University of Virginia Library

CONCLUSION.

The drama is at an end. The curtain has already
fallen; and, of them that were the actors, only three are
now living. The catastrophe—let me relate it—I was
present at a part; and the remainder, I have from an eye
witness—a party.

Randolph spent the whole afternoon with Sarah, in
deep and earnest conversation. As the hour of trial approached,
his countenance grew darker and darker: and
a deeper intensity of the eye; a steadier, greater self-collectedness
grew upon him. Seven was the hour appointed;
and it was already half past six. There had
been a dead silence for many minutes. Randolph held
Sarah's hand, almost as if he knew it not; and supported
his forehead with the other. His face was in the shade;
but there was a mournful unquiet movement in it, at
times. Was it guilt? And then, there was a death-like
paleness. Was it the flash of the candle?—or could it
be—poor Sarah's heart contracted at the thought—it
might be apprehension. The more that she tried to repel
the cruel visitor; the more obstinately did it return—her
blood felt cold—a little sweat stood upon her lips—she
trembled—and yet, there was unspeakable tenderness in
her eyes.

“Randolph,” said she, in a faint voice, “if—if—”

He took her hand. “No, love,” said he, “I understand
thy thought. I am not afraid to meet this man.”

She pressed his hand to her lips—and the tears gushed
out, all at once, like a heavy dew, from her eyes;—
and she would have fallen upon his neck—but the bell rang.

Randolph immediately arose—folded his arms—and
stood, fronting the door.

It was only a servant from Mr. Omar, saying that he
was detained for a few moments; but would be with
Miss Ramsay, in less than an hour.

Sarah was very thankful for the reprieve. It was as
if all the fountains of her heart had been broken up, all
at once—they gushed out at her eyes and lips, with all
their hidden tenderness!—and she almost fainted upon
his bosom in the tumult of her feeling.

“Be composed, love;” said Randolph, leading her to
the sofa—“be prepared. I do not tremble for myself,
but I do for thee. Perhaps—.” He faltered a little;
but she put her hand upon his; and it appeared to re-assure
him.

“Sarah,” said he, at last, “there was a deaf-and-dumb
man—a—nay, dear, give me both of thy hands, if
thou hast yet, so little command of them—”

“Hast thou thought of him lately?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“No matter---please to answer me.”

“I have, many times---but unwillingly---and I know
not why.”

“Was he very terrible, to thee, Sarah?”

“Very.”

“And very hateful?”—said he, in an altered voice.

“Gracious God!” cried Sarah, starting from the seat---
“who are you!---what!—”

“The deaf-and-dumb man!” was the reply.

“Thou!---O heavenly father!”---She was very faint---
but a sweet smile followed;---with a slight expression
of terrour in her eyes;---and she parted the rich hair
upon his temples---gently, affectionately---and said, almost
in a whisper.---“So long, Randolph---so long hast
thou pursued me---and I knew it not---well! well!---it

was unkind; but I forgive thee. Strange, that I should
never have thought of such a possibility.---More than
once hath my blood thrilled, at some movement of thy
strange eyes---some attitude of thy body---or some sound
of thy voice---but I never asked myself the reason---I
thought t common, with them that love—but let us talk
of that, hereafter.”

There was another silence.--She was leaning yet, upon
his bosom, with her beautiful arms locked about his neck
---her dishevelled tresses floating backward, from her
passionate eyes---and revealing her haughty forehead,
invincible yet, but partially subdued, and pale with the
giving out of her spirit.

“Sarah,” said Randolph, mournfully—“is there nothing
that could shake thy confidence in me?”

“Nothing!”

“Then, why is the man Molton summoned hither?---
How knowest thou but he may bear the proof, that I am
an unworthy adventurer---a villain?”

“Randolph!” answered Sarah, in amazement. “What
ails thee? Thy voice is frightful. Is there any more
mystery?”

“There is.”

“Be a man, then; and lay it all, nakedly, before me.”

“Wilt thou believe Molton, if he should say, that I am
a scoundrel?”

“Not if he say so.”

“But if he prove it---what then? You know nothing
of me---nothing, but what I have chosen to tell of myself.
How know you that I am not all, that?”—

“Spencer Randolph---stop. I will not even permit this;
---he cannot prove thee base---my senses will be shut to
all proof. I could say”---she smiled---and a tear or two
fell upon his hand, as she held it to her heart---“if it were
lawful to quote poetry at such moment, that—

Randolph locked his hands; and elevated them to
heaven. “God be thanked;” he cried---“the hour is now

at hand---all my suffering---all my sorrow are wiped
away. This from thee, Sarah---is it wise?—is it natural?—
is it righteous.”

“I know not,” answered Sarah, meekly---“it is something,
that I would not have believed once---nay, that I
could not---but I feel it now, like a religion.---I cannot
doubt thee.---No proof could dishonour thee, or displace
thee, dear Randolph.”

Randolph had well nigh fallen at her feet---but he upheld
himself awhile longer.

“What mockery is it, then, to confront me with this
Molton! Is it fair, Sarah?---wilt thou believe that he is
a villain, though I give thee the proof.”

“Will I---!---will I---yes. Randolph, upon thy bare
word, unsupported and alone---against his oath---but
why does thy countenance change?---why dost thou
cover thy face with thy hands?—and what are these
sounds, that I hear?”

“Gracious God!---such is the judgment of woman!---
O Sarah!”

“What do I hear, Randolph? What am I to understand?”

“Nothing at present---nothing—a few minutes, and all
will be revealed.”

His voice grew sad and hollow—he impressed a kiss
upon her forehead—“Prepare thyself;” he said, “that
may be the last impress of my lips upon thy front, love!
—the very last—a few moments more, and thou wilt
awake. Stand up, for a moment—look at these papers
—is the hand writing familiar to thee?”

She looked at them—shrieked—and they fell from her
hand—as if they had been a nest of serpents—she fainted
—Randolph knelt by her, and supported her. She recovered—“Arise,
love,” said he, in a whisper, “arise,
I hear footsteps,—they are at hand, and these disordered
tresses—these looks of wildness—this—”

“O, speak to me!” she cried, kneeling to him—“tell
me, O, Randolph, art thou the author of those letters?—
Anonymous, too! I am thunderstruck. Didst thou
know Molton so well?—That picture, too!—O, it was
thyself! Juliet, too! She knew thee. I am bewildered.
I know not where I am. Help me up, Randolph. I am

very weak. My head swims. Tell me. Hast thou
known him so long, too?”

“I have.” (The door opened.)

“Who art thou, Randolph? In mercy, tell me. Who
art thou! and what?”

She stood, pale as a statue—her hands locked; and her
form bent—her wild eyes established, upon his face, as
if the first movement of his lip, was to be life or death
to her.

Mr. Omar entered—alone.—He paused—he appeared
astonished.—“Why, how is this? How long have you
been here?” said he. “I have been waiting for you. It
is unaccountable. Sarah, where?—Gracious God!
What is the matter? Edward Molton, speak.—

“What! What!” cried Sarah, gasping for breath.—
“Speak! speak! Who is that man? Speak!”

“That man!—It is Edward Molton!—”

She opened her bright eyes—put forth her emaciated,
trembling, thin hands—her lips moved—her blood shook
—a black, shadowy convulsion followed—a sob or two
—a few tears, a very few, through her shut lids—she
gasped for breath—sobbed—smiled—staggered to the
feet—embraced the knees—and, while her magnificent
black hair fell, in loose and glorious profusion, all
about the floor, where he knelt with her;—buried her
shame and sorrow, for ever and ever, in the bosom of
Edward Molton.