 | CHAPTER XII.
A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. Morton's Hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial. |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
I was just preparing to return home, after a
few weeks' absence, — my heart full of hope
and happiness, — when the following letter was
put into my hands: —
“You are going to hate me. I am prepared
for it. Alas! you have too much cause.
What shall I write? My thoughts are wild
and fluctuating as the sea, and my reason is
tossed about at their mercy. My brain is whirled
round by conflicting passions, till it is sick
and giddy. You have often complained of my
coldness, my abstraction; but could you have
dreamed of the extent of my crime? Never.
I have only made you the victim of a foiled
attempt at self-sacrifice. Dearest Uncas, I do
not ask you not to hate me. I implore your
curses; but, at least, hear me to the end. I
have but a word to say.
“When we first met, I looked upon you as
a boy — a serious thought of you never crossed
my brain. My imagination was touched
with the fantastic passion of a child, — nothing
more. By and by, I began to realize the intenseness
and reality of your passion. The
depths of your nature were revealed to me. I
saw all that was good, and all that was fearful
in your character. It terrified me to reflect that
I, a weak woman, held your whole existence in
my hands. I am not vain; and it was always
difficult for me to believe that I could
work that mischief, which I know is but too
often wrought by woman. But I began to feel
that I had been unwittingly trifling with a passion
and a character, both beyond their own
control and mine. I felt that I had wronged
you, and I felt too, that I could indeed be the
cause of unhappiness to one so young and so
gifted.
“It was then that I thought of reparation, —
it was then, that to cure one error, I committed
one ten thousand times greater. It was then,
that by a fatal mistake, I determined to atone
for my coquetry, by a still greater crime, and,
in a moment of hesitation, weakness, self-reproach,
despair, I plighted myself to you; I
vowed to love you when I knew I loved you
not. I then began to struggle with myself. I
ascribed to my heart, impressions traced only
upon my fancy. I endeavoured to distort my
admiration for you into love. Fool, that I was,
not to know, that the moment a woman begins
to reason, she has either never loved, or
has ceased to love.
“Ah! if I could believe you would hate me,
I should, I think, be happier. For God's sake,
do not, do not forgive me. It is my only
prayer. If you do, I shall be miserable indeed.
“But I hesitate, — I linger, — the worst is yet
behind. Why do I now feel that I can never
love you as I hoped, as you deserve, as you
will be loved and worshipped, I know and prophecy,
by some being superior to me in body,
heart, and mind. I will tell you, — for I know
you have the nerve to bear it. Listen, and
shrink not. I love another. Yes; I love, — I
am pledged to another. I have broken all my
vows, and with your parting kiss hardly cold
upon my lip, I have given myself to another.
Will you know that other's name? You know
him well. It is your friend, Vassal Deane!
There, I have driven the arrow to your heart.
One single word more. Do not allow yourself
a ray of hope. There is no hope for you. I
have never loved you, — not an instant. I
wished to make reparation. I strove to sacrifice
myself. I have, at last, met the man who has
disclosed me to myself, — who has revealed to
me the deep and awful feeling of which I always
deemed myself capable, but never realized
till now. Passion has slumbered within me always;
but it dreamed, — it dreamed, — but it
has at last awaked. I tell you, Uncas Morton,
that I adore him. If you should descend to
the lowest depths of my soul, you would find it
filled to overflowing with the blessed light of
his love.
“I dare say all this to you. It is at least,
a consolation to me to know that you have
already begun to hate me. At least, I have
never sought to palliate my own conduct. Farewell,
Uncas, dearest Uncas; I shall never cease
to pray for your happiness; but I do not ask
you to forgive me, either in this world or the
next. Hate me, — hate me, — I implore you.
I read it through without flinching. The
paper dropped from my hands. I began to
whistle, as if nothing had happened. For an
instant, not an emotion was excited in my
mind. I walked mechanically to the door, and
locked it. I sat down, and remained a moment
in a stupid bewilderment. Suddenly the whole
my mind. I read my fate by the conflagration
of my ruined hopes, — and then I cried aloud
in my agony, — I tore my hair, — I threw myself
upon the ground, — I blasphemed Mayflower,—I
poured out execrations—I raved myself
into a frenzy, — I fell alternately from delirium
to exhaustion, and from exhaustion to delirium.
At last, I was worn out. I lay on the ground,
motionless, hopeless, helpless; panting like a
struck deer, writhing like a crushed worm, under
the weight of one horrible, sickening remembrance.
Hour after hour, I lay in that
room in a trance, and felt each moment as it
passed, enter my heart like a barbed arrow
dipped in memory's poison. With the break
of the morning, a light shot through my brain;
the demon stirred within me. Pride roused itself
like a lion in my breast, and love shrank
away like a scourged slave. I thought of revenge,
and I became calm and happy. I determined
to return, to discover my rival, and
to pluck out his heart, and then to annihilate
Mayflower by my scorn.
I went down stairs, and breakfasted like a
famished vulture. I then set out immediately
for home.
It was evening when I arrived in Boston.
I went immediately to her house. It was at
same square with the Governor's, where I had
met her first. The house is standing now. A
large three-story wooden building, with an open
enclosure, and two or three trees before it. I
rang the bell, — Miss Vane was out, — engaged,
— in short, I could not see her. I gnashed
my teeth, and turned from the door. I perceived
that there was a light in Mafy's own
parlour, and that the shutters were not closed.
I climbed into one of the trees, and looked in.
There was a light cambric shade on the window,
so that I could not distinguish clearly;
but I sat in the tree, hoping to see my beloved.
By-and-by there came a shadow on the
window, — my heart palpitated, — I knew that
shadow, dearer to me than the reality of all
the world besides. Presently there came another
shadow, and the second was not that of a female
figure; and the two shadows approached
nearer and nearer, — they came close, — they
joined, — they intermingled — they remained long
entwined, — then the quick, indistinct hum of
eager and passionate words, sounded faintly on
my ear; and then, as the shadows separated,
I heard a light laugh; I mistook it not, —
'twas Mafy's; but that most musical laugh
rang in my ears like a demon's cry. I felt
transfixed, — I sat motionless, — straining my
all. Again the shadows approached, again the
murmured accents of love jarred upon my ears,
— the male figure came close to the window,
— I thought I recognised it, — it stretched out
its arms. I saw a head resting on a shoulder.
I sprang from the tree and saw no more.
And I stood there, had seen it all and
breathed. It was indeed Mayflower, and I had
seen her in another's arms. The thought was
maddening, my brain seethed, my blood boiled,
every nerve quivered, the air felt thick and
choking, — I was growing mad.
I turned from the place, — it was snowing
violently — I heeded it not, — I determined to
walk the ten miles to Morton's Hope. The
storm drove furiously in my face, as I proceeded,
— I welcomed it, — I was fleeing from
my own horrible thoughts. Those kisses were
ever hissing in my ears like adders' tongues, —
I staggered blindly on through the savage tempest.
At last I became wearied, my feet were
clogged, my knees trembled; I sank in the
snow; I wrapped my cloak placidly round me,
and placed my head upon a drifted heap; I
hoped that my hour was come. Alas! I courted
Death, and he spurned me. The fever of
my heart was proof against the elements. Instead
of growing torpid, I felt my brain again
devouring thoughts came on again in full cry,
and I sprang to my feet, and fled like an
Acteon before them. On, on I drove, faster
and faster; I reached the Hope, burst open the
door, ascended to my own room. As I passed
in, with a lighted candle in my hand, I suddenly
confronted myself in the glass, — It was
my ghost! — I was horror-struck: — pale with
watching, haggard with fatigue, with jaws fallen,
lips livid, teeth chattering, the unexpected
apparition to myself of myself, (a thing startling
to every one,) was frightful. I thought I
saw my wraith, and, half frightened, half exhausted
and bewildered, I sank heavily on my
bed, and slept a long and dreamless sleep.
| CHAPTER XII.
A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. Morton's Hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial. | |