University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

From this period Miss Cooke studiously withheld her
presence from the eyes of her infatuated lover. In vain
did he return day after day to her dwelling. His only reception
was accorded by the mother, whose garrulity was
considerably lessened in the feeling of disappointment
which the course of her daughter necessarily inspired in
her mind. She had had her own plans, which, as she
knew the firmness of her daughter's character, she could
not but be convinced were effectually baffled. To her
Beauchampe declared himself, but from her he received no
encouragement except that which was contained in her
own consent, which, as he had already discovered, did not
by any means imply that of the one object whose consent
was every thing. The old woman pleaded in secret the

passion of the young man, but she pleaded fruitlessly.
Her petition became modified into one soliciting only her
daughter's consent to receive him as before; and to induce
this consent the more readily, Beauchampe pledged himself
not to renew the subject of love. But Anna Cooke
now knew the value of such pledges. She also knew, by
this time, the danger to herself of again meeting with one
whose talents and worth she had already learned to admire.
The feeling of prudence grew stronger as her impressions
in his favour were increased. This contradiction
of character is not of common occurrence. But the position
of Anna Cooke was not only a painful but a peculiar
one. To suffer her affections to become involved with
Beauchampe was only to increase her difficulties and mortifications.
She felt that it would be dishonorable to accept
him as a husband without revealing her secret, and
that revealed, it would be very doubtful whether he would
be so willing to take her as his wife. This was a dilemma
which she naturally feared to encounter. We do not say,
that she did not also share in those feelings of disappointment
and denial under which Beauchampe so greatly suffered.
The sadness increased upon her countenance, and
softened its customary severity. She felt the darker passions
of her mind flickering like some sinking candle-flame,
and growing daily more feeble under the antagonist
feeling of another of very different character. The dream
of hate and vengeance which for five years had been,
however baneful to her heart, a source of strength to her
frame, grew nightly less vivid, and less powerful over her
imagination; and hopeless as she was of love, she trembled
lest the other passions which, however strangely, had
yielded her solace for so long a time, should abandon her
also. For such a nature as that of Anna Cooke, some
strong food was necessary. There must be some way to
exercise and employ those deep desires and earnest spiritings
of her mind, which else would madden and destroy
her. It became necessary to recall her hates, to renew
her vows and prayers of vengeance, to concentrate her
thoughts anew on the bloody sacrifice which she had so
long meditated in secret. But this was no easy task. The
image of Beauchampe came between her eyes and that of
the one victim whose destruction alone she sought. The
noble, generous, devoted countenance of the one, half obliterated
the wily, treacherous visage of the other. The
perpetual pleadings of the mother contributed to present
this obstacle to her mind. To escape from this latter annoyance,
and, if possible, evade the impression, which, in
softening her feelings, had obliterated some of her hates,
she renewed a practice which she had for some time neglected.
She might be seen every morning stealing from
the cottage and taking her way to the cover of the adjacent
forests. Here, hidden from all eyes, she buried herself in
the religious solitude. What feelings filled her heart,
what fancies vexed her mind, what striving forms of love
and hate, conflicted in her fancy, we may perhaps conjecture;
but there, alone, save with the images of her
thought, she wasted the vacant hours; drawing her soul's
strength from that bitter weed of hate, the worst moral
poison which the immortal soul could ever cherish.

With Beauchampe the sorrow was not less, and there
was less to strengthen; but that little was not of so dangerous
a quality. He felt the pang of denial, but the bitterness
of hate had never yet blighted the young, green
leaves of his youthful affections. He was unhappy, but
not desperate. Still he could not but see, in the course
taken by Anna Cooke, a character of strength and inflexibility,
which rendered all prospects of future success,
which looked to her, extremely doubtful. There had been
no relaxing in her rigour. The mother, whose own sympathy
with his cause was sufficiently obvious, had shown
its hopelessness, even when she most encouraged him to
persevere. Perseverance had taught him the rest of a hard
lesson—and the young lover, in his first love, now trembled
to find himself alone!

