University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

It was midnight, but Florence Marbois did not
sleep. She sat beside the window, looking forth
upon the various shadows of the night and forest.
The scene was unspeakably sweet and soft, but it
was also sad and mysterious. A faint murmur, like
the distant moanings of a spirit at watch over the
desolate abodes of youth and happiness, came to her
ears through the subdued silence hanging over the
scene. The shadows drooped, as if in kindred affliction,
beneath the grave and brooding starlight. The
gray cypresses rose up like spectres amidst the green
foliage that grew thickly along the edges of the
swamp, and looming forward in the dewy haze of
midnight, seemed to harmonize with the melancholy
aspects of the region. Nor was the voice of the
water, as it rose from a brooklet that gurgled under
the upbulging roots of a tree which it had partially
detached from its foothold, without a fitting tone of
sadness for the scene. The heart of Florence felt
the mysterious sympathies accorded by the unintelligent
nature at her feet. Her head rested upon her

palms as she looked forth and listened—her eyes, as
if satisfied, strove not to pierce the dense maze of
forest all around her; and while her lips murmured
a complaint of solitude, such as seemed to be the
burden of all voices, her cheeks were glistening with
those holy dews which such beauty as hers—had
she been still alive to social vanities—should not
have regretted, since they served to crown beauty
with the more prevailing charm of sweetness, and
consecrate to love the very sorrows in which their
origin is found. The heart of Florence was softened,
but not at ease. Tears had brought relief—a
brief respite from the gnawing discontent which
preyed upon her heart—but not a cure—not a remedy.
If she felt more at ease, it was the ease of
one who has just drank the soothing draught, and
can only find relief while under its influence. Fancies,
which are sometimes hopes disguised, the ephemeras
of the soul, had been with her in momentary visitation;
and, though vague, unstable, and illusive, they
had at least diverted the grief which might else have
overborne. True, they fly at last, but so do the
angels; and who would refuse the blessing of the
visit, in which the very air blossoms through which
they come, because of the conviction that they must
fly with the morning? The heart that has been full
of sorrow, should be the last to speculate upon the
always unprofitable future.

Unfortunately, the hopes of Florence had not been
wise, hopes, for they had not been good ones. She
loved unworthily—she had sinned—she lacked the
securities of virtue, and had no confidence in that of
others. Her hopes, based upon the probable truth of
her lover, were idly founded. They were made to
rest upon his tastes, his passions, her own powers of
pleasing, her frail and fading charms, and her undisguised
attachment for him. They had not been

placed where, to be secure, all affections must be
placed; upon her own just claims to respect, and
upon the inflexible principles of truth in the man to
whom her affections had been given. He had
raised his hand in defiance to society, in the rigid
exercise of whose laws the only security of woman
may be found; and her appeal for justice now lay
to his passions and caprices alone—to passions
which constant provocation made active and imperious—to
caprices that fluctuated with an appetite
more peevish with every indulgence, and more
recklessly resolved with every denial. But Florence
Marbois was a creature of impulses, not of thought;
and if there were moments in which she estimated
correctly her miserable condition of dependence,
such thoughts were soon driven away as intruders,
by the gentle accent, the kindly solicitude—not often
shown in the latter days of her heart's history—
which the pity of her betrayer vouchsafed to bestow,
in return for that increasing homage and devoted
love—shown even in its most jealous phrensies—
which she had never ceased to feel for him from the
first hour of their ill-appointed union.

And, sitting beside the window of that rude hovel,
alone, in the deep mazes of an uncultivated forest—
the savage almost at her side—a band of outlaws at
her feet—midnight gathering, vague, wild, indistinct
and mysterious around her:—the playmates of youth
—the friends of maturity—the social and kindly
world in which she had lived—all banished from her
sight—all lost, and, probably, lost for ever:—still she
thought of no privation—she knew of no loss—she
dreamed of no evil—no danger—nothing to make
her doubt—nothing to make her dread—she thought
only of him! Where was he? When would he
come? Was he still true? Did he still love her as
before? Could she have found a grateful answer

to these questions, her heart might have been pacified.
She would have asked no other questions—no
other fortune from the hands of Fate. Such is love
—that thing of greatest dependence—of greatest
strength and weakness. Strong above all powers
for endurance—weak beyond all moral supports,
when it knows not where to confide, and cannot
command the sympathy which it ever seeks, and
without which it is little better than a flower cast
upon the unreturning waters, and borne with feeble
struggles to the wide ocean, where it is swallowed
up. Strong, vigorous, climbing, triumphant, and
beautiful, like the vine, when the gigantic tree suffers
its embraces; but wretched, sinking, and perishing,
prostrate upon the earth, when, throwing out its
tendril-arms for the support to which it was destined,
and without which it cannot live, it grasps only the
unsubstantial air; and perishes at last in feeble despondency
upon the damp and noisome ground from
which it has ever sought to rise. In the cold world
how many affections spread forth their arms, seeking,
but in vain, to clasp themselves around the rugged
nature which they would adorn and beautify—failing
in this, that perish upon the spot which gave
them birth but denied them sustenance—putting forth
no fruits, bearing no flowers, yet beautiful while they
lived—so beautiful in promise, that the heart cannot
help but weep, for its own sake, that they were denied
all fruition.

The tears were yet on the cheeks of Florence
when Saxon entered the apartment. He entered it
unobserved. Her face was yet turned upon the
forest—her thoughts were far distant; and in the
absence of her thoughts, her present senses had become
obtuse, or heedless of their duty. He strode
firmly, but not heavily, over the room, but she heard
him not. He stood almost immediately behind her,

and still she turned not. He stood awhile surveying
her in silence. Many and changing thoughts seemed
passing through his mind. His brow darkened for
an instant—his hand was lifted in the same time,
and seemed searching in his bosom, while a glance
of savage ferocity lightened in his eye. At that
moment a deep sigh escaped from her lips, and the
expression passed from his face, his hand was withdrawn
from his bosom, and, placing it upon her
shoulder, he pronounced her name. She turned,
almost with a scream—an exclamation which had
in it as much delight as surprise—and, rising from
her seat, threw herself into his arms with all the
abandonment of joy.

“Oh, Edward, dear Edward,—it is you—you are
come,—you are come at last, and I am so happy.
But you have been gone so long,—so very long,
Edward, that I feared you had forgotten me—that
you had deserted me for ever, and my heart sank
within me, and I have been so miserable that I
wished myself dead a thousand times—indeed, I
did—for it seemed to me far better to be dead and
cease to feel than to have such miserable feelings as
have filled my heart. But you are come now—you
will now stay with me a long time, and I shall be so
happy.”

While the poor heart-dependent hung upon the
bosom of the outlaw, and poured forth these words
in a stream that lacked emphasis as it lacked obstruction—for
the sentences which she so rapidly
uttered were spoken without the cessation of the
smallest pauses—his looks were cold, his eye was
aimless, his whole air and manner were those of a
man who could no longer be moved by any thing that
she might say. His head was thrown back to avoid
the flowing tresses of her hair which brushed his
face, and his arms made a slight movement to put

her from him. This she felt—this she resisted, and
clung to him with a firmer hold than before.

“Do not push me from you, Edward—not yet—
not awhile,—let me cling to you only a little
longer. I have thought upon this dear embrace,
and wept and prayed for it so long that you must
not deny it to me now. Yet I will not worry and
vex you with it. I know you have grown colder
and harsher than you were—that you are not so
fond as you used to be when we first came to the
woods. I feel that—I know it; forgive me that I
press it upon you—but remember I am a woman,
and believe me that I love you, oh, Edward, as
warmly as ever, in spite of all the changes which I
cannot but see in you.”

“It may be so, Florence—it may be so,” replied
the other coldly.

