THE WANDERER’S DEATH.
“Oh, ask me not to speak her fate,
Oh, tempt me not to tell
The sin that made her desolate,—
Passion she could not quell
Alas! the grave can only be
Fit refuge of her misery.”
ANONYMOUS.
“Sophie, your cheeks are pale, and a livid blue circle surrounds your
eyes; you do not look like yourself—you are ill; do not keep school
to-day—give a holiday and rest.” These were the words addressed by Mrs.
May to her friend on the day succeeding the events related in the last
chapter. She had ridden over, attended by Augustus Wilde, to spend the
day with Sophie and help her to teach. They were standing in the
school-room just before calling the pupils.
“Yes, Miss Churchill, _do_ give a holiday to-day for my sake, as well as
for your own,” said Lieutenant Augustus, setting his cap and riding-whip
down upon the desk. “On Thursday my week’s leave of absence expires.
This is the last day I shall have an opportunity of spending with you,
and you look weary from confinement and work; everything points to a
holiday—come!”
Sophie smiled a sickly smile, and said she was very well.
“But I do not think so, and I never believe a _smile_ unless the _eyes_
smile, too,” said Emily; “now _I_ am going to give a holiday;” and so
saying, she went into the yard, called the children together by a bell,
and told them to go home, for there was to be no school that day. Sophie
Churchill was ever too yielding, and now, in the languor of dejection,
she made no opposition.
“Now, Sophie, we will go a fishing,” said Mrs. May, as she returned
after dismissing the children, “the fresh air off the bay will revive
you.”
“And I, Miss Churchill, feel very anxious for a forenoon’s frolic on the
waters, if that is any argument,” said Lieutenant Gusty, and he sought
Sophie’s eyes; but _they_ were bent upon the ground, or, when raised,
their intelligence, their light, their sympathy for _him_ was gone. He
_felt_ this, and his heart sank. Had he offended her? and how? He wished
to speak to her, or to his sister apart, and ask the reason, but he
could not speak to either upon the subject, in the presence of the
other. It is a feature in human sympathy, that one may be in company
with two equally loved and trusted friends, to _either_ of whom _apart_,
one would confide the secret that oppresses—for there is a feeling of
security, exclusiveness, sacredness, between _two_ friends conversing,
that is lost when a _third_, however equally dear to both, enters in—the
electric cord of full sympathy and confidence has but _two_ ends. The
Jesuits understand this, for by a statute of their order it is forbidden
that less than _three_ members go apart, or converse together. Now,
Augustus Wilde felt this without reasoning upon it.
Miss Churchill put on her bonnet, and they were soon down upon the beach
under the promontory; the gravelly beach was clean and cool, and the
waters blue and clear, and sparkling in the beams of the early sun, and
all the golden clouds were reflected on their bosom. The little skiff
was soon unmoored and they were out upon the bay; as they receded from
the shore, Lieutenant Wilde stood up and turned to look upon the
promontory, or rather peak, surmounted by the old hall; his eye rested a
moment upon the towering object, and then wandered down to where the
promontory descended into the heath, and further on, where the heath
flattened into the moor. He had just said, while gazing on the scene, “I
am no agriculturist, Miss Churchill, yet I never saw what _I_ think to
be so fine an estate in all the gifts of nature as this—the moor with
its wild fowl, the river and the bay with their fish and their
oyster-banks, the forest in the background with its wood and its game—it
is inconceivable how the property has been suffered to—” and then he
stopped, started, and gazed at an object on the water between them and
the land—
“What is the matter, Augustus?” said Emily, attempting to rise. He
pushed her down into her seat again, while he continued to gaze upon the
floating object as it was borne upon the waves towards the beach.
“What is the matter, Augustus? What are you looking at; one would think
you saw a shark.” And now Sophie’s brown eyes were raised in silent
inquiry.
Augustus sat down, muttering “Nothing, nothing,” and pulled for a
distant part of the shore, about midway the heath, between the
promontory and the moor.
“Are you going to land?” asked Emily.
“Be quiet, will you,” muttered he, pinching her arm and glancing at
Sophie, who had relapsed into her abstraction.
Not until they had nearly reached the beach, had Sophie noticed their
altered course; then she looked up and inquired, “Where are you going?
