University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The story was told. The proud-spirited woman,
moved, as she fancied, by some supernatural influence,
did not spare herself. There was no glozing artifice of
suggestion to soften the darker colours, to conceal the
real characteristics of her heart; its follies, or faults, or
foibles. When she had finished, Beauchampe clasped her
in his arms. He felt that his passion had undergone increase.
He was no longer master of himself. Her superior
will had already made its presence felt in every impulse
of his soul!

What a change had been effected in a few hours.
Beauchampe returned to his mother and sisters, a newly
excited man. We do not call him happy. We would
not misuse that word, as we fear it is too frequently misused.
But, if a man in a pleasant delirium may be considered
happy, then he was! But happiness is scarcely
consistent with an intense passion, excited sleeplessly in
the quest of a single object. Beauchampe had won the
woman whom he sought. In her, he had not deceived
himself. She was the woman among a thousand, which
he thought her from the first. But, though he exulted,
his mind wandered, and his eyes were fixed and heavy.
There was yet a dark and threatening cloud in his otherwise
bright atmosphere. Was that cloud a presentiment?
Was it the dark sign of that fierce condition of
hate which had been prescribed by love? Could love
prescribe such condition? Was it possible for that meek

sentiment—so holy, so certainly from heaven,—so celestial
an element in the economy of heaven—was it possible
for such a sentiment, so openly to toil in behalf of its most
deadly antipathy? Love labouring for hate! It well
might bring a cloud into the moral atmosphere of Beauchampe's
soul, when he thought of these conditions.

And yet Anna Cooke had really learned to love Beauchampe.
There is nothing contradictory or strange in
this. We have painted badly, unless the reader is prepared
for such a seeming caprice in her character as this.
She is, whatever may be her boast, scarcely wiser than
when she was sixteen. All enthusiasm and earnestness,
she was all confidence then. She is so still. Her impressions
are sudden and decided. She sees that Beauchampe
is generous and noble-minded. She has discerned the
loyalty of his character and the liberality of his disposition.
She finds him intellectual. His frankness wins
upon her—his unqualified devotion does the rest. She
sees in him the agent of that wild passion which had kept
goading her without profit before; and Love, in reality,
avails himself of a very simple artifice to affect his purposes.
It is Love that insinuates to her—here comes your
avenger; and, deceived by him, she obeys one passion
when, at the time, she really fancies she is toiling in behalf
of its antagonist.

See the further argument,—felt, not expressed—of this
wily logician! He suggests to her that it is scarcely possible
that Beauchampe will ever be called upon to fulfil
his fearful pledges. For where is the betrayer? For five
years had the name been unspoken in the ears of his victim.
For five years he had eluded all traces of herself
and friends. He was gone, as if he had not been; and
the presumption was strong that he was of some very
distant region—that he would be very careful to avoid
that neighbourhood, hereafter, in which his crime had been
committed; and as, in equal probability, the lot was cast
which made this limited scene the whole world of Beauchampe's
future life, so it followed that they would never
meet—that the trial to which she had sworn him, would
never be exacted; and, subdued by time, and the absence
of the usual excitements, the pang would be softened in
her heart, the recollection would gradually fade from her
memory, and life would once more be a progress of comparative

