SUSPENSE AND AGONY.
At the risk of seeming monotonous, we must repeat the reflection made
in our last chapter, that the things we are about to lose for ever seem
always more valuable in the moment of their loss. They acquire a newer
interest in our eyes at such a time, possibly under the direction of
some governing instinct which is intended to render us tenacious of
life to the very last. Privation teaches us much more effectually than
possession the value of all human enjoyments; and the moralist has more
than once drawn his sweetest portraits of liberty from the gloom and the
denials of a dungeon. How eloquent of freedom is he who yearns for it in
vain! How glowing is that passion which laments the lost!
To one dying, as we suppose few die, in the perfect possession of
their senses, how beautiful must seem the fading hues of the sunlight,
flickering along the walls of a chamber! how heavenly the brief glimpses
of the blue sky through the half-opened window! how charming the green
bit of foliage that swings against the pane! how cheering and unwontedly
sweet and balmy the soft, sudden gust of the sweet south, breathing up
from the flowers, and stirring the loose drapery around the couch! How
can we part with these without tears? how reflect, without horror, upon
the close coffin, the damp clod, the deep hollows of the earth in which
we are to be cabined? Oh, with what earnestness, at such a moment, must
the wholly conscious spirit pray for life! now greedily will he drink
the nauseous draught in the hope to secure its boon! how fondly will he
seize upon every chimera, whether of his own or of another's fancy, in
order to gain a little respite--in order still to keep within the grasp
of mind and sight, these lovely agents of earth and its Master, which,
in our day of strength and exultation, we do not value at one half
their worth! And how full of dread and horror must be that first awful
conviction which assures him that the struggle is in vain--that the last
remedy is tried--that nothing is left him now but despair--despair and
death! Then it is that Christianity comes to his relief. If he believes,
he gains by his loss. Its godlike promise assures him then that the
things which his desires make dear, his faith has rendered immortal.
The truth of many of these reflections made their way into the mind of
Margaret Cooper, as she pursued the well-known path along the hills. She
observed the objects along the route more narrowly than ever. She was
taking that path for the last time. Her eyes would behold these objects
no more. How often had she pursued the same route with Alfred Stevens!
But then she had not seen these things; she had not observed these
thousand graces and beauties of form and shadow which now seemed to
crowd around, challenging her regard and demanding her sympathies.
Then she had seen nothing but him. The bitterness which this reflection
occasioned made her hurry her footsteps; but there was an involuntary
shudder that passed through her frame, when, in noting the strange
beauty of the path, she reflected that it would be trodden by her for
the last time. Her breathing became quickened by the reflection. She
pressed forward up the hills. The forests grew thick around her--deep,
dim, solemn, and inviting. The skies above looked down in little blessed
blue tufts, through the crowding tree-tops. The long vista of the woods
led her onward in wandering thoughts.
To fix these thoughts--to keep them from wandering! This was a
difficulty. Margaret Cooper strove to do so, but she could not.
Never did her mind seem such a perfect chaos--so full of confused and
confusing objects and images. Her whole life seemed to pass in review
before her. All her dreams of ambition, all the struggles of her genius!
Were these to be thrown away? Were these all to be wasted? Was her song
to be unheard? Was her passionate and proud soul to have no voice?
If death is terrible to man, it is terrible, not as a pang, but as an
oblivion; and to the soul of genius, oblivion is a soul-death, and its
thought is a source of tenfold terror.
“But of what avail were life to me now? Even should I live,” said the
wretched woman, “would it matter more to the ambition which I have had,
and to the soul which flames and fevers within me? Who would hearken to
the song of the degraded? Who, that heard the story of my shame, would
listen to the strains of my genius? Say that its utterance is even as
proud as my own vanity of heart would esteem it--say that no plaint like
mine had ever touched the ear or lifted the heart of humanity! Alas! of
what avail! The finger of scorn would be uplifted long before the voice
of applause. The sneer and sarcasm of the worldling would anticipate the
favoring judgment of the indulgent and the wise. Who would do justice to
my cause? Who listen? Alas! the voice of genius would be of little avail
speaking from the lips of the dishonored.
