University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

It was the Sabbath and a very lovely day. The sun
never shone more brightly in the heavens; and as Margaret
Cooper surveyed its purple and mellow light, lying,
like some blessed spirit, at sleep upon the hills around her,
and reflected that she was about to behold it for the last
time, her sense of its exceeding beauty became more strong
than ever. Now that she was about to lose it for ever, it
seemed more beautiful than it had ever been before. This
is a natural effect, which the affections confer upon the
objects which delight and employ them. Even a temporary
privation increases the loveliness of the external
nature. How we linger and look. That shade seems so
inviting; that old oak so venerable! That rock,—how
often have we sat upon it, evening and morning, and
mused strange, wild, sweet fancies! It is an effort to tear
one's self away—it is almost like tearing away from life
itself, so many living affections feel the rending and the
straining—so many fibres that have their roots in the heart,
are torn and lacerated by the separation. Poor Margaret!
she looked from her window upon the bright and beautiful
world around her. Strange that sorrow should dwell in a
world so bright and beautiful! Stranger still, that, dwelling
in such a world, it should not dwell there by sufferance
only and constraint! that it should have such sway—such
privilege. That it should invade every sanctuary and leave
no home secure. Ah! but the difference between mere
sorrow and guilt! Poor Margaret could not well understand
that! If she could—but no! She was yet to learn
that the sorrows of the innocent have a healing effect.
That they produce a holy and ennobling strength, and a
juster appreciation of those evening shades of life which

render the lights valuable and make their uses pure. It is
only guilt which finds life loathsome. It is only guilt that
sorrow weakens and enslaves. Virtue grows strong beneath
the pressure of her enemies, and with such a power
as was fabled of the King of Pontus, turns the most poisonous
fruits of earth into the most healthy food.

But even in the heart of Margaret Cooper, where the
sense of the beautiful was strong the loveliness of the
scene was felt. She drank in, with strange satisfaction,—
a satisfaction to which she had long been a stranger,—its
soft and inviting beauties. They did not lessen her sense
of suffering, perhaps, but they were not without their effect
in producing other moods, which, once taken in company
with the darker ones of the soul, may in time succeed in
alleviating them. Never, indeed, had the prospect been
more calm and wooing. Silence, bending from the hills,
seemed to brood above the valley even as some mighty
spirit, at whose bidding strife was hushed, and peace
became the acknowledged divinity of all. The humming
voices of trade and merriment were all hushed in homage
to the holy day; and if the fitful song of a truant bird, that
presumed beside the window of Margaret Cooper, did
break the silence of the scene, it certainly did not disturb
its calm. The forest minstrel sung in a neighbouring tree,
and she half listened to his lay. The strain seemed to
sympathize with her sadness. She thought upon her own
songs, which had been of such a proud spirit; and how
strange and startling seemed the idea that with her, song
would soon cease for ever. The song of the bird would be
silent in her ears, and her own song! What song would
be hers?—What strain would she take up? In what
abode—before what altars?

This train of thought, which was not entirely lost, however,
was broken, for the time, by a very natural circumstance.
A troop of the village damsels came in sight, on
their way to church. She forgot the song of birds, as her
morbid spirit suggested to her the probable subject of their
meditations.

“They have seen me,” she muttered to herself as she
hastily darted from the window. “Ay, they exult. They
point to me—me, the abandoned—the desolate—soon to
be the disgraced! But, no! no! that shall never be.

They shall never have that triumph, which is always so
grateful a subject of regale to the mean and envious!”

The voice of her mother from below disturbed these
unhappy meditations. The old lady was prepared for
church, and was surprised to find that Margaret had not
made her toilet.

“What! don't you mean to go, Margaret?”

“Not to day, mother.”

“What, and the new preacher too, that takes the place
of John Cross! They say he makes a most heavenly
prayer.”

But the inducement of the heavenly prayer of the new
preacher was not enough for Margaret. The very suggestion
of a new preacher would have been conclusive against
her compliance. The good old lady was too eager herself
to get under way to waste much time in exhortation, and
hurrying off, she scarcely gave herself time to answer the
inquiry of the widow Thackeray, at her own door, after
the daughter's health.

“I will go in and see her;” said the lighthearted but
truehearted woman.

“Do, do, ma'am,—if you please! She'll be glad to
see you. I'll hurry on, as I see Mrs. Hinkley just ahead.”

The widow Thackeray looked after her with a smile,
which was exchanged for another of different character when
she found herself in the chamber of Margaret. She put her
arms about the waist of the sufferer; kissed her cheeks,
and with the tenderest solicitude spoke of her health and
comfort. To her, alone, with the exception of her mother
—according to the belief of Margaret—her true situation
had been made known.

“Alas!” said she, “how should I feel—how should I
be! You should know. I am as one cursed—doomed,
hopeless of any thing but death.”

“Ah! do not speak of death, Margaret,” said the other
kindly. “We must all die, I know, but that does not
reconcile me any more to the thought. It brings always a
creeping horror through my veins. Think of life—talk of
life only.”

“They say that death is life.”

“So it is, I believe, Margaret; and now I think of it,
dress yourself and go to church where we may hear something

on this subject to make us wiser and better. Come,
my dear,—let us go to God.”

“I cannot,—not to-day, dear Mrs. Thackeray.”

“Ah, Margaret, why not? It is to the church, of all
places, you should now go.”

“What! to be stared at? To see the finger of scorn
pointing at me wherever I turn? To hear the whispered
insinuation? To be conscious only of sneer and sarcasm on
every hand? No, no, dear Mrs. Thackeray, I cannot go
for this. Feeling this, I should neither pray for myself,
nor find benefit from the prayers of others. Nay, they
would not pray. They would only mock.”

“Margaret, these thoughts are very sinful.”

“So they are, but I cannot think of any better. They
cannot but be sinful since they are mine.”

“But you are not wedded to sin, dearest. Such thoughts
can give you no pleasure. Come with me to church!
Come and pray! Prayer will do you good.”

“I would rather pray here. Let me remain. I will
try to go out among the hills when you are all engaged in
church, and will pray there. Indeed I must. I must pray
then and pray there, if prayer is ever to do me good.”

“The church is the better place, Margaret. One prays
better where one sees that all are praying.”

“But when I know that they are not praying! When I
know that envy is in their hearts, and malice, and jealousy
and suspicion—that God is not in their hearts, but their
fellow; and not him with friendly and fond, but with
spiteful and deceitful thoughts!”

“Ah! Margaret, how can you know this? Judge not
lest ye be judged.”

“It matters not, dear Mrs. Thackeray. God is here, or
there. He will be among the hills if any where. I will
seek him there. If I can command my thoughts any
where, it will be in the woods alone. In the church I cannot.
Those who hate me are there,—and their looks of hate
would only move my scorn and defiance.”

“Margaret, you do our people wrong. You do yourself
wrong. None hate you—none will point to you, or
think of your misfortune; and if they did, it is only what
you might expect, and what you must learn patiently to
bear, as a part of the punishment which God inflicts on
sin. You must submit, Margaret, to the shame as you

have submitted to the sin. It is by submission only that
you can be made strong. The burden which you are
prepared to bear meekly, becomes light to the willing
spirit. Come, dear Margaret, I will keep with you, sit by
you—show you, and all, that I forget your sin and remember
only your suffering.”

The good widow spoke with the kindest tones. She
threw her arms around the neck of the desolate one and
kissed her with the affection of a sister; but the demon
of pride was uppermost. She withstood entreaty and
embrace.

“I cannot go with you. I thank you, truly thank you,
dear Mrs. Thackeray, but I cannot go. I have neither the
courage nor the strength.”

“They will come—the courage and the strength,—only
try. God is watchful to give us help the moment he sees
that we really seek his assistance. By prayer, Margaret—”

“I will pray, but I must pray alone. Among the hills
I will pray. My prayer will not be less acceptable offered
among his hills. My voice will not remain unheard,
though no chorus swells its appeal.”

“Margaret, this is pride.”

“Perhaps!”

“Ah! go with me and pray for humility?”

“My prayer would rather be for death.”