peace, and probably of innocent enjoyment. It
is an adroit, and not an infrequent policy of Love, to make
his approaches under the cover of a flag, which none is so
pleased to trample under foot as he. He knows the usual
practices of war, and has no conscientious scruples in the
employment of an ordinary ruse. The drift of his policy
was not seen by the mind of Anna Cooke; but it was,—
though less obvious than some of her instincts,—not the
less an instinct. Nay, more certainly an instinct; for it
was of the emotions, while those of which she had spoken
to Beauchampe were nothing more than the suggestions
of monomania. Her imagination, brooding ever on the
same topic, was always on the watch to convert all objects
into its agents; and never more ready than when
Love, coming forward with his suggestions, lent that
seeming aid to his enemy which was really intended for
his overthrow. It was only when she became the wife
of Beauchampe that she became aware of the true nature
of those feelings which had brought about her marriage.
It was after the tie was indissolubly knit—after he had
pressed his lips to hers with a husband's kiss, that she
was made conscious of the danger to herself from the
performance of the conditions to which he was pledged.
The fear of his danger first taught her that it was love,
and not the mere passion for revenge which had wrought
within her from the moment when she first met him. The
moment she reflected upon the risk of life to which he
was sworn, that moment awakened in her bosom the full
appreciation of his worth. Then, instead of urging upon
him the subject of his oath, she shuddered but to think
upon it; and, in her prayers—for she suddenly had learned
to pray—she implored that the trial might be spared
him, to which, previously, her whole soul had entirely
been surrendered. But she prayed in vain,—possibly
because she had learned to pray so lately. Ah! how
easy would be all lessons of good, how easy of attainment
and of retention, did we only learn to pray sufficiently
soon. The habit of prayer is so sure to induce
humility, and humility is, after all, and before all, one of
the most certain sources of that divine strength, arising
from love and justice, which sustains the otherwise falling
and fearful world of our grovelling humanity. The wife
of Beauchampe prayed beside him while he slept. She
prayed for mercy. She prayed against that fatal oath.
Far better—such was her thought—that the criminal
should escape for ever than that his hands should carry
the dagger of the avenger. She now, for the first time,
recognised the solemn force, the terrible emphasis in the
divine assurance—“Vengeance is mine!” saith the Lord.
She was now willing that the Lord should exercise his
sovereign right.

They were man and wife. The bond was fastened for
good and evil; and, in the novel joy of his situation,
Beauchampe lost sight of days, and weeks, and months.
Happiness soon makes the mind idle, and it was necessary
that our hero should be awakened from his dream
of delight. Law and politics were alike forgotten. He
could have mused away life, nor been conscious of its
passage,—there—amid groves of unbroken shade, with
the one companion. Her voice was the sweetness of its
birds, her speech was the divine philosophy which would
not have been unworthy of utterance among the oaks of
Dodona. Her soul, aroused by the sympathy of an ear
which she wished to please, never poured forth richer
strains of eloquence and song. Surely they were not
unhappy then!

One day a letter was put into Beauchampe's hands.
He read it with a cloudy brow.

“No bad news, Beauchampe?” was the remark of his
wife.

“Yes, I am to leave you for awhile. Read that.”

He handed her the letter as he spoke. She read as
follows:

“Dear Beauchampe.

“The campaign has opened with considerable vigour,
and the sooner you come to the rescue the better. This
fellow, Calvert, is said to be doing execution. At—
he carried all before him. He will meet the people at
Bowling Green on the 7th. You must contrive to meet
us there; or, shall I take you in my way down? Barnabas
comes with me—insists that we shall need every
help, and has really contrived to make me a little apprehensive
that we have been remiss, from too much confidence.
This man, Calvert, is said to be a giant. Barnabas
thinks him one of the most popular orators we have

ever had. He has a fine voice, excellent manners, is very
fluent, and has his argument at his finger ends. I cannot
think that I have any reason to fear him whenever I can
meet with him in person. But this, just now, is the difficulty.
The difference between a young lawyer in little
practice, and one with his hands full, is something important.
Should I not join you on the 6th, you had better
go on to the Green. He will be there by that time. I
will meet you there certainly by the 8th; though I shall
make an effort to take the stump on the 7th, if I can.
Should I fail, however, as is possible, you must be there
to take it for me, and maintain it till I come. Barnabas
and myself will then relieve you, and finish the game.

“Why do we not hear from you? Whisker-Ben said
at Club last night that he had heard some rumour that
you were married or about to be married. We take it
for granted, however, that the invention is his own.
Barnabas flatly denied it, and even the Pope, (his nose by
the way is thoroughly recovered) expressed his opinion
that you were `no such ass.' Of course, he suffered
neither his own, nor my wife, to hear this complimentary
opinion. One thing, however, was agreed upon among
us, viz: that you were just the man, not only to do a
foolish thing, but an impolitic one, and a vote was carried,
nem. con., in which it was resolved to inform you that,
in `the opinion of this Club, marriage is a valuable consideration.'
A word to the wise, &c. You know the
proverb. Barnabas spoke to this subject. Whisker-Ben,
too, was quite eloquent. `What,' said he, `are the moral
possessions of a woman? I answer, bank notes, bonds,
sound stocks, and other choses in action. Her physical
possessions, I count to be lands and negroes, beauty, a
good voice, &c.' His distinction was recognised as the
true one by every body but Zauerkraout, who now wears
the red hat in place of Finnikin. He thinks that negroes
should be counted among the moral possessions, or, at
least, as of a mixed character, moral and physical. I
will not trouble you with more of the debate than the
summary. An inquiry was made into your qualities, and
the chances before you, and you were then rated, and
found to be worth seventy-five thousand dollars, the
interest of which, at seven per cent., being near four thousand
dollars, it was resolved that you be counselled not