“To the talent which I have, and the ambition which still burns within
me, life then can bring nothing--no exercise--no fruition. Suppose,
then, that the talent is left to slumber--the ambition stifled till it
has no further longings! Will life yield anything to the mere creature
of society--to my youth--to my beauty--to my sense of delight--if still
there be any such sense left to me? Shall I be less the creature
of social scorn, because I have yielded my ambition--because I have
forborne the employment of those glorious gifts which Heaven in its
bounty has allotted me?
“Alas! no! am I not a woman, one of that frail, feeble sex, whose name
is weakness?--of whom, having no strength, man yet expects the proofs of
the most unyielding--of a firmness which he himself can not exercise--of
a power of self-denial and endurance of which he exhibits no example. If
I weep, he smiles at my weakness. If I stifle my tears, he denounces
my unnatural hardihood. If I am cold and unyielding, I am masculine and
neglected--if I am gentle and pliant, my confidence is abused and my
person dishonored. What can society, which is thus exacting, accord
to me, then, as a mere woman? What shame will it not thrust upon me--a
woman--and as I am?
“Life then promises me nothing. The talent which I have, lies within me
idle and without hope of use. The pure name of the woman is lost to me
for ever. Shame dogs my footsteps. Scorn points its finger. Life, and
all that it brings to others--love, friends, fame, fortune--which are
the soul of life--these are lost to me for ever. The moral death is here
already. The mere act of dying, is simply the end of a strife, and a
breathing and an agony. That is all!”
The day became overcast. A cloud obscured the sunlight. The blue tufts
of sky no longer looked downward through the openings of the trees.
The scene, dim and silent before, became unusually dark. The aspect
of nature seemed congenial with the meditated deed. She had reasoned
herself into its commission, and she reproached herself mentally with
her delay. Any self-suggestion of an infirmity of purpose, with a nature
such as hers, would have produced precipitation. She turned down a
slight gorge among the hills where the forest was more close. She knelt
beneath a tree and laid down her pistol at its foot.
She knelt--strange contradiction!--she knelt for the purposes of prayer.
But she could not pray. It would seem that she attributed this effort to
the sight of the pistols, and she put them behind her without changing
her position. The prayer, if she made any, was internal; and, at all
events it did not seem to be satisfactory. Yet, before it was ended, she
started with an expression of painful thought upon her face. The voice
of her reason had ceased its utterance. The voice of her conscience,
perhaps, had been unheard; but there was yet another voice to be heard
which was more potent than all.
It was the mother's voice!
She placed her hand upon her side with a spasmodic effort. The
quickening of a new life within her, made that new voice effectual. She
threw herself on the ground and wept freely. For the first time she wept
freely. The tears were those of the mother. The true fountain of tears
had been touched. That first throb of the innocent pledge of guilty
passion subdued the fiend. She could have taken her own life, but dared
not lift the deadly weapon against that. The arm of the suicide--was
arrested. She groaned, she wept, bitterly and freely. She was at once
feebler and more strong. Feebler, as regarded her late resolution;
stronger as regarded the force of her affections, the sweet humanities,
not altogether subdued within her heart. The slight pulsation of that
infant in her womb had been more effectual than the voice of reason,
or conscience, or feminine dread. The maternal feeling is, perhaps, the
most imperious of all those which gather in the heart of woman.
Margaret Cooper, however, had not altogether resolved against the deed.
She only could not do it there and then. Her wretched determination
was not wholly surrendered, but it was touched, enfeebled; and with
the increasing powers of reflection, the impetuosity of the will became
naturally lessened. Those few glimpses along the roadside which had made
her sensible to the beauties she was about to lose, had prepared her
mind to act in counteraction of her impulse; and the event which had
brought into play the maternal instinct, naturally helped the cause of
reason in her soul.
