at least I thought so, which prevented me from feeling so at ease as I had always been with other females. A great part of this might be the fruit of imagination, for I had always a great inclination for the marvellous, and had spent many an hour, in my younger days, in framing plots of castles and giants, sphinxes, hypogriffs, and knights, and ladies, all mighty terrific and wonderful; as I thought then —
— Forms that bore
A shadowy likeness to those fabled things
That sprung of old from man’s imaginings;
Each look’d a fierce reality, — or seem’d
Nourish’d among the wonders of the deep,
And wilder than the Poet ever dream’d!
— As we walked along, we conversed on various subjects. Her discourse was interesting, fluent and animated, perhaps too much so, for it was interspersed with remarks whose general truth and well-directed pungency scarcely atoned for their freedom and boldness, which I did not altogether admire: perhaps she perceived this, for she changed the style of her conversation, and I began to listen to her with considerable delight. It may be mentioned, as an instance of my absence of mind whilst in her company, that I forgot to think, far less to inquire, where we were going. Indeed, I seemed to be in a dream — a dream, the awakening from which has been terrible.
We arrived at a spot, the most delightful I ever beheld. The earth sank in a kind of natural basin, the sides of which were covered with the highest green, and enamelled with the loveliest flowers: harebells, daisies, “wee crimson-tipped flowers,” and innumerable others, of all colours, gushed out in profusion. Water-lilies waved their graceful heads on the brink of a spring that bubbled from the bottom of the spot, and oozing away through the long grass and weeds which impeded its progress, trickled down its narrow channel with almost imperceptible murmurings.
My companion complaining of increased pain, occasioned, as she thought, by walking, we sat down on a large stone, which seemed to have lain there undisturbed by ages. A large oak spread over its branching arms, “the massy growth of twice a hundred years,” to which the ivy clung and twined about in fantastic wreathings. The magic of the spot, the light whispering of the winds through the quivering leaves, the gurgling of the brook as it boiled in mimic rage over the stones and other obstacles which presented themselves to its course; the perfume of the air, the witching hour, joined with a strange feeling of inquietude, the cause of which I feared to search into, overpowered my senses and unhinged my faculties. A thought of Mary intruded itself on me, for the first time; I felt it an intrusion, and strove to banish it.
Meanwhile my companion had remained silent: at last she spoke, in a sportive
manner, to me on the cause of my abstraction. I did not answer, and, plucking a flower from the ground, she offered it to me. I snatched at it: I caught her hand in mine; she smiled, and I was at her feet! —
I was startled by the approach of a footstep. I looked up, and to my confusion, beheld the brother of Mary. He had never been favourable to my passion for his sister, and I feared the worst consequences from his rage and dislike to me. I flew to him; he passed on, and strove to avoid me, but I followed, and overtook him. I said something about explanations. “Sir,” he replied, “I wish for no further explanations; the thing explains itself. Meanwhile I wish at present to be alone. I wish you a good night.” I remonstrated with him, and he replied in terms which, however warm, were, I must confess, authorized by my conduct. To be brief, our quarrel became serious, he gave me a challenge, I accepted it, and we parted.
I rushed home in a state of madness. At the gate I met Mary: she laughed, and playfully attempted to stop me, but I passed by with a violence that allowed no time for converse. I flew to - my room, and, flinging myself into a chair, gave myself up to the flood of passion and misery that overwhelmed me.
And when I reflected, it was misery. I had been seduced (I could not think by what evil influence) from the allegiance I owed to Mary — to her who, to-morrow, should become my wife; and, e’er the nuptial hour should arrive, I might be the murderer, or have fallen by the hand of her brother. At any rate, it was probable, almost certain, that he would disclose what he knew: it might be, nay, was it not likely that she should feel indignant at my conduct, and cast me off as unworthy of her? I was filled with agonizing apprehensions; the tumult of my mind was dreadful.
In about an hour would be the time at which I was to meet Mary’s brother. I took out my pistols and loaded them, and was almost ready to use them to put an end to my existence. Whilst I was thus employed, I heard a gentle rap at the door. I went and opened it, and found Mary. I went back, and she followed me. The first thing she saw was my pistols, which I had forgotten to conceal. “What are these for?” was her question, pointing to them. I was so confounded that, for some time, I could make no answer. At last, I said that I had been cleaning them. I looked at her; her eyes were swoln and inflamed with weeping, and I cursed myself for bringing misery on her. She held out her hand to me. “What ails you? you seem unwell.” I took her hand—” Mary, forgive me,” and I clasped her in my arms, and wept over her in convulsive sorrow. She was alarmed at my behaviour, and earnestly entreated me to tell her the cause of it. I became more calm. She spoke with me for some time, and I had resolved to disclose the whole to her; when, the clock striking, reminded me of my engagement. I threw myself on her neck, talked something incoherently about her brother, and, snatching up my pistols, I broke from her.
I rushed, in this state of desperation, towards the place appointed for our meeting; when, passing through a grove which sheltered the back of the house, some one caught me by the arm. I looked, and it was the detested being, the woman through whom I had brought myself into my present situation. I would rather have met with the sight of a basilisk. I endeavoured to get away, but she commanded me to stay, and I obeyed. “You hate me,” she said: “I have been, unwillingly, the cause of your quarrel with the brother of your intended wife: nay, be patient, I am here to serve you. I overheard all; I know where you are going; it is now in vain, he is dead.”
“Dead!” I exclaimed, “who is dead?
