 | CHAPTER XX. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
If you ever see a man sewing on a button, with a gimblet and codline;
or cutting a hole in his waistband; and thrusting a tenpenny nail
through the eye of the button, set him down for a Tailor.—Depend
upon it, men are never so superlatively absurd, except from
affectation—they would sink the Tailor.
—MY OWN WORKS.
The moment was now at hand. It was dark in my
room, but I knew it not; and I was faint and weary. For
twenty-four hours, I had not tasted food, nor shut my
eyes. At last, there was a faint rap at the door.—“He is
come,” said a soft voice; could I be mistaken? O no—
I caught up the letter that I had finished; opened the
door widely, and the apparition of Caroline stood before
me. I was quite stupified for a moment; and when I
put the letter into her hand, she tottered;—and I
caught her, almost insensible, in my arms.—My trunks
were already gone. I would leave nothing to accident.
I had made up my mind; and there was no going
back; yet, when I felt Caroline again in my arms;
her cold cheek pressing my mouth—the death-like stillness
and darkness about me—O, I would have strangled
her and myself, upon the spot, could I have done it,
without hurting or disfiguring her. I wanted to die—
I was willing to die—but what should I do. Every moment,
I might expect a summons. In my perturbation
and terrour, I carried her into my own room, and laid
her upon my own bed. I spoke to her. She made no
reply. I pressed her to my bosom, and kissed her
dear forehead; still no reply. I lifted the curtain of
the nearest window. She was utterly lifeless; and, as
I looked upon her, I grew desperate. If she be truly
dead—dead—I said to myself, “we shall never part.”
I had loosened her dress; her beautiful bosom lay half
open before me; and the dim twilight, as it fell upon
her, gave to her a sad, touching, unearthly paleness. My
pistol was in my hand—another moment, and she
had been the death of me. Just then! the shadow of
gentle undulations of her bosom—a deep sigh; and two
or three faint attempts to lift her delicate hand, letting
it fall each time, as if it were lifeless, upon the bed.—
She put her arms round my neck, as I leaned over her,
and murmured—with her wet mouth against my neck—
“O mother—O dear, dear mother!”
I released her hands; I trembled for her. I endeavoured
to reassure her; and was mortally afraid that
some of the family might enter; and, what would be
thought? My agitation was frightful; but my presence
of mind never forsook me. I locked the door,
and came to her, (it was a desperate thought, but the
only one.) It was yet some moments, before she knew
me—my tears had fallen all over her face.
“Mother!—Father!”—said she, wildly, rising from
the bed—her dishevelled hair all about her—“where
am I?”—who art thou!—thou! O, William, William!
is it—is it—?”
I could only whisper her name. She arose, feeble and
faint, fully aware, I believe, of her situation; yet, pressing
as the peril was, still afraid, or unwilling to go. “Wilt
thou leave me, William?” she whispered, while her trembling
wet eye-lids were moving against mine—“O do
not leave me.”
She shut her eyes;—I could feel that she did, for the
lashes swept over my cheek; and awaited my answer.
I could not utter a word; for my everlasting happiness,
I could not—for several minutes. But, after a while—.
“Caroline, we must part”—said I, “we must—.”
I felt her hands, that were locked over my shoulders,
relax, and her head falling:—yet, I could not endure,
that she should be found in my chamber, at such an
hour—O, no, not for all the world; her purity was
dearer to me, than to her own father; and I,—I, would
not have survived the blasting of her name.
“Yes, dear, we must part,” I repeated, “your father
is at hand—the stranger is come—leave me, dear,
I beseech thee, leave me!”
“But” no—“no! I will not! I never will leave thee,”
she replied, faintly, and clinging to me all the while.
Who would have believed it? so timid, so innocent, yet
so resolute and daring.
Her bosom, I have already told you, while it was yet
light enough to see the hushed heaving of it, had been
revealed to me, for a moment; yet—yet, such was the
awful tenderness of my heart for her, that I had turned
away my eyes from it, and replaced the thin handkerchief
that covered it, while she was yet insensible.—
But now, now, that I had her in my arms; and could
feel the blood rippling through the blue veins, of her
white, soft neck, against which my forehead rested,—I
knew not how long—God knows, that I had forgotten
every thing—every thing on this earth---I shuddered
in the contact; I drew her to me convulsively, and
pressed my passionate mouth to her bosom, Gracious
heaven!—I felt her heart stop; and her head reel. She
turned cold instantly, all over. Her flesh was like
marble—and yet it was covered with perspiration;—
and her breathing was frightful. She attempted to
arise, but she had not the strength; what kept her
alive, I know not—indignation perhaps; but she put me
away from her, and then—O, I thought that I should
never get my breath again. My voice rattled in my
chest. I was dying; I felt that I was—and that, if
she did not speak quickly, I should be a dead man,
unforgiven for my last transgression. A long interval
past, of unutterable agony. I reached some water to
her; and she bathed her temples, trying, repeatedly, to
arise, but she could not. I heard a step—it was the
father's—and there were other voices.
“O Caroline! Caroline!” I cried, “forgive me—
speak to me! speak to me—I am desperate—our death
is at hand—speak to me—tell me, that I am forgiven.”
She arose—she put both of her hands upon my forehead,
as if to prevent me from seeing her shame—and
tears, and tenderness;—fell upon my bosom, and whispered---O,
it was musick to me—it was the voice of
humanity, to a shipwrecked and famished creature, upon
a desolate rock---“I do forgive thee!” The door
not. And there were strange faces—servants—lights
—the father and mother—and—merciful Providence!
could I be deceived—Hammond the dwarf! How
came he there! whence! who! what was he! My
hair rose—my brain whirled—and—I—I—.
I was conscious of nothing more, except that a phantom
went by, with her dress torn and bloody—tears
continually streaming from her eyes—and her hair all
in disorder; and then, it seemed to me, that there was the
report of a pistol. And soon after, I awoke, in thick
darkness. I remembered it, and shuddered. Was I
again in the mad house? Who was this, that sat by
me, motionless and voiceless? I put out my hands,
and encountered another. It was cold and muscular.
“Who are you?” said I, “speak to me.”
“Hammond the dwarf;” was the reply.
“And by what right,” said I, “do you pursue, and
thwart, and worry me?—at every step?—you!”
“By the right of a superiour.”
“You, you my superior! God! if I had you, monster,
upon the solid earth; or in the bowels of it, upon molten
iron, I would wrench a contradiction of that, out of
your heart. Where am I?”
“In my house.”
“Yours!—let me begone.”
“No; it is impossible.”
“No!—who shall detain me?”
“I—I will detain you. God will detain you.”
“Blasphemer!”—would that the everlasting skies
might fall upon you, for your saying!”
“Be done, William Adams; be done with this; no
resistance. I will be obeyed. You are in my power.
I can do as I please, with you. You have attempted
my life.”
“I—liar!—scoundrel!—monster!—what mean you?”
“You have wounded me, in the presence of many witnesses;
mortally, it was thought, for nearly a month.”
“When was this?”
“When you were first discovered—Ah, William
Adams, when will you have compassion upon woman;
the innocent and lovely Caroline—”
I leaped from my bed—I tore myself away from the
encompassing bands—I threw myself at his throat—
and he was astonished, I am sure, at my quickness and
strength; but, Lord! he overcame me, in an instant; and
replaced me again, as quietly, upon my bed, as if I had
been a babe.
“Beware how you pronounce that name again;”
said I—exhausted with passion. “If I live, I will strangle
you for it”
A dead silence followed. Still, the impenetrable
monster moved not—spoke not; and the night wore
away, if it were night, without a breath or a murmur.
I was weary of this tremendous silence. It was insupportable,
I felt my arms. They were exceedingly
emaciated; and my hair, I fancied, had been recently
shaved, close to my head; for, there was a strange
smoothness, and softness in it, as if it were new hair,
or the hair of an infant. What! was my dream coming
true, at last?
“O—” said I, unwilling to pronounce a name, so hateful
to me—“will you answer me?”
“I will;” said he—starting with surprise, at the tone
of my voice; “whatever I can—now, that you are rational.”
“Where am I?”
“In the Pennsylvania hospital.”
“What! What!” I yelled—“in the hospital?”
“Be calm, William Adams,” he replied, I thought,
with some emotion; these frightful starts of passion,
are very perilous. I have undertaken your cure.”
“My cure! What mean you? How came you here?”
“My relation is the manager. Nay, nay, you are
in safe hands, if you will only behave like a man. I
have come here, to watch by you, and protect you.”
“You! you! to watch by me, and protect me! Say, rather,
to torture and distract me, by your cruelty and
mockery.”
“William Adams!” said he, in a voice, that was like
the voice of majesty, rising in the wind, to a trumpet
call....it fell upon my heart, like a sentence; “I pity
you. You wrong me. When have I mocked at you?
when have I derided and tortured you?”
I felt it. I felt it. It was scalding lead to me.—
Why had I hated him? Not that he had wronged, and
mocked at, and spit upon me; but, that I had wronged
him, through all my life—mocked at him, from my very
boyhood; and spit upon him, till I was blind with passion.
What could I do? I could not repent, all at once.
I could not embrace a mortal foe, so suddenly. Yet,
yet, there was a yearning at my vitals; and I was so
utterly ashamed and humbled, by the awful justice of
his rebuke, that I could, almost, have lain down upon
the earth; and prayed to him, to set his foot upon my
neck.
“Hammond,” said I—it almost choked me, to pronounce
his name. “How long have I been here?”
“Nearly three months.”
“What!—Do I hear aright? Where, then, is Caroline?—the
father—the mother—the—. O,
the light breaks in, upon me! It was you, Hammond,
you, that destroyed me. But for you—and yet, you have
dared to ask what you have done to me—yea, in mockery,
and wrong, and insult—ha! ha! ha!—
go on---go on---thou prince of darkness—thou—.”
He leaned over me—there was a light, cold and starry;
and, I could see his forehead work; and the tears
fell upon me—(not like the church yard dew;) and his
voice came, with a compassionate sound, as from a labouring
heart. I could not brush off the tears, then—
no—though once, a drop, from the eyes of Hammond,
had been to me, like distillation, from the limbs of a gibbetted
man—a murderer, hung up to the weeping of
midnight dews; and the wailing of November winds.
“Three months!” I cried; “and where are they?”
“Ask me no questions, now”—said Hammond—“we
must not suffer you to be agitated. Believe that all
are well—all—your sister—and friends;—and try to
sleep. I shall leave you, now, for a little time—but,
you can.”
He left me; but, I could not sleep. “Three months!”
I said, continually, to myself. “Here, so long, so alone,
for three whole months.” But, as I thought, with my
eyes partly shut, there were some glimpses of recollection;
intervals of sanity—I thought, in this dreary and
endless alienation. I heard a step; it was the step of
an aged woman. I called her to me; and soon learnt, to
my mortification, that I had been watched, by the abused
Hammond, in darkness, day after day, night after
night, when people were dying, all about me, of a pestilential
disorder; that his own life had nearly fallen a
sacrifice to his watchfulness over me; that he was the
admiration of all the household; that, I had passed for
his brother; notwithstanding that, in my lucid intervals,
I had called upon his name, and cursed him, with
the most fearful imprecations; for all that was natural,
to the bereaved of understanding, who are always most
inveterate, to their nearest and dearest friends. But,
there was yet something else to be told. Hezekiah Anson
had failed—was utterly ruined; and nobody could tell me
whither he had gone.
The next day, I saw Hammond, and pressed his hand.
The room was a little lighter, then. He was very
much disturbed.
“William,” said he, “in one word—one word is
enough—tell me what were your designs upon Caroline
—innocent, or guilty?”
“Open that window,” said I, firmly—“let me see the
face of the man, who dares to ask that question.”
It was opened. I started at the countenance before
me. It was cadaverous, worn; but lofty and impregnable;
like one that had never smiled. It was Hammond;
but something, I know not what, had grown upon
his broad forehead, and great eyes, that carried authority
with it. His mouth was beautiful; and teeth,
the finest in the world; even in his boy-hood. But, his
nostrils were wide, and blood-coloured; like those of a
race horse—lenoting extraordinary vigour; and his
head was altogether too large for his body. His right
arm was in a sling; and, he halted, worse than ever, in
his walk.
I measured him, steadily, with my eyes; looked into
his very heart; bore his gaze, so intrepidly, that his
eyes filled with the effort.
“What prompted him, to that question,” I asked myself---“not
curiosity---no---he is above that. Doubt---
perhaps---let me see.”
“Will you believe my bare word, Hammond? whatever
it be.”
“I will,” said he, promptly. His countenance never
altered.
“I am innocent.”
He was gone. I heard no more from him, for three
days. At the end of that time, he brought a young man
to me, pale as death, whom I instantly recognised to
to be the person, of whom, nearly a year before, I had
been rather jealous. Hammond led him to my bed
side; and immediately left the room.
“You know the object of my visit, I suppose,” said
he, to me.
“No—I do not.” (He was a good deal embarrassed.)
“It is to apologize to you. I have injured you.”
“You?—I know not how.”
“Car—Car—no, I cannot pronounce her name—
I have wronged you, and am sorry for it,” said he.
“I forgive you, young man,” I replied, with all my
heart. “But how was it?”
“By searching into your history; believing everything
that I heard against you; and nothing that I heard in
your favour—and repeating it to the father of Caroline.”
I said nothing; but my eyes told him, what I thought
of him; and I soon found that my hands were cramped
with my effort to suppress my passion;—and that I had
grappled the sheets, as I would, the throat of a wild
beast; and was holding them yet, till my bones ached.
“After the appearance of the Dwarf, I met him; and
he spoke of you, as one, full of great qualities, that had
done much evil, unwittingly. I told Hezekiah; and he
went to the Dwarf. I know not what followed, until
you shot him.”
“I—shot whom—whom do you mean.”
“The Dwarf.”
“Explain yourself. There is a misunderstanding
here.”
“I allude to the chamber—when—O, Mr. Adams,
it is to you, that I owe these tears—but for you---”
It was some minutes before he could speak; and I began
to find a little glimmering upon the past; some
coherency between my recollection of the chamber, and
pistol—“If I understand you rightly,” said I—“you allude
to—no matter what—is the story abroad?”
“It is—all over the world—the wide world!”
“Did I shoot Hammond?”
“So the story goes. He was wounded in the breast
—you perceive that his arm is in a sling now—you
shattered the arm. You were carried away for dead.
The whole town took up the affair; and you were sent
to the hospital, where Hammond has attended you,
night and day. Your disorder has been a complication,
they say. You have had the yellow fever, during
your delirium; and, though you have had several lucid
intervals; yet, they say, that you forget all that has
happened, at the next relapse—and awake each time, as
from a long sleep.”
“But what brought you to me?”
“Hammond.”
“Hammond!—how so?”
“He made me come.”
“Made you!—what mean you?”
“Why—I mean this—that he has gone through the
whole town, fighting your battles, and confronting
your enemies, till many, that were your deadly calumniators,
have became your friends.”
What could I say?—I would have knelt—but I
was too weak—I could not. I shut my eyes, and felt
the tears trickling under my lashes, down to my very
lips—they were bitter and hot, and, I hope, penitential.”
“But how are they all?” said I, again, as soon as
I could speak.
“Whom do you mean?”
“Hezekiah—and Eunice—and—.”
“Ruined—ruined, past redemption!—in the last degree
of wretchedness and dependence—utterly helpless
and desolate in their old age—and—ah, so utterly,
that—”
“And Caroline,” said I—“tell me—how is she?
—well, is she not?—O, tell me---for the love of God, tell
me—.”
“What!”—he answered---looking at me with compassion,
and great alarm, as if he thought me relapsing.
“O speak to me!”---I repeated---“tell me, where is
she?”
“And have you heard nothing—nothing,” said he---
in a whisper, as if—I know not what; but,---for a
moment, I felt as if my own heart had been buried alive
—the words, even of his whispering, fell one, one by
one, upon it, like wet clods.
“Nothing,” I answered.
He took my hand. “Man,” he said, “man!---innocent
or guilty, I pity you! I cannot tell you what
has happened to—her---but she is living, yet---yet---
yet—”
I gasped for breath.
“She has been nearer to you than, it seems, you have
dreamed of, in your delirium.”
“Gracious God!---that was it!---that was it!---I know
now!---I remember it all---all! O, I heard her sweet
voice, night after night, calling upon me---and I thought
it all a dream---I remember it now, now. Dear, dear
Caroline---and could'st thou watch over me, thou pitying
one!---Caroline! Caroline!” I cried.
“Hush!”—he said---“She watch over you!—O, no
---she is gone---she cannot hear you---she was a mad
woman”
“What!—”
“For nearly two months, Caroline Anson was in the
very next apartment to yours, delirious---with her broken
hearted parents weeping over her---dishonoured in
their beautiful daughter; ashamed in their old age. O,
sir, how could you spoil so fair, so innocent a creature?”
I tried---but I could not speak---I felt my veins bursting---my
throat parched—I—
“Spoil her!” I shrieked out---“but---speak to me---
one word---but one, before I throw myself upon you---
is she alive?”
“Yes---barely.”
“In her senses?”
“Yes—.”
“Leave me, then—leave me!” I cried “leave me,
while you may—I forgive you. But, for the comfort
of your own heart, believe me—nay, I intreat you to
believe me---we are innocent---our embracing was innocent,
as that of angels.”
“What sir---innocent! locked up in your room, at
night; pistols upon the bed; her dress torn, and her
hair disordered; locked in your very arms---weeping;
and inarticulate! O, man! man! you may not be the
most guilty---the most damnable of villains; but you
are the murderer of Caroline.”
Where was I? The sound was there yet. The
murderer of Caroline! “Come back! come back!” I
shouted—but no, no, no!—I was left alone, to destroy
myself, with my own supplication.
Hammond came, soon after; he was thunderstruck, at
my appearance. I was dressed, from head to foot—I
know not how, nor by whom, nor when. The clothes
did not appear like my own.
“What is the meaning of this?” said he, “Who has
done this?”
I could not speak. I tried, but I could not. I arose
—took his hand; and moved toward the door.
“William Adams. William,” said he, kindly, “what
ails you? Do speak to me. I tremble for you. Ha!—
you have heard—I am sure of it—the scoundrel!—I
shall be tempted to wrench him, joint from joint, the
next time that we meet”
I laid my hand upon his arm---it was the wounded
arm. He shrunk---and then—O! that pang---it was
the shattered arm—and I had shattered it—
“Somebody has been talking to you, of Caroline.”
Is it not so?” he continued, contracting his brows, with
pain.
I nodded---and the tears scalded my eyes, again.
“And you would see her?”
“Yes, yes---” I answered, convulsively---dead or
alive, I will see her. Come---come.”
“It is impossible!” he replied.
I looked upon him, for a moment, like a wild beast,
I am sure. Not a muscle trembled. All my suspicions
returned. He saw them return.
“Down with your black blood, William Adams;”
he said. “Trust to me. You cannot see Caroline, to-night.”
“Cannot!---Who shall hinder me? I will.”
“You shall not!” said he, resolutely, placing himself
before me.
I would have stabbed him to the heart---crushed him
to death, if I could; but, when I threw myself upon him,
with my heart strings tightened to snapping; and my
blood-vessels all distended to bursting---he baffled me,
as you would, an infant; and, when I had come to my
senses, I stood before him, weeping, like a spoilt child,
with shame, and indignation. Where was my strength?
It had been terrible, once. Where was it, now? I looked
down upon my hands---my legs---trod the floor.
Alas, my strength had departed from me! I was weaker
than the shorn Sampson.
I fell upon my knees before him. “O, Hammond---
Hammond!” said I, if there be one feeling of humanity
about thee---one place that---but, no, no, no---thou art a
monster. Love never came near thee. Thou canst not
love. What! have I touched thee? O, have pity on
me. Suffer me to see her, once more. O, lead me to
her, let me but see her, once more! once more! She is
sick, Hammond; I know that she is. And could you,
gracious God! would you take upon your soul, the risk
of separating us, at such a moment! If she die—she
will haunt you---and, I---O, I know not what I should
do---but that---I never shall forgive you---O, let me see
her---let me see her, dear Hammond---for the love of
Jesus!”
Tears filled his eyes. He lifted me up. “William,”
said he; “you cannot see Caroline, to night. It is a critical
will, undoubtedly, live several days. Nay, nay---bear
it like a man. My friend---sir—William, William Adams.---Where
is your fortitude---where---your sister---
bear up against it.”
I was no longer sensible---but gave myself up, passively,
like an idiot, to his direction. That night, and
part of the next day, I had terrible dreams; but, toward
the evening of the third day, I observed, that many
strange people were about me; that I was dressed,
when half asleep; and shaved, with great care and tenderness.
At last, there was a large mirror set before
me, I remember; and I stood, and trembled at my own
figure. It was frightful, haggard, and attenuated, beyond
all my conception, and experience. I now recollect,
that there was a strange dizziness and darkness,
all about me; and, a great heaviness at my heart; and,
then, a long and dreary interval, in which I saw nothing
but lights, continually passing and re-passing me;
and great, still shadows, mute as death; and that I heard
nothing but the noise of carriage wheels, going forever,
in one direction; and then, there was a strong, cold wind,
as from the sea beach, and the splash of water—the
noise of rowing, and the heeling of a boat—but, all was
profoundly dark; and I, I neither saw, nor heard, nor understood
it. It was like a dream to me, from beginning to
end; but, far less vivid and frightful, than many dreams
that I have had; and, I bore it all, patiently; but, with a
mortal oppression at my heart; a boding, as of a yet
more tremendous evil. Then, was I suddenly stopped,
in my meditation, by a jar that shook me, from head
to foot. I was led out, and bidden to step carefully;
and I felt, what I took to be sea-weed, wet and slippery,
crushing under my feet; and the rocks, upon which I
trod, were smooth, and wave-worn; and there were
many voices, whispering about me; and strange shapes;
muffled up; and, a great, even, level sheet, of what I took
to be a motionless water, away behind me. And then,
we had a long, long journey, on foot; and Hammond's
voice, with a tone of authority, I heard, several times,
afar off, giving orders; and, at last, I was sitting in a
were all about; as if vessels had been shipwrecked
there; and, there was nothing, that I had ever seen before,
in such a place; but, altogether, a kind of shattered
combination, as if a noble dwelling had been wrecked,
somewhere, afar off, and the furniture washed upon
the beach. It was very cold; and, there was no fire
upon the hearth—not a spark.
I sat, and ruminated within me, with my eyes shut,
while the bleak wind stirred my hair; and left it, saturated
with moisture, as if the spray of salt water had
been, born inland. I was still in a kind of melancholy
stupor; and would start up, now and then, affrighted,
as if I were falling overboard—in my sleep; and uncover
my face; and look about, for a moment, hardly
able to persuade myself, that I was not yet in the boat;
so strongly did the waves still continue to dash, and
roar about me; and so long did I feel the motion of the
boat. At times, too, there were voices of wailing and
lamentation; and some sweet, very sweet toned instrument,
it appeared to me, now and then spoke out, delicately,
for a moment, as if the night-wind touched it,
in passing. At last, there were other voices; and a
fire was kindled; and, when I looked into the faces
about me, they looked upon me, with such a piteous expression—that
I was afraid. My poor eyes ached, sadly;
and the room was full of a thick smoke, dashed, here
and there, with a thin, fitful, blueish blazing, very
brilliant; but, very trying to the eyes; and the countenances
there, appeared hovering and floating about me;
and the statue of Hammond, unearthly. The wind
blew, down the chimney, and scattered the fire. “Gracious
God!” cried one of the men—“it will be a terrible
night!”
“Aye, aye, Jim, you may well say that—for—mercy
on us!—Lord God! how it thunders!” The wind rose,
then; and the crazy hovel shook for a minute, as if it
were adrift upon the water; groaning and creaking, as
if it were out in a hurricane; but, I felt no sort of fear;
none in the world; the smoke, and the wind, and the
dust, and the voices, were all like a dream, to me; and
spray—and the shouting of men, afar off, that I continually
heard, although my head was muffled up, and I
was like one asleep, more than awake—were all more
like some vision, that I was endeavouring, with painful
interest to remember again, than anything of reality,
in which I was concerned.
“Ah! the light!—the light!”—cried another. “Fire!
Fire!”—cried another, out in the open air.
A sudden blaze of light, that penetrated even to my
covered and shut eyes; and a tremendous crash of thunder,
that shook the very earth under us, followed, immediately,
like a discharge of heavy ordnance, and made
us all start upon our feet, and all but me, run out of the
house.
“In the name of God, what is the matter?” cried I;
but, before I could get an answer, I had fallen back in
my seat, where I could see through the fissures of the
logs, out of which, the clay had been shaken, another
hovel, on higher ground, afar off, all in a light blaze. The
rain poured, frightfully; and, the house tottered, and
trembled, and swung about, as if it would fall about
our ears, every moment; while the whole room was
dark, with the dust of the blue clay, and plastering,
that were shaken out of the walls and chimney. The
lightning had struck a part of the building, it appeared;
and set fire to the only other house, upon the place.
After this; nay, even in the midst of it, I fell into a
little uneasy slumber—from which I was waked, by
the low voices of people near me, whispering.
“It is impossible. They cannot live through it,”
said one. “Ah, Jonathan, Jonathan—think of their
coming here, to take up with a fisherman's life, in their
old age—so good to the poor, as he was—so kind and
free—ah, poor K'iah—hard life this.”
“In their old age too,” replied another---“Ah, that's
it.” Somebody was plainly sobbing near me. I looked
at the shadow.
It was the dwarf. His chest heaved, as with a convulsion.
Still there was a strangeness about all these
things, that reminded me only of past dreams; and the
kept me incredulous to their proof, even then. “When
will this end?” I muttered inwardly,---“it is very childish---and
wintry---in my bed, I suppose---perhaps in
my cell---and—.”
My breathing startled Hammond, who came to
me; and in that voice of unutterable power, which no
man living could hear unmoved, bid me prepare myself.
“I will,” said I, “I am prepared,” scarcely heeding
what he said.
The noise of the wind and the sea had abated; and
the shaking of the house, I observed, was all over.
Just then, the tread of another was heard approaching;
but I was weary of my own thought; and I drew
my heavy cloak about me; and buried my face in it again,
and fell sleep; yet while I slept, I dreamed, or
heard a dialogue of this nature, carried on very near
me, by unknown voices.
“Is that he?”
“Yes---do not speak loud.”
“Poor fellow---will he bear it?”
“I know not; he is no common man---but, will she?”
I heard no answer; but the breathing of Hammond
was then suspended, for a moment, as if he were listening;
and then he laid his hand upon mine.
“She” thought I, to myself, “whom do they mean?
what she?. What have I came here for—here—I am
not, here—where am I?—surely there were some—.”
But my thoughts were diverted away again.
“But how happened this ruin?—why do not their
friends assist them? Their creditors—.”
“Their creditors!” said Hammond, with a little
laugh, “creditors—what! will ye ask the Egyptian to
free his hewer of wood, and drawer of water—the master
to set the slave free. Both may do so, if the slave
and bondmen be old and worthless; but the creditor,
never!—never!”
“But the Society.—They are humane.”
“The society. They!—it is they, that have broken
his heart They thrust him out from among them;
forth upon the world, more than a year ago, because—
some foreign house, in which poor Anson was concerned—.”
“Anson—Anson!” thought I; “not Hezekiah Anson—
O, no, not Hezekiah”---But he went on.
—“Had failed. They called it commercial gambling;
and, after a while, they thrust the old man out from
among them. There began the history of his calamities.
He was no longer one of them;---and it was too
late to renew his covenant, with any other religion.
Abused and broken down; shut out from them, that
he had dwelt, and worshipped with, for half a century—he
began to neglect his affairs---to entrust them
to others;---they have gone now to rack, and ruin;
but, he is still free, still untrammelled with debt. To
the last shirt upon his back; the last earthly remnant,
he hath sold, and paid!---and this,---look about you, and
behold the result;---this hovel, which he built, in the
day of his prosperity; and gave away to the family of a
poor fisherman, who left it years ago, to the birds and
the beasts of the island---is now his only refuge. He is
too old to work---he cannot beg---he will not borrow,
when there is no hope of repaying---cannot steal;---and
hath come here, alone, with his wife and child, to die.”
“His wife and child---his child,” said I, “of whom is
he talking?” Still, I was troubled; and a cloud was upon
me.
“But, were it known, he would be relieved, I am
sure; hundreds of people in the city love and respect
him.”
“You are mistaken. They did love and respect him;
but they do so no longer. He is poor---wretchedly
poor, now; with no money to lend; no merchandize to
sell; no ships to freight; and the tenderest hearted
think it quite enough to be charitable, when they are
persuaded, and solicited, while calamity is yet fresh
and frightful in its visitation. But, now---now, that
many winters have passed; and poor Anson is too much
of a man to run after the world, and importune them,
and supplicate them with his gray hair, and trembling
hands; and the desolation is already an old story---it
were vain.”
The speaker was interrupted by a loud shriek from a
room above. “Gracious God!—the lightning flashed
in, all at once upon me—the house tottered; as I leaped
upward; and rent and tore my way, like a mad man,
out of the encumbering habiliments. It was her voice
—hers!—I knew it—I followed it—I broke through the
partition—I threw myself upon a bed—.
“Yes, it was she—it was she!—poor, dear Caroline.”
She knew me, immediately; shrieked twenty times,
without stopping; and put her delicate arms around
my neck, and sobbed aloud; and laughed and cried on
my bosom. I slept then—very suddenly—for, I knew
not how long; and we both slept, breast to breast; and,
when I awoke, I found myself in a better apartment,
sitting up—a curtained bed before me; and an aged man
sitting near it; the blue chintz curtain drawn; and a
woman, whom I knew, kneeling by the side of it.
I waited, and waited, until I heard a slight motion
in the bed, and saw a thin white hand put out; and the
curtains drawn; and the candle that was by the bed-side,
upon the light stand, flared widely for a moment.
Yes, yes! it was Caroline! I staggered to the bed.
I fell upon my knees—I articulated her name; and I
felt her caressing hand in my hair, pressing my forehead.
I drew it to my lips.
Not a word was uttered. Nothing was heard but a
deep, deep heaving of the heart, at long intervals, as if
all of us were dreaming together, under a heavy load.
“Hezekiah,” said I, “is it Hezekiah? He lifted his
eyes—they were fiery. I touched the woman. She
shook off my hand, as if it were the touch of blood.—O,
would that I might awake! I cried, “where am I?”
“William, William, love!” said a voice, of such endearing
softness. O, it was that which I had heard in
the next room, and thought to be some instrument,
tuned by the wind.
I became more composed. I looked upon Caroline.
Never, no never, had I seen her so very beautiful—her
complexion so delicately, vividly transparent; her
wonderful, large, clear eyes so deep and dark, and lustrous—there
“Caroline,” said I, it is you, I am sure. Do you
know me?”
“Know thee, William!”---Her sweet lips parted, as
they spoke, and trembled, with the intenseness of her
rebuke---“O, when have I forgotten thee! father! look
up! mother---awake! The hour is at hand; the hour of
trial. My weakness hath gone. Awake, and listen to
me! William do thou place a pillow for me---assist
me to rise---and let me lay my head upon thy shoulder.”
The old man arose; and took his wife's hand, and
stood before the child's bed, in obedience, like creatures
that are about consummating a religious ceremony.
There was a silence so fearful, for some minutes--that,
but for the breathing of Caroline,---I should have relapsed
into my first doubting, and fancied that the
venerable creatures, who stood before me, were shadows
of another world.
“Father”---said Caroline---“Mother! I have brought
sorrow to your aged hearts. You have loved me, and
doated on me. I had been obedient, I thought, all my
life. Every thought of my heart had been told to you.
I had no concealment---none. Yet---I am upon my
death bed;—now, in the blossom of my youth;-- the
gray hairs of my father, and my mother, are going
down to the grave with me;---and the man that I loved
very tenderly---he is about to follow me.---I am dying,
mother---and sincerity like mine, cannot be sinful at
such a moment---do not reproach me, therefore, that I
tell my love, now, for the first time. But O, William
---William---let the lesson be written upon thy heart!
My first errour---was concealment---my next, the sin
of disobedience—and that went on, and on, till----
it is now too late to deny it---though I die chastely, yet
---I do not deserve it. I have been too utterly in thy
power. And now---we have not many minutes more.---
Let me see you forgive each other.”
I put out my arms to embrace her mother. She
shrank, and trembled. Her love for me was all gone.
“O, mother!” said Caroline; “this, to thy daughter,
on her death bed! This, thy lesson of forgiveness and
resignation? Wilt thou not believe?---William Adams
---my beloved---stand thou up, there! Remember that
thou art in the presence of a just God! Bear thou witness
for me! Speak thou, to this aged man and woman
---they that forget their humanity, and their relationship
to a dying child; and declare thou my innocence!”
“By my hope of everlasting salvation,” cried I,
kneeling and clasping my hands, “Caroline is altogether
innocent!”
We embraced then---and sobbed---and wept.
“And by mine too! mother, mine too! and the season
of trial is too near to me now, for deception. He too is
innocent. As I hope for mercy---I am innocent, and he
too;---but I declare to you, that I owe it less to myself,
that I am so, than to his mercy; and to the protection
of our Father in Heaven. And now, William, farewell.
I must be alone. I cannot have thee near me, at my
last hour---dear---it will take off my thought from heaven.
Would'st thou, that I should die reluctantly?—
Then, leave me---leave me---my father and mother will
remain—heaven have mercy on me---O---I—I—”
Again the old man embraced me---and the mother.
“O, William,” said she, as her grey hairs were woven
with mine, “thou should'st have been the husband of
Caroline---our dear child---but---it is, now, too late. Be
patient William. Farewell!”
I turned toward Caroline---I went to the bed again.
I knew not what supported me---I went to her---she had
turned away her face---and her beautiful hand had fallen
over the pillow. I touched it—it was strangely
cold—I put my mouth to hers, once more—God!—it
was all over with her—and darkness fell upon me—and
fire—a storm of brightness—and—
| CHAPTER XX. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |