University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
SUSPENSE AND AGONY.

At the risk of seeming monotonous, we must repeat the
reflection made in our last chapter, that the things we are
about to lose for ever seem always more valuable in the
moment of their loss. They acquire a newer interest in
our eyes at such a time, possibly under the direction of
some governing instinct which is intended to render us tenacious
of life to the very last. Privation teaches us much
more effectually than possession the value of all human enjoyments;
and the moralist has more than once drawn his
sweetest portraits of liberty from the gloom and the denials
of a dungeon. How eloquent of freedom is he who yearns
for it in vain! How glowing is that passion which laments
the lost!

To one dying, as we suppose few die, in the perfect possession
of their senses, how beautiful must seem the fading
hues of the sunlight, flickering along the walls of a chamber!
how heavenly the brief glimpses of the blue sky through
the half-opened window! how charming the green bit of
foliage that swings against the pane! how cheering and unwontedly
sweet and balmy the soft, sudden gust of the sweet
south, breathing up from the flowers, and stirring the loose
drapery around the couch! How can we part with these
without tears? how reflect, without horror, upon the close
coffin, the damp clod, the deep hollows of the earth in which
we are to be cabined? Oh, with what earnestness, at such

a moment, must the wholly conscious spirit pray for life!
how greedily will he drink the nauseous draught in the hope
to secure its boon! how fondly will he seize upon every
chimera, whether of his own or of another's fancy, in order
to gain a little respite — in order still to keep within the
grasp of mind and sight, these lovely agents of earth and
its Master, which, in our day of strength and exultation,
we do not value at one half their worth! And how full
of dread and horror must be that first awful conviction
which assures him that the struggle is in vain — that the
last remedy is tried — that nothing is left him now but
despair — despair and death! Then it is that Christianity
comes to his relief. If he believes, he gains by his loss. Its
godlike promise assures him then that the things which his
desires make dear, his faith has rendered immortal.

The truth of many of these reflections made their way
into the mind of Margaret Cooper, as she pursued the well-known
path along the hills. She observed the objects
along the route more narrowly than ever. She was taking
that path for the last time. Her eyes would behold these
objects no more. How often had she pursued the same
route with Alfred Stevens! But then she had not seen
these things; she had not observed these thousand graces
and beauties of form and shadow which now seemed to
crowd around, challenging her regard and demanding her
sympathies. Then she had seen nothing but him. The
bitterness which this reflection occasioned made her hurry
her footsteps; but there was an involuntary shudder that
passed through her frame, when, in noting the strange
beauty of the path, she reflected that it would be trodden
by her for the last time. Her breathing became quickened
by the reflection. She pressed forward up the hills. The
forests grew thick around her — deep, dim, solemn, and inviting.
The skies above looked down in little blessed blue
tufts, through the crowding tree-tops. The long vista of
the woods led her onward in wandering thoughts.

To fix these thoughts — to keep them from wandering!
This was a difficulty. Margaret Cooper strove to do so,
but she could not. Never did her mind seem such a perfect
chaos — so full of confused and confusing objects and
images. Her whole life seemed to pass in review before
her. All her dreams of ambition, all the struggles of her
genius! Were these to be thrown away? Were these all
to be wasted? Was her song to be unheard? Was her
passionate and proud soul to have no voice? If death is
terrible to man, it is terrible, not as a pang, but as an oblivion;
and to the soul of genius, oblivion is a soul-death,
and its thought is a source of tenfold terror.

“But of what avail were life to me now? Even should
I live,” said the wretched woman, “would it matter more
to the ambition which I have had, and to the soul which
flames and fevers within me? Who would hearken to the
song of the degraded? Who, that heard the story of my
shame, would listen to the strains of my genius? Say that
its utterance is even as proud as my own vanity of heart
would esteem it — say that no plaint like mine had ever
touched the ear or lifted the heart of humanity! Alas! of
what avail! The finger of scorn would be uplifted long before
the voice of applause. The sneer and sarcasm of the
worldling would anticipate the favoring judgment of the indulgent
and the wise. Who would do justice to my cause?
Who listen? Alas! the voice of genius would be of little
avail speaking from the lips of the dishonored.

