 | CHAPTER X. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
Hammond and Elizabeth...Explanation...Quarrel...Ambition...
Heroick nature...Elizabeth's testimony...Sickness...Reconciliation...Atonement.
Some weeks after the conversation related in the
last chapter, I discovered a visible change, in the deportment
of Hammond; and I thought, now and then,
that I could perceive a growing intelligence, between
him and my sister. I watched them; and, at length, determined
to speak to him, about it.
I sat down and brought him immediately to the
point, with feelings, that I cannot express. I fear that
they were feelings of hatred and scorn. I could not bear
to think, or imagine it possible, that he had now; damnation!—the
tears scald my eyes, while I speak;—a heart
like hers, so affectionate, so innocent, and so lofty. I
meant to speak calmly—but, I could not.
“Mr. Hammond,” said I, “What do you mean by
your attention to Elizabeth?”
He turned a little pale, I thought; but replied, very
calmly.—You address me, William, in a strange way.
I am afraid that you are disposed to quarrel with me.
Are you?”
“I don't know—that depends upon your answer.”
“William Adams,” he said, in a voice, and with a
manner that appalled me. I know not, that I ever felt
so utterly contemptible. “William Adams, I pity you.”
“By heaven!” I eried, starting up, with passion and
seizing him by the colar. I—I—. (I was choking.)
He gently released himself; and then, sat down again,
with the same immoveable composure.
I was ashamed of mpself—the blood rushed, like a
scorching fire, over my throat. I felt it—I knew it;
I knew that I looked like a petulant fool; and I would
rather have been shot through the heart.
“How dare you,” said I—gasping with rage—and literally
unable to keep my hands quiet, though I grappled
I spoke. “How dare you think of—of—.”
“Of—of—.”
“Of what?—of whom?”
“Of Elizabeth!” said he, mildly.
“Ah, of Elizabeth. How dare you pronounce her
name? How dare you call her anything, but Miss
Adams?”
He looked at me, with compassion—he took my
hands within his—they trembled—and my eyes were
full—and so was my heart.---I could not speak—no,
not to save my soul: and, but for the shame of the thing,
I would have fallen upon his neck, and wept.
“William,” said he, “something has disturbed you.
I have told you, before, of your jealousy---warned you
against it, with all the affectionate interest of a brother.
You have insulted me. You have no right to expect an
answer to your question; but, nevertheless, I will answer
it. You ask me, why I am so attentive to your
sister? I answer, temperately, I hope---because I reverence
her. Would I win her heart---ha!—you are very
cruel, William—your sneering, and scoffing, and bitterness,
almost tempt me to say, that I could win it---nay,
I am not quite sure of myself, yet---do not provoke me!
I thought that I could bear anything, from you; but, do
not drive me mad. If you do---if you once mock at me,
till I threaten to win her heart, by the God that made
me, William Adams, ugly as I am, yea! though I were
ten thousand times more ugly, I would win her heart,
or break it---yea, I would!”
What kept me silent? What held down my arms---
just as if they were pinioned with iron! I was not
three feet from his head, while he spoke; and I would
have crushed it with my foot, if I could, before he had
finished that sentence. But, I was immoveable---helpless---and
he went on.
“Mr. Adams—William,” said he; “you do not deserve
that I should answer you: but, I will. It will be a
lesson to you. I venerate your sister. I think of her,
as of something better than woman---but, I dare not
love her. I should feel that it was impious. You look
relieved. Nay, more—bright, and peerless, and beautiful
and more highly gifted, that, I should dare to aspire to
her. Yet more; for, I would have your tossed heart
reposing once more; (his voice faltered; and his hands
gradually relaxed)—I love another woman—I cannot
tell you, what she is, nor who—but, I love her; yea, so
tenderly and truly, that, I never mean to approach her
again. I cannot marry. God hath set his canon
against that; and I fear for my strength, if we meet.
I fear for hers. I dnow that she might love me; for,
what woman would not love one, who rules over other
men, if she may rule over him? My resolutions have
been made, alone; undisturbed by passion, trial or
tempting. I know, that it would be wrong for a sick
man, or a monster, to marry. I shall adhere to them.
My course is a perilous one; but, it is a steep one; and
will lead me the sooner, where I pant to set my foot once;
and unlock my bosom, to the Father of all men; though it
be but for a moment; though the next wind blow my ashes
from the precipice. My fate is hard, William, very
hard—to do what I have done; and yet, to be doubted;
where I have toiled hardest to establish a confidence,
that nothing should shake—to have it shaken to the
dust, with the very breath of man. You know
something of my nature, William—but, you know little
of the tender and affectionate disposition of my heart.
God hath given me a yearning after loveliness—an insatiable
desire to make some sweet, innocent woman
happy—to love, and be loved. Yet, he hath set his
seal of ugliness, upon me—warped, and distorted his
own image, impregnate with divinity as it is, into a
creature, so shapeless and deformed, that his own heart
rises with bitterness; and he could lie down, and curse his
Maker, if he were a bad man, for having made him
what he has. But, as it is, he can only lie down, and
weep, that he hath been made so ugly. It is hard to
bear, my friend. I have enough to try me, without
your unkindness; enough to turn the heart of an angel,
to a stone—when I feel, what I might have been, were
it lawful for me to perpetuate my being; with a wife to
lean upon my bosom; and children to bless me, and
that you do. But, how can you feel the sorrow and
proscription; the fearful abstinence that I am doomed to
—trembling all over, with sensibility; a heart, alive to
every delicate, and every beautiful emotion; obliged,
that it may not be mocked to death, with derision and
insult—to conceal its tenderness and love—to case itself
in a panoply of steel—far too stern for its gentleness.
Why, my brother!---O, why was I not fashioned, outwardly,
like other men!---or inwardly, like a brute
beast! I might then, have been happy. But now---
O, let me not question the goodness of our Heavenly Father!
Now, I am fitted, in spirit for all the offices of love
and ambition---warlike by nature: full of high thought,
and heroick purpose; yet, prohibited---branded---and
bodily incapable of reining a war-horse....or, subduing
a woman. Nay, so fashioned, that, with my
heart, I tremble, even at the approach of beauty; and,
shake at the sound of a trumpet---lest I should leave
devils behind me, if I yielded to her---or become one,
myself, if I should once snuff up the blood of men, in
battle.”
I threw myself into his arms. I could bear it no
longer. I locked my hands in his; and I wept upon
them. “Hammond! Hammond!” I cried, “forgive me!”
“Yes, William---my friend! William!....I do forgive
you: but it is hard, very hard, to be interrogated so imperiously,
by a young man; on a subject so tender too,
---but, I do forgive you. Leave me, William....you
shall hear from me, in the morning.”
He drove me from him, with a gentle violence; and
it was only, when I found myself sitting by Elizabeth,
and heard her ask how Mr. Hammond was, that I recollected
enough of what had passed, to feel all the folly
of what I had done---all the cruelty, I should say.
I could not answer her, but took her pretty hands
between mine, and pressed them to my lips.
She put her mouth to my forehead; and leaned her
smooth cheek there; for a moment, and, directly after,
I felt the tears trickling over my temples. I was able
to speak, then.
“He is well,” said I; but, as I looked up, the blood
flushed so suddenly over her whole face, that I started
upon my feet-“Elizabeth!—Elizabeth!—speak to me!”
I cried, “do you love me?”
“Love you. William! can you ask me such a question?”
I knew not what possessed me—the devil, Jealousy,
again—I would not share, even a sister's heart. I believe,
with any thing mortal—and I broke out upon
her, at once.
“Tell me—tell me—Do you—do—do—do you love
Hammond?”
She staggered—put her little white hands to her
temples—turned as pale as death—and fell, without
life or motion, upon the sofa. I knelt by her side—I
wept upon her neck; and when the wind blew her soft
hair all over my face and eyes, and she turned to me,
with her lids half shut---in death, it appeared to me---
I thought that I should drop down at her feet.”
“Elizabeth!---Elizabeth!--- O, do speak to me.
“What shall I say, brother?”
The delirium was yet upon me---I knew not what
made me---but I said to her—.
“Tell me---assure me, on your soul, that you do not
love Hammond?”
She covered her face with her hands--and the bright
tears gushed through her fingers---and her shoulders
and bosom, nay, her very arms glowed crimson, under
the transparent muslin.
I was indignant, exasperated again. “I have seen it
all. I have watched you—the villain.”
That was the chord! that was all that she wanted! By
heaven, the fire flashed, for half a minute, from her
blue eyes—and there was an intense eloquence, hot
and penetrating, upon her lips. She sprang upon her
feet--sat down---as if struggling with herself, and then,
arose---calmly, but awfully---and stood before me,
like some creature, about to sit in judgment upon me.
I covered my face before her---I could not endure the
lustre of her eyes.
“Of whom, do you speak, William!---Who is hte villain?”
“Albert Hammond!” said I, passionately, “Albert
Hammond, girl! the obscene and loathsome Hammond—the
horrible, and black hearted—the—.”
“Albert Hammond!” said she, locking her hands,
fevently; her mute lips gently, devontly stirring, for a
moment, as if—as if, in prayer and benediction. “He
a villain! the lion hearted—glorious, glorious Hammond!
Loathsome and obscene! he!—into whom God,
even our own God, hath infused a treble portion of his
hottest essence! He! whose thought is power! whose
words are eloquence! the movement of whose mind is
brightness and dominion! whose heart is the appointed
habitation of overpowering purity and virtue!—
Horrible and black hearted! He! who, when he was
spit upon, reviled and buffetted, like the Saviour of
men, reviled not again! O, Albert! Albert! how has
thy great spirit been abused!”
“Elizabeth! woman! sister! dear sister!” I cried,
blinded and stunned by her enthusiasm, and plucking
at her uplifted hands; “look down upon me, my sister!
you will drive me distracted!”
Her voice grew fainter and fainter; until it had
died utterly away; but her hands remained yet, lifted
and locked; and her parted lips still moved—but without
a sound, or murmur. Her whole countenance was
luminous—her whole form intensely animate, like
some indignant, spiritual thing, colouring all over
with shame, and stooping with sorrow. Her bright
hair fell like a thick radiance about her; and her snow
white forehead gleamed through it, like the front of a
dead infant, with her temples of stained blue. I was
humbled to the earth—I attempted to embrace her—I
even put my hands upon her shoulders; but they fell
off powerless; and my lips parted with terrour as they
approached; and I was gradually sinking down to her
feet, with confusion, shame, and humiliation, when the
door opened, and Hammond, himself, entered, with a
disordered aspect, and an agitated voice.”
I caught his eye—first—and then Elizabeth caught
it. A new spirit blazed from her face, as she did so;
an impatient, inward sound, like the warbling of her
She put out her hand to him, like a queen.
She did! and the colour flashed over her face, like the
sunset—and he took it—blast him!
“Come hither, Albert Hammond,” said she, “come
hither—Are you friends!”
“Yes” he replied, calmly.
“What think you, that brother of mine has dared
to ask me?”
“I know not,” said Hammond, turning very pale
“nothing, I hope, that—.”
“Nothing but this, Albert---whether I loved you.”
I was thunderstruck. What! Elizabeth Adams capable
of talking thus, to a man!
She put her hands to his lips---curse on his lips---
and she bore it---aye! and her eyes floated with expression---tenderness!---love!---damnation.—I
dashed
away the hand that I had caught; I rushed to the
door---but her voice arrested me.
“Brother William!” said she, “one moment!---we
are about doing somewhat, I fear, that will be fatal
to our love. Do not leave me, in that temper! We
may never meet again---will you go?”
I dashed away the tears from my eyes, and answered,
“yes, I will go! go, where you shall never see me
again.”
“Well then, rash man, if it be so, go! I can bear it
as well as you. I have as stout a heart, stouter, I believe---a---a
(her voice deepened.)
I burst the door open, with my foot, and staggered,
like one blinded and death struck, by some unknown
visitation, down the stair case, and out, into the
wind.
I hardly knew what happened to me afterward, for
some time; I was sick, very sick; and the thought
came over me, that I had shattered some of the vessels
of my heart; and that I could feel them weeping,
drop by drop---all day long, and all night.
After this, there was another night of darkness--flashes
of beautiful fire went through it; and voices, like those of
children in the grass; and then, I was in that strange,
desolate old house again. And the next thing, that I
the same pillow---that I thought it was Elizabeth; and
tried again and again to kiss it, but it constantly vanished---and
the beautiful mouth kept curling at me;
and the shadowy tresses, that were all over the pillow,
while I attempted to put my hand upon them, moved
off, like glittering snakes, under a transparency. The
effect was very strange. Every thing about me seemed
to be confined within an impenetrable fluid, as clear
as glass. In short, I was vehemently shattered in
brain and constitution; and when I recovered, so as to
recollect all that had passed; I found Elizabeth at my
side, pale with watching. I opened my eyes, and
spoke to her; and she instantly burst into tears. “O,
my brother! my brother!” she cried, sobbing with her
wet mouth pressed to mine—“O, forgive me!”
“Forgive you, dear—what have I to forgive you
for?”
We embraced; and I could not be easy, until I had
sent for Hammond; and begged his pardon; truly and
extremely penitent, as I was, with a humbled and contrite
heart. My very nature had changed—I determined
to ask no more questions; nay, not even,
if I lost her for ever—but to let it wear patiently, upon
me—even unto death.
“I hope that you will be well enough next week,”
said Hammond, as he parted from me, one evening,
“to go abroad. I have an important case to try; a
great constitutional question; and I should like to
have you present—as you may never have another opportunity.
You are going far from us---life is precarious---all
iron, as I have been---I am so no longer;
and, there is no knowing what may happen.”
I was deeply affected with his manner, and watched
the movement and expression of his face, till I half
persuaded myself, that he was a doomed man.
“Are you ill, Hammond?” said I.
“I am not well,” was the reply.
“Do you believe--you cannot--you are strangely
pale---what has happened to you, within these last few
days?”
“Within these last few days!---nothing---some disease,
I know not what, has taken possession of me; and I
am---yes, let me say it, for I feel it—I am weary of
life.”
“My conduct, it may be,” said I, reproachfully.
“Yes, William. I cannot deny it---your conduct
has done much, to make me sick and tired of my very
existence. When I see a man like you, so forgetful of
all the charities and decencies of life--I do not want
to hurt you, but it is now too late for concealment, to be
serviceable to either of us---when I see such a man, utterly
forgetful of all the duties of friendship---what have
I left to wish for? We are ambitious only; we toil and
battle only---tread the precipices of war, slippery
with blood---the heights of glory, burning and crumbling
with excessive heat, only that some loved one may
be the happier and prouder for it---some loved one,
however, that loves us; some friend! some wife! or
child! or father, or mother! I have no father---no
mother---no child--no wife---no friend.”
Saying these words, he left me, before I could prevent
him; but, all night long, I heard his voice continually
sounding in my ear, no friend! no friend! I have
no friend!
| CHAPTER X. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |