Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume VI Part 16

He was about to add something more; but his utterance became choked; and, again pressing her hand to his lips, while a tear fell on it, he turned abruptly away. Miss Manners said not a word--her heart was too full--but closed the gate behind her and disappeared. Jones listened. He heard her step as she went up the gravel walk, and he heard nothing more. The night was, by this time, fearfully dark, and everything around him was silent. He walked on a short distance, returned, and again walked on. His mind was whirling and confused. He tried to recollect every word which Miss Manners had said, and by this means to get at the real state of her feelings; but he was too much agitated for reflection.

On gaining his lodging, he felt faint, and put himself immediately to bed. All night long he tossed about in sleepless excitement; and, in the morning, fell into a feverish doze, broken by unintelligible dreams.

When he awoke, he rose up, and felt so giddy as to be unable to stand, and again went to bed. During the day, he felt s.h.i.+vering and unwell; and, the next day, the same symptoms continued, and with increased violence. Another day arrived--another, and another--and all consciousness left him. Several weeks elapsed, and found him still bedridden, but convalescent; and it was nearly three months before he was enabled to venture out, and then only when the sun was warm.

"You have been long out, Marion," said Mr. Manners to his daughter, as she returned from her accidental interview with Jones. "I was afraid some accident had befallen you."

"No," said Miss Manners, whose eyes were slightly inflamed; for, somehow or other, she had wept before entering the house: "no accident."

"Child," said her father, "what has happened--you look ill!"

Miss Manners told all--her meeting with Jones, and his pa.s.sionate declaration; but, notwithstanding that her father conjured her not to think of him, she thought of him all night long.

The news of Jones' illness spread rapidly through the village; but, as might be expected, excited little sympathy. With the exception of Mr.

Manners and the surgeon of the village, no one looked near his abode; and many were the remarks made by the gossips, that few tears would be shed for him, and that he might bless heaven he was allowed to die in bed. From the manse, however, he received much attention. Anxious inquiries concerning the state of his health were made almost daily, accompanied, occasionally, with presents of wine and jellies. This afforded Jones delightful materials for reflection; and, while his health continued to improve, he occupied his mind with dreams of the future, which his better judgment told him were too bright ever to be realised.

It was on a mild spring morning that the poor invalid sallied forth, for the first time, since his illness. He was still rather pale and feeble; but the air was warm for the season, and he felt happy on being released from his confinement. His appearance, as he walked through the village, brought the people to their doors as before; and the old remarks about "the man that was tried for murder," were made from mouth to mouth.

Nevertheless, he was allowed to pa.s.s unmolested, and was soon clear of the houses. The effect of natural scenery, and more particularly, perhaps, of the weather, on the animal spirits, has often been remarked, and the pleasing train of thought which now pa.s.sed through the mind of our hero, might partly have arisen from this cause. The sun was unshaded, and the road warm and dry. On either side, the leaves were budding from the hedges, and the cheerful warbling of birds infused a delicious and summer-like feeling into his heart. He had gone out without any precise object, and merely to enjoy a walk in the fresh air--so delightful after long confinement to a sick chamber; but his steps had led him almost involuntarily in the direction of the manse. On reaching the gate, he stopped, loitered on for a few yards, and again stopped. He then turned back and hesitated, and at last made bold to enter. As he wound his way slowly up the walk, which was neatly laid off on either side with flowers and shrubbery, he felt more collected than, under the circ.u.mstances, he could have imagined possible; and, in a few moments, he was seated in the neat drawing-room of the manse, pouring out his grat.i.tude to Miss Manners for the kindness and attention he had experienced during his illness.

While the two sat conversing together, Mr. Manners entered. He congratulated Jones on his recovery; but the latter did not fail to observe that his manner towards him was less frank than formerly. The truth is, that the old man was a good deal alarmed for his daughter, whom he had warned to discourage his addresses; and, although desirous to treat him with kindness, endeavoured to avoid everything which might seem an approval of his suit. Jones had the good sense not to prolong his visit; and, after cordially repeating his thanks for the various acts of kindness he had experienced, rose up and took his leave.

To her poor lover, Miss Manners had never appeared so lovely as on this occasion. He left the house with the intention of never beholding her more; but scarcely had he quitted her presence, than he felt that to remain long away were impossible. Her beauty; her goodness; her kind words; her kinder looks; all--all rushed to his mind; and his feelings, which had been somewhat calmed by his illness, acquired even more than their wonted fire. Day after day, as he continued to gather strength, he revisited all his old haunts, and felt as if he had just returned from a sojourn in a distant land. Everything was new and fresh; but, with every scene, old feelings were a.s.sociated. To him Miss Manners was still the presiding genius of the place, from whom it derived all its beauty, and to whom the wors.h.i.+p of his heart was involuntarily offered.

