University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

So, we parted, he for the cottage, and I to wander I
hardly knew whither; I only know that the word
farewell with which he left me, a word which at any
other time, I should not have cared for, tolled in my
ears all night long, and that I could not shake off the
fear it filled me with, and that before I knew where I
was, I found myself seated by the mother of poor
Martha P— a dear good girl who was very fond of
Middleton, in spite of his bad character, though she
was too proud and pure to acknowledge it even to
me—her adopted brother; I have not forgotten too,
that somebody spoke of him with asperity, and that
I saw the twinkle of tears and heard a half articulate
peevish cry, as the poor girl stooped down to look
for a needle with her short loose hair huddled about
her neck, hiding her eyes and throwing a deep shadow
over the floor; that the mother bid her get up, and
that Martha got up, and shook away her hair from
her eloquent face, and spoke a word or two in his
favor; that her father appeared to be angry with her,
and that she grew very pale and praying her father
to forgive her, left the room with her eyes brimful,
and her heart running over; that her very aged grandmother
who had been watching every shadow that
passed over the forehead of Martha, as if she could
see through it, broke a silence which the father told
me when Martha left the room had continued for a
whole week, and muttering in a sort of hoarse whisper,

said; no, no, no! and again, as Martha shut a
door overhead, no, no—no! and again after a long
while, so long that we had forgotten the cause of her
speech, throwing up her withered arms and trying to
rise from the chair—no! no! no! I tell you; that I
shrunk away from the poor old creature with fear,
while a favorite negro came up to me and shaking his
huge head and showing his large teeth, bid me nebber
fear, for why? cause-a young-a massa Gerard, he
nebher come out o' de little eend o' de horn yit, no
more 'n a toad wants a tail, ebbery bit an' grain; that
I hurried off and was overtaken at the door by Martha,
who putting both her hands into mine, said to me in
her sweet way; while they quivered and palpitated in
my grasp—Atherton—Atherton, my dear good brother;
you are now the only hope of that young man. Poor
Gerard! Do not desert him; do not you give him up.
Who knows Atherton, who knows—it may be in your
power perhaps to—to—to save him and—that is—I—
I—I forget what I was going to say; but never desert
him I beseech you, my dear brother for the sake of
poor Elizabeth—O that she were alive now! for so
long as you are with him, I have a—a sort of a—a
—a sort of hope—of his, of his—of his welfare, I
mean.

As I live dear Martha, said I, setting my lips to her
forehead—(I never kissed her mouth in my life, though
I loved her as much as a brother could love a sister,
and I knew that she loved me, as much as I did her,)
as I live, dear Martha, I will never desert him.

Ah, you are very good! I am easy now—I am very
happy now, said she—farewell!

Happy, thought I; she happy! while the water

stands in her eyes, and she can hardly speak loud
enough to be heard by me.

I left her, I know, with a dreadful oppression of
the heart, with a feeling which I have no power to
describe, nor courage to think of. It grew worse and
worse at every step, and I walked about for an hour
in the cool night wind, before I went back to my
study, hoping to throw it off by exercise. I remember
the whole now, every thought and every step
after I left poor Martha, though much of it appeared
like a dream to me on the following day. I took up
my flute I remember, I tried to amuse myself with a
book; with drawing, with writing, but all to no purpose—they
would not relieve me, their witchery was
no more. I threw myself on the bed without undressing—and
lay there for a whole hour with my
eyes shut, and would have slept if I could, although I
felt somehow unwilling to throw off my clothes.
But I could not sleep. The dark air grew hot and luminous
about me, I felt as if I were haunted, I could
hardly get my breath, at last; and I started up in a
fright, opened all the windows, and left the room as if
I were pursued by some invisible thing, and took the
road by the river-side; for I was very fond of the
water, and I had an idea that a bath would relieve me;
but some how or other, I know not how it was, though
I tried all along the shore, I could not find a deep
smooth quiet place which was not either too dark—so
dark that my courage failed me, or too much in the
moon-light for my purpose. I wandered a long long
way up the banks, loitering here to look at a ripple
and there to hear the moaning of the water; but still,
still to no purpose—I could not throw off the weight.