to marry any woman whose income is less. A certificate
of so much stock in the Club will be despatched you to
assist in any future operations; as a friend to yourself,
not less than to the Club, let me exhort you to give heed
to its counsels. `Marriage is a valuable consideration.'
Marry no woman whose income is not quite as good as
your own. As a lawyer in tolerable practice, you may
fairly estimate your capital at thirty or forty thousand
dollars. If you have a pretty woman near you, before
you look at her again, see what she's worth; and lose
sight of her as soon as you can, unless she brings in a
capital to the concern, equal to your own. Be as little of
a boy in these matters as possible. In no other, I think,
are you likely to be a boy! Adieu! If you do not see me on
the 6th, start for the Green by the 7th. I shall surely be
there by the 8th. Barnabas sends his blessing, nor does
the Pope withhold his. He evidently thinks less unfavourably,
since his nose has been pronounced out of
danger.

Lovingly yours,
W. P. Sharpe.
“J. O. Beauchampe, Esq.”

The wife read the letter slowly. Its contents struck her
strangely. It had a tone of utterance like that of one
whom she had been accustomed to hear. The contents
of it were nothing. The meaning was obvious enough.
Of the parties she knew nothing. But there was the sentiment
of the writer which, like the key-note in music,
pervaded the performance;—not necessarily a part of its
material, yet giving a character of its own to the whole.
That key-note was not an elevated one. She looked up.
Her husband had been observing her countenance. A
slight suffusion touched her cheek as her eyes met his.

“Who is Mr. W. P. Sharpe,” said she, “who counsels
so boldly, and I may add so selfishly?”

“He is the gentleman with whom I studied law—one
of our best lawyers, a great politician and very distinguished
man. He is now up for the assembly, and, as you see,
thinks that I can promote his election by my eloquence.
What think you, Anna?”

“I think you have eloquence, Beauchampe—I should
think you would become a very popular one. You have

boldness, which is one great essential. You have a lively
imagination and free command of language, and your
general enthusiasm would at least make you a very earnest
advocate. There would be something in the cause—the
occasion—no doubt, and—”

She stopped.

“Go on;” said he—“what would you say?”

“That I should doubt very much whether the occasion
here,” lifting up the letter—“would be sufficient to stimulate
you to do justice to yourself.”

The youth looked grave. She noticed the expression,
and with more solicitude than usual, continued—

“I think I know you, Beauchampe. It is no disparagement
to you to say I something wonder how such people
as are here described should have been associates of
yours.”

“Strictly speaking they are not;” he replied, with
something of a blush upon his face. “I know but very
little of them. But you are to understand that there is
exaggeration—which is perhaps the only idea of fun that
our people seem to have—in the design and objects of
this club. It is a lawyers' society, and Col. Sharpe insisted,
the day that I graduated, that I must become a member. I
attached no importance to the matter either one way or the
other, and readily consented. I confess to you, Anna, that
what I beheld, the only night when I did attend their
orgies, made me resolve, even before seeing you, to forswear
the fraternity. We do not sympathize, as you may
imagine. But no more does the writer of this letter.
Col. Sharpe is willing to relax a little from serious labours,
and he takes this mode as being just as good as any other.
These people are scarcely more than creatures for his
amusement.”

The wife looked grave but said no more, and Beauchampe
sat down to write an answer. This answer as
may be supposed, confirmed the story of Whisker-Ben,
legitimated all the apprehensions of the club, and assured
the writer of the letter that his counsels of “moral prudence”
had come too late. He had not only wedded, but
wedded without any reference to the possessions, such as
had been described as moral at least by the philosophers
of the fraternity.

“My wife,” said the letter of the writer,—“has beauty

and youth, and intellect—beauty beyond comparison—and
a grace and spirit about her genius that seem to me equally
so. Beyond these, and her noble heart, I am not sure
that she has any possessions. I believe she is poor; but
really, until you suggested the topic, I never once thought
of it. To me, I assure you, however heretical the confession
may seem, I care not a straw for fortune. Indeed,
I shall be the better pleased to discover that my wife brings
me nothing but herself.”

