University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

We have already seen the return of Lucy
Munro to the village inn of Chestatee, where, to
her own and the surprise of all, her aunt had
been reinstated in her old department of house-keeper,
as she had held it in times past. The
reasons have been already narrated to the reader,

which had determined the landlord upon this measure,
and we are satisfied to say that all things, so
far as the law of householdery is concerned, now
went on with the accustomed economy; for the old
lady, having some reputation in her way, could
manage the cold baked meats with most praiseworthy
capacity.

The indisposition of Lucy was not materially
diminished by the circumstances following the successful
effort to persuade the landlord to the rescue of
Ralph Colleton. The feverish excitements natural
to that event, and even the fruit of its fortunate issue,
in the death of Munro, for whom she really had
much regard, were not greatly lessened, though
certainly something relieved, by the capture of
Rivers and his identification with the outlawed
Creighton. She was now secure from him: she
had nothing further to apprehend from the prosecution
of his fearful suit; and the death of her uncle,
even if the situation of Rivers had left him free to
urge it further, would, of itself, have relieved her
from the only difficulty in the way of a resolute
denial. So far, then, she was at peace. But a
silent sorrow had made its way into her bosom,
gnawing there with the noiselessness and certainty
of the imperceptible worm, generated by the sunlight,
in the richness of the fresh leaf, and wound
up within its folds. She had no word of sorrow
in her speech—she had no tear of sorrow in her
eye—but there was a vacant sadness in the vague
and wan expression of her face, that needed neither
tears nor words for its perfect development. She
was the victim of a passion which, as hers was a
warm and impatient spirit, was doubly dangerous;
and the greater pang of that passion came with
the consciousness, which now she could no longer
doubt, that it was entirely unrequited. She had beheld

the return of Ralph Colleton—she had heard
from other lips than his of his release, and of the
atoning particulars of her uncle's death, in which
he furnished all that was necessary in the way of
testimony to the youth's enlargement and security;
and though she rejoiced, fervently and deeply, at
the knowledge that so much had been done for
him, and so much by herself, she yet had no escape
from the deep sadness of mood which necessarily
came with her hopelessness. Busy tongues dwelt
upon the loveliness of the maiden who had sought
him in his prison—of her commanding stature—her
elegance of form—her dignity of manner and expression,
coupled with the warmth of a devoted love,
and a passionate admiration of the youth, who
had also so undesiringly made the conquest of
her heart. She heard all this in silence, but not
without thought. She thought of nothing beside.
The forms and images of the two happy lovers
were before her eyes at all moments, and her active
fancy pictured the full enjoyments common to
their mutual feelings, in colours so rich and warm,
that, in utter despondency at last, she would throw
herself listlessly upon her couch, with sometimes
an unholy hope that she might not again rise
from it.

But she was not forgotten. The youth she had
so much served, and so truly saved, was neither
thoughtless nor ungrateful. Having just satisfied
those most near and dear to him of his safety, and
of the impunity which, after a few brief forms of
law, the dying confession of the landlord had given
him; and having taken, in the warm embrace of a
true love, the form of the no longer withheld
Edith, he felt that his next duty was to her, for
whom his sense of gratitude soon discovered that
every form of acknowledgment must necessarily

