University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Love—mighty love—deep, pure, inward, soul-stirring
love! Who in journeying through life
has not at sometime felt its rapturous pleasures—
its mental torturing pains?—for love has pleasures,
and love has pains:—pleasures the most
deeply thrilling—pains of the deepest anguish.
What a powerful thing is love! How it stirs up
all the secret springs of our being—rouses into
action energies and passions that we knew not
were in us—neutralizing, at the same time, and
sometimes almost completely destroying, others
that we deemed were all powerful. All potent
love! Monarch of the mental realm; to which
all—high or low, rich or poor,—are forced to
bow! Confined to no grade or clime, it sweeps
through the universe, and is felt in the soft airs of
Italy—in the frozen regions of Lapland. It stalks
through the palaces of the mighty ones of earth
—it lingers in the hovel of the peasant and the
outcast. It softens the hearts of emperors and
kings, and bends them to its will—it elevates,
tranquilizes, and makes contentment often in the
souls of the lowly born. It abounds in savage, as
in civilized life; and the untutored outpourings of
the artless Indian of the forest are as sweet to the
ear of the savage maiden, as the most refined and
flowery phrases of the courtly lover to her who
is polished by the arts of civilization. All conquering
love! Who can withstand it? It warms
into new life the heart of the stoic—it destroys
the seeming eternal reason raised fallacies of the
great philosopher; and as one by one his self-conquering
theories melt away before him, he
sighs to own that love is his master, and thus
prove himself a frail piece of mortality. All pervading
love! Who has not felt its presence?

O, it is sweet to love—to gaze upon some gentle
or noble being, and feel all the deep emotions,
all the secret sympathies of our nature centered
there, as it were a nucleus to our own vitality.—
And then to feel that that love is returned; to
know, to realize there is a spontaneous unity, a
sympathetic yearning of soul for soul; that there
is in this cold and selfish world at least one heart
in which we may place confidence—one being on
whom we can rely, to stand by us, let good or ill
betide—one kindred soul that will ever smile
when we rejoice, weep when we do mourn--O,
this, this is sweet—ay, sweet indeed! And who
hath not at some time of his or her life felt this?
and who that hath felt, hath not sighed a rejoicing
sigh that there was such a thing as love?

But love without hope—love without a reciprocity
of feeling—to love one that you know can
never be yours; one that you know loves another;
as Shakspeare says:

Oh, love without hope is terrible—terrible! To
feel your whole life and soul centred in a being—
a being every way worthy, but one who is in turn
fixed upon another, and sees you not, knows you
not, save as a friend—a friend in the cold, worldly
meaning of the term, and perhaps not even that,
or, what is worse, loves you as a sister or a brother,
and, dreaming not of a warmer feeling in your
own breast, makes you perchance a repository of
confidence, and paints in glowing colors your rival
to your face—oh, how this can wring the
heart!—how make it heave, and palpitate, and
burn, and ache; and the brain too, grow hot, and
seeth, and wither, and strain, and reel with this
one mighty, terrible truth—sapping at length all
the foundations of an otherwise noble intellect—
destroying the system, and ending in the cold and
silent grave! But few, comparatively speaking,
feel this, thank God! but oh, to those few, how
terrible the feeling! We may talk of the rack,
and the dumnable inventions of torture for the
physical man; but oh! what are they when compared
with the rack that rends the soul?

But, says the reader, on with the story! Ay,
and on with the story say we.

It was a beautiful morning--the same with which
we opened the chapter preceeding—and the sun,
as he rose in a reddened halo, and peered gently
over the eastern hill, poured his soft mild rays
through the doorway and open casements of Webber's
cottage, traced out bright spots upon the
curtains and floor, and seemed striving to give
every thing around, animate and inanimate, a
look of gladness to welcome his approach. All
nature without wore a cheerful smile; and every
little zephyr that passed went loaded with perfume
and song; but with these bright things our
task is not; ah, no! ours to peer into the depths of
that strange thing, the human heart, to decipher
the characters on its tablets, and thus trace the
cause of outward effects.

Let us now enter the apartment of the invalid,
some half hour after the departure of Webber,
Bernard and Tyrone. But two persons were
there—Emily and Rufus--Mrs. Webber being
employed with the morning labor of the house-wife
in the other apartment. Emily was seated
by a table—a few feet from the bed on which reclined
Rufus—with one soft pearly hand resting
upon it, and her now pale, sad, but still sweet face
inclined downwards, and her deep blue eyes gazing
upon the floor, with that peculiar expression
which tells the mind is absent. Sad though
she was, and with that touching sadness which
goes at once to the heart, yet one in gazing upon
her could scarcely wish her otherwise, she looked

so exceedingly lovely. She was dressed plain,
but neat; while her bright auburn hair was arranged
with that negligent grace which gives
even to beauty another charm; and as the rays of
the sun, occasionally, from the swaying of the
curtains, streamed in upon it, and deepened its
golden hue, one could easily fancy hers the head
of an angel encircled by a golden halo.

On the bed, with his head slightly raised and
supported by his hand—with his pale, wan, but
still handsome features turned towards Emily,
and his full blue eyes fastened tenderly but sadly
upon her—lay the gentle Rufus, a prey to a disease—a
disease of the mind—that was destined
ere long to bear him to that silent home,

And what was that disease—that strange disease
of the mind—that was wearing away one just ripening
into the bloom of manhood, with apparently
everything before him to make life happy?
What secret trouble in one so young could be
draining the fountains of life and making the fertile
spot a desert? It is time the reader should
know, if he or she (as we doubt not) have not already
divined. He was dying of hopeless love! Ay,
and before him sat the being in whom his vitality,
as it were, was centered—totally unconscious of
his consuming passion. And well was it for her
she knew it not; for it would have been another
pang—ay, and a terrible one—to a gentle heart
already too full of anguish! She could not have
returned his passion, for her own heart was set
upon another; and to know him daily wasting
away—and to know, too, that she was the cause
—would have been a grief almost insupportable.
This he knew, from what he had seen and heard,
and had resolved to carry his secret with him to
the grave, which he now felt was not far distant.

Thrown together in childhood, from a child up
Rufus had loved Emily—deeply, purely loved her
—and his was a soul to love but one, and that one
with an intensity of passion more powerful than
life itself. His playmate in youth, he had dreamed
bright dreams of coming years—had painted
beautiful and happy pictures from the fancy
wrought scenes of the shaded future; dreams
which had proved but dreams—pictures in which
there was no reality. His first pang had been on
their first separation some years before; but he had
been buoyed up and soothed by the charmer Hope.
He had thought of her daily, almost hourly, during
her absence—had longed for, and yet almost
dreaded the meeting with her again. That meeting
had at last taken place, and he had seen her,
after a long absence, blooming in all the graces of
a refined, noble, intellectual woman! He had
seen her more polished and beautiful than even
an ardent fancy had painted her, and with his
own mind more expanded and matured, he had felt
his passion more intense; which, like the pent up
waters of a spring, he knew must find vent, or,
pressed back into its source, the heart, undermine,
and finally destroy the clayey casement
around it.

But alas for him! too soon he discovered another
had at least fixed her attention, if not already
won her affections, and a strong presentiment had
told him the result. Still the presentiment had
not proved a certainty, and the sweet voice of the
charmer Hope had occasionally whispered, “All
may yet be well.”

Thus six months had rolled away, with him al
most wearily; for although near the gentle being
of his secret love, yet he daily had seen new evidences
to prove him farther from her heart than
ever; and doubts, and fears, with occasionally a
ray of hope, and sleepless nights, and days of anguish,
had already done their work on a constitution
never at any time the strongest. Thus,
we say, six months had rolled away, which brings
us to the opening of our story—the night of the
storm, and of Emily's capture—in which the reader
will remember his introduction and singular conduct.
And yet that conduct and result, when we
know the motive power—the state of his constitution,
and temperament—appears perfectly simple
and natural. And so it is, we may add, with
every thing in nature—everything around us,
that to our limited vision appears mysterious for
the time,—no sooner do we learn the cause, than
we admit the effect could not have been otherwise,
without violating some law of nature.

