University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

So much for my part of the story. That is ended
now—I have no courage to pursue it further. I was
alone—I knew that I should be so for the rest of my
life (as I have said before) when I saw the turf heaped
upon her that I had so truly and so devoutly loved,
even to the last; for even to the last, I had a high
and generous faith in her integrity.

I hurried away from the grave—and I left New-York
forever, I hope, on the day of the funeral. I
could not bear to be reminded of my sufferings at
every step through life; and as all other places on
earth were alike to me, I determined to travel, to
study the character of nations, to be worthy of her I
had lost, and of her high opinion of me.

I persevered—I mean to persevere—and I hope that
one day or other I may be able to do what, if she
were alive, would make her happy and proud of her
love.

About a year after the funeral, I had occasion to
pass through Baltimore on my way to the South
again. The sight of the place where I saw Middleton
strike a knife into the side of a human creature—that
very Middleton who had been so much in my pathway
since—the recollection of all that had occured affected
me so, that I turned away, with a feeling which
oppressed me to suffocation—it was too terrible to
bear, and I betook myself to the woods in the rear of
the city, where I wandered about all the day long.

Toward night fall, as it appeared probable that I
should never have another opportunity of seeing the
Cathedral then just completed, I sauntered thither
and placed myself on one of the little wooden benches
before a picture of the cruicifixion which had lately
arrived as a present from the king of France. I had
been there a good while—I know not how long, for
the light was very favorable to the picture, and I could
not take my eyes off the eyes of a figure with a
turban—they really appeared to move, so fine were
they, and so full of truth. I had heard people come
in and go out, and I had observed one or two near
me, at different times, but some how or other, I had
given way at last to the idea that I was alone, and
had begun to talk to myself, when somebody stirred
near me, evidently with a design to apprise me that I
should be over-heard. I was very grateful, and as
I turned to thank the person, whom I had not seen
before, I found Altherton Gage at my elbow. We
both started, and I think with pleasure; and though
we had not seen each other for many years, we
renewed our acquaintance immediately. He was not
altered in the least—he appeared just as old, and no
older, just as grave and just as calm as he did the first
hour we met on my way from Philadelphia to Baltimore.
We entered into conversation about Middleton,
and he told me a story of the poor fellow that made
my very heart bleed for him.

He was evidently glad to see me, and I admired
him very much; but some how or other, I was afraid
of him, I could not bear the probe, nor the look of
his eye when he touched the sore places of my heart;
and so, after praying him to assure Middleton that I

had began to love him as a brother, but as a brother I
never wished to see again, I shook hands with him
and parted. On the following day, I arrived in Philadelphia,
and there having little to do, I began to prepare
a narrative, such as it was, of the facts I had
promised the woman I loved, on her death bed, to
relate, and to relate with truth. But how could I do
so? How was it possible now that she was no more,
now that I had forgiven her, with all my heart and
soul, now that I trembled to think of the circumstances
and opinions attending the growth of our
love? and though I were willing to speak the truth—
how could I? the heart of man is very treacherous.
When we love we cannot persuade ourselves, nor
would it be in the power of any body to persuade us,
that we ever had such thoughts of her that we love,
as we must have had, before we knew that she loved
us, or that we loved her. But I had sworn to do it—
and I have done it. I have done here, what she
prayed me to do, I have led others step by step with
me, through the whole of the changes that carried
her to the grave and made me what I now am, whatever
that may be, whether evil or good. But though
I have done this now, I was not able to do it then.
It appeared to me so cruel, so bitter, so unnecessary,
that my courage failed me whenever I came to a part
of the story, which required me to speak lightly of
her. And so I gave it up; and merely because I
knew not how to employ my time for a week while I
was waiting for the ship that was to carry me over
the sea once more, I tried to put the story which I
heard from Gage in the cathedral into shape. But I
could not satisfy myself—it was no longer the same
story when it appeared on paper in my plain rude
style, and I wrote to him and begged him to do it
for me.

