The Miniature by J. Y Akerman. Calling one day on a friend who
had amassed a large collection of autographs and other manuscript curiosities, he showed me
a small quarto volume which had been bequeathed to him by a relative, a
physician who for many years had been an extensive practice in London. He attended
the patients at a private asylum for insane persons of the better classes. Said
my friend, and I have often heard him speak of the writer of that
beautiful manuscript, a gentleman of good family, who had been an inmate of
Blank House upwards of thirty years at the time he was first called to attend
him. On looking over the volume, I found it filled with scraps of
poetry, extracts from classic authors and even from the Talmudic writers. But what
interested me most was a narrative of several pages which appeared so circumstantially related as
to leave little doubt of its being partly, if not wholly, founded on
fat. I beg permission to make a transcript, which was readily granted,
and the result is before the reader. We laugh at what we call the
folly of our ancestors and their notions of destiny and the malignant influences of the
stars. For what will our children deride us? Perhaps for dreaming that friendship
was a reality, and that constant love dwelt upon earth. I once believed
that friendship was not a vain name, and thought, with the antique sage
that one mind sometimes dwelt in two bodies. I dreamt and woke to find
that I had been dreaming. George s was my chum at school and my
inseparable companion at college. We quitted it at the same time, he to
proceed to London, where he was in expectation of obtaining a lucrative appointment in
one of the English colonies, and I to return for a short period to
the family mansion. When I reached Blank Hall, I found several visitors,
among whom was my cousin Maria d. She had grown a woman since I
had last met her, and I now thought I had never seen a more
perfect figure or a more bewitching countenance. Then she sang like a siren and
was an elegant horsewoman. Will those who read this wonder that I fell in
love with her, that I spent nearly the whole of the day in her
company, and that I could think of nothing in the world. Besides,
something occurred to delay my friend George's departure from England, and as he was
idling about town, I invited him to Blank Hall. Great as was my
regard for him, I now, however, discovered that I could live less
in his company no marvel. I preferred the society of my lovely cousin,
upon whose art I had had the happiness to learn My constant attentions had already
made a sensible impression. I hesitated to make her an offer, though I
had every reason to believe our attachment was mutual, partly perhaps from that excessive
delicacy which constantly attends on true love, and partly because I wished to do
so. When my friend should have left us less exposed to intrusion, would
that the deep sea had swallowed him up, or that he had wrought it
under a tropical sun. Ere he had come to Blank Hall one morning,
I rose earlier than usual, and was looking from my chamber window on the
beautiful prospect which the house commanded wrapped in a delightful reverie of which my lovely
cousin was the principal subject. I paid, but little attention to the sound
of voices below. Suddenly, however, I awoke to consciousness for the sweet
tones of a woman in earnest conversation struck on my ear. Yes, it
was hers. It was Maria's. Who could have called her forth at so
early an hour. As I looked earnestly towards the walk which ran through the
plantation, I saw emerge from it my cousin and my friend. My heart
rose to my lips and choked my utterance, or I should have cried out
at the sight, I withdrew from the window and threw myself on the sofa,
tormented with surmises a thousand times more painful even than realities. At the
breakfast table, I was moody and thoughtful, which my friend, perceiving attempted
a joke, but I was in no humor to receive it. When Maria,
in a compassionating tone, remarked that I looked unwell and that I should
take a walk or a ride before breakfast, adding that she and George had
walked for an hour and more in a plantation near the house. Though this
announcement was certainly but ill calculated to afford perfect ease to my mind. It
was yet made with such an artless air that my more gloomy surmises vanished,
and I rallied. But I wish my friend would take his departure right,
truly, says the Italian proverb love's girden is jealousy. After breakfast, George
proposed a stroll on foot to the ruins of the Cistercian Abbey, about a
mile distant from the hall, to which I at once assented. As we
walked along the beautiful and shady lane which led to the ruin, George was
as loquacious as ever, talked of everybody and everything, and of his confident
expectation of realizing a fortune abroad. I was, however, in no humor
for talking, and made few remarks in reply. But he appeared not to
heed my taciturnity, and when he arrived at the spot, broke forth into
raptures at the sight of the noble ruin. And truly it was a scene,
the contemplation of which might have lulled the mines of most men. A
thousand birds were caroling around us. The grass near the ruin was not long
in rank, but short, close studded with trefoil and soft as a rich
carpet. Luxuriant Ivy climbed the shattered walls bleached by the winds of centuries,
and the lizards basking in the sun darted beneath the fallen fragments at the sound
of our footsteps. As we approached the spot. We both sat down on
a large stone and surveyed the noble Oriole. I was passionately fond of Gothic
architecture and had often admired this window, But I thought I had never seen
it look so beautiful before. My moody thoughts fled, and I was wrapped
in the contemplation of the exquisite tracery when I was suddenly roused by my friend,
who, patting me familiarly on the back, exclaimed, it is a
beautiful ruined dick. How I wish thy sweet cousin Maria had accompanied us.
