University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

That one groan spoke more keenly to the conscience of the
miserable wretch within than did all her pleadings. The deep,
midnight silence which succeeded was conclusive of the despair
of the wretched girl. It not only said that she was alone, abandoned
of all others—but that she was abandoned by herself. The
very forbearance of the usual reproaches—her entire submission
to her fate—stung and goaded the base deceiver, by compelling
his own reflections, on his career and conduct, to supply the place
of hers. He was young, and, therefore, not entirely reckless.
He felt that he lacked manliness—that courage which enables a
man to do right from feeling, even where, in matters of principle,
he does not appreciate the supremacy of virtue. Some miserable
fears that her friends might still be in lurking, and, as he could
not conjecture the desperation of a big heart, full of feeling, bursting
with otherwise unutterable emotions, he flattered himself with
the feeble conclusion, that, disappointed in her attempts upon him,
the poor deluded victim had returned home as she came. Still,
his conscience did not suffer him to sleep. He had his doubts.
She might be still in the neighbourhood—she might be swooning
under his window. He rose. We may not divine his intentions.
It may have been—and we hope so for the sake of man and humanity—it
may have been that he rose repentant, and determined
to take the poor victim to his arms, and do all the justice to her
love and sufferings that it yet lay in his power to do. He went
to the window, and leant his ear down to listen. Nothing reached
him but the deep soughing of the wind through the branches, but
even this more than once startled him with such a resemblance
to human moaning that he shuddered at his place of watch. His
window was one of those unglazed openings in the wall, such as
are common in the humbler cottages of a country where the cold
is seldom of long duration, and where the hardy habits of the people
render them comparatively careless of those agents of comfort

which would protect against it. It was closed, not very snugly,
by a single shutter, and fastened by a small iron hook within.
Gradually, as he became encouraged by the silence, he raised
this hook, and, still grasping it, suffered the window to expand so
as to enable him to take into his glance, little by little, the prospect
before him. The moon was now rising above the trees, and
shedding a ghastly light upon the unshadowed places around.
The night was growing colder, and in the chill under which his
own frame shivered, he thought of poor Margaret and her cheerless
walk that night. He looked down for her immediately beneath
the window, but she was not there, and for a few moments
his eyes failed to discover any object beyond the ordinary shrubs
and trees. But as his vision became more and more accustomed
to the indistinct outlines and shadowy glimpses under which, in
that doubtful light, objects naturally presented themselves, he
shuddered to behold a whitish form gleaming fitfully, as if waving
in the wind, from a little clump of woods not forty yards from
the house. He recoiled, closed the window with trembling
hands, and got down upon his knees—but it was to cower, not to
pray—and he did not remain in this position for more than a second.
He then dressed himself, with hands that trembled too much
to allow him, without much delay, to perform this ordinary office.
Then he hurried into his shop—opened the door, which he as instantly
bolted again, then returned to his chamber—half undressed
himself, as if again about to seek his bed—resumed his garments,
re-opened the window, and gazed once more upon the indistinct
white outline which had inspired all his terrors. How long he
thus stood gazing, how many were his movements of incertitude,
what were his thoughts and what his purposes, may not be said—
may scarcely be conjectured. It is very certain that every effort
which he made to go forth and examine more closely the object
of his sight and apprehensions, utterly failed—yet a dreadful fascination
bound him to the window. If he fled to the interior and
shut his eyes, it was only for a moment. He still returned to the
spot, and gazed, and gazed, until the awful ghost of the unhappy
girl spoke out audibly, to his ears, and filled his soul with the
most unmitigated horrors.