 | CHAPTER V. Seventy-six |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
`Grim visaged War has smoothed his iron front.'
Nearly three years had now passed in war and trial.
It was time to repose awhile. The French fleet had
arrived. The war upon the ocean began to break out
in bright spots, like volcanoes, here and there. Sir
William Howe had moved off to the south; and was
battling in Georgia. We had little to do; except to
plan small enterprizes for our out-posts to execute.
Our mother had rebuilt a house upon the ruins of our
old mansion, under the superintendance of an old servant;
and Arthur had begun to think seriously of
making himself happy, while it was possible for him to
be so.
`Where now brother?' said I, seeing him on a new
sorrel charger, caparisoned in beautiful style, and Copely
on a large white horse with a black mane and tail,
at his side, `where now?'
`To Philadelphia,' he replied.
I felt oddly about the head, but I couldn't speak.
`Will you join us? there is a furlough,' (handing
me one.) `Bless my soul! brother! hey! what!
woa!'
I staggered against his horse.
`Yes,' said I, `yes! happen what will—yes!'
`To horse! to horse!' said Copely, dashing out, impatiently,
to the right; to which I replied, in five minutes
from the time of notice, by galloping along side of
him, on my noble racer.
`Upon my word, cousin!' cried Arthur, (his handsome
eyes breaking out into light.) `You have not
in the snow, on the night of—of—'
`No more,' said Archibald, clapping spurs to his
horse, `we shall expect you.'
`Aye! aye!' was the reply; and we instantly set
forward at a brisk trot.
For some miles, not a word was spoken: for my
part, I could not speak; my heart was too full; and
as for Archibald, there was a look of deadly faintness,
every now and then, in his face, which took away from
me all power of questioning him. But Copely rode
onward, with the same countenance; his left arm, yet
stiff from the shattering that Ellis had given it; and
his head turned, with that peculiar cast, on one shoulder,
which, unless I had known that it proceeded from a
sabre cut, I should have called affectation—something
of the arrogant and lordly, worn because it fitted the
turn of his chest and fashion of his face: and it did fit
both; no man ever lived, on whom the patrician sat
better than on Chester Copely. He looked not only as
if born to dominion, but, as if dominion had been familiar
with him from his boyhood; not the dominion of
a Persian satrap, peevish and effeminate; nor that of
a lazy bashaw; nor that of an English aristocrat,
spiteful and jealous of all encroachment, yet wanting
the manhood to resent or resist it: No! but it was
that of one who would look a giant in the face, without
winking, and tell him, in a slow voice, `Beware! the
boy is already born, that shall break your sceptre!' Nay,
that boy was born; allow me to digress for a moment.
I think I can see him now, with his high forehead partitioned
all over with swelling veins, half as large as
your little finger, a little bald; just as he sat and looked
but a few years ago, long after the revolution; when
I saw him in conversation with Aaron Burr, the Cæ
sar of America—the most astonishing and dangerous
man of his age; a man that infused his own rebellious
and fiery spirit into every thing, material or immaterial,
with which he came in contact; a man, who
went about working treason, tampering with the bravest
of heaven, with an audacity unlike any thing, ever seen
before in the history of disaffection; setting our laws at
defiance—mocking at our strength—doing that, which,
now he has failed in it, has been called madness; yet,
for which, all the talent, and learning, and power of the
country, were unable to punish him! a man, that
poured his spirit of revolt, like a flood of fire, into every
heart that he came near—disturbing the oldest and
most cautious of our veterans; one, that seemed to put
himself, life and name, into the power of every human
creature that he approached; yet, with all this seeming,
was he never in the power of mortal man, (as Wilkinson
and Eaton can show;) a man, that suffered the legal
wisdom of the whole country to array itself against
him—without trembling—and then, just put out enough
of his own strength, and no more, (wasting no jot or
title of his power,) to defeat and shame them. O, it
was miraculous! and, since the time of the Roman,
there has never beena man upon this earth so like Julius
Cæsar, as was Aaron Burr. Why did he not succeed?
is the question with me; not, as it is with the
deeper politicians of the age; why did he attempt
it. The plan is deeper than is known—his resources
greater. Aaron Burr was never the man to hazard
all for nothing: a step more, and Mexico had been
his; and then, who would have staid the conqueror?
Where could you have entrenched yourselves? In no
other place, and by no other means, than by encompassing
yourselves round about, with a wall of fire. You
musthave had swords passing forever about you—and
artillery roaring night and day. Aye, one blow! and
we, who now laugh the threat to scorn, would have seen
the president of these United States, the congress, and
all others in authority, driven into the Potomac.
But enough. Let us thank God, that a soldier, and a
despot was blasted when he was; and not believe as we
are apt to, that we are inaccessable. Yes, I can see
Chester Copely now—at this moment, as plainly as if
he were before me; his bald head leaning upon his
sat, pouring his deep, deep eloquence into his heart, so
naturally, with such an air of beautiful simplicity,
that, when it was over, Copely said to him, `You are
a traitor, Aaron Burr; and I do not wonder that all,
who listen to you, are traitors.'
Perhaps—(will you pardon me for a moment?) I
would give you some notion of the artful, terrible insinuation
of Aaron Burr. We had been speaking of
the danger to be apprehended from the continual enlargement
of our territory. I knew Burr's aim.
Copely knew it. Both of us would have slain the man
who should have dared to propose a dismemberment,
directly; yet, before Aaron Burr had done, we were
ready—or at least I was—to draw my sword for him.
Gracious heaven! what attitude and dominion are
given to eloquence! He first remarked that we were
already too large;—and, after some argument, we assented
to it.
`Where are the thirteen states now?' said Burr—
`Look at the map. Look at their territory. They are
a spot only in our empire. A few years, and they will
be crushed. Of themselves in their integrity, they are
invincible. But lengthen the sceptre, and you weaken
it,—at the same time that you render it more unmanageable.
It is not only weaker, but more difficult to
be wielded.'
`True,' said I—and Copely nodded an assent.
`Well then,' said Burr—`when shall we stop? where
shall we stop? Are we not already too large?—where
is the profit of these new states? There is none. It
costs more to govern them, than we obtain from them,
even in peace. How shall we protect them in war?
Are they not too large?'
We assented; for, how could we help it?
`Would it not be better then,' said he—(remember
that I am giving you only the sum of his process—
the detail, I am unequal to)—`if it might be amicably
done, to retrench our dominion; to separate—contract
our ancient empire—the thirteen confederate states?'
`Certainly,' said I—`if it could be done amicably.'
`And give them the power of constituting a government
for themselves? them that have joined us, I
mean?' said Copely, moving his head thoughtfully.
`Yes,' said Burr. `Yes. If we withdraw—we
must leave them to build a government for themselves.
Let that be what it may, we should always be too
formidable for them.'
`Suppose then, that they should wish to separate,'
he continued, after a slight pause, as if collecting all
the dark subtilty of his mind, for that special occasion
—`would you oppose them?'
We were silent for some moments. `I think not,'
said Copely.
`But suppose, that we wished it—no matter for
what reason,' said Burr—`and that they opposed it,
which side would you take?'
`That of manhood and reason,' said Copely—`cut
them off, as I would a withered or rotten member, if
the health of the heart were endangered.'
`And who shall determine for us?' said Burr—in a
deep, thoughtful voice.
`Congress,' said Copely.
Burr shook his head, with a mockery and scorn, that
no mortal man could have withstood.
`Congress!' said he. `They have not the power.
It is the people.'
`Men!' He rose from his seat. `Men! You love
your country. So do I. You have fought her battles.
So have I. You would die for her. So would I. You
would risk life and limb; nay, reputation for her. You
admit that our country is too large; that it would be
wise to retrench it. You say that you would assist in
doing so, if the excess were to desire it? or if our own
original states should deserve it. This is enough.
The salvation of your country is in your own keeping;
we must pass a two edged sword round about her—
we must lop off, without mercy, the diseased and exhausting
the wise and good know it. Then why wait for the
steady movement and legislation of—'
`Aaron Burr!' said Copely, rising, and facing the
Arch-traitor, with the air of one that could take away
his breath at a word. `I wonder at your power. I
shudder at your disposition. You are a traitor, Burr;
and he that listens to you, will be—must be, a traitor;
nay, is, if he do not silence you. To night, you are
under the protection of my roof. To-morrow—mark
me—to-morrow, we are enemies. Good night!'
