Arthur Mervyn Part 50

The preceding day had been a very sultry one: the night, as usual after such a day and the fall of a violent shower, was delightfully serene and pleasant. Where I stood was enlightened by the moon. Whether she saw me or not, I could hardly tell, or whether she distinguished any thing but a human figure.

Without reflecting on what was due to decorum and punctilio, I immediately drew near the house. I quickly perceived that her attention was fixed. Neither of us spoke, till I had placed myself directly under her; I then opened my lips, without knowing in what manner to address her. She spoke first, and in a startled and anxious voice:--

"Who is that?"

"Arthur Mervyn; he that was two days ago your friend."

"Mervyn! What is it that brings you here at this hour? What is the matter? What has happened? Is anybody sick?"

"All is safe; all are in good health."

"What then do you come hither for at such an hour?"

"I meant not to disturb you; I meant not to be seen."

"Good heavens! How you frighten me! What can be the reason of so strange----"

"Be not alarmed. I meant to hover near the house till morning, that I might see you as early as possible."

"For what purpose?"

"I will tell you when we meet, and let that be at five o'clock; the sun will then be risen; in the cedar-grove under the bank; till when, farewell."

Having said this, I prevented all expostulation, by turning the angle of the house, and hastening towards the sh.o.r.e of the river. I roved about the grove that I have mentioned. In one part of it is a rustic seat and table, shrouded by trees and shrubs, and an intervening eminence, from the view of those in the house. This I designed to be the closing scene of my destiny.

Presently I left this spot, and wandered upward through embarra.s.sed and obscure paths, starting forward or checking my pace, according as my wayward meditations governed me. Shall I describe my thoughts?

Impossible! It was certainly a temporary loss of reason; nothing less than madness could lead into such devious tracks, drag me down to so hopeless, helpless, panicful a depth, and drag me down so suddenly; lay waste, as at a signal, all my flourishing structures, and reduce them in a moment to a scene of confusion and horror.

What did I fear? What did I hope? What did I design? I cannot tell; my glooms were to retire with the night. The point to which every tumultuous feeling was linked was the coming interview with Achsa. That was the boundary of fluctuation and suspense. Here was the sealing and ratification of my doom.

I rent a pa.s.sage through the thicket, and struggled upward till I reached the edge of a considerable precipice; I laid me down at my length upon the rock, whose cold and hard surface I pressed with my bared and throbbing breast. I leaned over the edge; fixed my eyes upon the water and wept--plentifully; but why?

May _this_ be my heart's last beat, if I can tell why?

I had wandered so far from Stedman's, that, when roused by the light, I had some miles to walk before I could reach the place of meeting. Achsa was already there. I slid down the rock above, and appeared before her.

Well might she be startled at my wild and abrupt appearance.

I placed myself, without uttering a word, upon a seat opposite to her, the table between, and, crossing my arms upon the table, leaned my head upon them, while my face was turned towards and my eyes fixed upon hers.

I seemed to have lost the power and the inclination to speak.

She regarded me, at first, with anxious curiosity; after examining my looks, every emotion was swallowed up in terrified sorrow. "For G.o.d's sake!--what does all this mean? Why am I called to this place? What tidings, what fearful tidings, do you bring?"

I did not change my posture or speak. "What," she resumed, "could inspire all this woe? Keep me not in this suspense, Arthur; these looks and this silence shock and afflict me too much."

"Afflict you?" said I, at last; "I come to tell you what, now that I am here, I cannot tell----" There I stopped.

"Say what, I entreat you. You seem to be very unhappy--such a change--from yesterday!"

"Yes! From yesterday; all then was a joyous calm, and now all is--but then I knew not my infamy, my guilt----"

"What words are these, and from you, Arthur? Guilt is to you impossible.

If purity is to be found on earth, it is lodged in your heart. What have you done?"

"I have dared--how little you expect the extent of my daring! That such as I should look upwards with this ambition."

I stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat, looked earnestly in her face:--"I come only to beseech your pardon. To tell you my crime, and then disappear forever; but first let me see if there be any omen of forgiveness. Your looks--they are kind; heavenly; compa.s.sionate still. I will trust them, I believe; and yet" (letting go her hands, and turning away) "this offence is beyond the reach even of _your_ mercy."

"How beyond measure these words and this deportment distress me! Let me know the worst; I cannot bear to be thus perplexed."

"Why," said I, turning quickly round and again taking her hands, "that Mervyn, whom you have honoured and confided in, and blessed with your sweet regards, has been----"

"What has he been? Divinely amiable, heroic in his virtue, I am sure.

What else has he been?"

"This Mervyn has imagined, has dared--will you forgive him?"

"Forgive you what? Why don't you speak? Keep not my soul in this suspense."

"He has dared--But do not think that I am he. Continue to look as now, and reserve your killing glances, the vengeance of those eyes, as for one that is absent.----Why, what--you weep, then, at last. That is a propitious sign. When pity drops from the eyes of our judge, then should the suppliant approach. Now, in confidence of pardon, I will tell you; this Mervyn, not content with all you have hitherto granted him, has dared--to _love_ you; nay, to think of you as of _his wife_!"

Her eye sunk beneath mine, and, disengaging her hands, she covered her face with them.

"I see my fate," said I, in a tone of despair. "Too well did I predict the effect of this confession; but I will go--_and unforgiven_."

She now partly uncovered her face. The hand was withdrawn from her cheek, and stretched towards me. She looked at me.

"Arthur! I _do_ forgive thee."--With what accents was this uttered! With what looks! The cheek that was before pale with terror was now crimsoned over by a different emotion, and delight swam in her eye.

Could I mistake? My doubts, my new-born fears, made me tremble while I took the offered hand.

"Surely," faltered I, "I am not--I cannot be--so blessed."

There was no need of words. The hand that I held was sufficiently eloquent. She was still silent.

"Surely," said I, "my senses deceive me. A bliss like this cannot be reserved for me. Tell me once more--set my doubting heart at rest."

She now gave herself to my arms:--"I have not words--Let your own heart tell you, you have made your Achsa----"

At this moment, a voice from without (it was Miss Stedman's) called, "Mrs. Fielding! where are you?"

My friend started up, and, in a hasty voice, bade me begone. "You must not be seen by this giddy girl. Come hither this evening, as if by my appointment, and I will return with you."--She left me in a kind of trance. I was immovable. My reverie was too delicious;--but let me not attempt the picture. If I can convey no image of my state previous to this interview, my subsequent feelings are still more beyond the reach of my powers to describe.

Agreeably to the commands of my mistress, I hastened away, evading paths which might expose me to observation. I speedily made my friends partake of my joy, and pa.s.sed the day in a state of solemn but confused rapture.

I did not accurately portray the various parts of my felicity. The whole rushed upon my soul at once. My conceptions were too rapid and too comprehensive to be distinct.

I went to Stedman's in the evening. I found in the accents and looks of my Achsa new a.s.surances that all which had lately pa.s.sed was more than a dream. She made excuses for leaving the Stedmans sooner than ordinary, and was accompanied to the city by her friend. We dropped Mrs. Fielding at her own house, and thither, after accompanying Miss Stedman to her own home, I returned upon the wings of tremulous impatience.

Now could I repeat every word of every conversation that has since taken place between us; but why should I do that on paper? Indeed, it could not be done. All is of equal value, and all could not be comprised but in many volumes. There needs nothing more deeply to imprint it on my memory; and, while thus reviewing the past, I should be iniquitously neglecting the present. What is given to the pen would be taken from her; and that, indeed, would be--but no need of saying what it would be, since it is impossible.