University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

`Well, Arthur,' said I, when we had, at last, found
a tavern, to put our heads into, `I am glad to hear the
sound of your voice once again; what do you think
of all this matter?'

`Think!' said he, looking alarmed—`think! why, it
is all real, is it not?'

`Certainly,' I replied, troubled a little at the wildness
of his eyes, and the terrour that his face expressed.

`Let us go back this moment!' he cried `there is
no knowing what may happen—come cousin.'

`Why,' said I, `you are not afraid that the house
will vanish before morning, are you? How shall we
find the street?'

`Ah, cousin, if you felt as I do, so full—full—O, heavenly
father! you could not smile at any thing; come,
I cannot sleep; will you go with me?'

`No, I am tired to death; I haven't slept quietly for
a week.'

`Then I will go alone,' said he, firmly, `I will not
lose her again; I will sleep upon the steps.'

`And be taken up by the patrole!' said I.

`Shall I! (striking his sabre hilt,) they'll have their
hands full.'

`Arthur Rodman,' said I, seriously, `this is childish;
I looked for better things in you, after such a tremendous
trial. Have you no command of yourself?
where is your manhood?'

His cimetar rattled upon the floor; he turned, and
faced me, for a moment, like an enemy; but that bearing
soon passed away, and he gave me both his hands,
saying, in the well remembered voice of a generous
heart, solemnized by trial and suffering—the voice that
he uttered before the loss of his loved one—before his
noble face had turned to stone—petrified in the continued
dropping of his heart from his eyelids. `Jonathan
Oadley—cousin—I forgive you; I forgive you,
with all my heart and soul. Pity me; who knows what
may happen; fire and sword may reach her again; do
you wonder that I should haunt the place of her habitation,
after all that I have suffered? O cousin! if there
were but one possibility, in millions and millions, that
the spoiler might approach her again, or the fire break
out, while she was sleeping, and I asleep upon my
post—what would become of me, John! I have been
near, very near, nearer than you would believe, to self-destruction—more
than once; but God hath palsied
my arm, turned aside the bayonet, and melted the bullets
into rain; but let this happen again, and God himself
would be weary of interposition. O, you know
not what I have suffered; look there! (taking a paper
out of his bosom,) see you that dust! that is her
heart! in that paper, have I persuaded myself, are
the ashes of her blessed heart! I went among the
live embers at midnight; I leaped into the flames,
sought with my naked arms, among fire and smoke, and
crumbling skeletons, where I had seen her and the man
that I slew, fall. I found them, buried in ashes; blind
and desperate with horrour, I tore them asunder, plucked
away the white bones, yet reeking with blood and
transparent with heat, dislocated every limb, and saw
her pure and blessed heart, naked, within its habitation;
I put my hand upon it, and it crumbled to ashes

—there are the ashes!—Do not look so terribly upon
me, John; I am neither mad, nor wandering, nor have
I been; this was done in secrecy, and, to my last
breath, it had never been known—never, never! but
for this miraculous discovery. O, my cousin! this
will explain it all; my silence, fixedness, sleeplessness.
Why should I be heard? why should my voice be
uttered? Had I not, perpetually burning against my
heart, this terrible relick; all that there was on this side
of the blue heaven, to comfort me; why should I murmur?
why complain? was there not a perpetual warmth
and consolation here? why turn aside from death?
when death itself, was perpetually at my heart, for
here I wore it—here! the place is red you see, even
now, with the preternatural vitality that the ashes retained.
Why should I sleep? could sleep give me any
consolation—any dreaming, so wonderful and comforting,
and composing, so like death, as the stupifying
pressure and warmth of these ashes? O, no—no cousin;
look at me. I appear stout and strong; my tread
sounds like the tramp of a war horse; my voice is
like the voice of a strong man; my eyes full of brightness—yet,
had not the battle speedily borne me down,
nor the pestilence, nor the sword, I should have died
infallibly, of a broken heart, ere another summer had
shone upon me. There! I have done with that now,
(scattering the ashes to the wind,) I give it to the
winds! Spirit of woman, whoever thou wast, I bless
thee! from the deepest place of all my heart, for the
consolation that I have felt in the deceit—to the winds
with thee! and may God gather thy dust into his bosom,
as I have gathered it into mine!'

No John, I know that it is childish; I feel that it
is; yet, there is a possibility; and that is enough for
one, that has been going out in his own darkness so
long; there is a possibility, that my watchfulness may
be of use—good night! I do not ask you to accompany
me; I cannot sleep—you can. Sleep then, and may
your dreams be as sweet as mine, though it rain ice
upon me—aye, or fire, while I am lying before her

door. Smile if you will—laugh at my extravagance;
I had rather be laughed at, than weep tears of blood, or
carry the ashes of a human heart in my naked bosom,
till they have consumed me.'

`Well,' said I, `go, if you will; a few weeks will
sober you down. I do not blame you—I cannot—
I only wish to heaven, that I had some one, to watch
over, in the same way, and you should have a fair pull
for the mastery, though the north pole thundered upon
us in broken ice, and the stars dropped upon our heads.'

`Oadley, you are laughing at me—good night.'

`Good night—you remember the street?'

`Remember it! aye, blindfolded, I could go to it—
by the alarum here? that would lead me aright.'

He left me, and I sat down to ruminate on the
events of the day. Clara was still uppermost in my
thought, and a hot, scorching sensation of shame
flashed, like the heat of a furnace, over my face, as I
thought of her now. Had I done right? Would I have
set patiently to see her—her—in the lap of another
man!

The thought was madness; I struck the table with
such force, that my arm pained me to the shoulder, for
a whole hour—I started upon my feet.

`Yet what have I to hope—proud, invindible woman!'
I cried, `what have you left to me! nothing, nothing
but abject humiliation. Can I go to you? and kneel,
and supplicate to be heard? weep for a new trial? and
pray you to forgive me, that—curse on the spirit, that
drove us asunder. But ten thousand curses on that,
which would put a man at the feet of a woman, whose
lord, he would be. No! no! Clara, thou shalt never
have to reproach the husband of thy heart—the father
of thy children—thy children! dear Clara, I, I—my
tears fall like rain, now—never—for having forgotten
the manhood of his nature. No, Clara, no! I can die
for thee—die many deaths; but as I have never sought
thee, for a mistress; but, for a companion in trial, a
partner in love, a relation for all the heroick sympathies
of our nature, a wife—I cannot, will not, sue to
thee.'

`What then; is Ellen Sampson the woman to supplant
thee, thee? O, believe it not. Thou art a woman,
Clara; she, a child; thou, lofty and commanding;
she, timid and fearful, yet rash and passionate, imprudent
and perverse, so that—may I not teach her,
by some cruel lesson—sparing her, in the hour of her
extremest self-abandonment—may I not teach her what
nothing else can. I may? But have I the power?
Does she love me? so ardent, so sudden, so impetuous,
so innocent, so changeable, so volatile, yet so sensible.
May I not, without destroying this flower, breathe so hotly
upon it, that the white leaves will shrivel, for a moment,
and protect the dew at the heart. I will; but my
own strength, am I sure of that? Clara, be thou with
me; I invoke thy chaste spirit! I do not tremble.
Thou shalt be by me, and, if I falter, let thy tears drop
upon me, though I see thee not! let thy farewell sound
in the low wind! though thou art invisible! and I
shall know thee, and forbear. I shall, I know it, I
feel it.'

I slept after this, and was wakened by the tread of
somebody entering my room, softly. I arose, and put
my hand upon my pistols, which were always at my
head, and often in my hand, while I dreamt, I dare
say, of late, since I had been taught to lie upon my
arms in camp.

It was Arthur.

`It is, as you said—the Philistines have been upon
me,' said he.

`What o'clock is it?' said I, startled at the cold
sternness of his voice.

`Near day break,' he replied, `the stars begin to
look dim, and the east is growing fiery.'

`What has happened? sit down, and tell me; you
will disturb the whole house;' (he kept walking about.)

`You know,' said he, `that I am not quarrelsome,
but rather patient.'

I could not see his countenance; but there was a
movement in the mass of black shadow before me, as
he sat upon the bed, that shook the whole room.
`Yes,' said I, `you have always been remarkable for

your forbearance; what has happened? I have seen
you put up with many a thing, that, had you been a little
man, or not half so strong as you are, (he had the
strength of a lion,) you would have died to avenge.
But the powerful are always magnanimous; it is only
the weak, that are irritable and waspish; they dare
not forgive; for it would be attributed to pusillanimity—but
what has happened?'

`I'll tell you,' he replied, `I have been closely engaged—hotly—with
a troop of scoundrels, watchmen,
I dare say—and was finally obliged to cut my way
through them.'

`Did you leave any in the field?' said I, forgetful of
the difference between cutting an enemy down in Philadelphia
and Trenton.