Meanwhile, Miss Manners had received strict injunctions from her father not to receive his visits except when he himself was at home. To this course he had been urged, not so much by his own feelings towards him, as by the advice of his friends. Indeed, Jones was rather a favourite with him. He would willingly have done much to serve him; and yet, when the happiness of his daughter was at stake, he often reflected on the awful consequences which might ensue, if he were really the guilty wretch whom so many suspected he was.

About this time a circ.u.mstance occurred, which put an end to his doubts.

Among those who mourned the unhappy fate of the poor village maiden, the grief of her lover, George Merrideth, had been observed to be the wildest. For some days, he had wandered about like one demented; and all who witnessed, respected and commiserated his anguish. Latterly, however, he had disappeared entirely from the public view; and it was hinted by some, that his mind had been seriously affected by the occurrence. One morning, Mr. Manners was suddenly sent for to attend at his deathbed. When he entered, the patient had fallen into a kind of dozing sleep; and he was motioned to a seat near the bed. The light was almost entirely excluded from the chamber; and the only other person present was the mother of the dying lad, who was a widow. She was wasted with grief and watching, and seemed just such a figure as a painter would have chosen to heighten the melancholy of such a scene. As she came round and whispered some scarcely articulate words into the clergyman's ear, her son murmured in his sleep, became restless, and woke as in terror. Mr. Manners spoke to him in soothing words, and referred to a state of happiness hereafter.

"Aha!" cried he, "can I enter heaven with my hand b.l.o.o.d.y? Her spirit is sainted. I could not go near it. Oh no--no--never--never."

"Of what is it he speaks?" inquired Mr. Manners.

"Oh, sir!" answered his mother, "his thoughts are wandering. I canna think he killed the la.s.sie he loved."

"Ay, mother," said the youth, with an effort, "this hand did it. O fool!--cut it off--off with it--it is not my hand--my hand never would have done it. Oh--oh--mother--Jessie."

Mr. Manners was dumb with amazement. It was but too evident from whence the agony of the youth flowed, and he sat regarding him with looks of awe and terror.

"It grows dark," continued the patient; "but, softly. You know I loved you when you were a child; but now you love another!--ay, that's it--you will not be mine! It grows still darker!--ha, ha, ha!--fly--fly!--it is done! O G.o.d! if I could draw back!"

The dying man waxed wilder in his ravings. After a time, however, he became comparatively calm; and, on Mr. Manners addressing him, recognised his voice.

"Ah, that voice!" he said. "I have often heard it. I have not attended to its counsel; but if it could console--oh, no, I cannot be consoled.

Your hand, sir!--forgive--forgive."

"Do not ask forgiveness of me," said Mr. Manners. "May G.o.d in his mercy pardon you!"

The wretched youth muttered a kind of incoherent prayer, while his mother dropped on her knees by the bed-side. All afterwards was wildness and despair, only relieved by intervals of exhaustion. Mr. Manners continued to administer such consolation as the circ.u.mstances of the case admitted of, and did not leave the house till the voice of the guilty man had become hushed in death, and nothing broke the silence but the moanings of the afflicted mother.

Several days had now pa.s.sed since Jones visited the manse; and he could hold out no longer. On the very day on which Mr. Manners was engaged in the melancholy duty we have described, the unhappy lover bent his steps thither, with an anxious and fluttering heart. As he walked up the garden, he observed Miss Manners watering a small bed, in which she had planted some favourite flowers. The young lady was a good deal embarra.s.sed on beholding him. Her father's injunctions against receiving his visits had made a deep impression on her mind, and she had directed the servant, the next time he called, to say that she could not be seen.

Now, however, there was no escape. Jones walked towards her with a smile of mingled fear and admiration; and, if not with cordiality, she received him at least with politeness. Their conversation, as they strolled through the garden, was at first embarra.s.sed, but became more free by degrees, and a.s.sumed at length an almost confidential tone. To a person of a romantic disposition, Jones' conversation was in a high degree fascinating; and his companion in this delightful walk did not conceal the pleasure with which she listened to it. His candour and unreserve she admired; his misfortunes she commiserated; and, with much that he said she could not fail to be both interested and flattered.

