CHAPTER XLVII.
None will be surprised that, to a woman thus unfortunate and thusdeserving, my heart willingly rendered up all its sympathies; that, as Ipartook of all her grief, I hailed, with equal delight, those omens offelicity which now, at length, seemed to play in her fancy.
I saw her often,--as often as my engagements would permit, and oftenerthan I allowed myself to visit any other. In this I was partly selfish.So much entertainment, so much of the best instruction, did herconversation afford me, that I never had enough of it.
Her experience had been so much larger than mine, and so whollydifferent, and she possessed such unbounded facility of recounting allshe had seen and felt, and absolute sincerity and unreserve in thisrespect were so fully established between us, that I can imagine nothingequally instructive and delightful with her conversation.
Books are cold, jejune, vexatious in their sparingness of information atone time and their impertinent loquacity at another. Besides, all theychoose to give they give at once; they allow no questions, offer nofurther explanations, and bend not to the caprices of our curiosity.They talk to us behind a screen. Their tone is lifeless and monotonous.They charm not our attention by mute significances of gesture and looks.They spread no light upon their meaning by cadences and emphasis andpause.
How different was Mrs. Fielding's discourse! So versatile; so bending tothe changes of the occasion; so obsequious to my curiosity, and soabundant in that very knowledge in which I was most deficient, and onwhich I set the most value, the knowledge of the human heart; ofsociety as it existed in another world, more abundant in the varietiesof customs and characters, than I had ever had the power to witness.
Partly selfish I have said my motives were, but not so, as long as I sawthat my friend derived pleasure, in her turn, from my company. Not thatI could add directly to her knowledge or pleasure, but that expansion ofheart, that ease of utterance and flow of ideas which always wereoccasioned by my approach, were sources of true pleasure of which shehad been long deprived, and for which her privation had given her ahigher relish than ever.
She lived in great affluence and independence, but made use of herprivileges of fortune chiefly to secure to herself the command of herown time. She had been long ago tired and disgusted with the dull andfulsome uniformity and parade of the play-house and ballroom. Formalvisits were endured as mortifications and penances, by which thedelights of privacy and friendly intercourse were by contrast increased.Music she loved, but never sought it in places of public resort, or fromthe skill of mercenary performers; and books were not the least of herpleasures.
As to me, I was wax in her hand. Without design and without effort, Iwas always of that form she wished me to assume. My own happiness becamea secondary passion, and her gratification the great end of my being.When with her, I thought not of myself. I had scarcely a separate orindependent existence, since my senses were occupied by her, and my mindwas full of those ideas which her discourse communicated. To meditate onher looks and words, and to pursue the means suggested by my ownthoughts, or by her, conducive, in any way, to her good, was all mybusiness.
"What a fate," said I, at the conclusion of one of our interviews, "hasbeen yours! But, thank Heaven, the storm has disappeared before the ageof sensibility has gone past, and without drying up every source ofhappiness. You are still young; all your powers unimpaired; rich in thecompassion and esteem of the world; wholly independent of the claims andcaprices of others; amply supplied with that means of usefulness,called money; wise in that experience which only adversity can give.Past evils and sufferings, if incurred and endured without guilt, ifcalled to view without remorse, make up the materials of present joy.They cheer our most dreary hours with the widespread accents of 'welldone,' and they heighten our pleasures into somewhat of celestialbrilliancy, by furnishing a deep, a ruefully-deep, contrast.
"From this moment, I will cease to weep for you. I will call you thehappiest of women. I will share with you your happiness by witnessingit; but that shall not content me. I must some way contribute to it.Tell me how I shall serve you. What can I do to make you happier? Pooram I in every thing but zeal, but still I may do something. What--praytell me, what can I do?"
She looked at me with sweet and solemn significance. What it was exactlyI could not divine, yet I was strangely affected by it. It was but aglance, instantly withdrawn. She made me no answer.
