Eugene Aram — Complete

“Thank you, Sir,—it is long since I have been in these parts. I used to know the country, but they have made new roads and strange enclosures, and I now scarcely recognise any thing familiar. Curse on this brute! curse on it, I say!” repeated the horseman through his ground teeth in a tone of angry vehemence, “I never wanted to ride so quick before, and the beast has fallen as lame as a tree. This comes of trying to go faster than other folks.—Sir, are you a father?”

This abrupt question, which was uttered in a sharp, strained voice, a little startled Walter. He replied shortly in the negative, and was about to spur onward, when the horseman continued—and there was something in his voice and manner that compelled attention: “And I am in doubt whether I have a child or not.—By G—! it is a bitter gnawing state of mind.—I may reach Knaresbro’ to find my only daughter dead, Sir!—dead!”

Despite of Walter’s suspicions of the speaker, he could not but feel a thrill of sympathy at the visible distress with which these words were said.

“I hope not,” said he involuntarily.

“Thank you, Sir,” replied the Horseman, trying ineffectually to spur on his steed, which almost came down at the effort to proceed. “I have ridden thirty miles across the country at full speed, for they had no post-horses at the d—d place where I hired this brute. This was the only creature I could get for love or money; and now the devil only knows how important every moment may be.—While I speak, my child may breathe her last!—” and the man brought his clenched fist on the shoulder of his horse in mingled spite and rage.

“All sham, your honour,” whispered the Corporal.

“Sir,” cried the horseman, now raising his voice, “I need not have asked if you had been a father—if you had, you would have had compassion on me ere this,—you would have lent me your own horse.”

“The impudent rogue!” muttered the Corporal.

“Sir,” replied Walter, “it is not to the tale of every stranger that a man gives belief.”

“Belief!—ah, well, well, ‘tis no matter,” said the horseman, sullenly. “There was a time, man, when I would have forced what I now solicit; but my heart’s gone. Ride on, Sir—ride on,—and the curse of—”

“If,” interrupted Walter, irresolutely—“if I could believe your statement:—but no. Mark me, Sir: I have reasons—fearful reasons, for imagining you mean this but as a snare!”

“Ha!” said the horseman, deliberately, “have we met before?”

“I believe so.”

“And you have had cause to complain of me? It may be—it may be: but were the grave before me, and if one lie would smite me into it, I solemnly swear that I now utter but the naked truth.”

“It would be folly to trust him, Bunting?” said Walter, turning round to his attendant.

“Folly!—sheer madness—bother!”

“If you are the man I take you for,” said Walter, “you once lifted your voice against the murder, though you assisted in the robbery of a traveller:—that traveller was myself. I will remember the mercy—I will forget the outrage: and I will not believe that you have devised this tale as a snare. Take my horse, Sir; I will trust you.”

Houseman, for it was he, flung himself instantly from his saddle. “I don’t ask God to bless you: a blessing in my mouth would be worse than a curse. But you will not repent this: you will not repent it!”

Houseman said these few words with a palpable emotion; and it was more striking on account of the evident coarseness and hardened vulgarity of his nature. In a moment more he had mounted Walter’s horse, and turning ere he sped on, inquired at what place at Knaresborough the horse should be sent. Walter directed him to the principal inn; and Houseman, waving his hand, and striking his spurs into the animal, wearied as it was, was out of sight in a moment.

“Well, if ever I seed the like!” quoth the Corporal. “Lira, lira, la, la, la! lira, lara, la, la, la!—augh!—whaugh!—bother!”

“So my good-nature does not please you, Bunting.”

“Oh, Sir, it does not sinnify: we shall have our throats cut—that’s all.

“What! you don’t believe the story.”

“I? Bless your honour, I am no fool.”

“Bunting!”

“Sir.”

“You forget yourself.”

“Augh!”

“So you don’t think I should have lent the horse?”

“Sartainly not.”

“On occasions like these, every man ought to take care of himself? Prudence before generosity?”

“Of a sartainty, Sir.”

“Dismount, then,—I want my horse. You may shift with the lame one.”

“Augh, Sir,—baugh!”

“Rascal, dismount, I say!” said Walter angrily: for the Corporal was one of those men who aim at governing their masters; and his selfishness now irritated Walter as much as his impertinent tone of superior wisdom.

The Corporal hesitated. He thought an ambuscade by the road of certain occurrence; and he was weighing the danger of riding a lame horse against his master’s displeasure. Walter, perceiving he demurred, was seized with so violent a resentment, that he dashed up to the Corporal, and, grasping him by the collar, swung him, heavy as he was,—being wholly unprepared for such force,—to the ground.

Without deigning to look at his condition, Walter mounted the sound horse, and throwing the bridle of the lame one over a bough, left the Corporal to follow at his leisure.

There is not perhaps a more sore state of mind than that which we experience when we have committed an act we meant to be generous, and fear to be foolish.

“Certainly,” said Walter, soliloquizing, “certainly the man is a rascal: yet he was evidently sincere in his emotion. Certainly he was one of the men who robbed me; yet, if so, he was also the one who interceded for my life. If I should now have given strength to a villain;—if I should have assisted him to an outrage against myself! What more probable? Yet, on the other hand, if his story be true;—if his child be dying,—and if, through my means, he obtain a last interview with her! Well, well, let me hope so!”

Here he was joined by the Corporal, who, angry as he was, judged it prudent to smother his rage for another opportunity; and by favoring his master with his company, to procure himself an ally immediately at hand, should his suspicions prove true. But for once, his knowledge of the world deceived him: no sign of living creature broke the loneliness of the way. By and by the lights of the town gleamed upon them; and, on reaching the inn, Walter found his horse had been already sent there, and, covered with dust and foam, was submitting itself to the tutelary hands of the hostler.

CHAPTER X.

WALTER’S REFLECTIONS.—MINE HOST.—A GENTLE CHARACTER AND A

GREEN OLD AGE.—THE GARDEN, AND THAT WHICH IT TEACHETH.—A

DIALOGUE, WHEREIN NEW HINTS TOWARDS THE WISHED FOR DISCOVERY

ARE SUGGESTED.—THE CURATE.—A VISIT TO A SPOT OF DEEP

INTEREST TO THE ADVENTURER

I made a posy while the day ran by,
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.

    —George Herbert.

The time approaches,
That will with due precision make us know,