 | 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!—
Three knocks! three, loud, successive, distinct
knocks. My hours are numbered. This is the third
time. Is it a delusion? Ask my brother? He sat by
me one night at the same hour, and heard them—when
I not only heard them, but saw the hand that gave them
—saw it! as plain as I now see this paper—
Enough.
I would not have slain him; no, by heaven, I would
not, but for that last word that he uttered. That was
the death word. I drove my sword up to the hilt, into
his heart. He deserved it; true, or not true, it matters
not. He knew how I loved thee; worshipped thee;
and, though it had been true to the uttermost extent,
he deserved death—death! aye, death here and hereafter—death
and damnation, for blaspheming thy purity
—O, Lucia—I did not believe him for a moment
—no, not for a moment—and my soul shuddered at the
altar, when I remembered that I had sent Clinton
before God, with a lie in his mouth.
`But—but—Lucia—it is getting very dark. I feel,
as I felt, when we parted last, and the foam stood
on my lips, as I stood over thee, and saw thy
locked hands and speechless mouth ready to crumble
into dust before me. Sublime and incomprehensible
woman. It was too late, too late! Death had already
breathed upon my heart; and it was passing away
in vapour and shadow. But for that—though I
had gone mad upon the spot—mad and dark—forever
and ever—while the benediction was pronounced—yea!
though I had known, that the moment I had touched thy
forehead with the seal of a husband—thou wouldst
have been a widow—and I, a corpse—yet, I would have
married thee, nevertheless!—Let that comfort thee.—
Proud as I am; stout hearted, and unforgiving, as I
am; romantick and fastidious as I am; I would have
been thy bridegroom, Lucia, notwithstanding all that
had passed, had the tale of death and shame, been told
me, but a little earlier! Now, it is too late; we shall
die asunder—loving, O! as never man loved woman
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
was intended to lead her into just such a disclosure, as
would give most ease to her own heart. I asked no
questions. I meant to ask none. But to what I said,
she replied:
`I have already written to him.'
`You have!' said I, astonished at her self-possession,
`and has it gone?'
`Yes; nearly three weeks since.'
I waited for a moment, fashioning to myself some
mode of inquiry, to prolong the conversation; while it
should neither distress her, nor myself; for I began to
love Lucia, the dear patient sufferer, with a quiet, deep
reverence, that never diminished, to the last moment of
her life.
`Take your babe, a moment,' said she, `and I will
show you the answer. You would like to see it; and I
kept the copy for you—and you alone. I would not
have Clara see it—John—'
She stopped, and put her white hand upon my child's
head.
`I shall not live long; not many months, I am sure;
as you wish for a blessing on that child, let the secret
die with you.'
`Sister—nay—do not go, yet.'
`O, it makes my heart warm,' she replied, locking
her hands, and pressing them fervently upon it, `to
hear that word from the lips of a man. Brother! sister!
O, there is comfort, strength, and honour in the
countenance of a brother!'
`Dear Lucia; I cannot give the pledge that you desire.
I cannot become the guardian of a secret, that
Clara may not participate in.'
`Do I hear aright, brother?'
`Yes. You do not know her; either commit it to
both, or—'
`Weak man,' said Lucia; `I pity you. what! can
there be no secret from a wife—none!—none of sorrow
or shame?'
`None!' I echoed, firmly—`none, certainly, of sorrow
or shame.'
`I will not stop to argue with you, John; there are
things, which must be left to trouble the heart of the
man alone; things, that should never be told, but with
a design to make the woman happier or wiser. Why
should she sorrow in anticipation of what may be uncertain?
Why, be made to weep at evils, which, to her
gentleness and inexperience, may be disheartening?
while, to the man of fortitude and steadiness, they are
but temporary embarrassments? No, my brother—no!
none but a weak husband will say: I will have no secret
from my wife. None but a weak husband will
trouble his wife with all that troubles him.'
`Lucia, hear me. Of all my pleasure, my wife hath
a full share; of all her sorrow, I would share all that
I may. But how may this be, if either believe that the
other has some untold malady of the spirit, or of the
heart; feeding, like a serpent, upon the vitals, day and
night; for which there is to be no remedy, not even that of
tears; no, sympathy, because it is untold. No! I will
hereafter have no secret, that I may not, under any circumstances
impart to my wife. All that I say is this:
Leave it to my discretion. Bind me by no promise.