`No, but I disabled one fellow, who thurst a pole
into my face.'

`O, if that be all, come to bed.'

`To bed! no, I thank you—I am going on another
errand.'

`Not to the same place, I hope—are you mad?'

`No—I shall only go near enough, to see the top of
the house, in case of fire, you know.'

I laughed outright. `In case of fire!' said I, `come,
come, a little sleep will fit you the better for duty, by
and by.'

`I cannot sleep,' said he, `I must walk about, I am
too happy to sleep—so happy, that, as I am a living
man, Oadley, I should have made some of the rascals
a head shorter, but for Mary.'

`How! did she see you?'

`Not that I know of,' he replied, `but at the thought
of her—her, Oadley—my heart was at peace with the
whole world, upon my soul; I could have shaken hands
with the devil himself, or a Hessian, had I met him.'

`Suppose you send them all, to acknowledge the favour
at the feet of Mary,' said I, `you are but little,
less mad, than Don Quixotte himself.' Stop, I'll
go with you, I dare not trust you out again, alone.—
Let us tackle our nags, and take a view of the city, till
after breakfast—when we'll call on Mary, and —.'

`And blue-eyes—hey, Cousin?' said he, laughing
for the first time, as he used to, months before.

I could have wept for joy. I told him so, and we
were soon upon our proud horses, rattling with their
iron hoofs toward the Schuylkill. Our ride was pleasant;
but our blood was in such a tumult, that, it was
impossible to see or hear any thing—Arthur's face, O,
it was religious and composing to look upon it!

About noon, for we had been compelled to observe an
uncommon etiquette for the age, in consequence of our
shabby wardrobe, which required no little coaxing and
furbishing to make it tolerable, we made our appearance
before the ladies.

`Lord! what a coxcomb you are!' cried Ellen, the
moment that we entered; and Arthur met Mary, whom
he led off—`look at your hair, now!—powdered and
frizzled like a wig of soap suds—Here, here! come
and sit down by me; there! turn your head, brother,
pack off—Nancy, bring me a broom—there! whew!
there---whew! whew!'

In a twinkling, all the powder that the scoundrel at
the barber's shop had covered my brown hair with,
was in the wind, a cloud of dust—`there!' she cried,
jumping upon the sofa, `there! now look in the glass,
Nancy, bring father's shaving glass.'

I caught one look, it was quite enough, I coloured to
the eyes—the romping girl had put my hair, which, I
cannot deny it—was remarkably beautiful, into the
strangest disorder in the world, by brushing out the
powder with a corn broom.

`Lord, you are angry now—ha! ha! ha!—(dancing
round me, and shaming me with her fingers) I can see
it in your eyes!'

I attempted to catch hold of her, for the room was
empty—but she drew up, and pronounced with an expression,
particularly comick, a famous maxim of the
day.

`Too much freedery breeds despise.'

`Come hither, child,' said I—`come.'

`Child,' she repeated, pouting and colouring—`I am
no child, I assure you.'

`Well, well—come to me, a moment—Ellenour, dear
Ellenour—and listen to me, as you would to your own
brother.'

She stopped—looked more serious than I had ever seen
her, glanced at the door, and repeated the word brother,
with a marked, but delicate emphasis.

`Are we safe from interruption?' said I, `for a few
minutes?'

`All the morning—all,' she replied. `They have
all gone to dine at Mr. Fillows, all but brother Nick,
little Nancy there, and I.' Saying this, she tripped up
to the door and locked it—and then came back, a little
agitated I thought, to the sofa, as if restrained by some
new feeling, from her customary display of festivity and
girlishness.

`Come hither,' said I—taking her hand gently,
and drawing her to me, so that my face was just opposite
her bosom.

I looked up, with a strange hurry in my blood, and
put my hand, my left hand, while my arm encircled
her waist, upon her shoulder. Her eye lids drooped;
and a rush of scarlet passed over her neck, warming
my very hand, where it lay, upon her beautifully moulded
shoulder.

My deliberate intention, when I held this thoughtless,
innocent creature so near to my heart, that every throb
of her's, I could feel, like a little bird fluttering to get
loose, was to give her a gentle admonition, that, she
should never forget,—but a new, strange, yet delightfully
intense feeling shot through my veins; and, when
I looked upon her, so young, so utterly within my
power—I could have wept upon her neck—`Ellenour,'
said I, after several vain attempts, to articulate—
`Ellenour.'

She put her soft hand upon my forehead, as if she
meant to assuage the throbbing that she saw there; I
dared not look up again---but at the touch of her hand,
drew down her face to mine, and impressed a kiss upon
her sweet mouth.

She started, as if a serpent had stung her---turned
deadly pale, and burst into tears.

`Ellen,' said I---dear, `dear Ellen, forgive me---I
---I---knew not what I did' (a lie by the way)---she was
speedily soothed---but I---accursed spirit that it was---I
felt still, an invincible desire to try the sincerity of her
heart yet further---and, while her pale cheek was yet
wet---and pressed against mine---her voice murmuring
faintly in my ear---`don't---O, don't'---I pressed her
again to my heart, and imprinted, kiss after kiss, upon
her forehead, lips and eyes, in a transport of passion---
but then my heart smote me---the spirit of Clara, the
awful Clara passed before me---and I turned to the
sweet flower upon my bosom, blasted, like some blossom,
by a storm of hot ashes, she gave no sign of life---her
beautiful hair was all over my shoulders, her pale lips
just parted, so that her bright teeth were visible within,
her arms falling lifelessly over my shoulder. I was terrified
to death---she had been utterly in my power---
utterly—no human help was near, no arm to save,
no eye to pity---yet, God be merciful to me for it! I
was merciful to her.

At last she stirred, opened her soft eyes, attempted
to stand up, but when she saw me again---the thought
of what had happened, and what might have happened,
pure and blessed as she was, rushed darkly over her
face again, and she gasped for breath---and fell again
upon my bosom---and sobbed for ten minutes, as if her
dear heart would break into ten thousand flaws.—I
did not attempt to sooth her—I would not, I was willing
that she should feel as bitterly as woman can, the
peril of such confidence---the humiliation and horrour,
of such an escape. And then, while she trembled from
head to foot---shuddered---and turned away---O, with
such a look of thankfulness and supplication! I—I
threw open the door, and proposed a walk; she understood
me, and aware of the necessity that there was to
appear unmoved, she hurried in preparation, and we
went out together. The air blew coldly; yet the shaking
of her arm, as it was locked in mine, was not the palsy
of cold. It was that of the heart. At last, I had an opportunity
prepared of speaking to her---face to face.

`Ellen,' said I—`hear me. You do not well know
me, yet. I am not a villain. Do not weep, dear, do
not. I shall be gone to day; (her hand trembled and
beat violently in mine) the chances of battle, you know
—a thousand things—(I wanted to mention the name of
Clara, but I dared not—I felt as if it were profanation
and cruelty—wanton cruelty)—may prevent you from
ever hearing what I have now to say to you. Beware
of your own heart You are too unsuspicious, too
frank. Men are—I will not say what they are—but
I believe this, and I would have you remember it—that
there is not another man living, who would have spared
you, as I have. Nay, hear me out, terrible as it is to
you. What could have saved you? what, but my own forbearance?
You were powerless, in a trance. No
mortal man, Ellen could have torn you from my arms,
yet—yet—I would have you remember it—you were
permitted to leave them unprofaned. Can I give you
any greater proof—is there any under heaven—that I
have unconquerable principle at the bottom—and that
I love you her hand fell from my arm, and her tears
ran down (her cheeks like rain—) too tenderly, too
purely, to wrong you. No Ellen—I pity you—I compassionate
you. It is a bitter and terrible lesson for
you—but it will save you, with your delirious sensibility,
from one, more bitter and terrible. Luckily for
you, you fell, inexperienced as you are, into the hands
of an honest and honourable man. And now, what have
you for your consolation? You are humbled to the
dust—I know it—I see it. But hear me. I know your
sex, ten thousand times better than you do. There
never lived that woman, who might not be brought into
the same peril. I never met with one—no not one—
whom, I could not have destroyed, if I would—with the
same opportunity that I have had with you.—I do not
mean as to time—but, if I once had a place in her heart
—and one hour of hallowed surety from interruption.
You tremble. Let this comfort you. You may believe
me: for I cannot tell a falsehood; and the more that
you know of me, or of woman, the more you will be
convinced of the truth of this.'

`Your patience for a moment—I see Arthur and
Mary yonder; we will join them. But let me assure
you, dear Ellenour, of this—I know that it will comfort
you—my tenderness for you is quickened, unutterably,
by this event; it has made me acquainted with your
whole heart, all its confidence, all its indiscretion—and
my respect—yes, tremble if you will, you have been
upon a precipice, one of shame and death—reproach
and dishonour, tremble! let it be a warning to you, my
dear girl—but remember this, I cannot deceive you—
my respect for you, I know what I say, my respect for
you is greater than ever. You have heart, sensibility,
courage. You are no longer a giddy child, you are a
woman now, in experience. Remember this. I love you
more and respect you more than ever.'

