University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

And thus, after five long years of separation,—years of
triumph on the one hand, years of degradation and desperation
on the other,—they met,—the destroyer and his
victim. The serpent had once more penetrated into the
garden. Its flowers had been renewed. Its Eden, for a
brief moment, appeared to be restored. If the sunshine

was of a subdued and mellowed character, it was still
sunshine! Alas! for the woman! She gazed upon her
destroyer, and felt that the whole fabric of her peace was
once more in peril. She saw before her the same base
spirit which had so profligately triumphed in her overthrow.
She felt, from a single glance, that he had undergone
no change. There was an expression in his look
when their eyes encountered, which annoyed her with
the familiarity of its recognition. She turned from it with
disgust. “At all events,” she thought, “he will keep his
secret;—he will not willingly incur the anger of a husband.
A day will free us from his presence, and the
danger will then pass for ever!”

Filled with doubts, racked with apprehension,—but
still with this hope,—the woman yet performed the duties
of the household with a stern resoluteness that was admirable.
No external tokens of her agitation were to be
seen. Her movements were methodical, and free from
all precipitation. Her voice, though the tones were low,
was clear, distinct, and she spoke simply to the purpose.
Even her enemy felt, or rather exercised, a far less degree
of coolness and composure. His voice sometimes faltered
as he gazed upon, and addressed her; and there was, at
moments, a manifest effort at ease and playfulness, which
the ready sense of Beauchampe himself, did not fail to
discriminate. It was something of a startling coincidence
that, after fighting with William Calvert about Margaret
Cooper, he should, the very next night, be the favoured
guest of her husband. Col. Sharpe brooded over the fact
with some superstitious misgivings; but the progress of
supper, soon made him forgetful of his fears, if he had
any; and before the evening was far advanced, he had
recovered very much of his old composure.

When the supper things were removed, Mr. Barnabas
brought up the subject of horses, in order, as it would
seem, to advert to the condition of his favorite roan, which
had struck lame that evening on their way from Bowling
Green. The question was a serious one whether he suffered
from snag, or nail, or pebble; and the worthy owner
concluded his speculations by declaring his wish, at an
early moment, to subject the animal to fitting inspection.
Beauchampe rose to attend him to the stables.

“Will you go, Col.?” asked Mr. Barnabas.

“Surely not,” was the reply. “My taste does not lie
that way. I will remain with Mrs. Beauchampe in the
hope to perfect our acquaintance.”

The blood rose in the brain of the person spoken of;
her heart strove to suppress the rising feeling of indignation.
At first, her impulse was to rise and leave the
room. But the next moment determined her otherwise.
A single reflection convinced her that there would be no
good policy in such a movement—that it would be equivalent
to a confession of weakness which she did not feel;
and she was resolved that her feelings of aversion should
not give her enemy such an advantage over her. “He
must be met, at one time or other, and perhaps the sooner
the issue is over, the better.”

This reflection passed through her mind in very few
seconds. They were now alone together. The lantern,
which the servant carried before Beauchampe and Mr.
Barnabas, was already flickering faintly at a distance as
seen through the window pane beside her; when Col.
Sharpe started from his seat and approached her.

“Can it be that I again see you, Margaret!” he exclaimed
“have my prayers been granted—am I again
blessed with a meeting with one so dearly loved, so long
and bitterly lamented.”

“You see the wife of Orville Beauchampe, Col. Sharpe!”
was the expressive reply.

“Nay, Margaret, it is my misfortune that you are his
wife, or the wife of any man but one. Hear me,—for I
perceive that you think that I have wronged you—”

“Think, sir,—think!—but no more of this!” was her
indignant answer as she rose from the chair and prepared
to leave the room—“it can matter little to you, sir, what
my thoughts of your conduct and character may be, as it
is now small matter to me what they ever have been. It
is enough for you to know that you are the guest of my
husband; and that, in his ignorance of your crime, lies
your only safety. A word from me, sir, brings down his
vengeance upon your head. You yourself best know
whether that is to be feared or not.”

“But you will not speak that word, Margaret!”

“Will I not?” she exclaimed while a fiery scorn seemed
to gather in her eyes.

“No! Margaret, no! I am sure you cannot. For the
sake of the past, you will not.”

“Be not so sure of that! It is for the sake of the future
that I am silent—were it for the past only, Alfred Stevens,
not only should my lips speak but my hands act. I
should not ask of him to avenge me—my own arm should
right my wrong—my own arm should, even now, be uplifted
in the work of vengeance, and you should never
leave this house alive.”

He smiled as he replied—

“I know you better, Margaret. If you ever loved—”

“Stay, sir—stay, Alfred Stevens, if you would not
have me so madden as to prove to you how little you
have known or can know of me. Do not speak to me in
such language. Beware—for your own sake,—for my
sake, I implore you to forbear.”

“For your sake, Margaret,—any thing for your sake.
But be not hasty in your judgment. You wrong me—on
my soul you do! If you knew the cruel necessity that
kept me from you—”

“Oh, false!” she exclaimed—“false, and no less foolish
than false;—do not hope to deceive me by your base inventions.
I heard all—know all! I know that I was the
credulous victim of your subtle arts—that my conquest
and overthrow was the subject of your dishonest boast.”

