University of Virginia Library

52. CHAPTER LII.
WHAT THE SAD HEARTS SAID TO EACH OTHER.

The cassique of Kiawah was perhaps not the only sleepless
watcher that night in his mansion-house. He was, for some time,
however, and at the period when we prefer to look in upon him,
the only one who sat watching in the chamber of his wife. Her
condition, now utterly hopeless, rendered that sort of watch unnecessary
which is expected and needed to afford occasional succor
and relief. She was dying, certainly; but by those slow and almost
imperceptible degrees which belong to most cases of irremediable
decline. The strife was over with the hope; and, if her
assured fate had not produced a feeling of perfect resignation in
all hearts, it had yet brought to every heat in the family a full instinct
of submission. Nothing more could be done for the sweet
victim, but to tend upon and simply note her successive changes;
and, slight though they were, the cassique did not fail to discern
and to feel them all. She herself appeared to be something more
than resigned, in her perfect consciousness of her hopelessness.
It would seem as if her spirit had become altogether satisfied; as
if the brain, no longer fevered, had subsided into calm. She had
certainly become freed from all that spasmodic and excited impulse
which had caused her uncertain moods and restless energies
before. Her exhausted physique did not now permit her to wander
about, even if her mental nature had still occasioned the desire.
But such was no longer the case. Her mind had become
comparatively placid; her temper serene and sweet. There was
now no impatient, discontented thought; no lingering, living hope,
striving at satisfaction, and refusing to be comforted, seeming to

exist in that soul which was simply hovering on the confines of
life, and needing but the severance of a few strings, to soar to
abodes of sweeter peace and happier existence. Her consciousness
was clear; had been growing clearer for some time; even as
her frame had been sinking with exhaustion. She no longer sang
those fitful snatches of song which formerly burst from her in spasmodic
gushes of pain, or passion, or a maddening fancy. The
delirium had gone off entirely, and all her faculties seemed to
grow bright as she drew near to the close of her sorrows. Her
eye was strangely brilliant; her voice was low, but how exquisitely
sweet in all its tones! Her skin was transparent; the blue
veins as clearly drawn upon it as if defined with the pencil. Her
hearing had become wonderfully acute. She could distinguish,
from a distance, the approaching footstep, however lightly put
down. Nay, she could say who it was that came. All now
knew that she was dying. Even the mother, who had deceived
herself so long in regard to her daughter's condition, had resigned
all hope; and the final issue was simply a question of time, and
that short, as between one hour and one week! How long could
that exhausted and attenuated frame hold the struggle with the
mighty enemy who had already taken possession of all the strong-holds
of her life — who was in her heart, as in the citadel of her
strength, undermining all its props and powers? There were moments
when, so still she lay, with eyes closed, and lips scarcely
seeming to breathe, though parted, that those around her fancied
the event had taken place, and that she had sunk into the sacred
slumber, as suddenly and quietly as the child, after a violent play,
sinks into natural sleep. But, as they drew near to see, then
would her eyes open with that marvellous brightness of gaze;
then would the faint smile mantle over her pallid lips, as a sudden
sunbeam flushes with color a curl of drifted snow.

This night, after long-protracted watching, the mother had fallen
asleep beside her couch at an early hour of the evening. She
and the housekeeper were both exhausted. The cassique gently
awakened them, and persuaded them to retire. Olive understood
him, and laid her thin, wan fingers upon her mother's head, and
smiled her wishes, as in support of his; then murmured them, to
the same effect.

The cassique was left alone with the dying woman. When all

were gone, and the room was silent, she motioned him beside her;
then said, in a whisper:—

“Will you raise me a little, Sir Edward? — another pillow, if
you please.”

Never did loving hands more dutifully or gently minister than
did his.

“Sit beside me, Sir Edward, if you please, a little while.”

He would have restrained her from speech.

“You will fatigue yourself, dear Olive.”

“No, my husband — not so. Sit quietly, and let me speak. I
must speak now, if ever!”

