University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
STRENGTH AFTER FALL.

That weary night no sleep came to the eyelids of the
hapless Margaret Cooper. The garrulous language of the
mother had awakened far other emotions in her bosom than
those which she labored to inspire; and the warning of
Mr. Calvert, for the first time impressed upon herself the
terrible conviction that she was lost. In the wild intoxicating
pleasures of that new strange dream, she had been
wofully unconscious of the truth. So gradual had been the
progress of passion, that it had never alarmed or startled
her. Besides, it had come to her under a disguise afforded
by the customary cravings of her soul. Her vanity had
been the medium by which her affections had been won, by
which her confidence had been beguiled, by which the guardian
watchers of her virtue had been laid to sleep.

What a long and dreadful night was that when Margaret
Cooper was first brought to feel the awful truth in its true
impressiveness of wo. Alas! how terribly do the pleasures
of sin torture us. The worst human foe is guilt. The
severest censure the consciousness of wrong doing. Poverty
may be endured — nay is — and virtue still be secure;
since the mind may be made strong to endure the heaviest
toil, yet cherish few desires; the loss of kin may call for
few regrets, if we feel that we have religiously performed
our duties toward them, and requited all their proper claims
upon us. Sickness and pain may even prove benefits and

blessings, if it shall so happen that we resign ourselves
without complaint, to the scourge of the chastener, and
grow patient beneath his stripes. But that self-rebuke of
one's own spirit from which we may not fly — that remorseful
and ever-vexing presence which haunts us, and pursues
with a wing even more fleet than that of fear — which tells
clamorously of what we had, and scornfully of what we
have lost — lost for ever! that is the demon from whom
there is no escape, and beyond whom there is no torture.
Vainly would we strive with this relentless enemy. Every
blow aimed at its shadowy bosom recoils upon our own.
In the crowd, it takes the place of other forms and dogs us
with suspicious glances; in the solitude, it stalks boldly to
our side, confronts us with its audacious truths and terrible
denunciations — leaves no moment secure, waking or
sleeping! It is the ghost of murdered virtue, brooding
over its grave in that most dark and dismal of all sepulchres,
the human heart. And if we cry aloud, as did Margaret
Cooper, with vain prayer for the recall of a single
day, with what a yell of derisive mockery it answers to our
prayer.

The night was passed in the delusive effort of the mind
to argue itself into a state of fancied security. She endeavored
to recall those characteristics in Alfred Stevens, by
which her confidence had been beguiled. This task was
not a difficult one in that early day of her distress; before
experience had yet come to confirm the apprehensions of
doubt — before the intoxicating dream of a first passion had
yet begun to stale upon her imagination. Her own elastic
mind helped her in this endeavor. Surely, she thought,
where the mind is so noble and expansive, where the feelings
are so tender and devoted, the features so lofty and
impressive, the look so sweet, the language so delicate and
refined, there can be no falsehood.

“The devotion of such a man,” she erringly thought,
“might well sanction the weakness of a woman's heart —

might well persuade to the momentary error which none
will seek more readily to repair than himself. If he be
true to me, what indeed should I care for the scorn of
others.”

Alas! for the credulous victim. This was the soul of
her error. This scorn of others — of the opinions of the
world around her, is the saddest error of which woman,
who is the most dependant of all beings in the moral world,
can ever be guilty. But such philosophy did not now deceive
even the poor girl by whom it was uttered. It is a
melancholy truth, that, where there is no principle, the passions
can not be relied on; and the love of Alfred Stevens
had hitherto shown itself in selfishness. Margaret Cooper
felt this, but she did not dare to believe it.

“No! no!” she muttered — “I will not doubt — I will
not fear! He is too noble, too generous, too fond! I could
not be deceived.”

Her reliance was upon her previous judgment, not upon
his principles. Her self-esteem assisted to make this reference
sufficient for the purposes of consolation, and this
was all that she desired in this first moment of her doubt
and apprehension.

“And if he be true — if he keep for ever the faith that
his lips and looks declare — then will I heed nothing of the
shame and the sin. The love of such a man is sufficient
recompense for the loss of all besides. What to me is the
loss of society? what should I care for the association and
opinions of these in Charlemont? And elsewhere — he will
bear me hence where none can know. Ah! I fear not: he
will be true.”

Her self-esteem was recovering considerably from its
first overthrow. Her mind was already preparing to do
battle with those, the scorn of whom she anticipated, and
whose judgments she had always hitherto despised. This
was an easy task. She was yet to find that it was not the
only task. Her thoughts are those of many, in like situations,

and it is for this reason that we dwell upon them.
Our purpose is, to show the usual processes of self-deception.

Margaret Cooper, like a large class of persons of strong
natural mind and sanguine temper, was only too apt to confound
the cause of virtue with its sometimes uncouth, harsh,
and self-appointed professors. She overlooked the fact
that public opinion, though a moral object against which
woman dares not often offend, is yet no standard for her
government; that principles are determinable elsewhere;
and that, whatever the world may think of them, and whatever
may be their seeming unimportance under existing
circumstances, are the only real moral securities of earth.
She might fly from Charlemont, either into a greater world,
or into a more complete solitude, but she would fly to no
greater certainties than she now possessed. Her securities
were still based upon the principles of Alfred Stevens,
and of these she knew nothing. She knew that he was a
man of talent — of eloquence; alas for her! she had felt it;
of skill — she had been its victim; of rare sweetness of utterance,
of grace and beauty; and as she enumerated to
herself these his mental powers and personal charms, she
felt, however numerous the catalogue, that none of these
afforded her the guaranty she sought.

She arose the next day somewhat more composed, and
with a face which betrayed sleeplessness, but nothing worse.
This she ascribed to the headache with which she had retired.
She had not slept an instant, and she arose entirely
unrefreshed. But the stimulating thoughts which had kept
her wakeful, furnished her with sufficient strength to appear
as usual in the household, and to go through her accustomed
duties. But it was with an impatience scarcely restrainable
that she waited for the approach of evening which
would bring her lover. Him she felt it now absolutely of
the last necessity that she should see; that she should once
more go with him to those secret places, the very thought

of which inspired her with terror, and, laying bare her soul
to his eyes, demand of him the only restitution which he
could make.

He came. Once more she descended the steps to meet
him. Her mother arrested her on the stairway. A cunning
leer was in her eye, as she looked into the woful,
impassive eyes of her daughter. She grinned with a sort
of delight expressive of the conviction that the advice she
had given the night before was to be put in execution soon.

“Fix him, Margaret; he's mighty eager for you. You've
cut your eye-tooth — be quick, and you'll have a famous
parson for a husband yet.”

The girl shrunk from the counsellor as if she had been a
serpent. The very counsel was enough to show her the
humiliating attitude in which she stood to all parties.

“Remember,” said the old woman, detaining her — “don't
be too willing at first. Let him speak fairly out. A young
maiden can't be too backward, until the man offers to make
her a young wife!”

The last words went to her soul like an arrow.

“A young maiden!” she almost murmured aloud, as she
descended the steps — “O God! how lovely now, to my
eyes, appears the loveliness of a young maiden!”

She joined Stevens in silence, the mother watching them
with the eyes of a maternal hawk as they went forth together.
They pursued a customary route, and, passing
through one of the gorges of the surrounding hills, they
soon lost sight of the village. When the forest-shadows
had gathered thickly around them, and the silence of the
woods became felt, Stevens approached more nearly, and,
renewing a former liberty, put his arm about her waist.
She gently but firmly removed it, but neither of them spoke
a word. A dense copse appeared before them. Toward
it he would have led the way. But she resolutely turned
aside, and, while a shudder passed over her frame, exclaimed
—

“Not there — not there!”