“It is false, Margaret—the villain lied who told you
this.”

“No, Alfred Stevens, no!—He spoke the truth,—the
veracity of the two Hinkleys was never questioned. But
your own acts confirmed his story. Why did you not
keep your promise—why did you fly—where have you
been for five bitter years, in which I was the miserable
mock of those whom once I looked on with contempt—
the desperate, the fearful wretch,—on the verge of a madness
which, half the time, kept the weapons of death
within my grasp—which I only did not use upon myself,
because there was still a hope that I should meet with
you?”

“I am here now, Margaret—if my death be necessary
to your peace, command it. I confess that I owe you
atonement, though I am less guilty than you think,—take
my life, if that will suffice; I offer no entreaty; I utter no
complaint.”

“One little month ago, Alfred Stevens, and you had
not needed to make this offer—you had not made it a
second time in vain. But that time has changed me.
Go—live! Leave this house with the morning's sun, and
forget that you have ever known me! Forget, if possible,
that you know my husband! It is for his sake that I
spare you—for his sake I entreat your silence of the past
—your utter forgetfulness of him and me.”

“For his sake, Margaret!” he answered with an incredulous
smile while offering to take her hand. She repulsed
him.

“No, no, Margaret! it is impossible that this young
man can be any thing to you. You cannot be so forgetful
of those dear moments, of that first passion, consecrated
as it was by those stolen joys—”

“Remind me not,—remind me not, man or devil!
Remind me not of your crime—remind me not of my
sworn vengeance—sworn, day by day, every day of
bitterness and death which I have endured since those
dark and damning hours. Hark ye, Alfred Stevens!”—
her voice here suddenly lowered almost to a whisper—
“hark ye, you are not a wise man! You are tempting
your fate. You are in the very den of danger. I tell
you that I spare your life, though the weapon is shotted
—though the knife is whetted. I spare your life, simply
on condition that you depart. Linger longer than is
absolutely needful—vex me longer with these insolent
suggestions, and you wake into fury the slumbering
hatred of my soul, which, for five years, has known no
moment's sleep till now. See!—the light returns—a
word—a single word more by way of warning—depart
by the dawn to-morrow. Linger longer, and you may
never depart again!”

“Why, Margaret, this is downright madness!”

“So it is; and I am mad, and cannot be otherwise than
mad while you remain here. Do you not fear that my
madness will turn upon and rend you.”

“No!” he said quietly, but earnestly and in subdued
tones, for the light was now rapidly approaching. “No,
Margaret, for I cannot believe in such sudden changes
from love to hate. Besides, if it were true, of what profit
would it be to take this vengeance? It would forfeit all
the peace and happiness which you now enjoy!”

“Do I not know it? Is not this what I would tell you?
Do I not entreat you to spare me, for this very reason?
To rend and destroy you might gratify my vengeance
but it would overthrow the peace of others who have become
dear to me. I ask you to spare them—to spare me
—not to provoke me to that desperation which will make
me forgetful of every thing except the wrong I have suffered
at your hand and the hate I bear you.”

“But how do I this, Margaret?”

“Your presence does it.”

“I cannot think you hate me.”

“Ha! indeed! you cannot?—Do not, I pray you, trust
to that. You deceive yourself. You do! Leave this
house with the morrow. Break off your intimacy with
Beauchampe. Forget me! Look not at me! Provoke
me not with your glance,—still less with your accents;
for, believe me, Alfred Stevens, I have had but a single
thought since the day of my dishonour—but a single
prayer,—and that was for the moment and the opportunity
when I might wash my hands in your blood. Your
looks, your words, revive the feeling within me. Even
now I feel the thirst to slay you arising in my soul. I do
not speak to threaten. To speak at all I must speak this
language. I obey the feeling whatever it may be. Let
me then implore you, be warned while there is time.
Another day, and I may not be able to command myself
—I can scarcely do so now; and in doing so, the effort
is not made in your behalf—not even in my own. It is
for him—for Beauchampe only. He comes—be warned
—beware!”

The approach of the light and the sounds of voices
from without, produced their natural effect. They warned
the offender much more effectually than even the exhortation
of the woman, stern, vehement as it was. Nay,
he did not believe in the sincerity of her speech. His
vanity forbade that. He could not easily persuade himself
of the revolution which she alleged her mind to have
undergone, in his case, from love to hate; and was not
the man to attach any very great degree of faith to
asseverations of such hostility at any time, on the part of
a creature usually so unstable and capricious as he deemed
woman to be. It is certain that what she said had failed
to affect him as it was meant to have done. The unhappy

woman saw that with an increased feeling of care and
apprehension. She beheld it in the leer of confident
assurance which he still continued to bestow upon her
even when the feet of Beauchampe were upon the threshold;
and felt it in the half whispered words of hope and
entreaty with which the criminal closed the conference
between them at the same moment. Truly, bitter was
that cup to her at this moment—fearful and bitter! Involuntarily
she clasped her hands, with the action of entreaty,
while her eyes once more riveted themselves upon
him. A meaning smile, which reawakened all her indignation,
answered her, and then the muscles of both were
required to be composed and inexpressive, as the husband
once more stood between them.