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BE AUCIIAMPE ; 
 
 OK. 
 
 THE KENTUCKY TRAGEDY. 
 
 A SEQUEL TO CHAKLEMONT. 
 BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF &quot;THE PARTISAN,&quot; &quot;MELLICHAMPE,&quot; &quot;KATHARINE w ALIGN,&quot; 
 
 &quot;THE FORAYERS,&quot; &quot;THE SCOUT, 1 &quot;WOODCRAFT,&quot; &quot;GUV RIVERS,&quot; ETC. 
 
 &quot; Maid of LuJan,&quot; said FinjraJ, &quot;white-handed daughter of Grief ! a cloud, 
 marked with streaks of fire, is rolled along thy soul. Look not to timt dark- 
 robed moon; look not to those mereors of Heaven. My gleaming steel is 
 around thee, the terror of thy foes.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I rose, like a stalking 1 ghost. I pierced the side of Corman-trunas. Nor 
 did Forma iiragiU escape. She rolled her white bosom in blood. Why, 
 then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my rage/&quot; OSSIAN. Cath. Loda. 
 
 to and JRe&iged Cdiiion, 
 
 DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY& CO, 
 
 407-425 DEARBORN STREET 
 
DONOHUE & HENNEBERRY, 
 
 PRINTERS AND BINDKRS, 
 
In compliance with current copyright 
 
 law, U. C. Library Bindery produced 
 
 this replacement volume on paper 
 
 that meets ANSI Standard Z39.48- 
 
 1 984 to replace the irreparably 
 
 deteriorated original 
 
 2001 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 &quot; BEAUCHAMPE ; or the Kentucky Tragedy,&quot; is the sequel 
 to the story of &quot; Charlcmont.&quot; The story supposes some 
 little interval of time between its opening, and the close of 
 its predecessor. The connection between the two is suffi 
 ciently intimate, though the sequel introduces us to new 
 persons the hero among them who do not figure in the 
 first publication. I do not know that anything farther n^cd 
 be added by way of explanation. In regard to moral and 
 social characteristics, the preface to &quot; Charlciuont&quot; will 
 suffice. A few words, perhaps, in regard to the materiel, 
 may not be amiss in the present connection, to prevent inis- 
 ta*ces, and savo the critic from that error, which he occa 
 sionally makes, of substituting his own point of view for that 
 of the author an error which usually results in a mere game 
 or cross purposes between the parties, which is profitable 
 to neither. The reader may find or fancy some occasional 
 difterences of fact and inference, date, plac, and period, 
 between this and other narratives relating to Beauchampe, 
 and the famous Kentucky tragedy of which he was the un 
 happy hero. But, as a man of sagacity, he will naturally 
 discard all bias derived from any previous reading, in 
 
8 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 deference to that which is now submitted him. Ours, as 
 the language of the quack advertisements, is the only gen 
 nine article. We alone hare gone to the fountain head for 
 our materials. We have good authority for all that is here 
 given. We can place our hand on the record at any mo 
 ment, and we defy all skepticism. Newspapers are lying 
 things at best ihey have told sundry fibs on this very 
 subject. Pamphlets and our melancholy history has in 
 duced several are scarcely better as authorities; even 
 the dusty files of the court should make nothing against the 
 truth of our statements where they happen to differ. At 
 all events, the good reader may be assured that our disa 
 greements are not substantial. They affect none of the 
 vital truths of the narrative. We agree in all wholesome 
 aspects. Our morals are the same our results very near 
 ly so ; and if we have made a longer story of the matter 
 than they have done, it only proves that we had so muca 
 more to say. We need say no more by way of preparative, 
 and we forbear saying anything by way of provocative. 
 Fall to and welcome ! The fare is solid enough, and, as 
 for the spices and the dressing say nothing in disparage 
 ment of these, if you would not incur the maledictions of 
 the cook. W r e Anglicise in this sentence a homely proverb, 
 which would scarcely tell so well in the original. 
 
BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE RUINED HAMLET. 
 
 TIME docs not move with the less rapidity because his 
 progress is so insensible. His wings may be compared to 
 those of the owl and other birds who fly by night. Their 
 feathers are fined off to such exquisitely-delicate points, 
 that they steal silently through the air, as swiftly as stealth 
 ily, and strike their object without alarming it. So with 
 that &quot; subtle thief&quot; whom men personify as Time. He 
 moves like the pestilence, without beat of drum, without 
 pomp of banners, with no pageantry of state or terror 
 which might warn the victim to prepare his defences. He 
 fans us to sleep as the fabled vampire, with dark wing 
 slowly waving over our slumbers, while his sharp tooth is 
 penetrating the vital places in our bosoms. 
 
 Five years have elapsed since the period of those melan 
 choly events, which furnished us with the materials for our 
 village-chronicle of &quot; Charlemont.&quot; The reader of that 
 legend will not require that we should remind him of its 
 sorrowful details. Enough that we tell him that its inhab 
 Hants are all dispersed scattered variously in remote re 
 gions some silent in the grave all changed; all under 
 going change ; and that the village itself is a ruin ! Tho 
 
 1* 
 
 i r* f* *~ ** ^ 
 L boo On 
 
10 
 
 vicissitudes of life have told in various ways upon all the 
 parties to our former story. Some of them have been kept 
 wretched ; others, made so ; while others again, have held 
 a sensible progress onward, upward to prosperity and 
 honorable distinction. Perhaps, we shall gather something 
 more definite on this head from the discourse of the two 
 travellers, whom we behold alighting from their horses, and 
 seating themselves upon one of the hills by which the val 
 ley of Charlemont is overlooked. 
 
 Here, on this very spot, more than five years before, two 
 other travellers had paused to survey the natural beauties 
 of tlie village, and to feast their eyes upon the rural aspect 
 of its innocent society. At that period, it was compara 
 tively innocent. There was peace within its borders, and 
 Plenty sat beside its winter fires, fully solaced by Content. 
 But the gaze of those two travellers brought blight upon 
 several of its sweetest homes. One of the two. a good old 
 man, went on his way, dreaming with delight upon the 
 simple beauties and felicities of the little hamlet. He little 
 dreamed that the other, his favorite nephew, had surveyed 
 it with far less loving, yet more rapacious eyes that he 
 would steal back, alone, in disguise, and penetrate the little 
 sanctuary of peace, hiding among its flowers, as a serpent, 
 arid leaving taint in the place of innocence. The reptile s 
 mission was successful. The home was polluted, the hope 
 destroyed, and the little village was no longer the abode of 
 peace or happiness. Now we see that it is in ruins that 
 it is deserted of its people that its old familiar homes c*re 
 solitary, and sinking fast into decay. .We may not say that 
 all this melancholy change was the fruit of this serpent s 
 *-isit, but who shall say that it was not ? Who shall meas 
 ure the suffering and loss to a little rustic hamlet from the 
 shame and sorrow which defile and degrade one of its 
 favorite families. The shadow upon one sweet cottage- 
 home casts a darkening atmosphere, in some degree over 
 all around it, and lessens the charm which was once enjoyod 
 
THE RUINED HAMLET. 11 
 
 by all iii common, and takes from the beauty of the general 
 landscape. &quot;Where the resources of society are drawn from 
 natural and simple causes, we all share in the loss which 
 proves fatal only to the single individual. 
 
 But, in place of the two former travellers, whose inaus 
 picious gaze was thus full of mischief to the universal beau 
 ties of Charlcmont, we see two very different persons. They 
 occupy the same point of survey ; they both gaze from the 
 same eminence which erewhile unfolded the charm of a 
 most lovely landscape.- One of these strangers, as in the 
 former instance, is a tall, finely-built, noble-looking old 
 gentleman, whose white head declares him to be fast ap 
 proaching the ordinary limits of the natural life. He was 
 between sixty and seventy years of age, though you would 
 arrive at this conclusion chiefly from the snowy whiteness 
 of his hair, and the serene benevolence of his countenance, 
 showing tlitit the more violent passions were now wholly 
 overcome, and not from any appearance of decrepitude. 
 On the contrary, his bearing is that of a man still vigorous 
 in bone and muscle. lie carries himself erectly, alights 
 promptly from his steed, with the freedom and ease of the 
 practised hunter, and there is still, in his movement, tho 
 evidence of very considerable physical power, if not of en 
 ergy. His eye is still of a bright and earnest blue ; his 
 cheeks are but little wrinkled, nowhere much seared by 
 either suffering or time, and the ruddy hue which clothes 
 them declare equally for health and vigor. 
 
 His companion is a young man who might be twenty-five 
 or thereabouts. In respect to frame, size, bearing, he might 
 be the son of the former. He is of noble figure and stat- 
 -ure, of firm, dignified, and easy carriage, and wears a fine, 
 frank expression of countenance. The face, though with 
 out one feature like that of the senior, is also quite a hand 
 some one, marked with great serenity, though of a gravity 
 which seemed to declare the presence of emotions of a 
 nature much more serious than any of those which are 
 
12 BKAUCHAMPK. 
 
 caused by thought and study. Though full of intelligence 
 and a fine spirit, the expression is shadowed by a look of 
 Badness approaching to melancholy. There is a fixedness 
 and depth in his eyes an intensity of gaze which pene 
 trates you with a sense of suffering and mystery ; suffering 
 which has been overcome, but which has left its traces, as, 
 the fire which has been extinguished, yet leaves the scorch 
 ing proofs of its wing upon the roof and sides of the bright 
 dwelling over which it once has swept. His mouth, in its 
 rather close compression, confirms the story of his eyes, 
 and the beauty of the well-cut lips is somewhat impaired 
 by the sternness resulting from this additional evidence of 
 trial, and vexing passions. The mystery which you see 
 written in the young man s visage is one that invites to the 
 study of that character, which a single glance persuades 
 you must be worthy of examination. His movements are 
 deliberate, his voice is low in tone, quiet, gentle, musical, 
 yet capable of great and sonorous utterance. There is no 
 sign of feebleness or indecision of purpose in the move 
 ments which are yet slow. On the contrary, every step 
 which he takes is significant of strength of powers that 
 only wait the proper motive, or the sufficient provocation, 
 to declare themselves with commanding, and even startling 
 effect. As he stands awhile, after fastening the two horses 
 in the thicket, and leaning slightly forward, gazes down 
 intently upon the valley slope, dotted with the decaying 
 cottages, you read in his look and action a further secret 
 in which you conjecture a something, which links the fate 
 of the lonely hamlet with his own fortunes, and confirms, 
 with a deeper meaning, the sorrowful thought, and sadden 
 ing memories, which loom out, darkly bright, in all the 
 lines of his strongly-expressive countenance. 
 
 The old man is already seated upon the cliff and looking 
 forth in silence. The young one joins him with quiet move 
 ment, and takes his seat beside him. And thus they sat 
 together, for some time, without speaking. It would seem 
 
THE RUINED HAMLET. 13 
 
 as if they enjoyed a communion of thought and sympathy 
 -^-that neither needed to speak of reminiscences which were 
 cherished in equal degree by both, and that, whatever 
 the cause of melancholy reflection, it was shared between 
 them. 
 
 A considerable interval of time, speaking comparatively, 
 wa: thus yielded up in silence, to sad if not bitter thought. 
 At length the old man said : 
 
 &quot; We are here, again, William. It is the same, yet not 
 the same. Nature is ever young. Trees, rocks, hills, val 
 leys these rarely change. Here, without a single com 
 panion, as of old! yet how many of our old companions are 
 about us. I feel the former life, if not the ancient feelings. 
 Yet what a change. And five years have done it all ! 
 What a brief period ! Yet, what an eternity !&quot; 
 
 The other did not immediately answer. When he did, he 
 said musingly : 
 
 &quot; I see no sign of human life. I doubt if there be a 
 single inhabitant left.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Indeed, it looks as if there were none. How strange 
 is it, that, feeling with the place as we both did, and do, we 
 should have so entirely forborne to keep up any communi 
 cation with it. We know not a syllable of the occasion of 
 these changes. How strange that they should have been 
 so altered ! Can there have been any epidemic here ? I 
 have heard of none. The village was always healthy. 
 The place is sweet and beautiful. The people were mostly 
 in good circumstances, had few wants which they could not 
 satisfy, and seemed happy enough and contented enough in 
 these abodes. What was the sad necessity, what the vex 
 ing appetite which prompted their abandonment. Shall we 
 descend into the valley and inquire further ? It may be 
 that we shall find some lingering occupant in some one of 
 the farther cottages. These are evidently abandoned. 
 What say you, William ? Shall we feel our way once more 
 along the old familiar places ?&quot; 
 
14 HEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Ah ! sir, with what reason ? Shall we behold anything 
 more grateful in a nearer approach. Here, it seems to me, 
 we can behold enough for melancholy thought ; and none 
 other can we borrow from the associations with this place. 
 You see yonder the ruins of my father s house. It has 
 evidently been destroyed by fire the work, no doubt, of 
 come passing incendiary. Yet, among these ruins, I first 
 flrew the breath of life; there, I first enjoyed delicious 
 hopes, which the same house saw blasted. My father and 
 mother are wanderers in the far south, and I had aban 
 doned them. I would see no more. I wonder at the 
 strange anxiety which has prompted me to seek thus much ; 
 to come hither, after so long an interval, merely to behold 
 a ruin ! I might have known that I should gain nothing 
 from such a survey, but the resurrection of mocking dreams, 
 and delusive fancies, and foolish hopes upon which, as 
 upon this little hamlet we may write nothing but the one 
 Tord ruin !&quot; 
 
 A big tear stood in the young man s eye a single drop 
 --the outburst of emotions that even manhood, filled with 
 noble ardor, and moved by great energies, could not utterly 
 repress. And again a deep silence, for a while, succeeded 
 to this brief dialogue. At length, the old man laughed 
 with a subdued chuckle mixed mirth and melancholy. 
 
 &quot; Strange, William, that the hovjel should so frequently 
 outlast the stately hall and tower. Such is the process by 
 which Time mocks at pride. Look, where my old school 
 hci,sc stands as it did five years ago. There you see the 
 roof, almost black with age, glooming out beneath the she! 
 t2r of green trees. My favorite oaks, William, still stride 
 about, like ancient patriarchs, spreading great arms as in 
 benediction. Ah ! I could embrace them, every one, with 
 the feeling of a son or brother ! How much do they recall ! 
 It vas under their shade that we brooded over the chroni 
 cles of old Ycrtot and Froissart together. They have 
 g^own together in uy mind with these old chronicles, and 
 
THE RUINED HAMLET. 15 
 
 I could fancy the knights of the temple and the hospital all 
 pleasantly encamped beneath their friendly shelter.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Row strange, sir, that the imagination should thus 
 speak out with you, rather than with me. The sight of 
 that wild retreat for our rustic muses brings me other 
 images and aspects, which appeal only to the affections. 
 My fancies, at the sight, bring me glimpses of boyish forms, 
 that leap and run along beneath the shadows. Instead of 
 the trumpets of chivalry, I hear only the merry shouts of 
 boyhood, such as made this little valley ring with the gen 
 uine music of the heart in those happy, happy days.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Music ! ah ! my dear boy, I little thought it so, 
 when they made my ears ring too, with clamors, which 
 made me pray, a thousand times, for the dreamy and sad 
 silence, such as the scene affords us now. That I should 
 now feel this silence so painfully oppressive, is more pro 
 foundly in proof than any other sign, of the terrible char 
 acter of the human change which the passing time has 
 brought. Where are all these merry children now ? The 
 memory of those clamorous shouts, and that happy uproar 
 of boyhood, comes now with a sensible pleasure to my 
 heart, and arouses it with a delicious thrill. And I, who 
 bemoaned the fate which fettered me so long in this obscure 
 hamlet dead to the world, and wholly unfruitful even I 
 could be persuaded to entreat of Heaven that the season 
 might return once more. I was not sufficiently grateful, 
 my son, for the peace with all its boy-clamors of that 
 rustic solitude. Now, that all is gone, and all is ruin 
 which I see, I feel, for the first time, how very precious aid 
 beautiful was it all.&quot; 
 
 &quot;You have made all this sacrifice for me, my father!&quot; 
 said the young man, while his hand rested fondly upon the 
 arm of the other. 
 
 &quot; It was fit I should, William ; and you have more than 
 requited me, my son. But, in truth, there was no sacrifice. 
 There was need of change for me as for you. My owr 
 
16 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 heart required it. I had grown a discontent. This unper 
 forming life of simple peace and rustic content, is not to 
 be allowed to those who have burning thoughts in their 
 brains, and earnest desires in their hearts. It is for such, 
 only to snatch moments of this sort of life, as it were, for 
 rest and refreshment after toils, and that the} may recover 
 strength for new fields of wrestle, and trial, arid perform 
 ance. I had &quot;lived in it too long. I was rapidly sinking 
 into all sorts of unbecoming dotages. I have grown 
 stronger, and wiser, and better, from the change. I do not 
 deplore it, though I may look with sorrow over the mourn 
 ful ruins of the once familiar and favorite retreat. It is, 
 indeed, a melancholy spectacle.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And how very strange that so short a period should 
 destroy every vestige of the life and pleasure of the place !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Shall we wonder, when we see how brief a term is 
 needed here to substitute desolation for life, that the great 
 cities of the past should leave so few vestiges that the 
 very sites of so many should be forgotten ? Were we now to 
 descend among the old thoroughfares, we should possibly 
 lose our way, familiar .as was once the path we should 
 find ourselves wondering at the decreased or increased 
 length of distances, at the great size or the smallness of 
 places, the measure of which seems to have been taken on 
 our very hearts. We never think of the change in our 
 selves !&quot; 
 
 &quot; But the fate of the place is still so very curious a mys 
 tery. One would think, from what we knew, that every 
 day would only contribute to its utility, and growth, and 
 beauty. Here were health, security, sweetness, innocence 
 every possible charm all that should make a village 
 dear to its inhabitants.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ah! my son, but its inhabitants lacked the all-in-all, 
 content. You, for example, to whom this peaceful dell was 
 so beautiful, you were one of the first to leave it.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Yes! But not willingly. I was expelled from it by 
 
THE RUINED HAMLET. 17 
 
 cruel necessities, by a harsh and brutal fate. It was with 
 no exulting desire that I left its sacred abodes. They 
 refused any longer to entertain me. I was driven ruth 
 lessly from the sanctuary which denied me refuge any 
 longer.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And I am one of those who rejoice that you were so 
 driven. The necessity which expelled you from the sanc 
 tuary was the mother of a glorious future. It brought out 
 the manhood that was in you. It taught you to know yo .r 
 strength and muscle forced you to their exercise, and 
 will crown your name with honor !&quot; 
 
 &quot; And yet, sir, I would gladly exchange all that I am 
 all that I hope to be for the restoration of that hope and 
 home of boyhood, which I was thus driven to abandon.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, Willie, you would not. This is only the sentiment 
 of a passing mood, which you will not rationally seek to 
 encourage. It is better as it is ! You arc better as you 
 are ; and, to-morrow, when you return to your duties, your 
 performances the toils you have grappled with so man 
 fullythe field into which you have so nobly sunk the 
 shaft you will feel how idle is the sentiment which seems 
 so natural to you now. If this was the scene of your boy 
 ish sports and hopes, my son, you are not to forget that it 
 was also the scene of your disappointments your sorrows 
 your first strifes your bitter humiliations ! Would you 
 go over that period of doubt, and strife, and scorn, and 
 chame ? Would you feel anew the pang of denial tin 
 defeat and disappointment of every youthful hope ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do not do not remind me ! It is as you say ! And 
 yet, sir, returning to the subject with which \ve began, how 
 strange that all should have abandoned the village. I was 
 the only involuntary exile. I was the only one whom the 
 fates seemed resolute to expel. Why should they fly also, 
 aad so soon after me ? Where should my poor old father, 
 John Hinkley, and my mother, for example, find the motive 
 for leaving the home where they had so long dwelt happily, 
 
18 BEAUCffAMPE. 
 
 and, in tlic decline of life, why seek an abode upon the 
 Choctaw borders ? It could not be the love of gain ; they 
 had enough !&quot; 
 
 &quot; You forget that your father had become something of a 
 monomaniac. He followed the ministry of John Cross. 
 Your departure, too, my son, had probably something to do 
 with it. His stubborn pride of heart naturally kept him 
 from making any admissions ; but I have no doubt he felt 
 keenly the wrong that he had done you. The discovery of 
 the true character of Alfred Stevens must have done a great 
 deal toward disabusing him of his superstitions for they 
 were superstitions really in respect to both of you. What 
 does your mother -say in her last letter ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; They are well ; but she mentions, particula:ly, that my 
 father never mentions my name, and avoids the subject.&quot; 
 
 &quot; A proof that he broods upon it, and with no self-satis 
 faction. Your departure, his, and that of the Coopers, are 
 easily accounted for ; and did we know the secret history 
 of all the other villagers their small, sweet, deceptive 
 hopes ; each man s petty calculations, and petty projects 
 all grounded in some vexing little discontent; there would 
 be no difficulty, I f^ncy, in finding sufficient reasons, or at 
 least motives, for the flight of all.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Still, sir, there seems to be a fate in it !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why, yes ; if by this word. Fate, you mean a ProTi- 
 dence. I have no doubt that these sparrows arc all, in. 
 some degree, the care of Providence ; and, whether they 
 fall or fly, the omniscient eye sees, and the omnipresent 
 finger points. Your error, perhaps, lies in the very natural 
 assumption that mere place, itself, becomes an essential of 
 humanity. These wandering hearts do not cease to beat 
 with hope, because they no longer beat in the cottage of 
 their boyhood. Their limbs do ^ot cease to labor, nor their 
 minds to think, because they break ground and plant stakes 
 in remote forests of the south and west. Mere locality is, 
 after all, a very small consideration, in any question of thQ 
 
flili liUIXLD HA. \ILKT 19 
 
 interests of humanity. It is the man tha. makes the place 
 what it is or should be !&quot; 
 
 &quot; I am inclined to think, sir, that we something under 
 value the social importance of place. A population losed 
 something of its moral when it wanders. It substitutes a 
 savage wildness for domestic virtues.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Granted ! For a time this is certainly the case. But, 
 on the other hand, an old locality is liable to suffer from 
 the worse evil of moral stagnation ; and the euro of this 
 demands the thunder-storm. The extreme conditions usu 
 ally work out precisely the same consequences in the end ; 
 and, in the case of society, the locality is altogether a sub 
 ordinate condition. My old trees, there, were very grate 
 ful to both of us ; but I became an imbecile under them, in 
 the enjoyment of the dolce far niente that luxury which 
 has destroyed the very nation from whom we borrow the 
 phrase ! And the same delightful condition of wow-perform 
 ance, continued for five years, would have ruined you, also, 
 for any career of usefulness and manhood. And this 
 would have been a crime, my son, as well as a shame. 
 Neither you nor I, believe me, were designed for the sla 
 vish employment however sweet 
 
 &quot; To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
 Or with the tangles of Neiera s hair.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I know not, sir, I know not! Fame is something 
 something charming and fascinating having its uses no 
 doubt ; and designed for the natural and gradual elevation 
 of the race as well as individual. But the heart ought not 
 to be sacrificed for the brain the sensibilities and affec- 
 tions for the genius. There should be a life for each, for 
 all ; and to surrender the one up entirely to the other, 
 works dismay in the soul, and decay in the sympathies, and 
 leaves ashes only upon the hearth of home !&quot; 
 
 &quot; But why the sacrifice of either, my son ? Who says 
 surrender the affections to the genius sacrifice the heart 
 
20 BAUCHA.MPE. 
 
 to the brain ! It is not the counsel of Milton. It is far 
 from my wish that you should do so. Nourish both. The 
 heart, in fact, the sensibilities, are the absolute necessities 
 of genius. The brain, so far from demanding the annihila 
 tion of the affections and sympathies, actually draws con 
 stant food from their abundant sources, by which its own 
 strength and vitality are cherished for performance. No 
 intellect is in perfect symmetry unless it maintains a con 
 stant intercourse with the warmest human affections. It is 
 altogether a mistake to suppose that they can maintain a 
 separate existence, or that one can preserve its integrity 
 without due co-operation with the other. The most healthy 
 genius is that which never surrenders its humanity, ll 
 may suffer disappointment nay, agony but it is in the 
 very moment of the heart s worst sufferings that the intel 
 lect is most needed, and it furnishes adequate help for sup 
 port and relief, provided the training of both has been com 
 mensurate to their mutual wants and necessities.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! my dear sir,&quot; said the younger shaking his head 
 mournfully &quot;you forget my fortunes.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do I ? No, indeed ! I repeat, my son, that your for 
 tunes have been equally beneficial to your head and your 
 heart. You mistake, altogether, when you confound a dis 
 appointment the defeat and denial of a boyish hope-- 
 with the annihilation of the heart. A hope and fancy arc 
 repeatedly crushed out of existence ; but we should err 
 very greatly to suppose that the life of the affections tho 
 heart had suffered serious hurt. No! no! Believe inc. 
 your heart is quite as sound as ever. What are the proofs? 
 In my sight, they are hourly present, if not in yours. Your 
 disappointments have saddened your fancies, but have they 
 impaired your strength ? They have rendered your thoughts 
 graver in hue than is usual with your years, but have they 
 not acquired in vigor what they may have lost in brightness I 
 You do not play now with thought, but you can work with 
 it, as you never did before. You do not sport and trifle 
 
THE RUINED HAMLET. 21 
 
 now with life, but you feel it as a circle spreading every 
 where, connecting you with all the links of existence, mi 
 king you sympathize with all its pulses and vibrations, and 
 sensibly lifting your mood to the contemplation of all its 
 higher offices and duties. In short, you have made a sud 
 den spring from the dreaming, uncaring, unheeding, nature 
 of the boy as it were in a single night into the active 
 consciousness of all the responsibilities, glorious thoueii 
 saddening, which belongs to a proper manhood. Now 
 men possess real manhood only in degree with their capa 
 city to perform. Had you been still a dweller in Cliarie- 
 mont had you gained the objects of your boy desires in 
 that place, you would have sunk into the habitual torpor of 
 the place. You would never have found out what is in you 
 
 would have been nothing and done nothing.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I might have been happy !&quot; answered the other gloom- 
 ily. 
 
 &quot; No ! my son. You would have gratified a youthful fancy, 
 and, would have survived it ! This is a common history of 
 what is vulgarly called youthful happiness. What would 
 have remained to you then ? Misanthropy. The graver 
 necessities of the mind take the place very soon of its boy 
 ish fancies, and demand stronger food. Fancy is but the 
 food of a thought just beginning to develop. It requires 
 strong meat very soon after, and this can be afforded only 
 by earnest grappling with care and toil, and trial and pain 
 
 those angel overseers, whom God appoints, to go:id (he 
 truant and the idle nature to its proper tasks. I repeat 
 that your loss in Charlcmont is the most fortunate of all 
 your gains.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Would I could think so, my father. Yet her image 
 passes before me ever with so pleading a face. I see her 
 now, as I have seen her a thousand times among those old 
 groves ; treading those crags ; gliding, with eager and fear 
 less step down those precipices which conduct to the silent, 
 ad, and beautiful tarn, where we were once so fond to 
 
fc* BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 brood. In my mind s eye I shall never cease to behold that 
 beautiful yet mournful memory two images, so unlike each 
 other, of the same being ; one proud, and brave, and noble, 
 like l.hc eagle soaring up in the sunshine ; the other gloomy, 
 dispirited, made ashamed, like the same brave bird, with 
 wing broken, the film over his eyes, close fettered in a cage 
 of iron, and with curious fingers pointing to the earth-spots 
 on breast and pinion.&quot; 
 
 ki A pitiful contrast, in sooth, my son. and such as it is 
 very natural that your imagination should frequently de- 
 nict before your eyes. But both of these images will grad 
 ually fade from siirht. A newer world will supersede your 
 past ; new forms and aspects will take the places of the old ; 
 new affections will spring up in your soul ; nay, fresh fan 
 cies will wing their way to your heart, and a nobler idea 
 of love itself will possess your affections. The heart has 
 resources not less fertile than the fancy. God has not 
 decreed it to isolation. You will see and feel new plants 
 of verdure suddenly appearing upon the waste places; nay, 
 the very heat and ashes of former passions prepare the 
 ground for superior plants of more verdure, strength, and 
 beauty. The time will come when you will wonder that 
 you ever felt the pang and privation which trouble you 
 now. Five years hence you will be unwilling to believe 
 me when I describe, as I hope playfully to do, the fierce 
 troubles of your soul at present.&quot; 
 
 The youth shook his head negatively, as he said 
 
 &quot; Impossible !&quot; 
 
 u One thing is certain, William. You are now confes 
 sedly one of the first lawyers in Kentucky. Our little world 
 acknowledges your power. If politics were your aim, the 
 field is open to you, and it invites you. Yet, five years 
 ago, you were desponding on the subject of your capacity. 
 Then, you had misgivings of your strength, and fancied that 
 your powers but imperfectly seconded your wish. Your 
 ambition was then regarded as the dream of a foolish van- 
 
THE KUINKD HAMLET. 23 
 
 ity, which was destined only to rebuke and disappointment. 
 Look at your position now behold your own perform 
 ances. It was but the other day, when Harry Clay said 
 to me : He is the most promising of our young men. I 
 would not counsel him to politics ; yet, if he should desire 
 that field, he will conquer in it. Pie has the steadfastness, 
 the enlarged view, the industry, and the endowment, which 
 will give him rank among the highest whenever he shall be 
 disposed to fling off the mere lawyer, and embark on the 
 troubled sea of politics. 
 
 &quot; In truth, a troubled sea.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Yes ; but so far a persuasive one to ambition, as, just 
 now, it needs such a good helmsman for the ship of state. 
 I counsel politics no more than our friend Clay ; but the time 
 approaches when no man of mark will be allowed to with 
 hold his seamanship. Keep to the law for the present, and 
 wait your time. I would have no son of mine no friend 
 undertake state affairs of any sort till he is fairly thirty 
 or thirty-five. A democracy is the very world in which to 
 break down premature young men. It is the very world 
 for strong men naturally strong who have allowed them 
 selves to harden into perfect manhood before they attempt 
 a province in which the wrestle is beyond their strength. 
 You are naturally too well endowed and too well trained 
 to sink into the mere lawyer. You will never forego the 
 nobler powers of generalization in the practice of a petty 
 detail. The very troubles of your affections have thrown 
 the proper burdens upon your mind ; and you will go on 
 conquering, my son, until you have equally purged your 
 heart and your understanding of all these delusions. You 
 will forget, among other dreams of boyhood, the very one 
 which has had such an effect, for good upon your fortunes, 
 and for evil, as you think, upon your heart. The image of 
 Margaret Cooper will fade from your fancy, or remain only 
 as a study, in which you will be just as likely to wonder at 
 your delusion as to cherish it fondly. There will come a 
 
24 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 season when your heart will open to a wiser, and purer 
 and nobler affection when you will seek and find an object 
 of attachment, who will be more worthy of your love, an-d 
 will be bettor able to requite your desires.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Never! never! no, sir, no! I freely tell you that, 
 promising as are my social prospects now, honorable as is 
 the reputation which I have acquired, grateful as the future 
 promises to be to my ambition, I would gladly forego all, 
 were I once more restored to that one hope of my boyhood 
 could I attain now, in her original purity, the one being 
 who filled all my desires, and might have satisfied all mj 
 cravings of heart.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You think so now ; but wait. Five years have wrought 
 the most wonderful changes in your mind. Another five 
 years will work other changes, quite as wonderful, in your 
 affections. The destiny before you will not be defrauded. 
 After all, the heart of man keeps very much in the track 
 of his iitellect; and the charm that satisfies the one at 
 first, requires in the end to satisfy the other. You will 
 forget &quot; 
 
 Here a sudden start and exclamation of the young man 
 arrested the remarks of the aged speaker, who, the next 
 moment, was confounded to behold his companion rise up 
 at a single bound, and rush almost headlong down the hill. 
 lie called to him : 
 
 &quot; What is the matter, William ? What do you see :&quot; 
 
 The youth did not answer, but, throwing out his arms as 
 he ran, -he pointed to the opposite end of the valley, whery- 
 following with his eyes, the senior caught a glimpse but 
 a single glimpse of a female figure, in widow s weeds, re 
 tiring from sight. In another moment the figure was hidden 
 from view by the crags of the range of heights beyond. 
 The young man, meanwhile, kept a headlong course, stii) 
 downward, pursuing his way into the valley of the settle 
 mcnt, with the fleetncss of a deer. 
 
 &quot; Can it be Margaret Cooper whom he has seen?&quot; niur- 
 
THE RUINED HAMLET. 2K&amp;gt; 
 
 mured the old man to himself, as he slowly rose up, and 
 prepared to follow, but more slowly, down the hill. 
 
 &quot; Can she be here ? can she be living? and how has she 
 
 O 
 
 contrived to elude all inquiry ? If it be she, how unfortu 
 nate ! It will revive, in full force, all his wild anxieties. 
 It will arrest him in the nobler course he is now pursuing. 
 But no, no ! I have better hopes. God will not suffer this 
 defeat!&quot; 
 
 4 
 
26 BE^UCHAMPE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 THE five years of lapsing events which, in the career of 
 William Hinkley, had brought him to distinction in his pro 
 fession, the esteem of society, the love and admiration of 
 friends, had been productive of very different results to the 
 woman he had once loved with all the ardor of ingenuous 
 passion, and for whom, as we have seen, he still entertained 
 emotions, if not affections, of the most tender regard and 
 interest. She had sunk from the heights of self-esteem to 
 the lowest depths of self-abasement. She, the village- 
 beauty, proud equally of her intellect and personal charms, 
 had, in this to her dreary interval, been fettered in an ob 
 scurity as impenetrable by others as it was deep, dark, and 
 humiliating, to herself. Of the cruel sorrows of this period 
 it is impossible to make any adequate record. The gnaw 
 ing misery of hopelessness ; the consciousness of sin and 
 weakness ; the bitterness of defrauded hopes, and aims, and 
 powers ; the loss of name, position, love ; the forfeiture of 
 all those precious regards which are so necessary to the life 
 of the young, the beautiful, and the ambitious these had 
 worked their natural consequences, in the thought perpetu 
 ally brooding over the ruin, in which every flower of hope, 
 and pride, and love, had been stifled in dust and ashes. 
 
 Yet she lived ! She would willingly have died. She 
 prayed for death. She meditated death by her own hands ; 
 and it was the indulgent providence of God alone by 
 
THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 27 
 
 almost direct interposition that saved her from this last 
 dreadful method of escape from the terrible soul-suffering 
 of those last live years. 
 
 Strange that she should thus live with her pride, and 
 all her passions, rendered mad by disappointment, preying 
 perpetually upon her heart ! For a time, there was a weary 
 blank in her existence, in which she did not even dream. 
 Her vitality seemed utterly suspended. When she recovered 
 from this condition, which was meant as a merciful allevia 
 tion of her acuter sufferings, it was to endure the active 
 gnawings of her grief. For another period, her life was a 
 long spasm a series of spasms in which she was con 
 scious of no security from hour to hour in which all in 
 her soul was in wild uproar and confusion storm and 
 calm alternating ever and no certainty of life or sanity 
 for a single day. That was the period of her greatest peril. 
 It had been easy for her then, by a single blow, to end the 
 terrible history; and a thousand times, during this period, 
 did she murmur to herself 
 
 &quot; it is surely not so difficult to die !&quot; 
 
 But they watched her ! The deed was prevented. She 
 lived, and lived for another passion darker even than 
 suicide, and more deadly. To this .she bent all her thoughts. 
 To this she u ave all her prayers. Shame, defeat, over 
 throw the utter annihilation of all her ambitious dreams 
 those brought her none of those humiliations of pride in 
 which the prayer for grace and mercy find their origin, and 
 realize the blessed fruits of penitence. The blow, which 
 humbled her for ever in society, had only wounded her 
 pride, not crushed it; only stung her brain to madness, not 
 soothed it wit!- a sense of feebleness and dependence, ma 
 king it a lit hor?c &amp;gt;r gentle thoughts, and subdued desires, 
 and a strengthening humility. Her prayers, for a long 
 season, were addressed only to the gratification of that wild 
 justice which infuses the savage soul with the dream of 
 vengeance ! 
 
28 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot;Being mortal still, [she] had no repose, 
 
 But on the pillow of revenge ! Revenge 
 Who sleeps to dream of blood ; and, waking, glows 
 With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst ! &quot; 
 
 There was but oue victim. But the fates interposed for 
 liis safety and her own. She was in no situation to 
 gratify hor desires. She knew not how to name knew 
 not where to seek the spoiler of her happiness. She was 
 a woman, and must wait her time wait on circumstance 
 and chance, and the favoring succor of that subtle demon 
 whom she called upon in place of Deity. And he finally 
 responded to her call. 
 
 But there was a dreary interval to be overcome and en 
 dured. 
 
 In this period, her whole person, as her soul, had under 
 gone a curious change. The fair, white skin became jaun 
 diced. The fine, dark, expressive eye had assumed a dull, 
 greenish hue, and seemed covered with a filmy glaze. Her 
 frame became singularly attenuated, her limbs feeble ; she 
 frequently sunk from exhaustion, and would lie for hours, 
 gasping upon her bed, or upon the dried leaves of the for 
 est, in the shades of which she perpetually sought escape 
 from the sight of human eyes. That she survived the long 
 strain upon her faculties of mind and body, was wonderful 
 to all. Yet she did survive. 
 
 More ! she gradually threw off the feebleness and suffering 
 of the frame. She was again endowed with a noble hardi 
 hood of constitution. She had a proud, steadfast, enduring 
 will. The very working of her passions, now concentrated 
 upon a single object, seemed, after a certain period of pros 
 tration, to work for her relief. Gradually another change 
 followed. Her skin became cleared. The jaundice dis 
 appeared. Her eyes became healthy in expression 
 bright as before but not happy in their brightness; lu 
 minous, yet vi.ld ; cf a gloomy beauty, in which the whole 
 face shared. She did not smile a.gain, or, if she did, it was 
 
THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 29 
 
 in a manner to mock the smile with bitterness. Her mind 
 resumed its activity, though it still pursued what the mor 
 alist may well call an insane direction, fixed only upon a 
 Ringle object, which seemed to supersede all others. For 
 merly, she had felt, and dreamed, and imagined, poetry ; 
 now she wrote it wild, dark, spasmodic fancies glowing 
 in her song, which was wholly impulsive, not systematic 
 the effusion of blood and brain working together intensely, 
 and relieving themselves by sudden gushes which were like 
 improvisations. 
 
 It was sometime after she had reached this condition, 
 when, one day, she declared her intention to revisit Charle- 
 mont. Her retreat was only seven miles from this spot, in 
 an obscure farm to which no public road conducted. 
 
 Her mother somewhat wondered at this desire, but did 
 not oppose it. They were both well aware of the change 
 which live years had wrought in the fortunes of this once 
 beautiful village. It had been productive of sore loss to 
 them in money. They had sold their little cottage, under 
 mortgage, and the purchaser had abandoned the property, 
 leaving the debt unpaid. Something was said by Margaret 
 of the necessity of seeing that the building was kept in re 
 pair, but the suggestion was only made as a. sort of pretext 
 justifying the visit. The mother very well knew that the 
 daughter had another motive. Though by no means a sa 
 gacious interpreter of heart or mind, she yet readily under 
 stood that the proposed visit was the fruit of some morbid 
 fancy ; but shtJ did not see tha~ any evil would result from 
 sutTering Margaret to indulge ner mood ; and, in fact, she 
 had long since learned that opposition was by no means the 
 process by which to effect her objects with her daughter, or 
 to bring her mind into the proper condition in which it usu 
 ally regards the social requisitions as the natural law. She 
 offered no objection accordingly. 
 
 The little family carry-all a snug, simple box, drawn 
 by one horse was got in readiness, the negro drivei 
 
30 
 
 mounted, and the girl departed upon her secret mission of 
 sad thought, and melancholy revery, in a region which had 
 been the source of all her sorrows 
 
 She sought the old cottage, penetrated its silent cham 
 bers, and busied herself for awhile in a search of closets 
 which seemed to afford her nothing. Her search led her to 
 sundry bundles of old papers. These she pulled apart and 
 examined in detail. From these she extracted- some scraps 
 which she put away carefully in her bag. and after this, she 
 scarcely looked at the dwelling, which already needed the 
 regards of locksmith and carpenter. 
 
 How soon the favorite place goes to ruin if left to itself. 
 There shall be a snug simple house, in which your heart 
 first found its want, your soul its first speech, your dearest 
 joy its first satisfaction, and five years after you have aban 
 doned it, it will be desolate the lichen will glide over its 
 walls ; the door will fall from its hinges ; the shutter, the 
 sash, drop to fragments. Shall time spare us any more 
 than our dwellings ? 
 
 Yet can he not utterly destroy ! 
 
 The heart recognises a soul in the lonely and desolated 
 ruin. There is a subtle spirit appealing to you from every 
 corner. Nay, you will surely hear voices in the lonely 
 rooms which call upon all the affections to restore, rebuild 
 return ! 
 
 Poor Margaret heard these voices all around her. They 
 startled her. They seemed to mock her fall to depict 
 the state from which she had fallen to compare her own 
 with the desolation of the scene around her. And finally, 
 they spoke in the well-remembered tones of her betrayer. 
 She fancied she heard Alfred Stevens close beside her, 
 whispering his subtle eloquence those snares of fancy and 
 passion which he had so successfully woven, for her ruin. 
 
 And this voice lifted her into strength. Then she re 
 membered that she had an oath of vengeance ; and she went 
 forth from the lonely dwelling, only half conscious that she 
 
TMF JN KXT KrTKf) MKKTIXG. 31 
 
 went, and almost heedless of her steps, she took her way 
 up the rocky Heights to the lonely tarn whither she had so 
 often wandered with him. 
 
 And the past returned to her memory, and filled her 
 imagination with all its chronicles of mixed sweet and bit 
 ter pride and shame and keen was the agony that fol 
 lowed, and terrible the oath which she now renewed, of 
 vengeance for the wrongs she had suffered and the degra 
 dation which she must perforce endure. She had no fu 
 ture, but in_the accomplishment of this one terrible oath, 
 and she renewed it with fearful brevity and solemnity in 
 the shadows of those towering rocks, above the deep dark 
 waters of the silent lake by the very scenes which had 
 witnessed her overthrow, she called for witnesses to confirm 
 her oath ! 
 
 And what a picture to mind and eye did she present at 
 that moment still young, still beautiful of noble figure, 
 commanding form, bright haughty eye, and a face gloomily 
 lovely as she stood forward on the edge of the precipice, 
 and looked forth to sky and rock, her hand slowly rising in 
 adjuration, as simple as it was stern and imposing. 
 
 What witnesses, of her wrongs and sufferings, her wild 
 hopes and haughty aims, and their cruel defeat, were all 
 the objects which encompassed her. They were a part of 
 herself. They had taught, informed, encouraged her na 
 ture. She had lived in* and with them all, and all, in turn, 
 had infused their nature into hers. These rocks had taught 
 her height and hardihood ; these waters, deptli and contem 
 plation, and the tender nursing of solitary fancies ; trie 
 woods had lessoned her heart with repose ; and the skies, 
 with their eagles ever going upward, had .taught hv.r aspi 
 ration. 
 
 Very mournful were they now in her eyes, assembled as 
 witnesses of her fate. She was their child. Their sad as 
 pects were those of loving parents defrauded of every hope. 
 They might well attest with sympathetic sternness of brow* 
 
32 BEAT7CHAMPE. 
 
 and sadly echoing voices, her brief, savage oath of ven* 
 geance. 
 
 &quot; Yes,&quot; she murmured, &quot; ye were all the witnesses of mj 
 wrongs, my blindness, my madness, my simple faith, and 
 cruelly-abused confidence. Here it was, that I listened to 
 the subtle voice of the beguiler, even as the drowsing 
 eagle, to the spells of the serpent, while he winds himself 
 fatally about the neck of the free bird of the mountain ! 
 
 &quot;Ohl why did ye not fall upon me, rocks upon both 
 of us ere I hearkened to the lying tempter who deluded 
 me with my own hopes, and made my own daring aspirations 
 the very spells by which to destroy me ! 
 
 &quot; Why, waters, when I fell headlong into your embrace, 
 did ye not engulf me for ever. Any fate had been better 
 far than this ! 
 
 &quot; Cruel wast thou, that day, in thy loving-kindness, Wil 
 liam Hinklcy, when thou drew st me forth from their abys 
 ses ! 
 
 &quot;Verily, thou hadst thy vengeance, AVilliam, for all the 
 scorn which I gave thec in return for love, in the misery 
 for which thou hast preserved me ! 
 
 &quot;Oh! thinking of all that time of the fond, foolish 
 vanity which so uplifted me, only to fling me down for ever 
 from my pride of place and hope I could weep tears of 
 blood, tears of blood ! 
 
 &quot; But mine eyes are dry. Would I could weep ! 
 
 &quot; Alas, the sorrows that deny the heart its tears are such 
 only as fill it with gall and venom ! Wonder not, Alfred 
 Stevens, when I face thee with death and terror! Oh, 
 when we moot ! when we meet ! 
 
 &quot;And we shall meet! I feel that we shall meet. There 
 is a whisper, as that of a fate, or a demon, that breathes in 
 &quot;mine cars the terrible promise. We shall meet! thou, 
 and I and Deatli ! 
 
 And she crouched down upon the boulder upon which 
 she had been standing, on the very brink of that dark and 
 
TTE D fEXPECTCL MtuJ ^rj. 33 
 
 sdeut lake, and buried her faco within her hands, as if to 
 enut out from sight the images of horror which that prom 
 ised meeting had raised up before her imagination. 
 
 Poor, desolate woman ! There was still a strife in her 
 heart, of contending hate and tenderness. The woman who 
 has oiico loved, however mistakenly, unwisely, and to her 
 own ruin, never altogether loses the sentiment which even 
 her destroyer has inspired. It is still a precious sentiment. 
 It pleads in his behalf; and if he be not heartless, and eold, 
 and cruel, it will not wholly plead in vain. Mercy will in 
 terpose against hate, and the hand of vengeance will be apt 
 to fall nerveless, even when about to strike fatally. 
 
 But mercy does not plead for Alfred Stevens. He had 
 shown no redeeming tenderness. lie had proved himself 
 heartless wantonly cruel indifferent to the desolating 
 doom which his guilty passions had brought upon her.^Mar- 
 garct Cooper could feel tenderness still, but it was not for 
 him. Here, her soul was resolute, her will iron. She did 
 not recoil from the horrible deed on his account, but her 
 own. It was the recoil of the feminine nature alone, and 
 not pity, that made her shrink from the fearful images of 
 blood which were conjured up by her excited fancy. 
 
 But, suddenly, in the midst of her dream of terror and 
 revenge, she starts she starts to her i eet, with a bound 
 that makes the rock vibrate and quiver beneath her, on the 
 very edge of the precipice. 
 
 A voice is calling to her from the opposite side of the 
 lake. But a single word she hears : 
 
 &quot; Margaret !&quot; 
 
 She looks beyond the water, and on a cliff above the lake 
 she sees the figure of a man a noble, graceful figure 
 whom she recognises in a moment. 
 
 &quot; God of heaven ! it is William Hinldey !&quot; 
 
 The words are only murmured. She waves her hand out 
 involuntarily, as if to say : 
 
. BKAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot;Away! we must not meet! There must be no speech 
 between us !&quot; 
 
 And then she starts, recedes from the stream, and, with 
 hasty steps, glides into the cover of rock and forest. She- 
 was gone from sight in another moment, hurrying down the 
 cliffs to the road where her carriage had been left at a little 
 distance. 
 
 William pursued without any purpose, except to meet, 
 to see, to speak once more to the woman whom he had 
 loved, but with whom, as a single moment of thought would 
 have assured him, he could have no closer communion. 
 
 He pursued, but at disadvantage. .He was compelled to 
 compass the lake which lay between them. He pursued 
 with the fleet bounds of the practised mountaineer, over the 
 cliffs, and through the umbrage ; but in vain. She had 
 reached the carriage ere he had descended from the heights. 
 She had leaped in, and, with stern, low words, through 
 closely-compressed lips, she said to the negro driver: 
 
 &quot; Drive fast ! fast as you can !&quot; 
 
 When the young man descended to the valley-road, she 
 was gone. He could only catch the faint echoes of the 
 receding wheels. 
 
PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. x 36 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 
 
 &quot;Now should we make moral anatomies 
 Of these two natures hostile, yet so like.&quot; 
 
 AND thus they met and thus they parted ! 
 
 Both creatures seeking the ideal ; born for other 
 than mere bread and meat ; born for love, for performance, 
 for triumph ; neither satisfied both desponding: the one 
 with the half-fanciful griefs of youth, which arc designed to 
 strengthen, even as the obstruction which taxes and strains 
 yet expands and improves the muscle ; the other with shame, 
 which depresses the energies that it may refine them, and 
 humbles the pride that it may waken the heart to becoming 
 sensibilities. 
 
 The one retires from the fruitless interview sad, disap 
 pointed, but, just in the same degree, better prepared to 
 pursue one steady aim to right and complete achievement ; 
 the other, having her aim also, but one of a kind still further 
 to humble pride, awaken sensibility, and, through agony, 
 to conduct to peace ! 
 
 Very different their objects, desires, performances ; but 
 ooth working out results for humanity, such as, in the prog 
 ress of the life-ordeal, gradually inform society with new 
 aspects and properties in man, and unfold the exactions of 
 a progress in the ages, whose necessities evolve, through 
 vice itself, the true conditions of all virtue. 
 
 Shall they ever meet again, and how ? Shall they realize 
 
36 BEAUCIlAMPfi. 
 
 the vague hopes and objects that now persuade both minds ? 
 shall they ever become to eacli other more than they are 
 now? shall he attain greater triumphs of intellect better 
 securities of the heart ? shalLsAe find the peace which she 
 yearns for, even more than the wild justice which she seeks ? 
 will she regain the wing of her youth a^id innocence, and 
 steadily develop the gradual powers of that ambitious ge 
 nius which, in the very daring and pride of its aim, blinded 
 her wholly to the dangers of her flight ? We can not pre 
 scribe the course and conditions of their progress : we must 
 be content simply to follow, and record them. They arc in 
 the hands of a self-made destiny, and must, because of will, 
 and passion, and peculiar aims, determine their own fates. 
 It is not for art to pass between, to interpose, to prevent, 
 or pervert, or in any way alter, the fortunes of those whose 
 own characters constitute the arbitrary necessities govern 
 ing equally their lives and our invention. 
 
 Sad, silent, full of roused thoughts and conflicting emo 
 tions, Margaret Cooper drove home to her obscure farm 
 stead, musing to herself, and murmuring within her soul, 
 of the past and of the future. 
 
 That single glance of an old and rejected lover --that 
 one imploring word from his lips smote on her heart with 
 a sense of agonizing self-reproach. Her thoughts, framed 
 into speech, might have run as follow : 
 
 &quot; With him I might have been happy. He was young, 
 truthful, honorable. He loved me: that I felt then that 
 1 know now. He would have cherished me witli affection, 
 as he approached me with devotion ! Yes ! I might have 
 been happy with him ! 
 
 &quot; But I knew him not ! I undervalued him. I regarded 
 him as the obscure peasant having no high purpose no 
 mind no great thoughts and ambitious fancies such as 
 should properly mate with mine ! 
 
 &quot; Even in this was I mistaken : He hau the faculties 
 but I was not wise enough to see them. I was blinded bj 
 
PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 37 
 
 my own wandering visions that miserable vanity which 
 relished no spectacle that did not present me with some 
 image of myself which, in perpetual self-delusion, could 
 see nothing in the qualifications of another ! 
 
 &quot; Yet, how bravely and nobly did that young man de 
 clare himself at last ! how wisely did he speak ! how clearly 
 did he see the dangers gathering about me ! how, with what 
 instinct, did he pierce the secret of that cunning serpent ! 
 while I, who despised him for the very humility of his aims 
 the very modesty of his passion I could see nothing. 
 I was a fool ! a fool ! blind, deaf, mad ! But for this, we 
 might have been happy together. It might have been ! it 
 might have been ! 
 
 &quot; Oh, mournful word s ! It might have been ! 
 
 &quot; Too late ! too late ! 
 
 &quot; Love is impossible to me now. The dream is gone . 
 the hope every hope! Even ambition is impossible! 
 Alas, what a dream it was ! how wild, how impossible from 
 the first! Yet, I believed it all. Foul! fool! as if sucli 
 could be the fortune of a woman ! Here, too, in this sav 
 age region of shadow and obscurity, a woman conquering 
 position, high place, high honors, great distinction! And 
 I believed it all! believed him, that treacherous serpent. 
 when he crept with the subtle, sweet, lyinc: whisper to my 
 heart! O fool! fool! fool! 
 
 &quot;But I am awake now! I no longer delude myself! 
 Xone can delude me now ! 
 
 &quot; Yet, to lose this so precious delusion! Oh, the misery 
 of this conviction, for in losing this I have lost all ! 
 
 &quot; Yet. was it a delusion ? Could I not have achieved 
 this distinction ? Is it true that there is no field for wo 
 man s genius? is it true that, of all this great country, 
 there is no one region where the wisdom and the inspira 
 tion of woman can compel faith and find tribute ? is she to 
 be a thing of base uses always, as the malignant lago has 
 declared her? God, thon ba^t not designed this else 
 
38 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 wherefore hast thou given her the will to soar, tlie faculty 
 to sing, the genius to conceive, the art to refine and beau 
 tify, the sensibilities which make the beautiful her dream 
 and her necessity .alike ! 
 
 &quot; It is a mystery a mystery ! 
 
 &quot; And I am hopeless ! lost ! lost ! All lost lost to all ! 
 Nothing left me but &quot; 
 
 She buried her face in her hands ; she shuddered. The 
 terrible images, thronging about the one vindictive passion 
 which her soul now entertained and fostered, seemed to 
 gather before her eyes, and she covered them as if to shut 
 out the fearful spectacle. She murmured audibly, after a 
 brief pause : 
 
 &quot; I would I had not seen William Hinkley to-day ! The 
 sight of him has weakened me. His voice seems to ring 
 even now so mournfully in my ears Margaret ! 
 
 &quot;How often have I heard that name upon his lips so 
 tenderly so pleadingly always with so much sweetness 
 and humility ! 
 
 &quot;I despised him then. I looked down upon him then 
 with scorn with contempt. Margaret, Margaret! and 
 thou darest not look upon him now ! Shame, shame ! my 
 cheek burns with shame, as 1 think of him, and remember 
 the calling of his voice. 
 
 &quot; Yes ! yes ! we might have been happy together ! 
 
 &quot; Too late ! too late ! I can be happy no more !&quot; 
 
 We need not listen any longer to these mournful memo 
 ries of ruined hopes and lost honors, defeated ambition, de 
 frauded affection, bitter self-reproach, and still-sleepless 
 and ever-goading passions. We need not follow her to the 
 obscure retreat where she has striven for five dreary years 
 to bury out of sight the secret of her shame. Enough that 
 we have put on record the condition of her moods her 
 broken spirit, her almost purposeless intellect, and the one 
 hope the only one which she seems to entertain. These 
 will suffice as clues for the future, showing the motif, the 
 
PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 39 
 
 key-note, of much that prevails in the melancholy history 
 which follows. 
 
 Let us return to the young man whose disappointment 
 we have just witnessed. He, too, as we have seen, has hia 
 griefs and trials ; but, unlike hers, they are not of a sort to 
 bring humiliation in their train. 
 
 When he found his pursuit was vain, and when the last 
 faint echoes of the receding carriage-wheels came to his 
 ears, he clasped his hands spasmodically together. 
 
 &quot; She would not see me ! she would not even speak with 
 me ! She feels the old scorn ; she knows not that I am no 
 longer the obscure peasant that she knew me once !&quot; 
 
 Foolish youth ! as if the fact, even if known to her, that 
 he had won successes, and was glowing with the prospects 
 and promises of fame, would have made her more tolerant 
 of his presence. 
 
 It was shame, not scorn, which made her fly from that 
 meeting. 
 
 It was a wild and stifling sense of agonizing humility 
 that made her wave him off, in despair, as one of the most 
 knowing witnesses of her fall from the proud heights where 
 he had once loved^to behold and do her honor. 
 
 Scorn now for him, on the part of Margaret Cooper, was 
 impossible. It was fear, shame, horror, terror nay, a 
 sense of justice, and a new feeling of respect, if not rever 
 ence that made her shrink before his face. 
 
 Brooding sadly upon his disappointment, with bewilder 
 ing thoughts and conflicting feelings, the young man slowly 
 made his way back through the valley of Charlcmont, going 
 unconsciously among the deeertcd dwellings, in the direc 
 tion of the heights where he had left his venerable compac- 
 ion. As he passed the schoolhouse, he heard the voice of 
 the senior calling to him from the shade of the great oaks 
 by which it was overhung. 
 
 lie joined him in silence. 
 
 The old man was sitting upon the turf beneath the trees. 
 
10 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 a thoughtful smile upon his countenance. Ho was once 
 more in the well-remembered places in which so many years 
 of his life had been spent. Here he had himself mused 
 and meditated, from a safe distance, the capricious changes 
 and frauds of busy life among the crowd. Here he had 
 given the first lessons, in the humanities, to the young 
 man who now made his way in silence and sat down beside 
 him. 
 
 &quot; Well,&quot; said the elder, &quot; did you overtake her, Wil 
 liam ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; You saw her, then ?&quot; was the indirect reply. 
 
 u Yes, 1 saw a female, in widow s weeds, but only for a 
 moment. She disappeared among the rocks in an instant 
 after. I concluded, from the wild haste of your movement, 
 that you had recognised her as Margaret Cooper. Was I 
 right ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Did you speak with her ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, sir; she fled from me waved me off as I called 
 to her, and disappeared in the thicket. When I succeeded 
 in getting round the lake where I saw her, she was gone. 
 1 could just catch the sounds of carriage-wheels. She still 
 scorns or hates me as much as ever.&quot; 
 
 &quot; She does neither, my son. On this subject you seem to 
 lose all your usual powers of reasoning. Margaret Cooper 
 would not see, or speak with you, from very shame and hu 
 miliation. Why should she speak with you V Have you 
 anything of a pleasant kind to communicate to each other ? 
 Why should sho see you ? To be reminded only of a his 
 tory full of mortification to her ! You are unreasonable, 
 my son.&quot; 
 
 The other had no answer. 
 
 &quot;And now, TPilliam, pray tell me why you desired to 
 see her. You have, no doubt, some of your old feelings 
 for her ; but is it really in your thought to marry Margaret 
 Cooper?&quot; 
 
PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 41 
 
 &quot; Oh, no, sir! no! How could you suppose such a 
 thing ? 
 
 &quot; I do not suppose such a thing, and therefore I say that 
 you are very unreasonable, nay, more, unkind and cruel, in 
 your attempt to see her. You have no business with her ; 
 you have no reason to suppose that you can help her in 
 any way ; and your passion for her whatever of it now 
 remains is not such as to prompt you to make her your 
 wife. You obeyed only a youthful impulse in desiring to 
 see her, without reflecting upon the cruelty of the proceed 
 ing. It was this blind impulse only ; for I know you too 
 well to think that you would be thus moved by a merely 
 wanton, and, in respect to her, a cruel curiosity.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You are right, sir. It was a blind impulse. I am a 
 boy still. I shall never be wise.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nay ! nay ! you do yourself wrong. If to be wise re 
 quired that we should never be wrong should never feel 
 an impulse, and in the moment obey it I should agree with 
 you, and argue against your intellect and moral with your 
 self. But, you are simply young, ardent, sensitive, with a 
 free gush of blood from the heart to the brain, such as time 
 and training only will enable you to regulate. We must 
 learn to wait on youth. All in due season. It is enough 
 for me to see that you are in the right course, generally, 
 though sometimes, like a young and fiery Arabian, you bolt 
 the track. But, the present opportunity for a lesson must 
 not be foregone. I hope that you will never again repeat 
 this cruelty to this unhappy woman. She has shown you 
 always, as well in the day of her pride as in that of her 
 shame, that she does not sympathize with your affections. 
 You yourself admit that, even were she to do so, you could 
 never offer yourself to her in marriage. She has in no way 
 given you to believe that she needs your services either as 
 man or lawyer. We know that, though in moderate cir 
 cumstances, she needs no succor in money. Now, on what 
 pretence of reason would you seek to see her ? What pro 
 
42 .- EEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 text of humanity, or law, of manhood, or sympathy of any 
 sort, can be urged for your thrusting yourself upon a per 
 son who distinctly shows you that she desires no commu 
 nion with you. I repeat, she does not scorn or hate you, 
 William, but the meeting with you must necessarily be pain 
 ful to her. Why should you inflict this pain ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No more, sir, please say no more. I will not err in 
 this manner again.&quot; 
 
 The young man spoke with a choking effort, and his head 
 hung down, and a great drop fell from his eyes. 
 
 &quot; Impulse, by a law of nature, is necessarily a selfishness. 
 Our duty, for this reason is to curb it. Impulse rarely al 
 lows us to recognise the rights of others, their situation or 
 their sensibilities. It is humanity only, that requires that 
 we should set reason on perpetual watch, as a good house 
 dog, to see that this outlaw, impulse, does not break down 
 the door, and break into the close, to the terror, if not the 
 destruction, of the trembling flock within.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Enough on this head, sir. I will not err again.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Another, my son, of quite as much importance to your 
 self and of even more importance to others. You have 
 chosen a profession. A profession, once chosen, consti 
 tutes a pledge to the Deity for the proper working out of 
 your human purposes, and the exercise of your peculiar 
 gifts. Passions, and fancies, and desires, which keep us 
 away from our duties which make us work sluggishly at 
 them, and without proper sympathy and energy, are in 
 dulged sinfully. You must fight against them, Willie. 
 You must not only give up the pursuit of Margaret Cooper 
 as I know you will but you must give up the very 
 thought of her.&quot; 
 
 &quot; How is that possible ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is possible. It must be done. You have but to re 
 solve, Willie ; and be equally resolved upon the law ! You 
 must give up Eros, and all the tributary muses of that god. 
 
PHILOSOPHIES OP AGE AND YOUTH. 4 
 
 They still too much employ your thought. Look at what 1 
 copied last night from the fly leaf of your docket.&quot; 
 
 The senior produced a sheet of paper, and in somewhat 
 lackadaisacal accents, read the following verses: 
 
 SING NOT OF FAME. 
 
 I. 
 
 &quot; Sing not of Fame ! There was a time 
 Such song had suited well mine ear, 
 When passion had sought, perchance through crime, 
 
 Ambition s laurelled pomps to wear; 
 The wild desire, th impetuous thirst, 
 The wing to soar, the will to sway, 
 Had led me on, through fields accurst, 
 On all life s precious things to prey. 
 Sing not of Fame. 
 
 ii. 
 &quot; Oh ! rather sing of lonely hours, 
 
 And sleepless nights and mournful sighs, 
 When on his couch of blasted flowers, 
 Despair looks up with loathing eyes; 
 In vain, with visions straining far, 
 
 Hope seeks dear shape and baffled dream ; 
 And wandering on, from star to star, 
 Finds mockery in each golden gleam. 
 Sing not of fame I&quot; 
 
 &quot; Now, Willie, these are what the newspapers would caii 
 very good verses ; nay, there are some moralists, even in 
 the pulpit, who, regarding the one proposition only, which 
 rebukes ambition, would hold them to contain very proper 
 sentiments. Yet they are all wrong.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh ! sir, waste no more words upon such a therne. It 
 is a poor trifle. I did not mean that you should see it. 
 Give it me, sir, or tear it up if you please.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nay, nay, I will do neither, Willie. They will better 
 represent my sentiment than yours. It is for him whose 
 own struggles of ambition have resulted in vanities, to de 
 clare ambition itself a vanity ; but if it be such, it is one 
 which is at once natural and of the best uses to humanity. 
 Were it not for ambition, ours would be a brute world 
 
44 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 merely. There would be little in life, worth more than a 
 good grazing patch to a hungry buffalo. It is ambition that 
 puts in exercise all the agencies of art and civilization. It 
 is ambition that sires all public virtues. I do not now 
 mean that poor drivelling vanity, which foolish people call 
 ambition, but that glorious builder and destroyer, who makes 
 great empires, and achieves great results, and wrestles and 
 toils for the victory, and is never so well satisfied as in the 
 toil and the conflict, without one moment considering the 
 results to self. Its presence implies strength for achieve 
 ment, courage to dare new paths, enthusiasm to sustain 
 against defeat, power to conceive and create agencies, and 
 art to work out all the processes of great and bold and 
 novel performance. This is my notion of ambition, and the 
 fame which follows, or should follow such performances, is 
 a legitimate object of human desire but only where the 
 endowment really exists.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah, sir, this brings me to my particular trouble, and, 
 no doubt, justifies the sentiment of my ballad. What if I 
 really lack the endowments which, alone, have the right to 
 crave the laurel ? It is your affectionate interest, alone, I 
 fear, which holds them to be in my possession.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not so, my son. I have no doubts of your possessions 
 nay, have little of the use which you are destined to 
 make of them. I know, too, that your song is but the fruit 
 of a temporary despondency the voice of a momentary 
 mood, in which the sensitive nature rather rests herself 
 than desponds. We are all more or less liable to these fits 
 of despondency, and they have their uses. They fling the 
 mind back upon the heart, and contribute to check its fro- 
 ward tendencies. They counsel due caution and humility 
 to progress. They teach modesty to conquest. 1 do not 
 i ear them in your case, though I counsel you against teo 
 greai: indulgence of them. You would feel them even if 
 you had never been denied by Margaret Cooper. They are 
 signs, in fact, of the ambitious nature which thus deplores 
 
PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 45 
 
 Its own slow progress. But too much encouraged and 
 they have their beguiling attractions to a nature such aa 
 yours they are apt to enfeeble. They encourage revery, 
 which is always a dangerous pleasure, as it induces inac 
 tion. In our world, the d jmands of society require sleep 
 less activity and vigilance. If we pause too long for rest 
 
 if \ve too much dream we wake tafind some other per 
 son in possession of our conquests. You arc now with 
 hand upon the plough, and there must be no misgiving 
 no hesitation. To-morrow, as Milton hath it to fresh 
 fields and pastures new. And you will feel this new im 
 pulse to-morrow. You will forget your disappointment of 
 heart I should say fancy rather in fresh motives to 
 struggle. You will one day wonder, indeed, that Margaret 
 Cooper should have been so dear to you.&quot; 
 
 u Never ! never !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, but you will, and forget her beauties and charms, 
 her bold talent and commanding nature, in still superior 
 attractions.&quot; 
 
 The youth shook his head with mournful denial. 
 
 &quot; So will it be, Willie. That the boy should love at sev 
 enteen or eighteen that he should insist upon loving at 
 that period nay, fancy the charms which inspire passion 
 
 is his absolute necessity. But the passion of this period 
 is still but a boy passion only. His heart will rarely be 
 touched by it. I would not have your passion absorbed by 
 your ambition. I would only use the one passion to restrain 
 and regulate the choice of the other. Do you suppose that 
 God lias made us so inflexible that but one woman in all the 
 world should satisfy the longings of the heart ? If so, and 
 you never should meet with this one woman ? Besides, do 
 you not see how perfectly childish it is to suppose, at twenty 
 five when youth is all vigor; when every muscle is a 
 conscious power ; when the heart and head are full of pow 
 ers ; all demanding exercise ; when the fancy is on per 
 petual wing ; when the imagination daily communes with 
 
46 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 some ideal, bringing out the wing into the sunshine how 
 childish then to fancy that life can be without purposes, and 
 hope no longer a thing of aim, filled with generous desires ! 
 Your ballad, as I have said, declares only for a temporary 
 mood which another day will dissipate. You have only 
 read too much of Byron. This mood was his role. It was 
 at once true and false. True, as it illustrated a temporary 
 mood ; false, as it insisted upon this mood as a fatality; ma 
 king that a life, which was only a passing cloud over the 
 face of life.&quot; 
 
 The subject had led the old man on much farther than 
 he had designed. The youth submitted patiently to his 
 ancient teacher. It was thus that his youth had been les- 
 coned : thus that his heart and fancy had been trained ; so 
 that, with all his seeming impulse and despondency, his 
 aims were really more in harmony with his powers, than is 
 usually the case with most young men. 
 
 We have dwelt longer upon this sort of teaching than 
 is necessary to our story as a story. But we have had 
 our object in our desire for the proper characterization of 
 both parties. The novel only answers half its uses when 
 we confine it to the simple delineation of events, however 
 ingenious and interesting. 
 
 There was a brief pause in the dialogue, when the elder, 
 without leaving the subject of conversation, presented it to 
 his young companion s mood through another medium. 
 He had his objects, we may say, ill thus familiarizing the 
 mind of the youth with the annoying topic. Could he trans 
 fer the case from the courts of the affections to those of the 
 brain we do not mean to say, from the lower to the upper 
 courts he felt that he should work very considerably 
 toward the relief of moods which were a little too much in 
 dulged in for propriety, and, perhaps, safety. 
 
 &quot; It is somewhat surprising, William, that Margaret 
 Cooper never once detec ed your sympathies with poetry, 
 and your own occasional wooings of the muse. Had she 
 
PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 17 
 
 done so, it would, I think, have greatly helped your woo- 
 ings of herself. Did you ever show her any of your verses ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Never, sir.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And you never once, I suspect, betrayed any desire to 
 see her verses ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Never, sir ! I thought only of her.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Had you been a worldling, William, with a better 
 knowledge of human nature, and woman nature, you might 
 have been more successful. Alfred Stevens knew better. 
 He simply held the mirror before the eyes of her vanity, 
 lie showed her her own portrait even as she desired to see 
 it as she was accustomed to see it. He pleased \\exwith 
 herself. He confirmed her notions of herself. He gave 
 his sympathies to her ambition, and never troubled himself 
 about her affections, which he soon discovered were prop 
 erly approachable only through her ambition. The great 
 secret of conquest over such persons is to become a neces 
 sary minister to their most passionate desires. The devil 
 worked thus cunningly with Eve. lie works, in this very 
 wise, with all our passions. You might have succeeded as 
 Stevens did, had you been a student of humanity had you 
 been capable of the painful study of its weaknesses, and 
 willing to descend to the mean occupation of stimulating 
 them into excesses. This poor girl lived only in her am 
 bition. Her affections were all bonded to her brain. This 
 made her bold made her confident of strength. She did 
 not fear her affections she did not crave sympathy for 
 them. She could only do so, after her full from place and 
 purity. Had your sympathies been given to her intellect, 
 and had you shown her your capacity to sympathize fully 
 with, and appreciate the objects of her own desire, you 
 could have won all the affections that she was able to be 
 stow. You would be more successful m pursuit now.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But you can not think, sir, that I have now any pur 
 pose any wish -&quot; 
 
 He paused. 
 
48 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; No ! that is impossible now, I know. Your own pride, 
 your own ambition, if nothing else, would preserve you from 
 any such desire. I am speaking, now, only of the natural 
 change in her, such as her changed condition necessarily 
 works. In her fall, her mind became humanized. Her 
 heart is even purer, and truer now, in its shame has more 
 vitality, more sensibility, more delicacy, more sympathy 
 with the really true and good than she had when her name 
 was without spot. . Margaret Cooper did not fall through 
 vicious inclinations, but a wilful pride. I regard her as 
 far more really virtuous, now as now conscious of the 
 value of virtuous sympathies conscious, in other words, 
 of a heart-development than she was in the day of her 
 insolent pride, when her vanity stood unrebuked by any 
 consciousness of lapse or weakness. The humility which 
 follows shame is one of the handmaids employed to conduct 
 to virtue.&quot; 
 
 And thus, resting upon the hill-side, and looking down 
 upon that ruined hamlet, age and youth discoursed of the 
 past, as if life had no future. But the future hath its germ 
 in the past, and the present is a central point of survey, 
 from which the wise may behold both oceans. We shall see, 
 in our progress, what was the result of this serious dis 
 course, which places in our hands certain of the clues to the 
 tale which follows which sounds the preluding notes, and 
 prepares us, in some degree, for the social tragedy which 
 the rude chronicle of the border-historian has yielded to 
 the purposes of art. 
 
 The sun was rapidly passing down the slope of heaven. 
 The valley of Charlemont began to look colder and darker 
 in the eyes of our two companions. They had turned aside 
 from their appointed road to take a last look, and a final 
 farewell of the old-remembered places. This done, they 
 prepared to depart. In another hour they were slowly 
 riding through tne paths of the forest, directing their course 
 for the duelling of Edward HinkJey cousin of William, 
 
PHILOSOPHIES OP AGE AND YOUTH. 49 
 
 who was now a thriving- young farmer, in a beautiful tract 
 of country, some twelve miles farther on. While they sat 
 at his cheerful fireside that night, they discoursed of every 
 thing but their mournful visit, and the encounter that day 
 with Margaret Cooper. Her name was not once mentioned 
 in William s presence. Ned s fiddle enlivened the family 
 circle after supper, and while the buoyant young man 
 played for his sombre cousin, and tho more ancient guest, 
 the thought of William wandered off to the unknown dwel 
 ling of Margaret. 
 
 Where was she then ? How employed ? With what 
 hopes, in what condition ? 
 
 Could he have seen her brooding that night over the meet 
 ing of that day ! Could he have heard her mournful exclama 
 tions of self-reproach seen with what dreary aspect, she 
 mused on the terrible words: &quot; Too late too late!&quot; his 
 sympathies would have made him forgetful of all the coun 
 sels of his venerable friend. As it was, he heard but little 
 of his cousin s violin. The gay sounds were lost upon hia 
 senses. His revery depicted still mournfully enough, 
 though inadequately, the condition of the unhappy woman, 
 isolated by her own intellect as by her aefeat and shame. 
 There she sat, in her own lonely chamber, with but one 
 companion the muse brooding over her fate until the 
 gloomy thought took the form of verse the only process 
 left her by which to relieve the over-burdened brain. We 
 shall assert a privilege denied to William, and look over 
 her as she writes. -Her verses, singularly masculine a*? 
 well as mournful, will constitute a sufficient and appro 
 priate prelude, to the sequel of her unhappy story. 
 
