When they met at breakfast, Henry was more than ever struck and
afflicted by the alteration in his brother's person and manner. All
traces of the last night's excitement had disappeared with the cause,
and pale, haggard and embarrassed, he seemed but the shadow of his
former self, while the melancholy of his countenance had in it something
wild and even fierce. As at their first meeting, his language was dry
and reserved, and he seemed rather impatient of conversation, as though
it interfered with the indulgence of some secret and all absorbing
reflection, while, to Henry's affectionate questioning of his adventures
since they first parted, he replied in the vague unsatisfactory manner
of one who seeks to shun the subject altogether. At another moment, this
apparent prostration of the physical man might have been ascribed to his
long immersion of the preceding day, and the efforts that were necessary
to rescue him from a watery grave; but, from the account Sambo had given
him, Henry had but too much reason to fear that the disease of body and
mind which had so completely encompassed his unfortunate brother, not
only had its being in a different cause, but might be dated from an
earlier period. Although burning with desire to share that confidence
which it grieved him to the soul to find thus unkindly withheld, he made
no effort to remove the cloak of reserve in which his brother had
invested himself. That day they both dined at the garrison mess, and
Henry saw with additional pain, that the warm felicitations of his
brother officers on his return, were received by Gerald with the same
reserve and indifference which had characterized his meeting with him,
while he evinced the same disinclination to enter upon the solicited
history of his captivity, as well as the causes which led to his bold
venture, and consequent narrow escape, of the preceding day. Finding him
thus incommunicative, and not comprehending the change in his manner,
they rallied him; and, as the bottle circulated, he seemed more and more
disposed to meet their raillery with a cheerfulness and good humor that
brought even the color into his sunken cheeks; but when, finally, some
of them proceeded to ask him, in their taunting manner, what he had done
with his old flame and fascinating prisoner, Miss Montgomerie, a deadly
paleness overspread his countenance, and he lost in the moment all power
of disguising his feelings. His emotion was too sudden and too palpable,
not to be observed by those who had unwillingly called it forth, and
they at once, with considerate tact, changed the conversation. Hereupon
Gerald again made an effort to rally, but no one returned to the
subject. Piqued at this conduct, he had more frequent recourse to the
bottle, and laughed and talked in a manner that proved him to be
laboring under the influence of extraordinary excitement. When he took
leave of his brother to retire to rest, he was silent, peevish,
dissatisfied--almost angry.
Henry passed a night of extreme disquiet. It was evident from what had
occurred at the mess-table in relation to the beautiful American, that
to her was to be ascribed the wretchedness to which Gerald had become a
victim, and he resolved on the following morning to waive all false
delicacy, and throwing himself upon his affection, to solicit his
confidence, and offer whatever counsel he conceived would best tend to
promote his peace of mind.
At breakfast the conversation turned on the intended movement, which was
to take place within three days, and on this subject Gerald evinced a
vivacity that warmed into eagerness. He had risen early that morning,
with a view to obtain the permission of the commodore to make one of the
detachment of sailors who were to accompany the expedition, and, having
succeeded in obtaining the command of one of the two gun-boats which
were destined to ascend the Miami, and form part of the battering force,
seemed highly pleased. This apparent return to himself might have led
his brother into the belief that his feelings had undergone a reaction,
had he not, unfortunately, but too much reason to know that the
momentary gaiety was the result of the very melancholy which consumed
him. However, it gave him a more favorable opportunity to open the
subject next his heart, and, as a preparatory step, he dexterously
contrived to turn the conversation into the channel most suited to his
purpose.
The only ill effect arising from Gerald's recent immersion was a sense
of pain in that part of his arm which had been bitten by the
rattlesnake, on the day of the pic-nic to Hog Island, and it chanced
that this morning especially it had a good deal annoyed him, evincing
some slight predisposition to inflammation. To subdue this, Henry
applied with his own hand a liniment which had been recommended, and
took occasion, when he had finished, to remark on the devotedness and
fearlessness Miss Montgomerie had manifested in coming so opportunely to
his rescue--in all probability, thereby preserving his life.
At the sound of this name Gerald started, and evinced the same
impatience of the subject he had manifested on the preceding day. Henry
keenly remarked his emotion, and Gerald was sensible that he did.
Both sat for some minutes gazing at each other in expressive silence,
the one as if waiting to hear, the other as if conscious that he was
expected to afford, some explanation of the cause of so marked an
emotion. At length Gerald said and in a tone of deep and touching
despondency, "Henry, I fear you find me very unamiable and much altered,
but indeed I am very unhappy."
Here was touched the first chord of their sympathies. Henry's, already
on the _élan_, flew to meet this demonstration of returning confidence,
and he replied in a voice broken by the overflowing of his full heart.
"Oh, my beloved brother, changed must you indeed be, when even the
admission that you are unhappy inspires me with a thankfulness such as I
now feel. Gerald, I entreat, I implore you, by the love we have borne
each other from infancy, to disguise nothing from me. Tell me what it is
that weighs so heavily at your heart. Repose implicit confidence in me
your brother, and let me assist and advise you in your extremity, as my
poor ability will permit. Tell me, Gerald, wherefore are you thus
altered--what dreadful disappointment has thus turned the milk of your
nature into gall?"
Gerald gazed at him a moment intently. He was much affected, and a
sudden and unbidden tear stole down his pallid cheek. "If _you_ have
found the milk of my nature turned into gall, then indeed am I even more
wretched than I thought myself. But, Henry, you ask me what I cannot
yield--my confidence--and, even were it not so, the yielding would
advantage neither. I am unhappy, as I have said, but the cause of that
unhappiness must ever remain buried here," and he pointed to his breast.
This was said kindly, yet determinedly.
"Enough, Gerald," and his brother spoke in terms of deep reproach,
"since you persist in withholding your confidence, I will no longer urge
it; but you cannot wonder that I, who love but you alone on earth,
should sorrow as one without hope, at beholding you subject to a grief
so overwhelming as to have driven you to seek refuge from it in an
unhallowed grave."
"I do not understand you--what mean you?" quickly interrupted Gerald,
raising his head from the hand which supported it at the breakfast-table
while he colored faintly.
"You cannot well be ignorant of my meaning," pursued Henry in the same
tone, "if you but recur to the circumstances attending your arrival
here."
"I am still in the dark," continued Gerald, with some degree of
impatience.
"Because you know not that I am acquainted with all that took place on
the melancholy occasion. Gerald," he pursued, "forgive the apparent
harshness of what I am about to observe--but was it generous--was it
kind in you to incur the risk you did, when you must have known that
your death would have entailed upon me an eternal grief? Was it worthy
of yourself, moreover, to make the devoted follower of your fortunes, a
sharer in the danger you so eagerly and wantonly courted?"
"Nay, my good brother," and Gerald made an attempt at levity, "you are
indeed an unsparing monitor; but suppose I should offer in reply, that a
spirit of enterprize was upon me on the occasion to which you allude,
and that, fired by a desire to astonish you all with a bold feat, I had
resolved to do what no other had done before me, yet without
apprehending the serious consequences which ensued--or even assuming the
danger to have been so great."
"All this, Gerald, you might, yet would not say; because, in saying it,
you would have to charge yourself with a gross insincerity; and although
you do not deem me worthy to share your confidence, I still have
pleasure in knowing that my affection will not be repaid with
deceit--however plausible the motives for its adoption may appear--by
the substitution, in short, of that which is not for that which is."
"A gross insincerity?" repeated Gerald, again slightly coloring.
"Yes, my brother--I say it not in anger, nor in reproach--but a gross
insincerity it would certainly be. Alas, Gerald, your motives are but
too well known to me. The danger you incurred was incurred wilfully,
wantonly, and with a view to your own destruction."
Gerald started. The color had again fled from his sunken cheek, and he
was ashy pale. "And _how_ knew you this?" he asked with a trembling
voice.
"Even, Gerald, as I know that you have been driven to seek in wine that
upbearing against the secret grief which consumes you, which should be
found alone in the fortitude of a strong mind and the consciousness of
an untainted honor. Oh, Gerald, had these been your supporters, you
never would have steeped your reason so far in forgetfulness, as to have
dared what you did on that eventful day. Good Heaven! how little did I
ever expect to see the brother of my love degenerated so far as to
border on the character of the drunkard and the suicide."
The quick but sunken eyes of the sailor flashed fire; and he pressed his
lips, and clenched his teeth together, as one strongly attempting to
restrain his indignation. It was but the momentary flashing of the
chafed and bruised spirit.
"You probe me deeply, Henry," he said, calmly and in a voice of much
melancholy. "These are severe expressions for a brother to use; but you
are right--I did seek oblivion of my wretchedness in that whirlpool, as
the only means of destroying the worm that feeds incessantly upon my
heart; but Providence has willed it otherwise--and, morever, I had not
taken the danger of my faithful servant into the account. Had Sambo not
saved me, I must have perished; for I made not the slightest effort to
preserve myself. However, it matters but little, the mere manner of
one's death," he pursued, with increased despondency. "It is easy for
you, Henry, whose mind is at peace with itself and the world, to preach
fortitude and resignation; but, felt you the burning flame which
scorches my vitals, you would acknowledge the wide difference between
theory and practice."
Henry rose deeply agitated; he went to the door and secured the bolt;
then returning, knelt at his brother's feet. Gerald had one hand
covering his eyes, from which, however, the tears forced themselves
through his closed fingers. The other was seized and warmly pressed in
his brother's grasp.
"Gerald," he said, in the most emphatic manner, "by the love you ever
bore to our sainted parents, in whose chamber of death I now appeal to
your better feelings--by the friendship that has united our hearts from
youth to manhood--by all and every tie of affection, let me implore you
once more to confide this dreadful grief to me, that I may share it with
you, and counsel you for your good. Oh, my brother, on my bended knees
do I solicit your confidence. Believe me, no mean curiosity prompts my
prayer. I would soothe, console, assist you--aye, even to the very
sacrifice of life."
The feelings of the sailor were evidently touched, yet he uttered not a
word. His hand still covered his face, and the tears seemed to flow even
faster than before.
"Gerald," pursued his brother, with bitterness; "I see, with pain, that
I have not your confidence, and I desist--yet answer me one question.
From the faithful Sambo, as you must perceive, I have learnt all
connected with your absence, and from him I have gained that, during
your captivity, you were much with Miss Montgomerie (he pronounced the
name with an involuntary shuddering); all I ask, therefore, is, whether
your wretchedness proceeds from the rejection of your suit, or from any
levity or inconstancy you may have found in her?"
Gerald raised his head from his supporting hand, and turned upon his
brother a look in which mortified pride predominated over an infinitude
of conflicting emotions.
"Rejected, Henry, _my_ suit rejected--oh, no! In supposing my grief to
originate with her, you are correct; but imagine not it is because my
suit is rejected--certainly not."
"Then," exclaimed Henry, with generous emphasis, while he pressed the
thin hand which he held more closely between his own, "Why not marry
her?"
Gerald started.
"Yes, marry her," continued Henry; "marry her and be at peace. Oh!
Gerald, you know not what sad agency I attached to that insidious
American from the first moment of her landing on this shore--you know
not how much I have disliked, and still dislike her--but what are all
these considerations when my brother's happiness is at stake? Gerald,
marry her--and be happy."
"Impossible," returned the sailor, in a feeble voice, and again his
heart sank upon the open palm of his hand.
"Do you no longer love her, then?" eagerly questioned the astonished
youth.
Once more Gerald raised his head, and fixed his large, dim eyes full
upon those of his brother. "To madness!" he said, in a voice and with a
look that made Henry shudder. There was a moment of painful pause. The
latter at length ventured to observe:
"You speak in riddles, Gerald. If you love this Miss Montgomerie to
madness, and are, as you seem to intimate, loved by her in return, why
not, as I have urged, marry her?"
"Because," replied the sailor, turning paler than before, and almost
gasping for breath, "there is a condition attached to the possession of
her hand."
"And that is?" pursued Henry, inquiringly, after another long and
painful pause--
"My secret," and Gerald pointed significantly to his breast.
"True," returned Henry, slightly coloring; "I had forgotten--but what
condition, Gerald (and here he spoke as if piqued at the abrupt manner
in which his brother had concluded his half confidence), what condition,
I ask, may a woman entitled to our respect, as well as to our love,
propose, which should be held of more account than that severest of
offences against the Divine will--self-murder? Nay, look not thus
surprised; for have you not admitted that you had guiltily attempted to
throw away your life--to commit suicide, in short--rather than comply
with an earthly condition?"
"What if in this," returned Gerald, with a smile of bitterness, "I have
preferred the lesser guilt to the greater?"
"I can understand no condition, my brother, a woman worthy of your
esteem could impose, which should one moment weigh in the same scale
against the inexpiable crime of self-destruction. But, really, all this
mystery so startles and confounds me, that I know not what to
think--what inference to draw."
"Henry," observed the sailor, with some show of impatience, "considering
your promise not to urge it further, it seems to me you push the matter
to an extremity."
The youth made no reply, but, raising himself from his knees, moved
towards the door, which he again unbolted. He then walked to the window
at the further end of the apartment.
Gerald saw that he was deeply pained; and, impatient and angry with
himself, he also rose and paced the room with hurried steps. At length
he stopped, and putting one hand upon the shoulder of his brother, who
stood gazing vacantly from the window, pointed with the other towards
that part of the apartment in which both their parents had breathed
their last.
"Henry, my kind, good Henry," he said, with a voice faltering with
emotion, "do you recollect the morning when, on our return from school,
we found our young holiday joy changed into heart-breaking and mourning
by the sight of our dying mother?"
"Remember it, Gerald! aye, even as though it had been yesterday. Oh, my
brother, little did I think at the moment when, with hands closely
clasped together, we sank, overcome with grief, upon our bended knees,
to receive that mother's blessing, a day would ever arrive when the joy
or sorrow of the one should form no portion of the joy or sorrow of the
other."
"It was there," pursued Gerald, and without noticing the interruption,
"that we solemnly pledged ourselves to do the will and bidding of our
father in all things."
"Even so, Gerald, I remember it well."
"And it was there," continued the sailor, with the emphasis of strong
emotion, "that, during my unfortunate absence from the death-bed of our
yet surviving parent, you gave a pledge for _both_, that no action of
our lives should reflect dishonor on his unsullied name."
"I did. Both in your name and in my own, I gave the pledge--well knowing
that, in that, I merely anticipated your desire."
"Most assuredly; what then would be your sensations were you to know
that I had violated that sacred obligation?"
"Deep, poignant, ceaseless regret, that my once noble and high-spirited
brother should have been so lost to respect for his father's memory and
for himself." This was uttered not without deep agitation.
"You are right, Henry," added Gerald, mournfully; "better, far better,
is it to die than live on in the consciousness of having forfeited all
claim to esteem."
The young soldier started as if a viper had stung him. "Gerald," he
said, eagerly, "you have not dishonored yourself. Oh no--tell me, my
brother, that you have not."
"No," was the cold, repulsive answer; "although my peace of mind is
fled," he pursued, rather more mildly, "my honor, thank heaven, remains
as pure as when you first pledged yourself for its preservation."
"Thanks, my brother, for that. But can it really be possible, that the
mysterious condition attached to Miss Montgomerie's love involves the
loss of honor?"
Gerald made no answer.
"And can _you_ really be weak enough to entertain a passion for a woman,
who would make the dishonoring of the fair fame of him she professes to
love the fearful price at which her affection is to be purchased?"
Gerald seemed to wince at the word "weak," which was rather emphatically
pronounced, and looked displeased at the concluding part of the
sentence.
"I said not that the condition attached to her _love_," he remarked,
with the piqued expression of a wounded vanity; "her affection is mine,
I know, beyond her own power of control--the condition relates not to
her heart, but to her hand."
"Alas, my poor infatuated brother. Blinding indeed must be the delusions
of passion, when a nature so sensitive and so honorable shrinks not from
such a connexion. My only surprise is, that, with such a perversion of
judgment you have returned at all."
"No more of this Henry. It is not in man to control his destiny, and
mine appears to be to love with a fervor that must bear me, ere long, to
my grave. Of this, however, be assured--that, whatever my weakness, or
infatuation, as you may be pleased to call it, _that_ passion shall
never be gratified at the expense of my honor. Deeply--madly as I doat
upon her image, Miss Montgomerie and I have met for the last time."
Overcome by the emotion with which he had thus expressed himself, Gerald
could not restrain a few burning tears that forced their way down his
hollow cheeks. Henry caught eagerly at this indication of returning
softness, and again essayed, in reference to the concluding declaration
of his brother, to urge upon him the unworthiness of her who had thus
cast her deadly spell upon his happiness. But Gerald could ill endure
the slightest allusion to the subject.
"Henry," he said, "I have already told you that Miss Montgomerie and I
have parted for ever; but not the less devotedly do I love her. If,
therefore, you would not farther wring a heart already half broken with
affliction, oblige me by never making the slightest mention of her name
in my presence--or ever adverting again to our conversation of this
morning. I am sure, Henry, you will not deny me this."
Henry offered no other reply than by throwing himself into the arms that
were extended to receive him. The embrace of the brothers was long and
fervent, and, although there was perhaps more of pain than pleasure, in
their mutual sense of the causes which had led to it in the present
instance--still was it productive of a luxury the most heartfelt. It
seemed to both as if the spirits of their departed parents hovered over,
and blessed them in this indication of their returning affection,
hallowing, with their invisible presence, a scene connected with the
last admonitions from their dying lips. When they had thus given vent to
their feelings, although the sense of unhappiness continued
undiminished, their hearts experienced a sensible relief; and when they
separated for the morning, in pursuit of their respective avocations, it
was with a subdued manner on the part of Gerald, and a vague hope with
Henry, that his brother's disease would eventually yield to various
influences, and that other and happier days were yet in store for both.