CHAPTER XV.
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Such was the “terrible letter”! such the very
words of a part which fell upon me, with a power
which no language can describe. And yet, I do believe
I showed no emotion before the girl who brought
me the message of death—I mean what I say—the
message of death; I believe too that I spoke in my usual
voice, and I know that I did not shed a tear, and that
I have not shed a tear since—I hope never to shed
one while I breathe, for the perfidy of that woman.
It was not—oh no!—it was not the losing a
marriage with her, it was not even the losing of her
heart, for I could have borne both, I believe, with a
smile, if she had treated me as I deserve to be treated
by those I love—no—no!—it was neither—it was
the losing of my faith in her that I was ready to worship—
and now I remember a passage in her letter
which I had forgotten before—“I know that you love
me,” said she. “This will be a terrible blow, for you
had set up an image in your heart for worship”—and
so I had! and she broke that image to pieces; and
with it, every hope I had on earth, for every hope I
had on earth was connected in some way or other
with my belief in her exalted virtue, her generosity,
and her truth.
And how did I reply? May I be judged hereafter
as I judged that woman!—I ask for no more—even
while my heart was labouring and reeling with the
shock her letter gave me. I wrote her a few hurried
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lines, a part of which I remember word for word—it
was no time to consider my language or to copy it,
for I knew that my reply, whether she loved me or
not, would be a matter of life and death to her, that
she was waiting her destiny here, it might be her destiny
hereafter, and how I could I bear to keep her
in suspense?
“I have not one word of reproach for you, said I.
I forgive you with all my heart and soul, and however
strange it may appear to you, I declare to you that on
some accounts I think more highly of you than
ever—If you had not loved me, you could not have
done this—You may deceive yourself—Beware how
you make a promise, you cannot keep—
“You had better see me, and the sooner you see
me, the better. You will be the happier for it—I
shall be the happier for it—I have much to say,
much that I believe would go far to tranquillize you.
It is now a quarter of one—I shall call at two—
If you ever loved me, you will see me—I return
the letter, much as I desire to keep it. Farewell—
there is nothing to prevent your being happy, if
you will only see me.—Your's devoutly—God
bless you.—My heart is not unsteady, though my
hand is.”
As the clock struck two, my foot sounded on the
step of the door—I was very calm, calm as the deep
sea, calm as the grave.—I knocked; a servant appeared
and told me that his mistress had gone out,
just gone out, he said, and I turned away, in the hope
that as she could not have gone far, I should have an
opportunity of seeing her before it was too late, if I
took the road to the battery (our usual walk) of giving
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her my hand in the face of day, and of telling her in
the light of day, once for all, that I forgave her. But
no—I did not see her, and I loitered back to my room—
oh, God! how I felt when I entered it, and saw
lying before me, here a book that she had sent me to
read, there a pile of notes which I would not have
parted with for the wealth of the world an hour before?
on my very table a story that she translated at
school from the German—by the side of that, a work,
which—but no, no—I dare not say how I felt, nor
what I saw—it was enough to break the heart of a
proud man. I folded up the papers and the books,
and sent them to her, saying that I could not read
them now, but whenever it would be of use to her, I
would. No answer did I receive the whole of that
long dreary day. It was plain, therefore, that she
did not love me, for had I not written to her and
begged her to see me, saying, if you ever loved me,
you will see me. Yet more—much more—two
or three passages of her letter had been very carefully
erased by another hand, (I thought,) and one which, if
true, would prove her to be the falsest of women.—
How knew I therefore, how should I ever know
the truth? It was dictated by my rival perhaps, or
written to soothe him, for it appeared by her note in
a passage I had forgotten 'till now, that she had lost
him forever. All this and more did she say, but the
words have escaped me. How little she knew of my
true character! This cut me to the soul—this I could
not bear—for by this I saw that I had been altogether
deceived in her. I thought she knew me. Ah! if she
had known me well, if she had trusted me as I would
have trusted her, if she had told me even a part of the
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real truth, I would have gone to him and said—There,
I give her up to you. It is for you to make her
happy, and for you alone. I love her with all my
heart and with all my strength, and had she known
me before she met with you, it may be that she would
now love me as she now loves you, with all her heart
and with all her strength.—If you desire it, I will be
the man to give her away in church—make her happy,
and leave me to pursue my path for the rest of my
life, alone—altogether alone. If you are both happy,
I shall not—I cannot be—unhappy. I would have
done this, I swear, and I know that I could have done
it.
Well, the day passed over—and I received no sort
of reply, not even a message, not a word nor a sign.
Perhaps, thought I—perhaps it may be, for I heard
her say once, I remember, that he was of a fiery quick
temper, and very suspicious withal, (I never thought
of asking why, for though I loved her as much as he
loved her and might have been very sore with jealousy,
I never suspected her faith, nor doubted her
truth,) it may be that she has written to me as she has,
not on account of her love for me, but of her dread of
him. It may be that she has been obliged to say the very
things that have entered my heart like arrows of fire.
If so—God help the boy! It may be that she is
now quaking at every foot-fall, and that every knock
sounds through her heart. And if so—
I instantly despatched another note, saying to her
in words that any body might have seen, though she
only could have understood their whole force, that I
should not be able to see her for some days, that I
should not see her if she did not send for me, though I
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was very anxious to see her, and to have a short conversation
with her on a subject of importance to both.
I had much to say, I told her—much to ask; and if she
answered me without reserve, it was all I required to
make me happy; that I had some right to advise with
her, and that I should keep out of the way of all parties,
&c. &c.
The morrow came, but no reply came with it—all
the day long I sat in my chair expecting a message or
a letter. Every time the door opened, every time I
heard a step, my heart beat quick, and I would have
wagered my life that her answer was at my elbow.
But still no answer came—day after day passed over,
and I neither saw, nor heard from her, nor of her.
Meanwhile a paper lay before me on which I recorded
my thoughts and my hopes, hour by hour, as they
occurred to me. I strove to satisfy myself that she
was more to be pitied than blamed—I succeeded; for
on reviewing her whole behavior, I began to fear that
I had been deceived, not so much by her, as by my
own self-love—to hope, I should say, for it was not
fear. Much as I loved, I could bear to be told that
she did not love me, better than I could to know that
she was unworthy. At last I grew tired of delay—I
determined to bear it no longer. A few days more
and it would be too late—I should be on my way to
Europe. I was willing to be to her as I never had
been, if that would make her happy, or to be to her
a friend—a brother. But I was not willing to be played
with, nor to be misunderstood. I therefore sealed
up what I had written, praying to know whether she
wished me see Middleton or not. If I saw him, it
would be, I told her, and she knew that I told her the
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truth, to assure him of her love. It concluded somewhat
in this way. “I have nothing in my heart but
kindness for you and anxiety about you.” And on
the outside of the letter I added, “If I do not hear
from you to day, farewell forever—farewell, I mean
to the last hope in which you are concerned. I will
never see you again if it be possible to avoid you
without exciting remark, nor ever interchange a line
with you while I breathe, unless it be to serve you, or
unless it should appear that you were unable to write.
The time may arrive—it may—when you will wish
you had preserved at least a brother and a friend. I
shall keep my promise to you—and every promise I
ever made you.”
I thought I knew the real character of this woman;
I had some hope therefore, some little hope, where
any other man would have utterly despaired. Middleton
saw her every day—he probably heard from
her every day; but I—I that would have married her
if I might—I neither saw nor heard from her, nor of
her. And still I would not give her up—I knew that
she was not “altogether bad.” I knew that she was
still worthy of a proud man's love, and I would still
have trusted her—for who would not rather be deceived
over and over again, like a boy, than live without
confidence or hope in a dear one? Doubt is more
galling than sorrow. There is a dignity in grief,
though it be full of the bitterness of death—but there
is no dignity in distrust. Well—as soon as the messenger
could go and return, I received the following
brief note for my reward—I have it before me
now, and I copy it here with a feeling which would
break the heart and upheave the faculties of a giant—
if it were to continue for a single hour.
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“Depend upon having an answer to-day. I will
tell you why I did not write before; I hope and intended—
I still hope and intend to see you both. Will you?
It is my wish.” On the outside was written, “Keep
this and bring it when I ask you,” to which I replied
without employing a moment for consideration.
I will do whatever you desire, said I. I am
not afraid to make you such a promise—even now.
It is for you to say whether I shall see him or not—if
I do, you have nothing to fear: we shall not quarrel.
But I am afraid now, afraid on your account, for you
have too much at stake. I will meet you together if
you desire it—but still, perhaps we three had better
not meet, before I know precisely what you wish me
to say; and much as I desire it, I would rather not
see you till I am on the very brink of departure.
I shall soon be away; but I cannot bear to go without
giving you some proof—such as few would have
the courage to ask—not only of my tenderness but of
my respect for you—I hope I have not been altogether
misunderstood; what I have written to you of
late, has been written with fear and trembling—I tell
you now, as I have told you before, that I would do
much—almost any thing, for one to whom I have
said—I am your friend. Trust me therefore, put faith
in me—for, as I live, I am your friend.” What more
I said, I do not know; nor do I know that these words
were all contained in my last reply, but I do know
that most of them were; and the others were to be
found in some one or more of the last notes I troubled
her with.
But the day passed over, the whole day, and that
which she had told me to depend upon having did not
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appear. What was I to believe? That Middleton was
at her elbow; that she was forbidden to write? If
otherwise, why pray me to preserve the note she sent
me, and to bring it with me? Was not that of itself,
enough to show, that while she was afraid of losing a
brother and a friend—I do not say a lover like me,
she was more afraid of writing a syllable without his
leave. And how knew I—Gracious God!—how
knew I that she did not mean by the words, “I still
hope and intend to see you both”—what I would not
have her mean, so much did I love her still, and so
high was my faith in her purity, for the wealth and
power of a kingdom.
That whole day passed over—another day and another,
and as I knew that he saw her, nay, as I myself
had seen him with her, while I was hurrying through
Broadway, merely because I could not bear to stay in
one place long—I had begun to believe that she was
unworthy—fearfully so. Then, and not 'till then, did
I give her up. She would not see me—she would not
even reply to me. She dared not perhaps, and perhaps
the true reason lay not in her indifference, nor in
her lack of heart, nor in treachery, but in her deep
love and fear and respect. She was good by nature—
generous and brave by nature, and it might be after
all, that she had not bad courage enough to look me
in the face, or that she had still so much of that inward
virtue I praised her for, so much real nakedness
of heart, even though she had “deceived me and every
body else,” that she could not bear to come in the way
of my rebuke. All this may be, said I, as I threw
myself on the bed, in which I had not slept for a week
as the innocent should sleep—it may be, but where am
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I to stop? The time is expired now. I give her up
If we ever meet again, I shall say to her—Satisfy me
that you are able to speak the truth. If we are to be—
not as we have been, for that is all over now—but
if we are to be friends, you are to undergo such a trial
as few women that live could bear, I will search your
heart as with a knife. Dare you promise to speak the
truth to whatever a question I put you. If no—
farewell. If yes—Hear what I have to say. To
one like you, there must be a luxury in telling the
truth—what a relief it must be to the overloaded
heart of a woman, after years and years of untruth,
and years and years of bitter slavery, to be able to
say just what her heart conceives—without fear and
without reproach, whatever may come into her head
for the rest of her life!
My mind was now made up. I have done my duty,
I have nothing to reproach myself with, said I, and
I lay as if I had spoken the truth, wondering why it
was that I could not sleep. I was weary enough and
sick enough, and I had grown so pale with watching
and with fasting, that people cried out when they saw
me, and yet I could neither sleep nor eat. And why?
That question will be answered hereafter. Hereafter!
At last, when I had no longer any hope, the letter
came, and such a letter! I stood upon the deck of a
ship when I received it, and I was looking toward the
shores of another world—my heart heavy with sorrow,
and with bitter self-reproach. In a moment I
was another man—I saw the light break about her
path, and I was happy, so happy! that if my mother
had been there, I should have knelt down and buried
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my head in her lap, and cried like a child. It was a long,
long letter, abounding with proof that she was after all
worthy of a proud man's love—a part of the envelope
I have now before me. I may copy it—for she is in
her grave now, and there is nobody to betray her.
“Read the enclosed, (a narrative containing a review
of her whole behavior.) I have more to say, more
which I must and will say. Be tranquil about me; I
am more calm. I have passed the night in thought and
in prayer—yes, in prayer. If I had not forsaken Him
from whom all good thoughts, and all holy desires
proceed, he would not have so utterly forsaken me. I
have quite made up my mind. I see His providence
in this chastisement; nothing less severe would have
done with one so far perverted. Don't despair of me;
I do not despair now. I bless God with fervent gratitude
for all this misery and horror. It will save me.
Be of good cheer for me.”
Now, if there be a man alive with a high character
for probity, who notwithstanding his probity, has
grown old in working the partial overthrow of woman—
if he should ever happen to receive the death-bed
forgiveness of some beloved one, that he has betrayed,
even while he pretended to worship her, even while
he did worship her, and was ready to couple his fate
with hers, forever and ever,—let that man be my
judge, for he only can know how I felt when I read
this letter. I dropped asleep within an hour after I
read it, and when I awoke, we were on our way
through the roaring sea, and yet I was happy and
cheerful, and I had no fear of shipwreck or of storm—
for a light was upon the path of her I loved so much,
and I knew that music would soon be heard in her
heart.
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CHAPTER XVI.
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She is in her grave now. I sat by her when she
drew her last breath—I made a vow to her then,
which I have kept and will keep to my dying day; I
saw the earth heaped upon her, I knew that I never
should be happy again, though I might be tranquil,
that I never should love another woman as I loved
her, that I should be alone for the rest of my life;
and yet, there was a feeling of joy, of deep serious
joy in my heart when I saw her laid in the grave.
And why? She was happy; for she saw it was no
longer possible for me to doubt her. She might have
deceived me still, she might have betrayed me again,
but she chose rather to die.
But let me proceed in a more connected way with
the little that remains to be told of my story—it is
not much now. When we arrived at Liverpool, I
found a letter waiting for me, which had been sent by
a ship that outsailed ours. At another time—a few
weeks before—it would have uprooted my faith in
woman forever, and but for the great gulph between
us, the hope I had in her generosity, and worth and
high courage of heart, where another would have had
no hope in either, and the upbraiding of my own soul,
which I had been at leisure to search as with fire and
steel, for many days, it would have destroyed me
also, I am sure.
By this letter it appeared that Middleton was with
her when she wrote me to say that she loved him
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better than me, that she had deceived him and me
and every body else, that she would never see me
again, if she could help it, that nothing I could say to
her was bad enough to say, but that, if I ever heard
from her again, I should find her more worthy of my
good opinion. It appeared also that he was with her,
when I was driven away from the door, that he was
with her immediately after a message of life and
death from me was rejected at the door, that on the
following day when she received my letter saying
that if I did not hear from her during that day, I
would never see her again while I breathed, nor
interchange a line with her, she was actually so absorbed
in Middleton, that she hardly thought of me, or
of the sacrifices that I had made and was making with
joy to serve her; that even while she sought to make
me believe that she intended to forego the society of
both, she was planning to deceive me—yet more—
much more that I have now forgotten and forgiven.
Yet still I had hope, a lively and fixed hope, not for
myself, but for her. I was persuaded in my own soul
that if she was not already, she would be after a time,
all that I had believed her to be. And what had I
believed her to be? a woman of truth. Would she
but speak the truth, would she deal with me as I dealt
with her, I could forgive her all that she had done, all
that she would ever do—even though she tottered
again, or fell. Treachery I could not forgive—weakness
I could forgive.
Well and what course did I take? I wrote her
immediately, saying to her—To day is the happiest
day of my life. Now do I see that you are determined
to be what I have always thought you to be. Persevere
and God will reward you.
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She did persevere; and she did so, under trials that
were enough to shake the soul of a woman to earth,
or the integrity of the proudest man that ever struggled
for dominion over a bad nature.
Well—I traversed a large part of Europe, and after
three years I returned to America. I set on foot a
rigorous enquiry about this woman. I heard much
that I could not believe, much that gave me hope, and
a little that made me fear. We met, and she had the
courage to tell me what no other woman could have
told a man like me. I offered to marry her. She
was thunderstruck, she did not believe, she could not
believe that I made the offer in good faith. But
when she saw that I had, when she heard me say that
so long as she told me the truth and consulted with
me as her best friend, I could forgive her any thing—
for such is my nature, and such it would be toward a
wife, were she unfaithful to me; I should only say to
her—Go—go and be happy; I forgive you, I pity
you—if you had spoken to me freely before, I might
perhaps have prevented your misery and self-reproach;
as you have now spoken freely, I forgive
you; I will do whatever I can to make you happy so
long as you tell me the truth—and I would forgive
you even for treachery, if it were possible for you to
satisfy me, after a long habit of untruth on your side,
that some virtue of some other sort on which I could
rely as much, was left—when she saw that I was
perfectly sincere, I say; that my offer was made in
good faith, she fell upon her knees before me and
would have bathed my very feet with her tears, had I
not escaped from her. I lifted her up and would
have comforted her, but she would not be comforted,
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she drove me away from her, and not with cries and
sobs, but with a united sorrow more terrible than
either; she would not even suffer me to put my lips
to her forehead; saying that she was unworthy of
me, that she loved me now too much to betray me,
and that therefore she would never see me again.
I did not believe her. I left her with an idea that
after the first alternations of sorrow and joy and self-reproach
and gratitude were over, she would recall
me, and marry me, and be to me a virtuous, high-minded
faithful wife. But she kept her promise day
after day; nor would she see me till she knew that
she was on her death-bed and that nothing could save
her. Then she did see me, and she prayed for me
and pressed my hands, and wept upon them, and told
me the story of her life, and made me swear to tell it
to others—
I will said I—if you desire it.
But mark me. You are to tell the truth, you are to
say how I treated you, when you first knew me, how
I treated you after you begun to love me, and how I
have treated you from that hour to this, with all that
you have said of me or thought of me, day by day,
in the progress of your love.
How can you ask me to do such a thing.
Would the truth be so very terrible!
Of what use can it be?
Of much—if I recover, it will keep me in the path
of my duty; if I die, it may keep others in the path
of their duty.
I beseech you to spare me!
No, I will not spare you; I will have it so. For
three years you have been under a pledge to me;
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will you refuse to redeem that pledge, on my death-bed?
Refuse! no—I will redeem it for you; I will put
the story into shape, and throw it before the world, if
you desire it!
God forever bless you—I do desire it; that is the
very thing I desire! I foresee much good from it, if
you speak the truth of me, whether I live or die.
She had been a neglected wife at a very early age,
and that, after marrying for love. She had been
deserted while her beauty and youth were a by-word—
while her very heart was in flower. She had
lived whole years without sympathy or hope, her
affectionate nature oppressed with awe, and her understanding
fettered with vassalage. Her husband died,
and though they loved each other, she could not help
feeling that his death set her free, and that dreadful
as it was to be a widow at her age with two children,
it was better than being a wife to such a man; that
widow-hood was better than slavery. Years rolled
over, and she kept her youth and her beauty, and
her daughters grew up, and still she was afraid to
marry.
At this time, I knew her. And then we were
separated for years—and then I saw her again—and
she knew that I loved her; that I had the highest
opinion of her, though I charged her with folly of
some sort or other, every day of my life. She began
to love me, but alas, knowing that I thought more
highly of her than she deserved, she was afraid of
me, afraid to be with me, and chose rather to associate
with one who could not believe a word she spoke, nor
put any faith in her promises.
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Why did you not deal with me, as you dealt with
him? said I. Why did you not say—you think too
highly of me—
I did say so—over and over again, I said so.
Ah, but why did you not speak the whole truth?
How could I! I should have lost your good opinion
forever, and though I did not deserve it, I could not
bear to lose it.
I would have treated you so kindly dear, if you
had acknowledged the truth to me, that you would
have been spared the greater part of the suffering
which has now brought you to the bed of death.
How could I know this? How could I know that
you were so unlike other men? why did you never
ask me?
I did ask you—not plainly to be sure, but I did ask
you, I gave you repeated opportunities of telling the
truth, although I dreaded to hear it.
Ah!—and if your heart failed you, if you had not
the courage to speak plainly, how could you expect
it of me—a woman, a widow, and a coquette by
nature.
Why, to tell you the truth, it was only once or
twice that I doubted you, and then I said to myself,
We are now so situated that she durst not tell me
the truth if it be as I fear—she does not know that I
would forgive her, and I dare not tell her so, lest I
may offer outrage where I mean to offer security. I
have seen what has kept me awake, I have heard what
I dare not think of. Were I to probe her heart now,
she would probably deny what, if she lives to know
me better, she would acknowledge; but her denial
would not satisfy me—for, educated as women are, it
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would be little better than suicide for her to own what
I fear. What man would have the courage to confess
that he had done that which, if it were known, would
be death to his character?
Well—but go on—I was not prepared for this; I
see now that you had it in your power to save me.
How so? If I had known the truth, or if I had
known that you would tell me the truth, I should
have put you to the trial, I should have come to you
and said, you appear to me to love that man? Do you
love him. If you do, have the courage to say so, and
we will advise together, and if, when you know us
both, as well as you know him, you believe that you
can be happier with him, I will give you up.
Gracious Heavens! How little did I know of your
true character! Ah, my dear friend, if you had been
as free with me then, as you are now, now that you
see me on the verge of death—
Her voice did not even falter when she said this.
Could she believe that death was near?
—We might have been happy. Again and again,
have I been ready to fall upon my knees before you,
and say to you that I was unworthy of your love, but
I was afraid of your awful virtue, and I could not
bear to say what, if it did not make you mine forever,
would be certain to separate us forever.
Why do you weep?
I weep dear, to think how much we have both lost;
and I weep the more, because I see that you have still
a hope, where there is no hope—
Laura!
Believe me dear, believe me! there is no hope. I
know that I shall die—and I say to you now that I die
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of untold sorrow, the sorrow of a broken heart—
A knock was heard at the door, and a step which
appeared to be the step of a man.
Ah! it is he! it is he! Father of love, I thank
thee! prepare yourself, my dear friend, for now do I
know that we are to part in peace and charity with
each other!
It was the step of a man. As it approached, I
started up—for though I could not see the face, I
knew the shadow on the floor, and I gasped for
breath. Already were we standing face to face with
each other, already were we on the verge of what I
tremble to think of—when the bed shook, and we
were petrified with a scream of horror.
Gerard! Gerard! said a voice which appeared to
issue from afar off, Gerard Middleton, I command you
to forbear! and you too my friend, I command you to
forbear! Would you leave me no hope! Would
you double the bitterness and the sharpness of death
to a woman you have both loved.
We answered together—no!
I have sent for you Gerard, that you may hear the
last words I have to say. And I have sent for you
my dear friend (she could not bear to say Peter) that
you may know each other, and love each other—
will you interchange forgiveness, before me?
I have nothing to forgive, said I—but there is my
hand.
God bless you, my dear friend!
Middleton made no reply, but he put forth his
hand, as if he were asleep; and as he did so, the light
flashed over his face, and I could have wept when I
saw the awful change that had been made there
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within a few short years. I should not have known
him—he was very pale, and haggard as with premature
age, and his cheeks were hollow, and his fine
eyes dead—literally dead.
Now hear me. If you know each other, you must
love each other. Will you be friends?
I will, said I—and Middleton whispered something
to show that he would also.
I shall now die in peace. I do not care to live
another day. But, before I go, I wish you to understand
the nature of the love I had for you, and for
both of you, at the same time—ah! is it possible!
If you cannot bear this now, when you see me here,
how could you have borne the truth, when you say
that I was deceiving you without necessity or excuse?
Go on—I beseech you.
You my friend, addressing herself to me, I would
have married, if I had been worthy of your great
love, or if you had known the whole truth; but you
had too high an opinion of me, and I was afraid of
you. And as for you Gerard, though I loved you
very dearly, I would not have married you—
He neither moved nor spoke or reply.
—for you knew me too well and had much too bad
an opinion of me. I was never so bad as you thought
me, never so good as he thought me.
Woman! woman! I cried, how dare you! are you
determined to leave me no excuse, no hope, nothing
to justify me for having so loved you!
Hear me through, and judge for yourself. But for
you—hear what I say Gerard—I speak to him now—
but for you my dear friend, I should now have been
as vile a wretch as ever walked the earth. Your hope
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saved me. Your great confidence in me made me
proud, gave me courage to persevere. But for you,
I should now be afraid of death. Love him for my
sake dear (to my adversary) for when you left me as
you did, saying with a look that is before me now,
you will never change, it made me desperate and wild
with fear. You knew me, you loved me—you were
younger than he, and with a warmer heart; I supposed
you knew me better than he did, much better Gerard,
and yet you were able to say that and more. You
had no hope for me. It is well for you that another
had—for I should have gone crazy with fear and self-reproach,
but for him.
But enough, enough. We were together when she
died—we were together when they laid her in the
grave, and there we parted, never, never to meet
again I hope, and he hopes too, I dare say, though
each would do any thing in the world for the other.
-- --
CHAPTER XVII.
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
So much for my part of the story. That is ended
now—I have no courage to pursue it further. I was
alone—I knew that I should be so for the rest of my
life (as I have said before) when I saw the turf heaped
upon her that I had so truly and so devoutly loved,
even to the last; for even to the last, I had a high
and generous faith in her integrity.
I hurried away from the grave—and I left New-York
forever, I hope, on the day of the funeral. I
could not bear to be reminded of my sufferings at
every step through life; and as all other places on
earth were alike to me, I determined to travel, to
study the character of nations, to be worthy of her I
had lost, and of her high opinion of me.
I persevered—I mean to persevere—and I hope that
one day or other I may be able to do what, if she
were alive, would make her happy and proud of her
love.
About a year after the funeral, I had occasion to
pass through Baltimore on my way to the South
again. The sight of the place where I saw Middleton
strike a knife into the side of a human creature—that
very Middleton who had been so much in my pathway
since—the recollection of all that had occured affected
me so, that I turned away, with a feeling which
oppressed me to suffocation—it was too terrible to
bear, and I betook myself to the woods in the rear of
the city, where I wandered about all the day long.
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Toward night fall, as it appeared probable that I
should never have another opportunity of seeing the
Cathedral then just completed, I sauntered thither
and placed myself on one of the little wooden benches
before a picture of the cruicifixion which had lately
arrived as a present from the king of France. I had
been there a good while—I know not how long, for
the light was very favorable to the picture, and I could
not take my eyes off the eyes of a figure with a
turban—they really appeared to move, so fine were
they, and so full of truth. I had heard people come
in and go out, and I had observed one or two near
me, at different times, but some how or other, I had
given way at last to the idea that I was alone, and
had begun to talk to myself, when somebody stirred
near me, evidently with a design to apprise me that I
should be over-heard. I was very grateful, and as
I turned to thank the person, whom I had not seen
before, I found Altherton Gage at my elbow. We
both started, and I think with pleasure; and though
we had not seen each other for many years, we
renewed our acquaintance immediately. He was not
altered in the least—he appeared just as old, and no
older, just as grave and just as calm as he did the first
hour we met on my way from Philadelphia to Baltimore.
We entered into conversation about Middleton,
and he told me a story of the poor fellow that made
my very heart bleed for him.
He was evidently glad to see me, and I admired
him very much; but some how or other, I was afraid
of him, I could not bear the probe, nor the look of
his eye when he touched the sore places of my heart;
and so, after praying him to assure Middleton that I
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had began to love him as a brother, but as a brother I
never wished to see again, I shook hands with him
and parted. On the following day, I arrived in Philadelphia,
and there having little to do, I began to prepare
a narrative, such as it was, of the facts I had
promised the woman I loved, on her death bed, to
relate, and to relate with truth. But how could I do
so? How was it possible now that she was no more,
now that I had forgiven her, with all my heart and
soul, now that I trembled to think of the circumstances
and opinions attending the growth of our
love? and though I were willing to speak the truth—
how could I? the heart of man is very treacherous.
When we love we cannot persuade ourselves, nor
would it be in the power of any body to persuade us,
that we ever had such thoughts of her that we love,
as we must have had, before we knew that she loved
us, or that we loved her. But I had sworn to do it—
and I have done it. I have done here, what she
prayed me to do, I have led others step by step with
me, through the whole of the changes that carried
her to the grave and made me what I now am, whatever
that may be, whether evil or good. But though
I have done this now, I was not able to do it then.
It appeared to me so cruel, so bitter, so unnecessary,
that my courage failed me whenever I came to a part
of the story, which required me to speak lightly of
her. And so I gave it up; and merely because I
knew not how to employ my time for a week while I
was waiting for the ship that was to carry me over
the sea once more, I tried to put the story which I
heard from Gage in the cathedral into shape. But I
could not satisfy myself—it was no longer the same
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story when it appeared on paper in my plain rude
style, and I wrote to him and begged him to do it
for me.
To tell a story is one thing you know, said he, in
his reply, to write a story is another, and although I
might succeed in telling it, I am by no means sure,
that I should, in writing it. However, what I can do,
I will, and you may do with it what you like.
And four days after I received the story which I
am now going to give, in the very words of the
author. My notion is, I confess, though that may be
owing to the peculiar circumstances under which I
heard it from his own mouth, as we sat together on
the little bench, he relating it and I listening to him,
till it had grown so dark that we could hardly see
each others faces, my notion is, I say, that he told it
much better there, than he does here, not only with
more effect on me, but with more beauty and power
of language. I never shall forget, I am sure, the
simple, serious quiet way, in which he kept on for
nearly two hours, talking pure poetry half the time,
superb, old-fashioned sweet poetry, as if it were his
mother tongue—I have heard people make more
parade in relating the commonest affair in the commonest
language. I may be mistaken, it is true, for
the novelty is over now, but indeed it appears to me
that he talked much better than he writes, and that he
has given me here only the type or shadow of himself,
and of that strange high faculty which amazed me so,
in his free, unstudied, familiar talking. Yet I preserve
the manuscript here, as it came to me; shadow or
type though it be, I cannot improve it, and I dare not
alter it. You have it now, every word and syllable
-- 027 --
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and thought as he struck it off, the story of a Real
North-American, I would not spoil the rude original
integrity of such a paper for this right hand.
You have not forgotten the beautiful Quakeress,
nor the strange interview that occured between poor
Gerard and the two females, at Mrs. Amory's, one of
whom spoke while the other withdrew her veil. How
often have I thought of the observation you made—
that is no Indian, said you!—and you were right. It
was indeed no Indian that you saw—it was another.
Have you forgotten how many times I have been
obliged to evade your enquiries about Elizabeth Hale?
That was she, but the voice we heard was the voice
of another. Oh! that he had but lifted his eyes, when
she paused before him in her transcendant beauty.
You shall have the story now. What I have said
once I am willing to say again. What I have said
with my mouth I do not scruple to say with my pen,
would you publish it? You may if you like, but
weigh the matter well before you determine. If yea,
blame nobody but yourself sir, if you live to hear
plaintive music in the low night wind, if the noiseless
footstep go by your chamber door, till the very wood
you touch, thrills with a presence that you have no
power to see; nor if pale faces come and go at your
window as you lie abed in the star light, quaking with
a fear that you would not acknowledge for the
world.
Gerard Middleton of Georgia, I have known ever
since he was able to walk. But I shall pass over the
period of his youth and come to that of the catastrophe,
when he became so altered in a single night that
I hardly knew him. I pray you to give the names
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that I give, though they are fictitious, for by some
possibility you might give a true name, were you to
substitute others for these under an idea that they are
real names. I have met with such a case, and therefore
do I put you on your guard.
He was a profligate, a dangerous bad man, till this
affair took place. But now he is, what I alone persisted
in believing he would be, after his own father
had cast him off in despair, a good man. He was a
native, as I told you, of Georgia, but he was educated
in the North. A few months before you I saw him,
boy though he was, he had met with a fearful adventure
in marriage. It nearly drove him distracted, in
spite of his youth and his chereful happy temper. He
was gifted with great powers, great for their variety,
great for their number, great for their richness and
quality. But his morals were regulated by his pulse.
He could be ashamed after a foolish or a wicked
action; he could be sorry as well as another, but he
would not reform. After all however, we may say
what we like, but it is no such easy matter to throw
off an evil habit, however sincere we may be in our
shame and sorrow, and however determined we may
be to throw it off.