"You must not be silent; you _must_ tell me what I can do for you.Hitherto I have done nothing. All the service is on your side. Yourconversation has been my study, a delightful study, but the profit hasonly been mine. Tell me how I can be grateful: my voice and manner, Ibelieve, seldom belie my feelings." At this time, I had almost done whata second thought made me suspect to be unauthorized. Yet I cannot tellwhy. My heart had nothing in it but reverence and admiration. Was shenot the substitute of my lost mamma? Would I not have clasped thatbeloved shade? Yet the two beings were not just the same, or I shouldnot, as now, have checked myself, and only pressed her hand to my lips.
"Tell me," repeated I, "what can I do to serve you? I read to you alittle now, and you are pleased with my reading. I copy for you when youwant the time. I guide the reins for you when you choose to ride. Humbleoffices, indeed, though, perhaps, all that a raw youth like me can dofor you; but I can be still more assiduous. I can read several hours inthe day, instead of one. I can write ten times as much as now.
"Are you not my lost mamma come back again? And yet, not _exactly_ her,I think. Something different; something better, I believe, if that bepossible. At any rate, methinks I would be wholly yours. I shall beimpatient and uneasy till every act, every thought, every minute,someway does you good.
"How!" said I, (her eye, still averted, seemed to hold back the tearwith difficulty, and she made a motion as if to rise,) "have I grievedyou? Have I been importunate? Forgive me if I have offended you."
Her eyes now overflowed without restraint. She articulated, withdifficulty, "Tears are too prompt with me of late; but they did notupbraid you. Pain has often caused them to flow, but nowit--is--_pleasure_."
"What a heart must yours be!" I resumed. "When susceptible of suchpleasures, what pangs must formerly have rent it!--But you are notdispleased, you say, with my importunate zeal. You will accept me asyour own in every thing. Direct me; prescribe to me. There must be_something_ in which I can be of still more use to you; some way inwhich I can be wholly yours----"
"_Wholly mine!_" she repeated, in a smothered voice, and rising. "Leaveme, Arthur. It is too late for you to be here. It was wrong to stay solate."
"I have been wrong; but how too late? I entered but this moment. It istwilight still; is it not?"
"No: it is almost twelve. You have been here a long four hours; shortones I would rather say,--but indeed you must go."
"What made me so thoughtless of the time? But I will go, yet not tillyou forgive me." I approached her with a confidence and for a purpose atwhich, upon reflection, I am not a little surprised; but the beingcalled Mervyn is not the same in her company and in that of another.What is the difference, and whence comes it? Her words and looks engrossme. My mind wants room for any other object. But why inquire whence thedifference? The superiority of her merits and attractions to all thosewhom I knew would surely account for my fervour. Indifference, if Ifelt it, would be the only just occasion of wonder.
The hour was, indeed, too late, and I hastened home. Stevens was waitingmy return with some anxiety. I apologized for my delay, and recounted tohim what had just passed. He listened with more than usual interest.When I had finished,--
"Mervyn," said he, "you seem not be aware of your present situation.From what you now tell me, and from what you have formerly told me, onething seems very plain to me."
"Pr'ythee, what is it?"
"Eliza Hadwin:--do you wish--could you bear--to see her the wife ofanother?"
"Five years hence I will answer you. Then my answer may be, 'No; I wishher only to be mine.' Till then, I wish
her only to be my pupil, myward, my sister."
"But these are remote considerations; they are bars to marriage, but notto love. Would it not molest and disquiet you to observe in her apassion for another?"
"It would, but only on her own account; not on mine. At a suitable ageit is very likely I may love her, because it is likely, if she holds onin her present career, she will then be worthy; but at present, though Iwould die to insure her happiness, I have no wish to insure it bymarriage with her."
"Is there no other whom you love?"
"No. There is one worthier than all others; one whom I wish the womanwho shall be my wife to resemble in all things."
"And who is this model?"
"You know I can only mean Achsa Fielding."
"If you love her likeness, why not love herself?"
I felt my heart leap.--"What a thought is that! Love her I _do_ as Ilove my God; as I love virtue. To love her in another sense would brandme for a lunatic."
"To love her as a woman, then, appears to you an act of folly."
"In me it would be worse than folly. 'Twould be frenzy."
"And why?"