prove weak. At an early hour, therefore,—these
several duties having been done,—Ralph made his
appearance at the village inn, and the summons of
the youth soon brought Lucy from her chamber.
She came freely and without hesitation, though her
heart was tremulous with doubt and sorrow. She
had nothing now to learn of her utter hopelessness,
and her strength was gathered from her
despair. Ralph was shocked with the surprising
ravages which a few days of indisposition had
made upon that fine and delicate richness of complexion
and expression, which had marked her
countenance before. He had no thought that she
was unhappy beyond the cure of time. On the
contrary, with a modesty almost coupled with
dulness, having had no idea of his own influence
over the maiden, he was disposed to regard
the recent events—the death of Munro, capture of
Rivers, &c.—as they relieved her from a persecution
which had been cruelly afflictive, rather calculated
to produce a degree of relief, to which she
had not for a long time been accustomed; and
which, though mingled up with events that prevented
it from being considered matter for rejoicing,
was yet not a matter, for one in her situation, very
greatly to deplore. Her appearance, however,
only made him more assiduously gentle and affectionate
in the duties he had undertaken to perform.
He approached her with the freedom of one warranted
by circumstances in recognising in her person
a relation next to the sweetest and the dearest
in life. With the familiar regard of a brother, he
took her hand, and placing her beside him on the
rude sofa of the humble parlour, he proceeded
to those little inquiries after her health and
of those about her, which usually form the initial
topics of all conversation. He proceeded then to
remind her of that trying night, when, in defiance of
female fears, and laudably regardless of those staid
checks and restraints by which her sex would conceal
or defend its weaknesses, she had dared to save his
life. His manner, generally warm and precipitous,
dilated something beyond its wont; and if ever
gratitude had yet its expression from human lips
and in human language, it was poured forth at that
moment from his into the ears of Lucy Munro.
And she felt its truth, she relied upon the uttered
words of the speaker, and her eyes grew bright
with a momentary kindling, her cheek flushed under
his glance, while her heart, losing something of the
chillness which had so recently oppressed it, felt
lighter and less desolate in that abode of sadness
and sweetness, the bosom in which it dwelt. Yet,
after all, when thought came again under the old
aspect—when she remembered his situation and her
own, she felt the shadow once more come over her
with an icy influence. It was not gratitude which
her heart craved from that of Ralph Colleton.
The praise and the approval and the thanks of
others might have given her pleasure, but these
were not enough from him; and she sighed that he
from whom alone love would be valuable, had
nothing less frigid than his gratitude to offer. But
even that was much, and she felt it deeply. His
approbation was not a little to a spirit whose
reference to him was perpetual; and when—her
hand in his—he recounted the adventures of that
night—when he dwelt upon her courage—upon her
noble disregard of opinions which might have
chilled in many of her sex the fine natural currents
of that godlike humanity, which conventional
forms, it is well to think, cannot always fetter or
abridge—when he expatiated upon all these things
with all the fervour of his temperament, while with
a due modesty, shrinking from the recital of its
own performances, she sought to restrain him—she
felt every moment additional pleasure in his speech
of praise. When, at length, relating the particulars
of the escape and death of Munro, he proceeded,
with all the tender precaution of a brother,
softening the sorrow into sadness, and plucking
from grief as much of the sting as would else have
caused the wound to rankle, she felt that though
another might sway his heart and its richer affections,
she was not altogether destitute of its consideration
and its care.

“And now, Lucy—my sweet sister—for my
sister you are now—you will accede to your uncle's
prayer and mine—you will permit me to be
your brother, and to provide for you as such. In
this wild region it fits not that you should longer
abide. This wilderness is uncongenial—it is
foreign to a nature like yours. You have been too
long its tenant—mingling with creatures not made
for your association, and none altogether capable
of appreciating your worth. You must come with
us, and live with my uncle—with my cousin
Edith—”

“Edith?”—and she looked inquiringly, while a
slight flush of the cheek and kindling of the eye
in him, followed the utterance of the single word
by her, and accompanied his reply.

“Yes, Edith—Edith Colleton, Lucy, is the name
of my cousin, and the relationship will soon be
something closer than that between us. You will
love her, and she, I know, will love you as a sister,
and even as the preserver of one so very humble
as myself. It was a night of danger when you
first heard her name, and saw her features; and
when you and she will converse over that night
and its events, I feel satisfied that it will bring you
both only the closer to one another.”

“We will not talk of it farther, Mr. Colleton—I
would not willingly hear of it again. It is enough
that you are now free from all such danger—
enough that all things promise well for your happiness
in the future. Let not any thought of past
evil or of risk successfully encountered, obscure
the prospect—let no thought of me produce an
emotion hostile, even for a moment, to your peace.”

“And why should you think, my sweet girl,
and with an air of such profound sorrow, that
such a thought must be productive of such an
emotion. Why should the circumstances so happily
terminating, though perilous at first, necessarily
bring sorrow with remembrance. Surely
you are now but exhibiting the sometimes coy
perversity which is ascribed to your sex. You
are now, in a moment of calm, but assuming
those winning playfulnesses of a sex, conscious of
charm and power, which, in a time of danger, your
more masculine thought had rejected as unbecoming.
You forget, Lucy, that I have you in charge
—that you are now my sister—that my promise to
your departed uncle, not less than my own desire
to that effect, makes me your guardian for the
future—and that I am now come, hopeful of success,
to take you with me to my own sweet country,
and to bring you acquainted with her—(I must
keep no secret from you, who are my sister)—who
has my heart—who—but you are sick, Lucy.
What means this emotion?”

