 | CHAPTER XXV. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
I went to my chamber, but what different sensations
did I carry into it, from those with which I had left it
a few hours before. I stretched myself on the mattress
and put out the light; but the swarm of new images
that rushed on my mind, set me again instantly in motion.
All was rapid, vague and undefined, wearying
and distracting my attention. I was roused as by a divine
voice, that said:—“Sleep no more: Mervyn
shall sleep no more.”
What chiefly occupied me was a nameless sort of
terror. What shall I compare it to? Methinks, that
one falling from a tree, overhanging a torrent, plunged
into the whirling eddy, and gasping and struggling
while he sinks to rise no more, would feel just as I did
then. Nay, some such image actually possessed me.
Such was one of my reveries, in which suddenly I
stretched my hand, and caught the arm of a chair.
This act called me back to reason, or rather gave my
soul opportunity to roam into a new track equally
wild.
Was it the abruptness of this vision that thus confounded
me! was it a latent error in my moral constitution,
which this new conjuncture drew forth into influence?
These were all the tokens of a mind lost to
insanity.
Nothing less could have prompted so phantastically
—for midnight as it was, my chamber's solitude was
not to be supported. After a few turns across the
floor, I left the room, and the house. I walked without
design and in an hurried pace. I posted straight
to the house of Mrs. Fielding. I lifted the latch, but
the door did not open. It was, no doubt, locked.
How comes this, said I, and looked around me.
The hour and occasion were unthought of. Habituated
to this path, I had taken it spontaneously. How
comes this? repeated I. Locked upon me! but I will
summon them, I warrant me—and rung the bell, not
timidly or slightly, but with violence. Some one hastened
from above. I saw the glimmer of a candle
through the key-hole.
Strange, thought I, a candle at noon day!—The
door was opened, and my poor Bess, robed in a careless
and a hasty manner, appeared. She started at sight of
me, but merely because she did not, in a moment, recognize
me.—Ah! Arthur, is it you? Come in. My
mamma has wanted you these two hours. I was just
going to dispatch Philip to tell you to come.
Lead me to her, said I.
She led the way into the parlor.—“Wait a moment
here: I will tell her you are come”—and she tripped
away.
Presently a step was heard. The door opened again,
and then entered a man. He was tall, elegant, sedate
to a degree of sadness: Something in his dress and aspect
that bespoke the foreigner; the Frenchman.
What, said he, mildly, is your business with my
wife? She cannot see you instantly, and has sent me to
receive your commands.
Your wife! I want Mrs. Fielding.
True; and Mrs. Fielding is my wife. Thank Heaven
I have come in time to discover her, and claim her
as such.
I started back. I shuddered. My joints slackened,
and I stretched my hand to catch something by which
I might be saved from sinking on the floor. Meanwhile,
Fielding changed his countenance into rage and fury.
He called me villain! bad me avaunt! and drew a
shining steel from his bosom, with which he stabbed
me to the heart. I sunk upon the floor, and all, for a
time, was darkness and oblivion! At length, I returned
as it were to life. I opened my eyes. The
mists disappeared, and I found myself stretched upon
the bed in my own chamber. I remembered the fatal
blow I had received. I put my hand upon my breast;
the spot where the dagger entered. There were no
traces of a wound. All was perfect and entire. Some
miracle had made me whole.
I raised myself up. I re-examined my body. All
around me was hushed, till a voice from the pavement
below, proclaimed that it was “past three o'clock.”
What, said I, has all this miserable pageantry, this
midnight wandering, and this ominous interview, been
no more than—a dream!
It may be proper to mention, in explanation of this
scene, and to shew the thorough perturbation of my
mind, during this night, intelligence gained some days
after from Eliza. She said, that about two o'clock, on
this night, she was roused by a violent ringing of the
bell. She was startled by so unseasonable a summons.
She slept in a chamber adjoining Mrs. Fielding's, and
hesitated whether she should alarm her friend, but the
summons not being repeated, she had determined to
forbear.
Added to this, was the report of Mrs. Stevens, who,
on the same night, about half an hour after I and her
husband had retired, imagined that she heard the street-door
opened and shut, but this being followed by no
other consequence, she supposed herself mistaken. I
have little doubt, that, in my feverish and troubled
sleep, I actually went forth, posted to the house of
Mrs. Fielding, rung for admission, and shortly after,
returned to my own apartment.
