Beauchampe, or, The Kentucky tragedy :: :: University of Virginia Library

“And why has not this been told me before? Why
has he been suffered to remain in your presence—nay, to
be alone with you, for hours since his coming? Did you
know him from the first to be the same man?”

“From the first!”

“Explain, then!—for God's sake explain. You blind
me,—you stun me! I am utterly unable to see this thing!
How, if you knew him from the first, suffer for a moment
the contagion of his presence?”

“This I can easily answer you, my husband. Bear
with me patiently while I do so! I will lay bare to you
my whole soul, and show you by what motives of forbearance
I was governed, until driven to the course I have
pursued by the bold insolence of this uncompromising
villain.”

She paused—pressed her head with her hands as if to
subdue the tumult which was striving within; then, with
an effort which seemed to demand her greatest energies,

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she proceeded with her speech. She entered into an explanation
of that change in her feelings and desires which
had been consequent to her marriage. She acknowledged
the force of those new domestic ties which she had formed,
in making her unwilling that any event should take place
which should commit herself or husband in the eyes of
the community, and bring about a disruption of those ties,
or a farther development of her story; which would be
certain to follow, in the event of an issue between her
husband and her seducer. With this change in her mood,
prior to the appearance of this person and his identification
with Col. Sharpe, she had prayed that he might never
reappear; and when he did—when he became the guest
of her husband, and was regarded as his friend, it was her
hope that a sense of his danger would have prompted him
to make his visit short, and prevent him from again renewing
it. Her own deportment was meant to be such as
should produce this determination in his breast. But
when this failed of its effect—when in despite of warning,
—in defiance of danger,—in the face of hospitality and
friendship, the villain presumed to renew his loathsome
overtures of guilt;—when no hope remained that he would
forbear—when it was seen that he was without generosity,
and that neither the rebuke of her scorn, nor the warnings
of her anger, could repel his insolent advances—then it
was that she felt compelled to speak—then, and not before!
She had deferred this necessity to the last moment. She
had been purposely slow. She had given the seducer
every opportunity to withdraw in safety, and made the
condition of his future security easy, by asking only that
he would never seek nor see her again!—She had striven
in vain;—and failing to find the immunity she sought,
from her own strength and firmness,—it was no longer
possible to evade the necessity which forced her to seek
it in the protection of her husband. It was now necessary
that he should comply with his oath, and for this reason
she had placed the weapons of death in his hands. Henceforth,
the struggle was his alone. Of the sort of duty to
be done, no doubt could abide in either mind!

Such was the narrative which, with the coherence not
only of a same but a strong mind, and a will that no pain
of body and pang of soul could overcome, she poured into
the ears of her husband. We will not attempt to describe

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the agony, the utter recoil and shrinking of soul with
which he heard. There is a point to which human passion
sometimes arrives when all language fails of description,
as in a condition of physical suffering, the intensity
of the pain is providentially relieved by utter unconsciousness
and stupor. But, such was the surprise with which
Beauchampe received the information of that identity between
Alfred Stevens and his friend—his friend!—that the
impression which followed from what remained of his
wife's narrative, was comparatively slight. You might
trace the accumulation of pang upon pang, in his heart, as
the story went on, by a slight convulsive movement of the
lip,—but the eye did not seem to speak. It was fixed and
glassy, and so vacant, that its expression might have occasioned
apprehension in the mind of the wife, had her own
intensity of suffering—however kept down—not been of
so blinding and darkening a character.

When she had ended, he grasped the pistols, and hurried
to the entrance, but as suddenly returned. He laid
the weapons down upon the toilet.

“No!” he exclaimed—“not here! It must not be in
this house. He has eaten at our board—he is beneath our
roof—this threshold must not be stained with the blood
of the guest!”

He looked at her as he spoke these words. But she did
not note his glance. Her eyes were fixed—her hands
were clasped—she did not seem to note his presence, and
her head was bent forward as if she listened. A moment
was passed in this manner, when, as he still looked, she
turned suddenly and seemed only then to behold him.

“You are here!” she said; “where are the pistols?”

He did not answer, but following the direction of his
eye, she saw them on the toilet, and striding fierce and
rapidly, she caught them up from the place where they
lay.

“What would you, Anna?” he asked seizing her
wrists.

“The wrong is mine!” she exclaimed. “My hand
shall avenge it. It is sworn to it. I am prepared for it.
Why should it be put upon another?”

“No!” he cried—while his brow gathered into a cloud
of wrinkles—“no, woman! You are mine, and your

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wrongs are mine—mine only! I will average them; but I
must avenge them as I think right—after my own fashion
—in my own time. Fear not that I will. Believe that I
am a man, with the feelings and the resolution of a man,
and do not doubt that I will execute my oath,—ay, even
were it no oath!—to the uttermost letter of the obligation.
Give me the weapons!”

She yielded them. Her whole manner was subdued—
her looks—her words.

“Oh, Beauchampe—would that I could spare you
this!”

“Do I wish it, Anna! Would I be spared? No, my
wife! The duty is doubly incumbent on me now. This
reptile has made your wrong doubly that of your husband.
Has he not renewed his criminal attempt, under my own
roof. This, this alone, would justify me in denying him
its protection,—but I will not. He shall not say he was
entrapped! As the obligation is a religious one, I shall
execute its laws with the deliberation of one who has a
task from God before him. I will not violate the holy
pledges of hospitality, though he has done so. While he
remains in my threshold, it shall protect him. But fear
not that vengeance shall be done. Before God, my wife,
I renew my oath!”

He lifted his hand to heaven as he spoke, and she sunk
upon her knees, and with her hands clasped his. Her
lips parted in speech, and her murmurs reached his ears,
but what she spoke was otherwise inaudible. He gently
extricated himself from her embrace—went to the basin,
and deliberately bathed his forehead in the cold water.
She remained in her prostrate position, her face clasped
in her hands and prone upon the floor. Having performed
his ablutions, Beauchampe turned, and looked
upon her steadfastly, but did not seek to raise her; and,
after a moment's further delay, left the chamber and descended
the stairs.

Then his wife started from her feet, and moved towards
the toilet where the weapons lay. Her hand was extended
as if to grasp them, but she failed to do so, and
staggered forward with the manner of one suddenly dizzy
with blindness. With this feeling she turned towards the
bed, and reached it in time to save herself a fall upon the

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floor. She sank forward upon it, and while a husky
sound, like feeble laughter, issued from her throat, she
lost the consciousness of the agony that filled her soul, in
the relief of present unconsciousness.