On the day in question, then, when he had
seen Emily ride forth with Edward, a presentiment
had come over him of trouble, and sorrow
to come; and his steps had been slow, his brow
clouded, and his heart heavy; and hence the cause
of his wild manner, which had so surprised his
father, when it became evident some accident had
occurred to prevent their return. Having paused,
as the reader will remember, a moment on the
hill, he had learned from Tyrone the whole state
of the case, and again dashed on with a wildness
bordering on insanity. Instinctively—for reason
could scarcely be deemed paramount with him
then—he had shaped his course directly for the
Mississippi; but ere he could reach it, his quick
ear had caught the sound of her sweet voice; and
at the same time, by the light of the moon, he
had descried both Edward and Emily approaching.
Being completely in the shade, they had
not observed him; and instantly reining his
horse to one side, he had waited in a thicket for
them to pass. And then and there, in that lonely
place, with his mind torn on the rack of terrible
excitement, he had heard soft words from her
own sweet lips that went like daggers to his
heart, and extinguished the last faint gleam of
hope.

For a few minutes after that magical voice had
died away in the distance, Rufus had sat his horse
more like a statue than a human being. And
then and there a terrible feeling had swept over
him; a feeling of despair and death—a consciousness
of life, but life with heated irons on his
brain, and poisoned arrows in his heart—while
reason, like a candle consumed to the stick, was
flickering in the socket. For a few minutes he
had sat thus; and then, with reason and instinct
combined, had come a desire to reach home. Mechauically
he had urged his high-spirited beast
onward, and taking a circuitous route, had come
into the road ahead of Edward and Emily, who,
in consequence, had never seen him. Thus he
reached home, as we have previously shown, long
in advance of the others; but the excitement only
had supported him; and when the foaming steed
paused at the door, and he had announced their
safety, his nerves relaxed, reason for the time
fled, and he had been borne into the house in a
high state of fever, placed upon a bed, from
which he was destined never to rise. That there
were other causes, besides these we have mentioned,
combined to produce his sickness, we do
not deny; but that these were the only preventatives
to his recovery, we assert. Having thus

laid bare the secrets of his heart, and the causes
of what might otherwise seem mysterious actions,
let us new turn to him again.

For a few minutes Rufus gazed upon Emily
Nevance—who still sat as we have described
her—with a look of intense sadness; and then
with a deep drawn sigh, he said:

“Why do you look so sad, Emily? I fear
something has gone wrong with you!”

At the sound of his voice, which was low and
musical, Emily started, raised her face—now
somewhat flushed—and turning to Rufus, looked
at him earnestly a moment, and then replied:

“Sad, Rufus; do I then look sad?”

“Indeed you do, Emily; very, very sad. I
noticed it yesterday, after your return from a
walk; and I have noticed, too, that you have not
smiled since, as you used to do. I fear something
troubles you, Emily!”

Emily's face grew a shade paler. “You are
right, Rufus,” she answered; “something does
trouble me—though I did not intend to betray it
by my looks.”

“Will you not tell me what it is?” asked he,
tenderly.

Emily shook her head sadly, and said: “No, I
must not reveal it to you, Rufus!”

“True,” he returned, while a look of anguish
swept ever his pale, thin, but still handsome
features: “I should have remembered, ere I asked,
that I am not your confident.”

“Nor is any one my confident in this matter,
Rufus,” rejoined Emily, quickly, a little touched
at his remark, while the color again tinged her
fair features: “I would tell you as soon as another,
Rufus!”

“Forgive me, Emily, forgive me!” returned
he, sinking back upon the pillow, and placing his
hand to his head as though in pain. “I was too
hasty, and wronged you. I know you would tell
me if it was proper for me to know.”

