University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Our dinner was abundant and stylish; every thing to
provoke the appetite, and enough to allay it; yet, for
such things would happen in olden time, where they
that loved truly were assembled—scarcely a plate was
soiled. We could not eat; and, it was with some difficulty,
when Mr. Arnauld, with that air of high fashion
so eminently his own, filled his glass, and commanded
us to follow his example, that we were able, either to
manage the decanter or the wine. Our very faces
shook.

`Come, come,' said he, turning to his yet beautiful
wife, `none o' that; but let us partake fully of the joy
that is about us. We have been foolish, very foolish—
ready! Let our prayer be, (rising from his seat,) that,
out of this folly and transgression, wisdom and caution
may grow; and, out of our sinfulness, sorrow and
penitence.'

`Amen!' responded all hearts, devoutly and fervently.

`Let us be gone,' said Lucia, taking Archibald's
arm, and moving to the door; `we shall return about
candle light, mother.'

Her mother smiled, shook hands with Archibald,
and lifted her gentle eyes upward, as a mother would
over her own child. I know not what his emotions
were; but mine were delicious. I—I felt as if all the
time, that had passed in displeasure, were forgotten;

and that, now, in a single moment, our hearts
had been brought into that warm, intimate, thrilling,
and soft contact, once so dear to both. I forgot all
the bitterness and darkness of my lot; and, if I could,
I would have turned and fallen upon her neck, and
wept—the mother of Clara! my mother!

Clara's arm was upon mine. I felt her hand tremble;
but was inexpressibly delighted at the change of
manner which I now perceived, in the deportment of
the two sisters toward each other. It was cordial, affectionate
and very tender. Once before, there was
something of high reproof—something ungentle, in the
manner of Clara; and, in that of Lucia, the air of a
princess, conscious of her supremacy; for, in beauty
and power, she was abundantly superiour to Clara.
This had pained me—distressed me, even in my sleep.
It looked unamiable in both. In Clara, it had an air,
that I could not endure to think of, that of pity, nearly
allied to—contempt? No, but such a feeling as that,
with which we regard a child; while the dark, melancholy
eyes of Lucia—the swan like movement of her
neck; her beautiful person, not so tall as Clara's, but
modelled with a most voluptuous symmetry, were all
radiant, with the expression of defiance and conscious
superiority. This was over; and it made me so happy
to see that they loved each other more, as I would
wish, that I could not forbear, when Clara demanded
the cause of my silence—laying my hand upon hers,
with all my heart, and looking at Lucia.

She understood me, and a faint hectick passed over
her pale forehead.

`I was wrong,' said she. `I judged the dear girl
too hastily. I never saw a woman like her. She has
her faults; but they are dazzling ones. For a time,
I treated her as a capricious child. I was unspeakably
deceived. Lucia Arnauld never was a child. Her
faults have always been those of a woman. You do
not know her. Your brother does not. Yet, I do believe,
that he knows her better than any other mortal,
not excepting myself. She astonishes me, whenever
we measure thoughts together for a moment. The stature

of her is always above mine, by a whole head.
I know not why it is; but, I do not feel, of late, as if I
were the elder sister. You smile —'

`I do, for my feelings toward Archibald are of the
same nature. But pray —' said I.

`No, I foresee your question,' she said, quietly, interrupting
me. `Never urge me on that point. She
loves him, I verily believe. Nay, it is probable that she
would not scruple to tell him so; for, she is, as I have
already told you, unlike any other woman that I ever
saw or heard of; but, let him not hope. I can say no
more. Ah! they are speaking of some matter that
disturbs her. I knew by her stopping. Let us walk
slower.'

I held back, and observed that there was a troubled
stateliness in her tread; and that Archibald occasionally
made a full stop, for a moment, and almost faced
her in his earnestness.

We continued our walk for some time, talking upon
indifferent subjects, and watching their movement,
with uncommon anxiety. At last, she made some
proposition, in a low voice, to which, he did not immediately
reply: she repeated it. He shook his head:
but after a few minutes, he stood fronting her, with
both his hands clasped, and, as we were approaching
them, I heard him say, very distinctly.

`The thought never occurred to me; but I am of
your opinion. I will forward it, with all my heart and
soul: Brother —!'

I was stepping forward, but Lucia said—`No, not
yet. I will lead you to a place, where we can all sit
down together, and deliberate upon the matter, like a
congress.'

So we continued our walk.

`You have been very ill, Clara—have you not?'

Her voice trembled, as she replied. `Yes, rather
ill—rather—but—I am well again.'

