 | CHAPTER XI. Seventy-six |  |
10. CHAPTER XI.
“———He awakened a sound,
“Like the stirring that comes from the tenanted ground
“When revelry wanders there.
In my last, I spoke of the letter, which Lucia had
received from Archibald. On looking over my papers,
I have found it.
More than once, have I seen it blistered with tears
—it is hardly legible at this moment; and, were not
the sentiments so deeply written on my heart, I should
not be able to decypher it, I am sure, in its present
tattered and defaced condition, as it lies before me,
while I transcribe it—with emotions, my children, that
shake every fibre of my constitution — that—but
read for yourselves—remember the situation of the parties,
youthful; lovely; strong; and bowed down with
a mysterious sorrow. If you feel aught of what I have
felt, five hundred times, in reading it, your young
hearts will collapse with a terrifick suddenness, again
and again, as the apparition of the two broken hearted
lovers, with pale lips and beautiful eyes, and loose hair,
rises before your thought—read it!—read it!—
and say if you wonder at the unsteadiness of my hand,
in transcribing its wild, incoherent, disordered language.
`Between thee and me, Lucia Arnauld, let there be
peace. The way of our life, thou strange and wonderful
and darkness. Let it be so no more. Lucia! we have
lost much. We might have been happy; blessed, and
blessing. We might have been, but for the untimely
blight of our warm hearted affection, happy and dear
to each other—o, how dear! forever and ever. Lucia!
there are times, when I could throw myself down
upon the green earth—underneath which, I shall soon
lie tranquilly, I hope, and weep myself to death. It is
when I see the apparition of her that I have loved, as
I last saw her; before a bad man had stepped, in a
wayward moment, into the sacred place of my devotion—and
carelessly defaced the blessedest image
of light and beauty, that man ever kneeled to—her
dark hair wet and glittering with the dew—her awful
eyes, shadowed with the tender and absolute blackness
of the deepest passion. She loved then—she loved me,
Archibald Oadley. Then why stood I upright in her
presence? Why—when all the world knelt to her—
to thee, Lucia?—did I uncover my brow, only; and
look upon thee, undazzled, unterrified!—why, when
they, that listened to thee—while thy heart warbled at
thy lips, like a young bird, buried in apple blossoms—
the sound gushing out, as if she were delirious and
faint, with the perfume and beauty about her—why,
when they looked lovingly upon thee, and were prodigal
of sweet things, why did I, I alone, Lucia, stand
apart from thee—with my hand over my eyes—silent
as death?—Why, when thy feet glittered in the
dance; and to all that looked upon thee, half blinded by
thy beauty, it seemed that the musick, which they heard,
came from movement of thy limbs—why stood I apart,
and mute, while they were loud and lavish of their
rapture?—O, Lucia—ask thy own heart. I was a
proud and imperious boy. I loved thee. I loved thee
too much—for the life of my own heart; too much, to
breath thy name lightly; too much, when I heard thy
voice, or thy tread, while my heart hid itself with
terrour and joy—not to move away from the world,
where I could shut my eyes; (not on thy beauty—that
voice—for that were impossible—blind and deaf, I
should have heard thee and seen thee, forever and ever,
after that night). Then why did I? ask thy own heart
Lucia. Did I not love thee? Didst thou not know it?
Hath not my voice failed me; and the tears filled my
eyes, all of a sudden, when thou hast entered where I
have been; nay, at the sound of thy tread—has not thy
own mother seen my nostrils gush out with blood. Did
I not love thee?—Then why, though I were mute, and
blinded, and sought the solitary place, where I used
to go in worship to thy creator—thine Lucia—for, till
I thought of him as thy creator, I never loved him—
to meditate upon thy melancholy beauty, and swift
way wardness, and power and brightness, why was I
not forgiven?—Had I loved thee less, O, woman!
could I not have poured out incense to thee, with as
wasteful a hand as another? Did I want the power?
the ability?—no.—Thou hast seen me, when ministering
to women who were not dear to me, among the
readiest, to do what I despise myself now, for having
done; waste the truth and simplicity of my nature, in
the mere wantonness of a boyish imagination; hiding
my disapprobation of their folly, shrouding every
unlovely feature of their person or mind; and aggravating,
by every artifice in my power, every beautiful
one. If I could do this so readily; and, that I did
do it readily, I appeal to thy own memory, Lucia, to
say, could I not, let thy heart answer, in its wisdom and
simplicity, could I not have ministered to thee as readily?
unless withheld by some better and higher feeling.
I could talk to others; compliment others; maintain
the play of conversation, with many a sprightly lip at
the same moment; dance with others; sing with others
—to whom I was indifferent, and who were truly
indifferent to me. Then why could I not, with thee?
was I careless of thy love? knew I not how priceless
a thing it was?—O, Lucia—how bitterly we have
been deceived. Our haughtiness hath been our death.
