University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

Not a wink of sleep did I get for the whole night,
after the scene I have described. I was too happy—
my heart was too full; but then, to be sure, I had no
need of sleep, I could bear to be awake now, for my
mouth was no longer parched by my breathing, nor
my blood heavy with a heaviness which no mortal
could bear, without feeling that if it continued, he
would soon have no business on earth. Ah, thought
I, as I lay hour after hour with my eyes shut and the
window curtains drawn—Ah! what a noble creature
it is! How unjust I have been! how I have wronged
her admirable heart! and how meekly she has borne
the outrage! And what if she is a little given to
coquetry, who cares? And what if she is a little
absent in her speech? And what if she does a little
overdo the character of a religious woman, that she
may keep well with society, and get rid of her two
daughters? Why should you blame her Mr. Fox?
I'sn't she a mother? Mr. Fox, and if she should ever
become your—gulp, Mr. Fox—wouldn't that be so
much the better for you Mr. Fox? Talk of her bad
faith too, toward other women! Why, what a fool
you are, Mr. Fox! and what a knave you are Mr.
Fox, when, if either of you had half an eye, you
would see that she takes a very sincere pleasure in
the society of the young and beautiful of—of—of her
own sex. And of our sex too, I should have added

at any other time, but now I was too happy. And
what if she—ah, a knock—who's there?

A boy from the ship, sir—

Well what does he want, sir?

He wants to see you—

Open the door; what do you want my lad?

Want you sir.

Me!

If you please; we're only waitin' for you; anchor's
weighed sir; fair a wind as ever blowed—

Give my compliments to captain Goff, and tell him
I have had no sleep for a week, that I can't think of
a trip to the south-sea, before I have had a nap, and
that if the wind keeps fair, I shall try to be aboard in
the course of the day.

May be you'll write as much to the cap'n—that's
rather a tough message for him, jess when the ship is
ready for sea.

D—the ship!

You'll excuse me sir, but we never hear nobody
damn the ship, and it's my private opinion sir.

You rascal! if you dare to shake your head at me,
I'll—odds bobbs! I'll beat you to death—

Ah, you're abed now, an' so I've only to say that
if you don't go aboard the boat now, you'll never go
aboard the ship—for we're tired o' waitin' for you.

Be off, you dog you!—

Very well sir—

What are you laughing at?

Your things are aboard, you know?

D—n the things!

Very well sir, good by'e sir—a pleasant voyage to
you sir; you'll find your things on the wharf.

On the wharf!

Ay sir; cap'n Goff told us to take them up with
us in the jolly-boat, and if you did'nt see proper to
be ready for this wind, to leave 'em on the wharf, and
wish you a pleasant voyage—in the wake o' the widder
Amory.

I could bear this no longer. To be jested with
about the widow Amory by the captain of a ship—
the messenger a cabin boy, was a little too bad. Out
I jumped, with a full determination to pitch the rascal
through the window; but he slipped off, and I heard
him laughing outside of the door, which he flung in
my face, and all the way down stairs. I had half a
mind to follow him in my shirt.

However—I was now out of bed, Jupiter be
praised, though but for him (the boy I mean) I should
have whiled away another hour in that place of all
places for a man half mad with love; and being up,
I had the courage to stay up, though I was never
addicted to air-baths, and to occupy a full hour in
getting my clothes on. Before I was rigged for the
day, another messenger arrived, with a note from the
dear, dear widow, calling me her dear dear friend,
and praying me to give her a call about five, and to
bring with me some book, to justify me for calling at
such an hour of the day.

Ah, ha! said I to myself, now we are coming to it;
our widow is in the trap, the very trap she laid for
us! now query, whether to give her a little trout
play before we let her feel the hook or not? So
much for perseverance—faint heart never won fair
lady—d—n the ship!

As the clock struck five, on that memorable day—

the happiest day of my life, the knocker sounded
with a double rap (such as the postmen of England
give) at No. — Broadway; and the next moment I
was on a sofa by the side of the beautiful widow. I
have sent for you, said she, that I may explain to you
the cause of what you saw here last evening. The
truth is—heigho—and here she faltered, and some
how or other, I got hold of her hand again—it was
like a live bird in my grasp—and in short I was very
happy, so happy I declare, that if she had proposed
to pledge me in a glass of laudanum, I would have
pledged her, and gone to sleep forever at her side.
What I say will appear strange I know, but I cannot
help it. I say nothing but the truth. Most men
would not like to die at such a time, I dare say; but
as for me—I did not care half so much for life as
for companionship—everlasting companionship. My
doubts were gone—she loved me, even as I loved her,
and though she did not actually promise marriage, I
knew by the brilliant moisture in her eyes, and by
the swelling of her heart, and by the changes of color,
that I should prevail one day or other; and so, as I
have said before, I was happy.

Well—before we parted, she told me the story of
the Indian girl. It wore another shape now; she had
been so well educated as to be able to teach in a sort
of missionary-school; her mother was only a half
breed, her father a white man, so that she had
little or no impure blood in her veins. Middleton
had met with her first in the neighbourhood of a
plantation that his father had on the very outskirts of
Georgia. He fell in love with her and she with him,
and so they were separated. His father sent him to

college, and her mother took her into the wilderness,
where she taught her to avoid the pale man. But the
boy grew tired of the north, and after many years,
they met again at a lodge in the creek territory, and
there, the mother being dead and the father away,
the boy and the girl were married—he with no
thought of treachery, for he loved her; she in the
deep seriousness of Indian faith. After they had
been married a few weeks, a missionary fell in the
way of the poor bride while her young husband was
out in search of his father, and persuaded her that
she was living as the bad women of Scripture lived
ages and ages ago, as the pure of heart and proud of
soul should not live. The Indian wife grew sorrowful,
and having satisfied herself that by the law of
the young white man's tribe she was not a wife, she
met him on his way back, and before she would suffer
him to lay his mouth to her forehead, being so taught
by the missionary at her elbow, she demanded of her
boy-husband to be acknowledged by the law of his
tribe, even as he had been acknowledged by the law
of her tribe. At any other time, it may be, for the
boy loved her so much that he grew serious—it may
be that he would have done all that she prayed for—
but now—now, while the prompter stood at her elbow,
and appeared to glory in the power of the church,
the boy said no. A week passed over, and still he
said no—another week, and he and his wife were
apart forever, he mad with jealousy, she stung to the
heart, believing the boy to be even what the missionary
told her he was, a betrayer. But she was a proud
girl and her spirit awoke when the boy deserted her;
and she prayed the missionary to tell her how she
might be worthy, as worthy as the proud white women
were, of such love as the proud white men bore
toward such as they made their wives by the law.
He told her how to be what the white women are, he
educated her, and his wife trained her to the church,
and they took her away to the sea shore—such is
her story.

But he deceived her, and deceived her at a time
when she needed all the consolation of hope and
faith and charity, for she was beathing the very air
that her husband breathed, and hearing every day
that he was leading a life which would separate them
forever. She inquired of the church, and they told
her with their hands on the bible and with tears in
their eyes, that if she could not reclaim the boy to
the path of truth, virtue, or in other words to the
true faith, he would be miserable, and she happy, in
their future life, that both would be apart, forever and
ever. I will save him! said she—I will save him,
or—and she stopped, and her voice died away, and she
spoke not another word until the interview was
arranged that I saw by the river side.

But who was that other female with her?

I do not know—I never saw her face till she flung
aside her veil and stood before him with outstretched
arms.

What!—was not she that came forward, that pale,
slender creature, the Indian wife you are speaking of?

No, indeed—she was a stranger to me; I never saw
her before.

Indeed!—there is some mystery about this matter;

I should like to have some talk with Mr. Middleton
about her.

Not for for your life, my dear friend—I am sure he
did not see her, and even I, intimate as we are, would
not mention the subject to him for the world.

After a little further conversation, I found that the
interview was planned by the dear creature at my elbow,
the very woman that we had so cruelly judged
the night before. Upon my word, when I thought of
the conversation that Gage and I held together about
her, and of the dreadful misgiving I had—when I
saw her studying the eyes of Middleton, I was ready to
go down on my knees before her, and bury my head
in her lap and—beg her pardon. However, to make
all sure, I said to her as I got up to go—

My dear Laura—

Well Peter! said she.

Peter!—Oh that unfortunate name of mine! I have
kept it back as long as I could—it has been the death
of me.

I wish I knew exactly what your feelings are toward
that young man—

Gerard Middleton, you mean. Oh, I look upon
him as a sort of child—poor fellow! he has very few
friends in this part of the world, very few, and he regards
me in the light of a mother—

Indeed!

Oh, yes! I often speak of my three children; the
truth is, I love the poor boy very much.

And I love you the more! cried I, for having the
courage to tell me so.

I cannot give him up.—You'll not require that?

Give him up! No indeed—poor fellow, I pity him
as much as you do, and for your sake I will do any
thing to serve him.

Do you love me, Peter?

God! how I do love you! said I, and then I kissed
her mouth and her eyes, with a feeling of such pure
and innocent joy, as I know it is not in the nature of
a bad man to feel. Laura—I added—Laura! look at
me, I beseech you, while I say that I have such confidence
in you, that if you were my wife—

Her head fell on my shoulder... heigho!

—My wife, dear, and I had to go to the ends of the
earth, I should leave you with such a fixed faith in
your loyalty, that nothing would be able to raise a
doubt or a fear in my mind, save the avowal of unworthiness
from your own lips.

She wept; I could feel the tears trickle over my
hand.

If it should be so, if you should ever be my wife,
you shall not have to reproach me with a lack of confidence
in you—for if there be truth in the heart of
man, love, I would trust you any where on earth—

And well you might!

—With any body on earth...

Here she kissed me, and my heart threw a somerset.

Ay, and strange as it may look to you, were you
my wife now, now while I speak to you, I would give
you up to another man, if I saw that I could not make
you happy, and that that he could, or if I knew
that you loved him better than you loved me.

Ah! smiling through her tears, and shaking her
head—ah my dear, dear Peter.

I could do so, Laura, for I have done so.

I believe you; and here she kissed me and clung to
me, as if—ah!—as if we had loved each other, and
each other alone, up from our very childhood.

But enough—enough—the catastrophe drew near,
and I—I could neither eat nor sleep for joy; I passed
half my time with her. I saw her every day of my
life—and every day I loved her more and more; I
forgot her age, I forgot her widowhood—I forgot
every thing but her love and her ready-made family,
and the hour that was to make me, not a bridegroom
for a day, but a bridegroom for life.

About a week before the consummation of our marriage
that was to be, my dear Laura grew so affectionate
that I was afraid to trust myself with her. And
one morning as we sat on the deep couch together—
cooing and billing—very much as I am afraid other
people do, when they have a good opportunity, in
spite of their mothers and the preachers, and the story-books,
I played off the hero in such a way, that my
dear, dear Laura, burst into tears, and called me a
godlike man.

I tried to get away, but her overpowering love and
gratitude held me, till we heard a knock at the door,
when she darted out of the room, saying with a sweet
smile—a smile, that I am afraid, will haunt me to
my death-bed, that she would be with me, after the
visiter, whoever he might be, was chaired, and that I
must not be alarmed again, as I had been once before
if she spoke to me on entering the room, just as if I
had not seen her before during the day. I agreed to
this, for I love propriety in every possible shape—

hough not very fond of trick. By the time she
was out of one door, a stranger entered another.
It was Middleton—he turned very pale when he saw
me, though I supposed he knew every thing: and
more pale, after I told him in reply to a direct enquiry
on his part, that I had seen the widow, and that
she had hurried away but a few moments before
I waited until she made her appearance, gave her my
hand in a hurry, to show that I was not afraid to leave
her in such company, bowed to Middleton, and left
her.

The next day I received a letter from her, just as I
was going out of the door toward her house. I do not
give in the passages that follow, the very words of her
letter—word for word—simply because it contained
a request that I would return it, which I did, and the
passages that follow are given from memory. They
are few—but they are enough to show the character
of the woman.

“I have deceived you and every body else. I
loved Gerard Middleton a year and a half before I
knew you: I love him still, and I have given him
every proof of love I ever gave you, and more—yet I
am not altogether bad.

I love him still better than any other man.—I
hope you will hate me—I esteem and admire
you—I shall never see you again, if I can help it—
never alone certainly.—He knows every thing, and
regards me as he ought; I did intend to see you both
together, to explain myself to both, and to hear from
you both how you scorn and loathe me.—Do not
call—I shall not see you, I have all confidence in you
—it is impossible to have more, but I cannot suffer

you to keep this terrible letter, for fear of accidents.
I hope you will write and say just what you think of
my behaviour, you need not be afraid to say any thing
to me.—But oh!—I do not speak for myself—oh,
my poor children!—You need not fear that I will
do any thing desperate—I promise you I will not—
when you next hear of me, I shall be more worthy of
your good opinion.”