 | CHAPTER XII. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
Musing...Lydia...Temper...Mary...Emma..Matrimonial trial..
Jealousy...Reminisencies...Incident...Kissing...Before marriage...Mary
again...Another Mary.
It was no light matter, with me, to forget Lydia.—
I have set up in bed, at night—(Elizabeth knows it—
for, she hath found me, in the morning, there, with my
arms athwart, leaning, overcome with drowsiness,
against the wall.) all night long, and travelled over
every incident of my life, in which she had been concerned;
recalled the tone of her voice—that tender
musick—the words—the look of her eyes, when I felt
her heart throbbing against mine, till I shut my own,
with a sense of loneliness and rapture, while the tears
ran out of them, as if they had been squeezed out of
my eyeballs, half in pain, half in extacy. My eyes
would smart; and yet, for my life, I would not forego
the luxury of weeping.
It was a long, long time, that I thought of her,
dreamed of her; and my temper grew, even in my solitary
musing, gentler, and more indulgent; as if she
were yet near me, with her compassionate dark eyes,
looking in upon my heart, and agitating the blood
there.
Do you doubt, now, that I loved, and truly, at so
early an age? You cannot. Such sympathies are not
to be misunderstood. Many years have passed; very
many; and yet, I cannot write that child's name, to this
hour, without emotion---a melancholy, sweet feeling, as
—as if her tresses were blowing over my forehead, half
in delusion, half in reality.
It changed my temper, as I have said; for, I have always
been prone to reflect that which I loved, whatever
it was; and I have loved, passionately—devoutly—timidly—as
the creatures, that I loved, were passionate,
timid, or devout. Nay, it would not be too much to say
that, to this moment, there is a wandering melancholy
woman that did love, and dared not tell her love; nay,
knew it not herself, it may be, and died.
For some years, I felt all that a man could, whose
heart had been widowed early, too early; and, I knew
not one hurried pulsation, one agitated breathing of
passion for many years. In the mean time, I had contracted
many solitary, strange habits; and would go
away from all the world; and lie along upon the grass;
and pore over the blue water, that spread itself below
me;—dreaming waywardly, oh, such dreams! till my
very heart would leap, at times, like an untrained steed,
to the touch of a fiery hand. It was Ambition's!—She
came to me, gauntleted, glaived with steel—red from
the furnace! where she had been forging a panoply, worthy
of a mightier heart than mine. I spurned at it. I was
weary of the conflict; faint, and sick, with the thought
of blood. I only prayed that some woman; some one,
it mattered not whom, if she were altogether mine, devoutly,
passionately mine, might be made to love me.
My prayer was vain. I had no soothing in my temper.
The women that I saw, were childish. They
were ashamed of me. They had no notion of love; of that
deep, inward, unutterable love, of which I thought.
Nor, had I, then. I knew not what love was. I only
knew that, if I could find some one, that would tremble
all over, when she heard my voice—that would sit
mute as the hushed nightingale—when we were alone;
and be happy, if her cheek rested upon my shoulder,
and her fine tresses were blown out in the wind; that
then, I should be happy. Would I have profaned her?
No. Would I have told the tale? No. Would I have
made the mystery even the subject of thought, to
another? No—No!—I would have buried it, young as
I was, with myrrh and frankincense, in the deepest place
of all my heart; and never have let the “delicious secret
out,” but when I was alone, where nothing, that had life
in it, could have surprised me.
Yet, there were many about me, that loved; and
talked of love, till I was fain to understand the meaning
of the word. But, such was not the love that I
of love—I dared not even think of it; and, though she,
that I had so coveted to be near, had been long dead;
yet, there was a sore place, somewhere in my bosom,—
I knew not exactly where,—which I prayed to have
tenanted again; and yet, I was frightened at the thought
of it. Long and long, did I wander about, trying
image after image to the vacancy—but none would
fit it—none! At one time, my heart would collapse;
and then, it would distend again, while I strove to
insinuate some idol into the solitary, silent place.—
It would not be. The shrine was overturned, defaced!
defaced! and, if it were ever to be supplied, I learnt to
believe that it would be—when I should be sleeping.
My belief hath been verified!—A creature did steal into
it, at last!—like a brilliant serpent—when I was off
my guard—but, that must not be told here.
Yet, there were times, too—short seasons of sun and
fragrance—when, for a moment or two, I was deluded;
and once, I remember—when I had pored over my own
heart, till my brain ached; and I was ready to lie down
and weep myself blind, that heaven had shut itself up
to me; and that no field was open to me upon earth; and
that woman, even woman, was prohibited to me;—once!
there was a very beautiful creature, who came near to
me, for a moment. Her eyes were large, full, and of the
deepest blue; her hair a glorious brown, heavy and rich,
like a mass of neglected silk—unspun, unwoven; her
face dimpling all over—full of laugh and witchery—
O, how utterly unlike Lydia. Yet, I might have loved
her—not with that holy, distant, reverential fervour,
with which men worship the cold star-light, when they
are mad—but with a passion half earthly. But, she
was a coquette. And her beautiful mind was rank with
luxuriance; putting forth incense for ever—perpetually
in bloom---approachable to all the world. Could I endure
this? I!---No. The woman that I love, I would
have consecrate to me---to me, alone. Such is my temper,
yet. I will have no companionship in love. In
property, in friendship, I can go as far as another---as
any other; but, in love---O, I would sooner die; yea,
I have broken one heart by it---sent one beloved creature
to an untimely grave, even while she doated upon
me, to distraction---yet I would rather die---hated and
feared---than live---with a sharer in my love. I am
called jealous. Let it be so. I am jealous. I glory
in it. The lips and eyes of the woman that I love,
should be unprofaned. I would sooner enjoy a community
of wives, than of love. Understand me---will
you. There are some that will not; some that dare not.
There was Hammond. He told me, plainly, that the
woman who married me, would die—die, of a broken
heart. She did. He told me, too, that I was jealous.
I am. I know it. But he did not mean that I was
watchful, or suspicious. No; he knew me better. He
only knew, that, what the world called an innocent freedom—if
permitted by my wife—would be the death of
me. He said so. He told her so. I told her so. I
took her hands. I looked her in the face. “Emma,”
said I, “I may be wrong; it is very possible. But, it is
better that you should know all, that you have to expect;
all, that you have to fear. There are some things
that would kill me, love; which, it never entered your
innocent heart, to believe of any importance. Men
come to you, and take your hand. They go away, and
they take your hand. I can bear that. They dance
with you; and they take your hand. I submit to it; for
I see that you are happy. They lean upon your chair;
and say many things, in a manner, that—pardon me,
Emma—you will, if you become my wife, put an end
to, without any solicitation from me. I would have
you happy. I would leave you free. I shall ask you
of you, not to see this man, nor that; for, but point to
no question—impose no law upon you. Neither beg
any man, whom you would be better acquainted with;
and I will bring it about. You know that. I ask no
condition from you; I exact no promise; and, when I
die, if I should die first, I shall say—Emma, farewell!
If you have loved me, you will never love another, who
does not resemble me. There are few in this world
that do. But, when you find one, that does resemble
over you, even in his arms; and be happy, believe me,
dear—very happy, if you are so. but, there is one
thing—one that, at this hour, I do not fear to say to
you;—it would be my death to see the lips of a man—
no matter what his age—no matter who he is—upon
your face. I would not wound you. But such things
are; and I would put a stop to them. How? I would
convince your understanding; and then, I shall be happy;
then, I shall feel that I am safe—safe; because you
will respect my opinion, not as a capricious law, but
as the wise opinion of genuine love. That done, you
will be as jealous as I, of such liberties. Emma, I will
not even permit the parson, when we marry, to kiss
you. You smile. Your father and brother may—may,
I say, because I would be understood. It would not be
rifling you, if they did. You can reason. Ask yourself,
if it be not making such favours too cheap. A kiss!
by heaven, Emma, I would as soon my wife should go
to bed to another man, as to be kissed by him. She
may go to bed, if she please, to her father and brother;
that will not disturb me. She might go to bed to a
stranger, innocently—and return to my arms, as if
nothing had happened; unsullied, unprofaned. You
are disturbed—hurt. Hear me out, love,” said I. “We
must deal plainly, while we are upon this theme; but,
could I ever love her after, as I had before? No. I
might not blame her; a mistaken education; a deadened
sensibility; or, a mere unwillingness to give pain, because
it was one of the privileges of a friend—a dear
friend—might be her justification; but, do you think,
that I could ever love her again, as I had loved her?
Ask yourself, Emma—would it cost you no pain, none,
to see me caressing another woman? If it would not, I
should be sorry indeed. If it would—will you not
spare me? Remember, I ask no more than I would do.
