"Yes, I will go," he soliloquized, in his chamber, to which he had ascended for the purpose of collecting his scattered moveables; "it is plain enough, the girl is vastly delighted to get rid of me. 'You are now well enough to be released from captivity.' These were her very words; and she smiled as she uttered them, as if my discharge were a deliverance to herself!—Well,—and why should it not be?" he muttered, after a pause; "Why should my presence be a pleasure to her? and why should my departure afflict her? and why should I care whether she be pleased or not? A girl engaged,—betrothed,—and betrothed to a Falconer! Tush, I am a fool. I was a fool to come hither, too. The devil take the wars, and the king's commission into the bargain. I will leave the place—I would my arm were but sound, and I would leave it to-morrow,—ay, I vow I would!
'Oh, the bonny bright island.'—
I wonder she don't sing: for a speaking voice, she has the richest soprano,—a mezzo-soprano, I think,—I ever heard; it is a positive music, mellow, rich, and wild, like the hum of a pebble in the air, darted out of a sling—a most delicious, wondrous, incomprehensible voice. And then her eyes——Death! what care I for her eyes?
'Oh, the bonny bright island'—
Pshaw! I would I were home again.—Home? home!" he muttered, with long pauses betwixt each interjection, and nodding his head the while, as if surprised at his own reflections. Then, as if these silent comets of the brain had returned to the orbit in which they had so lately vapoured, he resumed,—"At all events, old Elsie's is not far off; and in common civility I must call and see her two or three times.——And, besides, I don't see how I can get off without painting the Captain 'that grand picture of the battle of Brandywine, and Tom Loring dying.' What an absurd old fellow!—A precious picture I should make of it! Yet I must do something to requite their kindness.—Kindness! There's no doubt she saved my life. The Captain swears, nothing living that gets into the deep eddy under the fall, can get out living. His cow lay under there three days. To think I was so near my head-and-foot-stone! and to think this girl, this Catherine Loring, saved me from the destiny of a crumpled-horn! The most remarkable, fascinating.——Ah! the island's the place for me, after all.
'Oh, the island! the bonny bright island!'
Well, now she's in the garden among the flowers, and the Captain's taking his siesta. A little medicine, with some of its concomitant starvation, is quite a good thing for the voice."
During all the time of this soliloquy, the young man had ever and anon, sometimes insensibly to himself, been humming the refrain of a familiar air; until at last, being seduced by the sound of his own voice, and betrayed into a mood of melody by his reflections, he gradually fell to humming with more confidence; and, finally, supposing no one to be nigh, he even began to sing, though in a low voice, the following idle stanzas, that had been all the time jingling through his brain.
| I. |
| Oh the island! the bonny bright island! Ah! would I were on it again, Looking out from the wood-cover'd highland, To the blue surge that rolls from the main. How sweet on the white beach to wander, When the moon shows her face on the sea, And an eye that is brighter and fonder, Looks o'er her bright pathway with me! |
| II. |
| Oh the island! the bonny bright island! Never more shall I see it again, Never look from the wood-covered highland, To the blue surge that rolls from the main. Never more shall I walk with the maiden, On the beach I remember so well: Farewell to my hope's vanished Eden— Oh my bonny bright island, farewell! |
"Pshaw,—nonsense!" he went on, pursuing his reflections; "'the island, the bonny bright island,' is a very fine thing, but what do I care about it? I wonder if Elsie spoke the truth about the match? If I thought the girl's heart were not in it.—Pshaw again! She is the merriest-hearted creature I ever saw,—only of quick feelings, and strangely attached to the memory of her brother: her eyes always fill when the Captain talks of him—the very name makes the tears start; and good heaven! how superb her eyes look, with tears in them! But then the Captain is poor, and she knows it,—bent upon the match, and she knows that, too; and young Falconer is a soldier, and a handsome fellow, and she knows that, too. And he was here! I wish I had seen him. He has wealth, too—so have I; he is gay and handsome—I am neither sour nor ugly.—'Sdeath! where am I getting? I will find out, at least, what are her feelings towards him: if her heart be not in the match, why then.——Could any man stand by and see such a saint of heaven bartered away, sacrificed—sold to tears and captivity?"