Matilda Montgomerie; Or, The Prophecy Fulfilled

by Major Richardson

  CHAPTER XXI.

  When they met at breakfast, Henry was more than ever struck andafflicted by the alteration in his brother's person and manner. Alltraces of the last night's excitement had disappeared with the cause,and pale, haggard and embarrassed, he seemed but the shadow of hisformer self, while the melancholy of his countenance had in it somethingwild and even fierce. As at their first meeting, his language was dryand reserved, and he seemed rather impatient of conversation, as thoughit interfered with the indulgence of some secret and all absorbingreflection, while, to Henry's affectionate questioning of his adventuressince they first parted, he replied in the vague unsatisfactory mannerof one who seeks to shun the subject altogether. At another moment, thisapparent prostration of the physical man might have been ascribed to hislong immersion of the preceding day, and the efforts that were necessaryto rescue him from a watery grave; but, from the account Sambo had givenhim, Henry had but too much reason to fear that the disease of body andmind which had so completely encompassed his unfortunate brother, notonly had its being in a different cause, but might be dated from anearlier period. Although burning with desire to share that confidencewhich it grieved him to the soul to find thus unkindly withheld, he madeno effort to remove the cloak of reserve in which his brother hadinvested himself. That day they both dined at the garrison mess, andHenry saw with additional pain, that the warm felicitations of hisbrother officers on his return, were received by Gerald with the samereserve and indifference which had characterized his meeting with him,while he evinced the same disinclination to enter upon the solicitedhistory of his captivity, as well as the causes which led to his boldventure, and consequent narrow escape, of the preceding day. Finding himthus incommunicative, and not comprehending the change in his manner,they rallied him; and, as the bottle circulated, he seemed more and moredisposed to meet their raillery with a cheerfulness and good humor thatbrought even the color into his sunken cheeks; but when, finally, someof them proceeded to ask him, in their taunting manner, what he had donewith his old flame and fascinating prisoner, Miss Montgomerie, a deadlypaleness overspread his countenance, and he lost in the moment all powerof disguising his feelings. His emotion was too sudden and too palpable,not to be observed by those who had unwillingly called it forth, andthey at once, with considerate tact, changed the conversation. HereuponGerald again made an effort to rally, but no one returned to thesubject. Piqued at this conduct, he had more frequent recourse to thebottle, and laughed and talked in a manner that proved him to belaboring under the influence of extraordinary excitement. When he tookleave of his brother to retire to rest, he was silent, peevish,dissatisfied--almost angry.

  Henry passed a night of extreme disquiet. It was evident from what hadoccurred at the mess-table in relation to the beautiful American, thatto her was to be ascribed the wretchedness to which Gerald had become avictim, and he resolved on the following morning to waive all falsedelicacy, and throwing himself upon his affection, to solicit hisconfidence, and offer whatever counsel he conceived would best tend topromote his peace of mind.

  At breakfast the conversation turned on the intended movement, which wasto take place within three days, and on this subject Gerald evinced avivacity that warmed into eagerness. He had risen early that morning,with a view to obtain the permission of the commodore to make one of thedetachment of sailors who were to accompany the expedition, and, havingsucceeded in obtaining the command of one of the two gun-boats whichwere destined to ascend the Miami, and form part of the battering force,seemed highly pleased. This apparent return to himself might have ledhis brother into the belief that his feelings had undergone a reaction,had he not, unfortunately, but too much reason to know that themomentary gaiety was the result of the very melancholy which consumedhim. However, it gave him a more favorable opportunity to open thesubject next his heart, and, as a preparatory step, he dexterouslycontrived to turn the conversation into the channel most suited to hispurpose.

  The only ill effect arising from Gerald's recent immersion was a senseof pain in that part of his arm which had been bitten by therattlesnake, on the day of the pic-nic to Hog Island, and it chancedthat this morning especially it had a good deal annoyed him, evincingsome slight predisposition to inflammation. To subdue this, Henryapplied with his own hand a liniment which had been recommended, andtook occasion, when he had finished, to remark on the devotedness andfearlessness Miss Montgomerie had manifested in coming so opportunely tohis rescue--in all probability, thereby preserving his life.

  At the sound of this name Gerald started, and evinced the sameimpatience of the subject he had manifested on the preceding day. Henrykeenly remarked his emotion, and Gerald was sensible that he did.

  Both sat for some minutes gazing at each other in expressive silence,the one as if waiting to hear, the other as if conscious that he wasexpected to afford, some explanation of the cause of so marked anemotion. At length Gerald said and in a tone of deep and touchingdespondency, "Henry, I fear you find me very unamiable and much altered,but indeed I am very unhappy."

