University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

When the first sensations following the return of our
hero to his home and family had somewhat subsided, the
enthusiastic and excitable nature of the former naturally
led him to dwell upon the image of that strange lady,
whose sudden appearance seemed to harmonize so singularly
with the ideal of his waking dream. The very
morning after his arrival, he sallied forth at an early hour,
with his gun in hand, ostensibly with a view to birding,
but really to catch some glimpse of the mysterious lady.
For this purpose, as all the neighbourhood and neighbouring

county was familiar, he traversed the hundred
routes to and from the farmstead of old Davis, which she
now occupied, and wasted some precious hours, in which
neither his heart nor his gun found game, in exploring
the deep wood from whence the pistol-shot, the day before,
had first challenged his attention. But no bright vision
blessed his search that day. He found nothing to interest
his mind or satisfy his curiosity, unless it were a tree
which he discovered barked with bullets, where some
person had evidently been exercising, and, assuming the
instrument to have been a pistol, with a singular degree
of success. The discovery did not call for the thought of
a single moment; and contenting himself with the conjecture
that some young rifleman was thus “teaching the
young idea how to shoot,” he turned off, and, with some
weariness and more disappointment, made his way, birdless,
to his cottage. But the disappointment rather increased
than lessened his curiosity, and before two days
had passed, he had acquired boldness enough to advance
so nearly to the dwelling of Miss Cooke, as, sheltered
beneath some friendly shade-trees, to see the passers by
the window, and, on one or more occasions, to catch a
glimpse of the one object for whom all these pains were
taken. These glimpses, it may be said, served rather to
inflame than to satisfy his curiosity. He saw enough to
convince him that Mary was right, and Jane wrong.
That he was not deceived in his first impression of her
exceeding loveliness—that she was beautiful beyond any
comparison that he could make; of a rare, rich, and excelling
beauty;—and slowly he returned from his wanderings
to muse upon the means by which he should
arrive at a more intimate knowledge of the fair one, who
was represented to be as inaccessible as she was fair—
like one of those unhappy damsels of whom we read in
old romances, locked up in barred and gloomy towers,
lofty and well guarded, whose charms, if they were the
incentives to chivalry and daring, were quite as often the
cruel occasion of bloody strife and most unfortunate adventure.
The surpassing beauty of our heroine, so
strangely coupled with her sternness of deportment and
loneliness of habit, naturally enough brought into activity
the wild imagination and fervent temperament of our
young lawyer. By these means her beauty was heigtened,
and the mystery which enveloped her made the parent
of newer sources of attraction. Before three days had
passed, his sisters had discovered that his thought was
running only on their fair, strange neighbour, and at
length, baffled in his efforts to encounter the mysterious
lady in his rambles, he was fain to declare himself
more openly at home, and to insist that his sisters should
call upon Miss Cooke and her mother, and invite them to
tea. This was done accordingly, but with only partial
success. Mrs. Cooke came but not the daughter, who
sent an excuse. Beauchampe paid his court to the old
lady, whom he found very garrulous and very feeble-minded;
but though she spoke with great freedom on
almost every subject, he remarked that she shrunk suddenly
into silence whenever reference was made to her
daughter. On this point every thing tended to increase
the mystery, and of course the interest. He attended the
mother home that night, in the hope to be permitted to
see the daughter; but though, when invited to enter, he
did so, he found the tête-à-tête with the old lady—a half
hour which curiosity readily gave to dulness—unrelieved
by the presence of the one object for whom he sought.
But a well-filled bookcase which met his eyes in the hall,
suggested to him a mode of approach in future of which
he did not scruple to avail himself. He complimented the
old lady on the extent of her literary possessions. Such
a collection was not usual at that time among the country-houses
of that region. He spoke of his passion for
books, and how much he would be pleased to be permitted
to obtain such as he wanted from the collection
before him. The old lady replied that they were her
daughter's, who was also passionately fond of books
—that she valued her collection very highly—they were
almost her only friends—but she had no doubt that Mr.
Beauchampe would readily receive her permission to
take any that he desired for perusal. Beauchampe expressed
his gratitude, but judiciously declined to make
his selection that night. The permission necessarily furnished
the sanction for a second visit, for which he accordingly
prepared himself. He suffered a day, however,
to pass—a forbearance that called for the exercise
of no small degree of fortitude—before repeating his visit.
The second morning, however, he did so. He saw the
young lady, for a brief instant, at the window, while
making his approaches. He was admitted, was received
by the mother, treated with great kindness, and spent a
full hour,—how we say not—in company with the venerable
and voluble dame. She conferred upon him the
permission of her daughter to use any book in the collection,
but the daughter herself did not appear. He
mustered courage enough to ask for her, but the inquiry
was civilly evaded. He was finally compelled, after lingering
to the last, and hoping against hope, to take his
departure without attaining the real object of his visit.
He selected a volume, however, not that he cared to read
it, but simply because the necessity of returning it would
afford him the occasion and excuse for another visit.

