University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XII.

It would not be easy to describe the embarrassment which
followed the departure of Edwards—I knew not which way
to look, nor what to say. And every moment I grew more
and more incapable of doing what, if I had not felt like a
great lubberly boy, I should have done at once—I should
have entered into a free conversation with the beautiful creature
at my side, just as if nothing had happened. I should
have done this—but how could I? I felt every moment that
I ought to have done it at first, and that the sooner I did it,
the better it would be for both of us—nay, that if I had done
it but a single moment before, it would have been easier
to do and better to do than it ever would again while I
breathed; and yet, as I live, I could not open my mouth,
nor command voice enough to say a single word.

But if I suffered so much, what must have been her suffering?
If I had no courage to speak, what must have been
the state her mind? She saw by my altered manner—she
knew by my very silence, that my opinion of her was altered.
She saw that the mysterious behaviour of the two men troubled
me, and that I was occupied as I had never been before,
while she was near me. And well she might: for never had
I been so occupied before. She was on trial for a matter of
life and death—and I was her judge. I understood her
thoughts—I understood them by her look, her attitude, her
very breathing. I could hear a low, half-smothered sob every
minute or two, as she sat with her side toward me, and
though I did not look at her, and would not speak to her, I could
perceive that she was at work on the little cap—at work on

it before my face, though whenever she had touched it before,
it had been by a sort of stealth: I could perceive too that
she was in a fair way to spoil it, that she did not know what she
was about, nor see what she had in her hands; that she did
not look up, and that every now and then she caught her
breath and changed her position to hide it. Shall I confess
the truth? I took a pleasure in the idea of her spoiling that
cap; let others determine why, if they are able.

What was I to do? Should I go up to her as a brother
would go to a dear sister, and pray her to tell me the meaning
of what I saw—pray to her, not with my lips upon her forehead
of snow, as I might if she were my sister—but with tears
in my eyes? Or should I go up to her in my true character,
and say—Woman of beauty! woman of power! in the
name of the Most High God, clear yourself! Woman—thought
you are married to another, you are very dear to me. I
love you—I began to love you the first hour I saw you,
would love you to my dying day, with all my heart and soul;
and to show you that my love is not such as you ought to be
offended with, lo! I am going away from you for ever! I
mean to avoid you for the rest of my life. Put faith in
me, I beseech you! Believe me when I say that I would not
have named the name of love to you, were I not going where
I shall never see you more, and did I not hope to persuade
you by such proof, to the doing of that which will make not
only you but your husband love and revere my memory. I
beseech you to put faith in me; I beseech you to clear up
the riddle that I saw; I beseech you to let me go away from
you with a feeling which, whatever may become of me, will
make you and him proud of having trusted me. Should I do
this, or should I take my hat and walk out of the house—never
interchanging another word with her who had entrapped me,
I now began to believe—into a—I must own the truth—into a
den of smugglers.

Before I had half determined which of the three courses
to pursue, my hat was on my head—I never knew how it got
there—and I was moving toward the door.

You are not going to leave me? said the woman. I stopped.
I turned toward her. I saw her face—the work had
dropped out of her hands, her lips were apart, and she sat as
if she had no hope left on earth.

Leave you! said I—I saw that I could not leave her in
such a mood, without saying farewell to her. No—no—I
could not; her voice, though to another it would have been
almost inaudible, I dare say, sounded to me like low sweet
music and thrilled through and through me—appearing to issue
not from her lips, but from her heart, and affecting me like
the prayer of one who had a right to say to me with a look of reproach,
You are not going to leave me?

Leave you, said I—I must leave you.

True—true—I know that, I acknowledge it—I—

Farewell, Madam—

No—no—not now! we have need of you now; we cannot
do without you now—

Need of me! cannot do without me! said I—all at once
recollecting the fate of Weare, a poor fellow who had been
decoyed a little time before, into the house of men who for
the little that he had, put him to death; was I to be betrayed
by a woman? was I to find another Thurthill in the wretch
who had a — my thoughts were checked by her answer—

No Sir, no—I am sorry that he ever saw you: I would give
any thing in the world Sir, if you had not become what you
are—what you are likely to be to us now—

And what is that? I asked, with a feeling of considerable
anxiety.

Our hope, our stay, our only refuge on earth.

Why, really Madam, it would appear that I have been decoyed
hither to serve a —

Decoyed!

Yes Madam—decoyed —

Perhaps it may be so; perhaps at another time, I might
be ready to acknowledge the truth of what you say; but just
now — you will excuse me, I hope; and you will forgive
me if I say that I would rather be left alone here to abide the
issue—she said this with a look of dismay—quite alone, Sir
—rising, and standing before me with an air of unspeakable
dignity—altogether alone Sir, than have such things uttered
before me in the absence of my husband.

Of your husband.—

Of my husband Sir. A long pause followed, which I contrived
to break at last by saying—

Are you really married to that man?

Good God Sir—what can possess you!

Will you forgive me, if I repeat the question? Oh, you
know not how much you have at stake—your agitation—your
paleness—your—ah no! you need not answer me; I see
how it is. Farewell.—

Stop Sir. Hear what I have to say, after which you will do
as you think proper. You have already mistaken my dear husband
for a player—an author—a drawing-master—and a —

And a smuggler, added I between my shut teeth—adding
thereto what I meant for a look of astonishing sagacity.

And a what!

A smuggler, said I, planting my foot and breathing as I
never breathed before, in the presence of a lovely woman.

A smuggler! she repeated, standing up face to face with
me, her haughty lip curling with a bitter smile, and her dark
eyes flashing fire—A smuggler! Why, what on earth do
you take us for?

A smuggler Madam, or a—a—

She turned as pale as death, and I stopped.

Or a what Sir—God forgive you!

I mustered all my strength in reply.—

Or a pirate Madam.—

A pirate Sir! A pirate within the four seas of England!
Oh there is no help for you! she added, with a look such as
I hope never to see again while I have breath in my body.
I would rather die than deserve such a look. It was made
up of sorrow, of pity, and of surprise. No help for you—no
hope for you! You are all alike. I never knew an author
who was not for ever on the watch for conspiracies or catastrophes.
People dare not move nor speak before you, lest
they should be worked up into some frightful story. I wonder
you are not afraid to go to sleep—no matter how sleepy
you may be—with your habit of authorship. I wonder you
have the courage to eat—I wonder you are a—

Farewell Madam.

Farewell Sir; but before you go, I beg you to hear what
I have to say, although it should happen to disagree with
your plot for a book. We are married.

Are married, Madam! very well Madam; but were you
married—for that 's the true question after all—were you
married when I saw you in Westminster-Abbey?

We were.

The devil you were!—not a rag of my theory left!

Sir!

Not a rag! Away goes the very foundation of a tale that I
have been at work upon for three years.

Foundation—tale—are you mad?

All but finished—a story worth five hundred pounds, if
not more.

She drew back with a proud step. She measured me
from head to foot with a slow motion of her eyes—her large
beautiful eyes—and for a minute or two she appeared to be
choking. But by and by she recovered her composure, and
they grew steady of themselves I thought, and rested upon
mine, so that I—so that I felt as if—as if—in short, I could
not look up. I knew they were upon me—I knew they were
very bright and clear—prouder than ever, and lighted up
from their depth as it were, with an expression of severe and
awful integrity.

Your behaviour is very strange—you do not deserve a reply—another
in my case—another alone with you as I
am, apart and away from succor, might be afraid of you.
But I am not—I know you better than you suppose.

Alone! You speak as if you were indeed alone.

I speak as I feel Sir.

Your servants—are they not enough to guard you?

We have no servants. The boy is away—and the poor
girl that I had, has gone back to her mother. She was
afraid to remain here. She could not sleep for the noise of
the sea.

What am I to do? Would you have me stay with you
till your husband gets back?

Yes—for my only hope is in you.

Your only hope!

The only hope I have on earth.

Explain yourself. What can I do for you? When do
you expect him?

Before midnight. Have you the courage to stay with me
till—pointing to a clock in the passage, with a playful air—
the courage to stay with me till the hand that you see there
points at twelve?

Perhaps I may; but how am I to justify myself to you for
what I have said? How happens it I pray, that you are
already appeased? Why do you not reproach me for what
I have done?

Because I know you.

Me—you—you know me?

Perhaps you had better take off your hat, and hear what
I have to say with less of a tragedy-air.

Upon my soul Madam—every word you speak reminds
me of somebody that I have seen before—you smile—but
when or where I do not know. Ah—bless me—have I not
seen you before?

You have.

But when—where—

Three years ago in Westminster-Abbey—

Nay nay—how can you trifle with me at such a time;
you that know so little of me—

So little of you! why Sir, I know more of you than any
body alive except your sister—your twin-sister.

Gracious God! who are you?

Nay nay—you a novel-writer, and a-tiptoe to anticipate a
catastrophe!

I had seen you—surely—surely I had, before I saw you in
the Abbey; had I not?

And if you had, Mr —, not Mr. C. H. but Mr. —,
lowering her voice to a whisper and uttering another name!
I was thunderstruck. She had called me by my true name—
by the only name that I was not known by there, of the multitude
which at one time or another I had made use of in Europe.
If you had, how poor a compliment you pay me now
by not being able to say where.

I beseech you, said I—do not drive me crazy—who are
you? what are you? If it is true that I had seen you before

I saw you in the Abbey, how wonderful that I should not
remember where. And if I never did see you before that day,
how wonderful that I should feel toward you as I do—that
I should feel as if I had known you years and years ago, in
some other part of the world.

You were in this country about seven years ago—ah—
you are beginning to perceive the truth, I see—

To perceive the truth! no madam—far from it, further
from it than ever.

Were you not here?

I was—I was; but nobody knew it. I came hither in a
shape and with a name that I threw off on the passage back.
I did not know—I did not believe—that a creature upon the
face of our earth was able to say what you have now
said to me—to name that name which I have kept hitherto,
as a proud man would keep the secret of his overthrow, or as
a proud woman the secret of her dishonor.

I believe you—

But how came you possessed of the knowledge?

Are you very sure that when you threw off the shape you
speak of, there was nobody alive to betray you?

Quite sure—my own people did not know whither I had
gone. They hardly missed me, before I had come back to
their fire-sides.

Nobody—not so much as one that you trusted your secret
with?

Nobody—and yet—yet—as I live—gracious God! it cannot
be! Are you the woman that I saw in the coach, on my
way from Litchfield to Birmingham? You smile—you appear
to know to what I allude—

Stop a moment. You shall see.

Here she got up, and going to a desk that lay open before
us, brought forth a paper which I recognised immediately for

a leaf that I had torn out of a book, full eight years before, to
give to a female I saw in the coach on my way from
Litchfield cathedral to Birmingham. The whole affair ran
over my memory like a stream of light. It was on the Sabbath
day—late in the afternoon. I did not see her face till it
was too dark for me to distinguish her features, and she was
so muffled up that I could not see whether she was well made
or not; but that she was young I knew by the very sound of
her voice, and by the smooth motion of her neck that she was
very beautiful; and that she was dying of untold sorrow, perhaps
of a broken heart, I judged by the low sweet music
of that voice which had haunted me till now.

And you—are you indeed the poor creature that I saw
there? said I. How happy I am to meet with you alive
once more! You have no idea how you interested me—I
would have risked my life to serve you, without asking to see
your face, or to know your name.

I believe you—I am sure of it—she replied with fervor.
God bless you for it! and her eyes filled with tears, and she
sat looking at me, as if it made her happy to show that she
did believe me.

So so—the mystery begins to be cleared up. I begin
to perceive now, why it was that I never could recollect
where I had known you, while your voice kept sounding in
my ear with a familiar sound. I perceive too why it is that
the slow graceful motion of your head—I beg your pardon—

Oh Sir! you know not how I have reproached myself
since that day for not having followed your advice. But
how could I? You were a stranger to me; yet worse—you
were a man—I a mere child, with no more knowledge of
man's nature than I had been able to pick up out of a religious
novel or two, the only works of fiction I was ever

permitted to see, though I languished for an opportunity to
know why it was that every thing in the shape of a novel was
so much to be feared by a young woman—

Proceed, I entreat you—

I will—I will—with great emotion—I will; for I wish you
to know that if I be not altogether what you believe me to
be—I beg your pardon—I—I—it may be owing perhaps—
a—a—in part, in some degree perhaps, to the ill-judged severity
of my poor mother—who—a—a—excuse me—

There there, don't speak another word now; wait a moment—you
will be more composed in a minute or two.

Forgive me, I beseech you—I—I—really I do not know
what I was going to say.