  Here was touched the first chord of their sympathies. Henry's, alreadyon the _elan_, flew to meet this demonstration of returning confidence,and he replied in a voice broken by the overflowing of his full heart.

  "Oh, my beloved brother, changed must you indeed be, when even theadmission that you are unhappy inspires me with a thankfulness such as Inow feel. Gerald, I entreat, I implore you, by the love we have borneeach other from infancy, to disguise nothing from me. Tell me what it isthat weighs so heavily at your heart. Repose implicit confidence in meyour brother, and let me assist and advise you in your extremity, as mypoor ability will permit. Tell me, Gerald, wherefore are you thusaltered--what dreadful disappointment has thus turned the milk of yournature into gall?"

  Gerald gazed at him a moment intently. He was much affected, and asudden and unbidden tear stole down his pallid cheek. "If _you_ havefound the milk of my nature turned into gall, then indeed am I even morewretched than I thought myself. But, Henry, you ask me what I cannotyield--my confidence--and, even were it not so, the yielding wouldadvantage neither. I am unhappy, as I have said, but the cause of thatunhappiness must ever remain buried here," and he pointed to his breast.This was said kindly, yet determinedly.

  "Enough, Gerald," and his brother spoke in terms of deep reproach,"since you persist in withholding your confidence, I will no longer urgeit; but you cannot wonder that I, who love but you alone on earth,should sorrow as one without hope, at beholding you subject to a griefso overwhelming as to have driven you to seek refuge from it in anunhallowed grave."

  "I do not understand you--what mean you?" quickly interrupted Gerald,raising his head from the hand which supported it at the breakfast-tablewhile he colored faintly.

  "You cannot well be ignorant of my meaning," pursued Henry in the sametone, "if you but recur to the circumstances attending your arrivalhere."

  "I am still in the dark," continued Gerald, with some degree ofimpatience.

  "Because you know not that I am acquainted with all that took place onthe melancholy occasion. Gerald," he pursued, "forgive the apparentharshness of what I am about to observe--but was it generous--was itkind in you to incur the risk you did, when you must have known thatyour death would have entailed upon me an eternal grief? Was it worthyof yourself, moreover, to make the devoted follower of your fortunes, asharer in the danger you so eagerly and wantonly courted?"

  "Nay, my good brother," and Gerald made an attempt at levity, "you areindeed an unsparing monitor; but suppose I should offer in reply, that aspirit of enterprize was upon me on the occasion to which you allude,and that, fired by a desire to astonish you all with a bold feat, I hadresolved to do what no other had done before me, yet withoutapprehending the serious consequences which ensued--or even assuming thedanger to have been so great."

  "All this, Gerald, you might, yet would not say; because, in saying it,you would have to charge yourself with a gross insincerity; and althoughyou do not deem me worthy to
share your confidence, I still havepleasure in knowing that my affection will not be repaid withdeceit--however plausible the motives for its adoption may appear--bythe substitution, in short, of that which is not for that which is."

  "A gross insincerity?" repeated Gerald, again slightly coloring.

  "Yes, my brother--I say it not in anger, nor in reproach--but a grossinsincerity it would certainly be. Alas, Gerald, your motives are buttoo well known to me. The danger you incurred was incurred wilfully,wantonly, and with a view to your own destruction."

  Gerald started. The color had again fled from his sunken cheek, and hewas ashy pale. "And _how_ knew you this?" he asked with a tremblingvoice.

  "Even, Gerald, as I know that you have been driven to seek in wine thatupbearing against the secret grief which consumes you, which should befound alone in the fortitude of a strong mind and the consciousness ofan untainted honor. Oh, Gerald, had these been your supporters, younever would have steeped your reason so far in forgetfulness, as to havedared what you did on that eventful day. Good Heaven! how little did Iever expect to see the brother of my love degenerated so far as toborder on the character of the drunkard and the suicide."

  The quick but sunken eyes of the sailor flashed fire; and he pressed hislips, and clenched his teeth together, as one strongly attempting torestrain his indignation. It was but the momentary flashing of thechafed and bruised spirit.

  "You probe me deeply, Henry," he said, calmly and in a voice of muchmelancholy. "These are severe expressions for a brother to use; but youare right--I did seek oblivion of my wretchedness in that whirlpool, asthe only means of destroying the worm that feeds incessantly upon myheart; but Providence has willed it otherwise--and, morever, I had nottaken the danger of my faithful servant into the account. Had Sambo notsaved me, I must have perished; for I made not the slightest effort topreserve myself. However, it matters but little, the mere manner ofone's death," he pursued, with increased despondency. "It is easy foryou, Henry, whose mind is at peace with itself and the world, to preachfortitude and resignation; but, felt you the burning flame whichscorches my vitals, you would acknowledge the wide difference betweentheory and practice."

  Henry rose deeply agitated; he went to the door and secured the bolt;then returning, knelt at his brother's feet. Gerald had one handcovering his eyes, from which, however, the tears forced themselvesthrough his closed fingers. The other was seized and warmly pressed inhis brother's grasp.

  "Gerald," he said, in the most emphatic manner, "by the love you everbore to our sainted parents, in whose chamber of death I now appeal toyour better feelings--by the friendship that has united our hearts fromyouth to manhood--by all and every tie of affection, let me implore youonce more to confide this dreadful grief to me, that I may share it withyou, and counsel you for your good. Oh, my brother, on my bended kneesdo I solicit your confidence. Believe me, no mean curiosity prompts myprayer. I would soothe, console, assist you--aye, even to the verysacrifice of life."

  The feelings of the sailor were evidently touched, yet he uttered not aword. His hand still covered his face, and the tears seemed to flow evenfaster than before.

  "Gerald," pursued his brother, with bitterness; "I see, with pain, thatI have not your confidence, and I desist--yet answer me one question.From the faithful Sambo, as you must perceive, I have learnt allconnected with your absence, and from him I have gained that, duringyour captivity, you were much with Miss Montgomerie (he pronounced thename with an involuntary shuddering); all I ask, therefore, is, whetheryour wretchedness proceeds from the rejection of your suit, or from anylevity or inconstancy you may have found in her?"

  Gerald raised his head from his supporting hand, and turned upon hisbrother a look in which mortified pride predominated over an infinitudeof conflicting emotions.

  "Rejected, Henry, _my_ suit rejected--oh, no! In supposing my grief tooriginate with her, you are correct; but imagine not it is because mysuit is rejected--certainly not."

  "Then," exclaimed Henry, with generous emphasis, while he pressed thethin hand which he held more closely between his own, "Why not marryher?"

  Gerald started.

  "Yes, marry her," continued Henry; "marry her and be at peace. Oh!Gerald, you know not what sad agency I attached to that insidiousAmerican from the first moment of her landing on this shore--you knownot how much I have disliked, and still dislike her--but what are allthese considerations when my brother's happiness is at stake? Gerald,marry her--and be happy."

  "Impossible," returned the sailor, in a feeble voice, and again hisheart sank upon the open palm of his hand.

  "Do you no longer love her, then?" eagerly questioned the astonishedyouth.

  Once more Gerald raised his head, and fixed his large, dim eyes fullupon those of his brother. "To madness!" he said, in a voice and with alook that made Henry shudder. There was a moment of painful pause. Thelatter at length ventured to observe:

  "You speak in riddles, Gerald. If you love this Miss Montgomerie tomadness, and are, as you seem to intimate, loved by her in return, whynot, as I have urged, marry her?"

  "Because," replied the sailor, turning paler than before, and almostgasping for breath, "there is a condition attached to the possession ofher hand."

  "And that is?" pursued Henry, inquiringly, after another long andpainful pause--

  "My secret," and Gerald pointed significantly to his breast.

  "True," returned Henry, slightly coloring; "I had forgotten--but whatcondition, Gerald (and here he spoke as if piqued at the abrupt mannerin which his brother had concluded his half confidence), what condition,I ask, may a woman entitled to our respect, as well as to our love,propose, which should be held of more account than that severest ofoffences against the Divine will--self-murder? Nay, look not thussurprised; for have you not admitted that you had guiltily attempted tothrow away your life--to commit suicide, in short--rather than complywith an earthly condition?"

  "What if in this," returned Gerald, with a smile of bitterness, "I havepreferred the lesser guilt to the greater?"

  "I can understand no condition, my brother, a woman worthy of youresteem could impose, which should one moment weigh in the same scaleagainst the inexpiable crime of self-destruction. But, really, all thismystery so startles and confounds me, that I know not what tothink--what inference to draw."

  "Henry," observed the sailor, with some show of impatience, "consideringyour promise not to urge it further, it seems to me you push the matterto an extremity."

  The youth made no reply, but, raising himself from his knees, movedtowards the door, which he again unbolted. He then walked to the windowat the further end of the apartment.

  Gerald saw that he was deeply pained; and, impatient and angry withhimself, he also rose and paced the room with hurried steps. At lengthhe stopped, and putting one hand upon the shoulder of his brother, whostood gazing vacantly from the window, pointed with the other towardsthat part of the apartment in which both their parents had breathedtheir last.