Let me do as I may believe it best, whatever may happen.'
`You are right, brother,' said Lucia, in reply, `altogether
right. That is the spirit of a man. I will
trust to it. I will bring you the letter. It will tell,
not a fearful tale; for I am still (covering her face with
her hands, under pretence of excluding the sun,) too
much of a woman to tell it all: it will tell enough, to
show you that, while I live, it is no tale for the ear of
my sister.'
`There!' said she, returning soon after, with a face
unusually pale; `there! take it, while I have collectedness
and courage enough, to give it to you, with my
own hands: and read it. Nay, not yet; give me your
boy, your little Archibald,' (for so, we had first agreed
James, for what reason, I know not,) `and read it while
I am away.'
She came to me, then; and, putting both her hands
into mine, said, with a low, sweet, tremulous voice,
whose accents I hear yet, whenever I have been more than
usually devout and abstracted in my religious duty;
as if to reward me. `Remember my situation—tempted—tried—scorned—proud—young—helpless,
and
have compassion on me.' The tears gushed out of her
eyes, all at once, as she uttered these words; and she
had nearly fainted; but, at last, with James nestling
at her bosom, she succeeded in raising herself, and tottering
out of the room—the little brat squalling all the
while, as if he were bound up with pins and needles.
—yet his cry was musical—to me, I mean. He did
not cry like any other child, that ever I heard.
I opened the letter. It was hardly legible; written,
evidently, in the hurry of her feeling, without attention
to what the world are pleased to call pretty letter-writing.
It follows.
`You are deeply to blame, Archibald. You have
stirred up a spirit within me, that will never sleep
again. The darkness is scattered. I see clearly now,
more clearly than ever, the dim and perilous road, over
which I have trodden. You are very incoherent. I
shall, probably, be more so. You speak of my appearance,
when you saw me last. When do you mean?
Where was it? I do not understand you. Yet, making
all possible allowance for the aggravating power,
which we all have, and you, in an especial manner, of
picturing whatever is past and gone—irretrieveably
gone, as supremely beautiful and dear—I find something,
that has given me a clue to your meaning, where
you speak of the last time that you saw me. Yes, I
understand you—Archibald: I cannot deceive you.
On that very night, I first saw Clinton. It was he,
that I had been walking with. My heart was heavy,
sorrowful at your coldness—pining under mortification,
and sore with the jeering of my companions. He took
—defended you—argued as you do, that you felt more
than other men, because you professed to feel so little.
Where we feel, we are hushed, terrified, silent, and under
a perpetual anxiety to please; our manner is constrained,
abrupt, fitful and capricious. Thus, he reasoned
with me. I began to like him; not for his own
sake, but for yours. When we returned, I found you
there; the same haughty, cold, and absent manner;
and I was piqued at it. A few minutes after, I was
rallied about Clinton; and threatened with your
wrath. I affected to scorn the latter; and, had you
not appeared with your heart in your eyes, while we
were talking, which you will probably remember, from
the confusion that it caused among us, for we were
afraid that you had overheard us—I know not what I
might have said of you. Your manner was new to me
—it carried me away. I could have fallen upon your
bosom and wept, before the whole world, Archibald;
as I live, I could, with simple joy, at the change. I
never shall forget your looks; your hand trembled;
your hair was wet, and waving over your temples;
your deep blue eye, were strangely dark and mellowed;
and your voice went to my heart. I do not remember
your words; I did not hear them; but the
sound, I have heard, again and again, since, in my
sleep. I found that I had never known you. I had
believed you too ambitious to love heartily; and I was
impatient of being loved, with aught less than absolute
and unqualified devotion. You were diminutive in your
person; it mattered little to me then, that your soul
was the soul of a giant. — You were neither handsome
nor showy; though the aged, I had seen, stand
still before you; and the wise holding their breath;
yet, such was the foolish weakness of my heart, that,
when I was surrounded with taller and handsomer, and
more fashionable men, I was afraid to acknowledge
any preference for you, even to myself. I loved you;
but I was ashamed of it: not ashamed of you—no, I
was very proud of you. But I could not abide to have
a choice. They could not know you; and I have been
mortified to tears, more than once, at their jibes, the
simpletons! and their raillery, when, had you but entered
the room, you would have put them and all their
idols to shame, with a single word Archibald, this is
the truth. Do you remember that night, when I sat
upon the railing under the pear-tree, and you stood
hear me; and I turned away my face, and you asked
me, why I refused to answer you? Yes—you cannot
have forgotten it. The truth is this: I had not the
courage to tell the truth; and I could not tell a falsehood.
