University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Had the words of the lady fallen from the lips of an
oracle, they could not have more completely fastened
themselves on the ears of our hero. Her sublime beauty
as she spoke those wild accents was that of one inspired.
Her eye flashed with fires of a supernatural brightness.
Her brow was lifted, and her hand smote upon her heart,
when she declared what fierce passions were its possessors,
as if they themselves were impelling the blow, and
the heart was that of some mortal enemy. Beauchampe
was as completely paralysed as if he had suffered an
electric stroke. He would have arrested her departure,
but his words and action were equally slow. He had lost
the power of hands and voice, and when he was able to
speak she had gone. Confused, bewildered, and mortified,
he left the house; and sad and silent he pursued his way
along the homeward paths. Before he had gone far he
was saluted with the laughter of merry voices, and his
sisters were at his side. What a contrast was that which
instantly challenged the attention of his mind, between
the girlish, almost childish and characterless damsels beside
him, and the intense, soul-speaking woman he had
left! Howi mpertinent seemed the levity of Jane—how
insipid the softness and milky sadness of the gentlehearted
Mary! The reflections of the brother were in no ways
favourable to the sisters, but he gave no utterance to the
involuntary thoughts.

“Why, the Queen of Sheba has struck you dumb,
brother Orville;” said the playful Jane—“you have seen
her to-day, I'm certain. That's the way she always comes
over one. She has had on her cloudy cap to-day for your
especial benefit.”

“But have you seen her, brother?” asked the more
timid Mary.

“To be sure he has—don't you see? nothing less could
make Orville look on us, as old Burke the schoolmaster

used to look on him when he put the nouns and verbs
out of countenance. He has seen her to be sure, and she
came out clothed in thunder, I reckon.”

“Jane, you vex Orville. But you did see her, brother?”

“Yes, Mary, Jane is right.”

“Didn't I tell you? I could see it the moment I set
eyes on him.”

“And don't you think her very beautiful, brother?”

“Very beautiful, Mary.”

“Yes! a sort of thunderstorm beauty, I grant you,”
said Jane—“dark and dismal—with such keen flashes of
lightning as to dazzle one's eyes and terrify one's heart.”

“Not a bad description, Jane;” said the brother.

“To be sure not. Don't I know her? Why, Lord love
you, the first time we were together I felt all crumpled
up, body and soul. My soul indeed was like a little
mouse looking every where for a hole to creep into and
be out of the way of danger; and I fancied she was a
great tigress of a mouser, with her eyes following the
mouse every which way, amusing herself with my terrors,
and ready to spring upon me and end them the moment
she got tired of the sport. I assure you, I didn't feel secure
a single moment while I was with her. I expected to be
gobbled up at a moment's warning.”

“How you run on, Jane, and so unreasonably,” said the
gentle Mary. “Now, brother, I think all this description
very unlike Anna Cooke. That she's sad, usually, and
gloomy sometimes, I'm willing to admit; but she was very
kind and gentle in what she had to say to me, and I believe
would have been much more so, if Jane hadn't continually
came about us making a great laughter. That she is very
smart, I'm certain, and that she is very beautiful every body
with half an eye must see.”

“I don't, and I've both eyes, and pretty keen ones
too.”

“Well, girls,” said Beauchampe, “I intend that you
shall have a good opportunity to form a correct opinion of
Miss Cooke—her talents and her beauty. I intend to carry
you both to visit her to-morrow.”

“Oh, don't, don't, brother, I beg you—she 'll eat me up,
the great mouser. I sha'n't be a moderate mouthful for
her anger.”

And the mischevious Jane darted from his side, and
lifted up her hand with a manner of affected deprecation.

