University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
LOVE AND GRIEF.

It was a warm, clear, beautiful
summer morning, and
Arthur Warren sat by the
window of his cell, looking

forth, through the iron grate,
upon a pleasant landscape.
The view was toward the
east, and a few dwellings of
the town of Bertram was visible,
and beyond them green
and flowery fields, shaded
here and there by trees, in
the branches of which
birds of different plumage
were singing merrily, and
over all the rising sun was
streaming with golden glory.
It was a delightful scene to
any who was free to range
at will; and as Arthur
sat and gazed upon it, in a
meditative mood, his mind
instinctively recurred to the
past; and memory became
busy with the happy hours of
his youth, when hand in hand,
with his gentle playmate Marian,
he had wandered over
the charming valley of Walde-Warren,
culling the brightest
flowers, to weave into a
garland for the fair brow of
his heart's queen; and he
remembered how, when tired
of their ramble, they had
partially ascended some one
of the many surrounding
hills, and there seated on
some smooth rock, that overlooked
their rural homes, he
had taken no note of time, as
he wreathed together his floral
gatherings, and entwined
them with her sunny curls.
Did he doubt her heart then?
Did he think those mild, soft,
grey eyes—whose every expression
was gentleness,
sweetness, frankness—which
seemed formed expressly to
beam with the holy light of
pure affection and love—did
he believe them the gates of
a soul that harbored one
thought of deceit? Did he
deem those rosy lips, which
his own in childish innocence
and admiration so often pressed,
could utter an untruth?
No! he would as soon have
doubted the warmth and
light of the sun, as doubted
the purity, the guilelessness,
of his fond, sweet little playmate,
his pretty little Marian.

And he had lived to think
that same fair being false,
deceitful, and leagued with
another more false and treacherous
still! Oh! how much
we lose, in losing the innocence
of childhood! It is the
lifting of the silver veil which
hangs before the Mokanna of
the future, and we shudder
at what we behold! It is the
tasting of the forbidden tree,
by which we know good from
evil; but alas, all we gain in
knowledge illy compensates
us for the moral death we
suffer, in being driven from
our Eden of happiness.

“Wretch am I, that I could
so wrong her! and wretched
am I, that I have so wronged
her!” said Arthur; and tears
of regret rolled slowly down
his pale cheeks. “Oh, that
she were come! that I might
ask her forgiveness!”

As he spoke, he had a
glimpse of a carriage, passing
along the road below him.

His cell was so situated, that
he could only see the upper
portion of it, and he only saw
it for a moment; but he recognised
it as his father's or
Waldegrave's—he knew not
which—and his heart beat
fast, for he believed it contained
Marian. He arose in
no little agitation, and paced
the floor hurriedly, ever and
anon stopping to listen, with
his breath suspended. Presently
he heard the rattling
of bolts and bars, the opening
and shutting of ponderous
doors, and knew that some
one had entered the prison.
The noise drew nearer, and
he involuntarily placed his
hand upon his heart, to still
its beatings. Nearer it came,
stopped at his door, and as he
heard the key applied to the
lock, he grasped a chair to
support himself, for he felt
weak and faint. The next
moment the door was thrown
open, something was said by
the jailor, a female figure
glided into the cell, a half
suppressed shriek followed,
and Arthur Warren held the
lovely Marian Waldegrave
in his embrace, with her head
pillowed upon his bosom,
while the closing of the iron
door, with a bang, told him
they were alone.

For some moments Arthur
was too deeply affected to
speak, and Marian lay heavily
upon his support, without
moving. At length, in a
voice tremulous with emotion,
he murmured her name. Still
she stirred not, spoke not; and
gently altering her position,
so that the light streamed full
upon her lovely countenance,
he saw that she had fainted.
Oh! how his heart smote
him, as he gazed upon that
pale, sweet, sad face, and
traced in its fading lineaments,
lines of grief and suffering.
And this was the gentle being
he had rashly torn from his
heart, as unworthy of his love,
and deemed mankind selfish
and base, because of her falsity!
Ah! good reason had
he for thinking the world all
hollow-hearted, if she were
not true—for when angels sin,
where shall we look for goodness?—but
the great error
of Arthur, was in first mistaking
her; and the moment
his faith drew her from the
foundation of the false fabric
his mind had reared, the unsupported
structure came
tumbling to the ground.