Speak, woman.”
“Stukeley!” For some time I could not speak. Horror and amazement deprived me of all power of utterance. “Tell me, how was this? who did it? when or where was it?”— “Immediately after I had overheard the conversation between you and him,” she continued, “I left the spot. In an hour after that time, he was found murdered. No robbery had been committed on his person: his watch, and what money he had, were safe. Suspicion has fallen on you, and—”
“On me, and why?”
“Ask nothing,” she replied, “time presses; in a short time you will (unless you save yourself by flight) be apprehended. The evidence is strong against you; some one heard you quarrel; he was seen with no one else. As you returned, you passed by the Deadman’s Hill, as they call it, a place out of the common road, and near where the body was found. Your strange behaviour, when you arrived at the house, was noticed by the servants. Whether you are guilty or not, you know best. I have told you what I have heard. But haste: every moment brings increasing danger. There are horses in the stable.” She dragged me on, for I was so bewildered with the dreadful information, that I possessed scarcely any power over myself. We stopped at the stable door; she left me, and in a few moments brought forth a horse, which she herself saddled and bridled. “No,” said I, “I will not fly; I am innocent, and fear nothing.”
“This is mere madness,” she rejoined; “fly for the present; hereafter you may return; the real murderer will probably be discovered; circumstances now overpower you, and you must yield to them.” In the state of confusion in which I was, I was easily prevailed upon to do any thing. “That is your safest road; go to London, there you may be safe; inquire for John Bell, the basket-maker, in — street. I will overtake you; conceal yourself. But you will want money; take this,” and she put a purse, seemingly well furnished, into my hand. I endeavoured to thank her. I forgot what evil she had been the cause of to me. “Say nothing,” she interrupted; “remember the misery I have brought upon you; perhaps,” she added, “you will not forget that I have endeavoured to atone for it.” There was something in her words and manner that touched me. “Some one comes,” she said; “begone — farewell.” She disappeared, and I pursued, as swiftly as I could, the road she had pointed out to me.
In the evening of the next day, I arrived at the metropolis, faint and weary with exertion. My first course was to inquire for the place to which I had been directed. I found it with considerable difficulty. It was a small, dirty, uncomfortable house; but any place of refuge was acceptable. I inquired if I could have lodgings here. The man eyed me narrowly, and beckoning to his wife (I suppose to look well after me) he went into a back room, from which he soon returned, and asked me in. I entered, and found, to my surprise, the woman whom I had left when I departed from P —— . She perceived my astonishment, and said, “You see I am a quick traveller. I came by a nearer, but more public road than you, which is the reason of my being here before you.” She then ordered in some refreshment, which we eat together. We spoke little, and I shortly retired for the night.
I retired, but not to rest; for the tumult of my thoughts effectually precluded sleep. Two days before, I was happy; all my wishes were about to be crowned with fulfilment, and I had scarce a hope or desire for more; and now, how different was my state! I was a fugitive and a wanderer; a proclaimed felon; branded as a murderer; compelled to shun society, and to hide myself from the light of day. And Mary! what would she think of my conduct? I was charged with the murder of her brother. I had fled from justice, and, of course, my guilt would be proclaimed. And would she, too, think me a villain? would she banish me from her memory, or think of me only with hatred and abhorrence? These were questions I feared to answer. Appearances were strongly against me, and though hope whispered that Mary would frame excuses for my conduct, and disbelieve the story of my guilt, yet it was possible, it was most probable, that it would be otherwise. From Mary my thoughts turned to her who had been the cause of this misery. There certainly was something in her that excited not mere interest: it was not admiration, for she was rather to be feared than admired; it was something which powerfully attracted my thoughts towards, and kept her idea almost continually in view. I was unable to discover why she had taken any interest in me; for that she did so, her conduct made evident. Why should she follow me, assist, and conceal me? What, could I be to her? Before that fatal day, I had never, to my knowledge, so much as seen her. I ran over the events of the evening when I saw her. I could scarcely think that accident alone had produced the meeting which had le
d to such important consequences. Then the murder of Mary’s brother, happening at that exact time, and attended with such circumstances, perplexed me. Such were the thoughts which, for a long time, prevented me from reposing in slumber. At last I slept, but my sleeping were more dreadful than my waking hours. Horrid visions thronged around me. Now I saw the murdered Stukeley, struggling with some one, whose features I could not perceive, and crying out for vengeance against his murderer. Then the vision would disappear, and in its place was Mary, pale and frantic, seeking for him who had injured her. These, and a thousand other fantasies of a like nature, rose up to my distempered fancy. At last, morning came, and drove them away, but it was only to be succeeded by real and heart-felt miseries.
For near a month I continued here, during the whole of which I saw no one but the man of the house, his wife, and Eliza (for so she desired me to call her). The conduct of this last was singular. To all my inquiries as to her motives for attending to me, &c she gave me none but general answers, which afforded me no information. Her behaviour was contrary to my expectation, particularly delicate, and seemingly that of a woman accustomed to the higher ranks of society. Let it not be imagined that any affection for her existed in my breast: all feelings of that nature were swallowed up in the attachment which, although hopeless, I still nourished for Mary. At last, a circumstance occurred which explained, in some manner, the motives of her conduct.
One morning, whilst I was sitting in my wretched chamber, I was alarmed by a noise below, as of several persons quarrelling. I started up, and in a moment after, Eliza rushed into the room. “You are lost!” she exclaimed; “here are the officers of justice.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 829
