University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

At the risk of seeming monotonous, we must repeat
the reflection made in our last chapter, that the things we
are about to lose for ever, seem always more valuable in
the moment of their loss. They acquire a newer interest
in our eyes at such a time, possibly under the direction
of some governing instinct which is intended to render us

tenacious of life to the very last. Privation teaches us
much more effectually than possession, the value of all
human enjoyments; and the moralist has more than once
drawn his sweetest portraits of liberty from the gloom
and the denials of a dungeon. How eloquent of freedom
is he who yearns for it in vain. How glowing is that
passion which laments the lost! To one dying, as we
suppose few die, in the perfect possession of their senses,
how beautiful must seem the fading hues of the sunlight,
flickering along the walls of a chamber—how heavenly
the brief glimpses of the blue sky through the half-opened
window—how charming the green bit of foliage that
swings against the pane—how cheering and unwontedly
sweet and balmy, the soft, sudden gust of the sweet south
breathing up from the flowers, and stirring the loose
drapery around the couch. How can we part with these
without tears? How reflect, without horror, upon the
close coffin, the damp clod, the deep hollows of the earth
in which we are to be cabined? Oh! with what earnestness,
at such a moment, must the wholly conscious spirit
pray for life. How greedily will he drink the nauseous
draught in the hope to secure its boon. How fondly will
he seize upon every chimera, whether of his own or of
another's fancy, in order to gain a little respite—in order
still to keep within the grasp of mind and sight, these
lovely agents of earth and its master, which, in our day
of strength and exultation, we do not value at one half
their worth! And how full of dread and horror must be
that first awful conviction which assures him that the
struggle is in vain—that the last remedy is tried—that
nothing is left him now but despair—despair and death!
Then it is that Christianity comes to his relief. If he believes,
he gains by his loss. Its godlike promise assures
him then, that the things which his desires make dear his
faith has rendered immortal.

The truth of many of these reflections made their way
into the mind of Margaret Cooper, as she pursued the
well-known path along the hills. She observed the objects
along her route more narrowly than ever. She was
taking that path for the last time. Her eyes would behold
these objects no more. How often had she pursued
the same route with Alfred Stevens! But then she had
not seen these things; she had not observed these thousand

graces and beauties of form and shadow which now
seemed to crowd around, challenging her regard and demanding
her sympathies. Then she had seen nothing
but him. The bitterness which this reflection occasioned
made her hurry her footsteps; but there was an involuntary
shudder that passed through her frame, when, in
noting the strange beauty of the path, she reflected that
it would be trodden by her for the last time. Her breathing
became quickened by the reflection. She pressed
forward up the hills. The forests grew thick around
her, deep, dim, solemn and inviting. The skies above
looked down in little blessed blue tufts, through the crowding
tree tops. The long vista of the woods led her onward
in wandering thoughts.

To fix these thoughts—to keep them from wandering!
This was a difficulty. Margaret Cooper strove to do so,
but she could not. Never did her mind seem such a perfect
chaos—so full of confused and confusing objects and
images. Her whole life seemed to pass in review before
her. All her dreams of ambition, all the struggles of her
genius! Were these to be thrown away? Were these
all to be wasted? Was her song to be unheard? Was
her passionate and proud soul to have no voice? If death
is terrible to man, it is terrible, not as a pang, but as an
oblivion; and to the soul of genius, oblivion is a soul-death,
and its thought is a source of tenfold terror.

“But of what avail were life to me now? Even should
I live,” said the wretched woman, “would it matter more
to the ambition which I have had, and to the soul which
flames and fevers within me? Who would hearken to
the song of the degraded? Who, that heard the story of
my shame, would listen to the strains of my genius? Say
that its utterance is even as proud as my own vanity of
heart would esteem it—say that no plaint like mine had
ever touched the ear or lifted the heart of humanity!
Alas! of what avail? The finger of scorn would be uplifted
long before the voice of applause. The sneer and
sarcasm of the worldling would anticipate the favouring
judgment of the indulgent and the wise. Who would do
justice to my cause? Who listen? Alas! the voice of
genius would be of little avail speaking from the lips of
the dishonoured.