The letter closed with the assurance of the writer that
he should punctually attend at the gathering, and do his
best to maintain the cause and combat of his friend.

“Is this Col. Sharpe so very much your friend, Beauchampe?”
demanded his wife when he had read to her a
portion of his letter.

“He has been friendly—has treated me with attention
as his pupil—has not spared his compliments, and is what
is called a fine gentleman. I cannot say that he is a character
whom I unreservedly admire. He is a man of loose
principles—lacks faith—is pleased in showing his scepticism
on subjects which would better justify veneration;
and, of the higher sort of friendships which implies a
loyalty almost akin to devotion, he is utterly incapable.
Seeking this loyalty in my friend, I should not seek him.
But for ordinary uses—for social purposes,—as a good
companion, an intelligent authority, Col. Sharpe would
always be desirable. You will like him I think. He is
well read, very fluent, and though he does not believe in
the ideals of the heart and fancy, he reads poetry as if he
wrote it. You who do write it, Anna, will think better of
him when you hear him read it.”

“Do you know his wife, Beauchampe?”

“No,—strange to say, I do not. I have seen her; she
is pretty, but it is said they do not live happily together.”

“How many stories there are of people who do not
live happily together; and if true, what a strange thing it
is, that such should be the case. Yet, no doubt, they
fancied, at the first, that they loved one another; unless,
Beauchampe, they were counselled by some such club as
yours. If so, there could be no difficulty in understanding
it all.”

“But with those, Anna, who reject the advice of the
club?”

“Can it ever be so with them, Beauchampe? I think
not. It seems to me as if I should never be satisfied to
change what is for what might be. Are you not content,
beauchampe?”

“Am I not? Believe me it makes my heart tremble to
think of the brief separation which this election business
calls for. Sharpe little knows what a sacrifice I make to
serve him.”

“And if I read this letter of his aright, he would laugh
you to scorn for the confession.”

“No! that he should not.”

“You would not see it, Beauchampe. You are perhaps
too necessary to this man. But who is Mr. Calvert—is
he an elderly man?—I once knew a very worthy old
gentleman of that name. He too had been a lawyer and
was a man of talents.”

“This is a very young man, I believe; not much older
than myself. He does not practice in our counties and I
have never seen him. Judge Tompkins brings him forward.
You see what Sharpe says is said of him. It will
do me no discredit to grapple with him, even should he
fling me.”

“Somehow I think well of him already,” said the wife.
“I would you were with him, Beauchampe, rather than
against him. Somehow, I do not incline to this Col.
Sharpe. I wish you were not his ally.”

“What a prejudice. But you will think better of the
colonel when you see him. I shall probably bring him
home with me!”

The wife said nothing more, but there was a secret
feeling at her heart that rendered this assurance an irksome
one. Somehow, she wished that Beauchampe might
not bring this person to his house. Her impression—
which was certainly derived from his letter—was an unfavourable
one. She fancied, after awhile, that her objection
was only the natural reluctance to see strangers, of
one who had so long secluded herself from the sight of
all; and thus she rested, until Beauchampe was about to
take his departure to attend the gathering at Bowling
Green, and then the same feeling found utterance again.

“Do not bring home any friends, Beauchampe. I am
not fit, not willing to see them. Remember how long I
have been shut in from the world. Force me not into it.

Now we have security, husband—I dread change of any
kind as if it were death. Strange faces will only give me
pain. Do not bring any?”

“What! not Col. Sharpe! I care to bring no other.
I could scarcely get off from bringing him. At least I
must ask him, Anna; and, I confess to you, I shall not be
displeased if he does decline. The probability is he will,
for his hands are full.”

She turned in from the gate, saying nothing farther on
this subject, but feeling an internal hope, which she could
not repress, that this would be the case. Nay, somehow,
she felt as if she would prefer that Beauchampe would
bring any other friend than this. How prescient is the
soul that loves and fears. Talk of your mesmerism as
you will, there are some divine instincts in our nature
which are as apprehensive of the coming event, as if they
were already a part of it. It is as if they see the lightning-flash
which informs the event; long before the thunder-peal
which, like the voice of fame, comes slowly to declare
that all is over.