A fortnight before the day appointed for our marriage, I visited Miss Howard. Her father did not at first appear, and Mary received me alone. I perceived in her manner considerable perturbation, although she evidently attempted to conceal it. Instantly I took alarm, and question and entreaty soon elicited what alone was necessary to complete my misfortunes. Mr. Howard, influenced by the insinuations of others, and also by his own observation of my habits, had doubtless strongly suspected my increasing insanity, and with reason dreaded to connect his daughter’s welfare with mine. So much I inferred from his expressed determination that the marriage should be delayed until my return from the seat of government, although he had assigned reasons very inadequate to account for his decision, and had kept back his real motives with a delicacy for which even then I was grateful. Mary had been obliged to acquiesce, but whatever conclusions she might fairly have drawn from my frequent and abrupt transitions from the calm mood of social intercourse to one approaching madness, yet was she unchanged in feeling, and open and confiding in conduct. Had my lot been indeed that of a maniac, I believe in my soul that her devotion would have embraced it. Nothing could have been more distant from her intentions, than the abandonment of my declining fortunes. From a principle of filial duty, however, she had now yielded a point with which I fancied my whole future welfare intimately connected, and worn out with the relentless persecutions of my tormentors, I became irritated and unjust. Never can I forget the keen sense of misery which possessed my whole being as I thought, and said,
“And you too desert me!”—I could add no more—but that reproach comprehended every thing. I threw from me the hand I had held, and left the room and the house. I had arrived late—our conference had lasted several hours—and black was the night into which I plunged, when I crossed the threshold. The wind raged with a groaning violence which seemed to accord with my own stormy wretchedness, and a mingled fall of rain and snow showered upon me a chill and penetrating moisture. I had left Miss Howard in an apartment bright and cheerful, and carefully warmed to a temperature that excluded winter. The tempest into which I threw myself was as rigorous as the future to which I was now abandoned. Heedless of its fury, but alive to its piercing influence, I strode onward to the gate, and was about to dash it open, when the sound of a light step plashing through the pools of water which lay in the walk behind me, arrested my haste. Could it be Mary’s? With the apprehensions for her safety suggested by the wildness of the night, mingled a strange pleasure at the proof thus afforded of my power over her affections, and when she caught my arm and leaned upon me, half to prevent my departure, half for support against the violence of the storm, there was an end of bitterness. I hurried her back to the house. Explanations followed which quieted Mary, though they did not convince me. I was, however, permitted to argue my own cause with her father. He heard me with patience, and apparently with sympathy, but no persuasion could alter his resolve. He seemed to acquiesce in the promise of Mary, that our engagement should be fulfilled in the course of the coming spring, but this was all that could be obtained from him. Doubtless he trusted that before that period, the sole obstacle would either be wholly removed or become invincible. I grew angry, and my manner was warm. Mr. Howard likewise was displeased, but his deportment assumed a shade of cold forbearance, at which I was enraged. I left the house full of wrath and disappointment; but not without exacting a vow from Mary, that, at the appointed time, with, or without her father’s approbation, she would fulfil the promises which he had once consented to sanction. If now I disliked Mr. Howard, my feelings were charity and love, compared with those which I was soon to entertain toward him.
Congress was now in session, but I had delayed my journey to the seat of government in order to make Miss Howard my companion. Now there was no longer a reason to defer it, and I set forward full of gloomy anticipations. But before I went, I took leave of Mary, and that, thank God! with kindness, and in trust.
I reached Washington, and established myself in lodgings which I had previously secured. What was my indignation, when, a week after my arrival, I found that Albert Howard, the nephew of Mary’s father, was also an inmate of the house! “Despatched no doubt by his respected uncle, to play the spy upon my infirmities!” This thought was insupportable, and I repelled by reserve or rudeness every advance which the youth could make me. It was in vain that he assured me of his desire to cultivate my friendship. I now beheld his every act through a medium which rendered candid judgment impossible, and though I have since discovered the motives which guided his conduct to have been in the highest degree fair and humane, I then ascribed to him only the spirit of rivalship, and the hope to rise upon my ruin. With such suspicions I could unite only the coldest, or the roughest resentment. I tried the first. It did not repulse the real kindness of Albert Howard. Then I put forth rudeness, sarcasm, almost contempt. I was surprised and irritated at his forbearance, for it plainly expressed what I could not endure.
In the meantime, however, there seemed to be a cessation of my woes. The conversation of the elite of the different states upon subjects of vital importance to them all—the new species of excitement and exertion to which I was now introduced, and the eagerness with which I applied myself to my present duties, seemed for a time to exclude all painful reflections.
A question was now before the house which involved the interests of a large portion of the community. It was a subject which I had carefully studied, and I designed to take part in its discussion. I threw my thoughts into form. I gave to their language beauty, ornament, finish. It was known that I intended to lay my views before the house, and a large auditory assembled, attracted by my double reputation for talent and eccentricity. I had now been for some time in Washington. I had endeavored to become generally known. I had exerted all my powers, in proportion to the need I felt that they should now make upon society a favorable impression. In the private circle, and in the public debate, I had alike endeavored to conciliate and to strike. Golden opinions I had already won, in spite of the prevalence of a suspicion which I knew I had not been able to leave at home; and returning confidence in my ability, and a disposition to indulge what now began to be styled my “oddities,” were marked in the manner of all who approached me. To show the temper of society respecting me, I will recall a little conference which I heard one night at a ball, between an old lady and her very pretty daughter.
“Catherine,” said the old lady, “who is the gentleman I saw you dancing with just now? —Look!—The gentleman talking to Madame De P——”
“It is Mr. Lindsay, mama.”7
“Lindsay? what—the gentleman Mr. Romney was telling us of the other day, the clever representative from——, that every body thought was crazy?”
“Hush! mamma, or speak lower, at least. He’ll hear you! He is no more crazy than you or I, and he’s very eloquent moreover.”
“I did not say he was crazy, dear—but he is odd. All people of genius are odd.”
“Fancy Miss Howard’s rejecting him, mother, because he is so singular!”
“A very silly reason, child. You wouldn’t do so, Kate, would you?” said the arch mamma.
“Oh! pshaw, mamma!”
Secure of this sort of indulgence, I looked forward to the day of my speech as the epoch of a crowning triumph, and of mastery alike over myself and my fate. I hoped the persecution was worn out—the spirit appeased. The long interval of peace which had been allowed me, seemed to warrant this hope, and I entered upon my intellectual enterprise with confidence and strength. I delivered my exordium with effect—that I gathered from the faces of the male portion of my auditory, which assumed a gratified and approving expression; and with grace—as I judged from the smiles exchanged by the ladies. I proceeded with interest and self-command. I threw off the slight nervous tremor which I at first experienced, and entered into the argument with ease and temper. I grasped the subject, and its intricacies grew clear, and its truths began to be developed. My hearers were seized
by the eloquence and the energy of my expositions, and I evidently possessed the attention and sympathy of the whole audience. But, in the midst of a warm appeal to their patriotism, while I strove to excite their enthusiasm, to hurry along with me their feelings, suddenly I paused. Mists seemed to rise around me, the death knell to sound in my ear, and a chant clear, ringing, and pathetic, to bewail the fate of my own beautiful and beloved Mary. Then passed before my eyes the funeral procession, the black hearse, the mourning attendants. I saw the grave—her grave—and the coffin lowered into it. The clods rattled upon its lid, and at the sound, as I stood in the assembly of the nation, I shrieked aloud! Until the moment when I uttered this yell, I had stood with my hands clasped—my face convulsed and pale—my eyes fixed upon vacancy, and my hair erect with terror. Recalled by my own voice to a half sense of my existence, I gazed around upon the multitude, with a stupid stare of deficient comprehension, and then, slowly, and with an air of utter imbecility, left my place, and walked out of the hall. A murmur reached my ear as I departed. It was full of surprise—pity—regret. From that moment my fate was sealed, and thenceforward no one ever doubted my incurable insanity. From the bar and the senate it followed of course, that I should be forever excluded.
I had dragged myself to my lodgings ere the full sense of my ridiculous and painful position forced itself upon me. Then with the conviction that I was irretrievably lost—the sport of fiends—the pity and contempt of mankind—came the reflection that I had yielded myself the victim to illusion. I began hastily to retrace my steps towards the capitol, with the purpose of apology, and the resumption of my interrupted speech, as soon as that might be permitted, alleging sudden illness in excuse for my conduct, and forcing myself to bear out the assertion by rational and quiet deportment. Scarcely had I walked a hundred paces when I met Albert Howard.
“How are you now, Mr. Lindsay?” he asked, in a voice the modulation of which implied pity and interest. I could not endure either from him at this moment, and I answered fiercely,
“How is it, sir, that I can never stir abroad without finding you at my elbow. Just now you were in the capitol, and now I have you dogging me to my lodgings. Mr. Howard, if your own affairs are too unimportant to absorb your attention, let me at least beseech you not to extend it to mine.”
“I mean you no offence,” replied Albert. “I saw that you were ill, and therefore followed you.”
“To be a spy upon my eccentricities?” I cried, losing all self-command at this ill-timed intimation. “To report to your uncle the infirmities which you trust are sufficient to ruin me. Stand out of my way, sir!”
“You are not yourself at present, Lindsay. We can settle all this at another time,” answered the young man, quietly.
“Not myself!” I thundered. “Do you dare to say that!” I seized his arm, and fixed upon him a threatening gaze. “Do you dare to think that I am mad,” I added after an instant’s pause, and I ground my teeth together. Then, dreading to encounter a further temptation, I threw him forcibly from me. He had not anticipated violence, and the strength I put forth in the effort to free myself from him was greater than I had myself conceived. He fell. His head struck against the wall of a house, and he lay upon the pavement, bleeding and insensible.