To tell a story is one thing you know, said he, in
his reply, to write a story is another, and although I
might succeed in telling it, I am by no means sure,
that I should, in writing it. However, what I can do,
I will, and you may do with it what you like.

And four days after I received the story which I
am now going to give, in the very words of the
author. My notion is, I confess, though that may be
owing to the peculiar circumstances under which I
heard it from his own mouth, as we sat together on
the little bench, he relating it and I listening to him,
till it had grown so dark that we could hardly see
each others faces, my notion is, I say, that he told it
much better there, than he does here, not only with
more effect on me, but with more beauty and power
of language. I never shall forget, I am sure, the
simple, serious quiet way, in which he kept on for
nearly two hours, talking pure poetry half the time,
superb, old-fashioned sweet poetry, as if it were his
mother tongue—I have heard people make more
parade in relating the commonest affair in the commonest
language. I may be mistaken, it is true, for
the novelty is over now, but indeed it appears to me
that he talked much better than he writes, and that he
has given me here only the type or shadow of himself,
and of that strange high faculty which amazed me so,
in his free, unstudied, familiar talking. Yet I preserve
the manuscript here, as it came to me; shadow or
type though it be, I cannot improve it, and I dare not
alter it. You have it now, every word and syllable

and thought as he struck it off, the story of a Real
North-American, I would not spoil the rude original
integrity of such a paper for this right hand.

You have not forgotten the beautiful Quakeress,
nor the strange interview that occured between poor
Gerard and the two females, at Mrs. Amory's, one of
whom spoke while the other withdrew her veil. How
often have I thought of the observation you made—
that is no Indian, said you!—and you were right. It
was indeed no Indian that you saw—it was another.
Have you forgotten how many times I have been
obliged to evade your enquiries about Elizabeth Hale?
That was she, but the voice we heard was the voice
of another. Oh! that he had but lifted his eyes, when
she paused before him in her transcendant beauty.

You shall have the story now. What I have said
once I am willing to say again. What I have said
with my mouth I do not scruple to say with my pen,
would you publish it? You may if you like, but
weigh the matter well before you determine. If yea,
blame nobody but yourself sir, if you live to hear
plaintive music in the low night wind, if the noiseless
footstep go by your chamber door, till the very wood
you touch, thrills with a presence that you have no
power to see; nor if pale faces come and go at your
window as you lie abed in the star light, quaking with
a fear that you would not acknowledge for the
world.

Gerard Middleton of Georgia, I have known ever
since he was able to walk. But I shall pass over the
period of his youth and come to that of the catastrophe,
when he became so altered in a single night that
I hardly knew him. I pray you to give the names

that I give, though they are fictitious, for by some
possibility you might give a true name, were you to
substitute others for these under an idea that they are
real names. I have met with such a case, and therefore
do I put you on your guard.

He was a profligate, a dangerous bad man, till this
affair took place. But now he is, what I alone persisted
in believing he would be, after his own father
had cast him off in despair, a good man. He was a
native, as I told you, of Georgia, but he was educated
in the North. A few months before you I saw him,
boy though he was, he had met with a fearful adventure
in marriage. It nearly drove him distracted, in
spite of his youth and his chereful happy temper. He
was gifted with great powers, great for their variety,
great for their number, great for their richness and
quality. But his morals were regulated by his pulse.
He could be ashamed after a foolish or a wicked
action; he could be sorry as well as another, but he
would not reform. After all however, we may say
what we like, but it is no such easy matter to throw
off an evil habit, however sincere we may be in our
shame and sorrow, and however determined we may
be to throw it off.

He never appeared to have a bad heart, every thing
he did was done with such a careless air, with so
much bravery and youthful grace; and yet he delighted
in pure mischief. I know that he once led a
beautiful woman, of whose good faith to her husband,
he was rather doubtful, to meet her own husband at a
place of assignation. It is true that he only did it to
punish both, for both pretended to great virtue, and
he was careful to lead them together in such a way

that, although it would appear suspicious on the part
of both, it would not be at all conclusive against her.
A duel was the consequence and he had a narrow
escape for his life. The parties themselves perhaps
only grew a little more wary.

