Charlemont; Or, The Pride of the Village Part 37

"Oh, yes! thankful, happy! Ah! Alfred, why did I distrust you for an instant?"

"Why, indeed! But you distrust me no longer--you have no more misgivings?"

"No, none!"

"You will be no longer cold, no longer coy, dear Margaret--here in the sweet evening, among these pleasant shades, love, alone, has supremacy.

Here, in the words of one of your favorites:--

"'Where transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a G.o.d--'"

concluding this quotation, he would have taken her in his embrace--he would have renewed those dangerous endearments which had already proved so fatal; but she repulsed the offered tenderness, firmly, but with gentleness.

"Margaret, you still doubt me," he exclaimed reproachfully.

"No, Alfred, I doubt you not. I believe you. I have only been too ready and willing to believe you. Ah! have you not had sufficient proof of this? Leave me the consciousness of virtue--the feeling of strength still to a.s.sert it, now that my eyes are open to my previous weakness."

"But there is no reason to be so cold. Remember you are mine by every tie of the heart--another day will make you wholly mine. Surely, there is no need for this frigid bearing. No, no! you doubt--you do not believe me, Margaret!"

"If I did not believe you, Alfred Stevens," she answered gravely, "my prayer would be for death, and I should find it. These woods which have witnessed my fault should have witnessed my expiation. The homes which have known me should know me no more."

The solemnity of her manner rather impressed him, but having no real regard for her, he was unwilling to be baffled in his true desires.

"If you doubt me not--if you have faith in me, Margaret, why this solemnity, this reserve? Prove to me, by your looks, by your actions, by the dear glances, the sweet murmurs, and the fond embrace, what these cold a.s.surances do not say."

His hand rested on her neck. She gently raised and removed it.

"I have already proved to you my weakness. I will now prove my strength.

It is better so, Alfred. If I have won your love, let me now command your esteem, or maintain what is left me of my own. Do not be angry with me if I insist upon it. I am resolute now to be worthy of you and of myself."

"Ah! you call this love?" said he bitterly. "If you ever loved, indeed, Margaret--"

"If I ever loved--and have I given you no proofs?" she exclaimed in a burst of pa.s.sion; "all the proofs that a woman can give, short of her blood; and that, Alfred Stevens--that too, I was prepared to give, had you not promptly a.s.sured me of your faith."

She drew a small dagger from her sleeve, and bared it beneath his glance.

"Think you I brought this without an object? No! Alfred Stevens--know me better! I came here prepared to die, as well as a frail and erring woman could be prepared. You disarmed the dagger. You subdued the determination when you bid me live for you. In your faith, I am willing to live. I believe you, and am resolved to make myself worthy of your belief also. I have promised to be your wife, and here before Heaven, I swear to be your faithful wife; but, until then, you shall presume in no respect. Your lip shall not touch mine; your arms shall not embrace me; you shall see, dear Alfred, that, with my eyes once opened fully upon my own weakness, I have acquired the most certain strength."

"Give me the dagger," he said.

She hesitated.

"You doubt me still?"

"No, no!" she exclaimed, handing him the weapon--"no, no! I do not doubt you--I dare not. Doubt you, Alfred?--that were death, even without the dagger!"

CHAPTER XXIX

BULL-PUPS IN TRAINING.

Alfred Stevens was sufficiently familiar with the s.e.x to perceive that Margaret Cooper was resolved. There was that in her look and manner which convinced him that she was not now to be overcome. There was no effort or constraint in either her looks or language. The composure of a.s.sured strength was there. The discovery of her weakness, which he had so unexpectedly made, had rendered her vigilant. Suspecting herself--which women are not apt to do--she became watchful, not only of the approach of her lover, but of every emotion of her own soul; and it was with a degree of chagrin which he could scarcely refrain from showing, that he was compelled to forego, at least for the present, all his usual arts of seduction.

Yet he knew not how to refrain. Never had Margaret Cooper seemed so lovely in his eyes, so commanding, so eloquent with beauty, as now, when remorse had touched her eyes with an unwonted shadow, and tears and night.w.a.tching had subdued the richer bloom upon her cheek. Proud still, but pensive in her pride, she walked silently beside him, still brooding over thoughts which she would not willingly admit were doubts, and grasping every word of a.s.surance that fell from his lips as if it had been some additional security.

These a.s.surances he still suffered to escape him, with sufficient frequency and solemnity, to confirm that feeling of confidence which his promise of marriage had inspired in her mind. There was a subdued fondness in his voice, and an EMPRESSMENT in his manner, which was not all practice. The character which Margaret Cooper had displayed in this last interview--her equal firmness and fear--the n.o.ble elevation of soul which, admitting her own errors, disdained to remind him of his--a course which would have been the most ready of adoption among the weaker and less generous of the s.e.x--had touched him with a degree of respect akin to admiration; and so strong was the impression made upon him of her great natural superiority of mind to almost all the women he had ever met, that, but for her one unhappy lapse, he had sought no other wife. Had she been strong at first as she proved herself at last, this had been inevitable.

When in his own chamber that night, he could not help recalling to his memory the proud elevation of her character as it had appeared in that interview. The recollection really gave him pain, since along with it arose the memory also of that unfortunate frailty, which became more prominent as a crime in connection with that intellectual merit which, it is erroneously a.s.sumed, should have made it sure.

"But for that, Margaret Cooper, and this marriage were no vain promise.

But that forbids. No, no--no spousals for me: let John Cross and the bride be ready or not, there shall be a party wanting to that contract!

And yet, what a woman to lose! what a woman to win! No tragedy queen ever bore herself like that. Talk of Siddons, indeed! SHE would have brought down the house in that sudden prostration--that pa.s.sionate appeal. She made even me tremble. I could have loved her for that, if for that only. To make ME tremble! and with such a look, such an eye, such a stern, sweet, fierce beauty! By Heavens! I know not how to give her up. What a sensation she would make in Frankfort! Were she my wife--but no, no! bait for gudgeons! I am not so great a fool as that.

She who is mine on my terms, is yours, sir, or yours--is anybody's, when the humor suits and the opportunity. I can not think of that. Yet, to lose her is as little to be thought of. I must manage it. I must get her off from this place. It need not be to Frankfort! Let me see--there is--hum!--hum!--yes, a ride of a few miles--an afternoon excursion--quite convenient, yet not too near. It must be managed; but, at all events, I must evade this marriage--put it off for the present--get some decent excuse. That's easy enough, and for the rest, why, time that softens all things, except man and woman, time will make that easy too. To-morrow for Ellisland, and the rest after."

Thus, resolving not to keep his vows to his unhappy victim, the criminal was yet devising plans by which to continue his power over her. These plans, yet immature in his own mind, at least unexpressed, need not be a.n.a.lyzed here, and may be conjectured by the reader.

That night, Stevens busied himself in preparing letters. Of these he wrote several. It will not further our progress to look over him as he writes; and we prefer rather, in this place, to hurry on events which, it may be the complaint of all parties, reader not omitted, have been too long suffered to stagnate. But we trust not. Let us hurry Stevens through Friday night--the night of that last interview.

Sat.u.r.day morning, we observe that his appet.i.te is unimpaired. He discusses the breakfast at Hinkley's as if he had never heard of suffering. He has said an unctuous grace. Biscuits hot, of best Ohio flour, are smoking on his plate. A golden-looking ma.s.s of best fresh b.u.t.ter is made to a.s.similate its luscious qualities with those of the drier and hotter substance. A copious bowl of milk, new from the dugs of old Brindle, stands beside him, patiently waiting to be honored by his unscrupulous but not unfastidious taste. The grace is said, and the gravy follows. He has a religious regard for the goods and gifts of this life. He eats heartily, and the thanks which follow, if not from the bottom of the soul, were sufficiently earnest to have emanated from the bottom of his stomach.

This over, he has a chat with his hosts. He discusses with old Hinkley the merits of the new lights. What these new lights were, at that period, we do not pretend to remember. Among sectarians, there are periodical new lights which singularly tend to increase the moral darkness. From these, after a while, they pa.s.sed to the love festivals or feasts--a pleasant practice of the methodist church, which is supposed to be very promotive of many other good things besides love; though we are constrained to say that Brother Stevens and Brother Hinkley--who, it may be remarked, had very long and stubborn arguments, frequently without discovering, till they reached the close, that they were thoroughly agreed in every respect except in words--concurred in the opinion that there was no portion of the church practice so highly conducive to the amalgamation of soul with soul, and all souls with G.o.d, as this very practice of love-feasts!

Being agreed on this and other subjects, Mr. Hinkley invited Brother Stevens out to look at his turnips and potatoes; and when this delicate inquiry was over, toward ten o'clock in the day, Brother Stevens concluded that he must take a gallop; he was dyspeptic, felt queerish, his studies were too close, his mind too busy with the great concerns of salvation. These are enough to give one dyspepsia. Of course, the hot rolls and mountains of volcanic b.u.t.ter--steam-ejecting--could have produced no such evil effects upon a laborer in the vineyard. At all events, a gallop was necessary, and the horse was brought. Brother Hinkley and our matronly sister of the same name watched the progress of the pious youth, as, spurring up the hills, he pursued the usual route, taking at first the broad highway leading to the eastern country.

There were other eyes that watched the departure of Brother Stevens with no less interest, but of another kind, than those of the venerable couple. Our excellent friend Calvert started up on hearing the tread of the horse, and, looking out from his porch, ascertained with some eagerness of glance that the rider was Alfred Stevens.

Now, why was the interest of Calvert so much greater on this than on any other previous occasion? We will tell you, gentle reader. He had been roused at an early hour that morning by a visit from Ned Hinkley.

"Gran'pa," was the reverent formula of our fisherman at beginning, "to-day's the day. I'm pretty certain that Stevens will be riding out to-day, for he missed the last Sat.u.r.day. I'll take my chance for it, therefore, and brush out ahead of him. I think I've got it pretty straight now, the place that he goes to, and I'll see if I can't get there soon enough to put myself in a comfortable fix, so as to see what's a-going on and what he goes after. Now, gran'pa, I'll tell you what I want from you--them pocket-pistols of your'n. Bill Hinkley carried off grandad's, and there's none besides that I can lay hold on."

"But, Ned, I'm afraid to lend them to you."

"What 'fraid of?"

"That you'll use them."

"To be sure I will, if there's any need, gran'pa. What do I get them for?"

"Ah, yes! but I fear you'll find a necessity where there is none. You'll be thrusting your head into some fray in which you may lose your ears."

"By Jupiter, no! No, gran'pa, I'll wait for the necessity. I won't look for it. I'm going straight ahead this time, and to one object only. I think Stevens is a rascal, and I'm bent to find him out. I've had no disposition to lick anybody but him, ever since he drove Bill Hinkley off--you and him together."