Emily was affected; and approaching the bed,
she took one of his thin hands in hers, while a tear
glistened in her eye. “Oh, you are so sensitive!”
she said; “but do not be troubled so, dear Rufus,
or I shall grow more sad myself. You ask me to
forgive you. I would gladly do so, had I any
thing to forgive; but the fault was all my own. I
should not have spoken so hastily, knowing your
almost too sensitive nature.”

For a moment Rufus made no reply, while
Emily stood by him, one of his hands pressed in
hers, and the other upon his eyes; and then, with
a great effort at composure, in a voice slightly
trembling, he enquired:

“Have you seen Edward, of late?”

“But once since that terrible night,” answered
Emily, casting down her eyes, while an involuntary
sigh escape I her, which Rufus noted. “He
came once, about a week since, while you were
lying in that dangerous state, but made only a
short stay, as we were all too much engaged to
talk with him.”

“Doubtless ere long he will be here again?”
said Rufus, enquiringly.

“He mentioned to-day, when he departed,” returned
Emily, with her eyes still bent downward.
“But you are agitated, Rufus,” continued
she, suddenly looking up, as she felt his hand
tremble in hers: “What troubles you thus, Rufus?”

“It is passed,” he answered, after a moment's
silence. “I am somewhat subject to nervous
agitations, and this was one.”

“But what is the cause of these?” asked Emily.
“I have often noticed such before at different periods
during your illness.”

“Nay, Emily,” returned he sadly, “I cannot
answer you.”

“I fear something lies heavy on your mind,”
rejoined Emily, soothingly. “Oh, that I had the
power to alleviate, and restore you to health and
cheerfulness!”

Rufus withdrew his hand from his eyes as Emily
spoke, and gazed upon her long and earnestly,
with an expression which one of Emily's perception,
but less occupied than she with painful
thoughts, would never have mistaken. “Do not
think of me,” he said, at length. “You have, it
I divine rightly, trouble enough of your own.
As to health and cheerfulness, I shall see them no
more.”

“Oh, do not—do not talk thus!” returned Emily,
quickly. “Banish, Rufus, banish all such
gloomy thoughts! You are young, and I see no
reason why you should not have before you a
long life of happiness.”

Rufus shook his head sadly. “Ah, you do not
see,” he answered, “because you cannot see,
Emily; but he not deceived. I have a presentiment
that speaks to me in a voice you cannot hear,
by which I feel certain I shall never recover.”

“But why should you think thus, Rufus?—
Your physician has pronounced you out of
danger, and says that in a few days you will be
entirely well again.”

“Ah, Emily, I repeat, be not deceived. My
physician, doubtless, is a very good and skilful
one, but in this he is mistaken, as time will shortly
prove. Yes, I feel that I am upon a bed of death.
But a little while and I shall pass from among
the living—missed and mourned by a few only—
and quickly be forgotten.”

“Oh no, no—not forgotten, Rufus,” exclaimed
Emily, vehemently; “not forgotten, while Emily
Nevance lives! But come, come,” added she,
“do not talk of such things; they make me more
and more sad!”

“Well, well,” rejoined Rufus, gently, “we will
talk of them no more then, Emily; for Heaven
knows you are sad enough with matters of your
own, without being burdened with an additional
weight from me! We will strive to be more
cheerful, Emily; we will talk of the past. You
shall tell me of your life in the city, and how you
first became acquainted with the noble Edward
Merton.”

At the mention of the name of Edward, Rufus
perceived a gentle glow suffuse the cheeks of
Emily; and a brightening of the eye, with a look of
pleasure, told plainly that the task he had assigned
her was by no means a hard one. And such
was the fact. Oppressed by a weight of gloomy
thoughts of impending evil, since her interview
with John the day previous, Emily felt glad of
anything that would for the time relieve her; and
seating herself by the side of Rufus, she immediately
complied with his request; and began by
telling him her first sensations when she arrived
in the great metropolis—spoke of the manners
and customs of the citizens—of the different
grades of society—and, finally, touched upon Edward—their
first interview—gradually launching
out upon his noble appearance, manly qualities,
and generous nature. As she did so, her very
soul appeared to run in her voice, her eyes sparkled,
her features became animated, and she seemed for
the time completely carried away by a noble enthusiasm.

Alas, little did she know that every
word she uttered went like pointed steel to the
heart of Rufus! Little did she dream that her
narration was placing him upon a rack of mental
torture! But Rufus knew before the state of her
feelings; and he had asked her to speak of the past,
and of Edward, merely to relieve her of the gloomy
thoughts which he knew must be occupying her
mind, to cause her so much sadness. This he did,
regardless of the pain it occasioned himself, which
he bore with a sort of melancholy or saddened
gladness—if the reader will allow us an expression
so paradoxical.

Thus passed two hours, when the conversation
was interrupted by the arrival of Edward himself.
Emily started up with an expression of joy, and
sprang to the door to meet him, while Rufus
turned his head away, for a few moments, ere his
entrance, with a look of deep anguish. When
Edward did enter, however, all was calm again,
and Rufus turned to him with a smile, and friendly
greeting. Nor was this forced for appearance
sake as one might suppose; for in his heart Rufus
cherished for his rival the most friendly feelings
—believing him to be a warm hearted, noble fellow—and
the cause of his anguish, when Emily
spoke of Edward, might be attributed to grief at
his own hopeless fate, rather than to envy or jealousy
of the other.

After passing the usual salutations of the day,
and some little conversation on other matters had
occurred, Merton proceeded to look to the condition
of his horse; which done, he returned to the
house, and passed the morning in a social way, in
company with Emily and Rufus, occasionally
joined for a few minutes by Mrs. Webber herself.

After dinner, as the day was so fine, Edward
proposed to Emily to take a short ride through
the country. “You seem to be somewhat depressed
in spirits,” he said, “and I think a little
healthy exercise in the open air will prove highly
beneficial to you.”

Emily hesitated some moments, ere making a
reply, while a heavy foreboding of coming ill depressed
her even more. At length she answered.
“I somehow do not think it advisable to go forth
to-day; and besides, did I wish to, my Fanny is
absent, on an expedition of a different nature, so
you percieve I have no animal to ride.”

“Well, you shall take mine then,” returned
Edward, “while I will content myself to walk.—
But go you must, most certainly, Emily; for I
know it will be for your good—otherwise I would
not urge you.”

After some farther gentle persuasion, Emily
consented, on condition they should not go far,
and return ere nightfall.

“Your distance and time shall be mine,” answered
Merton; and proceeding at once to the stable,
he shifted the saddle, and directly led forth
his noble beast, which seemed to walk as though
already conscious of the lovely burden he was
about to bear. Emily in the meantime had put
on her riding dress, velvet cap, and stood in the
door awaiting his return—with her green veil
thrown back from her fair features, which now
looked more beautiful than ever. As Merton led
forth the graceful animal, Emily marked with an
experienced eye his stately step, his full breast,
his handsomely curved neck, and, as she did so, a
smile of pride lingered around the corners of her
mouth, giving an animation to her whole face—
pride for the animal of which she was soon to
become, as 'twere, a part.

While standing thus, and when Edward had
approached within a few paces, she heard the
voice of Rufus, and turned back to know what
was required.

“Come hither, Emily,” he said, in a low tone,
as she entered the room, partly raising himself in
bed; “come hither; I have a few words to say to
you.” As Emily approached, she perceived he
was a good deal agitated, and once or twice he
pressed his hand to his temples as though in pain.

“You seem troubled, Rufus,” remarked she,
gently. “Are you more ill than usual?”

“I am far from being well,” he replied, taking
her hand, and gazing upon her with a sad, carnest
expression, which she could not account for. “I
am far from being well, Emily; but I did not call
you back to tell you of my ailings.”

“What then, Rufus?” asked she mildly, with a
tender look, as he paused; “what then?”