There was water in the
room, and still sustaining his
gentle burthen, Arthur sprinkled
some on her face. Soon
she showed signs of returning
animation; and carefully seating
her in a chair, he removed
her hood, kneeling beside her,
and taking one of her soft
white hands in his, reverently
placed it to his lips, and bedewed
it with tears. That
was a moment of happiness,
such as he had not known
for a long, long time; and
contrasted with his recent

misery, seemed to exceed all
he had ever known.

Gradually consciousness returned;
and as the warm
blood slightly tinged the pale
cheeks of Marian, her mild,
dove-like eyes unclosed, and
beamed softly upon him who
had been the cause of so much
sorrow to her. At first she
seemed only to comprehend
in part her situation; but
the soul, regaining its empire,
made her face radiant with
joy and sadness commingled;
and while a sweet, melancholy
smile played around her lips,
her eyes filled with tears.

“Arthur!” she murmured;
“Oh! Arthur.”

“Marian! dear, dear Marian!”
he replied; and starting
to his feet, he clasped
her to his heart.

Both now wept, and wept
freely, for the hearts of both
were too full to yet find vent
in words. At length, growing
more composed, they seated
themselves beside the window,
with a ray of sunlight streaming
in between them—as
if nature would unite them
in brightness—and gently
taking her hand again, Arthur
said:

“Can you forgive me, dear
Marian?”

“Oh, Arthur, it is I who
should ask that question of
you.”

“Nay, no more of that!”
cried Arthur, with energy—
“no more of that, Marian!
I could bear your scorn better
than such words now. I
would I had something to forgive—for
then there might be
a slight excuse for my own
conduct—but now there is
none. My father tells me,
Marian that you believe me
innocent of the crime of which
I stand accused.'

“I do, Arthur—O, I do!”

“Bless you for this! bless
you! And now tell me why
you think so, dear Marian?
for you, of all my friends,
have best cause for thinking
otherwise—as I left you in
a bitter mood to seek Ernest,
notwithstanding your prayer
to the contrary. O, tell me
why you think me guiltless
of his death?”

“Because, dear Arthur,
you told your father you did
not do it—and my heart
tells me you would not utter
an untruth to save your
life.”

“Heaven bless you, dear
Marian, for this unwavering
confidence in my integrity!—
but in return, I must stand
condemned before you—for
I could doubt your truth, and
think you false.”

“You wronged me in that
thought, Arthur—but perhaps
you had a cause.”

“No, no cause that would
justify it, I now feel assured;
and all I can plead in extenuation
is a certain degree of
jealousy, arising from excess
of love. Oh, Marian, you
could not have known how
much I loved you, I am now

certain, or you would not
have made me miserable by
encouraging the advances of
one who was seeking to supplant
me!”

“Love!” almost gasped
Marian, turning pale as death:
“did you then love me, Arthur?”

“Ay, Marian, too well for
my own good; and not till
convinced you only felt toward
me a kind of worldly
friendship, did I seek to tear
that love from my heart.”

“Oh, what a fatal mistake!”
cried Marian. “I did
not know this, Arthur; I
never dreamed it; I thought
—(her voice faltered, and her
eyes sought the ground) I
thought you loved another.”

“Ha! methinks I see
through all this!” exclaimed
Arthur: “were you not told
so Marian?”

“Not in so many words;
but I was given to understand
so, by some casual remarks
of Mr. Clifford.”

“Yes! yes! I see! Oh,
the—. But he has gone
to his account, and I will say
nothing harsh. And yet,
Marian, you said he always
spoke of me in the highest
terms?”

“And so he did, Arthur,
else should I not have listened
to him. He extolled you
most highly, and as your
friend won my esteem; though
once I remember, in speaking
of this, you unfortunately
misunderstood me.”

“Ah, yes, I remember.
And he led you to think I
loved another?”

“Yes, Arthur; and that belief
caused my manner to bear
a certain restraint in your presence;
and I encouraged the
attention of Mr. Clifford, in
order that you might not feel
compelled through courtesy to
wait upon me. I fancied you
knew the secret of my heart
—that I had too palpably made
known its love for you—and
that if you did not actually despise
me, you wished it otherwise.
I was told you esteemed
me, regarded me as a friend,
looked upon me as a sister—
and maidenly delicacy would
permit me to show no other
feeling toward you, if I could
avoid it. You confirmed me
in this belief—for you spoke
to me of friendship, and hinted
there could be no nearer tie
between us.”