From the hour that I am yours—not your husband,
Emma; but, from the hour that we have loved, I have
been, and will be, yours, and yours only; and I shall be
to my last breath. How would you bear it? Do not
call me unkind, cruel, or capricious. I am not. I tell
you should break my heart, hereafter, do not charge it
to my jealous temper. All my jealousy, you know, now.
Can you endure it. I love you too much—too much,
to think of sharing you with any body. Have I convinced
your understanding? Am I reasonable? If yea,
then we shall be happy. If I have not; I have only to
say—pity me; take compassion upon my infirmity; you
know what it is;—dare you marry me, knowing it, as
you do? If yes---say so. I shall be happy. You will
never hear of it, again—never. It will be enough for
me to know, that you are my wife. My confidence will
have a sublimity in it. I shall feel, wherever I be, that
you will remember your dignity and love; and that no
living creature will be permitted to approach you, profanely.
But, it may be, that you are not convinced.—
Look about you, for a moment. Who are they, that
treat this matter with the greatest indifference? Who
are they, that are most willing to have their wives
kissed? Are they not such as have been long married,
very long? When there is, perhaps, somewhat of satiety
and indifference in them. If a man be indifferent to
a woman, will he care, though the “whole army, pioneers,
and all, have tasted her sweet lips?” But who are
they, that regard the matter most seriously?—quaking,
to the very heart, at the thought of another's daring to
kiss their loved ones? Are they not the newly married,
or the newly loving? Which is the passion, that you
would inspire? The new, or the old one? Reflect for
yourself. “By their fruits shall you know them.”—
What is most dear to us, we are least willing to share
with the world. What is least so, we are prodigal of.”
Thus did I talk to Emma. She was a noble creature.
The tears stood in her eyes all the while; and she was
fully convinced; but she put her two hands into mine,
and said, just so that I could hear her. “I thank you,
William.”
I understood her. She had the courage to become
the companion of one, who was the terrour of all the
women that knew her;—one, against whom she had
been cautioned, as a terrifick combination of jealousy—
deadliness in him, than hate in other men—but one that
never deceived—one, that told her, the whole measure of
his infirmity and transgression—and once—O, never
shall I forget that moment. It was my reward for
whole years of sorrow and of suffering. A venerable
man, the friend of her childhood, with whom, when
she was parting, probably for ever, put his aged lips
to her forehead—a viper rather!—a burning coal!
I showed no emotion. But she, my Emma---my own
dear, imperial Emma, she felt that she was my wife;
and that no man on earth, crowned and sceptred, though
he were; priest, or layman--old or young—was worthy
to touch her forehead. The old man tottered and
trembled in the beautiful rebuke of her eyes. Yet there
was no fierceness in it. It was lofty, calm, and gentle;
and he departed—how! with ten thousand times more
respect for her, that he ever had before. For a moment,
he glanced at me. I saw that he could not understand
the simplicity of our hearts. Perhaps---heaven forgive
him, if he did;—he thought Emma was afraid to permit
it, before me. I could laugh—bitterly—very bitterly,
even now, at the thought; and I do love to imagine
whether he would have found her kind, if she had been
alone. By heaven, old as he was, beloved as he was,
if her husband had not been near her, he would have
been scorched to ashes. I went to him. I laid my hand
upon his shoulder. I looked him up in the face. I was
a good deal moved, but I smiled; for, in the deep agitation
of my blood, there was an unutterable sweetness,
and thrilling; as if some new fountain had just been
broken up in my heart; or some gentle fingers were feelin
pleasantly about it. “You do not know Emma well,
I perceive. She became my wife. But—I imposed
no restraint upon her. We had some peculiar notions;
and, when we give our hand, to an honest man, it may
be that we mean more, than many, who would give
up the lips of a wife or a daughter to him.”
The old man embraced me upon the spot. I felt that
I was right. The reward had come, at last; and, over
powered by it, I went to my study, and threw myself
upon my knees,—devoutly, I do believe, if there ever
thought. Emma soon joined me:—and I could
not forbear reminding her of her courage, in marrying
one so high, and abstract in his notion of woman.—
“How had you the courage! I exclaimed—so timid a
creature as you were, to throw yourself upon my bosom,
love?—it was the crater of a volcano.”
“True, William; very true,” was her reply—“but,
timid as I was, and am, I would rather be consumed,
by a bright flame, than live, for ever, in a dull one.”----
“This from you, Emma! you.” I exclaimed, in astonishment.