“Perhaps you will laugh at me, Emily, for what
I am going to say,” replied he solemnly; “yet I
beg of you to heed it well!”

“I shall not laugh, Rufus, say on!” rejoined
Emily.

“I see by your dress,” he continued; “you are
going forth for a ride. Do not ride far, and make
sure of your return ere the shadows stretch their
full length toward the east!”

“Such was my intention, Rufus,” returned
Emily, surprised at his carnest look and tone;
“but why this caution from you?”

“I know not why, Emily,” answered he sadly,
“but something tells me if we do not meet
again ere the sun has sunk to rest, we meet no
more in time.”

“Why this is strange imagining, Rufus—very
strange!” said Emily, quickly and solemnly, her
own foreboding recurring to her. “What reason
have you for thinking thus, Rufus?”

“I can give no reason, Emily, save that God,
who orders all things for the best, sees proper at
times, to warn us of approaching danger and dissolution,
by what is called a presentiment; which,
in my opinion, is but the spirit acting for a short
period without the physical taking cognizance
thereof—and thus pierces and shows us what is
directly impending behind the veil of the future.”

“I too have had some strange forebodings of
late,” said Emily, thoughtfully; “though I scarcely
know to what they tend.”

“Ah, that accounts for your sadness, then!” rejoined
Rufus; “but if you feel any hesitation now,
Emily, I beg of you not to go—for I cannot shake
off the idea, that if you do, we part for the last
time!”

“Oh, do not think and say thus!” exclaimed
Emily, with emotion, who in spite of herself felt
a feeling of awe creeping over her. “Do not say
thus, Rufus! You have long years before you
yet.”

Rufus shook his head with a wan smile.—
“You do not know,” he said, “what I know, or
you would not say that. I repeat what I have told
you before, that from this bed I shall never rise!”

“Are you nearly ready?” enquired the voice
of Merton from without.

“I must go, dear Rufus, for I have promised
him I would; otherwise I would not;” said Emily,
hastily. “But I will not go far, Rufus, and
will return ere sunset; this I promise you.”

“Well,” returned Rufus, sadly, his eyes filling
with tears, “God enable you to keep your promise,
Emily! but for fear of the worst I bid you
farewell!” and he pressed her hand respectfully

to his lips. “If we do not meet again on earth,”
he added, in a trembling voice, “I trust we shall in
Heaven! Farewell.”

“But you unnerve me, Rufus,” said Emily,
bursting into tears. “Surely you are making a
too solemn affair of this—or are you in reality
dying, Rufus?” and the very thought seemed to
startle her.

“I do not feel myself to be dying in the literal
sense of the term,” answered Rufus. “I may
live weeks, even months to come; and I may
scarcely live days—so uncertain do I look upon
the time allotted me.”

“Nay, then, Rufus,” returned Emily, hastily
drying her tears, “do not give way to such gloomy
thoughts. I will return again presently; but I
see Edward is getting impatient, and I must not
keep him longer waiting. There, good bye!” and
bending down as she spoke, she pressed a kiss
upon his forehead, and turned quickly away.

“Farewell!” uttered he again, in a low, trembling
voice. “If we should never meet again,
Emily, remember I—I cannot tell you,” he
said, as she paused near the door—“so farewell!”
and he sunk back upon his pillow, and turned his
head away; while Emily, her heart beating with
strange emotions, quickly joined Edward.

As Emily approached, Edward could not but
perceive that she had been weeping; but wisely
choosing to make no comment thereon, he assisted
her to mount, and merely saying, “To the
north, Emily,” he led her horse forward in that
direction a short distance, and then yielding the
guidance wholly to her, walked along by her side.

Their departure had been marked with an eager
look, by a tall figure, standing a little distance in
the rear of the cottage—on whose features, as
they passed from his sight, played a strange, dark
smile; and muttering, “Now is my time!” he
turned quickly round, and abruptly disappeared.

Who was that figure? and what was the meaning
of those singular words?