 | CHAPTER XV. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
Petty troubles of matrimony...Irregularity...Birth of Leister...
First born...Sensations of a father...Pang...Hammond...Birth
of Anna...Perilous Acquaintance...Atarum!...Emma...Death
of Anna...Sorrow of a mother...Hammond again!...Jealousy.....
Shoots Hammond...Smyrna...Constantinople.
It would not readily be believed; I dare say, that
our chief troubles for a time, were about petty, and
trivial matters, such as the romantick, and poetical;
or, in plainer language, the foolish readers, of foolish
poetry, and novels, would laugh to scorn. Yet they
were so;---and, my whole object in telling this tale, is to
entrap some of these people, who never read any thing
but poetry, and novels; into reading what will be of
use to them, in spite of their precaution; and instil, if
it be possible, some heathful doctrine into their hearts,
before they are aware of it. Yet—this frank avowal
of my purpose may defeat it—they will detect the
hook—and avoid it; or nibble off the gilding, from
the bait—or refuse to be drugged at all, however
tempting the odour, or beautiful the colour of my preparation.
Be it so, then. Their blood be upon their
own heads. I would teach then, what nothing else,
but humiliation, and disappointment can teach them—
if they would let me.
My wife had been educated in a frugal, domestick
way; from her childhood, accustomed to children, and
having the chief care of a large family, she had the
best of instruction in the matter of training them. She
was a woman too, of good sense—of practical good
sense—; and, while she knew that I was neither a glutton,
nor an epicure—she knew that, if I were not a
beast, I would not be utterly indifferent about my food.
Add to this, that I was remarkable for my regularity.
My business was of a nature, that, if I hoped to prosper
in it. I was obliged to be punctual. She knew this;
and did her best to aid me in it. I never complained---never,
marriage, that my business was diminishing; that I
was fast losing my character, for scrupulous punctuality;
indeed, so far, had my forbearance gone, that I
dared not make an engagement, unless I was ready to
go, without my breakfast, dinner, or tea. Poor Emma
was distressed. She resolved, and re-resolved again,
and again, every night when she went to bed, that the
next day, the very next, she would turn over a new
leaf—have breakfast an hour earlier at least—and
just at the right time. Yet the next day came. I rose
early; went about my business; returned, a whole hour
beyond the time, announced for breakfast; and found
the room cold—and the table not set out. This would
happen—I know not how often:—but once, I met her
at the door---and she coloured.---When I took her
hand—
“Do not scold me, dear—I—”
“Scold you!” said I, kissing her forehead. “No
dear, I shall never scold---but—
“But—you know that I deserve it,” she added,
smiling---`the servants, I do not like to blame them; but
they always wait for you.”
I called the cook up—: and repeated my directions,
in a firm tone, to have the table set, whether I
had come, or not, at certain hours.
But scarcely had I given the order, than I felt
ashamed of myself. It was unmanly. “I really forgot
myself,” said I, to Emma—“that was your province;
and it is capable of being misinterpreted. I
pray you dear, to be a little more peremptory.
Choose your own hours—there is the clock, you see.
matters little what those hours are; but it is of the
last importance in my business, that they should be
certain. Tell the girl this; and, if possible, make her
regard it. This will cost you some trouble, and time,
I foresee, at first;—but we must be patient. And after
awhile, it will be pleasanter for her, and for you; and
casier, to conform to them. I see that you are hurt.”
“Not at your reproaches—but at my own,” she replied—looking
up in my face, in her sweet way. “I
lament, that I had not been earlier taught, the importance
of punctuality, in our household management.”
“I begin to feel now, that it is essential to comfort;
it will be difficult, I am sure, to learn a habit of so serious
a nature, so constantly required too, in domestick
economy—but I shall learn it---I will—”
“Yes, my dear, I know it. I am not impatient. I am
less so, I believe, than you are. Because, I know the
difficulty of acquiring such a habit. Nay, I am less
troubled about it, at this moment, than you are. But
that it can be attained, is certain, in time; by one far
less zealous, and less in earnest, than you. Look
about you. Very ordinary women, you will find,
characterised by consummate regularity. You will
have most trouble with the servants; but we must be
patient with them—make them, if we can, take an interest
in our household; forgive a great deal—but, if
all will not do, unpleasant as it is to keep changing
them continually---you must turn them off. Let them
understand this, at once. The first time, that they
disappoint you, let the order go from you. I will have
them look to you, as their mistress, whom they are to
obey—and I am heartily ashamed of my interference
a moment ago—but I forgot myself, and wished to
spare you. Let them understand, that the first time
that they disappoint you, for one half hour, in the
time of meals, (unavoidable accidents excepted,)
they shall troop without mercy—: and, that I shall
forgive them for any thing, sooner than for want of
respect to you.”