I leaped, I ran, I recited verses aloud, I threw stones
at every shadowy spot I saw, for every shadowy spot
was like a pool of death to me; and I did so that I
might hear a noise like life, and see a flash like life
in what appeared as dark and as quiet as the grave;
but still that weariness, that insupportable weariness
would not forsake me.

At last, as I stood looking at the water into which
I had rolled a huge rock a moment before, I got
possessed all at once with a belief—it was not a vague
idea, it was a belief, a thorough conviction—that
Gerard Middleton was in danger, and that he had such
need of me as no living man ever had of another. I
know what I say—I do not mistake I am sure. I
know that I had this belief, while I stood there looking
down into the river, and before I arrived at the
cottage, as strongly as I had it after I arrived there,
and saw the woman of mischief.

I tremble now when I think of the way in which
this belief entered my soul—it were enough to make
any man a believer in what I hope never to believe
in—preternatural intimations. I felt as I should feel,
I suppose, if I were to see a shadow pursue my shadow,
as I should feel were I to hear my name called out
in the everlasting woods where I had never been
before. I was very much frightened, partly on my
own account and partly on his, and yet, in the midst
of my fear, I was collected enough to stop and look
about me and reason with myself, as I would now
with another. I put my fingers to my pulse, and the
better to assure myself, I shouted and laughed till the
shores rung; but all I could do was of no use; I
could not scare away the awful persuasion of my

heart, nor could I shame it away, though I tried with
perfect seriousness. What could I do?—I was afraid
to give up to such a fear; it was too unworthy of me,
too childish, I said, over and over again; but more
afraid, I confess, that if I did not obey it, I should
live to be sorry for my disobedience; for after all,
how knew I, how could any body know that we
are not to be guided by preternatural intimations?

I know not how another might behave in such a
case, but I know that I gave up to the fear at last,
though I would not acknowledge it to myself, and
that I set forward on my way to the cottage, saying
at every step that I was a fool, that my terror was not
only childish but impious, and that I would go, merely
to satisfy myself that I was a blockhead for my
pains.

On the way, I thought much of the past, of you, of
your enquiries about poor Elizabeth Hale, of Mrs
Amory, of poor Middleton, of his mortal foe, (a man
you never saw) of poor Martha P—, of the beautiful
strange woman at the cottage, and of the talk I
had with Gerard about her, before he left me, saying
farewell, as if he knew we should never meet again.
But still, strange as it may appear, I would not hurry
myself, nor take even the shortest path; but crossing
the water, pursued my way along the verge of the wood,
as leisurely as if I had been out for a walk with some
idle dreamer abroad in the moonlight, or some poor
lunatic, who might be exasperated by serious opposition.
At last I entered a dark part of the wood,
through which I had to feel my way; and so dark was
it, and so occupied was I with inward strife, that I
lost myself; nor did I know where I was, till I broke

out all at once, without preparation or notice, directly
in front, and within a few yards of the cottage, while
I supposed myself to be yet a long way off.

I started—I held my breath—I drew back, and
stood in the shadow of a tree, and tried again to shake
off the unwholesome fear. The moon was at the full,
but there was a strong wind over-head, and the whole
heavens appeared to be loose, and drifting slowly
athwart her face. The sky was all afloat, as our fishermen
say, when there is a perpetual swift succession
of shadow and light, over their path in the sea. Behind
me, was a thick wood, on my right and left were
a few large trees, and right before me, was the cottage,
the little window of the second story flashing
forth at long intervals to the unsteady light of the
moon.

While I was standing there, it grew very dark, so
dark that I should not have been able to see where I
was, but for one little patch of clear blue sky just over
the cottage-roof; you may smile, but what I say is
the truth—it appeared to me as I stood there, to be
just over the roof, and it affected me in a strange
way, I know not why nor wherefore—I only know
that my heart grew full and that my eyes ran over,
when I saw that one spot of blue, like a window
in heaven, solid clear and stationary, while the rest
of the sky appeared to be passing away below it, like
the white clouds that are driven by the north-wind
with such inconceivable velocity over the bright face
of the moon. I never shall forget my feelings that
night, nor the look of the shadowy solitude before
me, and about me, nor the huge trees, nor the profound,
awful quiet in earth and air, in sea and sky,

nor the heaviness that weighed upon me like the hand
of death.

I will bear it no longer, said I at last, I will go up to
the cottage and ask for him, dead or alive. At the
very instant I determined to do this, a door opened a
little way off, and immediately afterwards, a man stepped
forth from the shadow of a projecting part of the
roof, and stood as if listening, within a few yards of
me. I thought I had seen him before, he stooped
very much, he was tall, and wore his left arm in a
sling. He was followed by a woman. Her I knew.
I could not be mistaken—her very step was enough to
betray her. It was Claire, the beautiful foreigner;
but if so, how came she to be leagued with Jeffry —
the mortal foe of Middleton? (for it was he); the very
man who betrayed the poor Indian-girl that you saw,
when she was regarded by Gerard as his wife, and after
a while would have been so; the very man that
was betrayed afterwards into an intrigue with his own
beautiful wife, as I have told you, by poor Gerard;
and the very man, who after he had fought Gerard
twice, narrowly escaping death each time, swore, as
he lay bleeding on the field, never to interchange forgiveness
with him, nor ever to lose sight of him, till
he was fully avenged.

After waiting a few moments at the door of the cottage,
as if to assure himself that every thing was safe
there, he came directly to the spot which concealed
me, but evidently without knowing or suspecting that
any body was there, for he stopped under a large tree,
within a few feet of me, and entered into conversation
with the female. They were so near at one time, that
I was afraid to breathe or move, though I would have

given the world to be away—I could have touched her
with my hand, as they stood whispering together. His
carriage was haughty and cold, and I thought inflexible,
but she stood as if ready to go down upon her knees
before him. I could not hear what they said—I was
too much frightened, and my heart palpitated so furiously,
it made me sick; I was hardly able to stand.
But just as I began to despair, they stopped whispering
all at once, and retreated further into the shadow
of the trees, the woman locking her hands with a faint
cry, and holding them to her heart, and he leaning
away from her, and listening as though he heard something
afar off in the wood. While I was looking for
some body to appear in the quarter to which their
eyes were directed, a window was cautiously opened
before me, and a female dressed in white appeared
like a dead woman wrapped in her grave clothes, I
have thought since—and after looking out, with a hurried
anxious motion of the head, and listening attentively
for a few moments, with her hair flying loose
about her neck, she lifted up her arms with a low
moaning respiration toward the little patch of blue
sky, as if she could see through it, and beyond it, and
immediately afterwards, threw out something, which
fell near me with a jingling noise, like that of broken
glass, and went staggering away from the window, as
if she had been overtaken with the sickness of death.
I hardly know what followed, I acknowledge, nor
what became of the people near me; for it grew very
dark while I was reasoning with my own terror, so dark
that I could hardly see the shape of any thing about
me, or the cottage, or the trees, or the sky, though I
could hear a loud hoarse whispering afar off, like that
we hear on the beach, when there is a great swell at
sea, or the wind is rising on the far-off shores of the
wilderness. I was frightened—I do not deny it—I
dare not, I will not: I was exceedingly frightened; so
much so, that instead of going up to the cottage, as I
intended a little while before, I hurried away into the
wood, and lost myself; and lo! the night wind arose,
and a thick whitish fog fell upon my path, and the
trees began to roar, and I was glad enough to escape
in the dreary darkness that followed; hurrying away
I knew not whither, as if pursued for my life, yet more
and more dissatisfied with myself, and my own motives
at every step, for not having gone up to the door
and demanded, late as it was, to see poor Middleton.