Guy Rivers Part 47

Her appearance, however, only made him more a.s.siduously gentle and affectionate in the duties he had undertaken to perform. He approached her with the freedom of one warranted by circ.u.mstances in recognising in her person a relation next to the sweetest and the dearest in life. With the familiar regard of a brother, he took her hand, and, placing her beside him on the rude sofa of the humble parlor, he proceeded to those little inquiries after her health, and of those about her, which usually form the opening topics of all conversation. He proceeded then to remind her of that trying night, when, in defiance of female fears, and laudably regardless of those staid checks and restraints by which her s.e.x would conceal or defend its weaknesses, she had dared to save his life.

His manner, generally warm and eager, dilated something beyond its wont; and if ever grat.i.tude had yet its expression from human lips and in human language, it was poured forth at that moment from his into the ears of Lucy Munro.

And she felt its truth; she relied upon the uttered words of the speaker; and her eyes grew bright with a momentary kindling, her check flushed under his glance, while her heart, losing something of the chillness which had so recently oppressed it, felt lighter and less desolate in that abode of sadness and sweetness, the bosom in which it dwelt.

Yet, after all, when thought came again under the old aspect--when she remembered his situation and her own, she felt the shadow once more come over her with an icy influence. It was not grat.i.tude which her heart craved from that of Ralph Colleton. The praise and the approval and the thanks of others might have given her pleasure, but these were not enough from him; and she sighed that he from whom alone love would be precious, had nothing less frigid than grat.i.tude to offer. But even that was much, and she felt it deeply. His approbation was not a little to a spirit whose reference to him was perpetual; and when--her hand in his--he recounted the adventures of that night--when he dwelt upon her courage--upon her n.o.ble disregard of opinions which might have chilled in many of her s.e.x the fine natural currents of that G.o.dlike humanity which conventional forms, it is well to think, can not always fetter or abridge--when he expatiated upon all these things with all the fervor of his temperament--she with a due modesty, shrinking from the recital of her own performances--she felt every moment additional pleasure in his speech of praise. When, at length, relating the particulars of the escape and death of Munro, he proceeded, with all the tender caution of a brother, softening the sorrow into sadness, and plucking from grief as much of the sting as would else have caused the wound to rankle, she felt that though another might sway his heart and its richer affections, she was not altogether dest.i.tute of its consideration and its care.

"And now, Lucy--my sweet sister--for my sister you are now--you will accede to your uncle's prayer and mine--you will permit me to be your brother, and to provide for you as such. In this wild region it fits not that you should longer abide. This wilderness is uncongenial--it is foreign to a nature like yours. You have been too long its tenant--mingling with creatures not made for your a.s.sociation, none of whom are capable of appreciating your worth. You must come with us, and live with my uncle--with my cousin Edith--"

"Edith!"--and she looked inquiringly, while a slight flush of the cheek and kindling of the eye in him followed the utterance of the single word by her, and accompanied his reply.

"Yes, Edith--Edith Colleton, Lucy, is the name of my cousin, and the relationship will soon be something closer between us. You will love her, and she, I know, will love you as a sister, and as the preserver of one so very humble as myself. It was a night of danger when you first heard her name, and saw her features; and when you and she will converse over that night and its events, I feel satisfied that it will bring you both only the closer to one another."

"We will not talk of it farther, Mr. Colleton--I would not willingly hear of it again. It is enough that you are now free from all such danger--enough that all things promise well for the future. Let not any thought of past evil, or of risk successfully encountered, obscure the prospect--let no thought of me produce an emotion, hostile, even for a moment, to your peace."

"And why should you think, my sweet girl, and with an air of such profound sorrow, that such a thought must be productive of such an emotion. Why should the circ.u.mstances so happily terminating, though perilous at first, necessarily bring sorrow with remembrance. Surely you are now but exhibiting the sometimes coy perversity which is ascribed to your s.e.x. You are now, in a moment of calm, but a.s.suming those winning playfulnesses of a s.e.x, conscious of charm and power, which, in a time of danger, your more masculine thought had rejected as unbecoming. You forget, Lucy, that I have you in charge--that you are now my sister--that my promise to your departed uncle, not less than my own desire to that effect, makes me your guardian for the future--and that I am now come, hopeful of success, to take you with me to my own country, and to bring you acquainted with her--(I must keep no secret from you, who are my sister)--who has my heart--who--but you are sick, Lucy. What means this emotion?"

"Nothing, nothing, Mr. Colleton. A momentary weakness from my late indisposition--it will soon be over. Indeed, I am already well. Go on, sir--go on!"

"Lucy, why these t.i.tles? Why such formality? Speak to me as if I were the new friend, at least, if you will not behold in me an old one. I have received too much good service from you to permit of this constraint. Call me Ralph--or Colleton--or--or--nay, look not so coldly--why not call me your brother?"

"Brother--brother be it then, Ralph Colleton--brother--brother. G.o.d knows, I need a brother now!" and the ice of her manner was thawed quickly by his appeal, in which her accurate sense, sufficiently unclouded usually by her feelings, though themselves at all times strong, discovered only the honest earnestness of truth.

"Ah, now, you look--and now you are indeed my sister. Hear me, then, Lucy, and listen to all my plans. You have not seen Edith--my Edith now--you must be _her_ sister too. She is now, or will be soon, something nearer to me than a sister--she is something dearer already.

We shall immediately return to Carolina, and you will go along with us."

"It may not be, Ralph--I have determined otherwise. I will be your sister--as truly so as sister possibly could be--but I can not go with you. I have made other arrangements."

The youth looked up in astonishment. The manner of the maiden was very resolute, and he knew not what to understand. She proceeded, as she saw his amazement:--

"It may not be as you propose, Mr.--Ralph--my brother--circ.u.mstances have decreed another arrangement--another, and perhaps a less grateful destiny for me."

"But why, Lucy, if a less pleasant, or at least a doubtful arrangement, why yield to it--why reject my solicitation? What is the plan to which, I am sad to see, you so unhesitatingly give the preference?"

"Not unhesitatingly--not unhesitatingly, I a.s.sure you. I have thought upon it deeply and long, and the decision is that of my cooler thought and calmer judgment. It may be in a thousand respects a less grateful arrangement than that which you offer me; but, at least, it will want one circ.u.mstance which would couple itself with your plan, and which would alone prompt me to deny myself all its other advantages."

"And what is that one circ.u.mstance, dear Lucy, which affrights you so much? Let me know. What peculiarity of mine--what thoughtless impropriety--what a.s.sociation, which I may remove, thus prevents your acceptance of my offer, and that of Edith? Speak--spare me not in what you shall say--but let your thoughts have their due language, just as if you were--as indeed you are--my sister."

"Ask me not, Ralph. I may not utter it. It must not be whispered to myself, though I perpetually hear it. It is no impropriety--no peculiarity--no wrong thought or deed of yours, that occasions it. The evil is in me; and hence you can do nothing which can possibly change my determination."

"Strange, strange girl! What mystery is this? Where is now that feeling of confidence, which led you to comply with my prayer, and consider me as your brother? Why keep this matter from me--why withhold any particular, the knowledge of which might be productive of a remedy for all the difficulty."

"Never--never. The knowledge of it would be destructive of all beside.

It would be fatal--seek not, therefore, to know it--it would profit you nothing, and me it would crush for ever to the earth. Hear me, Ralph--my brother!--hear me. Hitherto you have known me--I am proud to think--as a strong-minded woman, heedless of all things in her desire for the good--for the right. In a moment of peril to you or to another, I would be the same woman. But the strength which supports through the trial, subsides when it is over. The ship that battles with the storms and the seas, with something like a kindred buoyancy, goes down with the calm that follows their violence. It is so with me. I could do much--much more than woman generally--in the day of trial, but I am the weakest of my s.e.x when it is over. Would you have the secret of these weaknesses in your possession, when you must know that the very consciousness, that it is beyond my own control, must be fatal to that pride of s.e.x which, perhaps, only sustains me now? Ask me not further, Ralph, on this subject. I can tell you nothing; I _will_ tell you nothing; and to press me farther must only be to estrange me the more. It is sufficient that I call you brother--that I pledge myself to love you as a sister--as sister never loved brother before. This is as much as I can do, Ralph Colleton--is it not enough?"

The youth tried numberless arguments and entreaties, but in vain to shake her purpose; and the sorrowful expression of his voice and manner, not less than of his language, sufficiently a.s.sured her of the deep mortification which he felt upon her denial. She soothed his spirit with a gentleness peculiarly her own, and, as if she had satisfied herself that she had done enough for the delicacy of her scruples in one leading consideration, she took care that her whole manner should be that of the most confiding and sisterly regard. She even endeavored to be cheerful, seeing that her companion, with her unlooked-for denial, had lost all his elasticity; but without doing much to efface from his countenance the traces of dissatisfaction.

"And what are your plans, Lucy? Let me know them, at least. Let mo see how far they are likely to be grateful to your character, and to make you happy."

"Happy! happy!" and she uttered but the two words, with a brief interval between them, while her voice trembled, and the gathering suffusion in her large and thickly-fringed blue eyes attested, more than anything besides, the prevailing weakness of which she had spoken.

"Ay, happy, Lucy! That is the word. You must not be permitted to choose a lot in life, in which the chances are not in favor of your happiness."

"I look not for that now, Ralph," was her reply, and with such hopeless despondency visible in her face as she spoke, that, with a deeper interest, taking her hand, he again urged the request she had already so recently denied.

"And why not, my sweet sister? Why should you not antic.i.p.ate happiness as well as the rest of us? Who has a better right to happiness than the young, the gentle, the beautiful, the good?--and you are all of these, Lucy! You have the charms--the richer and more lasting charms--which, in the reflective mind, must always awaken admiration! You have animation, talent, various and active--sentiment, the growth of truth, propriety, and a lofty aim--no flippancy, no weak vanity--and a gentle beauty, that woos while it warms."

Her face became very grave, as she drew back from him.

"Nay, my sweet Lucy! why do you repulse me? I speak nothing but the truth."

"You mock me!--I pray you, mock me not. I have suffered much, Mr.

Colleton--very much, in the few last years of my life, from the sneer, and the scorn, and the control of others! But I have been taught to hope for different treatment, and a far gentler estimate. It is ill in you to take up the speech of smaller spirits, and when the sufferer is one so weak, so poor, so very wretched as I am now! I had not looked for such scorn from you!"

Ralph was confounded. Was this caprice? He had never seen any proof of the presence of such an infirmity in her. And yet, how could he account for those strange words--that manner so full of offended pride? What had he been saying? How had she misconceived him? He took her hand earnestly in his own. She would have withdrawn it; but no!--he held it fast, and looked pleadingly into her face, as he replied:--

"Surely, Lucy, you do me wrong! How could you think that I would design to give you pain? Do you really estimate me by so low a standard, that my voice, when it speaks in praise and homage, is held to be the voice of vulgar flattery, and designing falsehood?"

"Oh, no, Ralph! not that--anything but that!"

"That I should sneer at _you_, Lucy--feel or utter scorn--_you_, to whom I owe so much! Have I then been usually so flippant of speech--a trifler--when we have spoken together before?--the self-a.s.sured fopling, with fancied superiority, seeking to impose upon the vain spirit and the simple confidence? Surely, I have never given you cause to think of me so meanly!"

"No! no! forgive me! I know not what I have said! I meant nothing so unkind--so unjust!"

"Lucy, your esteem is one of my most precious desires. To secure it, I would do much--strive earnestly--make many sacrifices of self.

Certainly, for this object, I should be always truthful."

"You are, Ralph! I believe you."

"When I praised you, I did not mean merely to praise. I sought rather to awaken you to a just appreciation of your own claims upon a higher order of society than that which you can possibly find in this frontier region. I have spoken only the simple truth of your charms and accomplishments. I have _felt_ them, Lucy, and paint them only as they are. Your beauties of mind and person--"

"Oh, do not, I implore you!"

"Yes, I must, Lucy! though of these beauties I should not have spoken--should not now speak--were it not that I feel sure that your superior understanding would enable you to listen calmly to a voice, speaking from my heart to yours, and speaking nothing but a truth which it honestly believes! And it is your own despondency, and humility of soul, that prompts me thus to speak in your praise. There is no good reason, Lucy, why you should not be happy--why fond hearts should not be rejoiced to win your sympathies--why fond eyes should not look gladly and gratefully for the smiles of yours! You carry treasures into society, Lucy, which society will everywhere value as beyond price!"

"Ah! why will you, sir--why, Ralph?--"

"You must not sacrifice yourself, Lucy. You must not defraud society of its rights. In a more refined circle, whose chances of happiness will be more likely to command than yours? You must go with me and Edith--go to Carolina. There you will find the proper homage. You will see the generous and the n.o.ble;--they will seek you--honorable gentlemen, proud of your favor, happy in your smiles--glad to offer you homes and hearts, such as shall be not unworthy of your own."

The girl heard him, but with no strengthening of self-confidence. The thought which occurred to her, which spoke of her claims, was that _he_ had not found them so coercive. But, of course, she did not breathe the sentiment. She only sighed, and shook her head mournfully; replying, after a brief pause:--

"I must not hear you, Ralph. I thank you, I thank Miss Colleton, for the kindness of this invitation, but I dare not accept it. I can not go with you to Carolina. My lot is here with my aunt, or where she goes. I must not desert her. She is now even more dest.i.tute than myself."

"Impossible! Why, Lucy, your aunt tells me that she means to continue in this establishment. How can you reconcile it to yourself to remain here, with the peril of encountering the a.s.sociations, such as we have already known them, which seem naturally to belong to such a border region."

"You forget, Ralph, that it was here I met with you," was the sudden reply, with a faint smile upon her lips.

"Yes; and I was driven here--by a fate, against my will--that we _should_ meet, Lucy. But though we are both here, now, the region is unseemly to both, and neither need remain an hour longer than it is agreeable. Why should you remain out of your sphere, and exposed to every sort of humiliating peril."