Nevertheless, she avoided any word by which she thought she might give encouragement to his hopes; while he, on the other hand, although freely expressing his pa.s.sion, was careful to avoid a syllable which might lead her to believe that, in his present disgrace and poverty, he presumed to the honour of her hand. After wandering about for some time, their souls melting into each other, Miss Manners could not resist inviting him into the house to rest. Scarcely, however, had they seated themselves in the parlour, when Mr. Manners appeared. He entered with rather a hasty step, and his manner was a good deal agitated. On perceiving Jones, he bowed to him, then turning to his daughter--

"My child!" he said.

"What is it?" inquired Miss Manners, in a tone of alarm.

"Have you," he continued, "forgotten my injunctions?"

Miss Manners cast her eyes on the ground, and seemed displeased at being taken to task before a stranger.

Jones, observing her embarra.s.sment, said--

"Sir, I shall be sorry if my presence here should occasion you any uneasiness. Believe me, I am the last person in the world to intrude where I am not welcome. It will, no doubt, cost me a pang, sir; but if it be your wish that I should not see your daughter more, I shall try to tear my heart from her--I shall go and hide myself in obscurity, and endeavour to forget all I have most loved in this world!"

Mr. Manners raised his hand, as if commanding silence, and gazed stedfastly on his daughter. The latter looked up to him with tears in her eyes, and exclaimed--

"I think Mr. Jones is innocent!"

"He _is_ innocent," said the old man, emphatically. "Come to my arms, both!"

Both moved forward and took the hand he offered, but with amazement depicted on their countenances.

"Oh, my children!" he said, "I have witnessed such a scene!"

The old man sat down on the sofa, and, for a few moments, covered his eyes with his hands.

"I have been," he, at length, proceeded, "by the dying bed of the poor village maiden's murderer--I have heard the fearful confession from his own lips. O G.o.d! may I never behold such another deathbed!"

Jones dropped on his knee, and Miss Manners clasped her hands as in mute prayer.

"Thank G.o.d!" at length exclaimed the latter; "the innocent will no longer suffer for the guilty!"

"No!" said the old man. "Mr. Jones, you have been deeply wronged."

"Ay," said Jones; "but not by you. From you only have I received kindness--kindness often better deserved, but never more needed--often, perhaps, bestowed, but never received with deeper grat.i.tude. While every door was barred against me, yours was open--while every heart"----

His utterance became choked, and he was altogether unable to proceed.

Mr. Manners shook him warmly by the hand; and, with many expressions of thankfulness, Jones withdrew, leaving Miss Manners in tears.

On returning homewards, it was obvious that the news of Merrideth's death, together with its fearful revelations, had spread like wildfire through the village. How different was Jones' reception!--nods, recognitions, congratulations, cheers, wherever he pa.s.sed! Of these, however, he thought not: he thought only of the girl he had left behind him weeping. That very night he again repaired to the manse. He went often; and every succeeding time seemed to be made more welcome.

A pleasant--a delightful change had now taken place in his feelings. The consciousness of having outlived the slander which had so long sullied his name, filled his bosom with a sensation of honest pride, and inspired him with a degree of ease and confidence which he had not previously experienced. Miss Manners was scarcely less gratified by the mystery having been at length cleared up, and the public mind disabused.

From her first interview with Jones, she had entertained a strong impression of his innocence; and the fact of her good opinion of him being confirmed, she regarded with feelings almost of triumph.

Accordingly, their meetings were mutually delightful. If, at any time, the latter doubted the propriety of encouraging his visits, the reflection that she had done right, in the first instance, in following the dictates of her heart, caused her to continue in the same course.

The truth is, she pitied Jones; and pity, it is well known, is akin to a still tenderer emotion.

Two or three weeks after the scene we have described, there was a small evening party at the manse. It was given in honour of Mr. and Mrs.

Green, who had just been a few days married. The young couple were ushered into the drawing-room in gay attire, and with their faces wreathed into still gayer smiles; and, in the fair bride, Jones, who was, of course, present, recognized the lady who had, on one occasion, betrayed so much alarm on his doing her a trifling act of kindness. The affair, in the absence of more important topic of conversation, was talked and laughed over; and the bride acknowledged herself to have been a very silly girl. All the company were soon in high spirits, and the merriment was kept up till it was near midnight. On separating, the company could not help expressing their admiration of the serenity of the night. It was a clear, lovely moonlight; and the exquisite stillness and beauty of the scene caused some of the younger individuals of the party to regret that they had spent so much time within doors. When they reached the gate, Miss Manners, who had accompanied them through the garden, bade them "good night." "Good night," said they, and parted; but Jones, who was the last to shake hands with her, could not part. He lingered, pressed her hand, wished her "good night," and still lingered.