He was proud, quick and jealous of authority; no
man was ever more so, and yet for several years, I
governed him like a child. I had more influence with
him after the duel—no matter why, and I had begun
to believe that he would turn out a worthy member of
society, after all. We were as unlike each other as
two men could well be, unlike in age, in appearance,
in habits and in temper; but I have an idea that we
loved each other all the better for this.

One day—it was about a month after you sailed for
Europe, he and I were together all day, and we spoke
freely of you, and he appeared very much grieved,
that he had not known the whole truth in time to
prevent you from breaking off with Mrs. Amory, of
whom, by the by, he had a very poor opinion. He
forgave you with all his heart he said, and I know
that he had more to forgive than you would suppose,
for she knew him before she knew you—at any rate,
loved him before she loved you, and while he was yet
a boy. As it grew dark, I saw by his manner that he
wished me away, but I would not leave him, for I
knew that he was on the verge of something out of
the common way, he dressed with so much care, and
rattled with so much grace. I entreated him to go
with me, to suffer me to stay with him, to tell me
whither he was going, for I was afraid of mischief,
and I told him so, whenever I saw him in such spirits
or equipped with such care. But he only laughed at

me, and the more I shook my head, the more he
laughed. I grew serious and peremptory, and after
awhile succeeded in making him draw a chair to the
table and sit down by my side. He spoke of women
with much levity and with much bitterness, to be sure,
but on the whole, far more kindly and respectfully
than he had for months before. He was happier
than he had been for a long while; and who that is
happy can speak with bitterness of woman? There
was moreover a cordial bright look of truth in his
large lamping eyes while he spoke of them, of their
capacity for love, their faith and fortitude, their noble
virtue and their gentleness, when tried with heavy
sorrow and sharp suffering—of their steady courage
and of their meek loyalty. His manner was that of
one whose long smothered conviction is about to
revive with a new power, whose natural purity and
holiness are about to break forth all at once and
forever. You are altered, said I.

For the better?

Of course, I replied.

By which, it would appear that I could not alter for
the worse, hey?

Nor could you.

But altered how, my dear Gage—in morals or
manners?

In your mode of thinking, my dear Gerard.

So!—neither in morals nor manners.

I did not say that—

No, you did not say that, I confess, but I understood
you. You appear to think better of women,
just now?

I do.

And why? because you have grown better yourself?

No—but chiefly because they begin to have rather
a bad opinion of me.

Ah Gerard! Gerard! you never hear women abused
by their favorites.

Well! and what are you staring at. You don't
like the fashion of my garb maybe?

Gerard Middleton!

Atherton Gage!

Are you in the habit of—of going to a—a—you
know what I would say, my dear Gerard.

Hang me if I do—

Yes you do! You are in the habit of going, I
see—

Of going where?—what on earth do you mean?

To a certain place—

Why, to tell you the truth, Gage—a—a (in a whisper.)

For shame!

Why so pray? What a fastidious old fig of a
bachelor you are—

Will you hear me?

Yes.

I had begun to have some little hope of you, after
you were packed off by Mrs. Amory, but I should
like to hear from your own mouth, that you no
longer pursue the poor—a—a—the poor women as
you did.

You shall be gratified, then; for out of my own
mouth you shall hear that I do not pursue the poor—
a—a—the poor women, as I did.

God bless you! my dear Middleton.

Well—and God bless you, if you come to that.

However, I should like to know why you have
given it up?

Chiefly because I am tired to death of it.

Ah! at your age, tired to death of chasing the
bright and the beautiful, &c.!

Yes Atherton, tired and sick of chasing the bright
and beautiful and soforth.

But why?

Why to tell you the simple truth, I begin to think
they are never worth our trouble. Do what you may,
die for them, wear your life out and your legs off in
their service and they look upon you still as the
gainer. So jealous and whimsical too every other
day, if not every other hour, so fond, so foolish and
so idle when you are busy, and so unspeakably busy,
when you are idle. No, no, my dear boy, your ugly
woman after all is the true luxury, the uglier and
older she is, the better, for she knows when
she is well treated and is grateful for every word and
look.

Ah, Gerard!

You'll not be surprised I hope, if I turn out a perfect
Penelope one of these days, or another Lucretia.
I'm pretty sure I shall, I have a turn that way, just now.

Ah, but when Gerard? when?

Why, after I have carried some ugly weather-beaten
old witch, in my new way, without provocation,
or help or artifice.

You are no so bad, so very bad as you appear, I
hope?

Why as to that—how do I appear?

Most unworthy of my regard; very foolish and
very wicked.

Why the truth is, my dear boy, they talk so much
of the disinterestedness of woman's love, just now,
that I—Lud, Lud! how grave you are!

It is time to be grave.

How like you, that is! would you have me forswear
my own faith and adopt the popular faith?

The popular faith?

Would you have me persuade myself when a sweet
little creature loves me, that she loves me alone—me
myself, me for my own sake? as you say in poetry?

To be sure I would, for nineteen times out of twenty
it would be true.

Fiddle-de-dee!

I am sure of it—

And who is myself? who the devil am I—I myself,
I should like to know that? an idea, a shadow, a
phantasm, a spirituality—a—a—flesh and blood! my
dear Atherton, would they care a fig for me, me myself,
me alone, (whatever they may say or believe,) me for
my own sake, if I were a dwarf or a fool, or an aged
man—or a woman?

They love my soul, do they! pretty fellows! when
of three score, fifty-nine would never know whether I
have a soul or not, and the sixtieth would'nt care. No,
no Atherton, no, no, they love me for a couple of
good reasons that you never thought of, I'll engage.

And what are they?

Why, in the first place, I am not a woman.

Pshaw! and what's the other?

Because I am a man.

Gerard! I tremble for you.

Why so?

You'll die a death of shame yet, or a death of unutterable
horror.

Vy, how can you say so! I mean to go to sleep
very quietly, one of these days, I do indeed: I'm sick
of this life.

Asleep, sir! But in that sleep of death—

What dreams may come, I know what you would
say, I've heard all that before.

If you tell the truth, if you are indeed sick of this
life, why not leave it off?

I mean to do so, but fair and softly. I've one little
job on my hands to go through with first... after
which, if I succeed in throwing it off, I mean to be
very good. I am now in search of a woman, (if you
should hear of one of the sort, you'll let me know) a
woman without sensibility or passion, with no heart
nor soul, no power to tempt or to be tempted, of
steady, high and awful reputation, with every thing to
lose and nothing to gain by intrigue; one that never
heard the name of love, never felt her heart stir at the
voice of a man. Having met with her, having subdued
her, I shall be happy.

Happy!

Yes, Atherton, for she will have loved me, as I wish to
be loved, for myself alone, me myself, me for my own
sake, as near as may be, and I shall have done all that
could be expected of me, in my small way—conquer
ed as much of the world, as I ever thought worth conquering.

How dare you speak to me, in this way—

In truth, I hardly know, I wonder at my own courage—for
I feel towards you, as if you had authority
over me. But look here—read this note—if women
will have it so, what am I to say?

The note ran thus—M. will be at the cottage tonight,

for the last time. If you desire to speak with
her, come early.

What is the meaning of this note sir? I see no
harm in it—who is the writer?

Excuse me; I do not know, and if I did, you would
blush for me, if I betrayed her. Ah! (pulling out his
watch,) ah! so near the time; good bye, Atherton.
Good bye, I must be off now!

As I live, Gerard Middleton! I do almost hope,
that some father, or husband, or brother, may be lying
in wait for you!

You are very good—and to tell you the truth, I
should'nt much care; it would be a relief to me, it
would make me either more discreet or more notorious,
no matter which, or better still—it would put me
out of the way. I wish I was in my grave, Atherton!

You were very near it, sir, but a few months ago.

Near it! I was on the very threshold of death—I was
given over, there was no hope for me, as you know,
and yet, I was happier, O, how much happier than I
am now! Then I was without fear; now, I am without
hope. Now, while I appear to be strong with renewed
life, and happy with new dreams—a river of
youthful, hot, rich, generous blood within me, a consciousness
of great power to sup—ah!

What's the matter!—

A spasm, Atherton, a spasm like a knife!

A stab from a real knife, might save you.

After this, we had a long conversation which ended
with his taking my hand, saying, You are a good fellow
Atherton Gage, you are indeed. I will reform
for your sake.

Will you! said I, quite overcome by his fervor.

Begin to-night, Gerard, this very night, if you
are serious. Turn off that woman of mischief before
you sleep.

What woman?

The woman you have at the cottage for a decoy.

Before I sleep, I cannot, I am under a promise to
her—but give me your hand, Atherton; you know me,
you know that what I say I will stick to. This very
night I will prepare to get rid of her, and after this
night I will never see her again—but as you would
wish me to see her.

After this night!

So help me God!

Ah, Gerard, and why not now?

Because to-night I mean to play the hero.

How—

I have been pursued for a long time, by a beautiful
creature, whom I have avoided hitherto with especial
care. She haunts me night and day, I am afraid for
no good; for she knows my character, and yet she
will put herself in my way! in which case, what can I
do?

Save her—save her! Be indeed a hero, and save
her from herself.

A hard thing to do Atherton, at my age, in good
health, but nevertheless... I'll try—if I can.

What is her age?

I am not sure; if it is the girl I think; I never saw
her face but once in my life; she may be about fifteen
or sixteen, perhaps.

Gerard—put your hands upon this book, and swear
to me, swear that you will keep your word, that you
will save her if you can—

Softly, softly, you mistake the vow—that I will try
to save her—if I can.

Be it so; that you will throw off your decoy this
very night.

I will; I swear on this book, that I will!

And that from this day forth, you will never trespass
upon the purity of woman.

After this night, if you please—

Be it so.

I swear.

What could I say? I was terrified, thunderstruck.
I knew that he would keep his oath, but I could not
for my soul, imagine how he had been persuaded to
take such an oath. What I said now, was only what
I had said fifty times before. But still, as I knew that
he would sooner die than break his word—as I saw it
in the established gravity of his look, in the unspeakable
sincerity of his whole countenance from the forehead
to the mouth, I was ready to say—Go—go—in
the Great name of God, for this night, and pray him to
forgive thee, as I forgive thee! But all at once, though
I knew that he would keep his oath, and that he could
not well sin much in the little time there was left for
him, I began to feel a sort of inquietude such as I had
never felt before, a sort of preternatural anxiety, a
pressure of the heart, a strange mysterious terror
without aim or shape. I was not a believer in prodigies,
nor in miraculous intimations—I never shall be, I
hope, for so long as they are not clear enough to be
understood, of what avail are they? And yet, I was
afraid with a fear that no language can describe. I
strove to prevent his going, I offered to go with him—
I did more—I played a trick with his watch to detain

him, the only trick I ever played in my life. But
he would go nevertheless.

My dear Gerard, I tremble for you, said I. Husbands
are on the look out for you, and fathers and brothers
are leagued together to destroy you.

So I have heard. But if they trap me, it shall be
with bait worth dying for.

Houses have been beset you know, within the last
week by armed men—this may be all a snare.

Be it so. Let them way-lay my path if they like;
let her that has the courage, betray me. Look you,
my friend. Hitherto I have been the pursuer and the
scourge of women; hereafter I hope to be—I will not
say what now; for in this particular case, I happen to
be the pursued; would you have me give up now—
now, when, for the first time in life, I design to play
the hero.

Ah, but mischief will come of it, Gerard, I know it
will; don't go, don't go, I beseech you; stop where
you are.

I must go—I will go—I would, if it were my last
hour. You cannot feel as I do; there is a mystery
about this girl which keeps me in a fever; I will go to
the bottom of it, I will, at the hazard of my life; I
will know who she is, and why she has haunted me so
long, pursuing me every where like my shadow, and
escaping from me at every turn, like my shadow.
Farewell.

Farewell! said I—and if a—but before I could
finish what I had to say, he was gone.