Still, with the erring pride of youth she reproached herself with her
infirmity of purpose. She resolved to change her ground, as if the
instinct which had been awakened in one spot would not everywhere pursue
her. Time was gained, and in such cases, to gain time is everything.
Perhaps no suicide would ever take place if the individual would wait
ten minutes. The soul takes its color from the cloud, and changes its
moods as often. It is one of the best lessons to the young, to wait!
wait! wait! One of the surest signs of strength is where the individual
waits patiently and makes no complaint.
Margaret Cooper changed her ground. The spot was a wild one. A broken
ledge of rock was at her feet, and just below it ran a dark, narrow
winding footpath half-obscured by the undergrowth. Here she once more
proceeded to nerve her mind for the commission of the deed, but she had
not been there an instant when she was surprised to hear the sound of
voices.
This was unusual. Who could they be? The villagers were not apt to stray
from church-service whenever a preacher was to be found, and there was a
new one, and consequently a new attraction, that day, for the spiritual
hungry of Charlemont. The path below was seldom trodden except by
herself and an occasional sportsman. The idea that entered her mind was,
that her purpose had been suspected, and that she was pursued.
With this idea, she placed the pistol to her breast. She had already
cocked the weapon. Her finger was on the trigger. But the tones
of another voice reached her ears from below. They were those of a
woman--sweet, musical, and tender.
A new light broke in upon her mind. This was the language of love. And
who were these new lovers in Charlemont? Could it be that the voice of
the male speaker was that of Stevens? Something in the tone sounded like
it, Involuntarily, with this impression, the weapon was turned from her
own bosom, and addressed in the direction in which the persons below
were approaching. A sudden, joyous feeling touched her soul. The thought
to destroy the criminal by whom she had been destroyed was a source
of exultation. She felt that she could do it. Both pistols were in
her hand. The pathway was not more than twenty paces distant; and her
nerves, for the first time, braced to an unusual tension, trembled with
the new excitement in her soul.
The intruders continued to approach. Their voices became more distinct,
and Margaret Cooper was soon undeceived as to one of them being that
of Alfred Stevens. She was compelled to lie close, that she might not
betray her position and purpose. The male speaker was very urgent; the
voice seemed that of a stranger. That of the female was not so clearly
distinguishable, yet it seemed more familiar to the unintentional
listener.
Something of feminine curiosity now entered the bosom of Margaret
Cooper. Crouching where she was, she deposited the pistols at her
feet. She remained breathlessly, for the slightest movement would have
revealed her to the persons who were now just below. They passed close
beneath the place of her concealment, and she soon discovered that they
were lovers; and what their language was, even if she had not heard it,
might have been conjectured.
The girl was a very pretty brunette of Charlemont--a sweet, retiring
damsel of her own age, named Rivers--whom she knew only slightly. She
was a shy, gentle, unpresuming girl, whom, for this reason, perhaps,
Margaret had learned to look upon without dislike or scorn. Her
companion was a youth whom Margaret had known when a lad, but who had
been absent on the Mississippi for two years. His tall and masculine
but well-made and graceful person sufficiently accounted for, while it
justified, the taste of the maiden. He was a youth of fine, frank, manly
countenance. His garb was picturesque, that of a bold border-hunter,
with hunting-frock of yellow buckskin, and Indian leggings.
The girl looked up to him with an expression at once of eagerness and
timidity. Confidence and maiden bashfulness spoke equally in the delight
which glowed upon her features. The bright eyes and sun-burned features
of the youth were flushed with the feeling of happy triumph and assuring
love. The relation of the two was sufficiently evident from their looks,
even had they no other language.
What were the emotions of Margaret Cooper as she looked down upon this
pair? At first she thought, as will most persons: “Surely there is
nothing in nature so lovely as the union of two--fond, devoted hearts.
