University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
THE WIFE.

Two years had passed away since Denzil Bras-de-fer set
sail on the Virginia voyage, and from that day no tidings had
been heard of him in England.

In the meantime, changes, dark, melancholy changes, had altered
everything at Widecomb. The two old men, whom we
last saw conversing cheerfully of times long gone, and past joys
unforgotten, had both fallen asleep, to wake no more but to immortality.
Sir Miles St. Aubyn slept with his fathers in the
bannered and escutcheoned chapel adjoining the hall, wherein
he had spent so many, and those the happiest, of his days;
while William Allan — he had preceded his ancient friend, his
old rival, but a few weeks on their last journey — lay in the
quiet village churchyard, beneath the shade of the great lime-trees,
among the leaves of which he had loved to hear the hum
of the bees in his glad boyhood. The leaves waved as of old,
and twinkled in the sunshine, and the music of the revelling
bees was blithe as ever, but the eye that had rejoiced at the
calm scenery, the ear that had delighted in the rural sound,
were dim and deaf for ever.

Happy — happy they! whom no more cares should reach,
no more anxieties, for ever — who now no more had hopes to
be blighted, joys to be tortured into sorrows, and, worst of all,
affections to breed the bitterest griefs, and make calamity of so
long life. Happy, indeed, thrice happy!

There was a pleasant parlor, with large oriel windows looking
out upon the terrace of Widecomb hall, and over the beautiful
green chase, studded with grand old oaks, down to the
deep ravine through which the trout stream rushed, in which
the present lord of that fair demesne had so nearly perished at
the opening of my tale.

And in that pleasant parlor, within the embrasure of one of
the great oriels, gazing out anxiously over the lovely park, now
darkening with the long shadows of a sweet summer evening,
there stood as beautiful a being as ever gladdened the eye of
friend, husband, or lover, on his return from brief absence
home.

It was Theresa — Allan no longer, but St. Aubyn; and with
the higher rank which she had so deservedly acquired, she had
acquired, too, a higher and more striking style of beauty. Her
slender girlish stature had increased in height, and expanded
in fullness, roundness, symmetry, until the delicate and somewhat
fragile maiden had been matured into the perfect, full-blown
woman.

Her face also was lovelier than of old; it had a deeper, a
more spiritual meaning. Love had informed it, and experience.
And the genius, dormant before, and unsuspected save by the
old fond father, sat enthroned visibly on the pale, thoughtful
brow, and looked out gloriously from those serene, large eyes,
filled as they were to overflowing with a clear, lustrous, tranquil
light, which revealed to the most casual and thoughtless
observers, the purity, the truth, the whiteness of the soul
within.

But if you gazed on her more closely,

You saw that how pure, how calm, how innocent soever, she
was not yet exempt from the hopes, the fears, the passions, and
the pains of womanhood.

The woman was more lovely than the girl, was wiser, greater,
perhaps better — alas! was she happier?

She had been now nearly two years a wife, though but within
the last twelve months acknowledged and installed as such in
her husband's house. It had been a dark mystery, her love —
the child of sorrow and concealment, although she might thank
her own true heart, guided by principle, and lighted by a higher
star than any earthly passion, even the love of God, it had not
been the source of shame.

Artfully, yet enthusiastically, had that bold, brilliant, fascinating
boy laid siege to her affections; and soon, by dint of kindred
tastes, and feelings, and pursuits, he had succeeded in
winning the whole perfect love of that pure, overflowing soul.

She loved him with that fervor, that devotion of which women
alone are perhaps capable, and of women only those who are
gifted with that extreme sensibility, that exquisite organization,
which, rendering them the most charming, the most fascinating,
and the most susceptible of their sex, too often renders them
the least happy.

And he, too, loved her — as well, perhaps, as one of his character
and temperament could love anything, except himself; he
loved her passionately; he admired her beauty, her grace, her
delicacy, beyond measure. He understood and appreciated her
exquisite taste, her brilliancy, her feminine and gentle genius.
He was not happy when he was absent from her side; he
could not endure the idea that she should love, or even smile
upon another, he coveted the possession of a creature so beautiful,

a soul so powerful, and at the same time so loving. Above
all, he was proud to be loved by such a being.