But for the breathless sweet tenderness that I felt for
all that stood about me, I appeared sullen and discontented.
I was not so—I was too happy to talk, too
proud to tell, even to thee—that my faculties stood
fettered before thee; but my mind bowed down, and
my tall spirit dwindled in thy rebuke. Lucia—Lucia!
—when I appeared to others, nay, to thyself, dear,
to love thee least—I was dying with my love of thee. I
was indeed. * * * * * *
When Clinton—may I speak of him? When Clinton
came to your father's Lucia (my hand is getting steadier.)—I
thought that he had never seen you before.
Why did you not tell me of it?—why?—There
was the death blow to our confidence. I saw you
colour; I saw you address him as a stranger—and yet,
I saw you, secretly, receive him as one that you had
known before. I saw him, but I was too proud to ask
the reason; too proud even to mention it, in any way,
to any body upon this earth, that I had seen you meet,
as I had. To his last hour, he knew it not—John
knows it not, to this; your mother, father, Clara—
nobody, no living creature, Lucia, ever knew of it, or
ever shall, till you see fit to tell them.
`Now hear me. For many hours, I watched every
movement of your lips and eyes, till I was very sick
with expectation. I hoped that you would come to me,
Lucia, and tell me that you loved him. I hoped this;
for that were better than to see you disingenuous.
But you did not; no, you did not. You doubted my
strength. O, Lucia, how little you knew it! I would
have laid down my life to promote your happiness, in
any way. If I could not be your husband—for a mere
lover, I could not be; I hated the fondness and caprice
and childishness of that relationship; but a husband!
O, young as I was, Lucia, I felt my veins thrill with a
pure, and religious, and sublime emotion, when I
thought of my duty to you, as my wife. I wept and
prayed too, love, while I thought of it; but, as I was
saying, if I could not be your husband, I would content
myself with being your friend; the best and
that you had seen Clinton before? that he loved you,
and that you loved him? How much of soreness, sorrow
and bitterness might have been spared to us!—
Well, well—It is now too late to weep over the desolation
that followed that concealment. I was prepared
dear, for any thing, for every pore, but caprice, in Lucia
Arnauld. I could have borne to lose her; to be
lost! but not to have her fall in my respect; or, to fall
myself, in her's. I watched the growing intimacy;
not with a jealous feeling, not in anger—O no! but
with a heart that bled at every face, with terrour and
consternation. I tried to tear your image away from
my—its place, but could not. I determined to tear
away heart and all with it, if there were no other way.
I have succeeded. My heart is dead—dead! but,
within it, there is yet a moving of vitality, like a spark
buried in ashes. The flowers are withered and trampled
on, but the earth is impregnate with their odour.
And even at this moment Lucia, while I put my cold
hand upon it, I feel thy image there, like a little babe,
stirring under the pressure. O heaven, have mercy
upon me!
`Well, Well—at last, the spell was broken. I
shuddered and wept at thy infatuation; but, nobody
knew it. I wasted away, with the thought of blood;
walked in my sleep; and rode furiously through the
battle, in search of quiet—everlasting quiet, Lucia—
but nobody knew it. At last—you were to have been
happy. God knows how I prayed for you—how
heartily I would have bled to death for you; but, no,
you would not trust me. I was shut out, utterly, from
your dear heart—utterly!—well, I bore that. I
made no complaint. I was weary of life, faint; very
faint at the heart; but, I told nobody of it—till —
Lucia—Lucia! the letters turn to blood while a write—
the table shakes—the summons will be repeated---there
there! there!—
or woman, man:—farewell, Lucia—farewell! I
shall never meet thee, again—never. I feel that I shall
not. If I should be able—I—but farewell, do not
expect another letter. May we not?—hast thou the
courage, love? thou art very feeble—and I can feel
that we are wasting, together—might it not be that we
could depart together? —Let us pray for it. *
* * * * * Yes—I would
have married thee, nevertheless!
Such was the letter that Lucia gave to me, on the very
day that it was received! I wondered at her. There
was a meaning in it, that I dreaded to fathom---nor had
I an opportunity, for nearly three weeks; during
which time, James was born. Yes, James, you were
the first fruit of our union---our pride and beauty:---
and Ellen had a little girl; a very feeble, sickly thing,
who, heaven bless the sweet creature, I saw afterward
dying in your brother's arms.
As soon after these events had happened, and the
tumult, of a father's and a husband's heart, had been
permitted to subside, as it could be, I opened the subject
anew to Lucia.
She was holding my boy in her arms; her red lips
looking, as if they had been moistened with the kisses
of her own babe.
`Lucia,' said I; `have you answered Archibald's
letter?'
