 | CHAPTER XIX. The Down-easters, &c. &c.
&c. |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
I have now come to a portion of the story, which I
cannot bear to dwell upon, but which it may be proper
for you to be acquainted with, before I proceed
further with what relates to myself. I have taken
great pains to know the truth—I had, before you
wrote me—and have been very particular now. The
result is, that you may depend upon what follows—I
have it from Gerard himself.
On leaving me, he went straightway to the cottage,
his heart leaping with joy; youth and beauty before
him; adventure, intrigue, peril, mystery—unhallowed
endearment—warfare—death perhaps.
Claire was waiting for him on the verge of the wood,
where she held a long conversation with him, before
she would suffer him to enter the house. He might
speak to the stranger, but he would not be spoken to;
he might be seen, but he should not see the fair mysterious
creature whom he was to meet; for one day
or other he might see her in good-society, and however
praiseworthy and heroic the motive which had
now brought her to throw herself in his way, it would
be death to her to be recognized by him.
Why, Claire! said he, what do you take me for,
that you are able to keep your countenance, while you
talk to me in this way?
My word is given, sir, and I shall keep it.
You are to be with us, hey?
No, indeed.
No, indeed! Are you crazy! would you leave me
with her, a stranger—in the dark and alone? How
will you preserve your character, how retain your
place in good-society, if it go abroad, Claire, that you
permit people to see each other in this way, whatever
may be her object or mine, at your house?
You will not be in the dark—
How so; you say I shall not see her, though she
may see me. She is not going to wear a veil I hope;
if so, I'm off; no such boarding-school mysteries for
me; I'm not in the humor for it—I have passed the
age of downright youth; if not in years, I have in experience.
You will have light enough I hope, from the sky,
though to say the truth, it looks rather tempestuous
now.
Why Claire! what on earth is the matter with you!
what ridiculous game are you at now?
Game! How little you know me—I was never
more serious in my life, Gerard Middleton.
I'll never consent Claire.
You'll never consent! Pray sir, would you have
us consider it such a favor?
Good bye, Claire, good bye; I'm not to be made
a fool of, in this way.
Indeed! but you carry it bravely. A word in your
ear, Gerard Middleton. You love plain dealing, you
say?
I do—I do; I love it with all my heart, more than
I love any thing else on earth Claire, and you know it.
Very well. Now hear what I have to say; this
game, as you call it, I am playing not for you, but for
another, at the command of one I dare not disobey.
The devil you are!
Yes, and I am tired of it.
Well, well, more of this hereafter, I have no time
now. Shall I not see her face?
No—what are you thinking about? why do you
look at me, as if you would look me through?
Nor so much as hear the sound of her voice, Claire?
No—no.
No light, Claire?
Only that of the moon.
What if I enter the house without your leave?
You dare not.
Pooh!
As a man, as a gentleman, you dare not; you would
not be able to see her, if you did.
Ah!
And what is more, young man, though I never fired
a pistol but once, in my life! I should not scruple to
try it again.
Really—
Ay, or a knife either.
Here's a hero! but I've gone too far now, there's
no help for it, I agree to all you say.
Stop, stop; one word more. She will be in the
large room to the left there, the window of which
looks this way; the curtains are down you observe;
you will not raise them without her consent?
No—
Nor try to see her face?
Hard enough to be sure. But there's my hand, I
agree to all you ask—every thing—every thing.
You will put no questions to her, you will offer no
rudeness—
I!—no, indeed!
—Nor make any attempt either now or hereafter to
find out who she is. Upon your honor, Gerard Middleton—swear
this to me, by all your hopes of hereafter.
I don't half like the form of the oath—but you
know me, and I say to you upon my honor I will keep
my promise.
Nay, swear it—lift your hands to that troubled sky
and swear it.
Well then—I do swear it!
Enough, enough—now win her if you can, but win
her fairly.
Nay, do not leave me yet—you are very pale—
what am I to think of you? what is her object?
Perhaps your overthrow.
My overthrow!
Perhaps your reformation.
Absurd!