“To the talent which I have, and the ambition which
still burns within me, life then can bring nothing — no exercise
— no fruition. Suppose, then, that the talent is left
to slumber — the ambition stifled till it has no further
longings! Will life yield anything to the mere creature of
society — to my youth — to my beauty — to my sense of delight
— if still there be any such sense left to me? Shall I
be less the creature of social scorn, because I have yielded
my ambition — because I have forborne the employment of

those glorious gifts which Heaven in its bounty has allotted
me?

“Alas! no! am I not a woman, one of that frail, feeble
sex, whose name is weakness? — of whom, having no
strength, man yet expects the proofs of the most unyielding
— of a firmness which he himself can not exercise — of a
power of self-denial and endurance of which he exhibits no
example. If I weep, he smiles at my weakness. If I stifle
my tears, he denounces my unnatural hardihood. If I am
cold and unyielding, I am masculine and neglected — if I
am gentle and pliant, my confidence is abused and my person
dishonored. What can society, which is thus exacting,
accord to me, then, as a mere woman? What shame will
it not thrust upon me — a woman — and as I am?

“Life then promises me nothing. The talent which I
have, lies within me idle and without hope of use. The
pure name of the woman is lost to me for ever. Shame
dogs my footsteps. Scorn points its finger. Life, and all
that it brings to others — love, friends, fame, fortune —
which are the soul of life — these are lost to me for ever.
The moral death is here already. The mere act of dying,
is simply the end of a strife, and a breathing and an agony.
That is all!”

The day became overcast. A cloud obscured the sunlight.
The blue tufts of sky no longer looked downward
through the openings of the trees. The scene, dim and
silent before, became unusually dark. The aspect of nature
seemed congenial with the meditated deed. She had reasoned
herself into its commission, and she reproached herself
mentally with her delay. Any self-suggestion of an
infirmity of purpose, with a nature such as hers, would have
produced precipitation. She turned down a slight gorge
among the hills where the forest was more close. She
knelt beneath a tree and laid down her pistol at its foot.

She knelt — strange contradiction! — she knelt for the
purposes of prayer. But she could not pray. It would

seem that she attributed this effort to the sight of the pistols,
and she put them behind her without changing her
position. The prayer, if she made any, was internal; and,
at all events it did not seem to be satisfactory. Yet, before
it was ended, she started with an expression of painful
thought upon her face. The voice of her reason had ceased
its utterance. The voice of her conscience, perhaps, had
been unheard; but there was yet another voice to be heard
which was more potent than all.

It was the mother's voice!

She placed her hand upon her side with a spasmodic
effort. The quickening of a new life within her, made that
new voice effectual. She threw herself on the ground and
wept freely. For the first time she wept freely. The tears
were those of the mother. The true fountain of tears had
been touched. That first throb of the innocent pledge of
guilty passion subdued the fiend. She could have taken
her own life, but dared not lift the deadly weapon against
that. The arm of the suicide was arrested. She groaned,
she wept, bitterly and freely. She was at once feebler and
more strong. Feebler, as regarded her late resolution;
stronger as regarded the force of her affections, the sweet
humanities, not altogether subdued within her heart. The
slight pulsation of that infant in her womb had been more
effectual than the voice of reason, or conscience, or feminine
dread. The maternal feeling is, perhaps, the most imperious
of all those which gather in the heart of woman.

Margaret Cooper, however, had not altogether resolved
against the deed. She only could not do it there and then.
Her wretched determination was not wholly surrendered,
but it was touched, enfeebled; and with the increasing
powers of reflection, the impetuosity of the will became
naturally lessened. Those few glimpses along the road-side
which had made her sensible to the beauties she was
about to lose, had prepared her mind to act in counteraction
of her impulse; and the event which had brought into

play the maternal instinct, naturally helped the cause of
reason in her soul.

Still, with the erring pride of youth she reproached herself
with her infirmity of purpose. She resolved to change
her ground, as if the instinct which had been awakened in
one spot would not everywhere pursue her. Time was
gained, and in such cases, to gain time is everything. Perhaps
no suicide would ever take place if the individual
would wait ten minutes. The soul takes its color from the
cloud, and changes its moods as often. It is one of the best
lessons to the young, to wait! wait! wait! One of the
surest signs of strength is where the individual waits patiently
and makes no complaint.

Margaret Cooper changed her ground. The spot was a
wild one. A broken ledge of rock was at her feet, and
just below it ran a dark, narrow winding footpath half-obscured
by the undergrowth. Here she once more proceeded
to nerve her mind for the commission of the deed,
but she had not been there an instant when she was surprised
to hear the sound of voices.

This was unusual. Who could they be? The villagers
were not apt to stray from church-service whenever a
preacher was to be found, and there was a new one, and
consequently a new attraction, that day, for the spiritual
hungry of Charlemont. The path below was seldom trodden
except by herself and an occasional sportsman. The
idea that entered her mind was, that her purpose had been
suspected, and that she was pursued.

With this idea, she placed the pistol to her breast. She
had already cocked the weapon. Her finger was on the
trigger. But the tones of another voice reached her ears
from below. They were those of a woman — sweet, musical,
and tender.

A new light broke in upon her mind. This was the language
of love. And who were these new lovers in Charlemont?
Could it be that the voice of the male speaker was

that of Stevens? Something in the tone sounded like it.
Involuntarily, with this impression, the weapon was turned
from her own bosom, and addressed in the direction in
which the persons below were approaching. A sudden,
joyous feeling touched her soul. The thought to destroy
the criminal by whom she had been destroyed was a source
of exultation. She felt that she could do it. Both pistols
were in her hand. The pathway was not more than twenty
paces distant; and her nerves, for the first time, braced to
an unusual tension, trembled with the new excitement in
her soul.

The intruders continued to approach. Their voices became
more distinct, and Margaret Cooper was soon undeceived
as to one of them being that of Alfred Stevens. She
was compelled to lie close, that she might not betray her
position and purpose. The male speaker was very urgent;
the voice seemed that of a stranger. That of the female
was not so clearly distinguishable, yet it seemed more familiar
to the unintentional listener.

Something of feminine curiosity now entered the bosom
of Margaret Cooper. Crouching where she was, she deposited
the pistols at her feet. She remained breathlessly, for
the slightest movement would have revealed her to the persons
who were now just below. They passed close beneath
the place of her concealment, and she soon discovered that
they were lovers; and what their language was, even if she
had not heard it, might have been conjectured.

The girl was a very pretty brunette of Charlemont — a
sweet, retiring damsel of her own age, named Rivers —
whom she knew only slightly. She was a shy, gentle, unpresuming
girl, whom, for this reason, perhaps, Margaret
had learned to look upon without dislike or scorn. Her
companion was a youth whom Margaret had known when
a lad, but who had been absent on the Mississippi for two
years. His tall and masculine but well-made and graceful
person sufficiently accounted for, while it justified, the taste

of the maiden. He was a youth of fine, frank, manly countenance.
His garb was picturesque, that of a bold border-hunter,
with hunting-frock of yellow buckskin, and Indian
leggings.

The girl looked up to him with an expression at once of
eagerness and timidity. Confidence and maiden bashfulness
spoke equally in the delight which glowed upon her
features. The bright eyes and sun-burned features of the
youth were flushed with the feeling of happy triumph and
assuring love. The relation of the two was sufficiently evident
from their looks, even had they no other language.

What were the emotions of Margaret Cooper as she
looked down upon this pair? At first she thought, as will
most persons: “Surely there is nothing in nature so lovely
as the union of two fond, devoted hearts. The picture is
one equally of moral and physical beauty. The slight,
fragile, depending damsel, hanging in perfect confidence on
the arm of the manly, lofty, and exulting youth — looking
up into his eyes in hope, while he returns the gaze with
pride and fondness! Unconscious of all things but the love
which to them is life and all things besides, they move along
the forest way and know not its solitude; they linger and
loiter along its protracted paths, and see not their length;
they cling together through the lengthened hours, and fancy
they have lost no time; they hear each other's voices, and
believe that life is all music and delight.”

While Margaret Cooper looked down and heard the
pleadings and promises of the youth, and beheld the sweet
emotions of his companion, engaged in a pleasant struggle
between her hopes and misgivings, she scarcely restrained
herself from rising where she was and crying aloud — like
another Cassandra, not to be believed: “Beware! beware!”

But the warning of Margaret Cooper would have been
unnecessary. The girl was not only free from danger, but
she was superior to it. She had the wholesome fear of
doing wrong too strongly impressed upon her by education

— she had too little confidence in herself — was too well
assured of her own weakness — to suffer herself, even for a
moment, to depart, in either thought or deed, from those
quiet but stern proprieties of conduct which are among the
best securities of the young. While she looked in her lover's
face with confidence, and held his arm with the grasp
of one who is sure of a right to do so, there was an air of
childish simplicity in her manner which was wholly at variance
with wild passions and improper fancies. While the
hunter maintained her on his arm, and looked down into her
eyes with love, his glance was yet as respectful, as unexpressive
of presumption, as her own. Had the eyes of all
Charlemont been looking on, they would have beheld nothing
in the conduct of either which could have incurred the
censure of the most becoming delicacy.

Keen was the emotion and bitter was the thought which
worked in the mind of Margaret Cooper. She looked on
the deportment of that young maiden, whose intellect at
another day she would have despised, with envy and regret.
Truer thoughts and feelings came to her as she listened to
the innocent but fond dialogue between the unconscious
pair. The hunter was pursuing an erratic life of enterprise
and industry, then very common among the western youth.
He had been down upon the Mississippi, seeking his fortune
in such adventures as make border-life in our country
something like the more civilized life of the middle ages.
He had returned after a long absence, to claim the bride
whose affections he had won long before he had departed.

Never had knight-errant been more true to his mistress.
Her image had been his talisman as well against danger
from without, as against the demon within. It had never
left his mind, and he now returned for his reward. He
had returned to Charlemont just before the church service
had begun, and, being unprepared to go thither, had found
no difficulty in persuading his sweetheart to give the hour
of morning service to himself.

Mixed up with his professions of love was the story of
his wanderings. Never were adventures more interesting
to any auditor. Never was auditor more easily moved by
the transitions of the tale from tears to smiles, and from
smiles again to tears. His risks and rewards; his defeats
and successes; his wild adventures by fell and flood — not
perhaps so perilous as those of Othello, but such as proved
he had the soul to encounter the worst in Othello's experience,
and maintain himself as well — drew largely on the
maiden's wonder and delight, increased her tenderness and
tremors, and made her quite as devoted to her hero as
ever was Desdemona to her dusky chief. As they went
from hearing below, the manner in which the hunter concluded
his narrative provided a sufficient test for the faith
of his companion.

“And now, Selina, you see all the risks and the dangers.
There's work and perhaps trouble for you to go down with
me along the Choctaw borders. But if there's work, I am
the man to do my own share, and help you out in yours;
and, if there's trouble, here's the breast to stand it first,
and here's the arm to drive it back, so that it'll never
trouble yours. No danger shall come to you, so long as I
can stand up between it and you. If so be that you love
me as you say, there's one way to show it: you'll soon
make up your mind to go with me. If yon don't, why—”

“But you know I do love you, John—” murmured the
girl.

“Don't I believe it? Well, if what you say means what
it should, you're ready. Here's my hand, and all that it's
good for. It can work for you and fight for you, Selina,
and it's yours etarnally, with all that I have.”

The hand of the girl was silently put into that of the
speaker. The tears were in her eyes; but, if she made any
other answer, it was unheard by Margaret Cooper. The
rustic pair moved from sight even as they spoke, and the
desolate woman once more remained alone!