Part 50 (1/2)

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 flouris.h.i.+ng 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----”