But beyond this he no more loved her, than the child loves
its toy. He held her only in his selfishness of soul, even before
his passion had

But he knew nothing, felt nothing, understood nothing of her
higher, better self; he saw nothing of her inner light — guessed
nothing of what a treasure he had won.

He would have sacrificed nothing of his pleasures, nothing
of his prejudices, nothing of his pride, had such a sacrifice been
needed to make her the happiest of women. While she would
have laid down her life for the mere delight of gaining him one
moment's joy — would have sacrificed all that she had, or hoped
to have, save honor, faith, and virtue. And to yield these he
never asked her.

No! in the wildest dream of his reckless, unprincipled imagination,
he never fancied to himself the possibility of tempting
her to lawless love. In the very boldest of his audacious
flights, he never would have dared to whisper one loose thought,
one questionable wish, in the maiden's ear. It had, perhaps,
been well he had done so — for on that instant, as the night-mists
melt away and leave the firmament pure and transparent at
the first glance of the great sun, the cloud of passion which obscured
her mental vision would have been scattered and dispersed
from her clear intellect by the first word that had flashed
on her soul conviction of his baseness.

But whether the wish ever crossed his mind or not, he never
gave it tongue, nor did she even once suspect it.

Still he had wooed her secretly — laying the blame on his
father's pride, his father's haughty and high ambition, which he
insisted would revolt at the bare idea of his wedding with any

lady, who could not point to the quarterings of a long, noble line
of ancestry; he had prevailed on her, first to conceal their love,
and at length to consent to a secret marriage.

It was long, indeed, ere he could bring her to agree even to
that clandestine step; nor, had her father lived but a few weeks
longer, would he have done so ever.

The old man died, however, suddenly, and at the very moment
when, though she knew it not, his life was most necessary
to his daughter's welfare. He was found dead in his bed, after
one of those strange, mysterious seizures, to which he had for
many years been subject, and during which he had appeared
to be endowed with something that approached nearly to a
knowledge of the future. Although, if such were, indeed, the
case, it was scarce less wonderful that on the passing away of
the dark fit, he seemed to have forgotten all that he had seen
and enunciated of what should be thereafter.

Be this, however, as it may — he was found by his unhappy
child, dead, and already cold; but with his limbs composed so
naturally, and his fine benevolent features wearing so calm and
peaceful an expression, that it was evident he had passed away
from this world of sin and sorrow, during his sleep, without a
pang or a struggle. Never did face of mortal sleeper give surer
token of a happy and glorious awakening.

But he was gone, and she was alone, friendless, helpless, and
unprotected.

How friendless, how utterly destitute and helpless, she knew
not, nor had even suspected, until the last poor relics of her
only kinsman, save he who was a thousand leagues aloof on the
stormy ocean, had been consigned to the earth, whence they
had their birth and being. Then, when his few papers were
examined, and his affairs scrutinized by his surviving, though
now fast declining friend, St. Aubyn, it appeared that he had
been supported only by a life annuity, which died with himself,

and that he had left nothing but the cottage at the fords, with
the few acres of garden-ground, and the slender personal property
on the premises, to his orphan-child.

It was rendered probable by some memoranda and brief notes,
found among his papers, the greater part of which were occupied
by abstruse mathematical problems, and yet wilder astrological
calculations, that he had looked forward to the union of his
daughter with the youth whom he had brought up as his own
son, and whose ample means, as well as his affection for the
lovely girl, left no doubt of his power and willingness to become
her protector.

What he had observed, during his sojourn at the cottage, led
old Sir Miles, however, who had assumed, as an act of duty,
no less than of pleasure, the character of executor to his old
friend, to suspect that the simple-minded sage had in some sort
reckoned without his host; and that on one side, at least, there
would be found insuperable objections to his views for Theresa's
future life. And in this opinion he was confirmed immediately
by a conversation which he had with the poor girl, so soon as
the first poignant agony of grief had passed from her mind.