"Why? Really, my friend, you astonish me. Nay, you startle me--for aquestion like that implies a doubt in you whether I have not actuallyharboured the thought."
"No," said he, smiling, "presumptuous though you be, you have not,to-be-sure, reached so high a pitch. But still, though I think youinnocent of so heinous an offence, there is no harm in asking why youmight not love her, and even seek her for a wife."
Achsa Fielding _my wife_! Good Heaven!--The very sound threw my soulinto unconquerable tumults. "Take care, my friend," continued I, inbeseeching accents, "you may do me more injury than you conceive, byeven starting such a thought."
"True," said he, "as long as such obstacles exist to your success; somany incurable objections: for instance, she is six years older thanyou."
"That is an advantage. Her age is what it ought to be."
"But she has been a wife and mother already."
"That is likewise an advantage. She has wisdom, because she hasexperience. Her sensibilities are stronger, because they have beenexercised and chastened. Her first marriage was unfortunate. The pureris the felicity she will taste in a second! If her second choice bepropitious, the greater her tenderness and gratitude."
"But she is a foreigner; independent of control, and rich."
"All which are blessings to herself, and to him for whom her hand isreserved; especially if, like me, he is indigent."
"But then she is unsightly as a _night-hag_, tawny as a Moor, the eye ofa gipsy, low in stature, contemptibly diminutive, scarcely bulk enoughto cast a shadow as she walks, less luxuriance than a charred log, fewerelasticities than a sheet pebble."
"Hush! hush! blasphemer!"--(and I put my hand before his mouth)--"have Inot told you that in mind, person, and condition, she is the type afterwhich my enamoured fancy has modelled my wife?"
"Oh ho! Then the objection does not lie with you. It lies with her, itseems. She can find nothing in you to esteem! And, pray, for what faultsdo you think she would reject you?"
"I cannot tell. That she can ever balance for a moment, on such aquestion, is incredible. _Me! me!_ That Achsa Fielding should think ofme!"
"Incredible, indeed! You, who are loathsome in your person, an idiot inyour understanding, a villain in your morals! deformed! withered! vain,stupid, and malignant. That such a one should choose _you_ for an idol!"
"Pray, my friend," said I, anxiously, "jest not. What mean you by a hintof this kind?"
"I will not jest, then, but will soberly inquire, what faults are theywhich make this lady's choice of you so incredible? You are younger thanshe, though no one, who merely observed your manners and heard you talk,would take you to be under thirty. You are poor: are these impediments?"
"I should think not. I have heard her reason with admirable eloquenceagainst the vain distinctions of property and nation and rank. They wereonce of moment in her eyes; but the sufferings, humiliations, andreflections of years have cured her of the folly. Her nation hassuffered too much by the inhuman antipathies of religious and politicalfaction; she, herself, has felt so often the contumelies of the rich,the high-born, and the bigoted, that----"
"Pr'ythee, then, what dost imagine her objections to be?"
"Why--I don't know. The thought was so aspiring; to call her _my wife_was a height of bliss the very far-off view of which made my headdizzy."
"A height, however, to attain which you suppose only her consent, herlove, to be necessary?"
"Without doubt, her love is indispensable."
"Sit down, Arthur, and let us no longer treat this matter lightly. Iclearly see the importance of this moment to this lady's happiness andyours. It is plain that you love this woman. How could you help it? Abrilliant skin is not hers; nor elegant proportions; nor majesticstature: yet no creature had ever more power to bewitch. Her mannershave grace and dignity that flow from exquisite feelings, delicatetaste, and the quickest and keenest penetration. She has the wisdom ofmen and of books. Her sympathies are enforced by reason, and hercharities regulated by knowledge. She has a woman's age, fortune morethan you wish, and a spotless fame. How could you fail to love her?
"_You_, who are her chosen friend, who partake her pleasures and shareher employments, on whom she almost exclusively bestows her society andconfidence, and to whom she thus affords the strongest of all indirectproofs of impassioned esteem,--how could you, with all that firmness oflove, joined with all that discernment of her excellence, how could youescape the enchantment?