I had no idea that she had. I asked the question only
by way of introducing the subject, for I have observed
that women are less scrupulous about entrusting
their sacredest and fearfullest thought and confession,
to men, than to women; even if these women be their
mothers, sisters, or daughters; and that, when they do
this, they choose neither father, brother nor child, nor
husband nor lover. And they are safer in it. Men
feel a pride in such confidence; a pride too, in protecting
and advising, their helplessness. There cannot be
any collision of interest or passion—nor envy, nor uncharitableness
strange, melancholy wonder---much that I have done,
appears to have been done by some other Archibald
Oadley; and not by me. So young; so tender hearted,
as I was---a boy, but the other day, and now dying,
with grey hairs in my head, (it is a fact, brother)---of
old age---premature old age, and a shattered frame;
substance and being, body and spirit shaken to the
dust. For one thing only, do I reproach myself—
nay, for two—two, above all others---the blood of
Clinton, is one---my stubbornness to Lucia, is another.
But for them, I could sleep quietly; and, mayhap, die
very quietly---but they haunt me, with a continually
encreasing darkness and threatening.—I cannot sleep
now, at all. I walk all the day long, to and fro, in the
camp, when we are encamped; and ride, all the day
long, when not encamped---but, without knowing or
caring, where I am, or what I have done. I walk in
my sleep, too---that distresses me. I know not what
may happen---the sentinels are trusty, and I am ashamed
to communicate the truth. You would not believe
me, I suppose, should I tell you, what is very true---
that, after the battle, yesterday, I fell asleep upon my
horse, while my men were returning from the pursuit;
and might very easily have been taken prisoner. At
times, there is a lethargy, pleasanter than sleep---a
drowsiness, like that of sorrow and love---as if I were
sleeping upon the bosom of some dear one, that besets
me---and my heart overflows and—but no,
—shame on these emotions. I have written to Lucia.
Bid her bear up---bid her be comforted. We
shall soon meet again---again! where our hearts may
beat renewedly, forever and ever; purified and blessed.'
`Purified!' echoed the sweet martyr, faintly dropping
her arm, over the bed; and falling upon her face
—`purified!—I—' a long and continued shuddering
followed, in which the bed, itself, vibrated, and
the whole room trembled.
`But the other,' said Clara, wiping her eyes and
reaching me Copely's letter.
It was very brief, and to the following effect; but,
just as I opened it, in came the two brides; one, flushed
with a beautiful confusion, the other laughing and
crying, all in a breath; and rallying Mary, with a significance
that I dared not understand; till the sweet
girl burst into tears—partly of shame, partly of sorrow;
and Ellen threw herself upon her neck, crying, `hush!
hush, love—forgive me. I was cruel—childish—indelicate
and—hush—all in good time. We shall
be a houseful, nevertheless, (in a low voice) by the
time that he comes.'
She did not mean that I should hear this; but it
touched Clara, who coloured, and withdrew her hand
from the pillow, against which I was leaning, to give a
reproof to Ellen, that nobody should understand but
the women folks.
Copely's note. `Rodman would have written you;
but, he has just finished a letter to his wife; and he
cannot manage the pen for another line. The broad
sword has cramped his hand. He deputises me to give
his love to you all; and to say to you, Oadley—and to
our's and your's—heaven have mercy on all of them,
and particularly, on mine and reform her—if it be not
too late.'
`He be hanged!' cried Ellen, pettishly.
`Prepare yourself—be a man. Your brother encountered
and slew two officers, with his own hand, yesterday
—and took, with Jasper, of whom more by and by,
and five more of the troop, twelve of the enemy prisoners;
and then went to sleep in the saddle. Be a man,
I say, again. Your brother cannot live long. His
hours are numbered.
`Gracious God!' cried Ellen, `if Chester Copely
be trifling now, I shall hate him forever.'
`O, I hope that he is!' said Mary, in a voice like a
lone instrument, breathing to the wind.
`His hours are numbered. A consultation has been
held, since my last, for we are unwilling to lose him—
but, there is no hope. Am I abrupt? I fear so. But
—you are a man—your brother is a man. He has no
he has an angel to leave behind him.'
`Not long,' said Clara, kissing her sister's forehead
—`no, no, not long, I am sure.'
`Would that you could see him! (said the letter.)
He never looked so well in his life. His temples are
transparent. Every movement of his heart is visible
in his eyes.' We all turned to Lucia, at these words;
it was a description of her appearance. `Poor fellow!
he has just left me, treading firmly the road that leads
to the chambers of death. Why delay it? why conceal
it? It fell upon me, like a thunderclap. It might
fall upon you so. We have done our best to prepare
you; at least, I have, for, while there was any hope,
he kept his situation a secret. But my course has
been different. I have told you the worst. You must
not blame me, however, that my last letter was not
alarming. When that was written, I began to have
hope—I have none, now.'