He never appeared to have a bad heart, every thing
he did was done with such a careless air, with so
much bravery and youthful grace; and yet he delighted
in pure mischief. I know that he once led a
beautiful woman, of whose good faith to her husband,
he was rather doubtful, to meet her own husband at a
place of assignation. It is true that he only did it to
punish both, for both pretended to great virtue, and
he was careful to lead them together in such a way
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that, although it would appear suspicious on the part
of both, it would not be at all conclusive against her.
A duel was the consequence and he had a narrow
escape for his life. The parties themselves perhaps
only grew a little more wary.
He was proud, quick and jealous of authority; no
man was ever more so, and yet for several years, I
governed him like a child. I had more influence with
him after the duel—no matter why, and I had begun
to believe that he would turn out a worthy member of
society, after all. We were as unlike each other as
two men could well be, unlike in age, in appearance,
in habits and in temper; but I have an idea that we
loved each other all the better for this.
One day—it was about a month after you sailed for
Europe, he and I were together all day, and we spoke
freely of you, and he appeared very much grieved,
that he had not known the whole truth in time to
prevent you from breaking off with Mrs. Amory, of
whom, by the by, he had a very poor opinion. He
forgave you with all his heart he said, and I know
that he had more to forgive than you would suppose,
for she knew him before she knew you—at any rate,
loved him before she loved you, and while he was yet
a boy. As it grew dark, I saw by his manner that he
wished me away, but I would not leave him, for I
knew that he was on the verge of something out of
the common way, he dressed with so much care, and
rattled with so much grace. I entreated him to go
with me, to suffer me to stay with him, to tell me
whither he was going, for I was afraid of mischief,
and I told him so, whenever I saw him in such spirits
or equipped with such care. But he only laughed at
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me, and the more I shook my head, the more he
laughed. I grew serious and peremptory, and after
awhile succeeded in making him draw a chair to the
table and sit down by my side. He spoke of women
with much levity and with much bitterness, to be sure,
but on the whole, far more kindly and respectfully
than he had for months before. He was happier
than he had been for a long while; and who that is
happy can speak with bitterness of woman? There
was moreover a cordial bright look of truth in his
large lamping eyes while he spoke of them, of their
capacity for love, their faith and fortitude, their noble
virtue and their gentleness, when tried with heavy
sorrow and sharp suffering—of their steady courage
and of their meek loyalty. His manner was that of
one whose long smothered conviction is about to
revive with a new power, whose natural purity and
holiness are about to break forth all at once and
forever. You are altered, said I.
For the better?
Of course, I replied.
By which, it would appear that I could not alter for
the worse, hey?
Nor could you.
But altered how, my dear Gage—in morals or
manners?
In your mode of thinking, my dear Gerard.
So!—neither in morals nor manners.
I did not say that—
No, you did not say that, I confess, but I understood
you. You appear to think better of women,
just now?
I do.
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And why? because you have grown better yourself?
No—but chiefly because they begin to have rather
a bad opinion of me.
Ah Gerard! Gerard! you never hear women abused
by their favorites.
Well! and what are you staring at. You don't
like the fashion of my garb maybe?
Gerard Middleton!
Atherton Gage!
Are you in the habit of—of going to a—a—you
know what I would say, my dear Gerard.
Hang me if I do—
Yes you do! You are in the habit of going, I
see—
Of going where?—what on earth do you mean?
To a certain place—
Why, to tell you the truth, Gage—a—a (in a whisper.)
For shame!
Why so pray? What a fastidious old fig of a
bachelor you are—
Will you hear me?
Yes.
I had begun to have some little hope of you, after
you were packed off by Mrs. Amory, but I should
like to hear from your own mouth, that you no
longer pursue the poor—a—a—the poor women as
you did.
You shall be gratified, then; for out of my own
mouth you shall hear that I do not pursue the poor—
a—a—the poor women, as I did.
God bless you! my dear Middleton.
Well—and God bless you, if you come to that.
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However, I should like to know why you have
given it up?
Chiefly because I am tired to death of it.
Ah! at your age, tired to death of chasing the
bright and the beautiful, &c.!
Yes Atherton, tired and sick of chasing the bright
and beautiful and soforth.
But why?
Why to tell you the simple truth, I begin to think
they are never worth our trouble. Do what you may,
die for them, wear your life out and your legs off in
their service and they look upon you still as the
gainer. So jealous and whimsical too every other
day, if not every other hour, so fond, so foolish and
so idle when you are busy, and so unspeakably busy,
when you are idle. No, no, my dear boy, your ugly
woman after all is the true luxury, the uglier and
older she is, the better, for she knows when
she is well treated and is grateful for every word and
look.
Ah, Gerard!
You'll not be surprised I hope, if I turn out a perfect
Penelope one of these days, or another Lucretia.
I'm pretty sure I shall, I have a turn that way, just now.
Ah, but when Gerard? when?
Why, after I have carried some ugly weather-beaten
old witch, in my new way, without provocation,
or help or artifice.
You are no so bad, so very bad as you appear, I
hope?
Why as to that—how do I appear?
Most unworthy of my regard; very foolish and
very wicked.
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Why the truth is, my dear boy, they talk so much
of the disinterestedness of woman's love, just now,
that I—Lud, Lud! how grave you are!
It is time to be grave.
How like you, that is! would you have me forswear
my own faith and adopt the popular faith?
The popular faith?
Would you have me persuade myself when a sweet
little creature loves me, that she loves me alone—me
myself, me for my own sake? as you say in poetry?
To be sure I would, for nineteen times out of twenty
it would be true.
Fiddle-de-dee!
I am sure of it—
And who is myself? who the devil am I—I myself,
I should like to know that? an idea, a shadow, a
phantasm, a spirituality—a—a—flesh and blood! my
dear Atherton, would they care a fig for me, me myself,
me alone, (whatever they may say or believe,) me for
my own sake, if I were a dwarf or a fool, or an aged
man—or a woman?
They love my soul, do they! pretty fellows! when
of three score, fifty-nine would never know whether I
have a soul or not, and the sixtieth would'nt care. No,
no Atherton, no, no, they love me for a couple of
good reasons that you never thought of, I'll engage.
And what are they?
Why, in the first place, I am not a woman.
Pshaw! and what's the other?
Because I am a man.
Gerard! I tremble for you.
Why so?
You'll die a death of shame yet, or a death of unutterable
horror.
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Vy, how can you say so! I mean to go to sleep
very quietly, one of these days, I do indeed: I'm sick
of this life.
Asleep, sir! But in that sleep of death—
What dreams may come, I know what you would
say, I've heard all that before.
If you tell the truth, if you are indeed sick of this
life, why not leave it off?
I mean to do so, but fair and softly. I've one little
job on my hands to go through with first... after
which, if I succeed in throwing it off, I mean to be
very good. I am now in search of a woman, (if you
should hear of one of the sort, you'll let me know) a
woman without sensibility or passion, with no heart
nor soul, no power to tempt or to be tempted, of
steady, high and awful reputation, with every thing to
lose and nothing to gain by intrigue; one that never
heard the name of love, never felt her heart stir at the
voice of a man. Having met with her, having subdued
her, I shall be happy.
Happy!
Yes, Atherton, for she will have loved me, as I wish to
be loved, for myself alone, me myself, me for my own
sake, as near as may be, and I shall have done all that
could be expected of me, in my small way—conquer
ed as much of the world, as I ever thought worth conquering.
How dare you speak to me, in this way—
In truth, I hardly know, I wonder at my own courage—
for I feel towards you, as if you had authority
over me. But look here—read this note—if women
will have it so, what am I to say?
The note ran thus—M. will be at the cottage
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tonight, for the last time. If you desire to speak with
her, come early.
What is the meaning of this note sir? I see no
harm in it—who is the writer?
Excuse me; I do not know, and if I did, you would
blush for me, if I betrayed her. Ah! (pulling out his
watch,) ah! so near the time; good bye, Atherton.
Good bye, I must be off now!
As I live, Gerard Middleton! I do almost hope,
that some father, or husband, or brother, may be lying
in wait for you!
You are very good—and to tell you the truth, I
should'nt much care; it would be a relief to me, it
would make me either more discreet or more notorious,
no matter which, or better still—it would put me
out of the way. I wish I was in my grave, Atherton!
You were very near it, sir, but a few months ago.
Near it! I was on the very threshold of death—I was
given over, there was no hope for me, as you know,
and yet, I was happier, O, how much happier than I
am now! Then I was without fear; now, I am without
hope. Now, while I appear to be strong with renewed
life, and happy with new dreams—a river of
youthful, hot, rich, generous blood within me, a consciousness
of great power to sup—ah!
What's the matter!—
A spasm, Atherton, a spasm like a knife!
A stab from a real knife, might save you.
After this, we had a long conversation which ended
with his taking my hand, saying, You are a good fellow
Atherton Gage, you are indeed. I will reform
for your sake.
Will you! said I, quite overcome by his fervor.
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Begin to-night, Gerard, this very night, if you
are serious. Turn off that woman of mischief before
you sleep.
What woman?
The woman you have at the cottage for a decoy.
Before I sleep, I cannot, I am under a promise to
her—but give me your hand, Atherton; you know me,
you know that what I say I will stick to. This very
night I will prepare to get rid of her, and after this
night I will never see her again—but as you would
wish me to see her.
After this night!
So help me God!
Ah, Gerard, and why not now?
Because to-night I mean to play the hero.
How—
I have been pursued for a long time, by a beautiful
creature, whom I have avoided hitherto with especial
care. She haunts me night and day, I am afraid for
no good; for she knows my character, and yet she
will put herself in my way! in which case, what can I
do?
Save her—save her! Be indeed a hero, and save
her from herself.
A hard thing to do Atherton, at my age, in good
health, but nevertheless... I'll try—if I can.
What is her age?
I am not sure; if it is the girl I think; I never saw
her face but once in my life; she may be about fifteen
or sixteen, perhaps.
Gerard—put your hands upon this book, and swear
to me, swear that you will keep your word, that you
will save her if you can—
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Softly, softly, you mistake the vow—that I will try
to save her—if I can.
Be it so; that you will throw off your decoy this
very night.
I will; I swear on this book, that I will!
And that from this day forth, you will never trespass
upon the purity of woman.
After this night, if you please—
Be it so.
I swear.
What could I say? I was terrified, thunderstruck.
I knew that he would keep his oath, but I could not
for my soul, imagine how he had been persuaded to
take such an oath. What I said now, was only what
I had said fifty times before. But still, as I knew that
he would sooner die than break his word—as I saw it
in the established gravity of his look, in the unspeakable
sincerity of his whole countenance from the forehead
to the mouth, I was ready to say—Go—go—in
the Great name of God, for this night, and pray him to
forgive thee, as I forgive thee! But all at once, though
I knew that he would keep his oath, and that he could
not well sin much in the little time there was left for
him, I began to feel a sort of inquietude such as I had
never felt before, a sort of preternatural anxiety, a
pressure of the heart, a strange mysterious terror
without aim or shape. I was not a believer in prodigies,
nor in miraculous intimations—I never shall be, I
hope, for so long as they are not clear enough to be
understood, of what avail are they? And yet, I was
afraid with a fear that no language can describe. I
strove to prevent his going, I offered to go with him—
I did more—I played a trick with his watch to
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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
detain him, the only trick I ever played in my life. But
he would go nevertheless.
My dear Gerard, I tremble for you, said I. Husbands
are on the look out for you, and fathers and brothers
are leagued together to destroy you.
So I have heard. But if they trap me, it shall be
with bait worth dying for.
Houses have been beset you know, within the last
week by armed men—this may be all a snare.
Be it so. Let them way-lay my path if they like;
let her that has the courage, betray me. Look you,
my friend. Hitherto I have been the pursuer and the
scourge of women; hereafter I hope to be—I will not
say what now; for in this particular case, I happen to
be the pursued; would you have me give up now—
now, when, for the first time in life, I design to play
the hero.
Ah, but mischief will come of it, Gerard, I know it
will; don't go, don't go, I beseech you; stop where
you are.
I must go—I will go—I would, if it were my last
hour. You cannot feel as I do; there is a mystery
about this girl which keeps me in a fever; I will go to
the bottom of it, I will, at the hazard of my life; I
will know who she is, and why she has haunted me so
long, pursuing me every where like my shadow, and
escaping from me at every turn, like my shadow.
Farewell.
Farewell! said I—and if a—but before I could
finish what I had to say, he was gone.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
So, we parted, he for the cottage, and I to wander I
hardly knew whither; I only know that the word
farewell with which he left me, a word which at any
other time, I should not have cared for, tolled in my
ears all night long, and that I could not shake off the
fear it filled me with, and that before I knew where I
was, I found myself seated by the mother of poor
Martha P— a dear good girl who was very fond of
Middleton, in spite of his bad character, though she
was too proud and pure to acknowledge it even to
me—her adopted brother; I have not forgotten too,
that somebody spoke of him with asperity, and that
I saw the twinkle of tears and heard a half articulate
peevish cry, as the poor girl stooped down to look
for a needle with her short loose hair huddled about
her neck, hiding her eyes and throwing a deep shadow
over the floor; that the mother bid her get up, and
that Martha got up, and shook away her hair from
her eloquent face, and spoke a word or two in his
favor; that her father appeared to be angry with her,
and that she grew very pale and praying her father
to forgive her, left the room with her eyes brimful,
and her heart running over; that her very aged grandmother
who had been watching every shadow that
passed over the forehead of Martha, as if she could
see through it, broke a silence which the father told
me when Martha left the room had continued for a
whole week, and muttering in a sort of hoarse
-- 040 --
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whisper, said; no, no, no! and again, as Martha shut a
door overhead, no, no—no! and again after a long
while, so long that we had forgotten the cause of her
speech, throwing up her withered arms and trying to
rise from the chair—no! no! no! I tell you; that I
shrunk away from the poor old creature with fear,
while a favorite negro came up to me and shaking his
huge head and showing his large teeth, bid me nebber
fear, for why? cause-a young-a massa Gerard, he
nebher come out o' de little eend o' de horn yit, no
more 'n a toad wants a tail, ebbery bit an' grain; that
I hurried off and was overtaken at the door by Martha,
who putting both her hands into mine, said to me in
her sweet way; while they quivered and palpitated in
my grasp—Atherton—Atherton, my dear good brother;
you are now the only hope of that young man. Poor
Gerard! Do not desert him; do not you give him up.
Who knows Atherton, who knows—it may be in your
power perhaps to—to—to save him and—that is—I—
I—I forget what I was going to say; but never desert
him I beseech you, my dear brother for the sake of
poor Elizabeth—O that she were alive now! for so
long as you are with him, I have a—a sort of a—a—
a sort of hope—of his, of his—of his welfare, I
mean.
As I live dear Martha, said I, setting my lips to her
forehead—(I never kissed her mouth in my life, though
I loved her as much as a brother could love a sister,
and I knew that she loved me, as much as I did her,)
as I live, dear Martha, I will never desert him.
Ah, you are very good! I am easy now—I am very
happy now, said she—farewell!
Happy, thought I; she happy! while the water
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
stands in her eyes, and she can hardly speak loud
enough to be heard by me.
I left her, I know, with a dreadful oppression of
the heart, with a feeling which I have no power to
describe, nor courage to think of. It grew worse and
worse at every step, and I walked about for an hour
in the cool night wind, before I went back to my
study, hoping to throw it off by exercise. I remember
the whole now, every thought and every step
after I left poor Martha, though much of it appeared
like a dream to me on the following day. I took up
my flute I remember, I tried to amuse myself with a
book; with drawing, with writing, but all to no purpose—
they would not relieve me, their witchery was
no more. I threw myself on the bed without undressing—
and lay there for a whole hour with my
eyes shut, and would have slept if I could, although I
felt somehow unwilling to throw off my clothes.
But I could not sleep. The dark air grew hot and luminous
about me, I felt as if I were haunted, I could
hardly get my breath, at last; and I started up in a
fright, opened all the windows, and left the room as if
I were pursued by some invisible thing, and took the
road by the river-side; for I was very fond of the
water, and I had an idea that a bath would relieve me;
but some how or other, I know not how it was, though
I tried all along the shore, I could not find a deep
smooth quiet place which was not either too dark—so
dark that my courage failed me, or too much in the
moon-light for my purpose. I wandered a long long
way up the banks, loitering here to look at a ripple
and there to hear the moaning of the water; but still,
still to no purpose—I could not throw off the weight.
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
I leaped, I ran, I recited verses aloud, I threw stones
at every shadowy spot I saw, for every shadowy spot
was like a pool of death to me; and I did so that I
might hear a noise like life, and see a flash like life
in what appeared as dark and as quiet as the grave;
but still that weariness, that insupportable weariness
would not forsake me.
At last, as I stood looking at the water into which
I had rolled a huge rock a moment before, I got
possessed all at once with a belief—it was not a vague
idea, it was a belief, a thorough conviction—that
Gerard Middleton was in danger, and that he had such
need of me as no living man ever had of another. I
know what I say—I do not mistake I am sure. I
know that I had this belief, while I stood there looking
down into the river, and before I arrived at the
cottage, as strongly as I had it after I arrived there,
and saw the woman of mischief.
I tremble now when I think of the way in which
this belief entered my soul—it were enough to make
any man a believer in what I hope never to believe
in—preternatural intimations. I felt as I should feel,
I suppose, if I were to see a shadow pursue my shadow,
as I should feel were I to hear my name called out
in the everlasting woods where I had never been
before. I was very much frightened, partly on my
own account and partly on his, and yet, in the midst
of my fear, I was collected enough to stop and look
about me and reason with myself, as I would now
with another. I put my fingers to my pulse, and the
better to assure myself, I shouted and laughed till the
shores rung; but all I could do was of no use; I
could not scare away the awful persuasion of my
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
heart, nor could I shame it away, though I tried with
perfect seriousness. What could I do?—I was afraid
to give up to such a fear; it was too unworthy of me,
too childish, I said, over and over again; but more
afraid, I confess, that if I did not obey it, I should
live to be sorry for my disobedience; for after all,
how knew I, how could any body know that we
are not to be guided by preternatural intimations?
I know not how another might behave in such a
case, but I know that I gave up to the fear at last,
though I would not acknowledge it to myself, and
that I set forward on my way to the cottage, saying
at every step that I was a fool, that my terror was not
only childish but impious, and that I would go, merely
to satisfy myself that I was a blockhead for my
pains.
On the way, I thought much of the past, of you, of
your enquiries about poor Elizabeth Hale, of Mrs
Amory, of poor Middleton, of his mortal foe, (a man
you never saw) of poor Martha P—, of the beautiful
strange woman at the cottage, and of the talk I
had with Gerard about her, before he left me, saying
farewell, as if he knew we should never meet again.
But still, strange as it may appear, I would not hurry
myself, nor take even the shortest path; but crossing
the water, pursued my way along the verge of the wood,
as leisurely as if I had been out for a walk with some
idle dreamer abroad in the moonlight, or some poor
lunatic, who might be exasperated by serious opposition.
At last I entered a dark part of the wood,
through which I had to feel my way; and so dark was
it, and so occupied was I with inward strife, that I
lost myself; nor did I know where I was, till I broke
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
out all at once, without preparation or notice, directly
in front, and within a few yards of the cottage, while
I supposed myself to be yet a long way off.
I started—I held my breath—I drew back, and
stood in the shadow of a tree, and tried again to shake
off the unwholesome fear. The moon was at the full,
but there was a strong wind over-head, and the whole
heavens appeared to be loose, and drifting slowly
athwart her face. The sky was all afloat, as our fishermen
say, when there is a perpetual swift succession
of shadow and light, over their path in the sea. Behind
me, was a thick wood, on my right and left were
a few large trees, and right before me, was the cottage,
the little window of the second story flashing
forth at long intervals to the unsteady light of the
moon.
While I was standing there, it grew very dark, so
dark that I should not have been able to see where I
was, but for one little patch of clear blue sky just over
the cottage-roof; you may smile, but what I say is
the truth—it appeared to me as I stood there, to be
just over the roof, and it affected me in a strange
way, I know not why nor wherefore—I only know
that my heart grew full and that my eyes ran over,
when I saw that one spot of blue, like a window
in heaven, solid clear and stationary, while the rest
of the sky appeared to be passing away below it, like
the white clouds that are driven by the north-wind
with such inconceivable velocity over the bright face
of the moon. I never shall forget my feelings that
night, nor the look of the shadowy solitude before
me, and about me, nor the huge trees, nor the profound,
awful quiet in earth and air, in sea and sky,
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
nor the heaviness that weighed upon me like the hand
of death.
I will bear it no longer, said I at last, I will go up to
the cottage and ask for him, dead or alive. At the
very instant I determined to do this, a door opened a
little way off, and immediately afterwards, a man stepped
forth from the shadow of a projecting part of the
roof, and stood as if listening, within a few yards of
me. I thought I had seen him before, he stooped
very much, he was tall, and wore his left arm in a
sling. He was followed by a woman. Her I knew.
I could not be mistaken—her very step was enough to
betray her. It was Claire, the beautiful foreigner;
but if so, how came she to be leagued with Jeffry —
the mortal foe of Middleton? (for it was he); the very
man who betrayed the poor Indian-girl that you saw,
when she was regarded by Gerard as his wife, and after
a while would have been so; the very man that
was betrayed afterwards into an intrigue with his own
beautiful wife, as I have told you, by poor Gerard;
and the very man, who after he had fought Gerard
twice, narrowly escaping death each time, swore, as
he lay bleeding on the field, never to interchange forgiveness
with him, nor ever to lose sight of him, till
he was fully avenged.
After waiting a few moments at the door of the cottage,
as if to assure himself that every thing was safe
there, he came directly to the spot which concealed
me, but evidently without knowing or suspecting that
any body was there, for he stopped under a large tree,
within a few feet of me, and entered into conversation
with the female. They were so near at one time, that
I was afraid to breathe or move, though I would have
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
given the world to be away—I could have touched her
with my hand, as they stood whispering together. His
carriage was haughty and cold, and I thought inflexible,
but she stood as if ready to go down upon her knees
before him. I could not hear what they said—I was
too much frightened, and my heart palpitated so furiously,
it made me sick; I was hardly able to stand.
But just as I began to despair, they stopped whispering
all at once, and retreated further into the shadow
of the trees, the woman locking her hands with a faint
cry, and holding them to her heart, and he leaning
away from her, and listening as though he heard something
afar off in the wood. While I was looking for
some body to appear in the quarter to which their
eyes were directed, a window was cautiously opened
before me, and a female dressed in white appeared
like a dead woman wrapped in her grave clothes, I
have thought since—and after looking out, with a hurried
anxious motion of the head, and listening attentively
for a few moments, with her hair flying loose
about her neck, she lifted up her arms with a low
moaning respiration toward the little patch of blue
sky, as if she could see through it, and beyond it, and
immediately afterwards, threw out something, which
fell near me with a jingling noise, like that of broken
glass, and went staggering away from the window, as
if she had been overtaken with the sickness of death.
I hardly know what followed, I acknowledge, nor
what became of the people near me; for it grew very
dark while I was reasoning with my own terror, so dark
that I could hardly see the shape of any thing about
me, or the cottage, or the trees, or the sky, though I
could hear a loud hoarse whispering afar off, like that
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
we hear on the beach, when there is a great swell at
sea, or the wind is rising on the far-off shores of the
wilderness. I was frightened—I do not deny it—I
dare not, I will not: I was exceedingly frightened; so
much so, that instead of going up to the cottage, as I
intended a little while before, I hurried away into the
wood, and lost myself; and lo! the night wind arose,
and a thick whitish fog fell upon my path, and the
trees began to roar, and I was glad enough to escape
in the dreary darkness that followed; hurrying away
I knew not whither, as if pursued for my life, yet more
and more dissatisfied with myself, and my own motives
at every step, for not having gone up to the door
and demanded, late as it was, to see poor Middleton.
-- 048 --
CHAPTER XIX.
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
I have now come to a portion of the story, which I
cannot bear to dwell upon, but which it may be proper
for you to be acquainted with, before I proceed
further with what relates to myself. I have taken
great pains to know the truth—I had, before you
wrote me—and have been very particular now. The
result is, that you may depend upon what follows—I
have it from Gerard himself.
On leaving me, he went straightway to the cottage,
his heart leaping with joy; youth and beauty before
him; adventure, intrigue, peril, mystery—unhallowed
endearment—warfare—death perhaps.
Claire was waiting for him on the verge of the wood,
where she held a long conversation with him, before
she would suffer him to enter the house. He might
speak to the stranger, but he would not be spoken to;
he might be seen, but he should not see the fair mysterious
creature whom he was to meet; for one day
or other he might see her in good-society, and however
praiseworthy and heroic the motive which had
now brought her to throw herself in his way, it would
be death to her to be recognized by him.
Why, Claire! said he, what do you take me for,
that you are able to keep your countenance, while you
talk to me in this way?
My word is given, sir, and I shall keep it.
You are to be with us, hey?
No, indeed.
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
No, indeed! Are you crazy! would you leave me
with her, a stranger—in the dark and alone? How
will you preserve your character, how retain your
place in good-society, if it go abroad, Claire, that you
permit people to see each other in this way, whatever
may be her object or mine, at your house?
You will not be in the dark—
How so; you say I shall not see her, though she
may see me. She is not going to wear a veil I hope;
if so, I'm off; no such boarding-school mysteries for
me; I'm not in the humor for it—I have passed the
age of downright youth; if not in years, I have in experience.
You will have light enough I hope, from the sky,
though to say the truth, it looks rather tempestuous
now.
Why Claire! what on earth is the matter with you!
what ridiculous game are you at now?
Game! How little you know me—I was never
more serious in my life, Gerard Middleton.
I'll never consent Claire.
You'll never consent! Pray sir, would you have
us consider it such a favor?
Good bye, Claire, good bye; I'm not to be made
a fool of, in this way.
Indeed! but you carry it bravely. A word in your
ear, Gerard Middleton. You love plain dealing, you
say?
I do—I do; I love it with all my heart, more than
I love any thing else on earth Claire, and you know it.
Very well. Now hear what I have to say; this
game, as you call it, I am playing not for you, but for
another, at the command of one I dare not disobey.
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
The devil you are!
Yes, and I am tired of it.
Well, well, more of this hereafter, I have no time
now. Shall I not see her face?
No—what are you thinking about? why do you
look at me, as if you would look me through?
Nor so much as hear the sound of her voice, Claire?
No—no.
No light, Claire?
Only that of the moon.
What if I enter the house without your leave?
You dare not.
Pooh!
As a man, as a gentleman, you dare not; you would
not be able to see her, if you did.
Ah!
And what is more, young man, though I never fired
a pistol but once, in my life! I should not scruple to
try it again.
Really—
Ay, or a knife either.
Here's a hero! but I've gone too far now, there's
no help for it, I agree to all you say.
Stop, stop; one word more. She will be in the
large room to the left there, the window of which
looks this way; the curtains are down you observe;
you will not raise them without her consent?
No—
Nor try to see her face?
Hard enough to be sure. But there's my hand, I
agree to all you ask—every thing—every thing.
You will put no questions to her, you will offer no
rudeness—
I!—no, indeed!
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
—Nor make any attempt either now or hereafter to
find out who she is. Upon your honor, Gerard Middleton—
swear this to me, by all your hopes of hereafter.
I don't half like the form of the oath—but you
know me, and I say to you upon my honor I will keep
my promise.
Nay, swear it—lift your hands to that troubled sky
and swear it.
Well then—I do swear it!
Enough, enough—now win her if you can, but win
her fairly.
Nay, do not leave me yet—you are very pale—
what am I to think of you? what is her object?
Perhaps your overthrow.
My overthrow!
Perhaps your reformation.
Absurd!
Not so absurd neither! She is evidently of a very
serious turn.
Why Claire! you speak as if she were at your
elbow, and as if you were afraid of her.
I am afraid of her.
No!
But I am, I say, and if you were to see her face, you
would be afraid of her.
Beautiful, hey?
Yes; but with a wild, strange beauty, such as I
never saw, but in my sleep.
And the voice?
A sweet and sorrowful voice, at which if I were altogether
alone, I should be a... Ah! (listening) did
you speak—?
No—
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
—So sweet and sorrowful that I could weep to hear
it were I alone—
All this may be a trap for me, Claire?
Very true.
A trick—
Yes.
You have told me as much already.
No.
Yes but you have Claire, and if I thought you spoke
true—
Lord! how your eyes glitter!
Do they?
Yes, like steel in the star-light.
And why? do you know the cause?
I do; your desperate and wayward soul is awake
with some new, fierce, unlawful hope.
Is it the girl I saw at Boston?
How should I know?
Small with a fine shape?
Yes.
With a clear, transparent forehead—very modest
and very pale?
Yes.
Large dreaming eyes, ripe mouth and very magnificent
hair?
Yes—no—
Yes—no—!
You ask me so many questions in a breath.
Lead me to her! lead me to her! the little wretch, I
know her. Flesh and blood, I thought so! I could
have sworn as much the first time I ever saw her, so
devout and so demure: why you'd think butter
would'nt melt in her mouth!
Should I!
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
Pretty joke, to be hunted about in this way, from pillar
to post, month after month, by a little she-methodist.
Month after month, Gerard.—There must be some
mistake here. This girl is quite a stranger—
Pooh!
What I say is the truth; I never saw her till about
a month ago—
Ah! what music is that?
Music!—where!—
In the woods, I believe.
Not in the wood, I hope!
How mournful it is,—how sweet! oh, I could listen
to it forever!
Great God!
Claire! Claire! what's the matter with you!
Hush—hush—don't breathe for your life.
Claire!—Claire!—
Ah! (breathless and gasping) did you speak!
Speak! to be sure I did; what's the matter with
you? what ails you?
Do you see any thing?
See any thing! no; what should I see?
Let us go in, I feel weary and sick and cold, and—
there!—did you hear that?
Hear what! are you mad, or do you wish to make
a fool of me? I hear nothing.
Gerard Middleton? (whispering)
What ails you Claire? why do you whisper?—why
do you cling to me so?
I am very unhappy Gerard—very wretched.
Why so, dear?
Very, very; I can't bear sweet music now, as I
could once—
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
Nay, nay, why do you weep? I'm not going to,
leave you.
It's enough to break my heart now.
Poor child!
Ah, Gerard! if you only knew the whole truth,
how you would pity me!
I do pity you, Claire, I do indeed; what more would
you have? what is the truth you speak of? what ails
you? what are you afraid of—why do you sob so?
You will drop a tear on my grave Gerard—wont
you?
On your grave?
Yes Gerard; and you will try to forgive me I hope,
when you know the whole truth, and how I—are you
afraid in the dark?
Afraid in the dark!—I!—
Do you believe in spirits Gerard?
Why!—Claire!—rouse yourself; you'll make me
nervous too, if you continue to whisper so dismal.
Do answer me, do, do; are you afraid in the dark!
No, are you?
Oh no!—no—no, indeed, not I? Sometimes,
to be sure, I've a sort of a—o! I do wish I could lay
my head in my poor mother's lap and cry myself
asleep—a sort of a—there! there! what's that.
Good God, how you tremble!
A sort of a—of a misgiving here (laying both
hands upon her heart) just here Gerard, especially
when you are away (do speak to me, do, do!) if I,
hear sweet music when I am all alone at the cottage,
or if I hear a noise, or a foot-step, or see a shadow on
the green turf, though it be the shadow of a tree or a
bird or a cloud or a—there, there! O, how sorrowful!
how plaintive!
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
Claire, you grow paler and paler every moment—
speak to me, I beseech you.
Hush—Hush—
You frighten me.
Gerard Middleton! there! there 'tis!
God bless me! I should think you saw a spirit!
Gerard Middleton!
Well dear, what would you have? Here I am at
your side.
Gerard Middleton! Let us go no further in this
dreadful business.
What do you mean?
Let us go no further; let us stop where we are—I
can hardly get my breath—I never felt so before, in
all my life, never! never!
Pho, pho, don't be a child! Recollect who you are
and what, and how you have sworn to be the scourge
of them that have made you what you are.
And what am I, Gerard?
A desperate woman.
True—true, and am I therefore never to be at peace
with woman while I breathe, never to be at peace
with myself? Oh, Gerard Middleton! that I should
have come to this, I that if I had the true place in our
day, should overtop the proudest of my sex; I that
might have done so much good.
Think of your steady virtue Claire. Think of
what women have made you suffer. Think of the terrible
mischief they wrought you, before you lifted a
finger against them.
