University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

That girl was the most artless—the most
innocent of all God's creatures. Strange! that
she should be condemned as a sacrifice to the
wishes of the worst and wildest. But, it was
her fate, not less than mine! Need I say that
I—whose touch has cursed and contaminated
all whose ill fortunes doomed them to any
connexion with me—I blighted and blasted
that innocence, and changed the smile into the
tear, and the hope into the sorrow, of that fond
and foolishly confiding creature. We were
both, comparatively, children.—She was, indeed,
in all respects a child—but I—I had
lived years—many years of concentrated wickedness
and crime. To do wrong was to be

myself—it was natural. That I should deceive
and dishonor, is not therefore matter of
surprize; but that there should be no guardian
angel—no protecting shield for the unwary
and the innocent, would seem to manifest an
unwise improvidence in the dispenser of things.
A few months of our intimacy only had elapsed.
In the quiet and secluded bower where
we had first met, she lay in my arms. I had
wrought her imagination to the utmost. With
a stern sense and consciousness, all the while,
of what I was doing, I had worked industriously
upon the natural passions of her bosom.
Her lips were breathing and burning beneath
my own. Her bosom was beating violently
against mine. My arm encircled and clasped
her closely. There was a warm languor
in the atmosphere—the trees murmured not—
the winds were at repose—no warning voice
rose in the woods—no tempest blackened in
the sky—the shrill scream of a solitary bird
at that moment might have broken the spell—
might have saved the victim. But the scream
came not—the fates had decreed it—body and
soul, the victim was mine. She was no longer
the pure, the glad, the innocent and unstained
angel I had first known her. Her
eyes were now downcast and fearful—her
frame trembled with all the consciousness of
guilt. She gave up all to her affection for
one so worthless—so undeserving as myself:
yet had she not my affections, though loving
me, even as the young and morning flower
may be seen to link and entwine itself with
and about the deadly and venomous nightshade?

Our intercourse was continued in this way
for several months. The consequences now
began to threaten Emily with exposure, and
she hourly besought me to provide against
them by our marriage, as I had already frequently
promised her to do. But I had no
idea of making any such sacrifice. The passion
which had prompted me at first, had no
longer a place in my bosom. I did not any
longer continue to deceive myself with the belief
that she either was or could be any thing
to me. She had few attractions now in my
sight, and though still beautiful, more touchingly
so, indeed, from an habitual sadness
which her features had been taught to wear,
than ever,—I had learned to be disgusted and
to sicken at the frequency of her complaints,
and the urgency and extravagance of her requisitions.

Still, I could not yet desert her
entirely. I saw her frequently, and in various
ways sought, not merely to evade her
entreaties, but to soothe and alleviate her distresses.

To full manhood I had now attained, and it
was thought advisable by my father, that, as I
had nothing else to do, I should employ myself
in addressing a lady whom he had already
chosen, as worthy to be the consort of so hopeful
a son. And she was so. Constance Claiborne
was not merely young, beautiful and
wealthy—she was amiable and accomplished.
Our parents arranged the matter between
them, before either of the parties most interested,
knew or suspected any thing of what
was going on. I had as yet heard nothing of
the affair. But that was no objection. It

proved none with me. I was not unwilling,
for many reasons, that the marriage should
take place. It will be sufficient to name one
of these reasons. Though liberal, the allowance
of money for my own expenditure, which
I received from my father, had, for a long time
past, been inadequate to the wants which my
excesses necessarily occasioned. I had got
largely into debt. I was harrassed by creditors;
and had been compelled to resort to various
improper expedients, to meet my exigencies.
My more recent habits rendered a
still further increase of stipend essential, for
though, for some months, I had given my time
chiefly to Emily, I had not yet so entirely
divested myself of my old associates as to
do with less money. My pride too, would
not permit her to want for many things, and I
had contributed, not a little towards the improvement
of the condition of her family.
It is well perhaps, that, in a chronicle of
crime, almost unvarying, I should not altogether
overlook those instances of conduct,
which, if not praiseworthy, were, at least, not
criminal. The marriage was therefore determined
upon. Constance was an obedient
child, and, without an affection existing, she
consented to become my wife. Still, though
making up my determination, without scruple
on the subject, I confess I was not altogether
at ease when my thoughts reverted to the
condition of the poor girl I had dishonored.
But what was that condition. In pecuniary
matters, I could make her better off than
ever—and, so far as caste was concerned—
she could suffer no loss, for she had known
no society. I never thought of the intrinsic
value and necessity of virtue. My considerations
were all selfish, and tributary to conventional
estimates. With regard to our connexion,
I saw no difficulty in marrying the heiress,
and still enjoying, as before, the society
of Emily. Matrimonial fidelity was still less
a subject of concern; and, adjusting, in this
way, the business and relations of the future,
I hurried the arrangements and prepared assiduously
for the enjoyments of the bridal.