In this state of affairs, an asylum at the manor was offered
by the old cavalier, and accepted by the orphan with equal
frankness, but with a most unequal sense of obligation — Sir
Miles regarding his part in the transaction as a thing of course,
Theresa looking on it as an action of the most exalted and extraordinary
generosity.

In truth, it had occurred already to the mind of the old knight
so soon as he was satisfied within himself that Theresa's affections
were not given to her wild and dangerous cousin, that he
would gladly see her the wife of his own almost idolized boy.
For, though of no exalted or ennobled lineage, she was of gentle
blood, of an honorable parentage, which had been long established
in the county, and which, if fallen in fortunes, had

never lost caste, or been degraded, as he would assuredly have
deemed it, by participation in any mechanical or mercantile pursuit.
He had seen enough of courts and courtiers to learn their
hollowness, and all the empty falsehood of their gorgeous show
— he had mingled enough in the great world to be convinced
that real happiness was not to be sought in the hurlyburly of its
perilous excitement, and incessant strife; and that which would
have rendered him the happiest, would have been to see Jasper
established, tranquilly, and at his ease, with domestic bonds to
insure the permanency of his happiness, before his own time
should come, as the lord of Widecomb.

And such were his views when he prevailed on Theresa to
let the House in the Woods be her home, until at least such
time as news could be received of her cousin; who, certainly,
whatever might be the relative state of their affections, would
never suffer her to want a home or a protector.

He had observed that Jasper was struck deeply by the charms
of the sweet girl; he knew, although he had affected not to
know it, that, under the pretence of fishing or shooting excursions,
he had been in the almost daily habit of visiting her,
since the accident which had led to their acquaintance; and he
was, above all, well assured that the girl loved him with all the
deep, unfathomable devotion of which such hearts as hers alone
are capable.

Well pleased was he, therefore, to see the beautiful being
established in the halls of which he hoped to see her, ere long,
the mistress; and if he did not declare his wishes openly to
either on the subject, it was that he was so well aware of his
son's headstrong and wilful temper, that he knew him fully
capable of refusing peremptorily the very thing which he most
desired, if proffered to him as a boon, much more urged upon
him as the desire of a third party — which he was certain to
regard as an interference with his free will and self-regulation

— while, at the same time he feared to alarm Theresa's delicacy,
by anticipating the progress of events.

Thus, with a heart overflowing with affection for that wild,
wilful, passionate boy, released from the only tie of obedience
or restraint that could have bound her, poor Theresa was delivered
over, fettered as it were, hand and foot, to the perilous
influence of Jasper's artifices, and the scarce less dangerous
suggestions of her own affections.

It was strange that, quick as she was and clever, even beyond
her sex's wonted penetration, where matters of the heart are
concerned, Theresa never suspected that the old cavalier had
long perceived and sanctioned their growing affection. But
idolizing Jasper as she did, and believing him all that was high
and generous and noble, seeing that all his external errors
tended to the side of rash, hasty impulse, never to calculation
or deceit, she saw everything, as it were, through his eyes, and
was easily induced by him to believe that all his fatherlike
kindness and fatherlike attention to her slightest wish, arose
only from his love for her lost parent, and compassion for her
sad abandonment; nay, further, he insisted that the least suspicion
of their mutual passion would lead to their instant and
eternal separation.

It was lamentable, that a being so bright, so excellent as she,
believing that such was the case, and bound as she was by the
closest obligations, the dearest gratitude to that good old man,
should have consented, even for a moment, to deceive him, much
more to frustrate his wishes in a point so vital.

But she was very young — she had been left without the
training of a mother's watchful heart, without the supervision of
a mother's earnest eye — she was endowed marvellously with
those extreme sensibilities which are invariably a part of that
high nervous organization, ever connected with poetical genius.
She loved Jasper with a devotedness, a singleness, and at the

same time a consuming heat of passion, which scarcely could
be believed to exist in one so calm, so self-possessed, and so
innocently-minded — and, above all, she had none else in the
wide world on whom to fix her affections.

