University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

The reading of this letter, though it made me mournful,
did not hinder me from paying the visit I intended.
My friend noticed my discomposure.

What, Arthur, thou are quite the “penseroso” to
night. Come, let me cheer thee with a song. Thou
shalt have thy favorite ditty:—She stepped to the instrument,
and with more than airy lightness, touched
and sung:

Now knit hands and beat the ground

In a light, fantastic round,

Till the tell-tale sun descry

Our conceal'd solemnity.

Her music, though blithsome and aerial, was not
sufficient for the end. My cheerfulness would not return
even at her bidding. She again noticed my sedateness,
and enquired into the cause.

This girl of mine, said I, has infected me with her
own sadness. There is a letter I have just received
—she took it and began to read.

Meanwhile, I placed myself before her, and fixed my
eyes steadfastly upon her features. There is no book
in which I read with more pleasure, than the face of
woman. That is generally more full of meaning, and
of better meaning too, than the hard and inflexible lineaments
of man, and this woman's face has no parallel.

She read it with visible emotion. Having gone
through it, she did not lift her eye from the paper, but
continued silent, as if buried in thought. After some
time, for I would not interrupt the pause, she addressed
me thus:

This girl seems to be very anxious to be with you.

As much as I am that she should be so.—My friend's
countenance betrayed some perplexity. As soon as I
perceived it, I said, why are you thus grave? Some
little confusion appeared as if she would not have her
gravity discovered. There again, said I, new tokens
in your face, my good mamma, of something which you
will not mention. Yet, sooth to say, this is not your
first perplexity. I have noticed it before, and wondered.
It happens only when my Bess is introduced.
Something in relation to her it must be, but what I
cannot imagine. Why does her name, particularly,
make you thoughtful; disturbed; dejected?—There
now—but I must know the reason. You don't agree
with me in my notions of this girl, I fear, and you
will not disclose your thoughts.

By this time, she had gained her usual composure,
and without noticing my comments on her looks, said:
Since you are both of one mind, why does she not leave
the country?

That cannot be, I believe. Mrs. Stevens says it
would be disreputable. I am no proficient in etiquette,
and must, therefore, in affairs of this kind, be guided
by those who are. But would to Heaven, I were truly
her father or brother. Then all difficulties would be
done away.

Can you seriously wish that?

Why no. I believe it would be more rational to
wish that the world would suffer me to act the fatherly
or brotherly part, without the relationship.

And is that the only part you wish to act towards
this girl?

Certainly, the only part.

You surprize me. Have you not confessed your
love for her?

I do love her. There is nothing upon earth more
dear to me than my Bess.

But love is of different kinds. She was loved by her
father—

Less than by me. He was a good man, but not of
lively feelings. Besides, he had another daughter, and
they shared his love between them, but she has no sister
to share my love. Calamity too, has endeared her
to me; I am all her consolation, dependence and hope,
and nothing, surely, can induce me to abandon her.

Her reliance upon you, for happiness, replied my
friend, with a sigh, is plain enough.

It is: but why that sigh? And yet I understand it.
It remonstrates with me on my incapacity for her support.
I know it well, but it is wrong to be cast down.
I have youth, health and spirits, and ought not to despair
of living for my own benefit and hers; but you
sigh again, and it is impossible to keep my courage
when you sigh. Do tell me what you mean by it?

You partly guessed the cause. She trusts to you for
happiness, but I somewhat suspect she trusts in vain.

In vain! I beseech you tell me why you think so.

You say you love her—why then not make her your
wife?

My wife! Surely her extreme youth, and my destitute
condition, will account for that.

She is fifteen: the age of delicate fervor; of inartificial
love, and suitable enough for marriage. As to
your condition, you may live more easily together than
apart. She has no false taste or perverse desires to
gratify. She has been trained in simple modes and habits.
Besides, that objection can be removed another
way. But are these all your objections?

Her youth I object to, merely in connection with her
mind. She is too little improved to be my wife. She
wants that solidity of mind; that maturity of intelligence
which ten years more may possibly give her, but
which she cannot have at this age.

You are a very prudential youth; then you are willing
to wait ten years for a wife?

Does that follow? Because my Bess will not be qualified
for wedlock, in less time, does it follow that I
must wait for her?

I spoke on the supposition that you loved her.