“Nothing, nothing, Mr. Colleton. A momentary
weakness from my late indisposition—it will soon
be over. Indeed, I am already well. Go on, sir
—Go on!”

“Lucy, why these epithets? Surely I have
done nothing which should compel you to such formality.
Have I not spoken as one who would not
offend—as one who would have you nearer to him

than the mere casualty, to whom you may, and
must, if only for repulsion's sake, say `Sir and Mr.'
Speak to me as if I were the new friend, at least,
if you will not behold in me an old one. I have received
too much good service from you to permit
of this constraint. Call me Ralph—or Colleton—
or—or—nay, look not so coldly—why not call me
your brother?”

“Brother—brother be it then, Ralph Colleton—
brother—brother. God knows, I need a brother,
now!” and the ice of her manner was thawed
quickly by his appeal, in which her accurate sense,
sufficiently unclouded usually by her feelings,
though themselves at all times strong, discovered
only the earnestness of truth.

“Ah, now, you look—and now you are indeed
my sister. Hear me then, Lucy, and listen to all
my plans. You have not seen Edith—my Edith
now—she must be your sister too. She is now, or
will be soon, something nearer to me than a sister
—she is something dearer already. We shall immediately
return to Carolina, and you will go
along with us.”

“It may not be, Ralph—I have determined otherwise.
I will be your sister—as truly so as sister
possibly could be—but I will not go with you. I
have made other arrangements.”

The youth looked up in astonishment. The
manner of the maiden was firm and conclusive,
and he knew not what to understand. She proceeded,
as she saw his amazement:—

“It may not be as you propose, Mr.—Ralph—
my brother—circumstances have decreed another
arrangement—another, and perhaps a less grateful,
destiny for me.”

“But why, Lucy, if a less pleasant, or at least
a doubtful arrangement, why yield to it—why reject
my solicitation? What is the plan to which, I

am sad to see, you so unhesitatingly give the preference?”

“Not unhesitatingly—not unhesitatingly, I assure
you. I have thought upon it deeply and long,
and the decision is that of my cooler thought and
calmer judgment. It is true as I have said it. It
may be in a thousand respects a less fortunate one
than that which you have made for me; but, at
least, it will want one circumstance which would
couple itself with your plan, and which would alone
prompt me to deny myself all of its other advantages.”

“And what is that one circumstance, dear Lucy,
which affrights you so much? Let me know—what
peculiarity of mine—what thoughtless impropriety
—what association, which I may remove, thus
prevents your acceptance of my offer, and that of
Edith. Speak—spare me not in what you shall say
—but let your thoughts have their due language,
just as if you were—as indeed you are—my
sister.”

“Ask me not, Ralph. I may not utter it. It
must not be whispered to myself, though I perpetually
hear it. It is no impropriety—no peculiarity—no
wrong thought or deed of yours, that
occasions it. The evil is in me; and hence you can
do nothing which can possibly change my determination.”

“Strange, strange girl! What mystery is this?
Where is now that feeling of affinity, of confidence,
which led you to comply with my prayer, and
consider me as your brother? Why keep this
matter from me—why withhold a particular, the
knowledge of which might be productive of a
remedy for all the difficulty.”

“Never—never. The knowledge of it would
be destructive of all beside. It would be fatal—

seek not, therefore, to know it—it would profit you
nothing, and me it would crush for ever to the earth.
Hear me, Ralph—my brother!—hear me. Hitherto
you have known me—I am proud to think—as a
strong-minded woman, heedless of all things in her
desire for the good—for the right. In a moment
of peril to you or to another, I would be the same
woman. But the strength which supports through
the trial, subsides with the difficulty. The ship
that battles with the storms and the seas, with
something like a kindred buoyancy,goes down with
the calm that follows their first violence. It is so
with me. I could do much—much more than
woman generally in the day of trial, but I am the
weakest of my sex when it is over. Would you
have the secret of these weaknesses in your possession,
when you must know that the very consciousness,
that it is beyond my own control, must
be fatal to that pride of sex which, perhaps, only
sustains me now. Ask me not, Ralph, further on
this subject. I can tell you nothing; I will tell you
nothing; and to press me farther must only be to
estrange me the more. It is sufficient that I call you
brother—that I pledge myself to love you as a sister
—as sister never loved brother before. Is not this
much, Ralph Colleton—is it not enough?”