The proverb tells us that grass never grows beneath
the footsteps of love. It is seldom suffered to grow beneath
those of curiosity. Our hero either read, or pretended
to have read, the borrowed volume, in a very
short space of time. The next morning found him with
it beneath his arm, and on his way to the cottage of the
Cookes. The grave looks of his mother, and the sly
looks of his sisters, were all lost upon him; and, pluming
himself somewhat upon the adroitness which disguised
the real purpose of his visits, he flattered himself that he
should still attain the object which he sought, without betraying
the interest which he felt. Of course he himself
did not suspect the real motives by which he was governed.
That a secret passion stirring in his breast had
any thing to do with that interest which he felt to know
the strange lady, was by no means obvious to his own
mind. Whatever may have been the motive by which
his conduct was influenced, it did not promise to be followed
by any of the results which he desired. His second
morning call was not more fortunate than the first. Approaching,
he saw the outline of Miss Cooke's person at
an upper window, but she instantly disappeared, and he
was received below, and wholly entertained, by the good
old mother.

It may readily be imagined, that with a fervent, passionate
nature, such as Beauchampe's, this very baffling
of his desires, was calculated to stimulate and strengthen
them. He was a man equally of strong impulses and indomitable
will. The necessary creature of such qualities

of mind is a Puritan tenacity of purpose—a persevering
energy which ceases, finally, to sleep in the work of conquest,
or, at least, converts even its sleeping hours into
tasks of thought and wild vague dreams of modes and
operations by which the work of conquest is to be carried
on. The momentary glimpses of the damsel's person,
which the ardent youth was permitted to obtain, still kept
alive in his mind the strong impression which her beauty
had originally made. We do not insinuate that this exhibition
was designed by the lady herself for any such
object. Such might be the imputation—nay, was, in after
days, by some of her charitable neighbours,—but we have
every reason for thinking otherwise. We believe that
she was originally quite sincere in her desire to avoid the
sight, and discourage the visits of strangers. Whether
this was also the desire of the mother is not so very certain.
We should suppose, on the contrary, that the
course of her daughter was one that afforded little real
satisfaction to her. If the daughter remained inflexible,
the good mother soon convinced Beauchampe that she
was not; and, saving the one topic,—the daughter herself,—there
was none upon which good Mrs. Cooke did
not expatiate to her visited with the assured freedoms of a
friend of a thousand years. Any approach to this subject,
however, effectually silenced her. Not, it would seem,
because she herself felt any repugnance to the subject—
for Beauchampe could not fail to perceive that her eyes
brightened whenever the other was referred to;—but her
voice was hurried when she replied on such occasions,
and her glance stealthily turned to the entrance, as if she
dreaded lest the sound should summon other ears to the
apartment.

