CHAPTER III. THE VICTIM.
Major Burton revolved in his mind the events
of the evening, and his resentment against his commanding
officer gradually gave place to reflections
upon the sudden appearance of Eugenie. His vanity
whispered that she had sought him from the intensity
of her love; and, flattered by this testimonial
of her continued attachment, his feelings towards
her once more rushed back into their former channel;
but, like a stream that, for a time, has been
obstructed, and then suddenly breaks away, they
carried along with them a mass of impurity which
they had in the mean while accumulated. We have
observed that his later reminiscences of Eugenie
were tinged with a regret that he should have permitted
a prize so lovely to escape his possession;
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and now, although her image was revived in its original
strength, he contemplated it, not with the
chastened and sacred feelings which alone the dignity
of her vestal purity challenged, but with the
impassioned and voluptuous imagination of the sensualist.
The person of Major Burton at this time was
manly and handsome. Some months had elapsed
since his campaign in Canada, and the boyish and
almost feminine beauty which then characterized
his features had become changed by exposure in
the camp, and by the dignified and manly duties
of the soldier always in the field. His form was
symmetrical and elegant, his attitude erect, and his
bearing strikingly military. His slight stature was
atoned for by a lofty carriage and an air of courtly
ease, which marked the polished gentleman and
haughty soldier. His face and features were now
more severely cast, and his complexion had become
browned by exposure till it had assumed the dark
olive of Italy.
The most remarkable feature he possessed was
his black eye. It was of the most piercing brilliancy,
the burning glance of which few men could
steadily encounter. In the presence of beautiful
females his address was winning, his deportment
graceful, his air self-possessed, and, in conversation,
his voice and manner inconceivably fascinating.
With a proud contempt for woman, his transcendent
genius, his towering talents, his powers of
mind and conversation, were cultivated and brought
into play only to make himself pleasing to them.
But it was the lion crouching to the earth that he
may concentrate all his strength for a final and fatal
spring upon his prey. Few women whom he
singled out for his victims listened to the fascinating
eloquence of his lips, and met, tremblingly but
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pleased, the gaze of eyes which, with the softness
of the gazelle's, possessed the fearful power of the
basilisk's, without falling, like the charmed bird,
into the folds of the destroyer.
When, therefore, under the influence of a new
and grosser passion, Burton had resolved to desecrate
the altar that had before known his devotion,
and began to contemplate with pleasure the fall of
a temple, the beauty of which had formerly fixed
his admiration, his fertile brain immediately conceived
a plan for accomplishing his object.
Ignorant of the female heart, though he had made
it his study, but, unhappily, deriving his knowledge
of it from false and corrupt sources, he believed
that the shower of gold would yet find a Danae;
that a Leda would still protect the fugitive swan;
and that Amphitryon in disguise would still find
his cousin Alcmena in many a hall and bower.
The possibility of defeat he did not anticipate; he
imagined indeed, that Eugenie had only to be wooed
to be won. Her lively spirits he interpreted wantonness;
her warm and devoted love, passion.
Rising from the couch on which, half an hour
before, he had flung himself, booted and spurred as
he entered from his ride, he crossed the chamber,
and, opening a door that led into an inner bedroom,
called to some one within. Then enveloping himself
in his cloak and foraging-cap, hanging near,
he waited as if expecting some one to come from
the adjoining room. After the delay of a few seconds,
a youth in a half-military, half-menial livery,
which might indicate him to be either a private
or a footman, or both, made his appearance. On
seeing his master in his cap and cloak, he, without
speaking, and as if acquainted with his habits, went
back, and shortly returned equally disguised and
in readiness to attend him.
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Placing a finger on his lips and beckoning him to
follow, Burton led the way silently and cautiously to
the hall, removing his cloak and showing his face as
he passed by the sentinels. Entering Queen, now
Pearl-street, he traversed it at a rapid and steady
pace, his attendant walking just so far behind
that he could converse with him in his ordinary
tones, or give him his orders without turning his
head. The night was still and clear, the air was
mild, and the countless host of stars, with a single
planet hanging like a lamp in their midst, kept their
silent watch over the earth. It was within an hour
of midnight, and, save guards at the corners of the
squares, whose stern challenges and brief replies
broke strangely on the stillness of the night, and
the two whose echoing footsteps we are following
in their devious way, there was no living being
abroad, and it demanded a strong effort of the imagination
for these to realize that an army reposed
around them. On gaining the Broadway, now one
of the most magnificent avenues in the world, but
then, except for a half or three quarters of a mile
up from the Battery, a spacious road bordered
with fields, or adorned with pleasant country-seats
or humbler farmhouses, they turned to the north.
In this direction they walked rapidly onward, now
passing under lofty elms which shaded a substantial
building set back from the road, now traversing
a gravelled sidewalk nearly overgrown with grass,
now crossing a pool of water on a bridge of planks,
and now stooping to avoid the branches of fruittrees
that overhung the fences, and at noonday
shaded the footpath beneath. They at length
came to the head of a narrow lane, which turned
to the left towards the Hudson, bordered by hedges,
clumps of fruit and forest trees; crossing the road,
they entered it, and, after a walk of some
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minutes, stopped beneath a huge elm that flung abroad
its branches across the lane, and shaded a neat
white cottage, half hidden in shrubbery, fronting the
river, which glided past within a short distance,
the ripple of its waters mingling with the sighing
of the wind through the branches of the tree.
Here Burton spoke for the first time, save to reply
to the challenges of sentinels, since he left his
room. “I have brought you with me, Zacharie, so
that you may know the place should I wish to send
you here.”
“Ay, more love messages, I'll warrant me. I'm
puzzled to tell if thou art better soldier or better
lover. By the cross, between the two I shall be
well taught,” replied Zacharie, who was just as
saucy, just as short, fat, and freckled, and, altogether,
as unchanged as if but seven hours, and
not seven months, had passed over his shaggy head
since we took leave of him in Quebec. His relative
condition was, however, altered; and, from a
roving, independent lad, who had no particular service
so that he was on the side of mischief, he was
transformed into a faithful and confidential attendant
of his former patron, serving him as his valet in
peace, a sort of orderly-sergeant in war, and, finally,
as a most efficient Mercury in love.
“Remain here,” continued his master; “keep
your eye on those two frigates below; and if anything
moves, either on the land or water, inform me.”
“That will I,” replied the young Mercury, throwing
back the visor of his petasus, and drawing his
herpe, while his other hand rested on the butt of a
pistol concealed in his breast; “and if I see a
Johnny redcoat skulking along the beach, I'll pink
him with my dudgeon, and swear roundly after that
I took him for a lobster.”
Burton opened a wicket and entered a narrow
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walk strewn with fine gravel, and neatly bordered
by flower-beds, which approached the cottage by
circuitous and artificial windings. He traversed it
with a firm yet noiseless step, and advanced through
its imbowered labyrinths close to the foot of the
portico. The dwelling consisted of two circular
wings, and a light portico projecting from the main
body, supported by four slender columns. A short
flight of steps descended from it into the parterre
or garden. There was an air of rural elegance
and seclusion that was gratifying both to the eye
and the imagination. Casting a brief and familiar
glance around him, for the clear lustre of the stars
made every object visible to his eyes, now accustomed
to the darkness, he ascended the steps, and
gave a peculiar knock, which he thrice repeated.
After a few moments delay the door was softly
opened, and, with a slight exclamation of pleasure,
the white arms of a female encircled him.
“How could you stay away so long, my dear
Burton?” said a sweet voice as the door closed.
“Ten thousand fears have alarmed me for your
safety in these hourly dangers. My head has nightly
sought a sleepless pillow. Alas! how is it that
you are the constant subject of my hopes and fears?
But, now that you have come again,” she added,
embracing him affectionately, while he coldly and
indifferently returned it, “I am relieved and very
happy; and if you will only fix your eyes tenderly
on your dear Caroline, and say you still love her,
my troubled spirit will be soothed, for nothing but
your loved presence and the sound of your voice
can tranquillize me.”
As she spoke they entered the room from the windows
of which the light had streamed upon the foliage
without. It was a small parlour, furnished simply
but richly, with the additional and, at that period,
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unusual luxury of an ottoman covered with crimson
velvet. The curtains were of crimson damask, relieved
by a veil of muslin, with a deep embroidered
border half drawn over them. A marble table stood
near one of the windows, which was thrown up,
though guarded by Venetian blinds, and a pleasant
air cooled the room, for the night was warm, and,
but for the light wind which came off the water,
would have been close and sultry. A single shadelamp
burned on this table, and beneath it lay open,
as if just deserted, a small volume, which Burton,
carelessly casting his eyes upon the title as he
passed the table to seat himself by the window, observed
was a French translation of a new German
story called “The Sorrows of Werter.”
Caroline, who had continued to cling around his
neck, sat by his side and looked up into his face
with a sad fond gaze, parting his hair from his brow
like a child who has displeased a beloved parent,
and seeks, by endearments, to draw his attention
and win a smile of affection.
He received these marks of tenderness with a
moody brow, and an occasional motion of impatience
on his features, while his eyes wandered irresolutely
from her own soft glance, and he frequently
bit his lip, as if disturbed by some emotion to which
he wished, but could not command the resolution,
to give utterance.
“My dear Burton, why this cold silence and
stern brow? Have I given sorrow to one whose
happiness I would die to promote? Tell me, dearest,
if your love is undiminished,” she added,
while the tears gushed to her eyes, “and Caroline
shall no more weary you with her presence.”
“Caroline,” he said, abruptly, “you are a fond
and foolish girl. You well know,” he added, in a
softened manner, tenderly taking her hand, “that I
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love you, and would sacrifice my happiness to promote
your own.”
“Oh! I know it, Burton; God knows I never
doubted it! Alas! if I had, I could not have lived.
But forgive me, dear Edward; you have, of late,
come to see me less often than you were wont; and
your stay is short, and your brow is gloomy, and
you look as if you thought I loved you not. Oh!
I dare not tell my own heart how much I love you.”
“You are my own sweet Caroline,” he said, gazing
on her childlike, tearful face with a playful
smile, and kissing her brow; but his eye was arrested
by the unusual paleness of her face, where
suffering and anxiety dwelt in fearful contrast with
its delicate beauty. His colour rose, and a painful
sensation seemed to shoot across his brow, for, with
an indistinct exclamation, he suddenly pressed his
temples with his hand and turned from her.
The appearance of this young creature was strikingly
interesting. She was in a white evening
robe, open before and gathered at the waist by
a silken sash drawn tightly round her form, displaying
a figure of sylphlike grace. Her person
was very slight, and of small but exquisitely symmetrical
proportions. Her brown hair was parted
evenly on her forehead, and gathered beneath a
muslin cap, which, bordered by a narrow ruffle,
met beneath her chin. Her face, relieved by the
ruff, appeared perfectly oval, and, perhaps, additionally
lovely. Her features were small and delicate,
and her eyes of a mild blue. But her present loveliness
only exhibited the traces of her former beauty.
Her eyes were unnaturally large and sunken;
her face, save a hectic spot on either cheek, was
transparently pale; and her beautiful lips were of
a strangely brilliant red. Her diminutive hands
were thin and attenuated, and the blue veins
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appeared through the transparent skin as if delicately
traced with the pencil's nice touch. She
seemed in the last stage of illness; like one on
whose damask cheek grief and wrong, like the
worm in the bud, had preyed until life fluttered on
the threshold of death.
“My dearest Caroline,” he said, again turning towards
her, but without resolution to lift his eyes to
this wreck of loveliness, “you did not tell me,” and
his voice was touchingly sweet and affecting, “that
you were ill, at least that you were worse. Why
did you not send to me? My duties have been so
multiplied of late that I could not call and see
you so frequently as my heart would have bid me.
Good God!” he added, raising his eyes to her face,
and struck with the change, “have three short weeks
made such havoc? Tell me, my dear Carol, are
you very ill?” he inquired, folding her slight form
in his arms, while the silent tears, which freely
flowed on hearing words of kindness from beloved
lips that had so long forgotten to utter them, dropped
from her eyes upon his cheek as he pressed her
face to his own.
“Ill!” she said, smiling while reclining on his
shoulder, “ill, and Burton holding me thus to his
heart, and his words so very kind! Oh no, no.
