IV.
After this morning of gayety, this noon of tragedy, and this
evening so full of chequered pensiveness; Pierre now possessed
his soul in joyful mildness and steadfastness; feeling none of
that wild anguish of anticipative rapture, which, in weaker
minds, too often dislodges Love's sweet bird from her nest.
The early night was warm, but dark—for the moon was not
risen yet—and as Pierre passed on beneath the pendulous canopies
of the long arms of the weeping elms of the village, an
almost impenetrable blackness surrounded him, but entered not
the gently illuminated halls of his heart. He had not gone
very far, when in the distance beyond, he noticed a light moving
along the opposite side of the road, and slowly approaching.
As it was the custom for some of the more elderly, and
perhaps timid inhabitants of the village, to carry a lantern
when going abroad of so dark a night, this object conveyed no
impression of novelty to Pierre; still, as it silently drew nearer
and nearer, the one only distinguishable thing before him, he
somehow felt a nameless presentiment that the light must be
seeking him. He had nearly gained the cottage door, when
the lantern crossed over toward him; and as his nimble hand
was laid at last upon the little wicket-gate, which he thought
was now to admit him to so much delight; a heavy hand was
laid upon himself, and at the same moment, the lantern was
lifted toward his face, by a hooded and obscure-looking figure,
whose half-averted countenance he could but indistinctly discern.
But Pierre's own open aspect, seemed to have been
quickly scrutinized by the other.
“I have a letter for Pierre Glendinning,” said the stranger,
“and I believe this is he.” At the same moment, a letter was
drawn forth, and sought his hand.
“For me!” exclaimed Pierre, faintly, starting at the strangeness
of the encounter;—“methinks this is an odd time and
place to deliver your mail;—who are you?—Stay!”
But without waiting an answer, the messenger had already
turned about, and was re-crossing the road. In the first impulse
of the moment, Pierre stept forward, and would have
pursued him; but smiling at his own causeless curiosity and
trepidation, paused again; and softly turned over the letter in
his hand. What mysterious correspondent is this, thought he,
circularly moving his thumb upon the seal; no one writes me
but from abroad; and their letters come through the office;
and as for Lucy—pooh!—when she herself is within, she would
hardly have her notes delivered at her own gate. Strange!
but I'll in, and read it;—no, not that;—I come to read again
in her own sweet heart—that dear missive to me from heaven,
—and this impertinent letter would pre-occupy me. I'll wait
till I go home.
He entered the gate, and laid his hand upon the cottage
knocker. Its sudden coolness caused a slight, and, at any other
time, an unaccountable sympathetic sensation in his hand. To
his unwonted mood, the knocker seemed to say—“Enter not!
—Begone, and first read thy note.”
Yielding now, half alarmed, and half bantering with himself,
to these shadowy interior monitions, he half-unconsciously
quitted the door; repassed the gate; and soon found himself
retracing his homeward path.
He equivocated with himself no more; the gloom of the air
had now burst into his heart, and extinguished its light; then,
first in all his life, Pierre felt the irresistible admonitions and
intuitions of Fate.
He entered the hall unnoticed, passed up to his chamber,
and hurriedly locking the door in the dark, lit his lamp. As
the summoned flame illuminated the room, Pierre, standing
before the round center-table, where the lamp was placed, with
his hand yet on the brass circle which regulated the wick,
started at a figure in the opposite mirror. It bore the outline
of Pierre, but now strangely filled with features transformed,
and unfamiliar to him; feverish eagerness, fear, and nameless
forebodings of ill! He threw himself into a chair, and for a
time vainly struggled with the incomprehensible power that
possessed him. Then, as he avertedly drew the letter from
his bosom, he whispered to himself—Out on thee, Pierre! how
sheepish now will ye feel when this tremendous note will turn
out to be an invitation to a supper to-morrow night; quick,
fool, and write the stereotyped reply: Mr. Pierre Glendinning
will be very happy to accept Miss so and so's polite invitation.
Still for the moment he held the letter averted. The messenger
had so hurriedly accosted him, and delivered his duty,
that Pierre had not yet so much as gained one glance at the
superscription of the note. And now the wild thought passed
through his mind of what would be the result, should he deliberately
destroy the note, without so much as looking at the
hand that had addressed it. Hardly had this half-crazy conceit
fully made itself legible in his soul, when he was conscious
of his two hands meeting in the middle of the sundered note!
He leapt from his chair—By heaven! he murmured, unspeakably
shocked at the intensity of that mood which had caused
him unwittingly as it were, to do for the first time in his whole
life, an act of which he was privately ashamed. Though the
mood that was on him was none of his own willful seeking;
yet now he swiftly felt conscious that he had perhaps a little
encouraged it, through that certain strange infatuation of fondness,
which the human mind, however vigorous, sometimes
feels for any emotion at once novel and mystical. Not willingly,
at such times—never mind how fearful we may be—do
we try to dissolve the spell which seems, for the time, to
admit us, all astonished, into the vague vestibule of the spiritual
worlds.
Pierre now seemed distinctly to feel two antagonistic agencies
within him; one of which was just struggling into his
consciousness, and each of which was striving for the mastery;
and between whose respective final ascendencies, he thought he
could perceive, though but shadowly, that he himself was to be
the only umpire. One bade him finish the selfish destruction
of the note; for in some dark way the reading of it would irretrievably
entangle his fate. The other bade him dismiss all
misgivings; not because there was no possible ground for
them, but because to dismiss them was the manlier part, never
mind what might betide. This good angel seemed mildly to
say—Read, Pierre, though by reading thou may'st entangle
thyself, yet may'st thou thereby disentangle others. Read,
and feel that best blessedness which, with the sense of all duties
discharged, holds happiness indifferent. The bad angel insinuatingly
breathed—Read it not, dearest Pierre; but destroy it,
and be happy. Then, at the blast of his noble heart, the bad
angel shrunk up into nothingness; and the good one defined
itself clearer and more clear, and came nigher and more nigh
to him, smiling sadly but benignantly; while forth from the
infinite distances wonderful harmonies stole into his heart; so
that every vein in him pulsed to some heavenly swell.
