19. XIX.
THE STATUE SPEAKS.
The moment now approached when I must leave this domain
of enchantment, and forget all the dreams in which I had indulged.
My arm was well, and duty called me.
I went without reluctance, for it was plain now that my suit
was hopeless. It is not an agreeable confession, but I am compelled
to state that Miss May Beverley seemed to care no more
for me on the last than on the first day of my visit. I go further,
and say that I think she cared less for me.
I had kept her handkerchief, picked up on that evening, intending
to return it when the moment came, with “a few remarks,”
such as we read in novels. How absurd did this “silly
romance” now appear! That pretty little drama quite hung
fire, and I thought I saw her laughing instead of blushing! Now,
when a young lady laughs upon such occasions, you might as
well pocket your romance, get into the saddle, and wave her
“adieu for evermore!”
That is all excellent advice, and I bestow it upon the reader
in the gayest manner to-day. You see the wound has healed:
at that time it was bleeding. I jest now, but then I was the
prey of anger, disappointment, outraged pride, wounded vanity,
and wretchedness generally. Those poisonous distillations of
the human heart are not wholesome, and did not contribute very
greatly to my happiness at the time.
When one day I announced my intention to set out for the
Potomac on the next morning, I found the Colonel and Mrs.
Beverley much more deeply impressed by that important statement
than the young lady; and indeed it seemed to be a matter
of perfect indifference to her whether I stayed or went away.
I found myself alone with her that evening on the steps of the
portico, and it is impossible to imagine any thing more coolly
indifferent than her demeanor.
Disappointment, anger, mortified pride!—see an allusion
above to the feelings of one of the parties to that interview.
The moon was shining, and the dreamy splendor lit up the
beautiful head with the waving hair and the great violet eyes.
I had never known May Beverley look so beautiful, but there
was an expression upon her face which I had never seen there
before. Pride, weariness, and a sort of scornful despair—all
were written in those eyes, and upon those lips, in characters
that could not be mistaken. I could scarcely extract a word
from her: she seemed brooding over something, and from time
to time looked furtively toward me, instantly withdrawing her
eyes when they met mine.
“What does all this mean!” I said to myself, with a sort of
gloomy surprise. “Mademoiselle seems distraite to-night, and
with something on her mind. Well, I'll try and see if I can't
arouse her.”
And, suppressing a bitter laugh which rose to my lips, I said:
“This is a charming night! It reminds me of one in Richmond
not long since—on the Capitol Square, where the music
was playing.”
She did not seem to hear me, but I saw her face flush and
then grow pale.
“I saw you there that night,” I went on; “did I never tell
you I saw you? That day in the storm was not our first meeting.”
She turned and looked at me.
“You saw me!” she said, in a low tone.
“Certainly! I had that great pleasure; and you don't think
it possible that I should forget it?”
She must have observed my bitterness, for a strange expression
came to her face.
“You were walking with Mr. Baskerville: is that gentleman
a friend of yours?”
A lurid light came to her eyes, and her roses all faded.
Looking me straight in the eyes, she remained silent for several
minutes, and I could see her face in the moonlight flush
crimson. Then this was succeeded by a pallor so deadly that I
thought she was about to faint; she placed her hand on her
heart, and, still looking straight at me, murmured hoarsely:
“I am engaged to Mr. Baskerville!”
The blow I had received from that falling limb in the forest
was nothing to those words. I gazed at the speaker with an air,
I am convinced, of imbecile wonder, and in vain attempted to
utter some reply. She must have seen, or fancied she saw, an
expression of scorn upon my pale face, for suddenly her brow
flushed again, and she haughtily exclaimed:
“You seem exceedingly surprised, sir! Do you find any thing
very extraordinary in this announcement? Yes, sir—I repeat
that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Baskerville!”
What could I reply? There are moments when all language
fails, and the very blood seems to stagnate. I remained thus
dumb and bewildered, looking at the person who had uttered
these words; and then slowly came the full conviction of my
misery—slowly, as the gloomy moon rises, blood-red and menacing,
over some battle-field covered with the dead. This, then,
was the end of all my romantic dreams!—this was the mortal
blow which had struck me to the very heart—May Beverley was
to marry Baskerville!
As I muttered that name audibly, in a tone of inexpressible
scorn, the young lady uttered a hoarse moan, and exclaimed,
with cruel sarcasm:
“One would really suppose, sir, that you did not approve of
the match, and were going to refuse your consent to it!”
Those words revived me, like a bitter tonic. They aroused all
my pride, and made me a man again. Suppressing every exhibition
of emotion, I said, in a tone as cold and measured as I
could assume at the moment:
“I beg that Miss Beverley will pardon any thing in my manner
which is offensive or disagreeable to her. She must be aware
that my approval or disapproval of any course she may pursue
amounts to nothing whatever; and I am quite sure that my
opinions even are a matter of complete indifference to her. I
did fancy, at one time, that there was something like friendship
between us; but that, too, is scattered to the winds at this
moment. I will not intrude further upon your presence, Miss
Beverley.”
And, with bitterness at my heart, I rose and was about to
leave her. She retained me with a single movement of her
hand—the other was twitching convulsively at the gold chain
around her neck. She had turned her head away—she now
looked at me, and her eyes were full of tears.
“Pardon me,” she said, in a low voice, “I did not mean to
offend you. I have known you but a short time, but I would
not willingly forfeit your regard. I am very wretched, sir! No
one seems to care for me. You think me cold, my temper disdainful—do
not deny it, sir, I have read it in your eyes. I am
very proud, sir—I do not value the good opinion of everybody—
but I would do much to retain yours.”
She paused: her voice trembled; but I saw in her eyes the
light of a determined resolution. She had evidently made up
her mind to pursue some course from which her feelings recoiled.
“I have informed you of my engagement, sir—do you know
why? I am about to utter words which no woman should speak
lightly, without a good reason.”
She stopped again—then her cheeks were covered with blushes,
and she said, hurriedly:
“You are attached to me—I could not avoid seeing it! You
are an honorable gentleman, and I should have despised myself
forever if I had suffered you to be deceived—to remain in ignorance
of what I have told you! I have resolved many times to
tell you—I had not the courage. Every day I formed that resolution—every
day it has been broken! I have tried to discourage
you—I have made myself very disagreeable. I have been cold,
satirical, even bitter—when I would have given worlds to have
appeared in my natural character, and won your friendship!
You know all now—I am very unhappy, sir—but I am a proud
person, and I acted honorably, did I not? This avowal is almost
killing me, sir!—but I must go on until I have finished! It has
made me sick at heart to reflect that you regarded me as a young
lady whose hand was disengaged, when I was the victim of a
formal contract. Yes, victim! I say victim!” she exclaimed,
in a voice of inexpressible anguish; “the victim of a hateful, an
intolerable engagement! You shall know all, sir—you
must
know it! My father was the friend of Mr. Baskerville's father
—he is dead now—and an agreement was made between them
that when Mr. Frederick Baskerville and myself grew up, we
should be married. He came to see me when he was a child,
and continued to do so as he grew older. I was educated in the
idea that I was some day to marry him—I admired him as a boy,
for his grace and ease of manner—and, when I was but fifteen,
engaged myself to him. His father, who was very fond of me,
died soon afterward, rejoicing that the marriage would now
surely take place; and my own father, who is the slave of his
word, declares that I am doubly bound, first by his promise to
his friend who is dead, and again by my word to Mr. Baskerville!”
Again she paused; her voice had a cold and desolate intonation
now, which jarred upon the ear. I pitied her, but at the
name of Baskerville all my rage and misery overflowed.
“You do not speak!” she murmured in a piteous tone, “perhaps
I weary you.”
“Your words tear my heart!” I said. “Why do you utter
them? Why not simply say `Go! I care nothing for you!'
Your confidence honors me—but I scarcely understand its object!”
“You shall soon understand?” she exclaimed bitterly. “I
mean that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Baskerville, and
that I cannot bear him!—that for years past, since I have discovered
his real character, I have shuddered at that contract!—
that my life is imbittered by the very thought of marrying
him!—and yet nothing I can do or say will change my father's
purpose, or prevent him from insisting upon this marriage with
a man I actually loathe!”
It was a wail of despair I listened to—the cry of a broken
heart. I forgot my own anguish as I listened to that voice, and
would have given all I hoped to possess of fame or wealth or
happiness to have drawn the poor girl to me and sheltered her
in my arms.
Setting my teeth together, I could only mutter:
“When is this marriage to take place?”
“When I am twenty-one,” she murmured.
“And you will marry that man?”
“I must.”
The words sounded like a knell. What was there to reply?
I looked at her as she held down her head, crying silently.
“Do you remember that moonlight night in Richmond?”
“Yes.”
“Here is your handkerchief, which I picked up—I return it to
you.”
And I placed it in her hand.
“I saw you for the first time that night—and now that my
dream is over—now that you deny me all hope, and have resolved
upon this marriage with a man you abhor—I can now tell
you calmly, and will tell you that I loved you from that moment!—that
I love you now—as a man loves with his blood and
his heart! I did not know your name when I saw you that
night—I never expected to meet you again—and yet that day
in the storm I opened my eyes to see you bending over me! I
thought that Good Fortune smiled upon me then—but you steadily
grew colder from that hour. To-day, I know why, and I
honor you! You are a noble girl! The misery of miseries is,
that you are going to marry this man, whom you despise. You
are right—he is a poor creature!—pardon me! there is something
here at my heart that fills me with bitterness—it is the
thought that you are to be the wife of that person! That resolution
disarms me—I have no strength to contend against it!
What can I do? Kill him? Would you marry me then? I am
conquered—unless you do what you have a right to do before
God and man!—refuse to fulfil that contract! Will you refuse?”
“I cannot!” came in a low moan from the girl.
“Then farewell.”
Both rose at the same moment. Her face was as white as a
sheet, and the hand she gave me as cold as ice. She placed the
other over her eyes and retired, without uttering a sound, to her
chamber.
On the next morning she did not appear, and I left “The
Oaks” without again seeing her.