Speak to me always as you did but now; love me
as you now love me, and I shall never know either
illness or a heavy heart more! Bless you, dear
Edward. I feel that you are my own again.”
He gazed upon her an instant, deeply affected
by her language; then kissing the tears from her
cheeks, while his eyes, wearing the troubled expression
of a heart ill at ease, still lingered with
solicitude over her fading features, he said, tenderly,
“You must take better care of yourself, my frail
flower; even this gentle wind,” he added, dropping
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the curtain before the open window, “visits you
all too roughly. If you love me, Carol, take good
care of your health;” then, with a smile, tapping
her forehead with his finger, he playfully added,
“Perhaps, if you try and get well, I may comply
with the wish which you so foolishly keep, as you
say, close to your heart.”
“Will you, oh, will you, dearest Burton?” she
exclaimed, with a glad cry and inconceivable energy,
drawing back from his arms, clasping her
hands together, and looking fixedly and earnestly
in his face with a countenance of intense delight,
so artless, so childlike, as to be unspeakably affecting.
“Oh, say that once more, and God will bless
you.”
As she continued to gaze upon him, her eyes
grew wild and sparkled with unearthly brilliancy,
her lips firmly pressed together, and then, with a
piercing shriek, she fell in convulsions upon the
floor.
Alarmed by the energy of her attitude and language,
and encountering the wild gaze of her eyes,
he was about to take her hand and reply as she
would have him, when, overcome by an excess of
joy, her full heart strained the delicate casket containing
it beyond its strength. He now raised her
from the floor, placed her on the ottoman, and with
words of kindness, promises, and entreaties, kneeled
over her until the paroxysms gave way to a flood
of tears, which at once relieved her bursting heart,
to which hope and joy, long banished thence, had
returned all too rudely.
“My sweet Caroline, calm your emotion,” he
said, mildly, after she had recovered some degree
of composure, and leaned her head trustingly on
his arm; “your delicate frame can ill bear a repetition
of such excitement. You should not permit
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your imagination to invest with such importance a
mere ceremony which can render you no happier,
and will make me love you no better than I now
do. You know how obstinate I am,” he continued,
with a smile, as if pleasant looks could take the
sting from bitter words; “I believe, if I were compelled
to protect, I should no longer love you.
The married world would live all the happier did
they not love by compulsion. I have hitherto forbidden
you to speak to me on this subject, because
I saw it affected your spirits, and made you unhappy.
Must you, dearest Caroline,” he added,
sportively, “tie my poor body to you by a rope
of priestly words?”
Caroline, who had looked into his face and dwelt
on every word as it fell from his lips, as if her existence
depended upon it, turned her eyes mildly,
imploringly, and yet resignedly to seek his own, and
said, faintly and solemnly,
“Edward, I cannot feel as you would have me.
I have sinned, deeply sinned; nay, dearest Edward,
do not frown so darkly. I alone am guilty, and shall
soon be summoned to a fearful, fearful account.”
“No, no, my sweet pet,” he said, assuming a
cheerfulness which he was far from feeling, for her
few and simple words had sunk deep into his soul;
“you are nervous to-night, and broken rest has filled
your little head with a thousand vagaries. Let me
place this cushion for you, and I will read you asleep
from this German story of Werter.”
At the mention of this name she started up, and
cried, “Oh no! oh no! not that! I have been reading
it till my blood boiled and my heart was rent
with suffering. Horrible,” she continued, pressing
her hand over her eyes, “horrible is the punishment
of the guilty who sin as we have sinned.”
With a hasty exclamation of impatience, Burton
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threw the book down upon the table, and, withdrawing
his arm from beneath her head, arose and
walked the room for some time in silence, his face
overcast with the gloomy shadows of his dark and
uneasy meditations. The distressed Caroline hid
her face and wept.
The dying request of Captain Germaine to Major
Burton, when he fell before the walls of Quebec,
alas! was too faithfully complied with. After delivering
his message, he became a frequent visiter
at the cottage, and in a few short weeks Caroline became
his victim. Her mother, weighed down with
grief at her husband's loss, did not survive to learn
what would have wounded deeper than death; and
the little cottage, adorned by the wealth and taste
of Burton, became the abode of the unhappy Caroline.