I was shocked—startled—cooled. Two gentlemen who came up at this moment, lifted the luckless Albert from the ground, called a coach, and sent for a physician. One of them accompanied Howard to his lodgings, and the other without difficulty persuaded me to return to mine. That evening I learned that Mr. Howard was much better, that though bruised by the fall he had not been seriously injured—and early next morning he left the city. Whither he was going I could not doubt, but I could think of no measure likely to counteract his design. I passed some days in a state little short of distraction. At last the post brought me a letter. I divined its contents before I opened it. It was from the elder Howard. It began by alluding to the hopes he had once indulged of finding in me a son and a friend. It expressed the deepest regret at the over-throw of those anticipations—anticipations upon which he had dwelt as long as reason and duty could justify his entertainment of them. His daughter, he added, had now been for months the prey to anxieties, which, in themselves fruitless, were also undermining her health. She had begged her cousin to seek my society—to watch over me—to wean me if possible from my “eccentricities.” How I had repaid the kindness of his nephew, must be fresh in my memory. He was himself resolved, by a timely, though severe stroke, to arrest the misfortunes that threatened him, and to restore his family to peace. He must, with whatever distress the measure might be accompanied, decline an alliance with me, and request that I would see Miss Howard no more. Time would, he trusted, efface the past from her heart, and, at all events, nothing which could befall her, could include more of evil than the marriage which, it was his duty to assure me, could never be permitted.
I raved—I tore my hair. I was now indeed the madman I had hitherto only been supposed to be. The inmates of the house where I lodged became alarmed. Assistance was summoned, my family received information of my condition, and within a brief space I was consigned to that horrible abode from which alone of all the dwellings of mankind, Hope seems to be excluded.
Here I submitted—no! I did not submit, but I underwent every form of privation, and the last infliction in the hand of degradation. I fed on bread and water. I was chained upon straw. If, even in the dead midnight, when the dog that is spurned by day may howl unmolested—when I remembered my beautiful hopes, and felt their wreck—if even then, in the weakness of human misery, I raised my voice in lamentation, the lash—aye, hear it, God and man! the lash answered my groanings, and the fierce contest between the oppressed and the oppressor aroused the wailings of those wretched inmates of the cells around me, to whose pangs sleep had vouchsafed a temporary oblivion. But could all this endure whilst I possessed the nerves, and sinews, and brain of a man? Oh! never believe it—never fancy that I could be restrained by human bonds. I escaped. I say, I escaped; and what was my aim, and what my destination? Can a human heart frame such a question? Was I not bound to fulfil my compact with Mary. Had I not before me the task of revenge? Against her father? No! I would not have harmed one silver hair on the head of one who was dear to her. But the brother—my brother—my friend from the cradle, who had delivered me over to the cell and the scourge! Could you not guess? How could any one doubt?
I do not know how I reached my native state. All my way I thought of what would be, and not of what was. Therefore there is a blank in my memory until I reached home. No, not home—it was the residence of Mr. Howard. I could not attend to the fate of my brother until after the marriage.
And now I was come, the house was too dark for a bridal.
I stood upon the sear turf, and below the leafless trees, and my heart swelled until I felt choked. It was night, but the entry was lightless. I paused in the darkness, and shivered—less from the chill of a bleak March evening, than from dim and indefinite apprehensions. At length my very fears gave me power. I entered the house—I threw open the parlor door. The fire had burnt out, and the lamps had not been lighted. In the next apartment were fire and lights, but no human presence, and a chair lay upon the floor, overthown by some hasty exit. I returned to the dark hall. I listened. At first I thought the silence would have killed me. Then I heard sobs. I was sure I heard sobs, and forgetful of all but the image habitually in my heart, I ran up the stair. It was dark; but on the landing place of the second story, as I paused sick with forebodings, I beheld a pale gleam steal along the wall. It was sufficient to give to my vision a hand white and wan, and pointing to a door at the further end of the passage, whence issued a streak of light. I hurried forward. I threw that door open, and beheld all that it could ever import me to see again.
She was dying, but not in agony—Oh! no, thank Heaven! not in agony. The spirits had no power upon her innocence. She lay pale, soft, composed—the faint breath quivering on slightly parted li
ps. So dear, so young, so pure! so good beyond all the goodness of this world! Could I shriek then? then when it was real—when all that I loved, or that loved me, was passing away from the very world that I inhabited! No—no—no! there was nothing of all this. My heart was broken—my nature quelled! I had nothing further of resistance for fate. I stole forward, unopposed by father, mother, or physician—their surprise was too sudden, or their grief too intense, or, perhaps, Death, that calms all things, had power on them—I drew near to my dying Mary; I placed my arm gently, gently around her—; I laid my cheek against hers—I sought, with humble and trembling lips, to know if the breath of life still dwelt in that dear form. And whilst I thus bent, and strove to say one word of fondness—to ask one—one more tone that I should never hear again—whilst my soul formed thoughts of gushing and passionate love, that my anguish failed to tell her—whilst I knelt at her side, and would have died a thousand deaths to save her—one soft, faint, quivering sigh, with which sleep might have fanned the lip of childhood, fluttered over my cheek, and ceased. I had received the last breath of the only being I loved.
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 34