The curiosity of Beauchampe was farther stimulated
by a general examination of the contents of the library.
The selection was such, as in regions where books are
more in requisition, and seem more in place, would testify
considerably in behalf of the judgment and good taste of
the possessor. They were all English books, it is true,
but they were genuine classics of the best days of British
literature, including the more recent writers. There
were additional proofs in such as he took home with him,
of the equal taste and industry of their reader. The fine
passages were scored marginally with pencil lines, and

an occasional note in the same manner, indicated the acquaintance
of the commentator with the best standards of
criticism. Beauchampe made another observation, however,
which had the effect of leaving it still doubtful
whether these notes were made by the present owner.
They were all in a female hand. He found that a former
name had been carefully obliterated in every volume, that
of Miss Cooke being written in its stead. Though doubtful,
therefore, whether to ascribe to her the excellent criticism
and fine taste which thus displayed itself over the
pages which he read, this doubt by no means lessened
his anxiety to judge for himself of the attainments of their
possessor; and fortune—we may assume thus much—at
length helped him to the interview which he sought.

The mother, one day, with nice judgment, fell opportunely
sick. It is easier to suspect that she willed this
event than to suppose the daughter guilty of duplicity.
It necessarily favoured the design of Beauchampe. He
made his morning visit, which had now become periodical,
was ushered into the parlour, where, after a few moments,
he was informed that Mrs. Cooke was not visible. She
pleaded indisposition. Miss Cooke, however, had instructed
the servant to say to Mr. Beauchampe that he
was at liberty to use the library as before. By this time
the eager nature of Beauchampe was excited to the highest
pitch of anxiety. So many delays,—such baffling,—had
deprived his judgment of that deliberate action without
which the boundaries of convention are very soon overpassed.
A direct message from the mysterious lady,
was a step gained. It had the effect of still farther unseating
his judgment, and, without scruple, he boldly despatched
a message by the servant, soliciting permission
to see Miss Cooke. An answer was immediately returned
in which she declined seeing him. He renewed the
request with the additional suggestion that he had a communication
to make. This necessarily produced the desired
effect. In a few minutes she descended to the parlour.

If Beauchampe had been fascinated before, he was certainly
not yet prepared for the commanding character of
that beauty which now stood before him. He rose,
trembling and abashed, his cheeks suffused with blushes,
but his eyes, though dazzled, were full of the eager admiration

which he felt. She was simply clad, in white.
Her person, tall and symmetrical, was erect and dignified.
Her face was that of matured loveliness, shaded, not impaired,
by sadness, and made even more elevated and
commanding by the expression of intense pain which
seemed to mingle with the fire of her eyes, giving a sort
of subdued fierceness to her glance, which daunted quite as
much as it dazzled him. Perhaps a something of severity
in her look added to his confusion. He stammered confusedly;
the courage which had prompted him to seek
the interview, failed utterly to provide him with the intellectual
readiness by which it was to be carried on. But
the feminine instinct came to his relief. The lady seated
herself, motioning her visiter to do the same.

“Sit down, sir, if you please. My mother presumes
that you are anxious to know how she is. She instructs
me to thank you for your courtesy, and to say that her
indisposition is not serious. She trusts in another day
to be quite restored.”

By this time Beauchampe had recovered something of
his confidence.

“It gives me pleasure, Miss Cooke, to hear this. I did
fear that your mother was seriously suffering. But I can
not do you and myself the injustice to admit that I came
simply to see her. No! Miss Cooke, an anxiety to see
you in person, and to acknowledge the kindness which
has given me the freedom of your library, were among
the objects of my visit.”

The lady became instantly grave.

“I thank you, sir, for your compliment, but I have long
since abandoned society. My habits are reserved. I
prefer solitude. My tastes and feelings equally require
it. I am governed so far by these tastes and feelings,
which have now become habits, that it will not suit me
to recognise any new acquaintance. My books are freely
at your service, whenever you wish them. Permit me,
sir, to wish you good morning.”

She rose to depart. Beauchampe eagerly started to his
feet.

“Stay, Miss Cooke. Do not leave me thus. Hear me
but for a moment.”

She resumed her seat with a calm, inflexible demeanour,
as if, assured of her strength at any moment to depart,

she had no apprehensions on the subject of her detention.
The blush again suffused the cheeks of Beauchampe, and
the rigid silence which his companion observed, as if
awaiting his utterance, suddenly increased his difficulties
in this respect. But the ice once broken, his impetuous
temper was resolved that it should not freeze again.

“I know, Miss Cooke,” he observed, “after what you
have just said, that I have no right any longer to trespass
upon you, but I dare not do otherwise—I dare not depart
—I am the slave of a passion which has brought me, and
which keeps me here.”

“I must not listen to you, Mr. Beauchampe,” she replied,
rising, as if to leave the room.

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, gently detaining her—
“forgive me, but you must.”

“Must!” her eyes flashed brighter fires.

“I implore the privilege to use the word, but in no offensive
sense. Nay, Miss Cooke,—I release you—I will
not seek to detain you. You are at liberty,—with my
lips only do I implore you to remain.”

The proud woman examined the face of the passionate
youth with some slight curiosity. To this, however, he
was insensible.

“You are aware, Mr. Beauchampe,” she remarked, indifferently,
“that your conduct is somewhat unusual.”

“Yes, perhaps so. I believe it. Nay, were I to think,
Miss Cooke, I should perhaps, under ordinary circumstances,
agree to pronounce it unjustifiable. But, believe
me, it is meant to be respectful.”

She interrupted him:—

“Unless I thought so, sir, I could not be detained here
a moment longer.”

“Surely, surely, Miss Cooke, you cannot doubt my
respect,—my—”

“I do not, sir.”

“Ah! but you are so cold—so repulsive, Miss Cooke.”

“Perhaps I had better leave you, Mr. Beauchampe. It
will be better for both of us. You know nothing of me, I
nothing of you.”

“You mistake, Miss Cooke, in assuming that I know
nothing of you.”

“Ha! sir!” she answered, rising to her feet, her face
glowing like scarlet, while a blue vein, like a chord, divided

the high white forehead in the midst. “What mean you,
what know you?”

“Much! I know already that you are alone among
women—alone in beauty—in intellect!”

He paused. He marked a sudden and speaking change
upon her features which struck him as more singular than
the last. The flush had departed from her cheeks, the
blue vein had suddenly sunk from sight—a complete
pallor overspread her face, and with a slight tremor over
her frame, she sunk upon the seat from which she had
arisen. He sprang forward, and was at once beside her
upon his knees. He caught her hand in his own.

“You are sick—you are ill!” he exclaimed.

“No! I am better now!” she answered in low tones.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed, “I feared you had spasms
—I dreaded I had offended you. You are still so pale,
Miss Cooke—so very pale!”—and he again started to his
feet as if to call for assistance. She arrested him.

“Do not alarm yourself,” she said with more firmness.
“I am subject to such attacks, and they form a sufficient
reason, Mr. Beauchampe, why I should not distress
strangers with them. Suffer me now to retire.”

“Bear with me yet awhile!” he exclaimed, “I will
try not to alarm or to annoy you. You ask me what I
know of you! nothing, perhaps, were I to answer according
to the fashion of the world; every thing, if I answer
according to the dictates of my heart.”

“It is unprofitable knowledge, Mr. Beauchampe.”

“Do not say so, I implore you. I know that I am a
rash and foolish young man, but I mean not to offend—
nay, my purpose is to declare the admiration which I
feel.”

“I must not hear you, Mr. Beauchampe. I must leave
you. As I said before, you are welcome to the use of
my books.”

“Ah! Miss Cooke, it is you, and not your books which
have brought me to your dwelling. Suffer me to see you
when I come. Suffer me to know you—to make myself
known—to bring my sisters; to conduct you to them.
They will all be so glad to see and know you.”