  "Henry, my kind, good Henry," he said, with a voice faltering withemotion, "do you recollect the morning when, on our return from school,we found our young holiday joy changed into heart-breaking and mourningby the sight of our dying mother?"

  "Remember it, Gerald! aye, even as though it had been yesterday. Oh, mybrother, little did I think at the moment when, with hands closelyclasped together, we sank, overcome with grief, upon our bended knees,to receive that mother's blessing, a day would ever arrive when the joyor sorrow of the one should form no portion of the joy or sorrow of theother."

  "It was there," pursued Gerald, and without noticing the interruption,"that we solemnly pledged ourselves to do the will and bidding of ourfather in all things."

  "Even so, Gerald, I remember it well."

  "And it was there," continued the sailor, with the emphasis of strongemotion, "that, during my unfortunate absence from the death-bed of ouryet surviving parent, you gave a pledge for _both_, that no action ofour lives should reflect dish
onor on his unsullied name."

  "I did. Both in your name and in my own, I gave the pledge--well knowingthat, in that, I merely anticipated your desire."

  "Most assuredly; what then would be your sensations were you to knowthat I had violated that sacred obligation?"

  "Deep, poignant, ceaseless regret, that my once noble and high-spiritedbrother should have been so lost to respect for his father's memory andfor himself." This was uttered not without deep agitation.

  "You are right, Henry," added Gerald, mournfully; "better, far better,is it to die than live on in the consciousness of having forfeited allclaim to esteem."

  The young soldier started as if a viper had stung him. "Gerald," hesaid, eagerly, "you have not dishonored yourself. Oh no--tell me, mybrother, that you have not."

  "No," was the cold, repulsive answer; "although my peace of mind isfled," he pursued, rather more mildly, "my honor, thank heaven, remainsas pure as when you first pledged yourself for its preservation."

  "Thanks, my brother, for that. But can it really be possible, that themysterious condition attached to Miss Montgomerie's love involves theloss of honor?"

  Gerald made no answer.

  "And can _you_ really be weak enough to entertain a passion for a woman,who would make the dishonoring of the fair fame of him she professes tolove the fearful price at which her affection is to be purchased?"

  Gerald seemed to wince at the word "weak," which was rather emphaticallypronounced, and looked displeased at the concluding part of thesentence.

  "I said not that the condition attached to her _love_," he remarked,with the piqued expression of a wounded vanity; "her affection is mine,I know, beyond her own power of control--the condition relates not toher heart, but to her hand."

  "Alas, my poor infatuated brother. Blinding indeed must be the delusionsof passion, when a nature so sensitive and so honorable shrinks not fromsuch a connexion. My only surprise is, that, with such a perversion ofjudgment you have returned at all."

  "No more of this Henry. It is not in man to control his destiny, andmine appears to be to love with a fervor that must bear me, ere long, tomy grave. Of this, however, be assured--that, whatever my weakness, orinfatuation, as you may be pleased to call it, _that_ passion shallnever be gratified at the expense of my honor. Deeply--madly as I doatupon her image, Miss Montgomerie and I have met for the last time."

  Overcome by the emotion with which he had thus expressed himself, Geraldcould not restrain a few burning tears that forced their way down hishollow cheeks. Henry caught eagerly at this indication of returningsoftness, and again essayed, in reference to the concluding declarationof his brother, to urge upon him the unworthiness of her who had thuscast her deadly spell upon his happiness. But Gerald could ill endurethe slightest allusion to the subject.

  "Henry," he said, "I have already told you that Miss Montgomerie and Ihave parted for ever; but not the less devotedly do I love her. If,therefore, you would not farther wring a heart already half broken withaffliction, oblige me by never making the slightest mention of her namein my presence--or ever adverting again to our conversation of thismorning. I am sure, Henry, you will not deny me this."

  Henry offered no other reply than by throwing himself into the arms thatwere extended to receive him. The embrace of the brothers was long andfervent, and, although there was perhaps more of pain than pleasure, intheir mutual sense of the causes which had led to it in the presentinstance--still was it productive of a luxury the most heartfelt. Itseemed to both as if the spirits of their departed parents hovered over,and blessed them in this indication of their returning affection,hallowing, with their invisible presence, a scene connected with thelast admonitions from their dying lips. When they had thus given vent totheir feelings, although the sense of unhappiness continuedundiminished, their hearts experienced a sensible relief; and when theyseparated for the morning, in pursuit of their respective avocations, itwas with a subdued manner on the part of Gerald, and a vague hope withHenry, that his brother's disease would eventually yield to variousinfluences, and that other and happier days were yet in store for both.