 | CHAP. X. Seventy-six |  |
10. CHAP. X.
But 'twas the first to fade away.—
`I love no more the bugle's voice—
`The rushing wave—the plunging prow—
`The mountain's tempest-clouded brow—
`The daring—the exulting flow
`Of all that made me once rejoice!—'
We had now been at Morristown four days—the
enemy had fallen back, fold upon fold, coil upon coil,
like some vast serpent, whose development had been
suddenly checked by a furance.—My brother sent for
me—and desired me to write a letter for him, which, he
added, `you are to take, to-morrow, to its destination.
The General has consented that you, with twenty picked
men, shall convey Clinton to Mr. Arnauld's, and
stay there for two weeks.—'
`But will you not go?—can you not?'—said I, embracing
him.—
`No—I cannot, nor would I, if I could, except to
see my mother. You will say to her, all that I could,
and I shall give you a line or two.'
`And Arthur—what shall be done with him?—You
are too ill to keep up his spirits.'
`You are mistaken: upon a sick bed—or the bed of
death, men are apt to become very companionable.
I am better company for Arthur than you. You are
too happy—two blessed—and, of too steady and
serene a heart for one that sorrows like Arthur Rodman.—But
let us say no more of him—He will not
leave me—he cannot. When will you set out?'
My heart beat hurriedly—stopped—beat again, with
a sort of whirring motion, like a partridge rising. He
smiled; but, after a moment's pause, added affectionately,
`You are a stout hearted fellow, John—blood does not
appal you, quiet-eyed as you are—the flash of musketry,
the ring of bayonet and bullet, cannot disturb you
—yet, man—there is what—'
`Will eat the heart of valour through.'
`You smile to hear me quote poetry at such a moment,
but, so it is. Beware how you put yourself in the power
of woman—no matter who she is—no matter how long
you have known her—loved her—or been beloved, no
matter how passionately—never put yourself in her
power. But if you should—as you value your immortal
happiness—your own, your dearest feeling, the
concealed and pure—do not let her know it. The first
is nearly death—the latter, worse than any death. It
is dying of a trodden and scorned heart—a bruised
and bleeding lip—a cancer of the soul.'
I was unable to reply; for though, at another time,
I should have rallied him upon such a display of peevishness
and eloquence, because his heart had been
roughly visited by the ungentle wind—yet my faculties
had begun to fall down abashed before him, of late,
whenever he opened his lips, and I was silent.
`Give that to our mother,' said he—handing me a
letter. I opened it and read as follows—
`I do not pretend, my beloved mother—to pour any
consolation into the widowed heart—nay, nor do I dare
to attempt it. There is one Being, and only one, fitted for
that office—the Father of the fatherless—the Husband
of the widow.
`But there is comfort for us. Our father died, foot to
foot, face to face, with the enemy—red with the blood—
of men, shed in sacrifice.
`His hair—I cut from his temples with my own
hand—the smell of the powder is yet upon it—it was
of the enemy. Remember that.
`I do not pray the widow to be comforted—the wife
to weep no more:—the mother, to forget the desolation,
that is about her—but—O, my mother, let us turn our
eyes upward—and lay our forehead in the dust—for
whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth.
`My father died, preparedly, in the loud thunder of
battle. May his Children die like him!—
`Farewell!
`The other,' said he, as I finished, handing me that
which is subjoined, `you are welcome to read.'
`I fear, Lucia, that you have attributed too much
importance to the language, of which I spoke, and to
the word that I used, with no very scrupulous regard
to the consequences. That Clinton spoke lightly,
irreverently, disrespectfully of you, is true—but so
would every man, that should speak of you, in my estimation
I mean, unless he spoke of you, as something
not lawful to be mentioned at all. I do not mean to
flatter or deceive you. You know well what my feelings
have been. They are changed. I love you now,
as a sister;—and, as a brother would, parting with his
sister, do I now address you. Clinton is dangerously
ill; the army have gone into winter quarters, and
here, where there are so few comforts, and none of that
attention—that, which none but women, and women
too that love, devotedly, tenderly, can bestow, if he
remain, we may as well bid him farewell forever, at
once. He is deeply troubled about you—altered, I
do believe, essentially, in his habit of thinking. Have
I any influence with you?—then let me entreat of you,
my dear sister, to forget all that has past—all but your
love to him, I mean; and be to him, his nurse and beloved
one. Can you?—will you? No matter what
he has been. You love him. No matter what he has
done. You love him. All men have their faults; and,
generally, in proportion to their virtues. Remember
in his nature, be assured that there is a heroick quality
at bottom to counterbalance it. What say you?
you are not vindictive—nor are you light of heart, or
irresolute. I have warned him not to look for easy
terms. He thinks that he knows you better than I.
He does not. He is mistaken. In some points, it is
possible that he may; but, for your character, your
character Lucia, there is no human being, not even
your own father, that knows it so well as I. Nay, for
I would disguise nothing from you; rash and precipitate
as you are—I have prayed him to be prepared
for the worst. He smiles—but his fine eyes fill, at
the same time, when I tell him, that a reconciliation is
by no means certain—that, an everlasting separation
is, by no means, impossible.—He does not believe me.
He cannot—for he knows not of what women, that
love, are capable—and you, of all women. Lucia, had
you been my wife—at the bidding of my hand, I know
that you would have thrown yourself under the hoofs
of a whole squadron—leaped from a precipice—into a
furnace—into the sea. I know it—you may not believe
it—he cannot, but I do. Yet, I know too, that were
your nature roused to all its preternatural display,
you would have done the same things, contrary to my
bidding—prayers, and tears, and cries.
`Forgive him Lucia—forgive him, for my sake, and
be happy. For my sake. Am I presumptuous?—perhaps
you may say so, to him, Lucia, while he is sitting
by you, his strong arm about your slender waist, your
soft voice murmuring upon his eye lids — — —
no, no—I am wrong—you do not permit such things.
He dare not, by heaven, he dare not embrace your
waist, till—heaven hath bestowed you upon him forever.
Dare he?—tell me Lucia—if he dare, you are lost.
Yet what right have I to ask you—I?—who never
dare to put my lips to your hand—I! who, when you
opened your mouth, felt my heart stop, and the room
grow dark with the rush of blood to my temples?
`Am I presumptuous? tell me—as a brother, have I
offended you? Tell me—I—'
`Farewell—I would write forever—if it might be;
but no!—you are another's already, in the sight of
heaven—and I!—Well, well, may you be happy, very
happy, sister.
astonished all eyes at the last affair but one. The
whole army are loud in praise of his conduct, and
intrepidity; it is said that, in the very heat and whirlwind
of the fight, he was full of the same pleasantry
that we have seen—Nay, I cannot, cannot, continue
in this strain. It will break my heart. But—Sister
—forgive him—forgive Clinton, and bless him?'
`And would you send that?' said I —`Are you
aware of the consequences? Clinton will certainly
cut your throat, whether he marry her not.—
He smiled, and shook his head, with a mournful,
gentle sweetness of manner, that was new to me—
`that,' said he, `will depend, in some measure, upon
myself—and I have no particular inclination that
way:'—
Our horses were now at the door—Clinton in the
litter; and, despatching five of my men in advance, to
prepare the family for our reception, we set forward,
and at the end of the second day, near sun set—
while the western heaven was running together, like
rough gold, and thin, drifting, blood-coloured vapour—
we had just come in sight of the house, and were
descending a steep hill—when, on lifting up his head
for a moment, and throwing his eyes about, he appeared
to recollect the place, for he motioned with his hand
to stop—and beckoning to me, I came up to him.
`It was there,' said he, `there, exactly where that
horse is passing now, that they first fired upon me. I
set off at speed up that hill, but, finding nine of the
party there, I determined to dash over that elevation
in front—I attempted it, but, shot after shot, was fired
after me, until I preferred making one desperate attempt,
goose, upon a broken gallop. I wheeled, made a dead
set, at the son-of-a-bitch in my rear, unhorsed him, and
actually broke through the line. It was then that I first
saw Archibald, and but for him —but no, I am not
permitted to tell that—I have promised not to tell,
that he saved my life, and brought down a fellow, at
twenty yards, with a pistol ball, at full speed—and
I am very scrupulous, very, about my word!—so, if
you should ever hear of any such thing, you will do
me the justice, to remember that I refused to tell you.'
I smiled, and would have replied; but, just then, a
loud bark at my feet, made me look down, and there
was poor Fidele, a favourite dog of Lucia's, tumbling
about in the light snow, and yelping like a devil. We
had been descried, long before we approached—and
found all the family, all that were able to meet us, for
the first time, ready with glistening eyes, to meet us
at the portico.—
`Where is'—I would have uttered the name of
Clara, but I could not. My heart sank in my bosom,
—and my poor mother threw herself, sobbing violently,
into my arms. She had heard the tale.—Her
manner was enough to convince me of that; and, when
I kissed off the tears from her shut eyes, and felt her
strong heart beating against mine—I could have
fallen upon my face before her, and wept aloud—
`My dear—dear John!' said a sweet voice—and
Mrs. Arnauld, flushed with beauty and emotion, embraced
me—still—still, there was one absent—I rushed
past them all—encountered a man in the passage—just
took his hand in passing,—and felt that I was welcome
indeed—it was Arnauld himself—and ran to where my
heart told me, Clara was to be found. I entered—she
attempted to arise from the window; but she could not
—she staggered and fell. I put my lips—I did—and
they thrilled, as if they had touched a coal of fire—
to her blessed mouth—before she had sufficiently recovered
to reprove me. A haughty flash went over her
brow—her eyelids fell—a colour, deeper than any crimson,
—after looking me in the face for half a minute, she
sank gradually upon her knees—and remained there
for a minute, in unutterable humility and thankfulness.—She
arose then—and when I sat down, overpowered
by the deep tumult in my own heart, the proud
Clara stood by me, and suffered my arm—by heaven
she did—to encircle her waist, and press her bosom to
my forehead, as I sat—without any other reproof, than
that of laying her hand gently upon my head—and
murmuring `I am satisfied!'
For the first time, I turned pale; for the first time, I
remembered her letter. `What could she have meant?
I asked her; but she smiled, and her glistening eyes,
swam anew—`I am satisfied!' she repeated. `You are
returned to me. And you have dared to put your lips
to mine—you are innocent—she is innocent.'—
`She!—who!—who is innocent?'—
`Lucia.'—
`Lucia!' I echoed, colouring to the temples, I am
sure, and trembling under the touch of her soft hand—
Her beautiful eyes stopped all at once—her lip quivered
a moment, and, as if—in spite of all her confidence
in me and Lucia—the emotion that I betrayed,
had been a natural confirmation of all that she
feared, her hand, gradually, and without design, slid
powerless from my forehead, and rested upon my
shoulder.—
I put mine upon it—it was cold as death, yet I felt
it beat unsteadily.—`Lucia,' said I, `dear Clara,'
recovering my self-possession, and drawing her more
closely to my breast—`speak to me, dearest—what
have I done?'—
It was a long time, a long breathless time, before
she could utter a sound, and when she did—for a
moment, all the hushed sorrow of her heart, came out
with it, and she sobbed aloud upon my bosom.—
And then—as if that were the last, last weakness, of
which she was ever to be guilty—she released herself,
with a firm hand, from my arms—retreated a pace
she saw them sink, as they did, abashed before hers,
would have left me,—probably forever—had I not
detained her by violence.
`What would you?' said she, severely: `Have you
any defence?—any?—
I was fully sensible now that—no time was to be
lost—but how could I speak of what I had seen—how
account for the fact, that Lucia had opened the door,
at the first tap—how—shame on me, I was so
disordered by the beautiful apparition before me—so
full of tumult and delight, notwithstanding her fearful
wildness—that I forebore to urge any defence,—willing,
heaven forgive me—to prolong the enjoyment
awhile—and a little provoked too, (though fluttered by
her jealousy) at the imperious severity of her bearing.
Would you believe it—this artificial embarrassment
of mine continued so long, that I could not open my lips
at last, and stood before her, like a guilty creature---
nay---when she moved away from me---I had neither
the power to arrest, nor detain her, with hand or voice,
or supplication.
Nay—she was gone—absolutely gone, before I was
sufficiently master of myself, to be sensible of what
had happened; and when I was, it was with a feeling
of pettishness, as if I had been ill treated—and there
mingled with it, immediately, the ancient leaven of
my nature, and I struck my hands together, and swore
as I had ten years before—to bring down her proud
spirit to the dust.—
How long I stood so---I know not---but I know well,
that I had matured my plan, before I stirred, or
breathed; and felt sure that, as my innocence was in
my own keeping, the proof of it, always at hand, and
that, as I could restore myself whenever I pleased, to
the place that I might appear to have lost, in her affection,—by
a single word —I—How long I might
have continued in the deep revery that followed, I
know not—had I not heard a soft foot passing over the
apartment on tip toe—in the further end of it, where
a body would have appeared like a spirit.
I knew the step---every pause---every foot fall---every
accent---and was already planning a triumphant expression
of my countenance, for the haughty girl---
when she stopped---and I could hear her breathe, as if
her heart were full.—I stood more erect, without
turning about or appearing to heed her approach—
Gracious Heaven! how readily the heart may be
deceived.
The apparition—a beautiful little creature—with hair,
the colour of raw silk---very light blue eyes, dancing
in tears—was not Lucia Arnauld!—O, no—
I caught my breath, and she—overcome with confusion,
and trembling nevertheless, addressed me after
the following fashion—
`I pray you, Mr. Rodman—I---bless me! don't
look at me so---you terrify me—I pray you—I---
pshaw! I never could make a set speech in all my life,
except to the giddy creatures about me---I have something
to tell you---I know you---knew you before I
came here---have wept for you---dont let that flatter
you---I've wept for many men---before---and blushed
for hundreds---and laughed at thousands, so—as I
was a saying---I've---yes! I've wept about you, not for
you---did I say for you---Lord! how you stare at a
fellow!—
In truth I did stare at her—her roguish little face
---parted lips, and spirited eyes---her very attitude, was
so full of comical expression---the very manner, in
which her pretty little foot, with a broad paste buckle,
rested in advance, as she leant toward me, was full
of coquetry, frolick and expression—
`There's my hand,' said she---`take it, if you dare.
You are very wicked, I see you are---any body might
know it by your face—now tell me---are you an honest
man?'
In spite of myself, I fell into her humour---`upon
my honour I am!' said I---and took her hand, and
away, with a look of angry surprise, and measured me
from top to toe, like an insulted princess.
`Well---well---(shrugging her shoulders) O! the
taste of some people---and---then!---the impudence of
others—a melancholy desolate creature—ha!—ha! ha!
ha!—'
She would have left me, but I detained her—and she
stood wiping her hand where I had touched it, as if
a snake had crawled over it—her red lip agitated like
a transparent rose leaf, with an insect under it—`Sir,
you are not the man that I expected to find you—you
never deserved such a blessed creature; it would be a
sin and a shame to tell you—but my heart will burst,
and you know it—I see it plainly, by your saucy eyes—
if I don't tell you—I—I—are you sure that you are
the same Arthur that—'
I grew serious, immediately, aware of some unaccountable
mistake—
`O yes!—that now—that will do!—Look so, till
I have told you all about it; and, if your wicked heart
dont leap out of your body, you are—I wont say what
—I haven't mentioned your name, since I've been
here,—I was afraid to—asked no questions—waited
till I could see you—but how came she to fancy you
—you a melancholy creature!---pho, pho,---you are
ready to laugh in my face, at this moment---arn't you?'
`Yes'—I replied---nodding—
`How long do you remain here?'—said she. `Two
or three days, perhaps.—`But stop---for whom do
you take me?—'
`For whom do I take you?—a pretty question—for
Arthur Rodman, the talk of the whole country---the
lover of—'
`I cannot hear you another moment,' I replied---I
am not Arthur Rodman—'
`Not Arthur Rodman!---she cried, turning deadly
pale—`pray, (recovering herself, and curtseying)
who the devil are you?'—
`Jonathan Oadley—otherwise John'---she started
back three paces, and dropped another profound
curtsey—
`And who the devil are you?' said I---
`Ellen Sampson—otherwise Nell'---she replied—
I gazed at her, with a strange feeling of astonishment,
delight and terrour---might she not be mad?
The troubled beauty of her pale blue eyes---their
delirious brightness---the intensely vivid red of her
lips---just parting playfully, her white teeth, glittering
within them, like---like---by heaven there never was
any thing so white, as they appeared to me, for a
moment, contrasted with the gushing crimson of her
swollen lips---the etherial, eager delicacy of her attitude.
Really she stood like some creature of the
bright element, just emerging for a moment, upon the
tranced eyes of some one, that had been gazing, till he
was blinded, upon the setting sun.—
`Ellen—'said I—`I—'
`Upon my word! you don't breathe often, I imagine;
hush, hush, not another step. I am glad to find that you
are not Arthur Rodman, because I could not, giddy as I
am, bear to see—'(swinging her arms, and clapping her
little hands, before and behind her, while her tongue ran
as fast as she could speak, and her bright hair danced
like a quivering halo about her head, at every swing—
and the tears ran out of her eyes full gallop—at the
same moment)—`bear to see—a creature like him,
after such a deplorable a— a— O hang it, I can't
talk about it—but if Arthur Rodman had kissed my
hand, he never should have heard another syllable of
the matter'—
`I suppose not,' said I; laughing—attempting to
catch her arm—
`Hands off, Pompey—Arthur Rodman, I said—not
Jonathan Oadley; what a name!-----Lord, I should,
die a------haven't you some other name?—what do
they call you, when they are not laughing at you, nor
angry, nor—
`John—'
`Well then, John. Do you love Arthur?'
`Of a truth,' said I—
`I believe you,' she cried—skipping about, and looking
at her delicate feet, all the time, as if they belonged
to any body but herself—`let me see you cut a pigeon
wing—pho, pho! in this way, I mean—take care—why,
John—that's your name, you know—you dance like a
man a-skaiting.'
All this while, she was practising her steps, before
me, just as if we had been brought up together, all our
lives; but she suddenly stopped, tripped up to me—
stood a moment on tip toe, about a foot from my face—
staring me in the eyes—
`I know what you are thinking now, just as well—
as well as if I were in your own heart---mind!---you
think I'm a fool, I am not, (laying it down with her
little fore finger, very emphatically)—I am not. You
think me crazy. You are mistaken. What did they
bring me here for?---to mope in the corner---kill
spiders---pinch the girls---and cry my eyes out?------
Stop---come here------there is somebody listening---now
mind me---'
My heart fluttered again---I remembered, all at once,
how Clara had left me------and I could have wept with
shame and vexation------
`I have something to tell you about Arthur—nobody
knows it but myself, you shall know it, if you'll be good
—so—when shall I see you again—as you live, don't
disappoint me---hush---hush.'
`To-morrow evening, at the same hour---in the same
place,' said I, hardly knowing what I had said------
`Bye now,' she replied---`bye! John'---shaking
her hand, with affected awkwardness, like a fat infant,
`day-day!'
She had been gone ten minutes, before I recovered
my senses; and, when I did, there was a strange sensation
at my heart that I had never experienced before---
a restless, dissatisfied, aching spirit. I determined to
pursue Clara; but it was already so dark, that I could
my own mother. Oh! shame on the profligate
heart of her son, a gray haired mother---widowed
and broken of heart, had been forgotten, by her first
born. I ran to her. I found her, troubled with my arrival,
and expecting me, in a remote apartment, hovering over
a dim fire, like something unearthly, her withered
hands pressed upon her temples, and her eyes looking
through her disturbed hair, as if they had been turned
to stone. `Mother, dear mother!' I cried, throwing
myself upon her neck.
She suffered my embrace, without any apparent emotion,
and then put me aside, and stood, her stately form,
once eminent for beauty and stature, unbowed, unbent,
with the pressure of all her woes---and rivetted her old
eyes upon the dark entry, which could be seen through
the door that I left open, as if she expected some other,
—what other, I know not—to follow me.
I was afraid to interrupt her---and, after a moment,
in which she stood, like a priestess, about to receive
some preternatural augmentation of power---she shook
her head mournfully, turned to me, bared my forehead
with both hands, looked into my eyes for a moment,
and then, gradually, gradually, her face wrought up to
such unutterable horrour, the blood flashing over her
forehead, and the light streaming from her eyes---that
I could not endure it—I covered my face with my
hands and shook from head to foot.
`Aye, shake, shake!' she cried--`the tree was uptorn,
the old man shattered---and, and, O! my dear dear, boy'
---(falling upon my bosom and sobbing like a child)—
where have you been? I did not know you for awhile,
where is father? some how or other, my son, I have
not remembered of late that---ha! Archibald?
I started, as if Archibald himself had stood before
me. It was Lucia---but O, how altered!
I went to her, and took her hand. God bless her!
God forever bless her! she was a ministering angel to
my poor old mother, kind to her all the day long,
watching by her, and nursing her, while her own heart
eyes were dim with the death dew.
I was unable to speak—and she then bore the
silver cup to my mother, holding upon my hand, as
upon that of her last friend.
`Poor dear Lucia,' said my mother, putting her old
arms about her white glittering neck—`he will never
return.'
Lucia shuddered; but I—I—immediately exclaimed;
`do not believe her, Lucia, he will return—he has returned,
he is here at this moment.' I thought only of
Clinton.
Madman that I was!—my mother' sarms dropped—
and she stood for a moment, as if the spectre of my
father had started up, all at once, before her.
And Lucia—O, she shut her eyes, and pressed her
two hands upon her heart, as if it were bursting—just
whispering, so audibly that I could barely hear the
words.
`Heaven forbid—O, heaven forbid!—here,—Archibald!
O, heaven forbid.'
It was some minutes, before I could command myself
sufficiently to prepare her for the arrival of Clinton,
after having undeceived her,—but she cut me short at
once, with a sweet mournful smile—her breast heaving
at the same moment piteously, and, as if the swell would
never, never subside—`I saw your brother,' said she,
firmly.
I stood, holding her hands, but, struck by the strange
solemnity of her manner, as she said this, I dropped
them—`what do you mean, Lucia?' I said, leading
her to a seat.
She sat down, my mother on the one side of her—
watching every emotion of her pale, beautiful face—as
if for life and death—while I sat listening like one
disturbed in his own senses.
`I always lock my room—of late' said she, (faltering
and averting her eyes)—`I locked it last evening.
About this time—or about an hour before—I returned,
at the further window, with his face leaning upon his
hand. I could not be mistaken; it was Archibald—I
know not what followed—I attempted to stagger to
him, but a sudden sickness of the heart, giddiness and
blindness followed, I—ah—that's Ellen's voice—
another time, my friend—I am very sad, very heavy
at the heart, another time—dear mother, what can I
do for you?'
I was yet unwilling to leave to another, a duty so
perilous as mine—that of announcing the arrival of
Clinton, wounded, and perhaps mortally, under the
same roof of this passionate girl; and had revolved,
again and again, a hundred methods of doing it, without
startling her too abruptly, asking myself how they
had kept it a secret from her alone? and waiting to
hear her mention his name. But we were interrupted.
`Colonel Clinton will not lie down—he swears he
will not, child, till you run to him'—said Ellen Sampson,
skipping in—
Lucia arose calmly, and said—`then will I go to
him. Miss Sampson, Mr. Oadley.'
I was amazed, and struck at her tone. Where was
that inward depth, that impassioned musick, that, to
have heard once would set your heart thrilling—the
very vibration of which, upon the ear, convinced you,
with a speed like electricity, that she who spoke, loved,
and loved desperately—where was it now?—My
eyes filled, before I knew it, and when she put back her
raven tresses, and departed, with the air of something
regal, in sorrow—and, I may as well speak it, for so
it appeared to me, in humiliation—I did involuntary
homage to her, by bowing my body, and almost touching
my forehead to the floor.
They departed—and my dear mother's eyes were
already heavy. She kissed me, affectionately—and putting
her head upon the pillow, slept, as she sat, leaning
against the bed, while I stood over her.
The supper bell rang—and in following the sound, I
encountered, successively, a little lame old man—a savage
afterwards a source of great comfort to me—Mrs.
Arnauld, and, all but Clara.
`She will not appear,' said I, to myself, `she would
lose her self-possession; she knows it, and dare not
trust herself.' How little I knew her. Before we
were seated, she entered the room, with a firm step—
a little paler, I thought, than usual—but very firm, as
if nothing had happened.
I observed that all eyes were upon us, and I faltered
out her name, bowing. She returned it.
`Why! how is this?' said her mother, colouring—
`I—' `We have already met,' said Clara, endeavouring
to smile, but carefully avoiding to meet my eyes.
It soon came to my share—but why tell such things?
our supper was comfortless, and I—I was wretched—
yet stung to the quick, angry with myself and provoked
at the composure of Clara.
My Children—these were trifles only—but beware of
trifles. A light blow, the lightest, may render a priceless
jewel, of less value than the dust beneath your feet.
To them that love, little matters are important—important
ones, little. Hearts that could bear to be torn
assunder by death—smitten with palsy, when they had
grown together—bruised and trodden on—without
bleeding—will madden at the petty exasperations of
life; a little neglect, a little unkindness will be death—
because, they reason wisely—a little unkindness is the
failure of only a little kindness—and who can pardon
the omission to do, what may be done with so little
trouble? It is these little things which show most
directly, the alienation—habitual alienation, and antipathy
of the heart. Remember my words. And
remember my story. 'Tis the last drop, that runs over;
the last breath that starts the ship—the last word that
breaks the heart.
After supper, we collected, all—with my dear mother,
around a blazing fire. Even Clinton was trundled out,
perilous as it would seem, and sat as near, as might be,
to Lucia.
Her lashes were wet, and he would have held her
hand, as he leaned his noble face upon the high cushion
at his side—pale as that of a dead man, but with a
beautiful timidity, as he thought, for I could see his
fine eyes sparkle through the half shut lashes—though
I thought it another, and more awful feeling. She withdrew
her hand, twice from his, without looking him in
the face; and, each time, there was a dark convulsion
passed over the lower part of her face, like a spasm—
perhaps a contraction of the heart.
The ideot boy, for so he appeared to me, sat, on a
low stool in the very corner; his wolfish eyes, blood
shot and wandering, incessantly glancing about, like
those of some wild animal at the sight of fire. He sat
bent nearly double—licking his knuckles continually
with his enormous tongue; and his sprawling hands, and
red wrist, which in consequence of his shirt sleeves, and
the position in which he sat, at times, holding upon his
knees, and rocking two and fro all the while—appeared
more like the claws of some monster, than the hands of
a boy. His teeth were very large, and of a dazzling
whiteness, so that, when he smiled—which was very
rarely, or spoke, which was still more rare, there was
something very frightful in his appearance. Had such
a creature started out, suddenly, upon me, in a lone
wood, I should have shot him dead upon the spot, without
asking any question, I am sure; and even now,
when I saw him, pouting his dark lips, and licking
them, as he looked at Clara and Lucia by turns, I could
not forbear shuddering, and, with a curdling horrour
and heat of my blood, recalling the story of baboons
and ourang outangs, who had carried off the planters
women—even to the top of inaccessable rocks and
trees. Nay, though my nature is not blood thirsty—
and the sight of human blood, at any time, will give
me; to this day, a convulsive start, and sickness like
death—yet, I really felt uneasy in the presence of this
obscene and abominable shape; and wanted to strangle
him.
His sister saw me watching him, and probably read
the expression of my countenance, for she coloured—
rivetted her pretty eyes upon me, and shook her head,
saying audibly—`you are mistaken.'
I started—coloured, I suppose, and fell into another
revery—
Near her, with his lame leg swathed in red flannel,
and lying on a cushion before him, sat her father, Mr.
Amos, David, Sampson—his sharp, pimpled face looking
as if the blood were about to start through it—his
little gooseberry eyes shining sideways, through lashes
like a wisp of hay, at every speaker in succession;
and his lips moving, all the while, as if he were gnawing
the inside of them—a snappish, disagreeable old gentleman
as one could desire to meet with—so I thought.