 &quot; Tis meet that self-abandoned I should bo, 
 Whom all things do abandon ! Where is Death 1 
 I call upon the rocks and on the sea : 
 The rocks subside the waters backward flee 
 The storm degenerates to the zephyr s breath, 
 And even the vapors of the swamp deny 
 
50 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 Their poison ! Jt is vain that I would die ! 
 
 Earth hath not left one charity for me ! 
 
 Fate takes no shape to fright me none to save, 
 
 Or stifle, and I live as in a grave 
 
 Where only death is wanting. 
 
 Oh ! the gall, 
 
 And bitter of a life where this is all ! 
 Where one can neither drink, nor dream, nor choke. 
 And freedom s self is but a bond and yoke, 
 And breath and sight denial ! 
 
 Why the light, 
 
 When the life s hope is sightless ? Why the bloom. 
 When naught of flavor s left upon the taste ? 
 Why beauty, when the earth refuses sight, 
 Leaving all goodliest things to go to waste ? 
 And why not Death when Life s itself a tomb !&quot; 
 
LAW IN DESHABILLE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LAW IN DESHABILLE, 
 
 &quot; Fun is your true philosophy : the laugh 
 Still speaks the winning wisdom.&quot; 
 
 WITH change of scene, we change the nature of the ac 
 tion. Life shows us hourly all the rapid transitions of the 
 kaleidoscope : now we share the bright, now the dark ; 
 now the scintillating gleams of a thousand tiny sparklers, 
 in wreaths, and roses, stars, and beautiful twinings, that 
 seem as endless iii variety of form as color and anon the 
 cold formality of cross and square, and the solemn signifi 
 cance of the perpetual circle, which leaves the eye no 
 salient beauty upon which to rest. The youth weeps to 
 day, with a grief that seems altogether too hard to bear ; 
 and lie laughs to-morrow with a joy that seems as wild, 
 and capricious, and as full of levity and hum, as the 
 Life in the little body of a humming-bird. And so, we pass, 
 I er saltern, from gay to grave, from lively to severe, and if 
 reason be the question, in either change, with quite as lit 
 tle justification in any ! We are creatures of a caprice 
 which might be held monstrously immoral and improper, 
 were it not that caprice is just as essential to the elasticity 
 and tone of humanity, as it is to the birds and breezes. 
 
 But, whatever, the changing phase of the mood and the 
 moment, the motif of the performance is the same. We 
 get back, all of us, to the old places in our circle. We set 
 
62 BEAUCHAMI E. 
 
 oar figures in our drama, and they laugh or weep, droop 
 or dance, are sad or merry, as the case may be ; but never 
 materially, or for any length of time, to baffle the fates, 
 which are just as arbitrary in the world of art, as in that of 
 humanity. If therefore, we, who have so recently been 
 dwelling on very gloomy topics presenting only dark and 
 sombre, and even savage aspects to the mirror now show 
 ourselves in quite other characters and costume, this is no 
 fault in us, nor does it conflict with the absolute law in our 
 progress. That is written, as indelibly as were the laws 
 of Mede and Persian, and the decrees of court undergo no 
 fluctuation, though there may be a burst of mistimed mer 
 riment during the course of the trial. The change of scene 
 will make a difference change of costume, and the intro 
 duction of new characters. Besides, as we have already 
 gravely taught, the moods of mind have no permanent in 
 fluence, or but very little, on the real nature, the true char 
 acter of the subject, which has its own atmosphere, and 
 tends inevitably to decreed results, which, to be legitimate, 
 must be systematic throughout, and arbitrary in all their 
 workings. We can not help it, if, while the mournful pro 
 cession is in progress to the grave, and the bolt strikes 
 down the noble, and the gloomy pall hides the bright and 
 beautiful from loving eyes if fools laugh the while, and 
 the cold, the base, the cruel, pursue each their several lit 
 tle, sneaking, scoundrelly purposes, working against the 
 sweetest humanities of life and culture ! 
 
 With this caveat against any mistakes of assumption, we 
 raise the curtain upon other scenes and characters. 
 
 The city of Frankfort, in the noble state of Kentucky &amp;gt; 
 is very beautifully situated upon the banks of the river of 
 that name. It is overlooked by a cluster of steep hills, but 
 occupies an elevation of its own, at a point where the rivei 
 curves gracefully before it, in a crescent figure. The city 
 itself, of moderate dimensions at the period of which we 
 write, is a capital ; handsomely built, laid out in rectangu- 
 
LAW IN DESHABILLE. 53 
 
 lar sections, and presenting, altogether, a view at once 
 pleasing and promising, scanned from any of the numer 
 ous eminences which look down upon it. A place, now, of 
 considerable opulence, and tolerably large population, it 
 was even then distinguished by its numerous men of talent 
 and people of fashion. Of the former, at this and suoso- 
 querit periods, it has furnished to the Union abundant 
 proofs ; of the latter, the charm will be remembered with 
 freshening interest, by all who have ever enjoyed the grace 
 and hospitality of its society. 
 
 Upon the resources of this young and promising capital, 
 however, it is not our purpose to dwell. We are permitted 
 to glance at its circles only, and to detach, from the great 
 body of the community, a few only of its members, and such 
 of its haunts only as can but imperfectly illustrate its vir 
 tues. We proceed to introduce them. 
 
 The reader will please suppose himself for the time, 
 within one of those dark, obscure tabernacles sanctuaries 
 dare we call them? which, in the silent, narrow streets 
 and portions of a city which are usually most secluded from 
 the uproarious clamors of trade, have been commonly as 
 signed to, or rather chosen by, the professors of the law, 
 in which to carry on their mysteries in appropriate places 
 of concealment. Like the huge spiders to which the satirist 
 has so frequently likened them, these grave gentlemen 
 have always exhibited a most decided preference for retreats 
 in dismal and dusty corners. They seem to find a moral 
 likeness for the craft in the antique, the obscure, and the 
 intricate ; and with a natural propriety ! They seem to 
 shrink, with a peculiar modesty, from the externally attrac 
 tive, the open, the transparent, and the graceful ; as calcu 
 lated to attract too curious eyes, if not admiration ; and 
 whether it is that their veneration for the profession de 
 mands the nicest preservation of the antiquities which it so 
 loves to enshrine and cherish, even after their uses have 
 utterly departed, or whether it is that the wisdom 
 
64 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 they practise, is of the owl-like sort which will tolerate no 
 excess of light, it is very certain that you will find them 
 always in the most dingy and out-of-the-way dwellings, 
 in the most dismal and obscure lanes and crannies of a 
 city. The moral usually determines the externals. It 
 would seem, among most of the practitioners whom it is my 
 fortune to kno\v, that anything like a conspicuous situation, 
 and neat, well-fitted, and cleanlily-painted rooms, would 
 incur the reproach of professional dandyism. These might 
 argue, perhaps, against the profundity, the gravity, the dig 
 nity, the obscurity, of the sage professor. They might break 
 the effect of that Burleigh nod which means so much, arid 
 is of such prodigious emphasis, so long as the shaker of the 
 head shows nothing else, and keeps as dumb as dark ! 
 Such is the prescriptive necessity of these externals, that 
 you will rarely happen upon the young student who will 
 readily fall into the levities of clean lodging, decent exte 
 rior, and a modern-looking set of chambers. 
 
 The office to which we now repair, is one which evidently 
 belongs to a veteran ; one, at least, who knows what are 
 the excellent effects upon the vulgar superstition, of the 
 rust and dust of antiquity. If ever dirt and dismals could 
 make any one spot more sacred than another, in the eyes 
 of a grave and learned lawyer who understands the full 
 value of mere externals, and of authority upon the vulgar 
 mind this was the place. Here dullness was sainted; 
 obscurity jealously insured and protected ; dust consecrated 
 to sacred uses and respect ; and law preserved in maxims 
 which it would be worse than heresy to question. Here, 
 darkness and doubt were honored things ; and mere accu 
 mulation grew into a divinity, whose chaotic treasures no 
 one ever dreamed to distrust. Authority, here, wielding 
 her massy tomes, as Hercules his club, craved no succor 
 from digestion ; knocking reason over with the butt of the 
 pistol, according to Johnson, when failing to do execution 
 from the muzzle. One breathed an atmosphere of dust at 
 
LAW IN DESHABILLE. 55 
 
 the mere sight of these chambers : the dusty desks, dirty 
 books, grimy walls ; all inspiring solemn thoughts of the 
 tombs of Egypt and the Assyrian, merely to behold them. 
 The two small apartments, such as a lawyer would regard 
 as snug, were dimly lighted by a single window in each, 
 and these looked out upon a dismal and crowded little court. 
 The panes of the two windows, wretchedly small as they 
 were, had, evidently, never once, since fashioned in their 
 frames, been opened, or subjected to the impertinent agency 
 of soap and water. The sun grew jaundiced as he looked 
 through the sombre glasses. Shelves of cumbrous volumes, 
 all of that uniform vulgar complexion which distinguishes 
 the books of a lawyer s office a uniform as natural as 
 drab to the quakcr, white neckwrappers to the priest, and 
 black to the devil increased the lugubrious aspect of the 
 apartments. Plaster casts of Coke and Bacon, and sun 
 dry other favorite authorities, stood over the book-cases, 
 smeared with soot, and fettered with the cobwebs of three 
 lives, or, possibly, as many generations. The rooms had 
 little other furniture of any sort, except the huge table 
 covered with baize, now black, which had once been green, 
 and which also bore its century of dingy volumes. Rigid 
 cases of painted pine occupied the niches on each side of 
 the chimney, divided into numerous sections, each filled 
 with its portly bundles of closely-written papers : 
 
 &quot; Strange words, scrawled with a barbarous pen.&quot; 
 
 In short, the picture was that of a law-office, the proprietor 
 of which was in very active and successful practice. 
 
 But the gravity which distinguished the solemn fixtures, 
 and the silent volumes, did not extend to the human inmates 
 of this dim lodging-house of law. Two of these sat by the 
 table in the centre of the room. Their feet were upon it 
 at opposite quarters, while their chairs were thrown back 
 and balanced upon their hind legs, at such an angle as gave 
 most freedom and ease of position to the person 
 
66 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 Something of merriment had inspired them, for the room 
 was full of cachination from their rival voices, long before 
 our entrance. Of the topics of which they spoke, the 
 reader must form his own conjectures. They may have c. 
 significance hereafter, of which we have no present intima 
 tion. It may be well to state, however, that it is our pres 
 ent impression that we have somewhere met botli of these 
 persons on some previous occasion. We certainly rcmem 
 ber that tall, slender form, that sly, smiling visage, and 
 those huge bushy whiskers. That chuckling laugh enters 
 into our cars like a well-remembered sound ; and, as for 
 the companion of him from whom it proceeds, we can not 
 mistake. Every word and look is familiar. It is five 
 years gone, indeed, but the impression was too strongly 
 impressed to be so easily obliterated. 
 
 Our companions continued merry. The conversation was 
 still disjointed just enough being said to renew the laugh 
 ter of both parties. As, for example : 
 
 &quot; Such an initiation !&quot; said one. 
 
 &quot; Ha ! ha ! ha !&quot; roared the other, at the bare suggestion. 
 
 &quot; And did you mark the uses made of old Darby, 
 Wai-ham? / 
 
 &quot;No: I missed him before eleven. Did he not escape? 
 Where was he ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Quiet as a mouse, unconscious as a pillow, under the 
 feet of Barnabas. Barnabas used him as a sort of foot 
 stool. First one foot, then another, came down upon his 
 breast ; and you know the measure of Barnabas legs. 
 Ha! ha! ha!&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ha! ha! ha!&quot; 
 
 &quot;Hundred-pounders each, by Jupiter. Whenever they 
 came down you could hear the squelch. Poor Darby did 
 not seem to breathe at any other time, and the air was 
 driven out uf him with a rush. Ha! ha! ha! It was 
 decidedly the demdost line initiation 1 ever saw at the 
 club.&quot; 
 
LAW IN DESHABILLE. 57 
 
 &quot; But Beauchampe !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! that was a dangerous experiment. He can t stand 
 the stuff.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, Ben, and that s not all. It will not do to put it in 
 him, or there will be no standing him. What passion? ! 
 Egad, I trembled every moment lest he should draw knife 
 upon the pope. lie s more a madman when drunk than 
 any man I ever saw.&quot; 
 
 &quot;He s no gain to the club. lie has no idea of joking 
 He s too serious.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Yet what a joke it was, when he took the pope by hid 
 nose, in order to show how a cork could be pulled without 
 either handkerchief or corkscrew.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ha ! ha ! ha ! I thought he d have wrung it off.&quot; 
 
 &quot; That was the pope s fear also : but he was too much 
 afraid of provoking the madman to do worse, to make the 
 slightest complaint, and he smiled too, with a desperate 
 effort, while the water ^was trickling from his eyes.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ha! ha! ha!&quot; and the chuckling was renewed, until 
 the sound of footsteps in the front room induced their 
 return to sobriety. 
 
 &quot; Who s there V demanded one of the merry com 
 panions. 
 
 &quot;Me! the pope,&quot; answered the voice of the intruder. 
 
 &quot; Ha ! ha ! ha !&quot; was the simultaneous effusion of tho 
 Vwo, concluded, however, with an invitation to the other to 
 come in. 
 
 &quot; Come in, pope, come in.&quot; 
 
 A short, squab, but active little man, whose eyes snapped 
 continually, and whose proboscis was of that truculent 
 complexion and shape which invariably impresses you with 
 the idea of an experienced bottle-holder, at once made his 
 appearance. 
 
 &quot; Ha ! ha ! ha ! Your reverence, how does your dignity 
 feel this morning your nose, I mean V 
 
3 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Don t talk of it, Warham, I was never so insulted in 
 all my life.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Insulted ! How ? By what ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; By what ! why, by that d d fellow pulling my nose.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Indeed, why that was universally esteemed a compli 
 ment, and it was supposed by every one to give you pleas : 
 ure, for you smiled upon him in the most gracious manner, 
 while he was most stoutly tugging at it.&quot; 
 
 &quot;So I did, by the ghost of Naso,.but reason good was 
 there why I should ? The fellow was mad stark mad.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh, I don t think he would have done you any harm.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Indeed, eh ! don t you. By the powers, and if you 
 have your doubts on that point, get your nasal eminence 
 betwixt his thumb and finger, as mine was, and you will 
 be ready enough to change your notion, before the next 
 sitting of the Symposia. D n it, I have no feeling in the 
 region. It s as perfectly dead to me ever since, as if it 
 were frozen.&quot; 
 
 &quot;It certainly docs wear a very livid appearance, eh, 
 Ben ?&quot; remarked the other, gravely. 
 
 &quot; Do you think so ?&quot; responded the visitor, with some 
 signs of disquiet. 
 
 &quot; Indeed, I do think so. Will you pass Dr. Filbert s this 
 morning? if so, take his opinion.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I will make it a point to do so. I will.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It s prudent only. I have heard of several disastrous 
 cases of the loss of the nose. Perhaps there is no feature 
 which is so obnoxious to injury. The most fatal symptom 
 is an obtuseness a sort of numbness a deficiency of 
 sensibility.&quot; 
 
 &quot; My very symptom.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Amputation has been frequently resorted to, but not 
 always in season to prevent the spread of mortification.&quot; 
 
 &quot; The devil, you say amputation !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, but this is a small matter.&quot; 
 
 u What! to lose one s nose and such a nose!&quot; 
 
LAW IN DESHABILLE. 5S 
 
 &quot; Yes, a small matter. Such is the progress of art that 
 noses of any dimensions are now supplied to answer all 
 purposes.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Is this true, Warham ? But dang it, even if it were, 
 there s no compensating a man for the loss of his own. No 
 nose could be made to answer my purposes half so well as 
 the one I was born with. * 
 
 &quot;But you do not suppose that you were born with that 
 nose.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Why not?&quot; 
 
 &quot; You were born of the flesh. But that nose is decidedly 
 more full of the spirit.&quot; 
 
 &quot; That s an imputation. But I can tell you that a man s 
 nose may become very red, yet he be very temperate.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Granted. But temperance, according to the club, im 
 plies anything but abstinence. Besides, you were made 
 perpetual pope only while your nose lasted, and color, size, 
 and the irregular prominences by which yours is so thickly 
 studded, were the causes of your selection. The loss of 
 your nose itself would not be your only loss. You would 
 be required to abdicate.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But you are not serious, Warham, about the suscepti 
 bility of the nose to injury.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ask Ben!&quot; 
 
 &quot; It s a dem d dangerous symptom, you hare, your rev 
 erence.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Coldness at once a sign of disease, though latent per 
 haps, and of inferior capacity, for it is the distinguishing 
 trait of cat and dog.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And the dem d numbness.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, the want of sensibility is a bad sign. Besides, I 
 think the pope s nose has lost nearly all its color.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Except a dark crimson about the roots.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And the bridge is still passable&quot; 
 
 11 Yes, but how long will it be so in the club ? That haa 
 grown pale also.&quot; 
 
60 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 41 To a degree, only, Bon : I don t think it much laded.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Perhaps not; and now I look again, it docs seem to 
 inc that one of the smaller carbuncles on the main promi 
 nence keeps up appearances.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Look you, lads, d n it, you re quizzing me !&quot; was the 
 sudden interruption of the person whose nose furnished the 
 subject of discussion, but his face wore a very bewildered 
 expression, and he evidently only had a latent idea of the 
 waggery of which he was the victim. 
 
 &quot; Quizzing !&quot; exclaimed one of the companions. 
 Quizzing !&quot; echoed the other. &quot; Never was more dem d 
 serious in all my life !&quot; and he stroked his black, bushy 
 whiskers in a very conclusive manner. The visitor applied 
 his fingers to the nasal prominence which had become so 
 fruitful a source of discussion, and passed them over its 
 various outline with the tenderness of a man who handles a 
 subject of great intrinsic delicacy. 
 
 &quot; It feels pretty much as ever !&quot; said he, drawing a long 
 breath. 
 
 &quot; Ay, to your fingers. But what is its own feeling ? Try 
 now and snuff the air.&quot; 
 
 The ambiguous member was put into instant exercise, and 
 such a snuffing and snorting as followed, utterly drowned 
 the sly chuckling in which the jeering companions occasion 
 ally indulged. They played the game, however, with mar 
 vellous command of visage. 
 
 &quot; I can snuff I can draw in, and drive out the air!&quot; 
 exclaimed the pope, with the look of a man somewhat bet 
 ter satisfied. 
 
 &quot;Ay, but do you feel it cut is it sharp does the air 
 seem to scrape against and burn, as it were, the nice, deli 
 cate nerves of that region.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I can t say that it does.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! that s bad. Look you, Ben. There s a paper of 
 anuff, yellow snuff, on the mantelpiece in t other room. 
 Bring it let the pope trv that 
 
LAW TN m:SITAI ,TLLR. 6} 
 
 The other disappeared, and returned, bringing with him 
 one of those paper rolls which usually contain Sanford s 
 preparation of bark. Nor did the appearance belio tho 
 contents. The yellow powder was bark. 
 
 &quot; Now, pope, try that ! The test is infallible, that is the 
 strongest Scotch snuff, and if that don t succeed in titilla 
 ting your nostrils, run to Filbert with all possible despatch. 
 Fie may have to operate !&quot; 
 
 The pope s hand was seen to tremble, as a portion of tho 
 powder described as so very potent, was poured into it by 
 the confederate. lie put it to his nose, and, in his haste 
 and anxiety, fairly buried his suspected member in the 
 powder. His cheeks shared freely in tho bounty, and his 
 mouth formed a better idea of the qualities of the &quot; snuff,&quot; 
 than ever could his proboscis. The application over, the 
 patient prepared himself to sneeze, by clapping one hand 
 upon the pit of his stomach, opening his mouth, and care 
 fully thrusting his head forward and his nose upward. 
 
 &quot; Oh ! you re trying to sneeze !&quot; said one of the two. 
 &quot; You shouldn t force tho matter.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, I don t. But is the snuff so very strong?&quot; 
 
 u The demdest strongest Scotch that I ever nosed yet.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I can t sneeze!&quot; said the pope, in accents of conster 
 nation. 
 
 His companions shook their heads dolefully. Pie looked 
 from one to the other as if not knowing what to do. 
 
 &quot; A serious matter,&quot; said one. 
 
 &quot; Dem d serious ! There s no telling, Warham, what 
 sort of a looking person the pope would be without his 
 nose.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Difficult, indeed, to imagine. A valley for a mountain ! 
 It s as if we went to bed to-night with the town at the foot 
 of the hills, and rose to-morrow to find it on the top of them. 
 There s nothing more important to a man s face than his 
 nose. Appearances absolutely demand it. The uses of a 
 nose, indeed, are really less important than its presence.&quot; 
 
62 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; I can t agree with you there, Warham ; a sneeze 
 
 &quot;Is a joy, Ben a luxury; but a nose is a necessity, 
 What show could a man make without a nose ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Rather what a show he would make of himself without 
 it ! A monstrous show !&quot; 
 
 &amp;lt;; You re right. Besides, the pope s loss would be great 
 er than that of most ordinary men.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Much, much ? Let us take the dimensions, pope. 
 Three inches from base to apex from root to the same 
 point &quot; 
 
 &quot;Four at least the dromedary s hump alone calls for 
 two.&quot; 
 
 And in the spirit of unmeasured fun, the person who is 
 called Ben by his companion, arming himself with a string, 
 was actually about to subject the proboscis of the pope to 
 rule and line, when the eyes of the latter, which had really 
 exhibited some consternation before, were suddenly illumi 
 nated. He caught up the paper of supposed snuff which 
 Eea had incautiously laid down upon the table and read the 
 label upon it. 
 
 &quot; Ah ! villains !&quot; he exclaimed, &quot; at your old tricks. I 
 should have known it. But I ll pay you,&quot; and starting up 
 he proceeded to fling the yellow powder over the merry 
 makers. This led to a general scramble, over chairs and 
 tables from one room to another. The office rang with 
 shouts and laughter the cries of confusion and exultation, 
 aod the tumbling of furniture. The atmosphere was filled 
 with the floating particles of the medicine, and while the 
 commotion was at its height, the party were joined unex 
 pectedly by a fourth person who suddenly made his appear 
 ance from the street. 
 
 &quot; Ua, Beauchampe ! that you ? You are come in time. 
 Grapple the pope there from behind, or he will suffocate us 
 with Jesuit s bark.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And a proper fate for such Jesuits as ye are,&quot; exclaimed 
 the pope, who, however, ceased the horse-play the moment 
 
LAW IN DESHABILLE. 63 
 
 that the name of the new-comer was mentioned. He turned 
 round and confronted him as he spoke, with a countenance 
 in which dislike and apprehension were singularly mingled 
 and very clearly expressed. 
 
 &quot; Mr. Lowe, I am very glad to see you here,&quot; said Bean- 
 champe respectfully but modestly ; &quot; it saves me the neces 
 sity of calling upon you. * 
 
 &quot; Calling upon me, sir ?. For what ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; To apologize for my rudeness to you last night. I was 
 not conscious of it, but some friends this morning tell mo 
 that I was rude.&quot; 
 
 &quot; That you were, sir ! You pulled my nose ! you did !&quot; 
 
 &quot; I am sorry for it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No man s nose should be pulled, Mr. Beauchampe, with 
 out an object. If you had pulled my nose with an inten 
 tion, it might have been excused ; but, to pull it without 
 design, is, it appears to me, decidedly inexcusable.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Decidedly, decidedly !&quot; was the united exclamation of 
 the two friends. 
 
 &quot; I am very sorry, indeed, Mr. Lowe. It was, sir, a very 
 unwarrantable liberty, if I did such a thing, and I know 
 not how to excuse it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It m not to be^excuscd,&quot; said the pope, or Lowe, which 
 was his proper name, whose indignation seemed to increase 
 in due proportion with the meekness and humility of the 
 young man. 
 
 &quot; A nose,&quot; he continued, &quot; a nose is a thing perhaps quite 
 as sacred as any other in a man s possession.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Quite !&quot; said the jesters with one breath. 
 
 &quot; No man, as I have said before, should pull the nose of 
 another, unless he had some distinct purpose in view. Now, 
 sir, had you any such purpose ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not that I can now recollect.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Let me assist you, Beauchampe. You had a purpose. 
 You declared it at the time. The purpose was even a be 
 nevolent one ; nay, something more than benevolent. The 
 
f&amp;gt;4 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 corkscrew had been mislaid, and you undertook to show to 
 the pope remember, the presiding officer of the society 
 that a cork might be drawn without any other instrument 
 than the ordinary thumb and forefinger of a free white man. 
 You illustrated the principle on the pope s proboscis, and 
 so effectually, that everybody was convinced, not only that 
 the cork might be drawn in this way from every bottle, but 
 that the same mode would be equally effectual in drawing 
 any nose from any face. If this was not a purpose, and a 
 laudable one, then I am no judge of the matter.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But, Sharpe, my dear fellow,&quot; said Lowe, &quot; you over 
 look the fact that Beauchampe has already admitted that 
 he had no purpose.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Beauchampe is no witness in his own case, nor is it 
 asked whether he has a purpose now, but whether he had 
 one when the deed was done.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It was a drunken purpose then, colonel,&quot; said Beau 
 champe gravely 
 
 &quot;Drunk or sober, it matters not, 1 said tho other; &quot;it 
 was not less a purpose, and I say a good one. The act 
 was one pro bono pubiico ; and I, moreover, contend that 
 you did not pull the nose of our friend except in his official 
 capacity. You pulled the nose, not of Daniel Lowe, Esq., 
 but of the supreme pontiff of our microcosm ; and I really 
 think that the pope does wrong to remember the event in 
 his condition as a mere man. I am not sure that he does 
 not violate that rule, seventeenth section, seventh clause, 
 of the ordinance for the better preservation of the individ 
 uality of the fraternals, which provides that 4 all persons, 
 members, who shall betray the discoveries, new truths, and 
 modern inventions, the progress of discovery and prosely- 
 tism, the processes deemed essential to be employed, &amp;lt;fcc. 
 You all remember the section, clause, and penalty.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Pshaw ! how can you make out that I violate the clause ? 
 What have I betrayed that should be secret ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; The new mode of extracting a cork from a bottle, which 
 
LAW IN DKRHAHTLLR. h/&amp;gt; 
 
 our new member, Beuuchampe, displayed last, evening, to 
 the great edification of every fraternal present.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But it was no cork ! My nose 
 
 &quot; Symbolically, it was a cork, and your nose had no right 
 to any resentments. But come, let us take the back room 
 again and resume our seats, when we can discuss the matter 
 more at leisure.&quot; 
 
 The motion was seconded, and the dusty particles of 
 Jesuit s bark having subsided from the atmosphere of the 
 adjoining room, the parties drew chairs around the table 
 as before, with a great appearance of comparative satis 
 faction. 
 
Hti BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 CHAPTER \ 
 
 STUMP TACTICS. 
 
 &quot; Our village politicians, how they plan 
 Their pushpin practice for the rights of man 1&quot; 
 
 THE name of Beauchampe, of which our readers have 
 heard nothing until this period, though it confers its name 
 on our story, renders it necessary that we should devote a 
 few moments in particular to him by whom it is borne. He 
 was a young man, not more than twenty-one, tall, and of 
 very handsome person. His eye was bright, and his whole 
 face full of intelligence. His manners and features equal 
 ly denoted the modesty and the ingenuousness of youth. 
 There was a gentleness in his deportment, however, which, 
 though natural enough to his nature when in repose, was 
 not its characteristic at other periods. He was of excita 
 ble constitution, passionate, and full of enthusiasm ; and, 
 when aroused, not possessed of any powers of self-govern 
 ment or restraint. At present, and sitting with the rest 
 about the table, his features were not only subdued and 
 quiet, but they wore an air of profound humility and self- 
 dissatisfaction, which was sufficiently evident to all. 
 
 &quot; Our new member,&quot; said one of the party, &quot; does not 
 seem to have altogether got over the pains of initiation. 
 Fh, Beauchampe ! how is it ? Does the head ache still ? 
 Are the nerves still disordered ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, colonel, but I feet inexpressibly mean and sheep- 
 is)). I am very sorry you persuaded me to join your club.&quot; 
 
STUMP TACTICS. 67 
 
 &quot; Persuade ! it was not possible to avoid it. Every new 
 graduate at the bar, to be recognised, must go through the 
 initiation. Your regrets and repentance are treasonable.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I feel them nevertheless. I muse have been a savage 
 
 O 
 
 and a beast if what. I am told be true. I never was drunk 
 before in my life, and, club or no club, if I can help it. never 
 will be drunk again. Indeed, I can not even now under 
 stand it. I drank no great deal of wine.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, indeed, precious little no more than would dash 
 the brandy. You may thank Ben there for his adroitness 
 in mingling the liquors.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I do thank him !&quot; said the youth with increased gravi 
 ty, and a glance which effectually contradicted his words, 
 addiessed to the offender. That worthy did not seem much 
 annoyed, however. 
 
 &quot;It was the demdest funny initiation I did ever see! 
 Ha ! ha ! ha I J say, pope, how is your reverence s nose ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Let my nose alone, you grinning, big-whiskered, little 
 creature !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Noses are sacred,&quot; said Sharpe. 
 
 &quot; To be pulled only with a purpose, Warham.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Symbolically.&quot; pursued the first. 
 
 &quot; By way of showing how corks are to be drawn.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Oh, d n you for a pair of blue devils!&quot; exclaimed 
 Lowe, starting to his feet, and shaking his fist at the 
 offenders. 
 
 &quot; What, are you off, pope ?&quot; demanded Sharpe. 
 
 &quot; Yes. I am. There s no satisfaction in staying with 
 you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Call at Filbert s on your way, be sure.&quot; 
 
 &quot;For what, I want to know? 1 
 
 &quot; Why, for his professional opinion. The worst sign, 
 you know, is that numbness &quot; 
 
 &quot; Coldness.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Insensibility to Scotch snuff.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And remember, though your nose was pulled officially, 
 
68 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 it may yet be personally injured. The official pulling sim 
 ply acquits the offender : the liability of the nose is not les 
 sened by the legalization of the act of pulling.&quot; 
 
 &quot; The devil take you for a pair of puppies,&quot; cried the vic 
 tim with a queer expression of joint fun and vexation on 
 his face. &quot; Of course, Mr. Beauchampe,&quot; he said, turning 
 to the young man, &quot; of course I don t believe what these 
 dogs say about my nose having suffered any vital injury ; 
 but I must tell you, sir, that you hurt me very much last 
 night ; and I feel the pain this morning.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I am truly sorry, Mr. Lowe, for what I have done. 
 Truly, sincerely sorry. I assure you, sir, that your pain of 
 body is nothing to that which I suffer in mind from having 
 exposed myself, as I fear I did.&quot; 
 
 * ; You did expose yourself and me too, sir. I trust you 
 will never do so again. I advise you, sir, never do so 
 again never, unless you have a serious and sufficient mo 
 tive. Don t let these fellows gull you with the idea that it 
 was any justification for such an act that corks might be 
 drawn from bottles in such a manner. Corks are not noses. 
 Nobody can reasonably confound them. The shape, color, 
 everything is different. There is nothing in the feel of the 
 two to make one fancy a likeness. You are young, sir, and 
 liable to be abused. Take the advice of an older man. 
 Look into this matter for yourself, and you will agree with 
 me not only that there is no likeness between a nose and a 
 cork, but that, even admitting that your plan of drawing a 
 cork from a bottle by the thumb and forefinger is a good 
 one, it would be impossible to teach the process by exer 
 cising them upon a nose in the same manner. These young 
 men are making fun of you, Mr. Beauchampe they are, 
 believe me !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ha, ! ha ! ha !&quot; roared the offenders. &quot; Very good, 
 your reverence.&quot; 
 
 &quot; He ! he ! he ! you puppies. Do you think I mind your 
 cackling !&quot; and shaking his fist at the company, Mr. Lowo 
 
STUMP TACTICS. 69 
 
 took his departure, involuntarily stroking, with increased 
 affection the nasal eminence which had furnished occasion 
 for so much misplaced merriment. 
 
 &quot; Well, Beauchampe,&quot; said one of the companions, &quot; you 
 still seem grave about this business, but you should not. 
 If ever a man may forget himself and be mad for a night, 
 after the fashion of old Anaereon, it is surely the night of 
 that day when he is admitted to the temple when he takes 
 his degree, and passes into the brotherhood of the bar. * 
 
 &quot; Nay, on such a day least of all.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Pshaw, you were never born for a puritan. OldThurs- 
 ton, your parson teacher, has perverted you from your bet 
 ter nature. You are a fellow for fun and flash, high frolic, 
 and the complete abandonment of blood. You look at this 
 matter too seriously. Do I not tell you I that have led 
 you through all the thorny paths of legal knowledge do I 
 not tell you that your offence is venial. c A good sherris- 
 sack hath a twofold operation in it. &quot; 
 
 &quot; Beauchampe found it fourfold,&quot; said the bush-whiskered 
 gentleman &quot; that is, fourth proof; and he showed proofs 
 enough of it. By Gad ! never did a man play such pleas 
 ant deviltries with his neighbor s members. The nose- 
 pulling was only a small part of his operations. It was 
 certainly a most lovely initiation.&quot; 
 
 &quot; At least it s all over, Mr. Coalter ; and as matters have 
 turned out, nothing more need be said on the subject ; but 
 were it otherwise, I assure you that your practice upon my 
 wine would be a dangerous experiment for you. I speak 
 to you by way of warning, and not with tho view to quarrel. 
 I presume you meant nothing more thdn a jest ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Dem the bit more,&quot; said the other, half dissatisfied 
 with himself at the concession, yet more than half convinced 
 of the propriety of making it. &quot; Pern the bit more. Sharpo 
 will tell you that it s a trick of tho game a customary 
 trick must be done by somebody, and was done by me, 
 only because I like to see 3 dem d fine initiation such as 
 
70 BKAUCHAMPK. 
 
 yours was, rny boy. But, good morning, Bcauchampe 
 good morning, Sharpe I see you have business to do 
 some dem d political business, I suppose ; and so I leave 
 you. I m no politician, but I see that Judge Tompkins; ia 
 in the field against your friend Desha. ~Eh ! don t you 
 think I can guess the rest, Warham eh ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Sagacious fellow !&quot; saic^Sharpe as the other disap 
 peared ; &quot; and, in this particular, not ^ ar fr m ^ ne mark. 
 Tompkins is in the field against Deslta, and will run him a 
 tight race. I too must go into th^field, Beauchampe. The 
 party requires it, and though I have some reasons not to 
 wish it just at this time, yet the matter is scarcely avoida 
 ble. I shall want every assistance, and I shall expect you 
 to take the stump for me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Whatever I can do I will.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You can do much. You do not know your own abili 
 ties on the stump. You will do famous things yet ; and 
 this is the time to try yourself. The success of a man in 
 our country depends on the first figure. You are just ad 
 mitted ; something is expected of you. There can be no 
 better opportunity to begin.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I am ready and willing.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Scarcely, mon ami. You are going to Simpson. You 
 will get with sisters and mamma, and waste the daylight. 
 Believe me this is no time to play at mammets. We want 
 every man. We will need them all.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You shall find me ready. I shall not stay long at 
 Simpson. But do not think that I will commit myself for 
 Desha. I prefer Tompkins.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well, but you will do nothing on that subject. You 
 do not mean to come out for Tompkins ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! I only tell you I will do nothing on the subject of 
 the gubernatorial canvass. You are for the assembly. I 
 will turn out in your behalf. But who is your opponent?&quot; 
 
 &quot;One Calvert William Calvert. Said to be a smart 
 fellow. I never saw him, but he is spoken of as no mean 
 
STUMP TACTICS. ll 
 
 person. He writes well. His letter to the people of 
 
 lies on the desk there. Put it in your pocket and read it 
 at your leisure. It is well done quite artful but rather 
 prosing and puritanical.&quot; 
 
 Beauchampe took up the pamphlet, passed his eyes over 
 the page, and placed it without remark in his pocket. 
 
 &quot; Barnabas,&quot; continued Sharpe, &quot; who has seen this fellow 
 Calvert, says he s not to be despised. He s a mere country 
 lawyer, however, who is not known out of his own precinct. 
 In taking the field now, he makes a miscalculation. I shall 
 beat him very decidedly. But he has friends at work, who 
 are able, and mine must not sleep. Do I understand you 
 as promising to take the field against him ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; If he is so clever, he will need a stronger opponent. 
 Why not do it yourself?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Surely, I will. I long for nothing better. But I can 
 not be everywhere, and he and his friends are everywhere 
 busy. I will seek him in his stronghold, and grapple with 
 him tooth and nail ; but there will be auxiliary combatants, 
 and you must be ready to take up the cudgel at the same 
 time with some other antagonist. When do you leave 
 town ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;To-day within the hour.&quot; 
 
 &quot; So soon ! Why I looked to have you to dinner. Mrs 
 Sharpe expects you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I am sorry to deprive myself of the pleasure of doing 
 justice to her good things ; but I wrote my sisters and they 
 will expect me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Pshaw ! what of that ! The disappointment of a day 
 only. You will be the more welcome from the delay.&quot; 
 
 &quot;They will apprehend some misfortune perhaps, my 
 rejection and I would spare them the mortification if not 
 the fear. You must make my compliments and excuse to 
 Mrs. S.&quot; 
 
 &quot;You will be a boy, Beauchampe. Let the girls wait a 
 day, and dine with me. You will meet some good fellows 
 
[2 
 
 and get a glimpse into the field of war see how we open 
 the campaign, and so forth/ 
 
 &quot; Temptations, surely, not to be despised ; but I confess 
 to my boyhood in one respect, and will prove my manhood 
 in another. I ana able to resist your temptations so much 
 for my manhood. My boyhood makes me keep word with 
 my sisters, and the shame be on my head.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Shame, indeed ; but where shall we meet?&quot; 
 
 &quot;At Bowling Green when you please/ 
 
 &quot; Enough then on that head. I will write you when you 
 are wanted. I confess to a strong desire, apart from my 
 own interests, to see you on the stump ; and if I can ar 
 range it so, I will have you break ground against Calvert.&quot; 
 
 But that is not so easy. What is there against him ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; You will find out from his pamphlet. Nothing more 
 easy. He is obscure, that is certain. Little known among 
 the people. Why? For a good reason lie is a haughty 
 aristocrat a man who only knows them when he wants 
 their votes !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Is that the case?&quot; 
 
 ^Simple fellow ! we must make it appear so. It may 
 be or not what matter? That he is shy, and reserved, 
 and unknown, is certain. It s just as likely he is so, be 
 cause of his pride, as anything else. Perhaps he s a fellow 
 of delicate feelings ! This is better for us, if you can make 
 U appear so. People don t like fellows of very delicate 
 feelings. That alone would be conclusive against him. If 
 we could persuade him to wear silk gloves, now, it would 
 be only necessary to point them out on the canvass, to turn 
 be stomachs of the electors, and their votes with their 
 stomachs. They would throw him up instantly. 
 
 Beauchampe shook his head. The other interpreted the 
 motion incorrectly. 
 
 What! you do not believe it. Never doubt. The fact 
 ii; certain. Such would be the case. Did you ever hear 
 tne story of Barnabas in his first campaign ?&quot; 
 
STUMP TACTICS. 73 
 
 r No ! not that I recollect.&quot; 
 
 &quot;He was stumping it through your own county of Simp 
 son. There were two candidates against him. One of 
 them stood no chance. That was certain. The other, 
 however, was generally considered to be quite as strong if 
 not stronger than Barnabas. Now Barnabas, in those days, 
 was something of a dandy. He wore tine clothes, a long- 
 tail blue, a steeple-crowned beaver, and silk-gloves. Old 
 Ben Jones, his uncle, saw him going out on the canvas? in 
 
 this unseasonable trim ; told him he was a d d fool ; that 
 
 the very coat, and gloves, and hat, would lose him the elec 
 tion. Come in with me, said the old buck. He did so, 
 and Jones rigged him out in a suit of buckskin breeches ; 
 gave him an old slouch tied with a piece of twine ; made 
 him put on a common homespun roundabout ; and sent him 
 on the campaign with these accoutrements.&quot; 
 
 &quot; A mortifying exchange to Barnabas.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not a bit. The fellow was so eager for election, that 
 he d have gone without clothes at all, sooner than have 
 missed a vote. But one thing the old man did not remem 
 ber the silk-glaves and Barnabas had nearly reached 
 the muster-ground before he recollected that he had them 
 on his hands. He took em off instantly, and thrust em 
 into his pocket. When he reached the ground, he soon 
 discovered the wisdom of old Jones s proceedings. He 
 was introduced to his chief opponent, and never was there 
 a more rough-and-tumble-looking ruffian under the sun. 
 Barnabas swears that he had not washed his face and hands 
 for a week. His coat was out at the elbows, and though 
 made of cloth originally both blue and good, it was evi 
 dently not made for the present wearer. His breeches 
 were common homespun ; and his shoes, of yellow-belly, 
 were gaping or both feet. He had on stockings, however. 
 Barnabas looked and felt quite genteel alongside of him ; 
 but he felt his danger also. He saw that the appearance 
 the fellow was very much in his favor. There was al- 
 
74 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 ready a crowd around him ; and, when he talked, his words 
 were of that rough sort which is supposed to indicate the 
 true staple of popular independence. As there was nothing 
 much in favor or against any of the candidates, unless it 
 was that one of them not Barnabas was suspected of 
 horse-stealing, all that the speakers could do was to prove 
 their own republicanism, and the aristocracy of the oppo 
 nent. Appearances would help or dissipate this charge ; 
 and Barnabas saw, shabby as he was, that his rival was 
 still shabbier. A bright thought took him that night. 
 Fumbling in his pockets while they were drinking at the 
 hotel, he felt his silk-gloves. What does he do, but, going 
 to his room, he takes out his pocket inkstand and pen, and 
 marks in large letters the initials of his opponent upon 
 them. This done, he watches his chance, and the next 
 morning when they were about to go forth to the place of 
 gathering, he slips the gloves very slyly into the other fel 
 low s pocket. The thing worked admirably. In the midst 
 of the speech, Joel Peguay for that was his rival s name 
 endeavoring to pull out a ragged cotton pocket-hand 
 kerchief, drew out the gloves, which fell behind him on the 
 ground. Barnabas was on the watch, and, pointing the 
 eyes of the assembly to the tokens of aristocracy, ex 
 claimed 
 
 &quot; i This, gentlemen, is a proof of the sort of democracy 
 which Joel Peguay practises. 
 
 &quot; A universal shout, mixed with hisses, arose. Peguay 
 looked round, and, when he was told what was the matter, 
 answered with sufficient promptness, and a look of extraor 
 dinary exultation : 
 
 &quot; * Fellow-citizens, ain t this only another proof of the 
 truth of what I m a-telling you ? for, look you, them nasty 
 fine things come out of this coat-pocket, did they ? 
 
 &quot; Yes, yes ! we saw them drop, Joel, was the cry from 
 fifty voices. 
 
 &quot; 4 Very good, said Joel, nowise discomfited, and the 
 
STUMP TACTICS. 75 
 
 coat was borrowed, for this same occasion, from Tom Mead 
 ows. I hain t a decent coat of my own, my friends, to come 
 before you none but a round jacket, and that s tore down 
 in the back and so, you see, I begged Tom Meadows for 
 the loan of his n, and I reckon the gloves must be his n too, 
 since they fell out of the pocket. 
 
 &quot; This explanation called for a triumphant shout from 
 the friends of Peguay, and the affair promised to redound 
 still more in favor of the speaker, when Barnabas, shaking 
 his head gravely, and picking up the gloves, which he held 
 from him as if they had been saturated in the dews of the 
 bohon upas, drew the eyes of those immediately at hand to 
 the letters whicli they bore. 
 
 &quot; I am sorry, said he, to interrupt the gentleman ; but 
 there is certainly some mistake here. These gloves are 
 marked J. P., which stands for Joel Peguay, and not Tom 
 Meadows. See for yourselves, gentlemen you all can 
 read, I know here s J. P. I m not much of a reader, 
 being too poor to have much of an education ; but I know 
 pretty much what you all do, that if these gloves belonged 
 to Tom Meadows, they would &quot;have been marked T. M. : 
 the T for Tom, and the M for Meadows. I don t mean 
 to say that they arc not Tom s ; but I do say that it s very 
 strange that Tom Meadows should write his name Joel 
 Peguay. I say it s strange, gentlemen very strange 
 that s all ! 
 
 &quot; And that was enough. There was no more shouting 
 from the friends of Peguay. He was completely con 
 founded. He denied and disputed, of course ; but the 
 proofs were too strong, and Barnabas had done his part of 
 the business with great skill and adroitness. Joel Peguay 
 descended from the stump, swearing vengeance against 
 Meadows, who, he took for granted, had contrived the ex 
 hibition secretly, only to defeat him. No doubt a fierce 
 fond followed between the parties, but Barnabas was elect 
 ed by a triumphant vote.&quot; 
 
76 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; And do you really think, colonel,&quot; said Beauchampe, 
 &quot; that this silly proceeding had any effect in producing the 
 result ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Silly, indeed ! By my soul, such silly things, Master 
 Beauchampe, have upset empires. The tumbling of an old 
 maid s cap has done more mischief. I can tell you, from 
 my own experience, that a small matter like this has turned 
 the scale in many a popular election. Barnabas believes 
 to this day that he owes his success entirely to that little 
 ruse de guerre&quot; 
 
 &quot; I know not how to believe it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Because you know not yet that little, strange, mousing, 
 tiger-like, capricious, obstinate, foolish animal, whom we 
 call man. When you know him more, you will wonder 
 less.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Perhaps so,&quot; said Beauchampe. &quot; At all events, I can 
 only say that, while I will turn out for you and do all I can 
 to secure your election as in duty bound, I will endeavor 
 to urge your claims on other grounds.&quot; 
 
 &quot; As you please, my good fellow. Convince them that I 
 am a patriot, and a prophet, and the best man for them, 
 and I care nothing by what process it is done. And if you 
 can lay bare the corresponding deficiencies of mine oppo 
 nent this fellow Calvert it is a part of the same policy, 
 to be sure.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But not so obviously,&quot; replied the other, &quot; for as yet, 
 you remember, we know nothing of him, and can not ac 
 cordingly pronounce upon his deficiencies.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You forget his aristocracy !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! that is conjectural, you know.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Granted,&quot; said the other, &quot; but what more do you want? 
 A plausible conjecture is the very sort of argument in a 
 popular election.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But scarcely an honorable one.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Honorable ! poh ! poh ! poh ! Old Thurston has seri 
 ously diseased you, Beauchampe. We must undertake 
 
STUMP TACTICS. 77 
 
 your treatment for this weakness this boyish weakness. 
 It is a boyish weakness, Beauchampe.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Perhaps so, but it makes my strength.&quot; 
 
 &quot;It will always keep you feeble certainly keep you 
 down in the political world.&quot; 
 
 The young man smiled. The other, speaking hastily, 
 continued : 
 
 &quot; But this need not be discussed at present. Enough 
 that you will take the field, and be ready at my summons. 
 Turn the state of parties in your mind, and that will give 
 you matter enough for the stump. Read that letter of 
 Calvert ; I doubt not it will give you more than sufficient 
 material. From a hasty glance, I see that he distrusts the 
 people ; that, as a stern democrat, you can resent happily. 
 I leave that point to you. You will regard that opinion as 
 a falsehood ; I tlr.nk it worse a mistake in policy. It is 
 to this same people that lie addresses his claims. How far 
 his opinion is an impertinence may be seen in his appeal to 
 the very judgment which lie decries. This, to my mind, is 
 conclusive against his own. But this must not make us 
 remiss. I will write to you when the time comes, and at 
 intervals, should there be anything new to communicate. 
 But you had better stay to dinner. Seriously, my wife ex 
 pects you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Excuse me to her but I must go. I so long to see 
 my sisters, and they will be on the lookout for me. I have 
 already written them.&quot; 
 
 With a few words more, and the young lawyer separated 
 from his late legal preceptor. When he was gone, the lat 
 ter stroked his chin complacently as he soliloquized : 
 
 &quot; He will do to break ground with this fellow Calvert. 
 lie is ardent, soon roused ; and if I am to judge of Calvert 
 from his letter, he is a stubborn colt, whose heels are very 
 apt to annoy any injudicious assailant. Ten to one, that, 
 with his fiery nature, Beauchampe finds cause of quarrel 
 in any homely truth. They may fight, and this hurts me 
 
BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 nothing. At least, Beauchampe may be a very good foil 
 lor the first strokes of this new enemy. Barbanas says ho 
 is to be feared. If so, he must be grappled with fearlessly. 
 There is no hope else. At all events, I will see, by his 
 ssue with Beauchampe, of what stuff he is made. Some 
 thing in that. And yet, is all so sure with this boy ? He 
 has his whims ; is sometimes suspicious ; obstinate as a mule 
 when roused ; and has some ridiculous notions about virtue, 
 and all that sort of thing. At least, he must be managed 
 cautiously very cautiously !&quot; 
 
 We leave the office of Colonel Warham P. Sharpe for a 
 while, to attend the progress of the young man of whom he 
 was speaking. 
 
BEA0CHAMPE AT LJQM1. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 
 
 BEAUCHAMPE was on his way to the maternal mansion 
 We have already endeavored to afford the reader some 
 idea of the character of this person. It does not need that 
 we should dilate more at large on the abstract constituents 
 of his nature. We may infer that his mind was good, from 
 the anxiety which his late teacher displayed to have it put 
 in requisition in his behalf during the political campaign 
 which was at hand. The estimate of his temperament by 
 the same person will also be sufficient for us. That he was 
 of high, manly bearing, and honorable purpose, we may 
 also conclude from the share which he took in the prece 
 ding dialogue. 
 
 Of his judgment, however, doubts may be entertained. 
 With something more than the ardor of youth, Beauchampe 
 had all of its impatience. He was of that fiery mood, when 
 aroused, which too effectually blinds the possessor to the 
 strict course of propriety. His natural good sense was but 
 too often baffled by this impetuosity of his temper; and, 
 though in the brief scene in which he has been suffered to 
 appear, we have beheld nothing in his deportment which 
 was not becomingly modest and deliberate, we are con 
 strained to confess that the characteristic of much deliber* 
 ation is not natural to him, and was induced, in the present 
 instance, by a sense of his late elevation to a new and ex- 
 
**) BEAUCHAMPR. 
 
 acting profession ; the fact that lie was in the presence of 
 his late teacher; and that he had, the night before, partici 
 pated, however unconsciously, in a debauch, of the perform 
 ances of which he was really most heartily ashamed. His 
 manner has therefore been subdued, but only for a while. 
 We shall see him before long under very different aspects ; 
 betraying all the ardor and impetuosity of his disposition, 
 and, as is usual in such cases, not always in that way winch 
 is most favorable to the shows &amp;lt;?f judgment. 
 
 Beauchampe was the second son of a stancli Kentucky 
 farmer. He had received quite as good an education as 
 the resources of the country at that time could afford. 
 This education was not very remarkable, it is true ; but, 
 with the advantage of a lively nature and retentive mem 
 ory, it brought into early exercise all the qualities of his 
 really excellent intellect. He became a good English 
 speaker, and a tolerable Latin scholar. Tie read with 
 avidity, and studied witli industry ; and, at the age of 
 twenty-one, was admitted to the practice of law in the 
 courts of the state. This probation over, with the natural 
 feeling of a heart which the world has not yet utterly 
 weaned from the affections and dependencies of its youth, 
 he was hurrying home to his mother and sisters, to receive 
 their congratulations, and share with them the pride and 
 delight which such an occasion of his return would natu 
 rally inspire. 
 
 Hitherto, his mother and sisters have had all his affec 
 tions. The blind deity has never disturbed his repose, di- 
 rcrted his eyes from these objects of his regard, or intcr- 
 Aired with his mental cogitations. Dreams of ambition were 
 in his mind, but not yet with sufficient strength or warmth 
 as to subdue the claims of that domestic love which Xhe 
 kindnesses of a beloved mother, and the attachments of dear 
 sisters, had impressed upon his heart. Ho had his images 
 of beauty, perhaps, along with his images of glory, but they 
 were rather the creations of a lively fancy, in moments of 
 
BEAOCHAMPE AT HOME. 81 
 
 mental abstraction, than any more real impressions upon 
 the unwritten tablets of his soul. 
 
 These were still fair and smooth. His life had not been 
 touched by many griefs or annoyances. His trials had 
 been few, his mortifications brief. He was not yet con 
 scious of any wants which would induce feelings of care and 
 anxiety ; and, with a spirit gradually growing lighter and 
 more elastic, as the number of miles rapidly diminished be 
 neath the feet of his horse, he forgot that he was alone in 
 his journeyings ; a light heart and a lively fancy brought 
 him pleasant companions enough, that beguiled the time, 
 and cheered the tediousness of his journey. The youth was 
 thinking of his home and what a thought is that in the 
 bosom of youth ! The old cottage shrunk up in snug little 
 ness among the venerable guardian trees, and the green 
 grass-plat and the half-blind house-dog, and a thousand ob 
 jects besides, forced themselves, through the medium of his 
 memory, upon his delighted imagination. Then he beheld 
 his sisters hurrying out to meet him Jane running for 
 dear life, half mad, and shouting back to Mary, the more 
 grave sister, who slowly followed. Jane shrieking with 
 laughter, and Mary with not a word, but only her extended 
 hand and her tears ! 
 
 Strange ! that even at such a moment as this, while these 
 were the satisfying images in his mind, there should intrude 
 another which should either expel these utterly, or should 
 persuade him that they were not enough to satisfy his mind 
 or confer happiness upon his heart. Why, when, in his 
 dreaming fancy, these dear sisters appeared so lovely and 
 were so fond, why should another form itself a fancy 
 arise in the midst, which should make him heedless and 
 forgetful of all others, and fixed only on itself! The eye 
 of the youth grew sadder as he gazed and felt He no 
 longer spurred his steed impatiently along the path, but, 
 forgetful in an instant of his progress, he mused upon the 
 heart s ideal, which a passing fancy had presented, and 
 
82 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 all the bright sweet domestic form: vanished from his 
 sight. 
 
 The feeling of Beauchampe was natural enough. He felt 
 it to be so. It was an instinct which every heart of any 
 sensibility must feel in progress of time ; even though the 
 living object be yet wanting to the sight, upon which the 
 imagination may expend its own colors in seeking to estab 
 lish the identity between the sought and the found. 
 
 But was it not late for him to feel this instinct for the 
 first time ? Why had he not felt it before ? Why, just at 
 that moment just when his fancy had invoked around him 
 all the images which had ever brought him happiness be 
 fore forms which had supplied all his previous wants 
 smiles and tones which had left nothing which he could de 
 sire why, just then, should that foreign instinct arise and 
 expel, as with a single glance, the whole family of joys 
 known to his youthful heart. Expelling them, indeed, but 
 only to awaken him to the conviction -of superior joys and 
 possessions far more valuable. 
 
 It was an iastinct, indeed ; and never was youthful mind 
 so completely diverted, in a single instant, from the consid 
 eration of a long succession of dear thoughts, to that of one, 
 now dearer perhaps than all, but which had never made 
 one of his thoughts before. 
 
 He now remembered that, of all his schoolmates and 
 youthful associates, there had not been one, who had not 
 professed a passionate flame for some smiling damsel in his 
 neighborhood. Among his brother students-at-law, that 
 they should love was quite as certain as that they should 
 have frequent attacks of the passion, and of course, on each 
 occasion, for some different object. 
 
 He alone had gone unscathed. He alone had run the 
 gauntlet of smiles and glances, bright eyes and lovely 
 cheeks, without detriment. The thought had never dis 
 turbed him then, when he wa surrounded by beauty ; why 
 should it now, when no apparent object of passion was nigh 
 
BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 83 
 
 him, and when but a small distance from his mother s farm 
 he had every reason to think only of that and the dear rel 
 atives which there awaited him? There was a fatality 
 in it! 
 
 At that moment he was roused from his reveries by a 
 pistol-shot which sounded in the wood a little distance be 
 fore him. 
 
 The circumstance was a singular one. The wood was 
 very close and somewhat extensive. He knew the spot 
 very well. It was scarcely more than a mile from his moth 
 er s cottage. He knew of no one in the neighborhood who 
 practised pistol-shooting ; but, on this head, he was not ca 
 pable to judge. He had been absent from his home for 
 two years. There might there must have been changes. 
 At all events no mischief seemed to be afoot. There was 
 but one shot. He himself was safe, and he rode forward, 
 relieved somewhat of his reveries, at a trifling increase of 
 speed. 
 
 The road led him round the wood in which the shot had 
 been heard, making a sweep like a crescent, in order to 
 avoid some rugged inequalities of the land. As he followed 
 its windings he was suddenly startled to see, just before 
 him, a female, well-dressed, tall, and of a carriage unusu 
 ally firm and majestic. Under her arm she carried a small 
 bundle wrapped up in a dark silk pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 She crossed the road hastily, and soon buried herself out 
 of sight in the woods opposite. She gave him but a single 
 glance in passing, but this glance enabled him to distin 
 guish features of peculiar brilliancy and beauty. The mo 
 ment after, she was gone from sight, and it seemed as if 
 the pathway grew suddenly dark. Her sudden appear 
 ance and rapid transition was like that of a gleam of sum 
 mer lightning. 
 
 Involuntarily he spurred his horse forward, and his eyes 
 peered keenly into the wood which she had entered. He 
 could still see the white glimmer of her garments. He 
 
84 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 stopped, like one bewildered, to watch. At one moment 
 he felt like dismounting and darting in pursuit of her. But 
 such impertinence might receive the rebuke which it merit 
 ed. She did not seem to need any service, and on no other 
 pretence could he have pursued. 
 
 He grew more and more bewildered while he gazed, and 
 mused upon the incident. This vision was so strange and 
 startling ; and so singularly in unison with the fancies 
 which had just before possessed his mind. That his heart 
 should now, for the first time, present him with an ideal 
 form of attraction and delight, and that, a moment after, a 
 form of beauty should appear, so unexpectedly, in so unu 
 sual a place, was at least a very strange coincidence. 
 
 Nothing could be more natural than that the fancy of the 
 young man should find these two forms identical. It is an 
 easy matter for the ardent nature to deceive itself. But 
 here another subject of doubt presented itself to the mind 
 of Beauchampe. Was this last vision more certainly real 
 than the former ? It was no longer to be seen. Had he 
 seen it except in his mind s eye, where the former bright 
 ideal had been called up ? So sudden had been the ap 
 pearance, so rapid the transition, that he turned from the 
 spot now half doubting its reality. Slowly he rode away, 
 musing strangely, and we may add sadly often looking 
 back, and growing more and more bewildered as he mused, 
 until relieved and diverted by the more natural feelings 
 of the son and brother, as, the prospect opening before his 
 eyes, he beheld the farmstead of his mother. 
 
 In the doorway of the old cottage stood the venerable 
 woman, while the two girls were approaching, precisely as 
 his fancy had shown them, the one bounding and crying 
 aloud, the other moving slowly, and with eyes which were 
 already moist with tears. They had seen him before he 
 had sufficiently awakened from his reveries to behold them. 
 
 &quot; Ah, Jane dear Mary !&quot; were the words of the youth, 
 throwing himself from the horse and severally clasping 
 
BEAUCHAMFE AT HOME. 85 
 
 them in his arras. The former laughed, sang, danced, and 
 capered. The latter clung to the neck of her brother, sob 
 bing as heartily as if they were about to separate. 
 
 &quot; Why, what s Mnry crying for, I wonder? 71 said the 
 giddy girl. 
 
 &quot; Because my heart s so full, I must cry,&quot; murmured the 
 other. Taking an arm of each in his own, Bcauchampe 
 led them to the old lady, whose crowning embrace was be 
 stowed with the warmth of one who clasps and confesses 
 the presence of her idol. 
 
 We pass over the first ebullitions of domestic love. Most 
 people can imagine these. It is enough to say that ours is 
 a family of love. They have been piously brought up. 
 Mrs. Beauchampe is a woman of equal benignity and intel 
 ligence. They have their own little world of joy in and 
 among themselves. The daughters are single-hearted and 
 gentle, and no small vanities and petty strifes interfere to 
 diminish the confidence in one, and another, and themselves, 
 which brings to them the hourly enjoyment of the all-in-all 
 content. It will not be hard to fancy the happiness of the 
 household in the restoration of its tall and accomplished 
 son tall and handsome, and so kind, and so intelligent, 
 and just now made a lawyer too ! Jane was half beside 
 herself, and Mary s tears were constantly renewed as they 
 looked at the manly brother, and thought of these things. 
 
 &quot; But why did you ride so slow, Orville ?&quot; demanded 
 Jane, as she sat upon his knee and patted his cheek. Mary 
 was playing with his hair from behind. &quot; You came at a 
 snail s pace, and didn t seem to see anybody ; and there was 
 I hallooing to make you hear, and all for nothing.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Don t worry Orville with your questions, Jane,&quot; said 
 the more sedate Mary. &quot; He was tired, perhaps &quot; 
 
 &quot; Or his heart was too full also,&quot; said Jane, interrupting 
 her mischievously. &quot; But it s not either of these, I m sure, 
 Orville, for I know horseback don t tire you, and I m sure 
 your heart s not so very full, for you havVt shed a tear 
 
30 BEAUCHAMPE 
 
 ret. No, no ! it s something else, for you not only rode 
 slow, but you kept looking behind you all the while, as if 
 you were expecting somebody. Now, who were you look 
 ing for ? Tell me, tell Jane, dear brother !&quot; 
 
 Now you hit it, Jane ! The reason I rode slowly and 
 looked behind me mind me, I rode pretty fast until I 
 came almost in sight of home was, because I did expect 
 to see some one coming behind me, though I had not much 
 cause to expect it either.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Who was it?&quot; 
 
 &quot; That s the question. Perhaps you can tell me;&quot; and, 
 with these words, the young man proceeded to relate the 
 circumstance, already described, of the sudden advent of 
 that bright vision which had so singularly taken the place, 
 in our hero s mind, of his heart s ideal. 
 
 &quot; It must be Miss Cooke, mother,&quot; said the girls with 
 one breath. 
 
 &quot; And who is Miss Cooke ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh ! that s the mystery. She s a sort of queen, I m 
 thinking,&quot; said Jane, &quot; or she wants you to think her one, 
 which is more likely.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Jane! Jane!&quot; said Mary, who was the younger sister, 
 in reproachful accents. 
 
 &quot; Well, what am I saying, but what s the truth ? Don t 
 she carry herself like a queen ? Isn t she as proud and 
 stately as if she was better than anybody else ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; If she s a queen, it s a tragedy -queen,&quot; said the graver 
 sister. &quot; I don t deny that she s very stately, but then I m 
 sure she s also very unhappy.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I don t believe in her unhappiness at all. I can t 
 think any person so very unhappy who carries herself BO 
 proudly.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Pride itself may be a cause of unhappiness, Jane,&quot; said 
 the mother. 
 
 &quot; Yes, mamma, but are we to sympathize with it, I 
 to know ?&quot; 
 
BEAUCHAMl E AT HOME. 87 
 
 &quot; Perhaps ! It is not less to be pitied because the owner 
 has no such notion. But your brother is waiting to hear 
 something of Miss Cooke, and, instead of telling him who 
 she is, you re telling him what she is.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And no better way, perhaps,&quot; said the brother. &quot; But 
 do you tell me, Mary : Jane is quite too much given to 
 scandal.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh, brother!&quot; said Jane. 
 
 &quot; Too true, Jane ; but go on, Mary, and let us have a key 
 to this mystery. Who is Miss Cooke ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; She s a young lady &quot; 
 
 &quot; Very pretty ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Very ! She came here about two years ago just after 
 yon went from Parson Thurston to study law she and 
 her mother, and they took the old place of Farmer Davis. 
 They came from some other .part of Simpson, so I have 
 heard, and bought this place from Widow Davis. They 
 have a few servants, and are comfortably fixed ; and Mrs. 
 Cooke is quite a chatty body, very silly in some things, but 
 fond of going about among the neighbors. Her daughter, 
 who is named Anna, though I once heard the old lady call 
 her Margaret &quot; 
 
 &quot;Margaret Anna, perhaps she may have two names,&quot; 
 said the brother. 
 
 &quot; Yery likely ; but the daughter is not sociable. On the 
 contrary, she rather avoids everybody. You do not often 
 see her when you go there, and she has never been here 
 but once, and that shortly after her first arrival. As Jane 
 says, she is not only shy, but stately. Jane thinks it pride, 
 but I. do not agree with her. I rather think that it is owing 
 to a natural dignity of mind, and to manners formed under 
 other circumstances ; for she never smiles, and there is such 
 a deep look of sadness about her eyes, that I can t help 
 believing her to be very unhappy. I sometimes think that 
 phe has probably been disappointed in love.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, Mary thinks the strangest things about her. She 
 
88 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 says she s sure that she s been engaged, and that her lovor 
 has played her false, and deserted her.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh, Jane, you mistake ; I said I thought he might have 
 been killed in a duel, or &quot; 
 
 &quot; Or that he deserted her ; for that matter, Mary, you ve 
 been having a hundred conceits about her ever since she 
 came here.&quot; 
 
 &quot; She is pretty, you say, Mary ?&quot; asked the young man, 
 who by this time had ejected Jane from his knee, and trans 
 ferred her younger sister to the same place. 
 
 &quot; Pretty ? she is beautiful.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I can t see it for my part,&quot; said Jane, &quot; with her solemn 
 visage, and great dark eyes, that seem always sharp like 
 daggers ready to run you through. * 
 
 &quot; She is beautiful, brother, very beautiful, but Jane don t 
 like her because she thinks her proud. She s as beautiful 
 in her face as she is noble in her figure. Her statcliness, 
 indeed, arises, I think, from the symmetry and perfect pro 
 portion of her person ; for when she moves, she does not 
 seem to be at all conscious that she is stately. Her move 
 ments are very natural, as if she had practised them all her 
 life. And they say, mother, that she s very smart.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Who says, sister ?&quot; cried Jane &quot;who but old Mrs. 
 Fisher, and only because she saw her fixing a bushel of 
 oooks upon the shelves at her first coming !&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, Jane ; Judge Crump told me that he spoke to her, 
 and that he had never believed a woman could be so sensi 
 ble till then.&quot; 
 
 &quot; That shows he s a poor judge. Who d take old 
 Crump s opinion about a woman s sense ? I m sure 1 
 wouldn t.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But Miss Cooke is very sensible, brother. Jane does 
 dislike her so !&quot; 
 
 44 Well, supposing she is sensible, it s only what she ought 
 to be by this time. She s old enough to have the sense of 
 two young women at least.&quot; 
 
BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 89 
 
 &quot; Old !&quot; exclaimed Beauchampe. &quot; Tho lady I saw was 
 not old, certainly.&quot; 
 
 The suggestion seemed to give tlie young man some 
 annoyance, which the gentle-hearted Mary hastened to re 
 move. 
 
 &quot; She is not old, Orville. Jane, how can you say so ? 
 You know that Miss Cooke can hardly be over twenty-one 
 or two, even if she s that.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well, and ain t that old ? You, Mary, are sixteen only, 
 arid I m but seventeen and three months. But I m certain 
 she s twenty-five if she s a day.&quot; 
 
 The subject is one fruitful of discussion where ladies are 
 concerned. Beauchampe, having experience of the two 
 sisters, quietly sat and listened ; and, by the use of a mod 
 erate degree of patience, soon contrived to learn all that 
 could be known of that neighbor who, it appears, had occa 
 sioned quite as great a sensation in the bosoms of the sis 
 ters, though of a very different sort, as her momentary pres 
 ence had inspired in his own. The two girls, representing 
 extremes, were just the persons to give him a reasonable 
 idea of the real facts in the case of the person under dis 
 cussion. It may be unnecessary to add that the result was, 
 to increase the mystery, and heighten the curiosity which 
 the young man now felt in its solution. 
 
90 BEAUCHAMPk, 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY. 
 
 WHEN the first sensations following the return of our 
 hero to his home and family had somewhat subsided, the 
 enthusiastic and excitable nature of the former naturally 
 led him to dwell upon the image of that strange lady, 
 whose sudden appearance seemed to harmonize^ so singu 
 larly with the ideal of his waking dream. The very morn 
 ing after his arrival, he sallied forth at an early hour, with 
 his gun in hand, ostensibly with a view to birding, but re 
 ally to catch some glimpse of the mysterious peison. For 
 this purpose, as all the neighborhood and neighboring coun 
 ty was familiar to him, he traversed the hundred routes to 
 and from the farmstead of old Davis, which the stranger 
 now occupied, and wasted some precious hours, in which 
 neither his heart nor hie gun found game, in exploring the 
 deep wood whence the pistol-shot, the day before, had first 
 challenged his attention. 
 
 But no bright vision blessed his search that day. IJc 
 found nothing to interest his mind or satisfy his curiosity, 
 unless it were a tree which he discovered barked with bul 
 lets, where some person had evidently been exercising, and 
 assuming the instrument to have been a pistol with a 
 singular degree of success. The discovery did not call for 
 the thought of a single moment; and, contenting himself 
 with the conjecture that sumo young rifleman was thus 
 
PROGRESS OP DISCOVERY. 91 
 
 &quot; teaching the young idea how to shoot,&quot; he turned off, 
 and, with some weariness, and more disappointment, raado 
 his way, birdless, to his cottage. 
 
 But the disappointment rather increased than lessened 
 his curiosity ; and, before two days had passed, lie had 
 acquired boldness enough to advance so nearly to the dwel 
 ling of Miss Cooke, as, sheltered beneath some friendly 
 shade-trees, to see the passers by the window, and on one 
 or more occasions to catch a glimpse of the one object for 
 whom all these pains were taken. 
 
 These glimpses, it may be said, served rather to inflame 
 than to satisfy his curiosity. He saw enough to convince 
 him that Mary was right, and Jane wrong ; that he was 
 not deceived in his first impression of the exceeding loveli 
 ness of the mysterious stranger ; that she was beautiful 
 beyond any comparison that he could make of a rare, 
 rich, and excelling beauty: and slowly he returned from 
 his wanderings, to muse upon the means by which he should 
 arrive at a more intimate knowledge of the fair one, who 
 was represented to be as inaccessible as she was fair like 
 one of those unhappy damsels of whom we read in old ro 
 mances, locked up in barred and gloomy towers, lofty and 
 well guarded, whose charms, if they were the incentives to 
 chivalry and daring, were quite as often the cruel occasion 
 of bloody strife and most unfortunate adventure. 
 
 The surpassing beauty of our heroine, so strangely coupled 
 with her sternness of deportment and loneliness of habit, 
 naturally enough brought into activity the wild imagination 
 and fervent temperament of our young lawyer. By these 
 means her beauty was heightened, and the mystery which 
 enveloped her was made the parent of newer sources of 
 attraction. Before three days had passed, his sisters had 
 diGcovered that his thought was running only on their fair, 
 strange neighbor ; and at length, baffled in his efforts to 
 encounter the mysterious lady in his rambles, he was fain 
 to declare himself more openly at home, and to insist that 
 
92 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 liis sisters should call upon Miss Cooke and her mother, 
 and invite them to tea. 
 
 This was done accordingly, but with only partial success. 
 Mrs. Cooke came, but not the daughter, who sent an ex 
 cuse. Beauchampe paid his court to the old lady, whom 
 he found very garrulous and very feeble-minded ; but though 
 she spoke with great freedom on almost every other subject, 
 he remarked that she shrunk suddenly into silence when 
 ever reference was made to her daughter. 
 
 On this point everything tended to increase the mystery, 
 and, of course, the interest. He attended the mother home 
 that night, in the hope to be permitted to see the daughter ; 
 but though, when invited to enter, he did so, he found the 
 lele-a-tete with the old lady a half-hour which curiosity 
 readily gave to dullness unrelieved by the presence of 
 the one object for whom he sought. But a well-filled book 
 case, which met his eyes in the hall, suggested to him a 
 mode of approach in future of which he did not scruple to 
 avail himself. He complimented the old lady on the ex 
 tent of her literary possessions. Such a collection was not 
 usual at that time among the country-houses of that region. 
 He spoke of his passion for books, and how much he would 
 be pleased to be permitted to obtain such as he wanted from 
 the collection before him. 
 
 The old lady replied that they were her daughter s, who 
 was also passionately fond of books ; that she valued her 
 collection very highly they were almost her only friends 
 but she had no doubt that Mr. Beauchampe would readily 
 receive her permission to take any that he desired for pe 
 iiisal. 
 
 Beauchampe expressed his gratitude, but judiciously de 
 clined to make his selection that night. The permission 
 necessarily furnished the sanction for a second visit, for 
 which he accordingly prepared himself. He suffered a day, 
 iiowcver, to pass a forbearance that called for the exer 
 cise of no small degree of fortitude before repeating hia 
 
PROGRESS OP DISCOVERY. 
 
 visit. The second morning, however, he went. He 
 the young lady, for a brief instant, at the window, while 
 making his approaches but that was all ! He was admit 
 ted, was received by the mother, treated with great kind 
 ness, and spent a full hour how we say not in company 
 with the venerable and voluble dame. She accorded him 
 the permission of her daughter to use any book in the col 
 lection, but the daughter herself did not appear. He mus 
 tered courage enough to ask for her, but the inquiry was 
 civilly evaded. He was finally compelled, after lingering 
 to the last, and hoping against hope, to take his departure 
 without attaining the real object of his visit. He selected 
 a volume, however, not that he cared to read it^ but simply 
 because the necessity of returning it would afford him the 
 occasion and excuse for another visit. 
 
 The proverb tells us that grass never grows beneath the 
 footsteps of true love. It is seldom suffered to grow be 
 neath those of curiosity. Our hero either read, or pro 
 tended to have read, the borrowed volume, in a very short 
 space of time. The next morning found him with it be 
 neath his arm, and on his way to the cottage of the Cookes. 
 The grave looks of his mother, and the sly looks of his sis 
 ters, were all lost upon him ; and, pluming himself sorao- 
 wliat upon the adroitness which disguised the real purpose 
 of his visits, he flattered himself that he should still attain 
 the object which he sought, without betraying the interest 
 which he felt. 
 
 Of course, he himself did not suspect the real motives by 
 which he was governed. That a secret passion stirring in 
 his breast had anything to do with that interest which he 
 felt to know the strange lady, was by no means obvious to 
 his own mind. 
 