This confusion of mind was somewhat allayed by the
return of light. It gave way to more uniform, but not
less rueful and despondent perceptions. The image of
Achsa filled my fancy, but it was the harbinger of
nothing but humiliation and sorrow. To outroot the
conviction of my own unworthiness, to persuade myself
that I was regarded with the tenderness that Stevens
had ascribed to her, that the discovery of my thoughts
would not excite her anger and grief, I felt to be impossible.
In this state of mind, I could not see her. To declare
my feelings would produce indignation and anguish;
to hide them from her scrutiny was not in my
power: yet, what would she think of my estranging
myself from her society? What expedient could I honestly
adopt to justify my absence, and what employments
could I substitute for those precious hours
hitherto devoted to her.
This afternoon, thougth I, she has been invited to
spend at Stedman's country house on Schuylkill. She
consented to go, and I was to accompany her. I am
fit only for solitude. My behaviour, in her presence,
will be enigmatical, capricious and morose. I must
not go: Yet, what will she think of my failure? Not
to go will be injurious and suspicious.
I was undetermined. The appointed hour arrived.
I stood at my chamber window, torn by variety of purposes,
and swayed alternately by repugnant arguments.
I several times went to the door of my apartment, and
put my foot upon the first step of the stair-case, but as
often paused, reconsidered and returned to my room.
In these fluctuations the hour passed. No messenger
arrived from Mrs. Fielding, enquiring into the cause
of my delay. Was she offended at my negligence?
Was she sick and disabled from going, or had she
changed her mind? I now remember her parting
words at our last interview. Were they not susceptible
of two constructions? She said my visit was too
long, and bad me begone. Did she suspect my presumption,
and is she determined thus to punish me?
This terror added anew to all my former anxieties.
It was impossible to rest in this suspense. I would go
to her. I would lay before her all the anguish of my
heart: I would not spare myself. She shall not reproach
me more severely than I will reproach myself.
I will hear my sentence from her own lips, and promise
unlimited submission to the doom of separation and exile,
which she will pronounce.
I went forthwith to her house. The drawing-room
and summer-house was empty. I summoned Philip the
footman—his mistress was gone to Mr. Sedman's.
How?—To Stedman's?—In whose company?
Miss Stedman and her brother called for her in the
carriage, and persuaded her to go with them.
Now my heart sunk, indeed! Miss Stedman's brother!
A youth, forward, gallant and gay! Flushed
with prosperity, and just returned from Europe, with
all the confidence of age, and all the ornaments of education!
She has gone with him, though pre-engaged
to me! Poor Arthur, how art thou despised!
This information only heightened my impatience. I
went away, but returned in the evening. I waited
till eleven, but she came not back. I cannot justly
paint the interval that passed till next morning. It
was void of sleep. On leaving her house, I wandered
into the fields. Every moment increased my impatience.
She will probably spend the morrow at Stedman's, said
I, and possibly the next day. Why should I wait
for her return? Why not seek her there, and rid myself
at once of this agonizing suspense? Why not go thither
now? This night, wherever I spend it, will be unacquainted
with repose. I will go, it is already near
twelve, and the distance is more than eight miles. I
will hover near the house till morning, and then, as
early as possible, demand an interview.
I was well acquainted with Stedman's Villa, having
formerly been there with Mrs. Fielding. I quickly entered
its precincts. I went close to the house; looked
mournfully at every window. At one of them a light
was to be seen, and I took various stations to discover,
caught a glimpse of a female, whom my fancy easily
imagined to be Achsa. I sat down upon the lawn,
some hundred feet from the house, and opposite the
window whence the light proceeded. I watched it, till
at length some one came to the window, lifted it, and
leaning on her arms, continued to look out.
The preceding day had been a very sultry one; the
night, as usual after such a day, and the fall of a violent
shower, was delightfully serene and pleasant.
Where I stood, was enlightened by the moon. Whether
she saw me or not, I could hardly tell, or whether
she distinguished any thing but a human figure.
Without reflecting on what was due to decorum and
punctilio, I immediately drew near the house. I quickly
perceived that her attention was fixed. Neither of
us spoke, till I had placed myself directly under her; I
then opened my lips, without knowing in what manner
to address her. She spoke first, and in a startled and
anxious voice—
Who is that?
Arthur Mervyn: he that was two days ago your
friend.
Mervyn! What is it that brings you here at this
hour? What is the matter? What has happened? Is
any body sick?
All is safe—all are in good health.
What then do you come hither for at such an hour?
I meant not to disturb you: I meant not to be seen.