`You are mistaken,' said the same voice—again. And
when I lifted my eyes, in some confusion, I confess, for
it had not occurred to me that, as I sat, with my hand
over my face, under pretence of shading it from the
great lamp just over my head, studying all the faces
about me, that another eye was studying mine, if not
my heart also, at the same moment—with unsparing
accuracy too.
I was in the middle of the circle, leaning upon a
heavy round mahogany table, which ereaked aloud at
every movement.
Near me, bolt upright, in a suit of thunder and
lightning, as it was called, a material of domestick
manufacture, of different colours, and woven clouded,
then much in use; with a long red waistcoat, and a
cocked hat, too small for his head, which, it was said
he had worn night and day for half a century—sat a
tall, thin gentleman, all legs and arms, it appeared to me
—who, as I afterwards observed, had the pleasantest
way in the world of tacking his thoughts together, and
recompounding all the disordered fragments that others
happened to throw away—with an infinite variety, like
a kaleidescope—without ever turning his head—smiling,
or winking. His eyes were rivetted upon a picture
been in the habit of studying, with precisely the same
expression, for a week at a time (his visit never lasting
more than a week) during nearly sixteen years. He
was an ancient friend of the family—and had been so
long accustomed to eating, what he called, his Christmas
dinner, at Mr. Arnauld's, that he began to
regard it as a sort of annuity, to be paid when wanted;
and it was therefore no uncommon thing for him to
stalk into the room, in the middle of the dog days,
without stirring a muscle, and announce his intention
of eating his Christmas dinner with them, which
meant—boarding with them for a week or ten days. I
had been prepared for his manner—but no preparation
could have prevented me from feeling surprise. He
talked all the while, like a man in his sleep—or one
conversing with spirits, always in the same tone, without
emphasis, accent or modulation; and to the last
hour of his visit, he could not have told the subject of
that very picture, upon which he had gazed so long—
nay, when it was turned once, with the backside out,
(in consequence of a death in the family,) he never
appeared to observe the change—yet, while studying
it, his eyes would wander from one side to the other,
and involuntarily adopt the expression of them that
were painted, so that a stranger would take him to
be the profoundest of connoisseurs.
`You are mistaken!' said the same voice. I almost
started from my seat. How could I be mistaken? was
it not evident that she was mad, her brother a fool,
and a beast—evil as evil could be; her father a most
cholerick, wicked old fellow, and Dr. Hastings a
earned, pedantick, disordered simpleton? such were
my convictions. But, I will try to give you as well as
I can remember it, a part of our conversation on that
evening, which I shall never forget, and leave you to
judge for yourselves. To save the constant repetition
of said he, and said she—I shall give the names at first,
of each speaker, as in a dialogue.
Arnauld—(turning slowly about, so as to front my
face, and occasionally watch the change in that of
Clinton)—`well young man'—you have seen powder
burnt seriously again? what will be the effect, think
you?'
Mr Sampson. `Of what? seeing powder burnt?
make the young dogs too saucy—no living with t'em,
the rascals—make my house too hot for them:'
Young Nick showed his teeth, and rubbed his hands,
when his father said this.
Mrs. Arnauld. `O, my dear Mr. Sampson, caro amico
---too severe, too severe indeed—these young men ought
to be admired, welcomed every where—it is they that
protect our daughters, and—'
Mr. Sampson. `Humph.'
Mrs. Arnauld. `In short, Mr. Sampson, but for them
—O, you are much too severe, beaucoup, beaucoup—'
(pronouncing the final consonant---) while the husband
bit his lips, Lucia dropped her eye lids, and saw my
mother's lips move, as if she were trying to repeat the
word to herself.
`The battle of Trenton, battle of Princeton—ancora
una volta, only think; while all the young men of the
country were flying away from their deliverer, Washington,
the great—le grand (pronouncing it lee grand)
as we call him abroad; and you are all about your fire
side, bonvivyans—our young men, sword in hand—
nay, our old men, fell upon the enemy—God bless me!
I beg ten thousand pardons,' (running to my mother, who
had fallen back in the chair, without motion.)
Nell—`This would be well enough, Aunt—mighty
well, but, now and then, some worsted Colonel' (her
brother's teeth chattered, and he peered through his
black hair at the Colonel, and chuckled, good naturedly
I confess)—but, curse his teeth, they made my blood
run cold (I could think of nothing but a young Cannibal,
tearing human flesh,) `a teasing lieutenant, comes down
upon us peaceable creatures, and carries all before him.'
Mrs. Arnauld. `By a koop dee mane----cappo di
disperazzione.'
Mr. Arnauld. `Coup de main, my dear, if wholesome
English won't do', (shifting his position)--`disperatsione.'
Nell. `Aunt---did you ever learn French?----or
Italian?'
Lucia. `Cousin!'
Clara. (Turning her eyes full upon her, in silence.)
`My mother, Ellen, is---pray dear Ellen, what think
you of a sleigh ride? to-morrow afternoon.'
Ellen. `Afternoon! what time?'
Lucia. `Toward evening.'
Ellen. `O, yes'---clapping her hands---`O, yes! of
all things in this world---a sleigh ride---O, — —
no---no--no, bless me, I can't, I can't—I'm engaged.'
Mr. Sampson. `The devil you are! to whom.'
Young Nick. `To that chap,' (nodding at me.)
Mr. Arnauld turned, and looked at the boy, and then
at me, and then at Ellen, who coloured all over.
Here Doctor Hastings began to mutter to himself,
gradually raising his voice at intervals, until it became
sufficiently audible for us to distinguish---the
words, `odd fish---battle like that! poor creature! Caro
amico; wounded--very good—no, no, could'nt bear it,
engaged! bless me---so young, very bloody, very.
Arnauld. `Gentlemen,' his deep mellow voice coming,
as it were, from the most inward place of his whole
heart---while it fell, drop after drop, like molten iron
upon my own---and, if I might judge by the compressed
lips of Clinton, whose face was in shadow—into his
also, while, it was evident that Mr. Arnauld did not
wish to be understood by others.
`Gentlemen—the man who goes out to fight the
battles of his country, loaded down with prayer and
benediction—he, who goes out to bare his bosom to the
bayonet and bullet, should have a clear heart as well
as a stout one. Wo to him, wo to him! if the wail
of innocence be ringing in his ears; if the curse of the
widow hath fallen upon his heart—and wo to him, ten
thousand times over, if the hand of a brother or a
father be ever placed upon the hilt. There are men—
not many, it is to be hoped—beautiful as Apollo, their
that they utter—men that, trespassing rudely upon the
innocent and lovely—the generous and noble, would
dare—oh, there have been such men! and there may be
more of them—whose word is death—whose approach
is dishonour—men, that would dare, in the wanton
revelry of their spirit, to tread upon naked hearts,
yes—drive their very horses over the torn bosoms and
trodden beauty of woman—that they might have it to
tell of, when they had escaped the wrath of the abused
father—or—'
I dared not look up—there was a mortal silence—
but somebody, I felt sure, was dying near me; and when
I turned, I saw the face of Lucia buried in Clara's
lap—one hand held in Clinton's, as if to assure him,
that he had no share in this—his eyes flashing fire—
and himself trying, in vain, to arise and walk out of
the room, as if to order his horse. Poor Mrs. Arnauld,
there, sat like one struck with thunder, at the
moment of song and dance—entreating him, almost on
her knees, not to move—the ideot boy's eyes, glistening
with tears, and his lip writhing—his father quivering
all over like a stud horse reined in, too long,
while the trumpet was blowing—Clara sitting upright,
pale as death—
The silence that followed, was unbroken—till, in a
soft distant voice—as if to change the conversation,
Ellen demanded, if any of the company had ever heard
of a man in the neighbourhood, by the name of Frederick
Crawford—
The answer was general and immediate—but the
change of expression, in the face of Arnauld was instantaneous
and terrible. He turned his searching eyes
upon Ellen; but, either she had no meaning in the question,
or she had a wonderful self command, for
her countenance did not change in the least—but his!
—heaven and earth! the sweat burst out upon his forehead—his
dark luminous eyes, were suddenly quenched,
as if in blood—and several times, he attempted to put
his hands to his throat, while gasping for breath, but
every symptom of a fit.
His wife was inconceivably terrified—and a general
bustle took place, till he quelled it, sternly, by asking
Ellen, if she knew `aught of Crawford?—'
`Yes'—she replied, innocently—`yes uncle, I know
that he is a scoundrel.'
Arnauld's face became livid—but he added—`Do you
know him,—who he is,—or what?—'
`Who he is!' answered Ellen, her face changing, all
at once to horrour, as she caught his eyes—and her lips
turning white—while she came near him, and said—
`yes uncle, I do know him, now.'
Clara, I observed, was writing—and the next moment,
with a sweet, noble composure, she handed a slip of
paper to me, on which was written as follows—
`Treat me as usual. My father knows nothing—
but he is all awake. Do not stay long.—Farewell!
I have given you an opportunity. I shall never give
you another. You could not deny it. I respect your
honesty.'
I looked at her, but it was impossible to catch her
eye—and Clinton, just then, put his hand into mine,
giving it a fervent pressure—`Let us go,' said he—
`Yes,' I replied, `with all my heart.—The sooner
the better.'
`What means this, young men?' said Arnauld—
`Beware how you trifle with an old man. Do not be
rash. Things done in a breath, a whole life has been
too little to atone for.
`Clinton!' said Lucia—rising, with a beautiful undauntedness,
and standing before him. `I see by your
eyes, what you meditate. You are wrong. If you
have any regard for us—for me—for me—I entreat
you to stay.' The mother joined in the persuasion,
and Clara and Ellen.—
`And you'—said Clara, to me---`you have been
very dear to us'---
`Have been,' said I---in a low voice---`since when
Clara?'---She trembled in replying---
`You, will not surely return, till you are wanted in
camp!
There was an accent of kindness---affectionate entreaty
in her voice, that almost brought tears into my
eyes; but a temper, a new temper, had uprisen in my
heart, stubborn as death, implacable as hell—one that
I never had dreamt of—and I replied—
`I shall go to-morrow at day break.—'
`At day break!'—said Ellen—running up to me---
`you are a pretty fellow?---is this the way you keep
your promise?---I 'spose you'll come back, again by
sunset.---'
Clara, before she knew it, glanced at me, and then
at Ellen, as if doubting the evidence of her own
senses---but she disdained to speak, and I was far too
haughty to explain.
I turned to go---but Mr. Arnauld interfered---`My
friends,' said he, with great solemnity, `what the
meaning of all this affair is, I cannot pretend to imagine.
But I am jealous of appearances. Sleep this night,
quietly under my roof, and go away to-morrow, with
God's blessing upon your head. Whatever happen---
I will never pursue, nor molest, nor thwart you---He
hath taught me humility, and forbearance. But go to
night---to night, Clinton---to night, Oadley---and at
the risk even of his displeasure---I will pursue you---
till I am at the bottom of the whole---yea, to the furthermost
extremities of the earth---and then---if there
be aught that a father could not bear to see, or hear---
that father's blood, you shall be wet with---or he shall
wash his hands in that of your hearts.'
`Let us go,' said Clinton, composedly. `No mercy,
Clinton, no mercy!' cried the distracted Lucia, falling
upon her knees before him—`O, do not go.'