Not so absurd neither! She is evidently of a very
serious turn.
Why Claire! you speak as if she were at your
elbow, and as if you were afraid of her.
I am afraid of her.
No!
But I am, I say, and if you were to see her face, you
would be afraid of her.
Beautiful, hey?
Yes; but with a wild, strange beauty, such as I
never saw, but in my sleep.
And the voice?
A sweet and sorrowful voice, at which if I were altogether
alone, I should be a... Ah! (listening) did
you speak—?
No—
—So sweet and sorrowful that I could weep to hear
it were I alone—
All this may be a trap for me, Claire?
Very true.
A trick—
Yes.
You have told me as much already.
No.
Yes but you have Claire, and if I thought you spoke
true—
Lord! how your eyes glitter!
Do they?
Yes, like steel in the star-light.
And why? do you know the cause?
I do; your desperate and wayward soul is awake
with some new, fierce, unlawful hope.
Is it the girl I saw at Boston?
How should I know?
Small with a fine shape?
Yes.
With a clear, transparent forehead—very modest
and very pale?
Yes.
Large dreaming eyes, ripe mouth and very magnificent
hair?
Yes—no—
Yes—no—!
You ask me so many questions in a breath.
Lead me to her! lead me to her! the little wretch, I
know her. Flesh and blood, I thought so! I could
have sworn as much the first time I ever saw her, so
devout and so demure: why you'd think butter
would'nt melt in her mouth!
Should I!
Pretty joke, to be hunted about in this way, from pillar
to post, month after month, by a little she-methodist.
Month after month, Gerard.—There must be some
mistake here. This girl is quite a stranger—
Pooh!
What I say is the truth; I never saw her till about
a month ago—
Ah! what music is that?
Music!—where!—
In the woods, I believe.
Not in the wood, I hope!
How mournful it is,—how sweet! oh, I could listen
to it forever!
Great God!
Claire! Claire! what's the matter with you!
Hush—hush—don't breathe for your life.
Claire!—Claire!—
Ah! (breathless and gasping) did you speak!
Speak! to be sure I did; what's the matter with
you? what ails you?
Do you see any thing?
See any thing! no; what should I see?
Let us go in, I feel weary and sick and cold, and—
there!—did you hear that?
Hear what! are you mad, or do you wish to make
a fool of me? I hear nothing.
Gerard Middleton? (whispering)
What ails you Claire? why do you whisper?—why
do you cling to me so?
I am very unhappy Gerard—very wretched.
Why so, dear?
Very, very; I can't bear sweet music now, as I
could once—
Nay, nay, why do you weep? I'm not going to,
leave you.
It's enough to break my heart now.
Poor child!
Ah, Gerard! if you only knew the whole truth,
how you would pity me!
I do pity you, Claire, I do indeed; what more would
you have? what is the truth you speak of? what ails
you? what are you afraid of—why do you sob so?
You will drop a tear on my grave Gerard—wont
you?
On your grave?
Yes Gerard; and you will try to forgive me I hope,
when you know the whole truth, and how I—are you
afraid in the dark?
Afraid in the dark!—I!—
Do you believe in spirits Gerard?
Why!—Claire!—rouse yourself; you'll make me
nervous too, if you continue to whisper so dismal.
Do answer me, do, do; are you afraid in the dark!
No, are you?
Oh no!—no—no, indeed, not I? Sometimes,
to be sure, I've a sort of a—o! I do wish I could lay
my head in my poor mother's lap and cry myself
asleep—a sort of a—there! there! what's that.
Good God, how you tremble!
A sort of a—of a misgiving here (laying both
hands upon her heart) just here Gerard, especially
when you are away (do speak to me, do, do!) if I,
hear sweet music when I am all alone at the cottage,
or if I hear a noise, or a foot-step, or see a shadow on
the green turf, though it be the shadow of a tree or a
bird or a cloud or a—there, there! O, how sorrowful!
how plaintive!
Claire, you grow paler and paler every moment—
speak to me, I beseech you.
Hush—Hush—
You frighten me.
Gerard Middleton! there! there 'tis!
God bless me! I should think you saw a spirit!
Gerard Middleton!
Well dear, what would you have? Here I am at
your side.
Gerard Middleton! Let us go no further in this
dreadful business.
What do you mean?
Let us go no further; let us stop where we are—I
can hardly get my breath—I never felt so before, in
all my life, never! never!
Pho, pho, don't be a child! Recollect who you are
and what, and how you have sworn to be the scourge
of them that have made you what you are.
And what am I, Gerard?
A desperate woman.
True—true, and am I therefore never to be at peace
with woman while I breathe, never to be at peace
with myself? Oh, Gerard Middleton! that I should
have come to this, I that if I had the true place in our
day, should overtop the proudest of my sex; I that
might have done so much good.
Think of your steady virtue Claire. Think of
what women have made you suffer. Think of the terrible
mischief they wrought you, before you lifted a
finger against them.
Gerard Middleton; you do not know me I perceive.
I do think of this, and of all this, morning, noon and
night, I have thought of it now for a whole year; but
shall be, and what I have done, with all my virtue and
with all my courage, I am half crazy with fear. Of
what avail is it that I have escaped so long? that I
have held my virtue safe, my integrity fast, while I have
been spreading the snares of death for a multitude.
Revenge, Claire; think of that. Revenge is sweet.
Not so very sweet after all, Gerard,
Indeed!
No—for I am dying of revenge—of gratified revenge
too.
Terrible—terrible! your voice goes through and
through me. What a woman you are!
You shudder—you turn away your face.
I do, for I believe you. I shudder now at the very
touch of your hand; my very heart gives way at the
sound of your voice—O! how altered it is, Claire!
I know you speak the truth; my very blood acknowledges
that you do.
And therefore you turn away; you are afraid
of me.
No—no—not absolutely afraid of you, but for you.
But you are, I say; you are! Well, well, I have
made up my mind, now.
Your mind for what?
Hear me Gerard, you know me; after this night, I
do no more mischief to woman—I would rather die.
After this night! wonderful!
How so? for more than a week I have been preparing
for what I now say, but as I have not seen
you, and as my pledge here was a matter of life and
death, I have not been able to avow my purpose
before. You do not speak—I had some hope of
you—
Gracious God!
So!—it is your turn now!
How agitated you are!
Would you believe it, I have made the same vow
this very night!
Have you indeed!
This very night Claire; not two hours ago.
Have you Gerard! have you, in truth, as you hope
for mercy!
I have.
Swear it! swear that hereafter you will not war
with woman! O, how happy you have made me!
I do swear it—I swear it from the depth of my
soul.
Oh Gerard!
On your knees Claire! up—up!—
No—never!
Get up child! what are you crying about now?
Say that you forgive me, and I shall die satisfied.
Oh! say that you forgive me, dear Gerard—
Forgive you! for what pray?
No matter, no matter—say that you forgive me,
and that you will not take back your forgiveness, nor
hate my memory, whatever may happen.
Well, there, there, simpleton, I do forgive you;
take that kiss on your forehead Claire, and that, and
that; now are you satisfied of my sincerity. Whatever
you have done, or said, or thought, I forgive
you, and may God forgive you and me as freely as I
forgive you, and continue to forgive you.
Bless you! bless you! dear Gerard! You little
know what you have done—God bless you!
You are mad Claire.
No, no, if I was, there would be some hope.
These women of great virtue have made you crazy.
No, no, I have gone too far, much too far, I am
afraid; for after all, how could they ever know the
truth? How could they know that I was innocent?
Alas! alas! how much of sorrow and how much of
shame, had I escaped, if when appearances were
against my virtue for a little season, my cruel sisters,
my own cruel, unforgiving sex had foreborne to judge
me as they did; or if they had been merciful in their
interpretation of what was never conclusive, or if
they had permitted me to justify myself, to prove my
innocence and my integrity when I had it in my
power to prove both. While I was yet good, lo!
they treated me as if I were bad. Now that I am
bad lo! they treat me as if—ah! (starting up with
a shudder, and looking through her parted hair) you
see something now, I am sure you do—
Yes Claire and I begin to believe that we are a—
ah! can it be possible!
O Gerard! Gerard! don't look so! you frighten
me to death! What do you see? what do you hear!
your eyes look as if you followed something up out
of the wood there, up, up into the far sky!
It is very strange—very—did you see it, Claire?
See what!
Nothing Claire, nothing; Let us away; you have
made a fool of me, a baby, a coward.
How pale you are!
That sorrowful sweet harmony is not of earth,
Claire.
You would not believe me Gerard, when I told you
that the wood here was haunted.
Nor do I now Claire; I have no such faith.
No such faith! Yet you heard the music and you
grew pale with terror.
How very low it was, I could just hear it and no
more, when I held my breath, and listened with all
my heart. Ah! a footstep in the large room—the
fact is Claire, that you only hear this music when the
wind is southerly; and you have some neighbour
near enough to be heard—another step! and barefooted—surely
she is barefooted Claire, tap, tap, tap!
bless the dear little foot—
Look! what is that!
Look where? I don't see any thing.
But I do! there, there—among the trees by the
river side.
A cow or a horse or a sheep—
No, Gerard, no—it is a man.
A man!
Ay, and a very tall man; I saw him as plainly as I
see you; he stepped out of the shadow just as you
spoke and stole into the wood on the other side of
the path.
A tall man, hey? I thought so Claire, I thought so
(drawing the blade from a sword cane as he spoke)
and I came prepared for the tall man. I thought so—
leave me, (Claire clings to him,) leave me! I say! let
me go; I have been pursued by the shape of a tall
man, day after day, night after night, year after year,
till—By God, woman! I will not be hindered now!
And away he sprang, after the shadow. In a
moment he was beyond her reach, and immediately
after he entered the wood, voices were heard, the
report of a pistol and a shriek that frighted her very
he found her lying stretched out on the damp green
earth. He lifted her up, and spoke to her and soothed
her, and the first words that she spoke were—
Now do you believe me dear! now that you have
seen it and heard it.
It, Claire, it?
You saw it face to face, did you not?
I did Claire; and but for the damned slippery bank,
I should have done for it, I hope. God! what a
spring it made when I pricked it!
Merciful heaven! What have you done! was it
alive!
It was alive—a moment ago, whether it will be
to-morrow, it is not for me to say. The scoundrel!
his treachery deserved more than death. See—see
—lifting the narrow blade which quivered and sparkled
in the moonlight, and showing a reddish tinge
near the point.
Miserable man! How had you the courage to
strike it.
The courage! did you not hear a pistol?
I did—
Well I had the courage to serve it with a few
inches of bright steel, because it had the courage to
offer me a leaden pill that I did not much care to take,
are you satisfied?
No, (firmly) no!
Woman—woman! how dare you speak to me in
that voice. Be on your guard; for, as I hope to
outlive my arch-enemy, as I hope to see the light of
another day, if I find you leagued with Jeffry Smith.
With Jeffry Smith! Another such word sir, and
game that I play is for myself; I am that other I
spoke of, and though he, or you, or another may profit
by the mischief I do, it is not for you, nor him, nor
for any other mortal to threaten me. So I bid you
beware—Be upon your guard sir, I am not of a
temper to be trifled with.
Enough—I hear a step in the room above, the
curtains of the window are lifted—
As he spoke, a light flashed on the wet verdure,
and a shadow shot along the turf. It was the shadow
of a woman tying up her hair. His heart sprang to
his throat, he threw away the sword, kissed Claire,
and bid her be faithful to him as he would be faithful
to her, and hurried lightly up the narrow stair-case,
though not so lightly as to surprise the female whoever
she was, for the moment he touched the lock of
the door, the light was extinguished. He tapped;
but she made no reply. He pushed open the door—
the room was large and he could see all over it, but
there was nothing alive or in motion to be seen.
| CHAPTER XIX. The Down-easters, &c. &c.
&c. | |