 Whatever may have been the motive by which his con 
 duct was influenced, it did not promise to be followed by 
 any of the results which he desired. His second morning- 
 call was not more fortunate than the first. Approaching, 
 
94 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 Le saw the outline of Miss Cooke s person at an upper win, 
 dow, but she instantly disappeared ; and he was received 
 below, and wholly entertained, by the good old mother. 
 
 It may readily be imagined that, with a fervent, passion 
 ate nature, such as Beauchampe s, this very baffling of his 
 desires was calculated to stimulate and strengthen them. 
 He was a man of equally strong impulses and indomitable 
 will. The necessary creature of such qualities of mind is 
 a puritan tenacity of purpose a persevering energy, which 
 ceases altogether, finally, to sleep in the work of conquest ; 
 or, at least, converts even its sleeping hours into tasks of 
 thought, and wild, vague dreams of modes and operations, 
 by which the work of conquest is to be carried on. The 
 momentary glimpses of the damsel s person, which the ar 
 dent youth was permitted to obtain, still kept alive in his 
 mind the strong impression which her beauty had originally 
 made. We do not insinuate that this exhibition was de 
 signed by the lady herself for any such object. Such might 
 be the imputation nay, was, in after-days, by some of her 
 charitable neighbors but we have every reason for think 
 ing otherwise. We believe that she was originally quite 
 sincere 4n her desire to avoid the sight and discourage the 
 visits of strangers. Whether this was also the desire of 
 the mother, is not so very certain. We should suppose, on 
 the contrary, that the course of her daughter was one that 
 afforded little real satisfaction to her. If the daughter re 
 mained inflexible, the good mother soon convinced Beau- 
 champe that she was not; and, saving the one topic the 
 daughter herself there was none upon which good Mrs. 
 Cooke did not expatiate to her visitor with the assured 
 freedoms of a friend of a thousand years. Any approach 
 to this subject, however, effectually silenced her : not, it 
 would seem, because she herself felt any repugnance to the 
 subject for Beauchampc could not fail to perceive that 
 her eyes brightened whenever the daughter was referred 
 to but her voice was hurried when she replied on such 
 
PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY. 95 
 
 occasions, and her glance stealthily turned to the entrance, 
 as if she dreaded lest the sound should summon other ears 
 to the apartment. 
 
 The curiosity of Beauchampc was further stimulated by a 
 general examination of the contents of the library. The 
 selection was such as, in regions where books are more in 
 requisition, and seem more in place, would testify consid 
 erably in behalf of the judgment and good taste of the pos 
 sessor. They were all English books, it is true, but they 
 were genuine classics of the best days of British literature, 
 including the more recent writers of the day. There were 
 additional proofs, in such as he took home with him, of the 
 equal taste and industry of their reader. The fine passages 
 were scored marginally with pencil-lines, and an occasional 
 note in the same manner indicated the acquaintance of tho 
 commentator with the best standards of criticism. Beau- 
 champe made another observation, however, which had the 
 effect of leaving it still doubtful whether these notes were 
 made by the present owner. They were all in a female 
 hand. He found that a former name had been carefully 
 obliberated in every volume, that of Miss Cooke being writ 
 ten in its stead. Though doubtful, therefore, whether to 
 ascribe to her the excellent criticism and fine taste which 
 thus displayed itself over the pages which lie read, this 
 doubt by no means lessened his anxiety to judge for him 
 self of the attainments of their possessor; and fortune 
 we may assume thus much at length helped him to the 
 interview which he sought. 
 
 The mother, one day, with nice judgment, fell oppor 
 tunely sick. It is easier to suspect that she willed this 
 event than to suppose the daughter guilty of duplicity. It 
 necessarily favored the design of Beauchampe. He made 
 liis morning visit, which had now become periodical, was 
 ushered into the parlor, where, after a few moments, he was 
 informed that Mrs. Cooke was not visible. She pleaded 
 indisposition. Miss Cooke, however, had instructed the 
 
BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 servant to say to Mr. Beauchampe that he was at liberty 
 to use the library as before. 
 
 By this time the eager nature of Beauchampe was excited 
 lo the highest pitch of anxiety. So many delays such 
 raffling had deprived his judgment of that deliberate ac 
 tion, without the restraint of which the boundaries of con 
 vention are very soon overpassed. A direct message from 
 the mysterious lady, was a step gained. It had the effect 
 of still further unseating his judgment, and, without scruple, 
 he boldly despatched a message by the servant, soliciting 
 permission to see Miss Cooke. An answer was immediately 
 returned in which she declined seeing him. He renewed 
 the request with the additional suggestion that he had a 
 communication to make. This necessarily produced the 
 desired effect. In a few minutes she descended to tho 
 parlor. 
 
 If Beauchampe had been fascinated before, he was cer 
 tainly not yet prepared for the commanding character of 
 that beauty which now stood before him. He rose, trem 
 bling and abashed, his cheeks suffused with blushes, but his 
 eyes, thougl dazzled, were full of the eager admiration 
 which he felt. She was pimply clad, in white. !GY per 
 son, tall and symmetrical, was erect and dignified. Her 
 face was that of matured loveliness, shaded, not impaired, 
 by sadness, and made even more elevated and commanding 
 by an expression of intense pain which seemed to mingle 
 with the fire of her eyes, giving a sort of subdued fierce 
 ness to her glance, which daunted quite as much as it daz 
 zled him. Perhaps a something of severity in her look 
 added ,o his confusion. He stammered confusedly ; the 
 courage which had prompted him to seek the interview, 
 failed utterly to provide him with the intellectual readiness 
 by which it was to be carried on. But the feminine instinct 
 came to his relief. The lady seated herself, motioning 
 her visiter to do the same. 
 
 &quot; Sit down, sir, if you please. My mother presumes 
 
PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY 97 
 
 ihat you are anxious to know how she is. She instructs 
 me to thank you for your courtesy, and to say that her in 
 disposition is not serious. She trusts in another day to be 
 quite restored. &quot; 
 
 By this time Beauchampe had recovered something of 
 his confidence. 
 
 &quot; It gives me pleasure, Miss Cooke, to hear this. I did 
 fear that your mother was seriously suffering. But I can 
 not do you and myself the injustice to admit that I came 
 simply to see her. No ! Miss Cooke, an anxiety to see you 
 in person, and to acknowledge the kindness which has 
 given me the freedom of your library, were among the ob 
 jects of my visit.&quot; 
 
 The lady became instantly grave. 
 
 &quot; I thank you, sir, for your compliment, but I have long 
 since abandoned society. My habits arc reserved. I pre 
 fer solitude. My tastes and feelings equally require it. I 
 am governed so far by these, tastes and feelings, which have 
 now become habits, that it will not suit me to recognise any 
 new acquaintance. My books are freely at your service, 
 whenever you wish them. Permit me, sir, to wish you good 
 morning.&quot; 
 
 She rose to depart. Beauchampe eagerly started to his 
 foot. 
 
 &quot; Stay, Miss Cooke. Do not leave me thus. Hear me 
 but for a moment.&quot; 
 
 She resumed her seat with a calm, inflexible demeanor, 
 as if, assured of her strength at any moment to depart, she 
 had no apprehensions on the subject of her detention. The 
 blush ago.in suffused the cheeks of Beuuchampe, and the 
 rigid silence which his companion observed, as if awaiting 
 his utterance, suddenly increased his difficulties in this re 
 spect. But the ice once broken, his impetuous temper was 
 resolved that it should not freeze again. 
 
 &quot; I know, Miss Cooke,&quot; he observed, &quot; after what yon 
 have just said, that I have no right any longer to trespass 
 
 5 
 
98 BRAUCHAMPE. 
 
 upon you, but I dare not do otherwise I dare not depart 
 - I am the slave of a passion which has brought me, and 
 which keeps me here.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I must not listen to you, Mr. Beauchampe,&quot; she replied, 
 rising, as if to leave tlic room. 
 
 &quot;Forgive me!&quot; he exclaimed, gently detaining her 
 u forgive me, but you must.&quot; 
 
 1 Must !&quot; her eyes flashed sudden fires. 
 
 &quot; I implore the privilege to use the word, but in no offen 
 sive sense. Nay, Miss Cooke I release you I will not 
 seek to detain you. You are at liberty with my lips only 
 do I implore you to remain.&quot; 
 
 The proud woman examined the face of the passionate 
 youth with some slight curiosity. To this, however, he was 
 insensible. 
 
 i; You arc aware, Mr. Bcauchampc,&quot; she remarked, in 
 differently, &quot; that your conduct is somewhat unusual.&quot; 
 
 4{ Yes, perhaps so. I believe it. Nay, were I to think, 
 Miss Cooke, I should perhaps, under ordinary circumstances, 
 agree to pronounce it unjustifiable. But, believe me, it is 
 meant to be respectful.&quot; 
 
 She interrupted him : 
 
 &quot; Unless I thought so, sir, I could not be detained here 
 a moment longer.&quot; 
 
 Surely, surely, Miss Cooke, you can not doubt my re 
 spect my 
 
 &quot; 1 do not, sir.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! but you are so cold so repulsive, Miss Cooke.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Perhaps I had better leave you, Mr. Beauchampe. It 
 will be better for. both of us. You know nothing of me ; I 
 nothing of you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You mistake, Miss Cooke, in assuming that I know 
 nothing of you.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ha! sir!&quot; she answered, rising to her feet, her face 
 giowmgiike scarlet, while a blue vein, like a chord, divided 
 
PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY 99 
 
 the high white forehead in the midst. &quot; What mean you, 
 what know you !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Much ! I know already that you are alone among 
 women alone in beauty in intellect !&quot; 
 
 He paused. He marked a sudden and speaking change 
 upon her features which struck him as more singular than 
 the last. The flush had departed from her cheeks, the blue 
 vein had suddenly sunk from sight a complete pallor over 
 spread her face, and with a slight tremor over her frame, 
 she sank upon the scat from which she had arisen. He 
 sprang forward, and was at once beside her upon his knees. 
 He caught her hand in his own. 
 
 &quot; You are sick you are ill !&quot; he exclaimed. 
 
 &quot; No ! I am better now !&quot; she answered in low tones. 
 
 &quot; Thank God ! he exclaimed. &quot; I feared you had spasms 
 I dreaded I had offended you. You are still so pale, Miss 
 Cooke so very pale!&quot; and he again started to his feet 
 as if to call for assistance. She arrested him. 
 
 &quot; Do not alarm yourself,&quot; she said with more firmness. 
 &quot; I am subject to such attacks, and they form a sufficient 
 reason, Mr. Beauchampc, why I should not distress stran 
 gers with them. Suffer me now to retire.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Bear with me yet awhile !&quot; he exclaimed, &quot; I will try 
 not to alarm or to annoy you. You ask me what I know 
 of you ! nothing, perhaps, were I to answer according to 
 the fashion of the world ; everything, if I answer according 
 to the dictates of my heart.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is unprofitable knowledge, Mr. Beauchampe.&quot; 
 
 u Do not say so, 1 implore you. I know that I am a 
 rash and foolish young man, but I mean not to offend 
 nay, my purpose is to declare the admiration which I feel.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I must not hear you, Mr. Beauchampe. I must leave 
 you. As I said before, you are welcome to the use of my 
 books.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! Miss Cooke, it is you, and not your books which 
 nave brought me to your dwelling. Suffer me to see you 
 
100 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 when I come. Suffer me to know you to make myself 
 known to bring my sisters ; to conduct you to them. They 
 will all be so glad to see and know you.&quot; 
 
 She shook her head mournfully, while a sad smile rested 
 upon her lips as she replied : 
 
 &quot; Mr. Beauchampe,&quot; she said, &quot; I will not affect to mis 
 understand you ; but I must repeat, as I have said to you 
 before, I have done with society. I am in fact done with 
 the world.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Done with the world ! Oh ! what a thought ! You, 
 Miss Cookc, you so able to do all with it !&quot; 
 
 &quot; You can not flatter me, Mr. Beauchampe. The world 
 can be nothing to me. I am nothing to it. To wear out 
 life in loneliness, forgot, forgetting, is the utmost of my 
 hopes from the world. Spare me more. It is not well, it 
 will not be desirable, that any intimacy should exist be 
 tween me and your sisters.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh ! why not ? they are so gentle, so pure !&quot; 
 
 u Ah ! no more, sir, I implore you;&quot; her brow had sud 
 denly become clouded, and she rose. &quot; Leave me now, sir 
 I must leave you. I must hear you no longer.&quot; 
 
 Her voice was firm. Her features had suddenly put on 
 their former inflexibility of expression. The passionate 
 youth at once discovered that the moment for moving her 
 determination was past, and every effort now to detain her 
 would prejudice his cause. 
 
 &quot;You will leave me, Miss Cooke you will drive me 
 from you yet let me hope &quot; 
 
 &quot; Hope nothing from me, Mr. Beauchampe. I would not 
 have you hope fruitlessly.&quot; 
 
 &quot; The wish itself assures me that I can not.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You mistake, sir you deceive yourself!&quot; she replied 
 with sterner accents. 
 
 &quot; At least let me not be denied your presence. Let me 
 see you. I am not in the world, nor of it, Miss Cookc. Let 
 me sometimes meet you here, and if 1 am forbid to speak of 
 
PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY. 101 
 
 other things, let me at least speak and hear you speak of 
 these old masters at whose feet I perceive you have been 
 no idle student.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Mr. Beauchampe, I can promise nothing. To consent 
 to receive and meet you would be to violate many an_ inter 
 nal resolve.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But why this dreary resolution ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why ! but ask not, sir. No more from me now. You 
 knew not, sir and you meant not but you have wakened 
 in my mind this morning many a painful and dreary thought, 
 winch you can not dissipate. I say this to excuse myself 
 lor what might seem rudeness. I do not wish to excite 
 your curiosity. I tell you, sir, but the truth, when I tell 
 you that I am cut off from the world it matters not how, 
 nor why. It is so and the less I see of it the better. 
 vv nen you know this, you will understand why it is that I 
 should prefer not to see you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! but not why I should not seek to see you. No 
 Mips Cooke,your dreary destiny does not lessen my willing 
 ness to soothe to share it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; That can never bo.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do not say so. If you knew my heart &quot; 
 
 u Keep its secrets, Mr. Beauchampe. Enough, sir, that 
 I know my own. That, sir, has but one prayer, and that 
 is for peace but one passion, and -that, sir &quot; 
 
 &quot; Is speak, say, Miss Cookc, tell me what this passion 
 is ? Relieve me ; but tell me not that you love another. 
 Not that anything but that.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Love !&quot; she exclaimed scornfully ; &quot; love ! no, sir, 1 do 
 not love. Happily, I am free from any such weakness-- 
 thai weakness of my sex !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Call it not a weakness, dear Miss Cooko but a strength 
 a strength of the heart, not peculiar to your sex, but 
 the source of what is lofty and ennobling in the heart of 
 man.&quot; 
 
 * Ay, he has a precious stock of it, HO doubt ; but no moiv 
 
102 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 of this, Mr. Beauchampc. I have my passion, perhaps, &amp;gt;mt 
 surely love makes no part of it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Hate P she cried with startling energy. 
 
 &quot; Hate ! ha ! can it be that you hate, Miss Cooke f 
 
 &quot; Ay, sir, it is possible. Hate is my passion, not the 
 only one, since it produces another bearing its own likeness. 
 
 &quot; And that ? &quot; 
 
 &quot; Is revenge! Ask yourself, with these passions reign 
 ing in my heart, whether there is room for anything more 
 for any other ! There is not, and you may not deceive 
 yourself with the vain hope to plant any feebler passion in 
 a spot which bears such poisonous weeds.&quot; 
 
 Thus speaking she left the room, and, astounded by her 
 vehemence, and by the strange though imperfect revelation 
 L which she had made, Beauchampe found himself alone/ 
 
DEVELOPMENTS OF PASSION. 108 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 DEVELOPMENTS OF PASSION. 
 
 HAD the words of the lady fallen from the lips of an ora 
 cle, they could not have more completely fastened them 
 selves on the ears of our hero. Her sublime beauty as she 
 spoke those wild accents was that of one inspired. Her 
 eye flashed with fires of a supernatural brightness. Her 
 brow was lifted, and her hand smote upon her heart, when 
 she declared what fierce passions were its possessors, as if 
 they themselves were impelling the blow, and the heart was 
 laat of some mortal enemy. 
 
 iBeauchampe was as completely paralyzed as if he had 
 suffered an electric stroke. He would have arrested her 
 departure, but his words and action were equally slow. He 
 had lost the power of hands and voice ; and, when he was 
 able to speak, she had gone. 
 
 Confused, bewildered, and mortified, he left the house ; 
 and sad and silent he pursued his way along the homeward 
 paths. Before he had gone far lie was saluted with the 
 laughter of merry voices, and his sisters were at his side. 
 What a contrast was that which instantly challenged the 
 attention of his mind, between the girlish, almost childish 
 and characterless damsels beside him, and^ the intense, soul- 
 speaking woman he had left! How impertinent seemed the 
 levity of Jane ! how insipid the softness and milky sadness 
 of the gentle-hearted Mary ! The reflections of the brother 
 
194 BEAUCHAMP* 
 
 were in no wise favorable to the sisters, but he gave no 
 utterance to the involuntary thoughts. 
 
 &quot; Why, the queen of Sheba has struck you dumb, Brother 
 Orville !&quot; said the playful Jane. &quot; You have seen her to 
 day, 1 in certain. That s the way she always comes over 
 one. She has had on her cloudy-cap to-day for your espe 
 cial benefit.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But have you seen her, brother ?&quot; asked the more timid 
 Mary. 
 
 &quot; To be sure he has don t you see ? nothing less could 
 make Orville look on us as old Burke, the schoolmaster, 
 used to look on him when he put the nouns and verbs out 
 of countenance. He has seen her to be sure, and she came 
 out clothed -in thunder, I reckon.* 
 
 &quot; Jane, you vex Orville. But you did see her, brother ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, Mary, Jane is right.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Didn t I toll you ? I could see it the moment J s^t 
 eyes on him.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And don t you think her very beautiful, brother ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Very beautiful, Mary.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, a sort of thunderstorm beauty, I grant you,&quot; said 
 Jane ; &quot; dark and dismo.1, willi such keen Hashes of light 
 ning as to dazzle one s eyes and terrify one s heart!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not a bad description, June,&quot; said the brother. 
 
 &quot; To be sure not. Don t I know her ? Why, Lord love 
 you, the first time we were together I felt all crumpled up, 
 body and soul. My soul, indeed, was like a little mouse, 
 looking everywhere for a hole to creep into and be out of 
 the way of danger ; and I fancied she was a great tigress 
 of a mouser, with her eyes following the mouse every which 
 way, amusing herself with my terrors, and ready to spring 
 upon me and end them the moment she got tired of the 
 sport. I assure you 1 didn t feel secure a single moment 
 while I was with her. I expected to be gobbled up at a 
 moment s warning.&quot; 
 
 u How you run on, Jane, and so unreasonably !&quot; said the 
 
DEVELOPMENTS OP PASSION. 105 
 
 gentle Mary. &quot; Now, brother, I think all this description 
 very unlike Anna Cooke. That she s sad, usually, and 
 gloomy sometimes, I m willing to admit ; but she was very 
 kind and gentle in what she had to say to me, and I believe 
 would have been much more so, if Jane hadn t continually 
 come about us making a great laughter. That she is very 
 smart I m certain, and that she is very beautiful everybody 
 with half an eye must see.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I don t, and I ve both eyes, and pretty keen ones too.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well, girls,&quot; said Beauchampc, &quot; I intend that you 
 shall have a good opportunity to form a correct opinion of 
 Miss Cooke her talents and her beauty. I intend to 
 carry you both to visit her to-morrow.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh, don t, don t, brother, I beg you ! she ll cat me up. 
 the great mouser ! I sha n t be a moderate mouthful for 
 &quot;her anger.&quot; 
 
 And the mischievous Jane darted from his side, and lifted 
 up her hand with a manner of affected deprecation. 
 
 Mary rebuked her as was usual on such occasions, and 
 her rebuke was somewhat seconded by one which was 
 more effectual. The brother betrayed some little displeas 
 ure as well in words as in looks, and poor Jane contrived 
 to make the amende by repressing some portion of that 
 lively temerity of temper which is not always innocuous in 
 its pleasantries. 
 
 In this way they proceeded to the cottage, where, in pri 
 vate, the young man contrived to let his mother know how 
 much he wns charmed with the mysterious lady, but not 
 how much of his admiration he had revealed. On this 
 head, indeed, he was as little capable as anybody else of 
 telling the whole truth. He knew not, in fact, what he 
 had said in the interview with Miss Cooke. He had felt 
 the impulse to say many things, and in his conscience felt 
 that he might have said them ; but of the precise nature of 
 his confessions he knew nothing. Something, indeed, he 
 might infer -from what he recollected of the language of 
 
 5* 
 
106 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 Anna Cooke to himself. He could easily comprehend that 
 the freedom with which she declared her feelings must 
 have been induced in great degree by the revelation of his 
 own; but, as he had no right and, by-the-way, as little 
 wish to betray her secrets, so he naturally spared himself 
 the mortification of telling his own. 
 
 Thus matters stood with him. His mother listened 
 gravely. She could see, in the faltering tongue and flushed 
 face of her son, much more of the actual state of his feel 
 ings than his words declared. She was not satisfied that 
 he should fall in love with Miss Cooke : not that she had 
 anything against that young lady she had none of the 
 idle prejudices of her eldest daughter but that the beau 
 tiful stranger and she acknowledged her to be beautiful 
 did not impress her favorably. Mrs. Beauchampe was 
 a very pious lady ; and the feeling of society is so nearly 
 allied to that of pure religion, that when she found Anna 
 Cooke deficient in the one tendency, she naturally suspected 
 her equal lack of the other. But, in the next place, if the 
 old lady had her objections to the young lady, she, at the 
 same time, was too fond of her son to resist his wishes very 
 long or very urgently. She contented herself with suggest 
 ing some grounds of objection, which the ardency and elo 
 quence of the latter found but little difficulty in overcom 
 ing. At all events, it was arranged that Beauchampo 
 should take his sisters the next day to visit his fair, and, 
 so far, tyrannical enslaver. 
 
 From this visit, Beauchampe, though without knowing 
 exactly why, had considerable expectations. At least, he 
 did not despair of seeing the young lady. The mother po 
 litely kept sick- much, it may be added, to the annoyance 
 of hter daughter. The day came, and breakfast was scarcely 
 over before the impetuous youth began exhibit his anxi 
 ety. But the sisters had to make their toilet, and some 
 thing, he fancied, was due to his own. A country-girl has 
 her own ideas of finery, and, the difference of taste aside, 
 
DEVELOPMENTS OP PASSION. 107 
 
 the only other differences between herself and the city- 
 maiden are differences in degree. The toilet is the altar 
 where Vanity not only makes her preparations, but says 
 her prayers. We care not to ask whether Love be the 
 image that stands above it or not. Perhaps there are few 
 calculations of the young female heart in which Love does 
 not enter as an inevitable constituent. Certainly, few of 
 her thoughts are altogether satisfactory, if they bear not 
 his figures in the woof. 
 
 Beauchampe s sisters fairly put his patience to the test ; 
 and, strange to say, his favorite sister Mary was much the 
 most laggard in her proceedings. She certainly had never 
 before made such an unnecessary fuss about her pretty 
 little person. At length, however, all were made ready. 
 The party sallied forth, readied the house of Mrs. Cooke, 
 were admitted, and, after a brief delay, the daughter en 
 tered the room, to a very quick march beaten by the heart 
 of our ardent hero. 
 
 But, though this accompaniment was so very quick, the 
 entrance of Anna Cooke was calm, slow, and dignified, as 
 usual. She received the party very kindly ; and her efforts 
 to please them while they stayed seemed as natural and un 
 constrained as if the business of pleasing had been a habit 
 of her life. Jane s apprehensions of being eaten up soon 
 subsided, and the gentle Mary had the satisfaction of bring 
 ing about, by some inadvertent remark of her own, an ani 
 mating conversation between her brother and the lovely 
 hostess. We say animated conversation, but it must not 
 be supposed that it was a lively one. The animation of 
 the parties arose from their mutual earnestness of charac 
 ter. The sanguine temperament thus readily throws itself 
 into the breach, and identifies itself with the most passing 
 occasions. It was in this way that Beauchampe found him 
 self engaged in a brief and pleasant discussion of one of 
 those topics, arising from books, in which the parties__may 
 engage with warmth, yet witli &amp;gt;ut endangering the harmony 
 
108 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 of the conference; even as a wild strain of music from 
 the rolling, rising organ, or the barbaric drum and Sara 
 cenic trumpet will make the heart thrill and throb again, 
 with a sentiment of awe which yet it would be very loath 
 not to have awakened. 
 
 Beauchampe was perfectly ravished, the more particularly 
 as he did not fail to see that Miss Cooke was evidently not 
 insensible to the spirit and intelligence which lie displayed 
 in his share of the dialogue. The presence of the sisters, 
 fortunately, had the effect of controlling the brother in the 
 utterance of those passionate and personal feelings which 
 had been forced, as it were, from his lips the day previous. 
 Love was unspoken by either, and yet, most certainly, love 
 was the only thought of one, and possibly, of both. But 
 love is the most adroit of logicians. He argues his case 
 upon the data and criteria of a thousand far less offensive 
 topics. Religion, law, politics ; art, science, philosophy ; 
 all subjects he will discuss as if he had no other purpose 
 than to adjust their moot points and settle their vexing- 
 contrarieties. The only misfortune is that when he is done 
 nay, while he is going on, one is apt to forget the sub 
 ject in the orator. Special pleader that he is, in what a 
 specialty all his labors terminate ! 
 
 When Anna Cooke and Orvillc Beauchampe separated 
 that day, what of the argument did they remember ? Each 
 readily remembered that the speaker was most eloquent. 
 Beauchampe could tell you that the fair debater was never 
 so beautiful in person, so high and commanding in intellect 
 before ; and when Anna Cooke was alone, she found herself 
 continually recalling to her mind s eye, the bright aspect 
 and beaming eyes of the enthusiastic young lawyer so 
 earnest, so seemingly unconscious of himself, as he poured 
 forth the overflowing treasures of a warm heart, and a 
 really well-stored and naturally-vigorous intellect. She 
 saw too, already, how deeply she had impressed herself 
 upon his fancy. Beauchampe s heart had no disguises 
 
DEVELOPMENTS UK PASMON. 109 
 
 Strange feelings rose into her own. Strange, terrible 
 thoughts filled her mind ; and the vague musings of her 
 wild and scarcely coherent spirit, formed themselves into 
 words upon her tongue. 
 
 &quot; Is not this an avenger !&quot; she muttered. &quot;Is not this 
 an avenger sent from heaven ! I have striven in vain. I 
 am fettered. It is denied to me to pursue and sacrifice the 
 victim. Oh ! surely woman is the image of all feebleness. 
 These garments are its badges ; and sanction obstruction 
 and invite injustice. As I am, thus and here, what hope is 
 there that vengeance can bo mine ? The conquest of this 
 enthusiastic youth will afford me the freedom that I crave, 
 the agent that I need, the sacrifice for which only I dream 
 and pray. With him the victim may be sought and found 
 wherever he hides himself, and this crushed heart shall 
 once more rise in triumph this trampled pride be uplifted 
 
 the pangs of this defrauded and lacerated bosom bo 
 soothed by the sacrifice of blood ! 
 
 &quot; And why should it not be so ? Why ? Do I live for 
 any other passion ? Do I entertain any other image in my 
 soul ? What is love, to me, and fear, and hope, and joy 
 the world without and the world within what but a dark 
 abode in which there is but one light one star, red and 
 w ild a planet rising fiery at the birth of hate, only to set 
 in blood, in the sacrifice of its victim. Here is one comes 
 to me bearing the knife. He is mine, so declare his looks 
 
 he loves me, so equally speak his words and actions. 
 Shall I not use his love for my hate ? What is his love to 
 me? His love ha! ha! ha! His love, indeed the 
 love of a young ambitious lawyer. Is it not rather the 
 perfection of vengeance that I should employ one of the 
 tribe for the destruction of another ! 
 
 u But no no ! why should I involve this boy in my fate ? 
 Why should I make him my instrument in this wild pur 
 pose? He is not of the same brood, though of that brother 
 hood. This youth is noble. He is Loo ardent, too impetu- 
 
110 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 one, for a deliberate design of evil. His soul is generous. 
 He feels he feels! be, at least, is no masked, no cold 
 blooded traitor, serpent-like, crawling into the open and 
 warm heart to beguile and sting. 
 
 &quot; No no! I must not wrong him thus. He must bo 
 spared this doom. I must bruod over it alone, and let the 
 fates work it as they may. Though, were he but half less 
 ardent could I suspect him of a baseness I should whet 
 the dagger, and swear him to its use ! Yes at any altar, 
 for that sacrifice though that altar be the very one on 
 which / am the sacrifice though it bear the name of love, 
 and hold above it his cruel and treacherous image !&quot; 
 
 Such were the frequent meditations of the passionate 
 and proud woman. Her mother prompted these not un- 
 frequently without intending it. She, with the sagacity of 
 an ancient dealer, soon discovered the sort of coin which 
 Beauchampe was disposed to bring with him into Love s 
 crowded market-place. She readily detected, in the unso 
 phisticated manners of Beauchampe, the proper material 
 on which it would be easy for her daughter to work. The 
 intense, inflammable, impetuous nature was such as a single 
 glance of those dark, bright eyes a single sentence from 
 that mellow, yet piercing, sweet, yet deep-toned voice 
 might light up with inextinguishable flame might prompt 
 with irresistible impulses. Of course, the old lady had no 
 knowledge of the one absorbing passion which had become 
 a mania in the breast of her daughter. Her calculations 
 went no farther than to secure a son-in-law but of this 
 the daughter had no thought, only as it might be necessary 
 to effect other objects. Her purpose was to find an avenger, 
 if anything ; and, even for this object, we have seen, from 
 her spoken meditations, she was yet too generous to seek 
 for such an agent in one so unselfish, so true-hearted as 
 Beauchampe had appeared. 
 
 But the rough-hewing of events was not to be left either 
 to mother, or daughter, however resolved and earnest might 
 
DEVELOPMENTS OF&quot; PASSION. 
 
 be the will which they severally or mutually exercised. 
 The strongest of us, in the most earnest periods of our 
 lives, move very much as the winds blow. It may hurt our 
 vanity, but will do our real interests no harm to declare, 
 that individual man is mostly, after all, only a sort of moral 
 vane on the world s housetop. If you find him stationary 
 for any length of time be sure it is less from principle than 
 rust. 
 
BEAUCHAMPF. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LOVE AND LAW. 
 
 &quot; Denial, which is death, 
 Hanps on her lips, and from her heart to mino 
 Sends the great agony, like an icy shaft!&quot; 
 
 THE progress of Beauchampc, though in one respect noth 
 ing, was yet not inconsiderable as bringing about the devel 
 opment of his own tendencies and affections. In the re 
 sults which his desires might have suggested to his mind, 
 there had been no sort of progress. He was pretty much 
 where he was at the beginning. His pursuit, begun in his 
 instincts, and seemingly from mere curiosity, had, however, 
 brought him to a better consciousness of the meaning of 
 that sudden fancy which -had prompted him to dream of a 
 heart-ideal at the moment when love seemed to be the re 
 motest thing from his thoughts, lie now began to feel that 
 a fate had been busy to bring about the ac^uaintan je be 
 tween himself and the mysterious stranger. He had iden 
 tified the vague image of his fancy with the fascinating 
 woman whose charms, for the first time, seemed to put his 
 passions into activity. Yet his thoughts gave him but little 
 encouragement. He had no such vanity as could persuadr 
 him that his interviews with the object of his fancy had 
 been productive of any good to his cause ; and his moments 
 of calmer reflection only taught him additional humility, a? 
 he felt how very wide was the gulf that lay between his 
 hopes, his claims, and pretensions, and the very remarka- 
 
LOVE AND LAW. 113 
 
 able woman whom he had begun to worship. lie did not 
 deceive himself for a moment with the idea that he had 
 made, or could make, any impression upon her. He felt 
 that he had not done so ; and while he was as eager in his 
 desires as ever, he was full of despondency as he examined, 
 with all the calmness possible to his nature, the very slen 
 der foundation for his hopes. The startling character of 
 the scene which we have just described her terrible dec 
 laration, so evidently earnest the mysterious secret of her 
 life, the existence of which it declared, but did not eluci 
 date all seemed to determine against the possibility of 
 any progress with a nature at once so wild, so powerful, 
 and so utterly unlike the ordinary characteristics of the sex 
 as usually found in society. 
 
 But perseverance, where passion is the impelling power, 
 will sooner or later work its way to the object which it 
 seeks. It will bring about the issue, certainly, though it 
 may be disappointed in its results. If hate be intense on 
 the one hand, love, in the case of a determined will, is no 
 feeble opponent; at all events, the one may be as tenacious 
 of its object as the other: and the fiery passionn of l&amp;gt;eau- 
 champe, if less matured and less coricentrativc than the hate 
 which raged in the bosom of Anna Cooke, were yet in 
 hourly training under the guidance of a fate, which, as she 
 was now beginning to think, contemplated the union of both 
 forces, for the gratification of at least one of the seemingly 
 hostile passions ! 
 
 We pass over numerous small details in the progress of 
 the parties, which were yet, in some degree, important in 
 bringing about the general result. They served gradually 
 to break down the barriers, of a social kLid, which had hith 
 erto stood up as a wall between the two families. The 
 impetuous nature of Beauchampe had succeeded in tearing 
 away those which had been set up by his own. He was 
 too much the object of warm affection with mother and sis 
 ters to suffer them very long to maintain their hostilities to 
 
114 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 his obvious desires ; and, without exactly apprehending that 
 her son designed anything further than the communion with 
 a young woman whose intellect had won the admiration of 
 his own without thinking it certain, or even probable, 
 that this communion would ripen into love for Mrs. Beau- 
 cliampe felt that there was something repulsive to herself 
 in the character of Anna Cooke, and naturally concluded 
 that the same qualities would exercise antagonistic effects 
 to passion on the part of her son she at length gave fully 
 in to his wishes that there should be a closer intimacy be 
 tween her girls and the beautiful and mysterious stranger. 
 
 This concession won, the ardent nature of Beauchampe 
 pushed his advantages with due celerity and earnestness. 
 He suffered no day to escape without some approach to the 
 mutual intercourse of the parties ; and, with even pace, Mrs. 
 Cooke, and even her daughter, became reconciled to the 
 frequent presence of the Beaucharnpes within their house 
 hold, while the visits of the strangers, though less frequent, 
 were now stripped of nearly all constraint. Our young 
 lawyer felt that he had compassed a considerable degree 
 of ground when he found himself admitted to continual in 
 tercourse with the Cookes, as a friend of the family. Mrs. 
 Cooke had some unproductive property, of which she de 
 sired to dispose. She had certain ancient claims, which 
 were thought not beyond recovery. There were papers, 
 and titles, and letters, which were to be examined profes 
 .sionally ; and young Beauchampe was duly installed as the 
 lawyer of the widow and her daughter. 
 
 Lawyer and lover ! The combination promises rare re 
 suits in logic. We shall see what they are to produce 
 Usually, the one sinks himself in the other character. Let 
 ( the client understand that this is not certainly the fact, and 
 he considers his case in bad condition. The lover will be 
 apt to kill the lawyer, in his opinion. He will get out of 
 such doubtful custody before next term, if this be possible 
 At all events, he will desire assistant counsel. 
 
LOVE AND LAW. 115 
 
 We doubt if Beauchampe ever fully surrendered his mind 
 to the law-matters of Mrs. Cooke. We somewhat fear that 
 he considered all the business a bore. At all events, he 
 hurried over its details, whenever they conferred on the sub 
 ject, with what Mrs. Cookc soon began to think a singular 
 want of regard for her interests. 
 
 But neither did he seem to make much progress with his 
 own. Though he turned away from the mother to the 
 daughter, leaving the law to shift fur itself, yet love with 
 the latter was an interdicted subject. 
 
 But when, and for how long, will love stay interdicted ? 
 
 Can you answer, gentle reader ? What is your experi 
 ence of the matter ? As easily curb the tides, chain the 
 winds, arrest the flight of birds in their season do any 
 other impossible thing with the subtlest agencies of life 
 and nature working with an indomitable will, and under the 
 impulse of a law the secret of which no man can claim- to 
 fa thorn. 
 
 Beauchampe was under interdict of law. 
 
 Love was under interdict on Beuuehampo s lips. 
 
 But love could not be put under interdict in Bcauchampc s 
 heart - 
 
 And the wild blood of Beauchampe was of such fiery im 
 pulse, that it never yet had bowed submissively to law. 
 
 What curbed him for a while, and made him submissive, 
 in appearance, to the interdict, was awe, veneration, the 
 humility of his hope, the fear lest he should prejudice and 
 lose his case by precipitation. Tn brief, for the first time 
 in his life, he called in Prudence to his aid. 
 
 Now, when Love makes an ally of Prudence, it becomes 
 a very formidable power. It was the onl} r ally who could 
 possibly have served Beauchampe in his approaches to Anna 
 -Cookc. It disarmed her vigilance in the first place ; it in 
 creased his own ; and sap may enable one to overcome the 
 fortress which resists the most terrible assault. 
 
 Time wrought favorably for Beauchampe. It enabled 
 
116 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 him to show his resources of mind and character above 
 all, the ingenuous and impulsive, the frank and faithful, the 
 solicitous and confiding, the dutiful and considerate 
 W-iich, in spite of his fiery passions, were the predominant 
 virtues of his mind and heart. 
 
 Anna Cooke gradually took pleasure in seeing him. She 
 found him both abler in intellect and gentler of disposition 
 than she had fancied him at first. His amenities, prompted 
 as much by his fears of the loss of her favor, had greatly 
 controlled the natural audacity of his blood, and the pru 
 dence of his approach gradually served to quiet her suspi 
 cions. She somewhat relaxed in that vigilant watch of eye 
 and ear which she had maintained over his first approaches. 
 She no longer looked for the equivocal in his speech ; no 
 longer encountered the doubtful with asperity. The way 
 was gradually smoothing for the approach of other powers. 
 The small pioneer virtues, which Passion so cunningly em 
 ploys .under the guidance of that great engineer Prudence, 
 were doing wonders in the cause of a despot, who, as yet, 
 judiciously kept his standard out of sight. 
 
 Anna Cooke was really getting to be quite pleased when 
 Beauchampe looked in of a morning, or strolled in to tea, 
 unaccompanied by his sisters, of an evening. 
 
 It is one of the natural arts of Love to excite the sensi 
 bilities into the most commanding activity, even while it 
 refines and purifies the tastes ; to subdue all the sharpnes 
 ses of character, even as it subdues the asperities of tone 
 and accent in the voice ; to throw into the eyes a mild, per 
 suasive expression of entreaty and solicitude ; a hesitating 
 tenderness into the utterance ; and, above all, so certainly, 
 and even suddenly, to elevate the mind, that even the vul 
 gar nature and the inferior understanding become modified 
 and enlarged under its influence and Ignorance itself 
 seems, as if under inspiration, to receive such an increase 
 of intelligence, that its speech shall rarely declare its defi 
 ciencies. 
 
LOVE AND LAW. 117 
 
 Now, though by no means a wise, learned, or greatly- 
 gifted youth, Bcauchampe was neither vulgar nor ignorant. 
 Still, at the beginning of his intercourse with Anna Cooke, 
 he was full of those salient points of character and manner 
 which exhibit the lack of that refining attrition of society 
 which no course of education can well supply. And some 
 of these saliences grated upon Anna Cooke on his first 
 interview with her. 
 
 But, in a single week, all this was altered. Love carries 
 with it those instincts of good taste, those solicitous scnsi 
 bilities, that refinement becomes inevitable under its pres 
 ence ; arid without his own consciousness, perhaps, though 
 it did not escape hers, the bearing, the whole carriage and 
 deportment, tone and manner, of Beauchampe, underwent 
 .rapid transition. From the rough, sturdy, confident rustic 
 almost insolent in his independence, and very determined 
 upon his objects indifferent to, if not wholly ignorant of, 
 Uie higher polish of the social world he grew, in a single 
 rveek, into the subdued and quiet gentleman, heedful always 
 of the sensibilities of those whom he addressed, and ten- 
 lerly considerate of the claims and rights of others. At a 
 single bound he became a gentleman ! 
 
 And that word &quot; gentleman&quot; how few have ever weighed 
 and properly taught its due significance ! To acquire this 
 character is one of the first processes by which we make a 
 Christian. Certainly, no man can be a Christian who is 
 not first a gentleman. And this involves no idle lesson for 
 the clergy. Among writers, old Middleton, the dramatist, 
 seems to have been almost the only one who seems fully to 
 have caught a just conception of the character so as to 
 define it. Incidentally, he gives a happy array of the vir 
 tues not merely qualifications, graces, and manners 
 essential to the gentleman. His allusion to the MAN Christ 
 will only be misconstrued by blockheads : 
 
 &quot; Patience, my lord ! why, tis the soul of peace ; 
 Qf all the virtues, tis nearest kin to IJearen . 
 
118 BFJAUCHAMPE. 
 
 It makes men like the gods. T7ie best of men, 
 That C CF wore earth about Urn, was a sufferer; 
 A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, 
 Thejirst true gentleman that ever breathed !&quot; 
 
 Beauehampe, under the tuition of Love, was making great 
 progress toward becoming a gentleman. Love first made 
 him gentle ; Prudence then brought in the oilier allies, Pa 
 tience, Forbearance, Conciliation, Solicitude humble vir 
 tues, serving-brothers of the household, whose permitted 
 tendance will make of the humblest dwelling 
 
 &quot; A happy home, like heaven !&quot; 
 
 Beauchampe s improvement, under the new course of tui 
 tion under this new, potent, and almost unsuspected 
 teacher was wonderfully rapid. A few weeks had made 
 the most surprising changes in bearing, sentiment, charac 
 ter, nay, in the very expression of his face. Hi? features 
 and the fact belongs to the studies of the psychologist in 
 especial, as significant of what the refining arts did for the 
 Greek soul and character his very features, though not 
 wanting in a certain nobleness before, had become softened, 
 sweetened, spiritualized as it were, in the wonderful prog 
 ress which the gentler virtues had been making in his heart. 
 
 The result did not escape the attention of Anna Cooke. 
 She was not insensible to the singular and interesting 
 change in his features since the time when she first saw 
 him. It surprised even her, who was ordinarily so indif 
 ferent to external aspects. It gradually affected her own 
 feelings, as it conveyed an exquisite compliment to her own 
 influence. She saw the beginning of this improvement of 
 the young man, in the birth of his devotion to herself. She 
 began to feel a certain sympathy with the progress of a sen 
 timent which was so powerful arid at the same time so un 
 obtrusive, so little claiming or aspiring. Not that she 
 dreamed to encourage it. How could she 1 That was im 
 possible ! So she said to herself, whenever she thought 
 upot the subject. We have seen her expressed reflections 
 
LOVE AND LAW. 1U 
 
 She renewed them. Her mind was as unmoved as ever. 
 The changes, whatever they might be, were confined wholly 
 to her tastes and sensibilities. But these, after all, are tlie 
 true provinces in which true love is decreed to work ! 
 
 Her mental opinions and resolves had undergone no 
 change. Nay, they grew stronger, by a natural tendency, 
 as her interest in the young man increased. She resolved 
 that lie should not be sacrificed ; and this resolve was the 
 necessary parent of another. She could never give encour 
 agement to the object of her present lover. She could 
 never be his wife. No ! she already felt too much inter 
 ested in the youth, to use her own energetic language, ut 
 tered in midnight soliloquy, &quot; to dishonor him with her 
 hand !&quot; She was not conscious of the sigh which fell from 
 her lips when this determination was spoken. She was not 
 conscious, and consequently not apprehensive, of the prog 
 ress which a new passion was making in her heart. That 
 sigh had its signification, but this, though it fell from her 
 own lips, was inaudible to her own ears. 
 
 Laboring under this unconsciousness with regard to her 
 own feelings, it was perhaps not so great a stretch of mag 
 nanimity, on her part, to resolve that Beauchampe should 
 not be permitted to serve her brooding hatred, or to share 
 in her secret sorrows. Such was her determination. 
 
 One day, ho grew more warm in his approaches. Cir 
 cumstances favored his object, and the topics which they 
 had discussed, on previous occasions, insensibly encouraged 
 this. Suppressing his eagerness of manner, putting as much 
 curb as he could on the impatient utterance which was only 
 too habitual to him where his feelings were excited, he 
 strove, in the most deliberate form of address, to declare 
 his passion, and to solicit her hand. 
 
 &quot; Mr. Beauchampe,&quot; she said firmly, &quot; I thank you. I 
 am grateful for this proof of your regard and attachment ; 
 and, in regretting it, I implore you not to suspect me of 
 caprice, or a wanton desire to exercise the power which 
 
v 
 
 K. 
 
 120- BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 your unhappy preference confers on me. Nor am I insen 
 Bible to your claims. Were it possible, sir, that I could 
 ever marry, I know no one to whom I would sooner intrust 
 my affections than to you. But there is an insuperable bar 
 rier between us not to be broken not to be overpassed. 
 Never ! never ! never !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do not speak thus, dearest Miss Cooke. Spare me 
 this utterance. What is the barrier, this insuperable bar 
 rier, not to be broken, not to be overpassed ? Trust me, it 
 can be broken, it can be passed. What are the obstructions 
 that true love can not remove ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not these, not these ! It is impossible, sir. I do not 
 deceive myself I would not deceive you but I assure 
 you, Mr. Beauchampe, that the truth I declare is no less 
 solemn than certain. I can never listen to your prayer 
 I can never become your wife no, nor the wife of any 
 man ! The barrier which thus isolates me from mankind 
 is, I solemnly tell you, impassable, and can not be broken.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Suffer me to strive it is not in me that vour objec 
 tions arise?&quot; 
 
 &quot;No! but&quot; 
 
 &quot;Then suffer me to try and overcome this difficulty 
 remove this barrier.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It will be in vain, sir ; you would strive in vain.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not so ! declare it say in what it consists and, be 
 lieve me, if such talents as are mine, -such toils as man can 
 devote, with such a reward awaiting him as that which my 
 success would secure for me, can effect an object, I must 
 succeed. Speak to me freely, Miss Cooke. Show me this 
 obstacle &quot; 
 
 &quot; Never ! never ! There, at once, the difficulty rises. I 
 can not, dare not, reveal it. Ask no more, I entreat you. I 
 should have foreseen this, and commanded it otherwise. I 
 have suffered your attentions too long, Mr. Beauchampe : 
 for your own sake, let me forbid them now. They can 
 never come to good. They can have no fruits. Here, 
 
LOVE AND LAW. 121 
 
 before Heaven, which I invoke to hear me, I can never 
 
 be&quot; 
 
 &quot;Stay! do not speak it !&quot; he exclaimed, passionately 
 catching her uplifted hand, and silencing, by his louder ac 
 cent, the word upon her lips. 
 
 &quot;Stay, Miss Cooke ! be not too hasty be not rash in 
 this decision ; I implore you, for your sake and mine. Hear 
 me calmly resume your seat but for a few moments. / 
 will strive to be calm ; but only hear me.&quot; 
 
 lie led her to a seat, which she resumed with that air 
 of recovered dignity and stern composure which shows a 
 mind made up and resolute. He was terribly agitated, in 
 spite of all his efforts at composure. His eyes .trembled, 
 and his lips quivered, and the movements of his frame were 
 almost convulsive. But he also was a man of strong will. 
 But for his youth, he had been as inflexible as herself. He 
 recovered himself sufficiently to speak to her in tones sur 
 prisingly coherent, and with a degree of thoughtfulncss 
 which showed how completely a determined will can con 
 trol the utterance even of extraordinary passion. 
 
 &quot; Hear me, Miss Cooke. I can see that there is a mys 
 tery about you which I do not seek to penetrate. You 
 have your secret. Let it be so still. I love you, deeply, 
 passionately, as I never fancied it was possible for me or 
 any man to love. This passion rends my frame, distracts 
 my mind makes it doubtful if I could endure life in its 
 icnial. I have seen you only to worship you. Lost to me, 
 I lose faith as well as hope. I no longer know my divini 
 ties ; I no longer care for life, present or future. Do not 
 suppose I speak wildly. / believe all that I say. It must 
 be as I say it. Now, hear me : to avoid this fate, I am 
 willing to risk many evils dangers that might affright the 
 ordinary man under the ordinary feelings of man. You 
 spoke the other day of having but a single passion, which 
 was not love ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; Hate !&quot; she interrupted him to say. 
 
 6 
 
1^2 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Hate, it was and that gave birth to another not un 
 like it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Revenge ! yes, revenge !&quot; such was her second inter 
 ruption. He proceeded : 
 
 &quot; I understand something of this. You have been 
 wronged. You have an enemy. I will seek him. I will 
 be -your champion die for you if need be only tell me 
 that you will be mine !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Will you, indeed, do this ?&quot; 
 
 She rose, approached him, laid her hand on his arm, and 
 looked into his eyes with a keen, fixed, fixing, and fascina 
 ting glance, like that of a serpent. Her tones were very 
 low, very audible, but how impressive ! They sunk not into 
 his ear, but into his heart, and a cold thrill followed them 
 there. Before he could reply, however, she receded from 
 him, sunk again into her scat, and covered her face in her 
 hands. He approached her. She waved him ofT. 
 
 &quot;Leave me, Mr. Beauchampe leave me, now and for 
 ever. I can not hear you. I will not. I need not your 
 help. You can not revenge me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I will ! I can ! Your enemy shall be mine. I will pur 
 sue him to the ends of the earth ! But give me his name.&quot; 
 
 &quot;No, you shall not! 1 she said with apparent calmness. 
 &quot;Thus I reject your offer your double offer. I will not 
 wrong your generosity your love, Beauchampe by a 
 compliance with your prayer. Leave me now ; and, oh, 
 come not to me again ! I would rather not see you. I 
 feel for you deeply, sincerely but, no more. Leave me 
 now leave me for ever.&quot; 
 
 He sunk on his knee beside her. lie clasped her hand, 
 and carried it passionately to his lips. She rose, and with 
 drew it from his grasp. 
 
 &quot;Rise, Beauchampe,&quot; she said, in subdued but firm ac 
 cents. &quot; Let it lessen your disappointment to know that, if 
 I could ever be the wife of any man, you should have the 
 preference over all. 1 believe your soul to be noble. I do 
 
LOVE AN T D LAW. 123 
 
 not believe you would be guilty of a baseness. Believing: 
 this, I will not abuse your generosity. You are young. 
 You speak with the ardor of youth ; and with the same 
 ardor you feel, for the moment, the disappointments of 
 youth. The same glow of feeling will enable you to over 
 come them. You will forget me very soon. Let me en 
 treat you, for your own sake, to do so. Henceforward, I 
 will assist you in the effort. I will not sec you again.&quot; 
 
 A burst of passionate deprecation and appeal answered 
 this solemn assurance, but did not affect her decision. He 
 rose, again endeavored to grasp and detain her hand, but 
 she broke away with less dignity of movement than usual ; 
 and, had not the eyes of the youth been blinded by his own 
 weaknesses, he might have seen the big tear in hers, which 
 she fled precipitately only to conceal. 
 
124 BF^UOHAMPE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HOPE DENIED. 
 
 FROM this period Miss Cooke studiously withheld her 
 presence from the eyes of her infatuated lover. In vain did 
 he return day after day to her dwelling. His only recep 
 tion was accorded )&amp;gt;y the mother, whose garrulity was con 
 siderably lessened in the feeling of disappointment which 
 the course of her daughter necessarily inspired in her mind. 
 She had had her own plans, which, as she knew the firm 
 ness of her daughter s character, she could not but be con 
 vinced were effectually baffled. To her Beauchampe de 
 clared himself, but from her he received no encouragement 
 except that which was contained in her own consent, which, 
 as he had already discovered, did not by any means imply 
 that of the one object whose consent was everything. The 
 old woman pleaded in secret the passion of the young man, 
 but she pleaded fruitlessly. Her petition became modified 
 into one soliciting only her daughter s consent to receive 
 him as before ; and to induce this consent the more readily 
 Beauchampe pledged himself not to renew the subject ol 
 love. 
 
 But Anna Cooke now knew the value of such pledges. 
 She also knew, by this time, the danger to herself of again 
 meeting with one whose talents and worth she had already 
 learned to admire. The feeling of prudence grew stronger 
 as her impressions in his favor were increased. This con 
 
HOPE DENTED. 125 
 
 tradiction of character is not of common occurrence. But 
 the position of Anna Cooke was not only painful but a 
 peculiar one. To suffei her affections to become involved 
 with Beauchampe was oivly to increase her difficulties and 
 mortifications. She felt that it would be dishonorable to 
 accept him as a husband without revealing her secret, and 
 that revealed, it would be very doubtful whether he would 
 be so willing to take her as his wife. This was a dilemma 
 which she naturally feared to encounter. 
 
 We do not say, that she did not also share in those feel 
 ings of disappointment and denial under which Beauchampe 
 so greatly suffered. The sadness increased upon her coun 
 tenance, and softened its customary severity. She felt the 
 darker passions of her mind flickering like some sinking 
 candle-flame, and growing daily more feeble under the an 
 tagonist feeling of another of very different character. 
 The dream of hate and vengeance which for five years had 
 been, however baneful to her heart, a source of strength 
 to her frame, grew nightly less vivid, and less powerful 
 over her imagination ; and, hopeless as she was of love, 
 she trembled lest the other passions which, however strange 
 ly, had yielded her solace for so long a time, should abandon 
 her also. 
 
 For such a nature as that of Anna Cooke, some strong 
 food was necessary. There must be some way to exercise 
 and employ those deep desires and earnest spiritings of her 
 mind, which else would madden and destroy her. It be 
 came necessary to recall her hates, to renew her vows and 
 prayers of vengeance, to concentrate her thoughts anew 
 on the bloody sacrifice which she had so long meditated in 
 secret. 
 
 But this was no easy task. The image of Beauchampe 
 came between her eyes and that of the one victim whose 
 destruction alone she sought. The noble, generous, do- 
 voted countenance of the one, half obliterated the wily, 
 treacherous visage of the other. The perpetual pleadings 
 
126 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 of the mother contributed to present this obstacle to her 
 mind. 
 
 To escape from this latter annoyance, and, if possible, 
 evade the impression, which, in softening her feelings, had 
 obliterated some of her hates, she renewed a practice 
 which she had for some time neglected. She might be 
 seen every morning stealing from the cottage and taking 
 her way to the cover of the adjacent forests. Here, hid 
 den from all eyes, she buried herself in the religious soli 
 tude. What feelings filled her heart, what fancies vexed 
 her mind, what striving forms of love and hate, conflicted 
 in her fancy, we may perhaps conjecture ; but there, alone, 
 save with the images of her thought, she wasted the vacant 
 hours ; drawing her soul s strength from that bitter weed 
 of hate, the worst moral poison which the immortal sou) 
 can ever cherish. 
 
 With Beauchampe the sorrow was not less, and there 
 was less to strengthen ; but that little was not of so dan 
 gerous a quality. He felt the pang of denial, but the bit 
 terness of hate had never yet blighted the young, green 
 leaves of his youthful affections. He was unhappy, but 
 not desperate. Still he could not but see, in the course 
 taken by Anna Cooke, a character of strength and inflex 
 ibility, which rendered all prospects of future success, 
 which looked to her, extremely doubtful. There had been 
 no relaxing in her rigor. The mother, whose own sym 
 pathy with his cause was sufficiently obvious, had shown 
 its hopelessness, even when she most encouraged him to 
 persevere. Perseverance had taught him the rest of a hard 
 lesson and the young lover, in his first love, now trembled 
 to find himself alone ! 
 
 Alone ! and such a loneliness. The affections of mother 
 and sisters no longer offered solace or companionship to his 
 heart. They no longer spoke to his affections. Their 
 words fell upon his cars only to startle and annoy ; their 
 gentle smiles were only so inan^ gleams of cold, mocking 
 
HOPE DENIED. 127 
 
 moonlight scattered along the dreary seas of passion in 
 his soul. He felt that he could not live after this fashion, 
 for he had still a hope a hope just sufficiently large to 
 keep him doubtful. Anna Cooke had declared that her 
 scruples were not to him. The bar which severed her from 
 him was that which severed her from man. But for that 
 such was her own assurance &quot; he should be preferred to 
 all others whom she knew.&quot; 
 
 That bar ! What was it ? Beauchampe was not suffi 
 ciently experienced in the history of the passions, to con 
 jecture what that obstacle might be. He fancied, at the 
 utmost, that her affections might have been slighted ; he 
 knew but chiefly from books which are not always cor 
 rect in such matters that women did not usually forgive 
 such an offence. Betrothed, she might have been deserted 
 perhaps with insult and this, he readily thought, might 
 amply justify the fierce spirit of vengeance which she 
 breathed. Or, it might be that she had been born to for 
 tune, and had been wronged and robbed, by some wily vil 
 lain, of her possessions. Something of this he fancied he 
 had gathered from the garrulous details of the mother. 
 
 But, even were these conjectures true, still there was 
 nothing in them to establish such a barrier as Anna Cooko 
 insisted on, between his passion and herself. Blinded as 
 he was by his preference, and, in his own simple innocence 
 of heart, overlooking the only reasonable mode by which 
 such a mystery could be solved, the truly wretched youth 
 became hourly more so. Failing to find his way to her 
 presence, he resorted to that process of pen, ink, and paper, 
 which the Heloi se of Pope insists was designed by Heaven 
 expressly for the use of such wretches as Beauchampe and 
 herself, and his soul poured itself forth upon his sheet with 
 all the burning effluence of the most untameable affection. 
 Page after page grew beneath his hands every line a keen 
 arrow from the bended bow of passion, and shot directly 
 at tne heart. To borrow the phraseology of the old Span 
 
128 BKAUCHAMPE. 
 
 ish teachers of the estilo cnllo, if his tears wet the paper, 
 the heat of his words dried it as soon. Beauchampe spoke 
 from his soul and it penetrated to hers. But though she 
 felt and suffered, she was unmoved. Her reply was firm 
 and characteristic: . 
 
 &quot; Noble young man, leave me and be happy. Depart 
 from this pla.ce ; seek me, see me, think of me, no more ! 
 Why should you share a destiny like mine ? Obey your 
 own. It calls you elsewhere. If it be just to you, yours 
 will be lofty and honorable ; if not, at least it will spare 
 you any participation in one so dreary as is mine. Go, I 
 implore you, and cease to endure the anguish which you still 
 inflict. Go, forget me, and be happy. Yet, if not, take 
 with you as the saddest consolation I can give, the assu 
 rance that you leave behind you a greater suffering than 
 you bear away. If, as you tell me, the arrow rankles in 
 your heart, believe me there is an ever-burning fire which 
 encircles mine. I have not even the resource of the scor 
 pion, not, at least, until my l desperate fang has done its 
 work on another brain than my own. Then, indeed, the 
 remedy were easy ; at all events where life depends upon 
 resolution, one can count its allotted minutes in the articu 
 lations of a drowsy pulse. Once more, noble young man, 
 I thank y*ou ; once more 1 implore you to depart. I will 
 not send you my blessings I will not endanger your 
 safety by a prayer of mine. Yet, I could pray for you, 
 Beauchampe. I believe you worthy of the blessings, and 
 perhaps you would not be injured by the prayer, of one BO 
 desolate as I am !&quot; 
 
 This letter, so far from baffling his ardor, was calculated 
 to increase it. He hurried once more to the dwelling of 
 Mrs. Cooke ; but only to meet a repulse. 
 
 &quot; Tell him, I can not and will not see him !&quot; was the 
 inflexible reply ; and the mother was not insensible to the 
 
HOPE DENIED. 129 
 
 struggle which shook the majestic soul and form of the 
 speaker in uttering these few words. 
 
 In a paroxysm of passion, most like frenzy, Beauchampe 
 darted from the dwelling. That day he rambled in the 
 woods, scarcely conscious of his course, quite unconscious 
 of any object. The next, taking his gun with him by way 
 of apology, he passed in the same manner. And thus for 
 two days more. 
 
 Somewhat more composed by this time, his violent mood 
 gave way to one of a more contemplative character ; but 
 the shadows of the forest were even more congenial to the 
 disconsolate than the desperate. They afforded him the 
 only protection and companionship which he sought in either 
 of his moods. Here he wandered, giving himself up to the 
 dreary conviction which swells every young man s heart, 
 when first loving, he seems to love in vain, and when the 
 sun of hope seems set for him for ever ; and henceforth, 
 earth was little more than a place of tombs the solemn 
 cypress, and the Druid mistletoe, its most fitting decora 
 tions ; while, under each of its deceptive flowers, care, and 
 pain, and agony, lay harbored in the forms of gnat, and 
 wasp, and viper, ready to dart forth upon any thoughtless 
 hand that stoops to pluck the beauty of which they might 
 fitly be held the bane. 
 
 But, it was not Beauchampe s destiny, as Anna Cooke 
 had fancied, to escape from hers. In vain had she striven 
 to save him from it. He was one not to be saved. Mark 
 the event. To escape him perhaps dreading that her 
 strength might fail, at some moment, to resist his praye. 
 to see and speak with her ; and tired of her mother s con 
 stant pleading in behalf of her suitor she fled from the 
 house, and, as we have seen, stole away, day by day, to 
 lonely places, dark, gloomy, and tangled, such as the 
 wounded deer might seek out, in his last agonies, in which 
 to die in secret. 
 
 We have seen already what has been the habit of Beau- 
 
 6* 
 
130 BEAUCFIAMPE. 
 
 champe in this respect. His woodland musings had not 
 been without profit. Assured now of the hopelessness of 
 his pursuit from the stern and undeviating resolution which 
 the lady of his love had shown, at every attempt which he 
 made to overcome her determination, he, at length, with a 
 heavy heart, concluded to adopt her counsel, and to fly from a 
 scene in which disappointment had humbled him, and where 
 all of his most acute feelings were kept in a state of most 
 painful irritation. But, before this, he again addressed her 
 by letter. His words were brief: 
 
 &quot; I shall soon leave this place. I shall obey you. Yet. 
 let me see you once more. Vouchsafe me one look upoc 
 which my heart may brood in its banishment. Let me see 
 that dear image let me hear that voice that voice of 
 such sweet sorrow. Do not deny me this prayer. Do not ; 
 for in leaving you, dearest, but most relentless woman, 1 
 would not carry with me at the last moment, to disturb the 
 holier impression which you have made upon my soul, a 
 feeling of the injustice of yours. With a heart hopeless 
 and in the dust, I implore you. Do not reject my prayer. 
 Do not deny me let me once more behold you, and I will 
 be then better prepared to rush away to the crowded haunts 
 of life, or it may be the more crowded haunts of death. 
 Life and death ! all ! how naturally the words come to 
 gether. You have rendered their signification little in my 
 ears. You, you only. Yet I ask you not now to reverse 
 the doom. Is not my prayer sufficiently humble ! I ask 
 you not to spare, not to save ; only to soothe the pangs of 
 that departure which you command, and which seems little 
 less than death to me. On my knees, I implore you. Let 
 me see you but once once more let me once more hear 
 your voice, though I hear nothing after.&quot; 
 
 To this, the answer was immediate, but the determina 
 tion was unchanged. It said : 
 
HOPE DENIED. 131 
 
 &quot; I may seem cruel, but T am kind to you. Oh ! beliew 
 rne. It will console me under greater suffering than an? 
 I can inflict, to think that you do believe me. I am a 
 woman of wo born to it with no escape from my des 
 tiny. The sense of happiness, nevertheless, is very strong 
 within me. Were it not impossible that I could do you 
 wrong, I could appreciate the generous love you profle/ 
 me. I feel that I could do it justice. But terror and death 
 attend my steps, and influence the fortunes of all who share 
 in mine. I would save you from these, and worse! You 
 need not to be told that there are worse foes to the proud 
 fond heart,. than either death or terror. Fancy what thcst 
 may be, and fly from me as from one whose touch is conta 
 gion whose breath is bondage whose conditions of com 
 munion are pangs, and trials, and shame ! Do not think 
 I speak wildly. No, Beauchampe, you little dream with 
 what painful inflexibility I bend myself to the task of say 
 ing thus much. Spare me and yourself any further utter 
 ance. Go, and be happy. You are yet young, very young. 
 Perhaps you know not that I am older than you. Not 
 &quot;nuch yet how much. Oh! I have so crowded moments 
 with events feelings, the events of the heart that I am 
 grown suddenly old. Old in youth. I am like the tree 
 you sometimes meet flourishing, green at the top while 
 in the heart sits death and decay, and, perhaps, gloomier 
 tenants beside. These I can not escape I can not survive. 
 But you have only one struggle before you. You have suf 
 fered one disappointment. It will disturb you for a while, 
 but not distress you long. You will find love where you 
 do not seek it happiness, which you could never find with 
 me. Go, Beauchampe for your sake, I deny your prayer. 
 I will not see you. Do not upbraid me in your soul, nor by 
 your lips. Alas ! you know not how hard is the struggle, 
 which 1 have, to say so much. You know not from what a 
 bondage this struggle saves you. My words shall not call 
 you back. No looks of mine shall beguile you. Be you 
 
132 BKAUCHAMPE. 
 
 free, Beauchampe free and happy ! If you could but guess 
 the temptation which I overcome the vital uses which 
 your love could be to me, and which I reject, you would 
 thank me oh ! how fervently and bless me would 1 
 could say, how justly ! Farewell ! Let it be for erer 
 Beauchampe! Farewell! farewell for ever !&quot; 
 
THE TERRIBLE SECRET. 138 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE TERRIBLE SECRET. 
 
 BEAUCHAMPE sat, sad and silent, in a corner of one low 
 cnamber in his mother s cottage. The family were all 
 present. There was an expression in every face that sym 
 pathized with his own. All were sad and gloomy. A 
 painful reserve, so strange hitherto in that little family of 
 love, oppressed the spirits of all. They were aware of the 
 little success which followed his course of wooing. They, 
 perhaps, did not regret the loss so much as the disappoint 
 ment of one whom they so much loved. With the excep 
 tion of little Mary Bcauchampe, Anna Cooke had not 
 taken captive the fancy of either of the ladies. Jane posi 
 tively feared and disliked her, with the natural hostility 
 which a person of light mind always entertains for one of 
 intensity and character. Mrs. Beauchampe s objections 
 were of another kind ; but she had seen too little of their 
 object, and was too willing to promote her son s wishes, to 
 attach much importance to them. She had derived them 
 rather from the casual criticisms of persons en passant,, 
 than from anything which she herself had seen. 
 
 It would have been no hard matter for Bcauchampe, had 
 he been successful in his suit, to reconcile all the parties 
 to his marriage. That he was unhappy in the rejection of 
 his hand, made them so; and the feeling was the more 
 painful as the event had made Beauchampe determine to 
 
BEAUCHAMPB. 
 
 depart on the ensuing day. He felt the necessity of doing 
 so. Active life, the strifes of the politician, the triumphs 
 of the forum, were at hand, offering him alternatives, if not 
 atonements. In the whirl of successive performance, and 
 in scenes that demand promptitude of action, he felt that he 
 could alone dissipate the spell, or at least endure its 
 weight with dignity, which the charms of Anna Cooke 
 had imposed upon him. His resolution was declared ac 
 cordingly. 
 
 It may be supposed that the distress of the little family 
 made the scene dull. Much was said, and much of it was 
 in the language of complaint. Poor Mary wept with a 
 keen sense of disappointment, more like that of her brother 
 than any one. Jane muttered her upbraidings of the 
 &quot; scornful, high-headed, frowsy Indian Queen, who was too 
 conceited to see that Orville was ten thousand times too 
 good a match for such as she ;&quot; while Mrs. Beauchampe, 
 with the usual afflicting philosophy of age which has sur 
 vived passion, discoursed largely on the very encouraging 
 text which counsels us to draw our consolation from our 
 very hopelessness. Pretty counsel, with a vengeance ! 
 Beauchampe thought it so. 
 
 The torturous process to which these occasional remarks 
 and venerable counsels subjected him, drove him forth at an 
 early hour after dinner. Once more he traversed the woods 
 in moody meditation. lie inly resolved that he should see 
 them the last time. With this resolve he determined to 
 pay a personal visit to the spot where, at his coming, he 
 had obtained the first sight of the woman, who, from that 
 moment, had filled his sight entirely. He followed the 
 sinuous course of the woods, slowly, moodily, chewing the 
 cud of sad and bitter thought alone. 
 
 His passion was in its subdued phase. There is a mo 
 ment of recoil in the excited heart, when the feelings long 
 for repose. There is a sense of exhaustion a dread of 
 further strife and excitement, the very thought of wbicb 
 
THE TERRIBLE SECRET. Io5 
 
 makes us shudder ; and the one conviction over all which 
 fills the mind, is that we could willingly lay ourselves down 
 in the shady places, none near, and sleep sleep the 
 long sleep, in which there are no such tortures and tu 
 mults. 
 
 Such were the feelings of Beauchampe, and thus languid, 
 from this recoil, in the overcharged sensibilities, he went 
 slowly forward, with a movement that denoted quite as 
 much feebleness as grief. 
 
 He was already buried in the thick woods he fancied 
 himself alone when, suddenly, he heard a pistol-shot. 
 He started, with a sudden recollection of a like sound, 
 which had attracted his ears on his first approach to the 
 same neighborhood. The coincidence was at least a strange 
 one. 
 
 He now determined to find out the practitioner. He 
 paused for a few moments, and looked about him. He was 
 not exactly sure of the quarter whence the sound proceed 
 ed ; but he moved forward cautiously, and at a venture. 
 Suddenly he paused ! He discovered, at a distance, the 
 person of the very woman whom he had been so long seek 
 ing she whose obduracy denied him even the boon of a 
 last look and farewell accent. 
 
 His first impulse was to rush forward. A second and 
 different impulse was forced on him by what he saw. To 
 his astonished eyes she bore in her hands a pistol. He 
 watched her while she loaded it. He saw her level it at a 
 tree, and pull the trigger with unhesitating hand. The 
 &quot;bark flew on every side, betraying, by the truth of her 
 aim, at a considerable distance, the constancy of her prac 
 tice. 
 
 Beauchampe could contain himself no longer. He now 
 rushed forward. A faint cry escaped her as she beheld 
 him She dropped the pistol by her side, clasped and cov 
 ered her face with her hands, and staggered back a few 
 paces. 
 
136 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 But, before Beauchampe reached her, she had recovered, 
 and, picking up the pistol, she came forward. Her eye 
 sparkled with an expression which showed something like 
 resentment. Her voice was abrupt and sharp. 
 
 &quot; You rush on your fate !&quot; she exclaimed. u Why, 
 Beauchampe, do you thus pursue me, and risk your own 
 destruction ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; At your hand, it is welcome !&quot; he exclaimed, mistaking 
 her meaning. 
 
 &quot; I mean not that , r she replied. 
 
 &quot;But you inflict UP 
 
 &quot;No! no!&quot; impatiently. &quot;I do not. I have prayed 
 against it would spare you that and every risk ; but you 
 will it otherwise ! You rush on your late ; and if you 
 dare, Beauchampe mark me ! if you dare il is at your 
 option. Heretofore, I have striven for you, and against 
 myself; but you have forced yourself upon my privacy 
 you have sought to fathom my secrets and it is now 
 necessary that you should bear the penalty of forbidden 
 knowledge !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Have 1 not supplicated you for these penalties ? Ah ! 
 what pain inflicted by your hand would not be pleas 
 ure !&quot; 
 
 &quot;You love me! I believe you, Beauchampe; but the 
 secret of rny soul is the deaih-blow to your love ! Ah ! 
 spare me ! even now I would have you spare me. Go 
 leave me for ever ; press no farther into a mystery which 
 must shock you to hear, shame me to speak, and leads 
 if it drives you nut hence with the speed of terror leads 
 you to sorrow and ccrtaiu strife, and possibly the crudest 
 doom.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Speak ! I brave all ! I am your bondsman, your slave. 
 Declare the service : let -me break down these barriers 
 which divide us.&quot; 
 
 He caught her hand passionately in his as lie spoke, and 
 pressed it to his lips. She did not withdraw it. 
 
THE TERRIBLE SECRET. 13i 
 
 &quot; Beauchampe !&quot; she said, with solemnity, fixing her 
 dark, deep-glancing eyes upon his face &quot;Beauchampe! 
 I will not swear you ! You shall hear the truth, and 
 still be free. Know, then, that you clasp a dishonored 
 hand!&quot; 
 
18H BEAUCBAMPE. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE VOW OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 THE terrible words were spoken. The effect was in 
 stantaneous. He dropped the hand which he had grasped. 
 A burning flush crimsoned the face of the woman ; an in 
 stant after, it was succeeded by the paleness of death. 
 
 &quot;I knew it!&quot; she exclaimed, bitterly, and with cruel 
 keenness of utterance. &quot; I knew that it would come to 
 this. God ! this is thy creature man ! In his selfishness 
 he destroys in his selfishness he shames us. He pries 
 into our hearts, to declare their weakness to point out 
 their spots to say, * See how I can triumph over, and 
 trample upon ! 
 
 &quot;Anna!&quot; exclaimed Beauchampe, in husky accents 
 &quot; speak not thus think not thus. Give me but a moment s 
 time for thought. I was not prepared for this.&quot; 
 
 The young man looked like one in a dream. A ghastly 
 expression marked his eyes. His lips were parted ; the 
 muscles of his mouth were convulsed. 
 
 &quot; Nay, sir, it needs not. Your curiosity is satisfied. 
 There is nothing more. * 
 
 &quot; Yes,&quot; he exclaimed, &quot; there is !&quot; 
 
 &quot; There is !&quot; she answered promptly. &quot; To clasp the 
 dishonored hand, and take from its grasp the instrument 
 of its vengeance. In a few words, Beauchampe, this hand 
 can only be yours under one condition. Dishonored though 
 
THE VOW OF VENGEANCE. 139 
 
 it is, I teli you, sir, never yet did woman subject man to 
 more terrible conditions as the price of her love.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I take the hand,&quot; he said, &quot; ere the condition is spoken.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, Beauchampe, that can not be. You shall never 
 say that I deceived you. As I shall insist on the fulfilment 
 of the condition, so it is but fair that you be not hooded 
 when you pledge yourself to its performance.&quot; 
 
 She withdrew the hand, which he offered to take, from 
 his contact. 
 