And that is true; but love is satisfied with studying
her happiness as her father or brother. Some years
hence, perhaps in half a year, for this passion, called
wedded, or marriage-wishing love, is of sudden growth,
my mind may change, and nothing may content me but
to have Bess for my wife. Yet I do not expect it.

Then you are determined against marriage with this
girl.

Of course; until that love comes which I feel not
now; but which, no doubt, will come, when Bess has
had the benefit of five or eight years more, unless previously
excited by another.

All this is strange, Arthur. I have heretofore supposed
that you actually loved (I mean with the marririage-seeking
passion) your Bess.

I believe I once did; but it happened at a time when
marriage was improper; in the life of her father and
sister, and when I had never known in what female excellence
consisted. Since that time my happier lot has
cast me among women so far above Eliza Hadwin; so
far above, and so widely different from any thing which
time is likely to make her, that I own, nothing appears
more unlikely than that I shall ever love her.

Are you not a little capricious in that respect, my
good friend? You have praised your Bess as rich in natural
endowments; as having an artless purity and rectitude
of mind, which somewhat supersedes the use of
formal education; as being full of sweetness and tenderness,
and in her person a very angel of loveliness.

All that is true. I never saw features and shape so
delicately beautiful; I never knew so young a mind so
quick sighted and so firm; but, nevertheless, she is
not the creature whom I would call my wife. My bosom
slave; counsellor; friend; the mother; the pattern;
the tutress of my children must be a different
creature.

But what are the attributes of this desirable which
Bess wants?

Every thing she wants. Age, capacity, acquirements,
person, features, hair, complexion, all, all are
different from this girl's.

And pray of what kind may they be?

I cannot pourtray them in words—but yes, I can:—
The creature whom I shall worship:—it sounds oddly,
but, I verily believe, the sentiment which I shall feel
for my wife, will be more a kin to worship than any
thing else. I shall never love, but such a creature as
I now image to myself, and such a creature will deserve,
or almost deserve, worship—but this creature, I
was going to say, must be the exact counterpart, my
good mamma—of yourself.

This was said very earnestly, and with eyes and manners
that fully expressed my earnestness: perhaps my
expressions were unwittingly strong and emphatic, for
she started and blushed, but the cause of her discomposure,
whatever it was, was quickly removed, and she
said:

Poor Bess! This will be sad news to thee!

Heaven forbid! said I, of what moment can my
opinions be to her?

Strange questioner that thou art. Thou knowest
that her gentle heart is touched with love. See how it
shews itself in the tender and inimitable strain of this
epistle. Does not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch
you?

It does so, and I love, beyond expression, the sweet
girl; but my love is in some inconceivable way, different
from the passion which that other creature will produce.
She is no stranger to my thoughts. I will impart
every thought over and over to her. I question
not but I shall make her happy without forfeiting my
own.

Would marriage with her, be a forfeiture of your
happiness?

Not absolutely, or forever, I believe. I love her
company. Her absence for a long time is irksome. I

cannot express the delight with which I see and hear
her. To mark her features, beaming with vivacity;
playful in her pleasures; to hold her in my arms, and
listen to her prattle; always musically voluble; always
sweetly tender, or artlessly intelligent—and this
you will say is the dearest privilege of marriage: and so
it is; and dearly should I prize it; and yet, I fear my
heart would droop as often as that other image should
occur to my fancy. For then, you know, it would occur
as something never to be possessed by me.

Now this image might, indeed, seldom occur. The
intervals, at least, would be serene. It would be my
interest to prolong these intervals as much as possible,
and my endeavors to this end, would, no doubt, have
some effect. Besides, the bitterness of this reflection
would be lessened by contemplating, at the same time,
the happiness of my beloved girl.

I should likewise have to remember, that to continue
unmarried, would not necessarily secure me the possession
of the other good—

But these reflections, my friend (broke she in upon
me) are of as much force to induce you to marry, as to
reconcile you to marriage already contracted.

Perhaps they Assuredly, I have not a hope that
the fancied excellence will ever be mine. Such happiness
is not the lot of humanity, and is, least of all,
within my reach.

Your diffidence, replied my friend, in a timorous accent,
has not many examples; but your character,
without doubt, is all your own, possessing all and
disclaiming all, is, in few words, your picture.