I understood her, and when I endeavoured to look
under her broad bonnet, I could only see enough to
convince me that she had felt my question.

`And you—you walk a little lame! and —'

`Yes!' I replied, `I had nearly lost my leg, (I felt
her arm shiver in mine)—I shall probably never recover
its use, entirely. It pains me a good deal, now
and then—particularly on horseback.'

`Then, why go on horseback?'

`As an officer, I must.'

`True—but, have you not done enough for your
country.'

`Clara!—'

`Forgive me. I am wrong and selfish I fear; but
your brother said something of your intention, or his,
to return to your farm, and protect your mother.'

`O, dear Clara!' said I, carried away by feeling,
`that reminds me of my duty to her. I did not know
till yesterday, how much I owed to your gentleness
and assiduity for my poor mother.' I could not go on—
my tears choked me. `I— God bless you for it.
Yes, I do believe, that, after this campaign, I shall return,
at least for a time, to comfort the declining years
of my mother; and, if—Clara—if—'

The poor girl could hardly stand—for what reason I
know not. Perhaps there was something in the tone
of my voice—something, the purport of which, I knew
not; for my heart failed me; and, after the silence of
a minute, I asked her some indifferent question. But
no—it was no moment to trifle. We were upon the
banks of the Schuylkill. The blue water ran smoothly
below, just tinged with the red sunset. It was the quietest,
blessedest hour of all my life. A high railing
ran, rough and irregular, along the bank, just even
with our breast. I turned, and leaned over it, retaining
her arm all the while, and dwelling patiently, upon the
water. The air was damp. Neither of us spoke.
Archibald and Lucia—Copely and Elenour were out of
sight. Our hearts were full, very full; and, before we
knew it, the water below sparkled with rain drops; yet
the sky was cloudless. We wept, without knowing it—
wept in the mere capriciousness of rapture. My cheek
lay upon her hand, as I leant forward, and affected to

rest upon my own arm. I felt the blood rushing
through it; and, before I knew my own purpose, I had
pressed my wet lips to it.

She turned away her face, and I saw her bosom
heave strangely, for a moment, and felt her frame shake,
as in the blast of winter.

`Clara,' said I, at last—regaining a little composure;
`by what has already happened, we have been
taught wisdom. Yet—yet—it might happen again.
We are very proud.'

`Very,' she said, faintly.

`I am going away Clara. Another campaign is before
me. When we last met—let me not distress you;
we were happy as we now are; a single hour changed
the current of our blood—made all dark about us; bereaved
our hearts. Might it not be so again?'

`It might?'

`And is there no way of providing against such a
calamity?'

`I know of none,' she replied.

`But I do,' said I, `Clara, (I wondered at my own
composure, but I was desperate.) You have been satisfied
of my innocence, in the case of your sister.'

`Yes—in the case of my sister.'

`You are emphatick Clara. Have you any other
doubt? Is there any other whom you —speak Clara—now,
is the time.'

`No, John; allow me to call you so.' As she said
this, she turned and faced me, with an expression, that
I shall never forget: so full of truth, and tenderness,
and sincerity. `No, John, I do not doubt you. Once
I did—and it almost broke my heart; nay, perhaps,
had I not been undeceived by another, less proud than
yourself, it would have broken it. I—'

`It was not my pride, Clara, but my honour that
prevented the disclosure. Yes, indeed it was. You
smile—well, let there be some pride in it. The truth,
is, that I would never humble that man in your eyes,
whom I hoped to see your husband. No—Clara—I
loved you too sincerely, too devoutly, for that. I could

have died for you—would have died for you; but I
could not, and would not, even to save your own life,
which was a thousand times more precious to me than
mine own, have done ought that would have made
you less willing to make me your Lord. As your
lover, I might have put my forehead in the dust. As
your husband, I would not. But how did you know it?
from whom?'

`From Lucia herself. She told me how you had used
her, and — ah! what ails you?'

`I am very faint.'

`John! I tremble for you. Your passions are exceedingly
violent; and, I—I am of a jealous nature.
Yet—look at me—I—I am not jealous.'

She was pale as death—poor girl.

`But my head aches. What is this mystery? Why
are you so disturbed?'

`Dear Clara!' said I, firmly, as soon as I could get
my breath; `I cannot deceive you; but at the risk of
losing you forever; nay, nay, Clara—remember the
last meeting—do listen to me! There are some things
that I cannot tell you. I love you. Let that satisfy
you. I will be true to you, to the last breath, the last
pulse. Let that comfort you. I have never forgotten
you but once, even for a moment—and then, I forbore
to darken your image in my heart: no Clara! without
first veiling that, I could not sin. And no mortal
hand shall veil it! Mine cannot. Mine have failed
at the thought. Enough of self-exculpation. You believe
me. Look at me. Have you that confidence in me?
ask your own heart—take your own time, to answer the
question—that, happen what will, you will sooner believe
me, if I lay my hand upon your arm, as I do now,
and say to you in this voice: Clara! I am innocent!
than, in the assembled world—than, in your own
senses! If you cannot answer me in the affirmative—
O Clara, let us part! whatever it cost us, we shall
have escaped the bitterness of that death, which will
happen, if I am doubted again. I am proud—so are
you; quick and resentful under suspicion; implacable

where I am not necessary to another's happiness. So
are you. Think of it. If we part again, it must be
forever—forever, Clara. I am growing old; and, as
a rational man, I must determine soon, never to marry
at all, or, to marry immediately. I cannot live in air.
These are my words. Can you, dear Clara, happen
what will, believe my simple word? If I say that I am
innocent, believe it, let who will swear that I am
not. Believe too, that if I do wrong, I shall be the
first to tell you of it, and wet your hands with the
weeping of a broken heart: and, in short, never believe
that I have wronged you, in thought, or word, or deed
—unless I have told you so, with my own lips? Let
me not hurry you. Take your own time. It is all important
to your happiness.'

`I ask no time,' said she, solemnly, placing both her
hands in mine; `you have all my confidence. I shall
never believe aught against you, unless from the evidence
of your own lips, or, my own senses; nor then,
until I have given you an opportunity for explanation.
But —'

`Do that, Clara,' said I, clasping her to my bosom;
`do that! and your confidence will never be abused;
but what were you about to say? You smile.'

`But,' said she, smiling, `my mother, who is a woman
you know, of some experience, has been giving
me a little excellent advice respecting you.'

`How to manage me, I suppose?'

`Precisely. In the first place, she says, that you are
of a jealous disposition.'

`I am.'

`You are!—well, I confess that your frankness is
pleasant enough. But do you not feel, that jealousy
may become a very uncomfortable companion—a—'

`Clara. My jealousy is peculiar. I should never
doubt you—never watch you—never speak of aught that
could distress you—no never! and though—permit me
to say what cannot happen—I had become convinced
that you loved me no longer; nay, that you loved anther,
(do not weep, Clara,) I should never speak unkindly

to you—never! I should only kiss you, and
say farewell to you.'

`And perhaps—'

`Yes, Clara, I understand that blush—the emotion
that shakes you—abandon you, and yours—my own
babes, though it broke my heart—without uttering a
word.'

Poor Clara coloured to the temples, at this; but, affecting
to smile, though the tears ran down to her lips,
all the while—she shook her finger at me.

`You ought to have Ellen; she would manage you.
She would bring you back, dead or alive.'

`Dead, she might—but, if I were not sure of my own
strength, I would hang myself up at the first lamp
post—or, I—'

`For heaven's sake, dear Oadley, do not talk so. I
quake to hear you. Let us change the subject. What
think you mother says? She would have me keep you
a little jealous, always; and Ellen vows, that she has
made up her mind to keep Copely, forever, in hot
water.'

`Beware of that, Clara. It is no light matter to
trifle with the devotion of a proud heart. Men, who
know their own value, are jealous of it, to a degree,
surpassing all that women ever believe, in their first
feeling of power. They are slaves, to you, to be sure,
so long as they are persuaded that your tyranical
weakness grows out of your abundant love for them;
and, while they believe that, they will forgive you
almost any thing. But wo to the woman that is once
suspected by her husband, of practising upon his affection.
No Clara; I have no fear for you; but I pray
you—do not permit Ellen even to talk of such a thing,
in the way of conversation. It may, after awhile;
become too familiar to her thought; she may be reconciled
to an experiment. Alas for her, if she ever should.
The spell once broken, that encompasses a heart like
Chester Copely's, it is gone for ever. It is a panoply of
christal. You cannot shatter it, at all—without shivering
it to dust. It may bear many a heavy blow; but,

no longer than while it is whole. Weaken it, and it
is shattered forever and ever. I—I—pray, why
are you smiling. Tell me, dear Clara, will you not'.

`Certainly—I am smiling at your fine language.
D oes it seem unnatural?'

`Very; I have never heard you guilty of any thing
that resembled it.'

`I—'

(The publisher, after all, is obliged to admit the
truth of the remark just made; and apologize to the
reader, and to the author, for a very unpleasant omission
here, of a whole page, which a friend, to whom he
applied, has attempted to supply. The truth is, that,
one of the half sheets, by some accident, was lost by a
compositor: and the publisher has done the best, in his
power, toward remedying the loss, by making up about
the same quantity, to fill the chasm in the form.)

`Well then,' said I, stopping again, just opposite the
moon, which was overtopping a clump of trees at the
left, and pouring her tranquil, pale light into Clara's
eyes; `I know your firmness, steadiness, and independence
of thought. I am about to leave you. Away
from you now, I shall be inconceivably weak and
wretched, imagining ten thousand evils. Dare you,
dear, Clara---dare you give me a title, to think of you
without trembling?'

She was silent for a moment—awfully silent. `I
know not what I should reply,' said she, at last. `This
proposition is sudden and unexpected; or, rather, it
should seem so; and, perhaps, it is not wise nor delicate
for me to understand it so readily. But, I cannot
pretend to misunderstand you. Let me deal plainly
then. I have expected it. It startled me, nevertheless;

but your manner, about an hour ago, prepared me for
it. I have thought much of you. And it has always
been my notion that important matters are not to be
hastily determined. We should be always prepared
for the question of death or marriage. You smile—I
am sorry to see it. I was never more serious, in my
life. What I mean to say, is this—that, sudden as your
question is, it has not found me unprepared. There is
my hand! I leave it to you. My father and mother
have permitted me to choose for myself. They love
and respect you; and always have, without ever understanding
the motive of your silence or departure.
Take it; give yourself the title, of which you speak,
whenever you please. I shall not tremble—for my
husband—while he does not tremble for his wife.'

I could not speak for five minutes—wife! husband!
pronounced by the dearest lips in the world, too—
Ah! it made a fool of me, and my heart—I grew giddy
with my own blood.

`But,' she continued—`you are going into battle.
Is it wise, think you, to be hasty? would it trouble
you less, the thought of leaving a bride, or a widow
than a mistress behind you?'

`No—it would not trouble me less, dear Clara; but
it would, with all the trouble and alarm that it sent
through my heart, send with them, ten thousand pleasant
and sustaining consolations. God bless you! God
forever bless you!—I shall hold you to your word—
and—'

`Here they are, yet! upon my word,' cried Ellenour,
running down the hill, and clapping her hands, with
Copely walking leisurely after her, his hat off, and his
hair drenched with wet.

`Where is Archibald?' said I—affecting carelessness.

`And Lucia?' said Clara—colouring.

`Where is Archibald—and Lucia.' Well, did you ever
hear the like, Chester?' cried Ellenour. `In Delaware,
by this time, I dare say. I never saw people
walk like them, in all my life—except—why, bless me,
are you walking against time?'

`They are over the hill yonder,' said Copely—`and
I have come to look you up. Go with me, and we
will return, by a favourite path of Miss Arnauld's.'

Saying this, he took the little hand of Ellen, who
shook her fingers at the touch, as if they tingled to the
marrow,—`a pestilent rough hold, you have, Chester
—that's the way you handle your arms? I suppose?'

`Precisely'—he replied—`arms and hands alike—
why not?'

`Well, I'd thank you to be a little more tender of
mine—they are all black and blue.'

`Want of practice, Nell,' said Copely—taking her
hand again, pulling her arm through his, and walking
over the hill, with Ellen expostulating, all the way, as
fast as her tongue could run, and scolding him for his
military stride.

`The devil, himself, cannot keep the step with you,'
said she.

`So I perceive,' said Copely, in the same tone.

`Saucebox'—she replied, breaking away, and skipping
over the wet grass—`I—'

Her foot slipped, and she fell upon her hands and
knees—awkwardly enough, I confess. I would have
run to her assistance, but Clara held me back—bidding
me watch Copely.

He started at first; and, then, as if coming to his
senses, walked leisurely up to her, where she stood,
blushing and pouting, her pretty hands all soiled and
stained with the turf.

`Monster! your handkerchief.'

`With all my heart,' said he—taking it out, and
wriping her hands with it, just as if they had not been
the prettiest hands in the world.

`What! sulky Nell? I'll tell you what it is—you'll
break your neck, some o' these days, by your romping.
Remember—you are to be the wife of a man—that—'

`That never jumped a rope in his life. I dare say;
Pray Chester, did you ever go to a fire?'

`Never,' he replied—`I have heard the bells ring,
now and then.'

`But could never get there till the day after?'

`Never. I always started the day before—if I meant
to be in season for a fire; or, to help a creature like
you, whisking about in the dew and twilight, like a
shadow cut adrift from its body. Come, come—let us
be friends.'

`No—no I won't!' said the spoilt girl, skipping over
a rail, two foot and a half high, at the least inch, and
sitting down by the side of Lucia, who started upon
her feet, as she did so.

`Pray,' said Archibald rising, with a countenance
that struck me—`shall I propose it, now?'

`Yes,' she replied.

`My dear brother,' said Archibald, turning to me—
`and you Clara; I pray you to hear me, for a moment,
patiently; and you Copely; and you Ellen.'

`In three days more, we shall leave you. Our troops
are ordered to the south. Heaven only knows, when
we may meet again—if ever.'

Ellen's head dropped; and, while her redundant
hair blew all about, in the faint summer wind—she
stood swinging her bonnet in her right hand, and leaning—more
fondly than I had ever seen her, upon the
arm of Copely, who stood, as if wondering what all this
preparation tended to.

`We have known each other long—long enough, it
appears, to be willing to commit our happiness to the
keeping of one another. What more do we want. The
chances of battle are terrible—precarious—and trying;
those of love, yet more so—of three women—nay, of
four, that I know—Lucia, let me not wound you—what
I say, grows out of the occasion.'

Lucia stood aloof, resting against a large overshadowing
tree, and leaning upon her hand, just so that
her dark wet eyes, gleaming through their lashes, could
be seen, under the pale sweep of her forehead.

`Of these four, Clara is the only one, whose heart
has not erred for a moment—a single moment. I know
four men;—of these four, I am the only one—no, I am

mistaken, Arthur and I have never wavered. Mary
faltered; Clara stood still, and bled to death; Ellen—

Ellen covered her face, with her hands, and leaned
upon Copely's shoulder.

`Ellen,' continued my brother—`even the dear,
passionate, enthusiastick Ellen, forgot her religion; and
Lucia---'

Her arms dropped lifeless at her side; and, when he
offered his hand to her, she had scarcely life enough to
take it; yet, she could not stand upright.

`Even Lucia forgot, and forswore the chosen one of
her heart;—forgive me, Lucia. Copely turned to her,
and drank and drugged himself, in his madness, at
another's eyes. Jonathan Oadley too, for a moment,
ceased to be my brother, ceased to be a man. I know it
all, John—all! do not alarm yourself; and Clara
knew it; and Copely knew it; long before you told it.
Look at that timid girl,' (pointing at Ellen)---`she had
the courage to tell it---all her shame---all your forgetfulness.'

Copely kissed her forehead; and I saw her shoulders
heave, in the moonlight, as if she were subbing.

`Now hear me; Copely take her hand; John take
her's. My recommendation to you is, that you marry
before you part again.'

I had expected this; and, when he finished, I turned
my eyes to Clara, who blushed, vivid as fire, when she
met them, and smiled at the coincidence. But Ellen—
she could neither look up, nor speak; and Copely
himself, appeared thunderstruck for a moment—yet, he
was the first to reply.

`With all my heart, Nell!'

`Don't call me, Nell,' said the blushing girl, looking
him up in the face.

`Well then, Ellen, love—what say you? But, why
need I speak? You have not forbidden it. The thought
is new to me, I confess. But, why not make certain
of this creature, while I can. Somebody may snap her
up, before I have turned the corner, else—'

`Are you ready, Oadley?'

I looked to Archibald, wondering what he would
say: he was holding Lucia's hand.

`He speaks to you, brother,' said Archibald, `what
say you?'

`Why,' said I, `it would be folly to mince matters
any longer. The women know that we are soldiers,
and that, as soldiers wives, they must expect short notice
for pitching tents, or striking them;—we say, yes.'

`Well then, yes, it is!' said Copely; `and now that
we have resolved—the sooner the better. I hate a
long grace. But Archibald, halloo!—where now?—
stealing off?'

Archibald halted, as if on parole; faced about, with
an air of ill disguised suffering—and Copely continued,
taking Lucia's hand, who left it passively at his
disposal—and placing it in his. He trembled; and
her full eyes quivered in their sockets.

Archibald bowed his face upon her hand; held it a
moment; and, when he raised it, I saw that his nostrils
were swimming in blood.

`Would you!' said Lucia, faintly—very faintly; the
words just reached my hearing, like the last murmur of
sweet lips dying; `would you, dear Archibald?'

He wiped away the blood from his lips; the flesh of
his forehead shivered in the moonlight; and he stood,
with his sublime eyes upturned to the sky, as if a deadly
commotion were going on within his heart; his
face altered, visibly, till it was like the face of a dead
man.

Again he bowed his face upon her hand, but was unable
to speak.

`Enough!' cried Lucia, in a voice of unutterable
tenderness; `enough!—O God, I thank thee!'

She caught away her hands, and sunk upon her knees
on the wet turf—covering her face with her shawl, and
weeping aloud. Archibald attempted to raise her—
but it was too late. The flower of the grass had fallen.
She was lifeless. Her heart had broken it seemed,
in the rush of her blood.

We were inconceivably terrified; and he, poor fellow—he
raved over her, like a distracted creature, as
she lay, with her head in Clara's lap.

But, at last, heaven be blessed! she opened her beautiful
eyes, with such an expression of thankfulness, that
we wept together at meeting them.

`Let us go,' said she, `let us go—it is very late—
I am happy now, Clara—perfectly happy. The load is
lifted—I am very faint—I—Archibald, let me lean
upon your arm.'

He approached, ghastly as a drowned creature, and,
I heard her repeat in the ear of Clara—`now I shall
die contented—I—I am so happy.'

`Well then,' said Copely, wiping off the first tears
that he had ever shed in his life, I am sure—`I suppose
that we are to take all that for a consent.'

`Certainly,' said Ellen, laughing through her tears.
`Would you have a girl spell her answer? That is
plain English—joining hand—writing it—in reality.'

`Don't you tremble, minx, at the thought of standing
up, with a regiment of women, to be married to a
regiment of men—I—'

`Dear Lucia, I am so happy,' cried Ellen, taking
her hand—`so we shall all be'—her voice fell—the
hand dropped, as she saw Lucia's face. It was not the
face of a bride.

`Never,' said Lucia—

Archibald reeled away at the sound; but, instantly
recovered himself, and walked apart with us.

`Will you not join us'—said she, kindly, extending
her hand at the same time—`I—'

`Stop Lucia,' he said, in an altered voice—so
unlike his own, five minutes before, that my blood
thrilled, as if a stranger had suddenly spoken among
us. `Stop! the three raps that we heard last night upon
our table were not idle.'

(It was a strange circumstance, to which he alluded,
that hapened the night before—I had forgotten it;
while he and I were sitting together, at our table—in

a dead silence—there were three loud, distinct raps upon
the centre of the table, as if a strong hand hads truck it,
smartly, with the flat palm. Archibald, I remember,
turned pale; and, when I arose to examine into the
cause, mocked at me—saying that he had heard it
before—aye, the very night before the death of our
father.

He continued. `There is a death near to us. Do
not tremble, woman. It is not your turn. But I have
not forgotten Clinton.'

Lucia uttered a faint cry, and covered her face with
her hands.

`Perfidious girl!' he cried—`are you never weary
of torturing hearts that would die for you! O, shame
on your unprincipled, bloody nature. Eyes after eyes
are quenched forever!—hearts that were—O, God!—
Lucia I cannot, even now, maddening as I am, under
this accumulated outrage, I cannot speak unkindly to
you—forgive me—O, forgive me!'

He caught her hands, and held them to his heart,
while she turned away her face, and stood like one
about to drop into her own grave.

`I have never touched that chord before—never will
again. You loved him Lucia, and—would that I
were in his place.'

She recovered. I was amazed at the awful beauty
of her countenance; her bonnet had fallen back, and
her white forehead glittered, in the pride of its loveliness
and purity.

`Come hither, all of you,' she said; `how little you
know me. You spoke of Clinton. Look at me—pronounce
it again. Do I turn pale—do I tremble?
Archibald. I am sorry for his death, very sorry; more
sorry that he died so suddenly; and yet, more sorry,
infinitely more, that he died by your hand. But I have
heard it all—all! I do not blame you very much. I
forgive you. There is my hand. Would that you
could see my heart! You would find a reason there,
that would startle you—to explain my refusal. Is it
love for Clinton—mistaken man! He lived long

enough to tread out the last spark of affection in this
heart. No! Archibald, no! But what it is, I cannot
now tell you. Suffice it to know—and I pray you all
to remember it—whatever become of me—that is a reason
worthy of Archibald, worthy of me. Bear with
me, patiently. The secret shall not be kept forever.
A little while, and you may all know it.'

Our tears fell like rain, upon the grass—the sound
of her voice was that of an Eolian harp, wailing to the
low death wind.