“It may be so, Edward—may be so? Can you
doubt it—can you think otherwise for a single moment?
Have you not seen it in all my looks—have
you not felt it in all my actions—from the first to
the last—from that sweet,—perhaps, most unhappy
hour, when I believed all your assurances of love,
and gave you, oh, how entirely! all of mine—even
to this, when you speak as if you believed me not,
and look, as if you are indifferent whether it is truth
or not which I speak? Do not force me to think
this, dear Edward—do not, I implore you,—unless
you seek to discard me—to crush me quite—to
trample me for ever in the dust. I can bear the
world's scorn—nay, I do not see—I do not feel it.
I can bear any thing—all things,—denial, privation
—banishment from friends and family,—burial in
these swamps—any thing but the conviction that
he, for whose sake I am thus desolate—thus dependant—now
makes light of the sacrifice, and takes
from me, all at once, that love which I found more

than a recompense for every loss. Turn not from
me, Edward—speak not,—look not so again upon
me, for in truth, I am very, very wretched—I know
not well why, unless it is that I see so little of you.
And unless you smile upon me—unless you are willing
to let me love you when you come to me—I
would rather far that I were dead—I would rather
far that you would kill me with a sudden blow and
end all my sufferings at once. The pang of the
blow, even from your hands, given in your anger,
would not be half so great a pang as that which I
should suffer without mitigation and without cure,
could I feel that you were indifferent to my love.”

The imploring solicitude of this speech—the tender
accents—all failed to move the now cold heart
of the outlaw. He suffered her hand to rest upon
his arm—but his eyes turned away from the large,
tear-filled orbs that implored more eloquently for
his love, than any of her accents. He had not yet
attained that recklessness of spirit and of conscience
which could enable him to meet without shrinking,
the glance of her, whom he was not unwilling to
destroy.

“Florence,” he replied,—“either I have, or I
have not, to go elsewhere, and be absent from you
long. If such be the necessity, you have no reason
to complain of me; and if there be no such necessity,
then there is no policy in your complaint. Indeed,
you will only drive me away from you by
such complainings. I hate such scenes.”

“Edward,” returned the other, reproachfully.

He proceeded with an air of dogged determination,
to push his new-formed resolution to the utmost.

“The best regards in the world may become oppressive.
There is a season for love as for other
things. When a man has reached the age of thirty,

life has other businesses besides love. It is surprising
that you have not discovered this truth before—
that you should need now to be informed, that, even
with the most pliable men, there are certain moods
and dispositions of the mind when love is an intruder,
and the embrace of the most lovely woman,
an annoyance. I do not profess to be of more tender
stuff than other people, and I confess to you
that I hate very much to be continually excruciated!”

And this was the end of passion! Of a passion
that had seemed more like phrensy than feeling—
more like the outporuings of a heart convulsed by
its emotions into madness, than the ebullitions of human
hopes, fears and fancies. And this was the
man who had persuaded Florence Marbois to give
up all—hope, honour, society—friends and family,
and fly with him into the wilderness—to share with
him his shame and guilt, his exposure and isolation.
Verily, there is no sting—no sorrow—greater than
the wrong of the beloved one—the desertion of him
in whom we had put our bosom's trust!

This was the first time that the unhappy Florence
had ever been compelled to listen to language so unequivocal
from the lips of her betrayer. It has been
said already that, up to the present moment, a sense
of pity, rather than of justice, had prevented the
outlaw from showing the indifference which he felt.
Hitherto, he had made an effort to exhibit a fondness
which he had long since ceased to feel. A new
passion for another, made him anxious to cast off a
connexion which had become an encumbrance; and
the desire which had almost moved him to the commission
of a more brutal, if not a worse crime than
that of his first wrong to the unhappy woman—if insufficient
as yet to reconcile him to her murder—was
quite active enough to render him unscrupulous to

the open declaration of those true feelings which he
had only successfully disguised, because of her unwillingness
to behold and to believe them. His
tones and language now, no longer to be mistaken,
were instantaneous in their effects. She started from
his side—her hand shrunk from the arm which it had
grasped, as if there had been danger in the contact,
and she retreated for a few paces, then stood with
arms drooping at her side, and her head slightly bent
towards him. Her eyes, no longer suffused, became,
on a sudden, keen, arid and burning. They shot forth
an intense glare—an expression of mingled consternation
and inquiry; and, when they encountered
only the cold inflexible gaze of one from whom all
motives to farther deception were removed—who
now, perhaps, rather sought an occasion to declare
the indifference which a better feeling had once made
him studious to conceal—it was then that they became
fixed, as it were, with a death-like distension
of orb, such as betokens the first bound to madness
of an oppressed brain and overpowered reason. A
brief space of time elapsed, in which she preserved
this posture without speaking. Her intensity of
stare was painful to the outlaw, even if he no longer
felt it to be reproachful; and he advanced, speaking
as he did so, towards his unhappy victim.

“Come, come, Florence, I must not suffer this.
These arts must no longer be practised upon me.
Let us understand each other. Let us put an end to
these follies. We have both of us lived too long in
the world, not to feel the wear and tear of such passions
as these; and the impolicy of indulging them
should be known to all who have discovered, as I
have long since done, that our affections and sympathies,
to be grateful and worth preserving, must
not be suffered to become tyrannies. Do you understand
me, Florence?”

He approached her as he spoke—he made a show
of taking her hand, but she retreated, drawing her
arms behind her as she did so, but preserving, at the
same time, the same searching scrutiny of gaze
which he had found so painfully oppressive.

“No! no! no!” she exclaimed, mutteringly, a
moment after. “It cannot be. It was a dream. I
could have heard no such accents from his lips. It
cannot be that I am reserved for so dreadful a
punishment. I know that I have done wrong—that
I am guilty before man—guilty in the sight of heaven—but
oh! not to him! He cannot have spoken
thus—I will not—dare not—believe it!”

She paused, her eye still followed his, and, unwilling
to endure its expression, he turned away to the
window she had left. A new resolve entered her
mind—she darted rapidly towards him—caught his
wrist with a nervous grasp, and spoke in clear, soft,
untremulous accents—

“Edward—Edward Saxon—what was it that you
said to me but now—not a minute since?—Speak!
—Speak aloud—let me hear your words again, for
I feel that I have not clearly understood them—I
hear badly, Edward, of late, and, unless the words
are spoken very distinctly, I am very apt to misunderstand
them.”

“Florence, why do you annoy me in this way
when I come to see you? You know that I hate
these wild passions. These tumults that produce
no good, and are without any necessity. They trouble—they
oppress me—nay, more, I confess the
truth to you—they make me exceedingly reluctant
to approach you.”

“It is true! It is all true!—my ears did not deceive
me—I heard it all—all!” she exclaimed,
breathing deeply, after several protracted moments
in which her bosom seemed not to heave—her lips

gave forth not the slightest respiration. Her eyes
were fixed upon him with a gaze of mingled horror
and surprise, and, more than once, as she gazed, her
hands were passed over her brows, as if striving to put
aside some obscuring tresses, which were yet not in
the way. Well might she doubt her sight, when she
could no longer withstand the evidence of her other
senses. The now desolate and abandoned woman—
abandoned by the man for whom she had long since
abandoned virtue—had still a hope that there might
be some smile on the lips of the speaker—some expression
in his eyes, softening, subduing, qualifying,
disarming the deadly accents which had reached her
from his lips. But no! In his cold, calm features,
she beheld most truly the hopelessness of her heart.
She saw that she was for ever banished from those
affections, in which she deemed herself secure. The
veil, with which pity had striven for awhile to hide
from the eyes of passion, the fatal truth, that love had
for ever gone from the shrine where he had been
worshipped, was ruthlessly torn away; and the
mocking spectre alone remained, to grin over the
devotee, who had for so long a season bent before
its unholy and delusive features. The sin which
had assumed the aspects of a power the most
commanding of all others in the heart of woman,
having secured its victim, beyond recall or recovery,
no longer cared to preserve its disguises, and she
stood alone in the presence of the tempter, his veil
uplifted, his scorn openly declared.

Florence Marbois, weak though she had been at
first, and easy, like all her sex, to be overcome where
she loved and believed herself to be beloved, had
yet her strength; and the strength of woman, defrauded
of her hope, and despised in her affections,
is no less immeasurable than fearful. The cold
composure of the outlaw's glance moved her indignation,

and a bitter smile of equal scorn flushed the
face that a moment before had been of a deadly
whiteness.

“I thank you, Edward Saxon—I thank you.
Cruel as the truth is which you have at last spoken,
it is some consolation that it is the truth. You have
deceived me for a long time; and in this practice
my own blind attachment has made the toil of artifice
an easy one. But your looks tell me more than
your language; and there are other truths, yet unspoken,
which I need not that you should declare.
Edward Saxon, you love another! I know it—I
feel it—else why should you now forego the deception,
so long continued, and which you found so easy?
Why should you teach me with such effort—so
plainly—that you had ceased to love me, when it
cost so little effort to persuade me that you did, and
when such a faith was so grateful—so essential—to
the poor heart that loved you. You are not naturally
cruel, why then be guilty of so great a cruelty?
—why open my dreaming eyes to the loss of all for
which I had lived? There could be but one reason
—but a single motive. From the moment that you
fixed your eyes upon another, the task had become
irksome of continuing those shows of love to me on
which I have fed so long. There was no absolute
need to wear a mask any longer—you had nothing
to hope, and, in the excess of your power, you, perhaps,
felt assured that there was nothing which you
had to fear. Perhaps not! Edward Saxon, you are
free. You shall hear no farther reproaches from
Florence Marbois. Devote yourself to the hapless
woman whom you have selected to fill my place.
You may never discard her—she may never suffer
my wrongs—and yet, if she is unlike me, perhaps
she may avenge them. Enough—you are free to
seek her. Though my heart withered, and my hope

died, yet, I tell you, Edward Saxon, they should do
so, sooner than I would implore you for the delay of
a single instant ere you cast yourself into her arms;
or for a single accent of reluctant love, from lips
which have been so dishonoured as yours.”

“Florence, this is a sort of madness to which
your constant jealousies have long made you liable.
They have annoyed me long enough,—they shall
annoy me no longer—and since you so boldly declare
yourself—now learn from me, that your conjecture
is true. There is another—a woman, loveliest
among the lovely—you shall see her—she shall
even dwell with you here for a season—though I say
not that she shall take your place.”

“Wherefore not say it? Think not you will offend
me farther, Edward Saxon—think not you
offend me at all. I tell you, my heart has survived
the possibility of offence at your hands. You have
wronged me too deeply to offend me. I see not
your scorn—I hear not your accents of coldness and
cruelty—they are lost in the overwhelming conviction
of the injury which you have done me. You
are a bold man, Edward Saxon,—a bold, brave, bad
man. I am but a woman—a frail, feeble, desolate,
abandoned woman—”

She paused.

“There is something more, Florence. Why do
you stop? Surely the comparison demands an inference—a
conclusion—a point. Shall it be a
sting?”

She looked on the speaker, whose contemptuous
smile showed how little he valued the feelings which
he had so deeply outraged, with a grave countenance,
expressing a singular degree of composure,
which, but for the feelings that it really served to hide,
must have been unnatural; and replied briefly—

“It may be so—bold, bad, reckless as you are, Edward

Saxon,—worthless as am I, and feeble—God
will raise me up an avenger. I may be guilty in his
sight, but it cannot be that you, to whom I owe it
all, should be suffered this double triumph over me.
There will be an hour of retribution. There must be
pangs for the betrayer as well as for the betrayed;
and I will only pray that I may live long enough to
know that you feel them.”

“The prayer of the wicked, you know,” was the
sneering reply of the outlaw. “I could preach you
a sermon from that text, Florence, were I in the
mood, which would be unctuous enough for the orthodox
in any congregation in Mississippi; but I
spare you that, and my farther presence. I must
leave you for a while. I trust to find you in a better
humour when I bring you a companion.”

“Now, may I have strength for my vengeance
against that day!” was the exclamation of the discarded
woman, as the outlaw left her; and a wild,
cruel resolution rose up in her mind, as, brooding
without sleep through the remainder of that weary
night, she thought only and ever of the woman who
was destined to take her place in the embraces of
unlawful love, as of a victim!—the last sacrifice upon
that altar of passion, on which her own virtue had
been the first.