She looked so wild and unnatural, her tone was so mocking, her glance so defying, Arthur began to fear that her reason was disordered. Fever was burning on her cheeks, and it might be the fire of delirium that sparkled in her eyes. He took her hand very gently, and tried to count the beatings of her pulse, but she snatched it from him with violence, and commanded him to leave her.
“This is my sanctuary,” she cried. “You have no right to intrude into it. Begone!—I will be alone.”
“Mittie, I will not leave you here—you must return with me to your father’s house. Think of the obloquy you may incur by remaining. Come, before another enters.”
“If I go, you will be suspected of releasing the prisoner, and suffer the penalty due for such an act. No, no, I have braved all consequences, and I dare to meet them.”
“Then I leave you to inform the jailer of the flight of the prisoner. It is my duty.”
“You will not do so mean and unmanly a deed!” springing between him and the door, and pressing her back against it. “You will not basely inform of him whom a young girl has had the courage to release. You—a man, will not do it. Will you?”
“An act of justice is never base or cowardly. Clinton is a convicted thief, and deserves the doom impending over such transgressors. He is an unprincipled and profligate young man, and unworthy the love of a pure-hearted woman. He has tempted your brother from the paths of virtue, repaid your confidence with the coldest treachery, violated the laws of God and man, and yet, unparalleled infatuation—you love him still, and expose yourself to slander and disgrace for his sake.”
He spoke sternly, commandingly. He had tried reason and persuasion, he now spoke with authority, but it was equally in vain.
“Who told you that I love him?” she repeated. “’Tis false. I hate him. I hate him!” she again repeated, but her lips quivered, and her voice choked.
Arthur hailed this symptom of sensibility as a favorable omen. He had never intended to inform the jailer of Clinton’s escape. He would not be instrumental to such an event himself, knowing, as he did, his guilt, but since it had been effected by another, he could not help rejoicing in heart. Perhaps Clinton might profit by this bitter lesson, and “reformation glittering over his faults”—efface by its lustre the dark stain upon his name. And while he condemned the rashness and mourned for the misguided feelings of Mittie, he could not repress an involuntary thrill of admiration for her deep, self-sacrificing love. What a pity that a passion so sublime in its strength and despair should be inspired by a being so unworthy.