“You know how I should love to hear you, dear Olive — how I
have always loved to hear you; but you are so feeble now —
so—”

“I am strong as I shall ever be, dear Sir Edward.” And her
voice now grew louder, though still low. “You do not deceive
yourself, you can not deceive me, as to my fate! What strength
is left me I must use, to acquit myself to you, and to entreat your
forgiveness for my most unfortunate offence!”

“Oh Olive, my forgiveness! Dear wife, you need make no such
prayer to me! Alas! it is your pity, your forgiveness, which I
should implore! I who—”

He could not finish the sentence, save by sobs. His voice faltered,
and he laid his head down on the couch beside her to conceal
his emotions. Her hand gently sought his head, and she
suffered it to rest beside rather than upon it, detaching a lock of
his long hair, and holding it between the fingers. A deep sigh
followed — a brief pause — and then she spoke, in low, sweet, murmuring,
but decided accents:—

“No, Sir Edward, the wrong is all mine. It was not for me
as a maiden — not now for me as a wife — to reproach him who
sought me with love, and who has striven to nurture me with
love! It was for me to have said frankly, and with all the boldness
of an earnest passion: `This heart is wedded to another —
it is not mine to give; it can never be thine!'”

“Ah! would to God, dear Olive, that thou hadst so spoken!”
ejaculated the cassique, with a deep groan.

“I was a child — weak where I should have been strong — and
I yielded to a mother's prayers, when it would have been a thousand

times better to have yielded to God! And yet, Sir Edward,
I yielded not against my own will. If it had been possible
that my heart should have gone to another, having lost the
one to whom it had been consecrated, it had gone to you in preference
to that of any other mortal man. I could love you, Sir
Edward — I do love you, next to him whom I loved first and best
of all, and more than I have ever loved any human being. As I
am living now, Sir Edward, though so very soon to die, I pray
you to believe what I tell you!”

He caught her hand in his and carried it to his lips, covered it
with kisses, and sobbed over it convulsively, replying with a choking
and husky speech —

“Oh, how I thank you and bless you for this, dear Olive!”

“Yes, it is true, Sir Edward; never speech from woman's heart
more true! In so much did you resemble him; in form and face;
in look and action; in tone and thought; in the generous warmth
of your affection; in the lofty disinterestedness of your love — oh,
I should have been worse than blind and foolish, dear Sir Edward,
could I have been insensible to your virtues, your devotion, your
generous forbearance, your kind indulgence! I felt it all — ah,
my husband — I call you so now — I felt how near I was to loving
you, at the very moment when I most shrank from contact
with you!”

“I understand it, Olive! Oh, yes, I have long understood it.”

“But you were not he! alas, no! and I felt that I could not
love you enough — not as I ought — and that I had deceived you.
I still too much loved another. I had done you wrong.”

“No, no, no! Say not that, Olive!”

“Yes! oh, yes! For, Sir Edward, I still loved him — still
thought of him — still moaned for him with a heart as much dissatisfied
as was my conscience, which perpetually chided me, as a
wedded wife, for the passion which I could not help but feel for him!
My heart was making my conscience daily more and more dissatisfied.
I felt — knew — very soon, that something had not been
told you, which ought to have been told; which I should have
told you, if nobody else had done it, before I consented to become
your wife. But, indeed, dear Sir Edward, I thought it had been
done. Forgive me, my husband, that I did not assure myself of
this — that I spoke not till it was too late!”

“Not too late, Olive!”

“Alas! yes; too late for both of us — too late for all three!”

Great tears gathered in her eyes, and for a brief space she was
silent. The cassique strove, meanwhile, to murmur out his broken
assurances — to soothe after a fashion, and console; and perhaps
he was successful in due degree, as his own emotions forbade
that he should be coherent in his speech. When he was
silent, she resumed:—

“O Sir Edward, judge of the sense of guilt and remorse — of
useless repentance — in my bosom, by the agonies I have endured;
by the temporary madnesss which I suffered; by the rapid wasting
of strength, youth, and health; by the wreck, so soon to be
utter ruin, of what you see before you! If I erred, dear Sir Edward,
the error has been fearfully atoned. And I did err! Oh,
weak, weak! very, very weak!”

His groan alone answered her.

“Yet, I was so young — am so young; and — and — and he!
Oh, forgive me, my husband, that I am forced to speak of him!”

“Speak of him, dear Olive, with all your heart! Oh, my poor
Olive, do believe me, that if, by my own life, I could give you
back your youth, and put you where you were before the cruel
Fates had made me your fate, I should now know no greater gladness
than to die for you, and in the last moments of consciousness
to be able to place your hand in the hand of Harry, my brother —
my noble brother — whom, as well as yourself, I have so cruelly
but unwittingly destroyed! Yes, on my life, on my soul, Olive,
this would I do, and die; though, even in doing it, Olive, I should
still be free to tell you that the heart of Edward Berkeley was no
less sworn to you than that of the more fortunate Harry.”

“I believe you, my lord — my husband! It is so sweet, now,
though so late, that we understand each other! We can sit in
the darkness together, dear Sir Edward. Do cover that light.
Let there be no light. Sit here, then, and we will commune further.
You will not see my face; and I shall hear you just the
same.”

He obeyed her — covered the light in the chimney, so that it
shed no gleams over the chamber; then came back and resumed
his seat beside her: and she feebly put forth her hand and grasped
his, somewhat nervously, between her attenuated fingers.

“And now, dear Sir Edward, I have a prayer to make to you
in behalf of my mother. Her love for me — her desire to see me
well established — these have led her into grievous error, which
has hurt both of us to the soul. But she meant me good; she
designed you no evil: she has only been guilty of a very sad mistake.
It is one upon which I do not wish to dwell. It is the
saddest of all my thoughts. I feel sure that no words of mine
can express fully my own sense of her shocking error. Perhaps
you will feel it even more painfully than I do. But, nevertheless,
I pray you, at this moment, when my little lamp of life is about
to be extinguished — I pray you to forgive her!—”

“I do! I do, Olive — my poor Olive! I do forgive her, though
she has crushed us both!”

“Do I not feel it? Never was so fatal an error! Thanks for
this mercy — this kindness! May I plead for more, dear Sir Edward?”

“Speak, Olive. Your prayers shall be my laws!”

“I would rather have them your loves.”

“Loves they shall be to me, and with perpetual regard to you,
Olive!”

“It is enough! You will shelter her, Sir Edward? She is
poor — has no resource now but in your bounty; and, unhappily,
she is one of those who live in that foreign world which rather
asks a palace for the eye than a home for the heart.”

“I know! I comprehend you, Olive. Say no more. She
shall be well provided for. Briefly, dear heart, I will do for her
as if she were my own mother. She shall return to England—”

“Ah! And you?—”

“Will remain here, Olive, where I will make my temple and
my tomb! Your mother will not need me, nor I her! In England
she shall have `The Willows' during her life; and I shall
make such provision for her there, that there shall be no lack of
means essential to that social position which she has always so
much valued.”

“Alas! yes!” — with a deep sigh. “I could hope no more,
dear Sir Edward; I did not dare to ask so much. Thanks —
thanks!”

“What more, Olive? Speak, dear wife, and do not fear. Believe
me, I so thoroughly understand all your necessities, that —

I never loved you more than at this moment, when to speak of
mortal love is such a mockery!”

“Say not so, dear Sir Edward, when we feel how sweetly it
harmonizes hearts between which the chasm has been hitherto so
deep and wide; when it strengthens me to speak with a courage
such as I never knew in the days of my health and youth; when
it moves you, who have been so sadly wronged, to be so merciful
— so nobly loving — with such magnanimity and grace! Ah!
how—”

“No more, Olive, I pray you! I—”

“Suffer me, Sir Edward! Yes, on the edge of the precipice —
on the verge of the grave — I must plead for the beauties of that
mortal love — vanishing as it may seem — which I hold to be
still sweet, however faint it gleams from that fountain of Immortal
Love which is promised to the pure hearts in a sphere where
there can be no loss! I believe in my own heart, Sir Edward,
and in yours, and in his — your brother's! I believe that yours
and his have been equally capable of that heart-sacrifice upon
which Love hath need to feed for life! And — I may say something
for my own! O Sir Edward, I am now dying for it!”

His head bent over, and was hidden upon the shrouded bosom
of the speaker. She resumed:—

“I shall die happy, knowing this! This love, which mortal
life has never satisfied — could never compensate — must be immortal;
for there must be, under a God of love, justice, mercy, a
necessary principle of compensation. How I loved Harry, your
brother, He, the good God, alone can know; how Harry loved
me, I have felt and feel! And, dear Sir Edward, I know your
heart — how true, how pure, how constant, how magnanimous, in
all its dealings with mine; and, at times, when it was impossible
for me to plead, or you to comprehend, the miseries and the mysteries
of mine! Only believe now, my lord and husband, that my
heart would have been quite satisfied with yours, would have
been devoted to yours, had it not been for the earlier call of love
which it first heard from his! And had his not continued to call
— as I deemed, from spirit-lands — I had probably as gladly
yielded my affections to you as I should have done to him. But
there was a power — it is so strange to think of it! — a perpetual
voice, as from the tomb, appealing to my heart, and suggesting

the doubt — nay, the absolute denial — of his death! Was it his
voice? How could it be? He was living, and perhaps thousands
of miles away! Whose was it, then? There is a wondrous
mystery in it, Sir Edward! Surely, there must have been
a spiritual presence here, admonishing me of the truth, against all
mortal evidence! What else should I believe, or think? Then,
he came — in sooth, was living; had me in his embrace; and —
but you know all!”

“All! all! Say no more, Olive, my wife! And yet, but for
your feebleness and pain, I would have you speak on for ever!”

“Alas! it can not be. It requires some effort to lift my voice.
Yet — our boy — our Harry! I would—”

Her voice faltered.

“What, my Olive?”

“Oh, I would have our Harry beloved by him, your brother!
Do not let him avoid or dislike the child. Pray him, for my
sake, dear Sir Edward, to love your child — and mine!”

And, with a sudden burst of sobbing, the dying woman sank
back exhausted! The cassique was terrified, thinking the moment
of trial had come. He called loudly; and from an adjoining
chamber, Zulieme, who had promised Mrs. Masterton to assume
the watch at midnight, suddenly made her appearance, and
brought some drops which had been provided for these exigencies.
The little wife of the rover had all at once begun to be useful —
nay, to feel a sort of pride and pleasure in proving so. Olive
soon revived under her ministrations; but, as she kept her eyes
shut, and appeared desirous of repose, the cassique left her in Zulieme's
charge, and proceeded to the hall, where, all in darkness,
he threw himself upon the sofa, yielding himself up to the sweet
and bitter thought which naturally grew out of his situation.

Here a sort of oblivion of all things seized for the time upon
his senses. He had watched nightly; had toiled daily; was enfeebled
by fatigue. He had brooded, as he thought, for a long
time, in the darkness and solitude of the hall — meditating the
mysteries of that chamber which he had so recently left. Perhaps
he slept; but he could scarcely persuade himself of this. He was
awakened. He fancied he heard the shooting of bolts, but he
stirred not. At length, he detected a football — slight, like that
of a woman. He thought of Olive. She might be dying. She

might be dead. He started up and rushed into the passage-way,
whence he would have made his way to her chamber, when he
felt himself encumbered — clasped firmly in the hands of a strong
man. His instincts prompted the instant use of his muscles. He
would have thrown off the intruder, but found himself firmly
held; while a voice, which he at once knew — though subdued to
a whisper — said, hurriedly:—

“It is you, Edward — I am Harry. Do not be excited. I
come with love — with a brother's love. Conduct me to a private
room, and bring a light!”

“Harry, my brother, you come at an awful moment!”

“And I am glad that I come at a moment when Edward Berkeley
acknowledges awe. But lead me, and get a light. I have
that to say which will suffer little time.”

Taking him by the hand, the cassique led his brother into the
hall which he had just left, and conducted him to the sofa. Here
he seated him, while he went to bring a light. We can easily
conjecture how Harry had effected his entrance.