"You have not thought of marriage. You have not suspected your love.From the purity of your mind, from the idolatry with which this womanhas inspired you, you have imagined no delight beyond that of enjoyingher society as you now do, and have never fostered a hope beyond thisprivilege.
"How quickly would this tranquillity vanish, and the true state of yourheart be evinced, if a rival should enter the scene and be entertainedwith preference! then would the seal be removed, the spell be broken,and you would awaken to terror and to anguish.
"Of this, however, there is no danger. Your passion is not felt by youalone. From her treatment of you, your diffidence disables you fromseeing, but nothing can be clearer to me than that she loves you."
I started on my feet. A flush of scorching heat flowed to every part ofmy frame. My temples began to throb like my heart. I was half delirious,and my delirium was strangely compounded of fear and hope, of delightand of terror.
"What have you done, my friend? You have overturned my peace of mind.Till now the image of this woman has been followed by complacency andsober rapture; but your words have dashed the scene with dismay andconfusion. You have raised up wishes, and dreams, and doubts, whichpossess me in spite of my reason, in spite of a thousand proofs.
"Good God! You say she loves,--loves _me_!--me, a boy in age; bred inclownish ignorance; scarcely ushered into the world; more thanchildishly unlearned and raw; a barn-door simpleton; a plough-tail,kitchen-hearth, turnip-hoeing novice! She, thus splendidly endowed; thusallied to nobles; thus gifted with arts, and adorned with graces; thatshe should choose me, me for the partner of her fortune; her affections;and her life! It cannot be. Yet, if it were; if your guessesshould--prove--Oaf! madman! To indulge so fatal a chimera! So rash adream!
"My friend! my friend! I feel that you have done me an irreparableinjury. I can never more look her in the face. I can never more frequenther society. These new thoughts will beset and torment me. My disquietwill chain up my tongue. That overflowing gratitude; that innocent joy,unconscious of offence, and knowing no restraint, which have hithertobeen my titles to her favour, will fly from my features and manners. Ishall be anxious, vacant, and unhappy in her presence. I shall dread tolook at her, or to open my lips, lest my mad and unhallowed ambitionshould betray itself."
"Well," replied Stevens, "this scene is quite new. I could almost findit in my heart to pity you. I did not expect t
his; and yet, from myknowledge of your character, I ought, perhaps, to have foreseen it. Thisis a necessary part of the drama. A joyous certainty, on theseoccasions, must always be preceded by suspenses and doubts, and theclose will be joyous in proportion as the preludes are excruciating. Goto bed, my good friend, and think of this. Time and a few moreinterviews with Mrs. Fielding will, I doubt not, set all to rights."
CHAPTER XLVIII.
I went to my chamber, but what different sensations did I carry into itfrom those with which I had left it a few hours before! I stretchedmyself on the mattress and put out the light; but the swarm of newimages that rushed on my mind set me again instantly in motion. All wasrapid, vague, and undefined, wearying and distracting my attention. Iwas roused as by a divine voice, that said, "Sleep no more! Mervyn shallsleep no more."
What chiefly occupied me was a nameless sort of terror. What shall Icompare it to? Methinks, that one falling from a tree overhanging atorrent, plunged into the whirling eddy, and gasping and strugglingwhile he sinks to rise no more, would feel just as I did then. Nay, somesuch image actually possessed me. Such was one of my reveries, in whichsuddenly I stretched my hand, and caught the arm of a chair. This actcalled me back to reason, or rather gave my soul opportunity to roaminto a new track equally wild.
Was it the abruptness of this vision that thus confounded me? was it alatent error in my moral constitution, which this new conjuncture drewforth into influence? These were all the tokens of a mind lost toitself; bewildered; unhinged; plunged into a drear insanity.
Nothing less could have prompted so fantastically; for, midnight as itwas, my chamber's solitude was not to be supported. After a few turnsacross the floor, I left the room, and the house. I walked withoutdesign and in a hurried pace. I posted straight to the house of Mrs.Fielding. I lifted the latch, but the door did not open. It was, nodoubt, locked.