I was struck dumb by this declaration, but my look was sufficiently eloquent to
be understood by him, and he did not fail to interpret it aright.
He appeared confused, and I, regaining my self possession, arose from my
seat with the laconic remark. Indeed, George attempted a laugh, but it
failed. It was evidently as much disconcerted and disquieted as myself. How Lynx
is love. We mutually read each other's hearts at the same moment. I
am sorry for you, Dick, said he, after a short pause,
affecting very awkwardly an air of indifference one my soul. I am, but
I'm over head and ears in love with the girl, and should die at
the bare thought of her encouraging another. I wished, for the strength of
Milo that I might have dashed out his brains against the huge stone on which
she had been sitting. I felt my very blood seethe and simmer at the
declaration, and with my clenched fist, I struck him a violent and stunning
blow, which, though it did not beat him to the ground, sent
him staggering several paces backward. Liar, I screamed, frantically, take that
you dare not proceed with your folly. Recovering his feet, George laid his
hand on his sword, which he half unsheathed, But as if conscious of
there being no witness present, or wishing perhaps still further to convince me of
the bandage he possessed, he did not draw nay, said I out with
your weapon. Nothing less will do. I would rather lose my birthright than
yield to thee one without whom life would be valueless. He smiled, bitterly,
wiped his bruised and bloody face, and slowly drew from his bosom a
small miniature encircled with diamonds, which he held before my eyes. One glance
was sufficient. It was a portrait of Maria. It was that face which,
sleeping or waking, has haunted me these thirty years. Pasted villain,
I cried, clutching at the portrait with my left hand, while I snatched
with my right hand my sword from its sheath. You have stolen it with
assumed coolness, which it was impossible he could feel. He smiled again,
put the miniature in his bosom, and drew his sword. The next moment
our weapons crossed with an angry clash, and were flashing in the morning sun.
My adversary was a perfect master of his weapon, and he pressed upon
me with a vigor which any attempt to retaliate would have rendered dangerous in one
so much inferior to him in skill. Maddened as I was, I yet
restrained myself and stood on my guard, my eyes fixed on his and watching
every glance. My desire to destroy him was intense. The fiend nerved my
arm, and while he warned with the conflict, I became more cool and
vigilant. At length he appeared to grow weary, and then I pressed upon
him with the fixed determination of taking his life. But he rallied instantly,
and in returning a thrust which I intended for his heart, and which he
parried scarcely in time, his foot slipped and he fell on one knee,
the point of my sword entering the left breast by accident. It was not
a deep wound, and perhaps he felt it not, for he attempted to
master my sword with his left hand, while he shortened his own weapon and
thrust fiercely at my throat, making at the same time a spring to regain
his feet. But his his fate was sealed. As he rose. I
dashed aside the thrust intented for me, and sheathed my weapon in his left
breast. I believe I must have pierced his heart, for he sank on
his knees with a gasp, and the next moment fell heavily on his face
with his sword still clutched tightly in his hand. Wearied and panting from the
efforts of the violent struggle, I threw myself on the large stone which had
so recently served us for a seat, and looked on the body of my
adversary. He was dead. That fatal thrust had destroyed all rivalry, but
at the price of a murder, the murder of one who had been my
friend from boyhood upwards. A thousand conflicting emotions rapped me as I beheld the
piteous sight. Hatrede was extinguished, and remorse succeeded. Yet I still thought
of the audacity of him who had provoked such deadly resentment. Fear, too,
fear of the consequences of this fatal encounter in a solitary spot without witnesses,
added to the intensity of my misery, and I groaned in anguish.
What was to be done. Should I go and deliver myself up to justice
and declare the whole truth? Should I fly and leave the body of my
friend to tell the dismal tale? Or should I bury him secretly and leave
it to be supposed that he had been robbed and murdered? As each suggestion
was canvassed and rejected. In my despair, I even thought of dying by
my own hand. A miserable wretch, I exclaimed, what hast thou done?
To what dire necessity? Has a fair and false face driven me?
Yet? I will look once more on those bewitching features which had brought me
to this wretched pass. I stooped and turned the dead man on his back.
His pallid face was writhen and distorted, his lips were bloody, and
his eyes, which were wide open, seemed still to glare with hatred and
defiance, as when he stood before me in the desperate struggle for life and
death. I tore open his vest and discovered the wound that had killed him.
