 | CHAPTER XX. The Down-easters, &c. &c.
&c. |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
But while he stood in the door-way, holding his
breath (continues the narrative) something glided past
him like a shadow. His blood thrilled as it swept
by; but the next moment he saw the shape of a woman
at his elbow, he heard her step, her low agitated
breathing, and his heart beat thick with joy. It was no
shadow, no shape such as men are afraid of, though
it wear the outward form of what they have most
loved on earth. It was a woman—perhaps a beautiful
woman—a youthful woman he was quite sure, for the
small hand he took was very soft and smooth, and
though it fluttered violently, it was cold to the touch
of his. The curtains were dropped to the very floor,
and the room was full of a confused glimmering
twilight, a sort of atmosphere which would permit
nothing but shadows to be seen.
I pray you, said he, and as he spoke, he shut the
door softly and stepped forward as if going to put
aside the heavy white window-curtains, but she was
too quick for him, she caught his arm before it was
too late and prevented the involuntary outrage.
God forgive me! said he, retreating with shame as
he spoke. I beseech you to believe me! I would
not have been guilty of any thing so treacherous for
the world; I had quite forgotten where I was, in the
hurry—nay, nay, do not fear that I shall break my
word; I shall not. I would rather die. Why do
you tremble so? why are you so cruelly agitated?
my soul you have nothing to fear, nothing as I hope
for mercy! Ah—Indeed! will you not even look at
me? Why do you turn away your face; why do
you keep repeating that motion of the hand as to
drive me away. Perhaps your faith in me is no
more? perhaps you would leave me? or it may be
that you wish me to leave you? Speak—and I will
obey you. Speak, and I swear to you that I will do
whatever you desire, if it be possible. Nay, nay,
forgive me; I do not wish you to speak—a sign will
do—a sign dear, and you are at liberty forever.
She would give no sign—peradventure she could
not; for the table upon which her hand rested shook
all the time she stood there.
Am I not allowed to approach you?
She recoiled with a visible shudder, as he drew
near.
Good God! how you terrify me! Who are you?
She caught by the curtains, and they shook too.
—Who are you? and what are you? Why have
you ventured so far, if—if—what can have persuaded
you to such a step, you! you that are ready to drop
with fear while I speak to you! Have you thought
seriously of what you risk—poor child!
She dropped into a chair at these words, and
covered her face with her hands.
I entreat you to believe me, you are quite safe—I
would not harm you for the world, whatever you may
be. Ah! how cold, how frightfully cold your hands
are! what am I to do? speak to me, or but lift your
head if you wish me to go, and I will go instantly.
Your forehead too—how damp it is; but your soft
heavy, how abundant! I never saw but one mortal
with a head of hair like yours—
She was ready to drop out of the chair.
Come, come, I entreat you to hear me patiently;
compose yourself and hear me. You are now as you
may perceive completely in my power; entirely at
the mercy of a bad man—you gasp for breath, but
hear me through, I beseech you—with no human help
nigh you, with no arm to save, no ear to hear.
Think of your dreadful situation (he spoke with a
mild voice) alone with a man like me in a place like
this—at an hour like this. Nothing short of a miracle
could save you!
The poor creature locked her hands and appeared
to shrink into herself—
—But lo! that miracle is wrought for you!
He turned to leave her as he spoke, but she sat as
if stupified with grief and horror, and he could not
bear to go till he saw her lift up her head.
I know you are innocent, I am sure of it; your
excessive alarm, your dreadful agitation, they are
enough to show that whatever else you are, you are
innocent! Good God! upon your knees! who are
you—do I know you! Do you know me! speak to
me, if you would not drive me distracted before your
face. Who are you! That you are innocent, I feel
assured; that you are young, I know by the very
touch of your hand; that you are beautiful is therefore
certain, for whatever is young and innocent must
be beautiful, I have nothing more to say. Go in
peace! The miracle is wrought for you; go in
peace! You weep—I am glad of it—I can feel your
Weep on, weep on, they will refresh your sick heart.
How still you are!—not a word, not so much as a
word, nor a look in reply. Do speak to me! do tell
me who you are, and what has brought you into such
a grievous peril; confidence it may be in the truth of
man? What a pity that you should ever be deceived.
Confidence in your own strength? God help you, if
that be the case! for that infirmity there is no cure,
no hope that I know of. Still not a word, nor a
sign, nor a whisper! what am I to believe? Strange
beautiful woman! do speak to me—do! do tell me
why it is that I find you here!—What have I done
to deserve this!
It may be that you are after this bad soul of mine;
perhaps you covet power, you would have dominion
perhaps over a proud man, over an exhausted, lonely,
weary and wayward heart, one already stupified,
worn to death and sick with perpetual transport.
O speak to me! How is it with you dear? would
you have this heart bloom anew! Easier was it, by
breathing on the scented earth, to revive the trodden
flowers which have been crushed and trampled in it,
with an armed heel to. How is it with you dear?
Believe me; I have no longer a heart for any thing
that wears the shape of woman. I will not deceive
you—I dare not—I have no longer the courage, or
the power. From this day forth, I have made a vow
to deceive nobody, to tamper with nobody in your
shape.
She drew his hands to her mouth and kissed them
with fervor.
What I say is the solemn truth. I glory in being
should not care to live a day, if I were not
sustained by the hope of—... no, no, no—we'll not
speak of that now. But notwithstanding all this
dear, the truth is that I shall never love again. My
heart was buried alive not long ago, and how can I?
I never did love but one—a child, a mere child—poor
Elizabeth! I was a boy then—but boy though I was,
I destroyed her—nay, nay, do not force me away
from you—lean your head on my bosom.
Her head rested on his shoulder as he proceeded,
and he held both her hands to his heart, and stood
over her, as a brother would stand over his young
and favorite sister.
I beseech you to put all faith in me. What I say
is the truth—I cannot love you; I never shall love
again; that is impossible now; but I can pity you,
and I do pity you, poor child. After a time too, if
you are what I believe you to be, after a time I shall
revere you. That, however, will depend upon you,
upon your own behaviour; for bad as I am, I have
that within me, which—a woman lighted it up, a
child rather, years and years ago when I was but a
child, that which I have tried to stifle day by day
with ashes and earth, a flame it is that will not be
smothered, a fire that will never go out, a brightness
that will not suffer me to think of the young and
holy without veneration. Do you know me? If you
do not, how unspeakably rash! If you do, what an
awful trust for me! will you not suffer me to see
your features? Have I no power to move you?
You shake your head; you know very well that I
dare not break a promise; you have bound me to you
are, leave me! now is your time; you are in great
peril; my heart is growing wild with fever, crazy with
joy; I can feel your warm breath in my neck. Let
us part! O let us part, I beseech you! How dare
you cling to me so, after I have told you that I do
not love you, that I cannot love you, that my proud
faith in woman is no more. Leave me, leave me,
before it is too late! Ah—that smothered gasp!
You have not gone so far, so very far—you may still
go back and be safe and happy if you will. O that I
could persuade you to speak to me as you would
speak to a dear brother! Do, do tell me who you
are, not your name, I do not wish to know that—I
only wish to know what I can do for you. Will you
have me for a friend? for a brother? Say but the
word, if you will, and whoever you are and whatever
you are, my life is at your service, or if that may not
be, go away! lose no time, go away from this terrible
spot, unquestioned, unfollowed and alone.
You are deeply moved I see; suffer me to say one
word more, one of unutterable tenderness. You are
desperate with grief, or with passion or with terror;
you have gone so far that you are afraid to go back?
if so—why do you stoop your head? why wring
your hands at every word I say! What ails you!—
what is the matter with you? Good God! what can
I do—you frighten me half to death, your sobbing is
dreadful; it shakes my very heart. I begin to feel
dizzy—I—I—what if I send Claire to you! Ah!
that goes like a sharp knife to your heart; you are
jealous of Claire I see. Poor thing! if you knew
the worth of that woman, you would love her in
it grows dark about me, and there's a heavy sick
tumult in my blood, just where your head is now
resting; very terrible it is, and yet very soothing.
If I could but hear you speak one word, it would be
such a relief to me; or if I could know who you
are—and yet, I would not have you answer me,
however much I may entreat you, for if I break my
pledge to you, I'll not survive it—I swear I will not!
Perhaps you are that young, timid graceful creature I
saw at Boston a while ago. If you are, let me
beseech you to fly—fly and be happy! You will be
the wiser and better for this, one day or other;
and your gratitude then, like your grief now will be
unspeakable. If you would but tell me the truth
now, without suffering me to hear the natural tone of
your voice, I might be able to advise you. You
have heard, have you not, I am sure you have, that I
am what is called a dangerous man with your sex;
and you have pursued me at such awful hazard that
you may know what it really is that fascinates woman,
what it is that makes a man of my age dangerous.