Poor girl—she tried in vain to dry her eyes---and
when we met Mary, neither could look into the others
face---they joined hands, and blessed each other, and
we continued our walk in silence —: and, finally,
returned to the house, in season to partake of a cold
dinner, after which we spent the day with Mary
and Ellen---so happily, and so innocently, though
scarce a word was spoken, that I have often gone back
to it in thought, as to one of the happiest, upon the record
of my whole life.

Our party, toward the hour of separation, was augmented
by a dashing girl, and one or two young, riotous,
ill-bred men, who, we were told, were Quakers. The
girl was not---but she was a celebrated toast---and
really confounded us with her volubility and affectation
Her dexterity was infinite, her blunders incessant, and
not unfrequently, I had occasion to admire the delicacy
of reproof,—or the wit of Ellen.

`I can't bear her for my life,' said Miss Fitzwilliams
(the lady I have just mentioned)—a fat, vulgar creature,
with all the fellows at her heels.'

`Ha! ha! ha!—haw! haw! haw—' laughed the
brace of Quakers, sprawling their legs about, and
leaning back in their chairs, with their hands in their
breeches.

`Plenty o' stuff,' cried one—`haw! haw! haw!—'
`Ha! ha!—hee, hee!' cried the other.

`O, yes,' cried Miss Fitzwilliams, `rich as Keezus—
or the dog of Venus.'

`Or the Dolphin of France, or Clam of Tartary,'
said Nell, cutting in, with her eyes dancing in their
sockets.

Mary smiled—and Arthur was fain to stoop down
for something near the fire, while Miss Fitzwilliams,
asked, with great eagerness, which of 'em all was the
richest?

`Keezus,' I imagine, said Nell—without stirring a
muscle.

`Yes—I thought so—I've read again and again,
about them other fellers,—but—well, Lord, I wonder
how a woman can sleep, when she knows that the men
are only running after her, for her money's sake?

`And why not?' said Ellenour—with a sudden
change of countenance, that startled me—could it be
possible—was all her vivacity artificial! I really began
to believe so, so gracefully, so beautifully, sat the sweet
dignity of seriousness upon her delicate features. `And
why not, for a woman's money! as well as for her
beauty! or her family! or her voice! or her fashion!
or her dancing? Woman cannot expect to be loved
for herself alone. And she who would be unhappy at
the thought that a man had married her for her money,
alone, and not for herself, would be cruelly apt to believe,
if she were beautiful, that he had married her,
not for herself, but for her beauty.'

`La! how you talk—well, did you ever?—' said
Miss Fitzwilliams, rising, and wrapping her fine tipped
about her beautiful joseph—utterly unable to reply,
while I, astonished at the manner of Ellenour, went up
to her—and gave her my hand, with a look of veneration
and deep sincerity that I know she felt, for she
coloured to the temples, and her eyes filled instantly—
`heaven bless you!' said I. `You have raised yourself
wonderfully—wonderfully in my estimation. Persevere!
and never forget—night nor day, what I have

told you. If you ever want a friend, a counsellor, a
brother, remember me.'

`Farewell Mary, farewell!' said Arthur—I had
descended the stairs and saw him bow his head upon
her neck. `Remain here. You are not yet, entirely
recovered. Remain here. Write to me; and I will to
you. It is hard to part; but, it must be—farewell.'

We walked on, in silence, to our lodgings, entered
the room, which was encumbered with baggage, pedlars
pack, trunks, and men lying about the floor, in all
directions.

`To bed,' said I, taking the light.

`Just as you say,' he replied—lingering. `I should
prefer setting off directly; the moon is very bright, and
I am impatient for action.'

`To camp!' said I, `Are you mad—when do you
expect to find time to sleep there, if you can't here?'

`Well, well, John—to bed here, then. But; for myself,
I had rather ride, all night long, under that cold
moon light.'

`With the northern blast, blowing a hurricane of
snow into your eyes, I suppose,' said I.

`Yes—than to lie down on the softest bed, in the
city'—he continued.

Be that as it may, we slept quietly, awoke betimes,
paid our reckoning, contrary to the custom of the day,
and were soon upon our return.