The picture is one equally of moral and physical beauty. The slight,
fragile, depending damsel, hanging in perfect confidence on the arm of
the manly, lofty, and exulting youth--looking up into his eyes in hope,
while he returns the gaze with pride and fondness! Unconscious of all
things but the love which to them is life and all things besides, they
move along the forest way and know not its solitude; they linger and
loiter along its protracted paths, and see not their length; they cling
together through the lengthened hours, and fancy they have lost no time;
they hear each other's voices, and believe that life is all music and
delight.”
While Margaret Cooper looked down and heard the pleadings and promises
of the youth, and beheld the sweet emotions of his companion, engaged
in a pleasant struggle between her hopes and misgivings, she scarcely
restrained herself from rising where she was and crying aloud--like
another Cassandra, not to be believed: “Beware! beware!”
But the warning of Margaret Cooper would have been unnecessary. The girl
was not only free from danger, but she was superior to it. She had
the wholesome fear of doing wrong too strongly impressed upon her
by education--she had too little confidence in herself--was too well
assured of her own weakness--to suffer herself, even for a moment,
to depart, in either thought or deed, from those quiet but stern
proprieties of conduct which are among the best securities of the young.
While she looked in her lover's face with confidence, and held his arm
with the grasp of one who is sure of a right to do so, there was an air
of childish simplicity in her manner which was wholly at variance with
wild passions and improper fancies. While the hunter maintained her on
his arm, and looked down into her eyes with love, his glance was yet as
respectful, as unexpressive of presumption, as her own. Had the eyes of
all Charlemont been looking on, they would have beheld nothing in the
conduct of either which could have incurred the censure of the most
becoming delicacy.
Keen was the emotion and bitter was the thought which worked in the mind
of Margaret Cooper. She looked on the deportment of that young maiden,
whose intellect at another day she would have despised, with envy and
regret. Truer thoughts and feelings came to her as she listened to the
innocent but fond dialogue between the unconscious pair. The hunter was
pursuing an erratic life of enterprise and industry, then very common
among the western youth. He had been down upon the Mississippi, seeking
his fortune in such adventures as make border-life in our country
something like the more civilized life of the middle ages. He had
returned after a long absence, to claim the bride whose affections he
had won long before he had departed.
Never had knight-errant been more true to his mistress. Her image had
been his talisman as well against danger from without, as against the
demon within. It had never left his mind, and he now returned for his
reward. He had returned to Charlemont just before the church service had
begun, and, being unprepared to go thither, had found no difficulty
in persuading his sweetheart to give the hour of morning service to
himself.
Mixed up with his professions of love was the story of his wanderings.
Never were adventures more interesting to any auditor. Never was auditor
more easily moved by the transitions of the tale from tears to smiles,
and from smiles again to tears. His risks and rewards; his defeats
and successes; his wild adventures by fell and flood--not perhaps so
perilous as those of Othello, but such as proved he had the soul to
encounter the worst in Othello's experience, and maintain himself as
well--drew largely on the maiden's wonder and delight, increased her
tenderness and tremors, and made her quite as devoted to her hero as
ever was Desdemona to her dusky chief. As they went from hearing below,
the manner in which the hunter concluded his narrative provided a
sufficient test for the faith of his companion.
“And now, Selina, you see all the risks and the dangers. There's
work and perhaps trouble for you to go down with me along the Choctaw
borders. But if there's work, I am the man to do my own share, and help
you out in yours; and, if there's trouble, here's the breast to stand it
first, and here's the arm to drive it back, so that it'll never trouble
yours. No danger shall come to you, so long as I can stand up between it
and you. If so be that you love me as you say, there's one way to show
it: you'll soon make up your mind to go with me. If you don't, why--”
“But you know I do love you, John--” murmured the girl.
“Don't I believe it? Well, if what you say means what it should, you're
ready. Here's my hand, and all that it's good for. It can work for you
and fight for you, Selina, and it's yours etarnally, with all that I
have.”
The hand of the girl was silently put into that of the speaker. The
tears were in her eyes; but, if she made any other answer, it was
unheard by Margaret Cooper. The rustic pair moved from sight even as
they spoke, and the desolate woman once more remained alone!