Here ended our first lesson. The good effects were
not immediately visible; but, before six months had
passed, no man's family was better managed than
mine. I was never afraid to ask a friend home to dinner,
without notice---and was always sure of finding
somewhat, that would be welcome to a hungry man,
at a certain hour---and if he were not hungry, he ought
never to complain, if the dinner did not please him---
he would get what I got---and what more would a
reasonable man expect?
There were some other little things, matters of no
moment, that occurred; and some, that made me smile
at her affectionate temper, and simplicity: thus, if I
happened to eat more heartily, than usual, of some new
dish, (only because it was new) I was sure to see it
upon my table every day---if not every night, till I
was heartily sick of it. These were the natural errours
of a kind heart, and a watchful, delicate assiduity.
Thus passed away our life, for the first year
of our marriage; that season of trial, and apprenticeship;
when all the secret affinities; and hidden antipathies
of our nature, are sure to discover themselves:---
and when, under the process of assimilation, we learn
that our permanent happiness in life, is not made up of
large, showy items; that evenness of temper; patience;
sweetness, and affection, are enough to make people
happy; but that the higher, and more intoxicating sensations
are more apt to be ruinous, than profitable. A
husband ought never to be a hero---nor a statesman---
nor a poet---nor a demi-god. He should be a rational
man; obedient, under adversity; submissive to heaven;
and willing to toil all the days of his life, for little
else than the quiet of a family. Would he be great;
terrible—let him never marry. Let him break his
own heart, if he will;—let him hazard his own life,
if he dare—but let him not hazard the heart of another—the
blood of his wife, and children. No, no!—
no heroes for husbands!
At last—O, how my heart eddies in my bosom, at
the thought of it! I feel, for a moment, as if I had been
in a long, long dream; and waked with the little soft
feet of my boy, patting over my face. At last, I was a
father. The hour of agony had passed; the hour of
travail, to my spirit too; for I wept blood in my anguish,
and affright—but, at last, heaven was merciful
to me; and the dear babe was put into my arms. O,
then, then! felt I, for the first time, the sanctity of our
union consummate! Emma had born a babe to me.
Our beings were incorporate for ever, and ever—
anew—and heaven had embodied the essence, and spirit,
of her beauty, and my strength, in one little im
eyes, as if my whole heart were running away. At
last, I began to put in practice my simple theory of
education—nay, not a theory—it did not deserve that
name. I wanted my child to resemble me; and yet I
wanted him to be brave, and good, and great; and I
was neither—alas! neither good, nor brave, nor great.
One evening, to induce an uniformity of opinion, between
her, and myself—while I was alone, for the
first time—at night—and away from my beloved Emma—I
scribbled the following remarks, on education.
They are hardly worth preserving---nor would they
be preserved, had I not fallen upon them, accidentally,
the other day, very much worn---the writing faded---
the ink diluted and spread; and the paper wet, as with
a heavy, and continual rain---through every page---
and almost illegible. Alas! It was no rain—it was
only the rain of her eyes---of her heart---poor Emma!
She could not agree with me; and what could she do
but weep over it![1]
I cannot well pause now. I am hurrying, more,
and more, as I approach the perilous place. Let me
go over it at once. For three whole years, I was the
happiest of human beings---prosperous in my affairs;
growing in love, and reputation; with nothing upon
this earth to distress me, except an occasional indisposition
of Leister---or Anna, (my little daughter) or
my wife. When one day— when— yes, yes, I
will tell it---one day, on entering the room, suddenly,
I saw Albert Hammond, sitting upon the sofa, with
my wife; and, when I approached, he arose in some
confusion; and I saw that she had been weeping.
I trembled---I stood still---I bowed, haughtily, to
him; for, some how or other, I had never been able to
endure him, since the disclosure that Elizabeth had
made to me; and, I had not seen him, for a long time.
I had tried to be cordial; but. I could not.
He returned my bow, with troubled eyes; and passed,
leisurely, out of the apartment.
I was entirely silent, for a moment; and affected a
I might appear to be pained, I entered, immediately,
into a cheerful conversation, with Emma; taking no
notice of her distress; and endeavouring to persuade
myself, that I cared nothing about it. But, I deceived
myself—I deceived her. Yet, I did not know it,
till afterward—when I found myself, at midnight,
walking my room, as I awoke, at the sound of a faint
cry, from the bed. I started—broad awake—but stood,
for some minutes, without knowing where I was,
till I heard her voice again. I was pacing the floor,
for some time, she believed—the sound of my steps
had waked her—and she had spoken to me, repeatedly,
before I answered. Poor heart—she knew not, that I
was asleep. I leaned over the blessed creature—half
sobbing, myself—and kissed her eye-lids, which I found
all dripping wet, with tears.
“What ailed you, William?” she said, leaning upon
her elbow—and pushing back her beautiful hair, under
her night cap. The star light shone in upon her
neck and one shoulder, while she lay there; and never,
in all my life, never did I see any bosom so touchingly
beautiful. Her dazzling white hand held her
transparent drapery about her bosom; and her damp
eyes were lifted with such a reverential, and deep tenderness,
upon my own, that, overcome by my feeling,
yet, unable to explain it—nay, even ashamed to speak
of it, I fell upon her neck, and wept—aye, wept, like a
child.
Yet, still, she was silent; silent as death, while her
heart beat, as though it would burst through her bosom
—what could I do? I was but a man. She knew my
nature. She had been apprised of it, by my own sister;
cautioned against this very thing. She knew,
that I would rather die, than ask her, what Hammond
had said to her; or why she had been weeping? Yet—
O, was it pride that kept her silent? Wo to such pride!
I can say no more. I loved her yet, passionately;
and forgave her, in my heart; and sought there, again
and again, to excuse her—but, I never slept in her
bosom, again—never—as I was wont---I know not
how it was—I loved her, none the less---I respected
toward her.
Not long after this, Anna was born---a sweet, delicate
creature; and again, we passed away a whole
year of love and friendship.
In the mean time, my affairs had prospered, beyond
all example; and I had taken a country seat, a short
distance from town, where I spent the greater part of
my time. It was a fine old mansion, large, and built
by a French planter, of noble, if not royal blood; who
had been driven from St. Domingo, with the wreck
of a princely fortune, by the blacks....I had been told.
It had been constructed, with every attention to comfort
and seclusion. I was pleased with it, at first sight. I
know not why....perhaps, from the vast, cool, roomy
appearance of it....perhaps, from a certain air of nobility
and foreign state, about it. It had been, for several
years, under the superintendance of a poor family,
who had suffered it to fall to decay, until just before
I took it, when they had been pursuaded to repair.
it. I would have bought the house, at once: but the lawyer,
whom I employed, could get no satisfactory account
of the title, and dissuaded me from it: adding,
that he was not at all clear, about the right of the poor
family, to receive the rent: and advising me, to correspond,
directly, `after I was in possession,” with the
alleged owner, who must have been a man of great
wealth, and munificence. And so I thought....for,
there was a great deal of foreign marble, iron, and
mahogany, about the house: and, to complete the
whole, it was said to be haunted....for what reason,
nobody could tell: though, every body avoided it, after
night fall---and no wonder---for it was a lonely
and desolate place, with no house in sight; and only a
few of the finest old trees in the world; and a sheet of
water, completely hidden by great willow trees, set all
round it. However, I liked the house, and so did Emma.
To me, it was like an old acquaintance....it
seemed to me, that I knew every part of it; and, so
familiar, from the first, was I, that Emma spoke of
it, as if she thought that I had lived in it, before.
I saw Hammond, sometimes, but very rarely: and I
had learned to affect a cordiality, that I did not feel.
But, what alarmed me, more than anything else, was
this I found out, accidentally, that Emma and Hammond
had been very intimate, before we were married---or
even acquainted. I wondered, now, that she
had never mentioned it. Why had she never spoken of
him, except, when it could not be avoided? Could it
be! Death and darkness! The hottest fire would not
have scorched me, like that thought! Who knows! I
cried, who knows but she may have loved him! Elizabeth
loved him—and—by heaven---it was true!
I now remembered his confusion, the first time that I
ever saw her. What, then, I had passed over, as unworthy
of notice, now rushed upon me, like a giant.
Love him! No, no....it could not be. Yet, Elizabeth
had loved him---and she had been secret, too. No! No!
I knew that her honour was mine; that she would
sooner die, ten thousand deaths, than betray mine.
But, what comfort was that to me? She had married
me---but how should I ever know, imprudent creature,
that she was, whether it was not, because she, too, like
Elizabeth, had loved Albert Hammond, hopelessly.
Monstrous and crushing as the thought was, it
grew into shape, and proportion; and, such was the
heat and tempest of my wrath, that, had not God struck
my daughter to the heart, instantly, before my eyes,
just when I was ready to perpetrate the deed, I should,
most assuredly, have slain Hammond. Yet, just as
had been foretold, I grew kinder and gentler, every
hour, toward Emma; probably; for such is poor human
nature—that she might feel the greater tenderness
for me, when I should have done some deed of
desperation. Often, very often too, when we have
been sitting together, have I looked upon her gentle
face, until my eyes overflowed;—then, kissed
her chaste forehead—and left her, abruptly: sure that,
—no, no—I will not believe, in spite of all that happened
afterward—I will not believe it!—She did love
me! Was I not the father of her babes? her comforter?
ever woman prouder of man, than she, of me?
But, about this time, a dangerous and beautiful
creature, had thrown herself, immediately in my way.