Alone! and such a loneliness. The affections of mother
and sisters no longer offered solace or companionship
to his heart. They no longer spoke to his affections.
Their words fell upon his ears only to startle and annoy;
their gentle smiles were only so many gleams of cold,
mocking moonlight scattered along the dreary seas of passion
in his soul. He felt that he could not live after this
fashion, for he had still a hope—a hope just sufficiently
large to keep him doubtful. Anna Cooke had declared
that her scruples were not to him. The bar which severed
her from him was that which severed her from man. But

for that—such was her own assurance—“he should be
preferred to all others whom she knew.”

That bar! What was it? Beauchampe was not sufficiently
experienced in the history of the passions, to conjecture
what that obstacle might be. He fancied, at the
utmost, that her affections might have been slighted; he
knew—but chiefly from books which are not always correct
in such matters—that women did not usually forgive
such an offence. Betrothed, she might have been deserted
—perhaps with insult—and this, he readily thought,
might amply justify the fierce spirit of vengeance which
she breathed. Or, it might be that she had been born to
fortune, and had been wronged and robbed, by some wily
villain, of her possessions. Something of this, he fancied
he had gathered from the garrulous details of the mother.
But even were these conjectures true, still there was nothing
in them to establish such a barrier as Anna Cooke
insisted on, between his passion and herself. Blinded as
he was by his preference, and, in his own simple innocence
of heart, overlooking the only reasonable mode by
which such a mystery could be solved, the truly wretched
youth became hourly more so. Failing to find his way
to her presence, he resorted to that process of pen, ink
and paper, which Heloïse insists was designed by Heaven
expressly for the use of such wretches as Beauchampe
and herself, and his soul poured itself forth upon his sheet
with all the burning effluence of the most untameable affection.
Page after page grew beneath his hands—every
line a keen arrow from the bended bow of passion, and
shot directly at the heart. To borrow the phraseology of
the old Spanish teachers of the estilo culto, if his tears
wet the paper, the heat of his words dried it as soon.
Beauchampe spoke from his soul and it penetrated to hers.
But though she felt and suffered, she was unmoved. Her
reply was firm and characteristic.

“Noble young man, leave me and be happy. Depart
from this place; seek me, see me, think of me, no more!
Why should you share a destiny like mine? Obey your
own. It calls you elsewhere. If it is just to you, it will
be lofty and honourable; if not, at least it will spare you
any participation in one so dreary as is mine. Go, I implore
you, and cease to endure the anguish which you

still inflict. Go, forget me and be happy. Yet, if not,
take with you as the saddest consolation I can give, the
assurance that you leave behind you a greater suffering
than you bear away. If, as you tell me, the arrow rankles
in your heart, believe me there is an ever-burning
fire which encircles mine. I have not even the resource
of the scorpion, not, at least, until, my `desperate fang'
has done its work on another brain than my own. Then,
indeed, the remedy were easy; at all events where life
depends upon resolution, one can count its allotted minutes
in the articulations of a drowsy pulse. Once more,
noble young man, I thank you; once more I implore you
to depart. I will not send you my blessings—I will not
endanger your safety by a prayer of mine. Yet I could
pray for you, Beauchampe. I believe you worthy of the
blessings, and perhaps you would not be injured by the
prayer of one so desolate as I.”

This letter, so far from baffling his ardour, was calculated
to increase it. He hurried once more to the dwelling
of Mrs. Cooke; but only to meet a repulse.

“Tell him, I cannot and will not see him!” was the
inflexible reply; and the mother was not insensible to the
struggle which shook the majestic soul and form of the
speaker in uttering these few words. In a paroxysm of
passion, most like frenzy, Beauchampe darted from the
dwelling. That day he rambled in the woods, scarcely
conscious of his course, quite unconscious of any object.
The next, taking his gun with him by way of apology, he
passed in the same manner. And thus for two days more.
Somewhat more composed by this time, his violent mood
gave way to one of a more contemplative character; but
the shadows of the forest were even more congenial to the
disconsolate than the desperate. They afforded him the
only protection and companionship which he sought in
either of his moods. Here he wandered, giving himself
up to the dreary conviction which swells every young
man's heart, when first loving, he seems to love in vain,
that the sun of hope was set for him for ever; and henceforth,
earth was little more than a place of tombs—the
solemn cypress, and the Druid mistletoe, its most fitting
decorations; while, under each of its deceptive flowers,
care, and pain, and agony, lay harboured in the forms of

gnat, and wasp, and viper, ready to dart forth upon any
thoughtless hand that stoops to pluck the beauty of which
they might fitly be held the bane.