Mary rebuked her as was usual on such occasions, and
her rebuke was somewhat seconded by one which was
more effectual. The brother betrayed some little displeasure
as well in words as in looks, and poor Jane contrived
to make the amende by repressing some portion of that
lively temerity of temper which is not always innocuous
in its pleasantries. In this way they proceeded to the
cottage where, in private, the young man contrived to let
his mother know how much he was charmed with the
mysterious lady, but not how much of his admiration he
had revealed. On this head, indeed, he was as little capable
as any body else of telling the whole truth. He knew
not in fact what he had said. He had felt the impulse to
say many things, and in his conscience felt that he might
have said them; but of the precise nature of his confessions
he knew nothing. Something, indeed, he might
infer from what he recollected of the language of Anna
Cooke to himself. He could easily comprehend that the
freedom with which she declared her feelings must have
been induced in great degree by the revelation of his own;
but as he had not right—and, by the way, as little wish—
to betray her secrets, so he naturally spared himself the
mortification of telling his own. Thus matters stood with
him. His mother listened gravely. She could see in the
faltering tongue and flushed face of her son much more
of the actual state of his feelings than his words declared.
She was not satisfied that her son should fall in love with
Miss Cooke; not that she had any thing against that
young lady—she had none of the idle prejudices of her
eldest daughter—but that young lady did not impress her
favourably. Mrs. Beauchampe was a very pious lady, and
the feeling of society is so nearly allied to that of pure
religion, that when she found Anna Cooke deficient in the
one tendency, she naturally suspected her equal lack of
the other. But, in the next place, if the old lady had her
objections to the young one, she, at the same time, was
too fond of her son, to resist his wishes very long or very
urgently. She contented herself with suggesting some
grounds of objection which the ardency and eloquence of
the latter found but little difficulty in overcoming. At all
events it was arranged that Beauchampe should take his

sisters the next day to visit his fair, and, so far, tyrannical
enslaver.

From this visit Beauchampe, though without knowing
exactly why, had considerable expectations. At least he
did not despair of seeing the young lady. The old one
politely kept sick, much, it may be added, to the annoyance
of her daughter. The day came, and breakfast was
scarcely over before the impetuous youth began to exhibit
his anxiety. But the sisters had to make their toilet, and
something, he fancied, was due to his own. A country
girl has her own ideas of finery, and the difference of
taste aside, the only other differences between herself and
the city maiden, are differences in degree. The toilet is
the altar where vanity not only makes her preparations
but says her prayers. We care not to ask whether love
be the image that stands above it or not. Perhaps there
are few calculations of the young female heart, in which
love does not enter as an inevitable constituent. Certainly,
few of her thoughts are altogether satisfactory, if they
bear not his figures in the woof. Beauchampe's sisters
fairly put his patience to the test; and strange to say, his
favourite sister, Mary, was much the most laggard in her
proceedings. She certainly had never before made such
an unnecessary fuss about her pretty little person. At
length, however, all were made ready. The party sallied
forth, reached the house of Mrs. Cooke, were admitted,
and after a brief delay, the daughter entered the room, to
a very quick march beaten by the heart of our ardent hero.
But, though this accompaniment was so very quick, the
entrance of Anna Cooke was calm, slow and dignified as
usual. She received the party very kindly; and her efforts
to please them while they stayed, seemed as natural and
unconstrained as if the business of pleasing had been a
habit of her life. Jane's apprehensions of being eaten up
soon subsided, and the gentle Mary had the satisfaction of
bringing about, by some inadvertent remark of her own,
an animating conversation between her brother and the
lovely hostess. We say animated conversation, but it
must not be supposed that it was a lively one. The animation
of the parties arose from their mutual earnestness
of character. The sanguine temperament thus readily
throws itself into the breach, and identifies itself with the
most passing occasions. It was in this way that Beauchampe

found himself engaged in a brief and pleasant
discussion of one of those topics arising from books, in
which the parties may engage with warmth, yet without
endangering the harmony of the conference; even as a
wild strain of music,—from the rolling, rising organ, or
the barbaric drum and saracenic trumpet, will make the
heart thrill and throb again, with a sentiment of awe which
yet it would be very loth not to have awakened. Beauchampe
was perfectly ravished, the more particularly as
he did not fail to see that Miss Cooke was evidently not
insensible to the spirit and intelligence which he displayed
in his share of the dialogue. The presence of the sisters,
fortunately, had the effect of controlling the brother in the
utterance of those passionate and personal feelings which
had been forced, as it were, from his lips the day previous.
Love was unspoken by either, and yet, most certainly,
love was the only thought of one and, possibly, of both.
But love is the most adroit of logicians. He argues his
case upon the data and criteria of a thousand far less offensive
topics. Religion, law, politics; art, science, philosophy;
all subjects he will discuss as if he had no other
purpose than to adjust their moot points and settle their
vexing contrarieties. The only misfortune is that when
he is done—nay, while he is going on, one is apt to forget
the subject in the orator. Special pleader that he is, in
what a specialty all his labours terminate! When Anna
Cooke and Orville Beauchampe separated that day, what
of the argument did they remember. Each readily remembered
that the speaker was most eloquent. Beauchampe
could tell you that the fair debater was never so
beautiful in person, so high and commanding in intellect
before; and when Anna Cooke was alone, she found herself
continually recalling to her mind's eye, the bright
aspect and beaming eyes of the enthusiastic young lawyer.
So earnest, so seemingly unconscious of himself as
he poured forth the overflowing treasures of a warm heart,
and a really well stored and vigorous intellect. She saw
too, already, how deeply she had impressed herself upon
his fancy. Beauchampe's heart had no disguises. Strange
feelings rose into her own. Strange, terrible thoughts
filled her mind; and the vague musings of her wild and
scarcely coherent spirit, formed themselves into words
upon her tongue.