Gerard Middleton; you do not know me I perceive.
I do think of this, and of all this, morning, noon and
night, I have thought of it now for a whole year; but
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
nevertheless, when I consider what I was, and what I
shall be, and what I have done, with all my virtue and
with all my courage, I am half crazy with fear. Of
what avail is it that I have escaped so long? that I
have held my virtue safe, my integrity fast, while I have
been spreading the snares of death for a multitude.
Revenge, Claire; think of that. Revenge is sweet.
Not so very sweet after all, Gerard,
Indeed!
No—for I am dying of revenge—of gratified revenge
too.
Terrible—terrible! your voice goes through and
through me. What a woman you are!
You shudder—you turn away your face.
I do, for I believe you. I shudder now at the very
touch of your hand; my very heart gives way at the
sound of your voice—O! how altered it is, Claire!
I know you speak the truth; my very blood acknowledges
that you do.
And therefore you turn away; you are afraid
of me.
No—no—not absolutely afraid of you, but for you.
But you are, I say; you are! Well, well, I have
made up my mind, now.
Your mind for what?
Hear me Gerard, you know me; after this night, I
do no more mischief to woman—I would rather die.
After this night! wonderful!
How so? for more than a week I have been preparing
for what I now say, but as I have not seen
you, and as my pledge here was a matter of life and
death, I have not been able to avow my purpose
before. You do not speak—I had some hope of
you—
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
Gracious God!
So!—it is your turn now!
How agitated you are!
Would you believe it, I have made the same vow
this very night!
Have you indeed!
This very night Claire; not two hours ago.
Have you Gerard! have you, in truth, as you hope
for mercy!
I have.
Swear it! swear that hereafter you will not war
with woman! O, how happy you have made me!
I do swear it—I swear it from the depth of my
soul.
Oh Gerard!
On your knees Claire! up—up!—
No—never!
Get up child! what are you crying about now?
Say that you forgive me, and I shall die satisfied.
Oh! say that you forgive me, dear Gerard—
Forgive you! for what pray?
No matter, no matter—say that you forgive me,
and that you will not take back your forgiveness, nor
hate my memory, whatever may happen.
Well, there, there, simpleton, I do forgive you;
take that kiss on your forehead Claire, and that, and
that; now are you satisfied of my sincerity. Whatever
you have done, or said, or thought, I forgive
you, and may God forgive you and me as freely as I
forgive you, and continue to forgive you.
Bless you! bless you! dear Gerard! You little
know what you have done—God bless you!
You are mad Claire.
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No, no, if I was, there would be some hope.
These women of great virtue have made you crazy.
No, no, I have gone too far, much too far, I am
afraid; for after all, how could they ever know the
truth? How could they know that I was innocent?
Alas! alas! how much of sorrow and how much of
shame, had I escaped, if when appearances were
against my virtue for a little season, my cruel sisters,
my own cruel, unforgiving sex had foreborne to judge
me as they did; or if they had been merciful in their
interpretation of what was never conclusive, or if
they had permitted me to justify myself, to prove my
innocence and my integrity when I had it in my
power to prove both. While I was yet good, lo!
they treated me as if I were bad. Now that I am
bad lo! they treat me as if—ah! (starting up with
a shudder, and looking through her parted hair) you
see something now, I am sure you do—
Yes Claire and I begin to believe that we are a—
ah! can it be possible!
O Gerard! Gerard! don't look so! you frighten
me to death! What do you see? what do you hear!
your eyes look as if you followed something up out
of the wood there, up, up into the far sky!
It is very strange—very—did you see it, Claire?
See what!
Nothing Claire, nothing; Let us away; you have
made a fool of me, a baby, a coward.
How pale you are!
That sorrowful sweet harmony is not of earth,
Claire.
You would not believe me Gerard, when I told you
that the wood here was haunted.
-- 059 --
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Nor do I now Claire; I have no such faith.
No such faith! Yet you heard the music and you
grew pale with terror.
How very low it was, I could just hear it and no
more, when I held my breath, and listened with all
my heart. Ah! a footstep in the large room—the
fact is Claire, that you only hear this music when the
wind is southerly; and you have some neighbour
near enough to be heard—another step! and barefooted—
surely she is barefooted Claire, tap, tap, tap!
bless the dear little foot—
Look! what is that!
Look where? I don't see any thing.
But I do! there, there—among the trees by the
river side.
A cow or a horse or a sheep—
No, Gerard, no—it is a man.
A man!
Ay, and a very tall man; I saw him as plainly as I
see you; he stepped out of the shadow just as you
spoke and stole into the wood on the other side of
the path.
A tall man, hey? I thought so Claire, I thought so
(drawing the blade from a sword cane as he spoke)
and I came prepared for the tall man. I thought so—
leave me, (Claire clings to him,) leave me! I say! let
me go; I have been pursued by the shape of a tall
man, day after day, night after night, year after year,
till—By God, woman! I will not be hindered now!
And away he sprang, after the shadow. In a
moment he was beyond her reach, and immediately
after he entered the wood, voices were heard, the
report of a pistol and a shriek that frighted her very
-- 060 --
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soul. She fainted on the spot; and when he returned,
he found her lying stretched out on the damp green
earth. He lifted her up, and spoke to her and soothed
her, and the first words that she spoke were—
Now do you believe me dear! now that you have
seen it and heard it.
It, Claire, it?
You saw it face to face, did you not?
I did Claire; and but for the damned slippery bank,
I should have done for it, I hope. God! what a
spring it made when I pricked it!
Merciful heaven! What have you done! was it
alive!
It was alive—a moment ago, whether it will be
to-morrow, it is not for me to say. The scoundrel!
his treachery deserved more than death. See—see—
lifting the narrow blade which quivered and sparkled
in the moonlight, and showing a reddish tinge
near the point.
Miserable man! How had you the courage to
strike it.
The courage! did you not hear a pistol?
I did—
Well I had the courage to serve it with a few
inches of bright steel, because it had the courage to
offer me a leaden pill that I did not much care to take,
are you satisfied?
No, (firmly) no!
Woman—woman! how dare you speak to me in
that voice. Be on your guard; for, as I hope to
outlive my arch-enemy, as I hope to see the light of
another day, if I find you leagued with Jeffry Smith.
With Jeffry Smith! Another such word sir, and
-- 061 --
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we are a part forever. I league with nobody; the
game that I play is for myself; I am that other I
spoke of, and though he, or you, or another may profit
by the mischief I do, it is not for you, nor him, nor
for any other mortal to threaten me. So I bid you
beware—Be upon your guard sir, I am not of a
temper to be trifled with.
Enough—I hear a step in the room above, the
curtains of the window are lifted—
As he spoke, a light flashed on the wet verdure,
and a shadow shot along the turf. It was the shadow
of a woman tying up her hair. His heart sprang to
his throat, he threw away the sword, kissed Claire,
and bid her be faithful to him as he would be faithful
to her, and hurried lightly up the narrow stair-case,
though not so lightly as to surprise the female whoever
she was, for the moment he touched the lock of
the door, the light was extinguished. He tapped;
but she made no reply. He pushed open the door—
the room was large and he could see all over it, but
there was nothing alive or in motion to be seen.
-- --
CHAPTER XX.
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
But while he stood in the door-way, holding his
breath (continues the narrative) something glided past
him like a shadow. His blood thrilled as it swept
by; but the next moment he saw the shape of a woman
at his elbow, he heard her step, her low agitated
breathing, and his heart beat thick with joy. It was no
shadow, no shape such as men are afraid of, though
it wear the outward form of what they have most
loved on earth. It was a woman—perhaps a beautiful
woman—a youthful woman he was quite sure, for the
small hand he took was very soft and smooth, and
though it fluttered violently, it was cold to the touch
of his. The curtains were dropped to the very floor,
and the room was full of a confused glimmering
twilight, a sort of atmosphere which would permit
nothing but shadows to be seen.
I pray you, said he, and as he spoke, he shut the
door softly and stepped forward as if going to put
aside the heavy white window-curtains, but she was
too quick for him, she caught his arm before it was
too late and prevented the involuntary outrage.
God forgive me! said he, retreating with shame as
he spoke. I beseech you to believe me! I would
not have been guilty of any thing so treacherous for
the world; I had quite forgotten where I was, in the
hurry—nay, nay, do not fear that I shall break my
word; I shall not. I would rather die. Why do
you tremble so? why are you so cruelly agitated?
-- 063 --
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Why do you — What are you afraid of! upon
my soul you have nothing to fear, nothing as I hope
for mercy! Ah—Indeed! will you not even look at
me? Why do you turn away your face; why do
you keep repeating that motion of the hand as to
drive me away. Perhaps your faith in me is no
more? perhaps you would leave me? or it may be
that you wish me to leave you? Speak—and I will
obey you. Speak, and I swear to you that I will do
whatever you desire, if it be possible. Nay, nay,
forgive me; I do not wish you to speak—a sign will
do—a sign dear, and you are at liberty forever.
She would give no sign—peradventure she could
not; for the table upon which her hand rested shook
all the time she stood there.
Am I not allowed to approach you?
She recoiled with a visible shudder, as he drew
near.
Good God! how you terrify me! Who are you?
She caught by the curtains, and they shook too.
—Who are you? and what are you? Why have
you ventured so far, if—if—what can have persuaded
you to such a step, you! you that are ready to drop
with fear while I speak to you! Have you thought
seriously of what you risk—poor child!
She dropped into a chair at these words, and
covered her face with her hands.
I entreat you to believe me, you are quite safe—I
would not harm you for the world, whatever you may
be. Ah! how cold, how frightfully cold your hands
are! what am I to do? speak to me, or but lift your
head if you wish me to go, and I will go instantly.
Your forehead too—how damp it is; but your soft
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
smooth hair, O, how beautiful to the touch! how
heavy, how abundant! I never saw but one mortal
with a head of hair like yours—
She was ready to drop out of the chair.
Come, come, I entreat you to hear me patiently;
compose yourself and hear me. You are now as you
may perceive completely in my power; entirely at
the mercy of a bad man—you gasp for breath, but
hear me through, I beseech you—with no human help
nigh you, with no arm to save, no ear to hear.
Think of your dreadful situation (he spoke with a
mild voice) alone with a man like me in a place like
this—at an hour like this. Nothing short of a miracle
could save you!
The poor creature locked her hands and appeared
to shrink into herself—
—But lo! that miracle is wrought for you!
He turned to leave her as he spoke, but she sat as
if stupified with grief and horror, and he could not
bear to go till he saw her lift up her head.
I know you are innocent, I am sure of it; your
excessive alarm, your dreadful agitation, they are
enough to show that whatever else you are, you are
innocent! Good God! upon your knees! who are
you—do I know you! Do you know me! speak to
me, if you would not drive me distracted before your
face. Who are you! That you are innocent, I feel
assured; that you are young, I know by the very
touch of your hand; that you are beautiful is therefore
certain, for whatever is young and innocent must
be beautiful, I have nothing more to say. Go in
peace! The miracle is wrought for you; go in
peace! You weep—I am glad of it—I can feel your
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
tears trickle over my hand as I support your head.
Weep on, weep on, they will refresh your sick heart.
How still you are!—not a word, not so much as a
word, nor a look in reply. Do speak to me! do tell
me who you are, and what has brought you into such
a grievous peril; confidence it may be in the truth of
man? What a pity that you should ever be deceived.
Confidence in your own strength? God help you, if
that be the case! for that infirmity there is no cure,
no hope that I know of. Still not a word, nor a
sign, nor a whisper! what am I to believe? Strange
beautiful woman! do speak to me—do! do tell me
why it is that I find you here!—What have I done
to deserve this!
It may be that you are after this bad soul of mine;
perhaps you covet power, you would have dominion
perhaps over a proud man, over an exhausted, lonely,
weary and wayward heart, one already stupified,
worn to death and sick with perpetual transport.
O speak to me! How is it with you dear? would
you have this heart bloom anew! Easier was it, by
breathing on the scented earth, to revive the trodden
flowers which have been crushed and trampled in it,
with an armed heel to. How is it with you dear?
Believe me; I have no longer a heart for any thing
that wears the shape of woman. I will not deceive
you—I dare not—I have no longer the courage, or
the power. From this day forth, I have made a vow
to deceive nobody, to tamper with nobody in your
shape.
She drew his hands to her mouth and kissed them
with fervor.
What I say is the solemn truth. I glory in being
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
loved—I cannot be happy if I do not love something—
I should not care to live a day, if I were not
sustained by the hope of—... no, no, no—we'll not
speak of that now. But notwithstanding all this
dear, the truth is that I shall never love again. My
heart was buried alive not long ago, and how can I?
I never did love but one—a child, a mere child—poor
Elizabeth! I was a boy then—but boy though I was,
I destroyed her—nay, nay, do not force me away
from you—lean your head on my bosom.
Her head rested on his shoulder as he proceeded,
and he held both her hands to his heart, and stood
over her, as a brother would stand over his young
and favorite sister.
I beseech you to put all faith in me. What I say
is the truth—I cannot love you; I never shall love
again; that is impossible now; but I can pity you,
and I do pity you, poor child. After a time too, if
you are what I believe you to be, after a time I shall
revere you. That, however, will depend upon you,
upon your own behaviour; for bad as I am, I have
that within me, which—a woman lighted it up, a
child rather, years and years ago when I was but a
child, that which I have tried to stifle day by day
with ashes and earth, a flame it is that will not be
smothered, a fire that will never go out, a brightness
that will not suffer me to think of the young and
holy without veneration. Do you know me? If you
do not, how unspeakably rash! If you do, what an
awful trust for me! will you not suffer me to see
your features? Have I no power to move you?
You shake your head; you know very well that I
dare not break a promise; you have bound me to you
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
therefore as with a vow. Girl! girl!—whatever you
are, leave me! now is your time; you are in great
peril; my heart is growing wild with fever, crazy with
joy; I can feel your warm breath in my neck. Let
us part! O let us part, I beseech you! How dare
you cling to me so, after I have told you that I do
not love you, that I cannot love you, that my proud
faith in woman is no more. Leave me, leave me,
before it is too late! Ah—that smothered gasp!
You have not gone so far, so very far—you may still
go back and be safe and happy if you will. O that I
could persuade you to speak to me as you would
speak to a dear brother! Do, do tell me who you
are, not your name, I do not wish to know that—I
only wish to know what I can do for you. Will you
have me for a friend? for a brother? Say but the
word, if you will, and whoever you are and whatever
you are, my life is at your service, or if that may not
be, go away! lose no time, go away from this terrible
spot, unquestioned, unfollowed and alone.
You are deeply moved I see; suffer me to say one
word more, one of unutterable tenderness. You are
desperate with grief, or with passion or with terror;
you have gone so far that you are afraid to go back?
if so—why do you stoop your head? why wring
your hands at every word I say! What ails you!—
what is the matter with you? Good God! what can
I do—you frighten me half to death, your sobbing is
dreadful; it shakes my very heart. I begin to feel
dizzy—I—I—what if I send Claire to you! Ah!
that goes like a sharp knife to your heart; you are
jealous of Claire I see. Poor thing! if you knew
the worth of that woman, you would love her in
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
spite of all you see in her to make you afraid. Ah!
it grows dark about me, and there's a heavy sick
tumult in my blood, just where your head is now
resting; very terrible it is, and yet very soothing.
If I could but hear you speak one word, it would be
such a relief to me; or if I could know who you
are—and yet, I would not have you answer me,
however much I may entreat you, for if I break my
pledge to you, I'll not survive it—I swear I will not!
Perhaps you are that young, timid graceful creature I
saw at Boston a while ago. If you are, let me
beseech you to fly—fly and be happy! You will be
the wiser and better for this, one day or other;
and your gratitude then, like your grief now will be
unspeakable. If you would but tell me the truth
now, without suffering me to hear the natural tone of
your voice, I might be able to advise you. You
have heard, have you not, I am sure you have, that I
am what is called a dangerous man with your sex;
and you have pursued me at such awful hazard that
you may know what it really is that fascinates woman,
what it is that makes a man of my age dangerous.
Deluded woman! I pity you. Poor, poor
Girl! Ah;—your hand quivers to my touch, palpitates
with new life. Go, go! it is death to you, death
to me perhaps. Go, I beseech you—my arteries
tingle; my sight begins to fail me; I can hear
sweet bells ringing in the air. I am very faint—
very—and now I can feel the buried pure tenderness
of my youth gushing up within my heart, like
a forgotten spring, the very flowers of my youth
and all the sweet holy dreaming of my boyhood reviving
beneath your passionate warm tears. Cruel!
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
cruel! I cannot endure it, I will not—you are driving
me crazy—
He drew her up to his heart as he spoke and would
have set his lips to her forehead, but she strove with
him and repelled him as if the touch of his lips were
certain death to her.
What! after all this, have you no faith in me! may
I not even kiss your forehead? are we to part, never
to see each other again while we breathe, after a
meeting such as this, without so much as a word or a
look to assure me that you understand the true
motive, which—stay, stay! a thought has just flashed
into my very soul!—your excessive timidity, your
thick smooth hair, the silence that you keep, though
your head is now gathered into my bosom and your
heart is bounding side by side with my heart—I pray
you—
He dropped upon his knees at her feet—
—Are you! oh God, are you the innocent child of
my benefactor! Are you the dear friend of her that
I so loved in my youth—of her that I betrayed and
left! no, no—no, no—you are not poor Martha; no,
no, I see that now, for you stand up like a spirit
before me, what a brave carriage for one delicate and
feeble! You hardly appear to touch the floor. Oh
how thankful I am! I care not who you are now;
but a moment ago, you were so like that proud pale
sweet girl, I was ready to drop down at your feet and
lie there. How could I so blaspheme her purity!
nay, nay, leave the door—come away from the wall,
come and sit here, and I will watch by you, or if you
will go, go and be happy, go in peace, and leave me
to die here. Or if—nay, nay, do not cling to me so,
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
I will not leave you, I will not, upon my soul dear,
though you have raised an image in my heart that
will destroy me and you too, if you do not instantly
break away from the snare that is now spread for
you—
He awoke with a frightful sensation, a feeling as if
one side of his whole body were death-struck. He
was chilled to the heart, his very blood was a-cold, he
felt as if the fountain of life was frozen up forever
within him. He lay still for a few minutes after he
awoke, holding his breath and trying to remember
where he was, and where he had fallen asleep; for he
had a confused notion that somebody had been kissing
his mouth, his forehead and his eyes, while he
lay there and struggled to awake, clinging to him, he
thought, in the agony of death, calling out his name
with shrieks, and breathing it over and over with
every sort of endearing sweet and low intonation by
the hour, and trying all the time to wake him with
delirous impatience.
He shuddered as he put forth his arms, for they felt
as if they had been clasping a dead creature. He was
unable to move, unable to think with any sort of clearness,
and he broke out all over in a cold sweat, as the
truth crowded upon him. Where was he? what was
the matter with him? was he awake or asleep? and
if asleep, how long had he been so? He knew not,
he had only a sort of persuasion, a deep fear, growing
more and more insupportable at every breath he drew,
that he had seen poor Martha and his young Indian
bride, and Elizabeth Hale, the beloved of his youth,
the idol of his young heart when his worship was pure,
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
his own, his beloved Elizabeth, whom he had so
cruelly betrayed three years before: again he had
seen her fall into the sea, again he had leaped in to
save her, again he had brought her up from an awful
depth, pursued by a thousand shapes of terror, while
she was trying to say over his name all the way up,
kissing his mouth, clinging desperately about his neck,
gasping for breath, and half strangling him with her
innocent caresses.
He moved again—he uttered a cry—he started up.
His hands were tangled, his right arm, his very heart
in the torn beautiful tresses of a woman all in disorder.
He strove to get clear, by shutting his eyes, by turning
away his head, by toiling for escape as if he were
enmeshed in a live snare. While occupied in this
way, he heard a faint low agitated respiration; like
the last moan of a dying baby. He screamed with
fear, and arose, the dead creature moving as he moved,
till he tore himself away like a giant from the dishevelled
hair. He leaped upon his feet and staggered
to the door, and shrieked for mercy! with a convulsion
of the heart, till the house trembled beneath
his tread, and flashes of blue fire shot hither and
thither over the profound blackness of the hour, and
the dead body lifted itself up and shook, and the face
became visible to him, in spite of all he could do.
That was enough. He grew still then, still as death;
and he dropped where he stood, and lay there awhile
as if he had been struck to the heart with a knife.
He lay there till he heard a footstep, and saw the door
opened by a shadow, the shadow of a tall man, which
entered the room and walked up to him, and stood before
him, face to face, with his arms lifted in triumph
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
and mocking, and a sneer upon his lip; and he had
neither courage nor power to smite the shadow. And
then as he got up, he heard wailing and outcries afar
off, and a sweet lamentation through all the wide air,
like that which came up out of the wood, or the green
earth, or down out of the sky, perhaps, the night before.
And then he crept along to the bed on his hands
and knees, and lifted himself up, and waited there without
moving, till another shape, that of Claire, the woman
of mischief, appeared at the door and looked into the
room, and shook her head sorrowfully at him, and wept
when he spoke to her; for the light she carried flashed
upon the features of the dead before him, and he knew
them all. They were indeed the features of his beloved—
of poor Elizabeth, And when he saw that, he
took a chair and leaned over the hody, and waited patiently,
very patiently for a whole hour, till the wind
arose in the south, and blew away the darkness from it,
so that he saw the face of a great angel that lay there;
and he caught his breath, and stooped over it in prayer,
and stretched forth his hand reverentially to touch the
dead awful eyes. They vanished—vanished immediately,
and before he could withdraw the hand, or cry
out for help, there appeared in the place thereof, a
sweet visage that he knew, even the visage of poor
Elizabeth, of her that he had been dreaming of. And
death was upon it, all over the forehead, all over the
mouth, and all over the beautiful eyes. He spoke to
it, and lo! as he spoke, the large room grew larger, so
that he saw the stars, the sea, and a great ship, and then
the whole air was crowded with shadows; and he
turned away his head though he could not take off his
eyes, while some went softly to the window and put
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
up the curtain, so that the soft moon-light entered the
room like a new atmosphere; and some threw sweet
flowers by handfuls over the bed; and others came up
and walked slowly round it, with faces full of consternation,
perplexity and grief; and others who were in
the shape of aged women, took hold of the dead body
very tenderly, weeping and sobbing over it all the
time, and prepared it for the grave. And then he saw
the dead shape move, and the sweet mouth open a little,
and the dead blue eyes look out heavily from their
white shelter for a moment, and the small hand that
lay stretched out upon the coverlid, open very gently,
and the bosom heave underneath its thin covering;
after which, there followed a tremendous convulsion—
the whole face grew frightfully dark—the hair flew in
the wind and caught fire in the blaze of the lamp—
the whole body was illuminated as with a bright
inward flashing; and all the limbs thereof shivered
and shook, and then grew suddenly still forever—forever
and ever,
He sat upon the bed-side, after this, like a man risen
up out of his own grave, or out of the deep sea, holding
her two hands to his bosom, dead as they were—a
shirt like a winding sheet wrapping them both, and a
crushed paper lying in his lap. Not another tear did
he waste, not one! So, the people having tried for a
whole hour to bring the dead body to life, finding there
was no hope, went away one by one, shaking their
heads mournfully at him as they disappeared, and securing
every door after them. By all the stars, they
did! leaving poor Gerard alone, “all, all alone,”
with a dead body, in the tremendous darkness and
quiet of a large, old, uninhabited house. God forgive
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
them! It was enough to wreck the understanding of
the bravest that ever trod the earth. Yet he moved
not, spoke not, gave no sign, uttered no prayer to stay
them, no cry for mercy, though the pale sweet visage
of the dead went and came at every breath he drew,
in the dying flashes of the lamp, which they left near
him, till the eastern sky changed afar off, and a sort of
luminous twilight succeeded, a most unearthly atmosphere,
wherein the face appeared again as if it were
alive and smiling on him, and he saw for a certainty
now, that it was the face, not of a shadow nor of a
stranger, but of poor Elizabeth. He stood off awhile
and gazed upon it, and then drew nigh, and lifted up
the magnificent hair—it was heavy and wet—heavy
with tears and with the perspiration of death—with
the tears of a broken heart—heavy as when he plucked
her up out of the sea, drenched in the sweat of her
mortal agony.
He put his mouth to her delicate clear temples—the
chill struck to his heart. He kissed her smooth calm
forehead—it was like a bit of marble statuary, cold
with autumnal dew and star-light. He touchedher pale
dear mouth—it was distorted with an expression of
unspeakable suffering; just as if the poor child had been
smothered in her sleep, suffocated in a dream of joy,
with all her senses perfect; nay, as if while she lay
there by his side, awake—awake, but silent and motionless,
trying to move, trying to call out the name
of her beloved one, perhaps, or perhaps to pray to her
Father above, her poor heart had broken! Perhaps—
for such a thing might well be—perhaps, when it was
altogether too late, she had come to herself, and repented
of her terrible rashness, and cried for mercy,
-- 075 --
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or grown distracted with terror, and died, after all,
died when she most wished to live, and while she was
calling to him to wake and help her, trying to wake
him perhaps, tearing her beautiful tresses and screaming
to the Eternal with her last breath.
Yea—yea—it was the young bride of his youth, his
own, his beloved Elizabeth, asleep in the everlasting
torpor of the grave. Asleep! oh no! She was not
asleep—she never died in her sleep. Over all her
glorious form and fair bosom, her voluptuous arms,
her countenance of beauty, her dead solemn eyes,
about which, when they were alive, there was a continual
sparkle of joy, so that her whole visage was
like a mirror set in the star-light, reflecting whatever
went before it or over it, as if it were within it, all, all
even to the pretty childish hands that hung over the
pillow, half buried in her luxurious hair over all were
fine streaks of pale and vivid crimson, with here and
there a sprinkle of deep, fine, brilliant purple, proving
that however easy it may seem for one to die as she
died, it is nevertheless, a death of inconceivable horror,
a death of spasm, and half-smothered outcry, and
suffocation. Whoever thou art, beware! Whatever
thou art, beware! The poor victim utters no cry
that can be heard, no foam gathered upon her young
red lip, no gasping is heard perhaps, no death rattle:
But while she is yet alive, the warm blood grows thick
and stagnates forever and ever in the delicate channels
of life, the arteries are swollen, the minuter vessels
are distended to rupture, one after another, fires like
flaming serpents go hither and thither about the channels
of the soul, the brain collapses, the heart explodes,
and the immortal shape is no more.
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He took her head into his bosom and wept upon it,
and lay down by it, kissing the shadowy, half-transparent
eye-lids, until they quivered as with new life;
pressing the pale, quiet mouth till it grew suddenly red—
seeing which, he started up with a loud cry and a terrible,
though vain hope, for the redness that he saw was
only that of her torn lips, for the aged people had been
trying to force her teeth apart. He grew deadly sick
when he discovered the truth, and a great heaviness
came over him, and he was fast falling away into a
drowsy deep slumber with her head in his bosom—the
slumber of death he hoped—when gradually and slowly
the recollection of what had happened during the night
came back to him. He struggled with himself, and
sat up, and strove to awake more fully, and after a
few minutes he felt sure that in the dead of the night,
he had seen Elizabeth rise and go to a table near the
window, and pour something into a glass, and then
come back to the bed and lie down by his side as before,
turn to him as before, and cling to him, till the
rich odour, the sweet overpowering perfume of her
breath had put him to sleep forever—body and soul,
forever! True—true—there was the taste of a powerful
drug upon his lips yet. He arose when he observed
this, and with a dull, heavy, and growing torpor
at his heart, made his way to the window, where,
just as he was ready to give up and fall down
beneath what appeared to be a preternatural pressure
from above, he found a goblet, and at the
bottom of the goblet a few drops of a stagnant liquor,
just enough to stain the glass, of the color of crimson.
It was very brilliant, and the smell was tempting and
rich, and reminded him immediately of the sweet
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
fragrant lips that had been pursuing his all the night
through. And when he discovered this, he was happy—
very happy; for the aromatic breath of his beloved,
the beautiful dead woman, had penetrated into his
vitals, and there was no hope for him now. He knew
this, and he was thankful for it, but that he might not
be disturbed in the sleep which was now stealing over
him, the sleep of death, he went up to the windows, and
let down all the curtains, and secured all the shutters,
and bolted the door, and piled up the heavy furniture
against it, and darkened the whole room, and shook
loose the silken drapery of the bed, the gay showy
curtains through which the sun had already shot fire
upon the body of poor Elizabeth, till the brightness
thereof was terrible, poured some water into the
goblet, saw the shadow of death dissolve, the crimson
fade away, drank off the liquor, fell upon his knees,
prayed a short confused prayer, went into bed again to
the dead body, drew the languid arms about his neck,
her heart up to his heart, and grew straightway at the
touch, as cold as death.
-- --
CHAPTER XXI.
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
Let me now return to myself, says the narrator. I
could not sleep after I got home. It was the longest
night I ever passed in my life, and the cottage was
before me, and the trees, and the sky, and the man,
and the woman, all night long. But when the new
day-break appeared, and the fresh wind blew upon me
through the open windows, I began to be heartily
ashamed of my night sickness; to feel as if a great
part of the suffering I have described, had been the
suffering of a sleeper, but on casting my eye down to
my boots, I found them covered with wet leaves, and
with the fine yellow dust of a meadow flower that
grew near the cottage.
The day was delightful. I never was happier since
I came into the world. I took an early breakfast,
mounted my horse and rode off to — street, where
Middleton lodged. It was a morning altogether, such
as I could not forget were I to live a thousand years—
the sky so blue, the green trees and every leaf thereon
so active with vitality. My blood was like wine—
it had been like water. I walked freely and I breathed
freely, and I wondered at my lack of courage in the
night. I may be wrong, the joy that I felt now was
no more perhaps, than others feel every day, after a
night of anxiety or fever; but from that hour to this,
I have never felt as I felt then, nothing like that festivity
of the blood, that hilarity of the soul, that champaigne
joyousness of temper, and if I ever should
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
again, I know it will scare me: I may be wrong—
but such is my belief now.
The animal I rode, a creature all spirit and fire, set
off at a free gallop the moment I touched the saddle,
and as I rode along, I felt—I hardly know how to describe
it—as if the fresh wind of the north, the brave
sea breeze were blowing through and through me, and
winnowing soul and body, as it blew, from evil and
bad thought, and sorrow and mischief and pestilence.
But before I had gone far, the occurrences of the night
began to crowd back upon my memory one by one, to
wear a steadier shape, and to press about me, and to
start up in the path before me. I thought of the tall
man, of the apparition at the window, of the female
that stood near me, of the carriage of the two as they
whispered together, and before I recollected myself, I
was careering at full speed for the cottage. Where
now! cried a voice at a window as I rode by.
I reined up; and my heart gave way as I did so. I
was opposite No. 80, the very house in which poor
Middleton lived.
Pray, said I, assuming a careless air, pray tell me
if Mr. Middleton is up—my compliments to him, and
perhaps he will take a ride with me.
Tell the gentleman, said another voice at the door,
he is not up—
Not up!—for shame—say to him if you please, that
I am here.
Mr. Middleton was away all night sir, and he never
likes to be disturbed.
I was so happy! the tears actually sprang to my
eyes, and yet I determined to conceal my joy, and
carry it through with a swaggering air—
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
My compliments to Mr. Middleton, sir, and say that
I am waiting for him at the door on horse-back, and
that I will neither dismount nor stay long for him
here, if I do not see his head at the window.
Very well, sir, said a man at the window, and away
he went with the message.
Where now was my foolish terror? where now the
foreboding that shook me to death in the night-season?
where the bitter grief and self-reproach, and faith in
the supernatural that made a child of me in the dark?
He was out all night, sir—he hasn't come home yet
sir, said the man, looking out of the window of the
room in which Middleton slept.
I heard no more. My heart died within me, and
before I knew it, I was galloping away toward the
cottage. My sensations were terrible—I remember
this, but I remember little of what they were till my
horse, after clearing a fence at the edge of the wood—
a fence which at another time, I would not have leaped
for my right-arm—brought me in full sight of the cottage.
There it was—there—just as I had seen it in
the dead of the previous night, dark and silent as the
grave, the windows below barred and bolted with iron,
the windows above shut close, that one even where the
woman had appeared, and a part of the steps were
broken away. I caught my breath when I saw this—
and I felt—much as if I knew that murder had been
perpetrated there, and that I myself was appointed
from above to pursue and destroy the man-slayer. I
rode up to the door, and struck it forcibly and resolutely
two or three times, but there was no answer for me;
I knocked again and again till the whole house rung,
and shook with a long continued reverberation; after
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
which I alighted, and went up the outside stairs to the
second story and tried every window and every door,
and called and shouted till I was weary. And then I
came down, walked all round the house below, and
struck at every door and listened at every window in
the same way. The silence grew frightful—insupportable—
I could bear it no longer; and I began to
look about for something with which to force open the
door, when a bit of glass broke underneath my foot,
with a sharp jingling noise that instantly reminded
me of what I heard near the same place the night before.
It was a broken vial of exquisite workmanship,
chased with gold, and stained (through and through it
appeared to me) with a rich, brilliant, crimson liquid,
of a very grateful odour. Was it poison? If so—to
whom administered? and by whom? These were
questions of life and death; but while I was thinking
them over, my attention was attracted by something
white on the top of a bush near the wood—it fluttered
in the breeze, and appeared to be a signal. I ran up to
it. It was a pocket-handkerchief, and when I came to
examine it close, I found a spot of blood upon it, and
the initials of the woman that I saw in the night, C. C.
O. The grass here was much trodden; the tops of the
plants near had been lately stripped of their leaves
and bark. I touched a twig that was broken—it left a
stain—I took up a handful of the crushed leaves—the
dew was yet upon them, but they left a tinge too, which
it was impossible to mistake, or to see without a shudder,
upon the white handkerchief. There was a trail
on the turf too, as if something heavy had been
dragged over it; and a track which I followed from
this very spot to the verge of the bank where it
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
suddenly disappeared. On looking over, there was
nothing to be seen—for the water was high, nothing
but a shrub nearly plucked up by the roots, just over
the edge of the bank. It must have been tugged at
by a strong hand, for the coarse dark foliage was
torn, bruised and laden with fresh earth, as if it had
been pressed into the soil for a moment and then
recovered with a spring. I withdrew from the river-side
when I saw this, and hurried back to the cottage
once more, and staggered up to the windows and
shouted there till the skies answered me, to the door
and shook it until the house itself shook, and leaned
my shoulder against a pannel and heaved with all my
power, till I heard something give away inside; after
which I was able to open it. But when I did so far
enough to look in, I felt afraid; the quiet and the
darkness appalled me. I hesitated, knocked and
called again, and so loud was the outcry, that my
horse when he heard it, broke his bridle and set off at
full speed into the thick wood, leaving me alone,
just when the society of a dog would have been a
relief to me. At last I entered, but on tip-toe and
vary cautiously and felt my way inch by inch to the
little back parlor. But as I went by the foot of the
stairs I happened to look up, and there I saw, or
thought I saw—it might be a delusion to be sure—and
when I recalled the state of my feelings at the time,
I am ready to acknowledge that I must have been
deceived—but I saw, or thought I saw, as plainly as
I ever saw any thing in my life, the shadow of a tall
man at the top of the stairs, erect and immovable, as
if he stood there waiting for me to approach. I turned
away my head and looked out into the warm soft
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
air to reassure myself; and when I looked again, the
shadow was gone. But I wanted the courage to go
up, and I stood still therefore, and held my breath,
and watched the stairway and argued with myself
about my unheard of cowardice, till, though I could
neither hear nor see, motion nor footstep, voice nor
shape, I had argued myself back, by little and little
to the very door of the front-parlor which I threw
open, with a rude angry effort and walked in. It was
very dark, and for a little time I could see nothing,
not even the massy furniture, nothing but a feeble
shadowy glimmer, where the dust was eddying in a
little stray sun-shine that streamed through a crack of
the window-shutter. As I advanced, a flash struck
my eyes, and hastily turning my head, the first thing
I saw was a drawn sword lying on the table near me—
the blade of a sword-cane rather; it belonged to
Middleton; I knew it immediately, and seized it with
a quick sharp thrill, and took it to the door that I
might examine the blade; it was dark near the point
and bruised and discolored as with fire. But with a
sword in my grasp what had I to fear? nothing, said
I to myself, nothing, and I held it before me and
ascended the stairs forthwith, in a temper the very
thought of which now makes my blood run cold; for
I know—I am satisfied, perfectly satisfied—that if a
human creature had started up suddenly before me
from the darkness, I should have dealt him a blow
without any consideration of the consequences, and
without waiting to interchange a word; so great was
my fear, so dreadful my agitation. But I met nothing—
saw nothing, heard nothing, till I had continued
my search through a long wide passage to a
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
bed-room, the first of a suite which had been occupied
by Middleton during his illness; but when I had got
so far, I heard the outer door below shut with a loud
noise, and immediately two or three other doors were
flung to, one after the other, with a violence that
shook the whole house. What could I do? I grasped
the weapon of death, I planted my foot, and waited
for several minutes for somebody to appear. It was
nothing but the wind perhaps, after all, nothing but
the wind; for after the echoes died away, you might
have heard a pin drop. I entered the room with my
sword before me and after walking round and round
it, and throwing up the curtains I looked into the
other, which was connected with it—and I was satisfied
from all that I saw, that whoever the occupants
were, they could not be far off—they certainly had not
been gone long. So I called out several times, and
louder and louder each time, and struck the heavy iron
shod heel of my boot on the marble hearth, and
shouted, and rapped on the chimney-piece, and the
wall, and the door; but still there was no answer.
What could I believe? It was very strange; for the
bed-clothes before me appeared as if they had not entirely
sunk down into their proper place---you
could swear they had been hastily thrown off by some
body a few minutes before, judging by what else I saw
that somebody whoever it was, could have had little
or no time to escape. I staid but a minute or two,
yet I saw enough to satisfy me that I was in the bedroom
of a female—or a female had been there at any
rate... for the floor was littered with parts of her
dress. Here I trod on a slipper, and there lay a coronet
which had been crushed with a heavy blow or
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
trodden with a heavy foot. In a far corner lay the
fragments of a superb necklace tangled with fine
black hair, as if it had been plucked away in wrath.
On the very latch of the door, hung the vestiges of a
handkerchief that I knew, I had seen it on the head
of Claire—wreathed about her brow like a turban, I
could not mistake what I saw; it was a part of the
gorgeous apparel I had seen her wear in the south.
I had no courage, no heart, no time to look further,
and I hurried away; I was only there for a minute or
so as I have said before, but I saw every thing, and I
never shall forget what I saw, never to my dying day.
As for the rest of the rooms I merely walked into
them, one after the other, and hitched up the curtains
and set open the large green blinds, and threw a
hurried glance at the furniture and passed on, till I
came to the door of the particular room I was in
search of, and there I stopped and held my breath
again, palsied anew with unspeakable terror. I
cannot describe it—I cannot—I know that no language
would suffice to give you a faithful idea of
what I suffered, and yet, how can I help trying over
and over again to describe it? I was afraid even to
touch the lock. I felt as if something was about to
start up before me—as if something would happen if
I persevered against the pressure that I felt; as if a
strong hand, that of my Good-Angel perhaps, was
crowding me away from the door. But how could I
possibly go away? I that could not endure the reproaches
of my own heart for having done as I did in
the night? No, no—I had gone too far, much too
far in a strange house to think of escape. If I did
not persevere, what on earth could I say for myself?
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
The door was fast; and I knocked very softly two or
three times and, then louder and louder yet, and
called and shouted and stamped as before, till getting
half crazy with fright—for the sound of my own
voice terrified me—I lifted my arm with all my
strength and struck the pannel. It gave way and fell
into the dark, large, hollow, quiet room with a noise
which appeared to me so like the sharp splitting of a
coffin lid in a great sepulchre, that I shuddered and
recoiled, as if the loud angry protracted reverberation
were a preternatural voice warning me off. I could
now see all over the room, there was nothing alive
within it, I knew, unless there might be in a bed that
I saw, the curtains of which were drawn. But why
detail my sensations? why pretend to describe them?
It is all vanity and foolishness. I knew not whither
to go, nor what to say; I was mad—furious; and
when I put my hand through the broken pannel, and
discovered that the key was yet in the lock, my very
flesh crept, and the hair of my head rose, for I knew
from that moment, I knew as well as if I saw her at
my feet, I knew that the woman who appeared at the
window was a dead woman—a corpse—and lying
there in that very bed before me. I knew it as well
as if I could see her. So, I collected all my strength,
and put my back to the door and burst it open with a
tremendous crash, overthrowing the furniture which
lay piled up against it, furniture that no woman was
ever able to move, sprang into the room with a loud
cry and went straightway up to the bed, my hands
quivering with excessive agitation, my whole body in
a sweat, and tore aside the curtains.
O! never, never shall I forget! never though I
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
should live a million of years, the deep awful rapture
of my heart, when I first beheld (as it were in a
vision) the brave calm, beautiful creatures before me,
asleep I thought like two happy children, asleep in
their untroubled innocence, the one in the bosom of
the other, and their arms interlocked with love. I
could have dropped on my knees and cried for joy.
But alas! that joy was soon over. They slept much
too soundly. They had never heard my cries, nor
the knocking, nor the continued sound of my approach.
As I thought of this, I ran up to the window, and
burst open the shutters and tore away the superb
hangings, and stood there as the wind blew into the
room and the light of day entered and filled it—I
know not how long—powerless and speechless, the
weapon of death dropping out of my grasp and my
knees tottering as I stood; looking at the two sleepers,
the sun shone all over them, flowers upon the bed, a
profusion of green leaves and blossoms and buds, the
fresh-wind of the morning blowing their changeable
hair all together, like a warm silken shadow over the
white pillow and rich flowers, and making low music
through all the desolate chambers of the house and
sounding with joy among the tree branches that over-shadowed
it.
Her head lay upon his arm, her cheek on which
there was yet a flush, near his heart, and his mouth
touched her forehead. Both her hands were locked
in his, and held with a strong desperate convulsive
energy. Both of their wonderful faces, even there,
even at such a time, were so full of beauty and composure,
that as I looked at them I was afraid to move
or breathe, lest if I stirred I should make them less
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
happy. Their sleep was like a trance, they lay like
enchanted creatures, things hardly of earth spell-bound
by creatures not of our earth. My tears fell
in a shower like the summer rain, without either
scalding or bitterness—they had never fallen so pleasantly
before. For the first time in my life I found
that weeping was a relief to the heart. I had been
told as much before, but I never could believe it.
How like death sleep is!...How like sleep death is!
who would fear death now! so calm, so beautiful,
said I.
But on going a little nearer, I detected traces of
keen sharp suffering upon the sweet brow of the
female; and a few livid spots about her temples and
about her naked shoulders; much as if some of the
finer vessels under the white skin had some how or
other been crushed, until the crimson fluid of her
young heart had suffused itself through the lucid
whiteness. Poor child! poor Elizabeth! So beautiful
when alive. How much more beautiful in death!
Her face now was full of innocent love, touched with
unspeakable sorrow and gentleness, and a something
haughty about the forehead and mouth. But his! O
it was like nothing I ever saw in life. It was terrible
beyond expression. His lip had a passionate proud
curl; his forehead was wrought and established with
a look of rebellion, of defiance, of savage, haughty
stern triumph, resolute as death and somewhat like
that which I had seen before when both of as were
out in the field of blood together—somewhat like it,
I say, but sculpture to shadow in comparison. Yet,
with all this, and more to terrify me, there was a
gravity and a solidity and a tremendous quiet over
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
the whole visage taken together, as if in some awful
paroxysm of determination, having got a form, and
shape and hue and character for a single moment, it
had instantaneously become (like lava poured into
the sea) solid and immutable forever.
I knew not which way to look nor whither to go,
and I sat down upon the bed-side and wept like a
child—I could not restrain my tears, nor did I try to
check them, till happening to turn my eyes again to
the face of poor Gerard, I saw—or thought I saw—
that while I was looking another way the expression
of haughty repose there had undergone a little
change. Ay—ay—and the whole face, if I could
believe my own senses appeared to be turned rather
more toward the face of the woman, rather more
than it was when I saw it first.
While I sat considering this with a vague childish
idea that something was about to occur, one of the
little hands of poor Elizabeth dropped from his grasp
and I saw his head move, and a spasm quivering
about his mouth. I started up from the bed, with a
loud cry, I suppose, for a loud cry came back to me
from every room in the house, and I stood up in the
middle of the floor, bewildered with hope and shivering
with affright. I knew that both of the bodies
were dead—absolutely dead, and yet I half expected
them to arise and pursue me. A low thick sob followed.
The chest of the man heaved while I was looking
at him, and subsided before my face. Then and
not till then, did I begin to recollect where I was and
what was my duty. Hitherto I had been half delirious—
but now, God be thanked! the fear that made
me so was no more. I ran up to the bed in a
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
transport of joy; I took the poor fellow into my arms, I
tore him away from his bride, I carried him to the
window and shrieked for help! help! till the neighbourhood
was all up in arms, and I heard the people
on every side, pouring to my relief. I saw them afar
off, I heard their shouting in the wood, I saw their
faces, their encouraging gestures, I heard the door
open below and feet ascending the stairs—I could endure
it no longer, I fainted away.
-- --
CHAPTER XXII.
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
They saved poor Middleton, but Elizabeth was gone
forever. They put her into the green earth; he was
very ill at the time, but he crept out of his bed and
crawled to the window, and held his breath, and saw
them bury her in the little garden. He spoke not a
word, not a tear fell from his eyes, not a moan from
his lips. But when it was all over, when he saw them
pile up the turf upon her broken heart, he uttered a
word or two that sounded like prayer, and turned
away from the window and was carried off to bed.
He was in great peril; and so was I. We both had
a narrow escape; for my own part, I was like a man
overboard, upheld by terror in the midst of the sea till
the hand of rescue is near, and sinking with joy just
when it is ready to clutch him.
But for the following paper which was found on the
floor he would not have been alive at the end of another
week. Till he read it, he was literally dying
before my face; from that hour he was another man;
there was a dreadful anxiety in his look, he was continually
questioning all that came near about the sky
and the weather, the moon, the stars, and the day of
the month, panting with such eagerness the while for
nourishment and life! He would count his pulse by
the hour, and look at his wasted body, and crawl to
the window and lift himself up, and gasp there, day
after day, and all day long, at the cold sea-breeze,
with a look of such vehement, almost ferocious delight;
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
counting every blow of the clock, and every beat of
his overcharged heart, with such frightful steadiness,
that we could not bear to look at him. The paper
was in the hand-writing of Elizabeth, I have the original
before me now, and I shall copy it for you.
“They will try to persuade you, Gerard Middleton,
that I am crazy. Do not believe them dear.” I give
her own words—“Do not believe them dear: I am not.
I have been so, it is true, but I am well now, and
happy. I have escaped, and I am no longer afraid of
them. Crazy! am I? Well, well; but who made
me so dear? who made me so?
“It is now day-break. I have hardly shut my eyes
all the night through. No, no, I will not survive it,
and why should I? But I will make you suffer as no
mortal ever suffered before, Gerard, for having laid
waste the heart of woman.
“My forehead was in the dust before you, and you
would not even look at me. O, Gerard, if you had
but looked up when I stood before—
“My plan is now matured. Your first wife I would
have yielded to—but she refused—and now who is
there to deny my claim? I will not be diverted from
it, nor discouraged nor betrayed; for I trust nobody.
Weeks may go by, months, years perhaps—whole
years, but I have sworn to do it—sworn by the grave
of my poor old grandfather, by the spirit of my wronged
mother, by the love that I bore you when we were
happy and innocent; and what I have sworn to do,
that will I do.
“Another day has gone by, and I have no hope left;
you know that I am here, you know that I am regarded
as a stranger unworthy to associate even in the
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House of the Lord with the untempted and the virtuous—
and yet you will neither speak to me, nor see me,
nor write to me.
“You shall be rewarded for this dear, and rewarded
in a way that shall not be forgotten by you, nor by one
of your proud father's house. You have doubted
my love; you shall doubt it no longer. You have
doubted my faith; you shall never doubt it again.
You have doubted my courage. Lo! I mean to give to
you such an example of courage, that if you survive to
tell of it, the hearts of them that hear you shall quake,
and their very blood shall tremble. You have doubted
my perseverance. Look at the date of this: call to
mind if you are stout enough, the day when you saw
me last; on that very day, I took the resolution, a
record of which you see here. Gerard Middleton lay
your hand upon your heart and answer me. What
man ever thought so long, or so steadily of death?
Yet I have only began to prepare; the night has worn
away, and it is but a moment ago that I entered
solemnly upon the execution of my plan. All the
previous time, every hour, since we parted, I have
passed in the work of preparation. Shall I not go on
as I have begun? shall I waver? will my heart betray
me or fail me? No! no! There is that in me
which cannot be moved. And so assured do I feel of
this, and so well do I know the steadiness of my nature,
that I look now, and have looked for years, upon
whatever I have once resolved to do, as already done.
“My death-bed is before me. I see my winding-sheet
in the hands of the women. I see them tremble and
weep. I see a man going out into the green-wood
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yonder, with a spade; I see him looking for a spot
where the four highways meet, as plainly as I saw you
proud, unfeeling, wretched man, a few days ago. I
can see a troop of shadows about a newly-made grave;
by and by, I shall hear the clods rattling upon the
coffin of a self-murderess. Hark!—there! there!—
did I not say so! But you did not hear them—you
do not hear them; you will not, you dare not; you
are asleep in the bosom of a wanton. Awake, Gerard,
awake! awake to the call of thy young bride! To
the cry of the deep sea, Gerard, from which they rescued
her.
“Another and another day! The work may be slow
in the consummation, but of a truth, my dear husband,—
your Indian bride has abandoned you to me, and
shall I not claim you?—it shall not be the less fatal
nor certain. It shall be paid scrupulously, the debt
I owe, scrupulously, to the uttermost farthing. Oh,
Gerard! oh! that I should now be driven to this! that
you, so good and so great as you had power to be,
should have done outrage to a creature's love, a creature
that loved you, O, merciful heaven! Lord God
of the faithful in heart! with a love, how infinitely
superior to all the bad love, dear, of all the bad women
that you ever bowed the knee to!
You may like to know the truth about your mortal
enemy. You shall be gratified. Jeffry Smith loved
me at the same time you did; but you were of a quick
rash temper, and I durst not suffer you to know the
truth. He loves me yet—married though he is to another
woman; he loves me, I do believe, more than
you ever yet loved me, though not so much as I love
you now, and I love you much less now than I did,
-- 095 --
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when we first went to sleep in each other's arms—when
I thought you all truth, and I was, as you know all
faith. He loves me yet, I say, though he knows that
I regard myself as your wife, and though he knows
that I know him to be a married man, but much as he
loves me, he would sacrifice me, I am sure, to obtain a
small triumph over you. Fool! fool! he has taught
me to play the game of death—his game, to retaliate.
He would make me his dupe! Fool, fool! I say again!
if I be the dupe of another, I shall not be his dupe.
I may counterfeit now, as bravely as he did, or as you
did, when you set fire to my heart. Let him quake.
The day of retribution is near for him, and for you,
and for both of you. You are both to be overwhelmed,
overwhelmed in your stateliness by the power of a
crushed, a broken-hearted silly girl, who but the other
day ran wild among the flowers, without fear of reproach,
and spoke what her heart prompted, although
she knew from her poor dead mother how wicked and
foolish it was for a young girl to speak the truth.
And as for you, Jeffry Smith, you shall be the high
Priest at the sacrifice of your own awful pride. I
know you, and another shall know you, even the husband
of my heart, and you shall do the homage of a
slave about the marriage-bed of your rival. You are
to be the grooms-man, proud sir, not the groom of your
beloved, at the most tremendous bridal that ever was
heard of on earth. Sleep if you can, after that bridal
is over!
“As for you dear Gerard—my betrayer—my betrothed—
my husband! I would let you sleep after my
death, if I could, but how can I? You will never
sleep again, after the night of our bridal—after the
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consummation that I look to. You may shut your
eyes, you may dream, perhaps, but you will never
sleep more.
“You were continually with Martha P—, what
business had you there? You were married to another—
your Indian wife. Oh, Gerard! that one you
had married—even as you married her, should be able
to give you up to another as she does to me! You
loved the woman that I saw you with four nights ago:
How could you love her, when you knew that I was
alive? You were jealous of me; you betrayed me,
and because I lacked faith in you after you had betrayed
me, you had no faith in me, and you withdrew
your love when I prayed you to marry me and you
mocked at me when I told you, that if it would make you
love me the more, I would try to accomplish myself, to
become altogether a woman of the world—forsake my
doating mother, my poor old grandfather, come out
from the solitary place where you had buried me,
journey back to the sea-shore, and live, and move,
and breathe, and act, as other women do—any thing
dear, so that you would but love me, as I love you.
“Have you forgotten my words, when I saw that you
did not believe me? the words that I spoke in my great
sorrow? Did I not say—Gerard—I tell you the truth;
I speak nothing but the truth. I can do this; and I
will do it; I am all ready for the work now. But
dear Gerard—if you desert me, if you will not make
me your wife, if you have no longer faith in me, beware!
If you enter the path of guilt or scorn—so
sure as I have the nature that you have stirred up
within me, so sure will I outstrip you in that path!
If you are good, I shall be better, if you are bad I
-- 097 --
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shall be worse. Did I not say so to you, before we
parted? Jeffry Smith knew this: I told him of it
the very day before you left me; I did not love him,
but I felt assured in my own soul that if you ever deserted
me or failed me, it was upon his haughty bosom
I should perish. There was a disconsolate, sincere,
deep tenderness in his look when he heard me say
that I had still some hope of you, and that I did not
believe you would go away forever.
“Well. That night, you know when it was Gerard—
when you affronted my pure love, when you repeated
to me that I was not your wife, and that I never should
be your wife: when you doubted my truth and would
not believe that I was to you what I was, and what I
should have been to this day, but for your cruel
treachery. You were my husband, Gerard Middleton—
my true and lawful husband!—in the sight of
Him that you worship, or pretend to worship, and I
was your wife, as much as I could be, for I had married
you according to the faith of a heart overflowing
with unutterable love—the purest and warmest love—it
was the night of our everlasting farewell, Gerard. A
sudden giddiness, a heavy darkness fell upon me, when
I saw that of a truth, you did not love me so much as I
loved you, that you did not love me sufficiently to
abide with me in the sweet solitude, nor enough to let
me abide with you by the sea shore—I fainted when
you left me—itwas the first time in my life. But when
I awoke as it w ere from sudden death, my pride arose.
And yet I fainted again and again before I could resolve
what to do—yea, dropped upon the earth while
I was trying to stand up and laugh at the misery which
you had intended to afflict me with. Need I say more?
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If you were able to desert me, why should I not be
able to give you up? If you were not my husband,
why should I continue to be your wife?
“The wrath of my heart would not suffer me to sleep
again. Perhaps they speak true, it may be that I was
a little out of my head. For I thought of my broken
hearted mother—of the friends of my youth—of that
fearful escape from the sea.—O, that I had perished
there! Merciful Father! for what am I reserved!—
My brain was a fire—that I knew—and my blood
smoked, that I could feel, whenever I drew my breath.
I can feel it now. I hated you; I hated myself—I
hated every thing alive. And so I gave myself up on
the very spot where you forsook me, to perdition.
“Gerard Middleton awake! Do you understand
what I say? Let me leave no doubt on your soul—
no comfort for you, no refuge for your pride. If I
do, the work will not be half completed. Hear me.
Know the truth. At the very time while you were on
your way to the bed of a harlot, the ruin of your wife—
your wife in the sight of your Maker—your own
young faithful wife, was accomplished. Yet more,
much more—do not believe that I was won as you
won me, or cheated or betrayed, or taken by surprise,
or carried away by love, or destroyed while I was faint
or feeble, or bowed down with sorrow. I was not. I
scorn every concealment, every subterfuge; I would
leave you no such hope, no such miserable consolation.
Hear the truth. I sacrificed myself deliberately to a
man I did not love. And why? Lo, the answer—
Husband of my youth!—It was to avenge myself on
you!
-- 099 --
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“I never did love him. I never could love him. He
was almost hateful to me, for I knew that you were
jealous of him, and I had begun to fear that your
jealousy and not your pride of birth, your foolish
pride in the purity of your blood, which, if a swarthy
brow be the sign with you, and with your haughty
race, cannot be so pure as mine, was the real and true
cause of your abandonment, first of your Indian wife
and then of me. Yet afraid as I was of him, and
hateful as he had begun to be to me, as all men were
alike to me, and as I no longer loved anybody else
better, I gave myself up to him without reserve. Do
you understand me now? But why did I this? That
you might hear the story one day or other and die, as
I knew I should, of a broken heart.
“Another week has worn away. Would you know
the whole truth? You shall. I repented. I was
ready to cast away my own life—but a something held
me back. I had begun to pray a little time before according
to my ancient faith, and my poor dear mother
appeared to me in my sleep and comforted me, but
when I awoke I was filled with an awful fear—and so
I went to her grave and told her what I had done;
but she rebuked me and drove me away, and would
not suffer me to be received there. But, by and by,
she took pity upon me, and fell upon my neck and
wept, and tried to persuade me that I was not altogether
to blame. But she did not succeed, and I still
thought of death as a refuge. I was cruelly beset by
the evil one, but supported by her, I withstood him,
though my poor heart was like dust and ashes. I never
knew what it was to be warm after that—before
I had never known what it was to be cold. The very
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sunshine chilled me—the light I was afraid of; and
for a long while I breathed an atmosphere of smoke
that scorched and suffocated me without affording me
one atom of warmth. Yet was I more resolute and
high than ever, more undaunted than ever, when I
stood face to face with the Destroyer; with him, who
profited of my desolation, and grief and delirium; to
dishonor you. But one day as we sat together in the
shadow of the very tree where you found me, after a
separation of two whole years, I saw something in the
steely stern quiet of his large eyes, and all over his
broad square forehead, which—O, that you had been
there!—it filled me with bitterness and wrath. And
what was it, after all? Nothing dear—nothing but a
look of half-smothered exultation over you, not over
me. We were speaking of you, and I spoke of you
without so much as a quiver of the lip; but nevertheless
I could not forgive that look—I did not—I never
shall. Strange, very strange it may appear, but I never
shall, much as I hated you. I had well nigh been
the death of him for it, and I should have struck him
with a knife that lay near me, had I not thought of
something better. Fool! fool! he took the credit of
my overthrow to himself. I saw it—I saw it in the
deep thoughtful shadow of his brow, in the very gentleness
and gravity of his proud look, in the savage
glimmering of his averted eyes, while the tone of his
rich full voice was like the sound of a flute in my
ear; in the convulsive motion of his lip, half-writhing,
half-smiling, in the deep awful abstraction which followed
every cry of endearment, and every attempt
he made to soothe me; but he had no power to soothe
me, and he knew it. He humble you! he! I felt
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another snake swiftly uncoiling at my heart when I
saw this. I shall feed that snake with his blood.
“O, that the hour I long for were at hand! O, that
you could see my heart naked before you—and the
angel of death at my side! Well, well—after this he
would have married me, dear, not as you married me,
but as they marry among the world's people. But I
refused, and the better to prove how much more I
loved you, I told him with a smile—with a smile dear—
that he should never approach me again. I have
kept my word.
“What else? They grew afraid of me, they conspired
to carry me off; they made a prisoner of me,
and persuaded my own old grandfather that I had
gone distracted, and that nothing would cure me but
the guardianship of one who had loved my mother,
and who being about to return with her husband to a
city on the sea shore—to this very city Gerard, offered
to take me with her: I consented; for I had so much
to learn—I labored night and day to accomplish myself,
as you used to term it when you appeared most
to feel my deficiences—I was talked of as a prodigy;
all that our best educated women do, I did, and more.
And so they imprisoned me—but I escaped. I saw
you, though you did not see me; and I saw Jeffrey,
though I would not suffer him to see me; and I heard
that you, although you passed the chief part of your
life in the society of bad women, had still found leisure
to betray his wife even as he had betrayed yours;
that you had encountered each other, and that both
of you were well nigh left on the field. I could not
bear this—I pitied him too much—and as I could not
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you, I saw him again stretched upon what promised
to be the bed of death. But he recovered, and I withdrew.
He mistook my pity and my solicitude for
love; it was not love and I told him so, but he would
not believe me, he could not, even though he saw me
adhere to my promise, the promise I made with a
smile.
“By and by he laid another plan to mortify you. He
brought your Indian wife to me, and persuaded me to
play upon your new favorite with her help—he wanted
me to personate her, but I refused—I saw through
his object, and my wrath revived. It was for me to
meet you without preparation or notice on your part
before the woman you were now devoted to, the loved
beautiful widow. Overcome with your love for me,
you were to throw yourself into my arms—you!—
and be put away for him. How you escaped, you
know—would that I knew! He was only a step or
two off, and ready to appear, when I stood, before
you, and you refused to see me. My arms! the arms
of a creature whose heart was already darkened with
his wicked breath, degenerate with his familiarity!
You know the result, proud man. He was there to
see you rejected for him before a crowd; to see you
repulsed by a wanton before the eyes of her that you
were then hoping to marry. But you behaved as you
ought, and you turned away at my approach; and
would not hearken to the voice that gave you up forever—
the voice of your Indian wife, and I was the
prouder of you for it, although it destroyed, blighted,
crushed forever and ever, the last hope I had on
earth—even the last—the hope of being able to prove
that I was worthy of you.
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“How little he knew me! I had resolved before we
saw you, whatever might happen, however you might
look or behave, to repel your tenderness, but while I
did so, to acknowledge my love not for another, not
for him, but for you, the bridegroom of my youth, to
acknowledge it aloud, before his face and before hers,
and then, before the multitude that were assembled
there to give him up to justice; for the avenger of
blood was near, and a signal from me would have been
the death of a murderer.
“You defeated my plan; you defeated hers; you
defeated his. You set us all at nought—and how,
dear, how!—so that your Indian wife was comforted
in her bereavement, so that he fell back abashed before
you, and plunged into the darkness and escaped
ere I could get my breath.
“Now hear me. Watch me. Look steadily at my
plan. See what I have written, day by day since that
evening; see what I shall write day by day, till—till
I am your dead wife, Gerard Middleton. Read it all
over, and see if there by any trick in it, or subterfuge,
or insincerity. See if I be not very clear and unequivocal,
and see it I depart from the path I am now
going to mark out, as on a map. Could you have
done as much? you—or any other man? or any other
woman that ever breathed? Such things have been
thought of, and talked of, heretofore, but who has ever
done what, when you are reading this, I shall have
done? People have destroyed themselves in a fit of
sorrow, in a moment of despair, in a frenzy. But
whoever died as I shall die—shall die!—as I have
died, when you are reading this! Gerard! my earliest,
my only love, my husband! my spirit is before
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you, I am looking into your face, into your eyes, into
the very depths of your heart—both are full of tears,
like star-light and rain. A little more, love—a few
days more, and both shall be dust and water.
“You are a profligate, You have thrown me off.
Wherefore hearken you to the decree. Elizabeth
your wife, shall once more lie in your bosom; and
you shall never know the truth, till you find yourself
embracing a dead body. Such is my plan. See if I
do not bring it about. Watch me. But how shall I
do this? I have thought much of the mode, more
than you would believe, I dare say. Drowning would
be very well, and easy enough, and pleasant enough;
I should like to die in that way, to leap overboard at
sea, and go down to the depths of the sea before your
face. But if I were to do so, you would follow me,
and bring me back to life, or perish with me; and
there would be no time for you to know the truth, or
to read what I am now writing for you. We might
go to the bottom of the sea, in each other's arms, out
of a little ship loaded with green boughs and cheerful
flowers, but I am no longer worthy of such a death,
and you—O, of what death are you and such as you
now worthy?
“I might employ a pistol. I do not want courage; I
do not care about the mode, now that I have determined
upon death—but I should not leave any sort of
loathing or abhorence, my beloved in your recollection
of me. I would only fill your heart brimful of
sweet sorrow and love—nothing more. I would encompass
you for life with an element of rock, with
coldness and with outward desolation forever. And
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why? only that you may feel the unutterable warmth
of my love the more.
“I have thought of poison. But poison would either
deprive me of my senses, or throw me into convulsion,
or put me to death slowly, or in some other way defeat
my purpose, or enable you to foresee it; such a
poison as you have here, the poison that puts you to
sleep, I mean. But I have prepared for this, and you
shall be the survivor. I shall take a preparation, the
virtue of which I know. It is the blood of a strange
herb, that herb from which the copper-snake draws
her poison. That shall do. While you are embracing
me dear, death shall be at work through all my
veins and arteries. You shall yet live, to lavish your
endearment, your caresses, your passionate love upon
a dead body; you shall yet strain a corpse to your
heart in the convulsion of your joy.
“Ho! to the marriage festival. The bride is ready;
the groom is ready—the grooms-man! Your mortal
foe, Death, and the Enemy of man! God will have it
so.
“You have laid waste whatever you came near, day
after day; revelled in the young hearts of women that
worshipped you, overshadowing their purity forever;
rifled the innocent year after year; wrought mischief
with us 'till we are tired of waiting for your overthrow,
offered sacrilege to the angels of the earth, 'till
they that know you have no faith in the goodness or
truth of woman. For all which, it is appointed unto
you, sinning as you have sinned, Gerard Middleton,
to suffer as no man ever yet suffered.
“Farewell, dear, farewell! If the preacher spoke
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true, we are never to meet again, dear, never—never—
never! throughout all the ages of eternity, never!
It may be so—I neither believe nor disbelieve now;
but of this I am sure, that there will be a sweetness
and a consolation through all the torment which is
prepared for me—for Elizabeth, your wife, in the
knowledge; for of that our Father, as you call him,
if he is our Father, will not deprive me, that your last
kisses were upon my mouth, your last endearment lavished
upon me, your last embrace of the heart mine.
It shall be so.
“You will never dare to repeat your bridal. You
will never risk the death of another innocent, by
touching the red lips of a live woman with lips that
have clung to the white lips of the dead. You will
not risk the sight of another corpse at your side, after
a night of unspeakable tenderness and joy. No—no—
no! You and I are now remarried forever and ever;
and, it may be, separated forever and ever, in the
same hour. It is too late now for a third marriage—
is it not, my husband? How you may bear the blow
it is not for me to say; but as for me, much as I love
you, I shall endure the separation better than the
nuptials.
“The day has arrived—the hour—I am waiting for
you; I hear your voice below—I hear every word you
say; you have no suspicion of the truth, you mistake
me for another. I must leave this where you will be
sure to find it. Farewell! farewell forever, my beloved
friend—my lord, my husband! farewell forever.
ELIZABETH.
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Upon the outside of this packet was written the following
words with a pencil. It is too dark for me to
see what the simpleton has added here. Her blood
be upon her own head! her death at his door! crazy
or not, faithful or not, I am weary of this. I know
the plan; I have watched her day by day; I have read
every line of this, night after night, while she was
dreaming that I was afar off, or in another world. I
have no patience left. I would strike a light and read
what she has just written—poor fool!—but who cares
what she may have written? Her death be at his
door! Let him suffer! I wash my hands of it.
Wife for wife Gerard Middleton such were your bitter
words when you lay stretched out on the grass at
my feet. Wife for wife! I say to you now! and I
have nothing more to say, till we meet again hereafter.”
JEFFRY SMITH.
And so they buried her. It was in the dead of winter
when I recovered so far as to be able to go abroad.
All the great earth was covered with snow. I went
over to see her grave. The ground was white every
where, but in that one spot. I was terrified when I
saw this—awestruck, and I know not well what my
notion was, but I shook and thought of the man-slayer
of the self-murderess, and of the unquenchable fire. I
was afraid to go near the grave at first. It really did
seem to me as if our Father Jehovah would not allow
the hiding place of the poor creature to be concealed.
Barrenness—that I had come prepared to see, that
was there; and absolute, everlasting death was enthroned
upon it forever; but I was not prepared to
see what I did see, the very grass about the grave
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scorched as with fire and shrivelled to dust, and
through the innumerable fissures of the parched earth
cold as it was, a vapor continually stealing up and
overspreading the spot like a thin, white smoke, and
all about the roots of the old apple tree, underneath
which they had put her, a perceptible agitation of the
loose earth, as if it were all alive. Yes—yes—thought
I, the ban of the Almighty is at work here. You
pity me perhaps; you wonder at my folly. But you
forget sir, how forgetfully familiar I had grown with
incredible things. You forget how near I was to being
a man-slayer myself; you forget how near I was
to seeing a murder perpetrated before my very face—
the murder of a woman: for nothing has been heard
from that hour to this, concerning the people of the
cottage. And before you deal harshly with me, I
should pray you to consider how prone we are, when
terribly afflicted, to put faith in what we deride when
we are happy and cheerful.
I forgot in my surprize, that new fallen snow will
not lie upon the loosened earth; and that there is a
visible commotion in the soil, as if reptiles were at
work in it, or every grain alive, when the frost breaks
up. I stood and prayed in my heart, when I perceived
the truth; and prayed fervently that our dear
father above, the Great Spirit of the sky, would permit
the violet and the daisy, and the long bright grass
to gush up out of the earth before me, even though
they should help to overshadow and make beautiful
the refuge of a self-murderess. And I well nigh wept
aloud (so weak and so childish had sorrow and sickness
made me) when I thought how I should suffer (I pray
you to believe what I say) should I ever happen to
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loiter forth in the sweet summer-time and find her
grave wholly bare and bleak, and parched and desolate
amid the soft green beauty and rich blossoming
and colored herbage of that neighborhood.
But why tell you more? I did not believe when I
began, that I could ever tell you half so much; I dare
not tell you more. And I have only to say now, that
Gerard Middleton is no longer what he was. You
have seen him—you saw the change in his look; and
you will understand the nature of it, when I tell you
that, great as it was, it took place in a single night,
and that great as the outward change was, it was nothing
to the inward change that accompanied it.
Farewell.
ATHERTON GAGE.
Such was the story; and I have now given it word
for word from the narrative, changing nothing but the
form of the dialogue, and leaving a few blanks where
he desired me.
A. G.
January 26th, 1827.
-- --
CATASTROPHE.
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
My publishers have just dropped me a line, sealed
with black sealing wax, to say that I have left out the
catastrophe. So much the better I tell them; that of
itself, would be a first rate catastrophe for a new
book—or an old author. But they hint moreover—
confidentially—that if I do not account for every
man, woman and child I have brought upon the stage,
so that when the reader is asked what became of Mr.
Such-a-one, or of Miss So-and-so, he may be able to
answer for himself, nobody on earth will ever give
me credit for a plot. It is in vain that I ask, what
more he cares to know about the personages present
at the happening of a remarkable transaction, than
that which would be well enough in a picture of the
scene?—or of what use it would be, to give all the
facts, before and after the transaction; as if rational
readers would not enjoy a murder, without knowing
who patched the elbow of the murderer's coat, or
upon whose grindstone he sharpened the knife? It
is in vain for me to tell him, that incidents of themselves
are interesting in real life, unconnected though
they are, with a story before and a story after them,
that if a fine girl for instance, were to destroy herself,
it would be the fault of the narrator, if people were
not interested, without knowing all the causes, all the
circumstances, and all the consequences. But all in
vain: a plot there must be with a regular development,
and right regular catastrophe. Be it so. Let the
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kind hearted therefore take notice, that every mother's
son, herein before mentioned, is alive now, and in
good health and spirits, save some three or four, who
have either married outright or died a natural death.
Middleton is believed to be a Methodist preacher who
shall be nameless; and as for Obadiah, from all that
I can gather, I am half inclined to think, though I do
not know of a certainty, that he is now figuring away
at Washington under the name of Major Jack Downing.
But this you will please to understand, dear
reader, is between ourselves; I shouldn't like to have
it go any further.
Another thing. The Publishers tell me there is
too much for one volume and not enough for two—
under such circumstances what is to be done? weave
in three or four chapters by way of connection
or explanation,—accompanying the whole with a
detailed, instead of the summary catastrophe, given
above, which like the balance-sheet of a long standing
account, on a merchant's ledger, tells the whole
story at once; or—shall I try to distinguish myself
by stopping where I have done? Believing the latter
to be, if not the best, by far the most original mode
of winding up either a speech or a story, I shall send
the Printer something else of a different character,
to fill up with.
New-York, October 1st, 1833.
-- --
BILL FRAZIER—THE FUR-TRADER.
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Yes—you shall have the story you mention, and
that within the number of pages prescribed; though
it would be a three-volume-affair at least in the mother
country, if I had leisure and heart for the undertaking,
or a disposition for what is called embellishment.
You shall have it too in his own language—almost
word for word—but you must allow me to make it
intelligible by what in common cases would be thought
a lengthy preface. All I hope for is, that you may
feel a portion of the interest I felt when I was the
original auditor—the first and the last witness of the
transformation I am about to record. If you do not,
the fault must be mine; for neither the language nor
the countenance—though the former was brimful of
passionate and exalted poetry, and the latter, that of
a youth grown suddenly awfully wise under the
heavy dispensation of our Father above; no—nor the
straight-forward apostolic simplicity, or the thrilling
earnestness of the narrator—though they wore the
simplicity and earnestness of a young man, about to
disappear instantly and forever, in the mist and
shadow of another world, could ever have been the
cause of what I felt when he sat face to face with me
full fifteen years ago, in the dead of night, with rigid
lips and motionless eyes, discoursing by the hour of
Death and Judgement. But to the story—for nothing
that I could ever say would prepare you for the truth
of what I saw; for the unadulterated strength of a
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nature which within a period of less than five years
had undergone a change so complete, so extraordinary
and so alarming indeed, as to resemble a transfiguration
of body and soul together—a complete and
overpowering apotheosis; every peculiar and every
distinguishing property of youth having entirely disappeared
and given place to others of a grandeur and
vastness that appalled me—me! who had been his
familiar friend—me! who had walked with him so
long, as an elder with a younger brother, delighted
with his cheerful temper, and sorry only that I wanted
the power to lift him up to seriousness and give him
a steadfast hold on the higher place that I then occupied
and believed I should continue to occupy forever.—
Would you believe it! Even now, after
the lapse of so many years, though seated by my own
fire-side with a young wife at my elbow, a generous
warmth filling our dear little room, as with the afternoon
atmosphere of a summer-day, and a large lamp
throwing its pale shadowy moonlight over all the
furniture, so that were I ever so much addicted to
nervousness or a troubled imagination, there would be
no opportunity for either;—Even now, in preparing
to describe, not so much what I have done, or felt or
suffered, as what I have heard another acknowledge
for a part and a part only of his own strange life—
affected by the remembrance of his look, which has
haunted me at intervals from that day to this—I have
only to shut my eyes and I can see him now—and by
the thrilling solemnity of his voice—I have but to
stop my ears and I can hear it now—I breathe
hurriedly, my hand shakes, my heart heaves, my
color comes and goes so that my wife observes it—
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and—and—and to tell the truth I am almost afraid to
begin. Every sound disturbs me. But a few minutes
ago, I was flurried by the stirring of a poor little
pigeon, that I found to day half-buried in the snow, as
he lay pecking at the rug in a corner of the fireplace—
and a moment or two afterwards by the
rattling of a stiff glossy cambric on which my wife
was employed, unfashionably enough to be sure—as it
rustled and snapped with every touch—sounding at
long intervals in the perfect stillness of the room,
like a discharge of petty fire-works afar off, or an
egg-shell unexpectedly crushed in your ear.—Getting
nervous decidedly! and therefore the sooner we go
to work, the better. Our pleasant fire-sides and our
faithful homes!—Why should they be troubled with
apparitions?
Thus far by way of preparation—for I wanted
courage to face the subject—when having copied it
off in a fair hand, my autograph in the heat and hurry
of composition being none of the best, I flung the
original into the fire. O! give me that! cried my
dear little wife, dropping her work and speaking with
great earnestness. Flattered with the idea that notwithstanding
our relationship—and our children—she
was romantic enough to desire even the first rough
sketch of a story by her husband, to support her in
after life, or to weep over in the sorrow and gloom of
survivorship, I looked at the paper as it lay fluttering
and changing color on the hot hearth—untouched by
the blaze and still within my reach—line after line
wasting away in letters of fire—thought after thought
vanishing in diamond sparks—burning for a moment
on the eye then stealing slowly over the page and
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then disappearing forever in the swift shadow that
pursued them—the shadow of the Destroyer!—and I
asked her why? Her answer put a stop to my
nervousness, apparitions and all, in a jiffey. One
side is clean, said she—and it will do for lamplighters!
To my work therefore without further
delay.
It was in the fall of 1814 that I first encountered
the individual whose story I am about to give. I
happened to be in New-York with a quantity of
smuggled goods, which in the interval of higher
occupations, believed by others to be of a dangerous
political nature, I found my advantage in disposing of
confidentially at something more than treble their
value—just to gratify the love of adventure and mystery
which had already begun to characterize the
New-Yorkers. It required of course more time and
more management to do this, than to get rid of them
in the usual way—at auction or otherwise; and I
had therefore a deal of unappropriated leisure—more
than I well knew what to do with. All I did for a
month might have been done in a day; but then, like
the apothecary's boy, not knowing when my customers
would show themselves, I was obliged to be a month
about it; and having no better amusement within my
reach, I betook myself to novel-reading—sifting library
after library for such books as Caroline of Litchfield,
the Mysterious Beauty, Corinna and the Scottish
Chiefs. One day—I remember it as if it were
yesterday, and I dwell upon it as the foundation of
my story—nay of more—of much that I have done,
felt, suffered and thought since, in the more elevated
workings of what others have regarded as no better
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than a diseased imagination—Be it so—One day—
happening to be in the shop of Mr. G— who kept
a large circulating library at the corner of Broadway
and — street, I stumbled upon a book which I had
never met with before, though I had frequently enquired
for it in the largest libraries of our largest
towns. It was the memoirs of Marie Antoinette,
and purported to be a faithful history of the intrigues
of that extraordinary woman, which the author maintained
with a very plausible and circumstantial air, to
have been the true cause of the French Revolution.
Struck with the idea, which he enforced with singular
ability and research, fortifying every step of the
narrative with generally credited historical facts, I
stole away into a far corner of the shop, seated myself
on a box, and staid there I know not how long—
two or three hours at least however—without lifting
my eyes from the page, or moving, till I was completely
chilled through. At length, on hearing a
slight noise near me I looked up and lo! there was
another person oppose te me and only a few feet off, a
stranger—with his back toward me, sitting on another
box, and occupied in the same way, as with a duplicate
of the very same book! Though I had not seen him
enter, nor heard him breathe before, and was not a
little startled to find him so near me, and looking so
like somebody I had seen before, I could not for the
life of me tell where—silent as death and moving
only when I moved, and as I moved, and so intently
occupied withall, that to this day I should not believe
that he saw me, or any thing else indeed but the book
before him, had I not been satisfied of the contrary a
long time afterwards; and thought I felt a sensation
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of strangeness and a momentary thrill along my
arteries; yet as I knew nothing of German literature
then, and should only have laughed at the best of it
perhaps, if I had, I soon forgot to observe the stranger,
returned to my book, and thought no more of him, 'till
I heard a smart rapping on the counter of the front
shop, followed after a short pause by an impatient and
heavy stamping on the floor. The stranger got up,
and as he went by me, I had a full view of his face.
Judge of my astonishment!—He was the live counterpart
of myself—so exceedingly, so wonderfully like
me, that if I had seen the face in a mirror, I should
have taken it for my own. Yet, I remember well I
was not satisfied with it—nor with the person—he
was younger and smaller than I, and more impudent
looking, and if I may be allowed to speak plainly,
not altogether so handsome. I perfectly remember
too that I was rather struck with the general expression
of the countenance, though for my life I
cannot remember why. Perhaps, however, if I should
say that he had a youthful, spirited, independant,
familiar and somewhat imposing air, with exceedingly
pleasant eyes and a generous mouth, it would give
the reader some idea of the surprise I felt on finding
that he resembled me. No sooner had he passed
round the low partition that divided the front from
the back shop, than I heard two voices in a brief
dialogue which diverted my attention from the book.
One was putting questions, and the other answering
them. It appeared that Mr. G— had gone out,
leaving us to take care of the shop; that somebody,
a servant, judging by his manner, had returned some
books and wanted a parcel he had left, and supposing
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the stranger to be a shopman, had begun a tedious
rigmarole about some paper and things he wanted,
and the privilege of a yearly subscriber to take out
more volumes whenever they were to go into the
country; all which the other cut short, by telling him
to go to a slate which lay upon the counter, and write
down the names and prices from his dictation. The
servant did so, and when he had finished writing,
cried out—Why Lord bless you! you haint gut morin
half on 'em here?—jest half, as I'm alive! There's
twelve books in the bundle and you have made me
write down six; and the paper was four shillins an'
you've made me charge two; for my own part I don't
exactly understand what you're at, and so—
Go then and do likewise! replied the stranger.
The other looked puzzled for a moment, and then
burst out a laughing.
There was a bit of paper attached to the bundle,
which proved to be a memorandum of the articles it
contained, by Mr. G. himself.
What is the amount? continued the stranger.
Six dollars and forty-two cent, replied the servant.
Take the pencil and write down three dollars and
twenty-one cents—put an s. to it—and tell me where
you live.
The other obeyed, and after standing a few minutes,
first on one leg and then on the other, looking about
him with an air of pitiable irresolution and perplexity,
left the shop.
As for myself, I regarded the whole affair as a
frolic; and seeing the stranger take up a port-folio
and march off with it, I concluded that he was a neighbor,
who perhaps thought Mr. G. deserved to be made
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a little uneasy for leaving the shop so long to take
care of itself. I returned to my reading therefore
and continued 'till the sudden flash of a street lamp
athwart the page, informed me that I had spent a
whole afternoon without leave in a bookseller's shop.
I had nearly finished the volume to be sure, and if I
had not been disturbed, I should have done so before
I stirred from the box; but feeling that I had no
business there, and that if I should finish it so, it
would be rather shabbily of me, I made a deposit of
three dollars with Mr. G. who had returned as secretly
as he went, gave my name (as the devil would have
it, one of the five-and-forty fictitious names I make
use of in travelling or writing) and returned to my
lodgings. That very night, before my head touched
the pillow I finished the book, and left it on my
bureau, where it lay week after week 'till the servant
in dusting my room thought proper to slip it into a
table-drawer, which I had never opened in my life to
my knowledge; and there it might have remained to
this day but for the merest accident in the world—an
accident which enabled me to clear up one of the
most painful and perplexing mysteries of a life
abounding with adventure and perplexity. Day after
day passed over, and I had entirely forgotten the
book in the pressure of my habitual occupation, and
having deposited more than the volume, I never
should have thought of it again I dare say, but for
the circumstance above referred to. It so happened
that I never went near that library afterwards; having
found another kept by a poor widow—and her charming
daughter—and being obliged by the nature of my
business to hold myself ready for departure at five
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minutes notice, night or day. But one afternoon
rather late, as I happened to go to the old theatre, I
saw a large crowd assembled in the street; and being
informed it was the first appearance of a youthful
candidate for the stage, I stopped and tried to make
my way in with the rest. While so engaged, the
multitude swaying this way and that with a continual
roar, so as to lift me off my feet and overpower all
sense of individuality, a vulgar, savage, looking fellow
near me, trod upon my toes. Instead of serving him
with notice to quit, in the usual way, I begged him to
be more careful. Seeing that my arms were pinioned
to my side, he answered by putting forth a huge open
hand so slowly that every body could see his intention,
and my utter helplessness, and lying it on the
top of my hat, with a laugh, he deliberately crowded
it down over my whole face—eyes nose and mouth—
even to my shoulders! For a minute or more, while
I was gasping for breath and trying to liberate my
arms, I could hear nothing but peals of laughter on
all sides of me, with cries of bravo! bravo! handsomely
done! handsomely bonnetted, by the Lord
Harry! accompanied by the trampling of ten thousand
feet hurrying to and fro and a terrible ringing in
the air. I continued my efforts in silence—holding
my breath, and caring less for life itself than for an
opportunity of punishing the ruffian as publicly as he
had affronted me. At last I succeeded. I tore off my
hat, and looking about me, sprang up the steps,
where pausing for a moment I caught a glimpse of
him just as he was entering the pit-door. My first
impulse was to spring at his throat, as he stood there—
helpless and motionless like myself a minute before—
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and if I had, I should have strangled him on the spot
I verily believe. My next was to follow him and
bonnet him before the eyes of the very multitude that
were now lifting him along as in triumph. But no—
no—neither of these would be worthy of me, said I
to myself, and as I thought of another plan and followed
in his wake, never pausing nor flinching nor losing
sight of my adversary 'till we were both near the
center of the pit, and I within arm's length of him,
waiting only for elbow-room, as the crowd gradually
settled into their places and left me standing up—me
alone—of all that vast and noisy multitude. I waited
and waited for the house to become still—still as the
grave, husbanding my wrath for what I intended to
be a signal retribution. At last, I caught his eye,
and I saw that he recollected me, though he betrayed
little or no emotion. Hats off! hats off! cried the
people about me. Hats off! hats off! sit down sir—
sit down! I refused to sit down, and every eye was
upon me. For a moment, there was a perfect and a
most alarming stillness over the whole house. I took
advantage of the opportunity, and speaking with a
voice that every creature within the four walls could
hear, though it was neither loud nor threatening, I
told him to stand up, or I would strike him where he
sat for his insolence. He sprang to his feet—a bustle
ensued—the women screamed—and the constables
were shouted for from every part of the house; but
before a soul could interfere, the wretch received a
blow, and fell backward his whole length as if he
had been shot in the head. A brief but tremendous
uproar ensued. I attempted to explain; for I was
already ashamed of my behavior; but I was
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prevented and completely overpowered by the cheers
of a few that began to recognize me and repeat
the story, every man for himself. Two or three
constables now tried to make their way up to me;
but they were prevented by the people, who began
to enjoy the story as it circulated with ten thousand
embellishments, from mouth to mouth and
from box to box all over the house. But the
curtains drew up, and things went on smoothly
enough for about half an hour, when somebody at my
elbow cried out as if he had been stabbed, that he
had just been robbed of his watch. Another outcry
followed—another general uproar—another rush of
constables—a scream or two; and all at once I found
myself standing up alone—`all all alone'—with every
eye upon me once more, and a stillness like that of
the blue sea on a summer afternoon, overspreading
the whole house. But ah!—how different was the
expression—how different the meaning of what I now
saw! Vexed at the change, yet incapable of out-facing
it; ashamed of being for one moment an object
of suspicion even to strangers, I gradually sunk down
into a vacant place near me, and took the earliest
opportunity of escaping—though not until I found
myself watched by no less than three different persons
who appeared to have nothing else to do, and among
others by my friend Mr. G.—the circulating-library
man. I did not immediately recollect him—I knew
that I had seen the face before; but I could not for
some time recollect where—and when I did, I rather
think I changed color a little. We had come into the
house together, I had seen him below me on the
steps; and now, on recollecting all the circumstances,
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I felt certain that he had never lost sight of me after
he entered. More than once during the play I had
seen him in conversation with people, who kept looking
toward me, and talking with great earnestness.
I felt vexed and annoyed without knowing why; for
it was natural enough that a man who had been publicly
bonnetted and who had as publicly avenged the
affront should be stared after; and not very strange
that a man who dealt largely and openly in smuggled
goods, British-government-bills and specie, at a time
when the very banks of the middle and southern
cities hadn't a silver shilling to bless themselves with,
should make a pretty con-siderable stir. All this
passed swiftly and repeatedly through my mind; but
still I was not satisfied, and so, as I have said before,
I took the earliest opportunity of stealing away. On
arriving at No. — in Wall-street, where I then boarded,
I took a lamp and marched off to bed, three hours
at least before my usual time—with no supper, no
book, no newspaper—nothing upon the face of the
earth to hinder me from going directly to bed. But
some how or other—I know not how—a whole hour
went by and I found myself sitting before the fire,
with my feet over the mantle-piece—my chair tilted
back—and my fingers playing with a razor—think of
that! one of the ne plus ultra razors!—But then
that's my way in cold weather, if my chamber is
comfortable; And the old fashioned box at my elbow
frothing over upon the table would explain the mystery.
Wanting a bit of paper, I pulled open the
table drawer which happened to be at my elbow, and
the first thing I saw was the very book I had borrowed
so long before of Mr. G—. The truth flashed
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upon me instantly. I felt vexed and sorry for my
negligence, and believing that to be the cause of all
the watching I had suffered from, I determined to go
immediately to the shop—shave or no shave—and
offer a handsome apology.
No sooner said than done. I started for the shop—
arrived—and in reply to my first question, was informed
of what I already knew; namely, that Mr. G.
was not there; and in addition, that he wouldn't be
there till the morrow. Not knowing what else to
say now, I began to talk about the weather, and soon
contrived to mention that I had just seen Mr. G. and
of course, to show that I knew very well when I
enquired after him at the shop, that he was not there.
No sooner were the words out of my mouth, than I
perceived in the countenance of the tart-looking
little old gentleman behind the counter, a stare of
innocent surprise, which at any other time would
have diverted me exceedingly.
And pray, sir, where did you see him?
At the play, said I.
Where! exclaimed the old gentleman, pulling out a
pair of enormous green spectacles, with trembling
hands, and fidgetting about them a minute or two,
before he had got them fairly wiped and adjusted to
his liking—Where!
At the play, sir—stretching myself up to my full
stature, and speaking with great deliberation.
Um—um—ah! said the old gentleman, looking
over his spectacles with compressed lips and puckered
eyebrows, and stretching out his hand for the book I
had under my arm, with the library marks upon the
cover, as if he intended to finish the unprofitable
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conersation at once. But in doing so, a word or two
dropped from him, as the lawyers would say, and
something in the shape of a query, about whether I
was, or was not a subscriber, fell upon my ear.
No, sir—I answered, and I will thank you for my
deposit money.
Certainly, sir, certainly—beginning to feel that he
had gone too far perhaps—What name, sir? And
saying this, he opened the book. Zounds! what a
change of countenance followed, as he ran his eye
over the title page!
Pray, sir, said he—a—a—turning a little sideways
and shutting the volume with a clap that made me
jump, and eying me over his double-barrelled spectacles,
and speaking with a wariness that alarmed me,
in spite of my preparation—Pray sir, how long—a—
a—may you have had—a—a—this volume—a—a—
in your possession?
About a month, I believe—or perhaps it may be
two months.
About a month, hey? going to a table and snatching
up the slate and scribbling away with great eagerness
and trepidation, muttering to himself all the while. About
a month, hey, or perhaps two—can't tell which, I dare
say—very odd, hey, and what a body might call singular,
very singular, very—quite providential—quite—
(I thought he was saying over his multiplication
table)—about a month, hey? and what name did you
give? turning to me, with his head over one shoulder,
and his eye on the door.
Astonished at the form of the enquiry, though nothing
could be more natural; and brought instantly
to my recollection of the fictitious name I had left—
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which, to make matters worse, I had entirely forgotten,—
I began to feel rather foolish. Instead of replying
therefore, I grew very inattentive and passionately
fond of execrable prints and wretched binding,
a quantity of which lay strewed over an oil cloth
counter, pretty much of a piece with it for beauty of
workmanship; throwing out incidentally, as it were,
that my deposit money was three dollars—I believed—
would thank him to refer to the charge—Memoirs of
Marie Antoinette, Queen of France—about a month
ago, or say two months—(talking very fast, and with
a mighty indifferent air)—very cold weather—English
binding, hey?—raised bands altogether more
beautiful—any thing, and every thing, indeed, but the
name he was waiting for. That I kept to myself.
Um—um—ah! repeated the old gentleman, slyly
touching what I took for a bell-rope; and the next
moment, somebody appeared, coming head-first
through the little dark entry behind him—whist!
whist! cried the old gentleman, with his fore-finger
lifted portentously at the intruder; then stepping forward,
after whispering in his ear, with his eye upon
me all the while, he added as if the other had only
slipped in to ask about the weather—What name did
you say sir?
No matter for the name, said I, beginning to feel
chafed. There is your book, sir—one I shall send
for the deposite money to-morrow.
One moment, sir—my good sir—one moment, if
you please (coaxingly)—if you please! The old
wretch—I saw instantly as he hobbled away toward
the front of the shop and placed himself between me
and the door, that he was trying to wheedle me; and
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such was my indiguation, that but for his age, I do
believe I should have knocked him over, slammed the
door in his face, and run for my life.
Oh—ah—um! continued he, planting himself on
the very threshold, with a day-book in his hand, under
pretence of reading by the window lamp—Oh—
ah—um—here it is! October the—you are right sir—
the fourteenth, one thousand eight hundred—listening
at intervals, and glancing up and down the
street with a look of growing peevishness, which diverted,
while it annoyed me—one thousand eight
hundred and fourteen—take a chair, sir—please to
take a chair—Memoirs of Marie Antoinette, one
volume du-o-de-ci-mo (reading very slowly)—deposite
three dollars—right sir! right to a hair—three dollars,
I think you said sir?
I felt angry. Your book will inform you sir.
Mr. Stewart Bray—Stewart Bray, it is here—is
that your name sir?
Yes, sir. And you will oblige me by handing over
the deposite money without further gossip.
Certainly, sir—certainly—beg pardon, sir, listening
with visible perturbation—quite sure about the
name sir?
The devil take your impertinence, thought I, but I
did'nt say so; for I began to feel the awkwardness
of my situation. And so I merely added with one of
my sweetest smiles—I am weary of this delay, old
gentleman, please to hand over the money instantly,
or I leave your shop.
Indeed!—in-deed!—answered the old man of the
mountain—I'd swear it was he—the very man that
so worried poor Sinbad the Sailor—In-deed! and
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then he pulled forth a piece of tattered parchment,
folded to the shape of his pocket, and proceeded to
count over a quantity of shilling and sixpenny bank
notes, the common currency of the day, in the middle
and southern states at the period of my story; and
having finished, he handed me over a fist-full, saying
with a bow and smile quite a match for my own—I
never shall forget either, I hope—There sir, there's
your money; greatly obliged sir—greatly—still standing
in the door-way—hope for a continuance of your
custom sir—hadn't you better run it over, before you
go—we never allow for mistakes—any thing else sir?
Run it over! cried I—my very heart running over
at the bare suggestion of counting out three dollars
worth of ragged York sixpences, and cramming the
whole together into my coat-pocket—I'd sooner be
run over myself by a earriage and six horses; and
then turning to go, in some little trepidation I confess,
I found the old gentleman had planted himself directly
before me, I turned—he turned—I stepped on one
side with a low bow; he stepped before me with
another and a lower bow, and coughed!—The house
door instantly sprung open, and forth issued Mr.
G. accompanied by two other persons, one of whom
I knew for a city-constable, and the other for a man
I had seen watching me at the play and whispering
with Mr. G.
Happy to see you again, said Mr. G. with that
cursed twang o' the nose which everybody that knew
him will remember, and which by the way was never
half so perceptible to me before—I am out of all
patience with myself to this day whenever I happen
to think of it—the canting rascal! Why didn't I
knock him down!
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Aware that something was to pay, and that if we
had any altercation out of doors we should soon have
a mob about us, I stepped back into the shop, flung to
the door, beckoned them to follow and demanded an
immediate explanation.
Mr. G. stared, and for a moment seemed a little
disconcerted; but the city-constable, a stout resolute
fellow, appeared to take all I said as a matter of
course—a something which I must be allowed to go
through with before he could officially interfere; and
so after I had finished and got my breath, he made
me as pretty a bow as heart could desire, observing
in a smooth pleasant voice, that it had become his
painful duty, under all the circumstances of the case,
to arrest me—
Me! arrest me!—and for what pray?
That I should know at the proper time said the
city-constable.
I drew myself up once more—At the proper time
hey?—Where is your warrant sir?
That I should see at the proper place, continued
the city-constable, with another and yet more gracious
inclination of the whole body, and a voice yet softer
and more deferential, as much as to say—It grieves
me to the soul, as you see, to interfere with any
gentleman's private business—but—and here I interrupted
him.
At the proper place hey? putting my hands into
my trowser's pockets where I had long carried a pair
of trusty friends. Now sir—I take this to be the
proper time and the proper place; and that we may
start fair, I beg you to understand, bowing in my
turn, that I am not to be taken alive, without a view
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of your authority. As I said this, I contrived to pull
back the guard from the pistol in my right hand,
without being observed: but he must have heard the
snap, for he started and thrust his arm into his bosom,
saying—with a steady look as he did so. I hope you
are not serious, my good sir?
Serious!—try me! Lay but a finger on me, either
of you, and see if I do not prove to you that I am
serious! Lay but a finger on me if you dare!
Mr. G. you had better stand back—said the cityconstable,
my friends, you may withdraw. This job
is for me, I perceive.—A moment more and Mr. G.
and the shopman were tumbling over one another to
get out of our way, the sheriff's follower had set his
back to the door, and the city-constable and myself
stood eying one another at the distance of not more
than five feet, with our pistols levelled and our feet
planted for the issue.
One moment if you please! cried the city-constable,
as if suddenly recollecting himself, one moment
Mr. G.! And then they held a short consultation
together, in a low earnest whisper, which ended in a
parley, and a large book was held up to me and I
was asked if I had ever seen it before.
I took it and opened it and examined it. Outwardly
it had the appearance of a huge port-folio; inwardly
it proved to be a collection of beautiful engravings,
landscapes and flowers, many of which were proof
impressions of rare and valuable works, the masterpieces
of agone-by age wafered upon folio-post. I
ran it hastily over and flung it down, saying with all
the indignation I could express—no, never!
The little old gentleman looked at Mr. G.—and
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Mr. G. looked at the city-constable—and then
they all shook their heads, and Mr. G. rolled up
the white of his eyes and groaned aloud, just as
the little old gentleman peeped round the corner
and whispered something in his ear about the name—
the name.
And then the day-book was lugged forth, solemnly
opened before me and spread out on the counter, and
I was pointed to a place where the name of Stewart
Bray was underscored five or six times with red and
black ink, and asked with a pistol at my head if that
was my real name.
That said I—is none of your business.
Oh—ah—um—I thought so! cried spindle-shanks,
rubbing his hands in a sort of extacy and capering
about, like one of the grandfather-long-legs that
children are so delighted with. None of our business,
hey? well, well, we shall see, we shall see. And
then they held another consultation, looking dreadfully
grave. Nevertheless, I was not much frightened—
not much—and stood prepared to secure my retreat
by the best means in my power.
By this time my patience was exhausted. I have
asked for an explanation, said I, moving toward the
door. And now gentlemen—
Better explain, whispered the city constable—
there'll be warm work if you don't; he's not so
easily frightened as most folks, you may depend on't—
taint the first time, I'll warrant you, that he has
had a pistol at his head.
Not exactly relishing the style of these remarks,
nor the significant looks they were illustrated with, I
had begun to walk toward the door, when Mr. G.
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thought proper to give me the explanation I had
required.
Judge of my amazement! I found myself suspected—
nay more than suspected—almost proved—I might
go further, and say absolutely proved by evidence
that would have convicted a stranger in a court of
justice of having stolen that very port-folio, from that
very shop! But if I was amazed at the charge itself,
I was terrified—thunderstruck—utterly overwhelmed—
by the array of circumstantial and other proof that
accompanied this charge. It appeared that only a
few days after I had spent the afternoon in Mr. G's
shop, he had been offered a collection of engravings
which he instantly recognized. On referring to the
drawer where he kept his port-folio, and there he still
supposed it to be, his suspicions became certainty.
An examination of the books and slate followed,
when it suddenly flashed upon his mind that he had
never seen it since the very day when I—a perfect
stranger—had been left in the shop for a considerable
time without his knowledge. This went far to clear
up another mystery. After I had gone, he had missed
a bundle which had been put up for a customer and
left for him to call; and on referring to the slate he
had found a singular error in the sum total, written by
another hand, which had induced him to drop a note
to the gentleman, whose servant, tired of waiting
perhaps, had made the entry. An explanation had
followed, but the story of the servant appeared so
strange that Mr. G. paid no attention to it, merely
correcting the charge and leaving the man's master to
find out his roguery in some other way. But on
following up the enquiry about the port-folio, other
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circumstances came out which tended strongly to
corroborate the story of the poor fellow. The book
itself had been left in a confectioner's shop on pledge,
by a youth, who being ferretted out and questioned,
described a person who had given him the book to
dispose of, and who agreed so exactly with the individual
described by the servant, and so exactly in
every thing but the dress with my unfortunate self,
that Mr. G. could no longer doubt of my being the
thief.
Yet more—I had been followed and watched for
two or three weeks. The youth had seen me—the
old gentleman of the shop had seen me, and Mr. G.
himself had seen me, but never at the same time.
And at last, had I not been personally engaged in a
disgraceful affair at the theatre where a man had his
pocket picked? And had I not called at the shop this
very evening to ask for Mr. G. when by my own
confession it appeared that I knew he was not there?
To all this, what could I say? Nothing. But when
they added, as they soon did—each helping the other
till they had the whole story before me,—that I was in
the habit of changing my name and my dress, two or
three times a day, from head to foot; that I had no
less than three lodging-houses, and so many names
that no body pretended to know which was the right
one—that I frequented at the same time, and frequently
in the course of the same evening the highest
and the lowest, the best and the worst company to be
found, that the Mayor had given orders to every leading
constable of the city to have his eyes upon such and
such person—describing me the very day before I
dined with the Mayor himself, in another dress,
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and that, to say all in a word, the very ministers of
justice were all at fault, believing me now to be a
personage of considerable importance, and now a
pick-pocket or a gambler; one day the largest dealer
of the time in British-gold, and government-securities,
and another, before they had time to report progress
to the Mayor, a smuggler and a spy.—When they
added all these particulars, which they set forth yet
more circumstantially than I do, I burst out a-laughing
in their faces—I could not help it—nor did I,
though they assured me with an oath that they were
up to all my tricks, and that, contrive as I would, it
was no such easy matter to prove an alibi when a
fellow came to the pinch, though to confess the truth
I had been seen at different places at pretty nearly
the same time—
What could I say more? Nothing. And therefore,
though never less in the humor of laughing, on some
account, I laughed heartily. It was in vain that I
protested my innocence—they were up to all my
tricks. It was in vain that I told the truth about
having mislaid the book I borrowed—why had I given
a fictitious name? Why had I not called for the
surplus of the deposit-money? Oh—ah—um?
Weary of their impertinence, indignant at their
want of faith in whatever I choose to say, and if I
must own it, a leetle frightened withal, I determined
immediately to subject myself to no further suspicion—
for who would believe my story?—the simple truth
was incredible—but to bring about a compromise for
the present on the best terms I could, and leave the
final question to be provided for at a future day.
I drew out my watch. There! said I—I saw the
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principals interchange a glance of triumph, and as for
me, if I looked as I felt, I don't wonder they believed
me guilty—There! And then I hesitated and my
hand was already upon my pocket-book, for the purpose
of betraying my credentials—my true name—
and the real object of my negotiations between the
British Provinces and the discontented part of the Confederacy.
Already were my lips parted, and in the
name of the President of the United States, James
Madison, I was about to bid them do their worst—to
stop me if they had the courage—or to breathe a
syllable to another of what they had ventured to say
to me, if they durst. But, thank God! my hesitation
was soon over, and the course I took worthy of the
great business intrusted to me, and—I may as well
say it as think it—and altogether worthy of myself.
The tendency of their behavior was to exasperate
instead of soothing me; and therefore holding out
my watch, I said to them—
There's my security! I shall give no other, and as
I have told you before, I will not be taken alive.
That watch was made for me by the first manufacturer
of London—she cost me forty-five guineas; and for
reasons I do not choose to communicate, money would
not purchase her of me. Take it and give me a
receipt for it, as a pledge for my appearance to abide
a trial on the charge you have preferred, within the
next twelve month. I have no money to spare just
now, or I should prefer leaving five hundred dollars
with you—Mr. G. looked at the city-constable and
the city-constable bit his lip—Take it—if I fail to
appear, the watch is forfeited. I saw by the looks of
both that while one was ready to jump at the proposal,
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the other had no idea of letting me off so easily.
He began to whisper with Mr. G—shaking his head,
with unspeakable solemnity and using abundance of
persuasive gesticulation, while the words danger,
liar, theft-bote, and composition of a felony, dropped
one after another from his placid mouth.—I began to
lose all patience. What say you, I demanded—yes
or no?
Why, on the whole, said Mr. G. as our object is
only to secure ourselves—and then he winked at the
city-constable—we should be very sorry to injure a
backsliding brother thus—and then the city-constable
winked at him—and therefore, to oblige you sir, as
you appear to have been led astray by—by—by
temptation—and for no other purpose I assure you—
reaching forth his hand as he spoke, while the cityconstable
and his follower suddenly turned their
faces another way—and were very busy all at once—
Come, come, said I, none of your blarney—yes
or no.
Well then—yes.
The affair completed, I took a receipt signed by
Mr. G. and witnessed by the city-constable and the
shopman—all three having the greatest difficulty in
the world, I saw, to keep their countenances—and the
shopman squeaking after me as I left the door—Good
evening to you Mr. Stewart Bray!—and then their
long suppressed merriment broke forth in a roar of
ungovernable laughter, which made me stop and look
in at the window, where I could see the proprietor
overhauling and examining the watch inside and out;
and I asked myself whether in point of fact I had
not been most gloriously humbugged as well as most
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gloriously frightened. The last words that reached
me were—Oh—ah—um don't forget the shop!—The
blood flashed through my arteries like a train of
powder, and at any other time, or under any other
circumstances, I should have gone back merely for
the pleasure of taunting them as they deserved; for
they were in my power and I knew it, and I was
determined to bring them before a court of justice,
whatever was the consequence to myself and though
it cost me every farthing I was worth. One of
two things must be true—I was either innocent or
guilty. If innocent, I could punish them for a conspiracy.
If guilty, for compounding a felony.
But I had no time now—not a day, nor an hour
that I could call my own. I was too much in a hurry
even for threats. All my faculties were on the stretch
to discover the individual who had been first and foremost,
employed I began to believe now by Mr. G., in
the scheme of depredation. I went straightway home
to my lodgings, and up to my chamber; and when I
saw the razor lying on the table where I had left it,
I felt as if the question about to be decided before I
slept, was a matter of life and death to me. I felt the
edge and went to bed—but not to sleep. And it was
not until I had arrayed another plan, founded upon
the hypothesis that the stranger who took away the
port-folio from the shop was not an accomplice, and
that therefore I might perhaps prevail on him to
appear and help me punish the conspirators, that I
was able even to close my eyes. And then!—was
there ever such unpardonable stupidity!—I happened
to recollect that I had never obtained the address of
the boy, the servant or the confectioner. Out of bed
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I bounced again immediately and scribbled a note to
Mr. G.—requesting their names and places of residence,
and giving my own at full length, in the
plainest hand I ever wrote in my life, and dating it
No. — Wall street; after this I prepared an advertisement,
offering a handsome reward for the information
I needed, but in such a way that none but
those who were interested and familiar with the
circumstances could understand me, and signed it
with my true initials. It appeared first in Mr. Coleman's
paper but was copied into several others—I
have the advertisement now before me. Having done
this, I returned to bed—I hardly knew why—for I
knew that sleep was entirely out of the question.
And I found it so. Never before had I passed such a
night—never so longed for day. If I shut my eyes
for a single moment, hoping to forget myself, it was
only to see conjured up on every side of me, the
embodied representations of every frightful story I
had ever heard or read of, where the innocent had
been sacrificed to the law by villany, prejudice or
mistake—property swept away—life and reputation
destroyed forever, by the accidental combination of
circumstances: Must I own it?—my heart died within
me. I thought in the fever that followed, and I
almost hoped to find it so—that the night had been
of extraordinary length, and that peradventure some
irregularity had occurred in the heavenly bodies—and
I lay hour after hour in a whirl of contending hopes
and fears, now with my face buried in the bed-clothes,
and almost weeping with terror and vexation, and
now half naked, my pulse throbbing violently, my
mouth parched, and the wintry night-air blowing
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through and through me with the force and sharpness
of drift-snow—and all the time without cooling me
or soothing my fever. But oh! how shall I describe
the “rapture of repose” that followed when daylight
broke over me like a returning tide to a half
stranded ship—lifting me at once from earth to
heaven. I started broad awake as it were with a spring
from the grave. I felt as if I had escaped—I knew
not how—from some hiden calamity—I knew not
what. My pulses rang cheerfully again—my heart
heaved as of yore—and I was brimful of hope and
courage, and holy confidence in the Maker of men.
That very day as I was making a large deposit in
the Union Bank, the teller called my attention to a
person who stood by the door, apparently waiting
for me. I turned—gracious heaven! If I should
live a thousand years, I do not believe the recollection
of that moment, and of the joy, the unspeakable
joy I felt, would ever be effaced from my memory.
It was the stranger himself!—the very stranger, who
had carried off the port-folio, when I was reading in
Mr. G's back shop. Yes—it was himself! and I
was at his side in a moment; leaving the money in
piles upon the counter, gasping for breath, and trembling
so I couldn't speak for my life.
I was looking for you, said the stranger, with a
pleasant voice and without any visible emotion.—
When shall you be at leisure?—
At leisure, cried I—catching him by the arm—now,
Sir, now! never more in my life. On saying this,
he moved away, and I moved after him—he began
to walk faster and faster—and I holding on by his
arm, forgetful of the money I had left behind me, and
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of the surprise my behavior appeared to excite in the
teller, who ran to the door and bawled after me—but
all to no purpose—continued to keep step with him,
'till we both had to stop and take breath. In five
minutes more we understood each other perfectly—
he had laughed in my face, and I had threatened to
shoot him. We were seated together at a table,
with glasses and a decanter before us, the door locked
and my gentleman as perfectly at his ease—with
one leg over the back of a tall mahogany chair, as
if we had been acquainted from our childhood, though
a pair of loaded pistols lay on my bed in the little
room adjoining, and he had seen me take them up
as I tried the door, preparatory to my solemn assurance,
that he never should leave me 'till the mystery
was explained.
In five minutes more, I had told my story, and he
had laughed at my tragedy airs 'till he made me
heartily ashamed of them, and at the account I gave
him of my suffering, embarrassment and humiliation,
'till the tears ran out of his eyes. And yet, I couldn't
be angry with him for my life: and I never tried
harder, or to so little purpose.
When I had got through, he pulled out a cigar—
lighted it—took down his leg—threw off a glass of
old madeira—and then giving the cigar a puff or two
and rapping it over the edge of the glass, like one
who meant to make an afternoon of it, he vouchsafed
to reply.
My dear Sir, said he, make yourself easy. You've
got an excellent case,—an excellent case.
I stared, and he continued,—I am a bit of lawyer
myself—don't be alarmed—and we must
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contrive to make these fellows charge you with the
felony before witnesses—mark me—before witnesses.
But look ye—we must'nt be seen together.
Why not?
Simply my dear Sir, fetching a puff like a minute
gun, with his clear eye fixed upon the ceiling, because
I am a sad fellow, and my acquaintance would
be no credit to you—a man of your grave looks and
sober habits—down went another glass of madeira.
To tell you the truth, we are already confounded
together in judgment of law, and I have been mistaken
for you more than once—and—now don't be
offended my dear sir—and treated accordingly. And
here he laughed again and so long and so heartily
that I began to feel angry; and I know not what
might have been the consequences, had he not satisfied
me within the next-half-minute, that he was one
of the best fellows on earth, and one of the greatest
rogues; after which he proposed to bring the witnesses
together and then have a formal interview with
Mr. G. and the other conspirators, for so he persisted
in calling them.
I was obliged to let him have his own way at last,
though he would'nt even condescend to explain himself—
being rather diffident he assured me at a first
interview; suffering him to arrange the whole procedure,
so delighted was I with his cheerfulness and
cleverness, and so astonished at his magnanimity—
for nothing appeared to disturb him, not even the
sight of a loaded pistol. But he was no sooner gone,
and I at leisure to reflect on the opportunity I had
lost—perhaps forever—then I had my misgivings—
I cannot deny it. And the more I considered the
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[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
matter, the more I was troubled—How could I know
but that in appearing to put himself so completely in
my power, he had only been preparing a way for
escape? With his character—his acknowledged
character—was it to be expected that he would step
forward to shield me, a stranger, when he could only
do so by committing himself, and acknowledging that
he took the port-folio?
But he was faithful. And the witnesses were got
together and every thing arranged for the interview
with Mr. G. before the next day was over. The first
I saw, was the man who had fastened the charge upon
me by description. When he saw us both together
he cried out with astonishment—for the stranger,
whose name by the way was William Pope Frazier,
and who went sometimes by one name and sometimes
by the other—sometimes calling himself Pope Frazier—
and sometimes William Pope—sometimes Bill
Frazier and sometimes Bill Pope according to circumstances—
had taken care to dress and look as much
like me as possible. At first, the poor man was
puzzled, but the instant he heard Frazier speak, he
cried out—that's the man! Are you perfectly certain?
said his master.
Perfectly sir—take my oath of it anywhere.
Very well—so far so good, thought I to myself;
but how is my gentleman to get himself out of the
scrape into which he has been led by this very
witness? Glad as I was for my own escape, I could
not help feeling rather anxious about him, though I
saw thas he didn't care a fig for himself.
After him we had the confectioner; and the boy who
had left the port-folio in pledge was confronted with
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[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
him and encouraged to tell the story at length, which
he did clearly and circumstantially and without flinching
or wavering. But no sooner did Frazier appear—
stepping forth unexpectedly before him—than he
changed color, dropped his eyes and faltered out a
few unintelligible words, which resulted, after a little
further examination, also before witnesses, in a
straight-forward acknowledgement that he had received
the book not from me, but from Frazier, and
from Frazier, not to be sold nor pledged—but to
return to Mr. G., whose name he now declared, with
evident sincerity, he had forgotten by the way; that
passing the confectioner, he bought some of the tarts
and other delicacies and eat them before it occurred
to him to ask if they trusted there; that the confectioner
refused, and grew angry charging him with a
design to bilk the shop; that having no money with
him; he offered to leave the port-folio in pledge 'till
he could go back to his mother and obtain it; that he
went to his mother, who refused him—and that being
unable to redeem it and ashamed to go near the shop
without the money, day after day passed over, 'till at
length in a fit of desperation, he concluded to convert
the pledge into a downright sale, and assure the confectioner
that the port-folio belonged to himself.
And to whom else did it belong?—He had forgotten
the name of the owner, and knew not where to look
for the person who had entrusted him with it.
This uncomfortable part of the mystery explained,
the next thing was to notify Mr. G. the city-constable
and their accomplice, employ a good lawyer, and let
them have it. A legal interview was obtained, the
port-folio itself produced; but the other parties having
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[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
a lawyer a piece, betrayed no sort of anxiety 'till
they found we were in earnest, and then, seeing at my
elbow the first legal character of the day, with his
hand upon the receipt which they had the impudence
to call upon me to prove, they begun to fight shy.
But Mr. G. happened to have the watch in his pocket—
the very watch!—and when I offered to find my
name at length in a hidden part of the works, he refused
to let me do so. I saw the storm gathering and
prepared for it.
Mr. G—said my lawyer—allow me to see that
port-folio.
Certainly sir, cried Mr. G.—and the others cried
certainly! certainly! all speaking together and all
rushing forward to prove their willingness.
My lawyer took it, and we sat still, waiting in
breathless suspense for the issue. At length, just as
he had finished running it over, and hefted it for the
purpose of laying it on the further side of the table,
a sudden current of air took the leaves—the cover got
deranged—the pictures rattled—and out flew a small
piece of paper which fluttered away toward the open
door.
Holloo! what's that! cried Frazier, springing for
the paper. By the Lord Harry! he added, cutting a
caper in the air three feet high, when he had picked
it up—that's what I call an incident worthy of the
stage! I have heard of such things before—hurra—
hurra!—but I never thought I would be a witness to
one off the stage—hurra!—That paper sir, handing
it to my lawyer, while the others jumped up; and
running to the table stood staring at each other in the
most pitiable perplexity—that little bit of paper, sir
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[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
will clear it all up! Read it sir—read it aloud, sir,
for the benefit of the company! and off he went
again with another flourish in the air, two or three
prodigious leaps, and a something not to be described,
which ended with a position like that of a flying
mercury, “new lighted on a heaven-kissing hill,” his
right arm extended, and his finger pointing at the slip
of paper, which proved to be a note signed William
Frazier, and directed to Mr. G. himself. It was dated
the very day after he had carried off the port-folio—
respectfully assuring Mr. G. that he was an old hypocrite
and richly deserved to see every parable of
Scripture turned against him, like that of the unjust
Steward, which he had turned against the writer's
younger brother, and which he would find beautifully
illustrated in a certain charge of the day before,
and enclosing a paper sixpence for the use of the
port-folio one day, and finishing with a warm injunction
to mind the shop.
On hearing this note read, my lawyer and myself
were all at sea, and the others ditto. We sat staring
at one another in the oddest perplexity you ever
heard of—They saw to be sure that Mr. G. and his
worthy associates, the city-constable and his follower
were in for it, with little or no chance for escape, yet
some how or other they could not understand the
drift of the note, and they said so, begging the writer
to clear up that business.
Oh—ho!—said he, you'd better apply to that man
there; the man that never goes to the theatre—Mr. G.
began to change color—never gambles—Mr. G. grew
deadly pale, and his head sunk upon his palms—never
drinks—never lies—never cheats—
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Have a care sir! slander by insinuation!—slander
by inuendo! cried the two lawyers, both speaking
together.
Slander! returned Frazier. Will you explain Mr.
G. or shall I?
But Mr. G. was in no humor for explanation.
There he sat with his face buried in his hands—afraid
to look up—afraid even to meet the eyes of his own
shopman, who fell back three long paces, breathed
out oh-ah-um! and grew paler if possible than Mr.
G. when he heard these charges against that immaculate
man.
Well sir, continued Frazier taking a chair opposite
Mr. G. and seating himself with all the gravity of a
judge,—leave hiding your face man—if you dare
and let us hear what you have to say for yourself.
And then lowering his voice to a whisper, and leaning
forward and touching the elbow of the unhappy man,
who started as if stung to the heart, he added—I know
you—and you know that I know you. Don't provoke
me.
The changes that followed flash after flash, over the
countenance of poor G. who 'till that interview had
always born a high character, and who before a twelvemonth
was over, died in the streets a common drunkard—
universally known and universally detested for a
hypocrite and a knave,—the quivering lip, the agitated
look—the unearthly paleness—and the dry hard
breathing of the man were enough to render credible
the worst that could be said, or insinuated of him.
Frazier continued:
Do you remember the reasons you gave sir, years
ago for turning a youth adrift, parentless, who had
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served you year after year, diligently and faithfully
almost at his own expense, believing that when the
day of separation arrived, you would deal righteously
with him?—God be praised that you have some feeling
left. Is it not lawful said you, for me to do what I
will with mine own? As if property so acquired, and
acquired too under the appearance of great sanctity,
belonged only to yourself! And when you was told,
that trusting altogether to you and your high character
in the church, the young man had accepted an offer
from you which you knew, and he might have known
also if he had not put his trust altogether in your
representations, to be hardly a fourth of what he was
entitled to and might have obtained elsewhere—nay,
not one fourth of what you allowed another at the
same time, and would have allowed him if he had
insisted on it. When you were told this, by the poor
boy on the day of his departure, what was your reply?
Friend, I do thee no wrong; did'st thou not agree
with me for so much? And again, when this boy,
who trembled but to hear the scriptures mentioned,
and was willing to receive the parable just as you,
an elder of the church, might think proper to expound
it to a youthful brother, when he reminded you that
you had paid others for a single year more than you
had allowed him for five years, what was your answer?
Is thine eye evil because I am good?
Nay more, when another boy stepped forward—I
am that boy!—look at me!—examine me well—no
wonder you do not remember me; I have almost
forgotten myself!—I am no longer what I was then—
your hypocrisy made a villain of me, and if I should
come to the gallows yet, my death will lie at your door!
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We listened with amazement as he proceeded.
What fire in his dark hazle eye! What eloquent
fierceness in the language!
And when I remonstrated with you, saying, if these
parables are to be so construed, if it should be the
practice to pay men who have borne the heat and
burthen of the day, no more than those who have
dropped in at the eleventh hour—who would ever
be found at work before the eleventh hour? you turned
away as from a sayer of blasphemies. And when,
provoked at this, I went further, declaring that expounded
as the parable was by you, and others like
you, it encouraged apathy and sluggishness, and discouraged
activity and enterprise, and taught as plainly
as doctrine could teach, that he who began early was
no better nor wiser than he who began late—but the
contrary; and this even in the Lord's vineyard—
nay, that he who put it off longest made the best bargain
and was best rewarded—when I urged these
things, how did you receive them? Why—as if you
expected the earth to open and swallow me up alive!
More and more astonished at every word, we sat
and listened to him, as to a magistrate clothed with
power, wholly forgetful of his true character and of
the occasion that brought us together, until on looking
up, as he concluded with a voice that went
through and through me, we found every eye in the
room glittering with unfelt moisture, and each half
smiling at the others.
But for YOU sir, continued Frazier, I had lived and
died in the religion of my fathers! But for your
insincerity—you, a professor of religion, I might have
been a good man—a good citizen—a blessing to my
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poor mother in her old age; instead of seeing her—
His voice faltered and his hands fell upon the table
as if all strength had departed from him—God forgive
you!—a broken-hearted woman dying with a
prayer upon her lips that I, her first born, might be
gathered to my fathers before I had forfeited all hope
of mercy. And yet, miserable man! I was but a
youth, a mere boy, at the time of her death. But I
was a gambler, a thief, and a robber nevertheless,
and might have been a murderer, but for the fear that,
after all perhaps, and notwithstanding your behaviour,
there might be something in religion, and peradventure
a something hereafter. I have done sir. For a
whole year I have been with you as your shadow—
never losing sight of you a day together—hardly for
an hour! Accident has now led me to do what I
should not have done perhaps 'till another year had
passed over. My plan is now consummated—I have
completely avenged my poor brother and before I
have done—look me in the face if you dare!—I shall
avenge the false judgment of the world with regard
to you. Be patient sir—I have but little more to say;
and if I am not allowed to say it here, I will say it
elsewhere. And now for the explanation I am asked
for. I went to your shop as usual—you start sir—
as usual I say again, for I have been a daily visitor
there in one disguise or another for the last year.
An opportunity occurred for illustrating a parable in
your own way. I took it into my head to imitate
the wisdom as it is called of the unjust Steward; little
thinking that another might be held to answer
before a grand jury for what I had done in a frolic—
pray sir (turning abruptly towards me, with the water
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yet standing in his eyes) astonishing resemblance to
be sure—perfectly sincere—believe me—would'nt be
suspected of flattery for my right hand—where were
you born?—down East I hope?
Very said I—in the lower part of the district of
Maine.
And I in old Massachusetts—has your mother ever
been there?
No, said I, recollecting the anecdote to which he
undoubtedly referred—no, but my father has.
Hum—you've an excellent memory. And away he
went! rattling up hill and down as before, and as
unmindful of the pathetic as anybody I ever saw in
my life.
But enough. This part of my story ends here.
My watch was given up—a handsome apology made
in writing by Mr. G. and the city constable—and witnessed
by all three of the lawyers, who received, some
ten, some twenty dollars a piece, at the charge of the
conspirators. And there the matter was dropped,
greatly to the dissatisfaction of two, out of the three,
each of whom had assured his client that he had a
capital case, and nothing to fear. But a capital case
for whom?—that would be determined perhaps by the
issue. Nothing to fear from whom?—The opposite
party perhaps or the opposite lawyer.
Well—notwithstanding the character of this youth,
we grew intimate—youth I say; for though he was
nearly of my own age, he appeared at times like the
merest boy, having all the skittishness and hilarity of
a boy, with more than the wisdom of a man. Yet we
durst not see one another openly; and as he found
me grateful, he grew more and more circumspect; so
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that, although I frequently heard of myself as being
seen here and there and every where at the same
time, it was no longer in such low company, nor
under such circumstances of suspicion as the city
constable had so delicately hinted. Occasionally to
be sure, I heard of a younger brother—he must be my
brother, so every body said—who would be none the
worse for a little of my sobriety; and more than
once I have been accosted by strange looking people
of both sexes, who would steal up behind me and
fetch me a slap on the back, and ask me with an oath
where the devil I kept myself? and what the h—ll I
was doing now? But in other respects I got along
pleasantly enough with my new companion and had
no reason to be sorry for our intimacy. It did not
hurt me; and I do in my very heart believe it was a
help to him—for I was no scoffer, though I dealt
freely with the Priesthood; no enemy of the laws,
though I denounced the great body of the lawyers
with unsparing severity; no disturber of the public
peace, though I laughed at newspaper politics and
hated newspaper politicians.
At first, he would speak with strange levity—exceedingly
strange in a youth—of the scriptures, of our
duties here and of our existence hereafter. And then
he could forget himself, and burst forth into fierce
denunciations of all who had led him astray, and talk
about HEREAFTER as if the everlasting curtains thereof
had been lifted before him. As I reasoned about
smuggling—for I had a touch of the last infirmity of
noble minds—he would reason about every other
transgression of the law, 'till he fairly frightened me
into a review of my longest-loved and most
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heartilycherished opinions. If men smuggle, said I, it is simply
because they find it profitable. But if they find it
profitable, the fault is in the law. The penalty should
be encreased, or the duties lowered, and the temptation
thereby diminished.
If men steal, he would argue in reply, it is because
they find it profitable. The fault then is with the law.
The penalty should be encreased or the inducements
lowered, and the temptation thereby diminished. If
I am forbidden to a certain act under a certain penalty;
and if I choose to do the act and pay the penalty,
whose business is it? I have bought the privilege
and paid for it. What more would they have?—Just
as he who can afford to pay two dollars fine, as it is
called, in some parts of New-England, may ride on
the Sabbath-day (meaning a day which is not the
Sabbath,) where it is forbidden by law For my own
part I should be glad to understand the difference
between tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee; between saying
you shall not do so and so, under a penalty of two
dollars; and saying you may do so and so, if you are
willing to pay two dollars for the privilege.
But you do not always pay the penalty, said I.
Till you do that, you have no right to perform the
proscribed act, even by your own showing.
Haven't I though!—I pay the penalty in the risk;
for if the lawgiver has not made the penalty large
enough to include the chances of escape, and thereby
to indemnify the law, he is a blockhead.
Thus much for a sample of the strange young man
I had to deal with. It would require a volume to
give the reader a just idea of his ingenuity and abundant,
inexhaustable resources. Enough to say
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therefore, that we continued intimate—very intimate—so
much so that he laid open his whole history before
me and saw me turn pale and shudder as I listened—
very intimate, until I removed to the south, and he
disappeared all of a sudden, nobody knew how nor
where, leaving no trace behind him, though a vague
report reached me about a year afterwards, that he
had come to a violent and miserable death.
Five years passed away—five whole years! and I
had so far forgotten poor Frazier, that save when
some accidental reference to a portion of my past life
brought him before me, like a shadow drifting over
the sea, I never thought of him. But one evening—
it was in the dead of winter—as I sat by a solitary
fire in Baltimore, wondering as the white ashes fell
away by handfulls from the solid burning masses
below, that such destroying brightness and life should
be so effectually hidden by ashes—mere dust and
ashes—and thinking, I remember, of those lines of
Byron, where he says—
The deepest ice that ever froze
Can only o'er the surface close;
The living stream runs quick below,
And flows—and ne'er can cease to flow.
and tracing out a similitude between the living stream
buried in ice, and the burning effulgence before me
buried in white ashes—my rooms were on the ground
floor and consisted of an interior where I sat and of
the outer which opened on the street, with a door
between the two, which, owing to a very unpleasant
intrusion a little time before, I had always kept locked
after night fall—it was in the depth of winter, as I
have said before, and I had been sitting I know not
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how long, with my whole attention fixed upon the
fire, when something, I know not what caused me to
look up, and lo! somebody was sitting in the opposite
corner, nearly facing me, with his hat off, his hair
falling loosely over his shoulders, his hands resting
on his knees, and his eyes fixed on the fire with a
steadiness like that of my own shadow. I started—
and was about to speak, when something in the attitude—
something, I know not what—reminded me so
forcibly and so convincingly of poor Frazier—of
death and the grave, that I lost all courage and power
and sat for a considerable time as silent and as motionless
as the apparition before me. I looked at the door
hoping to find it ajar. It was shut and so far as I
could see by the reflection of a wavering fire light
upon the bolt, locked. My hands grew damp—my
breath came at long intervals and the substances
before me, trembled like shadows. At this moment
the clock sounded and while I was counting it with a
secret awe which I would not feel again for the wealth
of worlds, a watchman afar off called out—Past
twelve o'clock—and all's well!