He left the room—and I followed him, as he said
these words, leaving Burr, like the enmeshed Lion,
snared in his strong hold—with his dark eyes sternly
rivetted upon the door, through which Copely had
passed; his right hand thrust up to the elbow, into his
bosom; the left, clenched, and resting, motionless,
upon the table. I shook as I saw him. Was he baffled?
or were we? It were hard to tell. He was the least
moved of the three.
Copely had known him twenty years before, intimately,
I believe; but, now, he cut him away, with one
blow, from his heart, as if he had been something deadly
and hateful; vegetation, sprouting in its heat—verdant,
with the verdure of a stagnant pool—bright, with the
brightness, only of corruption. But let me return—to
the revolution.
`Are you much acquainted in the city,' said Copely
to Archibald—as they rode on, toward Philadelphia.
`No—I was never there but once,' was the reply.
`Ah!' exclaimed Copely, contracting his forehead.
`But your brother—he has been there more than
once.'
There was something in his manner, that I never
liked; but his way of saying this, was inexpressibly
provoking to me.
`Yes, Sir,' said I, riding up to him, and putting my
hand upon his horse's mane—looking him steadily in
the face, all the time—`Yes Sir! his brother has been
there, more than once.'
`Twice, I believe,' said the imperetrable being.
`Oh, you colour,' said Archibald, smiling—`what
is the meaning of this?'
`He can answer you best,' said Copely, reining up,
to let me pass him. `I leave it to him.'
I was exceedingly nettled at this manner of proceeding;
it was too haughty, cold and forbidding.
`Sir,' said I.
`Nonsense, brother,' cried Archibald, leaping between
us. `I will have no quarrelling, where I am.
You are enemies to each other, from ignorance. I
would have taken some pains, before, to reconcile you;
but I knew that it would be a troublesome affair; and,
as you could not often meet, I have put it off. You
know me, Chester; and you too, brother. Each had
cause enough, if he could read the others heart, to cut
his throat. But, both are mistaken in the origin of the
feud. Shake hands like men. Let us jog on quietly to
the city; and, I hold myself pledged, when I return,
to make you love each other, more heartily than either
of you now love me. What say you? are you the men
to forbear for three or four days?'
Copely stopped short, in the middle of the road;
looked at my brother; and then, at me, for several
moments—as if—though his countenance changed not
—and my heart, upon my word, felt, as if it had been
drifting about in a cold rain, for a week, drenched and
soaked through—chilled. At last, he deliberately drew
off his glove.
`Oadley,' said he, giving me his hand. `I have
wronged you. There is my hand; I believe you brother.
It is his fault, that we have not been friends before;
had he defended you, ever before, as he has, now, I
should have been a different man toward you?'
I took his hand, wondering what he meant, yet—(I
cannot deny it), gratified, to the very heart, with the
proud, frank courage of the man.
`I do not ask you,' said I, `what are the circumstances
to which you allude, now—'
`I observe it,' said he.
Archibald smiled, and stooped over his horse's neck
to conceal it.
`But,' continued Copely. `I must tell you what
they are. Ride on Major, ride on; we will overtake
you, in a few minutes.'
Archibald threw up, in a fine martial style, and cantered
ahead.
`You were once rather intimate with a woman.'—
My heart was in my throat.
`For, a woman she was, even at the age of childhood
—a passionate, enthusiastick creature, a—in short,
you knew Ellen Sampson.'
I had expected another name; and felt, with a bitter
disappointment, a deadly sickness at the heart.
`You look very pale,' said he—in the same tone of
voice. `Do you know what has become of her?'
`No,' I replied. `For a year, I have not heard.'
`Should you desire to know?'
I bowed.
`And of her brother—father?'
`Yes,' I replied, wondering at the minuteness—and
emphasis of his enquiry.
`He is—the brother, I mean—a wanderer;—his
sister is dying of a broken heart; the father is ready
to dip his hands in your blood, wherever he can meet
you—and—'
`Heaven and earth!—' I cried, in unaffected astonishment,
`what have I done, to merit this!'
`What done!—Look at me Oadley, stately and
cold as you are—honest, as you appear to be—have
you not broken the heart of one proud girl—wantonly,
and like a child—visited another—I do not ask
you how, nor where—with.'
There was a pause—(of deep emotion, I should have
said—but for the nature of the man.) In another it
would have been emotion. In him it was not.
`Ellen Sampson is my half cousin. You are startled.
I doomed you to death, before I had seen you;—
I came to your tent. I would have slain you; but a
Archibald—I attacked him with a sword.'
`Gracious God!' I cried—looking at the man, in
amazement.
`Yes,' he continued. `I had never seen either of
you, I had heard only the name. I rode to your quarters.
I belonged to Gates' army, and left it early
when Morgan arrived, in consequence of a quarrel
with Arnold; and it was then, that I heard of Ellen's
shame.'
`Her shame!—what mean you? As I live, Copely,
there is some mistake in this.'
`Silence!' said he, `hear me out. I left the Northern
army—came here—sought out your brother—led
him abroad, one clear star light evening—insulted
him—fought, and was disabled; nay, should have been
slain, had not an accidental interference given me time
to discover that I was mistaken in him; and, at the
same time, to show him that the lady, of whom I had
been speaking, was not, as he had misunderstood me to
mean, Miss Arnauld.'
`Miss Arnauld?' said I faintly.
`No—Miss Lucia Arnauld'—he replied. `This led
to an explanation; we agreed not to mention the affair;
and your brother extorted a promise from me not to assail
you, till I had given him notice. While I was
yet on the point of bringing the matter to an issue;—
for it was enough to drive any man mad, who doated
on a woman, as I did on cousin Nell, to see her wasting
away, like a struck flower—I—I—(his voice did
falter now—by heaven it did!)—I saw Nick, a desperate
creature, though one of the best hearted monsters,
in all this world, running about the camp. I
was a good deal alarmed; but, owing to an ugly affair
(raising his left arm, and compressing his lips, as if
with extreme pain) that had happened a few nights before
I saw him, I was prevented from pursuing the
matter—do you know your brother?'
`I do not understand you,' said I.
`Is'nt he,' (laying his fore finger upon his forehead)
`a little—a very little touched here?—don't smile.
I think so. I have asked him; but he denies it. I'll
tell you why I think so.'
`Why,' said I—pained by his strange levity, not of
manner, but of thought, inexpressibly pained—`why.'
`In confidence then, I will—You do not know him
well. He is mad, very mad. He loves Lucia Arnauld;
rein up, will you—would you ride over him?
She loves him to death and distraction. Yet—he set
my heart in such a blaze, that,' (he breathed very hard
for a while, and then continued) `I was fool enough to
hunt her up, and attempt—accursed driveller, that I
was!—to win a way into her proud spirit.—I failed.
She loves Archibald—and him only; and he, O,
that men will trample on what would give lustre and
fragrance to a death bed!—he shuts up his eyes, and
turns his back upon her—Hey!—prick up—let us
join. You know all.'
As he said this, he dashed along side of Archibald,
and left me to my meditations. My knee was quite
painful—and I felt unwilling to trot, until the pain
had subsided.
`This then,' said I, `is the secret; this accounts for
the mortal anxiety, that I have always felt in that man's
society. He was the messenger of evil to me; and my
soul cowered in his presence, instinctively.'
I looked at him. He sat his horse, just as he did
every thing else, like a creature of great strength,
slumbering in his own security. All that he did was
of the same character; if his hand fell upon yours—
though by accident, you felt that, it wanted but the
will in him, to give it a momentum, that would have
crushed your's, bone and joint, so, when he spoke;—
he opened his mouth, and his heart ran out, like a current
dammed up,—and ready, at his bidding, to waste
and thunder, like the spring tide, and swollen rivers of
our country, loaded with ice, and foam, and blackened
with wreck and ruin.
I looked at Archibald—and wondered at the great
manhood of his countenance. It wore yet all the fiery
intrepidity, but none of the sullenness or melancholy of
his youth. It was now the face of wisdom and deep
thought, sorrowful, dim, and lofty. His very port
too, diminutive as was his stature, had an indescribable
stateliness and majesty in it. It was difficult to believe,
when he was walking, or riding, that he was
only five feet six inches in height. Yet he was no
more—though tall men have stood like boys before
him. Nay, he was not yet twenty two; and there
was that in his eyes, (for calamity and thought are
severe chasteners), which a man of thirty, deeply tried
in the wisdom of the world, and wrenched again and
again, in its concussions, should not have been ashamed
of. In short, he was a lordly looking fellow—fuller of
genius than Copely; but not so full of dominion. I
looked upon them, followed them, listened to them,
with pleasure: wondering, all the day long, at the
patience and greatness of Archibald—his forbearance,
when assailed—first in life, and then in love. This
accounted for their testimony; his distress, agony,
unutterable agony, when Copely returned unmarried.
I remember it all now; it rushed in upon me, like a
volume of pictured light—a vapour full of population,
loveliness, and variety. Nay, why not speak of myself?
I was no longer the same man. I was more
thoughtful, devout; and I do believe, a better man
now, than when I joined the army. Arthur had made
me so.
`We must throw off here, awhile,' said Copely,
turning, and calling to me, just as the evening wind
began to blow in our faces; while they turned aside from
the main road, and I followed.
`Are you for an adventure, brother,' said Archibald
—turning about in the saddle, and leaning, with one
hand upon the crupper—till I had come up with him.
`With all my heart?' I replied. `What is it.'
`Hush! hush! walk your horses'—said Copely, in
a whisper. `See to your arms. Follow me.'
We did follow him, in a dead silence, for more
than an hour, through a wilderness of beauty and damp
greenness.
`Now! now,'—he said, coming out, suddenly, upon
a circular, green, turf flat,—while the stars broke
down upon us, all at once, as it appeared to me, emerging
I suppose, from the darkness of the wood. `Now!
tread softly.'
`There was an air of seriousness in his manner—and
yet, a dash of pleasantry. But Archibald looked troubled;
he did not understand it, I saw; and, when
Copely fired off a pistol, suddenly, as we sat—he started,
as if it had gone through his head.
In two minutes however, a fowling piece (as I judged,
from the whistling sound), was fired at a great distance,
on some hill; and a horn or conch shell began
to wind, very pleasantly, upon the wind.
`Forward!' cried Copely, dashing over the green,
at full speed, with Archibald at his heels, `forward.'
We soon came to a beautiful farm house, built of
stone, substantial and large, with every room in it
lighted.
`Another wedding!' said I, carelessly, but with more
meaning than I was ready to avow.
Archibald dropped the reins, and tried to speak---I
saw that he did---for he caught Copely's arm; and,
after awhile, repeated it---as if---poor fellow---he knew
not what he said.
Copely threw himself from the saddle, fastened his
horse to part of a Virginia fence, projecting over a
ruinous stone wall, overgrown with coloured shrubbery;
and, motioning to us to follow his example, led us round
the dwelling, to a place where we could see, through a
fall of thick white curtains, and a half closed window
shutter, the motion and bustle of several persons;
women and children, as it appeared, by their shadow.
`Stop Copely,' said Archibald, grasping his arm—
`what are you about? who are there? Have you any
surprise for us?'
`Yes,' he replied.
`What is it!' said Archibald.
`Follow me, and you shall see.' He tapped at the
door, which instantly opened, and, at the first step, a
young woman threw herself into his arms, sobbing and
clinging to him, like a delirious creature.
`O, Chester! Chester!' she cried.
I staggered at the sound. A sudden giddiness and
darkness rushed upon me; and Archibald, who stood
like a statue for a moment, caught my hands, in silence.
Just then, the fire flashed broadly out; and I saw
the yellow tresses of one that I knew—bound up now,
like coiled gold, in a more womanly fashion—and a
white forehead, transparent as the broad magnolia leaf,
resting against the bosom of Copely. I felt relieved—
unaccountably relieved at the sight; for I knew not
what strange fancy had possessed me for a moment;
or, rather, I am ashamed to tell.
At that moment, another female passed me, as coming
from the open air. `O, no!' she articulated faintly—
`he is not there.'
`Mary, dear Mary,' I cried,—embracing the sweet
innocent. She was beautiful—with that patient, lovely,
humble loveliness, which awes the stern man.
`Archibald,' she cried, breaking away from me.
`O, Archibald, we have not met since—since'—she
could not utter another word—she was choking.
`No, dear Mary,' he answered, pressing her
wet forehead, with his lips, `but let us forget
that—look up, cousin, look up! upon my word, you
are an altered woman—and if he—poor Arthur!'
She caught Archibald's hand to her lips, looking all
the time into his face, with streaming eyes—as if dying
to ask some question, but dreading to hear the answer.
Archibald anticipated her—while he stood, as in a
trance, before the bashful woman, so full of love, and
love's inquietude, that every limb was eloquent with
expression. `Dear Mary, I cannot speak to you yet.
You have taken my breath away,' said he—`I should
not have known you. Nay, do not blush; let me retain
you. Yes—he is well—very well—and—ah,
how deadly pale you are! hark! (in a whisper)—he
will be here, to-morrow.'
The poor girl was overpowered—and would have
fallen, in the sweet tumult that followed, had not
Archibald caught her, and gently led her to a seat,
where she and he sat, wondering at each other, in
speechless admiration.
I stood in the shadow all the while—the door was
open; and, when Mary left me, I stepped back into
the entry, unwilling to intrude upon them, and unable
to think steadily for myself.
Mary sat looking him in the eyes, directly facing
me—her gentle lips just moving, now and then, as if
her heart were stirred, and they stirred with it—the
bright tears running down her cheeks, drop after drop;
her mild eyes wide open, and overflowing with lustre.
`You tell me Archibald, that I am altered—but you!
Oh, your own mother would not know you. You were
always a proud boy; but, you look prouder than ever.
I cannot talk, I am too happy to talk—I—my heart is
too full. I had a thousand things to say to you—to
ask you—but, dear Archibald—I cannot remember
any thing but that you are here—alive—and strong—
and that I have not seen you for many a year—and—'
Just then, the beautiful apparition that had fallen
upon the neck of Copely, in the deep, awful, hushed
expression of devout tenderness, lifted her head, and
dwelt, with her eyes shut, and head turned aside, as
if in prayer, upon the bosom, against which her young
cheek leant; again and again, had I seen her pale orbs
opening for a moment—upon his—that lightened over
them; and then, a convulsive, involuntary pressure
would follow; and she would sink down again, as if---
altogether too happy for expression---and too weak to
conceal her happiness. I felt a pang—I cannot deny
it. It was humiliating to be so utterly overlooked;
and, for a moment, I forgot that Mary Austin had seen
me, many times since she had seen Archibald, who had
or two before the inroad of the Hessians;—and that
Ellen Sampson—the spiritualized Ellen Sampson—was
the cousin of him, upon whose manly bosom she was
leaning. But I could forbear no longer. I stepped
forward, into the light, and met her eyes—just as she
was raising them, once more, with a renewed thoughtfulness—and
a deepening hue; for they seemed at first,
so strangly pale were they, to have discharged their
colour and brightness with their tears.
She saw me. A swift paleness, like a blast, covered
her face instantly. Her eyes shut, and she fainted
dead away, in his arms. Copely looked at me—not
fiercely—not in sorrow—but like a judge, holding the
power of life and death, in his hands. I moved not,
I stirred not—till I saw her lips parting; and then,
I took her hand gently, and hung over her, as she lay
with her head in the lap of an elderly woman,---whom
I had never seen. Copely did not reprove me; but a
strong hand caught at my arm---yet, I heeded it not—
nay, though I knew the voice that muttered in my ear
to be that of the brother that had stolen upon me,
sleeping; and knew not but he might hold his hand
uplifted, at the moment—yet I never turned my head;
nay, though I felt the disordered glancing of an old
man, whom I had seen before, but heeded not—while
he hobbled toward me, with his parched lips moving
with a malediction—I heeded them not. And, when
she opened her eyes, and attempted to raise herself, I
observed that she did not appear terrified, as with the
apparition of something hateful—Oh! no! but every
moment, as her collectedness returned, the early flashing
of her spirit returned with it—and she almost—the
dear capricious creature—almost smiled, as she carried
my hand, at last, passionately to her lips.
Copely had held one of her's, till that moment; but,
then, he dropped it—why, I could not imagine,—was
he not her cousin? had he not loved another? Yet—by
heaven, the man shook from head to foot, as I could
see, by his shadow upon the wall, or—`Oh! it must be,'
the shadow may quiver—but Chester Copely cannot.'
I was mistaken. He came to me—took my hand—and
her's; looked at us for a moment, as if subduing some
swell at his heart, by main force; and then, spoke, as
follows.
`Do I understand you both?'
`No,' said Ellen. `No,' said Mary—both at the
same moment. `No!' cried Archibald. `No!' said
Nicholas. `No, no, no!' said the old man, tottering to
his seat.
It was like the continued echo of many uninhabited,
desolate places.
`Hush, hush!' cried Ellen—starting upon her feet;
throwing back her banner of hair, that had fallen
all about her, in disorder—and recovering, instantaneously,
all her ancient frolicksomeness of expression.
`You are all mistaken—all! all! You, Chester, in
particular—so, don't scowl. But take a hint, while
you may. Don't leave a maiden, `all forlorn,' offended,
and alone—where she may meet with as handsome
a fellow as that,' (pointing to me.)
I was thunderstruck at her vivacity.
`You had well nigh lost me. Ask him all about it.
He may tell you. Yet—it was not his fault—no, (more
seriously, and with an emphasis that thrilled to my very
heart)—I—I might have loved him—nay, why should I
not tell the truth? I did love him better then, than I could
have loved you. Your cold—why how black you all look.
I am not mad; no, upon my honour, I am not. You
were too cold, and haughty, and repulsive; and, when
you left me—it was—O, Chester, not as a man should
leave a young sensible heart, that he would hold in his,
forever, and ever. But, you do not know what you
owe to that young man. Perhaps—but no, he may
tell you. If he will not, I will.'
`One word, Nell,' said Copely, in the same tone—
while she laid her pretty hand upon his heart, and shook
her head, maliciously, as if to say—speak as you will,
you love him?'
She coloured, dropped her hand, described a circle in
the sanded floor, with her toe; and then, while I stood
breathless before her, answered—`yes'—looking him up
in the face, at the same time, with a beautiful confusion,
that—hang me, if I could persuade myself that I was
at the bottom of—
`O, Ellen!' said Copely, embracing her, `that is
enough. I understand you. God forever bless you,
my girl!—now I understand you—your tears—paleness.
Enough, Nell—enough.'
She laughed, snapped her fingers---and then cried---
her red lips parting with suppressed laughter, and her
eyes running over at the same time. `Now prisoner,
look up. It's now my turn; nay, no flinching.'
Copely almost smiled; but raised his eyes only,
without speaking.
`Do you? Mr. Oadley keep an eye on your brother
—Nick, a glass of cold water—there! all ready—
aim! Chester Copely do you—lord! if you won't
look me in the face, I won't speak at all. Do you love
Lucia Arnauld?'
At that name, Archibald moved back a step---drew
a breath, that appeared to shatter his chest;---his nostrils
dilated, and he half raised his hands as if to cover
his face; and then dashed them away, as if indignant
at his own want of self command.
`Love her!' said Copely---`Yes, better than any
thing beneath that firmament.'
`Oh!' said Ellen, half terrified at the earnest, lofty
expression of his voice.
`Except,' locking her hands in his, and smiling. O!
I never saw such a smile upon the lips of man; nay,
nor of woman; nay, nor upon the unsullied innocent
lips of the newly born---it was all truth and purity.
`And will you forgive me for the trick?'
`The devil! was it you, you Ellen!' said Copely, a
little angry. `I half suspected it before; but, then, as I
thought that you had forgotten me, I gave up the notion.
affair. I believed the letter---and went, on the
night appointed, to be married. Does she know it?'
`No. From that hour to this, she has regarded you,
as far less presumptuous than you appeared. The only
thing that worries her, is, that you wrote to her, instead
of asking her, for her answer. It would have saved
you a long ride.'
| CHAPTER V. Seventy-six | |