 &quot; This dishonored hand is pledged to vengeance on him 
 who blackened it with shame. Hence its practice with the 
 weapon of death. Hence the almost daily practice of the 
 last five years. Here, in these woods, I pursue a sort of 
 devotion, where Hate is the deity Vengeance the officia 
 ting priest. I have consecrated my life to this one object. 
 He who takes my hand must adopt my pledge must de 
 vote himself also to the work of vengeance !&quot; 
 
 He seized it, and took the weapon from its grasp. With 
 the pistol lifted to heaven, he exclaimed : 
 
 &quot; The oath ! I am ready !&quot; 
 
 Tears gushed from her eyes. She spoke in subdued ac 
 cents : 
 
 &quot; Five long years have I toiled with this delusive dream 
 of vengeance ! But what can woman do ? Where can she 
 seek ho\v find her victim? Think you, Orville Beau 
 champe, that if I could have met my enemy, I would have 
 challenged the aid of man to do this work of retribution ? 
 In my own soul was the strength. There is no feminine 
 feebleness of nerve in this eye and arm ! I should have 
 shot and struck ah ! Christ !&quot; 
 
 She sunk to the ground with a spasm, which was the nat 
 ural effect of such passions working on such a temperament. 
 The desperate youth knelt down beside her in an agony of 
 equal passion and apprehension. He drew her to his breast, 
 he glued his lips to her cheeks, scarcely conscious that she 
 was lifeless all the while. 
 
140 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 Her swoon, however, was momentary only. She recov 
 cred even while he was playing the madman in his fond 
 ness. 
 
 Refusing his assistance, and pushing him from her, she 
 staggered up, exclaimed, in piercing, trembling accents: 
 
 &quot; What have I done ? what have I said ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Given me happiness, dearest,&quot; he replied, attempting 
 to take her hand. 
 
 &quot;No, Beauchampe,&quot; she answered, &quot;let me understand 
 myself before I seek to understand you. I am scarcely 
 able, though!&quot; and, as she spoke, she pressed her hands 
 upon her eyes with an expression of pain. 
 
 &quot; You are still sick !&quot; he observed apprehensively. 
 
 &quot; I am in pain, Beauchampc, not sick. I am used to 
 these spasms. Do not let them alarm you. They are not 
 deadly, and, if they were, I should not consider them dan 
 gerous. I know not well what I have said to you, Beau- 
 champe, before this pain ; but as I never have these attacks 
 unless the agony of mind becomes too intense for one to 
 bear and live, I conclude that I have told you all. You 
 know my secret my shame!&quot; 
 
 &quot; I know that you are the noblest-hearted woman that 
 ever lived !&quot; he exclaimed rapturously. 
 
 &quot; Do not mock me, Beauchampe,&quot; she answered mildly. 
 &quot; Speak not in language of such extravagance. You can 
 not speak too soberly for my ears, you can not think too 
 soberly for your own good. You have heard my secret. 
 You have forced me to declare my shame ! You had no 
 right to this secret. Was it not enough that I told you 
 that the barrier was impassable between us ? Did I not 
 swear it solemnly ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is not impassable.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is !&quot; 
 
 &quot; No !&quot; he exclaimed with looks and accents equally de 
 cisive, &quot; this is no barrier. You have been wronged 
 your confidence has been abused. That I understand. J 
 
THE VOW OF VENGEANCE. 141 
 
 care not to know more. I believe you to be all that is 
 pure and honorable now ; and, in this faith, I am all yours. 
 In this faith I pray you to be mine.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Becauchampe, this is not all ! Mere love, though it be 
 such as yours simple faith, though so generous a^d con 
 fiding these do not suffice. The food is sweet, but it has 
 little nutriment. My soul is already familiar with higher 
 stimulants. It needs them it can not do without thuin. 
 [ do not ask the man who makes me his wife, to believe 
 only that I can be true to him and will! I demand 
 something more than a confidence like this, Beauchampe : 
 my husband must avenge my dishonor. This is the condi 
 tion of my hand. Dishonored as it is, it has a heavy price, 
 fie must devote his life to the work of retribution. To 
 this he must swear himself.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I am already sworn to it. The moment which revealed 
 your wrong, bound me as your avenger. You shall only 
 point to your enemy &quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah, Beaucliampc, could I have done so, I should not 
 have needed to stain your hands with his blood. But he 
 eludes my sight. I hear nowhere- of him. He is as if he 
 nad never been. 
 
 &quot; His name !&quot; said Beauchampe- 
 
 &quot; You shall know all,&quot; she replied, motioning him to a 
 seat beside her on the trunk of a fallen tree. &quot;You shall 
 know all, Beauchampe, from first to last. It is due to you 
 that nothing should be withheld.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Spare yourself, dearest,&quot; said Beauchampe tenderly. 
 u Tell me nothing, I implore you, but the name of your 
 enemy, and what may be necessary for the work of ven 
 geance.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I will tell you all. It is my pride that I should not 
 spare myself. It is due to my present self, to show that I 
 am not blind to the weaknesses of my former nature. It 
 is due to what I am, to convince you that I can never agair 
 be what I have been. Beauchampe ! I have meditated 
 
142 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 often and sadly, since I have known you, the necessity of 
 making this revelation. At our first meeting, my heart 
 said to myself, * The love by which I was betrayed has at 
 length sent me an avenger ! I saw it in your instant 
 glances in the generous earnestness of your looks and 
 tones in the fervent expression of your eye in the 
 frank, impetuous nature of your soul ! But I said to my 
 self: 
 
 &quot; I will deny myself this avenger. I will reject the in 
 stinct that tells me he is sent as one. Why should I involve 
 this noble young man in a fate so desperate and sad as 
 mine ? It shall not be ! &quot;With this resolve, I strove against 
 you. Nay, Beauchampe, I confess to you farther, that, 
 even when my will strove most against you, my heart was 
 most earnest in your favor. With my increasing regard 
 for you, grew my reluctance to involve you in my doom. 
 The conflict was close and trying ; and then, when the strife 
 in my mind was greatest, I meditated what I should reveal 
 to you. I went over that long and cruel memory in the 
 deep silence of these woods in the deeper silence of mid 
 night in my chamber : I could not escape from the stern 
 necessity which compelled the remembrance of those mo 
 ments of bitterness and shame. By frequent recall, they 
 have been revived in all their burning freshness ; every 
 art of the traitor the blind steps by which I fell the 
 miserable mockeries which deluded me and the shame 
 which, like a lurid cloud, dusk and fiery, has ever since 
 hung before my eyes! All this I can relate his crime 
 and my folly nor omit one fraction which is necessary to 
 the truth.&quot; 
 
 &quot;But why tell all this, dearest? Let it be forgotten 
 let all be forgotten, except the name of the villain whom it 
 is allotted me to destroy.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Forgotten ? It can not be forgotten ! Nay, more, it is 
 a duty to remember it, that the vengeance may not sleep. 
 Beauchampe, I have lived for years on this one thought. 
 
THE VOW OP VENGEANCE. 143 
 
 Sy recalling these bitter memories, that thought was fed. 
 Do not persuade me to forget them. You know not how 
 much of life depends on the sustenance which thought de 
 rives from this copious but polluted fountain. Deprive me 
 of this sustenance, and I perish. Deny me to declare all, 
 and I can speak nothing. I can not curb my nature when 
 I will ; and where would you gather the fuel of anger, 
 should I barely say to you that one Alfred Stevens an 
 artful stranger from a distant city found me a simple, 
 vain child among the hills, and, practising on my vanity, 
 overcame my strength ? This would serve but little in 
 rousing that fierce fire of hate within you which sometimes, 
 even in my own bosom, burns quite too faintly to be effect 
 ual. No, no ! you shall witness the progress of the crimi 
 nal. You shall see how he spun his web around my path 
 my soul! by what mousing cunning he contrived to 
 pull down a wing whose feeblest fancy, in those unconscious 
 days, was above the mountains, and striving ever for the 
 clouds. You shall see the daily records of its spasms, 
 which my misery has made. To feel my struggle, you must 
 share in it from the first.&quot; 
 
 He took her hand in his, and prepared to listen. 
 
 &quot; You will feel my hand tremble,&quot; said she ; &quot; the flush 
 may suffuse my cheek ; for, oh ! do not suppose I tell this 
 tale willingly. No ! I can not help but tell it. An instinct, 
 which I dare not disobey, commands me ; and truly, when 
 I think of the instinct which told me that you would come 
 made you known to me as the avenger from the first mo 
 ment when I saw you and has thus forced you, as it were, 
 n my own despite, upon my fearful secret I almost feel 
 ihat there is a divine, at least a fated compulsion, in tho 
 mood which now prompts me to tell you all. It is a neces 
 sity. I feel it pressing upon me as a duty. It is like that 
 Fate which coerced the ancient mariner into the report of 
 nis marvellous progress, and compelled the listener to hear. 
 It must be told ; and you, Beauchampe, can not help but 
 
144 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 hear. , A power beyond mine own has willed it, and there 
 fore you are here now. It chains us both. It wills that I 
 should speak, and speak nothing but the truth. I can even 
 suppress nothing. I am not able to control my own utter 
 ance. May the same power endue me with the strength to 
 speak the history of my bitter, bitter shame !&quot; 
 
 And, in truth, Bcauchampe, like herself, was under a 
 spell. He could not have torn himself away under any 
 conditions, or with any impulse. He was fastened to the 
 spot not by her arts, for she sternly rejected any help of 
 art, save that which naturally belonged to her own remark 
 able genius not by the charms of her beauty, for her face 
 now had more of terror in it than beauty not by any sym 
 pathy which might arise from pity, for, as he looked into 
 the sombre grandeur of her eyes, and the stern power of 
 soul, and will, and mind, which declared itself in every 
 feature of her countenance, in every action of her form, ho 
 felt that awe, not pity, was the most natural sentiment 
 which she inspired. 
 
 Under the spell he sat beside her. Under a like spell 
 the imagination, in both, being the Prospero, the master 
 of the magic wand she spoke. And how the first cho 
 king effort at utterance being overcome how clearly, sim 
 ply, sternly, she laid bare the whole cruel history, even as 
 we have already told it nothing suppressed, nothing ob 
 scured ; no idle apologies for weakness offered no excuses 
 urged in behalf of sinful impulses. She spared herself in 
 nothing. She laid herself I are to discovery, to keen analy 
 sis, to the most critical inspection. Governed, as she felt 
 or fancied, by some supernatural influence, there was a ter 
 rible earnestness, an unequivocal intenseness and directness, 
 in all she revealed, that would have left the most captious 
 attorney at a loss for the opportunity to cross-examine. 
 There was no attempt at glozing artifice, at adroit insinua 
 tion or suggestion, by which to soften the darker colors 
 to relieve the doubtful to conceal what had been her real 
 
THE VOW OP VENGEANCE Hr 
 
 errors, weaknesses, and vicious desires. All the character 
 istics of her soul its follies, faults, foibles, vices were 
 all made apparent : but through all, equally apparent, was 
 the proud spirit, falling chiefly through pride, the noble 
 nature, the ingenuous ambition, the lustrous and winged 
 genius ! 
 
14*- BEAUCHAMP* 
 
 CHAPTE R XIII. 
 
 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 &quot; I drink of the intoxicating cup, 
 . And find it rapture. Yet, methinks I feel 
 As if a madness mingled with the sweet, 
 And dashed it with a bitter.&quot; 
 
 WHAT a hush for a moment hung over the forest when 
 she ceased to speak ! 
 
 The story was ended. 
 
 For a few moments, Beauchampe sat immoveable, as if 
 slowly recovering from a spell. Then suddenly he shook 
 himself free, started up with a cry of mingled joy and pain, 
 and clasped her in his wild embrace. 
 
 His passion had undergone increase. He vras no longer 
 master of his pulses. Her superior will had already made 
 itself felt in all the sinews of his soul. Every beat and 
 bound of his heart was full of the exquisite fascination. 
 
 She extricated herself from his grasp. Her breathing 
 came with effort. She pressed her hand upon hex side, as 
 if with a sudden sense of pain ; then looked up, and met 
 his eager glance with eyes which were so fixed, so glassily 
 Btern, that he looked alarmed, and clasped her hands in 
 his own. 
 
 She was, in truth, deadly pale but, oh, how strong! 
 
 &quot; Fear nothing,&quot; she said, in a whisper ; &quot; it is nothing. 
 I shall soon be well.&quot; 
 
 And a brief silence ensued between them, he gazing still 
 with apprehension into her eyes. 
 
THE BETROTHAL. H7 
 
 &quot; Look not thus, Beauchampe. I am better now. The 
 pain is gone. I ara used to it. It always comes with any 
 great excitement, and this to-day has been a terrible one. 
 I feared I should not have strength for it. Thank God, it 
 is over and and I am better now.&quot; 
 
 And she laughed hysterically. 
 
 Anna Cooke was wonderfully strong, but she was yet a 
 woman. She had overtasked herself. She sank, a mo 
 ment after, in a fainting-fit, upon the sward. 
 
 Beauchampe was terrified. He called her name, and re 
 ceived no answer. He ran off to a well-remembered brook 
 let, some two hundred yards distant, over which a gourd 
 was suspended from a tree. lie hurried back with it full 
 of water, and found her recovering. She drank freely, 
 bathed her face and forehead in the liquid, and felt re 
 lieved. 
 
 &quot; And now, Beauchampe now that you have heard all 
 
 now that you see and understand the full nature of the 
 conditions imposed upon you the fearful nature of the 
 penalty the crime, and its terrible consequences I re 
 lease you from your pledge! Be free! Go leave me ! 
 1 would not have your young and generous soul burdened 
 with the sting, the sin, the agony, and the resolve, of mine !&quot; 
 
 This was said, how mournfully, but with what sincerity ! 
 
 with that utter self-abaridoment which denotes the recoil 
 and -the subsidence of powerful and now-exhausted energies ! 
 
 &quot; Oh ! how can you speak thus !&quot; he answered reproach 
 fully. &quot; I would not be released. I ask not even respite. 
 Your cause is mine your wrongs ! I feel them all ! Your 
 vengeance I have sworn to accomplish it. It is now my 
 passion not less than yours. Nay, more, I would have you 
 dismiss it from your soul ! I would have it exclusively my 
 own !&quot; 
 
 &quot; And you are still willing, burdened with this poor 
 wreck of youth, and virtue, and beauty and with this ter 
 rible necessity to undergo the consciousness of the world s 
 
148 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 mock nay, to see its skinny pointing finger, and hear its 
 venomous tongue, as it mutters, while I pass, the cruel 
 story of my shame !&quot; 
 
 &quot; I will make that story yet a memorial of virtuous ven 
 geance, to be remembered in Kentucky when we are both 
 in the dust !&quot; was the vehement answer, while the eyes of 
 the speaker flashed fire, and his hand was outwaved as if 
 challenging the whole world s voice and ear. He con 
 tinued : 
 
 &quot; If that story is to be told again, Margaret Cooper 
 for so, this once, will I call you it shall sound as an omi 
 nous voice of terror, speaking doom and sudden judgment 
 to the cold-blooded profligates who pride themselves on the 
 serpent conquest over all that is blessing and beautiful in 
 the world s Eden !&quot; 
 
 The tears rolled down her cheeks. She had not thus 
 wept before never once had such tears covered her 
 cheeks even in the moments of her bitterest remorse and 
 suffering. 
 
 &quot; Do not weep!&quot; he said ; &quot;I can not bear to see you 
 weep.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is for the last time,&quot; she answered, almost prophet 
 ically. 
 
 &quot; What, indeed, had she to do with tears ? They could 
 not speak for passions, and such an agony as hers. Then, 
 timidly, he laid one hand upon her wrist, while the other 
 crept about her waist. And she shuddered. He felt the 
 convulsive shiver, and withdrew his grasp. He whis 
 pered : 
 
 &quot; You are now to be mine mine you remember !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Alas ! for you, Beauchampe, that it is so. It is not too 
 late ! You are still free to go. It is a ruin not a heart, 
 that I can give you !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Be it so ! The ruin shall be more precious to my soul 
 than thje glory only born to-day. 
 
 &quot; Leave me now, Beauchampe. Do not seek me again 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 149 
 
 until to-morrow. I would sleep to-day. I need sleep 
 sleep more than anything besides. I have not slept once 
 since I penned you that letter.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Good Heavens! can it be possible? Oh! you must 
 sleep. Shall I not see you home at once ? 
 
 &quot; No ! leave me, Beauchampe. I will find my way home 
 after awhile. Leave me will you not !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes but Anna, let me take this weapon. It is mine 
 now, remember, not yours ! Here, with this hour, Anna, 
 your practice ends ends with the necessity.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Take it. Hide it from my sight.&quot; 
 
 He possessed himself of the pistol, which he thrust hur 
 riedly into his pocket, and then suddenly embracing and 
 kissing her, he cried : 
 
 &quot;This, Anna this seals every vow, whether of love 
 or vengeance !&quot; 
 
 She waved him off, and as he disappeared slowly, she 
 hurried still deeper into the wood. What were her medi 
 tations there ? Who shall say ? They were entertained 
 for hours in deepest silence, were mournful, yet of uncer 
 tain character now marked by a sense of relief which was 
 momentary only, and still followed by a great cloud-like 
 doubt, and vague, dark terror which seemed to stretch and 
 spread over all the prospect. 
 
 And this cloud she could not disperse she could not 
 penetrate. It was ominous, she fancied, of her future. 
 
 &quot; Oh, God !&quot; she exclaimed, &quot; if I have erred if I have 
 covered my soul with a new sin in thus involving this gen 
 erous young man in my fats in thus binding his soul with 
 iny own to the blind fury of this wild revenge which I have 
 sworn.&quot; t 
 
 Strange that she should doubt in this regard. Strange 
 that human being in a Christian land should really fancy for 
 a moment that God s sanction should hallow the purposes 
 of a bloody vengeance. But, even thus wild and mistaken 
 in their supposed sanctions are half the purposes of hu- 
 
150 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 manitj. The disordered judgment, governed by an imagi 
 nation which the blood has wrought up to delirious dreams 
 and excesses, can always evoke a sanction for all its pur 
 poses, from some terrible demon wearing the aspect of 
 divinity ! 
 
 And this false god whispered his encouragement audibly 
 to her senses, until she grew satisfied calmer resolved 
 confirmed in all her purposes. 
 
 When she returned home and met her mother, she said, 
 as quietly as possible : 
 
 &quot; Your wishes are answered, mother. I have seen 
 Beauchainpe. I have consented to be his wife !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Have you, indeed, Margaret ! Oh ! I am so glad. He 
 is such an excellent young man, and of such a good family. 
 Oh ! you will be happy now, I know !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Happy !&quot; exclaimed the girl with a look of scorn, min 
 gled with surprise. &quot; How can you fancy that there should 
 be happiness for me ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; And why not, Margaret ? Who knows of what s done 
 and past ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; He knows ! I have told Beauchainpe the whole of my 
 history.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What !&quot; almost with a scream. &quot; You don t mean to 
 say that you ve been such a fool as to tell him about what 
 happened at Charlemont about Alfred Stevens ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; All ! I have withheld nothing !&quot; 
 
 The old woman threw up her eyes and hands with a sort 
 of terror. 
 
 &quot; And he consents to marry you after all !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes ! 
 
 &quot; I don t believe it will ever come to that! No nol 
 Men are not such fools ! Oh ! Margaret, what could pos 
 sess you to tell him that?&quot; 
 
 l( Truth, justice ! I could do no less. Had I not told 
 him, 1 had deserved my fate !&quot; 
 
 She left the room as she said this, and hurried to the sol 
 
THE BKTROTHAL. 151 
 
 itudcT of her own. The mother, when she was gone, ex 
 pressed her horror and her wonder, at what she deemed 
 the insane proceeding of her daughter, in more copious 
 language than before. 
 
 &quot; It s just like her. She was always different from every 
 body else. Now what woman of any sense would have 
 told of such things to the very man that was offering her 
 marriage. What a fool what a fool! If Bcauchampe 
 comes back, then he s the fool ! But he ll never come 
 again. No no ! when he s cooled off, and begun to think 
 over the matter, he ll go with a spur. That a daughter of 
 mine should be such a fool. But she don t take a bit after 
 me. All her foolishness comes from her father. Cooper 
 was a fool too. He was for ever a-doing, a-thinking, and 
 a-saying, things different from everybody else. And he, 
 too, would call it truth, and right, and justice ; as if any 
 body had any reason to think of such matters, when it s a 
 clear case of interest and safety a-pinting all the other 
 way. Such a fool-daughter as she is ! We ll see if he 
 comes again. And I reckon it s her only chance; and 
 even if she had another, with as good a man, she d be doing 
 and telling the same thing over again. Such a fool 
 such a fool ! Biit I ll put on my bonnet, and go over and 
 see the Beauchampes, and see what they ve got to say 
 about it.&quot; 
 
 And she prepared herself; but just as she was about to 
 sally forth, her daughter reappeared, and arrested her at 
 the entrance. She had divined her mother s purposes, know 
 ing something of her usual follies. 
 
 &quot; Do not go to Mrs. Beauchampe s, mother.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And why not, if all s true that you ve been telling me ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; You do not doubt its truth, mother, I know. Why 1 
 
 wish you not to go, is for a good reason of my own. I 
 
 must only repeat that you must not go there now. A few 
 
 days Hence, mother, and only after some of them have come 
 
BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Ah ! I see ! You have your fears too, Margaret, that 
 it s all a flash-in-the-pan, and that he ll be off; and that s 
 the very reason why I would go. We must clinch the nail 
 before it draws.&quot; 
 
 The face of Margaret was full of ineffable scorn. 
 
 &quot; You must not go, mother. Beauchampe is not to be 
 detained, should he desire to depart, by any argument that 
 you can offer ; and if he goes well ! I have no fear that 
 he will go, and if such were really his inclination, I should 
 be the first to encourage it. You do not understand either 
 of us. Meddle not. You can make nothing may mar 
 everything, and will certainly mortify me ! Wait ! The 
 Beauchampes must now seek you, not you them !&quot; 
 
 The will of the daughter prevailed as usual, though her 
 own will remained a grumbling discontent. Margaret, 
 having attained her purpose, retired again to her chamber, 
 \vastiug no unnecessary words in answer to the growling 
 dissatisfaction, that still seemed inclined to pursue her. 
 The old woman had set her mind upon the visit and yielded 
 very reluctantly perhaps would not have yielded but for 
 the threat of Margaret, sternly expressed, that if she inter 
 fered one bit in the matter, she would herself break away 
 from the engagement. The mother too well knew the -im 
 perious nature of the daughter, not to feel the danger of in 
 curring her resentment, after such a warning. She con 
 tented herself with the reflection that : 
 
 &quot; Margaret was a fool always, and nothing seemed to 
 better her sense. Beauchampe&quot; she was sure &quot;will 
 be certain to bolt as soon as he gets cooler and thinks over 
 the matter.&quot; 
 
 But Beauchampe did not bolt ! 
 
 When he reached home, he hardly suffered himself to 
 enter the house, before he cried out to his mother and sis- 
 lers : 
 
 It s all settled! I m so happy, mother. girls ! all s 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 153 
 
 right. I shaVt leave you now for a long time perhaps 
 never, and we shall all be so happy together.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why, what s the matter, Orville ? What has so un 
 settled you?&quot; demanded the mother. 
 
 &quot; Do tell us, brother, what s made you so happy ? What 
 has so excited you ?&quot; demanded Jane. 
 
 But Mary, the more sagacious as the more sympathizing, 
 said at once, while she flung her arms about the neck of her 
 brother : 
 
 &quot; Ah ! I know ; Anna Cooke has consented !&quot; 
 
 &quot; She has she has ! What a good guesser. You are 
 my dear little sister. Ah ! Mary understands her brother 
 better than you all.&quot; 
 
 &quot; So ! she has consented ?&quot; said the mother, somewhat 
 deliberately. &amp;lt;( And did she give you any explanation, 
 Orville, of her previous refucal so stern, so peremptory ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Yes, Orville. how did she excuse herself? What ex 
 planation did she give ?&quot; demanded Jane. 
 
 &quot; Explanation !&quot; exclaimed the brother, a cloud suddenly 
 covering his brow. &quot;Ay! she gave me full ample ex 
 planation.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well ! what was it ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Enough, mother, that it was perfectly satisfactory to 
 me. I am satisfied. Let us say no more on that subject. 
 You will believe ma when I tell you that I am satisfied. 
 Further, 1 do not mean to say. She is now mine ! all 
 mine ! and I am happy.&quot; 
 
 &quot; God grant, Orville, that it be so !&quot; answered the mother 
 in grave accents. &quot; Yet these so sudden changes, Orville. 
 are strange to me, at least. But I will not cloud your hap 
 piness with a single doubt. I trust in God that she will 
 bring you happiness, my son.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh ! never doubt, dear mother. She is a glorious 
 creature noble, beautiful all that should bring a man 
 happiness.&quot; 
 
 Happiness is not a creature of wild impulses and of 
 
 7* 
 
154 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 great excitements ; nor is the glory of beauty, however un 
 paralleled, nor the fascinations of genius, however power 
 ful, the best guaranty of happiness which needs sympathy, 
 and security, above all things, and loves the shade rather 
 than the sun ; longing for quiet not turbulent waters, and 
 rather keeping the passions in leash, than goading them into 
 perpetual exercise by stimulating means. 
 
 Somehow, the wild joy of Beauchampe did not seem to 
 his mother the best guaranty for his happiness. There was 
 something prescient in the thoughts of the old lady, which 
 made her sigh over the unborn future. 
 
TH BRIDAL. 16/- 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Why, look you, sir, I can be calm as Silence 
 All the while music plays. Strike on, sweet friend, 
 As mild and merry as the heart of Innocence . 
 I prithee, take my temper. Has a virgin 
 A heat more modest V* MIDDLETOH. 
 
 A VAST change had certainly been wrought, within a very 
 few hours, in the moods and feelings of Beauchampe. He 
 had gone forth weary, dispirited, humbled, hopeless : he 
 had returned bounding, wild, excited to enthusiastic meas 
 ures assured, within himself, of the attainment of every 
 mortal desire that was precious. 
 
 But we can not call him a happy man or one, indeed, 
 whose prospect of happiness was very promising. Wo 
 would not misuse that word, as we fear that it is too fre 
 quently misused. It is one the necessity for which is very 
 rare in the ordinary progress of society and life. Its abso 
 lute significance is really to be found only in future condi 
 tions. But we need not go into any analysis of its propriety 
 in common parlance. Enough that it deludes most people, 
 at some period or another in their lives. 
 
 Beauchampe said he was happy very happy and he 
 believed what he said, and his mother and sisters wished 
 to believe, and Mary certainly did believe, quite as fer 
 vently as her brother himself. Certainly, if a man in a 
 state of pleasant delirium may be considered happy, then 
 Beauchampe was I 
 
166 BEAUCHAMPZ. 
 
 But happiness is scarcely consistent with any very great 
 intensity of passion, excited to sleeplessness in the absorb 
 ing pursuit of a single object, particularly when the condi 
 tion of the conquest implies trials, and struggles, and fears, 
 and dangers, the measure of which no mind can compass, 
 the end of which no mind can foresee ! 
 
 Beauchampe had won the consent of the woman whom 
 he had sought with all the intensity of a first passion. All 
 young men find it easy to persuade themselves that such a 
 condition must satisfy all the longings of the heart. 
 
 But young men build on the sands, and kindle their fires 
 too frequently with dry straw, which blazes fearfully at 
 first, but dies out, leaves no warmth, and covers the land 
 scape with blackened stubble and fine ashes. 
 
 Beauchampe was not deceived, in a single respect, by or 
 with the woman he had won. She was the very person 
 that she appeared and claimed to be. She had concealed 
 nothing from him worn no mask put on no disguises 
 nay, piercing her own heart, and laying bare its most hid 
 den places, she had shown him, so far as she herself could 
 find and understand them, the very motives, moods, inter 
 ests, impulses, of her soul which had informed her ac 
 tions, and might inform them still as, perhaps, no woman 
 had ever shown them to lover before. If he yet labored 
 under any delusion in respect to her, she was not the cause 
 of it. Her pride, as well as just sense of his claims, had 
 been at pains to strip herself of all things which might be 
 calculated to delude. The very secret of her dishonor was 
 revealed only because she was sworn to honor. 
 
 And he acknowledged no delusions. He was satisfied 
 as he thought, happy and at first his joy was a delirium. 
 She was the peerless creature, the woman among a world 
 of women, such as he had thought her at first. 
 
 But we can not govern or restrain the imperious thought 
 which works its way in the brain and soul, secretly, even 
 as the mole in the garden ; and we never dream of what IB 
 
THE BRIDAL. 157 
 
 going on below, even though the loveliest flower in our 
 Eden is perishing at the roots. 
 
 After a few days, though Beauchampe still exulted, his 
 mother fancied that his mind seemed jaded and wearied, 
 his fancy had lost its wing, his eyes were heavy, yet wan 
 dering. He himself was quite unconscious of these exter 
 nal shows of the secret nature, but he too had a conscious 
 ness which disturbed his imagination. The very fact that 
 his betrothal was so unlike that of any man of whom he 
 had ever heard or read that it was under such conditions 
 compelled his thought to a serious yet vague exercise of 
 study, such as did not well comport with the unreasoning 
 confidence which, perhaps, marks the presence of the most 
 happy sort of love. Still, as yet, he did not exactly reason 
 on the subject. He could not. The mind was exerting 
 itself through the imagination, experimentally, as it were, 
 sending out feelers into this or that region of the brain 
 sounding them then withdrawing, to touch some other 
 place. 
 
 The effect was, to bring into the otherwise bright atmo 
 sphere which surrounded him the perpetual presence of one 
 small but dark and threatening cloud. He rubbed his eyes, 
 but it was there. He looked away, but, when he turned 
 his glance again upon the spot, it remained, steady and 
 threatening as before. 
 
 Was there a Fate hidden in that cloud ? Did it contain 
 the evil principle, shadowing his progress, or was it simply 
 the presentiment of evil a benignant warning against the 
 dangers yet wrapped in mystery ? Was it the ominous 
 sign of that fierce condition of hate which had been pre 
 scribed to him as the condition of love ? Could Love pre 
 scribe such a condition require such a sacrifice? Was 
 it possible for that meek sentiment so holy, so certainly 
 from heaven so celestial an element in the economy of 
 heaven was it possible for such a sentiment so openly to 
 toil in behalf of its most deadly antipathy ? Love laboring 
 
158 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 for Hate ! It well might bring a cloud into the moral at 
 mosphere of Beauchampe s soul, when he thought of these 
 conditions. 
 
 And yet Anna Cookc had really learned to love Beau- 
 champe. There is nothing contradictory or strange in 
 this. We have painted badly, unless the reader is pre 
 pared for such a seeming caprice in her character as this. 
 She is, whatever may be her boast, scarcely wiser than 
 when she was eighteen. All enthusiasm and earnestness, 
 she was all confidence then. She is so still. Her impres 
 sions are sudden and decided. She sees that Beauchampe 
 is generous and noble-minded. She has discerned the loy 
 alty of his character, and the liberality of his disposition. 
 She finds him intellectual. His frankness wins upon her 
 his unqualified devotion does the rest. She sees in him 
 the agent of that wild passion which had kept goading her 
 without profit before ; and Love, in reality, avails himself 
 of a very simple artifice to effect his purposes. It is Love 
 that insinuates to her, Here conies your avenger! and, 
 deceived by him, she obeys one passion, when, at the time, 
 she really fancies she is toiling in behalf of its antagonist. 
 
 See the further argument felt, not expressed of this 
 wily logician ! 
 
 He suggests to her that it is scarcely possible that Beau 
 champe will ever be called upon to fulfil his fearful pledges. 
 For, where is the betrayer ? For five years had the name 
 been unspoken in the ears of his victim ; for five years he 
 had eluded all traces of herself and friends. He was gone, 
 as if he had not been ; and the presumption was strong that 
 he was of some very distant region ; that he would be very 
 careful to avoid that neighborhood, hereafter, in which his 
 crime had been committed : and as, in equal probability, 
 the lot was cast which made this limited scene the whole 
 world of Beauchampe s future life, so it followed that they 
 would never meet ; that the trial, to which she had sworn 
 him, would never be exacted ; and, subdued by time, and 
 
THE BRIDAL. 159 
 
 the absence of the usual cxcitcrncuts, the pang would be 
 softened in her heart, the recollection would gradually fade 
 from her memory, and life would once more be a progress 
 of comparative peace, and probably of innocent enjoyment. 
 It is an adroit, and not an infrequent policy of Love, to 
 make his approaches under the cover of a flag which none 
 is so pleased to trample under foot as he. He knows the 
 usual practices of war, and has no conscientious scruples 
 in the employment of an ordinary ruse. The drift of his 
 policy was not seen by the mind of Anna Cooke ; but it 
 was though less obvious than some of her instincts not 
 the less an instinct. Nay, more certainly an instinct, for it 
 was of the emotions ; while those of which she had spoken 
 to Beauchampe were nothing more than the suggestions of 
 monomania. Her imagination, brooding ever on the same 
 topic, was always on the watch to convert all objects into 
 its agents ; and never more ready than when Love, coming 
 forward with his suggestions, lent that seeming aid to his 
 enemy which was really intended for his overthrow. It 
 was only when she had become the wife of Beauchampe 
 that she became aware of the true nature of those feelings 
 which had brought about her marriage. It was after the 
 tie was indissolubly knit after he had pressed his lips to 
 hers with a husband s kiss that she was made conscious 
 of the danger to herself from the performance of the condi 
 tions to which he was pledged. The fear of his danger 
 first taught her that it was love, and not the mere passion 
 for revenge, which had wrought within her from the mo 
 ment when she first met him. The moment she reflected 
 upon the risk of life to which he was sworn, that moment 
 awakened in her bosom the full appreciation of his worth. 
 Then, instead of urging upon him the subject of his oath, 
 she shuddered but to think upon it ; and, in her prayers 
 for ohe suddenly had learned to pray she implored that 
 the trial might be spared him, to which, previously, her 
 whole soul had entirely been surrendered. 
 
1GO BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 But she prayed in vain possibly because she had learned 
 to pray so lately. Ah ! how easy would be all lessons of 
 good how easy of attainment and of retention did we 
 only learn to pray sufficiently soon ! The habit of prayer 
 is so sure to induce humility ! and humility is, after all, and 
 before all, one of the most certain sources of that divine 
 strength, arising from love and justice, which sustains the 
 otherwise falling and fearful world of our grovelling hu 
 manity. 
 
 The wife of Beauchampe prayed beside him while he 
 slept. She prayed for mercy. She prayed against that 
 fatal oath. Far better such was her thought that the 
 criminal should escape for ever, than that her husband s 
 hands should carry the dagger of the avenger. She now, 
 for the first time, recognised the solemn force, the terrible 
 emphasis, in the Divine assurance &quot; Vengeance is mine !&quot; 
 saith the Lord. She was now willing that the Lord should 
 exercise his sovereign right. 
 
 But all this is premature. This change in her heart and 
 mind was only now in slow and unsuspected progress. It 
 required time, the actual formation of the new ties, the 
 actual exercise of the feminine duties in an humble and as 
 yet happy household. Up to the moment of her marriage, 
 there had been no change in her heart or its purposes, such 
 as moved her to any change in the conditions of the mar 
 riage. Far from it. When, on the contrary, the time aj&amp;gt;- 
 proached, she summoned Beauchampe to a private interview 
 the afternoon before the nuptials. They met, by appoint 
 ment, in the same wood where the engagement had been 
 made. Her sombre spirit was on her, wrapping her as in a 
 pall ; and, at his approach, she said abruptly and sternly: 
 
 &quot; Beauchampe, the time has come. But it is not too 
 late. You are at liberty, even now, to withdraw from 
 these bonds. If you will it, Beauchampe, you are free 
 from this moment, and shall never hear reproach of 
 
THE BRIDAL. 161 
 
 Ho rejected the boon proffered him, with indignant but 
 loving reproaches. 
 
 &quot; Have you summoned me for this, Anna ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! not for this only in part. It was due to you to 
 afford you a last opportunity of escaping the terrible condi 
 tions upon which only can my hand be given. This, you 
 know, was my oath. It requires yours. If you persist in 
 claiming my hand swear to avenge its dishonor!&quot; 
 
 And she lifted up her hands in solemn adjuration, and 
 he obeyed her ; and there, in that silent solitude, he uttered 
 audibly the oath to avenge her shame to sacrifice her 
 seducer, at bloody altars, the moment he should be found ! 
 
 And it was as if the demons of the air which had inspired, 
 trooped round to receive, the oath ; for the sky darkened 
 above them, even as the vow was uttered, and the awful 
 stillness of the wood was as if the spirits were all listening 
 breathlessly. 
 
 &quot; Enough, Beaucharnpe ! It is done. To-morrow I am 
 yours !&quot; 
 
 And, with these words, she left him no kiss, no em 
 brace, no look or word of tenderness. 
 
 But he looked for none expected none. It was not a 
 moment, nor were the moods of either suitable, for caresses. 
 He looked up at the cloud as she went from sight, and 
 enveloped in it, as he thought, for more than an hour he 
 walked that wood, his fancies sublimed with the terrible 
 oath which he had taken, and his whole soul shadowed as it 
 vvere with the stately pall of velvet in some great solemnity. 
 
 The marriage followed the next day. The bride was 
 calm and very pale, but firm and placid. Beauchampe s 
 eye was eager and bright, and hi3 checks flushed with hope 
 and triumph. lie felt sure that he was happy ; and the 
 cloud seemed to disappear from before his sight, and, for 
 the moment, his landscape was without a speck. 
 
 And, in the sight of his joy, the mother and the sisters 
 forgot their apprehension , and they took the bride to their 
 
162 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 hearts as warmly as if they had never felt upon their souls 
 the shadow of a doubt. But, even as the bridal vow was 
 taken, Fear took the place of Hate in the soul of the bride, 
 and she shuddered, she knew not why, at the kiss of her 
 husband, which, as it declared the warmth of his passion, 
 brought up in dark array before her eyes the images and 
 events of terror to which that kiss had pledged him for 
 ever! 
 
THE HONEYMOON 1W 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 &quot; What a delicious breath marriage sends forth, 
 The violets bed s not sweeter.&quot; MIDDLETOBT 
 
 &quot; Oh ! I distrust this happiness ; it seems 
 Too exquisite to last. I fancy clouds 
 Already gather on the sky of bliss.&quot; Old Play. 
 
 THEY were now man and wife. The bond, for weal or 
 wo, was indissolubly fastened. But, for the present, wo 
 must not speak of wo. It did not now seem to threaten 
 flie happy household, of which Beauchampe was now the 
 lord. In the novel joy of his situation, the enthusiastic young 
 man lost sight of days and weeks and months. With very 
 happiness he grew idle the mind conquered by the heart. 
 Law and politics were alike forgotten. He had no call to 
 them at present. He was in a dream in a dream-land 
 like that of Eden, in which toil was a stranger, and care, 
 that ever-intriguing toad was kept off by the Ithuriel spear 
 of pleasure. lie could have mused away life in this man 
 ner never once conscious of the flight of time there, 
 amid groves of unbroken shade, with the one companion. 
 And she did she share the happiness which she imparted ? 
 Did the cruel fate relax in his persecutions ? In the em 
 braces of that fond young heart, did she forget the sting 
 and agony of the past did she lose herself a moment in 
 the new dream of a fresh and better existence ? 
 
164 BEAUCHAMPS. 
 
 It is but reasonable to suppose that she did. She sang 
 now, and her voice was a very rich and powerful one 
 combining the soul and strength of man with the sweetness 
 and freedom of the bird. While her voice, in musing 
 thought, subdued by humility to devotion, was full of a 
 charming philosophy social yet imaginative always 
 which would not have been unworthy of the lips of a divine 
 priestess officiating among the oaks of Dodona, her soul, 
 aroused by the sympathies of an ear which she wished to 
 please, never poured forth strains of such sweet eloquence 
 and song. She could improvise both verse and music. She 
 resumed her pen and wrote as well as sang ; and her verses 
 grew less and less sombrous daily. 
 
 Beauchampe was all happiness, lie had found a muse 
 and a woman in one ! Surely, they were, neither of them, 
 unhappy then ! 
 
 But the fates were not satisfied, even if their victims 
 wore forgetful. It was decreed that our hero should be 
 awakened from his dream of happiness. One day a letter 
 was put into Beauchampe s hands. He read it with a 
 cloudy brow. ( 
 
 &quot; No bad news, Beauchampe?&quot; was the remark of his 
 wife, expressed with some solicitude. 
 
 &quot; Yes,&quot; he answered tenderly. &quot; Yes, for I am forced 
 to leave you for awhile. Read.&quot; 
 
 He handed her the letter as he spoke. She read as fol 
 lows : 
 
 &quot;DEAR BEAUCHAMPE: The campaign has opened with 
 considerable vigor, and we feel the want of you. The 
 sooner you come to the rescue the better. We must put 
 all our lieutenants into the field. This fellow, Calve rt, is 
 said to be doing execution among our pigeons. He is quite 
 successful on the stump. At G - he carried everything 
 before him, and fairly swept Jenkins and Clemens out of 
 sight. He is to address the people at Bowling-Green OD 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 165 
 
 the 7 th, and you must certainly meet us there ; or, shall 
 I take you on my way down ? Barnabas comes with me. 
 He insists that we shall need every help, and is decidedly 
 aguish. He has somehow contrived to make me a little 
 apprehensive that we have been too confident, and ac 
 cordingly a little remiss. He reports this man, Calvert, 
 as a sort of giant, and openly asserts him to be one of 
 the most able, popular orators we have ever had. He 
 has a fine voice, excellent manners, is very fluent, and has 
 his arguments at his finger-ends. I can not think that 
 I have any reason to fear him whenever I can meet with 
 him in person. But this, just now, is the difficulty. The 
 difference between a young lawyer in little practice, and 
 one with his hands full, is something important. Should I 
 not join you on the 6th, you had bettor go on to the Green. 
 He will be there by that time. 1 will meet you there cer 
 tainly by the 8th ; though I shall make an effort to take the 
 stump on the 7th, if I can. Should I fail, however, as is 
 possible, you must be there to take it for me, and maintain 
 it till 1 come. Barnabas and myself will then relieve you, 
 and finish the game. 
 
 &quot; Why do we not hear from you ? Whisker-Ben said at 
 Club last night that he had heard some rumor that you 
 were married or about to be married. We take it for 
 granted, however, that the invention is his own. Barnabas 
 llatly denied it, and even the pope (his nose, by the way, is 
 thoroughly recovered) expressed his opinion that you were 
 no such ass. Of course, he suffered neither his own, nor 
 my wife, to hear this complimentary opinion. One thing, 
 however, was agreed upon .among us, viz. : that you were 
 just the man, not only to do a foolish thing, but an impol 
 itic one ; and a vote was carried, nem. con., in which it was 
 resolved to inform you that, in the opinion of this club, 
 marriage is a valuable consideration. A word to the wise, 
 etc. You know the proverb. Barnabas spoke to this sub 
 ject. Whisker-lien, too, was quite eloquent. What/ 
 
166 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 said he, are the moral possessions of a woman ? I answer, 
 bank-notes, bonds, sound stocks, and other chosesin action. 
 Her physical possessions, I count to be lands and negroes, 
 beauty, a good voice, &c. Uis distinction was recognised 
 as the true one by everybody but ZAUERKRAOUT, who now 
 wears the red hat in place of Finnikin. He thinks that 
 negroes should be counted among the moral possessions, 
 or, at least, as of a mixed character, moral and physical. 
 I will not trouble you with more of the debate than the 
 summary. An inquiry was made into your qualities, and 
 the chances before you, and you were then rated, and found 
 to be worth seventy-five thousand dollars, the interest of 
 which, at five per cent., being five thousand dollars, it was 
 resolved that you be counselled not to marry any woman 
 whose income is less. A certificate of so much stock in the 
 club will be despatched you to assist in any future opera 
 tions ; as a friend to yourself, not less than to the club, let 
 me exhort you to give heed to its counsels. Marriage is 
 a valuable consideration.&quot; Marry no woman whose in 
 come is not quite as good as your own. As a lawyer, in 
 tolerable practice, you may fairly estimate your capital at 
 thirty or forty thousand dollars. If you have a pretty 
 woman near you, before you look at her again, see what 
 she s worth ; and lose sight of her as soon as you can, un 
 less she brings in a capital to the concern, equal to your 
 own. Be as little of a boy in these matters as possible. In 
 no other, I think, are you likely to be a boy ! Adieu ! If 
 you do not see me on the 6th, start for the Green by the 
 7th. I shall surely be there by the 8th. Barnabas sends 
 his blessing, nor does the pope withhold his. He evidently 
 thinks less unfavorably of you, since his nose has been pro 
 nounced out of danger. &quot; Lovingly yours, 
 &quot; J. 0. BEAUCHAMPE, Esq.&quot; &quot; W. P. SHARPE. 
 
 The wife read the letter slowly. Its contents struck her 
 strangely. It had something in its tone like that of one 
 
TUE HONEYMOON. 167 
 
 whom she had been accustomed to hear. The contents of 
 it were nothing. The meaning was obvious enough. Of 
 the parties she knew nothing. But there was the sentiment 
 of the writer, which, like the key-note in music, pervaded 
 he performance not necessarily a part of its material, yel 
 giving a character of its own to the whole. That key-note 
 was not an elevated one. She looked up. Her husband 
 had been observing her countenance. A slight suffusion 
 flushed her cheek as her eyes met his. 
 
 &quot; Who is Mr. W. P. Sharpe,&quot; said she, &quot; who counsels 
 so boldly, and I may add so selfishly ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; He is the gentleman with whom I studied law one 
 of our best lawyers, a great politician and very distinguished 
 man. He is now up for the assembly, and, as you see, 
 thinks that I can promote his election by my eloquence. 
 What think you, Anna ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I think you have eloquence, Beauchampe I should 
 think you would become a very popular speaker. You have 
 boldness, which is one great essential. You have a lively 
 imagination and free command of language, and your gen 
 eral enthusiasm would at least make you a very earnest 
 advocate. There should be something in the cause the 
 occasion no doubt, and &quot; 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 t; Go on,&quot; said he &quot;what would you say?&quot; 
 
 &quot; That I should doubt very much whether the occasion 
 here&quot; lifting up the letter &quot; would be sufficient to stimu 
 late you to do justice to yourself.&quot; 
 
 The youth looked grave. She noticed the expression, 
 and with more solicitude than usual, continued: 
 
 &quot; I think I know you, Beauchampe. It is no disparage 
 ment to you to say I something wonder how such people as 
 are here self-described should have been associates of yours.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Strictly speaking they were not,&quot; he replied, with 
 something of a blush upon his face. &quot; I know but very lit 
 tle of them. But you are to understand that there is exag- 
 
168 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 geration which is perhaps the only idea of fun that our 
 people seem to have in the design and objects of this 
 club. It is a lawyers society, and Colonel Sharpc insisted, 
 the day that I graduated, that I must become a member. 
 I attached no importance to the matter cither one way or 
 the other, and readily consented. I confess to you, Anna, 
 that what I beheld, the only night when I did attend their 
 orgies, made me resolve, even before seeing you, to forswear 
 the fraternity. We do not sympathize, as you may imagine. 
 But no more, I fancy, does the writer of this letter sympa 
 thize with them. Colonel Sharpe is willing to relax a little 
 from serious labors, and he takes this mode as being just aa 
 good as any other. These people are scarcely more than 
 creatures for his amusement.&quot; 
 
 The wife looked grave but said no more, and Bcau- 
 champc sat down to write an answer. This answer as may 
 be supposed, confirmed the story of Whisker-Ben, legiti 
 mated all the apprehensions of the club, and assured the 
 writer of the letter that his counsels of &quot; moral prudence&quot; 
 had come too late. He had not only wedded, but wedded 
 without any reference to the possessions, such as had been 
 described as moral, at least by the philosophers of the fra 
 ternity. 
 
 &quot; My wife,&quot; said the letter of the writer &quot; has beauty 
 and youth, and intellect beauty beyond comparison and 
 a grace and spirit about her genius that seem to me equally 
 so. Beyond these, and her noble heart, I am not sure that 
 she lias any possessions. I believe she is poor ; but really, 
 until you suggested the topic, I never once thought of it. 
 To me, I assure you, however heretical the confession may 
 seem, I care not a straw for fortune. Indeed, I shall bo 
 the better pleased to discover that my wife brings me noth 
 ing but herself.&quot; 
 
 The letter closed with the assurance of the writer that 
 he should punctually attend at the gathering, and do his 
 best to maintain the cause and combat of his friend. 
 
THE HONEYMOON. 169 
 
 &quot; Is this Colonel Sharpe so very much your friend, Beau- 
 champe ?&quot; demanded his wife when he had read to her a 
 portion of his letter. 
 
 &quot; He has been friendly has treated me with attention 
 as his pupil has not spared his compliments, and is what 
 is called a fine gentleman. I can not say that he is a char 
 acter whom I unreservedly admire. lie is a man of loose 
 principles lacks faith is pleased in showing his skepti 
 cism on subjects which would better justify veneration : 
 and, of the higher sort of friendships which implies a loy 
 alty almost akin to devotion, lie is utterly incapable. Seek 
 ing this loyalty in my friend, I should not seek him. But 
 for ordinary uses for social purposes as a good com 
 panion, an intelligent authority, Colonel Sharpe would al 
 ways be desirable. You will like him, I think. He is well 
 read, very fluent, and though he docs not believe in the 
 ideals of the heart and fancy, he reads poetry as if he wrote 
 it. You, who do write it, Anna, will think better of him 
 when you hear him read it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do you know his wife, Beauchampe ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;No strange to say, I do not. I have seen her; she 
 is pretty, but it is said they do not live happily together.&quot; 
 
 &quot; How many stories there are of people who do not 
 live happily together ; and if true, what a strange thing it 
 is, that such should be the case. Yet, no doubt, they 
 fancied, at the first, that they loved one another ; unless, 
 Beauchampe, they were counselled by some such club as 
 yours. If so, there could be no difficulty in understanding 
 it all.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But with those, Anna, who reject the advice of the 
 club ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Can it ever be so with them, Beauchampe ? I think 
 not. It seems to me as if I should never be satisfied to 
 change what is for what might be. Are you not content, 
 Beauchampe ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Am I not ? Beliere me it makes my heart tremble to 
 
 8 
 
170 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 think of the brief separation which this election business 
 calls for. Sharpe little knows what a sacrifice I make to 
 serve him.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And if I read this letter of his aright, he would laugh 
 you to scorn for the confession.&quot; 
 
 &quot;No! that he should not.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You would not see it, Beauchampe. You are perhaps 
 too necessary to this man. But who is Mr. Culvert is 
 he an elderly man? I once knew a very worthy old gen 
 tlemari of that name. He too had been a lawyer and was 
 a man of talents.&quot; 
 
 u This is a very young man, I believe ; not much older 
 dian myself. He does not practise in our counties and I 
 have never seen him. Judge Tompkins brings him for 
 ward. You see what Sharpe says is said of him. It will 
 do me no discredit to grapple with him, even should he 
 fling me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Somehow, I think well of him already,&quot; said the wife. 
 &quot; I would you were with him, Beauchampe, rather than 
 against him. Somehow, I do not incline to this Colonel 
 Sharpe. I wish you were not his ally.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What a prejudice ! But you will think better of the 
 colonel when you see him. I shall probably bring him 
 home with me !&quot; 
 
 The wife said nothing more, but there was a secret feel 
 ing at her heart that rendered this assurance an irksome 
 one. Somehow, she wished that Bcauchampe might not 
 bring this person to his house. Her impression which 
 was certainly derived from his letter was an unfavorable 
 one. She fancied, after awhile, that her objection was only 
 the natural reluctance to see strangers, of one who had so 
 long secluded herself from the sight of all ; and thus she 
 rested, until Beauchampo was about to take his departure 
 to attend the gathering at Bowling-Green, and then the 
 same feeling found utterance again. 
 
 u Do not bring home any friends, Beauchampe. I am 
 
THE HONEYMOON. I M 
 
 not fit, not willing to see them. Remember how long&quot;! 
 have been shut in from the world. Force me not into it. 
 Now we have security, husband I dread change of any 
 kind as if it were death. Strange faces will only give me 
 pain. Do not bring any !&quot; 
 
 &quot; What ! not Colonel Sharpe ! I care to bring no other. 
 I could scarcely get off from bringing him. At least I must 
 ask him, Anna; and, I confess to you, I shall not be dis 
 pleased if he does decline. The probability is that he will 
 for his hands are full.&quot; 
 
 She turned in from the gate, saying nothing further on 
 this subject, but feeling an internal hope, which she could 
 not repress, that this would be the case. Nay, somehow, 
 she felt as if she would prefer that Beauchampe would bring 
 any other friend than this. 
 
 How prescient is the soul that loves and fears ! Talk of 
 your mesmerism as you will, there are some divine instincts 
 in our nature which are as apprehensive of the coming 
 event, as if they were already a part of it. It is as if they 
 see the lightning-dash which informs the event, long before 
 the thunder-peal which, like the voice of fame, comes slowl? 
 to declare that all is over. 
 
172 BEAUCHAMP*. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 STUMP PATRIOTS. 
 
 WERE we at the beginning of our journey, instead of 
 being so far advanced on our way, it would be a pleasant 
 mode of wasting an hour, to descant on the shows and 
 practices of a popular gathering in our forest country. The 
 picture is a strange, if not a startling one. Its more prorr- 
 iuent aspects must, however, be imagined by the reader 
 We have now no time for mere description. The more de 
 cidedly narrative parts of our story arc finished. As we 
 tend to the denouement, the action necessarily becomes 
 more rapid and more dramatic. The supernumeraries cease 
 to ihrust in their lanthern-long images upon us. This is no 
 place for meditative philosophers ; and none are suffered to 
 appear except those who do and suffer, with the few subor 
 dinates which the exigency of the case demands, for dispo 
 sing the draperies decently, and letting down the curtain. 
 
 Were it otherwise were not this disposition of the parts 
 and parties inevitable it would afford us pleasure to give 
 a camera-obscura representation of the figures, coming and 
 going, who mingle and dance around the great political 
 caldron during the canvass of a closely-contested election : 
 
 &quot; Black spirits and white, 
 Red spirits and gray ; 
 Mingle, mingle, mingle, 
 You that mingle may. 
 
 And various indeed was the assortment of spirits that 
 assembled to hear liquid argument and drink it too OD 
 
STUMP PATRIOTS. 173 
 
 the present occasion. Fancy the crowd, the commotion, 
 the sharp jest and the wild laughter, most accommodating 
 of all possible readers, and spare us the necessity of dila 
 ting upon it. We will serve you some such scene, with 
 all its lights and shadows, on some other more fitting oc 
 casion. 
 
 Something, however, is to be shown. You arc to sup 
 pose a crowd of several hundred persons, shrewd, sensible 
 people enough, after their fashion rough-handed men of 
 the woods, good at the plough and wagon masters of the 
 axe, treo-quellers and bog-killers a stout race, rugged it 
 may be, but not always rude hospitable, free-handed 
 ignorant of delicacies, but born with a strong conviction 
 that much is to be known, much acquired that they arc 
 the born inheritors of much rights, privileges, liberties 
 sacred possessions which require looking after, and are not 
 to bo intrusted to every hand. Often deceived, they are 
 necessarily jealous on this subject; and, growing a little 
 wiser with every political loss, they come to their patrimony 
 with an hourly-increasing knowledge of its value and its 
 peculiar characteristics. Not much learning have they, 
 but, in lieu of it, they can tell &quot; hawk from handsaw&quot; in 
 all stages of the wind ; which is a wisdom that your learned 
 man is not often master of. You may cheat them once, 
 nay, twice, or thrice, for they are frank and confiding ; but 
 the same man can not often cheat them ; and one thing is 
 certain that they can extract the uses from a politician, 
 and then fling him away, as sagaciously as the urchin who 
 deals in like manner with the orange-sack which lie has 
 sucked. 
 
 Talk of politicians ruling the American people ! Lord 
 love you ! whore do you find these great rulers after five 
 years ? Sucked, squeezed, thrown by, an atom in the dung- 
 heap ! Precious few of these men of popular dimensions 
 survive their own clamor. Even while they shout upon 
 their petty eminences, the world has hurried on and left 
 
174 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 them ; and there they stand, open-mouthed and wondering! 
 Waking at length, they ask, like the shipwrecked traveller 
 on the shore : &quot; Where am I ? where is my people ?&quot;* My 
 people! ha! ha! ha! There is something worse than 
 mockery in that shout. It is my people that speaks, but 
 the voice is changed. It is now thy people. The sceptre 
 has departed. Ephraim is no longer an idol among them. 
 They have other gods; and the late exalted politician, 
 freezing on his narrow eminence, grows dumb for ever 
 stiff, stone-eyed like the sphinx, brooding in her sinking 
 sands, saying, as it were, &quot; Ask me nothing of what I was, 
 for now see you not that I am nothing ?&quot; 
 
 Precious little of such a fate dreams he, the high-cheeked, 
 sunburnt orator, that now rallies the stout peasantry at 
 Bowling-Green. lie thinks not so much of perpetual fame 
 as of perpetual office. He has a faith in office which shall 
 last him much longer than that which he professes to have 
 in the people. He hath not so much faith in them as in 
 their gifts. But he fancies not not he that the shouts 
 which now respond to his utterance shall ever refuse re 
 sponse to his summons. He assumes a saving exception 
 in his own case, which shall make him sure in the very 
 places where his predecessors failed. He hath an unctuous 
 way with him which makes his faith confident ; and his 
 voice thunders, and his eye lightens ; and lie rains precious 
 drops among them, which might be eloquence, if it were 
 not balderdash ! 
 
 &quot; Who is this man ?&quot; quoth our young hero Bcauchampe, 
 as he listened to the muddy torrent, which, like some turbid 
 river, having overflowed its banks, comes down, rending and 
 raging, a thick flood of slime and foam, bringing along with 
 it the refuse of nauseous places, and low flats, and swampy 
 bottoms, and offal-stalls ! 
 
 The youth was bewildered. The eloquent man was so 
 
 * Years after this was published, even Webster was heard to ask, in this 
 Tery condition of bewilderment, &quot; Where am 7 to go ?&quot; 
 
STUMP PATRIOTS. 175 
 
 sure of his ground and auditors seemed so confident in 
 his strength so little like a doubting giant that it was 
 long before Beauchampe could discover that he was a mere 
 wind-bag, a bloated vessel of impure air, that, becoming 
 fixed air through a natural process, at length explodes and 
 breaks forth with a violence duly proportioned to its noi- 
 someness. 
 
 &quot; This can not be the man Calvert !&quot; soliloquized our hero. 
 It was not. But, when the wind-bag was exhausted 
 which, by a merciful Providence, was at length the case 
 then arose another speaker ; and then did Beauchampe note 
 the vast difference, even before the latter spoke, which was 
 at once evident between the two. 
 
 &quot; This must be he !&quot; he murmured to himself. 
 
 He was not mistaken. The crowd was hushed. The 
 stillness, after those clamors which preceded it, was awful ; 
 but was it not encouraging ? No such stillness had accom 
 panied the torrent-rushing of those beldame ideas and bull 
 dog words which had come from the previous speaker 
 Here was attention curiosity the natural curiosity of at 
 audience about to listen to a new speaker, and already 
 favorably impressed by his manner and appearance. 
 
 Both were pleasing and impressive. In person he was 
 tall and well made his features denoted one still in the 
 green and gristle of his youth not more than twenty-five 
 summers had darkened into brown the light flaxen hair 
 upon his forehead. His eyes were bright and clear, but 
 there was a grave sweetness, or rather a sweet, mild gravity 
 in his face, which seemed the effect of some severe disap 
 pointment or sorrow. 
 
 This, without impairing youth, had imparted dignity. 
 His manner was unostentatious and natural, but very grace 
 ful. He bowed when he first rose before the assembly, 
 then, for a few moments, remained silent, while his eye 
 seemed to explore the whole of that moral circuit which 
 his thoughts were to penetrate. 
 
176 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 lie began, and Beauchampe was now all attention. His 
 voice was at first very low, but very clear and distinct. 
 JJis exordium consisted of some general principles which 
 the subjects he proposed to discuss were intended to illus 
 trate, to confirm, and at the same time to receive their own 
 illustration, by the application of the same maxims. 
 
 In all this there was an ease of utterance, a familiarity 
 with all the forms of analysis, a readiness in moral con 
 jecture, a freedom of comparison, a promptness of sugges 
 tion, which betrayed a mind not only excellent by nature, 
 but admirably drilled by the severest exercise of will 
 and art. 
 
 We do not care to note his arguments, or the particular 
 subjects which they were intended to elucidate. These 
 were purely local in their character, and were nowise re 
 markable, excepting as, in their employment, the speaker 
 showed himself everywhere capable of rising to the height 
 of those principles by which the subject was governed. This 
 habit of mind enabled him to simplify his topic to the un 
 derstanding of his audience ; to disentangle the mysteries 
 which the dull brains and rabid tongue of the previous 
 speaker had involved in a seemingly inextricable mass ; and 
 to unveil, feature by feature, the perfect image of that lead 
 ing idea which he had set out to establish. 
 
 In showing that Mr. Calvcrt argued his case, it is not to 
 be understood, however, that he was merely argumentative. 
 The main points of difficulty discussed, he rose, as he pro 
 ceeded, into occasional flights of eloquence, which told with 
 the more effect, as they were made purely subordinate to 
 the business of his speech. Beauchampe discovered, with 
 wonder and admiration, the happy art which had so ar 
 ranged it ; and from wonder and admiration he sank to 
 apprehension, when, considering the equal skill of the de 
 bater and the beauty of his declamation, he all at once rec 
 ollected, toward the close, that it was allotted to him tc 
 take up the cudgels and maintain the conflict for his friend. 
 
STUMP PATRIOTS. 177 
 
 But this was not a moment to feel fear. Bcauchumpe 
 was a man of courage. His talent was active, his mood 
 fiery, his imagination very prompt and energetic. He, too, 
 was meant to be an orator ; but he had gone through no 
 such school of preparation as that of the man whom he was 
 to answer. But this did not discourage him. If he lacked 
 the exquisite finish of manner, and the logical relation of 
 part with part, which distinguished the address of his oppo 
 nent, he had an irresistible impulse of expression. Easily 
 excited himself, lie found little difficulty in exciting those 
 whom he addressed. If Calvert was the noble steed of the 
 middle ages, caparisoned in chain-armor, and practised to 
 wheel, and bound, and rear, and recoil, as the necessities 
 of the fight required then was Beauchampe the light Ara 
 bian courser, who, if he may not combat on equal terms 
 with Ins opponent, at least, by his agility and unremitting 
 attack, keeps him busy at all points in the work of defence. 
 If he gives himself no repose, lie leaves his enemy none. 
 Now here, now there, with the rapidity of lightning, lie 
 fatigues Ins heavily-armed foe by the frequency of his evo 
 lutions he himself being less encumbered by weight and 
 armor, and being at the same time more easily refreshed 
 for a renewal of the fight. 
 
 Such was the nature of their combat which lasted, at in 
 tervals, throughout the day. Beauchampe had made Ids 
 debut with considerable eclat. II is heart was bounding 
 with the excitement of the conflict. The friends of Colonel 
 Sharpe were in ccstacies. They had been dashed by the 
 superior eloquence of the new assailant. They feared and 
 felt the impression which Calvert had made ; and, expect 
 ing nothing from so young a beginner as Beauchampe, they 
 naturally exaggerated the character of his speech, when 
 they found it so far to exceed their expectations. The 
 compliments which he received were not confined to the 
 friends of Colonel Sharpe. The opposition confessed his 
 excellence, and Calvert himself was the first, when it wa 
 
178 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 over, to come forward, make the acquaintance, and offer his 
 congratulations. 
 
 Colonel Sharpe arrived that night. As soon as this fact 
 was ascertained, Beauchampe prepared to return home. 
 Sharpe had brought with him two friends, both lawyers, 
 men of some parts, who rendered any further assistance 
 from our young husband unnecessary. The resolution of 
 the new bridegroom so soon to leave the field, provoked 
 the merriment of the veterans. 
 
 &quot; And so you are really married V And what sort of a 
 wife have you got, Beauchampe ?&quot; demanded Sharpe. 
 
 &quot; You can readily guess,&quot; said Barnabas, &quot; when you find 
 him so eager to get home without waiting to see the end 
 of the business here.&quot; 
 
 44 Is she young and handsome, Beauchampe ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; And what arc her moral possessions, as defined by 
 Whisker-Ben ? was the demand of Barnabas. 
 
 The tone of these remarks, and inquiries was excessively 
 annoying to Beauchampe. There was something like gross 
 irreverence in it. It seemed as if his sensibilities suffered 
 a stab with every syllable which he was called upon to 
 answer. Besides, it was only when examined in reference 
 to the age, appearance and name of his wife, that he be 
 came vividly impressed with the painful consciousness of 
 what must be concealed in her history. The burning blush 
 on his cheeks, when he replied to his companions, only 
 served to subject his unnecessary modesty to the usual sar 
 casms which are common in such cases. 
 
 44 And you will go ?&quot; said Sharpe. 
 
 44 1 promised my wife to return as soon as you came, and 
 she will expect me.&quot; 
 
 44 1 must see that wife of yours who has so much power 
 over you. Is she so very handsome, Beauchampe ?&quot; 
 
 44 /think so.&quot; 
 
 44 And what did you say was her name before marriage ?&quot; 
 was the further inquiry. 
 
STUMP PATRIOTS. 179 
 
 He was answered, though with some hesitation. 
 
 &quot; Cooke, Cooke ! You say in your letter that she s won 
 derfully smart ! But, Barnabas, we must judge for our 
 selves, both the beauty and the wit. Hey, boy ! are wo 
 not a committee on that subject ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; To be sure we arq for that matter, Beauchampe could 
 only marry with our consent. He will have to be very 
 civil in showing us the lady, to persuade us to sanction this 
 premature affair.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do you hear, Beauchampe ?&quot; 
 
 u I do not fear. When you have seen her, the consent 
 will not be withheld, I m sure.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You believe in your princess, then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Fervently!&quot; 
 
 &quot; You are very young, Beauchampe very young! But 
 we were all young, Barnabas, and have paid the penalties 
 of youth. An age of unbelief for a youth of faith. Thirty 
 years of skepticism&quot; for some three months intoxication. 
 But how soon that gristle of credulity hardens into callous 
 ness ! How long do you give Beauchampe before he gains 
 his freedom ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; That,&quot; said Barnabas, &quot; will depend very much on 
 how much lie sees of wife, children, and friends. If he 
 were now to set off alone and take a voyage to Canton, the 
 probability is he would be quite as much a victim until he 
 got back. Three weeks at home would probably give him 
 a more decided taste for the Canton voyage, and he would 
 take a second, and stay abroad longer. Beyond that there 
 is no need to look ; the story always ends in the same way. 
 I never knew a talc which had so little variety.&quot; 
 
 There was more of this dialogue which we do not care to 
 record. The moral atmosphere was not grateful to the 
 tastes of the young man. Sharpc saw that, and changed 
 the subject. 
 
 &quot; You have made good fight to-day so they tell me. I 
 knew you would. But you .should keep it up. Take my 
 
1 ; BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 word, another day here would be the making of you. One 
 speech proves nothing if it produces no more.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I shall only be in the way,&quot; said Beauchampe. &quot; You 
 have Barnabas and Mercer.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Good men and true, but the more the merrier. How 
 know I whom the opposition will bring into the field ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; They will scarcely get one superior to Calvert.&quot; 
 
 &quot; So, you like him then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I do very niTich. He will give you a hard light. 1 
 
 &quot;Will he. then? 1 said Colonel Sharpe, with some ap 
 pearance of pique ; &quot;well! we shall see Heaven send 
 the hour as soon as may be.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Be wary,&quot; said Beauchampe, &quot; for I assure you he is a 
 perfect master of his weapon. I have seldom even fancied 
 a more adroit or able speaker.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do 1 not tell you you are young, Beauchampe ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Young or old, take my counsel as a matter of prudence, 
 arid be wary. He will certainly prove to you the necessity 
 of looking through your armory.&quot; 
 
 &quot; By my faith but I should like to see this champion who 
 has so intoxicated you. You have made me curious, and 
 I must see him to-night. Where does he lodge ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; At the Red Heifer.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Shall we go to him, or send for him ? What say you, 
 Barnabas ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh, go to him, be sure. It will have a good effect. It 
 will show as if you were not proud.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And did not fear him ! Come, Beauchampe, if you will 
 not stay and do battle for us any longer, pen a billet of in 
 troduction to this famous orator. Say to him, that your 
 friends, Messieurs Sharpe and Barnabas, of whom you may 
 lay the prettiest things with safety, will come over this 
 evening to test the hospitality of the Red Heifer. Be sure 
 to state that it is your new wife that hurries you off, or the 
 conceited fellow may fancy that he has made you sick with 
 his drubbing. Ho! Sutton landlord! what ho ! there!&quot; 
 
STUMP PATRIOTS. 181 
 
 The person summoned made his appearance. 
 
 &quot; Ha ! Sutton ! How are you, my old boy ? havVt seen 
 you since the last flood and what s to be done down here ? 
 What are you going to do ? Is it court or country party 
 here Tompkins or Desha ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well, kurnel, there s no telling to a certainty, till the 
 votes is in the box and counted ; but I reckon all goes 
 right, jist now, as you d like to find it.&quot; 
 
 u Very good and you think Beauchampe did well to 
 day?&quot; 
 
 u Mighty onexpected well. He ll be a screamer yet, 1 
 tell you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; There s a promise of fame for you, Beauchampe, which 
 ouulit to make you stay a day longer. Think now of be 
 coming a screamer ! You said a screamer, Sutton, old fel 
 low, didn t you?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Screamer s the word, kurnel ; and twon t be much 
 wanting to make him one. lie did talk the boldest now, 
 I tell you, corisiderin what he had to work ag in.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What! is this Mr. Calvert a screamer too ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Raal grit, kurnel no mistake. Talks like a book.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And so, I suppose, * said Sliarpc, in the manner of a 
 man who knows his strength and expects it to be acknowl 
 edged, &quot; and so I suppose you look for me to come out in 
 all my strength ? You will require me to talk like two 
 books ?&quot; 
 
 u Jist so, kurnel, the people s a-looking for it ; and 
 an even bet with some, that you can t do better than 
 strange chap, Calvert.&quot; 
 
 But there are enough to take up such a bet ? Are th 
 not, old fellow ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well, I reckon there are ; but you know how a nag has 
 to work when the odds arc even.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ay, ay! We must see this fellow, that s clear* We 
 must measure his height, breadth, and strength, beforehand. 
 
182 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 No harm to look at any one s enemy the night before fight 
 ing him, Sutton, is there ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; None in natur , kurnel. It s a sort o right one has to 
 feel the heft of the chap that wants to fling him.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Even so, old boy so get us pen, ink, and paper, 
 here, while Beauchampe writes him a sort of friendly chal 
 lenge. I say, Sutton, the Red Heifer is against us, is 
 she ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I reckon it s the Red Heifer s husband, kurnel,&quot; said 
 the landlord, as he placed the writing materials. &quot; If twas 
 the Red Heifer herself, I m thinking the vote would be clear 
 t other way.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ha ! ha ! you wicked dog !&quot; exclaimed Sharpe, with a 
 chuckle of perfect self-complacence ; &quot; I see you do not 
 easily forget old times.&quot; 
 
 &quot;No, no, kurnel ! a good recollection of old times is a 
 sort of Christian duty : it sort o keeps a man in memory 
 of friends and inirnies.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But the Red Heifer was neither friend nor enemy of 
 yours, Sutton ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, kurnel, but the Heifer s husband had a notion that 
 tworn t any fault of mine that she worn t.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah, you sad dog! 1 said Sharpe, flatteringly. 
 
 &quot; A leetle like my customers, kurnel,&quot; responded the 
 landlord, with a knowing leer. 
 
 &quot; I would I could see her, though for a minute only. 
 
 &quot; That s pretty onpossible. He s strict enough upon her 
 now-a-days ; never lets her out of sight, and watches every 
 eye that looks to her part of the house. He d be mighty 
 suspicious of you, if you went there.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But he has no cause, Sutton !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well, you say so, kurnel, and I m not the man to say 
 otherwise ; but lie thinks very different, I can tell you. 
 He ain t the man to show his teetli ; but, mark me, his eye 
 won t leave you from the time you come, to the time you 
 quit,&quot; 
 
STUMP PATRIOTS. 183 
 
 &quot; We ll note him, Sutton. Ready, Beauchampe ?&quot; 
 
 The youth answered by handing the note to the landlord, 
 by whom it was instantly despatched according to its direc 
 tion. A few moments only had elapsed, when an answer 
 was received, acknowledging the compliment, and request 
 ing to see the friends of Mr. Bcauchampe at their earliest 
 leisure. 
 
 &quot; This is well,&quot; said Sharpe. &quot; 1 confess my impatience 
 to behold this formidable antagonist. Bestir yourself, Bar 
 nabas, with that toddy, over which you seem to have been 
 saying the devil s prayers for the last half-hour ! Be sure 
 and bring a hatful of your cigars along with you. The 
 Red Heifer, I suspect, will yield us nothing half so good. 
 Ho, Beauchampe! are you sleeping?&quot; 
 
 A slap on the shoulder aroused Bcauchampe from some 
 thing like a waking dream, and he started to his feet with 
 a bewildered look. lie had been thinking of his wife, and 
 of the cruel portions of her strange history to which, as 
 by an inevitable impulse, the equivocal dialogue between 
 Sharpe and the landlord seemed to carry him back. 
 
 &quot;Dreaming of your wife, no doubt! Ha! ha! Beau 
 champe, how long will you be a boy ?&quot; 
 
 Why did these words annoy Beauchampe ? Was there 
 anything sinister in their signification ? Why did those 
 tones of his friend s voice send a shudder through the 
 youth s veins ? Had he also his presentiments ? We shall 
 see. At all events, his dream, whatever may have been it3 
 character, was thoroughly broken. He turned to the land 
 lord, and ordered his horse to be got instantly. 
 
 &quot; You will go, then ?&quot; said Sharpe. 
 
 &quot; Yes ; you do not need me any longer.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You are resolved, then, not to be a screamer ! What 
 a perverse nature ! Here is Fame, singing like the ducks 
 of Mrs. Bond, Come and catch me and d 1 a bit he 
 stirs for all their invitation ! But he s young, Barnabas, 
 and has a young wife not five weeks old. W r e must be 
 
184 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 indulgent, Barnabas. We must not be too strict in our 
 examination.&quot; 
 
 &quot; We were young ourselves once,&quot; said Barnabas, kindly 
 looking to Beauchampe. 
 
 &quot; But do not be precipitate, old fellow. Though merci 
 fully inclined, it must be real beauty, and genuine wit, 
 that shall save our brother. Our certificate will depend 
 on that. Beauchampe, look to see us to dinner day after 
 to-morrow.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I shall expect you,&quot; said Beauchampe, faintly, as, bid 
 ding them farewell, he left the room. 
 
 &quot; Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor fellow !&quot; said Sharpe. &quot; His treas 
 ures make him sad. He is just now as anxious and appre 
 hensive as an old miser of seventy.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Egad, he little dreams, just now, how valuable the 
 club will be to him a few months hence,&quot; said Barna 
 bas. 
 
 &quot; Everything to him. Let us drink * The club, Barna 
 bas.&quot; And they filled, and bowed to each other, hob-a- 
 nob. 
 
 &quot; The club !&quot; 
 
 &quot; The pope !&quot; 
 
 &quot; And the pope s wife !&quot; 
 
 &quot; No go, that !&quot; said Sharpe. &quot; Antiques are masculine 
 only. She s dead to us ; she s too old.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What say you to this wife of Beauchampe, then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; We won t drink her until we see her ; though I rather 
 suspect she must be pretty, for he has an eye in his head. 
 
 But what a d d fool to leap so hurriedly, without once 
 
 looking after the consideration ! That was a woful error ! 
 
 only to be excused by her superexcellence. We shall 
 see in season ; though, curse me, if I do not fancy he d 
 rather see the devil than either of us ! He s jealous al 
 ready. Did you observe how faintly he said, ; Good-night 
 
 and how coldly he gave his invitation ? But we ll like 
 Uis wife the better for it, Barnabas. When the hus- 
 
STUMP PATRIOTS. 186 
 
 band s jealous, the wife s fair game. Thus saith the 
 proverb.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And a wholesome one! But- did we drink? I m 
 not sure that we have not forgotten it.&quot; 
 
 And the speaker explored the bottom of the pitcher, and 
 knew not exactly which had deceived him, his memory or 
 his palate. 
 
186 
 
 CHAPTER XV11. 
 
 THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 
 
 IN one of the apartments of the Red Heifer, wo per 
 sons were sitting about this time. One of these was the 
 orator whose successes that day had beec the theme of 
 every tongue. The other was a man well stricken in 
 years, of commanding form, and venerable and intellec 
 tual aspect. His hair was long and white, while his 
 cheeks were yet smooth and even rosy, as if they spoke 
 for a well-satisfied conscience and gentle heart in their 
 proprietor. 
 
 The eyes of the old man were settled upon the young 
 one. There was a paternal exultation in their glance, 
 which sufficiently declared the interest which he felt in 
 the fortunes and triumphs of his companion. The eyes 
 of the youth were fixed with something of inquiry upon 
 the note of Beauchampc, which he still turned with his 
 fingers. There was something of doubt and misgiving in 
 the expression of his face ; which his companion noted, to 
 ask : 
 
 &quot; Is there nothing in that note, William, besides what 
 you have read ? It seems to disturb you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nothing, sir ; nor can I say that it disturbs me exactly. 
 Perhaps every young beginner feels the same disquieting 
 sort of excitement when he is about to meet his antagonist 
 for the first time. You are aware, sir, that this gentleman, 
 Colonel Sharpc, is the Coryphaeus of the opposition. He 
 
THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 187 
 
 is the right-hand man of Desha, and has the reputation of 
 being one of the ablest lawyers and most popular orators 
 in the state.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You need not fear him, my son,&quot; said the elder ; &quot; I 
 am. now sure of your strength. You will not fail you 
 can not. You have your mind at the control of your will ; 
 and it needs only that you should go and be sure of oppo 
 sition. Had that power but been mine but it is useless 
 now ! I enjoy my own hoped-for triumphs in the certain 
 ties of yours.&quot; 
 
 &quot; So far, sir, as the will enables us to prove what we 
 are, and have in us, so far I think I may rely upon myself. 
 But the mere will to perform is not always perhaps not 
 often the power. This man Sharpe brings into the field 
 more than ordinary talents. Hitherto, with the exception 
 of this young man Beauchampe, all my opponents have 
 been very feeble men mere dealers in rhodomontade of 
 a very commonplace sort. Beauchampe, who is said to 
 have been a pupil of Colonel Sharpe, was merely put for 
 ward to-day to speak against time. This fact alone shows 
 the moderate estimate which they put upon his abilities : 
 and yet what a surprising effect his speech produced 
 what excitement, what enthusiasm ! Besides, it was evi 
 dently unpremeditated ; for it was, throughout, an answer 
 to mine.&quot; 
 
 u But it was no answer : it was mere declamation.&quot; 
 
 u So it was, sir ; but it was declamation that sounded 
 very much like argument, and had the effect of argument. 
 It is no small proof of a speaker s ability, when he can 
 enter without premeditation upon a subject a subject, too, 
 which is decidedly against him and so discuss it so 
 suppress the unfavorable and so emphasize the favorable 
 parts of his cause as to produce such an impression. 
 Now, if this be the pupil of Colonel Sharpe, and so little 
 esteemed as to be used simply to gain time, what have we 
 to expect, what to fear, from the presence of the master?&quot; 
 
188 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Fear nothing, &quot;William ! nay, whatever you may say 
 here, in cool deliberate moments, you can not fear when 
 you are there ! That I know. When you stand before the 
 people, and every voice is hushed in expectation, a differ 
 ent spirit takes possession of your bosom. Nothing then 
 can daunt you. I have seen the proofs too often of what I 
 say ; and I now tell you that it is in your power tc handle 
 this Colonel Sharpe with quite as much ease and success 
 as you have handled all the rest. Do not brood upon it 
 with such a mind, my son do not encourage these doubts. 
 To be an orator you must no more be liable to fear than a 
 soldier going into battle.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Somehow, sir, there are certain names which disturb 
 me I have met with men whose looks had the same effect. 
 They seem to exercise the power of &quot;a spell upon my mind 
 and frame.&quot; 
 
 &quot;But you burst from it?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, but with great effort.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It matters nothing. The difficulty is easily accounted 
 for, as well as the spell by which you were bound. That 
 spell is in your own ardency of imagination. Persons of 
 your temperament, for ever on the leap, are for ever liable 
 to recoil. Have you never advanced impetuously to grasp 
 the hand of one who has been named to you, and then al 
 most shrunk away from his grasp, as soon as you have be 
 held his face ? He was a phlegmatic, perhaps ; and your 
 warm nature recoiled with a feeling of natural antipathy 
 from the repelling coldness of his. The man who pours 
 forth his feelings under enthusiastic impulses is particularly 
 liable to this frigid influence. A deliberate matter-of-fact 
 question, at such a moment the simplification into baldness 
 of the subject of his own inquiry, by the lips of a cynic 
 will quench his ardor, and make him shrink within his shell, 
 as a spirit of good may be supposed to recoil from the ap 
 proach of a spirit of evil. Now, you have just enough of 
 this enthusiasm to be sensible ordinarily to this influence. 
 
THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 189 
 
 You. acknowledged it only on ordinary occasions, however 
 At first, I feared its general effect upon you. I dreaded 
 lest it should enfeeble you ; but I soon discovered that you 
 had a will, which, in the moment of necessity, could over 
 come it quite. As I said before, when you are once before 
 the crowd, and ihey wait in silence for your utterance, you 
 arc wholly a man! I have no fears for you, William I 
 believe in no spells none, at least, which need to trouble 
 you. I know that you have no reason to fear, and I know 
 that you will not fear when the time comes. Let me pre 
 dict for you a more complete triumph to-morrow than any 
 which has happened yet. * 
 
 &quot; You overrate me, sir. All I shall endeavor to do will 
 be to keep what ground- I may have already won. I must 
 not hope to make any new conquests in the teeth of so 
 able a foe.&quot; 
 
 &quot;That is enough. To maintain your conquests is the 
 next thing to making them ; and is usually a conquest by 
 itself. But you will do more you can not help it. You 
 have the argument with you, and that is half the battle. 
 Nay, it is all the battle to a mind so enthusiastic as yours 
 in the cause of truth. The truth confers a strange power 
 upon its advocate. Nay, I believe it is from the truth alone 
 that we gather the last best powers of eloquence. I believe 
 in the realness of no eloquence unless it comes from the 
 sincerity of the orator. To rrake me believe, the speaker 
 must himself believe.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Or seem to do so.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I think I should detect the seeming. Nay, after a little 
 while, the people themselves detect it, and the orator sinks 
 accordingly. This is the fate of many of our men who 
 begin popularly. With politics, for a profession, no man 
 can be honest or consistent long. He must soon trade on 
 borrowed capital. He soon deals in assignats and false 
 papers. He endorses the paper of other men, sooner than 
 not issue ; and in doing business at all hazards, ho soon 
 
190 BEATJCHAMPE. 
 
 incurs the last bankruptcy! Political bankruptcy is of 
 all sorts the worst. There is some chance of regaining 
 caste, where it is lost by dishonesty but never where it 
 follows from a blunder. The knave is certainly one thing, 
 but the blunderer may be both. The fool and knave united 
 are incorrigible. Sucli a combination is too monstrous for 
 popular patience. And how many do we see of this de 
 scription. I do not think there is in any profession under 
 the sun such numerous examples of this combination. Every 
 day shows us persons who toil for power and place with 
 principles sufficiently flexible to suit any condition of things; 
 and yet they fail, and expose themselves. This is the won 
 der that, unfettered as they make themselves at the be 
 ginning, they should still become bondsmen, and so, con 
 vict ! They seem to lack only one faculty of the knave 
 and that the most necessary art.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Their very rejection of law enslaves them. That is 
 the reason. They set out in a chain, which increases with 
 every movement which seems momently to multiply its 
 own links and hourly increase its weight. Falsehood is 
 such a chain. You can not convict a true man, for the 
 simple reason that his feet are unimpeded from the first. 
 A step in error is a step backward, which requires two for 
 ward before you can regain what is lost. How few have 
 the courage for this. It is so much easier to keep on so 
 difficult to turn! This chain the heavy weight which 
 error is for ever doomed to carry produces a stiffness of 
 the limbs a monstrous awkwardness an inflexibility, 
 which exposes its burdens whenever it is checked, com 
 pelled to leap aside, or attempt any sudden change of move 
 ment. This was the great difficulty of this young man, 
 Beauchampe, in the discussion to-day : he scarcely knew 
 it himself, because, to a young man of ingenuity, the diffi 
 culties of the argument on the wrong side, are themselves 
 provocations to error. By exercising ingenuity, they appeal 
 flatteringly to one s sense, of talent ; and, in proportion aa 
 
THE SAGE AND HTS PUPIL. 191 
 
 he may succeed in plausibly relieving himself from these 
 difficulties of the subject, in the same proportion will he 
 gradually identify himself with the side he now espouses. 
 His mind will gradually adopt the point of view to which 
 its own subtleties conduct it; and, in this way will it be 
 come fettered, possibly to the latest moment of his existence. 
 There is nothing more important to the popular orator than 
 to have Truth for his ally when lie first takes the field. 
 Success, under such auspices, will commend her to his love, 
 and the bias, once established, his faith is perpetual.&quot; 
 
 &quot; True, William, but you would make this alliance acci 
 dental. It must be the result of choice to be worth any 
 thing. We must love Truth, and seek her, or she does not 
 become our ally.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I wish it were possible to convince our young beginners 
 everywhere, not only that Truth is the best ally, but the 
 only one that, in the long run, can possibly conduct us to 
 permanent success.&quot; 
 
 &quot; This is not so -much the point, I think, as to enable 
 them to detect the true from the false. Very few young 
 men are able to do this before thirty. Hence the error of 
 forcing them into public life before that period. You will 
 seldom meet with a very young person who will deliber 
 ately choose the false in preference to the true, from a sel 
 fish motive. They are beguiled into error by those who 
 are older. Ife is precisely in politics as in morals. The 
 unsuspecting youth, through the management of some cold, 
 cunning debauchee, into whose hands he falls, finds himself 
 in the embrace of a harlot, at the very moment when he 
 most dreams of beatific love. The inner nature, not yet 
 practised to defend itself, becomes the prey of the outer ; 
 and strong indeed must be native energies which can finally 
 recover the lost ground, and expel the invader from his 
 place of vantage.&quot; 
 
 &quot;The case is shown in that of this young man, Beau- 
 champe. It is evidently a matter of no moment to him on 
 
192 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 which side he enlists himself just now. There i? no truth 
 involved in it, to his eyes. It is a game of skill carried 
 on between two parties ; and his choice is determined sim 
 ply by that with which he has been familiar. He is used 
 by Sharpc, who is an older man, and possessed of more ex 
 perience, to promote an end. . He little dreams that, in 
 doing so, he is incurring a moral obligation to maintain the 
 Game conflict through his whole career.&quot; 
 
THE MEETING OF T t n* WATERS AN EXPLOSION . 1 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE MEETING OP THE WATERS AN EXPLOSION. 
 
 AT this stage of the conversation, the two companions 
 were interrupted by the sudden entrance of a sly-looking 
 little deformity of a man, the landlord of the Red Heifer, 
 who, in somewhat stately accents, announced the approach 
 of Colonel Sharpe and his friend Mr. Barnabas. The two 
 gentlemen rose promptly, expressed their pleasure at the 
 annunciation, and begged Uic landlord to introduce the 
 visiters. 
 
 In a few moments this was done, though it was found 
 that they were not the only guests. They were followed 
 closely by a group of ten or a dozen substantial yeomen of 
 the neighborhood -persons who never dreamed, in the un 
 sophisticated region of our story, that they were guilty of 
 any trespass upon social laws in thus pressing uninvited 
 into a gentleman s private apartments. Our simple repub 
 licans supposed that, because they had a motive, they had 
 also a sufficient plea in justification. Their object was, to 
 be present at the first meeting of the rival candidates, 
 when, they fancied, that there would be a keen encounter 
 of wits, and such a display of the respective powers of the 
 opponents as would enable them to form a judgment in re 
 spect to the parties, for one or other of whom they would 
 be required to cast their votes. 
 
 The intrusion was of a sort to offend nobody. The pub- 
 
 9 
 
194 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 lie men were used to such familiarities, particularly at pub 
 lic hotels ; and the people somewhat presumed upon the 
 dependence of the candidates upon their support, which 
 would make them quite careful neither to take nor to give 
 offence. 
 
 The two gentlemen, accordingly, as the crowd made its 
 appearance, welcomed all parties ; while the yeomen, ran 
 ging themselves about the entrance, suffered the invited 
 guests to pass beyond them into the centre of the room. 
 
 William Calvert, our young orator, felt a rising emotion 
 at his heart, which was not, as he fancied, exactly the re 
 sult of his mental humility. It was, on the contrary, rather 
 the proof of a strong craving, an intense ambition, which, 
 aiming at the highest, naturally felt some misgivings of its 
 own strength and securities when about to measure, for the 
 first time, with a champion who was already famous. We 
 have seen how these misgivings had troubled him in the 
 previous dialogue, and have heard how his venerable com 
 panion had endeavored to strengthen him against them. 
 
 The labor was perhaps an unnecessary one. The young 
 man s quailing was from his own extreme standards, rather 
 than from the height and dimensions of his rival. But the 
 issue between them was not destined to be one of intellect, 
 and, in respect to the keen encounter of the rival wits, our 
 yeomen were doomed to disappointment. But there was to 
 be a trial between them, nevertheless, which probably com 
 pensated the hungering expectants for what was withheld. 
 
 The huge, beefy landlord of the opposition house, Sutton, 
 now bustled forward, having the arm of Colonel Sharpe 
 within his own. The little, deformed representative of the 
 Red Heifer our house stationing himself beside Cal 
 vert, confronted the rival landlord with an air which ex 
 hibited something more of defiance than cordiality. Very 
 bitter, from time immemorial, had been the feuds between 
 the two houses not so bloody, perhaps, but quite as angry, 
 bitter, and enduring, as those which sundered the factions 
 
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS A.N EXPLOSION. 19t/ 
 
 of York and Lancaster. Of course, the quarrel between 
 them being generally understood, the defiant demonstra 
 tions of the two commanded but little notice. All eyes 
 were rather addressed to the rival politicians who were 
 about to meet. 
 
 Mr. Barnabas, with bow and smirk, drew near to the 
 elder Culvert, who extended his hand to him very cour 
 teously, received his gripe, and with him turned to the 
 younger Calvert, to whom Colonel Sharpe was approaching 
 at the same time. As the parties were about to meet, the 
 colonel, shaking off the arm of his landlord, extended his 
 hand to the rival : 
 
 &quot; Mr. Calvert, I believe. I am Colonel Sharpe.&quot; 
 
 The hand of William Calvert was extended to receive 
 that of Sharpe, when it wad suddenly drawn back. The 
 light was now streaming full on the face of Sharpe. In 
 that of William Calvert, the expression instantly became 
 one of mingled astonishment and loathing. His hands were 
 thrown behind his back, while, drawing his person up to 
 its fullest height, he exclaimed, with a voice of equal sur 
 prise and scorn 
 
 &quot; You, sir, Colonel Sharpe you!&quot; 
 
 The effect was a mute wonder in the circle. 
 
 Sharpe started, his cheek paling, his eye flashing, at the 
 unexpected reception. The audience was confounded to 
 expecting silence. Sharpe himself was so surprised as not 
 to be able to recover speech immediately. He did, how 
 ever, in a moment after, and said : 
 
 &quot; What is, this ? I am Colonel Sharpe. And you, sir- 
 are you not Mr. Calvert ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, sir ; and, as Mr. Calvert, I can not know Colonel 
 Sharpe.&quot; 
 
 These words were spoken in hoarse, almost choking ac 
 cents, but full of determination. The heart of the speaker 
 was swelling with indignation ; his brain was fired with 
 terrible reminiscences ; his check was flushed with inexpres- 
 
196 BKAUCiiAMPE. 
 
 eible passion ; nis eyes darted glances of most withering 
 scorn / hate, loathing, full in the face of his opponent. 
 
 Aiid thus stood the two for a moment. For that space, 
 all was mute consternation in the circle. At length, old 
 Calvcrt found his voice, though almost in a whisper, and, 
 drawing close to the young man, he said : 
 
 &quot; What do you mean, my son ? Wherefore this strange 
 anger ? Who is this man, and why &quot; 
 
 Young Calvert had only time to say &quot;What, sir! do 
 ycu not see? when Sharpe, fully recovered from his 
 momentary surprise, came forward with Barnabas, and, 
 with rising accents, formally demanded an explanation. 
 
 &quot; You must explain, sir explain !&quot; said Mr. Barnabas. 
 &quot; Why, sir, do you say that you can not know my friend ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; For the simple reason, sir, that I know him too well 
 already,&quot; was the answer, made with a successful effort to 
 epeak in distinct and resolute tones. 
 
 &quot; lla!&quot; exclaimed Sharpe &quot; know me?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, sir! as a villain a base, consummate villain !&quot; 
 
 All was confusion again. 
 
 Sharpe, with prompt fury, darted upon the speaker, put 
 ting forth all his strength of sinew for the grapple. But 
 he was not the man, physically, to deal with Calvert. The 
 latter seized him with a gripe of iron, and, with a moderate 
 effort of muscle, flung him off, staggering, among the group 
 near the door. .This performance exhibited such a degree 
 of strength as amply satisfied all the spectators that Cal 
 vert might well scorn such an assailant in that sort of 
 encounter. 
 
 Sharpe did not fall was perhaps saved from falling by 
 the interposing crowd. He soon recovered himself, and 
 was rushing forward to renew his hopeless attempt, when 
 his friend Barnabas threw his arms around him, and held 
 him back. 
 
 &quot; Unhand me, Barnabas ! unhand me, I say ! Shall I 
 submit to a blow ?&quot; 
 
THE MEETING OP THE WATERS AN EXPLOSION. LD7 
 
 &quot; Surely not, Sharpc. But this is not the way.&quot; 
 
 For a moment, as if slowly recovering thought, Sharpe 
 paused, then said huskily, and in low tones : 
 
 &quot;You are right. There must be blood! See to it!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Stand back ! I will see to it.&quot; 
 
 Then advancing to the other party, Barnabas said : 
 
 &quot; Mr. Calvert, we must have an apology, or a meeting 
 And the apology must be ample, sir ; and it must be public, 
 as is the offence.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Apology, sir ! to that worthless scoundrel ? You mis 
 take me, sir, very much, if you suppose that I shall apolo 
 gize to him, of all men living, whatever the offence ! It is 
 possible, too, sir, that you somewhat mistake your friend, 
 lie will scarcely demand one will certainly not need one 
 
 when he knows me when he recalls the features of one 
 who has already taught him what to fear from an avenger!&quot; 
 
 &quot; What does all this mean ?&quot; demanded Barnabas ; while 
 Sharpe eagerly stretched forward, bewildered with curi 
 ous eyes, seeking to distinguish the features of the speaker 
 
 a study not much facilitated by the dim light of the two 
 tallow-candles which stood upon the mantel-place. 
 
 &quot; Who, then, are you, sir?&quot; continued Barnabas. 
 
 &quot; Nay, sir,&quot; answered the other, u speak for your friend ! 
 Your Colonel Sharpe has, I fancy, as many aliases as any 
 rogue of London! Let Colonel Sharpe if such be, in 
 truth, his name &quot; 
 
 a It is his name, sir, J assure you. Why should you 
 doubt it ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I have known him by another, and one associated with 
 the foulest infamy !&quot; 
 
 u Ha!&quot; cried Sharpe beginning, perhaps, to recall an 
 \mhappy past. 
 
 Calvert turned full toward him. 
 
 &quot; Look at me, Alfred Stevens for suon I must still call 
 .ou look at me, and behold one who is ready to avenge 
 tb.e dishonor of Margaret Cooper ! Ha! villain! do you 
 
198 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 start ? do you shrink ? do you remember now the young 
 preacher of Charlemont? the swindling, smooth-spoken 
 rogue, who sought out the home of innocence to rob it oi 
 peace and innocence at a blow ? Once, before this, we 
 stood opposed in deadly strife. Do you think that I am 
 less ready now ? Then, your foul crime had not been con 
 summated : would to God I had slain you then ! 
 
 &quot; But it is not too late for vengeance ! Apology, indeed ! 
 Will you fight, Alfred Stevens? Say are you as ready 
 now as when the cloth of the preacher might have been a 
 protection for your cowardice ? If you are, say to your 
 friend here that apology between us is a word of vapor, 
 and no meaning. Atonement blood only nothing less 
 will suffice !&quot; 
 
 Sharpc. staggered at the first address of the speaker, had 
 now recovered himself. His countenance was deadly pale. 
 His eyes wandered. He had been stunned by the sudden 
 ness of Culvert s revelations. But the eyes of the crowd 
 were upon him. Murmurs of suspicion reached his ears. It 
 was necessary that he should take decided ground. Your 
 politician must not want audacity. Nay, in proportion to 
 his diminished honesty, must be his increase of brass. To 
 brazen it out was his policy ; and, by a strong effort, regain 
 ing his composure, he quietly exclaimed, looking round him 
 as he spoke : 
 
 &quot; The man is certainly mad. I know not what he 
 means.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Liar ! this will not serve you. You shall not escape 
 me. You do not deceive me. You shall twt deceive these 
 people. Your words may deny the truth of what I say, 
 but your pallid cheeks confess it. Your hoarse, choking 
 accents, your down-looking eyes, confess it. The lie that 
 is spoken by your tongue is contradicted by all your other 
 faculties. There is no man present who does not see that 
 you tremble in your secret soul ; that I have spoken noth 
 ing but the truth; that you are the base villain the de- 
 
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS AN EXPLOSION. 199 
 
 etroyer of beauty and innocence -that I have pronounced 
 you!&quot; 
 
 u This is strange, very strange!&quot; said Mr. Barnabas. 
 
 : The man is certainly mad,&quot; continued Sharpe, &quot; or 
 this is a political charge intended to destroy me. A poor, 
 base trick, this of yours, Mr. Calvert. It will have no 
 effect upon the people. They understand that sort of thing 
 too well.&quot; 
 
 &quot; They shall understand it better&quot; said Calvert. &quot; They 
 shall have the whole history of your baseness. Political 
 trick, indeed ! We leave that business to you, whose very 
 life has been a lie. My friends &quot; 
 
 u Stay, sir, 1 said Barnabas. &quot; There is a shorter way 
 to settle this. My friend has wronged you, you say. He 
 shall give you redress. There need be no more words 
 between us.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, but there must. The redress, of course ; but the 
 words shall be a matter of course, also. You shall hear 
 my charge against this man renewed. I pronounce him a 
 villain, who, under the name of Alfred Stevens, five years 
 ago made his appearance in the village of Charlemont, 
 and, pretending to be a student of divinity, obtained the 
 confidence of the people ; won the affections of a young lady 
 of the place, dishonored and deserted her. This is the 
 charge I make against him, which will be sustained by this 
 venerable man. and for the truth of which I invoke the all- 
 witnessing lleavcn. Alfred Stevens, I defy you to deny 
 this charge.&quot; 
 
 &quot;It is all false as hell!&quot; was the husky answer of the 
 criminal. 
 
 &quot;It is true as heaven!&quot; said Calvert, and his assevera 
 tion was now confirmed by that of the aged man by whom 
 he was accompanied. 
 
 Nor were the spectators unimpressed by the firm, un 
 bending superiority of manner possessed by Calvert ovet 
 that of Sharpe, who was wanting in his usual confidence. 
 
200 BEAOCHAMPE. 
 
 and who, possibly from the suddenness of the charge, and 
 possibly from a guilty conscience, failed in that promptness 
 and freedom of utterance which, in the case of his accuser, 
 was greatly increased by the feeling of scorn and indigna 
 tiou which was so suddenly reawakened in his bosom. 
 
 The little landlord of the Red Heifer, about this time 
 made himself particularly busy in whispering around that 
 it was precisely five years ago that Colonel Sharpc had 
 taken a trip to the south with his uncle, and was absent 
 two thirds of the year. 
 
 How much more the Red Heifer might have said for 
 he had his own wrongs to stimulate his hostility and mem 
 ory can only be conjectured; for he wao suddenly si 
 lenced by the landlord of the opposition-house, who threat 
 ened to wring his neck if he again thrust it forward in the 
 business. 
 
 But the hint of the little man had not fallen upon un 
 heeding ears. There were some two or three persons who 
 recalled the period of Sharpens absence in the south, and 
 found it to agree with Culvert s statements. The buzz be 
 came general among the crowd, but was silenced by the 
 coolness of Barnabas. 
 
 &quot; Mr. Calvert,&quot; said he, &quot; you are evidently mistaken in 
 your man. My friend denies your story as it concerns him 
 self. We do not deny that some person looking like my 
 friend may have practised upon your people ; but that he 
 is not the man he insists. There is yet time to withdraw 
 from the awkward position in which you have placed your 
 self. There i.s no shame in acknowledging an error. You 
 are clearly in error: you can not persevere in it without 
 injustice. Let me beg you, sir, for your own sake, to admit 
 as much, and shake hands upon it.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Shake hands, and with him? No, no, Gir ! this car. 
 not be. I am in no error. I do not mistake my man. Ho 
 iy the very villain I have declared him. He must please 
 himself as he mav with the epithet &quot; 
 
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS AN EXPLOSION. 201 
 
 &quot; I am sorry you persist in this unhappy business, Mr, 
 Calvert. My friend will withdraw for the present. May I 
 see you privately within the hour ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; At any moment.* 
 
 &quot;I am very much obliged to you. I like promptness in 
 such matters. But, once more, sir, it is not too late. These 
 gentlemen will readily understand how you have confounded 
 two persons who look something alike. But there is a shade 
 of difference, as you see, in the chin, the forehead, perhaps, 
 the color of the eyes. Look closely, I pray you, for truly I 
 should be sorry, for your own sake, to have you persist in 
 your error.&quot; 
 
 Mr. Barnabas, in order to afford Calvert the desired op 
 portunity of discerning the difference between the charged 
 and the guilty party, took the light from the mantel and 
 held it close to the face of Sharpe. 
 
 &quot; Pshaw! said the latter, somewhat impatiently, &quot;the 
 fellow is a madman or a fool. Why do you trouble your 
 self further? Let him have what he wishes/ 
 
 The voice of Calvert, at the same moment, disclaimed 
 every doubt on the score of the criminal s identity. 
 
 &quot; He is the man ! I should know him, by day and by 
 night, among ten thousand!&quot; 
 
 &quot;You won t confess yourself mistaken, then?&quot; said Bar 
 nabas; &quot;a mere confession of error an inaccurary of 
 vision the smallest form of admission!&quot; 
 
 Calvert turned from him scornfully. 
 
 &quot;Very well, sir, if it must be so! Good people my 
 friends you bear us witness we have tried every effort to 
 obtain peace. We are very pacific. But there is a point 
 beyond which there is no forbearance. Integrity can keep 
 no terms with slander. Not one among you but would fight 
 if you were called Alfred Stevens. It is the name, as you 
 hear, of a swindler a seducer a fellow destined for the 
 high sessions for Judge Lynch. We shall hear of him un 
 der some other alias. We have assured the young gentle- 
 
 9* 
 
202 
 
 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 man here tliat we arc not Alfred Stevens, and prefer not to 
 be called by a nickname ; but he persists, and you Know 
 what is to follow. You can all retire to bed, therefore, 
 with the gratifying conviction that both gentlemen, being 
 bound for it, and good Kentuckians, will be sure to do their 
 duty when the time comes. Good-night, gentlemen arid 
 may you sleep to waken in the morning to hear some fa 
 mous arguments. I sincerely trust that nothing will hyp- 
 pen to prevent any of the speakers from attending ; but life 
 is the breath in our nostrils, and may go out with a sneeze. 
 Of one thing I can assure you, that it will be no fault of 
 mine if you do not hear the eloquence, at least, of Mr. 
 Barnabas.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Hurra for Barnabas ! hurra !&quot; was the cry. 
 
 &quot;Hurra for Barnabas !&quot; the echo. 
 
 &quot; Calvert for ever!&quot; roared the trombone in the corner; 
 and the several instruments followed for Sharpe, Calvert, 
 and Barnabas, according to the sort of pipes and stops 
 with which Providence had kindly blessed them. 
 
BILLETS FOR BULLETS HOW WRITTEN. S03 
 
 j CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ! 
 
 BILLETS FOR BULLETS HOW WRITTEN. 
 
 &quot; I KNOW that this is unavoidable. I know not well, my 
 son, hovv you could have acted otherwise than you did ; and 
 yet the whole affair is very shocking.&quot; 
 
 Thus began the elder Calvert to the younger, when they 
 again found themselves alone together. 
 
 &quot; It is : but crime is shocking ; and death is shocking ; 
 and a thousand events that, nevertheless, occur hourly in 
 life, are shocking. Our best philosophy, when they seem 
 unavoidable, is, to prepare for them as resolutely as we 
 prepare for death.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It may be death, my son !&quot; said the other with a shud 
 der. 
 
 &quot; And if it were, sir, I should gladly meet death, that I 
 might have the power of avenging her! God! when I 
 think of her so beautiful, so proud, so bright so dear 
 to me then so dear to me even now I feel how worth 
 less to me are all the triumphs of life how little worth is 
 life itself!&quot; 
 
 And a passionate flood of tears concluded the words of 
 the speaker. 
 
 &quot; Give not thus way, my son. Be a man.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Am I not ? God ! what have I not endured ? what 
 have I not overcome ? Will you not suffer a moment s 
 weakness not even when I think of her? Margaret! 
 but for this serpent in our Eden, what mi^ht we not have 
 
204 BEAUCHAMPK. 
 
 been ! How might we have loved ! how happy might have 
 passed those days which are now toil and hopelessness to 
 me, which are shame and desolation to you ! But for this 
 serpent, we had both been happy.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, my son, that would have been impossible. But the 
 .speculation is useless now.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Worse than useless !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why brood upon it, then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; For that very reason : as one broods over his loss, who 
 does not value his gain. It is thus I think of her, and 
 cease to think of these successes. What are they to me ? 
 Nothing! All ! what might they not have been had she 
 been mine? my father! I think of her her beauty, 
 her genius as of some fallen angel. I look upon this 
 wretch as I should regard the fiend. The hoof is wanting, 
 it is true, but the mark of the beast is in his face. It can 
 surely be no crime to slay such a wretch : murder it can 
 not be!&quot; 
 
 &quot;You think not of yourself, William.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes ! lie may kill me ; but thinking of her, the fallen 
 and of him the beguiler I have no fear of death I 
 know not that I have a love of life I think only of the 
 chance accorded me of avenging her cruel overthrow. &quot; 
 
 The re-entrance of Mr. Barnabas, interrupted the dia 
 logue. He came to make the necessary arrangements. 
 
 u Very awkward business, Mr. Calvert too late now 
 for adjustment. May I have the pleasure of knowing the 
 name of your friend.&quot; 
 
 Calvert named Major Hawick, a young gentleman of his 
 party ; but the old man interfered. 
 
 &quot; /will act for you, William.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You !&quot; said the young man. 
 
 &quot; You, old gentleman !&quot; exclaimed Mr. Barnabas. 
 
 &quot;Yes,&quot; replied old Calvert, with spirit, &quot; shall I be more 
 reluctant than you to serve my friend. This, sir, is my son 
 by adoption. I love him as if he were my own. I love 
 
BILLETS FOR BULLETS HOW WRITTEN. 205 
 
 him better than life. Shall I leave him at the very time 
 when life is perilled. No no ! I am sorry for this affair, 
 bat will stand by him to the last. Let us discuss the ar 
 rangements.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You ve seen service before, old gentleman,&quot; said Bar 
 nabas, looking the eulogium which lie did not express. 
 
 &quot; I, too, have been young,&quot; said the other. 
 
 &quot; True blue, still,&quot; said Barnabas ; &quot; and though I m 
 sorry for the affair, yet, it gives me pleasure to deal with a 
 gentleman of the right spirit. I trust that your son is a 
 shot.&quot; 
 
 &quot; He has nerve and eye !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Good things enough very necessary things, but a spice 
 of practice does no harm. Now, Sharpe has a knack with 
 a pistol that makes it curious to see him, if you be only a 
 looker-on&quot; 
 
 &quot; Let me stop you, young gentleman,&quot; said old Calvort ; 
 &quot; when I was a young man, such a remark would have 
 been held an impertinence.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Egad !&quot; said Barnabas, &quot; you have me ! Arc we agreed 
 then ? Shall it be pistols ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Y2S : at sunrise to-morrow.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Good !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Distance, when we meet,&quot; said Calvert. 
 
 The place of meeting was soon agreed on, and the parties 
 separated ; Barnabas taking his leave by complimenting 
 the &quot; old gentleman,&quot; as a &quot; first-rate man of business.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Of course,&quot; said he, &quot; after he had reported to Sharpe 
 the progress of the arrangements ; &quot; of course you were the 
 said Stevens. I saw that the fellow s story was true at the 
 first jump, ft was so like you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; How if I deny it ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I shouldn t believe you. Twas too natural. Besides, 
 Whisker-Ben blew you long ago, though he could not tell 
 the girl s name. Where s she now what s become of 
 ber ?&quot; 
 
20fi BEAUCIIAMPK. 
 
 &quot; That s the mystery 1 should give something handsome 
 to find out ; but you may guess, from the spirit this felloe 
 has shown, that it wouldn t do for me to go back to Charle 
 mont. She was a splendid woman !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Was she though ? I reckon this fellow loved her. Ha 
 must have done so. He looked all he said.&quot; 
 
 &quot; He did ! The wonder is equally great in his case. He 
 was a sort of half-witted rustic in Charlernont Margaret 
 despised him- he wanted to light me before, on her ac 
 count, arid we were within an ace of it. His name was 
 Hinkley to think that I should meet in him the now 
 famous Culvert. Look you, Barnabas ! the pistol is a way 
 we had not thought of for laying our orator on his back/ 
 
 &quot; Will you do it ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I must ! He leaves me no alternative. He will keep 
 no terms no counsel. If he goes on to blab this business 
 nay, he can prove it, you see he will play the devil 
 with my chances.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Wing him ! That will be enough. The. fellow has 
 pluck ; and for the sake of that brave old cock, his father, 
 I d like him to get off with breath enough to carry him 
 farther.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, d n him, let him pay the penalty of his impevti 
 nence ! Who made him the champion of Margaret Cooper ? 
 Were he her husband now nay, had she even tolerated 
 him I think I should let him off with some moderate hurt ; 
 but I owe him a grudge. You have not heard a/I, Barna 
 bas !&quot; the tone of the speaker was lowered here, and a 
 deep crimson flush suffused his face as he concluded thc 
 sentence &quot; He struck me, Barnabas he laid ccwskm 
 over my back !&quot; 
 
 &quot; The d 1 he did !&quot; 
 
 11 He did I must remember that /&quot; 
 
 &quot; So you must ! So you must P 
 
 &quot; I will kill him, Barnabas ! I am resolved on it ! I feel 
 the sting of that cowskin even now ?&quot; 
 
BILLETS FOR BULLETS HOW WRITTEN 2&amp;lt;&quot;7- 
 
 &quot; So you must, hut somehow, d n the fellow, I d like to 
 get him off.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Pshaw ! you are getting old. Certainly you arc get 
 ting blind. We have a thousand reasons for not letting 
 him off. He s in our way he s a giant among the oppo 
 sition the crack man they have set up against me. Even 
 if 1 had not any personal causes of provocation, do you not 
 see how politic it would be to put him out of the field. It s 
 he or me. If Desha succeeds, I am attorney-general ; if 
 Tompkins, Calvert ! No no! The more I think of it, 
 the more necessary it becomes to kill him.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But, what if he shoots ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; That he does not he did not at least. You must, at 
 all events, secure me my distance. I suppose you will have 
 little difficulty in this respect. The old man will scarcely 
 know anything about these matters.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You re mistaken he talks as if he had been at it all 
 his life. I reckon he has fed on fire in his younger days. 
 The choice, of course, is his.&quot; 
 
 &quot; A little adroitness, Barnabas, will give us what wo 
 want. You can insinuate twelve paces.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, that can be done, but ten is more usual. Suppose 
 he adopts ten ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; That is what I expect. He will scarcely accept your 
 suggestion. lie will naturally suppose, from what you say, 
 that I practise at twelve. This will, very probably, induce 
 him to say ten, and then I have him on my own terms. I 
 shall easily bottle him at that distance.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And you will really commission the bullet ? You imll 
 kill him ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Must!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Sleep on that resohtion first, Sharpe!&quot; 
 
 &quot; It will do no good. It will not change me. This fel 
 low was nothing to Margaret Cooper, and what right had 
 he to interfere ? Besides you forget the cowskin.&quot; 
 
208 HEAUCTIAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Oh ! true d n that cowskin ! That s the worst part 
 of the business.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Good night, Barnabas,&quot; said Sharpe. &quot; See that I do 
 not oversleep myself. 
 
 &quot; No fear. Good night ! Good niglit ! D n the fel 
 low. Why did he use a cowskin ? A hickory had not been 
 so bad. Now will Sharpe kill him to a dead certainty, 
 lie s good for any button on Calvcrt s coat ; o,nd there he 
 goes, yawning as naturally as if he had to meet, to-morrow 
 morning, nothing worse than his hominy /&quot; 
 
&quot;FIVE PACES WHEEL AND FIRE.&quot; 209 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 &quot;FIVE PACES WHEEL AND FIRE.&quot; 
 
 IT was something of a sad sight to see good old Mr. Cal- 
 rt, till a late hour that night, brushing up the murderous 
 weapons, adjusting bullets, and cutting out patches, with all 
 the interested industry of a fire-eater. It was in vain that 
 his son his adopted son, rather, for the reader should 
 know by this time with whom he deals it was in vain that 
 he implo.cd him to forego an employment which really 
 made him melancholy, not on his own, but the venerable 
 old man s account. Old Calvert was principled against 
 duelling, as he was principled against war ; but he recog 
 nised the necessity in both cases of employing those modes 
 by which, to prevent wrong, society insists upon avenging 
 it. He would have preferred that William Calvert should 
 not go into the field on account of Margaret Cooper ; but, 
 once invited, he recognised in all its excellence the good 
 counsel of Polonius to his son : 
 
 &quot; Beware 
 
 Of entrance to a quarrel : but being in, 
 Bear it that the opposcr may beware of thee.&quot; 
 
 He at least was resolved that William should not go un 
 prepared and unprovided, in the properest manner, to do 
 mischief. Jn the hot days of his own youth, lie had acquired 
 some considerable knowledge of the weapon, and the laws 
 
210 BEAUCHAMPfc. 
 
 rather understood than expressed, which govern personal 
 combat as it is, or was, practised in our country. His care 
 was now given, not simply to the condition of the weapons, 
 but the mind of the combatant. The modes by which the 
 imagination is rendered obtuse the hardening of the 
 nerves the exercise of the eye and arm could not be 
 resorted to in the brief interval which remained before the 
 appointed hour of conflict and something was due to slum 
 ber, without which, all exercise and instruction would be 
 only thrown away. But there is much that a judicious 
 mind can do in acting upon the moral nature of the party ; 
 and the conversation of old Calvert was judiciously ad 
 dressed to this point. The young man, who had by this 
 time learned to know most of the habitual trains of thought 
 by which his tutor was characterized, readily perceived his 
 object. 
 
 &quot; You mistake, my dear sir,&quot; he said, smiling, after the 
 lapse of an hour, which had been consumed as above de 
 scribed ; &quot; you mistake if you think I shall fail in nerve or 
 coolness. Be sure, sir, I never felt half so determined in 
 all my life. The remembrance of Margaret Cooper the 
 sense of former wrong the loathing hate which I entertain 
 for this reptile exclude every feeling from my soul but 
 one, and that is the deliberate determination to destroy him 
 if I can.&quot; 
 
 &quot; This very intensity, William, will shake your nerves. 
 Xo man is more cool than he who obeys no single feeling. 
 Single feelings become intense and agitating from the ab 
 sence or absorption of all the rest.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Feel my arm, sir,&quot; he said, extending the limb. 
 
 &quot; It is firm, noiv, William ; but if you do not sleep, will 
 it be so in the morning ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Yes I have no fear of it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But you will go to sleep now ? You see I have every 
 thing ready.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! I can not. sir. 1 mut write. I have much to 
 
&quot;FIVE PACES WHEEL AND FIRE.&quot; 21 ] 
 
 say, which, to leave unsaid, would be criminal. Do you 
 retire. Hawick will soon bo here, who will complete what 
 you have been doing. He is expert at these matters, and 
 will neglect nothing. I have penned him a note to that 
 effect. Pie will accompany us in the morning. Do you go 
 to bed now. You can not, at your time of life, do without 
 sleep and not suffer. It can not affect me nay, if I did 
 go to bed, it would be impossible, with these thoughts in 
 my mind these feelings in my heart that I should close 
 my eyes*. I should only toss and tumble, and become ner 
 vous from very uneasiness.&quot; 
 
 Having finished, the old man prepared to adopt the sug 
 gestion of the young one. He rose to retire, but the 
 &quot;good night&quot; faltered on his lips. Young Calvert, who 
 was walking to and fro, was struck by the accents. Sud 
 denly turning he rushed to the venerable man. and fell upon 
 his neck. 
 
 &quot;Father! more than father to me!&quot; exclaimed the 
 youth &quot; forgive me if I have offended you. 1 feel that 1 
 have often erred, but through weakness only, not wilfulness. 
 You have succored and strengthened you have taught, 
 counselled, and preserved me. Bless me, and forgive me, 
 my father, if in this I have gone against your wishes and 
 will if I have refused your paternal guidance. Believe 
 me, 1 have but one regret at this moment, and it grows out 
 of the pain which I feel that I inflict on you. But you will 
 forgive you will bless me, my dear father, and should I 
 survive this meeting, I will strive to atone to recompense 
 you by the most fond service, for this one wilfulness !&quot; 
 
 &quot; God bless you, my son God preserve you!&quot; was the 
 only reply which the old man could make. His heart 
 seemed bursting with emotion, and sobs, which he vainly 
 strove to repress, rose in his throat with a choking, suffo 
 cating rapidity. His tears fell upon the young man s 
 shoulder while he passionately kissed his cheek. 
 
 &quot; God will save you,&quot; he continued, as he broke away 
 
212 .BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 and, sobbing as he went from sight, his broken accents 
 might still, for a few seconds, be heard in the reiteration 
 of this one sentence of equal confidence and prayer. 
 
 &quot; That is done that is over !&quot; said the youth, sinking 
 into a seat beside the table where the writing materials 
 were placed : his hands covered his face for a few mo 
 ments, as if to shut from sight the image of the old man s 
 agony. 
 
 &quot; That word of parting was my fear, good old man !&quot; lie 
 continued, after the pause of a few moments &quot;what a 
 Spartan spirit does he possess ! Surely he loves rne quite 
 as well as father ever loved son before. Yet, with what 
 strength of resolution lie prepares the weapon prepares to 
 lose me perhaps for ever. I can not doubt that the loss will 
 be great to him. It will be the loss of all. His hope, and 
 the predictions of his hope, are all perilled by this ; yet 
 he complains not he has no reproaches ! 
 
 &quot; Surely, I have been too wanton -too rash too precip 
 itate in this business ! What to me is Margaret Cooper ! 
 Her beauty, her talents, and that fair fame of which this 
 reptile has for ever robbed her! She loved me not she 
 hearkened not to my prayer of love to that love which 
 can not perish though the object of its devotion, like a star 
 gone suddenly from a high place at night, has sunk for ever 
 into darkness. I am not pledged to fight her battles to 
 repair her shame to bruise the head of the reptile by 
 which she was beguiled. 
 
 &quot; Alas ! I can not reason after this cold fashion. Is it 
 not because of this reptile that she is nothing to me and 
 does not this make her defence everything heighten the 
 passion of hate, and make bloody vengeance a most sacred 
 virtue ? 
 
 &quot; It does it must. Alfred Stevens, I can not choose 
 but seek thy life. The imploring beauties of Margaret 
 Cooper rise before me, and command me. I will try ! So 
 help me God, as I believe, that the sacrifice of tho reptik 
 
FIVE PACES WHEEL AND FIRE.&quot; %^\ 
 
 that crawls to the family altar to leave its slime and venom 
 is a duty with man due to the holiest hopes and affec 
 tions of man and is praiseworthy in the sight of God ! I 
 can not choose but believe this. God give me strength to 
 convert desire into performance !&quot; 
 
 He raised the pistol, unconsciously, as he spoke. He 
 pressed it to his forehead. He lifted it in the sight of 
 Heaven, as if, in this way, he solemnized his oath. Thfe 
 grasp of the weapon in his hand suggested a new train of 
 emotion. 
 
 &quot;I may fall I may perish! The hopes of this good 
 old man my own hopes may all be set at naught. Can 
 it be that in a few hours I shall be nothing ? This voice be 
 silent this arm cold, unconscious, upon this cold bosom. 
 Strange, terrible fancy ! I must not think of it. It makes 
 me shudder! It is too late for thoughts like these. 1 
 must be a man now a man only. The mere pang that 
 is nothing. But he thrice a father lie will feel three 
 fold pangs which shall be more lasting. Yet, even with 
 him, they can not endure long. Who else ? My poor, poor 
 mother !&quot; 
 
 He paused he drew the paper before him a tear fell 
 upon the unwritten sheet, and he thrust it away. 
 
 &quot; There is one other pain ! One thought !&quot; he murmured. 
 &quot;These high hopes these schemes of greatness these 
 dreams of ambition stopped suddenly like rich flowers 
 blooming late, cut down at midnight by the premature 
 frost ! Oh ! if I perish r w, how much will be left un 
 done r 
 
 Once more the youth started to his feet and paced the 
 chamber. But he soon subdued the rebellious struggles of 
 his more human nature. Quieted once more he sought to 
 baffle thought by concentrating himself upon his tasks 
 Resuming his place at the table, he seized his pen. Letter 
 after letter grew beneath his hands ; and the faint gray 
 light of the dawn peo.ped in at the windows before he had 
 
211 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 yet completed the numerous tasks which required his in 
 dustry. 
 
 A. tap at the door drew his attention and he opened it 
 lo receive his friend, Major Hawick. 
 
 &quot;You are ready,&quot; said Hawick &quot;but you seem not to 
 have slept. How s this ? You promised me 
 
 &quot; But could not keep my promise. I had much to do, 
 and felt that I could not sleep. I was too much excited.&quot; 
 
 &quot; That is unfortunate !&quot; 
 
 It will do no harm. With my temperament I do things 
 much better when excited than not. The less prepared, 
 the better prepared.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Where s the old gentleman ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;lie sleeps still. We will not disturb him. We will 
 steal out quietly, and I trust everything will be over before 
 he wakens. I have left a note for him with these letters.&quot; 
 
 But few moments more did they delay. 
 
 William Calvert remedied to a certain extent the fatigue 
 of his night of unrest, by plunging his head into a basin of 
 cold water. The preparations of the party were already 
 made ; and they issued fortli without noise, and soon found 
 themselves on the field. Their opponents appeared a few 
 moments after. 
 
 &quot; A pleasant morning, gentlemen,&quot; said Mr. Barnabas. 
 &quot; But how is it I do not see my old friend here, eh ? I had 
 a fancy he would not miss it for the world !&quot; 
 
 A rustling among the bushes at a little distance, at this 
 moment, saved William Calvert from the necessity of an 
 swering the question. There was the old man himself. 
 
 &quot; Ah, William !&quot; he said reproachfully, &quot; was this kind?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Truly, sir, it was meant to be so. I would have spared 
 you this scene if possible.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It was not kind, William, but you meant kindly. You 
 did not know me, my son. Had I not been here with you, 
 in the moment of danger, I should always have felt as if I 
 bad suffered shame.&quot; 
 
-FIVE I AClvS WliliEL vNL&amp;gt; FIRE. 215 
 
 The youth was touched, and turned aside to conceal his 
 emotion. The friends of the parties approached in confer 
 ence. The irregularity of Major Ha wick s attendance being 
 explained, and excused under the circumstances, he re 
 mained as a mere spectator. The arrangements then being 
 under consideration, Mr. Barnabas said casually, and seem 
 ingly with much indifference 
 
 u Well, I suppose, sir, we will set them at twelve paces. 
 
 &quot; Very singular that you should offer a suggestion on this 
 subject!&quot; was the sharp reply of Mr. Calvert ; &quot; this point 
 is with us.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Oh, surely, surely but, this being about the usual 
 distance &quot; 
 
 &quot; It is not ours, sir,&quot; said the other coolly. 
 
 &quot; What do you propose, then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Five paces, sir back to back wheel and fire within 
 the words one and two.&quot; 
 
 Colonel Sharpe, who heard the words, started, and grew 
 suddenly pale. 
 
 &quot; A. most murderous distance, sir, indeed !&quot; said Mr. Bar 
 nabas gravely. &quot; Are you serious, sir ? Do you really 
 mean to insist on what you say ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Certainly, sir : if I ever jested at all, it should not be 
 on such an occasion. These are our terms.&quot; 
 
 &quot; We must submit, of course,&quot; said the other, as he pro 
 ceeded to place his principal. While doing this, Colonel 
 Sharpe was observed to speak with him somewhat earnestly. 
 Mr. Barnabas, immediately after, again advanced to Mr. 
 Calvert, and said :- 
 
 &quot; In consenting to your right, sir, on the subject of dis 
 tance, I must at the same time protest against it. The 
 consequences, sir, must lie on your head only. I have no 
 doubt that both parties will be blown to the devil !&quot; 
 
 Hawick also approached, and whispered the elder Cal 
 vert, in earnest expostulation against this arrangement. 
 
 &quot;It is impossible for either to escape,&quot; he said; &quot;they 
 
216 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 are both firm men, and both will fire with great quickness. 
 The distance is very unusual, sir ; and, if the affair ends 
 fatally, the reproach will be great.&quot; 
 
 For a moment the old man hesitated, and looked bewil 
 dered. His eye earnestly sought the form of William Cal- 
 vert, who was calmly walking at a little distance. He was 
 silent for a few seconds ; but, suddenly recovering himself, 
 he murmured, rather in soliloquy than in answer to his com 
 panion : 
 
 &quot; No, no ! it must be so : we must take this risk, to avoid 
 a greater. 1 sec through these men ; there is no other way 
 to baffle them.&quot; 
 
 He advanced to Mr. Barnabas. 
 
 &quot; I see no reason to alter my arrangement. To a brave 
 man, the nearer the enemy the better.&quot; 
 
 &quot; A good general principle, sir, but liable to abuse,&quot; said 
 Barnabas ; &quot; but as you please. We toss for the word.&quot; 
 
 The word fell to Calvert. The parties were placed, 
 back to back, with a space of some ten feet between 
 epacs just enough for the grave of one. With the word, 
 which was rather gasped than syllabled by the old man, 
 William Calvert wheeled. The first instant glance that 
 showed him his enemy drew his fire, and was followed by 
 that of his foe. 
 
 In the first few moments after, standing himself, and see 
 ing his enemy still stood, he fancied that no harm had been 
 done. Already the words were on his lips to call for the 
 other pistol, when he felt a sudden sickness and dizziness; 
 his right thigh grew stiffened, and he lapsed away upon the 
 earth, just as the old man drew nigh to his assistance. 
 
 The bullet had entered the fleshy part of his hip, and 
 had lodged there, narrowly avoiding the bone. 
 
 These particulars were afterward ascertained. At first, 
 however, the impression of the old man, and that of Major 
 Uawick, was, that the wound was mortal. We will not 
 seek to describe the mental agony of the former. It was 
 
&quot;FIVE PACES WHEEL AND FIRE.&quot; 217 
 
 now that his conscience spoke in torturous self-upbraidings ; 
 and, throwing himself beside the unconscious youth, he 
 moaned as one who would not be comforted, until assured 
 oy the more closely-observing Hawick, who, upon inspect 
 ing the wound, gave him hope of better things. 
 
 Colonel Sharpo was more fortunate. He was uninjured, 
 but he had not escaped untouched. His escape, though 
 more complete than that of Calvert, had been even yet 
 more narrow the bullet of the former actually barking 
 his skull just above the ear, and slightly lacerating the skin 
 over his organ of destructiveness. So narrow an escape 
 made him very anxious to avoid a second experiment, which 
 William Calvert, feebly striving to rise from the ground, 
 readily offered himself for. But, while the youth, spoke, 
 his strength failed him, and he soon sunk away in utter 
 unconsciousness. 
 
 Thus ended an affair that promised to be more bloody in 
 its results. Perhaps it would have been, but for the ar 
 rangements which old Calvert insisted on. Had the ten 
 paces beer, acceded, there is little doubt that Sharpe, se 
 cure in his practice, would have inflicted a death-wound on 
 his opponent. The alteration of distance, the necessity of 
 wheeling to fire, and a proximity to his enemy so close as 
 to leave skill but low if any advantages, served to disorder 
 his aim, and impair his coolness. It was with no small 
 degree of satisfaction that he departed, leaving his enemy 
 kors dc combat. We, too, shall leave him, and follow the 
 progress of the more fortunate party ; assured, as we are,. 
 that the wound of our young hero, though serious, is not 
 dangerous, and that he is in the hands of those who will 
 refine sleep to their eyelids so long as he needs that they 
 should watch. 
 
 it will not materially affect the value of this narrative to 
 omit all further account of that political canvassing by 
 which these parties were brought into a juxtaposition so 
 fruitful of unexpected consequences. It will suffice to say 
 
218 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 that, with Calvert removed from the stump, Colonel Sharpe 
 remained master of it. His eloquence that day seemed far 
 more potential, indeed, than on ordinary occasions. No 
 doubt lie tried his best, in order to do away with what 
 Calvert had previously succeeded in doing ; but there was 
 an eclat about his morning s work which materially assisted 
 the working of his eloquence. The proceedings of the pre 
 vious night, and the duel which succeeded it, were prettj 
 well bruited abroad in the space of a few hours ; and when 
 a man passes with success from the field of battle to the 
 field of debate, and proves himself equally the master in 
 both, vulgar wonder knows little stint, and suffers little 
 qualification from circumstances. Nay, the circumstances 
 themselves are usually perverted to suit the results ; and, 
 in this case, the story, by the zeal of Sharpo s friends, so 
 far from showing that the quarrel grew from the facts which 
 did occasion it, was made to have a political origin entirely 
 Sharpe being the champion of one, and Calvert of the 
 other party. 
 
 It may be readily conjectured that Sharpe hiuiseif gave 
 as much encouragement to this report as possible. Bold 
 as he might be, he was not altogether prepared to encoun 
 ter the odium to which any notoriety given to the true 
 state of the case would necessarily subject him. His par 
 tisans easily took their cue from him, and were willing tc 
 accept the affair as a sign of promise in the political con 
 test which was to ensue. We may add that it was no un 
 happy augury. The friends of Sharpe were triumphant, 
 and Desha one of those mauvaise sujets which a time of 
 great moral ferment in a country throws upon the surface, 
 like scum upon the waters when they are broken up by 
 floods, and rush beyond their appointed boundaries was 
 elevated, most unhappily, to the executive chair of the state. 
 
 Thus much is perhaps essential to what should be known 
 of these matters in the progress of our story. How much 
 of this result was due to (ho unfortunate termination of 
 
&quot;FIVE PACES WHEEL AND FIRE.&quot; 219 
 
 Cdlvert s affair with Sharpe, is difficult to determine. The 
 friends of the former ascribed their defeat to his wounds, 
 which disabled him from the prosecution of that canvass 
 through the state which had been so profitably begun. They 
 were baffled and dispirited. Their strong man was low; 
 and, gratified with successes already won, and confident of 
 the future, Colonel Sharpe closed the night at Bowling- 
 Green by communicating to Bcauchampe, by letter, his pur 
 pose of visiting him on his return route an honor which, 
 strange enough to Bcauchampe himself, did not afford him 
 that degree of satisfaction which it seemed to him was only 
 natural that it should. 
 
22C BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE SPECK OF CLOUD UPON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 BEAUCHAMPE and his wife sat together beside the opcL 
 window. It was night a soft mellowing light fell upon 
 the trees and herbage, and the breeze mildly blew in pleas 
 ant gushes about the apartment. In the room was no light. 
 Her hand was in his. Her manner was thoughtful, and, 
 when she spoke, her words were low and subdued as if, in 
 her abstract mood, it needed some effort of her lips to 
 speak. 
 
 Beauchampe himself was mure moody than his wont,. 
 There is always, in the heart of one conscious of the recent 
 possession of a new and strongly-desired object, a feeling 
 of uncertainty. Even the most sanguine temperament, 
 feels, at times, unassured of its own blessings. Perhaps, 
 such feelings of doubt and incertitude arc intended to give 
 us a foretaste of those final privations to which life is 
 everywhere certainly subject; and to reconcile us, by nat 
 ural degrees, to the last dread separation in death. At all 
 events nothing can be more natural than such feelings. Our 
 hearts faint with fear in the very moment when we are rev 
 elling in the sober certainty of waking bliss ! When Love, 
 hooded and fettered, refuses to quit his cage when every 
 dream appears satisfied ; when peace, fostered by security, 
 seems to smile in the conviction of a reality which prom 
 ises fullest pcrmnnencc ; and the imagination knows noth 
 ing to crave, and even egotism loses its strong passion for 
 
SPECK OP CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 221 
 
 complaint ; even then we shudder, as with an instinct that 
 teaches much more than any thought, and knocks more 
 oudly at the door of the heart, than any of its more reason 
 able apprehensions. 
 
 This instinct wa? at work, at the same moment, in both 
 their bosoms. 
 
 &quot; 1 know not why it is,&quot; said Bcauchampe, &quot; but I feel 
 as if something were to happen. I feel unaccountably sad 
 and apprehensive. It is not a fear scarcely a doubt, that 
 rills my mind nay, for that matter my mind is silent I 
 strive to think in vain. It is a sort of voice from the soul 
 a presentiment of evil more like a dream in its ap 
 proaches, and yet, in its influence, more real, more em 
 phatic, than any actual voice speaking to my outward ears. 
 Do you ever have such feelings, Anna 1&quot; 
 
 &quot; I have them now /&quot; she answered in low tones. 
 
 u Indeed ! it is very strange !&quot; 
 
 He put his arm about her waist as he spoke, and drew 
 her closer to himself. Her head sunk upon his shoulder, 
 lie did not behold them, but her eyes were filled with 
 tears. 
 
 How strange were such tears to her ! How suddenly 
 had she undergone a change and such a change! She 
 who had never known fear, was now timid as a child. 
 Love is, before all, the great subduer. It was in an un 
 known condition of peace and pleasure that the wife of 
 Beaucharnpe had become softened. Apprehension necessa 
 rily succeeds to conquest. There is no courage so cool and 
 collected as that which has nothing to lose ; and timidity 
 naturally grows from a consciousness of large, valuable, 
 and easily endangered possessions. Such was the origin 
 of the fear in the bosoms of both. 
 
 Certainly they had much to lose ! Happiness is always 
 an unstable possession, and we know this by instinct. The 
 union of the two had perfected the union of the two families. 
 Mrs. Beauchampe, the elder, in the very obvious and re- 
 
222 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 markable change of manner, whicli followed the marriage 
 of Miss Cooke with her son, had become reconciled nay. 
 pleased with the match. Mary Bcauchampe was of course 
 all joy and all tears ; and even Jane, escaped from the firs , 
 danger of being swallowed up, was gradually brought to 
 see the intellectual beauties, and the personal also, of her 
 brother s wife, without beholding her sterner aspects. 
 
 For the present, Beauchampe lived with his wife s mother, 
 but the two families were too-other daily. They walked, 
 rode, sang, read, and played together. They made a little 
 world to themselves, and they were so happy in it ! The 
 tastes of Bcauchampe gradually became more and more re 
 fined and elevated under the nicer sway of feminine taste, 
 and those delicacies of direction which none can so well 
 impart as a highly-intellectual woman. He no longer 
 dreamed of such ordinary distinctions as make up the small 
 hopes of witling politicians. To be the great bell-wether 
 of a clamorous flock, for a season, did not now constitute 
 the leading object of his ambition. Far from it. A short 
 month of communion with an enthusiastic, high-souled 
 woman unhappy, perhaps, that she was so had wrought 
 as decided a change in his moral nature, as the love which 
 he brought had operated upon hers. They were both 
 changed. But it needs not that we should dwell upon the 
 power of Love to tame, and subject, and elevate the base 
 and stubborn nature. Surely it is no mere fable, rightly 
 read, which makes him lead the lion witli a thread. Briefly, 
 there is no human beast that he can not, with the same 
 ease, subdue. 
 
 Before meeting with his wife, however, Beauchampe was 
 superior in moral respects to his associates. This must be 
 understood. He had strength of mind and ambition ; he 
 was generous, free in hi? impulses, and usually more gentle 
 in their direction than was the case with his companions. 
 His rudenesses were those of the rustic, whose sensibilities 
 yet sleep in his soul, like the undiscovered gold in the dark 
 
SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OP HAPPINESS. 
 
 places of the sullen mountain. It was for Love to detect 
 the slight vein leading to these recesses, and to refine the 
 treasure to which it led. Great, in matters of this sort, is 
 that grand alchemist. The model of refiners is he ! No 
 Rosicruciai; ever did so much to turn the baser metal into 
 gold. Unhappily, as in the case of other seekers after 
 projection, it is sometimes the case that the grand experi 
 ment finishes infumo, and possibly with a loud explosion. 
 
 But it iloes not become us to jest in this stage of our 
 narrative Too sad, too serious, are the feelings with 
 which we new must deal. If Beauchampe and his wife are 
 happy, they a r e so in the activity and excitement of those 
 sensibilities which are the most liable to overthrow. In 
 proportion to the exquisite sweetness of the sensation, is its 
 close approximation to the borders of pain. The joy of the 
 soul which ia the source of all the raptures of love, is itself 
 a joy of sadness, and yearning and excessive apprehension. 
 Soon does this apprehension rise to cloud the pleasure and 
 oppress the hope. This is the origin of those presenti 
 ments, which say what our thoughts can not say, and in 
 spite of our thoughts. They grew in the bosom of Beau 
 champe and his wife, along with the necessity which he 
 felt and had declared, of assuming vigorously the duties of 
 his profession. These duties required that lie should move 
 into a more buoy sphere, and this duty involved the removal 
 of his wife from that seclusion in which, for the last five 
 years, her sensibilities had found safety. This, to her, was 
 a source of terror ; and she trembled with a singular fear 
 lest, in doing so in going once more out into the world 
 she had left, she should encounter her betrayer. 
 
 Very different now were her feelings toward Alfred 
 Stevens. For five years had she treasured the one vindio 
 tive hope of meeting him with the purpose of revenge. For 
 five years had she moulded the bullets, and addressed them 
 to the mark which symbolized his breast. Her chief prayer 
 in all this time, was, that sho might behold him with power 
 
224 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 to employ upon him the skill which she had daily shovr. 
 upon the insensible trees of the forest. To kill him, and 
 then to die, was all that she had prayed for and now tha 
 difference ! 
 
 In one little month all this had undergone a change. Her 
 feelings had once more been humanized perhaps we should 
 Siiy ivomanizcd : for, in these respects, women are rnor$ 
 capricious than men, and the transitions of love to hate, and 
 hate to love, are much more rapid in the case of a grown 
 woman than in that of a grown man. As for boys, until 
 twenty-five, they are perhaps little more than girls in 
 breeches certainly they are quite as capricious. The ex 
 perience of five years after twenty-five does more to harden 
 the sensibilities of a man, than any other ten years of bis 
 life. 
 
 Great, indeed, was the change in this respect which 
 Beauchampe s wife had undergone. Not to meet Stevens 
 was now her prayer. True, she had sworn her husband, 
 if they did meet, to take his life. But that had been the 
 condition of her hand that was before he had become her 
 husband before she well knew his value before she 
 could think upon the risks which she herself would incur, 
 by the danger which, in the prosecution of this pledge, 
 would necessarily accrue to him. Nor was her change of 
 character less decided in another grand essential. In 
 learning to forget and forgive, she had also learned to forego 
 the early dreams with which her ambitious mind com 
 menced its progress. 
 
 &quot; You speak of fame, Beauchampe,&quot; she said, even while 
 sitting as we have described, in the darkness, looking forth 
 upon the faint light which the stars shed upon the garden- 
 shrubbery : &quot;you speak of fame, Beauchampe oh ! how I 
 once dreamed of it ! Now, I care for it nothing. Rather, 
 indeed, should I prefer, if we could remain here, out of the 
 world s eye, living to ourselves, and secure from that opin 
 ion which we are too apt to seek ; upon which we too much 
 
SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 225 
 
 depend which does net confer fame, and but too often 
 robs us of happiness. It is my presentiment, on this very 
 subject, which makes me dread the removal to Frankfort 
 which you contemplate.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And yet,&quot; said he, &quot; I know not how we can avoid it. 
 It seems necessary.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I believe it, and do not mean to urge you against it. I 
 only wish that it were not necessary. But, being so, I will 
 go with you cheerfully. I am not daunted by the prospect, 
 though it oppresses me. How much more happy, if we 
 could live here always !&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, no, Anna, you would soon sicken of this. You 
 would ask, Why have I married this rustic ? You will 
 hear of the great men around, and will say, &amp;lt; He might 
 have been one of them Your pride is greater than you 
 believe ; you are not GO thoroughly cured of your ambition 
 as you think.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh, indeed, I am ! I look back to the days when I had 
 a passion for fame as to a period when I was under mono 
 mania. Truly, it was a monomania. Beauchampe, had 
 you known me then !&quot; 
 
 &quot;- Why had I not ? We had been so happy then, Anna 
 we had saved so many days of bliss, and then but it is 
 act too late ! Anna, there is no good reason why a genius 
 such as yours should be obscured lost for ever. The 
 world must know it, and worship it !&quot; 
 
 &quot;The world ? oh, never !&quot; she exclaimed, with a shud 
 der. &quot; The world is my terror now. Would we could 
 never know it !&quot; 
 
 &quot; But why these scruples, dearest ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why ? Can you ask, Beauchampe ? Do you forget 
 what I have been what I am?&quot; 
 
 :( You are my wife, and I am a man. Do you think the 
 rorld will venture to speak a word which shall shame or 
 annoy you ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is not in its speech, but in its knowledge /&quot; 
 
 0* 
 
226 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; But what will it know ? Nothing. 
 
 &quot; Unless we meet with him /&quot; 
 
 &quot;And if we do?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! let us speak of it no more, Beauchampe/ 
 
 &quot; One word only ! If we meet with him. he dies, and is 
 thus silenced ! Will it be likely that he will speak of that, 
 which only incurs the penalty of death ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Enough! enough! The very inquiry the conjecture 
 which you utter, Bcauchampc is conclusive with me that 
 I should not go into the world. With you. as your wife 
 humble, shrinking out of sight, solicitous only of obscurity, 
 and toiling only for your applause and love I shall be 
 permitted to pass without indignity without waking up 
 that many-tongued slanderer that lies ever in wait, dogging 
 the footsteps of ambition. Were I now to seek the praises 
 which you and others have thought due to my genius, I 
 should incur the hostility of the foul-mouthed and the envi 
 OU3. No moment of my life would be secure from suspi 
 cion, no movement of my mind safe from the assaults of the 
 caviller. It is one quality of error nay, even of misfor 
 tune to betray itself wherever it goes. The proverb telb 
 us that murder will have a tongue : it appears to me, that 
 all crimes will reveal themselves in some way, some day or 
 other. Better, Beauchanipe, that I remain unseen, un 
 known, than be known as I am ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; Better ? but this can not be ; you must be seen you 
 will be known ! The world will seek you, to admire. Re 
 member, Anna, that I have friends numerous friends; 
 among them are some of the ablest men of our profession 
 of any profession. There is no man better able than this 
 very gentleman, Colonel Sharpe, to appreciate a genius such 
 as yours.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Do not mock me with such langaage. Beauchainpe! 
 Instead of thinking of the world s admiration, I should be 
 thinking only of its possible discoveries. As for Colonel 
 Sharpe, somehow I have tin impression gathered, 1 know 
 
not how, but possibly from his letters that he lacks sin 
 cerity. There is a tone of skepticism and levity about his 
 language which displeases and pains me. lie lacks heart. 
 I only wonder how you should have sought your professional 
 knowledge at his hands.&quot; 
 
 &quot;You forget, Anna, that I sought nothing at his hands 
 cut professional knowledge ; and most persons will tell you 
 that I could scarcely have sought it anywhere with greatci 
 prospect of finding it. He is one of our best lawyers. As 
 a man, frankly I confess to you, lie is not one whom I ad 
 mire. You seem to me to have hit his right character. 
 He has always seemed to lack sincerity ; and this impres 
 sion, which he made upon me at a very early period, has 
 always kept me from putting more of my heart within his 
 power than was absolutely unavoidable.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah,. Beauchampe, a man of your earnest temperament 
 knows not how much he gives. You carry your heart too 
 much in your eyes in your hand. This is scarcely good 
 policy.&quot; 
 
 &quot; With T/OW, dearest, it was the only policy,&quot; he said, 
 with a smile, while he pressed her closer to his bosom. 
 
 &quot;Ah! with me? But that is yet to be determined. 
 You know not yet.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What ! are you not mine ? Do I not feel you in iny 
 arms ? do I not embrace you ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; It may be that you embrace death, Beauchampe !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Speak not so gloomily, my love. Why hould you 
 yield yourself to such vague and nameless apprehensions ? 
 There is nothing to cloud our prospect, which, when I think, 
 seems all bright and cloudless as the night we gaze on !&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ah! when you think, Beauchampe : but thought is no 
 seer, though an active speculator. You forget these in 
 stincts, Beauchampe these presentiments!&quot; 
 
 &quot; I have forgotten mine,&quot; he answered, livelily. 
 
 &quot; Ah ! but mine depart not so soon. They rise still, and 
 will continue to rise.&quot; 
 
228 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; You brood over you encourage them.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! but they seem a part of me. I have always had 
 them, even in the days of my greatest exultation ; when, in 
 truth, I had no cares to suggest them. They have marked 
 and preceded, like omens, all my misfortunes. Should I 
 not fear them, then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Not now: it is only the old habit of your mind which 
 is no\v active. Gloomy thoughts and complaining accents 
 become habitual ; and, even when the sun shines, the eye, 
 long accustomed to the cloud, still fancies that it beholds 
 it gathering blackly in the distance. Now. you arc secure. 
 Your cloud i gone, dearest never, never to return.&quot; 
 
 &quot;See where it rises, Beau chain pe, an image on the night! 
 How ominous, were these days of superstition, would that 
 dark image be of our fortunes ! Even as you spoke, with 
 such constant assurance, the evening-star grew faint. Love s 
 own star waned in the growing darkness of the west ; love s 
 own star seemed to shroud itself in gloom at the prediction 
 which so soon may bo rendered false. Look how fast is 
 the ascent of that gloomy tabernacle of the storm ! Not 
 one of the lovely lights in that quarter of the sky remains 
 to cheer us. Even thus, have the lights of my hope for 
 ever gone out. That first light of my soul, which was the 
 morning-star of my being its insane passion for fame 
 was thus obscured. Then, the paler gleams of evening, 
 which denoted love ; and how fast, after, followed all that 
 troop of smaller lights which betokened the dreams and 
 hopes of a warm and throbbing heart! Ah, Beaucharapc ! 
 faded, stricken out, not one by one, as the joys and hopes 
 of others, but with a sudden eclipse that swept all their 
 delusive legions at a moment out of sight never, never to 
 return !&quot; 
 
 &quot; ?ay not, never!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ab ! it is my fear which speaks the long sense of 
 desolation and dread which has rnmlo up so many years of 
 my life! it is this which makes mo speak, from a con vie- 
 
SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 229 
 
 tion of the past, with a dark, prophetic apprehension of the 
 future. True, that the love blesses me now a delusive 
 image of which defrauded me before but how, with the 
 sudden rising of that cloud before my eyes, r ven in the 
 hour of your boastful speech and perhaps my no less boastfal 
 hope how can I else believe than that another delusion, no 
 less fatal than the past, though now untouched with shame, 
 has found its way to my heart, beguiling me with hope, only 
 to sink me in despair ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! why such speech, Anna ? my love is no delusion,&quot; 
 said the husband reproachfully. 
 
 &quot;I meant not that, Beauchampe I believe not that. 
 Heaven knows I hold it as a truth and the sweetest 
 truth that my soul has ever known in its human experi 
 ence. But for its permanence I feared. I doubted not 
 that the light was pure and perfect ; but, alas ! I knew not 
 how soon it might go out. I felt that it was a bright star 
 shining down upon my soul ; but I also feel that there is a 
 gloomy storm rising to obscure the star, and leave me in a 
 darkness more complete than ever. Beauchampe ! if we 
 should ever meet that man &quot; 
 
 ^ He dies, Anna !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh, no ! I mean not that.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Have I not sworn ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes ! but the exaction of that oath was in my madness 
 it was impious : I shudder but to think of it. May you 
 never, never meet with him.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Amen ! I trust that we may never !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Could I but be sure of that !&quot; 
 
 &quot;Let it not trouble you, dearest: we may never meet 
 with him.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, but we may ; and the doubt of that dreadful possi 
 bility, flings a gloomy shadow over the dear, sweet reality 
 of the present.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Be of better cheer, my heart. You are mine. You 
 know that nothing is left lor me to learn. You look to me 
 
230 BKAUCHAMPE. 
 
 for love you dope d not upon the world, but upon me. 
 That world, as it can teach me nothing of your value, that 
 can make the smallest approach to the certainties which ] 
 feel, so it can report nothing in your disparagement which 
 your own lips have not already spoken. Why then should 
 you fear ? At the worst, we can only sink out of the 
 world s sight when its looks irk, or its tones annoy us.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! that is not so easy, Beauchampc. Once out of the 
 world s eye, nothing is so easy as to remain so. But the 
 world pursues the person who has challenged its regard ; 
 and haunts the dwelling where it fancies it may find a spot 
 of shame. Besides, is not your fame precious to me as well 
 as to yourself. This profession of yours, more than an)\ 
 other in our country, is that which concentrates upon itself 
 the public gaze. When you have won this gaze, Beau- 
 champe, when you have controlled the eager ears of an 
 audience, and commanded the admiration of an admiring* 
 multitude if, at this moment, some slanderous finger 
 should guide the eye of the spectator from the command 
 ing eminence of the orator to the form of her who awaits 
 him at home, and say, What pity ! Ah ! Beauchampc ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; Speak of it no more,&quot; said Beauchampe, and there was 
 a faintness in his accents while he spoke, that made it cer 
 tain that he felt annoyance from the suggestion. Unwit 
 tingly, she sighed, as her keen instinct detected the feeling 
 which her words had inspired. Beauchampe drew her 
 closer to him, forced her upon his knee, and sought, by the 
 adoption of a tone and words of better assurance, to do 
 away with the gloomy presentiments under which her mood 
 was evidently and painfully struggling. 
 
 &quot;I tell you, Anna, these are childish fancies! at the 
 worst, mere womanish fears ! Believe me, when I tell you, 
 lhat the days shall now be bright before you. You have- 
 had your share of the cloud. There is no lot utterly void 
 and dark. God balances our fortunes with singular equality, 
 N-oue are all prosperous --none are all unfortunate. If the 
 
SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 231 
 
 youth be one of gloom and trial, the manhood is likely to be 
 bright and cheerful ; while he, who in youth has known 
 sunshine only, will, in turn, most probably be compelled to 
 taste the cup of bitterness for which he is wholly unpre 
 pared. It is perhaps fortunate for all to whom the bitter 
 ness of this cup becomes, in youth, familiar. At the worst, 
 if still compelled to drink of it, the taste is more certainly 
 reconciled to its ungracious flavor. That you have had 
 this poisoned chalice cotnnfended to your lips in youth, is 
 perhaps something of a guaranty that you shall escape the 
 draught hereafter. So far from the past, therefore, Hing 
 ing its huge dark shadow upon the future, it should be re 
 garded as a solemn background, which, by contrast, shall 
 reflect more brightly than were it not present, the gay, 
 gladdening lights which shall gather and burn about your 
 pathway. I tell you, dearest, I know this shall be the case, 
 You have outlived the storm you shall now have sunny 
 skies and smooth seas. Neither this beauty which I call 
 my own, nor these talents which are GO certainly yours, 
 shall be doomed to the obscurity to which your unnecessary 
 fears would assign them. I tell you I shall yet behold you, 
 glowing among, and above, the ambitious circle. I shall 
 yet hear the rich words of your song floating through the 
 charmed assembly, at once startling the soul and soothing 
 the still ear of admiration. Come, come fling aside this 
 shadow from your heart, and let it show itself in ail its 
 glory. Look your best smiles, my love and will you 
 not sing me now one of those proud songs, which you sang 
 for me the other night one of these which tell me how 
 proud, how ambitious was your genius in the days of ycur 
 girlhood? Do not deny me. Anna. Sing for me sing 
 for me one of those songs/ 
 
 She began a strain, though \vith reluctance, which de 
 clared all the audacious egotism which is usually felt, if not 
 always expressed, by the ardent and conscious poet. The 
 fame for which she had once vearned the wild dreams 
 
232 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 which once possessed her imagination and influenced her 
 hope were poured forth in one of those irregular floods 
 of harmony at once abrupt and musical which never 
 issue from the lips of the mere instructed minstrel. Truly, 
 it might have awakened the soul under the ribs of death ; 
 and the heart of Beauchainpe bounded and struggled with 
 in him, not capable of action, yet full, as it seemed, of a 
 most impatient discontent. Wrought up to that enthusi 
 asm of which his earnest nature was easily susceptible, he 
 caught her in his arms almost crc the strain was ended, and 
 the thought which filled his mind, arising from the admira 
 tion which he felt, was that which told him what a sin it 
 would be, if such genius should be kept from its fitting ut 
 terance before admiring thousands. The language of eulogy 
 which he had used to her a few moments before was no 
 longer that of hyperbole ; and, releasing her from his 
 grasp, while she concluded the strain, he paced the floor 
 of the apartment, meditating with the vain pride of an 
 adoring lover, upon the sensation which such a song, and so 
 sung, would occasion in the souls of any audience. 
 
 The strain ceased. The silence which followed, though 
 deep and breathless, was momentary ouly. A noise of ap 
 proaching horses was heard at the entrance ; and the pre 
 scient heart of the wife sunk within her. She felt as if 
 this visit were a foretaste of that world which she feared ; 
 and, hurrying up to her chamber, while Beauchampe went 
 to the entrance, she endeavored, by a brief respite from the 
 trials of reception and in solitude to prepare her mind 
 for an encounter, the anticipated annoyance from which 
 was, however, of a very different character from that to 
 which she was really destined. 
 
TiiL SX1KE ONCE MOKE IN THK GARDEN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 SHE was not suffered to remain long in suspense. The 
 first accents of the strange voice addressing her husband 
 at the door, and which reached her ears in her chamber, 
 proved the speaker to be no stranger. Fearfully her heart 
 sank within her as she heard it. The voice was that of 
 Alfred Stevens ! Five years had elapsed since she had 
 heard it last, yet its every tone was intelligible ; clear as 
 then ; distinct, unaltered in every syllable the same utter 
 ance of the same wily assassin of innocence and love ! 
 
 What were her emotions ? It were in vain to attempt to 
 describe them there is no need of analysis. There was 
 nothing compounded in them there was no mystery ! The 
 pang and the feeling were alike simple. Eler sensations 
 were those of unmitigated horror. u One stupid moment, 
 motionless, she stood,&quot; then sunk upon her knees ! Her 
 hands were clasped her eyes lifted to heaven but she 
 could not praj. &quot; God be with me !&quot; was her only broken 
 ejaculation, and the words choked her. 
 
 The trial had come ! Her head throbbed almost to burst- 
 ing. She clasped it with her cold hands. It felt as if the 
 bony mansion could not much longer contain the fermenting 
 and striving mass within. Yet she had to struggle. It 
 was necessary tuat the firm soul should not yield, and hers 
 was really no feeble one. Striving a,nd struggling to sup 
 press the feeling of horror which every moment threatened 
 
234 
 
 to burst, she could readily comprehend the relief that nature 
 could afford her could she only break forth in hysterical 
 convulsions. But these convulsions would be fatal not to 
 herself not to life, perhaps, for that was not now a sub 
 ject of apprehension. It would endanger her secret ! That 
 was now her fear. 
 
 To preserve her equilibrium to suppress the torments 
 and the troubles of her soul to keep Beauchampc from the 
 knowledge that the man he had sworn to slay was his 
 friend, and was even now a guest upon his threshold this 
 was the important necessity. It was this necessity that 
 made the struggle so terrible. 
 
 She shook like an aspen in the wind. Her breast heaved 
 with spasmodic efforts that were only not convulsions ; her 
 limbs trembled she could not well walk yet she could 
 not remain where she knelt. To kneel without submission, 
 while her soul still struggled with divided impulses, was to 
 kneel in vain. The consolation of prayer can only follow 
 the calmness of the soul. That was not hers could not 
 be. Yet it w r as necessary that she bhould appear calm. 
 Terrible trial ! She tottered across the room to the mirror, 
 and gazed upon its placid surface. It was no longer placid 
 while she gazed. What a convulsion prompted each muscle 
 of her face ! The dilation of those orbs, how could that be 
 subdued ? Yet it must be done. 
 
 u Thy hand is upon me now ! God be merciful!&quot; she 
 exclaimed, once more sinking to her knees. 
 
 &quot; Bitterly now do I feel how much I have offended. Had 
 these five years been passed in prayers of penitence rather 
 than of pride in prayers for grace rather than of ven 
 geance it had not been hard to pray now. Thy hand had 
 not been so heavy I Spare me, Father. Let this trial be 
 light. Let me recover strength give me composure for 
 this fearful meeting !&quot; 
 
 She started to her feet. 3hc heard a movement in her 
 mother s apartment That restless old lady, apprized of 
 
THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. 235 
 
 the arrival of the expected visitors, was preparing to make 
 her appearance below. It was necessary that she should 
 be forewarned, else she might endanger everything. With 
 this now fear, she acquired strength. She hurried to her 
 mother s apartment, and found her at the threshold. The 
 impatient old lady, agog with all the curiosity of age, was 
 preparing to descend the stairs. 
 
 &quot;Come back with me an instant,&quot; said the daughter, as 
 she passed into the chamber. 
 
 &quot; What s the matter with you, Margaret ? You look as 
 if your old fits were returning!&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is likely : there is occasion for them. Know you 
 who is below ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; To be sure I do. Colonel Sharpe and Mr. Barnabas. 
 Who but them?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Alfred Stevens is below ! Colonel Sharpe and Alfred 
 Stevens are the same person!&quot; 
 
 &quot;You don t say so! Lord, if Beauchampe only knew!&quot; 
 exclaimed the old lady, in accents of terror. 
 
 &quot; And if you rush down as you are, he will know!&quot; said 
 the daughter sternly. &quot;For this purpose I came to pre 
 pare you. You must take time and compose yourself. It 
 is no easy task for either of us, mother, but it must be done. 
 You do not know, for I have not thought it worth while to 
 tell you, that, before I consented to marry Beauchampe, I 
 told him all 1 kept no secrets from him.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You didn t, sure, Margaret?&quot; 
 
 &quot;As Hive, Tdid!&quot; 
 
 k But that was very foolish, Margaret.&quot; 
 
 &quot;No! it was right it was necessary. Nothing less 
 could have justified me; nothing less could have given me 
 safety.&quot; 
 
 &quot; 1 don t see I think twas very foolish.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Be it so, mother it is done ; and I must tell you more, 
 the better to make you feel the necessity of keeping your 
 countenance. Before F became the wife of Beauchampe, he 
 
236 BEAUCHA MPE. 
 
 swore to revenge my wrong. lie pledged himself before 
 Heaven to slay my betrayer whenever they should meet. 
 They have met they arc below together!&quot; . 
 
 &quot; Lord have mercy, what a madness was this !&quot; cried the 
 old lady, with uplifted hands, and sinking into a chair. HV 
 anxiety to get below was effectually quieted. 
 
 &quot; I; was no madness to declare the truth,&quot; said the daugh 
 tor gloomily; &quot;perhaps it was not even a madness to dc 
 maud such a pledge.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And you re going to tell Beauchampc that his intimate 
 friend and Alfred Stevens are the same you re going to 
 have blood shed in the house ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;No, not if I can help it! When I swore Beauchampe 
 to slay tliis villain, I was not the woman that I am now. I 
 knew not then my husband s worth. I did not then do jus 
 tice to his love, which was honorable. My purpose now is 
 to keep this secret from him, if you do not betray it, and if 
 the criminal himself can have the prudence to say nothing. 
 From his honor, verc that my only security, I should have 
 no hope. I feel that he would manifest no forbearance, 
 were he not restrained by the wholesome fear of vengeance. 
 Even in this respect I have my doubts. There is sometimes 
 such a recklessness in villany, that it grows rash in spite 
 of caution. I must only hope and pray for the best. All ! 
 could I pray !&quot; 
 
 Once more did the unhappy woman sink upon her knees. 
 She was now more composed. Her feelings had become 
 fixed. The necessity of concentrating her strength, and 
 composing her countenance, for the approaching trial, was 
 sufficiently strong to bring about, to a certain extent, the 
 desired results ; and the previous necessity of restraining 
 her mother, or at least of preparing her for a meeting, which 
 otherwise might have provoked a very suspicious show of 
 feeling or excitement, had greatly helped to increase her 
 own fortitude and confirm her will. But, from prayer, she 
 got no strength. Still she could not pray. The emptj 
 
THE SNAKE ONCE MURE Ifl THE GARDEN. 23t 
 
 words came from the lips only. The soul was still wander 
 ing elsewhere still striving, struggling in a moral chaos, 
 where, if all was neither void nor formless, all was dark, 
 indistinct, and threatening. 
 
 But little time was suffered even for this effort. The 
 voices from below became louder. Laughter, and occasion 
 ally the words and topics of conversation, reached their 
 cars. That Alfred Stevens should laugh at such a momen^ 
 while she struggled in the throes of mortal apprehension on 
 account of him, served to strengthen her pride, and renew 
 and warm her sense of hostility. What a pang it was to 
 hear, distinctly uttered by his lips, an inquiry, addressed 
 to her husband, on thg subject of his wife ! What feelings 
 of pain and apprehension were awak3ned in her bosom by 
 the simple sounds 
 
 &quot; But whcre s your wife, Beauchampe ? we must see her ; 
 you know. You forget the commission which we bear 
 the authority conferred by the club. Unless we approve, 
 you kiio*&quot; &quot; 
 
 What more was said escaped her, but a few moments 
 more elapsed when Beauchampe was heard ascending the 
 stairs. She rose from where she knelt, and, bracing her 
 self to the utmost, she advanced and met him at the head 
 of the stairs. 
 
 &quot; Come,&quot; said he, &quot; and show yourself. My friends won 
 der at your absence. They inquire for you. Where s your 
 mother ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I will inform her, and she will probably follow me 
 down.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Very good : come as soon as possible, for we must get 
 them supper. They have had none.&quot; 
 
 He returned to his guests, and she to her chamber. Her 
 mother was weeping. 
 
 &quot; If you do not feel strong enough, mother, to face these 
 visitors to-night, do not conic down. I will sec to giving 
 them supper. At all events, remember how much depends 
 
238 BEIUCTIAMPE. 
 
 on your firmness. I feel new that 1 shall be strong 
 enough ; but I tremble when I think of you. Perhaps you 
 had better not be seen at all. I can plead indisposition 
 for you while they remain, which I suppose will only be 
 to-night.&quot; 
 
 The mother was undecided what to do. She could only 
 articulate the usual lamentation of imbecility, that things 
 were as they were. 
 
 &quot;It was eo foolish to tell l.im anything!&quot; 
 
 The daughter looked at her in silence and sorrow. But 
 the remark rather lifted her forehead. It was, indeed, with 
 the pride of a high and honorable soul that she exulted in 
 the consciousness that she had revealed the truth that she 
 had concealed nothing of her cruel secret from the husband 
 who had the right to know. With this strengthening con- 
 victior that, if the worst came, she at least had no conceal 
 ments which could do her harm, she descended to the fear 
 ful encounter. 
 
 Never was the rigid purpose of a severe will, in circum 
 stances most trying, impressed upon any nature with more 
 inflexibility than upon hers. Every nerve and sensibility 
 was corded up to the fullest tension. She f- lt that she 
 might fall in sudden convulsion that the ligatures which 
 her will had put upon brain and impulse might occasion 
 apoplexy ; but she felt, at the same time, that every muscle 
 would do its duty that her step should not falter that 
 her eye should not shrink that no emotion of face, no 
 agitation of frame, should effect the development of her fear 
 ful secret, or rouse the suspicions of her husband that there 
 was a secret. 
 
 She achieved her purpose ! She entered the apartment 
 with the easy dignity of one wholly unconscious of wrong, 
 or of any of those feelings which denote the memory of 
 wrong. But she did not succeed, nor did she try, to impart 
 to her countenance and manner the appearance of indiffer 
 ence. On the contrary, the solemnity of her looks amount 
 
THE SNAKE ONOtf. MOUK 117 THE GARDEN. ^ 
 
 3d to intensity. She could not divest her face of the ten 
 sion which she felt. The tremendous earnestness of the 
 encounter the awful seriousness of that meeting on which 
 so much depended if not clearly expressed on her coun 
 tenance, left there at least the language of an impressive- 
 ness which had its effect upon the company. 
 
 Beauchampe was aware of enough cc be at no loss to 
 account for the grave severity of her aspect. Mr. Barna 
 bas, without knowing anything, at least felt the presence 
 of much and solemn character in the eyes that met his own. 
 As for Colonel Sharps, he was too much surprised at meet 
 ing so unexpectedly with the woman he had wronged, to 
 be at all observant of the particular feelings which her fea 
 ture., seemed to express. 
 
 He started at her entrance. Looking, just then, at his 
 wife, Beauchampe failed to note the movement of his guest. 
 Sharpc started, his face became suddenly pale, then red ; 
 and his eyes involuntarily turned to Beauchampe, as if in 
 doubt and inquiry. His conge, if he made any, was the 
 result of habit only. Never was guilty spirit more suddenly 
 confounded, though perhaps never could guilty spirit more 
 rapidly recover from his consternation. In ten minutes 
 after, Colonel Sharpe, alias Alfred Stevens, was as talkative 
 as ever as if he had no mortifications to apprehend, no 
 .conscience to quiet : but, when the eyes of Beauchampe and 
 Barnabas were averted, his might be seen to wander to the 
 spot where sat the woman he had wronged ! 
 
 What was the expression in that glance ? What was the 
 secret thought in the dishonorable mind of the criminal ? 
 Though momentary only, that glance was full of intelli 
 gence : but the recognition which it conveyed found no 
 response from hers; though not unfrequently, at such 
 moments as if there were some fascination in his eyes, 
 they encountered those of the person whom they sought, 
 keenly fixed upon them ! 
 
24C 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE BITTER PARLE. 
 
 AND thus, after five long years of separation yearc of 
 triumph on the one hand, years of degradation and despera 
 tion on the other the} 7 met. the destroyer and his victim. 
 The serpent had once more penetrated into the garden. Its 
 flowers had been renewed. Its Eden, for a brief moment, 
 appeared to be restored. If the sunshine was of a subdued 
 and mellowed character, it was still sunshine ! Alas for 
 the woman ! she gazed upon her destroyer, and felt that 
 the whole fabric of her peace was once more in peril. She 
 saw before her the same base spirit which had so profli 
 gately triumphed in her overthrow. She felt, from a single 
 glance, that he had undergone no change. There was an 
 expression in his look, when their eyes encountered, which 
 annoyed her with the familiarity of its recognition. She 
 turned from it with disgust. 
 
 &quot; At all events,&quot; she thought, &quot; he will keep his secret ; 
 he will not willingly incur the anger of a husband. A day 
 will free us from his presence, and the danger will then 
 pass for ever!&quot; 
 
 Filled with doubts, racked with apprehension, but still 
 succored by this hope, the woman yet performed the duties 
 of the household with a stern resoluteness that was ad mi 
 rable. No external tokens of her agitation were to be 
 seen. Her movements were methodical, and free from all 
 precipitation. Her voice, though the tones were low, was 
 
THE BITTER PAIILE. 241 
 
 clear, distinct, and she spoke simply to the purpose. Even 
 her enemy felt, or rather exercised, a far less degree of 
 coolness and composure. His voice sometimes faltered as 
 he gazed upon, and addressed her; and there was, at mo 
 ments, a manifest effort at ease and playfulness, which the 
 ready sense of Beauchampe himself did not fail to discrimi 
 nate. It was something of a startling coincidence that, after 
 fighting with William Calvert about Margaret Cooper, lie 
 should, the very next night, be the favored guest of her 
 husband ! Colonel Sharpe brooded over the fact with some 
 superstitious misgivings ; but the progress of supper soon 
 made him forgetful of his fears, if he had any ; and, before 
 the evening was far advanced, he had recovered very much 
 of his old composure. 
 
 When the supper-things were removed, Mr. Barnabas 
 brought up the subject of horses, in order, as it would seem, 
 to advert to the condition of his favorite roan, which had 
 struck lame that evening on their way from Bowling-Green. 
 The question was a serious one whether he suffered from 
 snag, or nail, or pebble; and the worthy owner concluded 
 his speculations by declaring his wish, at an early moment, 
 to subject the animal to fitting inspection. Beauchampe 
 rose to attend him to the stables. 
 
 &quot; Will you go, colonel ?&quot; asked Mr. Barnabas. 
 
 &quot; Surely not,&quot; was the reply. &quot; My taste does not lie 
 that way. I will remain with Mrs. Beauchampe, in the 
 hope to perfect our acquaintance.&quot; 
 
 The blood rose in the brain of the person spoken of; her 
 heart strove to suppress the rising feeling of indignation. 
 At first, her impulse was to rise and leave the room. But 
 tne next moment determined her otherwise. A single re 
 flection convinced her that there would be no good policy 
 m such a movement that it would be equivalent to a con 
 fession of weakness, which she did not feel ; and she was 
 resolved that her feelings of aversion should not give her 
 er.emy such an advantage over her. 
 
 11 
 
242 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; He must be met, at one time or other ; and perhaps the 
 sooner the issue is over, the better.&quot; 
 
 This reflection passed through her mind in very few sec 
 ouds. They were now alone together. The lantern, which 
 the servant carried before Beauchampe and Mr. Barnabas, 
 was already flickering faintly at a distance as seen through 
 the window-pane beside her, when Colonel Sharpe started 
 from his seat and approached her. 
 
 &quot; Can it be that I again see you, Margaret?&quot; he ex 
 claimed; &quot;have rny prayers been granted am I again 
 blessed with a meeting with one so dearly loved, so long 
 and bitterly lamented ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; You see the wife of Orville Beauchampe, Colonel 
 Sharpe !&quot; was ihe expressive reply. 
 
 &quot;Nay, Margaret, it is my misfortune that you arc his 
 wife, or the wife of any man but one. Hear me for I 
 perceive that you think that I have wronged you 
 
 &quot; Think, sir, think ! but no more of this !&quot; was her in 
 dignant answer, as she rose from her chair and prepared to 
 leave the room ; &quot; it can matter little to you, sir, what my 
 thoughts of your conduct and character may be, as it is 
 now small matter to me what they ever have been. It is 
 enough for you to know that you are the guest of my hus 
 band ; and that, in his ignorance of your crime, lies your 
 only safety. A word from me, sir, brings down his yen- 
 geance upon your head ! You yourself best know whether 
 that is to be feared or not.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But you will not speak that word, Margaret !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Will I not ?&quot; she exclaimed, while a fiery scorn seemed 
 to gather in her eyes. 
 
 &quot; No, Margaret, no ! I am sure you can not. Ecr the 
 sake of the past, you will not.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Be not so sure of that ! It is for the sake of the future 
 that I am silent. Were it for the past only, Alfred Stevens, 
 not only should my lips speak, but my hands act. I should 
 not ask of him to avcntro me : my own arm should right my 
 
THE BITTER PARLE. 243 
 
 wrong ; my own arm should, even now, be uplifted in the 
 work of vengeance, and you should never leave this house 
 alive !&quot; 
 
 He smiled as he replied : 
 
 &quot; I know you better, Margaret. If you ever loved &quot; 
 
 Stay, sir stay, Alfred Stevens if you would not 
 have me so madden as to prove to you how little you have 
 known or can know of me! Do not speak to me in such 
 language. Beware for your own sake, for my sake, I 
 implore you to forbear !&quot; 
 
 &quot;For your sake, Margaret anything for your sake. 
 But be not hasty in your judgment. You wrong me on 
 my soul you do ! If you knew the cruel necessity that kept 
 me from you &quot; 
 
 &quot;0 false!&quot; she exclaimed &quot; false, and no less foolish 
 than false ! Do not hope to deceive me by your base in 
 ventions. I heard all know all ! I know that I was the 
 credulous victim of your subtle arts that my conquest and 
 overthrow was the subject of your dishonest boast.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is false, Margaret ! The villain lied who told you 
 this.&quot; 
 
 &quot;No, Alfred Stevens, no! he spoke the truth. The 
 veracity of the two Ilinkleys was never questioned. But 
 your own acts confirmed the story. Why did you not keep 
 your promise ? why did you fly ? Where have you been for 
 live bitter years, in which I was the miserable mock of those 
 whom I once looked on with contempt the desperate, the 
 fearful wretch on the verge of a madness which, half the 
 time, kept the weapons of death within my grasp which 
 I only did not use upon myself, because there was still a 
 hope that I should meet with you I 1 
 
 &quot; I am here now, Margaret. If my death be necessary 
 to your peace, command it. I confess that I owe you 
 atonement, though I am less guilty than you think. Take 
 my life, if that will suffice : I offer no entreaty ; I utter no 
 complaint.&quot; 
 
244 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 4 One little month go, Alfred Stevens, and you had not 
 needed to make this offer you had not made it a second 
 time in vain. But that time has changed me. Go live ! 
 Leave this house with the morning s sun, and forget that 
 you have ever known me ! Forget, if possible, that you 
 icuow my husband 1 It is for his sake that I spare you 
 for his sake I entreat your silence of the past your utter 
 forgctfulness of him and me.&quot; 
 
 &amp;lt; For his sake, Margaret !&quot; he answered with an incred 
 ulous smile while offering to take her hand. She repulsed 
 him. 
 
 &quot; No, no, Margaret ! it is impossible that this young man 
 can be anything to you. You can not be so forgetful of 
 those dear moments, of that first passion, consecrated as it 
 was by those stolen joys &quot; 
 
 &quot;Remind me not man or devil! remind me not. 
 Remind me not of your crime remind me not of my sworn 
 vengeance sworn, day by day, every day of bitterness and 
 death which I have endured since those dark and damning 
 hours. Hark ye, Alfred Stevens!&quot; her voice here sud 
 denly lowered almost to a whisper &quot; hark ye, you are not 
 a wise man ! You are tempting your fate. You are in the 
 very den of danger. I tell you that I spare your life, though 
 the weapon is shotted though the knife is whetted. I 
 spare your life, simply, on condition that you depart. Lin 
 ger longer than is absolutely needful vex me longer with 
 *hese insolent suggestions and you wake into fury the 
 -lumbering hatred of my soul, which, for five years, has 
 known no moment s sleep till now. See! the light re 
 turns a word a single word more by way of warning 
 depart by the dawn to-morrow. Linger longer, arid you 
 may never depart again !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why, Margaret, this is downright madness !&quot; 
 
 &quot; So it is ; and I am mad, and can not be otherwise than 
 mad, while you remain here. Do you not fear that my 
 madness will turn upon n&amp;lt;] rend you.&quot; 
 
THE UlTTEU I AKLE. 246 
 
 &quot; No !&quot; he said quietly, but earnestly and ia subdued 
 tones, for the light was now rapidly approaching. &quot; No, 
 Margaret, for I can not believe in such sudden changes from 
 love to hate. Besides, if it were true, of what profit would 
 it be to take this vengeance ? It would forfeit all the peace 
 and happiness which you now enjoy !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do I not know it ? Is not this what I would tell you ? 
 Do I not entreat you to spare me, for this very reason ? 
 To rend and destroy you might gratify my vengeance, but 
 it would overthrow the peace of others who have become 
 dear to me. I ask you to spare them to spare me not 
 to provoke me to that desperation which will make me for 
 getful of everything except the wrong I have suffered at 
 your hand and the hate I bear you.&quot; 
 
 u But how do I this, Margaret ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Your presence does it.&quot; 
 
 u I can not think you hate me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ha ! indeed ! you can not ? Do not, I pray you, trust 
 to that. You deceive yourself. You do ! Leave this 
 house with the morrow. Break off your intimacy with 
 Hcauchampc. Forget me ! Look not at me ! Provoke 
 me not with your glance still less with your accents ; for, 
 believe me, Alfred Stevens, I have had but a single thought 
 cilice the day of my dishonor but a single prayer and 
 that- was for the moment and the opportunity when I might 
 wash my hands in your blood. Your looks, your words, 
 revive the feeling within me. Even now I feel the thirst to 
 slay you arising in my soul. I do not speak to threaten. 
 To speak, at all, I must speak this language. I obey the 
 feeling whatever it may be. Let me then implore you, be 
 warned while there is time. Another day, and I may not 
 be able to command myself I can scarcely do so now ; and 
 in doing so, the effort is not made in your behalf not even 
 in my own. It is for him for Beauchampe only. He 
 comes be warned beware -i&quot; 
 
 The approach of the light and the sounds of voices from 
 
246 HKAUCHAMPE. 
 
 without, produced tlicir natural effect. They warned the 
 offender much more effectually than even the exhortation 
 of the woman, stern, vehement, as it was. Nay, he did not 
 believe in the sincerity of her speech. His vanity forbade 
 that, lie could not easily persuade himself of the revolu 
 tion which she alleged her mind to have undergone, in his 
 case, from love to hate ; and was not the man to attach any 
 very great degree of faith to asseverations of such hostility 
 at any time on the part of a creature usually so unstable 
 and capricious as he deemed woman to be. It is certain 
 that what she said had failed to affect him as it was meant 
 to have done. The unhappy woman saw that with an in 
 creased feeling of care and apprehension. She beheld it 
 in the leer of confident assurance which he still continued 
 to bestow upon her even when the feet of Beauchanipe were 
 upon the threshold ; and felt it in the half-whispered words 
 of hope and entreaty with which the criminal closed the 
 conference between them at the same moment. 
 
 Truly bitter was that cup to her at this moment fear 
 ful and bitter ! Involuntarily she clasped her hands, with 
 the action of entreaty, while her eyes once more riveted 
 themselves upon him. A meaning smile, which reawakened 
 all her indignation, answered her, and then the muscles of 
 both were required to be composed and inexpressive, as the 
 husband once mere stood between them. 
 
THE CL1ND iiEEKEU AFTElt FATE. 247 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 
 
 THE necessity of the case brought a tolerable composure 
 to the countenances of both the parties as Beauchampe and 
 his companion re-entered the room. An instant after, the 
 wife left it and hurried up to her chamber. Beauchampe s 
 eye followed her movements curiously. In truth, knowing 
 the dread and aversion which she had avowed, at mingling 
 again in society, he was anxious to ascertain how she had 
 borne herself in the interview with his friend. 
 
 &quot; Truly, Beauchampe,&quot; said the latter, as if in answer to 
 his thoughts, &quot; your wife is a very splendid woman.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! do you like her ? Did she converse freely with 
 you ? She speaks well, but does not like society much.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Very she has a fine majestic mind. Talks admirably 
 well. Did you meet with her here?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes,&quot; said the other, though with some hesitation. 
 &quot; This farm upon which we live is her mother s.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Her mother ! ah ! what was her maiden-name, Beau 
 champe ? I think you mentioned it in your letter, but it es 
 capes me now ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Cookc : Miss Anna Cooke.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Cooke, Cooke I wonder if she is of the Cookes of 
 Sunbury ? I used to know that family.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I think I believe not lam not sure, however. I 
 really can not say.&quot; 
 
 The reply of Bcjiuchampc \vas made with some trcpida 
 
248 BEAUCIIAMPE. 
 
 tion. The inquiry of Sharpc, which had been urged very 
 gravely, aroused the only half-latent consciousness of the 
 husband, who began to feel the awkwardness of answering 
 any more particular questions. Sharpe did not perceive 
 the anxiety of Beaucharupe he was himself too much ab 
 sorbed in the subject of which he spoke. 
 
 &quot; Your wife is certainly a very splendid woman in per 
 son, Beauchampe ; and her mind appears to be original and 
 well informed. But she seems melancholy, Beauchampe ; 
 quite too much so, for a newly-made bride. Eh ! what can 
 be the matter ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; She has had losses misfortunes her mother, too, is 
 an invalid, and she has been compelled to be a watcher for 
 some time past.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And how long have they been neighbors to your mother ? 
 If I recollect, you never spoke of them before ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; You forget, I have been absent from home some years,&quot; 
 replied Beauchampe evasively. 
 
 &quot; True ; I suppose they have come into the neighborhood 
 within that time ? You did not know your wife in boyhood, 
 did you ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No I did not. I never saw her till my present visit. 
 
 &quot; I thought not ! Such a woman is not to be passed over 
 with indifference. Her person must attract and her in 
 tellect must secure and fascinate. I should say no man 
 was ever more fortunate in his choice. What say you, Bar 
 nabas ? We must give Beauchampe a certificate ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I suppose so, if you say so ; but I can only judge of 
 Mrs. Beauchampe by appearances. I have had none of the 
 chat. I agree with you that she is a splendid woman to 
 the eye, and will take your judgment for the rest.* 
 
 u You will be safe in doing so. But how do you find 
 your horse ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Regularly lame. I m afraid the cursed brute s snagged 
 or has a nail in his foot. The quick s touched somehow, for 
 be won t lay the foot to the ground.&quot; 
 
THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER PATE. 249 
 
 &quot; That s bad ! What have you done ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nothing ! We can see to do nothing to-night ; but by 
 the peep of day I must be at him. I must have your help, 
 Beauchampe with your soap and turpentine, and what 
 ever else may be good for such a case ?&quot; 
 
 Beaachampe answered with readiness, perhaps rather 
 pleased than otherwise that the subject should be changed. 
 
 &quot; With your permission, then, I will leave you,&quot; said 
 Barnabas, &quot; and get my sleep while I may. Let your boy 
 waken me at dawn, if you please, for I am really anxious 
 about the animal. He is a favorite a nag among a thou 
 sand.&quot; 
 
 &quot; An every man s nag is,&quot; said Sharpe. &quot; You can al 
 ways tell a born egotist. lie has always the best horse 
 and the best gun, the best ox and the best ass, of any man 
 in the country. He really believes it. But ask Barnabas 
 aboul the best wife, and ten to one he says nothing of his 
 own. He has no boasts, strange to say, about his own rib 
 bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You arc cutting quite too close,&quot; said Barnabas. 
 
 &quot; As near to the quick, in your case, as in that of your 
 nag.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Almost ! but the quick in that region is getting callous.&quot; 
 
 &quot; High time, Barnabas; it has been subject to sufficient 
 Induration.&quot; 
 
 &quot; At all events, I have no dread of your knife ; its edge 
 is quite too blunt to do much hurt. Good-night : try it on 
 Beauchampe. A young man and a young wife I have 
 very little doubt you can find the quick in him with a little 
 probing.&quot; 
 
 The quick in Beauchampe s case had already been found. 
 Good Mr. Barnabas little knew on what delicate ground he 
 was trespassing. 
 
 &quot; A good fellow, that Barnabas,&quot; said Sharpe, &quot; but a 
 dull one. He really fancies, now, that his nag is a crea 
 ture of great blood and bottom; and a more sorry jade 
 
 11* 
 
250 BEAUCHAMI E. 
 
 never paddled to a country muster-ground. He will scarcely 
 sleep to-night, with meditating upon the embrocations, the 
 fomentations, the fumigations, and whatever else may be 
 accessary. But a truce to this, Beauchampe. I have a 
 better subject. Seriously, my dear boy, I have never been 
 more pleasantly surprised than in meeting with your w r ife. 
 Really, she is remarkably beautiful ; and, though she is 
 evidently shy of strangers, yet, as you know I have the art 
 of bringing women out, I may boast of my ability to say 
 what stuff she is made of. She speaks with singular force 
 and elegance. I have never met with equal eloquence in 
 any woman but one.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And who is she ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nay, I can not tell you thai. It is years since I knew 
 her, and she is no longer the same being : but your wife 
 very much reminds me of her.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Was she as beautiful as Anna ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Very near. She was something younger than your 
 wife a slight difference a few years only; but the ad- 
 rantage, if this were any, is compensated by the superior 
 dignity and the lofty character of yours. She I allude to 
 but it matters-not now. Enough that your wife brings 
 her to my mind as vividly as if the real, living presence 
 were before me, whom I once knew and admired, years 
 ago.&quot; 
 
 Thus, with a singular audacity, did Colonel Sharpc dally 
 with this dangerous subject. He did not this perversely 
 with wilful premeditation. It seemed as if he could not 
 well avoid it. Evil thoughts have in them that faculty of 
 perversely impelling the mind and tongue which is pos 
 sessed by intoxicating liquors. At moments, the wily as 
 sassin strove to avoid the subject, but he returned to it 
 again almost the instant nfter, even us one who recoils sud 
 denly from the edge of some unexpected precipice, again 
 and sixain advances once more to iraze, with fascinated 
 vision, down into its dim and -perilous depths. 
 
THE BLIND SEEKKR AFTER FATE. 251 
 
 A like fascination did this subject possess over the mind 
 of Beauchampe. The feeling of confidence, amounting to 
 defiance, which he expressed to his wife, before their guesta 
 had arrived, and whenever the two had spoken of going 
 into the world, no longer seemed to sustain him. The mo 
 ment that a stranger s lip spoke her name, and those inqui 
 ries were made, which- are natural enough in such cases 
 from the lips of friends, about the connections and history 
 of the woman he had married, then did Beauchampe, for 
 the first time, perceive the painful meshes of deception into 
 which the unfortunate events in his wife s life would neces 
 sarily involve his utterance. Yet still, with the restlessness 
 of discontent, did he himself incline his ear to the smallest 
 reference which his companion made to this subject. His 
 pride was excited to hear her praises, and the ra*fner bare 
 faced and bald compliments which had been paid to her 
 intellect and beauty were dear to him as the lover ar.d the 
 worshipper of both. If love be timid, of itself, in the ut 
 terance of culogiurn upon the beauties which it admires, it 
 is equally certain that no subject, from the lips of another, 
 can be more really grateful to its ear. It was perhaps this 
 sort of pleasure which Beauchampe derived from the sub 
 ject, and which made him incline to it whenever his com 
 panion employed it. 
 
 Still, in the language of Mr. Barnabas, there was an oc 
 casional touching of the quick in what Sharpe said, at mo 
 ments, under which his sensibilities winced. It was, there-, 
 fore, with a mixed or rather divided feeling, neither of pain 
 nor pleasure, or a compounded one of both, that Beauchampe 
 conducted his friend to the chamber which was assigned 
 him returning afterward to his own, in a state of mind 
 highly excited, almost feverish dissatisfied with himself, 
 his friend with every person bttt his wife. With her he 
 had no cause of quarrel. No doubt of her, no sense of 
 jealousy, no regret, no apprehension, disturbed that devoted 
 passion which made him resolve, under all circumstances. 
 
2^1 r.KAUrilAMPK. 
 
 to link her with his life. If anything, the effect of the 
 evening s interview was to make him look with e} T es of 
 greater favor upon her taste for privacy, and the life of 
 seclusion in which, up to this period, his moments of supe 
 rior happiness had been known. But this subject docs not 
 concern us now. 
 
 Colonel Sharpe was shown into the same chamber which 
 had been allotted to Mr. Barnabas. In our frontier country, 
 it need scarcely be stated, that the selfishness which insists 
 upon chamber and bed to itself is apt to be practically re 
 buked in a manner the most decided. In some parts, two 
 in a bed would be thought quite a liberal arrangement ; and 
 may well be thought so, when it is known that four or five 
 is not an uncommon number the fifth man being occasion 
 ally placed crosswise, in the manner of a raft-tie, rather, it 
 would seem, to keep the rest from falling out, than with the 
 view to making him unnecessarily comfortable. 
 
 Messrs. Sharpe and Barnabas were too well accustomed 
 to the condition of country -life to make any scruple about 
 that arrangement which placed them in the same apartment 
 and couch ; and, under existing circumstances, the former 
 was rather pleased with it than otherwise. He had scarce 
 ly entered the room before he carefully fastened the door ; 
 listened for the retreating steps of Beauchampe, till they 
 were finally lost ; and, while Barnabas was wondering at, 
 and vainly endeavoring to divine the reason of this mystery, 
 he approached the bed where the other lay, and seated 
 himself upon it. 
 
 &quot; You are not asleep, Barnabas ?&quot; he said in a whisper. 
 
 &quot; No,&quot; replied the other, with tones made rather husky 
 by a sudden tremulousness of the nerves. &quot; No ! what s 
 the matter ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Matter enough the -Strangest matter in the world! 
 Would you believe it, that Margaret Cooper the girl 
 whose seduction was charged upon me by Calvert and 
 Beauehampe s wife are one and the same person !&quot; 
 
THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 2f&amp;gt;3 
 
 &quot; The devil they are !&quot; exclaimed the other, in his sur 
 prise rising to a sitting posture in the bed. 
 
 &quot; True as gospel P 
 
 &quot; Can t be possible, Sharpe !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Possible, and true. They are the same. I have spoken 
 with her as Margaret Cooper ; the recognition is complete 
 on both sides. We talked of nothing else while you and 
 Beauchampe were at the stables.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Great God ! how awkward ! What s to be done ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Awkward ? whore s the awkwardness ? I see nothing 
 awkward about it. On the contrary, I regard this meeting 
 as devilish fortunate. I was never half satisfied to lose her 
 as I did, and to find her again is like finding one s treasure 
 when he had given up the hope of it for ever.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But what do you mean, Sharpe ? Are you really in 
 sensible to the danger ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; What danger ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why, that she ll blow you to her husband !&quot; 
 
 &quot; What wife would do that, d ye think ? No, no, Bar 
 nabas ; she s no such fool ! Of course, she kept her secret 
 when she married him. She ll scarcely blab it now.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But won t this affair of Calvert get to his ears ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;What if it does? It can do no mischief. Had you 
 listened to my examination of Beauchampe but you re a 
 dull fellow, Barnabas ! Didn t you hear me ask what his 
 wife s maiden name was? maiden name, indeed! Did 
 you hear the answer ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Yes he said the name was Cooke.&quot; 
 
 &quot;To be sure he did Ann, or Anna Cooke his Anna! 
 Ha! ha! ha! His Anna &quot; 
 
 &quot; But don t laugh so loud, Sharpe ; they ll hear you and 
 suspect.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Pshaw, you re timid as a hare in December. Don t yo^ 
 see that she has imposed upon him a false name. Let him 
 hear till doomsday of Margaret Cooper and myself, and it 
 brings him not a jol nighcr to the truth. But, of course ; 
 
254 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 you must tell him of my affair with Calvcrt, and give the 
 political version. He can scarce hear any other version 
 from any other source : political hacks will scarcely ever 
 deal in truth when a lie may be had as easily, and can serve 
 their turn as well. We are representatives of our several 
 parties and principles, you know ; treating each other 
 roughlj* too roughly without gloves, and, as usual in 
 such cases, exchanging shots by way of concluding an ill- 
 adjusted argument. There s no danger of anything, but 
 what we please, meeting Beauchampe s ears about this affair 
 with Calvert.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But, by Jove, Sharpe, this is a d d ticklish situation 
 
 to be in. I d rather you were not here in his house. I d 
 rather be elsewhere myself.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You are certainly the most timid mortal. Will you set 
 off to-morrow with your lame horse ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; If he can hobble at all, I will, by Jove ! I don t like 
 the situation we re in at all.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And by Venus, friend Barnabas, if such be your deter 
 mination, you set off alone. I m not going to give up my 
 treasure the moment I find it, for any Beauchampe or Bar 
 nabas of you all. No no! my most excellent, but most 
 apprehensive friend having seen her, how can you think 
 it? But you have neither eyes nor passion. By Heavens, 
 Barnabas, I am all in a convulsion of joy ! I see her before 
 me now those dilating eyes, wild, bright, almost fierce 
 in their brightness, like those of an eagle ; those lips, that 
 brow, and that full and heaving bosom, whose sweets 
 
 &quot; Hush ! you are mad ; if you must feel these raptures, 
 Sharpe, for God s sake say nothing about them. They will 
 hear you in the adjoining room.&quot; 
 
 No no ! it is your silly fears, Barnabas. I am speak 
 ing in a whisper.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I) n such whispers, say I. They can be heard by 
 keen ears half a mile. But you say you spoke with her 
 what did she saj ? Did she abuse you ?&quot; 
 
THE nUND SEKKKIl A FTEII FATK. 2/&amp;gt;( 
 
 &quot;No! indeed!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Is it possible the b -&quot; 
 
 &quot; Hush ! hush ! You do not understand her. Sue did 
 not abuse me, for -of Billingsgate she knows nothing, You 
 must not think of her as of your ordinary town wenches 
 She is too proud for any such proceeding. She threatened 
 me.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ah! How?&quot; 
 
 &quot; With her own vengeance and that of her husband. I old 
 me she had the weapon for me ready sharpened, and the 
 pistol shotted, and had kept them ready for years.&quot; 
 
 &quot; The Tartar ! and what did you say ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Laughed, of course ; and, but for the coming of the 
 lantern and the husband, I should have silenced her threats 
 by stopping her mouth with kisses.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You re a dare-devil, Sharpe, and you ll have your throat 
 cut some day by some husband or other.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Your whiskers will be gray enough before that time 
 comes. You know husbands quite as little as you know 
 wives. Now, as soon as Margaret Cooper began to threaten 
 me, I knew I was safe.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Devilish strange sort of security that.&quot; 
 
 &quot; True and certain, nevertheless. People who threaten 
 much seldom perform. But I have even better security thar 
 this.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What s that ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; She loves me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What ! you think so still, do you ? You re a conceited 
 fellow.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I know it ! That first passion, Barnabas, is the longest 
 lived. You can not expel it. It holds on, it lasts longer 
 than youth. It is the chief memory of youth. It recalls 
 youth, revives it, and revives all the joys which came with 
 youth the bloom, the freshness and the fragrance. Do 
 you think that Margaret Cooper can forget that it was my 
 lips that first gave birth to the passion of love within hei 
 
bosom that first awakened its glow, and taught hci 
 what before she never knew that there were joys still 
 left to earth, which could yet restore all the fabled bliss of 
 Eden? Not easily, mon ami! No, Barnabas the man 
 who has once taught a woman how to love, may be, if he 
 pleases, the perpetual master of her fate. She can not 
 help but love him she must obey and none but a fool or 
 a madman can forfeit the allegiance which her heart will 
 always be ready to pay to his.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I don t know, Sharpe you always talk these thing.; 
 well ; but I can t help thinking that there s danger. There s 
 something in this woman s looks very different from the or 
 dinary run of women.&quot; 
 
 /( She is different, so far as superiority makes her differ 
 ent, but the same nature is hers which belongs to all. Love 
 is the fate that makes or unmakes the whole world of 
 woman.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Maybe so ; but this woman seems as proud, and cold, 
 and stately &quot; 
 
 &quot; Masks, my boy glorious masks, that help to conceal 
 as much fire and passion, and tumultuous love, as ever 
 flamed in any woman s breast.&quot; 
 
 &quot; She awes me with her looks, and if she threatened you, 
 Snarpe, she seems to me the very woman to keep her 
 threats.&quot; 
 
 &quot; If she had not threatened me, Barnabas, I should have 
 probably set out to-night.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It will be a wise step to do so in the morning.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No no ! my dear fellow. Neither you nor I go in the 
 morning. Fortune favors me ! She has thrown in my way 
 the only treasure which I did not willingly throw aside my 
 self, and w r hich I have so long sighed, but in vain, to re 
 cover. Shall I now refuse to pick it up and enshrine it in 
 my breast once more? No no! Barnabas! I am no 
 Ptoic 1 am no such profligate insensible !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why, you don t mean &quot; 
 
THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 257 
 
 The inquiry was conveyed, and the sentence finished by 
 a look. 
 
 &quot; Do I not ! Call me slave, ass, dotard anything that 
 can express contempt if I do not. And hark ye, Barna 
 bas, you must help me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I help you ? I ll be d d if I do ! What ! to have 
 
 this fellow, Beauchampe, slit my carotid ? Never ! never !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Pshaw, you are getting cowardly in your old age.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I tell you this fellow, Beauchampe, is a sort of Mohawk 
 when he s roused.&quot; 
 
 &quot;And I tell you, Barnabas, there s no sort of danger 
 none at least to you. All that you will have to do will be 
 to get him out of the way. You wish to ride round the 
 country I do not. You wish to try the birds nay, he 
 can even get up an elk-hunt for you. He knows that I 
 have no passion for these things, and it will seem natural 
 enough that I should remain at home. Do you take ? At 
 the worst, I am the offender and the danger will be mine 
 only. But there will be no danger. I tell you that Mar 
 garet Cooper has only changed in name. In all other re 
 spects she is the same. There can be no danger if Beau 
 champe chooses to remain blind, and if you will assist me in 
 keeping him so.&quot; 
 
 &quot; 1 don t half like it, Sharpe.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Pshaw ! my good fellow, there s no good reason why 
 you should like or dislike. The simple question is, whether, 
 in a matter which will not affect you one way or the other, 
 you are willing to serve your friend. That is the true and 
 only question. You see for yourself that there can be no 
 danger to you. I am sure there s no danger to anybody. 
 At all events, be the danger what it may, and take you 
 what steps you please, I am resolved on mine. Reconcile 
 to yourself, as you may, the desertion of your friend, in con 
 sequence of a timidity which has no cause whatever of 
 alarm.&quot; 
 
 Sharpe rose at this moment, kicked off his boots, and 
 
258 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 prepared to undress. The effect of a strong will upon & 
 feeble one was soon obvious. Barnabas hesitated stifl, 
 hemmed and .ha d, dilated once more upon the danger, 
 and finally subsided into a mood of the most perfect com 
 pliance with all the requisitions of Inn friend. They carried 
 the discussion still farther into the night, but that is no 
 reason why we should trespass longer upon the sleeping 
 hours of our readers. 
 
THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 26& 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE SERPSNT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 
 
 IT was no difficult matter, in carrying out the design of 
 Sharpe, to send Barnabas abroad the next morning in charge 
 of Beauchampe. Sharpe had a convenient headache, and 
 declined the excursion ; proposing, very deliberately, to the 
 husband, to console himself for Ins absence in the company 
 of the wife. 
 
 The latter was not present when the arrangement was 
 made. It took place at the stables, after breakfast, while 
 they were engaged in the examination of the injured horse 
 of Mr. Barnabas ; and this gentleman, with his cicerone, set 
 forth from the spot, leaving Sharpe, at his own leisure, to 
 return to the house. 
 
 Having seen them fairly off, he did so with the delibera 
 tion of one having a settled purpose. For his reappearance, 
 alone, Mrs. Beauchampe was entirely unprepared. As he 
 entered the room where she was sitting, she rose to leave 
 it, though without any symptoms of haste or agitation. He 
 placed himself between her and the door, and thus effectu 
 ally prevented her egress. 
 
 She fixed her eye keenly and coldly upon him. 
 
 &quot;Alfred Stevens,&quot; she said, &quot;you are trifling with your 
 fate/ 1 
 
 &quot; Call it not trifling, dear Margaret. You arc my fate, 
 and I never was more earnest in mv life. Do not show 
 
J.-J BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 yourself so inflexible. After so long a separation, such 
 coldness is cruel it is unnatural/ 
 
 &quot; You say truly,&quot; she replied ; &quot; I am your fate. I have 
 long felt the persuasion that I would be ; and I had pro- 
 pared myself for it. Still, I would it were not so. 1 would 
 not have your blood either on mine or the hands of Beau 
 cliampc. I implored you last night to spare me this neces 
 sity. It is not yet too late. Trifle not with your destiny 
 waste not the moments which are left you. Perse /ere 
 in this course of madness for a day longer, and you are 
 doomed! Hear me believe &quot;me! I speak mildly and 
 with method. I am speaking to you the convictions of five 
 dreary years.&quot; 
 
 The calm, even, almost gentle manner and subdued ac 
 cents of the woman, had the effect of encouragement rather 
 than of warning to the vain and self-deceiving roue. He 
 was deceived by her bearing. lie was not so profound a 
 proficient as he fancied himself in the secrets of a wo 
 man s heart ; and, firmly persuaded of the notion that he 
 had expressed to Barnabas, in the conversation of the pre 
 vious night, that women are never so little dangerous as 
 when they threaten, he construed all that she said into a 
 sort of ruse de guerre, the more certainly to conceal her 
 real weakness. 
 
 &quot; Come, come, Margaret,&quot; he said, &quot; it is you that trifle, 
 not me. This is no time for crimination and complaint. 
 Let me atone to you for the past. Believe me, you vm&amp;gt;n: 
 me if you suppose I meant to desert you. I was the victim 
 of circumstances as well as yourself circumstances which 
 I can easily explain to you, and which will certainly excuse 
 me for any seeming breach of faith. If you ever loved me, 
 dear Margaret, it will not be difficult to believe what I am 
 prepared to affirm.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I do not doubt, sir, that you are prepared to affirm 
 anything. But I ask VGM neither for proofs nor oaths. 
 Why should you volunteer them unasked, undesired i 1 
 
THE SEKPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 2l&amp;gt;l 
 
 have no wish to make you add a second perjury to the 
 first.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is no perjury, Margaret ; and you must hear me. I 
 claim it for my own justification.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I will not hear you, sir ! If you are so well assured of 
 your justification, let that consciousness content you. I do 
 not accuse I will not reproach you. Go your ways 
 leave me to mine. Surely, surely, Alfred Stevens, it is the 
 least boon that I could solicit at your hands, that, having 
 trampled me to the dust in shame having robbed me of 
 peace and pride for ever you should now leave me, with 
 out further persecution, to the homely privacy which thi 
 rest of my life requires.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do not call it persecution, Margaret. It is love lov 
 only! You were my first love you shall be my last. I 
 can not be deceived, dear Margaret, when I assume that I 
 was yours. We were destined for each other ; and when 
 I recall to your memory those happy hours &quot; 
 
 &quot; Recall them at your peril, Alfred Stevens ! she ex 
 claimed vehemently, interrupting him in the speech ; &quot; recall 
 tli em at your peril ! Too vividly black already are those 
 moments in my memory. Spare me spare yourself! Be 
 ware ! be warned in season ! man ! man ! blind and des 
 perate, you know not how nearly you stand on the brink 
 of the precipice !&quot; 
 
 Be regarded her with eyes full of affected admiration. 
 
 At least, Margaret, whatever may be the falling off in 
 your love, your genius seems to be as fresh and vigorous as 
 ever. There is the same high poetical enthusiasm in your 
 voids and thoughts, the same burning eloquence 
 
 &quot; Colonel Sharpc, these things deceive me no longer. I 
 regard them now as the disparaging mockeries of a subtle 
 and base spirit, meant to beguile and abuse the confidence 
 of a frank and unsuspecting one. I am no longer unsus 
 pecting. 1 am no longer the blind, vain country-girl, whom 
 with ungenerous cunning you could deceive and dishonor 
 
262 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 Shame and grief, which you brought to my dwelling, have 
 taught me lessons of truth and humiliation, if not wisdom. 
 What you say to me now, in the way of praise, does not 
 exhilarate can i:ot deceive me and may exasperate! 
 Once more I say to you, beware !&quot; 
 
 &quot;All, Margaret! are you sure that you do not deceive 
 yourself also in what you say ? Allow that you care noth 
 ing for praise allow that your ear has become insensible 
 to the language of admiration surely it can not be insen 
 sible to that of love.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Love ! your love !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, Margaret my love. You were not insensibb to 
 it once.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I implore you not to remind me !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah, but I must, Margaret. Those moments were too 
 precious to me to be forgotten ; the memory of those joys 
 too dear. Bitter was the grief which 1 felt when compelled 
 to fly from a region in which 1 had taught, and been learned 
 myself, the first true mysteries which I had ever known of 
 love. Think you that I could forget those mysteries 
 those joys ? Oh, never ! nor could you ! On that convic 
 tion my hope is built. Wherever I fled, that memory was 
 with me still. It was my present solace under every diffi 
 culty the sweetening drop in every cup which my iips 
 were compelled to drink of bitter and annoyance. Marga 
 ret, I can not think that you did not love me ; I can not 
 think that you do not love me still. It is impossible that 
 you should have forgotten what we both once knew of rap 
 ture in those dear moments at Charlemont. And having 
 loved me then having given to me the first youthful emo 
 tions of your bosom you surely can not love this Beau- 
 champe. No, no ! love can not be so suddenly exun 
 iruished. The altar may have been deserted ; the nre, 
 untLMided, it may have grown dim ; but it is the sacred fire 
 that can never utterly go out. I can understand, dearest 
 Margaret, that it is proper, that, having formed these new 
 
THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 263 
 
 ties, you should maintain appearances ; but these appear 
 ances need not be fatal to Love, though they may require 
 prudence at his hands. Have no fear that my passion will 
 offend against prudence. No, dearest Margaret, the kiss 
 will be the sweeter now, as it was among the groves of 
 Charlemont, from being stolen in secret/ 7 
 
 She receded a few steps while he was yet speaking, and 
 at the close sunk into a chair. He approached her. She 
 waved him oif in a manner that could not be set at naught. 
 A burning flush was upon her face, and the compression of 
 her lips denoted the strong working of a settled but stilled 
 resolution. She spoke at length : 
 
 &quot; I have heard you to the close, Alfred Stevens. I un 
 derstand you. You speak with sufficient boldness now. 
 Would to God you had only declared yourself thus boldly 
 in the groves of Charlemont! Could I have seen then, as 
 I do now, the tongue of the serpent, and the cloven foot 
 of the fiend, I had not been what I am now, nor would you 
 have dared to speak these accursed words in my ears !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Margaret &quot; 
 
 &quot;Stay, sir! I have heard you patiently. The shame 
 which follows guilt required thus much of me. You shall 
 now hear me !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Will I not, Margaret ? Ah ! though your words con 
 tinue thus bitter, still it is a pleasure to hearken to your 
 words.&quot; 
 
 A keen, quick flash of indignation brightened in her 
 eyes. 
 
 &quot; I suppress,&quot; she said, &quot; I suppress much more than I 
 speak. I will confine my speech to that which seems only 
 accessary. Once more, then, Colonel Sharpe, I understand 
 your meaning. I do not disguise from you the fact that 
 nothing more is necessary to a full comprehension of the 
 foul purposes which fill your breast. But my reply is ready. 
 I can not second them. I hate you with the most bitter 
 loathing. I behold you with scorn and detestation as a 
 
26-i BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 creature equally malignant and contemptible as a villain 
 beyond measure as a coward below contempt as a trai 
 tor to every noble sentiment of humanity having the mal 
 ice of the fiend without his nobleness, and with every char 
 acteristic of the snake but his shape ! Judge, then, for 
 yourself, with what prospect you pursue your purpose with 
 me, when such are the feelings I bear you when such are 
 the opinions which I hold you in.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I can not believe you, Margaret !&quot; and his mortified 
 vanity showed itself in his angry visage. The truth was 
 equally strange and terrible to his ears. 
 
 &quot; God be witness that I speak the truth !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Margaret, it is you that trifle with your fate. If, m 
 truth, you despise my love, you can not surely despise my 
 power. It is now my turn to give you warning. I do not 
 threaten, but beware !&quot; 
 
 She started to her feet, and confronted him with eyes 
 that flashed the defiance of a spirit above all apprehension. 
 
 &quot; Your power ! your power I you give me warning you 
 threaten! Do I rightly hear you? Speak out! I would 
 not now misunderstand you ! No, no ! never again must I 
 misunderstand you ! What is it you threaten ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; You do misunderstand me, Margaret : I do not threaten. 
 I seek to counsel only to warn you that I have power ; 
 and that there can be no good policy in making me your 
 enemy.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You are mine enemy : you have ever been my worst 
 enemy ! Heaven forbid that I should again commit the 
 monstrous error of thinking you my friend !&quot; 
 
 u I am your friend, and would be. Nay, more, in spite 
 of this scorn which you express for me, and which I can 
 not believe, I love you, Margaret, better, far better, than I 
 have ever loved woman. &quot; 
 
 44 You have a wife, Colonel Sharpe ?&quot; 
 
 tk Yes but &quot; 
 
 &quot; And children ?&quot; 
 
THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 265 
 
 u For their sakes I do not plead for myself, nor for 
 you for their sakes, once more I implore you to forbear 
 this pursuit. Persecute me no longer. Do not deceive 
 yourself with the vain belief that I have any feeling for you 
 but that which I now express. I hate and loathe you nay, 
 ain sworn, and again swear, to destroy you, unless you de 
 sist unless you leave me, and leave me for ever!&quot; 
 
 Her subdued tones again deceived him. He caught her 
 hand, as she waved it in the utterance of the last sentence. 
 He carried it to his lips ; but, hastily withdrawing it from 
 his grasp, she smote him upon the mouth in the next in 
 stant, and, as he darted toward her, threw open the drawer 
 of a table which stood within arm s length of her position, 
 and pulling from it a pistol, confronted him with its muzzle. 
 He recoiled, more perhaps with surprise than alarm. She 
 cocked the weapon, thrust it toward him with all the man 
 ner of one determined upon its use, and with the ease and 
 air of one to whom the use of the weapon is familiar. 
 
 There was a pause of a single instant, in which it was 
 doubtful whether she would draw the trigger or not doubt 
 ful even to Sharpe himself. But, with that pause, a more 
 human feeling came to her bosom. Her arm sunk the 
 weapon was suilered to fall by her side, and she said, with 
 faltering voice : 
 
 &quot;Go! I spare you for the sake of the unhappy woman, 
 your wife. Go, sir: it is well for you that I remembered 
 her.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Margaret ! this from you ? 
 
 &quot; And from whom with more propriety ? Know, Alfred 
 Stevens, that this weapon was prepared for you last night; 
 nay, more, that mine is no inexpert hand in its use. For 
 five years, day by day, have I practised this very weapon 
 at a mark, thinking of you only as the object upon whom it 
 was necessary I should use it. Think you, then, what you 
 escape, and return thanks to Heaven that brought to my 
 
 12 
 
266 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 thought, in the very moment when your life hung upon the 
 smallest movement of my finger, the recollection of your 
 wife and innocent children ! Judge for yourself who has 
 most to fear, you or myself.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Still, Margaret, there is a cause of fear which you do 
 not seem to see.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What is that ?&quot; 
 
 &amp;lt;- Not the loss of life, perhaps. That, I can readily im 
 agine, is not likely to be a cause of much fear with a proud, 
 strong-minded woman like yourself. But there arc sub 
 jects of apprehension infinitely greater than this, particu 
 larly to a woman, a wife, and to you more than all your 
 husband !&quot; 
 
 &quot;What of my husband?&quot; 
 
 &quot; A single word from me to him, and where is your peace, 
 your security ? Ha ! am I now understood ? Do you not 
 see, Margaret, do you not feel, that I have power, with a 
 word, more effectually to destroy than even pistol-bullet 
 could do it?&quot; 
 
 &quot;And this is your precious thought!&quot; she said, with a 
 look of bitter, smiling contempt ; kk and, with the baseness 
 which so completely makes your nature, you would lay bare 
 to my husband the unhappy guilt in which, through your 
 own foul arts, my girlish innocence was lost! What a 
 brave treachery would this be !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nay, Margaret, but I do not threaten this. I only de 
 clare what might be the effect of your provoking me beyond 
 patience.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh ! you are moderate very moderate. 1 look on 
 you, Alfred Stevens, from head to foot, and doubt my eyes 
 that tell me I behold a man. The shape is there the outr 
 side of that noble animal, but it is sure a fraud. The beast- 
 fiend has usurped the nobler carcass, himself being all the 
 while unchanged.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Margaret, this scorn &quot; 
 
 &quot; Is due, not less to your fully than your baseness, as yon 
 
THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 267 
 
 will see when I have told you all. Know then, that when 
 1 gave this hand to Orville Beauchampe nay, before it 
 was given to him, and while he was yet at liberty to re 
 nounce it I told him that it was a dishonored hand.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You did not ! You could not !&quot; 
 
 &quot; By the God that hears me, I did. I told him the whole 
 story of my folly and my shame. Oh ! Alfred Stevens, if in 
 truth you had loved me as you professed, you would have 
 known that it was not in my nature to stoop to fraud and 
 concealment at such a time. Could you think that I would 
 avail myself of the generous ardor of that noble youth to 
 suffer him, unwittingly, to link himself to possible shame? 
 No no ! His magnanimity, his love, the warmth of his 
 affections, the loftiness of his soul, his genius all all de 
 manded of me the most perfect confidence ; and I gave it 
 him. I withheld nothing, except, it seems, the true name 
 c 1 &quot; my deceiver !&quot; 
 
 U I can not, believe it, Margaret Beauchampe never 
 would have married you with this knowledge.&quot; 
 
 u On my life, he did. Every syllable was spoken in his 
 ears. Nay, more, Colonel Sharpe and let this be another 
 warning to you to forbear and lly I swore Beauchampe on 
 the Holy Evangelists, ere he made my hand his own, to 
 avenge my dishonor on my betrayer. I made that the con 
 dition of my hand !&quot; 
 
 u And why now would you forbear prosecuting this veil 
 goance ? Why, if you were so resolved upon it why do 
 you counsel me to fly from the danger ? Do you mean to 
 declare the truth to Beauchampe when I am gone ?&quot; 
 
 (i No ! not if you leave me, and promise me never again 
 to seek either me or him.&quot; 
 
 &amp;gt;J no f Margaret, this story lacks probability. I can 
 cot believe it. I am a lawyer, you must remember. These 
 inconsistencies are too strong. You swear your husband 
 on the Holy Evangelists to take my life, and the next mo 
 ment shield me from the danger ! Now, the ferocious hate 
 
2G8 BRAUCHAMPE 
 
 which induced the first proceeding can not be so easily 
 quieted, as in a little month after, to effect the second. 
 The whole story is defective. Margaret it lacks all prob 
 ability.&quot; 
 
 li Be it so. You arc a lawyer, and no doubt a wise one. 
 The story may seem improbable to you, but it is true never 
 theless. However strange and inconsistent, it is yet not 
 unnatural. The human tics which bind me to earth have 
 grown stronger since my marriage, and, for this reason, if 
 lor no other, I would have the hands of my husband free 
 from the stain of human blood, even though that blood be 
 yours ! For this reason 1 have condescended to expostu 
 late with you to implore you ! For this reason do I still 
 implore and expostulate. Leave me leave this house the 
 moment your friend returns. Avoid Bcauchampe as well 
 as myself. There are a thousand easy modes for breaking 
 off an intimacy. Adopt any one of these which shall seem 
 least offensive. Spare me the necessity of declaring to my 
 husband that the victim he is sworn to slay, is the person 
 who has pretended to be his friend.&quot; 
 
 The philosophical poet tells us, that he whom God seeke 
 to destroy he first renders a lunatic. In the conceit of his 
 soul, in the plenitude of his legal subtlety, and with that 
 blinding assurance that he could not lose, by any process, 
 the affections he had once won, Sharpe persisted in believ 
 ing that the story to which he listened, was in truth, noth 
 ing more than an expedient of the woman to rid herself 01 
 the presence and the attentions which she rather feared 
 than disliked, lie neither believed that she had told the 
 truth to Bcauchampe, nor that she loathed him as she had 
 declared. Himself of a narrow and slavish mind / he could 
 not conceive the magnanimity of soul, which, in such a case 
 as that of Margaret Cooper, would declare her dishonor to 
 a lover seeking her hand still less was he willing to be 
 lieve iu the further stretch of magnanimity, on the part o( 
 Beauchampe, in marrying any woman in the teeth of sue. 
 
THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 269 
 
 a revelation. We may add, that, with such a prodigious 
 degree of self-esteem as lie himself possessed, the improba 
 bility was equally great that Margaret should ever cease to 
 regard him with the devotedncss of love. lie had taken 
 for granted that it was through the medium of her affec 
 tions that she became his victim, though all his arts were 
 ,nade to bear upon other characteristics of her moral nature, 
 entirely different from those which belong to the tender 
 passion. A vain man finds it easy to deceive himself, if he 
 deceives nobody else. Here, then, was a string of improb 
 abilities which it required the large faith of a liberal spirit 
 to overcome. Sharpe was not a man of liberal spirit, and 
 such men are usually incredulous where the magnanimity 
 of noble souls is the topic. Small wits are always of this 
 character. Skepticism is their shield and even sevenfold 
 coat-of-mail, and incredulity is the safe wisdom of timidity 
 and self-esteem. Such men neither believe in their neigh 
 bors or in the novel truths which they happen to teach. 
 They pay the penalty in most cases by dying in their blind 
 ness. 
 
 Will this be the case with the party before us V Time 
 will show. At all events, the earnest adjurations of the 
 passionate and full-souled woman were entirely thrown away 
 upon him. What she had said had startled him at first ; 
 but with the usual obduracy of self-esteem, lie had soon 
 recovered from his momentary discomposure. He shook 
 his head slowly, while a smile on his lips declared his 
 doubts. 
 
 No, Margaret, it is impossible that you should have told 
 these things to Beauchampe. I know you better, and I 
 know well that he could never have married you, having a 
 knowledge of the truth. You can not deceive me, Marga 
 ret, and wherefore should you try ? Why would you re 
 ject the love which was so dear to you in Charlemont ; and 
 \iyou can do this, /can not ? I love you too well, Marga 
 ret remember too keenly the delights of our first union 
 
270 BEAUCHAMPE. , 
 
 and will not believe in the necessity that denies that we 
 should meet. No no ! Once found, I will not lose you 
 again, Margaret. You are too precious in my sight. We 
 must see and meet each other often. Beauchampc shall 
 still be my friend his marriage with you has made him 
 doubly dear to me. So far from cutting him, I shall find 
 occasions for making his household a place of my constant 
 pilgrimage ; and do not sacrifice yourself by vain opposition 
 to this intimacy. It will do no good and may do harm. I 
 can make his fortune ; and 1 will, if you will hear reason. 
 But you must remove to Frankfort be a dutiful wife in 
 doing so ; and for this passion of revenge believe that 
 I was quite as much afflicted as yourself by the necessity 
 that tore us asunder as was the truth and you will for 
 give the involuntary crime, and forget everything but the 
 dear delights of that happy period. Do you hear me, Mar 
 garet you do not seem to listen !&quot; 
 
 She regarded him with a countenance of melancholy 
 scorn, which seemed also equally expressive of hopelessness 
 and pity. It seemed as if she was at a loss which senti 
 ment most decidedly to entertain. Looking thus, but ir, 
 perfect silence, she rose, and taking the pistol from the 
 table where it had lain, she advanced toward the door of 
 the apartment. lie would have followed her, but .she 
 paused when at the door, and turning, said to him : 
 
 &quot; If I knew, Colonel Sharpe, by what form of oath I 
 could make you believe what I have said, I would assev 
 erate solemnly its truth. I am anxious for your sake, for 
 my sake, and the sake of my husband, that you should be- 
 iieve me. As God will judge us all, I have spoken nothing 
 but the truth. I would save you, and spare myself the 
 necessity of any further revelations. Life is still dear to 
 me peace is everything to me now. It is to secure this 
 peace that I suppress my ieehngs that I still implore you 
 to listen to me and to believe. Be merciful. Spare me 1 
 Spare yourself. Propose any form of oath which you con 
 
THE SEHPENT AT HIS Ot^D SUBTLETIES. 271 
 
 sider most solemn, most binding, and I will repeat it on my 
 knees, in confirmation of what I have said ! for on my soul 
 I have spoken nothing but the truth !&quot; 
 
 He laughed and shook his head, as he advanced to where 
 she stood. 
 
 &quot; Nay, nay, Margaret the value of oaths in such cases 
 is but small. No form of oath can be very binding. Jove, 
 you know, laughs at the perjuries of lovers ; and if we are 
 lovers no longer which I can not easily believe the 
 business between us, is so certainly a lover s business, that 
 Jove will laugh none the less at the vows we violate in car 
 rying it on. You take it too seriously, Margaret it is 
 you that are not wise. You can not deceive me you are 
 wasting labor.&quot; 
 
 She turned from him mournfully, with a single look, and 
 in another moment was gone from sight. 
 
^EAUCHAMPR. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 DOOMED. 
 
 MB. BARNABAS and Beauchampe returned from their 
 morning ride in excellent spirits ; but there was some anx 
 iety and inquiry in the look of the former as his eye sought 
 that of his confederate. He gathered little from this scru 
 tiny, however, unless it were the perfect success of the 
 latter in the prosecution of his criminal object. The face 
 and manner of Colonel Sharpe wore all the composure and 
 placid satisfaction of one equally at peace with all th6 
 world and his own conscience. His headache had sub 
 sided. He seemed to have nothing on his mind to desire 
 or to regret. 
 
 &quot; Lucky dog !&quot; was the mental exclamation of his satel 
 lite. &quot; He never fails in anything he undertakes, lie doc? 
 as he pleases equally with men and women.&quot; 
 
 Beauchampe had his anxieties also, which were a little 
 increased as he noted a greater degree of sadness on his 
 wife s countenance than usual. But his anxiety had no 
 relation whatever to the real cause of fear to the real 
 source of that suffering which appeared in her looks. Not 
 the slightest suspicion of evil from his friend Colonel Sharpe 
 had ever crossed his mind, even for an instant. 
 
 Dinner came off, and Colonel Sharpe was in his happiest 
 vein. His jests were of the most brilliant order ; but, un 
 less in the case of Mr. Barnabas, his humcr was not conta- 
 
DOOMED. 273 
 
 gious. Mrs. Beauchampo scarcely secured to hear what 
 was addressed to her; and Bcauchampe, beholding the 
 increasing depth of shade on his wife s countenance, neces 
 sarily felt a corresponding anxiety, which imparted similar 
 shadows to his own. 
 
 At dinner, Mr. Barnabas said something across the table 
 to his companion, in reference to the probable time of de 
 parture. 
 
 &quot; What say you shall we ride to-morrow?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why, how s your nag ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Better ; not absolutely well, but able to go, when going 
 homeward. * 
 
 &quot; You may go,&quot; said Sharpe, abruptly ; &quot; but I shall make 
 a week of it with Beauchampc. The country, you say, is 
 worth seeing, and there may be votes to be won by showing 
 one s self. I see no reason even for you to hurry ; and I 
 dare say Beauchainpe s hospitality will scarcely complain 
 of our trespass for two days longer.&quot; 
 
 The speaker looked to Beauchampe, who, as a matter of 
 course, professed his satisfaction at the prospect of keeping 
 his friends. The eye of Sharpe glanced to the face of the 
 lady. A dark-red spot was upon her forehead. She met 
 the glance of her enemy, and requited it with one of deep 
 significance; then, rising from the table, at once left the 
 apartment. 
 
 The things were removed, and Mr. Barnabas, counselled 
 by a glance from his companion, proposed to Beauchampo 
 to explore the farm. 
 
 &quot;I can t bear the house when I can leave it that id, 
 when I m in the country. A country-house seems to me an 
 intolerable bore. Won t you go, Sharpe?&quot; 
 
 But the person addressed had already disposed himself 
 in the rocking-chair, as if for the purpose of taking a nap. 
 He answered, drowsily : 
 
 &quot; No, no, Barnabas ; take yourself off! I would enjoy my 
 siesta merely. With you, I should be apt to sleep soundly 
 
274 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 Take him off, Beauchampe, and suffer me to make myself 
 at home.&quot; 
 
 &amp;lt; Oh, certainly, if you prefer it.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I do! I take the world composedly detest sight 
 seeing, and believe in Somnus. This habit of mine keeps 
 me out of mischief, into which Barnabas is for ever falling 
 Away, now. my good boys, and enjoy the world and one 
 another !&quot; 
 
 The roue was alone. Ten minutes had not passed, when 
 Mrs. Beauchampe re-entered the apartment. This was an 
 event which Colonel Sharpe had scarcely anticipated. He 
 had remained, simply to be in the way of what he would 
 esteem some such fortunate chance ; hoped for it; and, be 
 lieving that the lady was playing only a very natural femi 
 nine game, did not think it improbable that the desired 
 opportunity would be afforded him. So early a realization 
 of his wishes was certainly unexpected not undesired, 
 however. The surprise was a pleasurable one, and he 
 started into instant vivacity on her appearance, rising from 
 his seat and approaching her with extended hand as if to 
 conduct her to it. 
 
 &quot; Stay, Colonel Sharpe ! I come but for a moment.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do not say so, Margaret/ 1 
 
 &quot; A moment, sir, will suffice for all that I purpose. You 
 speak of remaining here till the close of the week ? Now, 
 hear me ! Your -horses must lie saddled after breakfast to 
 morrow. You must then depart. I must hear you express 
 this determination when we meet at the breakfast-table. If 
 you do not, sir on the word of a woman whom you have 
 made miserable, and still keep so, I shall declare to Mr. 
 Beauchampe the whole truth ! 
 
 &quot; What ! expel mo from your house, Margaret ? No, no ! 
 I as little believe you can do this as do the other. This, 
 my dear girl, is the merest perversity !&quot; 
 
 He offered to take her hand. She recoiled. 
 
 &quot; Colonel Sharpe, your unhappy vanity deceives yon 
 
DOOMED. 276 
 
 What do you see in my looks, my conduct, to justify these 
 doubts of what I say, or this continued presumption on your 
 part ? Do I look the wanton ? do I look the pliant damsel 
 whose grief is temporary only which a smile of deceit, or 
 a cunning word, can dissipate in a moment ? Look at me 
 well, sir. My peace, and your life, depend upon the wis 
 dom which Heaven at this moment may vouchsafe you. Oh, 
 sir, be not blind ! See, in these wobegonc cheeks and eyes, 
 nothing but the misery, approaching to despair, which my 
 bosom feels ! See, and be warned ! You can not surely 
 doubt that I am in earnest. For the equal sake of your 
 body and soul, I implore you to believe me !&quot; 
 
 Cassandra never looked more terribly true to her utter 
 ance to the awful predictions which her lips poured forth 
 but, like Cassandra, Margaret Cooper was fated not to 
 be believed. The unhappy man, blinded by that flattering 
 self-esteem which blinds so many, was insensible to her 
 expostulations to the intense wo, expressing itself in 
 loclss of the most severe majesty, of her highly-expressive 
 countenance. 
 
 The effect of her intensity of feeling was to elevate the 
 style of her beauty, and this was something against the 
 success of her entreaty. Vain and dishonorable as lie was, 
 Slxarpc gazed on her with a sincere admiration. Unhap 
 pily, he was not one to venerate. That refining agent of 
 moral worship was wanting to his heart: and in its place a 
 selfish lust after she pleasures of the moment was the only 
 divinity which he had set up. 
 
 It would be idle to repeat his answer to the imploring 
 prayer of the half-distracted woman. He had as little 
 generosity as veneration : he could not forbear. His mind 
 had become indexible, from the too frequent contemplation 
 of itr, lusts ; and what he said was simply what might have 
 been said by any callous, clever man, who, in the prosecu 
 tion of a selfish purpose, regards nothing but the end in 
 view. He answered with pleasantry that ve which was 
 
276 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 so much more expressively shown in her looks than in her 
 utterance. Pleasantry at such a moment ! pleasantry 
 addressed to that painfully-excited imagination, whose now- 
 familiar images were of death, and despair, and blood ! She 
 answered him by clasping her hands together. 
 
 &quot; We are doomed ! she exclaimed, while a groan forced 
 its way, at the close of her sentence, as if from the very 
 bottom of her heart. 
 
 &quot;Doomed, indeed, Margaret! How very idle, unless 
 you doom us !&quot; 
 
 &quot; And I do ! You are doomed, and doomed by me, Al 
 fred Stevens, unless you leave this house to-morrow !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Be sure I shall do no such thing !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Your blood be upon your own head ! I have warned 
 you, counselled you, implored you I can do no more!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, Margaret, you can persuade me, beguile rne, ri ub 
 due rne make me your captive, slave, worshipper, every 
 thing as you have done before by only lovine MS as 
 you did then. Be not foolish and perverse. Come to me : 
 let us renew those happy hours that we knew in Charlo- 
 montj when you had none of these gloomy notions to affright 
 others and to vex yourself with !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Fool ! fool ! Blind and vain ! Wita sense neither to 
 see nor to hear ! Alfred Stevens, there is yet time ! But 
 the hours are numbered. God be merciful, so that they be 
 not yours ! We meet at the table to-morrow morning for 
 the last time.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Stay, Margaret !&quot; he exclaimed, seeing her about to 
 leave the room. 
 
 &quot; To-morrow morning for the last time !&quot; she repeated, 
 as she disappeared from sight. 
 
 &quot;Devilish strange! But they are all so perverse as 
 the devil himself! There is nothing to be done here by 
 assault. We must have time, and make our approaches 
 with more caution. My desertion sticks in her gorge. I 
 must mollify her on that score. Work slowly, but surely 
 
DOOMED. 277 
 
 I have been too bold too confident. I did not make suf 
 ficient allowances for her pride, which is diabolically strong. 
 I must ply her with the sedatives first. But one would 
 have thought that she had sufficient experience to have 
 taken the thing more coolly. As for her blabbing to Beau- 
 champe, that s all in my eye ! No, no, you can not terrify 
 me by such a threat. I am too old a stager for that : nay, 
 indeed, how much of your wish to drive me off arises from 
 your dread that / shall blab ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! but you too 
 shall be safe from that. My policy is c mum, like your 
 own. To be frightened off by such a threat would prove a 
 man as sorry a fool as coward. We shaVt go to-morrow, 
 fair Mistress Margaret, doom or no doom ! 
 
 Such were the muttered meditations of Colonel Sharpe 
 after Mrs. Beauchampe had left him. Perhaps they were 
 such as would be natural to most men of the same charac 
 ter. His estimate of the woman, also, was no doubt a very 
 just estimate of the ordinary woman of the world, placed 
 in similar circumstances, after having committed the same 
 monstrous and scarcely remediable lapse from virtue and 
 place. 
 
 But we have shown that Margaret Cooper was no ordi 
 nary woman! He knew that, himself; but he did not be 
 lieve her equal to the purpose which she threatened, nor 
 did he believe her when she informed him of the magnani 
 mous course which she had already pursued in relation to 
 Beaucliampe. Could he have believed that, indeed ? 
 
 But it was not meant that he should believe. The des 
 tiny that shapes our ends was not to be diverted in his case. 
 ds his victim had declared, with solemn emphasis, on leav 
 ing him, he was, indeed, doomed doomed doomed! 
 
278 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 BITTER TEARS -OF PREPARATION. 
 
 WE pass, with hurried progress, over the proceedings of 
 that night. The reader will please believe that Colonel 
 Sharpe was, as usual, happy in his dialogue, and fluent in 
 his humor. Indeed, by that strange contradiction in the 
 work of destiny, which sometimes so arranges it that death 
 does the work of tragedy in the very midst of the marriage 
 merriment, the spirits of the doomed man were never more 
 elastic and excitable than on that very night. He and 
 Barnabas kept his host, till a late hour, from his couch. 
 The sounds of their laughter penetrated the upper apart 
 ments, and smote mournfully upon the ears of the unhappy 
 wife, to whom all sounds, at that moment, came laden with 
 the weight of wo. One monotonous voice rang through her 
 senses and the house, as in the case of Macbeth, and cried, 
 u Sleep no more!&quot; Such, at least, was the effect of the 
 cry upon her. Precious little had been her sleep, in that 
 house, from the moment that bad man entered it. Was she 
 ever to sleep again ? She herself believed not. 
 
 The guests at length retired to their chamber, and Beau 
 chainpc sought his. At his approach, his wife rose from 
 her knees. Poor, striving, struggling, hopeless heart! she 
 had been laboring to beat down thought, and to wrestle 
 with prayer. But thought mingled with prayer, and ob 
 tained the mastery. Such thoughts, too such thoughts 
 \&amp;gt;f the terrible necessity before her ! 
 
E. JIKJi TEUfcj OF PREPARATION. 279. 
 
 Oh, bow criminal was the selfish denial of that man! 
 Life had become sweet and precious. Her husband had 
 grown dear to her in proportion as he convinced her that 
 she was dear to him. Permitted to remain in their obscu 
 rity, life might still be retained, and would continue, with 
 length of days, to become more and more precious. But 
 the destroyer was there, unwilling to spare unwilling to 
 forego the ravages ho had ocgun. Not to tell her husband 
 the whole truth to li^ien to the criminal any longer with 
 out denouncing him would, not only be to encourage him 
 in his crime, but to partake of it. If he remained another 
 day, she was bound by duty, and sworn before the altar, to 
 declare the truth ; and the truth, once told, was only an 
 other name for utter desolation blood upon the hands, 
 deatli upon the soul ! With such thoughts, prayer was not 
 possible. But she had striven in prayer, and that was 
 something. Nay, it was something gained, even to think 
 in the position of humility upon her knees. 
 
 She rose, when she heard her husband approach took 
 a book, and seating herself beside the toilet, prepared to 
 read. She composed her countenance, with a very decided 
 effort of will, so as to disperse some of the storm-clouds 
 which had been hanging over it. Her policy was, at pres 
 ent, not to alarm her husband s suspicions, if possible, in 
 relation to her guests. It might be that Sharpe would 
 grow wiser with the passage of the night. Sleep, and 
 quiet, and reflection, might work beneficial results; and if 
 he would only depart with the morning, she trusted to time 
 and to her own influence over Beauchampe, to break off the 
 intimacy between the parties without revealing the fatal 
 truth. 
 
 &quot;What! not abed, Anna ?&quot; said Beauchampe. &quot;It is 
 late ; do yon know the hour ! It is nigh one !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Indeed, but I am not sleepy.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I am ; what with riding and rambling with Barnabas I 
 am completely knocked up Besides, he is such a dull fel 
 
280 HEAOCHAMPt:. 
 
 low. Now Shaipe has wit, humor, and other resources, 
 which make a man forgetful of the journey and the progress 
 of time.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Has Colonel Sharpe said anything about going?&quot; de 
 manded the wife with some abruptness. 
 
 Yes&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah !&quot; with some eagerness &quot; when does he go ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; At the close of the week. He is disposed to see some 
 thing of the neighborhood.&quot; 
 
 She drew a long breath, scarcely suppressing the deep 
 sigh which struggled for utterance ; and once more fixed 
 her eyes on the book. It need not be said that she read 
 nothing. 
 
 &quot; Come to bed, dearest,&quot; said Beauchampe tenderly ; &quot; you 
 hurt your eyes by night reading. They have been looking 
 red all day.&quot; 
 
 She promised him, and, overcome with fatigue, the hus 
 band soon slept, but the wife did not rise. For more than 
 two hours she sat, the book still in her hands ; but her 
 eyes were unconscious of its pages, her thoughts were not 
 in that volume. She thought only of that coming morrow, 
 and the duties and dangers which its coining would involve. 
 She was seeking to steel her mind with the proper resolu 
 tion, and this was no easy effort. 
 
 Imagine the task before her and the difficulty in the 
 way of acquiring the proper hardihood will easily be under 
 stood. Imagine yourself preparing for the doom which is 
 to follow in twelve hours ; and conjecture, if you can, the 
 sort of meditations which will come to you in that dreary 
 but short interval of time. Suppose yourself in health, too 
 - -young, beautiful, highly endowed, intensely ambitious, 
 with the prospect if those twelve hours can be passed in 
 safety of love, long life, happiness, and possibly, &quot; troops 
 of friends&quot; all before you, smiling, beckoning, entreating 
 in the sunny distance ! Imagine all this in the case of thai 
 proud, uobje-heartcd, most lovely, highly intellectual, but 
 
BITTER TEAKS OP PREPARATION. U51 
 
 wo-environed woman, and you will not wonder that she did 
 not sleep. Still less will it be your wonder that she could 
 not pray. Life and hope were too strong for sufficient hu 
 mility. The spirit and the energy of her heart were not yet 
 sufficiently subdued. 
 
 Dreary was the dismal watch she kept still in the one 
 position. At length her husband moved and murmured in 
 his sleep. In his sleep he called her name, and coupled 
 with it an endearing epithet. Then the tide flowed. The 
 proper chords of human feeling were stricken in her heart. 
 The rock gushed. It was stubborn no longer. But the 
 waters were bitter, though the relief was sweet. Bitter 
 were the tears she wept, but they were tears, human tears ; 
 and like the big drops that relieve the heat of the sky and 
 disperse its unbreathing vapors, they took some of the 
 mountain pressure from her heart, and left her free to 
 breathe, and hope, and pray. 
 
 She rose and stepped lightly beside the bed where Bcau- 
 chainpe slept. She hung over him. Still he murmured in 
 his sleep. Still he spoke her name, and still his words 
 were those of tenderness and love. Mentally she prayed 
 above him, while the big drops fell from her eyes upon the 
 pillow. One sentence alone became audible in her prayer 
 that sentence of agonizing apostrophe, spoken by the 
 Savior in his prescience* of the dreadful hour of trial which 
 was to come : &quot; If them be willing, Father, let this cup pass 
 by me !&quot; 
 
 She had no other prayer, and in this vain and useless 
 repetition of the undirected thoughts, she passed a sad and 
 comfortless night. But she had been gaining strength. A 
 stern and unfaltering spirit it matters not whence derived 
 came to her aid, and with the return of sunrise she arose, 
 with a solemn composure of soul, prepared, however gloom 
 ily, to go forward in her terrible duties. 
 
282 BEAUCHAMT*. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE BOLT SPED. 
 
 BEAUCHAMPE rose refreshed and more cheerful than usual. 
 The plans for the day, which had been discussed by him 
 self and friends the previous night, together with the lively 
 dialogue which had made them heedless of the progress of 
 the hours, were recalled to his memory, and he rose with 
 an unwonted spirit of elasticity and humor. 
 
 But the lively glance of his eye met no answering pleas- - 
 ure in that of his wife. She was up before him. He did 
 not dream that she had not slept that for half the night 
 she had hung above his sleep engaged in mental prayer that 
 such slumbers might still be spared to him, even if the 
 dreary doom of such a watch was still allotted to her. lie 
 gently reproached her for the settled sadness in her looks, 
 and she replied only by a sigh. He did not notice the in 
 tense gleams which, at moments, issued from her eyes, or 
 lie .might have guessed that some terrible resolution was 
 busy working at the fiery forge within her brain. Could he 
 guess the sort of manufacture going on in that dangerous 
 workshop ? But he did not. 
 
 The party was assembled at the breakfasMable ; and, as 
 if with a particular design to apprize Mrs. Beauchampe, that 
 her warnings were not heeded, Colonel Sharpe dwelt with 
 great deliberation upon the host modes before them of con 
 suming the rest of the \vetk with profit. 
 
THE BOLT SPED. 283 
 
 &quot; What say you, Beauchampe, to a morning at your 
 friend Tiernan s he will give us arouse, I m thinking; 
 the next day with Coalter, and Saturday, what ho! for an 
 elk-hunt ! at all events, Barnabas must go to Coalter s he s 
 a client of his, arid will never forgive the omission ; and it 
 is no less important that you should give him the elk-hunt 
 also ; he has a taste for hard riding, and it will do him 
 good. He s getting stoutish, and a good shaking will keep 
 his bulk within proper bounds. Certainly, he must have an 
 elk-hunt.&quot; 
 
 A like reason will make it necessary that you should 
 chare it also, colonel,&quot; said Beauchampe. &quot;You partake, 
 in similar degree, of the infirmity of flesh which troubles 
 Mr. Barnabas.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, ay, but I am no candidate for the red-hat, which is 
 the case with Bamaba3&amp;gt; and which the conclave will reli- 
 gj.ously refuse to a man with a corporation.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But you are after the seat of attorney-general,&quot; said 
 Mr. .Barnabas, with the placable smile of dullness. 
 
 u Granted ; and for such an office a good corporation may 
 be considered an essential, rather than anything else. It 
 confers dignity, Hal. Now, the red-hatted gentry of tho 
 club are not expected to be dignified. The humor of the 
 thing forbids it ; and as a candidate for that communion, 
 it is necessary that you should live on soup maigre, and 
 seek the chase with hawk and hound, as Earl Percy did. 
 Besides, Beauchampe, he has a passion for it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I a passion for it ?&quot; said Barnabas. 
 
 ; Yes, to be sure what were all those stories yon used 
 to tsll us of hunting in Tennessee ; stories that used to set our 
 hair on end at your hairbreadth escapes. Either we must 
 suppose you to have grown suddenly old and timid, or we 
 must suppose, that, in telling those stories of your prowess, 
 you were amusing us with some pleasant fictions. That s 
 a dilemma for you, Barnabas, if you disclaim a passion for 
 jm elk-huut now.&quot; 
 
284 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 * No ! by Jupiter, I told you nothing but the truth,&quot; said 
 Barnabas, solemnly. 
 
 &quot; \ believe it,&quot; said Sharpe, with equal solemnity, &quot; 1 
 oelicvc it, and believe that the-passion continues.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well,&quot; said the other, &quot; I can t altogether deny that it 
 does, but it lias been somewhat cooled by other pursuit? 
 and associations.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It must be warmed again,&quot; responded Sharpe ; &quot; rcincm- 
 oer, Beauchampc, be sure to make up a party for Saturday.&quot; 
 
 &quot; We include you in it? asked Beauchampe. 
 
 &quot; Ay, ay if I happen to be l i the vein. But, you 
 know, like Corporal Nym,rm a person of humors. I may 
 not have the fit upon me, or I may have some other nt ; and 
 may prefer remaining at home to read poetiy with our fair 
 hostess.&quot; 
 
 The speaker glanced significantly at Mrs. Beauchampe 
 as he said these words. Their eyes encountered. Hers 
 wore an expression of the soberest sadness. As if pro 
 voked by the speech and the glance, she said, in the most 
 deliberate language, while her look was full of the most 
 rebukeful and warning expression: 
 
 &quot; I thought you were to leave this morning for Frank 
 fort, Colonel Sharpe. I derived that impression somehow 
 from something that was said last evening.&quot; 
 
 Beauchampe turned full upon his wife with a**stern look 
 of equal astonishment and inquiry. Mr. Barnabas was 
 aghast ; and Colonel Sharpe himself for a moment lost his 
 equilibrium, and was speechless, while his eyes looked the 
 incertitude which he felt. He was the first, however, to 
 recover ; and, with a sort of legal dexterity, assuming as 
 really having been his own the determination which she had 
 suggested as being rrade by him, he replied : 
 
 &quot; True, my dear madam, that was my purpose yesterday ; 
 but the kind entreaties of our host, ani the pleasant project? 
 which we discussed last night, peiS iaded me to yield to the 
 temptation, and to otay till Sunday.&quot; 
 
THE BOLT SPED. 285 
 
 The speaker bowed politely, and returned the severe 
 glance of the lady with a look of mingled conciliation and 
 doubt. For the first time, he began to feel apprehensive 
 that lie had mistaken her, and perhaps himself. She was a 
 woman of prodigious strength of soul, indomitable resolu 
 tion, and the courage of a gigantic man. Never did words 
 proceed more deliberately, more evenly, from human lips, 
 than did the reply from hers : 
 
 &quot; That can not be, Colonel Sharpe. It is necessary that 
 you should keep your first resolution. Mr. Beauchampe 
 can no longer accommodate you in his dwelling.&quot; 
 
 &quot; How, Mrs. Beauchampe !&quot; exclaimed the husband, 
 starting to his feet, and confronting her. She had risen 
 while speaking, and was preparing to leave the room. She 
 looked on him with a countenance mournful and humble 
 very different from that which she wore in addressing the 
 other. 
 
 &quot; Speak, Anna say, Mrs. Beauchampe !&quot; exclaimed the 
 husband, &quot;what does this mean? This to my guests to 
 my friend !&quot; 
 
 &quot; He is not your friend, Beauchampe nor mine! But 
 let me pass I can not speak here !&quot; 
 
 She left the room, and Beauchampe, with a momentary 
 glance at Sharpe, full of bewilderment, hurried after his 
 wife. 
 
 &quot; What s this, Sharpe, in the devil s name ?&quot; demanded 
 Barnabas in consternation. 
 
 &quot; The devil himself, Barnabas !&quot; said Sharpe. &quot; I m afraid 
 the Jezebel means to blow me, and tell everything !&quot; 
 
 &quot; But you told me last night that all was well and going 
 right.&quot; 
 
 &quot; So I thought ! I fear I was mistaken ! At all events, 
 I must prepare for the worst. Have you any weapons 
 about you ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; My dirk !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Give it me : my pistols are in the saddle-bags.&quot; 
 
286 BEAUCHAMPE 
 
 &quot; But what shall I do ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; You are in no danger. Give me the dirk, and hurry 
 out and have our horses ready. D n the woman ! who 
 could have believed it ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah, you re always so sanguine !&quot; began Barnabas ; but 
 the other interrupted him : 
 
 &quot; Pshaw ! this is no time for lecturing. Your wisdom is 
 eleventh-hour wisdom ! It is too late here. Hurry, and 
 prepare yourself and the horses, while I go to the room and 
 get the saddle-bags ready. If I am blown, my start can 
 not be too sudden.&quot; 
 
 Barnabas, always pliant, disappeared instantly ; and 
 Sharpe, concealing the dirk in his bosom, with the handle 
 convenient to his clutch, found himself unpleasantly alone. 
 
 &quot; Who the d 1 could have thought it ? What a woman ! 
 But it may not be as bad as I fear. She may invent some 
 thing to answer the purpose of getting me off. She cer 
 tainly can not tell the whole. No, no ! that would be to 
 suppose her mad. And mad she may be : I had not thought 
 of that ! Now, I think of it, she looks cursedly like an 
 insane woman. That wild, fierce gleam of her eye those 
 accents and, indeed, everything since I have been here! 
 Certainly, had she not been mad, it must have been as I 
 wished. I could not have been deceived never was de 
 ceived yet by a sane woman ! It must be so ; and, if so, 
 it is possible that she may blurt out the whole. I must be 
 prepared. Beauchampe s as fierce as a vulture when roused. 
 I ve seen that in him before. I must get my pistols 
 though, in going for them, I may meet him on the stairs. 
 Well, if I do, I am armed ! He is scarcely more powerful 
 than myself. Yet I would not willingly have him grapple 
 with me, if only because he is her husband. The very 
 thought of her makes me half a coward ! And yet I must 
 be prepared. It must be done !&quot; 
 
 Such were his reflections. lie advanced to the entrance. 
 The footsteps of Beauchninpe wore heard rapidly striding 
 
THE BOLT SPED. 287 
 
 across the chamber overhead. The crimL ^ recoiled as he 
 heard them. A tremor shot through his limbs. He clutched 
 the dagger in his bosom, set his teeth firmly, and waited for 
 a moment at the entrance. 
 
 The sounds subsided above. Tie thrust his head through 
 the doorway, into the passage, and leaned forward in the 
 act of listening. The renewed silence which now prevailed 
 in the house gave him fresh courage. He darted up the 
 steps, sought his chamber, and with eager, trembling hands 
 caught up and examined his pistols. Both were loaded, 
 and he thrust them into the pockets of his coat; then seiz 
 ing his own and the saddle-bags of his companion, he darted 
 out of the chamber, and down the stairs, with footsteps 
 equally light and rapid. 
 
 Once more in the hall, and well armed, he was more 
 composed, but as little prepared, morally, for events as 
 before. There was a heavy fear upon his spirit. The con 
 sciousness of guilt is a terrible queller of one s manhood. 
 He waited impatiently for the return of Barnabas. At 
 such a moment, even the presence of one whocc Ha esti 
 mated rather humbly, and witli some feeling:: of contempt, 
 was grateful to his enfeebled spirit ; and the appearance of 
 the horses at the door, and the return of his friend, had 
 the etlect of re-enJiTening him to a degree which made him 
 blush lor the feeling of apprehension which he had so lately 
 entertained. 
 
 &quot;All s ready! will you ride?&quot; demanded Barnabas, 
 picking up his saddle-bags. The worthy coadjutor was by 
 no means audacious in his courage. Sharpe hesitated. 
 
 &quot; It may be only a false alarm, after all,&quot; said he ; &quot; wo 
 had better wait and see.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I think not,&quot; said the former. &quot; There was no mista 
 king the words, and as little the looks. She s a very reso 
 lute woman.&quot; 
 
 Colonel Sharpe was governed by the anxieties of guilt 
 as well as its fears. The painful desire to hear and 
 
288 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 to what extent the revelations of the wife had gone- a 
 half confidence that all would not be told that some loop 
 hole would be left for retreat and the further conviction 
 that, at all events, whatever was the nature of her story to 
 her husband, it was quite as well that he should know it at 
 one moment as another encouraged him to linger; and 
 tli is resolve, with the force of an habitual will, he impressed 
 upon his reluctant companion. 
 
 Leaving them to their suspense below, let us join the 
 kaeband and wife above stairs. 
 
EXPLANATION --THE OATH RENEWED. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 EXPLANATION THE OATH RENEWED. 
 
 &quot;Take the dagger 
 
 The victim waits ! Thy honor and my safety 
 Demand me stroke !&quot; Old Play. 
 
 &quot;!N the name of God, Mrs. Beauchampe!&quot; such was 
 the address of her husband as he joined her in their cham 
 ber &quot; what is the meaning of all this ?&quot; 
 
 She silently took from the toilet a pair of pistols, and 
 offered them to him. 
 
 &quot; What mean you by these by this treatment of my 
 friends ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Your friends are villains ! Colonel Sharpe and Alfred 
 Stevens are the same person !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Impossible !&quot; he replied, recoiling- with horror from the 
 proffered weapons. 
 
 &quot; True as gospel, Beauchampe !&quot; 
 
 &quot; True ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;True! before Heaven, I speak the truth, my husband! 
 a dreadful, terrible truth, which I would riot speak were 
 it possible not to do so !&quot; 
 
 &quot; And why has not this been told me before ? Why has 
 he been suffered to remain in your presence nay, to be 
 alone with you for hours since his coming ? Did you 
 know him from the first to be the same man ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;From the first!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Explain, then ! for God s sake, explain ! You blind 
 
290 BEAUCFIAMPK, 
 
 me you stun me ! I am utterly unable to see this thing ! 
 How, if you knew him from the first, suffer for a moment 
 the contagion of his presence ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; This I can easily answer you, my husband. Bear with 
 me patiently while I do so ! I will lay bare to you my 
 whole soul, and show you by what motives of forbearance 
 I was governed, until driven to the course I have pursued 
 by the bold insolence of this uncompromising villain.&quot; 
 
 She paused pressed her head with her hands as if to 
 subdue the tumult which was striving within ; then, with 
 an effort which seemed to demand her greatest energies, 
 she proceeded with her speech. 
 
 She entered into an explanation of that change in her 
 feelings and desires which had been consequent upon her 
 marriage. She acknowledged the force of those new do 
 mestic ties which she had formed, in making her unwilling 
 that any event should take place which should commit her 
 self or husband in the eyes of the community, and bring 
 about a disruption of those ties, or a further development 
 of her story which would be certain to follow, in the 
 event of an issue between her husband and her seducer. 
 With this change in her mood, prior to the appearance of 
 this person and his identification with Colonel Sharpe, she 
 had prayed that he mi.clit never reappear; and when he 
 did when he became the guest of her husband, and was 
 regarded as his friend it was her hope that a souse of 
 his danger would have prompted him to make his visit 
 short, and prevent him from again renewing it. Her own 
 deportment was meant to be such as should produce this 
 determination in hi? breast. But when this failed of its 
 effect; when, in despite of warning, in defiance of danger, 
 in the face of hospitality and friendship, the villain pre 
 sumed to renew his loathsome overtures of guilt ; when no 
 hope remained that lie would forbear ; when it was seen 
 that he was without generosity, and that neither the rebuke 
 of her scorn nor the warnings of her anger could repel his 
 
EXPLANATION THi&amp;lt;J OATH RENEWED. 
 
 insolent advances then it was that she felt compelled to 
 speak then, and not before ! 
 
 She had deferred this necessity to the last moment ; she 
 had been purposely slow. She had given the seducer every 
 opportunity to withdraw in safety, and made the condition 
 of his future security easy, by asking only that he would 
 never seek or see her again ! 
 
 She had striven in vain ; and, failing to find the immunity 
 she sought from her own strength and firmness, it was no 
 longer possible to evade the necessity which forced her to 
 seek it in the protection of her husband. It was now neces 
 sary that lie should comply with his oath, and for this 
 reason she had placed the weapons of death in his hands. 
 Henceforth, the struggle was his alone. Of the sort of 
 duty to be done, no doubt could exist in either mind ! 
 
 Such was the narrative which, with the coherence not 
 only of a sane but a strong mind, and a will that no pain 
 of body and pang of soul could overcome, she poured into 
 the ears of her husband. We will not attempt to describe 
 the agony, the utter recoil and shrinking of soul, with which 
 he heard it. There is a point to which human passion 
 sometimes arrives when all language fails of description ; 
 as, in a condition of physical suffering, the intensity of the 
 pain is providentially relieved by utter unconsciousness and 
 stupor. But, such was the surprise with which Beauchampe 
 received the information of that identity between Alfred 
 Stevens and his friend his friend! that the impression 
 which followed from what remained of his wife s narrative 
 was comparatively slight. You might trace the accumula 
 tion of pang upon pang, in his heart, as the story went on, 
 by a slight convulsive movement of the lip but the eye 
 did not seem to speak. It was fixed and glassy, and so 
 vacant, that its expression might have occasioned some ap 
 prehension in the mind of the wife, had her own intcuflity 
 of suffering however kept down not been of so blinding 
 and darkening a character. 
 
292 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 When she had ended, he grasped the pistols, and hurried 
 to the entrance, but as suddenly returned. He laid the 
 weapons down upon the toilet. 
 
 &quot;No!&quot; he exclaimed &quot; not here! It must not be in 
 this house. He has eaten at our board he is beneath our 
 roof. This threshold must not be stained with the blood 
 of the guest !&quot; 
 
 He looked at her as he spoke these words. But she did 
 not note his glance. Her eyes were fixed ; her hands were 
 clasped ; she did not seem to note his presence, and her 
 head was bent forward as if she listened. A moment was 
 passed in this manner, when, as he still looked, she turned 
 suddenly and seemed only then to behold him. 
 
 &quot; You are here !&quot; she said ; &quot; where are the pistols ?&quot; 
 
 He did not answer ; but, following the direction of his 
 eye, she saw them on the toilet, and, striding toward them, 
 fiercely and rapidly she caught them up from the place 
 where they lay. 
 
 &quot; What would you, Anna?&quot; he asked, seizing her wrists. 
 
 &quot; The wrong is mine !&quot; she exclaimed. &quot; My hand shall 
 avenge it. It is sworn to it. I am prepared for it. TV^hy 
 should it be put upon another ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No!&quot; he cried while his brow gathered into a cloud 
 of wrinkles &quot; no, woman! You are mine, and your 
 ivrongs are mine mine only ! /will avenge them : but I 
 must avenge them as I think right after my own fashion 
 in my own time. Fear not that I will. Believe that 1 
 am a man, with the feelings and the resolution of a man, 
 and do not doubt that I will execute my oath ay, even 
 were it no oath to the uttermost letter of the obligation ! 
 Give me the weapons !&quot; 
 
 She yielded them. Her whole manner was subdued 
 her looks her words. 
 
 C M3 Beauchampe, would that I could spare you this !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do I wish it, Anna ? Would 1 be spared ? No, my 
 wife ! This duty is doubly incumbent on me now. This 
 
EXPLANATION THE OATH RENEWED. 293 
 
 reptile has made your wrong doubly that of your husband, 
 lias he not renewed his criminal attempt under my own 
 roof? This, this alone, would justify me in denying him 
 its protection ; but I will not. He shall not say he was 
 entrapped ! As the obligation is a religious one, I shall 
 execute its laws with the deliberation of one who has a 
 task from God before him. I will not violate the holy 
 pledges of hospitality, though he has done so. While ho 
 remains in my threshold, it shall protect him. But fear 
 not that vengeance shall be done. Before God, my wife, 
 I renew my oath !&quot; 
 
 He lifted his hand to heaven as he spoke, and she sunk 
 upon her knees, and with her hands clasped his. Her 
 lips parted in speech, and her murmurs readied his ears, 
 but what she spoke was otherwise inaudible. He gently 
 extricated himself from her embrace went to the basin, 
 and deliberately bathed his forehead in the cold water. 
 She remained in her prostrate position, her face clasped in 
 her hands, and prone upon the floor. Having performed 
 his ablutions, Beauchampe turned and looked upon her 
 steadfastly, but did not seek to raise her ; and, after a mo 
 ment s further delay, left the chamber and descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 Then his wife started from her feet, and moved toward 
 the toilet, where the weapons lay. Her hand was ex 
 tended as if to grasp them, but she failed to do so, and 
 staggered forward with the manner of one suddenly dizzy 
 with blindness. With this feeling she turned toward the 
 bod, and reached it in time to save herself a fall upon the 
 floor. She sank forward, face downward, upon the couch ; 
 and while a husky sound a feeble sort of laughter, wild 
 and hysteric issued from her throat, she lost all sense of 
 the agony that racked her soul and brain, in the temporary 
 unconsciousness of both ; and which, but for the relief of 
 this timely apathy, must have been fatal to life. 
 
J ! I BEAUCHAMPR 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 
 
 WHEN Colonel Sharpc heard the descending footsteps of 
 Beauchampe as he came down the stairs, he asked Barna 
 bas to go into the passage-way and meet him a request 
 which made the other look a little blank. 
 
 &quot; There is no sort of danger to you, and you hear he 
 walks slowly, not like a man in a passion I doubt if she 
 has told him all; perhaps she has told him nothing. At 
 all events, you will be decidedly the best person to receive 
 intelligence of what she has told. I m thinking it s a 
 false alarm after all ; but, whether true or false, it can in 
 no manner affect you. You are safe go out, meet him, 
 and learn how far I am so.&quot; 
 
 It has been seen that the will of the superior man, in 
 -spite of all first opposition, usually had its way with-the in 
 ferior. Mr. Barnabas, however reluctant, submitted to the 
 wishes of his companion, and with some misgivings, and 
 with quite slow steps, left the room in order to meet with 
 the husband, of whose rage such apprehensions were formed 
 .in both their minds. Sharpe, though he had expressed 
 himself so confidently, or at least so hopefully, to Barnabas, 
 was really full of apprehension. The moment that the lat 
 ter left the room, he took out his pistols, deliberately cocked 
 them, and placing them behind his back, moving backward 
 a little farther from the en Ira rice : preparing himself in this 
 
REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 295 
 
 manner for the encounter if that became inevitable with 
 the angry husband. 
 
 But the danger seemed to have passed away. Silence 
 followed. The steps of Beauchampe were no longer heard, 
 ar.d, moving toward one of the front windows, the criminal 
 beheld the two, already at a distance, and about to disap 
 pear behind the copse of wood that spread itself in front. 
 
 Sharpe breathed more freely, and began to fancy that 
 the cloud had dispersed, that the danger was overblown. 
 He was mistaken. Let us join Beauchampe and his com 
 panion. 
 
 &quot; Mr. Barnabas,&quot; said the former, &quot; I speak to you still 
 as to a ge.ntleman, as I believe you have had no knowledge 
 of the past crime of Colonel Sharpe, and no participation 
 in his present villany.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Such was the opening remark of Beauchampe, when he 
 had led the other from the house. Mr. Barnabas was 
 prompt in denial and disclaimer. 
 
 &quot;Crime Beauchampe villany! Surely, you can not 
 think 1 had any knowledge any participation ah! do 
 you suppose do you think I knew anything about it &quot; 
 
 &quot; About what ?&quot; demanded the suspicious Beauchampe, 
 coolly fixing his eyes, with a keen glance, upon the embar 
 rassed speaker. 
 
 &quot;Nay, my dear Beauchampe that s the question,&quot; said 
 the other. &quot; You speak of some crime, some villany, as I 
 understand you, of which our friend Sharpe has been guilty. 
 If it be true, that he has been guilty of any, you are right 
 in supposing that I know nothing about it. Nay, my dear 
 fellow, don t think it strange or impertinent, on my part, if 
 I venture a conjecture mark me, my dear fellow, a mere 
 supposition that there must be some mistake in this mat 
 ter. I can t think that Sharpe, a fellow who stands so high, 
 whom we both know so well and have known so long, such 
 an excellent fellow in fact, so cursed smart, and so clever 
 a companion, can have been such a d d fool as to 
 
296 BEAUCMAMPE. 
 
 practised any villany, at least upon a gentleman whom we 
 both love and esteem so much as yourself.&quot; 
 
 &quot;There s no mistake, Mr. Barnabas!&quot; said the other, 
 gravely. &quot; This man is a villain, and lias been practising 
 his villany to my dishonor, while in my house and enjoying 
 my confidence and hospitality.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You don t say so ! it s scarce possible, Beauchampe ! 
 The crime s too monstrous. I still think, I mean, I still 
 hope, that there s some very strange mistake in the matter 
 which can be explained.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Unhappily, sir. there is none. There is no mistake, 
 and nothing needs explanation !&quot; 
 
 &quot; That s unfortunate, very unfortunate ! May I ask, rny 
 dear fellow, what s the offence ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Surely, of this I drew you forth to tell you, in order 
 that you might tell him. I do not wish to take his life in my 
 own dwelling, though his crime might well justify me in for 
 getting the sacred obligations of hospitality might justify 
 me, indeed, in putting him to death even though his hands 
 grasped the very horns of the altar. He has busied him 
 self, while in my dwelling, in seeking to dishonor its mis 
 tress. While we rode, sir, and in our absence, he has toiled 
 for the seduction of my wife. That s his crime ! You will 
 tell him that I know all f&quot; 
 
 &quot; Great God ! What madness, what folly, what could 
 have made him do so ? But, my dear Mr. Beauchampe, as 
 he has failed, not succeeded, eh ?&quot; 
 
 The speaker stopped. It was not easy to finish such a 
 sentence. 
 
 &quot; 1 can not guess what you would say, Mr. Barnabas, 
 nor, perhaps, is it necessary. You will please to go back 
 to your companion, and say to him that he will instantly 
 leave the dwelling which he has endeavored to dishonor. 
 I see that your horses are both ready a sign, sir, that 
 Colonel Sharpo has not beji&amp;gt; entirely unconscious of this 
 necessity. 1 woald fain hope. i. i Barnabas that, in pro 
 
REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 297 
 
 paring to depart yourself, you acknowledge no more serious 
 obligation to do so, than the words of my wife, conveyed at 
 the breakfast-table ! * 
 
 Tine sentence was expressed inquiringly, and the keen, 
 searching glance of Beauchampe, declared a lurking sus 
 picion that made it very doubtful to Barnabas whether the 
 husba, d did not fully suspect the auxiliary agency which 
 he had really exhibited in the dishonorable proceedings of 
 Sharp?. He felt this, and could not altogether conceal his 
 confusion, though he saw the necessity of a prompt reply. 
 
 &quot; My dear .Beauchampe, was it not enough to make a 
 gentleman think of trooping, with bag and baggage, when 
 the lady of the house gives him notice to quit.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But the notice was not given to you, Mr. Barnabas. 11 
 
 ** Granted ; but Sharpe and myself were friends, you 
 know, and came together, and being the spokesman in the 
 case, you see &quot; 
 
 &quot; Enough, Mr. Barnabas ; I ask no explanation from you. 
 1 do not say to you that it is necessary that you should quit 
 along with Colonel Sharpe, but as your horse is ready, per 
 haps it is quite as well that you should.&quot; 
 
 ic Hem ! such was my purpose, Mr. Beauchampe. 1 
 
 &quot; Yes, sir ; and you w r ill do me the favor for which I re 
 quested your company, to say to him that the whole history 
 of his conduct is known to me. In order that he should 
 have no further doubts on this subject, you will suffer me to 
 intrude upon you a painful piece of domestic history.&quot; 
 
 &quot; My dear Beauchampe, if it s so very painful &quot; 
 
 &quot; I perceive, Mr. Barnabas, that what I am about to re 
 late will not have the merit of novelty to you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Indeed, sir, but it will I mean, I reckon it will. 1 
 really am very ignorant of what you intend to mention. I 
 am, sir, upon my honor, I ajn ! 
 
 Beauchampe regarded the creature with a cold smile of 
 the most utter contempt, and when he had ended, re 
 sumed ; 
 
298 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Tell Colonel Sharpe, if you please, that, before I mar 
 ried Mrs. Beaucbampe, she herself told me the whole his 
 tory of Alfred Stevens and her own unhappy frailty, while 
 
 she swore me to avenge her dishonor. Tell him that 1 
 v v c 
 
 will avenge it, and that he must prepare himself accord 
 ingly. My house confers on him the temporary privilege 
 of safety. He will leave it as soon as convenient after you 
 return to it. I will seek him only after he has reached his 
 own ; and when we meet it is with the one purpose of tak 
 ing his life or losing my own. There can be no half strug 
 gle between us. There can be jio mercy. Blood, alone ! 
 &amp;lt; the blood of life the life itself can acquit me of my 
 j sworn obligation. It may be his life, or it may be mine ; 
 \ but he must understand, that, while I live, the forfeit stands 
 against him, not to be redeemed but in his blood ! This is 
 all, sir, that I have to say/ 
 &quot; But, my dear Beauchampe 
 
 &quot; No more, Mr. Barnabas, if you please. There can be 
 nothing more between us. You will understand me further, 
 when I tell you that 1 am not assured of your entire free 
 dom from this last contemplated crime of Colonel Sharpe. 
 I well know your subserviency to his wishes, and but for 
 the superior nature of his crime, and that I do not wish tc 
 distract my thoughts from the sworn and solemn purpose 
 before me, I should be compelled to show you that I regard 
 the weakness which makes itself the minister of crime as a 
 quality which deserves its chastisement also. Leave me, 
 if you please, sir. I have subdued myself witli great diffi 
 culty, to the task I have gone through, and would not wish 
 to be provoked into a forgetfulness of my forbearance. You 
 are in possession of all that I mean to say your horses 
 are ready I suspect your friend is ready also! Good 
 morning, sir !&quot; 
 
 The speaker turned into the copse, and Mr. Barnabas 
 was quite too prudent a person to follow him with any 
 further expostulations. The concluding warning of Beau 
 
REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 299 
 
 champe was not lost upon him; and, glad to get off so 
 well, he hurried back to the house, where Sliarpe was await 
 ing him with an eagerness of anxiety which was almost 
 feverish. 
 
 Well what has he to say ? You were long enough 
 about it !&quot; 
 
 &quot; The delay was mine. lie was as brief as charity. He 
 knows all/ 
 
 &quot; All ! impossible !&quot; 
 
 &quot;All every syllable! Nay, says lie knew the whole 
 story of Alfred Stevens and of his wife s frailty before he 
 married &quot;her. Begs me particularly to tell you that, and 
 to say, moreover, that he was sworn to avenge her wrong 
 before marriage.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Then she told me nothing but the truth ! What a blind 
 ass I have been not to know it, and believe her ! I should 
 have known that she was like^no other woman under the 
 sun!&quot; 
 
 &quot; It s too late now for such reflections : the sooner we re 
 off the better!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, ay ! but what more does he say ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; That you are safe till you reach your own home ; but, 
 after that, never ! It s your life or his ! lie swears it !&quot; 
 
 &quot; But was he furious ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;No by no means.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Then I m deceived in the man as well as the woman ! 
 If he lets me off now, I suspect there s little to fear.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Don t deceive yourself. He looked ready to break out 
 at a moment s warning. It was evidently hard work with 
 him to contain himself. Some fantastic notion about the 
 obligations of hospitality alone prevented him from seeking 
 instant redress.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Fantastic or not, Barnabas, the reprieve is something. 
 I don t fear the cause, however bad, if I can stave it off 
 for a term or two. Witnesses may die, in the meantime ; 
 principals become unsettled ; now judges, with new dicta. 
 
300 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 conic in, and there is always hope in conflicting authori 
 ties. To horse, mon ami! a reprieve is a long step to a 
 full pardon.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It s something, certainly,&quot; said the other, &quot; and I m suro 
 I m glad of it; but don t deceive yourself. Be on your 
 guard. If ever there was a man seriously savage in his 
 resolution, Beauchampe is.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Pshaw! Barnabas! you were ever an alarmist!&quot; 
 replied Sharpe, whose elasticity had returned to him 
 with the withdrawal of the momentary cause of appre 
 hension. 
 
 &quot; We shall tame this monster, however savage, if you 
 only give us time. Let him come to Frankfort, and we ll 
 set the whole corps of Red-Hats, yours among cm, at 
 work to get him to the conclave ; and one Saturday s bout, 
 well plied, will mellow body and soul in such manner that 
 he will never rage afterward, however he may roar. I tell 
 you, my lad, time is something more than money. It sub 
 dues hate and anger, softens asperity, wakens up new prin 
 ciples, makes old maids young ones ay, my boy, and&quot; 
 here, looking up over his horse, which he was just about 
 to mount, at the windows of Bcauchampe s chamber, and 
 closing the sentence in a whisper &quot; ay, my boy, and may 
 even enable me to overcome this sorceress this tigress, 
 if you prefer it make her forget that she is a wife for 
 get everything, but the days when J taught her her first 
 lessons in loving !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Sharpe.&quot; exclaimed the other in a sort of husky hor 
 ror, &quot; you are a perfect dare-devil, to speak so in the very 
 den of the lion ? 
 
 &quot; Ay, but it is while thinking of the lioness.&quot; , 
 
 &quot; Keep me from the claws of both !&quot; ejaculated Barnabas, 
 with an honest terror, as he struck spurs into the flanks of 
 his horse. 
 
 &quot;I do not now feel as if I feared either!&quot; replied the 
 other. 
 
REPRIEVE AXD FLIGHT. 301 
 
 &quot; Don t halloo till out of the woods !&quot; 
 
 u No! but, Barnabas, do you really think that this 
 woman is .sincere in giving me up ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Surely ! How can I think otherwise ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah, my boy, you know nothing of the sex.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well but she has told him all. How do you explain 
 that ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; She has had her reasons. She perhaps finds, or fan 
 cies, that Beauchampe suspects. She hopes to blind him 
 by this apparent frankness. She s not in earnest.&quot; 
 
 &quot; D n such manoeuvring, say I !&quot; 
 
 Give us time, Barnabas time, my boy, and I shall 
 nave her at my feet yet! I do not doubt that, with the 
 help of some of our boys, I shall baffle him; and I will 
 never lose sight of her while I have sight. I have felt 
 more passion for that woman than I ever felt for any wo 
 man yet, or ever expect to feel for another ; and, if scheme 
 and perseverance will avail for anything, she shall yet be 
 mine !&quot; 
 
 &quot; If such were your feelings for her, why didn t you marry 
 her in Charlemont ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;So I would have done if it had been necessary; 
 but who pays for his fruit when he can get it for noth 
 ing?&quot; 
 
 &quot; True,&quot; replied the other, evidently struck by the force 
 of this dictum in moral philosophy &quot;that s very true; 
 but the fruit has its Argus now, if it had not then ; and the 
 paws of Briareus may be upon your throat, if you look 
 too earnestly over the wall. My counsel to you is, briefly, 
 that you arrive with all possible speed at the faith of the 
 fox.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What ! sour grapes ? No, no, Barnabas ! the grapes 
 are swee* as I do not think them entirely out of reach. 
 As for the dragon, we shall yet contrive to * calm the ter 
 rors cf his olaws. 
 
 So speaking, they rode out of sight, the courage of born 
 
302 BEAUCHAMPK. 
 
 rising as they receded from the place of danger. Whether 
 Sharpe really resolved on the reckless course which he 
 expressed to his companion, or simply sought, with the 
 inherent vanity of a small man, to excite the wonder of the 
 latter, is of no importance to our narrative. In either 
 case, his sense of morals and of society is equally and 
 easily understood. 
 
, &amp;gt;E. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 CHALLENGE. 
 
 COLONEL SHARPE sat, one pleasant forenoon, in the snug 
 parlor of his elegant mansion in the good city of Frank 
 fort. It was a dies non with him. He had leisure, and 
 his leisure was a leisure which had its sauce. It was a 
 satisfactory leisure. The prospect of wealth with dignity \&amp;gt; 
 was before him. Clients were numerous ; fees liberal ; 
 his political party had achieved its triumph, and his own 
 co-aimssion as attorney-general of the state was made out 
 in the fairest characters. The world went on swimmingly. 
 Truly, it was a blessed world. So one may fancy, with 
 the wine and walnuts before him. Ah, how much of the 
 beauty of this visible world depends on one s dessert and 
 digestion ! 
 
 Colonel Sharpe s dessert was excellent, but his digestion 
 not so good. Nay, there were some things that lie could 
 not digest ; but of these, at the pleasant moment when we 
 have thought proper to look in upon him, he did not think. 
 His thoughts were rather agreeable than otherwise ; per 
 haps we should say, rather exciting than agreeable. They 
 were less sweet than piquant ; but they were such as he 
 did not seek to disperse. A man of the world relishes his 
 bitters occasionally. It is your long-legged lad of eighteen 
 uho purses his lips while his eyes run water, as he imbibes 
 the acrid but spicy flavor. Colonel Sharpe was no such 
 boy. He could linger over the draught, and sip, with a 
 
304 BEAITHAMPK. 
 
 Sense of relish, from the mingling but not discordant ele 
 ments. He was no milksop. He had renounced the natu 
 ral tastes at a very early day. 
 
 He thought of Margaret Cooper we should say Mrs. 
 Beauchampe, but that, when, he recalled her to his memory, 
 she always came in the former, never in the latter charac 
 ter. He did not like to think of her as the wife of another. 
 The reflection made him sore ; though, to think of her was 
 always a source of pleasure in a greater or less degree. But 
 he had not forgotten the husband ; and now, in connection 
 with the wife, he felt himself unavoidably compelled to 
 think of him. II is countenance assumed a meditative as 
 pect. There was a gathering frown upon his brow in spite 
 of his successes. At this moment a rap was heard at the 
 door, and Mr. Barnabas was announced. 
 
 &quot; Ha! Barnabas how d ye do?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well when did you get back ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Last night, after dark.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes I looked in yesterday and you were not ha. 
 then. What news bring you ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; None ! Have you any here ?&quot; * 
 
 &quot; As little. It s enough to know that all s right. We air 
 quite joyful here nothing to dash our triumph.&quot; 
 
 &quot;That s well, and our triumph is complete; but * 
 with an air of abstraction &quot; what do you hear of Beau 
 champe ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not a word but he s in Frankfort!&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ha! indeed!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Was here two days ago. Haven t you heard from him ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not a syllable.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But how could you going to and fro, and so brief a 
 time in any place, it was scarcely possible to find you !&quot; 
 
 &quot; I doubt if he ll do anything, Barnabas. The affair 
 will be made so much worse by stirring. He ll not think 
 of it he s very proud very sensitive very sensible tc 
 ridicule !&quot; 
 
CHALLENGE. 305 
 
 &quot; I don t know. I Hope he won t. But he s as strange 
 an animal as the woman, his wife; and, I tell you, there 
 was a damned sour seriousness about him when he spoke to 
 me on the subject, that makes me apprehensive that he ll 
 keep his word. The ides of March are not over yet.&quot; 
 
 Sharpe s gravity increased. His friend rose to depart. 
 
 &quot; Where do von 0:0 ?&quot; 
 
 v O 
 
 &quot; To Folker s. I have some business there. I just heard 
 that you were here, and looked in to say how happy we all 
 are in our successes.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You will sup with me to-night, Barnabas. I want you : 
 I feel dull.&quot; 
 
 &quot; The devil you do what, and just made attorney- 
 general !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Even so ! Honors are weighty.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not the less acceptable for that. Glamis thou art 
 Cawdor shalt be and let me be your weird sister, and 
 proclaim, yet further Thou shalt be king hereafter! 
 governor, I mean.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! you are sharp, this morning, Barnabas,&quot; said 
 Sharpe, his muscles relaxing into a pleasant smile. &quot; I 
 shall expect you to-night, if it be only to hear the repetition 
 of these agreeable predictions.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I will not fail you ! addio !&quot; 
 
 Colonel Sharpo sat once more alone. Pleasant indeed 
 were the fancies which the words of Mr. Barnabas had 
 awakened in his mind. He murmured in the strain of dra 
 matic language, which the quotation of his friend had sug 
 gested, as hft ; r accd the apartment to and fro: 
 
 &quot; I know I m thane of Glamis, 
 *&amp;gt;at how of Cawdor 
 
 And to be kiri^, 
 ~&amp;gt; : i?t ^it.hir the prr.-psct of belief. 
 
 Ay, but it doe? ;&quot; he proceeded in the more sober prose of 
 his own rejections ; &quot; The steps are fair and cisy. Bar 
 
BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 nabas is no fool in such matters, though no wit. He knows 
 the people. He can sound them as well as any man. This 
 suggestion does not come from himself. No no! It 
 comes from a longer head. It must be Clay ! Hem ! this 
 is to be thought upon ! His word against a thousand 
 pounds ! If he thinks so, it is as good as done ; and Barna 
 bas is only an echo, when he says, Thou shalt be king 
 hereafter ! Poor Barnabas ! how readily he takes his 
 color from his neighbor.&quot; 
 
 A rap at the door arrested these pleasant reflections. 
 The soliloquist started and grew pale. There was surely a 
 meaning in that rap. It was not that of an ordinary ac 
 quaintance. It wanted freedom, rapidity. It was very 
 deliberate and measured. One two three ! you could 
 count freely in the intervals. A strange voice was heard at 
 the door. 
 
 &quot; Colonel Sharpc is in town is he at home !&quot; 
 
 The servant answered in the affirmative, and appeared a 
 moment after, followed by a stranger a gentleman of dark, 
 serious complexion, whose face almost declared his busi 
 ness. The host felt an unusual degree of discomposure for 
 which he could not so easily account. 
 
 &quot; Be seated, sir, if you please. I have not the pleasure 
 of your name.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Covington, sir, is my name John A. Covington.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Covington John A. Covington ! I havo the pleasure 
 of knowing a gentleman whose name very much resembles 
 yours. 1 know John TV. Covington.&quot; 
 
 4 I am a very different person,&quot; answcicd i-he stranger. 
 &quot;I have not the honor of being ranked among your 
 friends. 
 
 The stranger spoke very coldly. A brief pause followed 
 his words, in which Colcriel Sharpens discomposure rather 
 underwent increase The keen eye cf Ocvington observed 
 his face, while he very deliberately drew irom his pocket a 
 
CHALLENGE. 307 
 
 paper which he handed to Sharpe, who took it with very 
 sensible agitation of nerve. 
 
 &quot; Do me the favor, sir, to read that. It is from Mr. 
 Beauehampe. He tells me you are prepared for it. It is 
 open, you see : I am aware of its contents.&quot; 
 
 &quot; From Beauehampe 
 
 &quot; Mr. Beauehampe, sir,&quot; said the visitor, coolly correct 
 ing the freedom of the speaker. 
 
 &quot; This paper, as you will see by the date, sir, has bee . 
 some time in my hands. Your absence in the country, alons 
 prevented its delivery.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Yes, sir&quot; said Sharpe, slowly, and turning over the 
 envelope &quot;yes, sir; this, I perceive, is a peremptory 
 challenge, sir ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;It is.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But, Mr. Covington, there may be explanations, sir.&quot; 
 
 &quot; None, sir ! Mr. Beauehampe tells me that this is impos 
 sible, lie adds, moreover, that you know it. There is but 
 one issue, he assures me between you, and that is life or 
 death.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Really, sir, there is no good reason for this. Mr. Cov 
 ington, you are a man of the world. You know what is 
 due to society. You will not lend yourself to any meas 
 ure of unnecessary bloodshed. You have a right, sir 
 surely you have a right, sir, to interpose, and accept some 
 more qualified atonement perhaps, sir an apology 
 the expression of my sincere regret and sorrow, sir &quot; 
 
 The other shook his head coldly 
 
 &quot; My friend leaves me none.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But, sir, if you knew the cause of this hostility if &quot; 
 
 &quot; I do sir !&quot; was the stem reply. 
 
 &quot; Indeed ! But arc you sure that you have heard it ex 
 actly as it is. There arc causes which qualify offence 
 
 &quot; I believe, Mr. Beauehampe, sir, in preference to any 
 other witness. This offence, sir. admits of none. You will 
 permit me to add, though extra-official, that my friend deals 
 
308 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 with you very magnanimously. The provocation is of a 
 sort which deprives you of any claim of courtesy. May 1 
 ave your answer, sir, to the only point to which this let 
 ter relates ! Will you- refer me to your friend ?&quot; 
 
 - Sir Mr. Covington I will not fight Mr. Beau- 
 champc !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Indeed, sir ! can it be possible ! exclaimed Coving- 
 ton, rising from his chair and regarding the speaker with 
 surprise. 
 
 &quot; No, sir ! I can not fight him. I have wronged him too 
 greatly. I can not lift weapon against his life !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Colonel Sharpe this will never do ! You arc a Ken- 
 tuckian ! You arc regarded as a Kentucky gentleman ! 1 
 say nothing on the score of your claim to this diameter. 
 Let me remind you of the penalties which will follow this 
 refusal to do my friend justice.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I know them, sir I know them all. I defy them 
 will bear them, but I can not fight Beauchampe !&quot; 
 
 &quot; You will be disgraced, sir: I must post you !&quot; 
 
 Sharps strode the apartment hastily. Bis check was 
 flushed. He felt the humiliation of his position. In ordi 
 nary matters, in the usual spirit of society, he was no 
 coward. We have seen how readily he fought with Wil 
 liam Calvert. But he could not meet Beauchampe he 
 could not nerve himself to the encounter. 
 
 &quot; I can not, will not fight Beauchampe !&quot; was his mut 
 tered ejaculation. &quot; No ! I have wronged him wronged 
 her ! I dare not meet him. I can never do it !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Be not rash, Colonel Sharpe,&quot; said the other. &quot; Think 
 of it again before you give me such an answer. I will 
 give you three hours for deliberation : I will call again at 
 four.&quot; 
 
 &quot;No, sir no, Mr. Covington the wrongs I have done 
 to Beauchampe are known probably well known. The 
 world will understand that I can not fight him that my 
 offence is of such a nature, that, to lift weapon against him. 
 
CHALLENGE. 
 
 309 
 
 would be monstrous. You may post me, sir ; but no one 
 who knows me will believe that it is fear that makes me 
 deny this meeting. They will know all ; they will acquit 
 me of the imputation of cowardice.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And how should they know,&quot; demanded Covington 
 sternly, &quot; unless you make them acquainted with the facts, 
 and thus add another to my friend s causes of provoca 
 tion ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nay, Mr. Covington, he himself told Mr. Barnabas.&quot; 
 
 True, sir ; but that was in a special communication to 
 yourself, which implied confidence, and must have secrecy. 
 My friend will have his remedy against Mr. Barnabas, if he 
 docs not against you, if he speaks what he should not. 
 There is a way, sir, to muzzle your barking dogs.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is known to others Mr. William Calvert, with whom 
 I fought on this very quarrel.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! that is new to me ; but as you fought in this very 
 quarrel with Mr. Calvert, it seems to me that your objec 
 tion fails. You must fight with Mr. Beauchampe also on 
 the same quarrel.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Never, sir I You have my answer I will not meet 
 him!&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do not mistake your position with the public, Colonel 
 Sharpe. The extent of the wrong which you have done to 
 Beauchampe only makes your accountability the greater. 
 Nobody will acquit you on this score ; nay, any effort to 
 make known to the people the true cause of Mr. Beau- 
 champe s hostility will make it obvious that you seek rather 
 to excuse your cowardice, than to show forbearance, or to 
 make atonement. Truly, they will regard that as a very 
 strange sort of remorse which publishes the shame of the 
 wife in order to justify a refusal to meet the husband !&quot; 
 
 &quot;I will not publish it Beauchampe has already done 
 so.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is known to two persons, sir, through him. It need 
 not be known to more. Colonel Calvert is a friend of mine. 
 
;UO IJKAUCHAMl E. 
 
 He is not the man to speak of the affair. Besides, I will 
 communicate to him on the subject, and secure his silence. 
 You shall have no refuge of this sort.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I have answered you, Mr. Covington,&quot; said Sharpe, 
 doggedly. 
 
 &quot; I must post you, then, as a scoundrel and a coward !&quot; 
 
 Sharpe turned upon the speaker with a look of suddenly- 
 roused fury in his face, but, swallowing the word which 
 rose to his lips, lie turned away. The other proceeded 
 coolly : 
 
 &quot; This shall be done, sir ; and I must warn yon that the 
 affair will not end here. Mr. Beauchampe will disgrace 
 you in the public streets.&quot; 
 
 The sweat trickled from the brows of Sharpe in thick 
 drops such as precede the torrents of the thunderstorm. 
 He strove to speak, but the convulsive emotions of his 
 bosom effectually baffled utterance ; and, with dilated eyes 
 and laboring breast, he strode the floor, utterly incapable 
 of self-control. Covington lingered. 
 
 &quot; You will repent this, Colonel Sharpe. You will recall 
 me when too late. Suffer me to see you this afternoon for 
 your answer.&quot; 
 
 The other advanced to him, then turned away ; once 
 more approached, and again receded. A terrible strife 
 was at work within him ; but, when he did find words, they 
 expressed no bolder determination than before. Covington 
 regarded him with equal pity and contempt, as he turned 
 away evidently dissatisfied and disappointed. 
 
 He was scarcely gone when the miserable man found 
 words : 
 
 &quot; God of heaven, that I should feel thus ! that 1 should 
 be so unmanned ! Why is this ? why is the strength de 
 nied me the courage which never failed before? It is 
 not too late. He has scarcely left the step ! I will recall 
 him. He shall have another answer !&quot; and, with this late 
 resolution, he darted to the entrance and laid his hand upon 
 
CHALLENGE. 311 
 
 the knob of the door ; but the momentary impulse had al 
 ready departed, lie left it unopened. He recoiled from 
 the entrance, and, striking his hands against his forehead, 
 groaned in all the novel and unendurable bitterness of this 
 unwonted humiliation. 
 
 &quot;And this is the man Cawdor, Glamis, all! king 
 hereafter, too, as Mr. Barnabas promised echoing, of 
 course, the language of that great political machinist, Mr. 
 Clay. Ha! ha! ha!&quot; 
 
 Did some devil growl this commentary in the ears of the 
 miserable man ? He- heard it, and shuddered from head 
 to foot. 
 
 v 
 
 V c . \ l 
 
 , H 
 
312 KEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 PROGRESS OF PASSION. 
 
 LET nobody imagine that a sense of shame implies re 
 morse or repentance. Nay, let them not be sure that it 
 implies anything like forbearance in the progress of offence. 
 It was not so with our attorney-general. The moment he 
 recovered, in any fair degree, his composure, he despatched 
 a messenger for his friend Barnabas. He, good fellow, 
 came at the first summons. We will not say that his foot 
 steps were not absolutely quickened by the recollection 
 that it was just then the dinner-hour; and, possibly, some 
 fancy took possession of his mind, leading him to the strange 
 but pleasant notion that Sharpe had suddenly stumbled 
 upon some bonne douche in the market-place, of particular 
 excellence, of which he was very anxious that his friend 
 should partake. The supper, be it remarked, was no less 
 an obligation still ! Conceptive Mr. Barnabas I Certainly, 
 he had some such idea. The bonne bouche quickened his 
 movements. He came seasonably. The dinner was not 
 consumed ; perhaps not quite ready : but, for the bonne 
 bouche alas ! Sic transit gloria mundi! 
 
 Such is the inscription, at least, upon this one pleasant 
 hope of our amiable philosopher. There was a morsel for 
 liis digestion, or rather for that of his friendly entertainer ; 
 but, unhappily, it we.a one that neither was well prepared 
 to swallow. Mr. Barnabas was struck dumb by the intelli 
 gence which he heard. He was not surprised that Bean- 
 
PROGRESS OF PASSION. 6 
 
 champo had sent a challenge : his surprise, amounting tc 
 utter consternation, was that his friend should have refused 
 it. He was so accustomed to the usual bold carriage ot 
 Colonel Sharpe knew so well his ordinary promptness 
 nay, had seen his readiness on former occasions to do bat 
 tle, right or wrong, with word or weapon that he was 
 taken all aback with wonder at a change so sudden and 
 unexpected. Besides, it must be recollected that Mr. Bar 
 nabas was brought up in that school of an earlier period, 
 throughout the whole range of southern and western coun 
 try, which rendered it the point of honor to yield redress 
 at the first summons, and in whatever form the summoner 
 pleased to require. That school was still one of authority, 
 not merely with Mr. Barnabas, but with the country; and 
 the loss of caste was one of those terrible social conse 
 quences of any rejection of this authority which lie had not 
 the courage to consider without absolute horror. When 
 he did speak, the friends had changed places. They no 
 longer stood in the old relation to each other. Instead of 
 Colonel Sharpe s being the superior will, while that of 
 Barnabas was submission, the latter grew suddenly strong, 
 almost commanding. 
 
 &quot; But, Sharpe, you must meet him. By Jupiter, it won t 
 do ! You re disgraced for ever, if you don t. You can t 
 escape. You must fight him.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I can not, Barnabas ! I was never so unnerved in my 
 life before. I can not meet him. I can not lift weapon 
 against the husband of Margaret Cooper.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Be it so ; but, at all events, receive his fire.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Even for this I am unprepared. I tell you, Barnabas, 
 I never felt so like a cur in all my life. I never knew till 
 now what it was to fear.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Shake it off; it s only a passing feeling. When you re 
 up, and facing him, you will cease to feel so.&quot; 
 
 The other shook his head with an expression of utter 
 despair and self-abandonment. 
 
 14 
 
314 BEAUCIIAMPE. 
 
 &quot; By God, I know better !&quot; exclaimed Barnabas warmly ; 
 I ve seen you on the ground I ve seen you fight. There 
 wr.s that chap Calvert &quot; 
 
 u Barnabas, it is in vain that you expostulate. I have 
 fought have been in frequent strifes with men, and brave 
 men too but never knew such feelings as oppress me now, 
 and have oppressed me ever since I had this message. Do 
 not suppose me insensible to the shame. It burns in my 
 brain with agony ; it rives my bosom with a choking and 
 continual spasm. A hundred times, since Covington lias 
 been gone, have I started up with the view to sending him 
 a message, declaring myself ready to meet his friend ; but 
 as often has this cursed feeling come upon me, paralyzing 
 the momentary courage, and depriving me of all power of 
 action. I feel that I can not meet Beauchampe I feel 
 that I dare not.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Great God ! what are we to do ? Think, my dear fel 
 low, what is due to your station to your position in the 
 party! Remember, you are just now made attorney-gen 
 eral: you are the observed of all observers. Everything 
 depends upon what exhibition you make now. Get over 
 this difficulty man yourself for this meeting and the 
 rest is easy. Another year puts you at the very head of 
 the party.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I have thought 01 all these things, Barnabas ; and one 
 poor month ago, had an angel of heaven come and assured 
 me that they would have failed to provoke me to the en 
 counter with any foe, however terrible, I should have flouted 
 the idle tidings. Now, I can not.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You must ! What will they say at the club ? You ll 
 be expelled, Sharpe think of that! You ll be cut by 
 every member. Covington will post you. Nay, ten to one 
 but Beauchampe will undertake to horsewhip you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I trust I shall iind courage to face him then, Barnabas 
 though I could not now. Look you, Barnabas something 
 can be done in another way. Beauchampe can be acted on.&quot; 
 
PROGRESS OF PASSION. 315 
 
 &quot; How how can that bo done ? 
 
 &quot; Two or three judicious follows can manage \l Ik is 
 only to show him that any prosecution of this affair neces 
 sarily leads to the public disgrace of his wife. It is easy 
 to show him that, though he may succeed in dishonoring 
 me, the very act that does it is a public advertiser-lent of 
 her sharno.&quot; 
 
 &quot; So it is,&quot; said the other. 
 
 &quot; Something more, Barnabas. It might be intimated to 
 Coving-ton that, as Margaret Cooper had a child r 
 
 Did she, indeed ?&quot; 
 
 (i So I ascertained by accident. She had one before 
 leaving Charlemont.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Indeed! well?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well it might have the effect of making him quist te \ 
 show him that this child was &quot; 
 
 The rest of the sentence was whispered in the earfi cf bus i 
 companion, 
 
 &quot; The d 1 it was !&quot; exclaimed the other. &quot; But is 
 certain, Sharpe ? for, if so, it acquits you altosretner. The 
 color alone would be conclusive.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Certainly it would. Now, some hint of this kind to 
 Covington, or to Beauchampe himself 
 
 44 By Jupiter, I shouldn t like to be the man to tell him, 
 nowever ! He s such a bulldog !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Through his friend, then. It might be done, Barna 
 bas ; and it can t be doubted that the dread of such a report 
 would effectually discourage him from any prosecution of 
 this business. 1 
 
 &quot; So it might so it would ; but 
 
 &quot; Barnabas, you must get it done.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But, my dear colonel 
 
 &quot; You must save me, Barnabas relieve me of this diffi 
 culty. You know my power my political power you 
 see my strength. I can P-M-VO you you can not doubt my 
 
BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 willingness to serve you; but if this power is lost if - 
 ain disgraced by this fellow we are all lost.&quot; 
 
 &quot;True very true. It must be done. I will see to it. 
 Make yourself easy. I will set about it as soon as dinner s 
 over.&quot; 
 
 Here the politic Mr. Barnabas looked round with an 
 anxious questioning of the eye, which Colonel Sharpc un 
 derstood. 
 
 Ah ! dinner I had not thought of that, but it must be 
 ready. Of course, you will stay and dine with me.&quot; 
 
 * Why, yes though I have spine famous mutton-chops 
 awaiting me at home.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Mine are doubtlessly as good.&quot; 
 
 We shall leave the friends to their pottage, without any 
 ymecessary inquiry into the degree of appetite which they 
 severally brought to its discussion. It may not be imper 
 tinent, however, to intimate, as a mere probability, that 
 Mr. Barnabas, in the discussion of the affair, was the most 
 able analyst of the two. The digestion of Colonel Sharpc 
 was, at this period, none of the best. We have said as 
 much before. 
 
 For that matter, neither was Beauchampe s. The return 
 of Covington, with the wholly unexpected refusal of Colonel 
 Sharpe to meet and give him redress, utterly confounded 
 him. Of course, he had the usual remedies. There was 
 the poster which may be termed a modern letter of credit 
 a sort of certificate of character, in one sense carrying 
 with it some such moral odor as, in the physical world, is 
 communicated by the whizzing of a pullet s egg, addled in 
 June, directed at the lantern visage of a long man, honored 
 with a high place in the public eye, though scarcely at ease 
 (because of his modesty), in the precious circumference of 
 the pillory. 
 
 Beauchampe s friend was bound to post Colonel Sharpe. 
 Bcauchampe himself had the privilege of obliterating his 
 shame, by making certain cancclli on the back of the 
 
PROGRESS OP PASSION. 317 
 
 wrong-doer, with the skin of a larger but less respectable 
 animal. 
 
 But were these remedies to satisfy Beauchampe ? The 
 cowskin might draw blood from the back of his enemy ; but 
 was that the blood which he had sworn to draw ? Ilis oath ! 
 his oath! that was the difficulty! The refusal of Colonel 
 Sharpe to meet him in personal combat left his oath unol&amp;gt;- 
 literated uncomplied with. The young man was bewil 
 dered by his rage and disappointment. This was an unan 
 ticipated dilemma. 
 
