University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

She is in her grave now. I sat by her when she
drew her last breath—I made a vow to her then,
which I have kept and will keep to my dying day; I
saw the earth heaped upon her, I knew that I never
should be happy again, though I might be tranquil,
that I never should love another woman as I loved
her, that I should be alone for the rest of my life;
and yet, there was a feeling of joy, of deep serious
joy in my heart when I saw her laid in the grave.
And why? She was happy; for she saw it was no
longer possible for me to doubt her. She might have
deceived me still, she might have betrayed me again,
but she chose rather to die.

But let me proceed in a more connected way with
the little that remains to be told of my story—it is
not much now. When we arrived at Liverpool, I
found a letter waiting for me, which had been sent by
a ship that outsailed ours. At another time—a few
weeks before—it would have uprooted my faith in
woman forever, and but for the great gulph between
us, the hope I had in her generosity, and worth and
high courage of heart, where another would have had
no hope in either, and the upbraiding of my own soul,
which I had been at leisure to search as with fire and
steel, for many days, it would have destroyed me
also, I am sure.

By this letter it appeared that Middleton was with
her when she wrote me to say that she loved him

better than me, that she had deceived him and me
and every body else, that she would never see me
again, if she could help it, that nothing I could say to
her was bad enough to say, but that, if I ever heard
from her again, I should find her more worthy of my
good opinion. It appeared also that he was with her,
when I was driven away from the door, that he was
with her immediately after a message of life and
death from me was rejected at the door, that on the
following day when she received my letter saying
that if I did not hear from her during that day, I
would never see her again while I breathed, nor
interchange a line with her, she was actually so absorbed
in Middleton, that she hardly thought of me, or
of the sacrifices that I had made and was making with
joy to serve her; that even while she sought to make
me believe that she intended to forego the society of
both, she was planning to deceive me—yet more—
much more that I have now forgotten and forgiven.
Yet still I had hope, a lively and fixed hope, not for
myself, but for her. I was persuaded in my own soul
that if she was not already, she would be after a time,
all that I had believed her to be. And what had I
believed her to be? a woman of truth. Would she
but speak the truth, would she deal with me as I dealt
with her, I could forgive her all that she had done, all
that she would ever do—even though she tottered
again, or fell. Treachery I could not forgive—weakness
I could forgive.

Well and what course did I take? I wrote her
immediately, saying to her—To day is the happiest
day of my life. Now do I see that you are determined
to be what I have always thought you to be. Persevere
and God will reward you.

She did persevere; and she did so, under trials that
were enough to shake the soul of a woman to earth,
or the integrity of the proudest man that ever struggled
for dominion over a bad nature.

Well—I traversed a large part of Europe, and after
three years I returned to America. I set on foot a
rigorous enquiry about this woman. I heard much
that I could not believe, much that gave me hope, and
a little that made me fear. We met, and she had the
courage to tell me what no other woman could have
told a man like me. I offered to marry her. She
was thunderstruck, she did not believe, she could not
believe that I made the offer in good faith. But
when she saw that I had, when she heard me say that
so long as she told me the truth and consulted with
me as her best friend, I could forgive her any thing—
for such is my nature, and such it would be toward a
wife, were she unfaithful to me; I should only say to
her—Go—go and be happy; I forgive you, I pity
you—if you had spoken to me freely before, I might
perhaps have prevented your misery and self-reproach;
as you have now spoken freely, I forgive
you; I will do whatever I can to make you happy so
long as you tell me the truth—and I would forgive
you even for treachery, if it were possible for you to
satisfy me, after a long habit of untruth on your side,
that some virtue of some other sort on which I could
rely as much, was left—when she saw that I was
perfectly sincere, I say; that my offer was made in
good faith, she fell upon her knees before me and
would have bathed my very feet with her tears, had I
not escaped from her. I lifted her up and would
have comforted her, but she would not be comforted,

she drove me away from her, and not with cries and
sobs, but with a united sorrow more terrible than
either; she would not even suffer me to put my lips
to her forehead; saying that she was unworthy of
me, that she loved me now too much to betray me,
and that therefore she would never see me again.

I did not believe her. I left her with an idea that
after the first alternations of sorrow and joy and self-reproach
and gratitude were over, she would recall
me, and marry me, and be to me a virtuous, high-minded
faithful wife. But she kept her promise day
after day; nor would she see me till she knew that
she was on her death-bed and that nothing could save
her. Then she did see me, and she prayed for me
and pressed my hands, and wept upon them, and told
me the story of her life, and made me swear to tell it
to others—

I will said I—if you desire it.

But mark me. You are to tell the truth, you are to
say how I treated you, when you first knew me, how
I treated you after you begun to love me, and how I
have treated you from that hour to this, with all that
you have said of me or thought of me, day by day,
in the progress of your love.

How can you ask me to do such a thing.

Would the truth be so very terrible!

Of what use can it be?

Of much—if I recover, it will keep me in the path
of my duty; if I die, it may keep others in the path
of their duty.

I beseech you to spare me!

No, I will not spare you; I will have it so. For
three years you have been under a pledge to me;

will you refuse to redeem that pledge, on my death-bed?

Refuse! no—I will redeem it for you; I will put
the story into shape, and throw it before the world, if
you desire it!

God forever bless you—I do desire it; that is the
very thing I desire! I foresee much good from it, if
you speak the truth of me, whether I live or die.

She had been a neglected wife at a very early age,
and that, after marrying for love. She had been
deserted while her beauty and youth were a by-word—while
her very heart was in flower. She had
lived whole years without sympathy or hope, her
affectionate nature oppressed with awe, and her understanding
fettered with vassalage. Her husband died,
and though they loved each other, she could not help
feeling that his death set her free, and that dreadful
as it was to be a widow at her age with two children,
it was better than being a wife to such a man; that
widow-hood was better than slavery. Years rolled
over, and she kept her youth and her beauty, and
her daughters grew up, and still she was afraid to
marry.

At this time, I knew her. And then we were
separated for years—and then I saw her again—and
she knew that I loved her; that I had the highest
opinion of her, though I charged her with folly of
some sort or other, every day of my life. She began
to love me, but alas, knowing that I thought more
highly of her than she deserved, she was afraid of
me, afraid to be with me, and chose rather to associate
with one who could not believe a word she spoke, nor
put any faith in her promises.

Why did you not deal with me, as you dealt with
him? said I. Why did you not say—you think too
highly of me—

I did say so—over and over again, I said so.

Ah, but why did you not speak the whole truth?

How could I! I should have lost your good opinion
forever, and though I did not deserve it, I could not
bear to lose it.

I would have treated you so kindly dear, if you
had acknowledged the truth to me, that you would
have been spared the greater part of the suffering
which has now brought you to the bed of death.

How could I know this? How could I know that
you were so unlike other men? why did you never
ask me?

I did ask you—not plainly to be sure, but I did ask
you, I gave you repeated opportunities of telling the
truth, although I dreaded to hear it.

Ah!—and if your heart failed you, if you had not
the courage to speak plainly, how could you expect
it of me—a woman, a widow, and a coquette by
nature.

Why, to tell you the truth, it was only once or
twice that I doubted you, and then I said to myself,
We are now so situated that she durst not tell me
the truth if it be as I fear—she does not know that I
would forgive her, and I dare not tell her so, lest I
may offer outrage where I mean to offer security. I
have seen what has kept me awake, I have heard what
I dare not think of. Were I to probe her heart now,
she would probably deny what, if she lives to know
me better, she would acknowledge; but her denial
would not satisfy me—for, educated as women are, it

would be little better than suicide for her to own what
I fear. What man would have the courage to confess
that he had done that which, if it were known, would
be death to his character?

Well—but go on—I was not prepared for this; I
see now that you had it in your power to save me.

How so? If I had known the truth, or if I had
known that you would tell me the truth, I should
have put you to the trial, I should have come to you
and said, you appear to me to love that man? Do you
love him. If you do, have the courage to say so, and
we will advise together, and if, when you know us
both, as well as you know him, you believe that you
can be happier with him, I will give you up.

Gracious Heavens! How little did I know of your
true character! Ah, my dear friend, if you had been
as free with me then, as you are now, now that you
see me on the verge of death—

Her voice did not even falter when she said this.
Could she believe that death was near?

—We might have been happy. Again and again,
have I been ready to fall upon my knees before you,
and say to you that I was unworthy of your love, but
I was afraid of your awful virtue, and I could not
bear to say what, if it did not make you mine forever,
would be certain to separate us forever.

Why do you weep?

I weep dear, to think how much we have both lost;
and I weep the more, because I see that you have still
a hope, where there is no hope—

Laura!

Believe me dear, believe me! there is no hope. I
know that I shall die—and I say to you now that I die

of untold sorrow, the sorrow of a broken heart—

A knock was heard at the door, and a step which
appeared to be the step of a man.

Ah! it is he! it is he! Father of love, I thank
thee! prepare yourself, my dear friend, for now do I
know that we are to part in peace and charity with
each other!

It was the step of a man. As it approached, I
started up—for though I could not see the face, I
knew the shadow on the floor, and I gasped for
breath. Already were we standing face to face with
each other, already were we on the verge of what I
tremble to think of—when the bed shook, and we
were petrified with a scream of horror.

Gerard! Gerard! said a voice which appeared to
issue from afar off, Gerard Middleton, I command you
to forbear! and you too my friend, I command you to
forbear! Would you leave me no hope! Would
you double the bitterness and the sharpness of death
to a woman you have both loved.

We answered together—no!

I have sent for you Gerard, that you may hear the
last words I have to say. And I have sent for you
my dear friend (she could not bear to say Peter) that
you may know each other, and love each other—
will you interchange forgiveness, before me?

I have nothing to forgive, said I—but there is my
hand.

God bless you, my dear friend!

Middleton made no reply, but he put forth his
hand, as if he were asleep; and as he did so, the light
flashed over his face, and I could have wept when I
saw the awful change that had been made there

within a few short years. I should not have known
him—he was very pale, and haggard as with premature
age, and his cheeks were hollow, and his fine
eyes dead—literally dead.

Now hear me. If you know each other, you must
love each other. Will you be friends?

I will, said I—and Middleton whispered something
to show that he would also.

I shall now die in peace. I do not care to live
another day. But, before I go, I wish you to understand
the nature of the love I had for you, and for
both of you, at the same time—ah! is it possible!
If you cannot bear this now, when you see me here,
how could you have borne the truth, when you say
that I was deceiving you without necessity or excuse?

Go on—I beseech you.

You my friend, addressing herself to me, I would
have married, if I had been worthy of your great
love, or if you had known the whole truth; but you
had too high an opinion of me, and I was afraid of
you. And as for you Gerard, though I loved you
very dearly, I would not have married you—

He neither moved nor spoke or reply.

—for you knew me too well and had much too bad
an opinion of me. I was never so bad as you thought
me, never so good as he thought me.

Woman! woman! I cried, how dare you! are you
determined to leave me no excuse, no hope, nothing
to justify me for having so loved you!

Hear me through, and judge for yourself. But for
you—hear what I say Gerard—I speak to him now—
but for you my dear friend, I should now have been
as vile a wretch as ever walked the earth. Your hope

saved me. Your great confidence in me made me
proud, gave me courage to persevere. But for you,
I should now be afraid of death. Love him for my
sake dear (to my adversary) for when you left me as
you did, saying with a look that is before me now,
you will never change, it made me desperate and wild
with fear. You knew me, you loved me—you were
younger than he, and with a warmer heart; I supposed
you knew me better than he did, much better Gerard,
and yet you were able to say that and more. You
had no hope for me. It is well for you that another
had—for I should have gone crazy with fear and self-reproach,
but for him.

But enough, enough. We were together when she
died—we were together when they laid her in the
grave, and there we parted, never, never to meet
again I hope, and he hopes too, I dare say, though
each would do any thing in the world for the other.