“To the talent which I have, and the ambition which still

burns within me, life then can bring nothing—no exercise
—no fruition. Suppose then, that the talent is left to
slumber—the ambition stifled till it has no further longings!
Will life yield any thing to the mere creature of
society—to my youth—to my beauty—to my sense of
delight, if still there be any such sense left to me? Shall
I be less the creature of social scorn, because I have
yielded my ambition—because I have forborne the employment
of those glorious gifts which heaven in its bounty
has allotted me? Alas! no! am I not a woman, one of
that frail, feeble sex, whose name is weakness?—of whom,
having no strength, man yet expects the proofs of the
most unyielding—of a firmness which he himself cannot
exercise—of a power of self-denial and endurance of which
he exhibits no example. If I weep, he smiles at my weakness.
If I stifle my tears, he denounces my unnatural
hardihood. If I am cold and unyielding, I am masculine
and neglected—if I am gentle and pliant, my confidence
is abused and my person dishonoured. What can society,
which is thus exacting, accord to me, then, as a mere
woman? What shame will it not thrust upon me,—a
woman—and as I am?

“Life then promises me nothing. The talent which I
have, lies with me idle and without hope of use. The
pure name of the woman is lost to me for ever. Shame
dogs my footsteps. Scorn points its finger. Life, and
all that it brings to others—love, friends, fame, fortune—
which are the soul of life—these are lost to me for ever.
The moral death is here already. The mere act of dying,
is simply the end of a strife, and a breathing and an agony.
That is all!”

The day became overcast. A cloud obscured the sunlight.
The blue tufts of sky no longer looked downwards
through the openings of the trees. The scene, dim and
silent before, became unusually dark. The aspect of nature
seemed congenial with the meditated deed. She had
reasoned herself into its commission, and she reproached
herself mentally with her delay. Any self-suggestion of an
infirmity of purpose, with a nature such as hers, would
have produced precipitation. She turned down a slight
gorge among the hills where the forest was more close.
She knelt beneath a tree and laid down her pistols at its
foot. She knelt—strange contradiction!—she knelt for

the purposes of prayer. But she could not pray. It would
seem that she attributed this effort to the sight of the pistols,
and she put them behind her without changing her
position. The prayer, if she made any, was internal;—
and, at all events it did not seem to be satisfactory. Yet,
before it was ended, she started with an expression of painful
thought upon her face. The voice of her reason had
ceased its utterance. The voice of her conscience, perhaps,
had been unheard; but there was yet another voice to
be heard which was more potent than all.

It was the mother's voice!

She placed her hand upon her side with a spasmodic
effort. The quickening of a new life within her, made that
new voice effectual. She threw herself on the ground and
wept freely. For the first time she wept freely. The
tears were those of the mother. The true fountain of tears
had been touched. That first throb of the innocent pledge
of guilty passion subdued the fiend. She could have taken
her own life, but dared not lift the deadly weapon against
that. The arm of the suicide was arrested. She groaned,
she wept, bitterly and freely. She was at once feebler and
more strong. Feebler as regarded her late resolution;
stronger as regarded the force of her affections, the sweet
humanities, not altogether subdued within her heart. The
slight pulsation of that infant in her womb had been more
effectual than the voice of reason, or conscience, or feminine
dread. The maternal feeling is, perhaps, the most
imperious of all those which gather in the heart of woman.

Margaret Cooper, however, had not altogether resolved
against the deed. She only could not do it there and then.
Her wretched determination was not wholly surrendered,
but it was touched, impaired; and with the increasing
powers of reflection, the impetuosity of the will became
naturally lessened. Those few glimpses along the roadside
which had made her sensible to the beauties she was
about to lose, had prepared her mind to act in counteraction
of her impulse; and the event which had brought into
play the maternal instinct, naturally helped the cause of
reason in her soul. Still, with the erring pride of youth
she reproached herself with her infirmity of purpose. She
resolved to change her ground, as if the instinct which had
been awakened in one spot would not every where pursue
her. Time was gained, and in such cases, to gain time is

every thing. Perhaps no suicide would ever take place if
the individual would wait ten minutes. The soul takes its
colour from the cloud, and changes its moods as often. It
is one of the best lessons to the young, to wait! wait!
wait! One of the surest signs of strength is where the individual
waits patiently and makes no complaint.