`The last! O! we are illy prepared yet,' said Clara.
`Would that it had arrived before this. Such
blows are terrible—I—'
`Jasper is dead—dead, poor fellow. I saw him fall;
but Archibald has just given me a particular account
of the transaction, with an air of pleasantry, that made
me scold him.
`I saw him,' said he, when the bullet struck his
heart; he was at full speed. Yet he kept on, for a
whole minute, and went completely through two divisions
of the broadsword, as I am a living man, before
he fell: the saddle turned, and the horse broke away
from under him—the saddle-cloth shot to ribbons, and
dripping with blood. I found the poor fellow, cut all
to pieces; his helmet shaved away; his uniform shot to
tatters—and the blood gushing out at his shoulders.
He died desperately. `But I expected it,' said Archibald,
`for, in his jocular way, I heard him, the morning
before the attack, while newly arranging a part of the
troop, in consequence of sickness and continual battle,
I heard him order all the ladies in the front rank.'
`The ladies!' said Ellen—`what the deuse does the
fellow mean?'
`The mares,' I replied. `Jasper always called them
the ladies of the troop—most of them were blooded.'
`But why put them in the front rank?'
`For many reasons.' I said, smiling at the question,
so innocently asked, and wishing, from my soul, that
I had not read the passage aloud; for Copely was
full of such jokes, `the fire and quickness of females,
are proverbial; the competition that would be produced;
the gallantry that it would provoke—the—'
`Read on,' said Ellen, impatiently—dropping her
eyes; `read on; what does the creature say next?'
`Nothing—except that I am to stand—here, read it
yourself—godfather to—'
`I won't!' she cried, jumping up, in a pet, and running
out of the room.
`Why, what possesses the poor woman?' said Mary,
her sweet, innocent lips parting so quietly.
Clara smiled; and handed her the letter—which sent
her out of the room, just as fast.
`Pray, what is the meaning of all this nonsense?'
said Lucia, with that calm, beautiful propriety, which
grew upon her every hour, till her death. `I cannot
pretend to misunderstand it. The feelings of the man
—the father! are natura: and why? Sister Clara, I
am ashamed of you; yes dear, of you. Young as I am,
I have that within me, that cannot play tricks, even
where they are looked for. I do not like Copely's levity.
The thought should solemnize him; the peril of
his wife—so delicate and frail, as her tenement is, that
should make him speak seriously. But perhaps he
would give it, the least insupportable air that he could;
and affect a pleasantry, while his heart is breaking, to
amuse others. Nay, sister—am I not right? What is
there to redden at? What to be ashamed of? I know
not what a mother's feelings are, it is true. I know
not what it is, to feel the stirring of life within me; a
life that is to make me altogether my husband's, here
and hereafter: but I do know this, that I should neither
where it was not a reproach. Still less would I affect
such tremours; or, if they were not affected, would I
indulge them before my husband, or before any body
that had eyes.'
`Lucia!' said Clara, blushing all over; `you astonish
me. I shall be offended, if this conversation continue.'
`Shame on you, then—shame on you! the woman,
in your situation, whose nerves will not permit such a
conversation; whose temper will not permit it, had
better die barren. I am serious. This is no sudden
thought. I know what I say. I have meditated upon
it. I love delicacy, I trust that, whatever be my
faults, I have not that of indelicacy at my door; but I
detest prudery and affectation. You are already a
mother, Clara—and must think and act like one. Your
own health, and that of your babe demand it.'
`By heavens, Lucia, you are a noble creature,' said
I, kissing her; `I am glad of this conversation. It
will be the better for poor Clara. Hitherto, the theme
has been a forbidden one between us two; yes,—between
the father and mother! at a moment so critical
too, when she is most in want of all sympathy and encouragement.
No Clara; give me your hand—there,
thank you! I love you unspeakably, as you know. I
love modesty. I revere this delicate timidity; this
bashful sensibility; but, it has gone too far—to an extent,
dear, unworthy of one so thoughtful and firm as
you. Your sweet sister has said wisely. These agitations
and tremours may have a worse tendency than we
dream of. Let us learn to think of the event without
stammering; to be prepared for it. One kiss! there—
there! Now go to Lucia, and let me see you kiss her.'
Clara did, while the tears danced in her full eyelids,
and thanked her.
Our arms entwined altogether, in one dear, thrilling
embrace; and the tears of the two sisters fell upon my
face, like a warm, summer shower, in a pleasant wind
—just at the shutting in of day light.
Woman!—the companion of our bed side—from our
cradle to our grave!—our ministering angel!—our
nurse!—our consolation, in all sorrow and trial —from
the first beating of life within us—to the last, the very
last, upon the bed of death—thou art the sweet fountain,
and nourishment of all our holiest being—and of
all our most immortal nature and quality!
| CHAPTER XI. Seventy-six | |