It would be useless to go back and narrate
the growth of their passion after their first meeting;
the fascinating attentions of the one, the artless and
confiding devotion of the other. Alas! it would only
add another to the countless histories of man's ingratitude
and woman's crushed affections; of art
pitted against artlessness; of guilt against innocence,
and of deformity plotting to mar the fair proportions
of beauty.
A crisis had now arrived when reflection was to
take the place of passion. The long-deferred hopes
with which, from time to time, he amused her, when
she pressed him upon a subject which now, all too
late, began to agitate her bosom, at length made her
heart sick. Her entreaties ultimately became so
importunate, although urged with mildness and submission,
that they drew from him, in a moment of
passion, a fearful menace, which silenced and appalled
her. But the hopes and wishes to which she
could not give utterance fed upon her heart; she
was rapidly wasting from life, the victim of broken
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vows and foul wrong, betrayed by those very weaknesses
which should have proved her highest and
holiest claims to protection.
“Caroline,” he at length said, stopping and resuming
his place by her side, with gentle violence
removing her hands from her face, and speaking
in a conciliating tone, “I did not think you had
this foolish whim so much at heart. 'Tis but a
word and a grace, after all; and, if it will make you
happier, and bring back the bloom to your cheek,
and the merry laugh to your lips, as in times gone
by, why, then, I will grant your desire. Now
hush! still that little heart, which flutters beneath
your robe as if it would burst its prison! Be calm,
and let not so light a cause move you. You shall
certainly be my wedded wife if there can be found
priest to say `Amen' to it! So now be happy, my
trembling bird.”
When he began to speak she looked eagerly up
into his face, seized his hand, and gasped for breath;
when he ceased, a smile dwelt upon her mouth,
and she said softly, closing her eyes and folding
her hands peacefully over her breast, “I am so
happy, so very happy, Edward!”
He gazed upon the lovely creature as she reclined
like breathing marble before him, and his features
convulsively worked, as if agitated by some
intense emotion, while pity and remorse dwelt by
turns upon them.
“You will not deceive me, Edward!” she said,
lifting her eyes and gazing into his own, in the
manner of one expressing confidence rather than
seeking assurance, while a peaceful smile played
about her lips.
“Deceive you, Caroline? Have I ever deceived
you?” The rich colour mantled her cheek and
brow, the smile faded mournfully away, and, closing
her eyes, she made no reply.
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“My dear Caroline,” he said, after a moment's
embarrassing silence, “you are too much alone
here with only your two slaves; and, now that
your health is so delicate, you will need cheerful
society. I have thought of a companion who will
please you. She is a young Canadian who escaped
from a convent somewhere in the neighbourhood
of Quebec, and is now at General Washington's.
I will invite her to remain with you until
you are better.”
“Edward?” she said, impressively, looking into
his face with a steady and inquiring gaze, which
seemed to read his inmost thoughts.
“Caroline,” he solemnly answered, interpreting
her looks, “so help me Heaven, no!” appealing,
as he spoke, both with eyes and hands for the truth
of his words.
“Then send her to me, for I am indeed lonely
when you are away. Why cannot we be together
as when first you loved me? Then evening after
evening you were ever by my side, and thought the
stars numbered hours for minutes, so sweetly and
swiftly they glided by. Those were happy days,
alas! too, too happy! Nay, Edward, you will not
leave me?”
“I must, Caroline. 'Tis past midnight, and I
have duties far from hence ere the morning, which,
as a soldier, I may not neglect. I will summon
your servants, and leave you to repose.”
“To-morrow, then!” she said, impressively, as
she returned his embrace.
“To-morrow, Caroline!” he repeated, evasively;
closing the door as he spoke, he left the cottage.
Caroline listened to his departing footsteps till
they were no longer heard; then falling upon her
knees, with a face the expression of which was
humbled by sorrow and penitence, she prayed
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calmly yet earnestly for forgiveness and guidance. But
in every petition Edward's name was breathed, and
oftentimes, forgetful of herself, she pleaded only for
one who was the author of her shame and sorrow,
and whom she was ready to shield from the consequences
of his errors by the interposition of her
own person.
Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1838], Burton, or, The sieges. Volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf157v2].