I was very happy. The expression of your
face was noble; and I was contemplating it, as you
stood looking at the soft low moon, at our left. I
had forgotten Clinton; all the world but you; when,
some devil forced the observation upon me, that you
were very short, and he very tall; nay—for there you
stood before me, that you were so very short (you have
grown since,) as not to overtop me much, when you
were standing and I sitting. It was this, that made
me turn away my face, and weep; for I did weep, Archibald.
I had been, more than once, on the point of mentioning
the walk, that I had taken with Clinton, in the
simplicity of a young heart, honest and ingenuous; but
a new, strange feeling of shame and discretion prevented
me, after I had thought of your stature. I excused
the concealment to myself—so unlike me, as it was;
by saying, that it was not worth the trouble; or that,
if it were, it would only make you uneasy: the two
reasons, exactly, which, had I known your temper
then, as I do now, would have made me tell you. This
kept Clinton in my mind. Yet I did not like him—
showy and brilliant, and fascinating, as he was allowed
to be—there was a freedom in his manners, which I
never liked. Yet it was a novelty; and, as he was a
general favourite, I could not well bear to throw him
utterly off, at once, while I was the subject of universal
envy. At last, I was provoked at your security.
You gave yourself no trouble about Clinton. You
found, never saw him; though he was with me every day.
Do you remember that evening after our pleasure party
upon the Delaware? as you stood upon the bank, and
a stranger came up to me, in the dim light of the hour,
and took my hand, and bade me good night, with the
air of an old acquaintance? You were silent for a moment
or two, after he had gone; and stepped back, as
you saw him take my hand, in a manner that I thought
tame. `Lucia,' said you, gravely, when you returned,
`he is very intimate with you.'
`Yes,' I replied, willing to tease you a little.
`Who is he?' said you.
`O, one of the finest fellows in the world!' I exclaimed,
affecting a great deal more enthusiasm, than I
felt; for, as I have told you before, I did not like him
—`a universal favourite.'
`Indeed!' said you—and were silent, until we
parted at the door. There, you lingered a moment.
There you spoke to me. I never shall forget either your
look or your words. You may have forgotten both.
I dare say that you have, but I never shall. The lamp
shone upon your face; it was pale as death; and I
thought that I could see the traces of weeping about
your eyes. My emotions were—what? sorrowful?—
Oh no, pleasant beyond all expression. It did my
heart good to find you so deeply interested in me, so
cruelly disturbed. It began to correspond with my
notions of love, and dominion I was a foolish girl then,
a coquette by nature.'
Said you—O, Archibald! I think that I can see
you now, and hear your low, mournful, deep voice
counselling me over again—said you. `Lucia—good
night? Good night, love. Forgive me, for my silence;
I have been troubled. I tremble for you—I tremble
for myself. You are too kind hearted. You form your
opinions too hastily. I pray heaven that you may
never have reason to reproach yourself for it—nor to
— to — to —, (your voice grew indistinct,—`good
night! good night! dear Lucia!'
After this, I said no more; and thought no more of
Clinton. My disposition had altered; and I began to
look upon you, as my future husband. Yet your solitary,
thoughtful habit; your youth; and, above all, that
haughty exteriour of yours which repelled all kindness
that came not from the known hand of two or three,
alarmed me. It was at this time, while I truly loved
you; but began to doubt whether you loved me, or was
capable of loving any woman, or any thing on this
earth, except your books; and, while the remembrance
of your former tenderness had begun to be, like
that of a dream to me; for my very nature appeared
to be changed, that Clinton reappeared. His
manner was frank and noble. He dealt fairly
with me for awhile; but I did not so with him—
when I did, it was too late. Archibald—I am no
wanton. I was never made for a harem or seraglio.
God never meant me to be the mistress of any man. I
was made for a wife, and a mother. Believe me—O,
believe me, Archibald! if you would not have my poor
heart expire with shame and mortification. At last,
I found that our intercourse, hitherto so innocent, had
begun to assume a mysteriousness, that was full of
excitement and terrour. We conversed by signals; we
corresponded, before your eyes; and, in the presence of
the whole family, with books and cards. Yet, all this
while, though my heart smote me, at times, I was not,
nor did I mean to be unfaithful to you, if you would
claim me. But you did not; you smiled, and your
smile was full of bitterness. Clinton persuaded me that
it was contempt. He pretended to love me; to counsel
me; and, I had already gone too far—much too far—
not to be growing giddy with the peril of my course.
At last—O, Archibald—I could weep myself blind
at the thought—but, it has been told once, and I can
only allude to it. I was not fully aware of my danger
till—I found that, should he forget himself, I had no
hope left. He was in my room; how should that be
explained?—again, he was there—and again—for I
dared not provoke him—yet I was not altogether unworthy,
—faint with excess of terrour, and passion, from some
slight of yours, I awoke from a troubled dream about
you, and found myself in the arms of a man—I shrieked
—I—'
`No matter—you have known it all. But you do not
know, that he—he alone, prevented me from destroying
myself. What could I do. I did not love him? But,
could I ever look you, whom I did love, in the face
again? —never! never—I was a guilty creature,
but not guilty, oh no, not guilty to the consummation
of my shame—I—I—how I am able to write it at all,
is a matter of wonder to me. I am astonished at my
own calmness. But, bear with me for a moment, that
you may know the whole truth.
`I loved you—more than ever; because I felt that I
was unworthy of you; that I had injured you. Clinton
was penitent, I am sure—terribly penitent; for he
offered me, immediately, all the atonement in his power,
upon his knees. I took one night to think of it;
only one, and resolved to marry him.—Aye, though
it was like lashing myself to something detestable,
after this event. Yes, and I should have married him,
but for his own perverse, foolish, and precipitate nature.
He triumphed too easily. I might be humbled,
surprised, shamed; but I could not be trampled on.
I awoke, as from a trance. I compared you togther.
I wondered at my infatuation, wept and prayed. From
that hour, my resolution was formed; happen what would
—I would not marry him—nor you---nor anybody—die,
if there were no other means of concealing my shame—
and—'
`But heaven hath seen fit to spare me the guilt of
murder—the guilt of self murder—the blood of innocence,
my own blood. You slew him. I forgive you
for it. I forgave you then. Though I—I would have
protected him, at the peril of my life; for, hateful as he
was to me, on some accounts for his ruffian passion,
yet, on others, he was very dear to me—as the only
husband that I should ever wed. After this, it was
that I told the secret. I could not kill you—I did not
scorn you. I could not bear that you should believe my
refusal of you, to be owing to my horrour of `Clinton's
murderer,' as you were pleased to call yourself; nor
to my love of Clinton. Nay, there may have been
another feeling, not so praise worthy, as the desire of
dealing with truth, to influence me. I knew that I had
done that, which few women upon this earth, since its
creation, could have done, or would; and, I was willing
that you should know it. I knew that your blood
would thrill, your eyes flash fire; that you might go
mad at the recital, but I knew also---for your nature
is known to me, better than to any other living creature,
I am sure, that you would, if you survived the shock,
feel a passion for me, altogether more sublime and
elevating, than that of love. It would be wonder and
admiration. I have lived to find that true. I can
now die contented. You have been willing to espouse
me. Archibald---I thank God that I have lived to hear
the proposal; to see it in black and white. I never
should have believed it, else. But I thank God, yet
more devoutly that he has given me the strength to
resist the temptation; and to say---as I do say—no,
Archibald, no---did I love thee less, it might be. But
I will bear children to no man, who cannot lay his
hands upon their forehead, and pray to God that they
may resemble their mother!—
Farewell!—I do pray that we may depart together—Farewell!
| CHAPTER XI. Seventy-six | |