University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XIII.

You were going to say that all you knew of man's nature
had been gathered from the religious novels you spoke
of—

True true. Well, they taught me that men are never to
be trusted—never by any body, and least of all by a woman;
that they are to be avoided by her in every case, but especially
in sorrow—and above all, if she be inexperienced, with
no father, no brother, nobody on earth to advise her—in short
whenever she has most need of their sympathy and finds
most comfort in their society.

Fools! Do they not know that women dare not speak freely
to women, where from the very nature of woman she is
obliged to speak freely or die? Do they not know that in her
deepest grief, in her heaviest calamity, it may be safer and
better for a woman to put faith in a stranger by the wayside,
than it would be to put faith in her bosom-friend,
if that friend were a female—safer than it would be to trust
her own daughter—yea, her own sister—yea, her own mother!

Oh Sir. You know not how true your words are—how
terribly true; they are enough to break my heart.

Fools, fools! Do they not know—will they never know—
that while every thing tends to make man betray man, woman,
woman—jealousy rivalry the hatred of competitorship,
every thing to make woman a severe judge of woman, man of
man, do they not know, will they never see—that every thing
tends to make woman faithful to man, every thing to make
man faithful to woman—

Every thing!

Yes every thing, save that childish vanity of his, which if
it be not swallowed up in joy that he has been found worthy
of being trusted by her, may do her faith as much wrong
as that other vanity of the female ever could—

Oh no, there is no trusting to man's love.

Love madam! who spoke of love? When I say faith, I
mean faith—I do not mean love. I am not talking poetry.
We are treacherous to you in our love, and so are you to us,
in your love; but few women would ever betray a man, fewer
men a woman, who put faith in their probity or their courage
as a friend.

I believe you—

Madam, you may believe me. What I say to you, I say
seriously. I know much of man, more of woman—for women
have been my peculiar study for years, my delight
ever since I had the courage to believe them good by nature—and
capable of being whatever we would have them
be; and I declare to God, that I would not scruple to trust
my life, or a secret that concerned my life, to the keeping of
almost any woman that I ever saw—even as I did with you.
I have known a score, who—like you—even if they distrusted
me, would never betray me.

God bless you for that!

You never betrayed me—though you distrusted me I believe?

How could I help it! You were a man—I, a woman half
dead with grief. You were so plausible too, and the books
I mentioned were the first I saw after you had left
me. Was I not in sorrow—was there a creature upon the
face of this earth, to whom I could apply at such a time—

Fools—fools—do they not know that in sorrow and with

sorrow, impurity hath no power! Do they not know that in
deep sorrow the heart is a sealed book!

Ah Sir!

Sealed I mean to the approach of a bad love—in sorrow
no woman was ever yet betrayed?

But Sir, in sorrow the heart of a woman may be betrayed,
though she herself be not. In sorrow too, the heart may
conceive—what in sorrow it must bring forth, if the comforter
be away when the hour of travail is nigh. And where is the value
of a woman, if her heart be no more—if it be another's—
if it be gone astray—or if it be full with a joy it dare not acknowledge?
How are we to live without sympathy, after we
have once known what the sympathy of a good man is;
and if we cannot obtain the sympathy of good men,
how naturally do we seek that which is most like it—the sympathy
of bad men. Believe me Sir—the heart of woman
may be overmastered in sorrow, may be betrayed, irretrievably
betrayed by sorrow—sooner than by joy, or in joy. In
grief she is ready to give herself up to the sympathy of the
first man that looks like a good man, whatever may be taught
her in the books. And of what value is the woman, if her
heart be alienated? You may have other ideas—for you are
a man. You smile where we should weep. But to me it
appears a greater evil to forego—to have to forego the possession
of a heart we love, than to give up the possession of
a—a—of a—of aught else underneath the sky.

Our pride will not suffer us to feel as you do. We can bear
the loss of a woman's heart, however much we may love her,
better than we could the loss of a woman herself, to another
man—though we hated her. We know that in most cases the
fault is our own if we lose her heart; and we believe, such is
our stupid infatuation, that in every case—to recover it, we
have only to try. We can bear to see a young beautiful wife

so much at our mercy, that her very health may depend upon a
word or a look from us. We love power—and to show the
world what power we have, and how little we are afraid, not
because of her virtue, but because of our merit, we drive her
away from our side, where—if we did not drive her away—
she would nestle for ever. We drive her abroad for sympathy
—we are cruel to her and treacherous to her in a way that
she dare not speak of. We can bear to chill the warm sweet
gushing of her heart, even at the risk of chilling it for ever—
and yet, if she go astray, there is no death too bad for her.
You are weeping—

No no, I am not weeping—no no, what have I to make
me weep?

How should I know? Please to proceed with your story—

Well Sir—I have not much more to say. While you
were with me, it was impossible to doubt you; but the moment
you were gone, my heart misgave me, and I felt as if I
had betrayed myself as never woman had betrayed herself
before—to a stranger.

I thought so—I told you so. I was afraid your courage
would forsake you, and I put you upon your guard. It was
for that very reason that I gave you the paper I see there.
It was for that very reason that I entrusted you with what
was a matter of life and death to me—my real name, a name
that was never yet associated with an equivocal deed, nor
used for a light or a vulgar purpose. It was to prove to you
that I had no evil hope in my heart, no bad wish regarding
you, that after giving you my true name, by which you might
be able to trace me whithersoever I went, if you ever had occasion
for my help, and by which I put myself in your power—as
you knew before a month was over—

I did, I did!—I saw your true name in the papers; and
I saw it on one and the same page with your fictitious name.

Ah! how little they knew of the truth, when they spoke of
you here by one name as a friend of the Greeks, and there
by another name, as a novel-writer of the day—

It was to prove to you that I had no evil in my heart,
that after giving you my real name---by which I put myself
in your power as much as you could possibly be in mine---and
both of my fictitious names that I might never be able to escape--It
was to give you such proof as would satisfy you, when I
was away and you had begun to feel the very misgiving you
speak of, that after doing all this to assure you, I forbore to profit
by the invitation of your brother, who seeing how you treated
me, took me for an old acquaintance you know and would
have had me go with you to your house.

My brother-in-law you mean. Oh I shall never forget
your behaviour—so delicate and so generous and so collected
were you. But for your presence of mind, I should not
have been so civil as to second his invitation, so that he must
have seen that there was something out of the usual way in
our acquaintance; and but for your exceeding generosity,
you would have taken advantage of it, and I should have
seen you at the fire-side of my proud sister—without being
able to say a word, whatever appearance you might have
thought proper to put on.

And yet after all—no sooner had I turned my back, than
you altered your opinion of me.

Her eyes fell at this remark; but after a little hesitation,
she added, Very true—for in sorrow the heart is treacherous
and wayward. We hope and we fear, we know not why,
under the pressure of great grief. Common occurrences appear
to be strange and terrible. We have no wish to live—
we are without courage, without hope, and without confidence.
For a great while I could not bear to think of the
escape I had with you.

How madam—what escape?

Forgive me. I speak of what my feelings were at the
time, before I knew a fortieth part as much of man's nature
as I knew within a year from that very day.

Stop. I know what followed—let me prove it to you.
For a time you were afraid to look at the paper I gave you—
though you hadn't the heart to destroy it; and you regarded
me as one of the multitude who go about seeking whom they
may devour—

Yes, I did—

But after a while, it occurred to you, that---perhaps---I
had spoken the truth—

Yes, yes—eagerly—and the more I thought of your
behaviour, the more sorry I was that I did not keep your letter—

You saw the letter then

I did, and after considering the affair a whole day, I concluded
to return it, as if it was not intended for me—

And so leave it to be read by the clerks in the post-office—

No no—you terrify me.

But you did, I say. I have the letter now, with the postmark
upon it, `Refused,' or `No such person to be found,' I
forget which. Of course it had been opened, or they would
not have known how to return it to me.

Dreadful---I did not foresee this—

No no, your idea was that on receiving the letter back I
should imagine your story or your name to be fictitious.

Very true—it never occurred to me that before you could
receive the letter, it must be opened, and might be read by
somebody in the post-office. It cannot be helped now—but
I beg your pardon for the trick; I am very sorry—

And will never do so again, I dare say—

Never—nay nay, you are angry with me now.

Very true. But allow me to proceed with your story;
after a while you began to take another view of the matter.

I did; for happening to meet with a girl one day who had
been four or five years in America—perhaps you may have
heard of her—Miss Harvey.

Not Emma Harvey—

The same, perhaps you have heard of her?

Perhaps I have. We were to have been married—

No!

Yes, and but for a circumstance which—but go on
with your story. I see how it was now---it was from her
that you heard so much as to justify you in saying that
that you knew more of me than any woman alive, except
my own sister.

Yes, partly from her and partly from another—

From another?

Yes, but let me tell you how it happened.

Poor girl! I never knew how much I loved her till I
heard of her death; you know I suppose that she followed
me here without my knowledge.

No—she did not speak of you as if she had ever loved
you, nor as if you had ever loved her.

How did she speak of me then—

Better than you deserve, I dare say—but I wish you
would allow me to tell you how I came to regard you as I now
do—your behaviour I mean. About a year after I saw you,
I received a note from a lady who knew that some how or
other I had a deal of curiosity about America, and that I
was dying to see a natyve—I need not tell you why—saying
that if I would stop at her house for a week I should be
gratified. I longed to go I confess—but as it never entered
my head that the natyve she wanted me to see was a female,
I kept away. So—you are pleased, I see.

I bowed.

At last however, as good luck would have it, I happened
to hear the truth. I saw the natyve, as they called her.
She was a very superior girl, and though not altogether an
American, she was the child of an American by an English
woman that we knew, and had been educated at Philadelphia—

Near Philadelphia—at Germantown.

Well, it occurred to me one day, that I would ask her about
you by one of the fictitious names that you gave me.
She had never heard of you; by any other—she knew no
such individual, and was quite sure that America had produced
no author of that name—You smile, but perhaps you remember
that you told me you had scribbled a book or two—

Did I?

To be sure you did.

And after that, you never could persuade yourself that I
was in your power—

She laughed and continued. Very well, said I, when I
heard this. Very well indeed; so much for this American.
I have heard of their tricks before; and so—and so—will
you forgive me? I was just going to pull out the paper you
gave me, and show it to her—

You had it with you then?

Yes

A whole year after you saw me—

Yes, a whole year after you—but don't flatter yourself: I
had my reasons for carrying it about with me.

What were they?

Well—if ever!—and so, and so, just when I was going to
show the paper, I happened to recollect myself, and as I
stood looking over it, she saw the hand-writing, and made
some remark or other about its resemblance to the writing

of—of—would you believe it—she named the very name
that you told me you were known by in America. I need
say no more—we grew intimate; I was with her till within
a week of her death—

Poor Emma!

And she told me so much about you.

Well—and she died—

Yes, died—died of a broken heart, I believe now; for the
sorrow that I saw was like no sorrow that I had ever seen
before, though I had felt, as I could see that she felt, weary of
the very light of heaven—

Well—

Well—have you nothing more to say?

Nothing. What more would you have me say? I loved
her—she loved me. We were to have been married. A
few weeks more and we might have been happy, but she
chose to believe another instead of me. We parted—and
she is in her grave.

Good God! how you speak of her.

Go on with your story if you please.

How unforgiving?

Will you proceed with your story?

I will; for I see that you are not so bad as you appear—I
can see that your eyes are wet; and your mouth paler than
it was—

Pho.

Well. Soon after this, I saw your name in a paper—your
true name, that by which I was to know you, and I felt proud
of you. My confidence revived—I reproached myself,
night and day for not having trusted you further; and having
discovered that you, though a man, were not of such men
as I read about in the book they made me pore over—I began
to believe that book untrue and all men trust-worthy.

Just what I should have expected. Fools! idiots! Do
they not know that by educating their daughters as you were
educated, they are preparing them for the Destroyer! Do
they not know that by prohibiting with such absurd severity,
a thing which it is not in their power wholly to prevent, they
create a desire for what otherwise might never be thought of,
encourage the growth of insincerity, and teach their daughters
to confound what may be improper with what is criminal?

Very true.

Religious novels forsooth! Why, what do they teach but
this—this!—the very end and aim of all novels; namely, that
after a certain portion of suffering, trial and sorrow, marriage
comes about,—marriage with the desired accompanied
by beauty, wealth, rank, &c. &c., as the greatest of earthly
good! If they taught self-denial in protracted adversity,
or fortitude for life—resignation for ever—if they went to
make people wiser and happier and more contented, though
they failed to come together—resigned, though a beloved-one
were united to another—active, useful and good, though they
were poor, feeble, despised and without character, influence,
or rank, then would they be what they are not now—religious
novels. As they are now managed, they are among
the most pernicious of all the books that appear. And why?
Because under the name of religious truth, we are taught
only this, that the most perishable of earthly things are what
the evangelical should hope to be rewarded with, if they persevere
through all the temptations that beset their path. Religious
novels, indeed! And yet these are the novels we
are obliged to read—all others were prohibited to me.
Why do they not portray the young and lovely separated,
and for ever, from what they love; and supported
nevertheless by their piety, their earnest and faithful
religion; or coupled for life with the wicked and perverse,

and yet bearing their lot in marriage, as none but those
who really deserve the name of the religious of the earth
could bear it!

A woman who has been brought up in the way you were,
would feel, after having read a prohibited book, as a woman
should never feel—never—though she had gone utterly
astray. She would feel as if she could not be forgiven—as
if she had done that, of which it would be unlawful to speak
even to her own dear mother.

Yes, and she would feel as if—as if—as I felt when I discovered
that a man could be both delicate and faithful; and
that a religious novel could not be depended upon for truth
of character.

You felt I dare say, as if your heart or your understanding
had been outraged for whole years—and by your own mother;
and you were ready I dare say, to believe those books true
which were forbidden, because you found those untrue which
were not forbidden.

I was.

And all mankind trust-worthy and high-hearted, because
you had been so lucky as to meet with me.

Are you serious?

I am.

Would you provoke me to laugh in your face!

If you dare—

You are the strangest man—

Pho pho.

Pho pho—how like Edward that is!

Edward who?

My husband—he frequently reminds me of you; he is
very like you in some things.—

I was completely bewildered for a moment—your husband!
I am sorry for it—where is he—why is he not here?

You terrify me. What have I said?

Woman—Woman—I perceive the whole truth now.
Look me in the face! Did you ever tell your husband that
you knew me? Did you ever tell him that he was like me?
No—no—I can see by your eyes and by the light shining
through your pale forehead as it were—nay—nay, that look
will never convince me—I could swear that you never did.

Sir!

Deny it if you can.

Will you hear me?

A single word is enough—yes or no?

Well then, if that is enough—no.

I rose from the chair; but she stood in my way with a
composure that awed me. I could not pass her; and she
spoke to me as I had never been spoken to before.

Though I did not acknowledge to him Sir, that I knew
you—it was not by my advice, nor to gratify me, but contrary
to my advice that you were brought hither. If I did not
acknowledge to him, that the inquiries I made about you
while he was in America, and after his return, were made by
me with a feeling of regard for you, it was because I hoped
never to see you again. If I forebore to acknowledge to him
that he was like you—it was partly because in America he
had been told of the resemblance to you, and partly—I hope
you will forgive me—partly because he had been told much
that was unfavorable to you.

Unfavorable to me?

Unfavorable to your temper; if not unfavorable to your
integrity and your steadiness. Are you satisfied?

I am—of one thing. But before I go, will you answer me
two or three questions?

I will—if in my power. What are they?

Was your husband the cause of the trouble I had, when
he and you and I were at the Sand-Rock Hotel?

The cause—no indeed—what do you mean?

Did he not bribe that devil of a chamber-maid-waiter?—

Bribe her—how?—

To let me ring myself to death.

Oh, I know what you mean. What could possess you to
behave so like a—I beg your pardon—but neither he nor I
had any thing to do with your annoyance.

Very well—I am satisfied there; one question more.
Did you invite me to your house to make a fool of me?

Oh! you are mad as a March hare!

What did you mean pray, when you told me with tears
in your eyes, that your only hope was in me?

My only hope on earth, I said.—

Well well; but what did you mean by that?

Mean—I meant—will you take a chair—

No! Zounds, if you laugh, I 'll kick a hole through the
side of the house, or escape through the roof—

That would be hardly worth your while; the door is open,
you see.

So it is, faith; but you are in my way.

Am I — there — there—going aside—why don't
you go?

Would you turn me out of your house neck and heels?

No, but you may turn yourself out if you like.

Oh you may laugh—but I am going.—

I see you are.

Why do you leave it open though? it 's very cold—very—

That I may look upon the trees and the sky, and hear the
noise of the wind over the hill, and the roar of the sea—

Indeed—is that all—

No Sir—I leave it open that I may hear the footstep of
my husband. You smile—how dare you!

No matter; I 'm going you see—I 'm going for good and

all—but before I go, I wish you would contrive to tell me in
what way it was you thought I could be of use to you.

I will—now that you are in a chair—

In a chair!—I am not—

No, but you were in it when I spoke—

Very well, and what if I was—

Nothing—nothing at all, you know; you were on the way
out.

By Jove—

Nay nay, be quiet if you please, and hear what I have to
say. You can be of use to me—

How—in what way?

I 'll tell you. My poor Edward has got into bad company
I fear—what is that look for—I do not mean you—

Into bad company, has he? I thought so—

And I do believe that if you were to speak to him, as you
did to me, eight years ago, when you saw me on the very
verge of destruction, you might save him, as you did me—

Did I save you—

You did—

Enough. I am happy—throwing off my hat, before I
knew what I was about—I am very happy now.

He has a great regard for you, I am sure, and you might
recall him perhaps to a calmer and a safer path.

What sort of company do you speak of—

I do not know—I am not sure—but I am afraid it is the
company of gamblers.

Oh—is that all!

All! Is not that enough? What is there so terrible to a
fond wife?

Bad enough to be sure, very bad—but I am glad it 's no
worse, for to tell you the truth, I had begun to fear—

To fear what—Gracious God, how you frighten me!

Look you. I see how the matter is—I will speak with
him as I spoke with you, and if it be possible to save him,
I—I—but stop—why do you live in this way? Tell me as
much as you can of the why and the wherefore, that I may
know how to proceed. Ah—what a load you have
taken off my heart!

I will. He married me contrary to the advice of every
friend he had on earth, I do believe; and for a reason which
I am not now at liberty to speak of, he persuaded me to
live in a style of expense which we could not afford, and
which if I had known the truth, I never would have consented
to. O that men could bear to acknowledge the truth to
their wives when they are poor! They would find that
poverty would not be half so terrible to a woman, as the
over-thoughtful brow or the averted eye of a dear husband,
for ever occupied in the pursuit of wealth.

Very true—

He was brimful of ambition—he had a high hope, which
kept him idle. He was fond of literature, and if he had not
thrown by the pen, as he told you, in a rage at the rascality
of editors, he would have made a figure in a little time.
But he was proud quick and irritable, and finding that he
did not succeed, or that others did succeed better than himself,
he threw aside every thought of authorship and embarked
all his property in a speculation, which after a whole
year of such vicissitude as I would not endure again for the
wealth of an empire—left him literally without the means of
buying a mouthful of bread. Nor was that all—I could
have borne that, for I had still of my own property enough
to be happy with, if he could be happy in a cottage like this;
or any where out of the crowded highway of ambition; but
he was in debt, and owing to the style in which he had lived
—it was now said with other people's money, though God

knows he never thought so—the creditors were inflexible.
He was too proud to avail himself of the law—I gave up
my property—and for two whole years we worked together
under every disadvantage, for the profit of those whom we
owed. This could not last—I fell sick, and he fell sick
in watching over me. O Sir—if you could know what we
suffered; such misery, such intolerable misery, month after
month, and all to no purpose! Do you wonder that we lay
and talked together at last about death, until we persuaded
ourselves that it was our duty to die? We did so; and but
for the arrival of a stranger—that very man you saw this evening,
we should most assuredly have gone to sleep for ever,
on the morning of the day that followed the night I speak of.

God bless him!

But he could not save us—for money would not save us.
My poor Edward! he was no longer the same creature.
And as he would not suffer his new friend to pay his debts,
for a long while it appeared as if he had been dragged away
from the pressure of one misery only to be exposed to that
of another. Oh Sir—Sir—I cannot go on—he is cheerful
now, but cheerful in such a way that I cannot bear to
look at him—he has no appetite—he never appears to sleep
soundly, and he is often away for a whole week together—
he, who one year ago, would not have left my side a single
night for the wealth of a kingdom, he who for the first five
years of our marriage was hardly ever out of my sight! Oh
Sir—it is very hard to bear!

What can I do for you?—tell me; speak to me as you
would speak to your own brother.

I will—I will, said she, and I felt the pressure of a hand upon
my arm—I was afraid to stir, afraid to breathe indeed, lest
I should scare it away—I will—I will— if you could
but manage to speak of the possibility of success in authorship—for

to tell you the truth, it is there he has been struck
to the heart, although he would never acknowledge it—Oh
Sir! if you would, I am sure it would save him—

I will—I will—

Ah Sir, he would be so happy—and I should be so happy—
and you would be so happy!

Very fair! cried some one—at her elbow—

I started—and she screamed for joy.

It was her Edward. I never looked so much like a fool
in all my life. Her hand was resting on my arm—that I
knew; but I did not know till she snatched it away and
jumped about the neck of her husband, like a mad creature,
that my hand was on the top of hers—God forgive me.