We had then been married three years;—five had
gone by, since we had first met; and I had never heard
her utter so daring a sentiment as that, before. I held
her to my heart. I remembered the sweet intrepidity
of her eyes, when we first met; and I trembled for her. She
was in deadly peril, and knew it not—never dreamed of
it:—and, many and many a time, before we were married,
hath fallen asleep, upon my bosom; and slept as
tranquilly there, as a babe would, that had overwatched
itself, in contemplating the diamond scales of a
serpent. But when she awoke, there were her innocent
eyes, just as when they went to sleep, full of love and
security. I reminded her of the tremendous moment,
when we had well nigh parted, for ever and ever:—
when one that was dear to her,—a long and tried
friend—almost her brother---one, that had watched over
her, in sickness and in health; one, whose feeling, she
could not assail idly—or wantonly—would have touched
her cheek, at parting. He had followed her; our
arms were linked together—and I could have prevented
him, almost without an effort—but I did not. It
might to be done again. I stood aloof, by heaven I did!
and saw him, in the presence of his own wife, touch her
cheek. O—I could have stretched him dead at my
feet!—I could have fallen upon my knees; clasped her
dear hands in mine; wept upon them, and sobbed out,
farewell! farewell, for ever! I had broken away from
one woman; one, that I dearly loved—for the very same
thing; and here was another—another! I had well nigh
at the same time. If I had, I never should have trusted
to another—no, never! I should have turned my back
upon them all; in bitterness, pity, scorn and detestation,
as creatures wholly unworthy of me; and unworthy
of my love.
It was many minutes before I could speak. I could
not leave her in the street. We were already at the
door—a moment only, a word—might be between our
love, and everlasting separation. I shuddered; I staggered—I
felt faint and giddy. I spoke. “She was
innocent.” True, and if she had not been—I should
have gone to her, and laid my head in her lap, and
blown out my brains there. But it was before me, and
before his own wife; and he was like a brother—what!
and is that to comfort me, that you think so little of
such a favour, as to be surprised when I turn pale, if
another take it before my eyes; before his wife and because,
he is like a brother! Think of it. I cannot bear
it. I may be wrong. If so—it is constitutional. I
reminded her of all this; of all that women, foolish
women had said of me, and of my nature. Fools! idiots!
do they not know that it is a wretched compliment to
any woman, for her husband to stand by, unmoved,
when another man kisses her? I would sunder myself,
for ever, from a woman, whose heart did not ache, as if it
were crushed, at the thought of it. I would never do
it, never! alone or apart. That would I never do, away
from my wife, which I would not do, if she stood by.—
No; she should feel assured, that the lips which he had
consecrated at my parting, would return to her again,
pure and hallowed, with her last kiss yet upon them.
To my last breath---my very last---they would be sensible
to no other touch---no other flavour,---no other
thrill. Reader, pardon me---I have wandered far, very
far; but the thought of Emma, the dear sufferer, came
over me, and carried me away like her own voice,
when I hear it, night after night, issuing from the wood,
behind the place where we first told---no, not told, that
were impossible till long after----our love---and I go
astray, after it. Let me return. I was telling you of
her smile, and lavish her caress---upon all the world.
Her name was Mary. I knew her but a little time then;
but I have met her since, more than once; and left her
weeping, the bitterest; and yet, perhaps, the most salutary
tears, that she ever shed. She had taught me how
to approach her. I profited by it; and ere she had time
to look about her, she found her feet entangled, and her
own heart aching; not with love; but with shame and
vexation. I might have loved her; and, had I been nearer
to her, when I could have moulded her to my will;
and, had she submitted to it, as she might; for she had a
kind heart, I might have been her friend---and, perhaps,
her husband. But she had a cousin, (her name was also
Mary,--a woman, even in her childhood; a creature
not beautiful, but noble; dignified; and, in every respect,
I do believe, better fitted to make me the wife
that I ought to have had---than any that I ever met
with. Her thought was like mine, but better; her ambition
like mine; but less terrible, and more religious;
her temper inconceivably better; and her love would
have been more rational; but as deep and as breathless,
as my own, for her. She is now married. Heaven
bless and protect her—Reader---it is all in vain. I
cannot tell the story in any other way, than as it occurs
to my memory,by fits and starts. I cannot preserve
any chronological order---I can only record my
own associations. Bear with me.
| CHAPTER XII. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |