 | CHAPTER XII. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
Emma Larence...Leister...Children...Anna...Their death...
Elizabeth...Reminiscences...Scornful, yet pleasant though...
Harriot...Recapitulation...Elizabeth and Hammond...Jealousy
...A woman of principle!...Reasons for not marrying...Disappointment.
This Emma---I can avoid it no longer---merciful
God! how it effects me! the chord, once touched, will
thrill---I feel it, I know it,—I foresaw it, from the beginning
for ever and ever; well, well, I must learn to
bear it---the more penetrating the sound, the sooner
I shall learn to—God of heaven! it is too much---
I cannot go on-- I cannot—* * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
Let me try again. This Emma Larence was the sister
of George Larence, of whom I have just—reader pardon
me—there is no affectation in this—no trick. I
have been abroad, in the cold open air, since I threw
down my pen; and, I thought, when I returned, that I
could take it up again, with a stout heart, and a steady
hand, a—how strange it is! The tumult—the sickness,
like death—the suffocation have gone by—a few
minutes only have passed; and I feel as if I were in a
pleasant dream; and yet there is a sense of soreness all
over me, as if, somewhere, I had been suddenly
thrown down by a strong hand; or shipwrecked, in a
high wind; and drifted ashore, upon some desolate
blossoming islet. There is a low, continual murmuring
musick all about me; the tall beautiful grass and
clear water are full of it—there is—I cannot well describe
it—whenever I shut my eyes, a near, sweet,
passionate vibration of the very air that I breathe—
so that my lungs tremble, as I inhale it—as if I
breathed an atmosphere of harmony. There is a
feeling too, that--I cannot describe it, it is impossible
—a sense of brightness and dizzy, suffocating beauty,
that—well, well. Ah! where am I—what have I
been doing. Friends! pardon me; I will try again—
* * * * * * * * * *
This Emma was the sister of George Larence, of
whom I have just spoken. It was Emma that I mentioned
some chapters ago; as having seen her with her
white, graceful neck glittering in the sun, once, when
Hammond and I were walking together. She was
leaning out of the window, if you recollect, to fasten
back the blinds. It was the night when Hammond
was stabbed; have you forgotten it? I became acquainted
with her, immediately after that affair; and I
should have mentioned it, step by step, but I dared not.
Indeed I could not; it was impossible. I have hurried
over a large part of my eventful life; I have
crowded together incidents and adventures that happened
years, nay, many years apart. I have omitted
many things; and written, at times, with a vehement
and distracted eagerness, about other people;
but all to no purpose. It will not do. I cannot keep
the secret. I must tell it—I must—if it be only that
I may lay down, with an exhausted heart, when I
have done; and cover my face for the last time, and
give up the ghost, quietly. Would that I could stop
where I am! Would that I could lock my poor hands,
even here! and fall asleep for the last time, over the
torn and wet record of my sorrow and transgression!
But no! no! it cannot be. The trial is appointed to
me—my destiny must be fulfilled; and then, I may be
able—O, reader, join thou thy prayer with mine; for,
wherever I am when thou art reading this—dead or
alive—it may not be too late—that I may be able to
look an angel on the face. Pray with me, reader!
While you are reading this, I am a dead man—pray
with me! it is not too late—pray with me, that I may
be forgiven. It will do you some good, though it do
me none---pray with me! O, pray with me!
But let me recover myself; let me be more of a man.
I will! Hearken to me, then, that you may understand
thoroughly, the waywardness, and savageness of my
nature; for you know enough of my tenderness, cowardice
and warmth. I have dreaded to approach this
without it; and my design, from the beginning, was to
tell it; and I never abandon a design, good or evil, that
I have once formed. The delay; and all that I have
hitherto related, have been only a system of preparation
for myself; and even yet, I do not feel so fully prepared
as I ought to be; but, nevertheless, the time has
come now, and I will tell it.
As I approach the days of our love, however, the
love of Emma and me, I feel my heart, as it were,
darkened; and a gentle stirring within the very centre
of it, just as if the little nestling images of my children
that I have kept there, and will keep there, through
all eternity, if God will let me, were moving in it, with
every breath that I drew. And my wife too! O Emma!
Emma! why was I not known to the! why, thou blessed
one, at the mention of whose name—nay, at the
sight of it, written, by the hand of a stranger, my very
heart stops, all at once; and instantly, all the shadowy
void of my past life, clears up behind me, and swarms
with the apparition of beautiful children---whose children,
love? Thine and mine! Yea, Emma! Thine and
mine! Thy sweet baby, the first blossom of our love---
the delicate miniature transparency of thyself, and thy
purity---and the brave boy that followed her, to the
green nest in the churchyard—O Emma! why was I
not known to thee!
Ah my wife! my wife!---Anna, the loveliest babe, that
ever opened her violet eyes, upon the white bosom of a
mother---and thou too, Liester!—O, who would abide
a separation so terrible---a survivership so desolate---
were it not that---no Emma! no---I never will sully
thy purity, by a thought like that!—thou hast been, thou
art, faithful to me—but---O, love, had thy affectionate
nature been but a little more resolute---had all my
prayer and fondness done but a little more for thee---
or hadst thou been a little less mysterious, and silent,
in thy love —but, no---no---I will not tell it, yet. I
will put off the evil day---till all my affairs are settled
with the world;---and then, if it please God, having
told my sorrow, I will lie down, I care not where, as
I possibly can—and die. Poor, dear Liester!---I
might have known, that I was about to lose thee—
thy clinging affection as we parted;---so many times,
the dear little fellow called me back, and kissed---and
kissed me, till his little lips were fevered with the repetition;---and
thou too, my babe---dear little Anna---so
patient---when thy mother wept, at thy petulance---to
see thy little hand wiping away her tears; and thy red
mouth—O, my babe! my babe!—yes, yes----
and thy last low murmuring in our ears---“Good night,
father!---good by'e cousin---good by'e,”—and then,
while thy blue eyes were yet shining with life and
beauty; and thy pale forehead was yet damp, damp as
death---suddenly struck to marble---death struck---
I—I---Oh, Maker of men!—have pity upon the
sorrowing of a father
Thursday Night.
I have been abroad all day. I am afraid to look
back, on what I have written. There is a confused
dreaming in my head, as of musick and pretty children,
---but, it may be that I have been writing of my own---
of my Anna, and of Leister; and of my beloved Emma.
Stop!---I will be more firm---more of a man---the place
of tears, the fountain of tenderness, hath been broken
up. I feel easier now.
When Anna died, it was a terrible blow to me; and
I cannot look back on my feeling, now, without horrour.
So little concerned was I,---so little apprehensive of
calamity---there---there where I was so happy, that I
had well nigh forgotten my God. While her little
arms were about my neck; and her innocent warm lips
put against my cheek---that---that---I had but a few
hours for preparation; and, even to the last; the very
last---till the flower turned black, all at once, upon
the stem---and rotted in my sight—there was hope,
even to distraction!—How I bore it, heaven only
knows---all was darkness, for awhile---then incessant
flashes of fire, breaking out, here and there, for a little
dear, dear Emma. O, had she loved me, as I loved
her!---sitting patiently by my side, with Liester in her
arms---her pale lips riffled of their colour; and her
clear temples stained all over with the blue meandering
of her life-blood---as if she had thinned away, in her
sorrow, till her heart and all its doings were to be seen,
visibly,---as through a transparency. And then Leister
went---and---though I knew it not---for I was away—
away among the barbarians; leaving her—Oh, heaven,
and earth!—how was I able to do it!—to die alone,
and away from me—O Emma!— * * * * Lord!
Lord!—it is impossible---I must leave it awhile
—my keeper is at hand—I hear his tread
I have spoken before of my fear of death. It was a
part of my blood, I believe. About this time, when
I had most reason to love life, it was at the height.
Think what I suffered! No human creature would believe
me, were I to tell him the frightful, and everlasting apprehension,
that used to crowd in upon me, whenever
I was left alone;—and, particularly, at night. It
were enough to drive any man, I care not how great,
or how good---he might be—raving distracted. I wonder
how I bore it. I have often thought that no
other man that ever lived, could have outlived bodily,
to say nothing of his faculties being destroyed by it
---the strange, dark, perplexing, indefinite horrour that
continually troubled me, like a cold wet atmosphere, and
an eternal shadow; as if all that was beautiful and
bright in heaven and earth---the stars, and the cherubim
—Jehovah and his angels---were all in eclipse to me.
O, it cannot be described. It haunted me, day and
night. I slept, but to dream of death; and I awoke,
but to shake at the thought of it; with a continual inroad
of darkness upon me---and this too, unaccountable
that it was! while I was the first, and foremost, in
every headlong and perilous adventure.
Sunday Morning.
We were sitting together, Elizabeth and I, the next
evening after that mentioned in the last chapter. Bear
to the end of my sorrowing. She was uncommonly
serious.
“Elizabeth,” said I---“when does George go away
again?” “Immediately, I believe,” was her reply;
and she turned away her face.
“No other woman,” I continued; “no other woman,
upon the earth, would have had the same forbearance
and delicacy.”
“Brother!”—said Elizabeth---her lips trembling as
she turned to me—“Brother! I will not affect to misunderstand
you. I know well your meaning. But
you are mistaken. Many, and many a woman would
have done the same thing.”
“Many a woman!” said I, bitterly---“Many a one!---
there is not that one living, except my sister, who
would not rather hear the tale of love; though she knew,
in her own heart, that she ought not to listen to it;
and could not reward it---though it came with the
melody of death; from the heart that uttered it---
than—”
“Stop, my brother---stop, I beseech you---there are
many---Emma—ah!---you are willing to make one exception,
I see!—you are a true Mosleman; a Mahommed;
none have souls but your sister and your beloved!”
“Brother!”—
I turned, alarmed at the sudden alteration of the tone—
it was a faint cry—“what ails you, Elizabeth?” said I.
“Tell me—I cannot believe it,” was her reply—“and
yet I cannot believe it altogether invention. Did you
ever say that you could seduce any woman in the
world.”
“I never said so”—said I, laughing.
“William!—Brother!—for mercy sake—do not trifle,
now. Have you ever thought so?—what is your opinion
of women? what have you said?”
“No—I never have thought so. My opinion, you
know. The more that I know of women, the more I
venerate some; the more I despise the many. But, I
do not despise them for their frailty;—not for that,
the effect of art and villany, which none could resist—
of a secret influence and passion, that God meant to
to be nearly irresistible.”
“What mean you, brother?”
You blush, Elizabeth. Let me deal plainly with
you. Do you believe that any woman would ever submit
to the pangs of child-birth; the agony of a mother;
her anxiety, slavery and watchfulness; never sleeping,
but at distracted intervals; and for ever wretched in
her passionate care of her offspring; unless there were
within her, a constantly operating attraction toward
man, which God meant to be irresistible—or nearly so.
No, Elizabeth; it is in vain that you would conceal it.
You have passions like men—stronger indeed; or you
are dealt partially with; for your suffering is altogether
more severe than ours—and there must be something
to compensate you. Well! You have hearts like us---
all that your education does for you, by that restraint,
which makes you so attractive, sensitive, and amiable,
is to multiply your danger a thousand fold. Give a
woman any excuse for tenderness—any—I care not
what—let her find something to love, lawfully, something,
I care not what---for the love of which, she need
not be ashamed, and will not be reproached—and see
how she will dote on it; a doll; a flower; a bird; a kitten;
a parrot; a lover; a husband; or a child. This it is
—which you call the harlotry of the heart, when not
sanctified by a certain ceremony—as if that, which is
wrong in itself—could be made right, by a few idle
words.”
“Speak more plainly, brother—do you allude to the
ceremony of marriage? Call you that idle?”
“I do. Who married Adam and Eve? Who made
it a religious ceremony? See the variety; the foolish
tricks, that are played off, in different nations, by way
of legalizing the natural expression of love. Here,
they shake hands,—there, they say prayers. Here, the
bride is taken away by violence;—there, she creeps into
the bed of the man, and crouches at his feet, like a
whipped spaniel. Why then, if a nation; a people;
themselves, why may not a single pair?”
“They may,” said Elizabeth—“but the law must
compel them to fulfil their duties of the condition; or,
what confidence can they have in each other? What motive
to indulgence; forbearance---or forgiveness? Who
should educate their children? What would become of the
next generation?”
“There, dear---there!---You have taken the strong
ground. But are you of those, who believe that the
love of a man perisheth after possession?”
“Can it be denied! are you not all—all—more sensual
than we? Do ye not; has it not grown into a proverb,
that the seducer will fly from his victim, if he
can.”
“And so, you would bind him by marriage!”
“Yes.”—
“My dear sister!---would that be the doctrine of a
delicate woman? If satiety follow enjoyment, would a
woman consent to hold the man, by law---whom, but
for the law, she could not hold? Would not his caresses
and endearment be a thousand times more affecting,
while she knew that they were voluntary---while she
knew that he was free---than while she knew that he
could not, legally, refuse to caress her. But you are
mistaken---satiety does not follow enjoyment. They,
who love purely, love the more, after enjoyment. It is
a more secret, inward, quiet and absorbing love. There
is no loathing; no satiety, where there is no guilt---except
there be a great folly, or great brutality.”
“I can believe you—brother. You must be right—
else no delicate woman would ever marry—nor ever
yield, for a moment, to that passion, which is the mysterious
law of her nature. But what did you say of
women? Let us return to that subject.”
“I said this—that a man may do anything within the
limits of possibility,—that, therefore, he might, by
fraud or force; by intrigue; or love; in some way or
other, if he would persevere steadily, year after
year, gain possession of any woman, that ever lived. By
this, I do not mean that he could seduce her; still less; do
could prostrate her; and imprison her, as he would a
man—and hold her at his mercy.”
“For shame, my brother—You do not know other
women, as you know us; no other, indeed—how then
can you judge of them, so scornfully!”
“I!--what, when I have seen them seduced, almost without
excuse---or persuasion---the proud of heart too---the
pure and intellectual:--comforted, when they had become
mothers and wives, in their utmost bereavement, and distraction,
by baubles, that I would not give to children;
—distressed, helpless, and broken hearted, motherless
and childless women—and husbandless women—in the
summer time of their affection, quieted by ribbons, and
bonnets; dolls and sugar plumbs—a tea service—a new
carriage, or a party.”
“Hush! hush!—shame on you, caitiff—you are verily
wandering in your allegiance. Take care if I report
you—another banishment.”
“Sister!”
“Nay, nay brother—that flashing of the eyes won't
do---what!---ah, pardon me brother, dear brother, I did
not mean to trifle with your feeling---do forgive me,
do!”
What could I say? I was cut to the heart---Emma
had banished me once, since our love had begun; and
the interval that wore away, before our reconciliation,
was disconsolate and sorrowful, to both of us, I do believe,
beyond all that woman could imagine. To me,
it was like the parting of the grave. I had no preparation
for it; there was no opportunity for me to put
my lips upon her forehead, reverentially, as I was wont;
---to weep upon her hands; and hear the reverberation
of her heart, to my farewell---O, no---but, it was like
the parting of the sick chamber---the death bed. For
two or three days, she had been sad; and there was a
visible constraint in her lovingness; my pride awoke---
my jealousy of power---for, I would not share the heart
of the woman that I love, even with my Maker. Reader,
you start---I do not wonder at it. Yet, it is true; and,
I cannot disguise it. Wholly God's - or, wholly mine---must
most acceptable worship, where woman fulfils her destiny;
and loves her husband, with all her heart and
soul; that the truest religion! Not that I would have
her love her husband, more than the laws of God---No!
but, I would have her heart; her affections; her tenderness,
altogether, and unqualifiedly, her husband's. In
that way, would she best show her love for God. For
two or three days, there had been a growing concern,
in her blessed countenance; and, at last, she sat by me,
and sang to me, in her own sweet, painfully sweet,
clear voice, the very song, that I first heard her sing---
“O, never doubt my love!” My heart fainted---thrilled.
I looked up into her face. I saw her passionate eyes
full of solemnity and pathos; her lips moving, as if in
prayer. Man!—It was the last song that she sung to
me;--the first, and the last. In the morning, at breakfast,
we met again; our manner was yet stately; though,
I do believe, that we had little apprehension in our
hearts, of what was about to happen. I had met her;
taken her hand; and seated her at the table; neither of
us had spoken, except to give the usual salutation of
the day. The silence was mournful; and, to me, so distressing,
that I was fain to conceal my emotion, by
waiting, sternly, the result. We parted. I saw her
no more. For many a weary month, we never met
again. We dreamt of each other; thought of each
other; prayed for each other; but, I; alone, was able to
speak. She was silent, and pale as death. She tried
hard, to forget me; and flattered herself, for a time,
that she had succeeded; but, I knew her nature, too
well, for that. She was younger than I, and more
sensitive; of course, she would feel more keenly. She
had less experience than I; and, had never felt her
heart stirring with vitality; at the touch of any hand,
or sound of any voice, before mine. Of course, she
would have no experience, to support her, under the
fire, and sickness; and giddy, faint humiliation; nothing
to put her upon her guard, against the inroad of
sweet thought, and delirious dreaming. Add to this,
that I was a man; mingling, every hour, with the incessant
capable of turning all my faculties, immediately, into
any channel, that I pleased. I knew this; I felt it; and,
when she said farewell to me, I pitied her; blessed her,
in my heart, and wept aloud; wept upon my knees—for
I knew that, with all my faults, I was the only man on
earth, to make her happy; and, the only one, whom she
could ever love. I said so; but, who could believe me?
I even went further—for, I could not contemplate the
desolation, and darkness, and stillness, that I foresaw,
assembling about the sunshine and beauty of one, whom
I had so loved, without quaking, inwardly. I was
willing to lay down my life for her; nay, more; I was
willing to bind my pride, and self-love, hand and foot;
and lay them down at her feet. I did so. But—heaven
lent her strength. She stood up; pale, but stout-hearted
yet; and turned away her face to my prayer. How
perversely we are constituted! From that hour, I
swore, in my spirit, to win her, or die. I could have
broken her heart; I could; it would have been an easy
matter; for, she had loved me; but, I scorned to do it.
What there was evil in my nature, had disappeared, at
her approach. My temper lay, prostrate, before her.
Many, and many a month passed away, in weariness
and faintness; yet, I faltered not; and she—the blessed
martyr! though her trials were ten thousand times more
heavy than mine; operating too, in solitude—surrounded
too, by ten thousand insensible things, to lacerate
and weaken her, with fewer consolations; yet, the
heroick girl withstood the whole pressure, till she
was nigh to drop. Both had hours of bitterness and
sorrow; but, both were proud: I waited to know that
any advance would be acceptable. And she, with the
sublime delicacy of woman, not only, would not permit
herself, or any of her friends to make any advance; but,
she would not even permit them to signify that, if I
made any, it would be received. Thus went we, upon
our way—I, sorrowing that we might not meet, alone,
where I could tell her, face to face, that I still loved
her; and should love her, to my latest breath; and she,
it may be, sorrowing too, that she had not been less
little less sudden and peremptory, in dethroning the
lord of her affection; and wishing that she had dictated
other terms; such, as would have left her a prospect
of happiness, with me, after many a year of self-denial,
and virtue; and one, sure, sure hope of her love.
We might have gone to our graves, with the same unpropitiating
spirit, devoted, in truth and purity, to each
other; yet, dying, with the heavy secret untold upon
our lips. Thrice, however, had we been near meeting;
once, when an accident had befallen her, and when,
if I had seen her in the arms of another man, in the
trance that she was, I should have thrust him from her;
and never left her again, never! until she looked upon
me again, as she had been used to look. And once,
when she happened to enter a house, the moment after
I had left it; when, if we had met, she must have forgiven
me, though we parted anew, and for ever;—and
last—O, I cannot tell how that happened. She was a
catholick girl; and had once been near consecrating
herself to perpetual sorrow; and well nigh becoming a
nun; that most unprofitable of beings; one of them,
whose whole life is spent in making barrenness a virtue.
But at last, at last! blessed be heaven! we did meet,
and were reconciled. Never had we loved so truly,
and so devotedly; with that sublimity, which spiritualises
the passion; taking away all its earthiness; and
etherializing all its essence and issue. And now—
now, while our hearts were just re-uniting, after a separation,
like death; just knitting anew, the ruptured
and bleeding filaments that had been torn away, so
violently and suddenly, but, without having lost their
sensibility, or their instinctive movement, for reunion,
when they were brought near to each other; to be told,
just then, when the blood was just beginning to ripple,
again, through the united parts, of another banishment,
another separation—Oh! it was driving the knife home,
indeed! home, to the vitals! home, to the sundering of
soul and body. I was unable to utter a word. I tried,
but I could not—I could only, when Elizabeth threw
sobbing, as if her dear heart would break---I could only
say, “God bless you, dear---God bless you!”
“Forgive me, dear William—speak to me, O, speak
to me—or, if you will not—give me some token that I
am forgiven.” I pressed her hand; and she kissed my
forehead, and eyes, till I reeled with blindness.
She had meant no harm—and I was ashamed of my
unmanly sorrow; and yet, it was not sorrow; there
was something rather of dismay, and consternation—
nay, even of prophecy in it; for my heart was smitten,
as with a leaden sceptre—and a voice came from my
lips—unlike the sound of my own voice. My blood was
chilled at the noise of it; as if a spirit had spoken these
words within me. “Our second parting will be for ever.
My second banishment, for all eternity.”
Elizabeth shuddered, and looked round—and I—
I shuddered too; but I was, like one constrained, and
obliged to speak. She looked pale, and trembled;
and, when she put her hands upon my face, she said;
“my brother!—your voice sounded very strangely to
me—I should not have known it.”
I was unable to speak; and we sat, with my arm
about her waist; and her head leaning upon my bosom,
while I held her cold, delicate hands—both—in one of
mine, to my heart, which beat, as if it would break its
way through, to be embraced by them.
“I wonder,” said I, at last—while her disordered
hair swept over my eyes, and tickled my lips, until I
was fain to push it aside, hastily; and the wind blew it,
as I did so, all abroad, like a thick, brilliant vapour,
behind us. “I wonder,” said I, “that you can have
the heart, to persist in your resolution, dear, of never
getting married.”
“That is not true, William,” said she, putting her
arm about my neck. “You do not wonder at it.”
“I do, indeed;” I replied—a little maliciously, and
with somewhat of the silly discontented feeling of those
who love, but are never satisfied, unless they hear each
other saying, all the time, Oh, I do love you—O, how
I love you! “A woman like you, so fitted for the companionship
ambitious.”
“But where am I to find such a man?”
“Where! Why there is---George Larence. Nay, nay,
do not put your hands over my mouth—I will have it
out.”
“Upon my word, brother, you are getting scurrilous,”
she replied, thrusting her beautiful hand
through my hair, and tugging at it—“I shall not submit
to it, I assure you.”
“Then there is—” (I continued.)
“Who!” said she, eagerly. “Who else is there, that
you would—.”
“Nobody!” said I, anticipating her question, while
her hand fell into her lap. “Nobody else upon this
earth!---not even to him!---would I consent, that—”
“How,” answered Elizabeth---“is my brother so—
vain of his sister; or so selfish?”
“Vain, if you please, child; and very selfish, as all
men are, of what is inestimable. Who is willing to
share his only jewel—his last drop of cold water, while
his lips are blackened with fever!---his wife---his
child?”
“Brother, brother!---that is wrong,” said Elizabeth,
with a deep sigh. “I shall never be married.”
“Her tone of voice went to my heart. It was utterly
unlike her manner on such occasions. There was less
of determination, than of grief, and despondency, and
strange hopelessness in it. Nay, her breath grew
thicker; and I thought that I felt a deeper throb at her
heart, where it leaned upon mine.
“But why,” said I; “my dear girl—why do I hear a
tone so disconsolate (her head drooped)—from Elizabeth
Adams, on such a subject. It is but looking
about you, sister; and you may have your choice of the
wisest, and best.”
She raised her slender form, for a moment; put back
the silken luxuriance of her hair; and smiled—such a
smile, as I never before saw upon her beautiful mouth.
“There are godlike creatures,” said she, with fervour;
but, in a low tone, and with a working lip, as if
fell upon my hand.
“Then why do you not marry?” said I, overcome
with my feeling. “Why refuse Wilman? Why, Larence?
O, Elizabeth, I have been too selfish; I will
yield you to them---to either---to any body.”
“To anybody! brother.”
“Yea, to anybody—you would not marry a man, that
I could be ashamed of.”
“Yes---but might I not choose some one, that you
could not love?”
“I hope not. I believe not—(her head fell upon my
shoulder,) yet, nevertheless, dear, it were better that
there should be some one to protect you, when I am
away, or dead, or—”
“Married—brother,” she said, half smiling, half pouting,
while her voice trembled, like the melody of wet
harp strings.
“Would that I could see you married, after all,
Elizabeth. I begin to be weary of this continual sacrifice---I—”
“What sacrifice, brother?”
“This, that you are making to me; this daily, hourly
martyrdom; giving up your beauty, and dominion,
to unprofitableness—(I felt her blood rush like a sudden
tide through her temples, while they rested against
my cheek)—were you married, though your heart,
for a time, would feel widowed; yet a new being would
bound in yours; new relations—I might live to see a
babe, with blue eyes---(the blood rushed again through
her whole frame---I could feel it in her throat, as if
she were strangling with confusion, and shame; aye,
even to her finger ends)—or black eyes; (her hand
shook in mine)---and dimpling fat hands, nestling about
the heart of my sister. What!—offended, sister!---
surely the thought cannot be new to you; a woman of
your age, educated as you have been; qualified to fulfil
every office of a wife, and a mother, with a surpassing
tenderness, and simplicity---you cannot be offended,
dear.”
“No, brother, not offended,” (said Elizabeth, with
few notions of prudery; very few, I believe. I am able
to look, and speak, of the nursery, and of children;
without stammering, or blushing. Nay, more. I have
had a sweet dreaming, now and then---averse as I
have always been, to the perils of matrimony—about
children of my own---naked little creatures; beautiful
as the day---innocent as beautiful; full of divinity; radiant
all over with the infusion of our Father's love.
Yes, brother! and I have had to hush my heart, with
both hands, and all my strength---while I lay, and
wept, at the thought. And then, too, toiling as I have
been, all my life, for the improvement of my mind, and
temper; fitted, as I know that I am, for domestick government;
and capable, as I believe, that I am, like
most women, to endure privation and sorrow; pain and
agony, unspeakable, for the man that I loved, beyond
all that men can ever experience, or imagine; to think
of passing away an unprofitable life; having no one to
love me, in my old age; no husband, and no child to
be near to me, in calamity---to go down to my grave,
a worthless; nameless; unhonoured woman;---because I
have not been base enough to sell myself for some
price, less than love; to some mercenary wretch, for an
equipage---to some unnatural tyrant, for family distinction;
to some fool, for his beauty; or to anybody,
that I might escape the imputation of being an old
maid; as if to be a virgin, were to be something
shameful. When I have thought of these things, brother,
I cannot deny that I have wept, wept, bitterly;
and felt very heavy at the heart—yet, still—.”
“You are determined, then,” said I, pressing her to
my bosom; “never to be married! O, sister, how I venerate
you. Yet do not think to impose upon me. I
know your motive.”
What shook her so? By heaven, she grew as white as
a corpse. “Nay, you cannot deny it,” said I.
“I will deny, nothing,” said she, firmly---“nothing,
which is true. What I have already said, I would not
have said to any other human being---if you know my
motive.”
“If!” said I---“if I know it---why, surely, my
been so well kept, for so many years.”
“For so many years!”—said she, looking surprised.
“No,” I continued---“no my sister. I feel, and acknowledge,
the sublimity of your love---: why do you
change colour? It is unheard of; and it were almost
unnatural for me to marry, and leave a sister, that lives
unmarried, for her love of me. No, Elizabeth, such
heroick be—”
The tears started into her eyes---“my brother,”
said she, wringing my hands, and wetting them with
her tears---“my brother! I cannot deceive you---I
will not. Hear me---it must be told---I would not willingly
give pain to you; but---I cannot endure to be
praised for virtues, that are not mine—I—”
I was perfectly silent.
“I,” she continued—“I—it is not on your account,
that I do not marry.”
“On whose then?” said I, abruptly---on whose
then?---fool that I am—I—”
“Be calm, William,” she replied, with great dignity,
and moderation. “Be calm, for a moment; and
you shall hear; I will not keep the secret any longer.
Your violence does not intimidate me; but it distresses
me. Are you prepared?—it will come upon you like a
thunderclap. It is on account of Albert Hammond, the
Dwarf; that I do not marry.”
“Righteous heaven!” I cried, as soon as I could get
my breath. “O! say not so!—Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
Elizabeth Adams! on my bended knees, I entreat you;
—O, say not so! Let me not cast you off for ever—let
me not curse you!”
“Aye, my brother, curse me if you will—cast me
off, for ever, if you will—yet will I repeat it—standing
up as I do now—before Him, to whom we are all answerable—calling
him to witness the truth—I do say
it—I repeat it---I glory in it. Your unnatural hatred,
and cruelty to him—Albert Hammond, the Dwarf—the
man of power, have made me love him!”
“Love him!—love Hammond!—My beautiful sister
loving deformity, and death—O, God! O, God! Now,
now do I believe, that when he drew women, till my
heart sickened, and heaved, with loathing, and detestation;
the unnatural and beastly appetite of Desdemona—that—”
“Brother!” cried Elizabeth. “Brother! beware;
you do not know me, if you believe, that I am tame
enough for this. Look at me!”
She stood up—her hair all loose—giving out her
brightness, and beauty, like a halo about her—her
eyes flashing with indignation; her lips quivering, and
burning, with loftiness, determination, scorn, and purity.
“I have a spirit, that will not be branded with sensuality,
even by the most delicate insinuation—look at
me—were all the beauty, of all the men of the whole
earth, embodied in one man; and were he kneeling before
me, I would set my foot upon his neck.”
“And so would Desdemona;” I answered, through
my shut teeth—“on all but one.”
For the first time in all her life, there was a dash of
wicked scorn and bitterness, in her beautiful face; and
her eyes, too, streamed with passion.
“Brother! brother! you have dishonoured your own
sister! Now listen to her! Behold the work of your
own hands!—hear the story of her shame—nay, cower
not!—cover not your eyes! You shall see it, though I
pluck away your hands by force.—Stop not your ears!
I will ring it for ever there, till you acknowledge the
greatness of Hammond; his forbearance; and your own
ingratitude. Yea!—down to the earth with your forehead—there
let it lie!—but you shall hear me—nevertheless,
you shall!—though it never be lifted again.”
“I love Albert Hammond—I have loved him, for
years—and he knows it. I have done all but tell him
of it;—for his sake I shall never marry; and for his,
alone!”
“Marry him!” said I—“marry him, in the devil's
name!—and nurse the hellish imps, that will issue from
his loins, till your own beauty be stained and tarnished,
by the touch of their very lips, and breath. Marry
curse you—I cannot—I must bless you—though you
have broken my heart.”
That brought her to my bosom. “No, brother,” she
answered, sobbing—“no! I shall never marry him—
never.”
I was really comforted with the declaration; but
ashamed to appear so. “What!” I cried—“he won't
marry you, I suppose; or he may love somebody else.”
“I believe, that he does, madman,” she answered,
rising; and burying her face in her hands—“I believe,
that he does love another woman; for he has done all
but tell me so. Nay, I believe more, that, if I threw
myself into his arms, he would reject me.”
“Damnation,” I cried, leaping upon my feet: “this
is too bad!---refuse you!---reject you!---though I would
rather see you dead ten thousand times, dead, and
rotten, than in the arms of Albert Hammond, I would
cut his heart out of his bosom—tear his tongueout by
the roots; and make him eat it, if he dared to refuse
you.”
She smiled, bitterly; contemptuously, I believe.
“You!” she cried—“you! Why, William, he could hold
you still as death, with one hand; and bind you hand
and foot, with the other. What a madman you are!
So you would run to him, and cut his throat, for refusing
to marry your sister. What a pretty figure, you
would cut! No, brother—before you set out on such
an errand, I will tell you the whole truth. I am not
yet, utterly dead to maiden modesty; and have never
told my love; nor sought his. Nay, more—would he
offer to marry me, this hour, I would refuse.”
“Refuse,” said I—“why!---why, if you love him;
are you torturing me to death for pastime? Why
would you not? Why? Why would you refuse?”
She coloured to the very eyes, when she spoke,
“Because,” said she—“I hold it to be sinful, to transmit
disease, and deformity. I would neither marry,
nor be given in marriage, to one, whom— You understand
me, brother. Men are thoughtless—women
are more so. They marry with broken constitutions;
entailing, thereby, upon their innocent offspring,
to the third and fourth generation—all that is loathsome,
abhorrent, or disagreeable—thus fulfilling, literally,
the denunciation, that heaven has pronounced
upon them that sin; nay, I do not doubt, that these are
the sentiments of Albert, himself. I say, that I do not
doubt it: for, without seeking to know his thought upon
this subject, I know enough of his mind; and turn of
thinking, to feel very certain, that he is restrained
from thinking of marriage; not with me, for I do not
believe, that he loves me, but with another, and a far
more beautiful woman, by the same considerations. I
shall never marry him, brother, whatever may happen.
And for the sake of him, I will never marry another.
Will that satisfy you? Can you find any comfort
in it?”
What could I say? All my dreams were dashed to
the earth, at once. What I most dreaded, yet never
dared to think of, had now come to pass. Elizabeth
loved Hammond—and so did I—but not, O heaven,
no!—not as the husband of Elizabeth! the partner of
her bed—the father of her babes!—O, no!—My blood
curdled at the thought!
But worse than this—; nay, not worse, but next to it,
in bitterness, and shame, was the discovery that I had
made; that her reason for not marrying, was not her
love to me—but to another; and that other—O, my
brain whirled at the thought—and I fell down giddy,
and sick, upon the floor.
| CHAPTER XII. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |