 | CHAPTER XV. The Down-easters, &c. &c.
&c. |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
Such was the “terrible letter”! such the very
words of a part which fell upon me, with a power
which no language can describe. And yet, I do believe
I showed no emotion before the girl who brought
me the message of death—I mean what I say—the
message of death; I believe too that I spoke in my usual
voice, and I know that I did not shed a tear, and that
I have not shed a tear since—I hope never to shed
one while I breathe, for the perfidy of that woman.
It was not—oh no!—it was not the losing a
marriage with her, it was not even the losing of her
heart, for I could have borne both, I believe, with a
smile, if she had treated me as I deserve to be treated
by those I love—no—no!—it was neither—it was
the losing of my faith in her that I was ready to worship—and
now I remember a passage in her letter
which I had forgotten before—“I know that you love
me,” said she. “This will be a terrible blow, for you
had set up an image in your heart for worship”—and
so I had! and she broke that image to pieces; and
with it, every hope I had on earth, for every hope I
had on earth was connected in some way or other
with my belief in her exalted virtue, her generosity,
and her truth.
And how did I reply? May I be judged hereafter
as I judged that woman!—I ask for no more—even
while my heart was labouring and reeling with the
shock her letter gave me. I wrote her a few hurried
was no time to consider my language or to copy it,
for I knew that my reply, whether she loved me or
not, would be a matter of life and death to her, that
she was waiting her destiny here, it might be her destiny
hereafter, and how I could I bear to keep her
in suspense?
“I have not one word of reproach for you, said I.
I forgive you with all my heart and soul, and however
strange it may appear to you, I declare to you that on
some accounts I think more highly of you than
ever—If you had not loved me, you could not have
done this—You may deceive yourself—Beware how
you make a promise, you cannot keep—
“You had better see me, and the sooner you see
me, the better. You will be the happier for it—I
shall be the happier for it—I have much to say,
much that I believe would go far to tranquillize you.
It is now a quarter of one—I shall call at two—
If you ever loved me, you will see me—I return
the letter, much as I desire to keep it. Farewell—
there is nothing to prevent your being happy, if
you will only see me.—Your's devoutly—God
bless you.—My heart is not unsteady, though my
hand is.”
As the clock struck two, my foot sounded on the
step of the door—I was very calm, calm as the deep
sea, calm as the grave.—I knocked; a servant appeared
and told me that his mistress had gone out,
just gone out, he said, and I turned away, in the hope
that as she could not have gone far, I should have an
opportunity of seeing her before it was too late, if I
took the road to the battery (our usual walk) of giving
the light of day, once for all, that I forgave her. But
no—I did not see her, and I loitered back to my room
—oh, God! how I felt when I entered it, and saw
lying before me, here a book that she had sent me to
read, there a pile of notes which I would not have
parted with for the wealth of the world an hour before?
on my very table a story that she translated at
school from the German—by the side of that, a work,
which—but no, no—I dare not say how I felt, nor
what I saw—it was enough to break the heart of a
proud man. I folded up the papers and the books,
and sent them to her, saying that I could not read
them now, but whenever it would be of use to her, I
would. No answer did I receive the whole of that
long dreary day. It was plain, therefore, that she
did not love me, for had I not written to her and
begged her to see me, saying, if you ever loved me,
you will see me. Yet more—much more—two
or three passages of her letter had been very carefully
erased by another hand, (I thought,) and one which, if
true, would prove her to be the falsest of women.—
How knew I therefore, how should I ever know
the truth? It was dictated by my rival perhaps, or
written to soothe him, for it appeared by her note in
a passage I had forgotten 'till now, that she had lost
him forever. All this and more did she say, but the
words have escaped me. How little she knew of my
true character! This cut me to the soul—this I could
not bear—for by this I saw that I had been altogether
deceived in her. I thought she knew me. Ah! if she
had known me well, if she had trusted me as I would
have trusted her, if she had told me even a part of the
I give her up to you. It is for you to make her
happy, and for you alone. I love her with all my
heart and with all my strength, and had she known
me before she met with you, it may be that she would
now love me as she now loves you, with all her heart
and with all her strength.—If you desire it, I will be
the man to give her away in church—make her happy,
and leave me to pursue my path for the rest of my
life, alone—altogether alone. If you are both happy,
I shall not—I cannot be—unhappy. I would have
done this, I swear, and I know that I could have done
it.
Well, the day passed over—and I received no sort
of reply, not even a message, not a word nor a sign.