Margaret Cooper changed her ground. The spot was a
wild one. A broken ledge of rock was at her feet, and just
below it ran a dark, narrow winding footpath half-obscured
by the undergrowth. Here she once more proceeded to
nerve her mind for the commission of the deed, but she
had not been there an instant when she was surprised to
hear the sound of voices. This was unusual. Who could
they be? The villagers were not apt to stray from church
service whenever a preacher was to be found, and there
was a new one, and consequently a new attraction that
day for the spiritual hungry of Charlemont. The path
below was seldom trodden except by herself and an occasional
sportsman. The idea that entered her mind was
that her purpose had been suspected and that she was pursued.
With this idea she placed the pistol to her breast.
She had already cocked the weapon. Her finger was on
the trigger. But the tones of another voice reached her
ears from below. They were those of a woman—sweet,
musical and tender. A new light broke in upon her mind.
This was the language of love. And who were these new
lovers in Charlemont? Could it be that the voice of the
male speaker was that of Stevens? Something in the tone
sounded like it. Involuntarily, with this impression, the
weapon was turned from her own bosom, and addressed in
the direction in which the persons below were approaching.
A sudden joyous feeling touched her soul. The thought
to destroy the criminal by whom she had been destroyed
was a source of exultation. She felt that she could do it.
Both pistols were in her hand. The pathway was not
more than twenty paces distant, and her nerves, for the
first time, braced to an unusual tension, trembled with the
new excitement in her soul.

The intruders continued to approach. Their voices became
more distinct, and Margaret Cooper was soon undeceived
as to one of them being that of Alfred Stevens. She
was compelled to lie close that she might not betray her
position and purpose. The male speaker was very urgent—the

voice seemed that of a stranger. That of the
female was not so clearly distinguishable, yet it seemed
more familiar to the unintentional listener. Something of
feminine curiosity now entered the bosom of Margaret
Cooper. Crouching where she was, she deposited the
pistols at her feet. She remained breathlessly, for the
slightest movement would have revealed her to the persons
who were now just below. They passed close beneath
the place of her concealment; and she soon discovered
that they were lovers, and what their language was, even
if she had not heard it, might have been conjectured. The
girl was a very pretty brunette of Charlemont, a sweet
retiring damsel of her own age named Rivers, whom she
knew only slightly. She was a shy, gentle, unpresuming
girl, whom, for this reason, perhaps, Margaret had
learned to look upon without dislike or scorn. Her companion
was a youth whom Margaret had known when a
lad, but who had been absent on the Mississippi for two
years. His tall and masculine, but well made and graceful
person, sufficiently accounted for, while it justified, the
taste of the maiden. He was a youth of fine, frank, manly
countenance. His garb was picturesque, that of a bold
border hunter, with hunting frock of yellow buckskin, and
Indian leggings. The girl looked up to him with an expression
at once of eagerness and timidity. Confidence and
maiden bashfulness spoke equally in the delight which
glowed upon her features. The bright eyes and sunburned
features of the youth, denoted a feeling of happy
triumph and assuring love. The relation of the two was
sufficiently evident from their looks, even had they no
other language. What were the emotions of Margaret
Cooper as she looked down upon this pair! At first she
thought, as will most persons—surely there is nothing in
nature so lovely as the union of two fond devoted hearts.
The picture is one equally of moral and physical beauty.
The slight, fragile, depending damsel hanging in perfect
confidence on the arm of the manly, lofty and exulting
youth—looking up into his eyes in hope, while he returns
the gaze with pride and fondness. Unconscious of all
things but the love which to them is life and all things beside,
they move along the covered way and know not its
solitude—they linger and loiter along the protracted paths,
and see not their length—they cling together through the
lengthened hours, and fancy they have lost no time—they
hear each other's voices, and believe that life is all music
and delight.

