 | CHAPTER VIII. Seventy-six |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
`Blood he had seen, could see—unmoved—but then—
`Twas shed in COMBAT or was shed by men.
`Lo! they wrestled with angels from the going down of the sun,
`even unto the rising of the same.'
`Well! of all the capers that ever I heard of, in my
life, this is the drollest,' said Miss Arnauld, when she
heard of our resolution.
`Just what I told 'em! just what I told 'em!' said
Ellen, shaking her hands, as if she would shake them
off, at the same time. `Its a burning shame, said I;
an outrage on all regular-bred novels—what! for two
couple, face to face, in a bright evening—to—paugh!
it makes me feel sea sick—to ask each other, pop the
question, in downright English—all in each other's
hearing.'
`Shocking, was'nt it?' said Nick, peeping through
his fingers.
`I am not at all pleased with it,' said Mrs. A—.
Mr. Arnauld shook his head. `I am,' said he. `It
is precipitate. But, I see no reason why, in such
times, people should not be precipitate—nor, when
every hour is precious, why our children should undergo
a formal courtship.'
`Nor I,' said Ellen, meekly—in a faint, timid voice
—crossing her hands in her lap, and holding up her
head, like a little lady. `Just what I told them—la,
said I—'
`Hush! hush! don't expose yourself,' said Copely,
leaning over her chair, with his cast iron face.
`Ah!' You there—Lord!—think of the—ahem—
and he is sure to appear.'
`You can never be alone, then,' said Copely.
`Never without him, of late,' she replied, nodding.
`Come, come children, no more of this,' said Arnauld,
his fine eyes lighting up as he spoke. `This
is no matter for trifling, no time for raillery. I do
not oppose your intention. I do not upbraid you for
your suddenness. You have known each other long
enough, to render it unnecessary for you to deliberate
much upon what, if you have not been altogether
children, you must have become prepared for. You
have known each other too intimately, I might add, for
common artifices of the world to have any weight with
you. I have been meditating much on the matter.
When do you leave us?'
`On Wednesday—early.'
`So soon,' said Mrs. Arnauld, putting her beautiful
hands upon my shoulders, `so soon, my implacable
son-in-law! I would know more of you, if I could,
while your ancient kind manner is upon you.'
`On Wednesday?' said Mr Arnauld, musing. `Let
me see. Do you wish it private?'
`Assuredly!' said Copely; and I—`assuredly!'
`I commend you for your discretion,' he replied.
`But there needs some preparation; not much, it is
true—but some. Mr. Sampson must be here; feeble
and disordered as he is. Don't weep, Ellen—we must
speak plainly. Your father shall be here; and the
good old Dr. Hastings, who would not sleep quietly in
his grave, if one of my children should be married
without his participation; we must give him another
Christmas dinner this year, and leave it to him to find
out the occasion. There is Mrs. Oadley too, your
mother, sir, who must be here. Parents can have no
representatives, in a duty so awful and tender as this.
And perhaps—you have a friend near us, I am told,
whom it has been (a deadly paleness shot over his face
as he proceeded) my misfortune; no, my wickedness
of reconciliation.'
`Yes,' said I, impatiently, `for him and—'
`Brother!' said Archibald, interrupting me—while
Ellen glanced her blue eyes at him, with an expression
of intense alarm. `Yes, Mr. Arnauld, Arthur Rodman
shall be here; and, I do not doubt that—' (I could see
by his face, that he was thinking of Mary.)
I would have anticipated him, for I did not then
know his whole reason; but his forehead darkened—
and he turned away his face; adding, carelessly—`I
will see Arthur, and—see what can be done.'
`Will you take the chaise, Mr. Oadley,' continued
Arnauld, addressing me, `and bring up your mother.
Make what arrangements you please about her return.
But my motion is, that we had better occupy one house,
during your absence. I shall leave the city immediately;
and go back to the farm.'
My heart was too full to speak a word; and Clara,
as I went by her, and gave her my hand—contributed,
not a little, to augment that fullness, for she said, with
a look that I shall never forget: `Our mother, dear
John, must not be left alone; she shall have one child
to watch over her and comfort her, whatever happen.'
`God bless you, Clara! God bless you!' said I,
hurrying to the window, where I heard Mr. Arnauld
give orders immediately, for the chaise; and saw dispositions
making to fetch Mr. Sampson.
`What!' said Copely, striking me on the shoulder
—`ruminating? or reconnoitering?'
I could not look round; but I took his hand, as I
would that of my own brother—and held it, in
silence.
`Would that we might have a third bridal,' said he?
`O, would heaven, that we might!' said a voice
near me—the voice of Mrs. Arnauld—faint with
emotion.
`Amen!' echoed another at the window. It was
that of the father.
I turned, lest Archibald should have heard it; but
he was occupied with Lucia, upon a distant sofa. We
were all silent for a minute or two, watching their
countenances.
I felt a soft hand upon mine—`might it not be? they
were made for each other?'
`True, true, dear Madam,' said Copely; his under
lip quivering as he spoke; `and, for that reason, I have
no hope. Let us not mention it. They are creatures
of their own mould. Their stature is not of this earth.
But yesterday, or the day before, Archibald would have
died, ere he had permitted the thought of such an event
to enter his heart. To day, he would die, and so would
she, I am sure, rather than hear the sound of it aloud.
`It is inconceivable' said Mrs. Arnauld, almost
sobbing; `so passionate—so devoted—so melancholy as
they are. O, if it might be; but, no, I dare not wish
it. Heaven's will be done! I—'
`The chaise is ready, Sir,' said the servant, popping
his head in at the door, and disappearing.
I bowed, awkwardly enough, I dare say, to all the
good people at once, and endeavoured to give an air of
pleasantry to my farewell, even of a few hours, a day
or two at most; but I could not—for, when my eyes
met those of Clara, I stopped: the bow was arrested—
I was fain to take her dear hand, in mine, and lead her
to the door; where, without any body seeing it, I had
just time to put my mouth to her white forehead, and
spring into the chaise.
My mother—O, how altered she was. The absent,
wandering, mournful darkness of her eyes had gone.
There was a lowly, obedient manner of resignation
now, in every movement; a quiet, unrepining, patient
spirit, that it did my heart good to see.
We were many hours together—many of the happiest
that I ever spent in my life. Her womanly beauty was
not, even yet, utterly defaced; but there was a gravity,
and steadiness, or simplicity now, in all that she said
ever seen. While I looked upon her dark, full eyes,
coal black lashes, and eyebrows black too, as the raven
—her forehead just flushing, when she spoke, under the
thin grey hair, that mingled with the jetty black of her
plain parted tresses; there was a chastened, subdued
dignity in her face, that awed me. I never had respected
her so tenderly. Misfortune had laid her hand
heavily upon my dear mother: her youthful vanity—
her almost innocent pride of beauty, had been smitten
to the dust. The wind of desolation, had gone over her
dark tresses, and they were withered and blasted.
A shadow had fallen upon her majesty; the snow upon
her hair—and her very eyes, were the eyes no longer
of a spoiled beauty, nor a delirious woman; but of the
widowed and desolate one—broken of heart and contrite
in spirit.
We talked much and calmly of the past. She made
no complaint; but her voice was tremulous, when she
spoke of her desolation, and the kindness of Clara and
Lucia. They had been daughters to her—and Mr.
Arnauld, heaven bless him for it! had personally superintended
the erection of the buildings where we now
were.
She spoke of Arthur, and Mary—the `poor dead
Mary.' I was amazed! thunderstruck! Could it be
possible that she had never heard of her being alive?
Yes, it was possible! and I found it necessary to prepare
her for the intelligence, very gradually. Yet,
nevertheless, when it fell upon her, her eyes were fixed,
as with sudden death; and she put her hands to her
ears, as if the shriek of a woman were yet ringing there,
and gasped for breath. At last, however, the tears
gushed out, and she fell upon my bosom and sobbed,
and prayed, as if her heart were bursting with gratitude.
`O, my son!' she cried, `we have abused the patience
of our Maker—turned our faces away from him,
when he entreated as—forgetful of all that remained
upon the earth. His ways, my boy, may be ways of
heart, with all her strength,) assuredly, they are ways
of wisdom and peace. He is the husband of the widow,
and the father of the fatherless! Do not forget him.
Pray to him—pray to him, forever, my child. For he
hath compassion upon the sorrowing and abused.' Her
sobs were hysterical now, and she was obliged to rouse
herself, and leave me for a while.
I understood all her feeling—all her thought; and
my heart stood still, at the sound of her voice. The reproof
cut me to the heart. It was—O, I cannot deny
it—it was true. We had not loved our mother as we
ought. We had seen some innocent vanities in her,
for she was certainly the finest looking woman of her
age in the country, except Mrs. Arnauld; and, heaven
pardon us for it! we had overlooked her affectionate
heart, steady principle, and undeviating rectitude.
At last, we were on our way—having left the house,
under the care of our aged and experienced overseer,
who had long been a tenant of my father's; and a companion
of our family, till the irruption of the enemy,
when his house had been levelled even before our own;
and he, with a numerous family, had been driven out
into the cold world. He was a good man, and an honest
one.
But why delay the story? We arrived on Tuesday
about noon, and found all the parties ready, except
Arthur, who was hourly expected; but, I observed that,
whenever I spoke of him, the eyes of Archibald, were
upon me, with a strong expression, until I could no
longer support it; and asked him the reason.
`Say nothing of Arthur,' said he, `wait till he appears.
Keep your eye upon Mr. Arnauld.'
His voice was cheerful; but, it was a cheerfulness
that distressed me more than all his sorrowing. It was
the look of desperate, calm effort and determination.
Lucia too, while she seemed utterly absorbed in the
bustle of preparation, was fearfully pale, and languid;
and, ever and anon, there was a slight shadow, and a
which, seemed to shiver at times, when no eye but
mine was upon her; and, to all the world, she appeared
to have no thought, but of the business in hand. Yet,
she breathed with difficulty—and every breath was a
sigh; and, often and often, would her eyes fill; and
she would turn away her face, or drop it, as if to bite
off her thread—when I could see, that she had hardly
the power left to raise it again.
My mother embraced her; and we were, if it were
possible, for human beings to be so, on this earth, really
happy.
The lamps were lighted. The two brides were ready—the
good parson about to stand up; sudden and
fitful interruptions—forced remarks—and a painful,
solemn silence succeeding to each, had rung the preparation
for every heart, when Archibald entered, and
announced the approach of Arthur, with a lady.
`A lady!' said several voices, at once.
`A lady!' said Mr. Arnauld.; `I am sorry for that.
We have carefully avoided inviting any body; and—'
`Arthur will help to make a third couple,' said
Archibald, smiling.
`Ah! well, that may do very well. They will keep
each other in countenance. I am glad of it. But
what agitates you so—and you, Ellen?—tears! bless
me! one would think that our two girls were about to
be buried alive.'
`Pray,' said Ellen, stepping up to Archibald—`is she
prepared? I have some apprehensions for her.'
`Yes, Arthur has provided for that,' said my brother,
in a low voice.
The door opened, and Arthur Rodman entered, with
a veiled woman leaning upon his arm—trembling
from excessive emotion, and literally clinging to him;
his forehead was uncovered; and, when he entered, upon
my word, I do believe, that there was a general exclamation
of surprise and pleasure. Arthur had grown
very handsome; and his usually calm features were al
in a blaze now, with expression.
Mr. Arnauld advanced, and offered him his hand,
which Arthur accepted, at the same time that Mrs.
Arnauld exclaimed.
`Dear Mr. Rodman, look at the lady! look!' She
had nearly fallen at the approach of Arnauld; but,
then she suddenly recollected herself, and threw back
her veil; Arnauld reeled to the wall, and stood
staring at her, as if she had been an apparition, with
his eyes set, and mouth open.
The sweat was upon his lip, and his look was that
of unutterable horrour and dismay. But the blood
came back to his heart—rushing over his face, and
blinding him; and he fell into a chair, where he sat,
for some minutes, in the terrible silence that followed,
breathing like a half drowned man.
At length, he arose, and came forward; at first,
with a faltering step; but, as he came nearer, and Ellen
had fallen with her eyes shut, into the arms of my
mother—his tread grew firmer.
He took his wife's hand.
`I do not ask,' said he, in a sepulchral voice; `by
what miracle this has been brought about. Enough
for me to believe, that it is. I am—a—greatly bewildered
here, (putting his hand to his forehead.) but—
look at me, Mary—(attempting to take her hand; but
she shuddered at the touch, insensible as she was.)
`Mary,' said Arthur, `stand up, and face him. Stand
up, my beloved, and faint not. Why should the innocent
and beautiful, quail before such men!—Arnauld!'
`Nay, Rodman, let us not renew our hatred. What
has been done, cannot be undone. I am a penitent. I
leaned upon a spear. It wounded me. The wound ranklesyet.
Mary Austin, can you—will you forgive me?
me!—Frederick Crawford.'
She burst into tears at the sound of that name, and
was speechless; she could not answer.
`Say that you forgive me,' said Arnauld, hurriedly,
`O, say it. I am growing old, Mary—and my deathbed
will be less painful, if the woman, that I have most
injured, will forgive me. Say that you forgive me! or,
your hand into mine.'
`May I—can I?' said Mary, just moving her lips,
and looking up into Arthur's face; `may I?'
`May you! love—yes, give him your hand, and wish
him well, here and hereafter.'
`Well then,' said Mary, timidly putting her hand
into his; `I do forgive you, Mr. Craw— Mr. Arnauld.
I do, and may heaven forgive you, as truly! I
do not reproach you. You were not all to blame—not
all—I—I—cannot say any more. Dear Arthur—I—I
—the thought is hateful to me.'
`There! there!' said Arnauld, rising in all his manhood,
at once, and standing before his injured wife.
`There is a pattern for woman! That is the blessed
creature, of whom I told you; the truest and kindest;
the most affectionate, yet timid and trusting heart, that
ever beat—except yours, my wife, (pressing his own
wife to his bosom,) and now—peace—peace! to mine
own.'
`Mary Austin—Arthur Rodman—are you ready?'
Mary bowed her head meekly, as the clergyman
arose, and opened the book.
`And you Mr. Oadley? (Archibald stepped back;)
and you, my daughter? (Lucia stood more erect.) Are
you also ready?'
I took Clara's hand, and we advanced to the appointed
place
`And you colonel? and you Ellen?'
`Not quite, said the incorrigible girl, `these plaguy
gloves,' tearing her hand through one of them, with a
petulant vivacity, that could not conceal her emotion.
`You tremble,' said Copely tenderly.
`Pho, pho—no such thing! there, deuce take the
glove! I'll be married without mittens.'
`Don't be frightened,' said Copely, soothingly, and
really distressed at her vivacity, for her lips trembled
incessantly, and her eyes ran over, whenever she shut
them.
`Frightened! who's frightened? you must have been
dining out, man. Hush? the deed is doing. The incantation—Lord,
how cold I feel!'
`Hush, yourself, you pestilent little baggage.'
But she would not let him proceed. The clergyman
had just come to the word obey; and Mary had
just pronounced it, with a deep, sweet emphasis.
Ellen pointed at her. `Do you believe,' said she,
loud enough to be heard by all of us; `do you believe
that I am going to tell that lie?—obey!—I obey?—
whom!—you! no. I shan't promise any such thing.'
`I'll make you,' said Copely.
`How?'
`Choke you.'
`How?'
`With kisses.'
`Faugh!'
`Come,' said Mr. Arnauld, `come, colonel, it is
your turn, now.'
Copely stepped forward, and would have taken her
beautiful hand; but her distress was getting too evident
to be concealed.
`Lord, what a fumbler!' she cried, shaking from
head to foot, and pale as death.
`There's a dreadful ringing in my ears,' said Copely,
softly, as the clergyman moved to his place.
`There will be, if you don't hold your tongue,' said
Ellen, raising her hand.
`How bright your eyes are, Nell!'
`I'll tell you what it is, Chester Copely,' said she,
looking him up in the face, while her colour came and
went, like flashes of fire over alabaster, for a moment;
`you will break my heart, if you are not more serious.'
His countenance fell, instantly; his eyelids quivered;
and he held her hand to his lips. But not a word
did they hear—not a word, I am sure; for, when the
clergyman paused for the response, she looked up, as
if starting from a trance, in the prettiest confusion imaginable.
`Love, honour and obey,' said the parson.
`Love—honour—and, (glancing maliciously at Copely)—`ahem—O—O—'
`Love, honour and obey,' repeated the clergyman,
seriously and emphatically.
She hitched forward her pretty shoulder pettishly;
and Copely began to prepare his lips for the threat, by
wiping them with his cuff.
`Obey! obey! obey!' cried the mad girl, rising on
tip-toe, and laughing faintly, as if her very heart were
breaking.
The ceremony was over; and Copely was about to
offer the salutation of love, when the clergyman put in
his claim.
`Stop, Sir,' said Copely, gravely; `that woman is
my wife, now. I will have no man—and no minister,
the last of all men, profaning her lips, now!'
We all stood thunderstruck.
`I have trifled hitherto,' said Copely, walking two
paces forward, `for there was no other way to win
her. But, henceforth, she is mine—mine, forever and
ever—in peril and in death! Shame on the man, shame
on him! who, under the sacredness of his office, is the
first to teach to the young bride, a familiarity with the
lips of a man—not her husband. No, Sir—I honour
your office. I love my Maker: and I can worship, as
profoundly as any man, at his altars—where the wind
is blowing through my hair, and the stars shining down
upon me. But, I have so little reverence for the infirmities
of a priest; so little compassion for his weaknesses;
so much of a deadly hostility to his temptation, that I
would strangle you Sir—you—upon the spot, sooner
than you should touch the forehead of my wife.'
You are amazed—all are terrified—all! even Archibald,
who knows me best; even Ellen, my own, my wedded
one. You do not know me. You could not. Look at
this scar: for ten years it has been bleeding inwardly
—yet, I never told it. I have deeper ones, that bleed
yet. Come hither, Ellen—nearer, love. This wedding
of ours, shall leave an impression upon your young
once. You scorned me—mocked at me; and then, after
I had won my way, by opennesss and manhood, into
your heart, you forgot me, and shut the gate upon
me, the moment that my back was turned. I loved you
mightily. I swore to be revenged. Yet, hear me
through. You know not the man whom you have made
a lord over you. Archibald stand back! Arthur Rodman,
I will have no interference! Mr. Arnauld, your
eyes cannot intimidate me. Hear me through. To
win that girl—young man!—if you do not wish to see
blood spilt upon the spot, stand back! and, when I
have done, strike. Your sister shall judge me. For
nine years, I have battled against her dominion. For
three, I have done violence to my whole nature—counterfeiting
all passions—feigning festivity, when my
heart was breaking—shutting myself up, from all mankind,
when my very spirit yearned for communion—
why?'
`To BE REVENGED!'
I pursued another. I gave into a deception, that I
hated. From the first to the last, I loved you Ellen,
with all my heart and soul; and, till I saw your magnanimous
nature, in the affair between Lucia Arnauld
and myself, I never relented, nor wavered—my whole
aim was to bring you to my feet, and then—break your
heart, and leave you.'
We shuddered. The creature was awful. `But'—his
voice changed—trembled. The tears gushed into his
eyes—and he folded her hands to his heart, while she
stood leaning against Mr. Arnauld, like one struck suddenly
mad. `But, that was impossible. My stern
heart wept. I began to love you devoutly, and with a
kinder spirit. With that spirit, I love you now, Ellen.
Henceforth, I have done with all trifling. It is unworthy
of me; with vengeance, for your heart, love, is not
a fit companion for one, where that devil is closetted.
Look up dear! look up, and bless me! Here is your
last trial. I have counterfeited a character, that is not
my own. But, I have not counterfeited a better one
And this, (kissing her forehead,) this be the
pledge, that, henceforth, happen what will, you will
never hear or see aught of this temper again.'
The poor girl shook her head, and attempted to
stand up; but her strength had gone. It was a minute
or two, before she could speak; and, when she did, it
was only to say:
`You frightened me sadly, Chester—I thought
of Blue Beard—the wolf, in Little Red Riding Hood,
all the while that you stood there.'
`Poor simpleton,' said Copely, `will nothing make
you serious?'
`Yes.'
`What, I pray?'
`Why, now, that we are married, if you will only
be very agreeable and frivolous for a while.'
`The mere spirit of contradiction then?'
`Why—y—a—a—o—beside, to tell you the truth,
it sits so awkwardly upon you, that I feel ashamed
of it.'
`O, Ellen!' said Copely, `you are incorrigible, I
am afraid. But, let me entreat you, once for all, dear,
not to dishonour your noble heart, and excellent understanding,
so frequently—and—'
`Upon my word,' said Ellen, colouring, `are you
serious?'
`Very—very serious.'
`And you do believe then, in soberness, that I am
neither a fool, nor—nor—a creature of no feeling?'
`Yes.'
`Then, why have you treated me so, continually, as
if I were. Copely—my husband! You have said,
that we do not know you. I believe it. But, you do
not know me—no, not me. Come to me, as a man;
treat me as a woman; neither flatter, nor coax, nor
teaze me—and—lord! there's no knowing what a
spartan I shall become! What are you laughing at?
I can't open my lips, but your gravity vanishes, like a
spectre, so that I am fain to talk foolishly and flippantly,
general reckoning day. I have a secret to tell you.
Treat me like a woman of sense, and I will try to deserve
it.'
`Ellen! upon my soul, that remark of your's—that
little, short remark, carries more comfort to my heart—
more security than all that I have ever heard you say
in your life. O, hang it, you cannot be serious.'
`But,' said the clergyman, `there is another couple.'
`True,' said Copely, `I beg ten thousand pardons.
I had quite forgotten. Ellen, let us step aside, and
give others a chance.'
I glanced at her face; it was a bright crimson.
`Not another step!' said she, `there! they are
ready.'
`What! you do not surely mean to look on, and
watch how they undergo the ceremony?' said Copely,
moving off.
`Indeed I do,' said she.
`Perverse and—'
`Barbarian!' she replied, gently, yielding to him,
as he drew her to the window seat.
This was the last that I saw. My heart was giddy.
I felt a painful rush of blood through the channelling of
my temples; and, though I was told afterward, that I
went through the ceremony with exceeding steadiness,
yet I knew nothing of it, till I felt my lips throbbing
against Clara's.
She was full of dignity and seriousness; exceedingly
pale, but firm, and collected; devout, and prepared.
The clergyman paid me a remarkable compliment, I
remember, when he was through.
`You have thought more of this ceremony, and of its
great obligation,' said he, `than all the people that I
ever married. May heaven bless you!'
`Ah! a horseman!' cried Mr. Arnauld, `what is
the meaning of this?'
We all crowded to the window, and saw Archibald
dismount. We had not missed him—and Lucia, where
was she?'
The next moment, he entered—his hair all in disorder—his
forehead covered with sweat—his deep blue
eyes strangely disordered in their lustre.
He bowed hastily, and said something, in the way of
apology for leaving us—something, that none of us
could understand, or recollect, after he had gone;
glanced rapidly round the room, as if in search of
somebody—
`Lucia,' said he, `where is she?'
`Here I am,' said Lucia, stepping forward, from the
corner, where, hidden by the heavy curtains, she had
set for one hour, concealed from our observation.
Her step was singularly firm: her carriage haughty.
`Will you favour me with the conversation which
you promised?' said Archibald, advancing toward
her, and offering her his hand.
`Assuredly,' she replied; `but are you ready? is all
prepared?—all!'
`All,' said Archibald.
`Follow me, for a moment, then,' said she. `Mother,
I shall not be gone long.'
Her hand was upon the door, as she said this; and
her mother, struck by the preternatural steadiness of
her manner, advanced a step or two, as if to address
her.
`No, my dear mother,' said the haughty girl, her
sweet lips parting with a mournful smile, no, it is impossible—we
must be alone.'
A bright colour flashed over the eyes of Mr. Arnauld;
and he exchanged a glance of disquieted, earnest pleasure
with his wife, as the door shut upon them.
They had been gone about ten minutes, though it appeared
much longer, for we were breathless in our expectation;
trying, in vain, to start some subject for
talking; but not one of us had our thought or senses
sufficiently at our command, to understand any thing
whatever. At last, all at once, we heard a sharp cry,
as if a dagger had been driven, through and through, a
human heart: a cry that froze our blood—it thrilled
through every apartment of the house. We sprang from
door, through which Archibald and Lucia had passed.
The great doors, that opened into the hall, from the
portico, were wide open; the lamps blazing; and, at
the foot of the steps, there stood a horse, saddled and
bridled, with the gate open behind him.
While I was wondering at the signs of preparation
below, something—to me, it appeared like a spectre,
starting out of the solid wall—came, staggering out of
the darkness, athwart the hall. It was Archibald.
The room behind him, the walls beyond, were all
black as midnight. The light of the lamps could not
penetrate so far.
It was all the work of a moment. As he approached
me, aiming blindly toward the portico, I pronounced
his name, with a sensation of unutterable alarm; but
he heard me not. His hair stood upright. There was
blood upon his lips—and sweat upon his forehead, as
he went by me, with his eyes wide open, without seeing
me.
I know not what followed, for a minute or two—I
was like one suddenly deprived of all motion and life.
The whole family rushed into the room opposite; a
loud and general shriek followed—and, the next moment,
while I was groping my way to their aid, hardly
conscious of what I was doing, I encountered Mr.
Arnauld, staggering under the body of a woman;
(it was Lucia;) the mother and all the family following,
like distracted creatures.
Archibald passed on—in the general consternation;
descended the steps; leaped into the saddle; and was
gone, ere any other voice, than, that of wail and lamentation
was heard.
I had only time to see, as Copely turned fiercely
round, and ordered his horse, that blood was upon
Lucia's hands, and a print upon her forehead as of
bloody lips—when—
When—O, righteous heaven! she opened her eyes,
locked her white hands, grasped for breath, and then
fainted away again.
Her distracted father bore her away—followed by
my mother and hers, and my wife; while I, God only
knows what had been my thought—I cannot recall
them, but they were very terrible, so terrible, that,
when I saw Copely bare headed in the saddle—with
his holsters over his arm—I could have cheered him
onward, to the massacre of my only brother.
The whole house was in an uproar, the servants
running hither and thither, and we, utterly unable to
control them.
A trampling of hoofs followed—and a horse, with
the reins loose, and saddle turned, came thundering
into the court, the fire flashing from the pavement, like
a rocket, at every blow of his irons.
`Whose horse!' said I—`not Copely's—is it?'
`No Sir,' said a servant—`it is not the Colonel's;
I gave him the parson's, as he stood ready tackled.'
`Merciful heaven,' said the good man. `I tremble for
the consequences! But, let us be prepared.'
`Joy! joy! joy!' rang a dozen voices, all at once,
from the top of the stairs.
We crowded to the place; and fell upon our knees.
The blessed Lucia was herself again—unwounded,
unhurt; the blood upon her face, and hands—she knew
not whence it came. She was rational—and told us
that we had seen Archibald, she believed, for the last
time.
A new horrour took possession of us. The composure
of her tone was too unnatural, too calm, for
aught but settled despair. Was it his blood—then—
his? that we had seen? and by whom shed?
`Ah! Copely! are you hurt?'
`No!' he replied—shaking the dust from him, but
where is Rodman? what is the meaning of this? why,
is he not in the saddle? Ha! Rodman—mount! mount!
and away. Take your pistols, and if you get as near
him as I did—mind your reins before you fire. Bring
him in, dead or alive. The murderer! I should have
brought him down, but for that cursed horse.'
`Man,' said I—`laying my hand upon his shoulder.
I am Archibald Oadley's brother. What have you
done?'
`Risked committing murder; risked breaking my
neck; risked covering myself with the blood of a brave
man, the dearest friend on earth—that I might bring
a murderer to justice—poor Lucia!'—
`What have you done, Copely?' said I, collecting all
my breath, and all my strength, to hurl him from the
steps, if he answered me, as I expected. `Did you overtake
Archibald.'
`Almost, and called to him, again and again; but,
he rode on, gallopping as if the avenger of blood were
at his heels; and my horse became unmanageable—and
I, hoarse from shouting—and—'
`At last, I lost my patience—`stop! Archibald Oadley,'
I cried, `stop! or, by the God of my fathers, I
will bring you down with a pistol bullet! I was near
enough, almost, to grapple with him once, but he
saw nor heard me.'
`I levelled—'
`And fired?' said I—raising my arm—
`And fired!' said the cold hearted man, without
moving a limb, or retreating one inch from the blow.
`Did he fall?' said I, delaying it.
`Not immediately,' he replied—`but—ha, what is
the meaning of this? Are you all mad?'
`Answer me,' I replied, `before I strike you dead at
my feet—'
`You! Oadley! you strike me dead! I pity you.
But, you are his brother. He is safe. I saw him,
holding on his way—long after I fired. He many thank
my horse for it, though, and the holsters over my arm;
for, the moment that I fired, he reared, stumbled and
threw me, head over heels, into the dirt.'
`Do you know,' said I, almost choking, with the
thought of Archibald's escape; and Copely's too—I
may say, for, had he wrought Archibald's doom, I
should have slain him, I am sure. `Do you know
that Lucia is safe? uninjured—unwounded?'
`Merciful heaven! Oadley—what! but—Do you
dare to trifle with me? Speak! speak! is she not
wounded? speak!'
`No—no,' I repeated—`rash man, she is not—but
God only knows if my brother be not.'
Our distress was inconceivable, for a time—but
Arthur returned, at last, with the intelligence that
Archibald had been seen, in the company of a strange
man, riding toward the wood—in the same attitude—
still at full speed, but sitting upright, sustaining himself
in the saddle as no mortal man could, if he were
wounded. This gave us comfort; but, our wedding
night was one of sorrow. All the darkness through,
we were walking about, husbands and wives, like
creatures that have been shipwrecked, and wait for the
light of morning, to know where they are.
And, when the day light came, it was bluish, frightful
and cold; so that, as I was preparing to mount my
horse, and go in pursuit of my poor brother, dreading
now, the disorder of his intellect, rather than any
bodily calamity—I felt weighed to the earth with apprehension;
and I was hardly in the saddle, when one
of the servants cried out, from an upper window, that
over looked the high road, that a man on horseback
was riding toward the house.
A minute more, and he was visible to me. He was
a young countryman; and, the moment that he entered
the yard, he gave me a dirty paper, which appeared to
be the tattered leaf of a book. Upon it, was scrawled,
in the hand writing of Archibald, these words.
`Be happy. Do not alarm yourself about me; tell
our mother that I shall go to the army; and not return
till—till—the war is over. Farewell—farewell.
Heaven bless you all—Archibald.
P. S. I am very well this morning. Farewell!'
`How did he look?' said I, to the man.
`Look! Sir? don't know, sir—kind o' smiled—and
I a'most cried to see him.'
Poor Archibald!—he never smiled again.
| CHAPTER VIII. Seventy-six | |