I scarcely understand you. Do you think I ever
shall be happy to that degree which I have imagined.
Think you I shall ever meet with an exact copy of
yourself!

Unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with
many better. Your Bess, in personals, is, beyond measure,
my superior, and in mind, allowing for difference
in years, quite as much so.

But that, returned I, with quickness and fervor, is
not the object. The very counterpart of you I want;
neither worse nor better, nor different in any thing.
Just such form, such features, such hues. Just that
melting voice, and above all, the same habits of thinking
and conversing. In thought, word and deed;
gesture, look and form, that rare and precious creature
whom I shall love, must be your resemblance. Your—

Have done with these comparisons, interrupted she,
in some hurry, and let us return to the country girl,
thy Bess.

You once, my friend, wished me to treat this girl of
yours as my sister. Do you know what the duties of a
sister are?

They imply no more kindness or affection than you
already feel toward my Bess. Are you not her sister?

I ought to have been so. I ought to have been proud
of the relation you ascribe to me, but I have not
performed any of its duties. I blush to think upon
the coldness and perverseness of my heart. With such
means as I possess, of giving happiness to others, I
have been thoughtless and inactive to a strange degree;
perhaps, however, it is not yet too late. Are you still
willing to invest me with all the rights of an elder sister
over this girl? And will she consent, think you?

Certainly, she will; she has.

Then the first act of sistership, will be to take her
from the country; from persons on whose kindness she
has no natural claim, whose manners and characters are
unlike her own, and with whom no improvement can be
expected, and bring her back to her sister's house and
bosom, to provide for her subsistence and education,
and watch over her happiness.

I will not be a nominal sister. I will not be a sister
by halves. All the rights of that relation I will have,
or none. As for you, you have claims upon her, on
which I must be permitted to judge, as becomes the elder
sister, who, by the loss of all other relations,
must occupy the place, possess the rights, and fulfil the
duties of father, mother and brother.

She has now arrived at an age, when longer to remain
in a cold and churlish soil, will stunt her growth and
wither her blossoms. We must hasten to transplant her
to a genial element, and a garden well enclosed. Having
so long neglected this charming plant, it becomes
me henceforth to take her wholly to myself.

And now, for it is no longer in her or your power to
take back the gift, since she is fully mine, I will charge
you with the office of conducting her hither. I grant
it to you as a favor. Will you go?

Go! I will fly! I exclaimed, in an extacy of joy,
on pinions swifter than the wind. Not the lingering of
an instant will I bear. Look! one, two, three—thirty
minutes after nine. I will reach Curling's gate by the
morn's dawn. I will put my girl into a chaise, and by
noon, she shall throw herself into the arms of her sister.
But first, shall I not, in some way, manifest my
gratitude?

My senses were bewildered, and I knew not what I
did. I intended to kneel, as to my mother or my deity,
but, instead of that, I clasped her in my arms, and
kissed her lips fervently. I staid not to discover the
effects of this insanity, but left the room and the house,
and calling for a moment at Stevens's, left word with
the servant, my friend being gone abroad, that I
should not return till the morrow.

Never was a lighter heart, a gaiety more overflowing,
and more buoyant than mine. All cold from a
boisterous night, at a chilly season, all weariness from a
rugged and miry road, were charmed away. I might
have ridden, but I could not brook delay, even the delay
of enquiring for and equipping an horse. I might
thus have saved myself fatigue, and have lost no time,
but my mind was in too great a tumult for deliberation
and forecast. I saw nothing but the image of my girl,
whom my tidings would render happy.

The way was longer than my fond imagination had
foreseen. I did not reach Curling's till an hour after
sun-rise. The distance was full thirty-five miles. As
I hastened up the green lane leading to the house, I

spied my Bess passing through a covered way, between
the dwelling and kitchen. I caught her eye. She
stopped and held up her hands, and then ran into my
arms.

What means my girl? Why this catching of the
breath? Why this sobbing? Look at me my love. It
is Arthur, he who has treated you with forgetfulness,
neglect and cruelty.

O! do not, she replied, hiding her face with her
hand. One single reproach, added to my own, will kill
me. That foolish, wicked letter—I could tear my
fingers for writing it.

But, said I, I will kiss them—and put them to my
lips. They have told me the wishes of my girl. They
have enabled me to gratify her wishes. I have come to
carry thee this very moment to town.