While Margaret Cooper looked down and heard the
pleadings and promises of the youth, and beheld the sweet
emotions of his companion, engaged in a pleasant struggle
between her hopes and misgivings, she scarcely restrained
herself from rising where she was and crying aloud, like
another Cassandra, not to be believed—

“Beware! Beware!”

But the warning of Margaret Cooper would have been
unnecessary. The girl was not only free from danger, but
she was superior to it. She had the wholesome fear of
doing wrong too strongly impressed upon her by education—she
had too little confidence in herself—was too well
assured of her own weakness, to suffer herself, even for a
moment, to depart, either in thought or deed, from those
quiet but stern proprieties of conduct which are among the
best securities of the young. While she looked in her
lover's face with confidence, and held his arm with the
grasp of one who is sure of a right to do so, there was an
air of childish simplicity in her manner which was wholly
at variance with wild passions and improper fancies.
While the hunter maintained her on his arm and looked
down into her eyes with love, his glance was yet as respectful,
as unexpressive of presumption, as her own. Had the
eyes of all Charlemont been looking on, they would have
beheld nothing in the conduct of either which could have
incurred the censure of the most becoming delicacy.

Keen was the emotion and bitter was the thought which
worked in the mind of Margaret Cooper. She looked on
the deportment of that young maiden, whose intellect at
another day she would have despised, with envy and regret.
Truer thoughts and feelings came to her as she listened to
the innocent but fond dialogue between the unconscious
pair. The hunter was pursuing an erratic life of enterprise
and industry, then very common among the western youth.
He had been down upon the Mississippi seeking his fortune
in such adventures as make border life in our country
something like the more civilized life of the middle ages.
He had returned after a long absence, to claim the bride
whose affections he had won long before he had departed.
Never had knight errant been more true to his mistress.

Her image had been his talisman as well against danger
from without, as against the demon within. It had never
left his mind, and he now returned for his reward. He
had returned to Charlemont just before the church service
had begun, and being unprepared to go thither, had found
no difficulty in persuading his sweetheart to give the hour
of morning service to himself. Mixed up with his professions
of love was the story of his wanderings. Never
were adventures more interesting to any auditor. Never
was auditor more easily moved by the transitions of the
tale, from tears to smiles, and from smiles again to tears.
His risks and rewards; his defeats and successes; his wild
adventures by fell and flood,—not perhaps so perilous as
those of Othello, but such as proved he had the soul to encounter
the worst in Othello's experience, and maintain
himself as well,—drew largely on the maiden's wonder and
delight; increased her tenderness and tremors, and made
her quite as devoted to her hero as ever was Desdemona
to her dusky chief. As they went from hearing below,
the manner in which the hunter concluded his narrative
provided a sufficient test for the faith of his companion.

“And now, Selina, you see all the risks and the dangers.
There's work and perhaps trouble for you to go down with
me along the Choctaw borders. But if there's work, I am
the man to do my own share and help you out in yours;
and if there's trouble here's the breast to stand it first, and
here's the arm to drive it back, so that it'll never trouble
yours. No danger shall come to you, so long as I can
stand up between it and you. If so be that you love me
as you say, there's one way to show it, you'll soon make
up your mind to go with me. If you don't, why,—”

“But you know I do love you, John—” murmured
the girl.

“Don't I believe it? Well, if what you say means
what it should, you're ready. Here's my hand and all
that it's good for. It can work for you and fight for you,
Selina, and it's yours etarnally, with all that I have.”

The hand of the girl was silently put into that of the
speaker. The tears were in her eyes; but if she made
any other answer it was unheard by Margaret Cooper.
The rustic pair moved from sight even as they spoke, and
the desolate woman once more remained alone!