University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

“The blindness of passion itself could not mis
understand this. The villain had pursued his object,
with unremitting assiduity, for more than two
years, (for I had spent two years there,) and had
at length found the unguarded moment in which a
woman can deny nothing to the man she loves. I
can tell you nothing of my feelings. There lay one
of the loveliest and most generous of human beings,
polluted by the vile touch which, though it reached
not her heart, had rendered all her beauties loath
some. Never, surely, had she deserved to stand
higher in my estimation than at that moment, but
contamination had reached her; the plague was
on her breath; and I shrank from her as from a
hateful reptile. Yet I awaited her recovery from
this paroxysm of despairing agony, and saw her
safe home. We entered unobserved. I left her,
returned to the hall, and immediately prepared to
leave it for ever.

“My preparations were soon made. That night
I heard she was ill. The next morning I called
to take leave of the family. She heard I was in
the house, and sent for me. I found her in bed,
pale, wan, and wasted, as by long disease. Her
features were sharpened, and she looked as if an
age of winters had passed over her. She held out
her hand to me, and sent away the servant. I
took her hand, not without shuddering, and said,

“`It is kind of you, Mary, to permit me to see
you before I go away for ever. I wished to say
farewell, and I will not say more. Nay, do not
speak. Spare yourself, my poor girl. May God
comfort and bless you!'

“She stretched out the other hand, and raised her
head as if to kiss me. I turned away.

“`Kiss me, George,' said she, `kiss me, dear
George. My lip cannot pollute you. Alas! yours
cannot take away the stain. But I feel as if the
touch of lips as pure as yours would sooth my
heart. Kiss me, dear George! this once—this
once!'

“There was no withstanding this. I turned, and
folded her in my arms, never more lovely, never
more beloved; never, in my estimation, so exalted
as then. But language has no words for the
thoughts and feelings of that moment. We wept
together, and parted for ever.”

It was now my turn to take up the story, which
I did, by telling Balcombe that poor Mary buried
herself in obscurity from the day on which he left

A rumour somehow got out that all was not
right, and she and her parents alike seemed conscious
that it was not unfounded. Dejection had
come over them all, and they avoided all explanation
of the cause. Balcombe was gone; the visits
of Montague were discontinued; and a black
shadow seemed to settle on the family.

Of all this my good old grandfather knew nothing.
He was not a man to be approached by
gossips; so Scott retained his post, and Montague
his patron's confidence. Indeed, he suffered but
little in public estimation by the affair. The idea
that he had ever presented himself as an honourable
suitor to the daughter of a man like Scott, was
never current. Those who heard of his amour
supposed that he had but opened his mouth to
catch the fruit that was ready to drop into it; and
the dejection of Mary was rather attributed to his
desertion than to the reproaches of her own conscience.
But Scott was a man of good feelings.
He perhaps never knew or suspected the whole
truth. He only saw that his daughter's peace was
destroyed, and that her dejection was immediately
consequent upon the abrupt departure of
Montague. He returned no more, and she was
never seen to smile again. She was the object on
which all the old man's affections and hopes were
centred, and his heart sunk and withered under
the affliction. He did not long survive it; and
poor Mary, with her mother and little brother,
was obliged to seek another home.

They were very poor. The boy was too small
to do more than lighten the household labours of
his mother and sister; and they must have found
it hard to live, even on a reduced scale, and in the
little cottage where they found refuge. Here
Montague was seen to renew his visits. They
were repeated monthly, and filled all the intervals
of leisure between the courts of that county and
the next. No one else visited the house, and nothing
could be inferred of his footing there, but
from the fact, that their purchases of necessaries
from the neighbouring store were larger, and their
payments more punctual. Pecuniary difficulty
did not seem to be one of their troubles, though
there was nothing of extravagance or profusion in
their expenditure.

These things were not of general notoriety
beyond the neighbourhood. In that where I
lived, and where Montague had lived, they were
not known at all. But, when I betook myself to
the task of tracing Montague, I visited all his old
haunts, and sought out all his old associates. In
the course of my investigation I learned the circumstances
I have mentioned. I made two visits to
that neighbourhood: the first before I had learned
where Montague was to be found. I then saw
Mary; but I saw nothing of the charms of which
Balcombe spoke. A black gown, carelessly put
on, disfigured her person; a close cap nearly hid
her face. She was fair, but pale and sallow; delicate,
but her features were sharp; and, though

she spoke with great propriety, she said as little
as possible. There was an air of desolation about
her that told her whole story; yet there was that
in her demeanour which bespoke sympathy and respect
for her misfortunes. I did not shock her
with the name of Montague, but I made my inquiries
of the mother, and learned from her that
they knew nothing of his whereabout, and that
Mary was anxious to discover it. When I myself
ascertained it, I called again in passing, and
gave the information.

This was just before I left Virginia. They
would then have been reduced to the most abject
poverty but for the devoted exertions of the son,
who must have been a boy some six or eight years
old when Balcombe left Virginia.

I did not see him, but understood that he was a
spirited, energetic youth, who cheerfully gave all
the fruits of his labour to promote the comfort of
his mother and sister. It seemed to be understood,
that whatever aid the family received from
Montague had ceased when he left the country, or
soon after; and that, but for the exertions of this
boy, they might have wanted bread. As it was,
they had not much more. It may be as well to
add here, that in my visits to that county I did not
make myself known. I might learn, as a stranger,
all that was to be learned, and it might be
desirable not to give any confederate of Montague's
a chance to apprize him that I was searching
for him.