“Say not so, Margaret—this is impiety.”

“Ay, death! The peace, the quiet of the grave—of a
long sleep—an endless sleep; where the vulture may no
longer gnaw the heart, nor the fire burn within the brain.
For these I must pray.” And thus speaking, the unhappy
woman smote her throbbing head with violent hand.

“Shocking thought! But you do not believe in such a
sleep? Surely, Margaret, you believe in life eternal?”

“Would I did not!”

“Oh, Margaret!—but you are sick. You are very
feverish. Your eyeballs glare like coals of fire—your
face seems charged with blood. I am afraid you are going
to have another attack like the last.”

“Be not afraid. I have no such fear.”

“I will sit with you, at least,” said the kindhearted
woman.

“Nay, that I must positively forbid, Mrs. Thackeray;

I will not suffer it. I will not sit with you. Go you to
church. You will be late. Do not waste your time on
me. I mean to ramble among the hills this morning.
That, I think, will do me more good than any thing else.
There, I am sure—there only—I will find peace.”

The worthy widow shook her head doubtfully.

“But I am sure of it,” said Margaret. “You will see.
Peace! peace! The repose of the heart—the slumber of
the brain! I shall find all there!”

Mrs. Thackeray, finding her inflexible, rose to depart,
but with some irresoluteness.

“If you would let me walk with you, Margaret?”

“No! no!—dear Mrs. Thackeray,—I thank you very
much, but with a mood such as mine, I shall be much
better alone.”

“Well, if you are resolved.”

“I am resolved! never more so.”

These words were spoken in tones which might have
startled a suspicious mind. But the widow was none.

“God bless you,” she said, kissing her at parting. “I
will see you when I come from church.”

“Will you!” said Margaret with a significant but sad
smile. Then, suddenly rising, she exclaimed—

“Let me kiss you, dear Mrs. Thackeray, and thank
you again before you go. You have been very kind to
me, very kind, and you have my thanks and gratitude.”

Mrs. Thackeray was touched by her manner. This
was the first time that the proud spirit of Margaret Cooper
had ever offered such an acknowledgment. It was one
that the gentle and unremitting kindnesses of the widow
amply deserved. After renewing her promise to call on
her return from church, Mrs. Thackeray took her departure.
Margaret Cooper was once more alone. When
she heard the outer door shut, she then threw herself
upon the bed, and gave way to the utterance of those
emotions which, long restrained, had rendered her mind
a terrible anarchy. A few tears, but very few, were
wrung from her eyes; but she groaned audibly, and a
rapid succession of shivering fits passed through her
frame, wracking the whole nervous system, until she
scarce found herself able to rise from the couch where
she had thrown herself. A strong determined will alone
moved her, and she rose, after a lapse of half an hour, to

the further prosecution of her purpose. Her temporary
weakness and suffering of frame had no effect upon her
resolves. She rather seemed to be strengthened in them.
This strength enabled her to sit down and dictate a letter
to her mother, declaring her intention, and justifying it by
such arguments as were presented by the ingenious
demon who assists always in the councils of the erring
heart. She placed this letter in her bosom that it might
be found upon her person. It was curious to observe,
next, that she proceeded to tasks which were scarcely in
unison with the dreadful deed she meditated. She put
her chamber in nice order. Her books, of which she had
a tolerably handsome collection for a private library in
our forest country, she arranged and properly classed
upon their shelves. Then she made her toilet with unusual
care. It was for the last time. She gazed upon
the mirror, and beheld her own beauties with a shudder.
“Ah!” she thought, though she gave no expression to
the thought, “to be so beautiful, yet fail!” It was a reflection
to touch any heart with sorrow. Her dress was
of plain white, she wore no ornament—not even a
riband. Her hair which was beautifully long and thick,
was disposed in a clubbed mass upon her head, very
simply but with particular neatness; and when all was
done, concealing the weapon of death beneath a shawl
which she wrapped around her, she left the house and
stole away unobserved along the hills, in the seclusion
and sacred silence of which she sought to avoid the evil
consequences of one crime by the commission of another
far more heinous.