"How comes this?" said I, and looked around me. The hour and occasionwere unthought of. Habituated to this path, I had taken itspontaneously. "How comes this?" repeated I. "Locked upon _me_! but Iwill summon them, I warrant me,"--and rung the bell, not timidly orslightly, but with violence. Some one hastened from above. I saw theglimmer of a candle through the keyhole.
"Strange," thought I; "a candle at noonday!"--The door was opened, andmy poor Bess, robed in a careless and hasty manner, appeared. Shestarted at sight of me, but merely because she did not, in a moment,recognise me.--"Ah! Arthur, is it you? Come in. My mamma has wanted youthese two hours. I was just going to despatch Philip to tell you tocome."
"Lead me to her," said I.
She led the way into the parlour.--"Wait a moment here; I will tell heryou are come;"--and she tripped away.
Presently a step was heard. The door opened again, and then entered aman. He was tall, elegant, sedate to a degree of sadness; something inhis dress and aspect that bespoke the foreigner, the Frenchman.
"What," said he, mildly, "is your business with my wife? She cannot seeyou instantly, and has sent me to receive your commands."
"Your _wife_! I want Mrs. Fielding."
"True; and Mrs. Fielding is my wife. Thank Heaven, I have come in timeto discover her, and claim her as such."
I started back. I shuddered. My joints slackened, and I stretched myhand to catch something by which I might be saved from sinking on thefloor. Meanwhile, Fielding changed his countenance into rage and fury.He called me villain! bade me avaunt! and drew a shining steel from hisbosom, with which he stabbed me to the heart. I sunk upon the floor, andall, for a time, was darkness and oblivion! At length, I returned as itwere to life. I opened my eyes. The mists disappeared, and I foundmyself stretched upon the bed in my own chamber. I remembered the fatalblow I had received. I put my hand upon my breast; the spot where thedagger entered. There were no traces of a wound. All was perfect andentire. Some miracle had made me whole.
I raised myself up. I re-examined my body. All around me was hushed,till a voice from the pavement below proclaimed that it was "past threeo'clock."
"What!" said I; "has all this miserable pageantry, this midnightwandering, and this ominous interview, been no more than--_a dream_?"
It may be proper to mention, in explanation of this scene, and to showthe thorough perturbation of my mind during this night, intelligencegained some days after from Eliza. She said, that about two o'clock, onthis night, she was roused by a violent ringing of the bell. She wasstartled by so unseasonable a summons. She slept in a chamber adjoiningMrs. Fielding's, and hesitated whether she should alarm her friend; but,the summons not being repeated, she had determined to forbear.
Added to this, was the report of Mrs. Stevens, who, on the same night,about half an hour after I and her husband had retired, imagined thatshe heard the street door opened and shut; but, this being followed byno other consequence, she supposed herself mistaken. I have little doubtthat, in my feverish and troubled sleep, I actually went forth, postedto the house of Mrs. Fielding, rung for admission, and shortly afterreturned to my own apartment.
This confusion of mind was somewhat allayed by the return of light. Itgave way to more uniform but not less rueful and despondent perceptions.The image of Achsa filled my fancy, but it was the harbinger of nothingbut humiliation and sorrow. To outroot the conviction of my ownunworthiness, to persuade myself that I was regarded with the tendernessthat Stevens had ascribed to her, that the discovery of my thoughtswould not excite her anger and grief, I felt to be impossible.
In this state of mind, I could not see her. To declare my feelings wouldproduce indignation and anguish; to hide them from her scrutiny was notin my power; yet, what would she think of my estranging myself from hersociety? What expedient could I honestly adopt to justify my absence,and what employments could I substitute for those precious hourshitherto devoted to her?
"_This_ afternoon," thought I, "she has been invited to spend atStedman's country-house on Schuylkill. She consented to go, and I was toaccompany her. I am fit only for solitude. My behaviour, in herpresence, will be enigmatical, capricious, and morose. I must not go:yet what will she think of my failure? Not to go will be injurious andsuspicious."
I was undetermined. The appointed hour arrived. I stood at mychamber-window, torn by a variety of purposes, and swayed alternately byrepugnant arguments. I several times went to the door of my apartment,and put my foot upon the first step of the staircase, but as oftenpaused, reconsidered, and returned to my room.