But, it was not Beauchampe's destiny, as Anna Cooke
had fancied, to escape from hers. In vain had she striven
to save him from it. He was one not to be saved. Mark
the event. To escape him—perhaps dreading that her
strength might fail, at some moment, to resist his prayer
to see and speak with her; and tired of her mother's constant
pleading in behalf of her suitor—she fled from the
house, and, as we have seen, stole away, day by day, to
lonely places, dark, gloomy, and tangled, such as the
wounded deer might seek out, in his last agonies, in which
to die in secret. We have seen already what has been
the habit of Beauchampe in this respect. His woodland
musings had not been without profit. Assured now of the
hopelessness of his pursuit from the stern and undeviating
resolution which the lady of his love had shown, at every
attempt which he made to overcome her determination;
he, at length, with a heavy heart, concluded to adopt her
counsel and to fly from a scene in which disappointment
had humbled him, and where all his most acute feelings
were kept in a state of most painful irritation. But, before
this, he again addressed her by letter. His words were
brief.

“I shall soon leave this place. I shall obey you. Yet,
let me see you once more. Vouchsafe me one look upon
which my heart may brood in its banishment. Let me
see that dear image—let me hear that voice—that voice of
such sweet sorrow. Do not deny me this prayer. Do
not; for in leaving you, dearest, but most relentless woman,
I would not carry with me at the last moment, to
disturb the holier impression which you have made upon
my soul, a feeling of the injustice of yours. With a heart
hopeless and in the dust, I implore you. Do not reject
my prayer. Do not deny me—let me once more behold
you, and I will be then better prepared to rush away to
the crowded haunts of life, or it may be the more crowded
haunts of death. Life and death! ah! how naturally the
words come together. You have rendered their signification
little in my ears. You, you only. Yet I ask you not
now to reverse the doom. Is not my prayer sufficiently

humble? I ask you not to spare, not to spare, not to save; only to
soothe the pangs of that departure which you command,
and which seems little less than death to me. On my
knees, I implore you. Let me see you but once—once
more—let me once more hear your voice, though I hear
nothing after.”

To this, the answer was immediate, but the determination
was unchanged. It said:

“I may seem cruel, but I am kind to you. Oh! believe
me. It will console me under greater suffering than any
I can inflict, to think that you do believe me. I am a
woman of wo—born to it—with no escape from my
destiny. The sense of happiness, neverthelesss, is very
strong within me. Were it not impossible that I could
do you wrong, I could appreciate the generous love you
proffer me. I feel that I could do it justice. But terror
and death attend my steps, and influence the fortunes of
all who share in mine. I would save you from these,
and—worse! You need not to be told that there are
worse foes to the proud, fond heart, than either death or
terror. Fancy what these may be, and fly from me as
from one whose touch is contagion—whose breath is
bondage—whose conditions of communion are pangs,
and trials, and—shame! Do not think I speak wildly.
No, Beauchampe, you little dream with what painful inflexibility
I bend myself to the task of saying thus much.
Spare me and yourself any further utterance. Go, and
be happy. You are yet young, very young. Perhaps
you know not that I am older than you. Not much,—
yet how much. Oh! I have so crowded moments with
events—feelings, the events of the heart—that I am
grown suddenly old. Old in youth. I am like the tree
you sometimes meet—flourishing, green at the top—
while in the heart sits death and decay, and, perhaps,
gloomier tenants beside. These I cannot escape,—I cannot
survive. But you have only one struggle before you.
You have suffered one disappointment. It will disturb
you for a while, but not distress you long. You will
find love where you do not seek it—happiness, which
you could never find with me. Go, Beauchampe, for
your sake, I deny your prayer. I will not see you. Do

not upbraid me in your soul, nor by your lips. Alas!
you know not how hard is the struggle which I have to
say so much. You know not from what a bondage this
struggle saves you. My words shall not call you back.
No looks of mine shall beguile you. Be you free, Beauchampe!—free
and happy! If you could but guess the
temptation which I overcome—the vital uses which your
love could be to me, and which I reject, you would thank
me—oh! how fervently—and bless me—would I could
say, how justly! Farewell!—Let it be for ever, Beauchampe!
Farewell! farewell for ever!”