And the boy profited by this; and with the sharpness of an
intellect, which, if far inferior to hers in depth and real greatness,
was as far superior to it in worldly selfishness and instinctive
shrewdness, played upon her nervous temperament,
till he could make each chord of her secret soul thrill to his
touch, as if they had been the keys of a stringed instrument.

The hearts of the young who love, must ever, must naturally
resent all interference of the aged, who would moderate or oppose
their love, as cold, intrusive tyranny; and thus, with plausible
and artful sophistry, abetted by the softness of her treacherous
heart, too willing to be deceived, he first led her to regard
his father as opposed to the wishes of that true love, which, for
all the great poet knew or had heard, “never did run smooth,”
and thence to resent that opposition as unkind, unjust, tyrannical.
And thence — alas! for Theresa! — to deceive the good
old man, her best friend on earth — ay, to deceive herself.

It is not mine to palliate, much less to justify her conduct.
I have but to relate a too true tale; and in relating it, to show,
in so for as I can, the mental operations, the self-deceptions,
and the workings of passion — from which not even the best
and purest of mankind are exempt — by which an innocent and
wonderfully-constituted creature was betrayed into one fatal
error.

She was persuaded — words can tell no more.

It was a grievous fault, and grievously Theresa answered it.

When ill things are devised, and to be done, ill agents are
soon found, especially by the young, the wealthy, and the powerful.

The declining health of Sir Miles St. Aubyn was no secret

in the neighborhood — the near approach of his death was already
a matter of speculation; and already men almost looked
upon Jasper as the lord, in esse, of the estates of Widecomb
manor.

The old white-headed vicar had a son, poor like himself, and
unaspiring — like himself, in holy orders; and for him, when
his own humble career should be ended, he hoped the reversion
of the vicarage, which was in the gift of the proprietor
of Widecomb. The old man had known Jasper from his boyhood,
had loved Theresa, whom he had, indeed, baptized, from
her cradle. He was very old and infirm, and some believed
that his intellect was failing. Between his affection for the
parties, and his interest in his son's welfare, it was easy to
frame a plausible tale, which should work him to Jasper's will;
and with even less difficulty than the boy looked for, he was
prevailed upon to unite them secretly, and at the dead of night,
in the parish-church at the small village by the fords.

The sexton of the parish-church was a low knave, with no
thought beyond his own interest, no wish but for accumulation
of gain. A gamekeeper, devoted to the young master's worst
desires, a fellow who had long ministered to his most evil
habits, and had, in no small degree, assisted to render him
what he was, only too willingly consented to aid in an affair
which he saw clearly would put the young heir in his power
for ever.

He was selected as one of the witnesses — for without witnesses,
the good but weak old vicar would not perform the ceremony;
and he promised to bring a second, in the person of
his aged and doting mother, the respectability of whose appearance
should do away with any scruples of Theresa's while her
infirmity should render her a safe depository of the most dangerous
secret.

And why all this mystery —this tortuous and base deviation

from the path of right — this unnecessary concealment, and unmeaning
deceit?

Wherefore, if the boy were, indeed, what he has been described,
and no more — impulsive, wilful, rash, headlong, irresistible
in his impulses — if not a base traitor, full of dark plots,
deep-laid beforehand — wherefore, if he did love the girl, with
all the love of which his character was capable, if he had not
predetermined to desert her — wherefore did he not wed her
openly in the light of day, amid crowds of glad friends, and
rejoicing dependants? Why did he not gladden the heart of
his aged father, and lead her to the home of his ancestors, a happy
and honored bride, without that one blot on her conscience,
without that one shadow of deceit, which marred the perfect
truthfulness of her character, and in after-days weighed on her
mind heavily?

A question to which no answer can be given, unless it be
that to tortuous minds the tortuous method is ever the readiest;
and intrigue — only for that it is intrigue — a joy to the intriguer.