University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XV.

Cain.

Ibid.

My heart fails me. I never shall be able to carry you
through the whole war, as I intended to do, when I
began. It is out of the question. My own return to
the army; the desolation that fell upon us; the darkness—the—no,
I cannot.—I will content myself
then, with relating one or two more incidents, which
happened soon after the conversation that I related in
my last, as calmly as I can—enjoining you, first,
that you religiously observe my instructions at the
beginning; and keep each package separate. Let them
be marked as letters, one, two, three, &c.—just as I
have sent them. I have good reason for what I have
done. They are usually about five sheets, each, being a
quantity which I have calculated would be about
sufficient for an evening. Intelligence from the
south—no—I will have done with the war. The
story of my brother, and the extraordinary woman, to
whom he attached himself, has taken such possession
of me, that I can see nothing, hear nothing, think of
nothing, but him and her. The war, and the men of
the revolution; my own sufferings, and those of my

family; the army—my country; all are forgotten,
or remembered, as a matter subordinate to the sorrow,
of Archibald and Lucia. It is in vain that I would
try to keep my attention any longer upon the object
that I set out with—the war. I cannot. I can only
remember Archibald, as he stood before me at his
marriage, so spiritualized with beauty and expression.
But have patience with me. It is a disorderly story
at best; but it must be told in my own way.

Not long after the storm, we were surprised by the
sudden appearance of young Nick.

`Halloo, Nell,' said he, capering into the room, like
a wild beast, learning to dance upon a heated earthen
floor—`halloo!—dad has gone!'

`Gone! where?' said Ellenour—

He stopped—a dark, turbid expression hurried over
his forehead—and his eyes filled.—`There! there!'
pointing downward.

Ellen turned pale.—`Father—poor father—is he
dead?'

`Dead! dead!' repeated the dwarf—kissing her—
`but, don't cry Nell; don't cry—he was sensible at
the last, and willing to die—and—bless your heart,
Nell—don't take on so—He died, poor old father,
in his christian senses.'

I was inconceivably shocked at his manner; it was
so unnatural and violent, and contradictory; yet, there
were tears in the creature's eyes; and, his ugly knees
knocked together, when he saw Ellen drop into a
chair.

`Sister, look you. I have no great reason to blubber
about the old man. You know that all my life
long, I have been kicked and cuffed about by the whole
family—I----'

She lifted her face, covered with tears—`except by
you, dear Nell,' he said, feelingly, `buffetted, and shamed,
and spit upon; and why? ask that kind gentleman
there—and that—and that—and any woman here;
is it that I have wronged 'em? no—is it that I am
devilish? who made me so? where is there a temper

so sweet and forgiving, that no outrage, no mockery—
none!—though continued, year after year, will turn
it to bitterness; where—where—(I thought that
he was choaking)—I had hoped—not to be loved—but
pitied—whose blood would not be turned to fire?
Look at me. I am ugly. I confess it—I am sorry for
it. My limbs are jointed and knotted, like the twisted
oak—my features are savage and threatening---my
nostrils like the race horse---raw, and red---and broad.
It is a sign of vigour. Could you see no beauty in
them? Pardon me, forgive me; nay, love me, Ellen;
for, I love you better than father did. Do not curse
me, that I rejoiced at his death. He was a benevolent
man to all the world but me; kind, to all but me;
compassionate, and forbearing, to all but his own offspring,
the first of his own loins, and why?—because,
unhappily---God had seen fit to shape me, not according
to his own image. See there?—there is a
woman whom I saved from death---death!—no from
what was ten thousand times worse than death; yet,
she shudders at my voice. I shot a man in the saddle,
to whose waist she was buckled; covered myself
with human blood to save her; battled, in smoke and
flame, for her and hears; brought about a reconciliation
between her and her lover, who thought her dead----
yet she turns pale at my red fiery eyes; and the other
loathes, and curses me, for a brute—who would not
be tired of well doing?'

I was amazed! I went up to him and scrutinized him;
and Mary wept aloud upon his hands, when he offer
ed them to her; while Ellen nearly repeated to me, in
the same voice, what she had said years before—when
my eyes were upon him, in the very same room, and
almost in the very same spot.

`You are mistaken!'

Here Archibald entered, and prayed me to go with
him on a walk.

His manner was very serious, and somewhat melancholy;
while his voice was rather more cheerful than
usual.

`And whither would you go?' said I.

`Some miles,' he replied.

`Well done! my brother; I am glad of this!' said
Clara. `This will do—there is heart for all of us, in
a walk of miles.'

`And why not ride?' said I.

`For several reasons,' he replied, with increasing
solemnity; `our horses could not go, where I want to
go. And—'

`No matter for the rest,' said I, sportively; `but,
as well as a wooden leg will permit, I am your companion,
if you believe that I can go, where a four footed
beast cannot. Are you ready?'

`Yes.'

`When shall we expect you back?' said Mrs. Arnauld,
while Lucia opened her lips, meekly, as awaiting
the answer.

`Not for some days!' said he.

`Not for some days! what is the meaning of this?'
I asked.

`I cannot well explain all my reasons here,' he said,
glancing at the family; `but, go with me, and you
shall know them all before sunset.'

The thought flashed over me all at once, that he had
heard some intimation of our design respecting Lucia;
and I prepared to follow him with uncommon alacrity.

We departed immediately, and had walked two hours,
with a great shepherd's dog at our heels, without having
spoken a dozen words—when he stopped suddenly,
under a large spreading walnut-tree, in the centre of a
wide enclosure.

`Do you recollect this place, brother?' said he,
pointing to the right, with his arm extended.

I paused a moment. There was something familiar to
my recollection, in the appearance of the spot; but I
had never approached it, in this direction before; and
I knew not where we were.

`No,' said I.

`It was there that I spilt the blood of a human being,
for the first time,' he replied, in a low tone.

I shuddered at the sound of his voice.

`No—that is further to the right; a full mile from
here?' said I.

`You are mistaken. Here, I shot a man; here, where
I now stand—long and long, before you had any idea of
my familiarity with death: here, I saw the brains oozing
out of his temples; saw him writhe and pluck up
the grass with his red hands, and foam at the mouth,
while his nostrils swam in blood. Do you see that
green hillock there?'

`Yes.'

`There he lies buried. I dug his grave with my
own hands. I buried him. It was at the full of the
moon—very cold—very; yet the sweat stood like rain
upon my forehead, when it was over.'

I looked at him in astonishment—was he disordered?
He was very calm. But madmen have been often
calm.

`You are mistaken,' I replied, again; `when the
man fell, I did not know that you shot him. I was
just in sight.'

`You mean the trooper, brother. It was not the
first blood that I had spilt.'

`I do not understand you,' said I. `Let us be gone.'

`Can you lift that flat rock there?'

`Yes.'

`Heave it then: let me see you.'

I attempted it; and, after a violent exertion, abandoned
it as impracticable.

`I am weaker than you, John,' said Archibald,
mournfully; `yet, on the night that I did this, I heaved
that rock from its place, and leaned it against the tree,
just where you see the bark scarred and bruised there
—and—come, let us try it together.'

`For what purpose?' said I, getting impatient at
such solemn trifling.

`You shall see,' he replied, stooping and placing his
hands under it. `Lift with me, brother, and you will
see. Now! now!—heave!'

We turned up the rock, and the first things that I saw,
were a pair of rusty pistols, and a piece of white cloth,
mildewed—partially decayed, and spotted all over with
what looked, even then, of a crimson hue.

I staggered to the tree; and Archibald stooped, as
if to touch it; but he could not. His arm shook, and
he withdrew his hand, and looked about, in every direction,
for a moment—then folded his arms, and the
following dialogue passed between us.

`Did you never wonder at my desolate aspect, when
a boy?'

`Never—after that summer, when you came home
one morning delirious, without hat or shoes.'

`Do you remember when that was?'

`Yes—pretty well. You were eighteen just afterward.
Lucia Arnauld had just began to be shy of
you.'

`Right. Do you remember the sudden disappearance
of young Hardy?'

I started. A strange, terrible light broke in upon
me. I gasped for breath. I was unable to reply.

`There sleeps Hardy,' he continued, pointing to his
grave; `there lie his pistols: that one—I remember it
well, (setting his foot upon one, from the muzzle of
which a broken and bent rammer projected some inches,)
that is the one that killed him.'

`And whose was the hand?'

`Mine!' said Archibald.

`Your's! your's Archibald! Oh, merciful heaven!
Your's! Archibald Oadley a murderer!'

`Yes—a murderer.'

I wept aloud. I would have denied the avowal—
called the man accursed, forever, who had dared to
whisper such a charge against him; yet there were the
proof—the proof! who could resist it! Besides, Hardy
had disappeared the night before his intended departure
for the army—and—yes, it was too plain!
Archibald had murdered the poor fellow; while we believed
that he had joined the army, and fallen in some
of our early battles. This accounted for Archibald's

sudden change of temper; his melancholy; his awful
steadiness in battle. Yes! I wept aloud.

`Unhappy man!' said I—shuddering from head to
foot, as I looked him in the face—while his large eyes
shot fire upon me: `let us be gone. I—even I, your
own brother, do not feel safe with you. Replace the
accursed stone—bury the instruments of death; and
let us depart.'

`With all my heart,' said he, replacing the stone,
with a kick. `There! it is done. Men have said that
it is not possible to hide blood. See! we have found it
easier to hide than to reveal it. There! the deed is
hidden. Now hear me. I slew Hardy. His blood is
upon my hands; yet it should be upon his own head.
You have never asked me how it was.'

`I could not—I dared not. I had not the heart to
ask you.'

`Yet hear me. He fell a sacrifice to his own folly
and madness. I was thunderstruck at my own guilt.
He was dead before I knew it; nay, before I meant it.
We were shooting at a mark—we quarrelled—and he
struck me. I had heard of duels; but I knew nothing
of how they were to be conducted. It was late in the
afternoon. He was a soldier; about to join the army;
and his air of superiority had chafed me a long while.
I fell upon him and beat him—for I would never take a
blow, as you can witness, from mortal man. He challenged
me, as we lay bleeding upon that little swell
there; no, not that—he is buried there; but further to
the left—I scorned him for the thing. I did not believe
that he was in earnest. But he called me a coward—a
coward!—I knew not what the word meant.
My reading had never brought me acquainted with it;
yet his manner of uttering the word convinced me that
it was something, for which I ought never to forgive
him. I would have fallen upon him again;—but he
presented his pistol. I advanced—he threatened. I
took up mine, just in time to hear Lucia Arnauld's
name—pronounced—(strange, that two men have died
blaspheming that woman!) and a bullet whistled

through my hair. I returned the shot—for we were
very near—and the smoke and flash of his pistol nearly
blinded me—and I was still nearer, when I fired.'

`He fell. I cannot tell you what else happened—I
was stupified—blind—and suffocated with horrour. It
appeared to me that many days and nights passed,
before I left the spot. I saw him roll upon the green
sward. I saw the grass glitter, as it arose from the
pressure of his head; and shake itself, as if the dew of
blood upon it, were hateful and scorching as fire. I
buried him—how, I know not—but I did bury him, in
the awful solitude of midnight—ten thousand sweet
stars looking down upon me; and the blue windows
above, all crowded with faces that wept upon me. I
buried the pistols there, and the handkerchief—and
went home. From that hour to this, I have never
looked into this enclosure. Even at noon day—even
now—in your company, I feel that it is haunted; and
can almost see Hardy, at my feet—do not step back—
why do you?—he is not there.'

`Your looks, brother; I am terrified at your looks.
Let us go.'

`Aye, let us go. I have seen it for the last time.
I can describe it now, when the angel of the Lord shall
read over my sentence hereafter—but I have wrestled
with angels, all my life long.'

There was something inconceivably terrifick in the
deep calm of his look, as he said this. `I pity you
—from my soul I do, brother;' said I. `You are not
the guilty creature, that I feared—I wonder now, that
I ever doubted you.'

`Infatuated man! Is my guilt the less, that I slew
a human creature here, in a passion, than if I had crept
upon him, cooly, and slain him—deliberately?—Let
us go.'

`Whither?'

`Follow me.'

`But whither?'

`To another place.'

(I shuddered.) `More blood?' said I.

`Yes.'

`I will not go another step.'

`Then stay. But no—come, come—it is none
secretly shed. I have no untold blood, now, upon my
soul.'

`But why not tell of it?' said I. `Why not relate
the truth?'

`Why!—in a place, where a death by accident, from
one so young as I, would have turned every heart in
the country against me, as a monster. No---I saw
that no stir was made about it---and I determined not
to tell. Why should I? He was to go away the next
day; and his careless, forgetful temper accounted for
his disappearance. He came suddenly among us; and
on foot. Why should he not go in the same manner?
Nay, when I knew that he had run away from his
father, to join the army, I felt safe. It stopped all
enquiry: the times were troubled; and all strange
and bloody affairs were attributed to the British or
tories.'

`At first,' he resumed, after a long and distressing
pause—`at first, it was my intention to relate the
affair, honestly, just as it had happened---but, my confidence
in the charity of men, diminished every hour---
and my terrour of their evil judgment, which haunted
me day and night, with a continually augmenting
force, grew, at last, into an unsupportable weight. I
should have gone mad, I verily believe, in the dark
trouble that was upon me, had not I seen other hands,
other lips, innocent as mine had been; even your's,
John, died in human blood. I arose then, and shook
off the hot fetters that bound me---they fell from me,
like an iron rain, while my spirit burnt out, in the battle,
like a furnace---and—'

I could hear no more. He continued talking, and I
stood and listened to him, with an indescribable awe:
but I heard him not; nor did I understand him. He
stood loftily before me, dilating, in the sunshine, to an
unearthly stature, and his voice was like that of one
who has come up from the place of death. It was very

terrible and continued—incessant; and smote upon my
heart, like a cold rain: but I remember nothing of
what he said—till we had arrived at another spot;
where he stood, and stretched out his arms with a
solemnity that kept me breathless.

`Here!' he cried—`here it was, that my foot was
first set in the stirrup, for battle! Here! under the
cold moonlight, while the very snow darkened under
our swift shadows, did we ride together, for the first
time! our articulate pulses, throbbing fiercely with the
first stirring of battle! Here—even here, while the
dwelling of our father was fired—and the red flame
rushing upward, with the shriek of women, and the
shouting of death—here rode we, in the moonlight,
carelessly reining our horses, in the brief, boyish tumult
of parade! O, how little we knew of the serious business
of war? how little of what was going forward, at
the same moment, within a few miles of us!'

O my children!—I have seen man fearfully agitated.
I have heard him laugh, like a devil, in the smoke and
flame of battle. I have seen men slaughtered and dying,
with their hearts crushed out—the wild beast looking
from his dark retreat, through the red mist, that rose
in the starlight, from the place of slaughter. I have
seen—O, many a terrible sight!—but nothing in all
my life, so preternatural and overpowering, as the look
of Archibald's eyes; while he stood, with his pale
hands outstretched toward the green, distant earth,
moving them, as if there were shadows visible to him,
and to him, alone, and obedient to his motion—the
shadows, it may be, of man and horse—foot and horsemen—that
had died, under his eyes, since they last
rode together within this very enclosure. I could not
have borne it longer. It was like a great spell upon me
—pinioning me down—hand and foot—lungs and heart
for I felt the pressure within me, and without me, like
a suit of insupportable armour, weighing me down;
while my arteries ran with cold lead.

`Where shall we go, brother?' said he—after another
deep silence—`it is getting dark—can you walk so far
as the farm?'

`Yes.'

He took my arm, affectionately, and we proceeded, in
a silence so pleasant, yet so uncommon, that I wept, as
we wandered, together, over the well known place, of our
childhood, until we approached the scene of all our
suffering. But there, we—we— No, I will not,
attempt to describe our emotion. It was the first time
that we had been, together, at the farm, since it arose,
with the same features, from the ashes and blackness of
the old mansion. For a moment, it was like an apparition
before us. For a moment, so complete was
the resemblance of the present buildings, in all their
substantial, disordered shaping and relationship, that a
delusion took hold of us—and we forgot that it was a
counterfeit. We had then—after a shock, that jarred
every nerve in our bodies, leisure to remark the exceeding
closeness of the imitation. All was there, that
we had ever seen, even to the trees, which had been
consumed—and we fell upon each other's neck, and
wept aloud—wondering, for a time, by what preternatural
agency, all this had been done for our bruised hearts,
in silence. But, we soon knew the secret. The amiable
old man, who managed the farm, and superintended
the buildings, had transplanted trees from the forest, to
the places, where there had been others blasted and burnt
with fire. Heaven bless him for it! I shall never
sleep, quietly, in any grave, that is not dug beneath that
old tree, at the left of my window. There! it is!—
there!—withered and sapless, like myself; but venerable,
even in its decay. Every wind that blows over
it; every rain that beats upon it; drenches its old heart;
or blows away a part of its strength. How like the
going down of a strong man, to the chambers of death!
The winds go by me, and my grey hair is upon them—
the rains beat into my bosom; and my heart turns cold
and stony with their buffeting.

We slept together that night. I was strangely miserable;
and yet, I could not avoid talking, all night long,
upon the prohibited theme.

`Brother,' said I—`what think you, at this time, of
your own situation?—Do you despair of recovery?'

`I despair of nothing,' said he. `It is not in my
nature to despair. But I have done speaking of myself.
I have promised, inwardly, to trouble no man, while
I live, with sorrow, or complaint, or repining. Come
what will, I am now prepared for it; what little good
I can do, I will do; that, when God shall beckon to my
spirit, it may depart in peace.'

`There are comfort and consolation in the very tones
of your voice, Archibald,' said I—`I—pray tell me,
if I be not trespassing upon your patience. How do
you stand affected toward Lucia?'

`Brother!' he replied—somewhat startled at my
abruptness, I could perceive.—`Brother—I—I hardly
know. She is evidently much better; I never saw
her so beautiful; and, if there be tenderness or truth
in woman, a broken hearted woman, I am persuaded
that—no brother, I am wrong—I ought not to breathe
her name, except in my prayers.'

`But what think you of her?'

`Think of her!' said he, rising in his bed—and
sitting up, in the troubled star light, just so that I could
see the shape of his head thrown back, and his locked
hands elevated;—`think of Lucia Arnauld!—this!
that she is one of the most extraordinary women, that
ever lived; that, could we have been together, forever,
and understood the temper of each other as we do now,
she would have made me—God only knows what!
but I could die for her—even now.'

`Even now—Archibald,' said I, significantly.

`What do you mean by that?' said he dropping his
hands.—`Your voice changes—what mean you?'

`It matters not,' said I—recollecting myself—`I agree
with you, in your opinion of her. What think you of
her health?'

`I hardly know,' he replied calmly—`they say that
she will be well again; but, they say the same of me;
poor ideots!—Yet, I do believe that she is better.
Would that I could prolong her dear life, with my
hearts blood! I would stand over a cauldron, and let
it run, hot and smoking into it, if that would cure her.'

`Less may cure her.'

`Less! what?'

`Your love.'

`My love! she has it.'

`Your hand—marry her, Archibald, marry her—
ah!—'

A deep silence followed; the bed shook, and I
leaped out of mine, and ran to his. He was lifeless—
covered with dampness; and his hands were clenched like
locked iron. It was with difficulty, that I was able to
release him, from the hold that he had caught; but, I
did, at last, and bore him to the window, which was
open.

He revived; but, I was afraid to speak again, till—
I felt the wind blowing upon his hot forehead, as he
leaned against my cheek. He was in my arms, like
a sick child; and, his hands hung, powerless, over the
back of my chair. I moved them, and put my hand
to his temples; they were burning hot, and the sweat
stood on them, like a summer rain.

`Do you believe?' said he, faintly—`I see brother
that this question is not inconsiderately put to me. You
have thought of it before—others have thought of it—
well, well—do you believe that Lucia would be happier,
for a single moment,—were she my wife?'

`I do—'

`But if she knew that she must be a widow soon?'

`It matters not,' said I—`not at all—though she be
your widow, before the benediction has done sounding
in your ears; it will make her happy. She has some
doubt now; she cannot but have some, of—of your respect
for her; I mean sincerely. It preys upon her. Marry
her—and—I know all brother—all!—do not shake
so—do not, I pray you—would you die in my arms?
You are terribly still, Archibald, terribly!—what ails
you?—speak! brother, speak!—why do you not
speak.'

A low groan broke from his heart; he arose, and
stood up.

`I will marry her,' said he.

`God forever bless you, Archibald!'

`And when?'

`Immediately—immediately; let no time be lost.'

This was the substance of our conversation that night.
By day break we were on our way to the ground, where
he broke down, to the rescue of Clinton.

He stood, looking upon it with a working lip, and
eyes full, to overflowing; but he spoke not—no, not a
word—until we had left it for half an hour.

`We are getting old, brother,' said he—`very old.
I feel like one that has worn out his appointment of
three score years and ten, outstayed the sojourn permitted
to man. Men talk about years and months and
days. I measure time by vicissitude—trial—sorrow,
blood. Look at me; but a few summers have gone
over me. I am what the world calls a young man; but,
to my notion, I am older than the patriarchs. I have
out lived all the pleasant emotions of the heart, all remembrance
of my childhood; the beauty of heaven—
the clear water, the green branching tree, the sporting
bird—the—the bright lip of woman, and her love—
have turned to ashes, in my sight—I. Let us journey
a little further.—We are near our first battle ground.'

`No, it is about five miles from this place.'

About sunset, we came to the place.

It was all overgrown with sedge and rushes—very
rank and vivid.

`The soil is hot and fruitful,' said he, bitterly—`fat
with human blood. This growth of vegetation is new
here. I can remember when it was all barren about
this spot. These rushes (breaking a handful and bruising
them)—should yield blood, at the bidding of a
hand like mine—awful—is it not brother? to see the
material of man, his hot heart, his valourous blood, his
strong sinews shooting out, with beneficent greenness,
like this.—Look!—this handful of rushes, and these
beautiful wild flowers—may be but the herbage and
blossom of some young heart.'

`Let us go! in God's name, let us go.'

We departed—and arrived at night, worn out and
exhausted with the walk, at Mr. Arnauld's —as we
approached the house, he took my hand—`not a word
of what we have spoken,' said he—`until I have tried
her heart.'

`Right,' I replied, returning the pressure—while my
blood ran pleasantly home, at the sight of his red lips,
smiling sorrowfully to be sure, but smiling, nevertheless,
as he departed, in pursuit of Lucia.

Just as I was getting into bed, he came to me—and
embraced me.

`It is as you believe,' said he—`she has owned it.
What a noble creature! she has consented—heaven
bless her!—and, now all that I have to say is—let not
an hour be lost. I have my reasons. No matter what
they are. It ought to satisfy you, to know that I have
them—will you press the arrangements.'

`Will I?—O, with more pleasure than I would
my own marriage, were Clara and I, unwed, at this
blessed hour.'

`Well, well—to-morrow then, let the preparation be
begun. I am sure of all the family—and sure of her
—except Clara—she is full of deep propriety.'

`I will answer for Clara,' said I.

`True, for her consent,' he replied, `but not perhaps,
for so precipitate a consummation —when will she return?'

`To-morrow, with her father,' said I.

She is a kind creature,' said he, never to leave you,
till you have left her. Good night.'

`Good night!'

It was now Wednesday; and, before two days had
gone over our heads, all the necessary preparations had
been made; and the time of the nuptials settled for the
coming Sunday night. Ah, how happy we were! All
our faces were, literally, wet with joy—we could not
pass each other, any of the family, though it were a hundred
times in a day, without a shake of the hand, a smile
of congratulation, or a blessing.

Sunday came. It was a beautiful day. Archibald
was very cheerful, or rather equable and serene; it was
not so much cheerfulness, as the serious countenance of
a good man, about to prove his religion. The morning
was spent in the presence of our clergyman, the same
that had married Mary, Ellen and Clara, in religious
devotion. The dinner was late; and, to our happiness,
there came a bundle of letters, containing the most
grateful intelligence from Copely and Rodman: of their
health—comfort, and the prospect of peace.

The pious man remembered it in his prayer; and, after
a bumper to Washington, and `absent friends,' of
currant wine, that made our hearts leap, with recollection;
(for the last time, that we had tasted that vintage,
was at our marriage before,) we adjourned to the
large parlour. A walk was proposed; and we sauntered
about, Archibald and Lucia dropping behind, (for
an unpleasant illness had fallen upon him, suddenly,
twice within a few days; and he was not able to walk
far, though he never looked fuller of life and power,)
and conversing with a tender solemnity, which, though
we heard nothing of the words, came to us in the sound
of their voices, with the effect of prayer.

After a pleasant ramble, we returned, and entered, altogether,
into conversation, with a freedom that astonished
me. The windows were all open; the light, in our
room, was pale and beautifully dim; the wind was blowing
about, scented with the blossoming wilderness at the
portico, where innumerable plants and flowers were
flourishing, and sweating perfume and lustre.

`How sweet and holy!' said Lucia, uplifting her
dimmed eyes, to Archibald, who stood leaning over her,
as she sat, and holding by the open casement above.

`Pray, sit down, brother,' said I; you will stand in
need of all your self-possession.'

`I shall, indeed,' he said, in a manner, that I remember
well, had a slight effect upon my feeling then; but
it was soon forgotten.

`You are serious, Lucia,' said he, affectionately, putting
his hand upon her shoulder.

`Should I not be, at such an hour, with such a man,'
she replied, putting her's upon it. `I never saw the
marriage of another, but with a feeling strangely unlike
that of women in general. It is not that I am more
timid, or less sanguine, or steadier; but, somehow or
other, there is a deep—deep solemnity in the ceremony
that awes me.'

`Yes, Lucia—know each other, as we may; there
may be, untold, and terrible things within us; thoughts
that cannot be uttered; a hidden temper, that no man
dare avow. You smile—love. I do not speak of myself;
and then, there are trials and sorrows, unknown
to any other than the married heart; obligation, to be encountered,
that he, who dares not think of, must be an
ideot; and that he, who thinks of, without trembling,
must be a— a — I hardly know what to call him.
He should never be a father. Sudden blows too, may
fall upon us. They that have loved us—they may be
smitten sorely, while we have no power to help or comfort
them. We may be weary of the world—widowed
and desolate. A fearful survivorship may happen. You
weep Lucia—weep on, dear. It is our duty to be prepared
for all that may happen. I am so. I regard our
existence here, but as a continual favour—continually
repeated; a protracted miracle; for sorrow and disappointment,
and illness have taught me, that there is no
wisdom—in looking for one hour of certain happiness.'

`For shame, Archibald,' said Ellen; `would you
make us all hide our faces? come, come, no billing and
cooing—yet— Gracious heaven! what—crying! crying
together! absolutely crying together! Why—Lord
help you! you are not married yet!'

`Hush, hush, saucebox,' said Archibald; `we are
only rehearsing.'

Ellen tugged at his arm, and finally led him away
from Lucia, to where the clock stood.

`See!' she exclaimed, `fifteen—sixteen—sixteen minutes
and a half, left to you, yet—to repent and be
saved.'

The minister looked serious. Archibald stopped before
the clock, and stood, looking at it, in silence.

`Yes,' said he—`yes! What a remarkable coincidence!'

`What are you muttering about? Some incantation
I suppose,' said the implacable Ellen; `to stop the hands;
Lucia Arnauld!—Lucia Arnauld! he is in treaty with
evil spirits already.'

Lucia arose with a pleasant step, and came near to
him. He turned.

`You are very pale, Archibald,' said she.

`I am,' he replied, fixing his eyes upon the clock.

`Yes—very—pray sit down—pray do.'

`No, dear Lucia—no. It must not be. Let me take
your arm. There is a faintness here—it will soon be
over—a mistiness. Sir! Mr. Arnauld—my friend—
let the ceremony begin. This suspense is insupportable.'

`Not till six,' said Mr. Arnauld gravely, `that is the
hour.'

`Immediately. I pray you,' said Archibald, very
earnestly; `immediately—I pray you—it might be too
late.'

Lucia moved nearer to him, and pressed his hands,
while she turned her dark eyes wistfully in his face;
but, though there was a mortal paleness on his forehead,
yet his blue eyes were pre-eminently expressive, tender
and beautiful.

Where I stood, which was about five or six feet from
him, I was astonished at a phenomenon that was visible
to me. A thin vapour rose, continually, from his
hair, like the mist from wet ground at night; and his
forehead glittered with the dew of his heart. Yet it
was not unpleasantly warm. I was on the point of
speaking; but, at that moment, the clergyman stepped forward—placed
her hand in Archibald's, with a benevolent
smile—while a look of noble compassion was bent
upon Archibald, as he did so, expressive of uncommon
respect and love.

And who would not have felt the same? His remarkable
expression—full of wisdom and corrected passion;
the tamed haughtiness of his red lips; the deep,
passionate blue of his eyes, tempered, in their brilliancy,

by some hidden and mysterious feeling, as if he were in
the expectation of something, that we were all unprepared
for. Such, at least was his appearance. It may
be that I have fancied this, since; but, my belief is,
that, at that time, while I stood before him, the same
opinion arose within me.

The ceremony went on; and, such was the solemnity
and low tenderness of the clergyman's voice; the profound
devotion apparent in the countenance of Archibald:
the beautiful conlusion, and quick tumult of pale and
red, upon the face of Lucia—rushing like sun-set shadows
over summer foliage—as rapid and varied, that
most of us were affected, even to tears.

The benediction was pronounced. Archibald turned
—bent forward, and put his lips to the mouth of his
bride—trembled from head to foot—attempted to rise—
but he could not—again and again—but his head fell on
her shoulder.

`God of heaven!' cried Mr. Arnauld, thunderstruck
at his mortal paleness, and the strange helplessness that
came over him; `I never saw a human being, so agitated
in all my life: why, even Lucia is firmer. Lean on
me, Archibald.'

`No, father,' said Lucia; `no! I am his wife now.
He shall lean on no living creature, while I am able to
support him—my husband!'

`Lucia, my wife!' he uttered, faintly, pulling her
forehead down to his lips, while she stood over him,
pressing his damp temples to her heart. `I— ah!
one kiss love! one—one—be prepared Lucia—I—
ah!'—

He stood suddenly erect upon his feet; the light
flashed over his face. It was the face of a dead man.
He fell upon the floor: a loud shriek followed. Where
were we?—Where! We ran to him—we raised him
up. It was too late! Almighty God! it was too late!
HIS WIFE WAS A WIDOW!