Breathlessly she spoke. He well enough understood her.
They pursued an opposite direction, and, in the shade of a
wood which before they had never traversed, they at length
paused. Stevens, conducting her to the trunk of a fallen
tree, seated her, and placed himself beside her. Still they
were silent. There was a visible constraint upon both.
The thoughts and feelings of both were alike active — but
very unlike in character. With him, passion, reckless passion,
was uppermost; selfish in all its phases, and resolute
on its own indulgence at every hazard. In her bosom was
regret if not remorse, mingled with doubts and hopes in
pretty equal proportion. Yet had she, even then, but little
doubt of him. She accused him of no practice. She fancied,
foolish girl, that his error, like her own, had been
that of blind impulse, availing itself of a moment of unguarded
reason to take temporary possession of the citadel
of prudence. That he was calculating, cunning — that his
snares had been laid beforehand — she had not the least
idea. But she was to grow wiser in this and other respects
in due season. How little did she then conjecture the coldness
and hardness of that base and selfish heart which had
so fanned the consuming flame in hers!

Her reserve and coolness were unusual. She had been
the creature, heretofore, of the most uncalculating impulse.
The feeling was spoken, the thought uttered, as soon as
conceived. Now she was silent. He expected her to
speak — nay, he expected reproaches, and was prepared to
meet them. He had his answer for any reproaches which
she might make. But for that stony silence of her lips he
was not prepared. The passive grief which her countenance
betrayed — so like despair — repelled and annoyed
him. Yet, wherefore had she come, if not to complain
bitterly, and, after exhaustion, be soothed at last? Such
had been his usual experience in all such cases. But the
unsophisticated woman before him had no language for such

a situation as was hers. Her pride, her ambition — the
very intensity of all her moods — rendered the effort at
speech a mockery, and left her dumb.

“You are sad, Margaret — silent and very cold to me,”
he said, at last breaking the silence. His tones were subdued
to a whisper, and how full of entreating tenderness!
She slowly raised her eyes from the ground, and fixed them
upon him. What a speech was in that one look! There
was no trace of excitement, scarcely of expression, in her
face. There was no flush upon her cheeks. She was pale
as death. She was still silent. Her eye alone had spoken;
and from its searching but stony glance his own fell
in some confusion to the ground. There was a dreary
pause, which he at length broke:—

“You are still silent, Margaret — why do you not speak
to me?”

“It is for you to speak, Alfred,” was her reply. It was
full of significance, understood but not felt by her companion.
What, indeed, had she to say — what could she say
— while he said nothing? She was the victim. With him
lay the means of rescue and preservation. She but waited
the decision of one whom, in her momentary madness, she
had made the arbiter of her destiny. Her reply confused
him. He would have preferred to listen to the ordinary
language of reproach. Had she burst forth into tears and
lamentations — had she cried, “You have wronged me —
you must do me justice!” — he would have been better
pleased than with the stern, unsuggestive character that
she assumed. To all this, his old experience would have
given him an easy answer. But to be driven to condemn
himself — to define his own doings with the name due to
his deserts — to declare his crime, and proffer the sufficient
atonement — was an unlooked-for necessity.

“You are displeased with me, Margaret.”

He dared not meet her glance while uttering this feeble
and purposeless remark. It was so short of all that he

should have said — of all that she expected — that her eyes
glistened with a sudden expression of indignation which
was new to them in looking upon him. There was a glittering
sarcasm in her glance, which showed the intensity
of her feelings in the comment which they involuntarily
made on the baldness and poverty of his. Displeasure, indeed!
That such an epithet should be employed to describe
the withering pang, the vulturous, gnawing torture in her
bosom — and that fiery fang which thought, like some
winged serpent, was momentarily darting into her brain!

“Displeased!” she exclaimed, in low, bitter tones, which
she seemed rather desirous to suppress — “no, no! sir —
not displeased. I am miserable, most miserable — anything
but displeased. I am too wretched to feel displeasure!”