“And that was because I
fancied you cared more for
another than myself—for I too
had been told, by the same designing
individual, that you
looked upon me as a brother.
Oh! Marian, you said right,
when you termed this a fatal
mistake; for had we understood
each other, I should not
have quarrelled with Clifford,
and therefore should not be
here now.”

“But you had no hand in
his death, Arthur?”

“What! do you begin to
doubt now?”

Oh, no, no, no, Arthur—do

not let us misunderstand one
another again; but you said
if you had not quarrelled you
would not be here now.”

“By which I mean, if I had
not gone to seek him in an angry
mood, I should never have
placed myself in a position to
be suspected of his death.”

“I understand you now.
Ah! how guarded we should
be in all our actions, since there
may be a fate in the most trifling
thing we do.”

“True,” replied Arthur musingly—“true,
Marian, true.
The ways of God are intricate;
and not the more easily to be
understood, that he works by
the simplest means. Trifles
make up the sum of human
existence; and though we are
occasionally startled by great
events, which come upon us
suddenly, yet each event, if
traced to its cause, will not
only be found to have had its
beginning in trifles, but to be
entirely composed of trifles,
which, having been brought
together, like so many kernels
of powder, have at length exploded,
causing destruction
and consternation. Take
every marked circumstance,
that ever happened in the life
of an individual, and if he will
run his mental eye back along
the vista of the past, he will
find some trifling point where
the whole consequence had a
beginning; and he will freely
acknowledge, that had this
point been changed in the
smallest possible degree, the
result must have been entirely
different—as a stream turned
never so little from its channel,
near its source, may perhaps
water another country. Yes,
Marian, yes—we cannot be too
guarded, even in our most trifling
actions. Oh, had I taken
your advice, and not gone in
pursuit of Clifford, this had
not been; and I might perhaps
have done so—I do not say I
should, but that I might—had
not the missing of that ring re-aroused
all my most vindictive
feelings.”

“Alas, dear Arthur, you
must not blame me too severely
that the ring was not where
you placed it.”

“The time for blaming you,
sweet Marian, has gone by,
thank heaven!” said Arthur,
with sad earnestness. “I no
longer doubt your friendship,
or your love; and whether you
explain the cause of its absence
or not, my feelings will
remain unaltered.”

“A word then will suffice,”
rejoined Marian, “and this explanation
is due to you. The
day after that awful night,
when we were borne down the
angry torrent, I missed the
ring from my finger, and next
saw it in the possession of
Mr. Clifford, who persisted in
retaining it, in spite of all my
entreaties. You may judge
of my anxiety on the subject,
regarding it as I did the sacred
pledge of your friendship. But
what could I do? I could not
compel its return, and he was

the preserver of my life, and,
as I then believed, your
friend.”

“Well,” replied Arthur sadly,
“it matters not now—every
thing was so to be, it seems
—and we must bear in mind
that a Power above us had the
ordering of all.” Then, after
a thoughtful pause: “Marian,”
he said, “dear Marian, you
must not think me inconsistent,
cruel, or unkind, that even
now, at the very moment of
our reconciliation—with that
knowledge of your love which,
under other circumstances,
would make me the happiest
of mortals—I frankly confess,
I almost regret you are not
what I believed you to be, ere
we came to an understanding.”

“Why so, Arthur?” demanded
Marian, with a start,
her pale features deeply flushing.

“Because, dear Marian,”
he replied, taking her hand,
and speaking in a sad, dejected
tone; “because, Marian, dissatisfied
with the world, I was
ready and willing to quit it
for a better; and were you
what I then thought, my death
would have caused you no
pang; but now, since I know
how deeply you love me—
now that I have earthly happiness,
as it were, within my
very grasp—it will be very,
very hard for us to part.”

“Part,” echoed Marian, in
a tone of alarm, her sweet
features now becoming deadly
pale; “part, Arthur? must
we then part?”

“You see me here, Marian,
accused of a horrible crime,”
said Arthur, in a voice of
deep emotion.

“Well, but you are innocent,
Arthur?”

“What matters that, with
such a chain of circumstances
against me, Marian? You
think me innocent—but you
are not my judge and jury—
will they pronounce me guiltless,
think you?”

“Oh, yes, they must,—they
must; you will say you did
not kill Clifford, and surely
they will believe you.”

Arthur shook his head sorrowfully.

“I know the world but indifferently
well,” he rejoined;
“but I know it better than
you, it seems, dear Marian. I
shall be tried—impartially, I
doubt not—but the evidence
against me will be overwhelming,
and I dare not hope for
an acquittal.”

“Oh! you terrify me, Arthur?”
cried Marian.

“Better that you should
prepare yourself for what is
about to take place.”

“Can an innocent man be
condemned, dear Arthur?”
cried Marian, greatly excited.

“Many have been ere now,
dearest.”

“And executed, Arthur?”

“Ay, and executed.”

“Will heaven look on and
permit it?”

“Heaven sometimes does,

my sweet friend; for God has
his own wise purposes to perform,
and it is sometimes his
will that the innocent should
suffer for the guilty.”

“Oh! Arthur, this idea will
drive me mad.”

“It must not, Marian; you
must struggle against it; you
must pray to be supported under
this deep affliction; and I
must pray for new strength
also.”

“Alas! Arthur—dear, dear
Arthur—I could not survive
you!” groaned Marian.

“We know not how much
we can bear and live, till we
are tried. Had any one told
me, three months since, that
I should pass through what I
have, and retain my reason, I
would have unhesitatingly
pronounced it an impossibility
—but you behold me here, a
living proof that I knew not
myself.”

“But have you no hope of
an acquittal, Arthur?

“None that I dare rely on,
Marian.”

“Oh, I dreamed not of
this,” cried the other, with a
burst of grief; “it is terrible,
terrible,” and covering her
face, the poor girl sobbed convulsively.
Suddenly she stopped,
and fixing her tearful
eyes upon him she loved, with
a ray of hope animating her
sorrowful countenance, exclaimed:
“But if convicted,
Arthur, you may be pardoned
—the law is not always carried
into effect.”

“If convicted, I would hardly
accept my life from the
Governor,” returned the other,
gloomily.

“But for my sake you would,
Arthur?” pursued Marian,
eagerly.

“For your sake,” he rejoined,
sadly: “Ah! Marian, I fear
you do not fully comprehend
your own idea; it would be
snatching me from a speedy
death, to condemn me to a
life of misery.”

“How so, Arthur?” asked
Marian, in surprise.

“Because the stigma of a
pardoned criminal would ever
attach to me; and I could
never stand up again like a
man, with the proud consciousness
there was no stain
upon my honor; and to live
degraded and disgraced I could
not.”

“But you could go where
you are not known?” persisted
Marian.

“Well, and should I be happy
among strangers? should I
not feel that every one had a
right to shun me? and how,
with this feeling uppermost,
could I ever mingle in society
again?”

“But could we not live in
retirement and be happy, Arthur?”
said Marian, blushing
at her own ingenuous words.

“We?” repeated Arthur, emphatically,
with a peculiar expression:
“we? Could you
then consent to link your fate
to a pardoned criminal, Marian?”

“I would link my fate to
yours, Arthur, be it what it
might,” she replied, with the
straightforward simplicity of
pure affection—of unwavering
love.

Arthur gazed upon her, with
an expression of rapture
mingled with grief.

“O, blessed is woman!” he
exclaimed; “for she makes
even this cold earth a Paradise.
May heaven forgive me, Marian,
for ever having doubted
you!—but alas! what you
propose would be impossible.”

“How impossible?” cried
the other.

“Because I would not be
so base as to unite you with
one dishonored.”

“But you would not be dishonored
in my eyes, dear Arthur.”

“Ah! think it not, Marian,”
he rejoined, with deep
feeling; “hope it not; it could
never be. No, if I am condemned,
whether pardoned or
not, we can never be more to
each other than we are now.”

“Alas! you give me no
hope to sustain my sinking
spirits, Arthur!” she cried,
again bursting into tears.

“I would I could give you
hope, dearest Marian,” he replied,
in a voice scarcely audible;
“but I would not deceive
you.”

After some further conversation,
all tending to the same
point, Marian, with tearful
eyes, bade Arthur adieu, and
returned home, more depress
ed in spirit than when she
came hither; while Arthur,
no longer finding relief to his
burdened mind in his books,
paced the floor of his cell, hour
after hour, with his eyes bent
upon the ground, and a dark
cloud of gloom resting upon
his manly, noble countenance.