Few situations in life are less enviable than that of the isolated
prisoner of war. Far from the home of his affections, and compelled by
the absence of all other companionship, to mix with those who, in
manners, feelings, and national characteristics, form, as it were, a
race apart from himself, his recollections, already sufficiently
embittered by the depressing sense of captivity, are hourly awakened by
some rude contrast wounding to his sensibilities, and even though no
source of graver irritation should exist, a thousand petty annoyances,
incident to the position, are magnified by chagrin from mole-hills into
mountains. Such, however, would be the effect produced on one only, who,
thrown by the accident of war into the situation of a captive, should
have no grief more profound, no sorrow deeper seated, than what arose
from the being severed from old, and associated with new and undesired
ties--one to whom life was full of the fairest buds of promise, and
whose impatience of the present was only a burning desire to enter upon
the future. Not so with Gerald Grantham. Time, place, circumstance,
condition, were alike the same--alike indifferent to him. In the
recollection of the scenes he had so lately quitted, and in which his
fairer and unruffled boyhood had been passed, he took no pleasure--while
the future was so enshrouded in gloom, that he shrank from its very
contemplation. So far from trying to wring consolation from
circumstances, his object was to stupify recollection to the uttermost.
He would fain have shut out both the past and the future, contenting
himself as he might with the present; but the thing was impossible. The
worm had eaten into his heart, and its gnawings were too painful, not
poignantly to remind him of the manner in which it had been engendered.
Upwards of a fortnight had elapsed since his arrival, and yet, although
Captain Jackson, prior to his return to Sandusky, had personally
introduced him to many highly respectable families in Frankfort, he
uniformly abstained from cultivating their acquaintance, until at length
he was, naturally enough, pronounced to be a most disagreeable specimen
of a British officer. Even with the inmates of the hotel, many of whom
were officers of his own age, and with whom he constantly sat down to
the ordinary, he avoided everything approaching to intimacy--satisfying
himself merely with discharging his share of the commonest courtesies
of life. They thought it pride--it was but an effect--an irremediable
effect--of the utter sinking of his sad and broken spirit. The only
distraction in which he eventually took pleasure, or sought to indulge,
was rambling through the wild passes of the chain of wooded hills which
almost encircles the capital of Kentucky, and extends to a considerable
distance in a westerly direction. The dense gloom of these narrow
valleys he had remarked on his entrance by the same route, and feeling
them more in unison with his sick mind than the hum and bustle of a
city, which offered nothing in common with his sympathies, he now
frequently passed a great portion of the day in threading their
mazes--returning, however, at a certain hour to his hotel, conformably
with the terms of his parole.
On one occasion, tempted by the mellow beauty of the season--it was now
the beginning of October--he had strayed so far, and through passes so
unknown to him, that when the fast advancing evening warned him of the
necessity of returning, he found he had utterly lost his way. Abstracted
as he usually was, he had yet reflection enough to understand that his
parole of honor required he should be at his hotel at an hour which it
would put his speed to the proof to accomplish. Despairing of finding
his way by the circuitous route he had originally taken, and the proper
clue to which he had moreover lost, he determined, familiar as he was
with the general bearings of the capital, to effect his return in a
direct line across the chain of hills already alluded to. The deepening
shadows of the wild scene, as he proposed to ascend that immediately
before him, told that the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, and when he
gained its summit, the last faint corruscations of light were passing
rapidly away in the west. Still, by the indistinct twilight, he could
perceive that at his feet lay a small valley, completely hemmed in by
the circular ridge on which he stood. This traversed, it was but to
ascend the opposite section of the ridge, and his destination would be
gained. Unlike the narrow, rocky passes which divided the hills in every
other direction in which he had previously wandered, this valley was
covered with a luxuriant verdure, and upon this the feet of Gerald moved
inaudibly even to himself. As he advanced more into the centre of the
little plain, he thought he could perceive, at its extremity on the
right, the dark outline of a building--apparently a dwelling-house; and
while he yet hesitated whether he should approach it and inquire his
most direct way to the town, a light suddenly appeared at that point of
the valley for which he was already making. A few minutes sufficed to
bring him to the spot whence the light had issued. It was a small,
circular building, possibly intended for a summer-house, but more
resembling a temple in its construction, and so closely bordering upon
the forest ridge, by a portion of the foliage by which it had previously
been concealed, as to be almost confounded with it. It was furnished
with a single window, the same through which the light now issued, and
this, narrow, elongated, and studded with iron bars, was so placed as to
prevent one even taller than our hero from gazing into the interior,
without the aid of some elevation. But Gerald, independently of his
anxiety to reach the town in time to prevent comment upon his absence,
had no desire to occupy himself with subjects foreign to his object.
Curiosity was a feeling dead within his bosom, and he was preparing,
without once staying his course, to ascend the ridge at the side of the
temple, when he fancied he heard a suppressed groan, as of one suffering
from intense agony. Not the groan, but the peculiar tone in which it
was uttered, arrested his attention, and excited a vague yet stirring
interest in his breast. On approaching closer to the temple, he found
that at its immediate basement the earth had been thrown up into a sort
of mound, which so elevated the footing as to admit of his reaching the
bars of the window with his hands. Active as we have elsewhere shown him
to be, he was not long in obtaining a full view of the interior, when a
scene met his eye which riveted him, as well it might, in utter
astonishment. Upon the rude, uncarpeted floor knelt a female, who, with
clasped and uplifted hands, had her eyes fixed upon a portrait that hung
suspended from the opposite wall--her figure, clad in a loose robe of
black, developing by its attitude a contour of such rich and symmetrical
proportion as might be difficult for the imagination to embody. And who
was the being upon whom his each excited sense now lingered with an
admiration little short of idolatry? One whom, a moment before, he
believed to be still far distant, whom he had only a few months
previously fled from as from a pestilence, and whom he had solemnly
sworn never to behold again--yet whom he continued to love with a
passion that defied every effort of his judgment to subdue, making his
life a wilderness--Matilda Montgomerie! and if her beauty had _then_ had
such surpassing influence over his soul, what was not its effect when he
beheld her _now_, every grace of womanhood exhibited in a manner to
excite admiration the most intense!
It would be vain to describe all that passed through the mind of Gerald
Grantham, while he thus gazed upon her whose beauty was the rock on
which his happiness had been wrecked. His first impulse had been to fly,
but the fascination which riveted him to the window deprived him of all
power, until eventually, of all the host of feelings that had crowded
tumultuously upon his heart, passion alone remained triumphant. Unable
longer to control his impatience, he was on the point of quitting his
station, for the purpose of knocking and obtaining admission by a door
which he saw opposite to him, when a sudden change in the attitude of
Matilda arrested the movement.
She had risen, and with her long and dark hair floating over her white
shoulders, now advanced towards the portrait, on which her gaze had
hitherto been so repeatedly turned. This was so placed that Gerald had
not previously an opportunity of remarking more than the indistinct
outline, which proved it to represent a human figure; but as she for a
moment raised the light with one hand, while with the other she covered
it with a veil which had been drawn aside, he distinctly saw that it was
the portrait of an officer dressed in the American uniform; and it even
occurred to him that he had before seen the face, although, in his then
excited state he could not recollect where. Even had he been inclined to
tax his memory, the effort would have been impracticable, for another
direction was now given to his interest.
On the left and close under the window, stood a rude sofa and ruder
table, the only pieces of furniture which Gerald could observe within
the temple. Upon the former Matilda had now reclined herself, and
placing the candle upon the table at her side, proceeded to unfold and
peruse a letter which she had previously taken from her pocket book. The
same unconsciousness of observation inducing the same unstudiedness of
action, the whole disposition of the form bore a character of
voluptuousness, which the presumed isolation of her who thus exhibited
herself, a model of living grace, alone could justify. But although the
form was full of the eloquence of passion, one had but to turn to the
pale and severe face, to find there was no corresponding expression in
the heart. As heretofore, the brow of the American wore a cast of
thought--only deeper, more decided--and even while her dark eyes flashed
fire, as if in disappointment and anger at sundry passages in the letter
over which she lingered, not once did the slightest color tinge her
cheek, or the gloom dissipate itself from that cold brow. Emotion she
felt, for this her heaving bosom and occasionally compressed lip
betokened. Yet never was contrast more marked than that between the
person and the face of Matilda Montgomerie, as Gerald Grantham then
beheld her.
On one who had seen her thus for the first time, the cold, calm
countenance of the singular girl, would have acted as a chastener to the
emotions called up by the glowing expression of her faultless form, but
although there was now a character of severity on her features, which
must have checked and chilled the ardent admiration produced by that
form on a mere stranger, Gerald but too well remembered occasions when
the harmony of both had been complete, and when the countenance, rich in
all those fascinations, which, even in her hours of utmost
collectedness, never ceased to attach to the person, had beamed upon him
in a manner to stir his very soul into madness. There were other and
later recollections too, that forced themselves upon his memory; but
these, even though they recalled scenes in which the voluptuous beauty
of Matilda shone paramount, were as blots upon the fair picture of the
past, and he fain would have banished them from his mind for ever.
The letter on which the American was now engaged, Grantham had
recognised, from its fold and seal, to be one he had written prior to
parting with her, as he had supposed for ever. While he was yet dwelling
on this singularity, Matilda threw the letter upon the table at her
side, and leaning her head upon her hand, seemed as if musing deeply
upon its contents. The contraction of her brow became deeper, and there
was a convulsed pressure of her lips as of one forming some
determination, requiring at once strong moral and physical energy to
accomplish. A cold shudder crept through the veins of Gerald, for too
well did he fancy he could divine what was passing in the soul of that
strange yet fascinating woman. For a moment a feeling of almost loathing
came over his heart, but when, in the next moment, he saw her rise from
the sofa, revealing the most inimitable grace, he burned with impatience
to throw himself, reckless of consequences, at her feet, and to confess
his idolatry.
After pacing to and fro for some moments, her dark and kindling eye
alone betraying the excitement which her colorless cheek denied, Matilda
again took up the light, and having once more approached the portrait,
was in the act of raising the veil, when a slight noise made by Gerald,
who in his anxiety to obtain a better view of her, had made a change in
his position, arrested her ear; and she turned and fixed her eye upon
the window, not with the disturbed manner of a person who fears
observation, but with the threatening air of one who would punish an
intrusion.
Holding the light above her head, she advanced firmly across the room,
and stopping beneath the window, fixed her eye steadily and
unshrinkingly upon it. The mind of Gerald had become a chaos of
conflicting and opposite feelings. Only an instant before and he would
have coveted recognition, now his anxiety was to avoid it; but cramped
in his attitude, and clinging as he was compelled, with his face close
to the bars, his only means of doing so was by quitting his position
altogether. He therefore loosened his hold, and dropped himself on the
mound of earth from which he had contrived to ascend, but not so
noiselessly, in the unbroken stillness of the night, as to escape the
keen ear of the American. In the next moment Gerald heard a door open,
and a well known voice demand, in tones which betrayed neither alarm nor
indecision.
"Who is there?"
The question was repeated in echo from the surrounding woods, and then
died away in distance.
"Who of my people," again demanded Matilda, "has dared to follow me here
in defiance of my orders?"
Another echo of indistinct sounds, and all again was still.
"Whoever you are, speak," resumed the courageous girl. "Nay," she
pursued more decidedly, as having moved a pace or two from the door, she
observed a human form standing motionless beneath the window. "Think not
to escape me. Come hither slave that I may know you. This curiosity
shall cost you dear."
The blood of Gerald insensibly chilled at the harsh tone in which these
words were uttered, and had he followed a first impulse he would at once
have retired from the influence of a command, which under all the
circumstances, occurred to him as being of prophetic import. But he had
gazed on the witching beauty of the syren, until judgment and reason had
yielded the rein to passion, and filled with an ungovernable desire to
behold and touch that form once more--even although he should the next
moment tear himself from it for ever--he approached and stood at the
entrance of the temple, the threshold of which Matilda had again
ascended.
No exclamation of surprise escaped the lips of the ever-collected
American; and yet, for the first time that night, her cheek was suffused
with a deep glow, the effect of which was to give to her whole style of
beauty a character of radiancy.
"Gerald Grantham!"
"Yes, Matilda," exclaimed the youth, madly, heedless of the past, while
he riveted his gaze upon her dazzling loveliness with such strong
excitement of expression as to cause her own to sink beneath it, "your
own Gerald--your slave kneels before you," and he threw himself at her
feet.
"And what punishment does not that slave merit?" she asked in a tone so
different from that in which she had addressed her supposed domestic,
that Gerald could scarcely believe it to be the same. "What reparation
can he make for having caused so much misery to one who loved and
cherished him so well. Oh! Gerald, what days, what nights of misery have
I not passed since you so unkindly left me." As she uttered the last
sentence, she bent herself over the still kneeling form of her lover,
while her long dark hair, falling forward, completely enveloped him in
its luxuriant and waving folds.
"You will be mine, Matilda," at length murmured the youth, as he sat at
her side on the sofa, to which on rising he had conducted her.
"Yours, only yours," returned the American, while she bent her face upon
his shoulder. "But you know the terms of our union."
Had a viper stung him, Gerald could not have recoiled with more dismay
and horror from her embrace. Again the features of Matilda became
colorless, and her brow assumed an expression of care and severity.
"Then, if not to fulfil that compact, wherefore are you here?" and the
question was put half querulously, half contemptuously.
"Chance, Destiny, Fate,--call it what you will," cried Gerald, obeying
the stronger impulse of his feelings, and clasping her once more to his
beating heart. "Oh! Matilda, if you knew how the idea of that fearful
condition has haunted me in my thoughts by day, and my dreams by night,
you would only wonder that at this moment I retain my senses, filled as
my soul is with maddening--with inextinguishable love for you."
"And do you really entertain for me that deep, that excessive passion
you have just expressed," at length observed Matilda, after some moments
of silence, and with renewed tenderness of voice and manner, "and yet
refuse the means by which you may secure me to you for ever?"
"Matilda," said Gerald, with vehemence, "my passion for you is one which
no effort of my reason can control; but let me not deceive you--it is
_now_ one of the senses."
An expression of triumph, not wholly unmingled with scorn, animated the
features of Matilda. It was succeeded by one of ineffable tenderness.
"We will talk of this no more to-night, Gerald, but to-morrow evening,
at the same hour, be here: and our mutual hopes, and fears, and doubts
shall be then realized or disappointed, as the event may show. To-morrow
will determine if, as I cannot but believe, Destiny has sent you to me
at this important hour. It is very singular," she added, as if to
herself, her features again becoming deadly pale, "very singular
indeed!"
"What is singular, Matilda?" asked Gerald.
"You shall know all to-morrow," she replied; "but mind," and her dark
eye rested on his with an expression of much tenderness, "that you come
prepared to yield me all I ask."
Gerald promised that he would, and Matilda expressing a desire to hear
what had so unexpectedly restored him to her presence, he entered into a
detail of all that had befallen him from the moment of their separation.
She appeared to be much touched by the relation, and in return, gave him
a history of what she too had felt and suffered. She moreover informed
him that Major Montgomerie had died of his wounds shortly after their
parting, and that she had now been nearly two months returned to her
uncle's estate at Frankfort, where she lived wholly secluded from
society, and with a domestic establishment consisting of slaves. These
short explanations having been entered into they parted--Matilda to
enter her dwelling, the same which Gerald had marked in outline, in
which numerous lights were now visible, and her lover to make the best
of his way to the town.