“And to me you owe this wretchedness, dear Margaret
— that — that is what you would say. Is it not, Margaret?
I have wronged — I have ruined you! From me comes
this misery! You hate, you would denounce me.”

He put his arm about her waist — he sank upon his knee
beside her — his eye, now that he had found words, could
once more look courageously into hers.

“Wronged — ruined!” she murmured, using a part of his
words, and repeating them as if she did not altogether realize
their perfect sense.

“Ay, you would accuse me, Margaret,” he continued —
“you would reproach and denounce me — you hate me — I
deserve it — I deserve it.”

She answered with some surprise: —

“No, Alfred Stevens, I do not accuse — I do not denounce
you. I am wretched — I am miserable. It is for you to
say if I am wronged and ruined. I am not what I was — I
know that! — What I am — what I will be! —”

She paused! Her hands were clasped suddenly and violently
— she looked to heaven, and, for the first time, the
tears, streamed from her eyes like rain — a sudden, heavy
shower, which was soon over.

“Ah, Margaret, you would have me accuse myself —
and I do. The crime is mine! I have done you this
wrong—”

She interrupted him.

“No, Alfred Stevens, I have done wrong! I feel that I
have done wrong. That I have been feeble and criminal,
I know. I will not be so base as to deny what I can not but
feel. As for your crime, you know best what it is. I know
mine. I know that my passions are evil and presumptuous;
and though I blush to confess their force, it is yet due to
the truth that I should do so, though I sink into the earth
with my shame. But neither your self-reproaches nor my
confession will acquit us. Is there nothing, Alfred Stevens,
that can be done? Must I fall before you, here, amidst
the woods which have witnessed my shame, and implore
you to save me? I do! Behold me! I am at your feet
— my face is in the dust. Oh! Alfred Stevens — when I
called your eyes to watch, in the day of my pride, the
strong-winged eagle of our hills, did I look as now? Save
me from this shame! save me! For, though I have no reproaches,
yet God knows, when we looked on that eagle's
flight together, my soul had no such taint as fills it now.
Whatever were my faults, my follies, my weaknesses,
Heaven knows, I felt not, feared not this! a thought — a
dream of such a passion, then — never came to my bosom.
From you it came! You put it there! You woke up the
slumbering emotion — you — but no! — I will not accuse
you! I will only implore you to save me! Can it be done?
can you do it — will you — will you not?”

“Rise, dearest Margaret — let me lift you!” She had
thrown herself upon the earth, and she clung to it.

“No, no! your words may lift me, Alfred Stevens, when
your hands can not. If you speak a hope, a promise of
safety, it will need no other help to make me rise! If you
do not! — I would not wish to rise again. Speak! let me
hear, even as I am, what my doom shall be? The pride

which has made me fall shall be reconciled to my abasement.”

“Margaret, this despair is idle. There is no need for it.
Do I not tell you that there is no danger?”

“Why did you speak of ruin?” she demanded.

“I know not — the word escaped me. There is no ruin.
I will save you. I am yours — yours only. Believe me, I
will do you right. I regard you as sacredly my wife as if
the rites of the church had so decreed it.”

“I dare not disbelieve you, Alfred! I have no hope
else. Your words lift me! Oh! Alfred Stevens, you did
not mean the word, but how true it was; what a wreck,
what a ruin do I feel myself now — what a wreck have I
become!”

“A wreck, a ruin! no, Margaret, no! never were you
more beautiful than at this very moment. These large, sad
eyes — these long, dark lashes seem intended to bear the
weight of tears. These cheeks are something paler than
their wont, but not less beautiful, and these lips—”

He would have pressed them with his own — he would
have taken her into his arms, but she repulsed him.

“No, no! Alfred — this must not be. I am yours. Let
me prove to you that I am firm enough to protect your rights
from invasion.”

“But why so coy, dearest? Do you doubt me?”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Ah! but you do. Why do you shrink from me — why
this coldness? If you are mine, if these charms are mine,
why not yield them to me? I fear, Margaret, that you
doubt me still?”

“I do not — dare not doubt you, Alfred Stevens. My
life hangs upon this faith.”

“Why so cold, then?”

“I am not cold. I love you — I will be your wife; and
never was wife more faithful, more devoted, than I will be
to you; but, if you knew the dreadful agony which I have

felt, since that sad moment of my weakness, you would forbear
and pity me.”

“Hear me, Margaret; to-morrow is Saturday. John
Cross is to be here in the evening. He shall marry us on
Sunday. Are you willing?”

“Oh, yes! thankful, happy! Ah! Alfred, why did I
distrust you for an instant?”

“Why, indeed! But you distrust me no longer — you
have no more misgivings?”

“No, none!”

“You will be no longer cold, no longer coy, dear Margaret
— here in the sweet evening, among these pleasant
shades, love, alone, has supremacy. Here, in the words of
one of your favorites:—

concluding this quotation, he would have taken her in his
embrace — he would have renewed those dangerous endearments
which had already proved so fatal; but she repulsed
the offered tenderness, firmly, but with gentleness.

“Margaret, you still doubt me,” he exclaimed reproachfully.

“No, Alfred, I doubt you not. I believe you. I have
only been too ready and willing to believe you. Ah! have
you not had sufficient proof of this? Leave me the consciousness
of virtue — the feeling of strength still to assert
it, now that my eyes are open to my previous weakness.”

“But there is no reason to be so cold. Remember you
are mine by every tie of the heart — another day will make
you wholly mine. Surely, there is no need for this frigid
bearing. No, no! you doubt — you do not believe me,
Margaret!”

“If I did not believe you, Alfred Stevens,” she answered
gravely, “my prayer would be for death, and I should find

it. These woods which have witnessed my fault should
have witnessed my expiation. The homes which have known
me should know me no more.”

The solemnity of her manner rather impressed him, but
having no real regard for her, he was unwilling to be baffled
in his true desires.

“If you doubt me not — if you have faith in me, Margaret,
why this solemnity, this reserve? Prove to me, by
your looks, by your actions, by the dear glances, the sweet
murmurs, and the fond embrace, what these cold assurances
do not say.”

His hand rested on her neck. She gently raised and
removed it.

“I have already proved to you my weakness. I will now
prove my strength. It is better so, Alfred. If I have won
your love, let me now command your esteem, or maintain
what is left me of my own. Do not be angry with me if I
insist upon it. I am resolute now to be worthy of you and
of myself.”

“Ah! you call this love?” said he bitterly. “If you
ever loved, indeed, Margaret—”

“If I ever loved — and have I given you no proofs?”
she exclaimed in a burst of passion; “all the proofs that
a woman can give, short of her blood; and that, Alfred
Stevens — that too, I was prepared to give, had you not
promptly assured me of your faith.”

She drew a small dagger from her sleeve, and bared it
beneath his glance.

“Think you I brought this without an object? No!
Alfred Stevens — know me better! I came here prepared
to die, as well as a frail and erring woman could be prepared.
You disarmed the dagger. You subdued the determination
when you bid me live for you. In your faith,
I am willing to live. I believe you, and am resolved to
make myself worthy of your belief also. I have promised
to be your wife, and here before Heaven, I swear to be your

faithful wife; but, until then, you shall presume in no respect.
Your lip shall not touch mine; your arms shall not
embrace me; you shall see, dear Alfred, that, with my eyes
once opened fully upon my own weakness, I have acquired
the most certain strength.”

“Give me the dagger,” he said.

She hesitated.

“You doubt me still?”

“No, no!” she exclaimed, handing him the weapon —
“no, no! I do not doubt you — I dare not. Doubt you,
Alfred? — that were death, even without the dagger!”