She shook her head mournfully, while a sad smile rested
upon her lips as she replied—

“Mr. Beauchampe,” she said, “I will not affect to misunderstand

you; but I must repeat, as I have said to you
before, I have done with society. I am in fact done with
the world.”

“Done with the world! Oh! what a thought! You,
Miss Cooke, you so able to do all with it!”

“You cannot flatter me, Mr. Beauchampe. The world
can be nothing to me. I am nothing to it. To wear out
life in loneliness, forgot, forgetting, is the utmost of my
hopes from the world. Spare me more. It is not well,
it will not be desirable, that any intimacy should exist
between me and your sisters.”

“Oh! why not? they are so gentle, so pure!”

“Ah!—no more, sir, I implore you;” her brow had
suddenly become clouded, and she rose. “Leave me
now, sir,—I must leave you. I must hear you no longer.”

Her voice was firm. Her features had suddenly put
on their former inflexibility of expression. The passionate
youth at once discovered that the moment for moving her
determination was past, and every effort now to detain
her would prejudice his cause.

“You will leave me, Miss Cooke—you will drive me
from you,—yet let me hope—”

“Hope nothing from me, Mr. Beauchampe. I would
not have you hope fruitlessly.”

“The wish itself assures me that I cannot.”

“You mistake, sir—you deceive yourself!” she replied
with sterner accents.

“At least let me not be denied your presence. Let me
see you. I am not in the world, nor of it, Miss Cooke.
Let me sometimes meet you here, and if I am forbid to
speak of other things, let me at least speak and hear you
speak of these old masters at whose feet I perceive you
have been no idle student.”

“Mr. Beauchampe, I can promise nothing. To consent
to receive and meet you would be to violate many an internal
resolve.”

“But why this dreary resolution?”

“Why!—but ask not, sir. No more from me now.
You knew not, sir,—and you meant not,—but you have
wakened in my mind this morning many a painful and
dreary thought, which you cannot dissipate. I say this
to excuse myself for what might seem rudeness. I do
not wish to excite your curiosity. I tell you, sir, but the

truth, when I tell you that I am cut off from the world—
it matters not how, nor why. It is so,—and the less I
see of it the better. When you know this, you will understand
why it is that I should prefer not to see you.”

“Ah! but not why I should not seek to see you. No,
Miss Cooke, your dreary destiny does not lessen my
willingness to soothe—to share it.”

“That can never be.”

“Do not say so. If you knew my heart—”

“Keep its secrets, Mr. Beauchampe. Enough, sir,
that I know my own. That, sir, has but one prayer, and
that is for peace,—but one passion, and that, sir,—”

“Is—speak, say, Miss Cooke, tell me what this passion
is? Relieve me; but tell me not that you love another.
Not that,—any thing but that.”

“Love!” she exclaimed scornfully—“love! no, sir, I
do not love. Happily, I am free from any such weakness
—that weakness of my sex!”

“Call it not a weakness, dear Miss Cooke,—but a
strength—a strength of the heart, not peculiar to your
sex, but the source of what is lofty and ennobling in the
heart of man.”

“Ay, he has a precious stock of it, no doubt; but no
more of this, Mr. Beauchampe. I have my passion, perhaps,
but surely love makes no part of it.”

“What then?”

“Hate!”

“Hate! ha! can it be that you hate, Miss Cooke?”

“Ay, sir, it is possible. Hate is my passion, not the
only one, since it produces another bearing its own likeness.”

“And that?—”

“Is revenge!—Ask yourself, with these passions reigning
in my heart, whether there is room for any thing more
—for any other! There is not, and you may not deceive
yourself with the vain hope to plant any feebler passion
in a spot which bears such poisonous weeds.”

Thus speaking she left the room, and, astounded by
her vehemence, and by the strange though imperfect
revelation which she had made, Beauchampe found himself
alone!