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 its 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
felicitation 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 uncommunicative,
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 humour 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 indeed 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 rattle snake, 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 elan, 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 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 chest. This was said
kindly, yet determinedly.
"Enough, Gerald," and his brother spoke in tones 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 upon 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, 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 a 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, moreover, 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, 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 tittered 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 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 head 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 to 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 forever; but not the less
devotedly do I love her. If, therefore, you would not
further 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.