In these fluctuations the hour passed. No messenger arrived from Mrs.Fielding, inquiring into the cause of my delay. Was she offended at mynegligence? Was she sick and disabled from going, or had she changed hermind? I now remembered her parting words at our last interview. Werethey not susceptible of two constructions? She said my visit was toolong, and bade me begone. Did she suspect my presumption, and is shedetermined thus to punish me?
This terror added anew to all my former anxieties. It was impossible torest in this suspense. I would go to her; I would lay before her all theanguish of my heart; I would not spare myself. She shall not reproach memore severely than I will reproach myself. I will hear my sentence fromher own lips, and promise unlimited submission to the doom of separationand exile which she will pronounce.
I went forth to her house. The drawing-room and summer-house were empty.I summoned Philip the footman: his mistress was gone to Mr. Stedman's.
"How?--To Stedman's?--In whose company?"
"Miss Stedman and her brother called for her in the carriage, andpersuaded her to go with them."
Now my heart sunk, indeed! Miss Stedman's _brother_! A youth, forward,gallant, and gay! Flushed with prosperity, and just returned fromEurope, with all the confidence of age, and all the ornaments ofeducation! She has gone with him, though pre-engaged to me! Poor Arthur,how art thou despised!
This information only heightened my impatience. I went away, butreturned in the evening. I waited till eleven, but she came not back. Icannot justly paint the interval that passed till next morning. It wasvoid of sleep. On leav
ing her house, I wandered into the fields. Everymoment increased my impatience. "She will probably spend the morrow atStedman's," said I, "and possibly the next day. Why should I wait forher return? Why not seek her there, and rid myself at once of thisagonizing suspense? Why not go thither now? This night, wherever I spendit, will be unacquainted with repose. I will go; it is already neartwelve, and the distance is more than eight miles. I will hover near thehouse till morning, and then, as early as possible, demand aninterview."
I was well acquainted with Stedman's villa, having formerly been therewith Mrs. Fielding. I quickly entered its precincts. I went close to thehouse; looked mournfully at every window. At one of them a light was tobe seen, and I took various stations to discover, if possible, thepersons within. Methought once I caught a glimpse of a female, whom myfancy easily imagined to be Achsa. I sat down upon the lawn, somehundred feet from the house, and opposite the window whence the lightproceeded. I watched it, till at length some one came to the window,lifted it, and, leaning on her arms, continued to look out.
The preceding day had been a very sultry one: the night, as usual aftersuch a day and the fall of a violent shower, was delightfully serene andpleasant. Where I stood was enlightened by the moon. Whether she saw meor not, I could hardly tell, or whether she distinguished any thing buta human figure.
Without reflecting on what was due to decorum and punctilio, Iimmediately drew near the house. I quickly perceived that her attentionwas fixed. Neither of us spoke, till I had placed myself directly underher; I then opened my lips, without knowing in what manner to addressher. She spoke first, and in a startled and anxious voice:--
"Who is that?"
"Arthur Mervyn; he that was two days ago your friend."
"Mervyn! What is it that brings you here at this hour? What is thematter? What has happened? Is anybody sick?"
"All is safe; all are in good health."
"What then do you come hither for at such an hour?"
"I meant not to disturb you; I meant not to be seen."
"Good heavens! How you frighten me! What can be the reason of sostrange----"
"Be not alarmed. I meant to hover near the house till morning, that Imight see you as early as possible."
"For what purpose?"
"I will tell you when we meet, and let that be at five o'clock; the sunwill then be risen; in the cedar-grove under the bank; till when,farewell."
Having said this, I prevented all expostulation, by turning the angle ofthe house, and hastening towards the shore of the river. I roved aboutthe grove that I have mentioned. In one part of it is a rustic seat andtable, shrouded by trees and shrubs, and an intervening eminence, fromthe view of those in the house. This I designed to be the closing sceneof my destiny.