Perhaps, thought I—perhaps it may be, for I heard
her say once, I remember, that he was of a fiery quick
temper, and very suspicious withal, (I never thought
of asking why, for though I loved her as much as he
loved her and might have been very sore with jealousy,
I never suspected her faith, nor doubted her
truth,) it may be that she has written to me as she has,
not on account of her love for me, but of her dread of
him. It may be that she has been obliged to say the very
things that have entered my heart like arrows of fire.
If so—God help the boy! It may be that she is
now quaking at every foot-fall, and that every knock
sounds through her heart. And if so—
I instantly despatched another note, saying to her
in words that any body might have seen, though she
only could have understood their whole force, that I
should not be able to see her for some days, that I
should not see her if she did not send for me, though I
with her on a subject of importance to both.
I had much to say, I told her—much to ask; and if she
answered me without reserve, it was all I required to
make me happy; that I had some right to advise with
her, and that I should keep out of the way of all parties,
&c. &c.
The morrow came, but no reply came with it—all
the day long I sat in my chair expecting a message or
a letter. Every time the door opened, every time I
heard a step, my heart beat quick, and I would have
wagered my life that her answer was at my elbow.
But still no answer came—day after day passed over,
and I neither saw, nor heard from her, nor of her.
Meanwhile a paper lay before me on which I recorded
my thoughts and my hopes, hour by hour, as they
occurred to me. I strove to satisfy myself that she
was more to be pitied than blamed—I succeeded; for
on reviewing her whole behavior, I began to fear that
I had been deceived, not so much by her, as by my
own self-love—to hope, I should say, for it was not
fear. Much as I loved, I could bear to be told that
she did not love me, better than I could to know that
she was unworthy. At last I grew tired of delay—I
determined to bear it no longer. A few days more
and it would be too late—I should be on my way to
Europe. I was willing to be to her as I never had
been, if that would make her happy, or to be to her
a friend—a brother. But I was not willing to be played
with, nor to be misunderstood. I therefore sealed
up what I had written, praying to know whether she
wished me see Middleton or not. If I saw him, it
would be, I told her, and she knew that I told her the
in this way. “I have nothing in my heart but
kindness for you and anxiety about you.” And on
the outside of the letter I added, “If I do not hear
from you to day, farewell forever—farewell, I mean
to the last hope in which you are concerned. I will
never see you again if it be possible to avoid you
without exciting remark, nor ever interchange a line
with you while I breathe, unless it be to serve you, or
unless it should appear that you were unable to write.
The time may arrive—it may—when you will wish
you had preserved at least a brother and a friend. I
shall keep my promise to you—and every promise I
ever made you.”
I thought I knew the real character of this woman;
I had some hope therefore, some little hope, where
any other man would have utterly despaired. Middleton
saw her every day—he probably heard from
her every day; but I—I that would have married her
if I might—I neither saw nor heard from her, nor of
her. And still I would not give her up—I knew that
she was not “altogether bad.” I knew that she was
still worthy of a proud man's love, and I would still
have trusted her—for who would not rather be deceived
over and over again, like a boy, than live without
confidence or hope in a dear one? Doubt is more
galling than sorrow. There is a dignity in grief,
though it be full of the bitterness of death—but there
is no dignity in distrust. Well—as soon as the messenger
could go and return, I received the following
brief note for my reward—I have it before me
now, and I copy it here with a feeling which would
break the heart and upheave the faculties of a giant—
if it were to continue for a single hour.
“Depend upon having an answer to-day. I will
tell you why I did not write before; I hope and intended—I
still hope and intend to see you both. Will you?
It is my wish.” On the outside was written, “Keep
this and bring it when I ask you,” to which I replied
without employing a moment for consideration.
I will do whatever you desire, said I. I am
not afraid to make you such a promise—even now.
It is for you to say whether I shall see him or not—if
I do, you have nothing to fear: we shall not quarrel.
But I am afraid now, afraid on your account, for you
have too much at stake. I will meet you together if
you desire it—but still, perhaps we three had better
not meet, before I know precisely what you wish me
to say; and much as I desire it, I would rather not
see you till I am on the very brink of departure.
I shall soon be away; but I cannot bear to go without
giving you some proof—such as few would have
the courage to ask—not only of my tenderness but of
my respect for you—I hope I have not been altogether
misunderstood; what I have written to you of
late, has been written with fear and trembling—I tell
you now, as I have told you before, that I would do
much—almost any thing, for one to whom I have
said—I am your friend. Trust me therefore, put faith
in me—for, as I live, I am your friend.” What more
I said, I do not know; nor do I know that these words
were all contained in my last reply, but I do know
that most of them were; and the others were to be
found in some one or more of the last notes I troubled
her with.
But the day passed over, the whole day, and that
which she had told me to depend upon having did not
at her elbow; that she was forbidden to write? If
otherwise, why pray me to preserve the note she sent
me, and to bring it with me? Was not that of itself,
enough to show, that while she was afraid of losing a
brother and a friend—I do not say a lover like me,
she was more afraid of writing a syllable without his
leave. And how knew I—Gracious God!—how
knew I that she did not mean by the words, “I still
hope and intend to see you both”—what I would not
have her mean, so much did I love her still, and so
high was my faith in her purity, for the wealth and
power of a kingdom.
That whole day passed over—another day and another,
and as I knew that he saw her, nay, as I myself
had seen him with her, while I was hurrying through
Broadway, merely because I could not bear to stay in
one place long—I had begun to believe that she was
unworthy—fearfully so. Then, and not 'till then, did
I give her up. She would not see me—she would not
even reply to me. She dared not perhaps, and perhaps
the true reason lay not in her indifference, nor in
her lack of heart, nor in treachery, but in her deep
love and fear and respect. She was good by nature—
generous and brave by nature, and it might be after
all, that she had not bad courage enough to look me
in the face, or that she had still so much of that inward
virtue I praised her for, so much real nakedness
of heart, even though she had “deceived me and every
body else,” that she could not bear to come in the way
of my rebuke. All this may be, said I, as I threw
myself on the bed, in which I had not slept for a week
as the innocent should sleep—it may be, but where am
If we ever meet again, I shall say to her—Satisfy me
that you are able to speak the truth. If we are to be
—not as we have been, for that is all over now—but
if we are to be friends, you are to undergo such a trial
as few women that live could bear, I will search your
heart as with a knife. Dare you promise to speak the
truth to whatever a question I put you. If no—
farewell. If yes—Hear what I have to say. To
one like you, there must be a luxury in telling the
truth—what a relief it must be to the overloaded
heart of a woman, after years and years of untruth,
and years and years of bitter slavery, to be able to
say just what her heart conceives—without fear and
without reproach, whatever may come into her head
for the rest of her life!
My mind was now made up. I have done my duty,
I have nothing to reproach myself with, said I, and
I lay as if I had spoken the truth, wondering why it
was that I could not sleep. I was weary enough and
sick enough, and I had grown so pale with watching
and with fasting, that people cried out when they saw
me, and yet I could neither sleep nor eat. And why?
That question will be answered hereafter. Hereafter!
At last, when I had no longer any hope, the letter
came, and such a letter! I stood upon the deck of a
ship when I received it, and I was looking toward the
shores of another world—my heart heavy with sorrow,
and with bitter self-reproach. In a moment I
was another man—I saw the light break about her
path, and I was happy, so happy! that if my mother
had been there, I should have knelt down and buried
long letter, abounding with proof that she was after all
worthy of a proud man's love—a part of the envelope
I have now before me. I may copy it—for she is in
her grave now, and there is nobody to betray her.
“Read the enclosed, (a narrative containing a review
of her whole behavior.) I have more to say, more
which I must and will say. Be tranquil about me; I
am more calm. I have passed the night in thought and
in prayer—yes, in prayer. If I had not forsaken Him
from whom all good thoughts, and all holy desires
proceed, he would not have so utterly forsaken me. I
have quite made up my mind. I see His providence
in this chastisement; nothing less severe would have
done with one so far perverted. Don't despair of me;
I do not despair now. I bless God with fervent gratitude
for all this misery and horror. It will save me.
Be of good cheer for me.”
Now, if there be a man alive with a high character
for probity, who notwithstanding his probity, has
grown old in working the partial overthrow of woman
—if he should ever happen to receive the death-bed
forgiveness of some beloved one, that he has betrayed,
even while he pretended to worship her, even while
he did worship her, and was ready to couple his fate
with hers, forever and ever,—let that man be my
judge, for he only can know how I felt when I read
this letter. I dropped asleep within an hour after I
read it, and when I awoke, we were on our way
through the roaring sea, and yet I was happy and
cheerful, and I had no fear of shipwreck or of storm—
for a light was upon the path of her I loved so much,
and I knew that music would soon be heard in her
heart.
| CHAPTER XV. The Down-easters, &c. &c.
&c. | |