Matilda Montgomerie; Or, The Prophecy Fulfilled

by Major Richardson

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  Few situations in life are less enviable than that of the isolatedprisoner of war. Far from the home of his affections, and compelled bythe absence of all other companionship, to mix with those who, inmanners, feelings, and national characteristics, form, as it were, arace apart from himself, his recollections, already sufficientlyembittered by the depressing sense of captivity, are hourly awakened bysome rude contrast wounding to his sensibilities, and even though nosource of graver irritation should exist, a thousand petty annoyances,incident to the position, are magnified by chagrin from mole-hills intomountains. Such, however, would be the effect produced on one only, who,thrown by the accident of war into the situation of a captive, shouldhave no grief more profound, no sorrow deeper seated, than what arosefrom the being severed from old, and associated with new and undesiredties--one to whom life was full of the fairest buds of promise, andwhose impatience of the present was only a burning desire to enter uponthe future. Not so with Gerald Grantham. Time, place, circumstance,condition, were alike the same--alike indifferent to him. In therecollection of the scenes he had so lately quitted, and in which hisfairer and unruffled boyhood had been passed, he took no pleasure--whilethe future was so enshrouded in gloom, that he shrank from its verycontemplation. So far from trying to wring consolation fromcircumstances, his object was to stupify recollection to the uttermost.He would fain have shut out both the past and the future, contentinghimself as he might with the present; but the thing was impossible. Theworm had eaten into his heart, and its gnawings were too painful, notpoignantly to remind him of the manner in which it had been engendered.

  Upwards of a fortnight had elapsed since his arrival, and yet, althoughCaptain Jackson, prior to his return to Sandusky, had personallyintroduced him to many highly respectable families in Frankfort, heuniformly abstained from cultivating their acquaintance, until at lengthhe was, naturally enough, pronounced to be a most disagreeable specimenof a British officer. Even with the inmates of the hotel, many of whomwere officers of his own age, and with whom he constantly sat down tothe ordinary, he avoided everything approaching to intimacy--satisfyinghimself merely with discharging his share of the commonest courtesiesof life. They thought it pride--it was but an effect--an irremediableeffect--of the utter sinking of his sad and broken spirit. The onlydistraction in which he eventually took pleasure, or sought to indulge,was rambling through the wild passes of the chain of wooded hills whichalmost encircles the capital of Kentucky, and extends to a considerabledistance in a westerly direction. The dense gloom of these narrowvalleys he had remarked on his entrance by the same route, and feelingthem more in unison with his sick mind than the hum and bustle of acity, which offered nothing in common with his sympathies, he nowfrequently passed a great portion of the day in threading theirmazes--returning, however, at a certain hour to his hotel, conformablywith the terms of his parole.

  On one occasion, tempted by the mellow beauty of the season--it was nowthe beginning of October--he had strayed so far, and through passes sounknown to him, that when the fast advancing evening warned him of thenecessity of returning, he found he had utterly lost his way. Abstractedas he usually was, he had yet reflection enough to understand that hisparole of honor required he should be at his hotel at an hour which itwould put his speed to the proof to accomplish. Despairing of findinghis way by the circuitous route he had originally taken, and the properclue to which he had moreover lost, he determined, familiar as he waswith the general bearings of the capital, to effect his return in adirect line across the chain of hills already alluded to. The deepeningshadows of the wild scene, as he proposed to ascend that immediatelybefore him, told that the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, and when hegained its summit, the last faint corruscations of light were passingrapidly away in the west. Still, by the indistinct twilight, he couldperceive that at his feet lay a small valley, completely hemmed in bythe circular ridge on which he stood. This traversed, it was but toascend the opposite section of the ridge, and his destination would begained. Unlike the narrow, rocky passes which divided the hills in everyother direction in which he had previously wandered, this valley wascovered with a luxuriant verdure, and upon this the feet of Gerald movedinaudibly even to himself. As he advanced more into the centre of thelittle plain, he thought he could perceive, at its extremity on theright, the dark outline of a building--apparently a dwelling-house; andwhile he yet hesitated whether he should approach it and inquire hismost direct way to the town, a light suddenly appeared at that point ofthe valley for which he was already making. A few minutes sufficed tobring him to the spot whence the light had issued. It was a small,circular building, possibly intended for a summer-house, but moreresembling a temple in its construction, and so closely bordering uponthe forest ridge, by a portion of the foliage by which it had previouslybeen concealed, as to be almost confounded with it. It was furnishedwith a single window, the same through which the light now issued, andthis, narrow, elongated, and studded with iron bars, was so placed as toprevent one even taller than our hero from gazing into the interior,without the aid of some elevation. But Gerald, independently of hisanxiety to reach the town in time to prevent comment upon his absence,had no desire to occupy himself with subjects foreign to his object.Curiosity was a feeling dead within his bosom, and he was preparing,without once staying his course, to ascend the ridge at the side of thetemple, when he fancied he heard a suppressed groan, as of one sufferingfrom intense agony. Not the groan, but the peculiar tone in which itwas uttered, arrested his attention, and excited a vague yet stirringinterest in his breast. On approaching closer to the temple, he foundthat at its immediate basement the earth had been thrown up into a sortof mound, which so elevated the footing as to admit of his reaching thebars of the window with his hands. Active as we have elsewhere shown himto be, he was not long in obtaining a full view of the interior, when ascene met his eye which riveted him, as well it might, in utterastonishment. Upon the rude, uncarpeted floor knelt a female, who, withclasped and uplifted hands, had her eyes fixed upon a portrait that hungsuspended from the opposite wall--her figure, clad in a loose robe ofblack, developing by its attitude a contour of such rich and symmetricalproportion as might be difficult for the imagination to embody. And whowas the being upon whom his each excited sense now lingered with anadmiration little short of idolatry? One whom, a moment before, hebelieved to be still far distant, whom he had only a few monthspreviously fled from as from a pestilence, and whom he had solemnlysworn never to behold again--yet whom he continued to love with apassion that defied every effort of his judgment to subdue, making hislife a wilderness--Matilda Montgomerie! and if her beauty had _then_ hadsuch surpassing influence over his soul, what was not its effect when hebeheld her _now_, every grace of womanhood exhibited in a manner toexcite admiration the most intense!

  It would be vain to describe all that passed through the mind of GeraldGrantham, while he thus gazed upon her whose beauty was the rock onwhich his happiness had been wrecked. His first impulse had been to fly,but the fascination which riveted him to the window deprived him of allpower, until eventually, of all the host of feelings that had crowdedtumultuously upon his heart, passion alone remained triumphant. Unablelonger to control his impatience, he was on the point of quitting hisstation, for the purpose of knocking and obtaining admission by a doorwhich he saw opposite to him, when a sudden change in the attitude ofMatilda arrested the movement.

  She had risen, and with her long and dark hair floating over her whiteshoulders, now advanced towards the portrait, on which her gaze hadhitherto been so repeatedly turned. This was so placed that Gerald hadnot previously an opportunity of remarking more than the indistinctoutline, which proved it to represent a human figure; but as she for amoment raised the light with one hand, while with the other she coveredit with a veil which had been drawn aside, he distinctly saw that it wasthe portrait of an officer dressed in the American uniform; and it evenoccurred to him that he had before seen the face, although, in his the
nexcited state he could not recollect where. Even had he been inclined totax his memory, the effort would have been impracticable, for anotherdirection was now given to his interest.

  On the left and close under the window, stood a rude sofa and rudertable, the only pieces of furniture which Gerald could observe withinthe temple. Upon the former Matilda had now reclined herself, andplacing the candle upon the table at her side, proceeded to unfold andperuse a letter which she had previously taken from her pocket book. Thesame unconsciousness of observation inducing the same unstudiedness ofaction, the whole disposition of the form bore a character ofvoluptuousness, which the presumed isolation of her who thus exhibitedherself, a model of living grace, alone could justify. But although theform was full of the eloquence of passion, one had but to turn to thepale and severe face, to find there was no corresponding expression inthe heart. As heretofore, the brow of the American wore a cast ofthought--only deeper, more decided--and even while her dark eyes flashedfire, as if in disappointment and anger at sundry passages in the letterover which she lingered, not once did the slightest color tinge hercheek, or the gloom dissipate itself from that cold brow. Emotion shefelt, for this her heaving bosom and occasionally compressed lipbetokened. Yet never was contrast more marked than that between theperson and the face of Matilda Montgomerie, as Gerald Grantham thenbeheld her.

  On one who had seen her thus for the first time, the cold, calmcountenance of the singular girl, would have acted as a chastener to theemotions called up by the glowing expression of her faultless form, butalthough there was now a character of severity on her features, whichmust have checked and chilled the ardent admiration produced by thatform on a mere stranger, Gerald but too well remembered occasions whenthe harmony of both had been complete, and when the countenance, rich inall those fascinations, which, even in her hours of utmostcollectedness, never ceased to attach to the person, had beamed upon himin a manner to stir his very soul into madness. There were other andlater recollections too, that forced themselves upon his memory; butthese, even though they recalled scenes in which the voluptuous beautyof Matilda shone paramount, were as blots upon the fair picture of thepast, and he fain would have banished them from his mind for ever.

  The letter on which the American was now engaged, Grantham hadrecognised, from its fold and seal, to be one he had written prior toparting with her, as he had supposed for ever. While he was yet dwellingon this singularity, Matilda threw the letter upon the table at herside, and leaning her head upon her hand, seemed as if musing deeplyupon its contents. The contraction of her brow became deeper, and therewas a convulsed pressure of her lips as of one forming somedetermination, requiring at once strong moral and physical energy toaccomplish. A cold shudder crept through the veins of Gerald, for toowell did he fancy he could divine what was passing in the soul of thatstrange yet fascinating woman. For a moment a feeling of almost loathingcame over his heart, but when, in the next moment, he saw her rise fromthe sofa, revealing the most inimitable grace, he burned with impatienceto throw himself, reckless of consequences, at her feet, and to confesshis idolatry.

  After pacing to and fro for some moments, her dark and kindling eyealone betraying the excitement which her colorless cheek denied, Matildaagain took up the light, and having once more approached the portrait,was in the act of raising the veil, when a slight noise made by Gerald,who in his anxiety to obtain a better view of her, had made a change inhis position, arrested her ear; and she turned and fixed her eye uponthe window, not with the disturbed manner of a person who fearsobservation, but with the threatening air of one who would punish anintrusion.

  Holding the light above her head, she advanced firmly across the room,and stopping beneath the window, fixed her eye steadily andunshrinkingly upon it. The mind of Gerald had become a chaos ofconflicting and opposite feelings. Only an instant before and he wouldhave coveted recognition, now his anxiety was to avoid it; but crampedin his attitude, and clinging as he was compelled, with his face closeto the bars, his only means of doing so was by quitting his positionaltogether. He therefore loosened his hold, and dropped himself on themound of earth from which he had contrived to ascend, but not sonoiselessly, in the unbroken stillness of the night, as to escape thekeen ear of the American. In the next moment Gerald heard a door open,and a well known voice demand, in tones which betrayed neither alarm norindecision.

  "Who is there?"

  The question was repeated in echo from the surrounding woods, and thendied away in distance.

  "Who of my people," again demanded Matilda, "has dared to follow me herein defiance of my orders?"

  Another echo of indistinct sounds, and all again was still.

  "Whoever you are, speak," resumed the courageous girl. "Nay," shepursued more decidedly, as having moved a pace or two from the door, sheobserved a human form standing motionless beneath the window. "Think notto escape me. Come hither slave that I may know you. This curiosityshall cost you dear."