Deluded woman! I pity you. Poor, poor
Girl! Ah;—your hand quivers to my touch, palpitates
with new life. Go, go! it is death to you, death
to me perhaps. Go, I beseech you—my arteries
tingle; my sight begins to fail me; I can hear
sweet bells ringing in the air. I am very faint—
very—and now I can feel the buried pure tenderness
of my youth gushing up within my heart, like
a forgotten spring, the very flowers of my youth
and all the sweet holy dreaming of my boyhood reviving
beneath your passionate warm tears. Cruel!
me crazy—
He drew her up to his heart as he spoke and would
have set his lips to her forehead, but she strove with
him and repelled him as if the touch of his lips were
certain death to her.
What! after all this, have you no faith in me! may
I not even kiss your forehead? are we to part, never
to see each other again while we breathe, after a
meeting such as this, without so much as a word or a
look to assure me that you understand the true
motive, which—stay, stay! a thought has just flashed
into my very soul!—your excessive timidity, your
thick smooth hair, the silence that you keep, though
your head is now gathered into my bosom and your
heart is bounding side by side with my heart—I pray
you—
He dropped upon his knees at her feet—
—Are you! oh God, are you the innocent child of
my benefactor! Are you the dear friend of her that
I so loved in my youth—of her that I betrayed and
left! no, no—no, no—you are not poor Martha; no,
no, I see that now, for you stand up like a spirit
before me, what a brave carriage for one delicate and
feeble! You hardly appear to touch the floor. Oh
how thankful I am! I care not who you are now;
but a moment ago, you were so like that proud pale
sweet girl, I was ready to drop down at your feet and
lie there. How could I so blaspheme her purity!
nay, nay, leave the door—come away from the wall,
come and sit here, and I will watch by you, or if you
will go, go and be happy, go in peace, and leave me
to die here. Or if—nay, nay, do not cling to me so,
though you have raised an image in my heart that
will destroy me and you too, if you do not instantly
break away from the snare that is now spread for
you—
He awoke with a frightful sensation, a feeling as if
one side of his whole body were death-struck. He
was chilled to the heart, his very blood was a-cold, he
felt as if the fountain of life was frozen up forever
within him. He lay still for a few minutes after he
awoke, holding his breath and trying to remember
where he was, and where he had fallen asleep; for he
had a confused notion that somebody had been kissing
his mouth, his forehead and his eyes, while he
lay there and struggled to awake, clinging to him, he
thought, in the agony of death, calling out his name
with shrieks, and breathing it over and over with
every sort of endearing sweet and low intonation by
the hour, and trying all the time to wake him with
delirous impatience.
He shuddered as he put forth his arms, for they felt
as if they had been clasping a dead creature. He was
unable to move, unable to think with any sort of clearness,
and he broke out all over in a cold sweat, as the
truth crowded upon him. Where was he? what was
the matter with him? was he awake or asleep? and
if asleep, how long had he been so? He knew not,
he had only a sort of persuasion, a deep fear, growing
more and more insupportable at every breath he drew,
that he had seen poor Martha and his young Indian
bride, and Elizabeth Hale, the beloved of his youth,
the idol of his young heart when his worship was pure,
cruelly betrayed three years before: again he had
seen her fall into the sea, again he had leaped in to
save her, again he had brought her up from an awful
depth, pursued by a thousand shapes of terror, while
she was trying to say over his name all the way up,
kissing his mouth, clinging desperately about his neck,
gasping for breath, and half strangling him with her
innocent caresses.
He moved again—he uttered a cry—he started up.
His hands were tangled, his right arm, his very heart
in the torn beautiful tresses of a woman all in disorder.
He strove to get clear, by shutting his eyes, by turning
away his head, by toiling for escape as if he were
enmeshed in a live snare. While occupied in this
way, he heard a faint low agitated respiration; like
the last moan of a dying baby. He screamed with
fear, and arose, the dead creature moving as he moved,
till he tore himself away like a giant from the dishevelled
hair. He leaped upon his feet and staggered
to the door, and shrieked for mercy! with a convulsion
of the heart, till the house trembled beneath
his tread, and flashes of blue fire shot hither and
thither over the profound blackness of the hour, and
the dead body lifted itself up and shook, and the face
became visible to him, in spite of all he could do.
That was enough. He grew still then, still as death;
and he dropped where he stood, and lay there awhile
as if he had been struck to the heart with a knife.
He lay there till he heard a footstep, and saw the door
opened by a shadow, the shadow of a tall man, which
entered the room and walked up to him, and stood before
him, face to face, with his arms lifted in triumph
neither courage nor power to smite the shadow. And
then as he got up, he heard wailing and outcries afar
off, and a sweet lamentation through all the wide air,
like that which came up out of the wood, or the green
earth, or down out of the sky, perhaps, the night before.
And then he crept along to the bed on his hands
and knees, and lifted himself up, and waited there without
moving, till another shape, that of Claire, the woman
of mischief, appeared at the door and looked into the
room, and shook her head sorrowfully at him, and wept
when he spoke to her; for the light she carried flashed
upon the features of the dead before him, and he knew
them all. They were indeed the features of his beloved—of
poor Elizabeth, And when he saw that, he
took a chair and leaned over the hody, and waited patiently,
very patiently for a whole hour, till the wind
arose in the south, and blew away the darkness from it,
so that he saw the face of a great angel that lay there;
and he caught his breath, and stooped over it in prayer,
and stretched forth his hand reverentially to touch the
dead awful eyes. They vanished—vanished immediately,
and before he could withdraw the hand, or cry
out for help, there appeared in the place thereof, a
sweet visage that he knew, even the visage of poor
Elizabeth, of her that he had been dreaming of. And
death was upon it, all over the forehead, all over the
mouth, and all over the beautiful eyes. He spoke to
it, and lo! as he spoke, the large room grew larger, so
that he saw the stars, the sea, and a great ship, and then
the whole air was crowded with shadows; and he
turned away his head though he could not take off his
eyes, while some went softly to the window and put
room like a new atmosphere; and some threw sweet
flowers by handfuls over the bed; and others came up
and walked slowly round it, with faces full of consternation,
perplexity and grief; and others who were in
the shape of aged women, took hold of the dead body
very tenderly, weeping and sobbing over it all the
time, and prepared it for the grave. And then he saw
the dead shape move, and the sweet mouth open a little,
and the dead blue eyes look out heavily from their
white shelter for a moment, and the small hand that
lay stretched out upon the coverlid, open very gently,
and the bosom heave underneath its thin covering;
after which, there followed a tremendous convulsion—
the whole face grew frightfully dark—the hair flew in
the wind and caught fire in the blaze of the lamp—
the whole body was illuminated as with a bright
inward flashing; and all the limbs thereof shivered
and shook, and then grew suddenly still forever—forever
and ever,
He sat upon the bed-side, after this, like a man risen
up out of his own grave, or out of the deep sea, holding
her two hands to his bosom, dead as they were—a
shirt like a winding sheet wrapping them both, and a
crushed paper lying in his lap. Not another tear did
he waste, not one! So, the people having tried for a
whole hour to bring the dead body to life, finding there
was no hope, went away one by one, shaking their
heads mournfully at him as they disappeared, and securing
every door after them. By all the stars, they
did! leaving poor Gerard alone, “all, all alone,”
with a dead body, in the tremendous darkness and
quiet of a large, old, uninhabited house. God forgive
the bravest that ever trod the earth. Yet he moved
not, spoke not, gave no sign, uttered no prayer to stay
them, no cry for mercy, though the pale sweet visage
of the dead went and came at every breath he drew,
in the dying flashes of the lamp, which they left near
him, till the eastern sky changed afar off, and a sort of
luminous twilight succeeded, a most unearthly atmosphere,
wherein the face appeared again as if it were
alive and smiling on him, and he saw for a certainty
now, that it was the face, not of a shadow nor of a
stranger, but of poor Elizabeth. He stood off awhile
and gazed upon it, and then drew nigh, and lifted up
the magnificent hair—it was heavy and wet—heavy
with tears and with the perspiration of death—with
the tears of a broken heart—heavy as when he plucked
her up out of the sea, drenched in the sweat of her
mortal agony.
He put his mouth to her delicate clear temples—the
chill struck to his heart. He kissed her smooth calm
forehead—it was like a bit of marble statuary, cold
with autumnal dew and star-light. He touchedher pale
dear mouth—it was distorted with an expression of
unspeakable suffering; just as if the poor child had been
smothered in her sleep, suffocated in a dream of joy,
with all her senses perfect; nay, as if while she lay
there by his side, awake—awake, but silent and motionless,
trying to move, trying to call out the name
of her beloved one, perhaps, or perhaps to pray to her
Father above, her poor heart had broken! Perhaps—
for such a thing might well be—perhaps, when it was
altogether too late, she had come to herself, and repented
of her terrible rashness, and cried for mercy,
died when she most wished to live, and while she was
calling to him to wake and help her, trying to wake
him perhaps, tearing her beautiful tresses and screaming
to the Eternal with her last breath.
Yea—yea—it was the young bride of his youth, his
own, his beloved Elizabeth, asleep in the everlasting
torpor of the grave. Asleep! oh no! She was not
asleep—she never died in her sleep. Over all her
glorious form and fair bosom, her voluptuous arms,
her countenance of beauty, her dead solemn eyes,
about which, when they were alive, there was a continual
sparkle of joy, so that her whole visage was
like a mirror set in the star-light, reflecting whatever
went before it or over it, as if it were within it, all, all
even to the pretty childish hands that hung over the
pillow, half buried in her luxurious hair over all were
fine streaks of pale and vivid crimson, with here and
there a sprinkle of deep, fine, brilliant purple, proving
that however easy it may seem for one to die as she
died, it is nevertheless, a death of inconceivable horror,
a death of spasm, and half-smothered outcry, and
suffocation. Whoever thou art, beware! Whatever
thou art, beware! The poor victim utters no cry
that can be heard, no foam gathered upon her young
red lip, no gasping is heard perhaps, no death rattle:
But while she is yet alive, the warm blood grows thick
and stagnates forever and ever in the delicate channels
of life, the arteries are swollen, the minuter vessels
are distended to rupture, one after another, fires like
flaming serpents go hither and thither about the channels
of the soul, the brain collapses, the heart explodes,
and the immortal shape is no more.
He took her head into his bosom and wept upon it,
and lay down by it, kissing the shadowy, half-transparent
eye-lids, until they quivered as with new life;
pressing the pale, quiet mouth till it grew suddenly red
—seeing which, he started up with a loud cry and a terrible,
though vain hope, for the redness that he saw was
only that of her torn lips, for the aged people had been
trying to force her teeth apart. He grew deadly sick
when he discovered the truth, and a great heaviness
came over him, and he was fast falling away into a
drowsy deep slumber with her head in his bosom—the
slumber of death he hoped—when gradually and slowly
the recollection of what had happened during the night
came back to him. He struggled with himself, and
sat up, and strove to awake more fully, and after a
few minutes he felt sure that in the dead of the night,
he had seen Elizabeth rise and go to a table near the
window, and pour something into a glass, and then
come back to the bed and lie down by his side as before,
turn to him as before, and cling to him, till the
rich odour, the sweet overpowering perfume of her
breath had put him to sleep forever—body and soul,
forever! True—true—there was the taste of a powerful
drug upon his lips yet. He arose when he observed
this, and with a dull, heavy, and growing torpor
at his heart, made his way to the window, where,
just as he was ready to give up and fall down
beneath what appeared to be a preternatural pressure
from above, he found a goblet, and at the
bottom of the goblet a few drops of a stagnant liquor,
just enough to stain the glass, of the color of crimson.
It was very brilliant, and the smell was tempting and
rich, and reminded him immediately of the sweet fragrant
through. And when he discovered this, he was happy
—very happy; for the aromatic breath of his beloved,
the beautiful dead woman, had penetrated into his
vitals, and there was no hope for him now. He knew
this, and he was thankful for it, but that he might not
be disturbed in the sleep which was now stealing over
him, the sleep of death, he went up to the windows, and
let down all the curtains, and secured all the shutters,
and bolted the door, and piled up the heavy furniture
against it, and darkened the whole room, and shook
loose the silken drapery of the bed, the gay showy
curtains through which the sun had already shot fire
upon the body of poor Elizabeth, till the brightness
thereof was terrible, poured some water into the
goblet, saw the shadow of death dissolve, the crimson
fade away, drank off the liquor, fell upon his knees,
prayed a short confused prayer, went into bed again to
the dead body, drew the languid arms about his neck,
her heart up to his heart, and grew straightway at the
touch, as cold as death.
| CHAPTER XX. The Down-easters, &c. &c.
&c. | |