Lord bless me, Arthur—said she, lost in a sweet
confusion, and her cheeks, always glowing, glowing
still more deeply—indeed, I did not mean—I meant
only—I will stay here—I would rather stay—

It grieves me to hear that, said I, with earnestness,
I thought I was studying our mutual happiness.

It grieves you? Don't say so. I would not grieve
you for the world—but, indeed, indeed, it is too soon.
Such a girl as I, am not yet fit to—live in your city.
Again she hid her glowing face in my bosom.

Sweet consciousness! Heavenly innocence! thought
I; may Achsa's conjectures prove false!—You have
mistaken my design, for I do not intend to carry you
to town with such a view as you have hinted—but
merely to place you with a beloved friend; with Achsa
Fielding, of whom already you know so much,
where we shall enjoy each other's company without restraint
or intermission.

I then proceeded to disclose to her the plan suggested
by my friend, and to explain all the consequences
that would flow from it. I need not say that she assented
to the scheme. She was all rapture and gratitude.
Preparations for departure were easily and speedily
made. I hired a chaise of a neighboring farmer,

and, according to my promise, by noon the same day,
delivered the timid and bashful girl into the arms of her
new sister.

She was received with the utmost tenderness, not only
by Mrs. Fielding, but by all my friends. Her affectionate
heart was encouraged to pour forth all its
feeling as into the bosom of a mother. She was reinspired
with confidence. Her want of experience was
supplied by the gentlest admonitions and instructions.
In every plan for her improvement, suggested by her
new mamma, for she never called her by any other
name, she engaged with docility and eagerness; and
her behaviour and her progress exceeded the most sanguine
hopes that I had formed, as to the softness of her
temper and the acuteness of her genius.

Those graces which a polished education, and intercourse
with the better classes of society, are adapted
to give, my girl possessed, in some degree, by a native
and intuitive refinement and sagacity of mind. All
that was to be obtained from actual observation and instruction,
was obtained without difficulty; and in a
short time, nothing but the affectionate simplicity and
unperverted feelings of the country girl, bespoke the
original condition.—

What art so busy about, Arthur? Always at thy
pen of late. Come, I must know the fruit of all this
toil and all this meditation. I am determined to scrape
acquaintance with Haller and Lineus. I will begin
this very day. All one's friends you know should be
our's. Love has made many a patient, and let me see
if it cannot, in my case, make a physician. But first,
what is all this writing about?

Mrs. Wentworth has put me upon a strange task—
not disagreeable, however, but such as I should, perhaps,
have declined, had not the absence of my Bess,
and her mamma, made the time hang somewhat
heavy. I have, oftener than once, and far more circumstantially
than now, told her my adventures, but
she is not satisfied. She wants a written narrative, for
some purpose which she tells me she will disclose to me
hereafter.

Luckily, my friend Stevens has saved me more than
half the trouble. He has done me the favor to compile
much of my history with his own hand. I cannot
imagine what could prompt him to so wearisome an undertaking;
but he says that adventures and a destiny so singular
as mine, ought not to be abandoned to forgetfulness
like any vulgar and every-day existence. Besides, when
he wrote it, he suspected that it might be necessary to
the safety of my reputation and my life, from the consequences
of my connection with Welbeck. Time has
annihilated that danger. All enmities and all suspicions
are buried with that ill-fated wretch. Wortley
has been won by my behaviour, and confides in my integrity
now as much as he formerly suspected it. I am
glad, however, that the task was performed. It has
saved me a world of writing. I had only to take up
the broken thread, and bring it down to the period of
my present happiness, and this was done, just as you
tripped along the entry this morning.

To bed, my friend, it is late, and this delicate frame
is not half so able to encounter fatigue as a youth spent
in the hay-field and the dairy might have been expected
to be.

I will, but let me take these sheets along with me.
I will read them, that I am determined, before I sleep,
and watch if you have told the whole truth.

Do so, if you please; but remember one thing. Mrs.
Wentworth requested me to write not as if it were designed
for her perusal, but for those who have no previous
knowledge of her or of me. 'Twas an odd request.
I cannot imagine what she means by it, but
she never acts without good reason, and I have done
so. And now withdraw, my dear, and farewel.