University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

“Up to this time, strange as it may seem, I had
scarcely had an opportunity of speaking to Ann
alone since Howard's attentions first commenced.
I might, at any time, have taken her hand and led
her apart; but I had no excuse for doing so with
a serious face; and to be playful in any manner,
on such an occasion, was impossible. One or both
of my sisters was always present; and, as they
never rallied either of us, there was no possibility
of gliding into the subject. But now, in my new
character of pater familias, and temporary guardian,
a private interview was not only proper, but
necessary. I accordingly mastered my feelings as
well as I could, and, entering the parlour with the
letter in my hand, took hers, and asked her to accompany
me into another room. I led her to a
sofa, and before seating her folded her gently in
my arms, as I had done a thousand times, (though
not for months before,) and kissing her tenderly,
let her sink into the seat. I drew a small foot

stool that stood by, and placed myself at her
feet.

“`My dear cousin,' said I, `I have just received
a letter, the answer to which must be dictated by
you.'

“I put it into her hands; she blushed, turned
pale, trembled violently, and pressing her hand upon
her brow, seemed to make a strong effort to compose
herself. She at last succeeded so far as to
glance her eyes over the letter, and then, slowly
folding it, she returned it to me.

“`What answer shall I give, Ann?' said I.

“`You are the only judge of that,' said she.

“`True,' said I, `as far as I am concerned. But
what shall I give for you?'

“`Is it necessary to say anything on my behalf?'
said she.

“`Perhaps not. But I was so anxious to avail
myself of an opportunity to learn something of
an affair that interests me so deeply, that I had
not thought of that.'

“`What can you be desirous of knowing, William,
that I am not ready to tell you?'

“`That was spoken like yourself, Ann; but it
is long since I have heard you speak so.'

“`Long! how so? What has happened to
change my feelings towards one who has always
been to me as a brother, my only brother? And
wherein has my deportment been changed?'

“`I don't know; I cannot describe the change.
Perhaps there has been none. But for months

past there has seemed to be an impassable gulf between
us.'

“`A gulf! a gulf!' said she. `What gulf!
Who has placed a gulf between us?'

“`I don't know,' said I. `But whenever I
would approach you, I find myself intercepted by
an unseen barrier. Our thoughts no longer blend,
and the chord of sympathy, that once vibrated
from heart to heart, is severed.'

“`Is it so?' said she. `I was not aware of it.
I may no longer have your confidence, William;
but have I ever denied you mine?'

“`No, Ann; you never have. It is I that have
shrunk from asking it. But you have encouraged
me to ask whatever I wished to know, and I will
man myself to the task. What answer, then, have
you given to Howard's suit?'

“`I cannot exactly tell you; but enough to justify
him in renewing his visits.'

“`And what answer will you give?'

“She hesitated, changed colour, trembled, and
seemed to restrain her tears with great difficulty.
I continued:

“`Ann, dear Ann! if you knew how deep an
interest I take in this question, you would not
withhold the answer. Our lives from infancy
have been spent together; each, as it were, a part
of the other, `like two twin cherries growing on
one stalk,' and shall we separate now?'

“I saw her bite her lip, and her cheek flushed

a little, while her countenance assumed an expression
of slight indignation.

“`Would you urge me, then,' said she, `to accept
the hand of Howard?'

“`To accept Howard's hand!' exclaimed I;
`to place any man on earth between you and
me! Oh, Ann! who can be dearer to you than I
have been? And how could I endure that any
other should ever occupy that place in your heart
where I have lived so long; where all I know, all
I can imagine of earthly bliss is centred?'

“The fervour of my manner, I suppose, more
than my words, made her at length perceive my
meaning. She started, drew back, and gazed at
me with a countenance in which amazement and
grief contended for the mastery. The latter presently
prevailed, and exclaiming,

“`Oh, William! this from you!'

“The sluices of her heart seemed to open all at
once; and, with a look and air of utter desolation
and self-abandonment, she threw her face on the
arm of the sofa, and dissolved in a flood of tears. I
was inexpressibly shocked and amazed. I tried to
sooth her, but in vain. She wept, and wept on,
speechless from sobbing, until, exhausted, she sank
down on the sofa; and I saw, by her white lip
and glazing eye, that she had fainted. I screamed
for help, and she was carried to her room.

“I saw her no more that evening. The next
morning Jane handed me this note:—

“`What I would have said yesterday, William,

could I have found utterance, I say now. My astonishment
and grief at the ungenerous conduct of one
I had deemed faultless; at receiving insult from my
only protector, and wrong from one whose whole
life had been one act of kindness, need not be expressed
in words. But I owe it to myself and all
concerned, to insist that the subject of yesterday's
conversation shall never be resumed. I will try
to forget it, and deport myself towards you as if
that conversation had never taken place. Help
me, dear William, to forget that you have ever,
for a moment, thought of being anything but a
brother to A.N.”'

I handed this note to Balcombe, who read it
over and over again with profound attention.

“I believe,” said I, “I have told you all that
had passed, exactly as it did pass; you will then
judge my astonishment at the language of that
note.

“`For God's sake, what does this mean, Jane?'
said I.

“`You should know better than I do, William,'
said Jane, with cold severity of manner; `but I
presume Ann feels, as might have been expected,
though perhaps too keenly, your strange behaviour
yesterday. After what has passed, William, how
could you—'

“`And what has passed?' said I.

“`Why do you ask? You partly know, and
she has partly told you.'

“`There is surely some strange misunderstanding
here,' said I. `Can I see her?'

“`Not at this moment, certainly, for she keeps
her bed to-day. But I will know whether she will
think it right to afford you another interview, when
she can sit up.'

“`To afford me another interview!' said I.
`This is indeed strange. Doubtful whether it be
right that I should have an interview with one
with whom my whole life has been spent as with
a sister!'

“`A sister, William!' said Jane. `You forget
that your strange words, yesterday, have put an
end to that relation. But I will let her know of
your wish?'

“She left me, and soon returned with this pencilled
paper:

“`To what purpose, William, offer explanation
of what could not be misunderstood? To what
purpose resume a subject on which, after all that
has passed, I cannot listen with propriety, nor you
speak without offence? No, William, that subject
must never be named between us again. You are
soon to go on a distant journey; and I tell you
distinctly, that nothing but a solemn promise not
to renew it, shall induce me to leave my room until
you are gone. Don't force me to this, dear William.
It would grieve me to have my earliest and
dearest friend part from me, without receiving a
farewell which may be the last.'

“Saw you ever anything like that?” said I, as

Balcombe sat gazing at the paper with a musing
and abstracted countenance. “Dear William!
Her earliest and dearest friend! Are not those
words there? Was ever anything more affectionate,
more tender? It had been just so all the
time. And when she left her room (for of course
I gave the promise) it was still the same. She was
pale and sad, and I saw that she felt for me. In
all things else, her manner was the same as in the
days of our most cordial intimacy. She had kept
her room some days, and I was dreading the embarrassment
of our first meeting. But she dispelled
it all. She met me, indeed, with a slight
tremour; I saw her lip quiver, but her eye was
steady, and dwelt upon my face with an expression
of holy and confiding affection. She walked directly
up to me, put her arms about my neck, and
kissed me as she had always done on like occasions.
Her manner was graver and more tender; that
was all the difference. She rested her cheek, too,
a moment on my bosom, and murmured,

“`Thank you, dear William; thank you for your
promise.”'

“Was no one present?” said Balcombe.

“Oh, yes! Jane accompanied her into the room;
but that very evening she took my arm, and said,

“`Come, let me show you my confidence in your
word. Come take a walk with me.”'

“And did you go alone?”

“Yes; Jane moved as if to go with us, but Ann
stopped her.”

“And what did you talk about?”

“Of old times; of the scenes and sports of infancy
and early youth; of blended thoughts; of
mingled feelings; of united hearts. She led the
way herself. I could but listen to the soft tones
of her voice, as she poured forth her feelings in
language which showed how much her heart delighted
in such recollections.

“`Dear, dear William!' she said, in conclusion,
`my own and only brother, let it be always thus.'

“You may believe that my heart responded to
the wish. But is it not strange that while she was
thus uttering words that condemned me to despair,
I was supremely happy? It was no ordinary
pleasure; it was a delirium of bliss. I felt, as she
seemed to feel at the moment, as if all my heart
had ever coveted was mine. I responded to her
sentiments, in a like tone of chastened and refined
tenderness; our hearts overflowed in the contemplation
and actual fruition of this new scheme of
happiness; we revelled in all the luxury of perfect
sympathy and unbounded confidence; we seemed
to have found a source of enjoyment too delicate
to pall, too abounding ever to fail; our spirits rose
as we quaffed the nectared flow of thoughts, and
sentiments, and feelings, all congenial; and we
returned to the house, with faces glowing and
beaming with affection and happiness. Is it not
strange? How can it be that this, the paramount
desire of my heart, by which I know that I love

her, should be reciprocated by her without a corresponding
sentiment?”

“If your metaphysics can find an answer to
that question,” said Balcombe, “I will consent that
you shall believe that she does not love you. As
it is, I have no doubt that her union with any other
man would be more fatal to her than to you. But
I see nothing unaccountable in what you tell me.
Love, disguise it as you will, is the food that satisfies
the heart of love; and that her conduct was
the fruit of one of those strong delusions, with which
love alone can cheat us, I have no doubt. I know
something, William, of the joys of mutual passion;
but never have I experienced, nor can I conceive
a scene of more thrilling rapture, than you have
described. Such things cannot last, indeed; but
then what can? Illusions are dispelled, but realities
perish. But did you part thus?”

“Even so. I had no mind to await the arrival
of Howard; so I expedited the arrangements for
my journey, and, having despatched to Oakwood a
courteous answer to his letter, apologizing for my
unavoidable absence, I took my leave.”

“And your parting?”

“Was of the same character; marked by the
unreserved expression of tenderest affection. I
know no more, I desire no more of bliss, than to
spend my days in the interchange of such sentiments
as she avows and permits me to express.
To me they are all of love that the heart of man
can live under. She calls it sisterly affection. Be

it so. Let no other come between us, and I
content.”

Balcombe made no reply, but sat buried in profound
thought. At length he spoke musingly.

“Well managed! well managed! It shows the
hand of a master.”

“What do you mean?” said I.

“I don't exactly know, but I will know. Come,
William; to bed! to bed, and dream of happiness.
You shall not be disappointed. Good-night.”