University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XI.

Ah, heaven!---It is past midnight—I see it by my
watch---I cannot sleep. Distressing, and awful
dreams have set upon my heart, and wrought within
it, all night long. I cannot support it many months
longer. I have not had one quiet sleep, for many
weeks, since I found that letter---rash, rash man—O
Emma!...Emma! No!...not for a single hour. Ah,
what would I not give for one short sweet slumber----
one blessed dream of forgetfulness! It is four weeks
this night, since I finished the last chapter. The work
is near to its completion; and as if, with the ending of
it, my own life were to end, I cannot advance a step,
without weeping---and yet, why should I weep? Why
sorrow? The world is dead to me. There is not
one heart left within its cold circumference, holding
any affinity with mine. And I...oh, there is no desolation
like the widowed one---; here am I, a shipwrecked
old man---old, long before my time; a childless
father---a wifeless husband---a fatherless child. O
Lord! Put thou me, into the middle of the deep ocean---
where a black sky, and a black water are all about
me, and over me, and under me; helpless, and alone;
and thou canst not make me more desolate than I am!
What have I done, to offend thee, O, my Father! What
done?---peace fool, peace!---down, down, thou rebellious
heart!--What have I not done, to offend a righteous, and
benevolent One! Father! father! have compassion upon
me---spare me! O spare me! I dare not meet thee! I
am afraid to die! My days have been few, and full of
trouble---yet---thy will be done!---nay, nay---that is
all a lie---I cannot say---thy will be done---I cannot---
no...would that I could prevent it! Then would I never
die, and thy will...O, my Maker...never should be
done...but mine!

I have looked back upon the last chapter. I foresee
that I never shall live to complete, what I have attempted.
Some other hand may do it. I wonder that
I ever had the courage to attempt it; and though, I have
told but little of my eventful life, I wonder more that
I have been able to tell what I have, so distinctly...so
carelessly. It is incoherent, to be sure...but I wonder,
that it is not more so. I shudder too, sometimes, when
I think that — yes! I will tell it...when I think that
these are but the symptoms of that terrible malady
which has shaken our whole house, generation, after
generation, to the dust. I—O, Emma—my wife! my
wife!

I return. It matters little how Hammond succeeded,
in winning me, to embark for my country...but he did
succeed; and, though, by a tacit agreement, we never
spoke of, nor alluded, to the past; yet we were constantly
together, on our way home, to my family...no, not to
my family...I was determined never to see her again.
Innocent, or guilty, it mattered not...but let me not
taint her pure name...she was innocent...I feel the conviction
here, here, warm at my heart, bubbling like the
milk of woman...to nourish some hope of hers, not dearer
to her, than this of mine, to me! My blood will bear testimony
to it...but innocent, or guilty, it matters not. She
knew the penalty of concealment. She rashly encountered
it...and—I trembled whenever I thought of it.
What had become of her? I dared not ask. Nor did
he dare to mention her name. What he reserved for
me, I know not:...some pleasant surprise, it may be....
poor wretch!...but he never approached the subject,
except once, indeed, when..I came upon him, suddenly;
and saw him thrust a miniature, that I could have sworn
was Emma's, into his bosom...his tears fell, like a shower
of dew from the tree tops, into the smooth sea; for
we were lying becalmed, in a water, so clear, and
beautiful, that the shadow of the ship was like the ship
itself. He came to me, and took my hand; and, perhaps,
for he thrust the other into his bosom...perhaps
he was about to give me the miniature...but I flung
aside the hand...and walked away from him. The next

time that we met...there was a dead silence between
us; but he came to me, at length, and would have spoken
to me...I knew that he would...of my wife...but he
dared not. I looked at him, and he stood appalled before
my eyes. Again, he would have put some papers
into my hand, but I threw them from me.

“No,” said I...for the last time...“No...in no shape,
or manner, or form, will I ever listen to you, or to
her!”

His manner was very solemn. “It is for your peace,
William...that I ask it: and yet, I doubt if your peace
would be promoted by it---but, farewell! My resolution
is now taken. There are the papers! Do as you
will about reading them. But I would advise you to
take them; and, when I am dead, if you should survive
me...read them.”

“No,” I answered...“No!” spurning them with my
foot...“I will never touch them again.”

Hammond calmly took them up; wiped his eyes;
and we never exchanged another word, till more than
a month after, when—I struck him bloody, and blinded
to the deck of our shattered vessel. Let me tell you
how that was...We were drifting, a fiery wreck upon
the wide ocean...not a spar standing...the ruins of our
vessel yet smoking about us...reduced to the last extremity
of famine, and fury. Just then, when all of
our crew, but three, had gone raving mad before my
face...as I stood, with parched lips, and throbbing
eyes, that I could not shut, for the soul of me...I saw the
most beautiful vegetation below me, and bright water,
rippling through it...turf...and singing birds; and slippery
pebbles...God be praised! I cried! leaping into it.
But some devil held me back. It was Hammond...I
raised my arm, and he fell, the blood gushing out of
his ears, and nostrils; but he still held on, and I...I...
I, Obanquetted on the loathsome...I— no matter,
here was another time, that he had saved me...another,
and another!

And then, we came home, home!—and then—O,
My wife! my wife! * * * * *

By God---I will tell it. Emma was in her grave. She
had died, of a broken heart. Leister was in his grave.
He had died, immediately after I left him. My sister---heaven
for ever bless her---she was yet left to me!
kinder than ever, but---a little, a very little disordered,
from the calamities and trials that she had endured,
and—. And I---O, my God! my God!---have
mercy upon me!—I knew that I should never live
to finish it—have mercy upon me! O, have mercy!