Presently I left this spot, and wandered upward through embarrassed andobscure paths, starting forward or checking my pace, according as mywayward meditations governed me. Shall I describe my thoughts?Impossible! It was certainly a temporary loss of reason; nothing lessthan madness could lead into such devious tracks, drag me down to sohopeless, helpless, panicful a depth, and drag me down so suddenly; laywaste, as at a signal, all my flourishing structures, and reduce them ina moment to a scene of confusion and horror.
What did I fear? What did I hope? What did I design? I cannot tell; myglooms were to retire with the night. The point to which everytumultuous feeling was linked was the coming interview with Achsa. Thatwas the boundary of fluctuation and suspense. Here was the sealing andratification of my doom.
I rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled upward till Ireached the edge of a considerable precipice; I laid me down at mylength upon the rock, whose cold and hard surface I pressed with mybared and throbbing breast. I leaned over the edge; fixed my eyes uponthe water and wept--plentifully; but why?
May _this_ be my heart's last beat, if I can tell why?
I had wandered so far from Stedman's, that, when roused by the light, Ihad some miles to walk before I could reach the place of meeting. Achsawas already there. I slid down the rock above, and appeared before her.Well might she be startled at my wild and abrupt appearance.
I placed myself, without uttering a word, upon a seat opposite to her,the table between, and, crossing my arms upon the table, leaned my headupon them, while my face was turned towards and my eyes fixed upon hers.I seemed to have lost the power and the inclination to speak.
She regarded me, at first, with anxious curiosity; after examining mylooks, every emotion was swallowed up in terrified sorrow. "For God'ssake!--what does all this mean? Why am I called to this place? Whattidings, what fearful tidings, do you bring?"
I did not change my posture or speak. "What," she resumed, "couldinspire all this woe? Keep me not in this suspense, Arthur; these looksand this silence shock and afflict me too much."
"Afflict you?" said I, at last; "I come to tell you what, now that I amhere, I cannot tell----" There I stopped.
"Say what, I entreat you. You seem to be very unhappy--such achange--from yesterday!"
"Yes! From yesterday; all then was a joyous calm, and now all is--butthen I knew not my infamy, my guilt----"
"What words are these, and from you, Arthur? Guilt is to you impossible.If purity is to be found on earth, it is lodged in your heart. What haveyou done?"
"I have dared--how little you expect the extent of my daring! That suchas I should look upwards with this ambition."
I stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat, looked earnestlyin her face:--"I come only to beseech your pardon. To tell you my crime,and then disappear forever; but first let me see if there be any omen offorgiveness. Your looks--they are kind; heavenly; compassionate still. Iwill trust them, I believe; and yet" (letting go her hands, and turningaway) "this offence is beyond the reach even of _your_ mercy."
"How beyond measure these words and this deportment distress me! Let meknow the worst; I cannot bear to be thus perplexed."
"Why," said I, turning quickly round and again taking her hands, "thatMervyn, whom you have honoured and confided in, and blessed with yoursweet regards, has been----"
"What has he been? Divinely amiable, heroic in his virtue, I am sure.What else has he been?"
"This Mervyn has imagined, has dared--will you forgive him?"
"Forgive you what? Why don't you speak? Keep not my soul in thissuspense."
"He has dared--But do not think that I am he. Continue to look as now,and reserve your killing glances, the vengeance of those eyes, as forone that is absent.----Why, what--you weep, then, at last. That is apropitious sign. When pity drops from the eyes of our judge, then shouldthe suppliant approach. Now, in confidence of pardon, I will tell you;this Mervyn, not content with all you have hitherto granted him, hasdared--to _love_ you; nay, to think of you as of _his wife_!"
Her eye sunk beneath mine, and, disengaging her hands, she covered herface with them.
"I see my fate," said I, in a tone of despair. "Too well did I predictthe effect of this confession; but I will go--_and unforgiven_."
She now partly uncovered her face. The hand was withdrawn from hercheek, and stretched towards me. She looked at me.
"Arthur! I _do_ forgive thee."--With what accents was this uttered! Withwhat looks! The cheek that was before pale with terror was now crimsonedover by a different emotion, and delight swam in her eye.
Could I mistake? My doubts, my new-born fears, made me tremble while Itook the offered hand.
"Surely," faltered I, "I am not--I cannot be--so blessed."
