University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

“I then went to look for poor Mary. She was
alone; her eyes red, her cheek flushed, her countenance
full of excitement. As I entered, she
brushed away her tears, and tried to assume an
air of playful gayety.

“`Mary,' said I, `will you walk with me?'

“`Certainly; but where, and why?'

“`Where, is a matter of no importance; why,
is what I want to tell you.'

“But I forget myself,” said Balcombe, stopping
short. “Before I go on with my story, I should
ask you, how much of reputation remains to this
poor girl?”

“Of reputation! none. Her fall has been complete
and notorious. Montague's motives for the
concealment of his pretended purpose of marriage,
ceased on my grandfather's death. He then threw
off the mask to her, though he would have been
glad enough to keep the real truth concealed from

the world. This he might have done, for their
intercourse proved unfruitful; but when she saw
the whole truth, the fierceness of her long-smothered
passions drove her into a phrensy of despair,
which changed suspicion into certainty. But go
on; I will take up the tale, when you get through,
and tell you all. Indeed, I have no doubt that I
shall understand my own story better, when I
have heard yours. You have already placed it in
a new light, by the view you have given me of her
character. It puts quite another face on her subsequent
history.”

“What! I suppose her conduct, under the influence
of self-reproach and wounded pride, and the
self-abandonment of conscious degradation, has
been mistaken for a total want of delicacy. She
is not a fallen angel, but a born devil. Is it so?”

“Exactly. But go on.”

“Poor girl! poor girl!” said he; “who, that
knew you, can wonder that your native generosity,
and cherished love of virtue and good fame, should
drive you to desperation, when both were lost?
The Spartan boy could suffer in silence, while the
fox was preying on his vitals. But the fox's tooth
is not tipped with fire, like the stings of conscience
to a mind like Mary Scott's. I heard the first
shriek they wrung from her; I never shall forget
it; it told all; and that at a moment when the art
of one hardened in guilt, and practised in self-command,
might have recovered her power over me,
and made me her husband. You shall hear. We

went out, and I drew her arm within mine. I
conducted her towards the garden of the family
mansion, abounding in shady walks, bowers, and
grass plats, without speaking.

“`Why do you bring me here, George?' said
she; `and what do you wish to say to me?'

“`That which I was unwilling to say, until we
had reached a spot where any start of emotion
might be unseen by others.'

“`You alarm me,' said she. `For the love of
Heaven! what do you mean?'

“`I did mean,' said I, `to ask a question which
your tears have too plainly answered. I meant
to ask if a time was appointed for your marriage.'

“`That is a most extraordinary question,' said
she, stopping short and letting go my arm. I did
not think it so myself, for I had tried to familiarize
myself with the subject by frequently adverting to
it. My allusions had never before been unwelcome,
and you may judge my surprise, when, after
disengaging herself, she stepped back, and looked
up in my face, pale, trembling, and with eyes starting
from their sockets with a searching eagerness
of expression that seemed to pierce my inmost
soul. She seemed on the point of falling. I took
her hand, and led her to a shaded turf seat on a
plat of grass. For a few minutes she rested her
bowed head upon her hands, and shook convulsively.
I thought she was weeping, but heard no
sob. When at length she raised her head, her
eyes were tearless. The paleness of her face was

rendered more striking by one crimson spot on
her left cheek, and her eager gaze had subsided
into a stony glare.

“I now placed myself on the step of her seat, took
her hand, moulded her cold fingers in my own,
kissed them, and tried, by all admissible blandishments
and tenderness of murmured tones, to sooth
her. At length she seemed restored to consciousness.
Her eye, withdrawn from its gaze on vacancy,
looked down kindly on me; a tear suffused
it, gathered to a drop and fell on her hand. Then
came a start, a burning blush, a shudder, and she
was calm again.

“`Mary,' said I, `when, knowing my feelings,
you made me the depositary of the secret of your
love for Montague, you gave me a right to all your
confidence. Have I ever forfeited it?'

“Her eye now turned full upon me with an
expression of the most confiding tenderness.

“`No, George, no!' said she; `in all things you
have shown yourself such a friend, as no man can
be whose friendship does not deserve a better
return than it was mine to make. A better than—'
Again her cheek burned like fire; her voice choked
in her swelling throat, and in a moment more she
was ashy pale, but calm and attentive.

“`I will not repeat my question,' said I; `it is
answered. No time is fixed for your marriage.
And why, Mary? Surely the delay cannot proceed
from you. You are no spoiled child of affluence,
to refuse to share the lot of the man of your

heart, however humble. I mistake you much, if
the enjoyment of the wealth which Montague will
one day probably acquire, would be so sweet to
you as the pleasure of cheering and aiding his exertions.
That you love him, I have such proof as
self-love will suffer no man to doubt; nor can he
doubt it.'

“`He doubt my love!' said she, wildly; `oh God!
oh God! No, never! never!' added she, with a
deep sigh, `never can he doubt it.'

“`The obstacle, then, to your union, is suggested
by him. Tell me, then, Mary—you have no brother—tell
me, as to a brother—to one who loves
you with more than a brother's love—what is the
reason he assigns for delaying your nuptials?'

“`I will tell you,' said she; `though perhaps I
am rather betraying his confidence than giving my
own. He has large expectations under a will of
Mr. Raby, now in his custody. The old gentleman
has other views for him; and he fears to offend
his patrician pride by marrying his overseer's
daughter. But the old man is frail, and he thinks
it may not be long before he is master of his own
destiny. He proposes, therefore, to wait one year,
if Mr. Raby should live so long; after that, he
says he will take his own course.'

“`When did he tell you this?'

“`Not an hour ago.'

“`Since your return from the arbour, or while
there?'

“She sprang to her feet, again gazed on me with

the same wild eager look that my first question hang
excited; but recovered herself, and sank down on
the step where I had been sitting, while her countenance
assumed the expression of one prepared to
hear the worst. I went on:

“`I, too, have just had a conversation with
Montague. I felt it my duty, as your friend, to
demand one, after what I witnessed this morning.'

“`After what you witnessed!' screamed she
wildly; `what did you witness?—what did you
witness?'

“Again she covered her face with her hands.

“`I witnessed freedoms,' said I, `which, if not
preceded by marriage, should be quickly followed
by it.'

“A wild scream interrupted me, but I continued,
`I saw you as you issued from the arbour. I saw
him take his lips from your's. His arm was
around your waist; and, Mary, to speak out
plainly, I saw him withdraw his hand from your
bosom.'

“I ceased, and she remained for five minutes
with her face buried in her hands. When she
looked up, a bright glow was on her cheek, differing
not more from the marble paleness it succeeded,
than from the burning blush I had witnessed before.
Her eye had recovered its brightness, and her
whole face was radiant with beauty. Her lip,
though she smiled not, was no longer that of one
who had forgotten how to smile. In short, I
ought to have discovered that she was relieved by

finding that I had seen no more. But I was
finding, or saw nothing but her transcendent
beauty. While I gazed on her, she suddenly
looked at me, as if trying to recollect something;
and, after a moment, fixing her eye on me with all
the fierceness of a woman's rage, exclaimed,
'What means this, sir? How have you dared to
pry into my feelings—to count the pulse of my
heart, and watch its workings?' She suddenly
checked herself; looked up and down, and around,
with a bewildered look; again hid her face, and,
after a moment, recovered herself, and said, `Forgive
me, George. Go on.' Here again she betrayed
herself by her obvious fear that she had
done so. At this time it appears to me strange
how I could have been deceived. But I was not
then as I am now. Besides, I had been more in
love than I was aware of; and the breath of hope,
rising in a moment when my sympathy had been
so strongly excited, and just when her beauty had
blazed out so intensely, had kindled the stifled fire
in my bosom into a maddening flame. `My eyes
were holden that I could not see.' I accordingly
went on:

“`I asked Montague,' said I, `the question I
asked you, and he gave me the same answer.
That answer, Mary, makes it my duty to undeceive
you. You are deceived. His tale is false.
There is no such bequest in that will.'

She started as if stung by a scorpion, and with
a face glowing with indignation, said, `This to me,

sir! This to the betrothed wife of Edward Montague!
Why this, indeed, is manly, as well as
kind and generous. But methinks, sir, it might
have been more manly to give the lie to his beard,
than to insult with it a defenceless woman.'

“`Your indignation becomes you, Mary; and
your reproach would be just, were the fact as you
suppose. But I did give him the lie to his beard.'

“`And you live to tell it, and to me!'

“`I live to tell it, and to you, my poor girl. I
convicted him of falsehood, on his own showing,
and he fled from before my face like a guilty
thing.'

“`Fled! Whither?'

“`To hide his shame. He is gone, as I hope
never to return.'

“She made no answer, but sat with a look of
perplexity and amazement, but devoid of the alarm
and horror which her countenance had displayed
before. I resumed my place at her feet, again
took her hand, and moulded and chafed it between
mine for some minutes. At length I said: `I do
not ask you, Mary, to believe what I have said on
my bare word, though when you doubt that you
will believe nothing but your own senses; but you
shall have the evidence of them. I will dog Montague
through the world, and make him give me,
under his own hand, an acknowledgment of the
truth of what I have told you. And when I bring
that, Mary, I will not ask you to give me the hand

which he has forfeited; for I know, that, without
your heart, you will never give it, nor without
your heart will I ever receive it. But though I
will not ask this, let me say frankly, that I shall
no longer be withheld by delicacy from endeavouring
to awaken in your bosom the same sentiments
which animate mine. Should I fail, I will
endeavour not to annoy you by a long continuance
of unacceptable assiduities. Should I succeed, it
will then be my pride and delight as my duty, to
make you forget this villain in the devoted affection
of an honourable husband.'

“When I first began to speak she hardly seemed
to hear me. As I went on, her attention was
gradually aroused, and she fixed her large eyes
upon me, which dilated as she gazed till they
looked like moons. As I uttered the last words, a
movement like spasm passed across her face; she
sprung to her feet, exclaiming, `An honourable
husband! and FOR ME!' and with a wild, unearthly
shriek; and tossing her hands on high, she clasped
and wrung them above her head, and fell on her
face on the grass. I tried to raise her, but she
forced herself by convulsive tossings from my
grasp, obstinately burying her face in the high
grass.

“In this position she lay, uttering, at short intervals,
the same fearful shriek. Then she became
calmer, and spoke in snatches, `Honourable!
honourable! and for me! Husband! Honourable

husband! and for me! Oh, too late! too
late! Oh, to recall but yesterday! But this
day! this day! It has swallowed up all my yesterdays!
All! all! All time past! all time to
come! All but eternity!”'