University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVIII.

Do not make up your mind sir, till you hear the rest of
my story. After I knew this man, I grew tired of all other
society; I could not bear the talk of other people, nor the
amusements of other people. Yet if I know my own heart
now, and I think I do—I am old enough—it was fear that
worked upon me, not love. He was wretched—I never
knew why—but I would have laid down my life at one time
to make him happy—

You have said as much already—

Some great sorrow was eating his heart away; but he
never complained, he never spoke as if he needed sympathy,
although I could see that he was more cheerful when I was
near him, than at other times.

Indeed—

At last he began to talk with me; but for a good while I
was so frightened, I did not hear one word in fifty of what
he said—you have no idea how stupid I was—I really could
not hear him, though we sat side by side on a couch like
this—

Umph!

And yet the moment he was gone, all that he had been
saying would recur to me with such force, night after night,
as to keep me awake.

You were not in love though all this time; you are sure
of that?

When he saw this, he took pity on me—

The devil he did!

Ah, how unreasonable you are.

Very true.

You men are all pretty much alike I am afraid—

I hope not—

So do I. And after a while—I am quite sure of this too—
whatever you may think, after you have heard the whole story—after
a while, he began to love me.

Indeed—

Yes—he could sit by me as you do now, hour after hour,
without opening his mouth—

Madam—are you laughing at me?

God forbid! You are not a man to he laughed at—and he
would look at me, I have heard my father say, till the tears
stood in his eyes, when he thought nobody saw him—

As I do, thought I—I wonder she does not pop me in
there.

And then perhaps, after being very agreeable, he would
start up of a sudden—as you did about an hour ago—and
leave the house, and not show himself again for a whole
week. I desired to know why he behaved in this way;
and he told me that I was very much like somebody that he
loved, and somebody that he was in some way or other separated
from.

How did you feel when he said this?

Feel—I was very much gratified.

What a mystery you are! I never saw any body like you.

Well—after this, he began to talk in a very odd way of
sparing me; and of sparing me for the sake of another.

The scoundrel—

Sir! He was no more a scoundrel than—

Than I am, hey?

She bowed—

Proceed, I pray you.

I did not understand him; yet I saw by his look that he had
said something, which he expected me to be offended at.
Well—he went away—

Went away! You are skipping a part of the story madam—

She smiled. No no. He went away, and his last words
were—

Were they his last words madam; were they, of a truth?

You hope they were, I see plainly.

That I do!

For shame. You are happy now, said he—Oh sir! never
shall I forget his look, nor the tone of his deep rich mellow
voice, nor the dead quiet of that evening—

It ocurred to me just here, I can't say why, that my voice
had never been remarkable for depth or mellowness; but I
said nothing—I waited the issue.

—You are happy now, Maria. We were leaning side by
side, out of the window of a little rustic summer-house that
overhung the river; the weather was warm—

Ugh—

—And the stars were very thick in the smooth water.
And I perceived as he spoke a ripple just underneath my feet
as if a large rain-drop had fallen there. I looked up—not a
shadow was to be seen overhead, not a dim spot in the whole
sky. And though to be sure, I have known people weep for
joy as well as for sorrow, yet I never knew any body to weep
without knowing it, as I must have done, if the tear was
mine—You are happy now, Maria—

Was that all he said?

You are happy now, and I leave you that I may not make
you otherwise. I go away from you that the resemblance
which distracts me, may not be rendered altogether complete.

Madam—

Well—

Did he go? that's the point if you please—did he go?

He did go. But after he was gone, I grew sorrowful, peevish,
and weary of life. I spent half my days in walking where
we had walked together, and half my nights in saying over to
myself what he had been saying to me at intervals for three
months before. I began to waste away; every body saw it,
even my dear father, who could not bear me out of his sight;
and my poor mother told me my temper was a trial to her—

And yet you did not love this man.

No—if I know what love is, I did not.

Would you have married him?

No.

Very well. Proceed, if you please.

Just one year from the day of his departure—the very day
—as I stood leaning out of the window of the little summerhouse—at
the very same hour too—the sky as bright and the
river as clear, thinking of what he said when he left me,
another big rain-drop struck the water, just underneath my
feet. I was afraid to look up—for the very night before, I
had been visited with a terrible dream—I thought I saw his
spirit coming toward me with a slow step out of the shadow
of the large trees at the end of our favorite walk—afraid to
stir and almost afraid to breathe; for though I did not see him
nor hear him, I knew that he was at my side; I knew it by
the feeling of the very atmosphere about me.

Of course—nothing could be more natural. Who spoke
first?

I do not know. He was very pale and haggard—

You did look up then, hey? You did stir, you did
breathe, after all?

But his proud stern eyes were prouder than ever, sterner
than ever; there was a secret in them—I could see it
in their fiery depth.

Indeed.

I was very happy; so happy that I did not care to live
another day. The moment he spoke to me, I felt as if the
previous year of sorrow had never been, as if we
had parted in our usual way and met in our usual way.
After looking at me, as my father would have looked at me,
he drew me up to his heart, with the strength of a giant—

Well—said I—catching my breath as I spoke.

—And set his lips to my forehead—

Well—

He had never kissed me before, and I was dreadfully
frightened by his fervor—

Natural enough—but proceed, I pray you.

But I felt no joy in the kiss; for it appeared to me that his
lips were like a live coal, and the touch of his hand as it
clasped mine terrified me; I could feel every pulsation
through every part of my frame. It appeared to be all alive.

I dare say it was—

I do not regard what you say now; it may be my turn to
laugh, by and by—

I hope it may; I would give the world to see you laugh.

He told me where he had been—it was a great way off.
He told me what he had been for—it was to say farewell
to the woman of his heart—farewell to her whom he thought
me so like—

Good God! how pale you are! She appeared to be suffocating.
After a short struggle she added, in a voice that
thrilled through and through me with its counterfeit pleasantry.

He was a married man—

Had he the courage to say so?

Yes, he had been to say farewell to his wife on her deathbed.
She was in America—

In America—what was her name?

I do not know, I never asked her name. He loved her—
how could I bear to ask her name? She was now dead,
and some child—I hardly know whose or what, for when he
spoke of it, he appeared to be gasping for breath—was dead
also. When I left you Maria, said he, I meant to come back
and marry you, and then I had such magnificent dreams of
the future! I thought of recovering what I had lost, my power
and my birth-right, and of passing all my life with a woman
like her who had betrayed me, and with a boy like him that
I had lost for ever. I could not understand his speech—I
would not—for he had never spoken of marriage to me; but I
felt a sickness of the heart, a strange wayward heavy sorrow
stealing over me, as he proceeded. Such was my hope
when I left you, said he; but I cannot marry you now.

Here followed another suffocating pause—after a brief
struggle she continued—Sir!—though I never saw the time
when I would have married this man, yet now, when I heard
him say that he could not marry me, when I saw by his look
that he would not marry me, that by no possibility could we
ever be so dear to each other as we might have been--perhaps
—perhaps—but for the vow which I thought he must have
made by the bed-side of a dying wif,e or by that of a dead
child—oh sir! I cannot give you an idea of the sorrow, of the
heavy, insupportable sorrow that weighed me to the earth—

Where was your pride?

Pride sir! where all pride is, when there is no hope. I
felt as if I had no longer any business on earth; I felt as if
I had been betrothed to him all my life, as if—as if—in a
word, I forgot where I was—I forgot my father—I forgot
myself—

A figure of speech I hope! said I, quite thrown off my
guard by her provoking composure.

I love you too much to destroy you, said he. I have come
back, I hardly know why, dear Maria—bless me! you have
snapped your watch-chain—

So I have; but proceed with your story.

—I hardly know why, dear Maria—

You have a good memory—dear Maria, said I.

—Dear Maria, unless it be to say farewell to you, and
to caution you against all who appear to you like me, haughty
and reserved and wretched. We are more dangerous dear,
than the youthful or the rich, the happy, the handsome, the
brave, or the eloquent—

Fudge—

Pity and awe are more fatal to such as you, said he, than
joy, or hope, or admiration, or love—

Pho—

I could not sleep a wink that night—

Here's a break in the narrative! said I—to myself—

And I was at my father's door by peep of day, determined
to tell him every thing that had occurred—

No!

Yes—

But did you tell him?

I did—

Well—

Why! what's the matter with you! how happy you look!

God bless you, that's all! I have nothing more to say;
but—snapping my fingers—God for ever bless you!

To tell you the truth, after my head was on the pillow, I
began to have a sort of a—a sort of a misgiving just here—
touching her heart with a smile—about the behaviour of this
married man, though I acquitted him of treachery—

Of course; but what did your father say?

Not much. He was a man of few words; he merely
took me upon his knee, and giving me a most affectionate
kiss and a hearty hug, said he hoped I would oblige him so
far as to drop a line to Mr. O—, saying that he had better
keep out of the way of my father.

Which you did?

Yes, with joy, adding for a P. S. that he had better keep
out of the way of my father's daughter.

How could you! was he not still dear to you?

Very dear—but not so dear as my father's approbation.

You are a good girl, by Jove—I beg your pardon—but
what said he in reply?

Nothing—not a word.

Well—why do you stop? why turn away your face?

I stop that I may gain courage to tell you the rest; I
would have you know the whole truth.

As she spoke, the smile disappeared from about her mouth,
and her eyes filled.

About four months after this—allow me to hurry on to the
catastrophe, I pray you—I had begun to be cheerful. My
father was happy, and for a great while nothing had been
heard of Mr. O—. But one evening as I sat half asleep
in the little summer-house, which I had kept away from for a
great while, under a superstitious idea connected with the
rain-drop I spoke of, he appeared suddenly before me—
looking just as usual—just as if nothing had happened. I
spoke to him freely—I was grieved and sore, I told him, that
he should have so little regard for propriety; and I begged
him to withdraw, immediately and without noise, if he cared
a farthing for his life. When you have heard what I have
to say, said he, I shall go, and not before. I attempted to
pass him; but he stood in my way with a look which at any
other time would have subdued me. I tremble for you, said

he. You have made me a desperate man Maria—hear what
I have to say, I beseech you, if not for my sake, for your
own sake—for the sake of your father. Of my father! said
I—securing the bell-rope as I spoke—I have promised my
father to see you no more. I shall keep my word. If you
wish me to respect you—if you would not smother at once all
regard in my heart for you, leave me—do leave me! But
he would not stir a step, and as I knew that my courage
would not last long, if he persevered, I put on a gay careless
air, and shaking the bell-rope before his eyes, told him if he
did not disappear, in some way or other—up or down—I cared
not which, before I counted three, I would alarm the house.
He defied me, and was reaching out his arm toward the
bell-rope, when I saw that no time was to be lost. One—
two—three—said I—and before the words were out of my
mouth, I heard the alarm-bell pealing in my father's study.
Then sir, then for the first time, did the terrible consequences
appear to me. Oh for the love of God, sir, said I, do leave
me! for your own sake leave me!—for my sake!—for the
sake of my dear father! But no—no—he folded his arms,
and stood facing the broad avenue, which now began to rattle
with footsteps. I could forbear no longer—I fell upon
my knees—I bowed my forehead to the dust before his feet,
praying him to go away, and escape death, if it was only in
mercy to me. I know not what followed—I only know that
I saw the faces of my father, of my mother, and of two or
three of our old servants crowding up to the door with dreadful
eagerness—that I heard the voice of my father sounding
as I never heard it before--and that while I was trying to stay
his uplifted arm, a pistol went off close to my ear, and it
grew suddenly dark about me.

I heard nothing more, I saw nothing more, till I woke in
my own bed, as out of a long sweet sleep, and saw my dear

father hanging over me, and my mother, and my sister, and
a nurse all sitting about the room with their faces turned
away from the light, as if they were wearied with overwatching.
Father—dear father, said I—what ails you? what's
the matter with you? what have I done? But why tell of
the joy of my heart, when he kissed me and spoke to me
more kindly than ever, and called me his brave dear child;
why say to you that on seeing my father safe, I forgot even to
ask about poor Mr O—.

You amaze me—

But after a while I did inquire, and I had the grief to
hear that he had barely escaped with his life, that he was
yet under the care of a surgeon, and that he had received a
shot of which he would carry the mark to his grave. I wept
for him—

You weep now—

Do I—it is for myself then; for he, I have reason to believe
now, is happy, while I—O Father of Mercies!—how
much have I to endure still! how much have I had to endure
in consequence of that dreadful interview!

Her voice died away, and she appeared to be choking; but
after a short pause—a pause of unspeakable terror to me—
she drew a long breath, as if she had recovered her self-possession
by a great effort, and proceeded with her story.