Now, others may talk as they please about the hour
of midnight, and laugh when they hear of a man with
about as much courage as most folks for every day
purposes, being frightened by the noise of a clock
sounding the hour of twelve at night, in the solitude
of a large city; but I solemnly declare that I was
more disturbed—more appalled—more completely
overmastered by the sound of that clock and the
watchman's hoarse heavy cry afar off, than by all the
other circumstances I have mentioned, put together—
strange as they were. Such is the simple truth.
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And yet I was chilled to the heart before—and though
I tried to account for what I saw after the manner of
Nicolai, by referring it to poor health, dyspepsia, and
the over-excitement of my occupation;—for I was
engaged night and day on a work which so completely
exhausted me that when I was ready to go to
bed, I wanted the strength of mind, the resolution to
go, and would sit hour after hour trying to warm up
my blood to the proper temperature for such an
enterprize, and get rid of the death like chill that
encompassed me round about and filled me to the
throat as with an atmosphere of invisible snow—I
wish I could describe it better, but I cannot—my
feelings were so strange that the fairest illustration I
could give, would appear wild and extravagant.
At last the figure turned slowly toward me—so
slowly that I could not see it move—and I saw the
face. You may judge of the condition of my pulses,
when I add, that instantly! and before I knew where
I was, I found myself standing up in the middle of
the floor—with my arms lifted and my eyes fixed as
if fascinated upon what for the moment I believed in
my soul to be the countenance of a dead man, of
poor Frazier himself—he setting as before—I gasping
for breath—scream after scream issuing from the
chambers above—and people at the door crying out
in accents of horror—open the door! open the door.
For God's sake what's the matter!—while other voices
were demanding from the street who lives there? and
advising one another to burst into the house.
I did not speak, and to tell the truth I could not;
for, although with the sound of human voices and the
approach of human footsteps my courage had revived,
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I was afraid—absolutely afraid to tell the truth,
and not more than half satisfied with the strang lifelessness
of my companion. But others did speak,
and I felt not a little relieved, when I heard the steps
of the people going away one after another from the
door, saying it was very strange—very; that some of
the lodgers had probably cried out in their sleep—in a
word, that nobody knew whence the preternatural
scream had proceeded, which had brought a whole
neighborhood to the windows.
At this moment, while my eyes were fixed upon the
figure before me, I saw the chest heave; and you
may judge how strangely I was possessed with the
notion of its immateriality, when I assure you that
this comforted me—this—even more than the presence
and voices of living men, and that this alone
gave me courage to speak to it. I spoke. A writhing
of the lip followed—a flashing of eyes that I felt
acquainted with, and the shifting of feet that I
wondered to see wrapped in richly embroidered
moccasins.
Pope Frazier! cried I—William Pope Frazier, and
alive! God of heaven and earth!
Young man, said Frazier—It was he, and I knew it,
the instant he opened his mouth—young man!
Young man to be sure, thought I—older than yourself—
by three years though. But he continued in
the same voice.
You are unaltered, I see. So much the more imperious
the duty I have to discharge toward you.
We were intimate a long while ago—ages and ages
ago, if we had a right notion of time. We have been
like brothers, loving with a love that passed the love
of woman.
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His large luminous eyes were now fixed upon mine,
and he went on—and on—and on—talking to me
precisely as I would talk to a younger brother, hour
after hour, in the same rich dreamy far-off breathing
voice—like a statue communing with itself. A part
only of the much that he said, have I room for now.
I shall give it as I have said before, in his own
language, generally in the very words he employed.
They were written down at the time.
Hear me. For five years I have put in practice
deliberately and steadfastly and without flinching all
the maxims you have heard me preach. I have tried
them faithfully—faithfully!—weighed them against
the worth of my immortal soul; and lo! when they
were most wanted, most needed, they failed me!
Ashes—ashes—ashes and death! Paul—nothing
more. I am dying, Paul—dying by inches—dying of
a broken heart and crushed hopes. And I could not
die in peace, I would not, until I had obtained leave,
got by much prayer and long wrestling, from the
Great God of heaven and earth, whose name we have
trifled with so fearfully, to pass backward through the
great wilderness, the valley of the shadow of death—
and appear to you; you the earliest and truest friend
I ever had, except my poor mother, who—changing
his voice instantly to a calm steady whisper—who
hath commanded me to declare to you that your days
are numbered.
I shuddered through all my limbs, and my heart
died away within me; for at this moment I recollected
that once, when we were sitting together face to face
in the dead of winter, we had pledged ourselves, each
to the other, that he who died first should appear to
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the survivor, if permitted, and lay before him so
much as he might of the awful experience he had
obtained by familiarity with the secrets of another
world. His mother too!—I had never seen her to
my knowledge, nor she me. She was dead long
before I knew her boy; and yet I was to believe that
my days were numbered? And they were numbered!
Length of days! continued he in that low dull
whisper which went through and through me. There
is no length of days for such as thou!
I felt the hair of my flesh rise, and yet I had a hope,
almost a belief, that instead of a prophet or a dead
man, I had a live lunatic before me.
At this moment, the large heavy clock sounded
again, more dismally than before—it was like the
tolling of a bell heard through a snow-storm or over
a wide sea quaking with tempestuous brightness. It
sounded one, just like the passing bell of a country
village; and in the death like stillness that followed
the sullen, long protracted vibration, my superstitious
terror was renewed with a tenfold determination of
blood to the brain. All my sonses were preternaturally
excited—my temples throbbed—the solemn
reverberation roaring in my ear a whole minute after
the sound itself had passed away and returned two or
three times.
Hour after hour we sat together. The night wore
away, and the blue haze of a winter morning began
to steal athwart the floor, when we parted—and parted
forever; he telling me what he had gone through, and
cautioning and beseeching me to be wiser than he
had been, less prodigal of health and power, humbler
and more patient, if I hoped to be continued here as
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he chose to express himself, or happy hereafter; and
I listening to him as if I had known that he was able
to look into the future and read the stars of my
destiny, until he came to that portion of his life which
I had in view, when I thought first of preparing this
narrative for the public eye. Ah! if I had foreseen
the trouble I have had—the suffering that has followed
a review of my past life, I never should have undertaken
the story—never!—But now! having undertaken
it and for a good purpose, I will neither be
diverted nor driven from my past purpose. I would
have abridged it; for I did not intend to make it of
more than half this length—I would even abridge it
now—if I had the time; or the heart. But I have
neither. And so well do I know myself that I am
sure it would grow into a book were I even to copy
it off, nor upon further consideration do I see much
that could be left out with advantage to the story—
hardly anything indeed; for what would be the
value of the catastrophe without a knowledge of the
man himself—the sufferer—and the martyr?
And now for his very words—the very words that
fell from his mouth. I may venture to say all this,
for in ordinary cases I have a remarkable memory,
and in this—I cannot be mistaken—for never words
made such a distinct and lasting impression upon
me—never.
Long before I left New-York, said he, I had grown
tired and sick of life, and of all society—of yours
more than that of any body else I knew. We had
been deceiving ourselves and others: and I only had
found it out. We were both worse than we appeared
even to ourselves, for while we knew our own vices
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we overrated our own virtues; and I altogether worse
than you, for I deceived you continually, without
excuse or provocation. I panted for a new field of
enterprise—it mattered little what—good or bad—at
sea or ashore—so that I found exhileration; so that
I could trample more conspicuously and more fiercely
upon the reptiles that covered the whole face of this
fair earth. You have not forgotten my notions of
women—You have heard me 'till you had lost all
patience with me, time and again. O, Paul! Paul!
that we should ever be so blind to the divinity, the
only visible divinity that now walks the earth! dishonoring
our mothers and our sisters, by the ribald
companionship of our thoughts—and literally stifling
the first-born of our purest and loveliest hopes—
Never shall I forget his look, when he uttered this
apostrophe! It would have broken the heart of a
loving and faithful woman.
And so, continued he, being weary of the world, I
betook myself to the wilderness; journeying away to
the north, and never turning to the right hand nor to
the left 'till I had crossed the track of the fur-traders.
I had resolved in my own heart to see woman as she
is by nature, the Woman of the Woods, the exalted
creature that issues uncorrupted, untouched from the
hands of her Almighty Father! Eves of the great
wilderness! Angels of the solitude!
Well; and so I went and journied and journied,
and strove to be satisfied. But no. Every where—
every where upon the face of the earth I found
woman to be nothing more nor better than the slave
of man; avowedly so among the savages, and really
so among the civilized, where they call her their
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[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
companion, wife, mistress, pleasant counsellor and
friend! Their companion!—with such equality of
companionship, that for doing no more than a man
may do with impunity, she becomes an outcast and a
reproach. Their mistress!—with so much power
and no more as her subject chooses to concede to
her—having no share in representation or government,
though she pay taxes to the utmost! and this in a
country, a fundamental principal of whose government
it is, that taxation and representation go together!
Their friend—wife—pleasant counsellor—yet told
and told seriously, 'till not only they but she is made
to believe it, that women are virtually represented
by their fathers and brothers and husbands and sons!
Why not say to me that they are virtually represented
by others? Told too that her interest is identical
with ours—Fools!—fools!—when they are directly
opposed to ours: it being our interest to keep woman
wholly dependent upon us—their's to be dependent
upon themselves. Friends—equals—companions—
pleasant counsellor indeed!
Well—I journied and journied, growing none the
better and but little the wiser; being so girded about
with prejudice, and so filled to the brim with the
opinions of society and of books, that when Truth
herself passed before me naked and beautiful as
Nature from her holiest and purest abiding-place,
with the eternal woods above me and about me and
Earth, Sea and Air holding counsel together for my
instruction—yet would I not see her, nor acknowledge
her; and therefore am I now sent to you, a
broken-hearted man, resting for a little hour on my
way to the household of death. At last, wandering
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afar and away toward the other ocean, I found a young
Indian girl and I loved her—no matter why; loved
her as I had never thought it possible for a human
creature to love any thing on earth or heaven, I
bought her of her father and determined to make of
her—What?—a wife think ye? No, a mistress?—
no. A friend?—no. No—no—nothing more nor
less than my slave, as the white women are to the
men that buy them in marraige. But hear me
through—He had grown hoarse with emotion, and his
countenance changed frightfully as he breathed out
the word slave—hear me through; and then say
whether I do not richly deserve the fate I have
experienced. I would describe her to you, but I
cannot. Her eyes were like stars in the lighted sea—
her presence warmth—her touch delirium—about her
was an atmosphere that I could feel. And so—and
so—I grew rich. I became a fur-trader. I might
have returned to our largest cities and have had my
choice of the fairest and proudest—for have I not said
that I was rich? And had I not youth and experience
and a foreign-look, half savage and half civilized?
Who could resist me, educated as our women are
now in the proud cities of America?
But I lifted my hope higher. I had a giant-like
ambition—a thought worthy of Lucifer in the day of
his exceeding strength. I resolved to create a
woman for myself. I would have no creature sleeping
in my bosom, that the growth of whose thought I
had never been able to watch over. The fruitage that
I cared for could only be known by the flower. And
so, I withdrew, not into the solitude where the overhanging
trees drop darkness and silence upon the
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pilgrim and the sojourners; where the everlasting
woods are all alive with tremendous apparitions, and
the roar of midnight is like the roar of the troubled sea—
but into the very neighborhood of the white people—
carrying my poor Indian-girl with me—where she
might learn all they could teach, enjoying all their
comforts, and yet be secure from their unhallowed
influences.
People wondered at me that I kept no servants,
that I saw no visiters, that I passed all my time within
the four walls of a cottage, surrounded on every side
by the stragglers of the retreating forest, and buried
in blossoming trees for a goodly portion of the year.
They called me a misanthrope, and I bore it with a
smile; indolent—though I was employed night and
day in acquiring and communicating truth, knowledge,
the sublimest principles of wisdom and virtue. I had
begun to love man; and to feel toward woman what
Jehovah meant we should feel, by establishing a
mutual dependence and a holy relationship forever
and ever between us. And so I became her preceptor—
father—brother—lover—every thing but a husband.
O! how the poor creature did love me! how
she would sit by me hour after hour, and fall asleep
with her head upon my bosom or my lap, and never
dream that she had betrayed herself or the deep
yearning of her heart, in her child-like simplicity.
Her color would come and go, and her mouth would
tremble, and her heart would heave, her voice change,
and her large eyes fill with unspeakable tenderness;
and yet she would sidle up to me and discourse in the
language of perfect innocence and truth, all that
others who are educated in society are accustomed to
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deny, as if the holy and mysterious instinct of a
woman's nature—the end and object of her whole
existence on earth were to be concealed with tears
and blushes, or stifled in its birth! Need I say to
you that when her young heart lay before me like a
map—her two hands fluttering in mine like live birds—
and her warm breath stirring over my neck as she
sat by me and whispered of things that were true, in
the very language of truth—need I say that I was
transported into another and a better age? that a
purifying hope took possession of me, and that I
grew ashamed of my greater knowledge? And yet,
all this time, day after day, and month after month, I
never forgot myself—I never forgot her—for a single
moment; nor that she was to be my companion for
life. All that I knew, she knew—and more. All
that I learned of others chiefly for the pleasure of
communicating it to her, she seized with the quickness
of intuition. But for her manners, which God be
thanked! were not the manners of society, she would
have passed for a highly accomplished woman before
I—I—before—His voice faltered, and for a single
moment he appeared to have lost all command of
himself—before she left me.
Years had gone by and we had been always together,
she putting questions to me and I answering
them to the best of my power, now with the help of
books and maps and drawings, and now by longcontinued,
earnest enquiry of others; whole years!
and yet she continued to have questions for me,
whenever we were together; questions about herself,
and me and others; about Here and Hereafter;
questions that nobody on earth could solve and that
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none but a very exalted nature would have troubled
itself about. Sir—look at me—I meant to deal fairly
with that young woman. But I did not. I deceived her.
I deceived myself. I persuaded myself that I was weary
of my kind, ashamed of the opinions, and altogether
above the prejudices of the world.—At last—Father of
love! do thou uphold me and strengthen me yet a
little longer!
I believed the poor fellow's heart was breaking when
he uttered this cry—I believe so now—the tone of
his voice brought the tears into my eyes.
At last, continued he, at last! I saw the bursting
forth of all that I most yearned to see in heaven or
earth—a human heart in full flower! And that, a
female heart, innocent as Truth and faithful as Hope,
which never deserts, however frequently it may
betray us. And so I determined to be happy; for
some how or other I felt as if I had begun to deserve
it. The fair creatures I had wronged in my youth,
visiting all and spoiling all that came in my way, no
longer beset me, as they had for years, in every
solitary, every silent place, beautiful shadows, having
eyes that were dark with unutterable wo, and
burning with prophecy, or peradventure with dishevelled
hair and the sweeping habiliments of death.
I was no longer afraid to be alone. I heard no more
`sweet melancholy music,' no more unearthly voices,
and my sleep had begun to refresh me. But whither
should I go?—to the North or to the South?—
over the blue deep and to the pleasant isles of the
sea; or back into the society of them that had
driven me away, an outcast and a beggar, to perish
in the wilderness? Would they know me? And if
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they did, now that I had wealth enough, what had I
to fear?
It was time for us to understand one another. But
how?—how could I venture to translate into cold
human language the sweet mystery that thrilled the
blood of this innocent creature, who had never seen
the face of a woman but afar off since her childhood,
nor heard the voice of any man but her father and
myself, since we had been together. And yet she
was happy—so happy!—that when I talked of leading
her into the society of such people as she had read of
in the books and languished to see, she would tremble
and cling to me like a child when it thunders. At
last I began afar off to sound the depths of her
untroubled heart. I tried to explain the growth of
attachment between creatures of a different sex, the
sweet influences and the agitating hopes that were
intended to issue in the perpetual generation of
creatures like ourselves, immortal creatures, multiplied
into one another forever and ever. But all in
vain. Up to the last, she was unprepared for the
truth. Even while she hung about my neck showering
tears into my bosom and kissing my face with lips
that trembled and burned as with inward fire—nay,
even while she repeated my very language after me
word for word—language that I durst not use, in the
world, where a thousandth part as much would have
been sufficient to enlighten a child—she did not and
she could not understand me.
So—after many a sleepless night, having weighed
all the consequences at my leisure, I determined to
deal more plainly with her. I put the question thus—
Could you be happy with me dear, under all
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circumstances
, any where and every where? Never
shall I forget the look of innocent surprise with which
she answered—as if it were the strangest thing in
the world for me to put such a question. I felt
abashed; for notwithstanding all my love, there were
circumstances in my life which she was not, and
never would be acquainted with; I had always
intended to tell her the truth and the whole truth
before I took her altogether to myself—yet now—
now that her mind was illuminated—and she had
built up exalted opinions of what man should be and
of what I was, I had no longer the courage to tell
her—it would have broken her heart, although it
would not have changed her love. And then she
kissed me, and I looked into the very depth of her
heart as into a lighted mirror and saw every thought
and every hope there. And I knew instantly that her
whole happiness depended on me—that Here and
Hereafter (and she knew all that I knew of both) she
had no wish but to be with me, no hope unconnected
with me. And we were happy.
Six months after this, as we were sitting together
under the green trees with a broad clear river as blue
as a summer sky, sweeping away from underneath
our very feet, and all the woods about us were bursting
into flavor with the suddenness that follows a
severe northern winter—a drop of rain fell upon my
hand. I looked up in amazement, and lo! instead of
a sky overcast with shadow, the sun was all abroad in
brightness and warmth. It was no drop of rain
therefore—and then for the first time I saw in the
eyes of her whom I loved more than my own life, a
tinge of melancholy.
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William, said she, I have been reading a book that
I am sorry for.
Ah—
It has made me unhappy.
How so, pray?—
William—dear William—I am not your wife.
I was grieved to the heart, and though I kissed and
talked to her with an air of pleasantry for awhile,
yet I knew by her voice—her sweet plaintive voice!
that she had taken her discovery to heart; and I knew
not what to say, nor which way to look.
Not my wife! said I at last, feeling some how as if
I had been unfaithful to her, and repeating the words,
the miserable words wherewith I had deceived her,
and not only her but myself before we were happy—
In the sight of Heaven you are my wife; In the sight
of Heaven, we are married.
But her eyes grew more and more melancholy and
her voice more plaintive.
Troubled, I knew not why, and very anxious to
turn away her thoughts from a subject which I saw
was painful to her, I began to talk of our departure,
but she said nothing, and I felt her warm tears dropping
faster and faster upon my hands, in which hers
lay more passively than I had ever known them before;
and so I returned to the subject and grew serious
with her and talked of marriage, and overthrew
every thing that stood in my way; the sum and substance
of my whole argument (he said this with great
bitterness) being to this effect. If a man loves a
woman, he wants no law to bind him to her. If he
does not love her, no law can bind him to her. And
if it could, what should we think of that woman's
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delicacy who would consent to have such a hold upon a
husband's affections. At length, after a silence which
continued so long as to alarm me, she said—You
know dear that I care nothing for the name. But
you did—and if you did, why should not I? Oh
William! would you not make me your wife whom
you had built up and fashioned for that companionship—
(her voice faltered and she grew pale as death)—
of which she is dying—dying, William: after this
she grew melancholy and though I did not observe it
at the time, I recollected it well afterwards.
Merciful heaven cried I, terrified at his language
and looks—and did she die?
About a month after this, while we were sitting
together in the self same spot, she threw her arms
about my neck, and hid her face in my bosom and
began to sob like a child, saying that she shouldn't
live long, she was sure of it—hoping that I would be
happy, and if—and if—and here she clung yet more
closely to me and sobbed more violently than ever—
I knew what she was thinking of—and I tried to
divert her attention from the subject. Her attention!—
fool that I was!—William she whispered—I am not
your wife; your love is not my love.
Be patient—one day—I had been gone all day
long—my preparations were all made, my determination
fixed to repair the wrong I had done her, and
I returned with my heart brimful of joy. As my foot
sounded on the door step, I recollected that I had
seen no light. This and the extraordinary stillness
damped my joy for a moment, and my hand shook I
remember as I laid it upon the latch. I knocked—
and listened—knocked again until I could bear the
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dreadful silence no longer—I burst open the door—
rushed into our chamber and there!—there! (gasping
for breath as if the horrid objects were now before
him) and there she lay! she and the dear babe—both
dead—dead—dead! I shrew myself upon my knees
before her and prayed our Almighty Father to take
me to himself. But he would not—thick flashes of
light filled the whole room in reply to my impious
prayer—and then I kissed her pale lips, and shrieked
to them to move once more—and they did move! they
did—and what do ye think they whispered to me?
(starting up and stealing toward me a tip-toe and grasping
my shoulder)—they whispered as plain as mortal
lips ever spoke on earth—I am not your wife.
And so I came away. And now, continued he, I
am an altered man. I have come by the command of
my poor old mother to sacrifice myself here. I have
been a voluptuary with my own child—my dear,
adopted and beloved child—a libertine with my own
wife—rifling and casting away forever the blossoms
of hope and love. And therefore do I warn you!—
rising and standing up before me, and uttering his
words like prophecy, with a gesture and look of
awful denunciation. I warn you! as you hope to
appear one day before the Judge of the quick and the
dead, with no sign of death blowing upon your
forehead, I warn you to repentance! As for me, I am
going to the grave. My heart is broken—I deserved
all—but I could not die in peace, without saying all
this to you—His eyes brightened and he almost
smiled—I shall be buried to-morrow afternoon, said
he—will you come to my funeral?
With pleasure, I was about to say; but his look of
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preternatural brightness deterred me. I shuddered and
turned away and when I looked up again he was
gone.
After this I slept, and waking some time after my
usual hour, hurried off to my breakfast at Barnum's.
On opening my door, I found a paper lying on the
steps; and taking it up to lay it on my table, my
attention was attracted by a paragraph relating to the
sudden death of a stranger yesterday at the Indian
Queen. Yesterday! said I to myself, as I walked
away, half determined to enquire a little into the
matter: but something happened to prevent me; I
rode out of town, a few miles, and the next day about
three o'clock was returning, when I met a funeral.
I stopped and seeing a friend on the side walk,
enquired into the cause of something unusual which
struck me in the appearance of the persons about the
body. They wore no mourning, and appeared to be
all of one family, as it were. The truth fell upon
me like a thunderbolt! It was the funeral of poor
Frazier. But when I add—which is the simple truth
that after attending the body to the grave as I had
promised, and after calling at the house, where I
learned from a boarder who was with the stranger
at the time of his death that he died Wednesday
night—when it was Thursday morning that he
appeared to me—when I added, that I was afraid to
enquire further, there are some perhaps who may
understand me and believe me—others who may
pity me.
Nine years after this, a thought struck me one day
in relation to the time of night when this extraordinary
event occurred, and I wrote to Baltimore to
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enquire of the individual, an Irish editor, who had
assured me that Frazier died Wednesday, when I
could swear that I saw him on Thursday. His
answer I give below.
Dear Sir—The stranger you refer to died late
Wednesday night—I think about four in the morning.
Most respectfully, &c. &c.
April 1, 1833.
Q. E. D.
-- --
ROBERT STEELE.
[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
There had been a heavy shower. But the clouds
were hurrying away, the sun was breaking out with a
warm lustre, and the whole earth was smoking with
incense. I never saw a more beautiful sky—every
cloud was a picture, every shadow a new transformation
of the landscape. We were sitting together on
a little wooden bench, at the door of a one-storyhouse,
which had been white, with a high dark roof
and projecting windows—formerly a cottage, or the
nearest approach to one we ever see in this part of
the world,—now the porch of a country tavern, the
anti-chamber of a grog-shop. I was leaning back
with my arms folded, and eyes half-shut; now
wondering at the beauty and freshness of our New-England
scenery; now looking out over the broad far
common, as level as a floor, besprinkled with miniature
tents and booths, and all alive with groups of
boys and girls, hardy, but rough and awkward militia,
in caps that were too large and coats that were too
small for them, a corps of artillery, a circulating
troop of wheelbarrows, and a squadron of horse;
now studying the far sky through a glimmering
curtain of hop-leaves, vine-leaves and flowering creepers,
that hung between me and the low sun, a part
of the transparent foliage overlaying the rest with
shadow, changeable, burnished, and dripping with
large rain-drops—a shower of `barbaric pearl and
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gold,' and letting the sun-shine flash through, and
play about the floor, and over the white-washed wall,
and the wreck of what had been the prettily-contrived
and the prettily-painted trellis-work of a flower
garden, at my elbow, as the live drapery broke and
fluttered, and swayed this way and that with every
change of the wind; now trying to make out the
familiar history of what I saw on every side of me—
neatness gone to decay—white pillars written all
over with lead pencil, spattered with slops and stained
with tobacco-smoke—the very windows, over which
the wild rose yet clambered in large ragged masses,
covered with a grog-score—green blinds utterly cast
away and half-buried in the dirt, or hanging by one
hinge a piece and ready to drop at a touch or a
breath, every creak appearing to be the last—the
insignia of idleness and mischief cut and carved all
over what had been the portico of a tasteful habitation,
wretched caricatures, bad poetry, and worse whittling
(where whittling is a trade), profiles of nobody, with
a brush-wood or juniper wig, verses that rhymed
everywhere but in the right place, and great staggering
initials, no two of which were of a size or shape,
though all appeared to be looking for partners, and
five or six of a somewhat similar type for each other,
though one half were built with the wrong end up,
and the rest were shadowed contrary to law; and now
hearkening to the roar of the water-falls, which as it
grew quieter and quieter abroad, began to draw near,
with a heavier and more sea-like noise.
We were sitting together, I have said; that is, we
were sitting back to back on the same badly contrived
bench, myself a stranger, and my companion—I
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hardly know how to describe him, otherwise than by
saying that he was a very small man, who chose to
wear a cocked hat, a leathern waistcoat, a pair of cowhide
shoes with silver buckles, and blue yarn stockings
rolled up over his knees in the dog days. How
he contrived to occupy so much as he did, was always
a mystery to me. More than half the bench did he
take up, and that half—as some people do their part
of a loaf or a bed, right out of the middle. Perhaps
thought I, he may be one of our native New-Englanders
who value themselves on their sprawl, as they term it.
If so, you may track him through life, by the chairs
he has wrenched or split, by the walls he has worn
the paper off, and by the holes he has bored through
every carpet he was ever allowed to work his chair
upon, like a centre-bit, or a gouge. For my own part
if I am ever able to furnish a house for the habitation
of thorough-bred he-yankees, much as I love and respect
them for their disregard of idle courtesy, and
for their doing as they would be done by, in every such
case, it shall be with chairs that are built into the very
wall, or screwed to the floor; and if—I only mention
the thing—if a scraper, a hat-rack and a spit-box, were
slyly shoved in their way, the moment they opened
the outer-door, perhaps there would be no harm in
that, and perhaps they might be led to perceive by
and by, that wearing a hat in the house of a friend, or
tilting back in a chair which is none of the strongest,
though it may be of the costliest, or spitting holes
through a carpet, is after all, no proof that a man is a
man, a lover of liberty, a despiser of kings, courts,
and every other sort of outlandish trumpery, not worth
having here. Allow what you please for the native
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[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
worth, severe probity, and extraordinary common
sense of a New-Englander, I do not perceive that boorishness
or nastiness are virtues; or that, although it
is better to be thought superior to, than ignorant of
the usages of the world, and better therefore when
you are in doubt, to carry it with a high hand, still—
I was interrupted here, by my neighbor of the yarn
stockings and cow-hide shoes, who lifting himself up
and fetching a long breath—as long as from here to
the head of the street—and puffing a gill or two of
tobacco smoke athwart my face, begun to hum a part
of old hundred, beating time as he did so, with a large
ivory-headed cane, just by the side of my hurt knee,
with a vigor that made me jump at every turn of the
tune. I retreated inch by inch, and he pursued me
inch by inch, but whether intentionally or not, I never
knew. What I do know however, is, that when he
had got me fairly penned up in the corner, and when
I was just ready to cry out, he perceived the danger,
and stopped, and stared at me for a moment or two,
and then without a word of apology, slipped into
Yankee Doodle, and puffed the rest of the smoke into
the face of a fat man who had dropped asleep with his
mouth open at the other end of the bench. A moment
after this, he stopped suddenly and rose half up out of
the seat, as if to call to some body afar off. I thought
something was the matter, for the hand in which he
had pulled away the torn foliage, was not over steady.
I followed the direction of his little keen eye, and
found it pursuing a group of men who had collected
together a few rods off, and were probably waiting for
another body just about to issue from the crowded
bar-room at our back, the windows of which, running
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away to my left, and being wide open allowed me a
view of what I had long wanted to see, the interior of
a country tavern on a muster day, without leaving my
seat, or appearing to observe with a curious eye. But
I saw the whole and remember the whole. Here was
one huge fellow trying to jump over a table backwards;
there another trying to hop over his own leg,
with the foot fixed to the wall, and there another, with
his coat off and shirt-sleeves rolled up, trying to spell-Andrewbigbaggington-Dollasee-dan-Hyocathmarine.
Here a party pulling fingers with each other, 'till their
eyes were ready to drop out of their sockets; and
there another, counted off in pairs, with their elbows
planted on a table, and pressing their palms together,
to see which would give way first. Within two or
three yards of me, just under the drippings of the bar,
sat a grey-haired man, with a flushed face, and a quivering
lip, trying to persuade a boy of twelve to draw cuts,
or clap coppers with him for a glass of high-colored
liquor just poured out, and gleaming in the live sun-shine
that flashed through and through the decanters
and glasses, and played about on the slippery edge of
the bar, and among the green branches that overshadowed
it, with the scented shadow of the wilderness.
A little further off, just on the border of the highway,
which was thronged to overflow with speculating and
swapping natyves, a large number of well-dressed
youth had gathered in a cluster, some standing a-tip-toe
and stretching away to overlook their neighbors,
some stooping with their elbows on their knees, like
players at leap-frog, or holding on by each other in
pairs, or dodging about hither and thither to get a
peep, and some sitting or lying stretched out, with
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their whole length on the wet grass, overborne by the
prodigious weight from above—the weight of mirth
and curiosity; two or three of their number I saw
with six-inch native cigars in their mouths, learning to
draw smoke with an air (as if that were an accomplishment
for any thing but a flue or a stove-pipe) two
with their shirt-collars open, the third with his hat
pulled over one ear, and all three growing paler and
paler and sicker and sicker at every whiff. Others of
the party were betting, and swearing, and chewing
tobacco, or throwing off brandy-and-water, glass after
glass, the winner because he had won, and why
should'nt he swallow what he had won, though it made
him sick? the loser, forsooth, because he had lost, and
having to pay for the stuff, why should he not have
his lawful share, though he loathed the very smell of
it? and others, the centre of the group and the seat of
attraction for all, were pitching four-pence-happ'nies[1]
with a large, powerful, good-natured, yellow-eyed
nigger, who in the triumph and joy of his heart, gave
them the advantage of all the ties, and lent to all that
lost, and yet was lucky enough to win every pitch, 'till
being over-persuaded by the boys, and overpowered
by the flip they flooded him with, he began to talk
paw-aw-ties with a stray representatyve o' the neighborhood,
after which he was robbed and cheated so
openly, that the very children saw through it, as they
lay on the grass, and whooped and hollowed for joy,
every time the poor nigger had to shell out; and the
very mothers and wives that occupied all the windows
overlooking the spot, and the glossy-haired,
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[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
bright-eyed girls, who were circulating hither and thither like
so many colored apparitions, over the broad green
level before me, even they appeared to relish the joke
as often as they got a peep at what was going forward.
What a school for the brave youth of New-England,
thought I, rather above my breath I dare say, for the
stranger uttered a low growl in reply. Our mothers
and our wives, our daughters and our grown youth,
encouraging our little boys to rob a poor black, whom
they would not be allowed to associate with; of his
pocket-money. I turned away my head and shut my
eyes; but a growing uproar caused me to open them
again, and when I did, it was to see two middle-aged
farmers, both half-seas over, showing their wealth,
dropping it slowly from their clenched hands, held
high up in the air—cent by cent—and four-pence by
four-pence—eyeing each other like two tom-cats the
while (I expected every moment to see the feathers
fly) now leaning forward and gasping for breath, now
pulling back and wavering with fear, as it came, turn
about, to make the drop or wait the issue; for the
agreement was, that he who dropped most should have
all—with a plenty of abuse, a cuff o' the ear, and a
quarrel to boot.