`Is there any hope?' said Clinton, tenderly—putting
his hand upon her shoulder, while her father stood, as
if irresolute whether to trample her down, upon the spot,
and complete her degradation, or to uplift her, and curse
him to his heart.
`Any, for the man that you have loved?' `None---'
said Lucia, recovering herself, and standing up, while
her sweet voice came, like an echo issuing from her
heart. `Before you came to me, you knew it. You
pretended to know me—no, Clinton, no! there is no
hope—I cannot deceive you. I have loved you—I love
you no longer, but I cannot hate you—I cannot hate
the man that — — Clinton! look me in the face,
do not deceive yourself—there is no hope for you—not
even that which now thrills at the bottom of your heart.
Remember—remember! nothing that can happen will
bring me back to love — — Are you a man? Forget
me. Are you a man? Do not leave this house in
anger. I appeal to your heart. You have done that
—that, for which there is no reparation—heaven forgive
you—I do forgive you! (putting her hand in his) From my
soul, I forgive you, and pity you. You have done that—
do not leave us in anger. Remember our love.'
`Mr. Arnauld,' said Clinton—Sending away the
cloth from his bosom, his eyes gushing out for the
first time, in all his life, with unutterable love, and tears
and tenderness, while he leaned, against the high chair.
`Strike! drive your sword through my heart---up to
the hilt---I desire it—I—'
`Clinton!' said Lucia, dropping her arms—
He saw her eyes, bowed, turned away his face, and
buried it in his hands.
`I cannot go to night—Oadley, I cannot— Clara—'
I looked at her, and half extended my hand, but there
was no correspondent motion in her—and my countenance
darkened, particularly when I heard her say to
her sister—`Lucia will not want for consolation; where
hearts are readily won, or lost'—it was bitterly said,
and alluded, I knew, to the unhappy errour in which
she was, respecting the night interview.
`Before you go,' said Ellen—looking strangely
serious for awhile—`I would say a word to you—father
shall I go into the dark entry with him.'
`Certainly Nell—he will be more hurt, by a
dozen, than you—coxcomb!'
She led me out, and requested me (giving me a card)
when I went to Philadelphia, to inquire at a house in
Sixth-street, for a person, where I would hear of
something to my advantage.
`Can I trust to you,' said I—`your countenance is
full of mischief.'
`To me,' said she, facing to the light, when I found
it all in tears.
`I will trust to that,' I exclaimed, `farewell!'
`You shall first go in, and bid farewell, and sit an
hour with them, it is early.'
I consented—and, though our first conversation was
very embarrassing, and the latter part restrained and
startling, yet it was full of patience, passion, and deep
feeling—every word told.
The chattering of the boy awoke me from a revery,
and I found him listening, with evident delight, and a
good humoured expression, to Dr. Hastings, in which
delight even his father appeared to participate, with a
pleasantry of eye, that led me to distrust the suddenness
of my first judgment.
The Doctor preserved, precisely, the same attitude,
now, that he first sat down in; his long legs sprawled out
at their utmost length, nearly divided that part of the
room from the rest, and though each of us had stumbled
over them in turn, yet, the Doctor appeared as insensible
of all that had happened, as if they were none of his,
and he had been sleeping in a mill---for he woke not,
till the noise stopped, and then, for a moment he would
start, look a little askew, as if all were not right—and
then, as if, right or wrong, it was no matter of his,
would relapse again, into the same audible revery—
in somewhat after this fashion.
`Odds fish! up to the hilt—poor creature, poor
creature, if men could only content themselves with
(here his voice died entirely away, and he pursued
the question, and finished the sentence in his own mind)
---`odds fish! women will have them---odds fish---not
go to night---forbearance! good! hand grenade, lighted
in a powder magazine---set—odds fish! what a
cold indeed. Christmas. Pho, nonsense. Not so---
not so---Sir, that marble! (the chimney piece was a
beautiful marble—the colours rushing together), fire, metals
all in fusion, see it, hear it. I can assure you that,
having prepared the precipitate and—Lord! lord!
what a profligate---worsted Colonels! excellent, that
horse, no—poh, poh, no--split in the off shoulder, split?
split peas, split wood, split heads, split! split, same
word, good night, bless me! all alone!'
As he concluded this soliloquy, he turned his head
to the left, where the room was all vacant and desolate;
and he supposed, it is probable, that he had been left
alone, nor would he have soon discovered the mistake,
had not the boy turned his chair round, while he kept
on with his soliloquy---so that he could see such of us
as were yet left.
But enough of this. I was mistaken in all their
characters. The boy was neither a beast nor a devil,
but a singularly active, shrewd young dog, the father, an
old fellow of singular pleasantry, and Dr. Hasting's,
with no more learning or pedantry than my boot jack
---so much for rash judgments, and Ellen; but of her
hereafter.
Clinton and I slept together, in the same room. His
manly nature could support him no longer---he loved
truly and devoutly now; and, with the true feeling of
all men, the more truly and devoutly, in proportion as
the object of his love seemed more, and more, implacable
and distant.
He wept aloud---feigning, whenever he could no
longer suppress his sobbing, to cough---the consequence
of which was, that, in the morning, when I was
ready to mount my horse, poor Clinton was delirious.
What could I do?—I was not delirious—and I left
the house, as I said I would—at break of day--O—
heaven! with what different emotions, from those, with
which I entered it the last night, or left it before.
Clinton was delirious, and I left him: committing
him to the family, and leaving one servant with him—
he might die, under their inhospitable roof, and I—I!—
that I might never meet, hear of, nor see Clara again—
Clara! for whom I would have laid down my life at
that moment!
| CHAP. X. Seventy-six | |