I know not why I did not rebuke her, at once, to the
dust—my own vanity, perhaps; my desire of showing
Emma that others could love me; my compassion too,
for her—(the woman, I mean)—a stedfast confidence
in myself; and in my own strength. We met, time
and again. I put her aside. Time and again, did I
forbear to destroy her, though she was importunate
for death; until I awoke, at last, horrour struck, at
what I had done. I had not been a villain—I had not
violated my marriage vow; but, under the vain pretence
of giving an innocent, but very imprudent woman, a
terrible lesson, I had permitted her unpractised heart
to delude itself with passion; to drug itself, with a mortal
poison. One thing only, consoled me. I was innocent;
and so was the woman. But, she owed her
innocence, not to her own strength; no, but to my forbearance;
for, once, she had been utterly in my power;
once, so entirely at my mercy, that, when she came
to her senses, I thought that she would have dropped
dead at my feet. From that hour, we never met;
and I had felt a reluctance to tell Emma of her, at all.
But, I overcame it. I told her—and she wept, bitterly,
very bitterly; till I, at last, was a little offended.
“O, William! I would not have believed it. I have not
believed it!”
I was amazed. Have not believed it!---I—.
“O, think not that I have been ignorant of it. I
knew of every meeting; every one; and, I have waited
till this hour, to hear you disown it: and now, with
all my confidence in you, that---merciful heaven! how
you look! your eyes! your lips.”
I know not how I looked---but I fell, as if she had
cut me to the heart. What!---how could convince
her. I had told her, now; but how would she ever
know that I had not told her, because I was afraid that
she knew it, or would know it---from somebody else;
O! death! death!—what bitterness of heart followed
that thought!
“I did not believe it, William—I did not!---O, hear
me!---I have disbelieved it all. Letter after letter,
have I burnt, the moment that I saw an allusion---that
---(her tears gushed out, again)—I have waited
to hear you disavow it.”
I thought of Hammond---but I was silent as the
grave---he must have been the slanderer. The slanderer!---how
could that be! How should he know that
we were innocent! He could not. There were all the
appearances of guilt. Letter after letter!---what did
she mean; what letters?—
Emma threw her arms about my neck; and sobbed
for ten minutes, as if her heart would break—“your
looks are---are--terrible William--don't---do---don't—
look so—they terrify me to death”---said she.
I fell upon my knees---“Emma!” I cried---“Emma!
you know my truth! You must, you will believe me!
By my hope of salvation, I have been true to my nuptial
vow, in thought and word, and deed! As there is
a God in Heaven, I am innocent! As I hope for his
mercy, I knew not that you knew a word of this; or
that you ever would hear of it!”
This appeared to comfort her. I could perceive it;
her sobbing grew less audible. `It was imprudent,
dear,” she said, however, in a low whisper.
“Yes, it was---I admit it. Sure, as I was, of my
strength, it was tempting Providence;---nay, for I cannot
deceive thee, I am not sure that, if I had been certain
of never being discovered, I should not have”—
“O, in mercy! do not tell me so, William!-- do not!”
she cried, looking her hands, with a low cry, of intolerable
anguish—“You would not have denied it?”
“Never!” said I—“never. I would have been the
first to tell you of it—and leave you for ever”—(she
shuddered all over.)
“William! my husband;” she said—carrying my
hands, passionately, to her mouth—“say not so!—whatever
happen—whatever—the time is past now, for any
other separation than that of death. Neither of us
would survive it. Do not be rash!—It might happen,
dear, it might, strong as you are—that—Oh heaven!
if it should (wildly) O, I pray thee, do not abandon me
—me!—and thy little ones!—kneel down, William—
kneel down, with me—O, for the love of heaven, William!
do kneel!—Come Leister! come! (the child had
crept up, and buried his yellow head in her lap, holding
on at her dress, all the while)—Kneel there, dear! Down,
down, with thee, my boy!—Swear to me, William—(I
had knelt too, I could'nt have stood upright)—Now,
swear by thy hope of happiness, hereafter!—by all our
love—our children!—never to abandon them!—never
to leave them---or me---whatever may happen to thee!”
I obeyed---bowed my head upon her shoulder, and
wept there: but I could not utter a word.
“Yea---it was rash and presumptuous in me;”---said
I---“my heart reproaches me for it;---it is not doing as
I would be done by—a sister; a wife; a daughter; a
dear one---how could I endure that!---
Ellen, I am wrong. I should pray in my heart, that
they might be taught wisdom, by as cheap a lesson.
No!---I will not reproach myself. I deserve praise, rather
than blame (she shook her head mildly—and the
tears, from her overcharged eyes, fell upon Leister's
uplifted face---“mama!--it rain mama!” he cried---“O!
mama! mama! ou choke my hand!”)—I did that
which no human being would believe---I forebore to
destroy a woman—that---nay dear, if it distress you,
I will say no more about it.”
“Thank you,” she replied, inaudibly; but the motion
of her mouth was full of thankfulness and modesty.
“Allow me,” I continued, “to say only this, dear
Emma, for your consolation---I have risen in my own
confidence.”
“I am sorry for it, William. It will lead to danger”
—she answered, meekly.
“And,” I continued, “much as I regret it, on some
accounts; yet, I have done as I would be done by; and I
would thank the man, who should have done just so, and
no more, by a wife, child, or—how pale you are, dear.”
“I feel very sick and faint---I—” she attempted
to arise---but her strength failed, and she fell into my
arms.
The very next day, my sweet Anna was seized with
an unpleasant tightness across the chest. We endeavoured
to relieve her---not that we were at all alarmed
about her---but—I cannot well bear to repeat it---the
poor, dear little thing died—died, in the deep night;
and, for a time, all my acquiescence and submission,
was a sick stupor; a dark and blind, and obstinate
tranquillity. And, when that had passed away---rage,
and anguish, and throes of downright rebellion, to
heaven. Emma was altogether more patient and submissive,
than I---hers were the sorrows of a mother,—
her heart bled in wardly, silent as death;---and, while she
prayed to be obedient and resigned; she wept, as if there
were nothing left, upon all this great earth, to love; and
nothing, in heaven or earth, that could comfort her.
I carried Leister to his little sister's coffin; and tried
to make him comprehend what death was. He cried and
screamed; but his childish sorrow was soon over; and I
could hardly forgive him for it. It appeared to me, so
unnatural---and he kissed her dead mouth; eyes; forehead
and hair, at my bidding; and wept bitterly, for a little
while, because he saw his mother weeping; but, the
next moment, almost, I heard his joyous laugh, below, as
if delighted at his release. My heart contracted, suddenly,
at the cry. I remembered the affectionate, caressing
temper of Anna. It appeared to me, for a little
time, that it were better for me to be buried with her
--but- -poor Emma! she wanted comfort. In the first
shock, she bore the bereavement better than I; but, after
a little time, I found that what I had taken for fortitude,
was really but a sort of stupefaction. She had
been stunned by the violence of the blow; and it was only
when life rushed back to her bruised and sore heart,
distending it with new blood, that the agony was felt
to her. O, then...then, learnt I, something of what mothers
feel, when a part, of themselves, hath been suddenly
smitten with death; blasted in its beauty--buried---buried...buried,
before their eyes!
For a whole week, we dared not mention the name
of our child; but Leister was perpetually inquiring
about her—and, one evening, when I had been startled
expecting, in the forgetfulness of the moment, to see my
little daughter there—I found his mother in tears.
“How like it was!” said I.
“Yes”...she answered...“I thought that it was Anna
herself---the dear prattler. He has many of her pretty
ways, I find, now...I never observed them before; and,
indeed, once or twice to day. I have been struck with
that resemblance, which every body has hitherto seen,
except ourselves...what a comfort it is!”—God!...where
am I...now...now!—Oh, what a cruel delusion...I had
forgotten where I was...all that I had suffered and lost
—many years, and many deaths.”
“It is natural,” said I...“We cannot see our children
grow or change; (seeking to comfort her) but others,
who see them less frequently, do. We are struck only
by the difference—strangers, by the resemblance in children.
We wonder that they are not more alike...they,
that are so much.”
“But ah! how different in temper, they were. She
was so affectionate,” said my wife.
“Nay, my dear Emma...that is human nature. The
green turf hallows all that it covers. Whatever is lost,
irretrievably, to us, becomes inestimable. This poor
boy has a thousand qualities, that will twine about our
hearts, yet...we must be prepared for it;...and prepared,
love,” I added...“for everything. It is the only way.”
“He understood me, and shuddered...leaning upon
my shoulder.”
“How good and beautiful, she looked!” said I...“when
she took the medicine—mouthful after mouthful—the
dear, little, patient creature...and permitted the leeches
to be put upon her face; while her very flesh crawled;
and she shut her eyes, and held her breath, for terrour.”
“Yes, and when she said, “good by'e cousin!...and
good by'e. pa—” the poor little thing!”
“Do you remember, too,” I replied, dashing off my
tears, with a brief feeling of consolation.. “how she looked,
when she asked me, if she was going to be put into
the ground?”
“Remember it!—O, my husband—do I not remember
it! and how her clear eyes looked up to heaven,
when I kissed her, and told her that she would go to
God — “must her stay with God, ma'—,” said Leister,
putting his head into her lap...“won't he let her
come back?”
“No, my child;...but, if you are good, he will let you
come and see him.”
“And sister too...I want to see sister, ma'—I do want
to see her”—(here he began crying for a moment—
but was very speedily comforted.)
That was the first blow—but—now bear with
me. The last is at hand—I— * * * * *
That great house grew awful to me after the death of
Anna—I was afraid to be alone in it—I determined to
remove—but, some how or other; and, contrary to all
my habits of life, I kept postponing it from day to day;
and from week to week, till I had'nt the heart to leave
it, desolate, frightfully desolate, as it was, to me, after
the death of my child, with my small family. How often--ah,
how often, have I started, at the sound of my own
footstep, when I trod the great landing of the main
stair case; and heard the hollow, rumbling echo, that followed,
through every room in the house, like something
subterranean. Aye, and stopped and thought, intently,
about it—as if—I know not what—but, I swear to you,
that the feeling which I had at such a time, was much
like what I should think a man would have, who had
lived in some other shape, before, in the world. I felt
as if, when I had been something else—no matter what
—beast or man—fowl or reptile—I had been a tenant
of that old habitation. And yet, it was impossible that
I should be familiar with it.—I had never seen it, till
the very week before I had hired it; and might have
lived, for ever, without having seen it, but for an accident.
In walking one day, altogether alone, I was
gradually seduced by a strange appearance of familiarity,
to something that I had seen before, in the walk—to
persevere; until I came in view of a large, noble looking
house. People were at work, in every part of it,—
and the setting sun was shining all through it—till the
room. I did not enter; but stopped to talk with a savage
looking old man, who was giving directions about
setting up a sort of enclosure, that had been broken
down---the very traces of which were nearly extinct.---
I was a good deal struck by his countenance; and entered
into conversation with him. He told me, in a few
words, without once looking me in the face, that he was
repairing it for his master, and meant to let it. I determined,
on the spot, a thing that I cannot account for,
it was like nothing that I ever did before...to take it, on
his own terms; and to remove immediately. A few days
after, the whole affair was completed; and we were most
comfortably situated for the summer season; but it was
very bleak and bitter in the winter, at our new mansion.
But enough of this---I should not mention it all, but for
the singular feeling that used to take me, every now
and then, by surprise; either at the sound of Emma's voice
...or that of my own; or, at the situation or appearance
of something about that house...which made me start
broad awake, sometimes, as if I had just then discovered
the mystery: and yet that mystery would always
elude me; and leave me, nevertheless, strangely dissatisfied
with myself and my memory.”
One day, I had just been fitting out a ship for Smyrna.
She was all ready to sail; and I had been so very
busy for some weeks, that I had scarcely time to eat or
sleep; and, for the second time, since our marriage, had
slept away from home. Yet, I was very happy; and the
more so, for having determined, in my own mind, that
if the issue of this voyage should be prosperous, I
would leave off trade; quit the city, calmly; and go into
some quiet retirement, where I could “live, love,
and die alone”[2]
—with my own dear wife and boy.
It was within a week of my birth day; and I was
planning a thousand pleasant dreams for the future, on
my way home; and felt, I do believe, a more
bounding pulse, than I had, since Anna's death;
and all my heart was running over with warmth and
tenderness. A friend stopped me; an aged and good
and he led me, before I knew it, wide of the way home.
Reader—be patient with me—I cannot tell thee, what
he said—shame and passion will not permit it. Something,
I had heard before; something, in the shape of
rumour; but I had laughed it all to scorn;—and now,
for husbands are the last, either to hear or believe such
things, I would have torn the tongue out of his throat,
by the roots, had he been a young man;—but, at him
—I only laughed—bitterly, I do suppose; for my tears
fell upon my lip, I remember; and made me start,
while I laughed, as if they had been drops of molten
lead.
I went directly home—patience!—patience!—thou
proud heart—patience, for one moment!—and then
break if thou wilt, into ten thousand pieces!—I went
directly home. There was my boy; my beautiful,
bright eye'd boy, at the door;—he ran into my arms,
and kissed me, repeatedly, where I stood, upon the
great marble slab, at the first landing.—I remember
that, because he was bare-footed; and, when I put him
on it---he kept jumping up and down, for a whole minute--
laughing and slapping his hands together, like a
child in a bath---and exclaiming cole! cole! cole! fader
---O, how cole him be! fader!---fader, proper cole!---
till my hot eyes ran over upon his face. Ah, little
knew I, what it all meant. I heard Emma's voice; and
ran up to the room---the little parlour above---and
there,---paused a moment, with a strange, unnatural
feeling of doubt and suffocation; for, as I laid my hand
upon the lock, I heard, what my disturbed senses took
to be, the sound of a man's voice, in low conversation,
“God forgive me!” I cried, putting my hands to my
temples, as if I had been guilty of blasphemy---“a man's
voice!---with my wife!.. at such a time.” I opened the
door, reader, I did, as I hope to go to heaven, with a
smile of affection upon my lips, ready to tell her, the
woman herself, how foolishly I had been alarmed, and
how, for a moment, I had dishonoured her---and—
* * * * * * * * * *
—I entered—a man was there!---she was struggling,
and in tears; but his lips were upon her hand.
was Albert Hammond. For a moment, I thought that
I should never breathe again. But the next, I was calm
---very calm; calm as death. I went up to Emma—she
had fallen upon the sofa---at the sight of me---with a
cry, as if her heart had broken--gasping...and white...I
went up to her. I pressed my mouth to her cold forehead.
My boy ran to me---for a moment, I was on the point
of dashing him through the window...but I forbore; I
merely put him upon her bosom...pressed my lips once
more to hers...to her eyes---to her cheeks, and murmured
in her ear...farewell, for ever and ever! She was
senseless; but, at the sound, she shook in every limb...
moaned...and her lips moved—but, I regarded her
not. I turned round...the apartment was empty; I
went staggering, through the rooms, I know not whither;
till, all at once...as I stood again upon the great
marble slab...I saw...like a flash of tremendous lightning...a
perfect explosion of brightness—or my eyes
cheated me, the same lamp lying there, with the oil
running out of it--that I had seen twenty years before, in
my dream—and heard one general outcry of desolation;
while I bounded, from the top, to the bottom of the stair
case, at one leap—as if, at that moment, our whole
household had broken up, and departed for ever. I
rushed onward, grappling my own throat, I have been
told, since, and shrieking as I went—for my dream,
that horrible dream, was all before me!—and I cursed
myself that I had never discovered it till then.—Emma
was the woman that I saw!—that was the house!—
and that was the frightful desolation, which I had seen
in a vision, shadowed out to me, till my hair rose!—
Onward I went!---blind and dizzy; doing, I know not
what; saying, I care not what; but there were people,
that I passed, I remember; and animals; or the shadows
of men and animals; for they cried out, and fled from
me; and still I paused not; nor breathed; nor turned
aside; but went reeling, headlong, toward the city; all
my past life confounding itself in my mind, with the
present and the future. It was like a great ocean breaking
up in midnight darkness...covered with ice and fire
thing that I knew...after, I know not how long a time
---only a few minutes, I should judge, if any mortal
man could have gone so far in so short a time;...I was
near the water...standing and looking at it, and wringing
my hands;...and the next intelligible thing that I
knew, is, that I stood upon the wharf;---and that the
stars shone fifty feet, down, into the dark water, just as
they had eighteen years before, when I had been well
nigh drowning myself...for a moment, it appeared to
me, that all that had passed since, was a dream,—
that I was still a boy;...but the dashing of oars, sounded
near me; and I recollected my purpose. “Wait for
me, till twelve,” (it was then nine) and no longer—
weigh anchor, and be ready, at this spot, to take a man
on board, who will come”...said I.
I then went to my counting room...wrote a farewell
letter to Elizabeth;...some instructions about my property,
giving it all to my wife and child; appointing her
brother to its management;...took a pair of pistols
from the desk, and went in pursuit of Hammond—
We met...! don't know how...but we met...God brought
it about. I handed him a pistol, in silence.
He refused it---I tendered it, again---he still refused.
—I threw it at his head; and, deliberately, levelled
at his heart. He never moved---he did not even
cover his face. I saw his dark eyes; and, if anything
in this world, could have persuaded me of his innocence,
it would have been his untroubled forehead, as the
star light shone upon it; and his large, humid eyes.
I fired, and he fell. The report of the pistol alarmed
the watch. They sprung their rattles; and I ran
toward them, as if calling for assistance. I was universally
known; and, when they saw me, and heard
that a man was wounded; they gave themselves no
trouble about me; and, I ran down, immediately, to
the wharf; sprang into the boat; and, in three hours,
we were leaping, with every sail set, through the blue
ocean. To me, it was like a dream. Was I a murderer!
“Probably:” I answered.
Why need I dwell upon what happened, in the voyage?
I will not. My house---and the voice of my
wife---and the desolation of it, were all before me,
night, and day. We were once driven all over the
water, it appeared, before a hurricane; lay, waterlogged,
utterly helpless, and dismasted, for four days,
and nights; every moment expecting to go to the bottom---the
great sea making a perpetual breach over
us. Yet, I never trembled, nor prayed---heard nothing,
nor saw nothing. The sky was like a great
room to me; and the whole world, like an untenanted
house.
But, at length, we arrived at Smyrna. There I sold
my ship, and cargo; put the proceeds on board of
another vessel, returning, for the use of Emma, and
my boy. Yes, my boy---by heaven, she never dishonoured
me. I know it---I feel it, in every artery. I felt
it, even while I kissed her for the last time---but no
matter. I then went, with a little gold in my pocket
to Constantinople. Seven months, had I been there,
when, one day, as I was wandering in the Greek suburbs;
or rather the Galata, where the merchants of
all nations are permitted to assemble—I came, suddenly,
in contact with an apparition, that made me leap
from my feet. I could not see the face. It was dressed
in black, after the manner of the Greeks; but the shape,
and gesture, were—what folly!—I really trembled to
see it turn round, it was so like Hammond.
It turned.
Gracious God! It was Hammond, himself! He uttered
a cry of transport, when he saw me. I stepped
back—and shook with passion; for though I had repented
of his death, while I thought it probable, that
he was dead, and I, his destroyer; yet, now, that he
stood before me strong in health—I began to feel for
my dagger. He saw my purpose. “By heaven, William
Adams,” he cried. “This is too much for mortal
patience. I will bear with it no longer. Thrice have
I saved your life; twice would you have taken mine—
and all to no purpose....now! but, raise your arm
against me, a third time, and by the living God, I
will tear you limb from limb!”
Where was my strength, then! By heaven, I was in
a sweat, from head to foot. A child could have slain
me. There was that, in his terrible voice, when in
wrath, that shook me to dissolution. My ancient cowardice
returned upon me—and strangled with fear—
flooded, and drowned all the valour of my blood, and
heart. I was like a child, before him.
“William Adams,” he repeated, approaching me,
but with his arm, folded---“I want some conversation
with you.”
“Begone!” I cried, as soon as I could find my voice:
“begone! man!...devil! and leave me. Begone!—”
“You dare not follow me,” said the Dwarf.
I turned, I am sure, with the bitterest expression
of hatred, and scorn, that he ever saw in man's face;
for he shrivelled before it, for a moment---and then
walked on, as defying me to follow him.
I did follow him—so closely that, had he but turned
upon me, I should have driven my lifted dagger up
to the hilt, into his neck; but he did not turn; nor
look behind; and, for my soul, I could not strike him,
an unarmed man, without seeing his face. No!...I
could not. I followed him to the very end of the great
canal, passing through the suburbs of Hassan Pashaw,
and Taphana, unmolested. At last, just at the
entrance of one of the Bezesteens, or market houses;
he turned full upon me; stepping back one pace, as
he did so; and stood—as if he suspected my purpose;
knew the whole nature of my heart, and what I was
waiting for—at the distance of about six feet from me,
leaning upon a Turkish cimeter---naked, and glittering
like a crooked flame.
“William Adams,” he said, a third time...“I have
not sought your life---but I am weary of my own. I
heard you speak, many years ago, of your skill in
the broadsword. There is a cimeter, (throwing me
his; and instantly flourishing another, in a circle of
light, around his head.) You then signified a desire
to amuse yourself with me. I have never met with my
match. You would have slain me---I knew it by your
breathing---as we came along. I would not have the
other than an honourable way. You are now armed.
So am I. We shall find but little difference in the
whirl, or guard, of a cimeter, and sabre. Only---if
you mean to cut---you must not strike---but present
the edge---and thrust. It has the temper, and the edge,
to sever the bones: it is not by a blow, that they
cleave their felt turbans here. What say you? Shall
we set our foot here, in silence, under that blue sky---
under the very eyes of God, who hath commanded us
not to spill our brother's blood--here!—giving nor taking
no quarter, till the disenthralled spirit of one
shall rush into his presence, from where we now
stand!...streaming with blood. What say you? My
patience is entirely exhausted. You are silent. I
know not what you may meditate; but I bid you beware,
if you think of grappling with me. One blow,
and I will show no mercy, whatever may become of
me. You have worn out my nature; turned all my
heart to bitterness...year after year, sir, have I pursued
you for your—speak!—is it battle, and death,
or not?”
I had taken up the cimeter---but I was unable to
stretch my arm...I let it fall. His voice penetrated to
my very heart. What it was, I know not, but an unaccountable
belief took instant possession of me, that he
was innocent, and wronged. “I know not, Hammond,
what is the meaning of these tears....I would not have
believed, two hours ago, that it was in the power of
any mortal creature, to make my heart beave, and
yearn, in this way...to conjure up, as you have, such
a feeling of humanity in it....to....O, man, man!
I weep before you; I, that have not wept for a whole
year...I stand weeping before you, and am not ashammed
of it. Tell me...are you not a villain?”
“No.”
“Have you not wronged me?”
“How?”
“No subterfuge, Hammond: if you have, you know
how...I cannot speak it. Have you not wronged me?”
“No, Will am Adams...no...so help me God!..neither
in thought; nor word; nor deed!”
“I know not,” said I, “rightly, where I am...but...
there is my hand...let us go home...my...my...wife—”
He shook his head...but he embraced me; and I endured
it, though I felt the truth breaking in upon me
again...and then...well, well— we shall soon come
to it...I—
| CHAPTER XV. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |