University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XVI.

The moment she saw me, she started and came up to me
with a sort of eagerness that terrified me—it was not the eagerness
of joy---and putting both her hands into mine, stood looking
at me as if she would read my very soul.

Who are they? said she, as soon as she could speak.
You have seen the whole of them now—who are they—what
are they?

I was terrified at her earnestness.

My dear madam, cried I, what is the matter with you!
How you tremble—how cold your hands are—come come,
let me lead you to the fire, I beseech you—

Oh Sir, save him! save him! you did save him once;
let him owe more than life to you now.

Dear madam—I beseech you! I will do any thing you
desire, any thing in the world for you, if you will try to compose
yourself. There—there—what can I do for you?

Her head lay upon my shoulder and I could feel that she
was sobbing as if her heart would break.

Leave me—leave me—said she at last, lifting herself up
and pushing me away.

But you are very ill—you are indeed—permit me to call
your husband. As I spoke, I drew her to the sofa, and
stretched out my hand for the bell-rope—it was too far off:
I could not reach it, and she hung upon my arm so heavily
that I was afraid to let her go.

Who are they! who are they! she cried again, lifting herself
up from the sofa on which I had placed her, and locking
her hands with desperate fervor. Do tell me! Oh Sir! Sir!

how can you refuse to tell me! would you have me drop
down dead before your face; would you have me go out of
my senses with fear!

With fear madam—fear of what—of whom?

Of the people there—of you—of him—of every body! oh
do tell me who they are!

I do not know, upon my word—I never saw them before;
if you mean the people above. There—there—compose
yourself I pray you, you frighten me to death—

I know you never saw them before; I know that very
well—and oh I am so glad of it! and if my poor husband,
if he had never seen them before—if he would never see
them again, I should be so happy! I should be willing to die
then—I should n't care to live another day—

Don't talk of dying at your age madam, with such a husband
as you have, with so much to make life dear to you—

At my age—oh Sir! I am very old; very old and weary
of life. At my age! Here she wept with tenfold energy—
I will talk of dying—I will—I must! I cannot bear this life—
I cannot bear to live without sleep, to live in perpetual fear—
I cannot—I will not! oh my God, my God! what will become
of my poor Edward!

Here she was utterly overpowered by a burst of sorrow—
the sofa shook with her—and I was going to call out for help,
when she started up with a cry that I can hear now—a faint
eager cry, and laying hold of me with both hands, and clinging
to me as if I were the only friend she had on earth, and
as if she thought I was going to leave her—though I had no
such idea—she looked me up in the face with a quivering lip,
and said to me with a sort of inward whisper that scared me,
Sir—Sir—promise me—promise me—swear to me! swear
that you will save him—

I will, said I—not knowing what else to say, for she appeared
to be out of her head.

Swear to me that you will avoid them for the rest of your
life—swear it, Sir!

I will—I do.

God for ever bless you Sir! Oh I thought you would never
come away; I thought I never should see you again; I
thought you were ensnared—nay nay, look at me! look at
me—may I believe you? Do you speak the truth? will you
keep away from their society?

If you desire it, I will; but why should I? I have nothing
to lose—nothing to fear; and I love to study human character
in every shape, and above all, in a shape so new to me.

Nothing to fear! So he thought a few months ago!

There there, compose yourself; you are low-spirited now,
worn out with fatigue and loss of sleep.

I never sleep now—

The tone with which these few words were uttered, went
to my heart. I knew she spoke the truth. I could see the
proof in her altered visage—I could see it in her neglected
hair which fell about her neck in a heavy mass—I could hear
it in her low harmonious irregular breathing, for her speech
was nothing more. And yet with all my sorrow and sympathy
for her, and with all my pure love, there was a touch of
secret gratification here—here at my very heart—which I
could not wholly subdue. Such is man.

You have made me happy Sir—quite happy now, I feel
as if—as if—oh, you are very good to me Sir.

Then why do you weep so bitterly?

Do I weep! oh Sir I beg your pardon—I did not mean
to weep—I didn't know I was weeping, I declare. You'd
better go now—

I rose to go, but she did not appear to observe it; for she
kept on talking as if she thought me still at her side.

After my death, you will be a friend to Edward I hope—

you 'd better go now; they will miss you, and it may appear
strange as you said—if I weep now, it is for joy—deep joy—
I am very glad you came—there there, good by. God bless
you. I am very happy now—I shall die in peace—you are
not fond of play, and I leave Edward in your care; you will
watch over him for my sake; you will be a brother to him—
a father—

Upon my soul, I could hardly restrain my tears, hardly
keep from sobbing with her, when she said this, laughable as
the idea was of my being a father to such a man—a grave,
thoughtful man, five years older than myself I dare say, and
that too, at the desire of his young beautiful wife, who,
though she was wandering a little in her speech, appeared to
me likely to outlive both of us. For after all, what was there
in the grief that I saw, to break the heart of a proud woman
or to seal her forehead for the grave? She was not shipwrecked
on her way to dominion. Her chariot-wheels were not
obstructed for ever. The world was not to her what it is
to the disappointed, proud man—a great prison full of bad
air and bad spirits, and covered in with a gloomy impenetrable
sky.

You are much better I perceive now; and I do hope,
said I, after she had grown a little more composed—I do
hope—allow me to speak to you as a friend—as a brother—
as a father—if you will, for I have the feelings of each toward
you; I do hope that hereafter you will not give way to such
vague terror; I know that much may be attributed to the
state of your health now—I wanted to say peculiar condition,
but I was afraid—but still, if you do not withstand it, you may
be sure of a—of a—

You saw them all I suppose? they were all there—young
and old—the whole crew—the man you saw at our cottage?

No; if you mean Mr. Fontleroy. He was not of the party.
Indeed!

No.

So much the worse for you. They are afraid of him—
they dare not betray their real characters to him. Poor fellow,
he has no idea of the truth any more than you have.

But your husband; he knows who they are surely?

True true Sir—I am afraid he does. But beware how
you suspect him of treachery; I see by your look that you
are beginning to judge him.

Oh no—but he should have told me who they were.

He will; but he would have you judge for yourself. No
no Sir; he would sooner die than betray you; he knows
you are poor—I have heard him say so; and I believe in my
heart he has brought you together, only that you may see how
two or three men, who after all are among the most extraordinary
men of the age he says—

I interrupted her, astonished at the glow and beauty of her
countenance.

How much better you are, said I! do—do be more upon
your guard. You have no idea how you frightened me—

Did I—I am very sorry; but I had grown half-distracted
with fear while I was waiting for you—knowing as I did
that you had been decoyed into the society of that wicked
old man, by my husband.

You speak of Sir George, I suppose?

Of Sir George! Never shall I forget her look, never the
tone with which these two words were slowly repeated by
her. Why, what on earth do you take these people for?

For disappointed authors.

Are you mad! They are gamblers, notorious shameless
thorough-bred gamblers.

I then repeated the conversation which had taken place at
the table.

I do not understand it, said she, after musing a while. If

they are all disappointed authors, I could forgive them for a
part of their transgressions, but no—no—it is impossible, and
yet my poor Edward—how came he to know so much of them,
or they of him, if there be not some dreadful sympathy of
the sort between them? Have you told him your story?

No; but I was on the very point of doing so, at his own
desire, when your message arrived.

It will do no good now—he will never go back to the cottage;
he will never be satisfied now with the slow gains of
authorship. Oh Sir, I cannot express to you how dreadful
the idea is to me of living on the pillage of the gaming-table—

Perhaps you are mistaken—how do you know that these
people are what you say they are.

I do not know it by any such proof as would satisfy you,
but—stay, stay. You have promised never to see them
again—

If you desire it I have, though I really do wish to study
their characters—

You shall be gratified. Return to the table and watch every
word they speak. When you have satisfied yourself, go
away—and oh, for the love of God, if they prove to be, what
I believe them to be, do not go near them for the rest of your
life! You may be married one day; you may be a father—
you may be a—her emotion choked her—a—a—the husband
of a woman, who may live to wish that she had never seen
you, if you be once touched by the dreadful passion that absorbs
them.

I will promise, cried I—I will! but compose yourself, I
pray you. Your agitation terrifies me; you take the matter
too seriously—indeed you do.

Too seriously! Oh Sir if you knew all! if you knew the
circumstances of our marriage! The kindest husband, the
truest, and so proud of his wife! never away from my side

but with sorrow, till he saw these men. Oh sir, sir! you
would never say that I regard the matter too seriously, if you
knew how much we have endured together, he for me and I
for him, year after year, without one word of reproach or complaint—how
we have clung to each other in sickness and
poverty—in despair—in a solitude where there was no hope—
each upheld by the other's integrity, and each willing to die
for the other. So happy too! So happy in spite of the
world, for I knew that he loved me with all his heart and
soul, though but for me sir, he never would have known what
it was to be a poor man or a disappointed man. He would
have pursued the mighty, and long before this, he would have
outstripped the mighty—he would not have been what he is
now, a shipwrecked man—a cast-away. Oh God! that I
were able to recover the power I once had over his heart! I
was prouder of him in his poverty, than I ever shall be
now, though he were to become to every body what he has
been to me—a something superior to the rest of mankind, a
sort of standard, whereby to measure all other men.

You deserve to be happy, and you will be happy, said I, in
spite of th. Be cheerful and you may recover the power
you had, even if that power be lessened, which by-the-by, I
do not believe. It may appear so to you madam, but perhaps
I am a better judge than you in your state of health,
and I have heard enough and seen enough to satisfy me,
that no man ever loved woman with a more fixed or a
prouder love than he bears toward you—

Do you think so?

Think so—I am sure of it.

Ah sir! you have no idea how happy you make me.

I do not say this to gratify nor to calm you—though I feel
for you and pity you, and would say much to calm you: but
I say it because I believe what I say, and because I see that

you are giving up to a fear, which if you do not overcome it
will overcome you—and destroy you—and yours.

You make me afraid sir—you fill me with awe. Who
are you that have courage to speak truth to a woman? what
are you that you dare to speak such truth to me!

I have not offended you, I hope—

Offended me! No sir! But you have made me feel that
you have a power which you ought not to have, though
you were a good man, a power which makes me afraid of
you—over my understanding.

I have no such power believe me; it is the power of truth
which you mistake for that of a man. If you had a brother—

Oh that I had one, sir!

Or a father, he would say to you—

Oh my poor father! my poor poor broken-hearted father!

He would say to you what I now say. Never doubt your
husband's love—death were better for you. He may not be to
you all that you expected before your marriage; but are you
so to him? He may not always be what he was for a time
after your marriage—but are you? You are altered—and
why should not he alter? You may love him as much as
ever—you may love him a great deal more than ever; but
is your love now such love as you felt before the brief delirium
of your hearts had subsided? No! it is another, and
a holier, and a more serious love. The blood has nothing
to do with it—no—nor the every-day nature of man. It is a
love that grows up out of tried affection, tried worth, tried
probity—a love that never changes but with the changes of
our character, of our immortal part. No no—never allow
either sickness or sorrow to disturb your faith in his love.
Ask yourself—you are married—you have been married a
long while—can you ever forget—under any circumstances

of trial or of sorrow, the joy of your heart when you saw
that you were beloved by the man you afterwards married?
Or the sweet sleep that you had as he lay watching over you
for the first time? Or the deep inward thrill, or the secret awe
that came over you when you perceived that you were to
be a mother? No—and why should you fear that a father
would forget such things?

She made no reply; but her tears fell fast and flashed
like large rain-drops as they passed the light.

And so long as he remembers his feeling and you yours, when
you dropped asleep for the first time on his shoulder; so long
as you both remember the convulsion of joy that shook both of
you at the first cry of your first child; so long believe me
you have nothing to fear.

I do believe you—I do, I do! she cried, and before I could
prevent her, she caught my hands up to her mouth and kissed
them, and when I plucked them away, they were wet
with tears. Will you be a brother to me—she added—may I
call you brother?

I could not speak.

My brother—my dear brother—how you came by this
deep knowledge of the human heart—of a mother's heart—I
do not know nor ask. But knowing so much of what you say
to be true, I am willing to believe the rest—I am willing to
hope—my dear brother.

You have no brother?

No brother—no father—no mother.

Poor soul—I pity you.

If you knew my story, you would pity me; you would feel
as if—stay—stay—blessed be God, I have it in my power to
prove my faith in you! You shall hear my story—you shall
know that of me, which no mortal at this hour knows—not
even Edward himself.

Would that be doing as you would be done by?

She hesitated.

How dare you put yourself so much in my power?

Do I not know you? Have I not tried you as never man
was tried before? Why Sir, the very questions you put prove
you to be trustworthy. And where is the woman who would
refuse to put faith in such as you, if she were in sorrow?
Do I not see that your knowledge of the human heart is employed—her
manner grew very impressive—not for evil but
for good?—

At any other time, at any other place I could have wept
for joy, to hear this beautiful woman speak so to a man that
loved her.

Why, when I have it in my power to add to that knowledge,
why refuse to add to it, especially when there is no other
proof in the world for me to give, no other sign of my
gratitude, of my great faith in your integrity—I never mean
to see you more—

I was thunderstruck at this, though prepared to say the very
same thing to her.

You have been to me all that a brother could have been—
or a father. To you I owe more than my life—much more—
I owe his life, and the hope that I shall see him rescued by
you and restored to me. To you I owe it sir, that now—
now while I speak to you, I am not altogether a reproach to
womanhood. Sir—sir—what I say to you is perfectly true.
It was you that saved me—you that restored me. But for you,
I should have been a self-murderess—you gave me—

I would have interrupted her, but she filled me with such
fear, that I could not.

—You gave me hope, though you were a stranger. You
trusted me, though I had never seen your face before. You
were faithful to your charge, and have been so up to this
hour, though I betrayed mine before I slept—

Forbear, I beseech you.

No sir, no! I shall not forbear. It is high time you knew
the nature of the obligations I owe you. I would have you
know the whole—every thing; I would have you know that
which I would have nobody else on earth know. Nay, nay,
are you not an author? And why should I not unveil before
you as I would before a statuary or a painter? You are to be
trusted—you appear to be a good man—you draw from the
heart, and why should you not draw from life? And where
would be the reproach, if I were to become a study for
you—

For God's sake madam; do not talk to me in this way!
I know not whether you are serious or not, nor whether you
are mocking me or not.

I believe you, though it goes hard with me to believe that
you could so misapprehend the nature of a woman, who never
mocked at any body nor any thing in her life. But hear
me—hear my story. That shall be my answer to your remark.

I bowed—