Hurra there, hurra! cried the party within the
house.
Hurra there, hurra! echoed the party without.
Who's chose? eagerly enquired a youth from below.
I made no reply, though I saw the question was
directed to me; for to tell the truth, I had not observed
what was going forward in the bar-room, beyond
what I have described. I had been lost in a
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revery, and in five minutes more, I might have been
asleep where I was, with my head against the wall,
my mouth full of flies, and my poor leg stretched out
on the pillow before me, but for the breaking up, the
rush and the outcry of the multitude, as they swept by
me.
Plaguing critter, said the youth, as he turned away,
no speak to him, I 'spose, wont say a word more 'an
he's a mind to.
I say, you mister! ye haint got any more butter to
sell, have yer? cried somebody at the door, with a
voice like a trumpet.
A man who was riding by, drew up at the noise,
and looking over his shoulder, answered in the purest
New England fashion—Do you want to buy?
What d'ye ask?
What 'll yer give?
How much have yer got?
How much do yer want?
I looked up in astonishment here. The parties
were perfectly serious. One had butter to sell—that
I knew; the other wanted to buy, that I could see.
How much do I want? said the purchaser, drawing
a long breath, and then making a full stop, as if determined
never to commit himself.
Why don't you say? said the other.
And why don't you say?
Say what?
Botheration seize it, how do I know? If you want
to sell your butter, why don't you answer my question?
Well—why don't you answer mine?
Why—don't I?
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Why, do you?
Do I—darn and set fire to sich a feller as you are,
did ye ever answer a question in your life?
Well—did you?
Be quiet fools! Why don't you answer each other?
Zounds and death, are we never to have an end of this
eturnal see-saw, said a voice at my elbow—the deepest
and lowest voice I ever heard, though every whisper
went through me. I looked that way. There was
the pipe, and the three-pronged hat, and there the
cow-hide shoes, and the buckles, and the yarn stockings
rolled over the knee; and the firm, sharp, sensitive
and healthy lips—but there was no motion to
them.
I was about to speak, when my attention was called
off by the approach of a young and somewhat superior
looking man, who appeared to hold himself aloof
and apart from the multitude, though his eye was fixed
upon the door, with a look that made me watch him
in spite of myself. Shoes were bandied about, and
he smiled, as they passed him, but with no such smile
as the others welcomed every, even the rudest and
silliest. He appeared above such mirth; and his pale
fierce look had a show of something, that when I
think of it now, makes me tremble. I wonder now
that I was not alarmed by it at the time. The people
knew him, but they passed him, with an air that galled
his proud spirit, I do believe—for the next moment,
as the newly elected officers came forth, he turned
away, and walking hastily up to a booth near me,
threw off a tumbler of what appeared to be very strong
brandy-and-water—dashed a piece of silver upon the
earth, and was turning to go away, when a troop of
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young officers, the handsomest and awkwardest I ever
saw, with their sashes and feathers flying in the wind
and their heavy cimitars ringing as they trod, came
near the spot, and as their horses were brought up
one by one, mounted and rode off. As they did so,
however, I heard somebody say, God help thee, boy!—
and then I heard them laugh and look toward the
booth; and as they did so, I saw the stranger who
had interested me so much, strike his heel into the turf,
grasp another huge goblet of liquor, and throw it off
with his face upturned to the sky, so directly before
me that I could see the writhing of the lip, the heaving
of the chest, and the mortal flashing of the eye, and I
thought I could see—perhaps I deceived myself—a
shadow of loathing and self-reproach go over his broad
luminous forehead, like a convulsion.
Robert Steele! cried the stranger at my side, starting
up, and smashing his pipe on the floor. Robert
Steele, I say!
But Robert Steele, for that was the name of the
other, would not forbear. He saw me, and I believe
he saw my companion, but I do not know; for he
turned away, and flinging the goblet he had just emptied
against a large rock that lay in his path, went
away toward the subskirts of the wood, with his arms
dangling at his side, and his eyes fixed upon the earth,
as if pursuing, step by step, some invisible creature
that kept near the ground.
For God's sake, lend a hand here, said my hitherto
speechless companion, grasping me by the arm.
With all my heart, said I, trying to get up as I
spoke: but you see what a cripple I am. Here Smith,—
Harry Smith I say, lend a hand here, will you!
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Harry Smith was a nephew of mine, a fellow of great
strength and courage, and I wanted him to give the
elder a lift, for I had, I know not wherefore, a secret
apprehension of something terrible which would require
all my fortitude before long. But before Smith
could arrive, my man was off, and I hobbling after
him with my one crutch. I had not gone far, when
seeing the multitude give way on every side, I looked
up and saw Arthur Steele pursuing his way directly
across the common, the elder trying to cut off his approach
to the wilderness, and a very awkward, heavily-mounted
trooper, spurring and whipping toward him,
flourishing a sword in the air and shouting to him,
not to go that way.
But Robert Steele kept on.—
The horseman rode up, directly in his path, and
swore, if he took another step that way, he would cut
him down.
Robert lifted his eyes and strode on—I shouted—
the trooper struck at him with the flat of his sword,
but—instantly—before I could throw up my arms, or
utter a cry—Robert snatched the bridle; the horse
reared, and the rider was tumbled to the earth, an uplifted
sword flashed in the air, as if wielded with the
strength and fury of a maniac; and I do believe the
overthrown trooper would have been put to death on
the spot, if the outstretched arm had not been arrested
by a shriek, and the sight of an officer dashing at full
speed over the plain. A moment more, and Robert
stood in the way of that officer, who tried in vain to
stop his horse—a cut appeared to be exchanged between
them, as the creature passed—and before the
troop could be put in motion, or the videttes leap to
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the rescue, or understand the cause of the uproar, he
reeled in the saddle—dropped the reins—pitched
forward with his arms in the air—and the next moment,
I saw his cap on the turf, the horse galloping
away at full speed for the river, and the poor fellow
dragging, with his foot in the stirrup. The shrieks of
women were now heard from every quarter—the confused
trampling of horses—two or three pistol-shots
in quick succession—and then the roar and the rush
of a great multitude sweeping by me with irresistible
power;—then followed a momentary stillness like
that of death—then, a long, long shriek, as from the
agony of a mother's heart—and then a loud, vast,
overpowering outcry, that a man was killed.
I stood where I was, giddy and sick with horror—
motionless with fear. And the first thing that awoke
me to a full perception of the truth, was the sight of
Robert Steele, not five yards from me, holding a horse
by the bridle, with one foot in the stirrup ready to
mount. He saw me, and perhaps recognised me, for
he stopped and said to me with a smile—yes a smile—
You see that I could escape if I would,—as he spoke,
he leaped into the saddle, and sat adjusting one stirrup
to his foot, with his head bent over the creature's
neck; I never saw a more beautiful, nor a more spirited
animal.
If I could have stopped him there—if I could have
reached the bridle at that moment, I would have given
the last dollar I had on earth. Yet I am no friend to
capital punishments; and if I were to betray a fellow-creature
to death, I care not how, I care not why, I do
believe that I should never sleep soundly again.
But I shall not escape, said he, throwing himself
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off, and letting the horse go. There—there—begone,
sir! And the creature, frightened at the voice, backed
for a moment upon his haunches, threw up his main
in the air, and set off at full speed, with the rein
flying loose and the stirrups ringing in the wind.
How wonderful is the nature of man! I would now
have given the last dollar I had on earth, yea my right
arm, to secure the escape of Robert Steele, as he stood
before me now, within reach of that very arm—with
no possibility of escape now—for the multitude were
gathering and concentrating about us now, from every
part of the field, and the troopers were riding hither
and thither, and every living creature was hurrying to
the spot—he was pale now, very pale, and speechless;
and the sweat stood upon his forehead in large drops.
At length a man touched him on the shoulder—it
was the man with the cocked hat—and without
speaking a word, pointed to the highway, as I should
have pointed to the grave.
Robert Steele turned toward him at the touch, but
when he saw who it was, he started—and his dry lips
moved, but no sound reached my ear, though I was
not a yard off.
No, no, said a bystander, pressing through the
crowd, that won't do, Doctor Farrer. That young
man must be put into safer hands than yours; we
know you, I rather guess, a little too well to trust any
murderer—
Robert Steele gasped for breath.
I beg your pardon, Major Steele,—much less a
nephew in such hands.
That's true! that's true! whispered several that
were nigh.
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The man with the cocked hat made no reply; but
lifting up his ivory-headed cane, stretched it forth to
the full length of his arm, and making a slow, steady,
sweep with it, so as to keep off the multitude from before
his path, pursued his way, with a firm grip on
the collar of his nephew.
Ah, Major Steele is that you? said another voice
afar off.
Here comes the high-sheriff! cried twenty voices
from the heart of the crowd.
Sorry to see you here; always afeard o' somethin'
o' the sort you know; your head wont bear much.
The next moment, a tall, rough-looking man rode up
to my side; ah, Doctor Farrer—how d'ye do, how
d'ye do; how goes it.
Why—cleverly, said the imperturbable man, without
looking up, or turning his head, or altering his
step.
Mr. High-Sheriff, said the speaker, who had previously
objected to leaving the nephew in the custody
of his uncle; it is your duty to take charge of that
young man.
No more'n 'tis your'n though, neighbor Jeddy.
But I say 'tis though; and I say 'taint; and that's
all you know about it; and I'll leave it to the rest o'
the company, broke from the lips of another and another
of the crowd, 'till thirty or forty were disputing
together.
Silence! cried the Doctor, at last, worried out of
all patience by the growing uproar. Silence, I say!
What are you made of? Is it not enough that a fellow
creature is charged with murder, but you must pursue
him with your obstreperous howling to the grave?
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Look here—I am his uncle—he is my own brother's
child—my name is Joshua P. W. Farrer—You
see that I have him fast (his large powerful hand was
relaxed for a moment here, as if to show what a tremendous
gripe it had.) Was I not the first to take
him by the throat?
So he was—true enough—so he was! muttered several
voices in reply.
—Yet he was my own brother's child.
I heard a low suppressed breathing on every side of
me.
But for me, continued the strange man—but for me,
perhaps, he might have escaped.
Very true, whispered several.
Yet he was my own brother's child.
An audible groan; a shiver that could be felt on
every side of me, through all the pressure of the crowd,
was the reply.
Are you afraid to trust him with me now?
No, no—no, answered a number of voices.
Very well. That's enough. I am satisfied now.
Joshua P. W. Farrer, son of Timothy W. P. Farrer,
of Yarmouth, would have lived to little purpose indeed,
if his pledge were to be refused now for the life
or safety of any thing. As for you Mr. High-Sheriff;
it is your duty sir, and is the duty of each and all of
you, to arrest any body, at any time, whom you see in
perpetration of wrong. Do your duty as I did mine—
put forth the strong hand of a fellow-citizen, though
it be to gripe the shoulder of your own child, whenever
you see such a thing done, as this unhappy
nephew of mine has done this day. Why do you stop
my path—we are now at the threshold of a door, over
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which only he, and myself, and that man there, (pointing
to me,) shall pass. But the other day, not a
twelve month ago, Robert Steele was in safety—in
more safety than you are now—or you—or any of you.
Now he is charged with murder. Why? Because
he did no more than most of you have done this day—
he meddled with the betrayer. Look up Robert, look
up my poor boy, and show that if you grow pale—
and shake and falter in your tread, it is not so much
the fear of death, as the going over that threshold—
Robert I say.
The wretched man locked his hands, with an audible
prayer, and held them to his heart, with convulsive
strength.
Even so, my poor boy.—We had now reached the
door; the doctor set his foot on the step, the culprit
shuddered and held back, and the crowd gave way to
the recoil that ensued, and left a clear space about the
door: Even so; they who are now shivering with
terror when they touch you; they who are ready to
cry out for joy that they are not as you are, a man
accused of murder—a manslayer—a drunkard—even
they are not so safe as you were a twelve month ago,
when you first broke your oath—went to a review—
was elected a major, and emptied the goblet of death.
Come in, sir.
The next moment, we were in a room together—
all three of us—the people outside, awaiting in silence
for the return of somebody with a warrant—and yet
there was a low continual murmur, as of a pent up
sea, eddying about the four walls of the house. I had
leisure to observe the room; for the doctor went away
into a far corner and stood there with his back toward
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me, and both hands resting upon the edge of what
had been a superb sofa; all the rest of the furniture
was in keeping—all rich, tasteful, and apparently
heaped together into a place never intended for it.
Were I allowed to speculate on the appearance of
what I saw, I should say that it resembled a magnificent
shipwreck; for the room was far too crowded,
the articles far too sumptuous, though chaste;—they
had evidently been wrenched away from their appointed
places in a larger and better house, and huddled
together here, it was not for me to conjecture
why. There was a worth, and a strength in everything
too, and a sobriety, such as we are not accustomed
to see in the dwellings of power, much less in
the low-roofed habitations of earth. A connoisseur
would say at a look, that feeling and study had been
at play here, wealth of the better kind, a secret luxury,
that would never trust to fashion for the style or
shape of its familiar household things, a love and a
taste far superior to the borrowed fancy or imported
relish of the cabinet-maker, or the upholsterer, the
ungifted, or the unthinking. The secretary, the
sofas (there were two), the mahogany chairs, and the
mahogany framed glasses to correspond, were all instinct
with the spirit of wholeness, companionship and
foresight. Every thing corresponded with every other
thing, even to the color of the curtains; the walls,
and the carpet—yea, even to the patterns of each.
So gratifying was the quietude experienced here,
from the repose of color and shape, that I had nearly
forgotten, for a moment, the terrible catastrophe
which had just occurred, and my more terrible proximity
to the manslayer. But he brought me to
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myself, by suddenly catching at the doctor's arm, as they
stood near each other, and saying, with a voice and
a look that frightened us both—I heard a scream!
I heard nothing, said the Doctor.
But I did—I do now!
My poor boy, said the old man, laying his right
hand upon the shoulder of the youth, for he had a
youthful air even yet—my poor boy, compose yourself.
I understand you—I know what you mean—
She is fifty leagues from you this moment, if she is
one rod.
Then she is not one rod; for if I live, sir, I heard
her voiee not an hour ago, and it has been ringing in
my ear at intervals ever since.
Robert—Robert—said the aged man, losing all his
self-possession, at the look and speech of his nephew,
who stood before us like a bewildered creature—
Robert, I tremble for you.
Did you not hear a shriek, sir, at the very moment
when—God forgive me—I hope the poor fellow is
not dead, absolutely dead, is he sir?
I do not know, Robert; I—I—will you be so kind,
sir, (addressing himself to me), as to stay with this
unhappy young man, while I go to enquire about poor
French; and perhaps—pray sir, did you hear any
thing of the shriek?
I believe I did, sir.
A long, terrible, sharp cry, sir, added Robert, eagerly.
Yes, even what you say, a long, sharp cry.
God bless you, sir! and the tears gushed into his
eyes.
I leave Robert with you, sir. I know you, though
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you do not know me. I wish you to consult with him
on the nature of his extraordinary case; and remember,
sir, if you please, I hold you answerable for his
safety, and for his forth-coming at the word of the
law.
You have nothing to fear said I; your nephew
would not escape, this moment, if you were to fling
the doors wide open to him, and show him a horse
ready saddled and bridled at the door. I then related
what I saw.
I believe you, sir; for I know that young man
well, better than you do, and but for one thing, I
would trust him anywhere—everywhere—and sleep
as soundly, though my own life were at stake, if I
had but his simple word for a pledge, as I would
with the security of the law—bolts and bars—
fetters and chains,—though they were fastened by
the array, or guaranteed by the faith, of a whole nation.
I shall not say what that one thing is now—
not now, Robert; for now we have nothing more to
do with the past. The future, my boy, the future, is
what we have to look to now; bear up—his voice fell
with a deep quaver, as he continued; bear up, therefore,
and hope for the best; and—and—he spoke yet
lower, as he laid one hand upon the latch of the door,
and bit his nether lip, and grasped the arm of his
nephew, as if to encourage him, in spite of his own
conviction—be prepared for the worst. Saying which
he left the room.
His words fell with a stunning, stifling, overpowering
weight upon his nephew; and for five minutes
or more, not another word was spoken.
At last, however, I thought it my duty to say,
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that all things considered, much as he was to blame,
I did not look upon the affair as desperate. He did
not appear to heed me. He sat on the sofa, with his
knees drawn up and his head resting on his hands—
his shoulders heaving at long intervals with prodigious
throes—and his breath rattling fiercely in his
throat.
I went up to him; I sat down by his side—I spoke
with him as a lawyer—as a man—I told him what I
saw and what I was ready to testify to—I did not reproach
him for swallowing the strong drink—I did
not even allude to it; but he understood me nevertheless,
and groaned aloud, and the sofa shook under
us; but I reminded him, that he might have escaped
and did not—his breath grew quicker—that perhaps
the blow he gave was not a mortal blow—he shook
his head violently, and a quick shudder followed
through every part of his body, and every limb was
convulsed. I then reminded him that the other had
struck at him as he rode up.
True, sir, very true—poor French!
And therefore, continued I, whatever may be the
issue to him, you are probably safe.
Safe!—how—how—cried he, starting up, and
throwing his arms abroad like a maniac. Safe, sir!
think you that I am afraid of death! Coming close
up to me, and planting his feet and setting his teeth,
and looking at me for a moment, as if he would tear
me into a thousand pieces, and then gradually relaxing
the horrible determination of his look—wavering—
faltering—and finally bursting into tears. No, sir, no,
he continued, I am not afraid of death; I have no fear
of anything now—hardly of Him that made me—have
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I not abused my proud faculties—destroyed the glorious
instinct of my nature—become like the brute that
has gorged himself upon the wine lees. Have I not
slain a fellow man? true, he was my rival with the best
and fairest of God's creatures, and though I prevailed
over him, I could not bear it. He saw my overthrow—
he struck me too—and he derided me, with a
look of joy—and he triumphed a moment before his
death, over my abject nature. Has he not watched,
and made others watch her whom I had enslaved, with
pity, and sorrow; her whose heart I broke, within
three years after our marriage; her, who went crazy
not a twelvemonth ago, her, whose unearthly cry you
heard this day. Sir—that was my wife—the voice of
my poor wife!—Who cares for the wretch I have
slain? Who for the prophecy of her father on our
wedding-night, or the marriage-gift—the mother's
deadly gift, only three months after,—these things I
regard not. I have destroyed her; I have degraded
the most glorious image that ever a loving woman
built up for herself in the sanctuary of her own heart,
for worship—and what is there on earth to trouble me
now? I have killed her; I have degraded myself, beyond
hope—altogether beyond the reach of hope.
There—there! that is her cry! I should know it any
where, every where—in a desert, in the midst of the
ocean; I shall hear it forever—to the last breath I
draw—forever and ever—I am perfectly sober now:
I know what I say—
While he was yet speaking, the door flew open with
a loud crash, and a woman rushed forward with her
garments and hair flying in the wind, and threw her
self with a scream of joy upon his bosom—
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O, Robert, Robert, have I found you at last! Oh,
my husband, my husband! that ever it should come
to this—O, my poor husband!
I looked about me, with a design to escape; totally
forgetting my pledge; but as I moved toward the
door, saw the large entry crowded with men, among
whom was the high-sheriff I had seen before. He held
an open warrant in his hand; but where was the uncle?
I was afraid to ask—the deep, deep silence about
me, awed me. Here were the ministers of the law
waiting for their prey—there was indeed no possibility
of escape now—there was the wife, the young and
beautiful wife I thought, by the glance I had of her,
the distracted and heart-broken wife, I knew, as she
lay cold and lifeless upon the bosom of her husband.
I went up to her—I spoke to her—I spoke to him;
but she lay there like a dead creature, and as for him,
he sat with his mouth pressed to her forehead, as if he
never—never would breathe or move again.
At last the officer drew nigh, and was about to whisper
something in the ear of the offender; but the hair
of his beautiful wife—she was beautiful—I could see
that now—stirred for a moment, probably with his
breath, and the officer and I both drew back affrighted
at the aspect of the man.
Be still—I know your errand, said he, after waiting
a minute or two longer; be still I am ready to go with
you, whithersoever ye will; but I cannot leave her—
she must go with me—dead or alive, we go together,
this body and I, this flesh of my flesh; we never part
again.
The look with which this was said, the piteous,
though determined look, and the voice of unutterable
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grief and misery, with which it was accompanied—
the poor creature hardly spoke above his breath, yet
every body heard him—went to our very hearts; there
was not a dry eye in the room.
But where is Doctor Farrer? asked the sheriff; it is
already four minutes over the time.
No such thing, sir. It is exactly the time, said the
Doctor, entering with what I regarded at first, as a
look of dismay, and then as a terrible counterfeit—I
wondered at the change; he was altogether a different
man, cold, austere and peremptory now.
Do your duty, Mr. Sheriff, said he, I have done
mine. He is in your custody now.
Good God, sir! you will not leave your nephew,
said I, astonished at his aspect, so different from what
it was when he left us but a little time before.
And why not sir?
Uncle Joshua, said his nephew laying what appeared
to me to be the body of his wife, calmly and reverentially
upon the sofa; Eleanor is no more—as he
spoke, he held up his right hand; it was tinged with
blood—
A smothered cry broke from the crowd at the door—
a fierce tumult ensued—and for a moment I do believe
the supposed murderer of his own wife, might
have walked away from the very midst of the recoiling
crowd; but it was only for a moment—the next
they were ready to trample him to the earth—to tear
him limb from limb in their ungovernable rage.
But they were arrested by the loud commanding
voice of the doctor, who having gone up to the body,
and lifted the head, saw, or fancied he saw, signs of life.
Throw open the window! cried he—open every
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window in the house—leave the room clear—touch
that bell, sir. The crowd withdrew and left us together,
and after a moment or two, a middle-aged respectable
woman entered. He whispered, earnestly
to her, and as he did so, I watched his countenance,
and I saw, as plainly as I ever saw any thing in my
life, a smile of subdued triumph, almost of joy, flit over
his rugged features.
Surely said I, to myself, that must be some mistake
here; we have judged too harshly—that cannot be
the body of a murdered woman. As I spoke, she
moved, and her husband was on his knees before her,
beseeching her to open her eyes, and speak to him—
But she heard not, she answered not, she moved not.
Oh my wife! my wife! cried he, holding both her
hands to his mouth and kissing them with insatiate
and frantic joy, O, Eleanor, open but your eyes once
more, upon your repentant and broken hearted husband,
and he will die in peace! Will you not dear?
He stooped over her, and waited awhile; and listened,
and by and by an audible breath escaped her, and
her pallied lips, when they were touched with a white
handkerchief, betrayed the source of the stain that
thrilled us with such horror. The unhappy wife had
probably ruptured a blood vessel.
And then he stood up, righteously and bravely up,
and said to his uncle with a voice like a man—As for
me, sir, I do not wish to live; I am ready to die—I deserve
death, and I acknowledge it for what I have done
this day; but save her—save your child—save her—
and I will bless you, and pray for you, with the last
breath I draw.
I see no use in it, even if I had the power, said the
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stern old man. Officer—officer, I say, see to your
charge, and have my house cleared of the people.
The officer prepared to obey; but he would have
had some difficulty, had not the uncle said—
Look you, Robert Steele; if you do not go without
another word—you know me—your wife, there, shall
never revisit this earth again, with my leave. Take
your choice—going to the door, and holding it open—
either you or I.
The wretched man bowed low in reply; went up
to his wife and kissed her forehead, her mouth and her
eyes—and then with a look of wo I never shall forget,
gave his hand to his uncle, who turned away his head,
to conceal a tear, I hope, and followed the officer out
of the room, without uttering a word.
You have no further occasion for me, said I, shocked
and terrified at the presumption of the rude old man;
I wish you a good night. If your nephew desires
my aid, however, professionally or otherwise, I shall
be ready, night or day, to speak a good word in his
favor—
Very like, sir; but I have need of you also—touch
that bell for me again, if you please.
I touched the bell.
Now don't be alarmed at any thing you see—the
door opened as he spoke, and another fine-looking
elderly woman came in, and went straightway up to
the sofa, and began chafing the arms of the pale, fair
creature that lay there.
Poor child, poor child—I hope you have not gone
too far, sir.
Pho, pho; I know what I am about. She breathes,
you see, and she has been breathing all the time, I dare
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say; so we have nothing to fear on that score—no
stoppage, no stagnation, you perceive. But then look
here, touching her mouth, and showing the sign that
so terrified me, she has either cut her lip very much,
or ruptured some blood vessel.
The good woman stopped and looked up in his face
with a sort of terror.
There, there, don't be alarmed child; take her away,
and put her to bed, and keep her still for twenty-four
hours, and with the blessing of God—taking off his
hat, and lifting the rim to his face, so that he could
just look over it—we may have occasion to rejoice
over the sorrow of this day, the longest hour we have
to live. Young man, this way—
I limped after him mechanically, cheered I know
not why, with the devout and benignant seriousness of
manner that followed his brief prayer. He led me to
a study, fitted up in very good style, though crowded
to the ceiling with books that were covered with dust,
and evidently out of their place and ill at ease.
Sit down, sir. These books, and the furniture below—
I see your eyes are of some use to you—saw
you looking about you—belonged a twelve month ago
to Robert Steele, one of the proudest and best, and
most gifted men of our country. That filthy tavern
porch where I first met you, was the best-furnished
house in New-England, a twelve month ago. You
see what it is now; That woman you saw on the sofa,
three years ago, married Robert Steele against the
opinion of every body—he was fifteen years the elder;
don't interrupt me sir; youthful as he may look to you,
what I say is the truth: he and she both have grown,
I dare not say how much older, within a twelve month.
Why don't you ask me what has led to this change?
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I was startled at the abruptness and strangeness of
this; but I contrived to say, you will oblige me, sir,
by saying how it happened.
Then, sir, in one word, sir—It was grog. Yes,
sir, it was grog—beastly grog, that made a fool of
one of the most extraordinary young men of the age,
and a mad woman of one of the blindest and most
affectionate of God's creatures.
I suspected as much.
You did, hey? But hear me through; I have not
done with you yet. I saw you throw off a glass of
brandy-and-water, the first day of your arrival, as you
prepared to sit down to dinner; it was the same the
next day, the next day, and the next.
I blushed and trembled at the rebuke of the old
man's eye.
So was it with Robert Steele. And now—look me
in the face—prepare yourself—I know you, and I
know your family; and I tell you now, as I told
Robert Steele on the night of his marriage—before
ten years are over, you will be a drunkard.
I was thunderstruck.
You do not believe me. But hear me through.
When Robert Evelett Steele was a boy, he got fond
of strong drink, no matter why, no matter how—first
he loved to dip sugar into sweet wine and eat the
sugar; then he dipped into stronger and yet stronger
wine—after a while, he tried brandy-and-water—then
a little more brandy and a little less sugar; 'till he
drank as you do now, a glass of brandy-and-water
every day before dinner. But he was an extraordinary
youth, as I have told you before. Something
took place one day, after he had been toying with
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the evil spirit of strong drink—the sight of his own
face I believe in a mirror, and he started up, and
shook off the encumbering chains and serpents that
weighed him to the earth, and walked away free;
and for nearly twenty years not a drop of strong
liquor ever passed his lip; he had forgotten the taste,
and the smell was a horror and a loathing to him.
But still, I had my fears, and on his marriage-night,
I told him before his bride, her mother, the preacher
and all, that before ten years were ended and gone,
he would be a lover of strong drink.
A curse on your cruel prophecy! How know you,
man—man—how know you—but your words have
been pursuing him from that day to this, haunting
him with a perpetual fear? If so, you have much to
answer for.
You mistake, sir. So long as Robert Steele, or
you, or any body else in your condition—you are
angry with me, are you not?
Yes.
Never mind. I shall finish what I have to say,
nevertheless. So long as you are afraid for yourselves,
you are safe. But the moment you have no
fear, that moment you are lost. Would you believe
that the final overthrow of all this young man's prospects
in life, was wrought by his own mother-in-law?
Indeed!
Yes, sir, by my own wife—and with a bottle of
Noyeau, and a bottle of Old Jamaica?
I do not understand you.
How should you? You have not heard half the
story.
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I thought he was your nephew.
So he is.
And yet you say, your own wife, his mother-in-law.
Are you not his uncle?
A sort of uncle; but I am his father-in-law too;
he married my wife's daughter.
Oh—ah!
You are satisfied now I hope.
I am.
Please to hear my story now. About three months
after their marriage, his mother-in-law—my wife—
an excellent woman she was too—she is dead now—
there never was any body, I dare say, with a heavier
detestation of strong drink. She entered the chamber
where he and his happy wife were sitting together,
he reading to her and she at her work, and setting a
sealed bottle on the table before him, said, there's a
marriage-gift for you; that creme de noyeau is very
old; it came out of the Dash privateer. Some talk
ensued, and she then added, that she had two or
three bottles of old Jamaica spirits, of a most extraordinary
flavor, but as he never tasted of anything
of the sort, she supposed it would be of no
use to him. Certainly not, he replied; he would
not have it in the house. It would be a treasure to
them that knew the worth of spirit so old—but for
him, it was no better than so much aquafortis. But
a moment afterwards, something happened to be
said about punch—punch is a very innocent liquor,
as every body knows—I dare say, you began with
punch yourself.
I bowed.
Or sweet cider.
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I bowed again.
Or Malaga wine.
Precisely, said I. I began with all three, as every
body does.
And so, sir, it was concluded to keep the Jamaica
for punch.
Will you tell me, sir, whether the man is dead,
before you go any further, said I. I have been
longing, yet afraid to ask you, every moment since
you returned.
No, sir—he is not dead.
Was he dangerously hurt?
Yes.
Did he strike first?
No matter now. Hear what I have to say, and
then, you shall know the exact state of the affair.
Let us make short work of it now. At the christening
of Robert's child, his first child, a miniature
picture of his wife, he made the punch, and tasted of
it, nothing more. I don't believe he drank a wine-glass
full. His wife reminded him of what I had
said on the night of their marriage, and of what he
had said on the night when he received the bottle
of Jamaica. Mother! what if this should make a
drunkard of me! What if this should lead to the
fulfilment of uncle Joshua W. P. Farrer's prophecy—
he never called me father, nor father-in-law. Not
long after this, he became a military man. He rose
rapidly; and he took the more pleasure in it, because
he prevailed over a much finer looking, and
a much younger man, a former suitor of his wife's,
one that every body said she ought to have accepted,
instead of Robert, who was almost double
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her age. But a twelve month ago was the fatal
day. Then, for the first time for more than twenty
years, he got drunk—absolutely drunk. It was
partly treachery, partly joy, partly triumph; he was
elected to a majority instead of poor French (a cloud
flitted over his forehead as he spoke the name).
Gradually—step by step—he grew fond of it; neglected
his books—profession—friends—wife, child—
every thing. I had hopes; but I gave them up, one
after the other. At last, I persuaded his mother-in-law
to decoy his wife away. We succeeded—we
suffered the cottage to be stripped—his books and
furniture to be scattered everywhere—we suffered
him to be steeped to the very lips in poverty, and to
believe his poor wife insane, as she actually was at
one time when he saw her in a fever—in short,
sir, we have done every thing, 'till to-day—and to-day,
sir, you were a witness of the terrible catastrophe—
mad with the triumph of his old adversary,
elected major to-day in his room—galled and fretted
to death by the behavior of the mob—who knocks?
The door opened, and in walked poor French
himself! He had a patch over his temple and his
right arm in a sling. Are you crazy? How dare
you leave your bed, sir? The doctor said, and
then the mystery was explained. The new major
had come to beg Robert Steele's pardon, and give up
the majority. But no; his father-in-law would not
hear a word of it, 'till Robert had been worked upon
for at least twenty-four hours. I could have wept for
joy; I never was so happy in my life, and I wanted
to go directly to the jail, and say in a whisper to the
unhappy man—Be comforted! But the order was
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peremptory. Go I should not. Write I should not.
His trial, said he, properly carried through, may save
him. Nothing else can. I have no other hope. If
we can terrify him into self-distrust for the future
(looking hard at me) we are safe.
He was right. Robert Steele is now a reformed
man—a good husband—a good father—a good friend.
The fright saved him.
THE END.
eaf297v2.n1[1] In these and similar words, the orthography is intended to show
the pronunciation, that prevails now in a quarter of
New-England.