Good Heavens! How you frighten me. What can
be the reason of so strange—
Be not alarmed. I meant to hover near the house
till morning, that I might see you as early as possible.
For what purpose?
I will tell you when we meet, and let that be at five
o'clock; the sun will then be risen; in the cedar grove
under the bank; till when, farewel.
Having said this, I prevented all expostulation, by
turning the angle of the house, and hastening towards
have mentioned. In one part of it is a rustic seat and
table, shrouded by trees and shrubs, and an intervening
eminence, from the view of those in the house. This
I designed to be the closing scene of my destiny.
Presently, I left this spot and wandered upward
through embarrassed and obscure paths, starting
forward or checking my pace, according as my wayward
meditations governed me. Shall I describe my
thoughts?—Impossible! It was certainly a temporary
loss of reason; nothing less than madness could
lead into such devious tracts, drag me down to so hopeless,
helpless, panickful a depth, and drag me down so
suddenly; lay waste, as at a signal, all my flourishing
structures, and reduce them in a moment to a scene of
confusion and horror.
What did I fear? What did I hope? What did I design?
I cannot tell; my glooms were to retire with
the night. The point to which every tumultuous feeling
was linked, was the coming interview with Achsa.
That was the boundary of fluctuation and suspense.
Here was the sealing and ratification of my doom.
I rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled
upward till I reached the edge of a considerable precipice;
I laid me down at my length upon the rock, whose
cold and hard surface I pressed with my bared and throbbing
breast. I leaned over the edge; fixed my eyes upon
the water and wept—plentifully; but why?
May this be my heart's last beat, if I can tell why.
I had wandered so far from Stedman's, that when
roused by the light, I had some miles to walk before I
could reach the place of meeting. Achsa was already
there. I slid down the rock above, and appeared before
her. Well might she be startled at my wild and abrupt
appearance.
I placed myself, without uttering a word, upon a
seat opposite to her, the table between, and crossing
my arms upon the table, leaned my head upon them,
while my face was turned towards and my eyes fixed upon
hers, I seemed to have lost the power and the inclination
to speak.
She regarded me, at first, with anxious curiosity;
after examining my looks, every emotion was swallowed
up in terrified sorrow. For God's sake!—what does all
this mean? Why am I called to this place? What tidings,
what fearful tidings do you bring?
I did not change my posture or speak. What, she
resumed, could inspire all this woe? Keep me not in
this suspense, Arthur; these looks and this silence
shocks and afflicts me too much.
Afflict you? said I, at last: Icome to tell you, what,
now that I am here, I cannot tell—there I stopped.
Say what, I entreat you. You seem to be very unhappy—such
a change—from yesterday!
Yes! From yesterday: all then was a joyous calm,
and now all is—but then I knew not my infamy, my
guilt—
What words are these, and from you Arthur? Guilt
is to you impossible. If purity is to be found on earth, it
is lodged in your heart. What have you done?
I have dared—how little you expect the extent of my
daring. That such as I should look upwards with this
ambition.
I now stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she
sat, looked earnestly in her face—I come only to beseech
your pardon. To tell you my crime, and then
disappear forever; but first let me see if there be any
omen of forgiveness. Your looks—they are kind;
heavenly; compassionate still. I will trust them, I
believe: and yet—letting go her hands, and turning
away.—This offence is beyond the reach even of your mercy.
How beyond measure these words and this deportment
distress me! Let me know the worst; I cannot
bear to be thus perplexed.
Why, said I, turning quickly round, and again taking
her hands, that Mervyn, whom you have honored
and confided in, and blessed with your sweet regards,
has been—
What has he been? Divinely amiable, heroic in his
virtue, I am sure. What else has he been?
This Mervyn has imagined, has dared—Will you
forgive him?
Forgive you what? Why don't you speak? Keep
not my soul in this suspense.
He has dared—But do not think that I am he. Continue
to look as now, and reserve your killing glances,
the vengeance of those eyes as for one that is absent.
—Why, what—You weep, then, at last. That is
a propitious sign. When pity drops from the eyes of
our judge, then should the suppliant approach. Now,
in confidence of pardon, I will tell you: This Mervyn,
not content with all you have hitherto granted him, has
dared—to love you; nay, to think of you, as of his
wife!
Her eye sunk beneath mine, and disengaging her
hands, covered her face with them.
I see my fate, said I, in a tone of despair. Too well
did I predict the effect of this confession; but I will
go—and unforgiven.