There was no need of words. The hand that I held was sufficientlyeloquent. She was still silent.
"Surely," said I, "my senses deceive me. A bliss like this cannot bereserved for me. Tell me once more--set my doubting heart at rest."
She now gave herself to my arms:--"I have not words--Let your own hearttell you, you have made your Achsa----"
At this moment, a voice from without (it was Miss Stedman's) called,"Mrs. Fielding! where are you?"
My fri
end started up, and, in a hasty voice, bade me begone. "You mustnot be seen by this giddy girl. Come hither this evening, as if by myappointment, and I will return with you."--She left me in a kind oftrance. I was immovable. My reverie was too delicious;--but let me notattempt the picture. If I can convey no image of my state previous tothis interview, my subsequent feelings are still more beyond the reachof my powers to describe.
Agreeably to the commands of my mistress, I hastened away, evading pathswhich might expose me to observation. I speedily made my friends partakeof my joy, and passed the day in a state of solemn but confused rapture.I did not accurately portray the various parts of my felicity. The wholerushed upon my soul at once. My conceptions were too rapid and toocomprehensive to be distinct.
I went to Stedman's in the evening. I found in the accents and looks ofmy Achsa new assurances that all which had lately passed was more than adream. She made excuses for leaving the Stedmans sooner than ordinary,and was accompanied to the city by her friend. We dropped Mrs. Fieldingat her own house, and thither, after accompanying Miss Stedman to herown home, I returned upon the wings of tremulous impatience.
Now could I repeat every word of every conversation that has since takenplace between us; but why should I do that on paper? Indeed, it couldnot be done. All is of equal value, and all could not be comprised butin many volumes. There needs nothing more deeply to imprint it on mymemory; and, while thus reviewing the past, I should be iniquitouslyneglecting the present. What is given to the pen would be taken fromher; and that, indeed, would be--but no need of saying what it would be,since it is impossible.
I merely write to allay these tumults which our necessary separationproduces; to aid me in calling up a little patience till the timearrives when our persons, like our minds, shall be united forever. Thattime--may nothing happen to prevent--but nothing can happen. But whythis ominous misgiving just now? My love has infected me with theseunworthy terrors, for she has them too.
This morning I was relating my dream to her. She started, and grew pale.A sad silence ensued the cheerfulness that had reigned before:--"Whythus dejected, my friend?"
"I hate your dream. It is a horrid thought. Would to God it had neveroccurred to you!"
"Why, surely, you place no confidence in dreams?"
"I know not where to place confidence; not in my present promises ofjoy,"--and she wept. I endeavoured to soothe or console her. Why, Iasked, did she weep?
"My heart is sore. Former disappointments were so heavy; the hopes whichwere blasted were so like my present ones, that the dread of a likeresult will intrude upon my thoughts. And now your dream! Indeed, I knownot what to do. I believe I ought still to retract--ought, at least, topostpone an act so irrevocable."
Now was I obliged again to go over my catalogue of arguments to induceher to confirm her propitious resolution to be mine within the week. I,at last, succeeded, even in restoring her serenity, and beguiling herfears by dwelling on our future happiness.
Our household, while we stayed in America,--in a year or two we hie toEurope,--should be _thus_ composed. Fidelity, and skill, and puremorals, should be sought out, and enticed, by generous recompenses, intoour domestic service. Duties which should be light and regular.--Suchand such should be our amusements and employments abroad and at home:and would not this be true happiness?
"Oh yes--if it may be so."
"It shall be so; but this is but the humble outline of the scene;something is still to be added to complete our felicity."
"What more can be added?"
"What more? Can Achsa ask what more? She who has not been _only_ awife----"
But why am I indulging this pen-prattle? The hour she fixed for myreturn to her is come, and now take thyself away, quill. Lie there, snugin thy leathern case, till I call for thee, and that will not be verysoon. I believe I will abjure thy company till all is settled with mylove. Yes; I _will_ abjure thee; so let _this_ be thy last office, tillMervyn has been made the happiest of men.
THE END.
Arthur Mervyn; Or, Memoirs of the Year 1793 Page 47