University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VIII.

It was a long while after I saw this man—the merry gentleman
with a red shawl round his neck, who I began to fear
might have been the cause of all that I endured at the
Sand-Rock Hotel—before I could make up my mind how
to proceed with him. It would be very foolish in me, though
characteristic enough, to pursue a stranger on the report of
a boy, and pick a quarrel with him for having had the audacity
to laugh when I pulled the bell-rope at a tavern, as if the
house were afire. It would be too ridiculous to pursue him
with a charge of this nature, on authority of this nature. I saw
this, and I felt it with a continually augmenting force, every
step I took in the path which he had taken before me; and
yet, as if I was never to be any other than what I had
been all my life long—a boy—a mere boy, a testy techy
froward quarrelsome boy, eager to take offence, though not eager
to give it, I pursued the man for a whole hour, determined
whatever should come of it, and however strange it
might appear to the lady—whose carriage and step and stature
by the by, I did not think half so well of now that I heard
she had been laughing at me—to encounter him face to face
where he could not escape, and then to be governed by
circumstances in my behaviour not only to him, but to her—
her, for whom I would have risked my life the evening before,
and would yet, if I could be assured that she had
never laughed at me, or that she never laughed at all.

But some how or other—although I tried for an hour to
meet him face to face—I never could get near enough;
partly, if I must acknowledge the truth, because I did not
dare to walk upright so nigh the edge of the tremendous cliff
as they did, and partly because they appeared to suspect my
design—for they avoided me with especial care. The path
ran along within a few feet of the precipice; but instead of
keeping the path as did one or two of the boldest who had
gone a little before them, they actually trod between the
path and the crumbling verge. I bore it till I could bear it
no longer—if they walked there to avoid me, as they probably
did, I felt as if I should be answerable for every step they
took; and every step was on the very threshold of eternity.
Those who have been to see the Needles, which form so attractive
a point for the voyager to the Isle-of-Wight will remember
the path I speak of,—it runs along the very brink of
a precipice more than eleven hundred feet high, and so steep
that a line with a lead may be dropped into the sea by one
who has no more courage than I had—but just enough to lie
along flat upon the grass and look over, as I did. Years and
years ago, when this path ran a good way from the edge, it
was probably a safe one; but as every year a portion of the
soil has been carried away, the path has been brought nearer
and nearer, till now it is dangerous enough to make
me shudder when I think of it; for in some cases, the
chalky soil shoots over the perpendicular side, as if to invite
you to certain death; and in others, instead of being a
square wall of white earth from the beach half way up to
the sky, it is cut away into a sort of arched cavity two thirds
of the way down. Those who have been there too after a
heavy rain, will remember that the soil is very weak, that
huge masses are easily detached, that what are called the
Needles are nothing more than such masses detached, several

within the memory of those who are yet alive, and one
with a power like that of the earthquake, for it was felt on the
other side of the sea when its overthrow took place; and
that near the verge of the cliff, at this extremity of the island,
where it requires a deal of courage for a body to peep over,
though lying flat upon his face at the time, stretched out
his whole length upon the slippery turf, and clinging to it,
as if he had been carried thither a moment before by the
winds or waves, and expected to be swept away by the next
wind or the next wave, there are two or three deep cracks
in the soil, dividing the whole mass for aught we know from
the top to the very bottom, the whole body of earth which composes
that part of the island—cracks which it would be tempting
Providence for a live creature to stray over—unless provided
with wings. For my part I would not have permitted a
dog to pass over one I saw, at the time I speak of, while
the wind was high, the turf wet and slippery—and sloping
to the very rim of the precipice, and the sea roaring a thousand
feet below me about the base of the very cliff on which
I stood, and swallowing up as it were before my face the
huge piles that had been detached, one after another, ages
and ages ago, from the very part on which the people were
now gathered together, and walking about unconcernedly.

They who remember all this—and who that has been there
does not remember it?—may be able to understand what my
feelings were, when I saw a woman walking with a bold free
step and a thoughtful air, between the narrow path I spoke of
and the verge of the precipice, while I trod with caution,
though I was a great way off; and what I felt when I saw
her approach a deep wide fissure, and step over it, and go to a
part of the cliff, which owing to the heavy rains that had fallen
every day for a week or two before, I do almost believe I
could have loosened with my foot.

I was afraid to pursue her another inch—afraid even to
look at her—ready to call out and pray and beseech her to
go no farther; for I observed that when I stopped, she stopped—as
if she had gone thither only to avoid me. Judge
of my feelings when I saw this, and when it occurred to me
that perhaps when I took the path, she took the outside of
the path next the verge to avoid me. I stopped—I shuddered—I
felt as if in some way or other, I had been pursuing a
fellow creature into the very jaws of death, and I hurried
away with a feeling of bitter—bitter self-reproach.

I speak of the woman as if she were alone—of the proud,
beautiful woman that I saw standing up on the wet sloping
turf, within a foot of the precipice—on the very brink and
threshold of the grave: while the winds blew and the
seas roared for their prey. I speak of her and of her
only, for I saw nobody but her at the time—nothing but her
while she was in danger. But as I withdrew, I perceived
that she was not alone, that a man was with her whose intrepid
carriage would have interested me a good deal at
another time; for he did not appear to know, as he trod
along the crumbling edge of the cliff, with a slow firm step,
that he was walking upright where others were afraid to
creep. After I came away, it occurred to me that there
was something a little odd in his behaviour—a something
which made me uneasy in spite of myself when I considered
the nature of my quarrel with him—for quarrel it was, whatever
might be the issue; and I stopped as I drew near the
Light-House and walked a little aside from the path, meaning
to have another peep at him before we parted. But when
I looked up a minute or two afterwards, believing him to be
still a good way off, I was thunderstruck at perceiving him just
behind me—pressing forward as if with a view to overtake
me before I could reach my gig, while the woman appeared

to be holding back and expostulating with him, as if it was
her wish to avoid me. To avoid me—and why? wherefore,
thought I. Who is she?—do I know her?—does she
know me?—What have I done, that she should try to avoid
me? How have I offended her.—By heaven, I will
know who she is! I will have the matter expounded! I
will see her face.—

Will you? said somebody at my elbow; and before I
could recollect where I was, or what I had been saying
aloud—or how I should behave—the man was before me—
the very man, the very look that I had seen three years before,
as I darted through the porch of Westminster-Abbey—
a pale serious man, with a look which it was not for me to
describe, though I could see grief in it, and care, and what
I took to be the ravages of a mortal anxiety. We stood face
to face with each other, and our feet were fixed on the turf
as though we had come out upon the great hill for sacrifice;
but we did not speak, and the woman who dropped her veil
when she saw me look up, so that I could not see her face,
the very veil that overshadowed her beauty when she appeared
to me among the graves and the sepulchres of the
proud and the mighty, she stood before me now in the attitude
of supplication—her breathing was audible—her head
was bowed with an air of unspeakable sorrow, and her hands
were clasped, and her arms were wreathed about his arm as if
she foresaw a terrible issue to the meeting.

Edward—Edward—I beseech you; do not speak now,
said the woman, with a low sweet whisper.

But why such alarm? What was there to be afraid of—
so much afraid of? Was it altogether on his account, or
was it partly for me that she was in fear? If only for him,
why that peculiar manner toward me—that slow motion of
the head as if to assure me that however he might regard my

behaviour, she was willing to put her whole trust in me?
But why cling to him so?—why struggle with him at every
step? Why urge me away? We had not come together
for strife; we had not found each other out by the instinct of
hereditary foes. And what if we did stand still for a few
minutes by the way-side, or fix our feet in the turf and look
at each other for a while without speaking a word—what
was there so very terrible in that?

No no, for Heaven's sake! she added, on seeing him
about to address me. No no, dear! what are you going
to say? what are you going to do?

He smiled—but in such a way that upon my word I knew
not whether to knock him down, or to run off.

No no, dear; recollect yourself, you are deceived—he
is not what you suppose, I am sure he is not; are you Sir?

Really madam, I—I—may I beg to know what I am supposed
to be?

There Edward, there! will not that satisfy you?

He made no reply, but his countenance changed—and his
hand shook as it lay upon her shoulder, and he drew her up
to his heart—close up; and it instantly occurred to me for
the first time that the poor fellow was a very unhappy man, a
little disordered by grief, and that I had nothing to do but
appease him and get away as fast as I could.

I pray you to believe Sir, said I, that in crossing your
path, I have not intended either to—grieve or disturb you, I
was going to say; but recollecting how sensitive such people
are, and how poor an apology it would be, whether the man
was mad, or was not mad, I stopped short in my speech,
made a very low bow, and was getting away as well as
I could, when he arrested me by a remark which I did not
hear distinctly, but which referred to my behaviour on the
cliff.

You have sworn to see her face; you shall be gratified
Sir. You have sworn to discover—pho pho, Mary, what
are you afraid of? The gentleman appears to have a—

Are you mad? continued she, in a whisper.

—To have a quick eye for female beauty, and I hope,
after an oath such as we heard him swear, you will not
refuse to throw up your veil. As he spoke, he was about
to lift the veil; but she caught his arm with a cry that went
to my heart—a quick low cry, which made me feel as if in
some way or other, I had been the cause of outrage to her.

That was enough! Though I would have gone barefooted
over Europe to see the face of that woman, before she
betrayed her terror by that cry, I would not have permitted a
man to left her veil before me, after I did hear it—no, not
for the wealth of a kingdom. But after all, why so afraid of
me? Did she know me? Did I know her? Had I seen her?
was I ever likely to see her again—perhaps I knew, or might
know her family; these thoughts hurried swiftly through my
mind, as I repeated my bow and walked away with a determination
to avoid her—much as I desired to know the truth,
and to have the mystery cleared up—until it should seem to
her good to let me see her face, which I now began to fear
was not altogether such as I had hoped for—considering that
she had never suffered the veil to be blown aside for a single
moment while she stood before me. But I had not gone far
when a new idea struck me, and I felt my gorge rise, and my
cheek burn: for had she not asked him if he was mad, while
striving to subdue his wrath—a question that nobody would
ask of one who really was mad. I stopped—my view of his
behaviour was changed anew. What if it should prove that he
was really a wag, that he had been the author of my sufferings
the night before, and that he had purposely gone out of his
way to jeer me, in the presence of a woman—of that woman

too of her whole sex, about whose good opinion I cared most?
How should I bear to hear the story told—as a joke perpetrated
upon a thorough-bred Yankee? How should I bear
to think of the matter after I had gone back to the land of
the Yankees? Who would believe me, though I swore that my
forbearance had proceeded from a belief that the man was
mad,—for who could be worse off in that way than I myself
was thought to be by a few of the people there, and by
not a few of the people here? And if I should say that my
compassion for a female had caused me to overlook the behaviour
of such a man, who would not shrug up his shoulders
or thrust his tongue into his cheek—when he knew that I
cared as little for the presence of a woman as I should for
that of a baby in such a case.

Before I could subdue the feeling that shook me, when I
thought of these things, though my mind was already made
up to know more of my gentleman before we parted, and to
deal with him accordingly, I heard some one cry out, Whoa!
whoa! as if a horse had broken away.

Let your horse go, you can't hold both, said my persecutor,
in a very mild voice, adding as he saw me, The foolish
boy has tied him with the long reins—pho pho, what are you
afraid of child—pho pho—hold on, Philip! hold on—I will
be with you in a moment. Please to look to my wife, Sir,
that boy 'll be carried over the precipice if I don't give him
a pull—pho pho, dear, what are you afraid of—there Sir,
there—keep her out of harm's way for a minute or two, will
you!

His wife! I recoiled from her—I started with dismay—I
would have gone to the rescue of any thing or any body at
such a time, rather than approach her with my feelings, when
I heard the man who cast her upon me for protection, call
her his wife. His wife!—the woman that I had pursued so

long, thought of so much, dreamt of so much, prayed for,
languished after—yea, languished after for three whole years,
with a vague sweet hope which I never durst acknowledge to
my own heart, a hope which has ended for ever now. Could
it be! was the brave creature a married woman after all?
a wife to that man—to that man of all mankind! As I live,
I could not have touched her hand after this—I could not
have spoken to her with an audible voice, had it been to save
her life.

Oh Sir, Sir! said she, coming a little nearer with a quick
step, and with her hands locked and pressed together in such
a way as to keep her veil down—I could see that, though I
could n't look up—oh, she must be very ugly, I am sure of
that now, said I to myself; and I began to be much better
satisfied with what another might call a dispensation—ugly as
death—ugly as the woman I saw at the Pier—As the woman
I saw at the Pier!—I started back a whole pace to peep at her
feet—they were the prettiest feet in the world—they were
enough by themselves to give a sculptor the heart-ache—
I never saw such a pair of feet—such a character! such a fine
spirited instep! such ease and such expression, oh they were
any thing but such feet as are commonly admired—the footies
of grown babies.

Oh Sir, I shall be very safe: perhaps you had better go—
do go with him Sir; my poor Edward may require your
help; do go Sir!

Ma'm?

If you would be so obliging Sir—

Yes ma'm—

He may have need of you—

Who ma'm?

Edward Sir, my husband, my dear, dear husband—oh,
if you knew him Sir, you would feel as I do—

Your husband be—gulp! I was going to say a very
naughty word, but I recollected myself in season to make a
low bow, and assure her that she had nothing to fear, that the
danger was all over, and the poor dear man was quite safe.

Sir—Sir—with a tone of surprise.

Whereupon I made another bow and took to my heels,
intending to meet her Edward half way, and ask him in so
many words whether he was or was not a madman; but she
was too quick for me, and followed so close after me that I
could not, and I passed on to my gig, without returning the
salutation that he vouchsafed to me as I ran by him.

But the boy, who had gone to Allum-Bay after a pocketfull
of the sand which is to be had there,1 was not ready for
me, and I turned my steps to a part of the Downs2 which I
had not regarded before. The wind was so light that I could
not make my way in a straight course, and I observed that
while the men were holding on their hats and the women
their bonnets with both hands, two or three of the latter
without convoy, peradventure because of their age, though
all were beating up for the same harbor with the wind in
their teeth—A figure of speech that—for many had no teeth—
the fine horse of the stranger was pawing the turf, and arching
his neck, and stepping about with a short quick step, as
if not wholly subdued, or as if terrified by the noise of the
sea, or the screaming of the birds, or the rocking of the gig,
which was actually lifted up two or three times by the wind.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, cried the boy that led him; whoa,
Sir, whoa—!

Make him head the wind Philip, or perhaps you 'd better

take him out, said his master, who stopped and spoke to
the boy, as if he were his own child, instead of a servant.

Yes Sir—

Lead him this way; the gig is too light for him now; we
must have somebody in it, or the poor fellow—whoa Sir,
whoa!—will never be done shaking—whoa there!

Yes Sir—

We are going up stairs to look out of the lantern; but we
shall be back in a few minutes. Have your nag ready, if
you please, when I come down, so that we may be off without
delay. We have no time to spare now.

1 It is kept for sale by the children that live near, made up in white bottles,
and has a brilliant and curious effect, so vivid and so various are the
colors, and so distinct are they, lying in stripes all the way up the cliff.

2 Downs, so called from the descending nature of the land where sheep
are fed.