She now partly uncovered her face. The hand withdrawn
from her cheek, was stretched towards me.
She looked at me.
Arthur! I do forgive thee.—With what accents was
this uttered! With what looks! The cheek that was
before pale with terror, was now crimsoned over by a
different emotion, and delight swam in her eye.
Could I mistake? My doubts, my new-born fears
made me tremble, while I took the offered hand.
Surely—faultered I, I am not—I cannot be—so
blessed.
There was no need of words. The hand that I held,
was sufficiently eloquent. She was still silent.
Surely, said I, my senses deceive me. A bliss like
this cannot be reserved for me. Tell me, once more
—set my doubting heart at rest.—
She now gave herself to my arms—I have not words
—Let your own heart tell you, you have made your
Achsa—
At this moment, a voice from without, it was Miss
Stedman's, called—Mrs. Fielding! where are you?
My friend started up, and in a hasty voice, bade me
begone! You must not be seen by this giddy girl.
Come hither this evening, as if by my appointment,
and I will return with you.—She left me in a kind of
trance. I was immoveable. My reverie was too delicious;—but
let me not attempt the picture. If I can
convey no image of my state, previous to this interview,
my subsequent feelings are still more beyond the
reach of my powers to describe.
Agreeably to the commands of my mistress, I hastened
away, evading paths which might expose me to
observation. I speedily made my friends partake of my
joy, and passed the day in a state of solemn but confused
rapture. I did not accurately pourtray the various
parts of my felicity. The whole rushed upon my
soul at once. My conceptions were too rapid, and too
comprehensive to be distinct.
I went to Stedman's in the evening. I found in
the accents and looks of my Achsa new assurances that
all which had lately past, was more than a dream.
She made excuses for leaving the Stedmans sooner
than ordinary, and was accompanied to the city by her
friend. We dropped Mrs. Fielding at her own house,
and thither, after accompanying Miss Stedman to her
own home, I returned, upon the wings of tremulous
impatience.—
Now could I repeat every word of every conversation
that has since taken place between us; but why
should I do that on paper? Indeed it could not be done.
All is of equal value, and all could not be comprized
but in many volumes. There needs nothing more
deeply to imprint it on my memory; and while thus
reviewing the past, I should be iniquitously neglecting
the present. What is given to the pen, would be taken
from her; and that, indeed, would be—but no need
of saying what it would be, since it is impossible.
I merely write to allay these tumults which our necessary
separation produces; to aid me in calling up a
little patience, till the time arrives, when our persons,
like our minds, shall be united forever. That time—
But why this ominous misgiving just now? My
love has infected me with these unworthy terrors, for
she has them too.
This morning I was relating my dream to her. She
started, and grew pale. A sad silence ensued the
cheerfulness that had reigned before—why thus dejected,
my friend?
I hate your dream. It is a horrid thought. Would
to God it had never occurred to you.
Why surely place no confidence in dreams.
I know not where to place confidence; not in my
present promises of joy—and she wept. I endeavored
to soothe or console her. Why, I asked, did she
weep.
My heart is sore. Former disappointments were so
heavy; the hopes which were blasted, were so like my
present ones, that the dread of a like result, will intrude
upon my thoughts. And now your dream! Indeed,
I know not what to do. I believe I ought still
to retract—ought, at least, to postpone an act so irrevocable.
Now was I obliged again to go over in my catalogue
of arguments to induce her to confirm her propitious
resolution to be mine within the week. I, at last, succeeded,
even in restoring her serenity and beguiling her
fears by dwelling on our future happiness.
Our houshold, while we staid in America—In a year
or two we hie to Europe—should be thus composed.
Fidelity and skill and pure morals, should be sought out,
and enticed, by generous recompences, into our domestic
service. Duties should be light and regular.—Such
and such should be our amusements and employments
abroad and at home, and would not this be true happiness?
O yes—If it may be so.
It shall be so; but this is but the humble outline of
the scene; something is still to be added to complete
our felicity.
What more can be added?
What more? Can Achsa ask what more? She who
has not been only a wife—
But why am I indulging this pen-prattle? The hour
she fixed for my return to her is come, and now take
thyself away, quill. Lie there, snug in thy leathern
case, till I call for thee, and that will not be very soon.
I believe I will abjure thy company till all is settled
with my love. Yes: I will abjure thee, so let this be
thy last office, till Mervyn has been made the happiest
of men.
| CHAPTER XXV. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 | |