I went to my chamber, but what different sensations did I carry into it
from those with which I had left it a few hours before! I stretched
myself on the mattress and put out the light; but the swarm of new
images that rushed on my mind set me again instantly in motion. All was
rapid, vague, and undefined, wearying and distracting my attention. I
was roused as by a divine voice, that said, "Sleep no more! Mervyn shall
sleep no more."
What chiefly occupied me was a nameless sort of terror. What shall I
compare it to? Methinks, that one falling from a tree overhanging a
torrent, plunged into the whirling eddy, and gasping and struggling
while he sinks to rise no more, would feel just as I did then. Nay, some
such image actually possessed me. Such was one of my reveries, in which
suddenly I stretched my hand, and caught the arm of a chair. This act
called me back to reason, or rather gave my soul opportunity to roam
into a new track equally wild.
Was it the abruptness of this vision that thus confounded me? was it a
latent error in my moral constitution, which this new conjuncture drew
forth into influence? These were all the tokens of a mind lost to
itself; bewildered; unhinged; plunged into a drear insanity.
Nothing less could have prompted so fantastically; for, midnight as it
was, my chamber's solitude was not to be supported. After a few turns
across the floor, I left the room, and the house. I walked without
design 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, no
doubt, locked.
"How comes this?" said I, and looked around me. The hour and occasion
were unthought of. Habituated to this path, I had taken it
spontaneously. "How comes this?" repeated I. "Locked upon _me_! but I
will summon them, I warrant me,"--and rung the bell, not timidly or
slightly, but with violence. Some one hastened from above. I saw the
glimmer of a candle through the keyhole.
"Strange," thought I; "a candle at noonday!"--The door was opened, and
my poor Bess, robed in a careless and hasty manner, appeared. She
started 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 you
these two hours. I was just going to despatch Philip to tell you to
come."
"Lead me to her," said I.
She led the way into the parlour.--"Wait a moment here; I will tell her
you are come;"--and she tripped away.
Presently a step was heard. The door opened again, and then entered a
man. He was tall, elegant, sedate to a degree of sadness; something in
his dress and aspect that bespoke the foreigner, the Frenchman.
"What," said he, mildly, "is your business with my wife? She cannot see
you 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 time
to discover her, and claim her as such."
I started back. I shuddered. My joints slackened, and I stretched my
hand to catch something by which I might be saved from sinking on the
floor. Meanwhile, Fielding changed his countenance into rage and fury.
He called me villain! bade me avaunt! and drew a shining steel from his
bosom, with which he stabbed me to the heart. I sunk upon the floor, and
all, for a time, was darkness and oblivion! At length, I returned as it
were to life. I opened my eyes. The mists disappeared, and I found
myself stretched upon the bed in my own chamber. I remembered the fatal
blow I had received. I put my hand upon my breast; the spot where the
dagger entered. There were no traces of a wound. All was perfect and
entire. 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 three
o'clock."
"What!" said I; "has all this miserable pageantry, this midnight
wandering, and this ominous interview, been no more than--_a dream_?"
It may be proper to mention, in explanation of this scene, and to show
the thorough perturbation of my mind during this night, intelligence
gained some days after from Eliza. She said, that about two o'clock, on
this night, she was roused by a violent ringing of the bell. She was
startled by so unseasonable a summons. She slept in a chamber adjoining
Mrs. 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 that
she heard the street door opened and shut; but, this being followed by
no other consequence, she supposed herself mistaken. I have little doubt
that, in my feverish and troubled sleep, I actually went forth, posted
to the house of Mrs. Fielding, rung for admission, and shortly after
returned to my own apartment.
This confusion of mind was somewhat allayed by the return of light. It
gave way to more uniform but not less rueful and despondent perceptions.
The image of Achsa filled my fancy, but it was the harbinger of nothing
but humiliation and sorrow. To outroot the conviction of my own
unworthiness, to persuade myself that I was regarded with the tenderness
that Stevens had ascribed to her, that the discovery of my thoughts
would 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 would
produce indignation and anguish; to hide them from her scrutiny was not
in my power; yet, what would she think of my estranging myself from her
society? What expedient could I honestly adopt to justify my absence,
and what employments could I substitute for those precious hours
hitherto devoted to her?
"_This_ afternoon," thought I, "she has been invited to spend at
Stedman's country-house on Schuylkill. She consented to go, and I was to
accompany her. I am fit only for solitude. My behaviour, in her
presence, will be enigmatical, capricious, and morose. I must not go:
yet what will she think of my failure? Not to go will be injurious and
suspicious."
I was undetermined. The appointed hour arrived. I stood at my
chamber-window, torn by a variety of purposes, and swayed alternately by
repugnant arguments. I several times went to the door of my apartment,
and put my foot upon the first step of the staircase, but as often
paused, 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 my
negligence? Was she sick and disabled from going, or had she changed her
mind? I now remembered her parting words at our last interview. Were
they not susceptible of two constructions? She said my visit was too
long, and bade me begone. Did she suspect my presumption, and is she
determined thus to punish me?
This terror added anew to all my former anxieties. It was impossible to
rest in this suspense. I would go to her; I would lay before her all the
anguish of my heart; I would not spare myself. She shall not reproach me
more severely than I will reproach myself. I will hear my sentence from
her own lips, and promise unlimited submission to the doom of separation
and 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, and
persuaded 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 from
Europe, with all the confidence of age, and all the ornaments of
education! 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, but
returned in the evening. I waited till eleven, but she came not back. I
cannot justly paint the interval that passed till next morning. It was
void of sleep. On leaving her house, I wandered into the fields. Every
moment increased my impatience. "She will probably spend the morrow at
Stedman's," said I, "and possibly the next day. Why should I wait for
her return? Why not seek her there, and rid myself at once of this
agonizing suspense? Why not go thither now? This night, wherever I spend
it, will be unacquainted with repose. I will go; it is already near
twelve, and the distance is more than eight miles. I will hover near the
house till morning, and then, as early as possible, demand an
interview."
I was well acquainted with Stedman's villa, having formerly been there
with Mrs. Fielding. I quickly entered its precincts. I went close to the
house; looked mournfully at every window. At one of them a light was to
be seen, and I took various stations to discover, if possible, the
persons within. Methought once I caught a glimpse of a female, whom my
fancy easily imagined to be Achsa. I sat down upon the lawn, some
hundred feet from the house, and opposite the window whence the light
proceeded. 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 after
such a day and the fall of a violent shower, was delightfully serene and
pleasant. Where I stood was enlightened by the moon. Whether she saw me
or not, I could hardly tell, or whether she distinguished any thing but
a human figure.
Without reflecting on what was due to decorum and punctilio, I
immediately drew near the house. I quickly perceived that her attention
was fixed. Neither of us spoke, till I had placed myself directly under
her; I then opened my lips, without knowing in what manner to address
her. 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 the
matter? 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 so
strange----"
"Be not alarmed. I meant to hover near the house till morning, that I
might 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 sun
will then be risen; in the cedar-grove under the bank; till when,
farewell."
Having said this, I prevented all expostulation, by turning the angle of
the house, and hastening towards the shore of the river. I roved about
the grove that I have mentioned. In one part of it is a rustic seat and
table, shrouded by trees and shrubs, and an intervening eminence, from
the view of those in the house. This I designed to be the closing scene
of my destiny.
Presently I left this spot, and wandered upward through embarrassed and
obscure paths, starting forward or checking my pace, according as my
wayward meditations governed me. Shall I describe my thoughts?
Impossible! It was certainly a temporary loss of reason; nothing less
than madness could lead into such devious tracks, drag me down to so
hopeless, helpless, panicful a depth, and drag me down so suddenly; lay
waste, as at a signal, all my flourishing structures, and reduce them in
a moment to a scene of confusion and horror.
What did I fear? What did I hope? What did I design? I cannot tell; my
glooms were to retire with the night. The point to which every
tumultuous feeling was linked was the coming interview with Achsa. That
was the boundary of fluctuation and suspense. Here was the sealing and
ratification of my doom.
I rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled upward till I
reached the edge of a considerable precipice; I laid me down at my
length upon the rock, whose cold and hard surface I pressed with my
bared and throbbing breast. I leaned over the edge; fixed my eyes upon
the 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, I
had some miles to walk before I could reach the place of meeting. Achsa
was 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 head
upon 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 my
looks, every emotion was swallowed up in terrified sorrow. "For God's
sake!--what does all this mean? Why am I called to this place? What
tidings, what fearful tidings, do you bring?"
I did not change my posture or speak. "What," she resumed, "could
inspire all this woe? Keep me not in this suspense, Arthur; these looks
and this silence shock and afflict me too much."
"Afflict you?" said I, at last; "I come to tell you what, now that I am
here, I cannot tell----" There I stopped.
"Say what, I entreat you. You seem to be very unhappy--such a
change--from yesterday!"
"Yes! From yesterday; all then was a joyous calm, and now all is--but
then 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 have
you done?"
"I have dared--how little you expect the extent of my daring! That such
as I should look upwards with this ambition."
I stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat, looked earnestly
in 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 of
forgiveness. Your looks--they are kind; heavenly; compassionate still. I
will trust them, I believe; and yet" (letting go her hands, and turning
away) "this offence is beyond the reach even of _your_ mercy."
"How beyond measure these words and this deportment distress me! Let me
know the worst; I cannot bear to be thus perplexed."
"Why," said I, turning quickly round and again taking her hands, "that
Mervyn, whom you have honoured and confided in, and blessed with your
sweet 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 this
suspense."
"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 for
one that is absent.----Why, what--you weep, then, at last. That is a
propitious sign. When pity drops from the eyes of our judge, then should
the suppliant approach. Now, in confidence of pardon, I will tell you;
this Mervyn, not content with all you have hitherto granted him, has
dared--to _love_ you; nay, to think of you as of _his wife_!"
Her eye sunk beneath mine, and, disengaging her hands, she covered her
face with them.
"I see my fate," said I, in a tone of despair. "Too well did I predict
the effect of this confession; but I will go--_and unforgiven_."
She now partly uncovered her face. The hand was withdrawn from her
cheek, and stretched towards me. She looked at me.
"Arthur! I _do_ forgive thee."--With what accents was this uttered! With
what looks! The cheek that was before pale with terror was now crimsoned
over by a different emotion, and delight swam in her eye.
Could I mistake? My doubts, my new-born fears, made me tremble while I
took 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 sufficiently
eloquent. She was still silent.
"Surely," said I, "my senses deceive me. A bliss like this cannot be
reserved 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 heart
tell 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 friend started up, and, in a hasty voice, bade me begone. "You must
not be seen by this giddy girl. Come hither this evening, as if by my
appointment, and I will return with you."--She left me in a kind of
trance. I was immovable. My reverie was too delicious;--but let me not
attempt the picture. If I can convey no image of my state previous to
this interview, my subsequent feelings are still more beyond the reach
of my powers to describe.
Agreeably to the commands of my mistress, I hastened away, evading paths
which might expose me to observation. I speedily made my friends partake
of 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 whole
rushed upon my soul at once. My conceptions were too rapid and too
comprehensive to be distinct.
I went to Stedman's in the evening. I found in the accents and looks of
my Achsa new assurances that all which had lately passed was more than a
dream. She made excuses for leaving the Stedmans sooner than ordinary,
and was accompanied to the city by her friend. We dropped Mrs. Fielding
at her own house, and thither, after accompanying Miss Stedman to her
own home, I returned upon the wings of tremulous impatience.
Now could I repeat every word of every conversation that has since taken
place between us; but why should I do that on paper? Indeed, it could
not be done. All is of equal value, and all could not be comprised but
in many volumes. There needs nothing more deeply to imprint it on my
memory; and, while thus reviewing the past, I should be iniquitously
neglecting the present. What is given to the pen would be taken from
her; 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 separation
produces; to aid me in calling up a little patience till the time
arrives when our persons, like our minds, shall be united forever. That
time--may nothing happen to prevent--but nothing can happen. But why
this ominous misgiving just now? My love has infected me with these
unworthy 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:--"Why
thus dejected, my friend?"
"I hate your dream. It is a horrid thought. Would to God it had never
occurred to you!"
"Why, surely, you place no confidence in dreams?"
"I know not where to place confidence; not in my present promises of
joy,"--and she wept. I endeavoured to soothe or console her. Why, I
asked, did she weep?
"My heart is sore. Former disappointments were so heavy; the hopes which
were blasted were so like my present ones, that the dread of a like
result will intrude upon my thoughts. And now your dream! Indeed, I know
not what to do. I believe I ought still to retract--ought, at least, to
postpone an act so irrevocable."
Now was I obliged again to go over my catalogue of arguments to induce
her to confirm her propitious resolution to be mine within the week. I,
at last, succeeded, even in restoring her serenity, and beguiling her
fears by dwelling on our future happiness.
Our household, while we stayed in America,--in a year or two we hie to
Europe,--should be _thus_ composed. Fidelity, and skill, and pure
morals, should be sought out, and enticed, by generous recompenses, into
our domestic service. Duties which should be light and regular.--Such
and 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_ a
wife----"
But why am I indulging this pen-prattle? The hour she fixed for my
return to her is come, and now take thyself away, quill. Lie there, snug
in thy leathern case, till I call for thee, and that will not be very
soon. I believe I will abjure thy company till all is settled with my
love. Yes; I _will_ abjure thee; so let _this_ be thy last office, till
Mervyn has been made the happiest of men.
THE END.