  The blood of Gerald insensibly chilled at the harsh tone in which thesewords were uttered, and had he followed a first impulse he would at oncehave retired from the influence of a command, which under all thecircumstances, occurred to him as being of prophetic import. But he hadgazed on the witching beauty of the syren, until judgment and reason hadyielded the rein to passion, and filled with an ungovernable desire tobehold and touch that form once more--even although he should the nextmoment tear himself from it for ever--he approached and stood at theentrance of the temple, the threshold of which Matilda had againascended.

  No exclamation of surprise escaped the lips of the ever-collectedAmerican; and yet, for the first time that night, her cheek was suffusedwith a deep glow, the effect of which was to give to her whole style ofbeauty a character of radiancy.

  "Gerald Grantham!"

  "Yes, Matilda," exclaimed the youth, madly, heedless of the past, whilehe riveted his gaze upon her dazzling loveliness with such strongexcitement of expression as to cause her own to sink beneath it, "yourown Gerald--your slave kneels before you," and he threw himself at herfeet.

  "And what punishment does not that slave merit?" she asked in a tone sodifferent from that in which she had addressed her supposed domestic,that Gerald could scarcely believe it to be the same. "What reparationcan he make for having caused so much misery to one who loved andcherished him so well. Oh! Gerald, what days, what nights of misery haveI not passed since you so unkindly left me." As she uttered the lastsentence, she bent herself over the still kneeling form of her lover,while her long dark hair, falling forward, completely enveloped him inits luxuriant and waving folds.

  "You will be mine, Matilda," at length murmured the youth, as he sat ather side on the sofa, to which on rising he had conducted her.

  "Yours, only yours," returned the American, while she bent her face uponhis shoulder. "But you know the terms of our union."

  Had a viper stung him, Gerald could not have recoiled with more dismayand horror from her embrace. Again the features of Matilda becamecolorless, and her brow assumed an expression of care and severity.

  "Then, if not to fulfil that compact, wherefore are you here?" and thequestion was put half querulously, half contemptuously.

  "Chance, Destiny, Fate,--call it what you will," cried Gerald, obeyingthe stronger impulse of his feelings, and clasping her once more to hisbeating heart. "Oh! Matilda, if you knew how the idea of that fearfulcondition has haunted me in my thoughts by day, and my dreams by night,you would only wonder that at this moment I retain my senses, filled asmy soul is with maddening--with inextinguishable love for you."

  "And do you really entertain for me that deep, that excessive passionyou have just expressed," at length observed Matilda, after some momentsof silence, and with renewed tenderness of voice and manner, "and yetrefuse the means by which you may secure me to you for ever?"

  "Matilda," said Gerald, with vehemence, "my passion for you is one whichno effort of my reason can control; but let me not deceive you--it is_now_ one of the senses."


  An expression of triumph, not wholly unmingled with scorn, animated thefeatures of Matilda. It was succeeded by one of ineffable tenderness.

  "We will talk of this no more to-night, Gerald, but to-morrow evening,at the same hour, be here: and our mutual hopes, and fears, and doubtsshall be then realized or disappointed, as the event may show. To-morrowwill determine if, as I cannot but believe, Destiny has sent you to meat this important hour. It is very singular," she added, as if toherself, her features again becoming deadly pale, "very singularindeed!"

  "What is singular, Matilda?" asked Gerald.

  "You shall know all to-morrow," she replied; "but mind," and her darkeye rested on his with an expression of much tenderness, "that you comeprepared to yield me all I ask."

  Gerald promised that he would, and Matilda expressing a desire to hearwhat had so unexpectedly restored him to her presence, he entered into adetail of all that had befallen him from the moment of their separation.She appeared to be much touched by the relation, and in return, gave hima history of what she too had felt and suffered. She moreover informedhim that Major Montgomerie had died of his wounds shortly after theirparting, and that she had now been nearly two months returned to heruncle's estate at Frankfort, where she lived wholly secluded fromsociety, and with a domestic establishment consisting of slaves. Theseshort explanations having been entered into they parted--Matilda toenter her dwelling, the same which Gerald had marked in outline, inwhich numerous lights were now visible, and her lover to make the bestof his way to the town.