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 recollections 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 every thing 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 Kentuckian capital,
and extends for a considerable distance in a westerly
direction. The dense gloom of these narrow vallies 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 rivetted 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 he 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 rivetted 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 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 recognized, 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 reins 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 opposing
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 rivetted 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 tonight, Gerald, but tomorrow
evening, at the same hour, be here: then our mutual hopes,
and fears, and doubts shall be then realized or
disappointed, as the event may show. Tomorrow 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 tomorrow," 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 wound 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 Gerald had remarked in outline,) in
which numerous lights were now visible, and her lover to
make the best of his way to the town.