Why this is not a good place to fish.”
Lieutenant Wilde answered, “We think we have made it too late in the
morning—that the sun is too high and too hot for you, Miss Churchill;
and we think we will return to the hall.”
Sophie remonstrated, declared she felt no ill effects from the heat,
&c.; but was overruled as usual. Emily now asserting that she felt the
rays of the sun too strong, they landed and walked to the hall. When
they reached the parlor, Emily _purposely_ removed her bonnet and scarf
_there_, and Sophie taking them, carried them up stairs to put away.
When she had left the room,
“_Now_, I followed your lead in coming home—tell me _why_ you came; what
was the matter with you—what did you see on the water?”
“You told me that Miss Churchill was very nervous and sensitive, did you
not?”
“I told you, that of late she is—naturally Sophie has a strong mind.”
“Well, Emily, the object I saw upon the water was a dead body.”
“Merciful Heaven! are you _sure_?”
“_Certain._ I saw it distinctly—it was being wafted towards the beach.”
“Heavenly Father! some poor negro, out fishing, drunk perhaps, fell
overboard.”
“No; a woman scantily clothed, with streaming yellow hair clinging wet
around her swollen limbs. I am sure the body is by this time cast upon
the beach.”
“A woman with streaming yellow hair,” said Emily, as the memory of
Sophie’s vision in the dell crossed her mind. “Can we, Augustus, get
away from Sophie in any way, and go down to the beach?”
“We must make an excuse of some sort,” said Augustus.
His purpose was forestalled—for at that moment the handsome blue
carriage and grey horses of Mrs. Gardiner Green stopped before the door;
and the lofty lady alighted and entered the house. “How do you do, Mrs.
May—and Lieutenant Wilde—well, this is delightful. I am so happy to see
you. I must positively have you at the Glade to-morrow evening, to meet
a few friends—quite an _improvised_ little affair; but where is Miss
Churchill? I am enacting ‘mamma’ to that young lady just at the present
crisis; and this morning I wish a private interview with her.”
Emily seized this chance—and calling to little Hagar, sent her for Miss
Churchill. When Sophie entered the room, she arose, and leaving Mrs.
Green to explain her departure, took her brother’s arm, and saying that
she would return in half an hour, threw her handkerchief over her head
and strolled out into the yard; then quickening their steps, they
hastened towards the peak. Descending the cliff by a circuitous path,
they reached the beach; and there, immediately under the point of the
promontory, they decried an object that, upon nearer approach, they
found to be the dead body of a woman. Emily May, pale with awe, knelt
down to examine the body—her brother stood in silence by her side. From
its extreme emaciation, the body, unlike those of most drowned persons,
was not much swollen, but lay slender and extended at length—the arms
confined to the waist, and the slight limbs bound together by the
winding and clinging of the long yellow hair, that in beating about the
waters had got twisted around her. With trembling fingers Emily removed
the tress of hair that, wet and sticking to her face, partly concealed
the features. She gazed earnestly and sadly upon the extinguished lamp
of that dead countenance—the blue-white complexion, the thin sharpened
features, the round forehead polished and shining, from very emaciation,
the ultra-marine blue eyes, stony and swollen—the small elegant nose,
with its delicate and half-transparent nostril—the short and beautifully
curved upper lip, drawn up now blue and stiff, and exposing the little
pearly teeth—and lastly, the long fine golden hair with its few
commingling threads of silver—the extremely small and slender hands,
thin now as birds’ claws—the little naked foot, with its curved hollow
and proud high instep.
“Who _can_ she be?” asked Augustus; “do you know, Emily?”
His sister shook her head; she was thinking of the vision seen by Sophie
in the forest dell, but she deemed it best to be silent upon that
subject at present. There was a small house under the shadow of the
promontory, in which sails, fishing-nets, and rods, &c., were kept; into
this house, for the present, Lieutenant Wilde conveyed the body, and
locking the door, took possession of the key, and advising Emily to
return to the hall, he went off to Churchill Point to summon the
coroner.
* * * * *
“Ridiculous, my dear! absurd, preposterous! _utterly_ preposterous! A
crazy woman wandering through the country, and saying that she is our
minister’s wife! and you to believe it! I shall grow thoroughly ashamed
of you, Miss Churchill. Why, don’t you know, my dear, that is always the
way with these lunatic vagrants, to fancy themselves some great
personage, _always_; all I wonder at, is that your maniac was so
moderate—they are generally queens, nothing less will serve them; even
old Suke Ennis, you know, is the President’s wife—and carries her bosom
full of waste papers that she says are his letters. A strolling lunatic
suddenly appears before you, in the full of the moon, announces herself
as the wife of the most important man she knows of, flees away at his
approach,—and _you_, upon the strength of her moon-struck madness,
believe, or more probably _affect_ to believe her insane statement; you
grow ridiculous. Oh! do not, for _your own_ reputation for good sense,
mention this to any one else. I am _mortified_ at you, _alarmed_ for
you.”
This was the manner in which Mrs. Gardiner Green received the news of
Sophie’s strange visitor from Miss Churchill’s lips, when they had been
left alone together.
“I do not think that she was a lunatic,” said Sophie, seriously. “I
thought she spoke sense, truth, sad, sorrowful truth.”
“‘Sense,’ ‘truth,’ the maddest of them can speak sense and truth
sometimes; but her very _statement_ proves her lunacy—do not we all know
better—don’t we know that the wife of Mr. Withers died two years ago?”
“I think that is an impression that has been generally received, but I
think that the opinion has no good foundation in fact; now that my mind
fixes itself upon the subject, I remember that in his letter to Mr. May,
he speaks of the ‘loss,’ never of the _death_ of his wife.”
“Oh! I have no _patience_ with you! ‘Loss,’ what could it have been but
_death_! Think of Mr. May’s warm regard—but I will _not_ argue with you
upon this most injurious suspicion—it is an insult to Mr. Withers to
hear or reply to such—pshaw! No, Miss Churchill, you have seized this,
as the drowning catch at straws, to save you from fulfilling an
engagement, which only since the arrival of this gay young officer has
grown distasteful to you. But I tell you plainly, Sophie—Miss Churchill,
I should say—that if you break this engagement, as you will not, I
think, venture to do—I shall be obliged, however unwillingly, to abandon
you. I have a daughter,” here the proud lady drew herself up,” and I
must consult _her_ interest before anything else. Rose Green loves you,
Sophie Churchill, but if you wantonly trifle with your good name, I must
sever you. Mrs. May, also, I think, could scarcely defy public opinion,
by continuing her friendly intercourse with you.” Sophie Churchill was
sitting with her face pale, her features rigid, her eyes fixed
unconsciously upon her cold white fingers idly locked together on her
lap; one or two large tears gathered in her set eyes, and slowly rolled
down her cheeks. “Do not weep, Miss Churchill, if I talk to you plainly;
it is to set things in a proper light before you; I speak to you as I
would speak to Rose, under like circumstances. Your duty is very plain;
the day of your marriage is fixed, go forward with the preparations for
your wedding. I am here to lend you assistance, not to tolerate
weakness, vacillation, and infidelity.”
Sophie remonstrated now no more; unresistingly she suffered the
circle of destiny to close around her. More than the force of
circumstances—more than the _strength_ of others—more than our own
_weakness_ does our _indolence_ leave us at the mercy of fate.
Adverse external powers are at work upon us, surrounding us,
contracting their circle upon us; we feel an inward reposing
strength that, aroused, might struggle and overcome; but we are
inert, we yield to their influence, they close upon us; we sigh, and
call it _fate_. It was thus with Sophie Churchill. In vain the
whisper of her true interests arose from the deeps of her soul,
saying—“Speak! and break through this enchanted circle—_you_ are
right, _she_ is wrong. Have faith in God, believe _yourself_, trust
in the candor and friendship of Emily, in the intelligence,
goodness, and _love_—yes, _love_ of Augustus; awake! arise! and save
yourself.” Alas! the voice was heard in vain. It could not be
_stilled_, but it was not obeyed. Still sat she there with cold
clasped hands and rigid features, letting fate encompass her, but
feeling in her profoundest soul the painful consciousness that _she
herself_, and not another, was making her own misery.
Emily May now entered, but Sophie was too much absorbed in her sorrow,
Mrs. Green too much interested in the subject on hand, to notice the
absence of Lieutenant Wilde, or the unusual seriousness of her
countenance and manner. Emily silently took her seat, without mentioning
the occurrence of the hour. With an instinctive fear of leaving Sophie
alone with Emily then and there, Mrs. Gardiner Green dismissed her
carriage and announced her intention of remaining the day, and of
returning in the afternoon with Mrs. May. Emily observed the dejection
of Sophie, but silently attributed it to ill health, weak nerves, &c.,
and dwelt slightly upon the circumstance, her thoughts being engaged
with the drowned woman then lying in the fish-house.
* * * * *
That morning Mr. Withers had been requested, upon account of the sparse
population, to form one of a coroner’s jury, to sit upon the case of a
drowned _person_, at four o’clock in the afternoon, at Heath Hall. The
hasty summons conveyed no further information. With a strange
abstraction of mind he had not looked deeply into the subject of the
note—and penning a hasty answer, he promised to be on the spot at the
appointed hour.
The dinner-table had been cleared away at Heath Hall. Mrs. Gardiner
Green had sustained the chief burden of the conversation all day.
Lieutenant Wilde had not returned; and to the inquiry of Mrs. Green
relative to his absence (which, by the way, she rejoiced in), Emily had
replied that sudden business had recalled him to the village, and there
the subject dropped. She still refrained from mentioning the occurrence
of the morning. Then Mrs. Gardiner Green, taking advantage of the
momentary absence of Miss Churchill, informed Mrs. May that the marriage
day of her dear young friend Sophie Churchill with Mr. Withers, was
fixed for the fifteenth of the current month; that thus it would take
place in little more than a week from that day—that the ceremony would
be performed at her house, &c., &c. Emily received this information with
pain and surprise, but was prevented replying by the re-entrance of
Sophie. She was no longer at a loss to guess the reason of Miss
Churchill’s ill looks; she turned her head away, for her heart was
swelling and her eyes were filling with tears. They were engaged then,
she thought. Well! well! she had hoped it would have been otherwise, but
they were engaged—the marriage near at hand. As Emily looked from the
window she started on observing a small cavalcade approaching the house,
and muttering to herself—“Oh! how thoughtless, how careless of
Augustus,” went out to meet it. It was the dead body of the drowned
woman borne along on a litter. “Oh, _why_ have you done this, Augustus?”
she asked of her brother, as the litter was set down in front of the
piazza.
“Why, I could not very well prevent it,” said he, pointing to the two or
three old country magistrates in the train, “besides Miss Churchill
cannot be shocked at what she is prepared to see—you have surely
informed her?”
“No, I have not; I should have done so, could I have guessed that they
would have brought the body here.”
“Why, dearest Emily, this was the nearest house, the coroner’s inquest
was appointed to meet here, also.”
Emily May requested them to pause with the body until she could go in
and announce their arrival to the mistress of the mansion. She need not
have feared for Sophie’s nerves _then_. When we are in deep trouble we
are in excellent order to receive _bad_ news; it does not shock us,
little can shock us when in sorrow, except joy. Let me illustrate, when
we are already _cold_ we can bear a _cool_ draught. Sophie gave her
consent almost indifferently for the corpse to be brought in, and the
three ladies withdrew to the upper story. In another quarter of an hour
it was laid out in the parlor. Emily had dropped no hint to Sophie of
her suspicion of the identity of the drowned woman with the wanderer she
had seen in the forest dell, and Miss Churchill was entirely without
suspicion as to who it could be. Mrs. Gardiner Green was full of
exclamations of wonder, grief, and horror. Four o’clock drew near, and
the jury summoned by the coroner began to assemble; many other persons
impelled by curiosity also came. When the room was nearly full, and the
hour appointed for holding the inquest arrived, it entered the head of
the coroner to request the attendance of the lady of the house as well
as of Mrs. May, whose testimony, as one present at the finding of the
body, was required. A message was sent upstairs, and Mrs. May and Miss
Churchill, accompanied by Mrs. Gardiner Green, entered the room. The
corpse was laid out upon boards in the centre of the room; it was
covered by a black velvet pall—the body had not been uncovered since the
assembling of the jury. The ladies entered and took their seats.
“What are we waiting for now?” inquired a gentleman present.
“For Mr. Withers, who is on the jury,” answered the coroner.
At this moment Mr. Withers entered, and the inquest began. The coroner,
going to the head of the bier, turned down the pall, and summoned Mr.
Wilde to give in his evidence. At the first uncovering of the corpse,
many had bent forward to obtain a glimpse of the face, Mr. Withers among
the rest; he had been standing near Sophie, whom he had not omitted to
greet, and now he leaned forward. By reason of his height, he obtained a
good view, _for a single instant_, then covering his face with his open
palms, he groaned forth in tones of bitter anguish—
“God! Oh, God! _Fanny_,” and dropped like a lifeless mass into his
chair. The intense curiosity of all present directed to the corpse
prevented the agitation of the minister being observed. Lieutenant Wilde
identified the corpse as the body found by himself in the morning. Emily
was then summoned, and corroborated the statement of her brother. When
she was about to leave the stand she was asked—
“Did you ever see or hear of this woman before?”
“I never saw her before this morning, when I saw her dead upon the
beach.”
“Did you ever hear of her before?”
“Yes—no—yes!—_no_, I never—” said Emily, confused between fact and
fancy. Her confused answer drew upon her a close cross-examination,
during which she alluded to the vision seen in the dell by Miss
Churchill. She was then dismissed, and Sophie Churchill called to the
stand. Sophie had been sitting in a remote part of the room—she had not
bent forward as others had to view the corpse—hence she had not seen it
at all; to the examination of the witnesses she had paid slight
attention. Not one word of Emily’s testimony had she heard, by reason of
the low tone in which Emily spoke. She arose when called, approached the
bier, and when told to look upon the body, and say whether she had ever
seen it before, she languidly cast her eyes down upon it, and recognised
the apparition of the dell—the moonlight visitor of the
Hall—started—tottered—and with a smothered cry sank back in the arms of
the coroner in a swoon. All the company looked dismayed. Augustus Wilde
sprang forward to receive her, took her from the coroner’s hold, and
telling him angrily that he had exceeded his authority, bore her into
the air, and sitting down with her on the steps of the piazza, hastily
loosened her dress and fanned her with his cap. Emily was by his side,
she had followed them; Sophie opened her eyes, and then resigning her to
Emily’s care he returned to the hall, meeting Mrs. Gardiner Green
bustling out to look after her protegée.
The verdict, “death by drowning,” was rendered, and the jury broke up.
The coroner and magistrates had decided that the body should be buried
from the Hall in the family burial ground, with the consent of Miss
Churchill. The magistrates were taking their hats and preparing to
depart, when the figure of Sophie Churchill, pale and haggard as though
newly arisen from the grave, appeared among them.
“I have testimony to give, and I _must_ give it,” she said.
The magistrates looked surprised, the company eager—Mrs. Gardiner Green,
frowning, sat down. Emily, pale and expectant, stood by Sophie’s side.
“The inquest is over,” said Mrs. Green at last. “Your testimony will be
supererogatory, Miss Churchill.”
“Her deposition can be taken by a magistrate,” said Lieutenant Wilde.
“Miss Churchill is not now of sound mind, she is ill, her testimony
cannot be taken,” persisted the proud lady.
Sophie Churchill was now standing by the side of the corpse—all eyes
were turned towards her—_her_ eyes were bent straight forward across the
room upon the bowed and shuddering figure of the minister; he _felt_ her
gaze, he raised his head; her eyes full of deep reproach and dire
determination encountered his—no longer cold and glittering like ice,
and freezing the blood in her veins—oh, no! the anguish of a tortured
soul _groaned_ through their glance—“_Mercy!_ Sophie.” That glance
inspired Sophie’s heart with pity, but it was too late now, or _she_
thought it was too late to retract. The magistrate commenced his
examination. To his question—
“When did you first see this woman?” she replied by relating the
adventure in the dell. “And her finger pointed at the—at the Rev. Mr.
Withers?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sophie, turning her head to avoid looking at the
tortured countenance of the minister.
“Did she speak?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did she say?”
“Gazing intently at me, and pointing to the minister, she said, ‘shun
him!’”
All eyes now turned in wonder and curiosity from Sophie to the minister.
“Did you ever see her after this?”
“Once.”
“Where?”
Sophie now related the visit to the Hall.
“And she claimed to be Mr. Withers’s wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she appear to you to be of unsound mind?”
“No, sir.”
“You may stand aside.”
The magistrates conversed apart for a while, then one of their number
said,
“Will Mr. Withers be kind enough to step forward?”
The minister arose, and collecting and composing himself with an effort,
approached the table—all conversation was suspended—all eyes were fixed
upon him—he felt it.
“Will Mr. Withers oblige us by telling all he may know of this
unfortunate young person—of course we have no sort of right, _now_, to
ask it—we appeal to the courtesy of Mr. Withers to satisfy an interest
that we all feel in this most unfortunate young stranger?”
Mr. Withers bowed, and declared himself ready to answer any question
upon the subject.
“We have no intention or desire to subject Mr. Withers to a legal
examination,” said the first speaker, “we merely wished, that if it were
not unpleasant, Mr. Withers would oblige us by volunteering such
information as might be in his possession.”
“Is she your _wife_, Mr. Withers?” chucklingly inquired an old country
squire, who did not believe what he asked, but whom neither time, place,
nor circumstance could debar from his jest. “Is she your _wife_?”
“No, sir,” answered Mr. Withers, with dignity, “she is not my wife,
gentlemen. I _do_ know this young woman, have known her from a child;
her life for the last three years has been full of passion, sin,
suffering, and sorrow that eventuated in insanity, and has ended as you
may see in suicide. For the last year she has been my pensioner, and an
inmate of the —— lunatic asylum. A few months ago I was informed by
letter that she had escaped; yesterday evening I discovered that she was
in this neighborhood, by coming upon her suddenly while she was
conversing with Miss Churchill. I believe she followed me to this
neighborhood, yet at my approach she fled. That was last night, her body
was found this morning. This is all I have to tell, sirs.” He made a
ceremonious bow, and retired from the table. The company gathered in
groups to converse upon the singular event—the strange statement of the
wanderer, given in the evidence of Miss Churchill, was scarcely
noticed—just set down as the raving of a maniac. Withers approached
Sophie, and, stooping, hissed in her ear, “Most cruel girl! do you deem
what you have made me suffer? I have been stretched upon the rack, but
you—you—_you_ are piling up wrath against a day of wrath. Mark _that_,
Sophie Churchill!”
The poor girl, after her extraordinary effort, had relapsed into utter
languor, but she raised her languid eyes, and murmured,—
“I think _you_ are.”
He stopped, glanced around—no one was now observing him—stooped, and
said,
“What do you mean, Sophie? Do you think that I have ever wronged a hair
of that poor creature’s head? No, Sophie, no—no, as I hoped to be saved,
_never_!”
He moved away from Sophie, and going to Mrs. Green, said,
“My dear madam, I wish you to take Miss Churchill home with you this
evening, and keep her there for the next two weeks; her health is sadly
shaken by these exciting events. As for the school we must procure a
substitute, or it must for the present be disbanded. I will remain here
and attend to this interment.”
The company were getting into their saddles to depart. Mrs. May, Mrs.
Green, Lieutenant Wilde, and Mr. Withers, remained to tea.
The golden beams of the setting sun that were shining through the
foliage of the shade trees, making their leaves glisten like emeralds,
and falling upon the piazza, were somewhat intercepted by the figure of
Lieutenant Gusty as he walked up and down the piazza, ruminating to this
effect, “Shall I now, or shall I not? I wonder if it is too early. I
have known her only a short time, it is true, but then, how dearly I
love her, and how wisely, the regard of my excellent sister proves. I am
going away in a day, to stay three years; if I don’t speak now some one
else may speak before I have another chance.” The entrance of Sophie
from the house decided him by inspiring a sudden impulse. She had come
out, and not seeing him, walked slowly up to the further end of the
piazza, hung her head over the railing, and remained fixed in that
attitude. Gusty walked rapidly up to her, and then back, and then up
again, and then back. The third time approaching her, he said, while
standing behind her,—
“_Hem!_ Sophie, you _know_ you rather like me! and _I_ know it too,
because Emily says so. And _I_, Sophie—well, never mind about me! So,
Sophie, when I come back from sea again in three years from this, will
you—will you—will you _have_ me? Now consider the circumstances, and
don’t say, my own dear Sophie, that my proposal is _too soon_.”
“_It is too late—too late_, dear Gusty,” she said, turning round; her
eyes were fixed and despairing.
“Too late,” he echoed, looking stupidly at her.
“Too late,” she repeated; “I am betrothed. Even your sister—_my_ dear
sister Emily, thinks that there is no escape _now_. I have just had a
conversation with her.”
“You—you are betrothed—to—to _whom_?”
“You surely guess—to Mr. Withers.”
He walked up and down the piazza with folded arms, chin bowed upon his
bosom, eyes bent to the ground. At last he paused before her—bashfulness
was gone now.
“Look at me, Sophie! oh, my soul’s love, look at me!” She raised her
eyes to his fine countenance—he _had_ a fine countenance. Curls black,
silky, and shining, clustered around a brow fair, round, and polished as
a woman’s—his dark eyes, now full of Heaven’s own love and wisdom, were
bent upon hers.
“My own loved sister—my own heart’s darling, _we_ are betrothed. Oh,
believe it, Sophie!—believe it! _We_ are betrothed, Sophie! Listen! You
have never loved before?”
“_Never_, Gusty!”
“And mine also is a virgin heart; beyond a general kindliness of feeling
towards _all_ women, I have never loved before. Oh! Sophie, are _we_ not
betrothed by God himself? Break through this other engagement forced
upon you by circumstances, and give me your hand. Let us marry _this
evening_, Sophie, and let me leave you with my sister until I come
back—my own dear Sophie, _do this_. I would not for my soul’s salvation
do anything or advise you to anything wrong, but indeed, my Sophie, I
feel such a _right_ to you, such a _claim_ upon you, such a _property_
in you, that I should feel myself wronged and ruined by any one who
should wrest you from me.”
She gazed unconsciously, entranced, up to his pure clear brow—to her it
seemed the brow of an angel, and into his beautiful eyes, full of
earnest strength, half pleading, half commanding, fixed upon her own.
With an hysterical gasp and sob she fell forward; he caught her,
strained her to his bosom. Her form was convulsed with emotion, her
breast heaved strongly, heavily, and then her tears broke forth in
floods; she wept abundantly upon his bosom. At last her emotion
subsided. As the rain expends the clouds, clears the atmosphere, and
refreshes the face of nature, so do tears relieve the heart, clear the
brain, and renovate the system. Sophie’s emotion subsided, and then she
quietly rose and said,
“There, Gusty, it is over. Oh, my dear brother—_my brother_, let us be
calmly wise. We may meet in heaven, but here, upon this earth below, we
must never meet again, Gusty; we must never see each other’s face—hear
each other’s voice again.”
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of Emily, who came to tell
Sophie that Mrs. Green was preparing to go. Sophie extended her hand to
Augustus, who caught and pressed it to his lips. Then she re-entered the
house.
“No more of that, Augustus,” said Emily, “you must think of her no more;
she is to be married in nine days to Mr. Withers.”
The young man turned around hastily, and, with the occasional
impetuosity of his nature, replied,
“Think of her no more! Confound you, Emily! you talk as lightly, as
composedly, of thinking of her no more, as though you spoke of a new
coat—a visit. ‘Think of her no more!’ why, in the name of Heaven, did
you throw us together—tell me that?”
“Why? because I wished you to love and marry. Alas! I did not know,
though it was rumored in the neighborhood, that Withers seriously
thought of her, and could not have believed that they were engaged.” The
young man groaned. “You will get over this when you are once more at
sea. Come, Gusty, get up our horses, we must return home.”
Mrs. Green, with Miss Churchill and Mrs. May, attended by her brother,
left Heath Hall, and rode on to the point where three roads parted in
company. Then Emily and her brother rode up to the carriage door and
took leave. Augustus took Sophie’s hand in his own, their eyes met—their
_souls_ met, in one intense and agonizing gaze, and parted. He left the
neighborhood the next morning.