University of Virginia Library

`Between thee and me, Lucia Arnauld, let there be
peace. The way of our life, thou strange and wonderful

woman, has been a way of deep feeling, passion
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
could not be)—where I could stop my ears—(not to thy
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
thee, I could have spoken freely, many a time, when, to
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

truest friend upon the earth. Why did you not tell me
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

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!