The youth tried numberless other modes, but in
vain, to shake her purpose; and the sorrowful expression
of his voice and manner, not less than of
his language, sufficiently assured her of the deep
mortification which he felt upon her denial. She
soothed the spirit with a gentleness peculiarly her
own, and as if she had satisfied herself that she
had done enough for the delicacy of her scruples
in one leading consideration, she took care that her
whole manner should be that of the most confiding
and sisterly regard. She even endeavoured to be
cheerful, seeing that her companion, with her unlooked-for

denial, had lost all his elasticity; but
without doing much to efface from his countenance
the traces of dissatisfaction.

“And what are your plans, Lucy? Let me know
them, at least. Let me see how far they are likely
to be grateful to your character, and to make you
happy.”

“Happy! happy!”—and she uttered but the two
words, with a brief interval between them, while
her voice trembled, and the gathering suffusion in
her large and thickly-fringed blue eyes attested,
more than any thing beside, the presence of that
prevailing weakness of which she had spoken.

“Ay, happy, Lucy. That is the word. You
must not be permitted to choose a lot in life, in
which the chances are not in favour of your happiness.”

“I look not for that now, Ralph,” was her reply,
and with such hopeless despondency visible in her
face as she spoke, that, with a deeper interest,
taking her hand, he again urged the request she
had already so recently denied.

“And why not, my sweet sister? Why should
you not anticipate happiness as well as the rest of
us. Who has a better right to happiness than
the young, the gentle, the beautiful, the good?—
And you are all of these, Lucy. You have the
charms—the richer and more lasting charms,
which, in the reflective mind, must always awaken
admiration. You have animation, talent, various
and wide—sentiment, the growth of truth, propriety,
and a lofty aim—no flippancy, no weak
homage of self—and—nay, my sweet Lucy, shrink
not back, and look not so imploringly mortified—
and a gentle beauty, that woos while it warms—
having the purity of the cloudless moonlight, with
all the kindling richness of a star, when the eye

may single out but one, as if in defiance of the tempest,
shining down from the heavens, in place of
all the rest.”

“You mock me—I pray you mock me not. I
have suffered much, Mr. Colleton—very much,
in the few last years of my life, from the sneer, and
the scorn, and the control of others. But I have
been taught to hope for different treatment, and a
far gentler estimate. It is ill in you to take up the
speech of smaller spirits, and when the sufferer is
one so weak, so poor, so very wretched as I am
now. I had not looked for this from you.”

The words, the manner, were full of offended
pride, and of a dignity resolute to assert itself,
even upon the slightest suspicion of assault. Ralph
took her hand gently in his own, and looked appealingly
in her face.

“You do me wrong, Lucy; and your thought is
one, which, perhaps, explains your denial. You
estimate me by a standard so low, that you can
give me no confidence—”

“Oh, no! no—believe me—any thing but that.”

“And do I look like one who could sneer at you,
Lucy. Have I been so idle usually in my speech
—have I been, at all, the flippant trifler with your
sex—the self-assured fopling, to whom childish
flatteries, meant only for the silly ear, are the cherished
familiarities? I have not surely striven for
such a character, and I would not have you so
esteem me. What I have said, I have said truly.
I think you what I have dared to say you are. I
have spoken of your beauty and your many
charms, not simply because of them, for, had you
not, at the same time, been securely possessed of a
high intelligence and strong sense, I had said
nothing, in your ears, of your own praise. I am
not used to this; and am sincerely honest when I

say, that I can see no reason why, with attractions
like yours, you should speak so doubtingly of your
chances of happiness. These chances will be
yours. Come with me—come with my Edith.
Let me not speak in praise of my own country,
when I promise that in Carolina, your various
merits will not long want for homage. They will
come—believe me, Lucy—almost worthy of you
—to bend before you. The young and the gallant
—our nobles—and nature's nobles too, will be glad
to love you, and will freely offer themselves for
your favour—”

“No more, Ralph; no more of this. It may
not be. I have already determined. I shall still
remain with my aunt, who is now destitute like
myself. We have money—my uncle has at least
left us well provided in that respect. We shall
therefore be at no loss, nor find it difficult to leave
this region for another. We shall go to a section
of the country more civilized in its aspect than this;
where indeed your regards will find nothing to
regret, and no reason to apprehend, for us. We
go among the relatives of my mother, and I shall
be there as perfectly at home, and as perfectly
happy, as I can be anywhere.”

“And will you not tell me, Lucy, where this
future and more favoured dwelling is to be?”

“Better that I should not—better, far better.
The duties for which the high Providence brought
us together, have been, I think, fairly accomplished.
I have done my part, and you, Mr. Colleton—
Ralph, I mean—you have done yours. There is
nothing more that we may not do apart. Here
then let our conference end. It is enough that you
have complied with the dying wish of my uncle—
that I have not, is not your fault.”

“Not my fault, Lucy, but truly my misfortune.

But I give not up my hope so easily. I still trust
that you will think better of your determination,
and conclude to go with us. We have a sweet
home, and should not be altogether so happy in it,
with the thought of your absence for ever in our
minds.”

“What—not happy, and she with you?”

“Happy—yes—but far happier with both of you.
You, my sister, and—”

“Say no more—”

“No more now, but I shall try other lips, perhaps
more persuasive than mine. Edith shall
come—”

“Let her not, I beg you—bring her not here—
I will not see her—I would not look upon her for
the world—” and as she spoke these words with
a sudden energy, which had not before marked her
conversation, she started from her seat, and made
an effort to leave the room, but a sickness came
over her senses, her eyes closed, and she sank
back fainting in the arms of Ralph, which were
extended just in time to sustain her. In that last
speech, and the paroxysm which followed it, Ralph
Colleton had discovered her secret. He could be
blind no longer; and placing her gently, while yet
utterly unconscious, in the arms and charge of the
old lady, who just then entered the apartment, he
seized the opportunity to retire, with feelings of
sadness, highly honourable to that manliness and
straightforward honesty of character, of which,
indeed, he was a noble specimen. He entered the
temporary home of his betrothed, with a tearful
sorrow which awakened all her inquiries.

“She will come, Ralph?”—exclaimed Edith, as he
entered the room. “The sweet creature—she will
come, will she not, and I may now see her, may I
not?”

“She will not come, Edith—and, be not surprised,
my love, she declines seeing you. Edith,
my own Edith—you know me well—and know
that I would not deceive you. Do you think that I
could have done or said any thing calculated to
deceive another, and to mislead them with a thought
not honestly my own? Tell me, dear Edith—thus
much is necessary to free me from the doubt which
I now have, whether I have altogether pursued the
course of a gentleman with Lucy.”

The maiden looked at him fixedly for an instant.
Then, as she observed the deep sentiment of sadness
and doubt diffused over all his features,—
when she saw how sincerely he felt the sorrow
which he had beheld preying upon the heart of the
poor desolate of love he had just left—her thought
at once freed him from the suspicion from which
his own thought had not altogether freed himself.
She at once replied:—

“No, Ralph—afflict not yourself—doubt not the
perfect propriety of your conduct. I have no
doubt of it. You are all nobleness, and I fear not
that you have been guilty of injustice in this
matter. I understand your meaning, and will
see Lucy myself. She shall know me—she shall
not avoid me. She may shrink from you, Ralph,
as from a brother; but me she shall know and acknowledge
as a sister.”

“My own, my generous Edith—it was ever thus
—you are always the noble and the true. Go, then,
but go alone. Relieve me from this sorrow if you
can. I need not say to you, persuade her, if in your
power; for much I doubt whether her prospects
are altogether so good as she has represented
them to me. So fine a creature must not be
sacrificed.”

She lost no time in proceeding to the dwelling

and into the chamber of Lucy Munro. She regarded
none of the objections of the old lady, the
aunt of her she sought, who would have denied
her entrance. Edith's was a spirit of the firmest
mould—tenacious of its purpose, and influenced by
no consideration which would have jostled with
the intended good. She approached the sufferer,
who lay half conscious only on her couch. Lucy
could not be mistaken as to the person of her
visiter. The noble features, full of generous
beauty and a warm spirit, breathing affection for
all human things, and doubly expanded with benevolent
sweetness when gazing down upon one
needing and deserving of so much—all told her
that the beloved and the betrothed of Ralph Colleton
was before her. She looked, and sighing
deeply, turned her head upon the pillow, so as to
shut out a presence so dangerously beautiful. But
Edith was a woman whose thoughts, having deeply
examined the minute structure of her own heart,
could now readily understand that of another,
which so nearly resembled it. She perceived the
true course for adoption, and bending gently over
the despairing girl, she possessed herself of one of
her hands, while her lips, with the most playful
sweetness of manner, were fastened upon those of
the sufferer. The speech of such an action was
instantaneous in its effect.

“Oh, why are you here—why did you come?”
—was the murmured inquiry of the drooping
maiden.

“To know you—to love you—to win you to
love me, Lucy. I would be worthy of your love,
dear girl. I know how worthy you are of all of
mine. I have heard all.”

“No—no! not all—not all—or you never
would be here.”

“I have heard much, Lucy, but know more,
and I love you the better because you love him.”

A deep sigh burst from the lips of the maiden,
while her face was again averted.

“Yes, Lucy—the woman has discovered more
than the man, and wonder not, therefore, that
Edith Colleton knows more than her lover ever
dreamed of. I know all, my Lucy—Ralph's sister
and mine—and you must learn to love me for his
sake. I have come to win your love. I have
come to ask—to beg—to implore you, for him, not
less than for myself. You know not how he suffers
from your denial. He had given a solemn
pledge, which your refusal has defeated. He
thinks you offended with him—he feels deeply the
debt you have conferred upon us all, and while
his feelings of affection—affection as true and more
tender than that of a brother—prompt the same
thing, those of gratitude are no less strong and
urgent in the desire that you will accept his offer
—my offer, for, indeed, dear Lucy, it is mine. But
I have another argument beyond all these. He
fears that a want of confidence in him, or a more
delicate scruple yet, or indifference, or some
other cause, inimical to his pride and character,
prompts you in all this. My reason for the entreaty
is founded on a persuasion the reverse of
his. I know the true cause, and feel, that, but for
me and the feeling in your bosom which neither
of us may name, his proffer must have been accepted.
It is for this very reason that I come to
solicit. I would not that another should think as
I have thought, and hence I would have you, Lucy,
dwell with me as Ralph's sister and mine. Fear
not that I shall give up your secret—come with me
and be secure.”

The manner of Edith was well calculated to

enforce her object—never was the tender and
affectionate solicitude of a sister better exhibited,
and in sweeter colours, than by her on this occasion.
As she spoke, her arms were gently folded
around the form of the maiden she addressed; and
at one point of time, as Lucy was manifesting a
disposition to rise and procure a cup of water that
stood on an adjacent table—“You are sick and
faint, Lucy, and I will get it for you—it is thus,
when we live together, that we shall serve one another.
We shall indeed be sisters—” was her
ready remark, as, gently pressing her down again
upon the couch, she rose hastily and procured it.
All that she had said and done in this brief interview
had been full of effect, and the fluctuations of
Lucy's countenance during its progress would
have afforded a fine study for the dramatic painter.
She had conquered. Feebly, at the conclusion of
a dialogue much longer protracted, she signified
her assent.

“Brother—brother and sister. That is much,
very much for one like me—one so desolate. It
is better too. Do with me then, dear sister, as
you please.”

“Now, indeed, Lucy, is Edith happy, and Ralph
too—”

“Speak not of him now—not of him—and oh,
Edith, my sister, remember—my life, my heart—
all, all are in your hands.”

“The trust is to a sister—it is sacred—may she
lose the affection which she most values when it is
forgotten!”

And the lips of the sisters met, and their arms
were linked together in the most affectionate confidence,
while the spirits of Lucy, if not more
buoyant and elastic, were at least something more
composed than before.