University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.
FOLDING THE ROBES ABOUT HER.

It was the sabbath and a very lovely day. The sun
never shone more brightly in the heavens; and as Margaret
Cooper surveyed its mellow orange light, lying, like some
blessed spirit, at sleep upon the hills around her, and reflected
that she was about to behold it for the last time, her
sense of its exceeding beauty became more strong than
ever. Now that she was about to lose it for ever, it seemed
more beautiful than it had ever been before.

This is a natural effect, which the affections confer upon
the objects which delight and employ them. Even a temporary
privation increases the loveliness of the external
nature. How we linger and look. That shade seems so
inviting; that old oak so venerable! That rock — how
often have we sat upon it, evening and morning, and mused
strange, wild, sweet fancies! It is an effort to tear one's
self away — it is almost like tearing away from life itself;
so many living affections feel the rending and the straining
— so many fibres that have their roots in the heart, are torn
and lacerated by the separation.

Poor Margaret! she looked from her window upon the
bright and beautiful world around her. Strange that sorrow
should dwell in a world so bright and beautiful!
Stranger still, that, dwelling in such a world, it should not
dwell there by sufferance only and constraint! that it should
have such sway — such privilege. That it should invade

every sanctuary and leave no home secure. Ah! but the
difference between mere sorrow and guilt! Poor Margaret
could not well understand that! If she could — but no!
She was yet to learn that the sorrows of the innocent have
a healing effect. That they produce a holy and ennobling
strength, and a juster appreciation of those evening shades
of life which render the lights valuable and make their
uses pure. It is only guilt which finds life loathsome. It
is only guilt that sorrow weakens and enslaves. Virtue
grows strong beneath the pressure of her enemies, and
with such a power as was fabled of the king of Pontus,
turns the most poisonous fruits of earth into the most wholesome
food.

But, even in the heart of Margaret Cooper, where the
sense of the beautiful was strong, the loveliness of the
scene was felt. She drank in, with strange satisfaction
— a satisfaction to which she had long been a stranger
— its soft and inviting beauties. They did not lessen
her sense of suffering, perhaps, but they were not without
their effect in producing other moods, which, once
taken in company with the darker ones of the soul, may,
in time, succeed in alleviating them. Never, indeed, had
the prospect been more calm and wooing. Silence, bending
from the hills, seemed to brood above the valley even as
some mighty spirit, at whose bidding strife was hushed,
and peace became the acknowledged divinity of all. The
humming voices of trade and merriment were all hushed in
homage to the holy day; and if the fitful song of a truant
bird, that presumed beside the window of Margaret Cooper,
did break the silence of the scene, it certainly did not disturb
its calm. The forest minstrel sung in a neighboring
tree, and she half listened to his lay. The strain seemed to
sympathize with her sadness. She thought upon her own
songs, which had been of such a proud spirit; and how
strange and startling seemed the idea that with her, song
would soon cease for ever. The song of the bird would be

silent in her ears, and her own song! What song would
be hers? What strain would she take up? In what abode
— before what altars?

This train of thought, which was not entirely lost, however,
was broken, for the time, by a very natural circumstance.
A troop of the village damsels came in sight, on
their way to church. She forgot the song of birds, as her
morbid spirit suggested to her the probable subject of their
meditations.

“They have seen me,” she muttered to herself as she
hastily darted from the window. “Ay, they exult. They
point to me — me, the abandoned — the desolate — soon to
be the disgraced! But, no! no! that shall never be.
They shall never have that triumph, which is always so
grateful a subject of regale to the mean and envious!”

The voice of her mother from below disturbed these
unhappy meditations. The old lady was prepared for
church, and was surprised to find that Margaret had not
made her toilet.

“What! don't you mean to go, Margaret?”

“Not to-day, mother.”

“What, and the new preacher too, that takes the place
of John Cross! They say he makes a most heavenly
prayer.”

But the inducement of the heavenly prayer of the new
preacher was not enough for Margaret. The very suggestion
of a new preacher would have been conclusive against
her compliance. The good old lady was too eager herself
to get under way to waste much time in exhortation, and
hurrying off, she scarcely gave herself time to answer the
inquiry of the widow Thackeray, at her own door, after the
daughter's health.

“I will go in and see her,” said the lighthearted but
truehearted woman.

“Do, do, ma'am — if you please! She'll be glad to see
you. I'll hurry on, as I see Mrs. Hinkley just ahead.”

The widow Thackeray looked after her with a smile,
which was exchanged for another of different character
when she found herself in the chamber of Margaret. She
put her arms about the waist of the sufferer; kissed her
cheeks, and with the tenderest solicitude spoke of her
health and comfort. To her, alone, with the exception of
her mother — according to the belief of Margaret — her
true situation had been made known.

“Alas!” said she, “how should I feel — how should I
be! You should know. I am as one cursed — doomed,
hopeless of anything but death.”

“Ah! do not speak of death, Margaret,” said the other
kindly. “We must all die, I know, but that does not
reconcile me any more to the thought. It brings always a
creeping horror through my veins. Think of life — talk of
life only.”

“They say that death is life.”

“So it is, I believe, Margaret; and now I think of it,
dress yourself and go to church where we may hear something
on this subject to make us wiser and better. Come,
my dear — let us go to God.”

“I can not — not to-day, dear Mrs. Thackeray.”

“Ah, Margaret, why not? It is to the church, of all
places, you should now go.”

“What! to be stared at? To see the finger of scorn
pointing at me wherever I turn? To hear the whispered
insinuation? To be conscious only of sneer and sarcasm
on every hand? No, no, dear Mrs. Thackeray, I can not
go for this. Feeling this, I should neither pray for myself,
nor find benefit from the prayers of others. Nay, they
would not pray. They would only mock.”

“Margaret, these thoughts are very sinful.”

“So they are, but I can not think of any better. They
can not but be sinful since they are mine.”

But you are not wedded to sin, dearest. Such thoughts

can give you no pleasure. Come with me to church!
Come and pray! Prayer will do you good.”

“I would rather pray here. Let me remain. I will try
to go out among the hills when you are all engaged in
church, and will pray there. Indeed I must. I must pray
then and pray there, if prayer is ever to do me good.”

“The church is the better place, Margaret. One prays
better where one sees that all are praying.”

“But when I know that they are not praying! When I
know that envy is in their hearts, and malice, and jealousy
and suspicion — that God is not in their hearts, but their
fellow; and not him with friendly and fond, but with spiteful
and deceitful thoughts!”

“Ah! Margaret, how can you know this? Judge not
lest ye be judged.”

“It matters not, dear Mrs. Thackeray. God is here, or
there. He will be among the hills if anywhere. I will
seek him there. If I can command my thoughts anywhere,
it will be in the woods alone. In the church I can not.
Those who hate me are there — and their looks of hate
would only move my scorn and defiance.”

“Margaret, you do our people wrong. You do yourself
wrong. None hate you — none will point to you, or think
of your misfortune; and if they did, it is only what you
might expect, and what you must learn patiently to bear,
as a part of the punishment which God inflicts on sin.
You must submit, Margaret, to the shame as you have submitted
to the sin. It is by submission only that you can
be made strong. The burden which you are prepared to
bear meekly, becomes light to the willing spirit. Come,
dear Margaret, I will keep with you, sit by you — show you,
and all, that I forget your sin and remember only your
suffering.”

The good widow spoke with the kindest tones. She
threw her arms around the neck of the desolate one, and
kissed her with the affection of a sister. But the demon

of pride was uppermost. She withstood entreaty and embrace.

“I can not go with you. I thank you, truly thank you,
dear Mrs. Thackeray, but I can not go. I have neither the
courage nor the strength.”

“They will come — the courage and the strength — only
try. God is watchful to give us help the moment he sees
that we really seek his assistance. By prayer, Margaret—”

“I will pray, but I must pray alone. Among the hills I
will pray. My prayer will not be less acceptable offered
among his hills. My voice will not remain unheard, though
no chorus swells its appeal.”

“Margaret, this is pride.”

“Perhaps!”

“Ah! go with me, and pray for humility.”

“My prayer would rather be for death.”

“Say not so, Margaret — this is impiety.”

“Ay, death! — the peace, the quiet of the grave — of a
long sleep — an endless sleep — where the vulture may no
longer gnaw the heart, nor the fire burn within the brain!
For these I must pray.”

And, thus speaking, the unhappy woman smote her throbbing
head with violent hand.

“Shocking thought! But you do not believe in such a
sleep? Surely, Margaret, you believe in life eternal?”

“Would I did not!”

“O Margaret! — but you are sick; you are very feverish.
Your eyeballs glare like coals of fire; your face seems
charged with blood. I am afraid you are going to have
another attack, like the last.”

“Be not afraid. I have no such fear.”

“I will sit with you, at least,” said the kind-hearted
woman.

“Nay, that I must positively forbid, Mrs. Thackeray; I
will not suffer it. I will not sit with you. Go you to

church. You will be late. Do not waste your time on
me. I mean to ramble among the hills this morning. That,
I think, will do me more good than anything else. There,
I am sure — there only — I will find peace.”

The worthy widow shook her head doubtfully.

“But I am sure of it,” said Margaret. “You will see.
Peace, peace — the repose of the heart — the slumber of the
brain! — I shall find all there!”

Mrs. Thackeray, finding her inflexible, rose to depart,
but with some irresoluteness.

“If you would let me walk with you, Margaret—”

“No! no! — dear Mrs. Thackeray — I thank you very
much; but, with a mood such as mine, I shall be much better
alone.”

“Well, if you are resolved—”

“I am resolved! never more so.”

These words were spoken in tones which might have
startled a suspicious mind. But the widow was none.

“God bless you!” she said, kissing her at parting. “I
will see you when I come from church.”

“Will you?” said Margaret, with a significant but sad
smile. Then, suddenly rising, she exclaimed:—

“Let me kiss you, dear Mrs. Thackeray, and thank you
again, before you go. You have been very kind to me,
very kind, and you have my thanks and gratitude.”

Mrs. Thackeray was touched by her manner. This was
the first time that the proud spirit of Margaret Cooper had
ever offered such an acknowledgment. It was one that the
gentle and unremitting kindnesses of the widow amply deserved.
After renewing her promise to call on her return
from church, Mrs. Thackeray took her departure.

Margaret Cooper was once more alone. When she heard
the outer door shut, she then threw herself upon the bed,
and gave way to the utterance of those emotions which,
long restrained, had rendered her mind a terrible anarchy.
A few tears, but very few, were wrung from her eyes; but

she groaned audibly, and a rapid succession of shivering-fits
passed through her frame, racking the whole nervous
system, until she scarcely found herself able to rise from
the couch where she had thrown herself. A strong, determined
will alone moved her, and she rose, after a lapse of
half an hour, to the further prosecution of her purpose.
Her temporary weakness and suffering of frame had no
effect upon her resolves. She rather seemed to be strengthened
in them. This strength enabled her to sit down and
dictate a letter to her mother, declaring her intention, and
justifying it by such arguments as were presented by the
ingenious demon who assists always in the councils of the
erring heart.

She placed this letter in her bosom, that it might be
found upon her person. It was curious to observe, next,
that she proceeded to tasks which were scarcely in unison
with the dreadful deed she meditated. She put her chamber
in nice order. Her books, of which she had a tolerably
handsome collection for a private library in our forest-country,
she arranged and properly classed upon their
shelves. Then she made her toilet with unusual care. It
was for the last time. She gazed upon the mirror, and
beheld her own beauties with a shudder.

“Ah!” she thought, though she gave no expression to
the thought, “to be so beautiful, yet fail!”

It was a reflection to touch any heart with sorrow. Her
dress was of plain white; she wore no ornament — not even
a riband. Her hair, which was beautifully long and thick,
was disposed in a clubbed mass upon her head, very simply
but with particular neatness; and, when all was done, concealing
the weapon of death beneath a shawl which she
wrapped around her, she left the house, and stole away unobserved
along the hills, in the seclusion and sacred silence
of which she sought to avoid the evil consequences of one
crime by the commission of another far more heinous.