“Is not this an avenger!” she muttered. “Is not this
an avenger sent from heaven! I have striven in vain. I
am fettered. It is denied to me to pursue and sacrifice the
victim. Oh! surely woman is the image of all feebleness.
These garments are its badges; and sanction obstruction
and invite injustice. As I am, thus and here, what hope
is there that vengeance can be mine. The conquest of
this enthusiastic youth will afford me the freedom that I
crave, the agent that I need, the sacrifice for which only I
dream and pray. With him the victim may be sought
and found wherever he hides himself, and this crushed
heart shall once more rise in triumph—this trampled pride
be uplifted—the pangs of this defrauded and lacerated
bosom be soothed by the sacrifice of blood! And why
should it not be so? Why? Do I live for any other passion?
Do I entertain any other image in my soul? What
is love, to me, and fear, and hope, and joy,—the world
without and the world within—what but a dark abode in
which there is but one light—one star, red and wild,—a
planet rising fiery at the birth of hate, only to set in blood,
in the sacrifice of its victim. Here is one comes to me
bearing the knife. He is mine, so declare his looks—he
loves me, so equally speak his words and actions. Shall
I not use his love for my hate? What is his love to me?
His love—ha! ha! ha! His love indeed,—the love of a
young ambitious lawyer. Is it not rather the perfection of
vengeance that I should employ one of the tribe for the
destruction of another!

“But no, no! why should I involve this boy in my fate.
Why should I make him my instrument in this wild purpose.
He is not of the same brood though of that brotherhood.
This youth is noble. He is too ardent, too impetuous
for a deliberate design of evil. His soul is
generous. He feels,—he feels!—he, at least, is no masked,
no cold blooded traitor, serpent-like, crawling into the open
and warm heart to beguile and sting. No, no! I must
not wrong him thus. He must be spared this doom. I
must brood over it alone, and let the fates work it as they
may. Though, were he but half less ardent—could I
suspect him of a baseness,—I should whet the dagger, and
swear him to its use. Yes,—at any altar, for that sacrifice,—though
that altar be the very one on which I was
the sacrifice—though it bear the name of love, and held
above it his cruel and treacherous image!”

Such were the frequent meditations of the passionate
and proud woman. Her mother prompted these not unfrequently
without intending it. She, with the sagacity of
an ancient dealer, soon discovered the sort of coin which
Beauchampe was disposed to bring with him into Love's
crowded market place. She readily detected in the unsophisticated
manners of Beauchampe, the proper material
on which it would be easy for her daughter to work. The
intense, inflamable, impetuous nature was such as a single
glance of those dark, bright eyes,—a single sentence from
that mellow, yet piercing, silvery, yet deep-toned voice,—
might light up with inextinguishable flame,—might prompt
with irresistable impulses. Of course, the old lady had
no knowledge of the one absorbing passion which had
became a mania in the breast of her daughter. Her calculations
went no farther than to secure a son-in-law;—but
of this the daughter had no thought, only as it might be
necessary to effect other objects. Her purpose was to
find an avenger, if any thing; and even for this object,
we have seen from her spoken meditations, she was yet
too generous to seek for such an agent in one so unselfish,
so true-hearted as Beauchampe had appeared. But the
rough-hewing of events was not to be left either to mother,
or daughter, however resolved and earnest might be the
will which they severally or mutually exercised. The
strongest of us, in the most earnest periods of our lives,
move very much as the winds blow. It may hurt our
vanity, but will do our real interests no harm to declare,
that individual man is after all only a sort of moral vane
on the world's housetop. If you find him stationary for
any length of time be sure it is less from principle than
rust.