 | Randolph |  |
He has gone—gone!—and poor Juliet—alas!—I am
in greater perplexity and consternation, than ever?—
What has he done? What said to her? I heard all—
saw all!—But there was some other meaning in it,
than what I saw!—Else, why was she so affected?—by
his first appearance, I mean; for she was calm, beautifully
calm, after they had been alone. But that was the
result...... Perhaps you can explain it. It is all a
mystery to me.
(A servant has just entered to say, that Juliet is in a
sweet sleep. Thank God! thank God!)
Listen, then, to what I saw. I can see them yet—hear
their voices----her's, clear, and soft, and timid----his,
deep and inward, as if his spirit were speaking, and
not his lips.
He entered. He was, evidently, prepared and sustained
by some preternatural effort. He came---and his
presence was unlike that of humanity. Was he death-struck?
I know not---but his face was pallid---pallid!---
it was cadaverous!---quiet and established.
He went directly up to poor Juliet, whose hand hung
over the pillow, against which she was leaning; and, it
was evident that she had not the power to lift it, for the
effort was made:---it moved, but fell down again, like
something lifeless, while she coloured, faintly. He took
her hands, both of them, in his, with an air---ah! he must
have been dear to her once, and must have known it---
“Assure yourself, Miss Gracie, my sweet friend,” said
he, in a firm voice, “that”—
She slowly lifted her meek eyes. He could not well
bear it; for his manner was more hurried and tender, as
he added---“Forgive me. I would have said Juliet, had
I not feared to distress you.” Then, glancing his eye
at Jane and myself, he added, “I feared, too, that it might
be misunderstood.”
She motioned, faintly, to him, to sit down; for, I had
observed that her eyes, surcharged with moisture and
glossiness, were perpetually stealing upward, as if in
meditation, timid and wavering religious meditation,
upon his face, while he stood over her. He did not observe
it; or, at least, he did not betray his observation.
He obeyed---he sat down---he still held her hand---he
looked at it---his lips moved, as if he were talking to himself---a
slight, tremulous motion, I thought, passed over
his whole frame---it might have been mine own agitation,
however, or that of the light; for my hand was resting
on the table, and it shook. His face was solemn, tremendously
solemn and desolate;---and once, when he drew a
long breath, her hair stirred with it, and the strange
spirituality of her form, awoke. I could have told her
thought;—his, I am sure that I could. She was always
transparent;—but he,---his countenance was marble and
death---forever and ever---except at this moment. He
put her hand to his side---her eyes were away---but I
could perceive the same bashful consciousness under her
thick lashes. It was done with an expression of pain,
and soreness; and, from the look of his unchangeable
eye, as it wandered over her temples, her hands, her attenuated
form, at the same moment, I could have sworn,
almost, that he was deliberately comparing his own
situation with her's. What was the result? He replaced
lap;---and a smile, yes, a smile, the second that I ever saw,
of the heart, in Molton's face, played all over it;---and
the effect of that smile, so sweet, so melancholy, was
such---you will hardly believe it---that my own eyes
ached. I put up my hand to them---they were running
over---I looked at Jane---the tears were there, too;---at
Frederica---she was sobbing!
“No---no!” said Juliet, “I cannot bear this!—Frederica,
dear, reach me that book, and the little packet,
there. Take them, Mr.—take them, Edward. But
do not open them, yet. There will be a time”—(The
smile returned, and he put his lips to her hand. Why
did she permit it? Who ever dared as much before?---
Yet she, sweet saint, as if utterly forgetful of our presence,
appeared to receive it as no profanation; but, rather,
as her lawful and accustomed homage.) “When I
am no more, Edward”---(I looked at him, as she said
this;---there was no change, nor shadow of change, in
his face; but his eyes were nearly shut---and his hands
were locked, in the attitude of one listening to strange
musick, issuing from his own heart.)---“then, you are at
liberty to open it,” she added.
“And not till then, Juliet.”
“No!”
“But, what if death should be nearer to me---than”—
“What!” cried Juliet, in a tone of horrour—alarmed,
it was evident, more by the look with which the words
were spoken, than by the words themselves—“What
mean you, Edward?”—
“I mean—I know not what;—but it might happen,
dear Juliet—it might happen, that one could foresee his
own death.”
Juliet raised her eyes in terrour---he was leaning toward
her;---and I could see the blood rushing, hither and
thither, about his temples, just as if forced there, by some
fearful operation of the heart; as if it were pressed to
suffocation, and discharging all its life, at once. She put
her hand upon his forehead---“Edward Molton,” said
she, in a tone so sweet, so solemn---oh! I never heard
aught that resembled it, before---“Beware!—beware!—
thee for the thought that was there. Look up, Edward!
I forgive thee! It may be, as thou sayest, my friend,
that—that—Nay, I need not repeat it; but if it
should be---which God, in his mercy, avert---then---then,
Edward, the seal may be broken.”
Molton arose. He took the papers---the book;---but his
face was very stern, then---and there was one moment, a
single moment, when I thought that he was about to dash
the book upon the floor---his eyes lightened---but it was
all over, instantly;---and he stood high and dark before
her, as at first, and full of tremendous repose.
“I must leave you,” he said, in a firm voice; “and, from
the situation in which I now see you, it is probable that
we shall never meet again---on this earth, Juliet;-----but
—but—we shall meet, somewhere, sooner than they
expect. Bear up, Juliet---the hour is approaching. Go
blithely to thy chamber. I shall to mine. It has no
terrour for me. The time will come---it will---when the
horrible mystery shall be exposed to thee;---when—
No! I must not trouble thee, woman!—Juliet!----my
friend!---I must not trouble thee, at such an hour! Thou
art prepared, I believe. Be so.---It befits thee well.----
Expect nothing---hope for nothing. Death is near thee,
and they that would deceive thee, are crueller than death.”
(I would have interfered here, but Juliet forbade
it;---and Molton darkened all over, like a sorcerer, whose
untimely spell is interrupted and broken, at the moment
of its consummation.)
“No, Juliet!—there is no help for thee. All that remains
for thee, now, is to die—nobly and bravely. Linger
a little while, and I shall set thee an example—ah!
do not mistake me. I shall not do what thou dreadest.
Look up!—look up, thou broken hearted woman!—and
believe me—me;—hear me say, that the time shall come,
when all that troubled thee, will have passed away; when
all the darkness and mystery, which I would not, even to
thy solicitation, put away, at our last interview, shall
be no more;—and yet—believe me—Edward Molton will
never repeat that, which thy poor heart now thrills at
the recollection of.—Mourner!—Juliet!—farewell!”
Juliet gasped for breath—extended her hand to him,
with a smile of unutterable thankfulness. “Then,” said
she, “I forgive thee. Thou art still the man, that I took
thee for. Farewell—farewell, Edward! Repent, and
be forgiven!”
He dropped upon his knees—he pressed his lips to her
hand—not, oh no! not with the look or attitude of love—
no!—but with something holier, higher, purer—it was
that of adoration—that, with which a martyr bows upon
the Bible, for the last time.
He was at the door. Her eyes were shut—her delicate
lips just open—and he paused; for, like us, it was
probable that he thought her patient spirit had flown!—
He paused—she raised her hand lightly, with a motion
that he understood—he!—for, in an instant, he was another
man;—the tears rushed to his eyes—and he shivered
from head to foot—as if his soul were rending itself
away from her frail tenement.
Leave us!—leave us, alone!” said he, hurriedly;—“it
is only for a moment.”
We glanced at Juliet—she signified her assent—and
we departed. I was the last out; and, as I shut the door,
I heard him say, “Are the letters all here?”—and she
answered, inarticulately, “Yes!—it was for that, that I
sent for you—it was dangerous.” He knelt by her, and,
I thought, but I did not turn fully round to look, that his
arms embraced her, and that her head was upon his
shoulder.
The conversation was low, and interrupted, I thought,
by deep emotion, silence, and sobbing; and Jane says
that she heard your name pronounced, more than once,
in a tone of great earnestness, like displeasure:—nay,
though I did not listen, I confess that I thought the same,
once, and I distinctly heard Juliet say, that “She (but
whether she were then speaking of you, or not, I cannot
tell,) had a noble heart, and a tender one—capable of
the most devout affection, and the most sublime sacrifice.
Soon after this, Molton opened the door, and came
out, and passed us, without appearing to see us—the
same imperturbable solemnity in his face—the same regal
carriage and movement of body.
When we re-entered, we were both struck with an essential
alteration in the countenance of Juliet. There
was something in it—something that I never saw before,
there;---something that I should have called pride, resentment,
or indignation, in any other face; but I feared
to think it so in her's. There was the appearance, too,
and Jane called my attention to it, secretly; and when I
looked, I observed that Juliet's eyes followed me—and,
I thought, that she coloured and trembled—there was
an appearance, too, in the ashes, as if paper, and a considerable
quantity too, had just been burnt there:—nay,
there were the leaves of a book, or my fancy deceived
me, plainly to be seen, for some minutes after we entered.
But, from this moment, Juliet's whole manner was
changed. She was more serious---less pensive: more
heroick and calm;—and I was with her for a whole
hour.
What am I to think of this? Can we doubt any longer
who is the lord of her heart? It must be Molton---it
is. And yet, we have been deceived before. Does she
not know who his half sister is?---what her character is?---
and that he is, really and truly, the murderer of William?---that
William whom she so loved? Let it have
been done fairly, still it was murder in this terrible Molton;
for William was a child, a mere child to him. He
could not have injured a hair of Molton's head. Then
why did he slay him? Ah! Sarah! it may be, that I have
thought too well of Molton. What!---am I so base?---
this deadly infusion of envy and jealousy!---O, forgive
me, heaven!---has this been able, so soon and so entirely,
to corrupt my heart? What! shall I doubt Molton now,
merely because I think Juliet loves him, when I have
withstood all else?---prejudice, slander, and the influence
of thy mortal hatred, Sarah? O! man, man! how base
and earthly are thy judgments! No, Sarah---I will not
desert this man. But give me to see his guilt---make it
plain---and I will pursue him to the end of the earth.----
Yet, what is this, but seeking to gratify my own envy
again? Ah! Sarah! I was not always so inveterate.----
There is some distemper in my heart---some disorder---I
greenness and bitterness, where once—hell and fury!
—should it not be green and bitter?---has not he plucked
out, by the roots, the blessed image, that death could
not have defaced there---dissolution and rottenness could
not have corrupted! O, shame! shame!---these transports,
how unworthy they are of me! No.---I will be his friend
yet, in spite of my hatred and fear of him. I will go this
day, this hour, and visit him as usual;---and wo to the
hand that assails him, without the majesty of the law---
the law!---ha!—that reminds me of the two strangers
—the—it may be—. But, tell me, Sarah, tell
me. Can it be possible that Juliet loved Molton? Did
he love her? if so, how could he have loved another?---
No!---he could not. He never loved her, then. But did
she love him? Sarah, I dare not answer that question.
I feel my bones quiver in their sockets. Can she have
loved him?---and does she, after all? She knows that
Helen is with him---I am sure of it. Can her spirit endure
such contamination?---can it?---No! the touch of impurity
would be death to it! Good night!—
| Randolph | |