CHAPTER XIII.
It is religion that doth make vows kept,
But thou hast sworn against religion;
Therefore, thy latter vow against thy first
Is in thyself rebellion to thyself:
And better conquest never canst thou make
Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts
Against these busy loose suggestions.
As Jane entered Mrs. Harvey's door she met her kind hostess just returning from a walk, her face flushed with recent pleasure. "Where upon earth have you been?" she exclaimed. "Ah! if you had gone with me, you would not have come home with such a wo-begone face. Not a word! Well—nothing for nothing is my rule, my dear; and so you need not expect to hear where I have been, and what superb papers have come from New-York, for the front rooms; and beautiful china, and chairs, and carpets, and a fine work-table, for an industrious little lady, that shall be nameless; all quite too grand for a sullen, silent, deaf and dumb school-mistress." She added, playfully, "if our cousin Elvira had been out in such a shower of gold, we should have been favoured with sweet smiles and sweet talk for one year at least. But there comes he that will make the bird sing, when it won't sing to any one else; and so, my dear, to escape chilling a lover's atmosphere, or being melted in it, I shall make my escape."
Jane would gladly have followed her, but she sat still, after hastily throwing aside her hat, and seizing the first book that she could lay her hands upon, to shelter her embarrassment. She sat with her back to the door.
Edward entered, and walking up to her, looked over her shoulder as if to see what book had so riveted her attention. It chanced to be Penn's "Fruits of Solitude." "Curse on all quakers and quakerism!" said he, seizing the book rudely and throwing it across the room; "wherever I go, I am crossed by them."
He walked about, perturbed and angry. Jane rose to leave him, for now, she thought, was not the time to come to an explanation; but Erskine was not in a humour to be opposed in any thing. He placed his back against the door, and said, "No, Jane, you shall not leave me now. I have much to tell you. Forgive my violence. There is a point beyond which no rational creature can keep his temper. I have been urged to that point; and, thank Heaven, I have not learnt that smooth-faced hypocrisy that can seem what it is not."
Jane trembled excessively. Erskine had touched the 'electric chain;' she sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.
"I was right," he exclaimed, "it is by your authority, and at your instigation, that I am dogged from place to place by that impertinent fellow; you have entered into a holy league; but know, Miss Elton, there is a tradition in our family, that no Erskine was ever ruled by his wife; and the sooner the lady who is destined to be mine learns not to interfere in my affairs, the more agreeable it will be to me, and the more safe for herself."
Jane's indignation was roused by this strange attack; and resuming her composure, she said, "If you mean that I shall understand you, you must explain yourself, for I am ignorant and innocent of any thing you may suspect me of."
"Thank heaven!" replied Erskine, "I believe you, Jane; you know in the worst of times I have believed you; and it was natural to be offended that you should distrust me. You shall know the 'head and front of my offending.' The sins that have stirred up such a missionary zeal in that body of quakerism, will weigh very light in the scales of love."
"Perhaps," said Jane gravely, "I hold a more impartial balance than you expect."
"Then you do not love me, Jane, for love is, and ought to be, blind; but I am willing to make the trial, I will never have it repeated to me, that 'if you knew all, you would withdraw your affections from me.' No one shall say that you have not loved me, with all my youthful follies on my head. I know you are a little puritanical; but that is natural to one who has had so much to make her miserable: the unhappy are apt to affect religion. But you are young and curable, if you can be rescued from this quaker climate and influence."
Edward still rattled on, and seemed a little to dread making the promised communication; but at last, inferring from Jane's seriousness that she was anxious, and impatient herself to have it over, he went on to tell her—that from the beginning of their engagement Mr. Lloyd had undertaken the surveillance of his morals; that if he had not been fortified by his antipathy to Quakers, he should have surrendered his confidence to him.
"No gentlemen," he said, "no man of honourable feeling—no man of proper sensibility—would submit to the interference of a stranger—a man not much older than himself—in matters that concerned himself alone; it was an intolerable outrage. If Jane was capable of a fair judgement, she would allow that it was so."
Jane mildly replied, that she could only judge from the facts; as yet she had heard nothing but accusations. Erskine said, he had imagined he was stating his case in a court of love and not of law; but he had no objection, since his judge was as sternly just as an old Roman father, to state facts. He could pardon Mr. Lloyd his eagerness to make him adopt his plans of improvement in the natural and moral world: to the first he might have been led by his taste for agriculture, (which he believed was unaffected), and to the second he was pledged by the laws of holy quaker church. Still he said none but a Quaker would have thought of meddling with the affairs of people who were strangers to him—however, that might be pardoned: as he said before, he supposed every Quaker was bound officiousness, by an oath, or an affirmation, for tender conscience' sake. "But my sweet judge, you do not look propitious," Erskine continued after this misty preamble, from which Jane could gather nothing but that his prejudices and pride had thrown a dark shadow over all the virtues of Mr. Lloyd.
"I cannot, Erskine, look propitious on your sneers against the principles of my excellent friend."
"Perhaps," replied Erskine tartly, "his practice will be equally immaculate in your eyes. And now, Jane, I beseech you for once to forget that Mr. Lloyd is your excellent friend; a man who bestowed some trifling favours on your childhood, and remember the rights of one to whom you at least owe your love—though he would neither accept that, nor your gratitude, as a debt."
Jane assured him she was ready to hear any thing and every thing impartially that he would tell her. He replied, that he detested stoical impartiality; that he wished her to enter into his loves and his hates, without expecting a reason in their madness. But since you must have the reason, I will not withhold it. As I told you, I submitted to a thousand vexatious, little impertinences': he is plausible and gentlemanly in his manners, so there was nothing I could resent, till after a contemptible affair between John and the old basket-maker and the Woodhulls, in which I used my humble professional skill to extricate my friends, who had been perhaps a little hasty in revenging the impertinence of the foolish old man. Lloyd was present at the trial before the justice: I fancied, from the expression of his face, that he wished my friends to be foiled, and this quickened my faculties. I succeeded in winning my cause in spite of law and equity, for they were both against me; and this you know is rather flattering to one's talents. The Woodhulls overwhelmed me with praises and gratitude. I felt sorry for the silly old fool, whom they had very unceremoniously unhoused, and I proposed a small subscription to enable him to pay the bill of costs, &c. which was his only receipt from the prosecution. I headed it, and it was soon made up; but the old fellow declined it with as much dignity as if he had been a king in disguise. It was an affair of no moment, and I should probably never have thought of it again, if Lloyd had not the next day made it the text upon which he preached as long a sermon as I would hear, upon the characters of the Woodhulls; he even went so far as to presume to remonstrate with me upon my connection with them, painted their conduct on various occasions in the blackest colours, spoke of their pulling down the old hovel, which had in fact been a mere cumberer of the ground for twenty years, as an act of oppression and cruelty; said their habits were all bad; their pursuits all either foolish or dangerous. I restrained myself as long as possible, and then I told him, that I should not submit to hear any calumnies against my friends; friends who were devoted to me, who would go to perdition to serve me. If they had foibles, they were those that belonged to open, generous natures; they were open-handed, and open-hearted, and had not smothered their passions, till they were quite extinguished. I told him, they were honourable young men, not governed by the fear that 'holds the wretch in order.' He might have known that I meant to tell him they were what he was not; but he seemed quite unmoved, and I spoke more plainly. I had never, I told him, been accustomed to submit my conduct to the revision of any one; that he had no right, and I knew not why he presumed, to assume it, to haunt me like an external conscience; that my 'genius was not rebuked by his,' neither would it be, if all the marvellous light of all his brethren was concentrated in his luminous mind."
"Oh, Erskine, Erskine!" exclaimed Jane, "was this your return for his friendly warning?"
"Hear me through, Jane, before you condemn me. He provoked me more than I have told you. He said that I was responsible to you for my virtue; that I betrayed your trust by exposing myself to be the companion, or the prey, of the vices of others. Would you have had me borne this, Jane? Would you thank me for allowing, that he was more careful of your happiness than I am?"—"Well," added he, after a moment's pause, "as you do not reply, I presume you have not yet decided that point. We separated, my indignation roused to the highest pitch, and he cold and calm as ever. When we next met, there was no difference in his manners to me that a stranger would have observed; but I perceived his words were all weighed and measured, as if he would not venture soon again to disturb a lion spirit."
"Is this all?" asked Jane.
"Not half," replied Erskine; and after a little hesitation he continued, "I perceive that it is impossible for you to see things in the light I do. Your aunt with her everlasting cant, your methodist friend with her old maid notions, and this precise quaker, above all, have made you so rigid, have so bound and stiffened every youthful indulgent feeling, that I have little hope of a favourable judgment, as a heretic could have had in the dark ages, from his triple-crowned tyrant."
"Then," said Jane, rising, "it is as unnecessary as painful for me to hear the rest."
"No, you shall not go," he replied; "I expect miracles from the touch of love. I think I have an advocate in your heart, that will plead for me against the whole 'privileged order,' of professors—of every cast. Do not be shocked, my dear Jane; do not, for your own sake, make mountains of mole-hills, when I tell you, that the young men of the village instituted a club, three or four months since, who meet once a week socially, perhaps a little oftener, when we are all about home: and"—he hesitated a moment, as one will when he comes to a ditch and is uncertain whether to spring over, to retreat, or to find some other way; but he had too much pride to conceal the fact, and though he feared a little to announce it, yet he was determined to justify it. Jane was still mute, and he went on—"We play cards; sometimes we have played later and higher perhaps than we should if we had all been in the leading-strings of prudence; all been bred quakers. Our club are men of honour and spirit, high-minded gentlemen; a few disputes, misunderstandings, might arise now and then, as they will among people who do not weigh every word, lest they should chance to have an idle one to account for; but, till the last evening, we have, in the main, spent our time together as whole-souled fellows should, in mirth and jollity. As I said, last evening unfortunately"
"Tell me nothing more, Mr. Erskine; I have heard enough," interrupted Jane.
"What! you will not listen to friend Lloyd's reproaches; not listen to what most roused his holy indignation?"
"I have no wish to hear any thing further," replied Jane. "I have heard enough to make my path plain before me. I loved you, Edward; I confessed to you that I did."
"And you do not any longer?"
"I cannot; the illusion has vanished. Neither do you love me." Edward would have interrupted her, but she begged him to hear her, with a dignified composure, that convinced him this was no sudden burst of resentment, no girlish pique that he might sooth with flattery and professions. "A most generous impulse, Edward, led you to protect an oppressed orphan; and I thought the devotion of my heart and my life were a small return to you. It is but a few months since. Is not love an engrossing passion? But what sacrifices have you made to it? Oh, Edward! if in the youth and spring of your affection, I have not had more power over you, what can I hope from the future?"
"Hope!—believe every thing, Jane. I will be as plastic as wax, in your hands. You shall mould me as you will."
"No, Edward; I have tried my power over you, and found it wanting. Broken confidence cannot be restored."
"Jane, you are rash; you are giving up independence—protection. If you reject me, who will defend you from your aunt? Do you forget that you are still in her power?"
"No," replied Jane; "but I have the defence of innocence, and I do not fear her. It was not your protection, it was not independence I sought, it was a refuge in your affection;—that has failed me. Oh, Edward!" she continued, rising, "examine your heart as I have examined mine, and you will find the tie is dissolved that bound us; there can be no enduring love without sympathy; our feelings, our pursuits, our plans, our inclinations, are all diverse."
"You are unkind, ungrateful, Jane."
"I must bear that reproach as I can; but I do not deserve it, Mr. Erskine."
Erskine imagined he perceived some relenting in the faltering of her voice, and he said, "Do not be implacable, Jane; you are too young, too beautiful, to treat the follies of youth as if they were incurable; give me a few months probation, I will do any thing you require; abandon the club, give up my friends."
Jane paused for a moment, but there was no wavering in her resolution—"No, Mr. Erskine; we must part now; if I loved you, I could not resist the pleadings of my heart."
Erskine entreated—promised every thing; till convinced that Jane did not deceive him or herself, his vanity and pride, mortified and wounded, came to his relief, and changed his entreaties to sarcasms. He said the rigour that would immolate every human feeling, would fit her to be the Elect Lady of a Shaker society; he assured her that he would emulate her stoicism.
"I am no stoic," replied Jane; and the tears gushed from her eyes. "Oh, Erskine! I would make any exertions, any sacrifices to render you what I once thought you. I would watch and toil to win you to virtue—to heaven. If I believed you loved me, I could still hope, for I know that affection is self-devoting, and may overcome all things. Edward," she continued, with a trembling voice, "there is one subject, and that nearest to my heart, on which I discovered soon after our engagement we were at utter variance. When I first heard you trifle with the obligations of religion, and express a distrust of its truths, I felt my heart chill. I reproached myself bitterly for having looked on your insensibility on this subject as the common carelessness of a gay young man, to be expected, and forgiven, and easily cured. These few short months have taught me much; have taught me, Erskine, not that religion is the only sure foundation of virtue—that I knew before—but they have taught me, that religion alone can produce unity of spirit; alone can resist the cares, the disappointments, the tempests of life; that it is the only indissoluble bond—for when the silver chord is loosed, this bond becomes immortal. I have felt that my most sacred pleasures and hopes must be solitary." Erskine made no reply; he felt the presence of a sanctified spirit. "You now know all, Erskine. The circumstances you have told me this evening, I partly knew before."
"From Lloyd?" said Edward. "He then knew, as he insinuated, why the 'treasure of your cheek had faded.'"
"You do him wrong. He has never mentioned your name since the morning I left my aunt's. I heard them, by accident, from John."
"It is, in truth, time we should part, when you can give your ear to every idle rumour;" he snatched his hat, and was going.
Jane laid her hand on his arm; "Yes, it is time," she said, "that we should part; but not in anger. Let us exchange forgiveness, Edward." Erskine turned and wept bitterly. For a few gracious moments his pride, his self-love, all melted away, and he felt the value, the surpassing excellence of the blessing he had forfeited. He pressed the hand Jane had given him, to his lips fervently, "Oh, Jane," he said, "you are an angel; forget my follies, and think of me with kindness."
"I shall remember nothing of the past," she said, with a look that had 'less of earth in it than heaven,' "but your goodness to me—God bless you, Edward; God bless you," she repeated, and they separatedfor ever!
For a few hours Erskine thought only of the irreparable loss of Jane's affections. Every pure, every virtuous feeling he possessed, joined in a clamorous tribute to her excellence, and in a sentence of self-condemnation that could not be silenced. But Edward was habitually under the dominion of self-love, and every other emotion soon gave place to the dread of being looked upon as a rejected man. He had not courage to risk the laugh of his associates, or what would be much more trying, their affected pity; and to escape it all, he ordered his servant to pack his clothes, and make the necessary preparations for leaving the village in the morning, in the mail-stage for New-York. He was urged to this step too, by another motive, arising from a disagreeable affair in which he had been engaged—the affair which had induced Mr. Lloyd to make a second attempt to withdraw him from his vicious associates. At a recent meeting of the club, the younger Woodhull had introduced a gentleman who pretended to be a Mr. Rivington, from Virginia. Woodhull had met him at Saratoga Springs. They were kindred spirits, and, forming a sudden friendship, Rivington promised Woodhull that, after he had exhausted the pleasures of the Springs, he would come to , and pass a few days with him before his return to Virginia. Rivington was a fit companion for his new friend; addicted to a score of vices; gambling high, and out-drinking, out-swearing, and out-bullying his comrades. Edward was certainly far better than any other member of this precious association. He was, from the first, disgusted with the stranger, with his gross manners, and with his manifest indisposition to pay to him the deference he was accustomed to receive from the rest of the company. The club sat later than usual. Rivington's passions became inflamed by the liquor he had drank. A dispute arose about the play. Erskine and John Woodhull were partners. Rivington accused Woodhull of unfair play. Edward defended his partner. A violent altercation ensued between them. The lie was given and retorted in so direct a form as to afford ample ground for an honourable adjustment of the dispute.
Rivington said, "If he had to deal with a Virginian—a man of honour—the quarrel might be settled in a gentlemanly way; but a snivling cowardly Yankee had no honour to defend. Edward was provoked to challenge him; and arrangements were made for the meeting at day-light in the morning, in a neighbouring wood, which had never been disturbed by a harsher sound than a sportman's gun. The brothers were to act as seconds.
The parties were all punctual to their appointment. The morning of which they were going to make so unhallowed a use, was a most beautiful one. Nature was in a poetic mood; in a humour to give her votaries an opportunity to diversify her realities with the bright creations of their imaginations. The vapour had diffused itself over the valley, so that from the hill, which was the place of rendezvous, it appeared like a placid lake, that no 'breeze was upon;' from whose bosom rose the green spires of the poplar, rich masses of maple foliage, and the graceful and widely spreading boughs of the elm—
"Jocund day
Stood tip-toe on the misty mountain's top,"
and sent her morning greetings to the white cliffs of the southern mountain,—brightened the mist that filled the deep indenting dells between the verdant heights, resembling them to island hills, and sending such a flood of light upon the western slopes, that they shone as if there had been a thousand streams there rejoicing in the sunbeams. But this appeal of Nature was unheeded and unnoticed by these rash young men. Her sacred volume is a sealed book to those who are inflamed by passion, or degraded by vice.
The ground was marked out, the usual distance prescribed by the seconds, and the principals were just about to take their stations, when they were interrupted by Mr. Lloyd, who, in returning from his morning walk, passed through this wood, which was within a short distance of his house. On emerging from the thick wood, into the open space selected by the young men, they were directly before him, so that it was impossible for him to mistake the design of their meeting.
"Confusion!" exclaimed Edward; mortified that Mr. Lloyd, of all men living, should have witnessed this scene; and then turning to him, for Mr. Lloyd was approaching him, "To what, Sir," said he haughtily, "do we owe the favour of your company?"
"Purely to accident, Mr. Erskine, or, I should say, to Providence, if I may be so happy as to prevent a rash violation of the laws of God and man."
"Stand off, Sir!" said Edward, determined now to brave Mr. Lloyd's opposition, "and witness, if you will, for you shall not prevent a brave encounter."
Mr. Lloyd had interposed himself between Edward and his adversary, and he did not move from his station. "Brave encounter!" he replied, pointing with a smile of contempt to Rivington, who was shaking as if he had an ague; "that young man's pale cheeks and trembling limbs do not look like 'impostors to true fear;' they do not promise the merit of bravery to your encounter, Mr. Erskine."
"The devil take the impertinent fellow!" exclaimed the elder Woodhull, (Edward's second); "proceed to your business, gentlemen."
Erskine placed himself in an attitude to fire, and raised his arm. Mr. Lloyd remained firm and immoveable. "Do you mean to take my fire, Sir?" asked Erskine. "If you continue to stand there, the peril be upon yourself; the fault rests with you."
"I shall risk taking the fire, if you dare risk giving it," replied Mr. Lloyd, coolly.
"Curse him!" said Woodhull, "he thinks you are afraid to fire."
This speech had the intended effect upon Erskine. "Give us the signal," he said, hastily.
The signal was given, and Edward discharged his pistol. The ball grazed Mr. Lloyd's arm, and passed off without any other injury. "It was bravely done," said he, with a contemptuous coolness, that increased, if any thing could increase the shame Erskine felt, the moment he had vented his passion by the rash and violent act. "We have been singularly fortunate," he continued, "considering thou hadst all the firing to thyself, and two fair marks. Poor fellow!" he added, turning to Rivington, "so broad a shield as I furnished for thee, I should have hoped would have saved some of this fright."
John Woodhull had perceived that his friend's courage, which, the preceding evening, had been stimulated by the liquor, had vanished with the fog that clouded his reason; and ever since they came on the battle-ground, he had been vainly endeavouring to screw him up to the sticking point, by suggesting, in low whispers, such motives as he thought might operate upon him; but all his efforts were ineffectual. Rivington was, to use a vulgar expression, literally 'scared out of his wits.' When the signal was given for firing, he had essayed to raise his arm, but it was all unstrung by fear, and he could not move it. The sound of Erskine's pistol completed his dismay; he sunk on his knees, dropped his pistol, said he was willing to own he was no gentleman; he would beg Mr. Erskine's pardon, and all the gentlemen's pardon; he would do any thing almost the gentlemen would say.
Jobn Woodhull felt his own reputation implicated by his principal's cowardice; and passionate and reckless, he seized the pistol, and would have discharged the contents at Rivington; but Mr. Lloyd, seeing his intention, caught hold of his arm, wrenched the pistol from him, fired it in the air, and threw it from him. "Shame on thee, young man!" he exclaimed, "does the spirit of murder so possess thee, that it matters not whether thy arm is raised against friend or foe?"
"He is no friend of mine," replied Woodhull, vainly endeavouring to extricate himself from Mr. Lloyd's manly grasp; he is a coward, and by my life and sacred honour!"
"Oh, Mr. Woodhull! sir," interrupted Rivington, "I am your friend, sir, and all the gentlemen's friend, sir. I am much obliged to you, sir," turning to Mr. Lloyd, who could not help laughing at the eagerness of his cowardice; "I am sorry for the disturbance, gentlemen, and I wish you all a good morning, gentlemen!" and so saying, he walked off the ground as fast as his trembling limbs could take him.
Mr. Lloyd now released young Woodhull from his hold; and winding his handkerchief around his arm, which was slightly bleeding, he said, "I perceive, gentlemen, there is no further occasion for my interposition. I think the experience of this morning will not tempt you to repeat this singular disturbance of the peace of this community."
The party were all too thoroughly mortified to attempt a reply, and they separated. Erskine felt a most humiliating consciousness of his disgrace, but he had not sufficient magnanimity to confess it, nor even to express a regret that he had wounded a man, who exposed his life to prevent him from committing a crime. The Woodhulls were deprived of the pitiful pleasure of sneering at Mr. Lloyd's want of courage. The younger brother's arm still ached from his experience of Mr. Lloyd's physical strength; and they all felt the inferiority of their boastful, passionate, and reckless fool-hardiness, to the collected, disinterested courage of a peaceful man, who had risked his life in their quarrel.
To fill up the measure of their mortification, Rivington had not left the village two hours, before several persons arrived there in pursuit of him. They informed his new friends, that he was not a Virginian, a name that passes among our northern bloods as synonymous with gentility high-mindedness, noble-daring, and other youthful virtues, but that he was a countryman of their own, a celebrated swindler, who had lived by his wits, ascending by regular gradations through the professions of hostler, dancing-master, and itinerant actor; and that having lately, by cleverness in managing the arts of his vocation, possessed himself of a large sum of money, he had made his debut as gentleman at the Springs.
After the events of the morning, Mr. Lloyd felt more anxiety than ever on Jane Elton's account; and never weary in well-doing, he determined to make one more effort to rescue Erskine from the pernicious society and influence of the Woodhulls. He solicited an interview with him; and without alluding to the events of the morning, he remonstrated warmly and kindly against an intimacy, of which the degradation and the danger were too evident to need pointing out. He trusted himself to speak of Jane, of her innocence, her purity, her trustful affection, her solitariness, her dependance.
At any other time, we cannot think Edward would have been unmoved by the eloquence of his appeal; but now he was exasperated by the mortifications of the morning; and when Mr. Lloyd said, "Erskine, if Jane Elton knew all, would she not withdraw her affections from thee?" he replied, angrily, "She shall know all. I have a right to expect she will overlook a few foibles; such as belong to every man of spirit. She owes me, at least, so much indulgence. She is bound to me by ties that cannot be broken—that she certainly cannot break." He burst away from Mr. Lloyd, and went precipitately to Mrs. Harvey's, where the explanation we have related ensued, and put a final termination to their unequal alliance.
The speculations of villagers are never at rest till they know the wherefore of the slightest movements of the prominent personages that figure on their theatre. Happily for our heroine, who was solicitous for a little while to be sheltered from the scrutiny and remarks of her neighbours, the affair of the duel soon became public, and sufficiently accounted for Erskine's abrupt departure.
Jane would have communicated to Mary, her kind, constant friend Mary Hull, the issue of her engagement; but it so happened, that she was at this time absent on a visit to her blind sister. She felt it to be just, that she should acquaint Mr. Lloyd with the result of an affair, in which he had manifested so benevolent and vigilant a care for her happiness. Perhaps she felt a natural wish, that he should know his confidence in her had not been misplaced. She could not speak to him on the subject, for their intercourse had been suspended of late; and besides, she was habitually reserved about speaking of herself. She sat down to address a note to him; and, after writing a dozen, each of which offended her in some point— either betrayed a want of delicacy towards Erskine, or a sentiment of self-complacency—either expressed too much, or too little—she threw them all into the fire, and determined to leave the communication to accident.