It had collapsed and looked no bigger than the puncture of a bogkin,
But one little round crimson spot was visible. The hemorrhage was internal. There
lay the miniature, which a few minutes before had been held up exultingly to
my frantic gaze. I seized and pressed it to my lips forgetting in my
transports. How dearly I had purchased it. This delirium, however, soon
subsided, and my next thoughts were of the dead body. I looked about
me for some nook where I might deposit it. There was a chasm in
the ground among the ruins a few yards off, where the vaulted roof of
the crypt had fallen in. It was scarcely large enough to admit the corpse,
but I raised it in my arms, bore it thither, and with
some difficulty, thrust it through the aperture. I heard it fall, as
if to some distance, with a dull, heavy sound, and casting in
after it, my adversaries had and sword. I hurried from the spot like
another came at dinner. One glance from Maria, as I replied in answer
to her inquiry after George that he was gone to make a call a few
miles off. One glance, I say, thrilled through my very soul,
and almost caused me to betray myself. All noticed my perturbed look, and
complaining of violent headache, I withdrew from the table. Ere the meal was
ended, and betook myself to my chamber. How shall I paint the horror
of that evening, of the night that succeeded it, and the mental darkness
which fell upon my wretched self. Ere the morning dawned, night came I
rang for lights and attempted to read, but in vain, and after pacing
my chamber for some hours, overpowered by fatigue, I threw myself on the
bed and slept how long I know not. A succession of hideous dreams haunted
my slumbers. Still I was not awakened by them. The scenes shifted when
arrived at their climax, and a new ordeal of horror succeeded. Yet,
like him who suffers from nightmare, with a vague consciousness that all was not
real, I wished to awake. Last of all, I dreamt that I
was arraigned for the murder of my friend. The judge summed up the evidence,
which, though purely circumstantial, was sufficient to condemn me, and amidst
the silence of the crowded court, broken only by the sobs of anxious and
sympathizing friends and relatives, I received sentence of death and was hurried back to
my cell. Here, abandoned by all hope, I lay groveling on my
straw bed and cursed the hour of my birth. A figure entered, and,
in gentle accents which I thought I recognized, bade me arise, quit
my prison house and follow The figure was that of a woman closely veiled.
She led the way and passed the jailers, who seemed buried in profound sleep.
We left the town, crossed the common, and entered a wood.
When I threw myself at the feet of my deliverer and passionately besought her to
unveil. She shook her head, mournfully, bade me wait awhile till she
should return with a change of apparel, and departed. I cast myself down
at the foot of an aged oak, drew from my bosom the portrait of
Maria, and wrapped in the contemplation of those lovely features, I did not
perceive the approach of a man, the ranger of the forest, who,
recognizing my prison dress, darted upon me, exclaiming, villain, you have
escaped from jail and stolen that miniature from the hall. I sprang to my
feet, thrust the fatal portrait into my bosom, and would have fled,
but he seized and closed with me, and the struggle which followed we both
fell. I undermost. At that moment I awoke, I was in reality
struggling with some one, but whom I could not tell. For my candle
said burnt out, and the chamber was in total darkness. A powerful,
bony hand grasped me tightly by the throat, while another was thrust into my
bosom, as if in search of the miniature which I had placed there previous
to lying down. With a desperate effort, I disengaged myself and leaped from
the bed. But I was again seized, and again my assailant attempted to
reach my fatal prize. We struggled violently. At one time I seemed to
be overpowering him, and for several moments there was a pause during which I
heard my own breathing and felt my own heart throbbing violently. But he with
whom I contended seemed to breathe, not nor to feel like a warm and
living man. An indescribable tremor shook my frame. I attempted to cry out,
but my throat was rigid and incapable of articulation. I made another effort
to disengage myself from the grasp of my assailant, and in doing so drew
him as I found by the curtains near to the window. Again the hand
was thrust into my bosom, and again I repelled it, panting with the
violence of the struggle, while a cold sweat burst out at every pore.
I disengaged my right hand, and determined to see whom I was contending with.
I dashed aside the curtain. The dim light of the waning moon shone
into the chamber. It fell upon the face of my antagonist, and one
glance froze the blood in my veins. It was he. It was George,
he whom I had murdered, glaring upon me with eyes which no mortal
could look upon. A second time my brain whirled. A sound like the
discharge of artillery shook the place, and I fell to the ground, blasted
at the sight. Here follows a few incoherent sentences which I have not deemed
it necessary to transcribe. The reader will probably supply the sequel to this sad
story. End of the miniature.