 &quot; What is to be done, Covington ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Post him, at the courthouse, jail, and every hotel in 
 town.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Post him and what s the good of that?&quot; 
 
 &quot; You disgrace him for ever!&quot; 
 
 &quot; That will not answer that is nothing!&quot; 
 
 &quot; You can go further. Horsewhip him cowskin him- 
 cut his back to ribands, whenever you meet him in the open 
 thoroughfare !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Did you tell him that I would do so ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I did !&quot; 
 
 &quot; It did not move him ? What said he then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Still the same ! He would not fight you could not 
 lift weapon against your life.&quot; 
 
 &quot;The villain! the black-hearted, base, miserable vil 
 lain ? Covington, you will go with me ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Surely ! You mean to post him, or cowhide him or 
 both ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, no ! That s not what I mean. I must have his 
 blood his life!&quot; 
 
 &quot; That s quite another matter, Beauchampe. I do not 
 see that you can do more than I have told you. He is a 
 coward : you must proclaim him as such. Your poster 
 does that. lie is a villain has wronged you. You will 
 punish him for the wrong. Your horsewhip does that ! 
 You can do no more, Beauchampe.&quot; 
 
818 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Ay, but I must, fovington. Your poster is nothing, 
 and the whip is nothing. I am sworn to take his life or 
 lose my own !&quot; 
 
 &quot; I can do no more than I have told you. I will back 
 you to this extent no further.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I can force him to fight me,&quot; said Beauchampe. 
 
 &quot; In what way ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; By assaulting him with my weapon, after offering him 
 another.&quot; 
 
 &quot; How, if he refuses to receive it ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; He can not surely he will not refuse.&quot; 
 
 &quot; lie will ! I tell you, he will refuse. The man is ut 
 terly frightened. I never witnessed such unequivocal signs 
 of cowardice in any man.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Then is he wonderfully changed. 1 
 
 A servant entered at this moment, and handed Beau 
 champe a letter. It was from his wife. Its contents were 
 brief: - 
 
 . ...&quot; I do not hear from you, Beauchampe I do not 
 see you. You were to have returned yesterday. Come 
 to me. Let me see you once more. I tremble for your 
 safety/ .... 
 
 The traces of an agony which the words did not express 
 were clearly shown in the irregular, sharp lines of the 
 epistle. 
 
 &quot; I will go to her at once. I will meet you to-morrow, 
 Coviugton, when we will discuss this matter further.&quot; 
 
 &quot; The sooner you take the steps 1 propose, the better,&quot; 
 said Covington. &quot; The delay of a day to post him, is, 
 perhaps, nothing ; but you must not permit the lapse of 
 more.&quot; 
 
 u I shall not post him, Coviugton. That would seem to 
 mock my vengeance, and to preclude it. No, no ! posting 
 will not do. The scourging may ; but even that does not 
 satisfy me now. To-morrow we shall meet to-morrow.** 
 
PROGRESS OP PASSION 319 
 
 Let us go with the husband and rejoin Mrs. Beauchampe. 
 A week had wrought great changes in her appearance. 
 Her eyes have sunken, and the glazed intensity of their 
 stare is almost that of madness. Her voice is slow subdued 
 almost to a whisper. 
 
 &quot; It is not done !&quot; she said, her lip touching his ear 
 her hands clasping his convulsively. 
 
 &quot; No ! the miserable wretch refuses to fight with me.&quot; 
 She recoiled as she exclaimed 
 
 &quot; And did you expect that he would fight you ? Did you 
 look for manhood or manly courage at his hands ?&quot; 
 
 u Ay, but he shall meet me!&quot; exclaimed Beauchampe, 
 who perceived, in this short sentence, the true character of 
 the duty which lay before him. &quot; I will find him, at least, 
 and you shall be avenged ! He shall not escape me longer 
 His blood or mine.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Stay ! go not, Beauchampe ! Risk nothing. Let me 
 be the victim still. Your life is precious to me more 
 precious than my own name. Why should you forfeit sta 
 tion, pride, peace, safety everything for me ? Leave me, 
 dear Beauchampe leave me to my shame leave me to 
 despair !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Never ! never ! You are my life. Losing you I lose 
 more than life all that can make it precious ! I will not 
 lose you. Whatever happens, you are mine to the last.&quot; 
 
 &quot; To the last, Beauchampe thine only thine- to the 
 last the last the last !&quot; 
 
 She sunk into his arms. He pressed his lips upon hers, 
 and drawing the dirk from his bosom, he elevated it above 
 ner head, while he mentally renewed his oath of retribution. 
 This done, he released her from his grasp, placed her in a 
 seat, and, once more, pressing his lips to hers, he darted 
 from the dwelling. In a few seconds more the sound of his 
 horse s feet were heard, and she started from her seat, and 
 from the stupor which seemed to possess her faculties. She 
 hurried to the window. He had disappeared. 
 
?&amp;gt;20 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; He is gone !&quot; she exclaimed, pressing her hand upon 
 her forehead, &quot; He is gone ! gone for what ? Ha ! I have 
 sent him. I have sent him on this bloody work. Oh! 
 surely it is madness that moves me thus ! It must be mad 
 ness. Why should he murder Alfred Stevens ? What good 
 will come of it ? What safety ? What- But why should 
 he not? Are we never to be free? Is lie to thrust him 
 self into our homes for ever to baffle our hopes destroy 
 our peace point his exulting finger to the hills of Charlc- 
 mont, and cry aloud, Remember there ? No ! better lie 
 should die, and we should all die ! Strike him, Beau- 
 champe ! Strike and fear nothing ! Strike deep ! Strike 
 to the very heart strike ! strike ! strike !&quot; 
 
 Why should we look longer on this mournful spectacle. 
 Yet the world will not willingly account this madness. It 
 matters not greatly by what name you call a passion which 
 has broken bounds, and disdains the right angles of con 
 vention. Let us leave the wife for the husband. 
 
THE AVENGER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE AVENGER. 
 
 Beauchampe any more sane we should phrase it 
 otherwise was he any less mad than his wife ? 
 
 Perhaps he was more so. The simple inquiry which 
 Mrs. Beauchampe had made, when he told her that Sharpe 
 refused to fight him, had opened his eyes to all the terrible 
 responsibility to which his unhappy oath had subjected him. 
 When he had pledged himself to take the life of her be 
 trayer, he had naturally concluded that this pledge implied 
 nothing more than the resolution to meet with his enemy in 
 the duel. That a Kentucky gentleman should shrink from 
 such an issue did not for a moment enter his thoughts ; and 
 it is not improbable but that, if he could have conjectured 
 this possibility, he had not so readily yielded to the condi 
 tion which she had coupled with her consent to be his wife. 
 
 But, after this, when in his own house, and under the 
 garb of friendship, Colonel Sharpe labored to repeat hi? 
 crime, still less could he have believed it possible that the 
 criminal would refuse the only mode of atonement, which, 
 
 according to the practices of that society to which they 
 both were accustomed, was left within his power to make. 
 Had he apprehended this, he would have chosen the most 
 direct mode of vengeance such as the social sense every 
 where would have justified and put the offender to death 
 upoi) the very hearth which he had striven to dishonor* 
 
y 
 
 # 22 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 That he had not done so, was now his topic of self-reproach 
 An idea, whether true or false, of what was due to a guest, 
 had compelled him to forbear, and to send the criminal 
 forth, with every opportunity to prepare himself for the 
 penalties which his offences had incurred. 
 
 Still, up to this moment, he had not contemplated the 
 necessity of lifting his weapon except on equal terms, with 
 the enemy whose life he sought. In fair fight he had no 
 hesitation at this ; but, as a murderer, to strike the unde 
 fended bosom however criminal ; however deserving of 
 death was a view of the case equally unexpected and 
 painful. It was one for which his previous reflections had 
 not prepared him ; and, the excitement under which he 
 labored in consequence, was one, that, if it did not madden 
 him deprived him at least of all wholesome powers of re 
 flection. 
 
 While he rode to Frankfort, he went as one in a cloud. 
 He saw nothing 10 the right or the left. The farmer, his 
 neighbor, spoke to him, but he only turned as if impatient 
 at some interruption, but, without answering, put spurs 
 again to the flanks of his horse, and darted off with a wilder 
 speed than ever. An instinct, rather than a purpose, when 
 he reached Frankfort, carried him to the lodgings of his 
 friend Covington. 
 
 &quot; And what do you mean to do ?&quot; demanded the latter. 
 
 &quot;Kill him there is nothing else to be done !&quot; 
 
 &quot; My dear Beauchampe you must not think of such a 
 thing.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, but I must : why should I not ? Tell me that. 
 Shall such a monster live ?&quot;&quot; 
 
 &quot; There are good reasons why you should not kill him. 
 If you do, unless in very fair fight, you will not only be 
 tried, but found guilty of the murder.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I know notjhati Ills-crime &quot; 
 
 &quot; Deserves death and should have found it at the time ! 
 Had you put him to donil; when he was in your house, and 
 
THE AVENGER. 325 
 
 made the true cause known, tb.o jury must have justified 
 you; but you allowed the moment of provocation to pass : 
 
 &quot; Such a moment can not pass.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, but it can and does ! Time, they say, cools the 
 blood !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nonsense ! When every additional moment of thought 
 adds to the fever.&quot; 
 
 &quot;They reason otherwise. Nay, more just now that 
 feeling of party runs too high. Already, they have trum 
 peted it about that Calvert sought to kill Sliarpe on the 
 score of his attachment to Desha. They made the grounds 
 of that affair political, when, it seems to have been purely 
 your own ; and if you should attempt and succeed in such 
 a thing, he would be considered a martyr to the party, and 
 you would inevitably become its victim.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Covington, do you think that I am discouraged by this ? 
 Do you suppose I fear death ? No ! If the gallows were 
 already raised if the executioner stood by if I saw the 
 felon-cart, and the gloating throng around, gathered to be 
 hold my agonies, I would still strike, strike fatally, and 
 without fear !&quot; 
 
 &quot; I know you brave, Beauchampe ; but such a death 
 might well appal the bravest man !&quot; 
 
 &quot; It does not appal me. Understand me. Covington, I 
 must slay this man !&quot; 
 
 &quot; J can not understand you, Beauchampe. As your friend 
 i will not. I counsel you against the deed. I counsel you 
 purely with regard to your own safety.&quot; 
 
 4 Ab a friend, would you have me live dishonored ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! I have already counselled you how to transfer tho 
 dishonor from your shoulders to his. Denounce him for his 
 crime disgrace him by the scourge !&quot; 
 
 u No ! no ! Covington this is no redress no remedy. 
 OIF- blood only can wipe out that shame.&quot; 
 
 ;4 1 will have nothing to do with it, Beauchampe.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Will 7011 desert me ?&quot; 
 
324 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Not if you adopt the &quot;usual mode. Take your horse 
 whip, arm yourself ; give Sharpe notice to prepare ; and it 
 is not impossible, then, that he will be armed, and the ren 
 contre may be as fatal as you could desire it. I am ready 
 for you to this extent.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Be it so, then ! Believe me, Coving-ton, I would rather 
 a, thousand times risk my own life than be compelled to 
 take his without resistance. But understand one tiling. 
 lie or I must perish ! We can not both survive.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I will strive to bring it about,&quot; said the other; and, 
 urged by the impatience of Beauchampe, lie proceeded, a 
 second time, to give Colonel Sharpe the necessary no 
 tice. 
 
 jiut Sharpe was not to be found. lie was denied at his 
 own dwelling as in town ; and Covington took the way to 
 the house of his arch-vassal Mr. Barnabas. The latter 
 gentlema^ confirmed the intelligence. He stated, not only 
 that Sharpe had left town, but had proceeded to Bowling- 
 Green. 
 
 Covington did not conceal his object. Knowing the char 
 acter of Barnabas, and his relation to Sharpe, he addressed 
 himself to the fears of both. 
 
 &quot; Mr. Barnabas, it will be utterly impossible for Colonel 
 Sharpe to avoid this affair. Beauchampe will force it upon 
 him. He will degrade him daily in the streets of Frank 
 fort : he will brand him with the whip in the sight of tne 
 people. You know the effect of this upon a man s charac 
 ter and position.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Certainly, sir; but, Mr. Covington, Mr. Beauchauipt 
 will do so at his peril.&quot; 
 
 &amp;lt;: To be sure he knows that; but. with such wrong;- 
 as Mr. Beauchampe has had to sustain, he knows no peril 
 He will certainly do what I tell you.&quot; 
 
 &quot;But, Mr. Covington iny dear sir can not thus be 
 avoided ? Is there no other remedy : Will i&quot;.o j,j/u^g&amp;gt; - 
 uo atonement of Colonel Sharpe suppose &, written, %poi 
 
THE AVENGER. 326 
 
 ogy most humble and penitent to Mr. and Mrs. Beau- 
 cnanipe &quot; 
 
 &quot; Impossible ! How could you think that such an apol 
 ogy could atone for such an offence? first, the seduc 
 tion of this lady, while yet unmarried ; and, next, the 
 abominable renewal of the attempt when she had become a 
 v ifo !&quot; 
 
 But nobody believes this, Mr. Covington. It is gen 
 erally understood that the first offence is the only one to 
 be laid at TSharpe s door, and this is to be urged only 
 on political grounds. Beauchampe supported Tompkins 
 against Desha, and the friends of Tompkins revive this 
 stale offence only to discredit Sharpe as the friend of the 
 former.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Mr. Barnabas, you know better. You know that Beau 
 champe was the friend of Sharpe, and spoke against Cal- 
 vert in his defence. We also know, as well as you, that 
 Calvert and Sharpe fought on account of this very lady ; 
 though Desha s friends have contrived to make it appeal- 
 that the combat had a political origin.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well, Mr. Covington, my knowledge is one thing 
 that of the people another. I can only tell you that it is 
 very generally believed that the true cause of the affair is 
 political.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And how has this general knowledge been obtained, 
 Mr. Barnabas ?&quot; remarked Covington rather sternly. &quot; As 
 the friend of Beauchampe, and the only one to whom he has 
 confided his feelings and wishes, I can answer for it that 
 110 publicity has been given to this affair by us.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I don t know,&quot; said JJarnabas, hurriedly, &quot; how the 
 report has got abroad. I only know that it is very gen 
 eral.&quot; 
 
 Mr. Covington rose to depart. 
 
 &quot;Let me, before leaving you, Mr. Barnabas, advise you, 
 as one of the nearest friends of Colonel Sharpe, what he is 
 to expect. Mr. Beauchampe will take the road of him, and 
 
326 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 will horsewhip him through the streets of FrarVfort on the 
 first occasion nay, on every occasion till he is prepared 
 to fight him. I am free to add, for the benefit of any of 
 Colonel Sharpe s friends, that I will accompany him whsn 
 ever he proposes to make this attempt.&quot; 
 
 And, with this knightly intimation, Mr. Covington took 
 his departure. 
 
 When Beauchampc heard that Sharpe had left town. ar&amp;gt;d 
 gone to Bowling-Green, he immediately jumped on his horse 
 and went off in the same direction. 
 
 That very afternoon, Mr. Barnabas sat with his friend 
 Colonel Sharpe over a bottle, and at the town-house of the 
 latter ! It had been a falsehood by which Bcauchampe was 
 sent on a wild-goose chase into the country. The object 
 was to gain time, so as to enable the friends of both par 
 ties, or rather the friends of the criminal, who were mem 
 bers of the club, to interpose and effect an arrangement of 
 the affair, if such a thing were possible ; and, in the natural 
 gratification which Sharpe felt that the danger was parried, 
 though for a moment only, the spirits of the criminal rose 
 into vivacity. The two made themselves merry with the 
 unfruitful journey which the avenger was making ; not con 
 sidering the effect of such manoeuvring upon a temper so 
 excitable, nor allowing for the accumulation of those pas 
 sions which, as they can not sleep, and can not be subdued, 
 necessarily become more powerful in proportion to the de 
 lay in their utterance, and the restraints to which they are 
 subjected. 
 
 Of course, Mr. Barnabas made a full report to his pri: 
 cipal of all that Covington had told him. There was little 
 in this report to please the offender ; but there were other 
 tidings which were more gratifying. The members of the 
 club were busy to prevent the meeting. Mr. Barnabas hid 
 already sent a judicious and veteran politician to see Cov 
 ington ; and, having a great faith himself in the powers of 
 the persons lie had employed t-j bring the matter to a 
 
THE AVENGER. 327 
 
 peaceable adjustment, he had infused a certain portion of 
 his own faith into the breast of his superior. 
 
 And the bowl went round merrily ; and the hearts of the 
 twain were lifted up, for, in their political transactions, 
 there was much that had taken place of a character to give 
 both of them positive gratification. And so the evening 
 passed until about eight o clock, when Mr. Barnabas sud 
 denly recollected that lie had made an appointment witli 
 some gentleman which required his immediate departure. 
 Sharpe was unwilling to lose him, and Uis spirits sunk with 
 the departure of his friend ; nor were they much enlivened 
 by the entrance of a lady, in whose meek, sad countenance 
 might be read the history of an unloved, neglected, but un 
 complaining wife. He did not look up at her approach. 
 She placed herself in the seat which Mr. Barnabas had left. 
 
 &quot; You look unwell, Warham. You seem to have been 
 troubled, my husband,&quot; she remarked with some hesitation, 
 and in a faint voice. &quot; Is anything the matter ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nothing which you can help, Mrs. Sharpe,&quot; he replied 
 in cold and repelling accents, crossing his legs, and half 
 wheeling his chair about so as to turn his back upon her. 
 She was silenced, and looked at him with an eye full of a sad 
 reproach and a lasting disappointment. No further words 
 passed between them, and a few moments only elapsed 
 when a rap was heard at the outer entrance. 
 
 &quot; Leave the room,&quot; he said ; fc&amp;lt; I suppose it is Barnabas 
 returned. I have private business with him. You had 
 better go to bed.&quot; 
 
 She rose meekly, and did as she was commanded. He 
 also rose, and went to the door. 
 
 fc Who s that Barnabas ?&quot; he demanded, while opening 
 tho door. 
 
 He was answered indistinctly; but he fancied that the 
 words were in the affirmative, and the visitor darted in the 
 moment the door was opened. The passage-way being 
 dark, he could not distinguish the person of the stranger 
 
328 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 except to discover that it was not the man whom he er 
 pected. But this discovery was made almost in the very 
 instant when the intruder entered, and with it came certain 
 apprehensions of danger, which, however vague, yet startled 
 and distressed him. Under their influence he receded Ire in 
 the entrance, moving backward with his face to the stran 
 ger, till he re-entered the sitting-apartment. The moment 
 that the light fell upon the face of the visitor, his knees 
 knocked against one another. It was Beauchampe. 
 
 &quot; Beauchampe !&quot; he involuntarily exclaimed, with a hol 
 low voice, while his dilated eyes regarded the fierce, wild 
 aspect of the visiter. 
 
 &quot; Ay, Beauchampe!&quot; were the echoed tones of- the other 
 tones almost stifled in the deep intensity of mood with 
 which they were spoken tones low, but deep, like those 
 of some dull convent-bell, echoing at midnight along the 
 gray rocks and heights of some half-deserted land ! As 
 deep and soul-thrilling as would be such sounds upon the 
 ear of some wanderer, unconscious of any neighborhood, 
 did they fall upon the sudden sense of that criminal. His 
 courage instantly failed him. His knees smote each other ; 
 his tongue clove to his mouth ; he had strength enough only 
 to recede as if with the instinct of flight. Beauchampe 
 caught his arm. 
 
 &quot;You can not fly you must stay! My business will 
 sufier no further postponement.&quot; 
 
 Beauchampe forced him into a chair. 
 
 u What is the matter, Beauchampe ? what do you moan 
 to do ?&quot; gasped the trembling criminal. 
 
 &quot; Docs not your guilty soul tell you what I should do?&quot; 
 was the stern demand. 
 
 &quot; I am guilty !&quot; was the half-choking answer. 
 
 &quot; Ay ! but the confession alone will avail nothi^r. You 
 must atone for your guilt !&quot; 
 
 &quot; On my knee?. Bcauchampc ?&quot; 
 
 * No ! with your blood !&quot; 
 
THE AVENGER. 329 
 
 &quot; Spare ine, Beauchampe ! oh ! spare my life. Do not 
 murder me for I can not tight you on account of that in 
 jured woman !&quot; 
 
 &quot;This whining will not- answer, Colonel Sharpe. You 
 must fight me. I have brought weapons for both. Choose!&quot; 
 
 The speaker threw two dirks upon the floor at the feet 
 of the criminal, while he stood back proudly. 
 
 &quot; Choose !&quot; he repeated, pointing to the. weapons. 
 
 But the latter, though rising, so far from availing himself 
 of the privilege, made an effort to pass- his enemy and es 
 cape from the room. But the prompt arm of Beauchampe 
 arrested him and threw him back with some force toward 
 the corner of the apartment. 
 
 &quot; Colonel Sharpe, you can not escape me. The falsehood 
 of your friend, which sent me from the city, has resolved 
 me to suffer no more delay of justice. Will you fight me ? 
 Choose of the weapons at your feet.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I can not! spare me, Beauchampe my dear friend 
 for the past in consideration of what we have been to 
 each other spare my life !&quot; 
 
 &quot; You thought not of this, villain, when, in the insolence 
 of your heart, you dared to bring your lust into my dwel 
 ling.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Beauchampe, hear me for your own sake, hear me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Speak ! speak briefly. I am in no mood to trifle.&quot; 
 
 &quot; My crime was that of a young man 
 
 &quot; Stay ! your crime was the invasion of my family of 
 its peace.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! that was a crime if it were so.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What, do you mean to deny ? Dare you to impute false 
 hood to my wife ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Beanchampe, she is your wife; and for this reason, I 
 will not say, what I might say, but 
 
 4/ Oh ! speak all speak all! I am curious to see by 
 what new invention of villany you hope to deceive me.&quot; 
 
 No vi J.any -co invention, Beauchampe 1 speak onl&amp;gt; 
 
330 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 the solemn truth. Before God, I assure you it is the truth 
 only which I will deliver.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You swear ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Solemnly.&quot; 
 
 * Speak, then but take up the dirk.&quot; 
 
 &amp;lt;k No ! If you will but hear me, I do not fear to con 
 viuce you that there needs none either in your hands or 
 mine.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You are a good lawyer, keen, quick-witted, and verv 
 loirical ; but it will task better wits than yours to alter my 
 faith that you are a villain, and that you shall perish by 
 this hand of mine.&quot; 
 
 Beauchampc stooped and possessed himself of one of 
 the weapons. 
 
 &quot; Speak now ! what have you to say ? Remember Col 
 onel Sharpe, you have not only summoned God to witness 
 your truth, but you may be summoned in a few moments to 
 his presence to answer for your falsehood. I am sent here, 
 solemnly sworn, to take your life !&quot; 
 
 &quot; But only because you believed me a criminal in respects 
 in which I am innocent. If I show you that I never ap 
 proached Mrs. Beauchampc, while your wife, except with 
 the respect due to herself and you &quot; 
 
 &quot; Liar ! but you can not show me that ! I tell you, I 
 believe what she has told me. I know her truth and your 
 falsehood.&quot; 
 
 &quot; She is prejudiced, my dear friend. She hates me &quot; 
 
 ki And with good reason: but hate you as she may, she 
 speaks, and can speak, nothing in your disparagement bat 
 the truth.&quot; 
 
 &quot; She has misunderstood mistaken mo, in what I said, * 
 
 &quot; Stay !&quot; approaching him. u Stay ! do not deceive your 
 self, Colonel Sharpe : you can not deceive me. She has 
 detailed the whole of your wild overtures the very words 
 of shame and guilt, and villanous baseness which you em 
 ployed.&quot; 
 
THE A7RNGER. 331 
 
 &quot; Ecauchiinpe, my dear friend, arc you sure that she has 
 told you all ?&quot; 
 
 Here the criminal approached with extended hand, while 
 he assumed a look, of mysterious meaning, which left some 
 thing for the other to anticipate. 
 
 &quot; Sure that she told me all ? Ay I I am sure ! What 
 remains ? Speak out, and leave nothing to these smooth, 
 cunning faces. Speak out, while the time is left you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Did she tell you of our first meeting in Charlemont ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ay, did she that! everything!&quot; 
 
 &quot;I seek not to excuse my crime, there, Beauchampe 
 but that was not a crime against you ! I did not know yot 
 t.her I did not then fancy that you would ever bo so *} 
 lied to&quot; 
 
 &quot; Cease that, and say what you deem needful.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Did she tell you of the child ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Child ! what child ?&quot; demanded Beauchampe, with a 
 start of surprise. 
 
 The face of Sharpe put on a look of exultation. lie felt 
 that he had gained a point. 
 
 &quot; Ah ! ha ! I could have sworn that she did not tell you 
 all /&quot; 
 
 The eyes of Beauchampe glared more fiercely, and the 
 convulsive twitching of the hand which held the dagger, 
 and the quivering of his lip, might have warned his com 
 panion of the danger which he incurred of trifling with him 
 longer. 
 
 But Sharpens policy was to induce the suspicions of 
 Beauchampe in relation to his wife. lie fancied, from the 
 unqualified astonishment which appeared in the lattcr s 
 face, as he spoke of the child, that he had secured a largo 
 foothold in this respect, for it was very clear that Mrs. 
 Beauchampe, while relating everything of any substantial 
 importance which concerned herself, had evidently omitted 
 that portion of the narrative which concerned the uifhappy 
 and short-lived offspring of her guilty error. 
 
?32 ;E\UCHAMPE. 
 
 It does not i&amp;gt;eed to inquire why she had forborne to in 
 clude this particular in her statement to her husband. 
 There may have been some superior pang in the recollec 
 tion of that gloomy period which had follov/ed her fall ; and 
 it was not necessary to the frank confession which she had 
 freely offered of her guilt. 
 
 But, though unimportant. Colonel Sharpevery well knew, 
 that there is a danger in the suppression of any fact, in a 
 case like this, where the relations are so nice and sensitive, 
 which 13 like to involve an appearance of guilt, and to lead 
 to .9 presumption. Like an experienced practitioner at 
 tht 3g!oi!p. he deemed it important to dwell upon this par- 
 t ; ;...,. 
 
 &quot; 1 could have sworn !&quot; he repeated, &quot; that she had not 
 told you of that, child. &quot;Ah! my dear friend, spare me 
 the necessity of telling you what she has forborne. She is 
 now your wife. Her reputation is yours her shame 
 would be yours also. Believe me, I repent of all I have 
 done for your sake, for hers believe me, moreover, 
 when I assure you that she mistook my language, when she 
 fancied that I meant indignity in what I said lately in your 
 house.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But / could not mistake that, Colonel Sharpe.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! but did you hear it rightly reported ?&quot; 
 
 / Ay! she would not deceive me. You labor in vain. 
 Tin? dirty work is easy with you ; but it does not blind 
 me ! Colonel Sharpe, what child is this that you speak 
 of?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Her child, to be sure !&quot; 
 
 &quot;Her child! Had she a child ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; To bo sure she had. Ask her : she will not deny it, 
 peril arc. and if she does, I can prove it.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ecr child ! and yours ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No no ! No child of mine !&quot; 
 
 :t ITS ! not your child ! Whose whose then ?&quot; 
 
 (TO to her, my dcnr friend ! Ask her of that child. * 
 
THE AVENGER. 333 
 
 &quot; Where is the child ? 
 
 Dead !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Dead ! well ! what of it then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;Go to her ask her whose it was? Ah! my dear 
 Beauchampe, let me say no more. Press me no further to 
 speak. She is your wife !&quot; 
 
 The eye of Beauchampe settled upon him with a suddenly- 
 composed but stony expression. 
 
 &quot; Say all!&quot; he said deliberately. &quot; Disburthen yourself 
 of all ! I request it particularly, Colonel Sharpe nay, I 
 command it.&quot; 
 
 &quot; My dear friend, Beauchampe, I really would prefer not 
 ah ! it is an ugly business. * 
 
 &quot; Do not trifle, Colonel Sharpe speak you do not 
 help your purpose by this prevarication. What do you 
 know further of this child ? It was not yours, you say 
 whose was it then ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; It was not mine ! and to say whose it was is scarce so 
 easy a matter, but &quot; arid he drew nigh and whispered the 
 rest of the sentence, some three syllables, into the ears of 
 the husband. 
 
 The latter recoiled. Uis face grew black, his hand 
 grasped the dagger with nervous rigidity, and, while tho 
 look of cunning confidence mantled the face of tho criminal, 
 and before he could recede from the fatal proximity to 
 which, in whispering, he had brought himself with the 
 avenger, the latter had struck. The sharp edge of the 
 dagger had answered the shocking secret whatever might 
 have been its character and the terrible oath of the hus 
 band was redeemed ! redeemed in a single moment, and 
 by a single blow. 
 
 The wrongs of Margaret Cooper were at last avenged ! 
 But were her sorrows ended ? 
 
 How should they bo ? The hand that is stained with ha- 
 man blood, in whatever cause the soul that has prompted 
 the deed of blood what waters .shall make clean ? 
 
334 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Vengeance is mine !&quot; saith the Lord meaning &quot; mine 
 only !&quot; Wo, then, for tho guilty soul that usurps this sub 
 lime privilege of Deity! It must bide a dreary destiny 
 before the waters of heavenly mercy shall flow to cleanse 
 and sweeten it. We may plead the madness of the crimi 
 nals, and this alone may excuse what we are not permitted 
 to justify. Certainly, they had been stung to madness. 
 The very genius of Margaret Cooper made the transition 
 to madness easy ! 
 
 But Colonel Sharpe fell, prone on his face, at the feet 
 of the avenger ! 
 
 A single blow had slain him! 
 
HUE \ND CIIY. S.H/i 
 
 CHAPTER XXXiV. 
 
 HUE AND CRY. 
 
 &quot; Now that we have the food we so have longed fbf, 
 Let us talk cheerily i We ll think of pleasures 
 That never shall grow surfeit of joys of Death, 
 Whose reign wraps earth in its eternal grasp, 
 And feeds eternity ! Oh, we ll be joyful now !&quot; Old Play. 
 
 A MURDER in a novel, though of very common occurrence, 
 is usually a matter of a thousand very thrilling minutiae. 
 In the hands of a score of our modern romancers, it is sur- 
 orising what capital they make of it ! How it runs through 
 a score of chapters! admits of a variety of details, de 
 scriptions, commentaries, and conjectures ! Take any of 
 the great raconteurs of the European world not forget 
 ting Dumas and Reynolds and see what they will do with 
 it ! How they turn it over, and twist it about, as a sweet 
 morsel under the tongue ! In either of these hands, it be 
 comes one of the most prolific sources of interest ; which 
 does not end with the knife or bludgeon stroke, or bullet- 
 Ghot, but multiplies its relations the more it is conned, and 
 will swallow up half the pages of an ordinary duodecimo. 
 As they unfold the long train of consequences, in intermi 
 nable recital, you are confounded at the dilating atmosphere 
 cf the deed ; at the long accumulation of dreary details ; 
 the fact upon fact whether of moment or value to the 
 progress,, cr net, is net necessary tc be asked here which 
 grows out of the crime en every hand. How it spreads, as 
 the radiating circles m the water, from a pebble plunged 
 
into -Ihe lake . There you see the good old buticr or porter 
 of ihe household, or it may be the cook or hostler Saun- 
 ders Maybin, or B.ichard Swopp, by name going forth at 
 dawn, having been troubled during the night with sundry 
 uneasinesses, the consequence of a hearty supper of lobster 
 or gait cod, and suddenly encountering a blood-spot upon 
 the sward ! 
 
 That mysterious blood-spot!-- 
 
 At the sight of it, the said Saunders or Richard recoils, 
 puts his finger to his nose dubitatingly, shakes his noddle 
 significantly, and mutters quoting Shakspere without a 
 consciousness : ; This is miching malico ! It means mis- 
 chit f r 
 
 And. so saying, he goes on nosing all nose from that 
 moment till he finds more/sjgwj in the parlance of the 
 TJ dian, and is at length conducted, step by step, till he 
 stumbles over the lopped members of a human carcass jut 
 ting out from a dunghill ! 
 
 Nay, it may not be so easily found may require some 
 circuitous turns of the nose before full discovery ; and then 
 it may not be in a dunghill that it is hidden. It may be in 
 the bushes or in the sands ; but no matter where : you shall 
 be a whole summer day in making the discovery, for our 
 authors will not suffer you to lose a single detail in the 
 progress ; and, by the time the search is ended, it is to be 
 hoped that you will believe that your author as well as 
 conductor has a valuable nose ! 
 
 Lut, whatever the particulars of search and discovery, 
 you must have em all ; you will be bated not a hair, not 
 an item, not an atom : how many are the drops of blood ; 
 how large the puddle ; whether first seen on grass or sand ; 
 how the body lies when found ; what the shape and size of 
 the wound ; whether by a sharp or rusty blade, smooth shil- 
 Iclah or knotted hickory : there must be a regular inven 
 tory ! Such is equally crowncr s quest and novelist s law ! 
 
 And the &quot; crowners quest&quot; itself that is always an 
 
HUB AND CRY. 337 
 
 inquisition of rare susceptibilities, and nice details and dis 
 criminations ; amplifications of the old case of Ophelia, as 
 to whether the woman went to the water, or the water went 
 to the woman ! The differences of vulgar opinion ; the 
 array of vulgar prejudices ; the free use of legal technicali 
 ties ; and a thousand other abominable little niceties, that 
 ought to be gathered up at a grasp, all spread out to the 
 utmost stretch like the shirt of Cassar scored with 
 bloody gashes, each having name and number ! To crown 
 all, and to render the &quot; miching malico&quot; more endurable 
 and desirable, you are always sure to have some poor devil 
 of an innocent in the way just where he ought not to be 
 looking very much like the guilty one, and behaving with 
 such pains-taking stupidity, that nobody doubts that he is ; 
 and he is accordingly laid by the heels, and clapped up in 
 prison, to answer to the crime. The genius of the novelist 
 then goes to work, in right good earnest, to see how he can 
 be got out of the darbies ! This is the notable way to re 
 late such a history usually ; and one might think it a toler 
 ably good way, indeed, were it not that most people find it 
 abominably tedious. 
 
 Having seen, for ourselves, how Sharpe was murdered, 
 who was the murderer, and how the blow was struck, we 
 shall not fatigue the reader in showing how many versions 
 of the affair got abroad among those who were, of course, 
 more and more positive in their conjectures in proportion 
 to the small knowledge which they possessed. We make 
 short a story which, long enough already, we apprehend, 
 might, by an ingenious romancer, be made a great deal 
 longer. 
 
 Suspicion fell instantly on Beauchampe. On whom else 
 should it fall ? He had announced his purpose to take the 
 life of the criminal ; and, wherever Sharpc s offence had got 
 abroad, people expected that he would commit the deed. 
 
 In our country, a great many crimes arc committed to 
 gratify public expectation. Most of our duels are fought 
 
338 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 to satisfy the demands of public opinion ; by which is un 
 derstood the opinions of that little set, batch, or clique, of 
 which some long-nosed Solomon some addle-pated leader 
 of a score whose brains are thrice addled is the sapient 
 lawgiver and head. Most of the riots and mobs arc insti 
 gated by half-witted journalists, who first goad the offender 
 10 his crime, and, the next day, rate him soundly for its 
 commission ! He who, in a fit of safe valor, the day before, 
 taunted his neighbor with cowardice for submitting to an 
 indignity, lifts up his holy hands with horror when he hears 
 that the nose-pulling is avenged, and, as a conscientious 
 juryman, hurries the wretch to the halter who has only fol 
 lowed his own suggestions in braining the assailant with his 
 bludgeon I All this is certainly very amusing, and, with 
 proper details, makes a murder-paragraph in the newspaper 
 which delights the old ladies to as great an extent as a 
 marriage does the young ones. It produces that pleasura 
 ble excitement which is the mental brandy and tobacco to 
 all persons of the Anglo-Saxon breed for both of which 
 the appetite is tolerably equal in both Great Britain and 
 America. 
 
 In the case of Beauchampe, the &quot; Hue and Cry&quot; knew, 
 by a sort of conventional instinct, exactly in what quarter 
 to turn its sagacious nostrils. 
 
 * 4 It is Beauchampe that has done this !&quot; was the common 
 
 voice, as soon as the deed was known. And, by-the-way, 
 
 when public expectation so certainly points to the true 
 
 offender, it is highly probable that it gave the clue to the 
 
 , \offencein the first instance. It said : &quot; Do it ! it ought 
 
 to be done !&quot; 
 
 / Beauchampe did not much concern himself about the 
 Hue and Cry.&quot; or even about that great authority &quot; Pub 
 lic Opinion.&quot; He returned to his own dwelling; but not 
 with the feet of fear not even with those of flight. His 
 jcuruey homc\v;iru v. u.s marked with the deliberation of one 
 wno feels satisfied liiut he Ima performed a duty, the neglect 
 
HUE AND CRY. 339 
 
 of which had long been burdensome and painful to his con 
 science. 
 
 It is, of course, to be understood -that he was laboring 
 under a degree of excitement which makes it something 
 like an absurdity to talk of conscience at all. The fanati 
 cism which now governed his feelings, and had sprung from 
 them, possessed his mind also. With the air of one who 
 has gone through a solemn and severe ordeal, with the feel 
 ing of a martyr, he presented himself before his wife. 
 
 The deliberation of monomania is one of its most re 
 markable features. It is singularly exemplified by one 
 portion of Beauchampe s proceedings. On leaving her to 
 seek the interview with Sharpe, he had informed her, not 
 only on what day, but at what hour, to look for his return ; 
 and he reached his dwelling within fifteen minutes of the 
 appointed moment. 
 
 Anxiously expecting his arrival, she had walked down 
 the grove to meet him. On seeing her, he raised his hand 
 kerchief, red with the bloody proofs of his crime, and waved 
 it in the manner of a Hag. She ran to meet him, and, as 
 he leaped from his horse, she fell prostrate on her face 
 before him. Her whole frame was convulsed, and she 
 burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 a Why weep, why tremble ?&quot; he exclaimed. &quot; Do you 
 weep that the deed is done the shame washed out in the 
 blood of the criminal that you are avenged at last?&quot; 
 
 His accents were stern and reproachful. She lifted her 
 hands and eyes to heaven as she replied : 
 
 &quot; &amp;gt;S T O ! not for this I weep and tremble ; or, if for this, it 
 is in gratitude to Heaven that has smiled upon the deed.&quot; 
 
 But, though she spoke this fearful language, she spoke 
 not the true feeling of her soul. Wo have already striven 
 to show that she no longer possessed those feelings which 
 would have desired the performance of the deed. She no 
 longer implored revenge. She strove to reject the memory 
 of the murdered man, as well as of the wanton crime by 
 
340 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 which he had provoked his fate ; and the emotion which 
 she expressed, when she beheld the bloody signal waving 
 from her husband s hands, had its birth in the revolting of 
 that feminine nature which, even in her, after the long con 
 templation which had made her imagination familiar with 
 the crime, was still in the ascendant. But this she con 
 cealed. This she denied, as we have seen. Her motive 
 was a noble one. It is soon expressed : 
 
 &quot; He has done the deed for me in my behalf ! Shall 1 
 now refuse approbation ? shall I withhold my sympathy ? 
 No ! let his guilt be what it may, he is mine, and I am his, 
 for ever !&quot; 
 
 And, with this resolve, she smiled upon the murderer, 
 kissed his bloody hands, and lifted her own to Heaven in 
 seeming gratitude for its sanction of _ the crime. 
 
 But a new feeling was added to those which, however 
 conflicting, her words and looks had just expressed. She 
 rose from the ground in apprehension. 
 
 &quot; But are you safe, my husband ?&quot; she demanded. 
 
 &quot;What matters it?&quot; he replied. &quot; Has he not fallen 
 beneath my arm ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes ; but if you are not safe ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; I know not what degree of safety I need,&quot; was his 
 reply. &quot; I have thought but little of that. If you mean, 
 however, to ask whether I ain suspected or not, I tell you I 
 believe I am. Nay, more I think the pursuers are after 
 me. They will probably be here this very night. But 
 what of this, dear wife ? I have no fears. My heart is 
 light. I am really happy never more so since the deed 
 is done. I could laugh, dance, sing practise any mirth 
 or madness just as one, who has been relieved of his pain, 
 throws by his crutch, and feels his limbs and strength free 
 at last, after a bondage to disease for years.&quot; 
 
 And he caught her .in his arms as he spoke, and his eye 
 danced with a strange fire, which made the woman shudder 
 to behold it. A cold tremor passed through her veins. 
 
HUE AND CRY. 341 
 
 &quot;Are you not happy too? do you not share with ine 
 this joy ?&quot; he demanded. 
 
 &quot; Oh, yes, to be sure I do !&quot; she replied, with a husky 
 apprehension in her voice, which, however, he did not seem 
 to observe. 
 
 &quot; I knew it I knew you would be ! Such a relief, end 
 
 ing in a triumph, should make us both so happy ! 1 never 
 was more joyful, my dear wife. Never! never!&quot;- and lie 
 laughed laughed until the woods resounded and did 
 not heed the paleness of her cheek ; did not feel the falter 
 ing of her limbs as he clasped her to his breast ; did not 
 note the wildness in her eye as she looked stealthily back 
 ward on the path over which he came. 
 
 She, at least, was now fully in her senses, whatever she 
 may have been before. She stopped him in his antics. She 
 drew him suddenly aside, into the cover of the grove for, 
 by this time, they had come in sight of the dwelling and, 
 throwing herself on her knees, clasped his in her arms, 
 while she implored his instant flight. 
 
 But he flatly refused, and she strove in vain, however 
 earnestly, to change his determination. All that she could 
 obtain from him was, a promise to keep silent, and not, by 
 any act of his own, to facilitate the progress of those who_.-. 
 might seek to discover the proofs of his criminality. Crime, 
 indeed, he had long ceased to consider his performance. 
 The change, in this respect, which had taken place in her 
 feelings and opinions, had produced none in his. His mind- 
 had been wrought up to something like a religious frenzy. 
 He regarded the action, not only as something due to jus 
 tice an action appointed for himself particularly but as 
 absolutely and intrinsically glorious. 
 
 Perhaps, indeed, such an act as his should ahvays be 
 estimated with reference to the sort of world in which the 
 performer lives. What were those brave deeds of the mid 
 dle ages the avenging of the oppressed, the widow, ano 
 the orphan by which stalwart chiefs made themselves 
 
342 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 famous ? Crimes, too, and sometimes of the blackest sort, 
 but that they had their value as benefits at a period wLen 
 society afforded no redress for injury, and consequently no 
 protection for innocence. 
 
 And what protection did society afford to Margaret 
 Cooper, and what redress for injury ? Talk of your action 
 for damages your five thousand dollars and of what 
 avail to such a woman, robbed of innocence ; mocked, per 
 secuted ; followed to the last refuge of her life, the home 
 of her mother arid her husband : and, afterward, thrice- 
 blackened in fame by the wanton criminal, by slanders of 
 the most shocking invention ! 
 
 Society never yet could succeed in protecting and redres 
 sing all its constituents, or any one of them, in all his or 
 her relations. There are a thousand respects where the 
 neighbors must step in ; where, to await for law, or to hope 
 for law, is to leave the feeble and the innocent to perish. 
 You hear the cry of u Murder !&quot; Do you stop, and resume 
 your seat, with the comforting reflection that, if John mur 
 ders Peter, John, after certain processes of evidence, will 
 be sent to the stateprison or the gallows, and make a goodly 
 show, on some gloomy Friday, for the curious of both sexes ? 
 Law is a very good thing in its way, but it is not every 
 thing ; and there are some honest impulses, in every manly 
 bosom, which are the best of all moral laws as they are 
 the most certainly human of all laws. Give ue, say 1, 
 Kentucky practice, like that of Beauchampe, as a social 
 law, rather than that which prevails in some of our pattern 
 cities, where women are. in three fourths the number of in 
 stances, the victims violated, mangled, murdered where 
 men are the criminals and where (Heaven kindly having 
 withdrawn the sense of shame) thero^is^no one guilty at 
 least none brave enough or manly enough to bring the guilty 
 to punishment! What is said is not meant to defender 
 encourage the shedding uf blood. We may not defend the 
 taking of life, even by the laws. We regard life as an 
 
HUE ASJ&amp;gt; CRY. 
 
 express trust from Heaven, of which, as we should not 
 divest ourselves, no act but that of Heaven should divest 
 us : but there is a crime beyond it, in the shedding of that 
 vital soul-blood, its heart of liearts, life of all life, the fair 
 fame, the untainted reputation ; and the one offence which 
 provokes the other should be placed in the opposing bal 
 ance, as an offset, in some degree, to the crime by which it 
 is avenged. 
 
BEATJCHAMP^ 
 
 CBAfTKK XXXV. 
 
 THE DUNGEON. 
 
 WE could tell a long story about the manner in which 
 Beauchampe was captured ; but it will suffice to say that 
 when the pursuers presented themselves at his threshold, 
 he was ready, and with the high, confident spirit of one as 
 sured that all was right in his own own bosom, he yielded 
 himself up at their summons, and attended them to Frank 
 fort. 
 
 Behold him, then, in prison. The cold, gloomy walls are 
 around him, and all is changed, of the sweet, social outer 
 world, in the aspects which meet his eye. 
 
 But the woman of his heart is there with him ; and ii the 
 thing that we love is left us, the dungeon has its sunshine, 
 and the prison is still a home. The presence of the loved 
 one hallows it into home. Amidst doubt, and privation 
 the restraint he endures, and the penal doom which he may 
 yet have to suffer her affection rises always above his 
 affliction, and baffles the ills that would annoy, and soothes 
 the restraint which is unavoidable. She has a consolation 
 such as woman alone knows to administer, for the despond 
 ency that weighs upon him. She can soothe the dark 
 hours with her song, and the weary ones with her caress 
 and smile. 
 
 But not to ordinary appeals like these does the wife of 
 his bosom confine her ministry. Her soul rises in strength 
 corresponding- to the demands of his. Ardent in his nature, 
 
THE DUNGEON. 345 
 
 Kttle used to restraint, the circumscribed boundary of his 
 prison grows irksome, at moments, beyond his temper to 
 endure. At such moments his heart fails him, and doubts 
 arise shadows of the solemn truth which always haunt the 
 soul of the wrong-doer, however righteous to his diseased 
 mind may seem his deeds at the moment of their perform 
 ance doubts that distress him with the fear that he may 
 still have erred. 
 
 To the pure heart to the conscientious spirit there is 
 nothing more distressing than such a doubt ; and this very 
 distress is the remorse which religion loves to inspire, when 
 it would promote the workings of repentance. It is a mis 
 placed ad mistaken kindness that the wife of Beauchampe 
 undertakes to fortify his faith, and strengthen him in the 
 conviction that all is right. We can not blame her, though 
 pity tis twas so. She no longer speaks perhaps she no 
 longer thinks of the deed which he has done, as an event 
 either to be deplored, or to have been avoided. She speaks 
 of it as a necessary misfortune. As she found that he de- 
 rived his chief consolation from the conviction that the deed 
 was laudable, she toils, with deliberate ingenuity and in 
 dustry, to confirm his impressions. Through the sad, slow- 
 pacing moments of the midnight, she sits beside him and 
 renews the long and cruel story of her wrong. She sup 
 presses nothing now. That portion of the narrative relating 
 to the diild, from her previous suppression of which, the 
 unhappy man whom he had slain, had striven to originate 
 certain doubts of her conduct, and to infuse them into the 
 mind of Beauchampe was all freely told, and its previous 
 suppression explained and accounted for. The wife seemed 
 tc take a singular and sad pleasure in reiterating this pain 
 ful narrative ; and yet, every repetition of the tale brought 
 to her spirit the pang, as keenly felt as ever, of her early 
 humiliation. But she saw that the renewal of the story 
 strengthened the feeling of self-justification in the mind of 
 her huaband. ! That was the rock upon which he stood, and 
 
 15* 
 
o4G BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 to confirm the solidity of that support, was to lighten the 
 restraints of his prison, and all the terrors which might be 
 inspired by the apprehension of his doom. Of the mere 
 stroke of death, he had no fears ; but there is something in 
 the idea of a felon death by the halter, which distresses 
 and subjugates the strongest nerves. This idea sometimes 
 came to afflict the prisoner, but the keen instincts of his 
 wife enabled her very soon to discover the causes of his 
 depression, and her quick, commanding intellect provided 
 her with the arguments which were to combat them. 
 
 &quot; Do not fear, my husband.&quot; she would say. &quot; I know 
 that they must acquit you. No jury of men men who 
 have wives, and daughters, and sisters, but must not only 
 acquit you of crime, but must justify and applaud you for 
 the performance of a deed which protects their innocence, 
 and strikes terror into the heart of the seducer. You have 
 not been my champion merely, you are the champion of my 
 * sex. The blow which your arm has struck, was a blow in 
 behalf of every uirprptected female, of every poor orphan 
 fatherless, brotherless, and undefended who otherwise 
 would be the prey of the ruffian and the betrayer. No, 
 no ! There can be no cause of fear. I do not fear for you. 
 I will myself go into the court, and, if need be, plead your 
 cause by telling the whole story of my wrong. They shall 
 hear me. I will neither fear nor blush and they shall 
 believe me when they hear.&quot; 
 
 But to this course the husband objected. The heart of a 
 man is more keenly alive to the declared shame of one he 
 truly loves, than to the loss of life or of any other great 
 sacrifice which the social man can make. Besides, Beau 
 champe knew better than his wife what would be permitted, 
 and what denied, in the business of a court of justice. Still, 
 it was necessary that steps should be taken for his defence. 
 At first, he proposed to argue his own case ; but he was 
 very soon conscious, after a few moments given to reflec 
 tion on this subject, that his feelings would enter too largely 
 
THE DUNGEON. 347 
 
 Into his mind to Duller it to do him or itself justice. While 
 undetermined what course to pursue, or who to employ, his 
 friend Covington suggested the name of Calvert, as that of 
 a lawyer likely to do him more justice by far than any other 
 that he could name. 
 
 &quot; I know Colonel Calvert,&quot; said the young man, &quot; and I 
 can assure you he has no superior as a jury pleader in the 
 country. He is very popular makes friends wherever he 
 goes, and is beginning to be accounted, everywhere, the 
 only man who could have taken the field against Sharpe. 1 
 
 &quot; But what was it that you told me of his fighting with 
 Sharpc on my account !&quot; was the inquiry of Beauchampe, 
 now urged with a degree of curiosity which he had neither 
 shown nor felt, when the fact was first mentioned to him. 
 
 &quot; Of that I can tell you little. It is very well known 
 that Sharpe and Calvert quarrelled and fought, almost at 
 their first meeting. The friends of Sharpe asserted that 
 the quarrel arose on account of offensive words which Cal 
 vert made use of in disparagement of Desha.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, I heard that now I remember from Barnabas 
 himself.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Such was the story ; but Sharpe assured me that the 
 affair really took place on account of Mrs. Beauchampe.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Mrs. Beauchampe !&quot; exclaimed the husband. 
 
 The wife, who was present, looked up inquiringly, but 
 said nothing. Mr. Covington looked to the lady and re 
 mained silent, while, with a face suddenly flushed, Beau 
 champe motioned to his wife to leave them. When she had 
 done so, Covington repeated what had been said by Sharpe 
 concerning his duel with Calvert. 
 
 &quot; It was only some lie of his, intended to help his eva 
 sion. It was to secure the temporary object. I never heard 
 of Calvert from my wife.&quot; 
 
 Such was Beauchampe s opinion. But Covington thought 
 otherwise. 
 
 &quot; A rumor has reached me since,&quot; he added, &quot; which 
 
^48 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 leads me to think tl.at the story is not altogether withoui 
 foundation. At all events, whether there be anything in it 
 or not, Calvert will be your man for the defence. If any 
 thing is to be done, he will do it. But really, Beauchampc, 
 if you have stated all the particulars, they can establish 
 nothing against you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! the general persuasion that I ought to kill Sharpe, 
 will produce testimony enough. I think I shall escape, 
 Covington, but it will be in spite of the testimony. I will 
 escape, because of the sentiment of justice, which, in the 
 breast of every honest man, will say, that Sharpe ought to 
 die, and that no hand had a better right to take his life than 
 mine. But you know the faction. They arc strong his 
 friends and relatives are numerous. They will strain every 
 nerve spare no money, and suborn testimony enough to 
 effect their object. They will fail, I think : I can scarcely 
 say I hope, for, of a truth, my dear fellow, it seems to me 
 that I have done the great act of my life. I feel as if I had 
 performed the crowning achievement. I could do nothing 
 more meritorious if I lived a thousand years ; and death, 
 therefore, would not be to me now such a misfortune as 1 
 should have regarded it a month ago. Still, life has some 
 thing for me. 1 should like to live. The thought of losing 
 her, is a worse pang than any that the mere loss of life could 
 inflict/ 
 
 The prisoner was touched as he said these words. A big 
 tear gathered in his eye, and he averted his face from his 
 companion. Covington rose to depart. As he did so he 
 asked : 
 
 &quot; Shall I see Calvert for you, Beauchampe ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I will think of it, and let you know to-morrow/ was 
 the reply. 
 
 &quot; The sooner the better. Your enemies are busy, and 
 Calvert lives at some distance. He must be written to, and 
 time may be lost, as he may be on the road Tiow somewhere, 
 I will look in upon you in the morning.&quot; 
 
THE DUNGEON. 349 
 
 &quot; Do so. I shall then be better able to say what should 
 be doae. I will think of it to-night: but, of a truth, Cov 
 ing ton, I do no feel disposed to do anything. [ prefer to 
 remain inactive. For what should I say? Speak out? 
 That would be against all legal notions of making a de 
 fence. And yet, I know no mode properly of defending 
 myself, than by declaring the act iny owu, and justifying 
 it as such. To myself to my own soul it is thus justi 
 fied. God! if it were not! But, in order to make this 
 justification felt by the jury, they must know my secret. 
 They must hear all that damning tale of her iriai and over 
 throw, and the serpent-like progress of him whose head I 
 have bruised for &quot;ever ! How can / tell foot, 9 That is 
 impossible !&quot; 
 
 Covington agreed with the speaker, who proceeded thus : 
 &quot; Well, then, I am silent. The general issue is one of 
 form, pleading which I am not supposed to be guilty of any 
 violation of the law of morals --- though what an absurdity 
 is that! I plead it, and keep silent. The onus probandi 
 lies with the state &quot; 
 
 &quot; And it can prove nothing, if your statement be correct.&quot; 
 &quot; Non sequitur, my good fellow. My statement is cor 
 rect. Nobody saw me commit the deed. The clothes 
 which I wore are sunk to the bottom of the Kentucky river ; 
 the dirk is buried ; and I know that, with the exception of 
 the great Omniscient, my proceedings were hidden from the 
 eyes of all. But it does not follow from this that there 
 will be no evidence against me. I suspect there will be 
 witnesses enough. The friends and family of Sharpe will 
 suborn witnesses. There are hundreds of people, too, who 
 readily believe what they fancy ; a*&amp;gt;d conjecture will make 
 details fast enough, which the vanit; of seeming to know 
 will prompt the garrulous to deliver. I am convinced that 
 vanity makes a great many witnesses, who will lie for the 
 sake of having something to say, and will swear to the lie 
 for the sake of having an audience who are compelled to 
 
360 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 listen to them. With a little management, you can get 
 anything sworn to. v You have heard of the philosopb-ai 
 who, under a bet, with some previous arrangement, collect 
 ed a crowd in the street to see certain stars at noonday, 
 which soon became visible to as many as looked. Som 
 few did not see so many stars as others, nor did they seein 
 to these so bright as to the rest ; but all of them saw the 
 stars they were there - that was enough; and some of 
 your big-mouthed observers booked a few incipient m 00113 
 or comets, and, of course, were more conspicuous themselves 
 in consequence of their conspicuous sight-seeing. If I have 
 any fear at all, it will be from some such quarter. The 
 friends of Sharpe have already turned upon me as the 
 criminal, and other eyes will follow theirs. Those who 
 know the crime of Sharpe, will conclude that the deed is 
 mine, from a conviction which all have felt that it should 
 be mine ; and, not to look to the political mano3uvrers for 
 interference, I make no question but they will find the very 
 dagger with which the deed was done perhaps half-a-dozen 
 daggers each of which will have its believer, and each 
 believer will be possessed of as many leading circumstances 
 to identify the murderer.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I believe that they will try to convict you, Beauchampe, 
 but I can not think, with you, that witnesses are so easy to 
 be found.&quot; 
 
 &quot; We shall see we shall see.&quot; 
 
 &quot; At all events, a good lawyer, who will probe such wit 
 nesses to the quick, will be the best security against their 
 frauds, whether these arise from vanity or malevolence ; 
 and I can not too earnestly recommend you to let me gee 
 or write to Calvert.&quot; 
 
 &quot; On that point I will give you my answer hereafter,&quot; 
 eaid Beauchampe evasively. 
 
 &quot; In the morning,&quot; suggested the other. 
 
 &quot; Ay, perhaps so : at least, Covington, let me see you then. : 
 
 The other promised, and, taking a kind farewell, depart 
 
THE DUNGEON. 351 
 
 ed. Wjien he had gone, the wife of Beauchanipe reappeared, 
 and, with some earnestness of manner, he directed her to 
 sit beside him upon his pallet. 
 
 Anna,&quot; said he, &quot;you never told me anything of a Mr. 
 Calvert. Do you know any such person, and how are you 
 interested in him ?&quot; 
 
 I know but one person of the name an old gentleman 
 wno taught school at Charlemont. But I have neither seen 
 aor heard of him for years.&quot; 
 
 &quot; An old gentleman ! How old ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Perhaps sixty or sixty-five.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not the same ! But, perhaps, he had a son ? Now, ] 
 remember, that, when I went to Bowling-Green, there wa? 
 an old gentleman, with a very white head, who seemed inti 
 mate with Colonel Calvert.&quot; 
 
 &quot;He had no son none, at least, that I ever saw.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is strange !&quot; 
 
 &quot; What is strange, Beauchampe ?&quot; she asked. 
 
 He then told her all that he had learned from Covington. 
 She concurred with him that it was strange, if true ; but de 
 clared her belief that the story was an invention of Sharpe, 
 by which he hoped to effect some object which he might 
 fancy favorable to his safety. 
 
 &quot;But, at all events, husband, employ this Colonel Cal 
 vert, of whom Mr. Covington and the public seem to think 
 so highly. You have spoken very highly of him yourself 1 * 
 
 &quot; Yes,&quot; was the reply ; &quot; but somehow, Anna, I am loath 
 to do anything in my defence. I hate to seek evasion from 
 the dangers of an act which I performed deliberately, and 
 would again perform, were it again necessary.&quot; 
 
 &quot; But this is a strange prejudice, surely, Beaucharape. 
 Why should you not defend yourself?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I would, my wife, if defence, in this case, implied justi 
 fication.&quot; 
 
 &quot; And does it not ?&quot; demanded the wife anxiously. 
 
 &quot;No, nothing like it. It implies evasion the suppres 
 
352 BEAUCHA-1\TPE. 
 
 sion of the truth, if not the suggestion of the falsehood 
 You are no lawyer, Anna. JThc truth would condeirr me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What ! the whole truth !&quot; 
 
 &quot;No perhaps not; but it would be difficult to get the 
 whole truth before a jury: and, even if this could be done, 
 cPM/doit?&quot; 
 
 &quot;And why not, my husband?&quot; she demanded earnestly, 
 approaching him at the same moment, and laying her hand 
 impressively upon his shoulder, while her eyes were fixed 
 upon his own 
 
 &quot;And why not? The day of shame shame from this 
 cause has gone by from us. We are either above or be 
 low the world. At least, we depend not for the heart s 
 sustenance upon it. Suppose it scorns and reviles us 
 suppose it points to me as the miserable victim of that 
 viperous lust which crawled into our valleys with a glozing 
 tongue I, that know how little I was the slave of that foul 
 passion, in my own breast, will not madden, more than I 
 have done, at its contumelious judgment. They can not 
 call me harlot. No, Beauchampe ! I fell ; I was trampled 
 in the dust of shame ; I was guilty of weakness, and vanity, 
 and wilfulness ; but, believe me, if ever spirit felt the re 
 morse and the ignominy which belong to virtuous repent 
 ance of error, that spirit was mine !&quot; 
 
 &quot;I know it do I not know it, dearest?&quot; he said, ten 
 derly taking her in his arms. 
 
 &quot; I believe you know and feel it ; and this conviction, 
 Beauchampe. strengthens me against the world. In your 
 judgment I fixed my proper safety for the future. Let the 
 world know all the whole truth if that will anything 
 avail for your justification. Let them speak of me here 
 after as they please. Secure in myself secure from the 
 self-reproach of having fallen a victim to the harlot-appe 
 tite (though the victim to my own miserable vanity and 
 folly) doubly secure in your conviction of the truth of 
 what I say, and am I can smile at all that follows : I can 
 
353 
 
 mniv, Reaiichatnpc -^minr&quot; i! \vllh patience and forti 
 tude, and without distressing you or myself with the lan 
 guage of complaint. Do not, therefore, dear Beauchampe, 
 refuse the justification which the truth may bring, through 
 any wish to save me from the further exposure. Hear me, 
 I assure you, solemnly, in this solemn midnight 
 no eye upon us in this cold, gloomy dungeon, but 
 that of Heaven hear me solemnly affirm that though you 
 should resolve to spare me, I will not spare myself. If need 
 be, I will go into the courthouse before the assembled 
 judges, before the people and with my own tongue declare 
 the story of my shame. Base should I be, indeed, if, to save 
 these cheeks from the scarlet which would follow such a 
 recital, I could see them hale you to the ignominious gal 
 lows!&quot; 
 
 &quot; And sooner would I die a thousand deaths on that gal- 
 lows, than suffer you to do yourself such cruel wrong!&quot; 
 
 Such was the answer spoken with effort, with husky ac 
 cents, which the criminal made to the strong-minded woman, 
 whose high-souled, and seemingly unnatural resolution 
 however opposed to his yet touched him really as a proof 
 of the most genuine devotion. He did not say more ; he 
 did not offer to dispute a resolution which lie well knew 
 he could not overthrow ; but he determined, inly, to prac 
 tise some becoming artifice, to deprive her, when the crisis 
 of his fate was at hand, of any opportunity of meddling in 
 its progress. 
 
 Thus the night waned (he long, dark night, in that 
 doomy dungeon. Not altogether gloomy ! Devotion makes 
 liii-ht in the dark places. Love cheers the solitude with its 
 own pure ^tar-lighted countenance. Sincerity wins us from 
 the contemplation of the darkness; and with the sweet 
 word of the truthful comforter in our ear, the fever subsides 
 from the throbbing temples, and the downcast heart is lifted 
 into hope. That night, and every night, she shared with 
 him his dungeon ! 
 
854 
 
 CHAPTER XXXY1. 
 
 DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 
 
 THE arguments of Covington, to persuade Beauchampe 
 to employ the services of Calvert, were unavailing. He, at 
 length, gave it up in despair. The very suggestion which 
 Sharpehad made, that Calvert had some knowledge already 
 of the wife s character, and that the duel between himself 
 and Calvert had originated in the knowledge of his wrong 
 to her however curious it made Beauchampe to learn what 
 relation the latter could have had to his wife was also a 
 cause, why, in the general soreness of his feelings on this 
 subject, he should studiously avoid the professional assist 
 ance of the other. The wife, when Covington took his de 
 parture, renewed the attempt. The arguments of the latter 
 had been more imposing to her mind than they were to that 
 of the husband ; but, repeated by her, they did not prove a 
 jot more successful that when urged by Covington. To 
 these she added suggestions of her own, a sample of which 
 we have seen in a previous chapter ; but the prisoner re 
 mained stubborn. The wife at length ceased to persuade, 
 having, with the quick perception and nice judgment which 
 distinguished her character, observed the true point of dif 
 ficulty one not to be easily overcome and which was to 
 be assailed in a manner much more indirect. She resolved 
 to engage the services of Calvert herself. 
 
 Her own curiosity had been raised in some degree by 
 what she had heard in respect to this person ; and though 
 
DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 355 
 
 she did not believe&quot; the story which Covington got from 
 Sharpe, touching the causes of the duel between himself and 
 rival, yet the fact that they haJ fought, and that Calvert 
 had been wounded in the conflict with her enemy, of itself 
 commended the former to her regard. As the period for 
 her husband s trial drew nigh, her anxieties naturally in 
 creased, so as to strengthen her in the resolution which she 
 had already formed to secure those legal services which 
 Beauchampe had rejected. Accordingly, concealing her 
 purpose she absented herself from the prison, and, having 
 secured the necessary information, set forth on her mission. 
 
 Of the prosperous fortunes of William Calvert, some 
 glimpses have already been given to the reader in the course 
 of this narrative. These glimpses, we trust, have sufficed 
 to satisfy any curiosity, which the story of his youth and 
 youthful disappointments might have occasioned in any 
 mind. We understand, of course, that thrown upon his own 
 resources, driven from the maternal petticoats, which en 
 feeble and destroy so many thousand sons, the necessities 
 to which he was subjected, in the rough attrition of the 
 world, had brought into active exercise all the materials of 
 his physical and intellectual manhood. He had plodded 
 over the dusky volumes of the law with unrelaxing dili 
 gence. He had gone through his probationary period with 
 out falling into any of those emasculating practices which 
 too often enslave the moral sense and dissipate the intellec 
 tual courage of young men. He had graduated with credit : 
 had begun practice with an unusual quantity of business 
 patronage, and had made his debut with a degree of eclat, 
 which, while it put to rest all the apprehensions of the 
 good old man who had adopted him, had effectually recom 
 mended him to the public, as one of the strong men to whom 
 they could turn with confidence, to represent the character 
 istics and maintain the rights of the people. 
 
 Of his success, some idea may be formed, if we remember 
 die position in which he stood in the conflict with Colonel 
 
35G BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 Sharpe. If the latter was the Coryphaeus of one party, 
 William Calvert was regarded by all eyes as the most 
 prominent champion of the other ; and though the other 
 party might be in the minority, it was not the less obvious 
 to most, that, if the success of the party could be made en 
 tirely to depend upon the relative strength of the represen 
 tative combatants, the result would have been very far- 
 otherwise. The best friends of Sharpe, as we have already 
 seen, endeavored to press upon him the belief, which they 
 really felt, that, with such an opponent as William Calvert 
 in the field against him, it would require. the exercise of 
 his very best talents in order to maintain his ground. We 
 need not dwell longer on this part of our subject. 
 
 But, with the prominence of position, taken of necessity 
 by William Calvert, in the political world, was an accumu 
 lation of legal business which necessarily promised fortune. 
 Jn the brief space of three years which followed his admis 
 sion to the bar, his clients became so numerous as to ren 
 der it necessary that he should concentrate his attentions 
 upon a more limited circuit of practice. Other effects fol 
 lowed, and the good old man whose name he had taken, 
 leaving Charlemont, like his protege, for ever, had come to 
 live with him in the flourishing town where he had taken 
 up his abode. Here their united funds enabled them to buy 
 a fine house and furnish it with a taste which, day by day, 
 added some object of ornament or use. 
 
 The comforts being duly considered, the graces were ne 
 cessarily secured, as the accumulation of means furnished 
 the necessary resources. Books grew upon the already- 
 groaning shelves ; sweet landscapes and noble portraits 
 glowed from the walls. With no wife to provide, in those 
 thousand trifles for which no funds would be altogether 
 adequate, in the shocking and offensive style of expendi 
 ture which ha? recently covered our land with sores and 
 spangles, shame and frippery the income of William Cal 
 vert ^as devoted to the cultivation of such tastes as are 
 
DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LO\ f E. 357 
 
 legitimate in the eyes of a truly philosophical judgment. 
 He sought for no attractions but such as gave employment 
 either to iho sense of beauty or the growth of the under 
 standing. 
 
 The contemplation of the forms of beauty produces in the 
 mind a love of harmony and proportion, which, in turn, es 
 tablish a nice moral sense, that revolts with loathing at 
 what is mean, coarse, or brutal; and, with this impression, 
 our young lawyer, whenever his purse permitted such out 
 lay, despatched his commission to the Atlantic city for the 
 S{ leaking canvass or the eloquent and breathing bust. In 
 tastes like these his paternal friend fully sympathized with 
 him. In fact they had been first awakened in him by his 
 venerable tutor, during the course of his boyish education. 
 Thus co-operating, and with habits, which, in other re 
 spects, were singularly inexpensive, it is not surprising that 
 the dwelling of William Calvert should already be known, 
 among the people of - , as the very scat of elegance and 
 art. His pictures formed a theme among his acquaintance 
 arid even those who were not which every new addi 
 tion contributed to revive and enlarge ; and, in the inno 
 cent pursuit of such objects of grace and beauty with 
 books, the philosophies and songs, of the old divines of Na 
 ture her proper priesthood the days of the youth began 
 io go by sweetly and with such soothing, that the memory 
 of Margaret Cooper, though it never ceased to sadden, yet 
 now failed entirely to sting. He had neither ceased to 
 love nor to regret ; but his disappointment did not now oc 
 casion a pang, nor was his regret such as to leave him in 
 sensible to the genial influences which life everywhere 
 spreads generously ground for the working spirit, and the 
 just and gentle heart. 
 
 But, as we have seen, William Calvert was not permit 
 ted, either by his own nature and pursuits, or by the exac 
 tions of sooicty, to indulge .simply in the elegancies of life. 
 The possession of active talents of any kind, and in all 
 
358 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 regions, implies a proper impulse to their use. This is 
 more particularly the case in our country, where the field is 
 more free than in all others, more open to all comers, and 
 where the absence of hereditary distinctions and a prescrip 
 tive social prestige compels ambition to Ptrain erery nerve 
 in the attainment of position. 
 
 The profession of the law itself implies government among 
 us, and politics are apt to lay their talons upon all who ex 
 hibit the possession of oratorical powers in connection with 
 the pursuit of law. William Calvert, somewhat in spite of 
 his own tastes and wishes for he well knew how slavish 
 and degrading were the conditions of public favor in a de 
 mocracy like ours was forced to buckle on the armor of 
 party, and take the field in a great local contest, which 
 contemplated federal as well as state politics. 
 
 We have seen how suddenly his career was arrested and 
 suspended for a season, by the bullet, at five paces, of his 
 political rival. 
 
 His wound probable owing to the bold course adopted 
 by his venerable counsellor was not a serious one, though 
 it laid him up for a space, during which his party was de 
 feated ; a result which many of its able men were pleased 
 to ascribe mostly to the fact that their chief speaker was 
 thus hors de combat. This conviction strengthened his 
 claims in the future, though the immediate battle was lost 
 in which he had been engaged at the time. The defeat 
 was temporary only that they all felt; and all parties 
 were equally persuaded that the next struggle must eventu 
 ate in the elevation of William Calvert to the full supremacy 
 over his own. 
 
 The brief period during which lie was confined to his 
 chamber by his hurt was one which was crowded with am 
 ple testimonies of his popularity with the many, and the 
 grateful esteem with which he was regarded by the select 
 and sacred few. The sturdy yeomen thronged to inquire 
 about his progress with an interest which showed how 
 
DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 
 
 deeply lie had made his way into the common heart. Nor 
 were the men of mark less earnest and considerate less 
 solicitous of the fate of one who, as a dangerous rival, must 
 either be denounced or conciliated. Higher and more hon 
 orable motives were at work, however, in the breasts of 
 others too far above the crowd to suffer such as these to 
 abridge their sympathies ; and the bedside of our young 
 lawyer was honored by the visits of such great men as Clay 
 and Crittenden. His wound, though rendering his thigh a 
 somewhat sore precinct for a while, was yet productive of 
 much balm and soothing for his mind and heart. 
 
 &quot;But there was one visiter, over all, whose unexpected 
 presence was eminently grateful, bringing with it not only 
 a true devotion and a genuine sympathy, but recalling so 
 many dear and pleasant passages in a past of various sad 
 and sweet experiences. As soon as his cousin Ned Hink- 
 !ey heard of his disaster, he hastened off to see and tend 
 upon him, bringing with him nothing but a carpet-bag, with 
 a few changes of linen, his violin, and a pair of pistols, con 
 secrated in the family affections by a grandsire s use of 
 them in Revolutionary periods. 
 
 Ned Hinkley, though a good fellow, was inveterate as a 
 violinist. Ned relieved the violin by occasional practice 
 with the pistols. Njed s boast was that he could draw an 
 equally good sight and bow ; and Ned was especially anx- 
 ions to take up the game with Colonel Sharpe to whom 
 he owed an old grudge as Alfred Stevens just where his 
 cousin had ended it. Ned s conscience troubled him, too, 
 as being somewhat the occasion of William s present suffer 
 ings, as he felt and said, very logically : 
 
 u For you see, Willie, if I had shot that fellow Stevens, 
 five years ago, as I ought to have done, he wouldn t have 
 been able to put an ounce bullet into your bacon !&quot; 
 
 It was no fault of Ned, we assure you, that he did not 
 shoot Stevens. He had every disposition to do that oily 
 politician gome such touching service. 
 
300 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 Ned Hinkley was a good companion. He was lively 
 garrulous, full of quip and crank ; could make his fiddle 
 speak when his own tongue was tired ; was a very loving 
 kinsman, and no humbug. He was as sincere as sunshine. 
 
 He was soon installed beside the couch of the wounded 
 man, relieving old Mr. Calvert of his watch, and sharing 
 with him the grateful employment of amusing the invalid, 
 which he did after a fashion of his own. We give a sample 
 of his quality in this sort of performance: 
 
 &quot; And how does it feel, Willie ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; How does what feel ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why, the bullet in your hip.&quot; 
 
 &quot; There is no bullet there now, Ned. It is extracted. 
 
 &quot;Well, I know that! What I mean to ask is, what is 
 the sort of sensation which it leaves behind it ? Rather a 
 pleasant one, I suppose !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Indeed ! a curious supposition, Ned.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not so ! In small wounds, such is the case usually 
 when they are in a way to heal. I have so found it in my 
 own case. When I was getting better of that ugly gash I 
 got at muster six years ago you remember from P^alph 
 Byers, I was really delighted by the sensation. There was 
 a sort of pleasant tickling going on all the time, as Nature 
 was taking up the old threads and reuniting them. So, 
 when I shot off that finger, trying Tom Curtis s little double 
 barrel after the first pain of the thing was over, I began 
 to feel a sort of pleasure in the sensation ; and I suppose 
 there s good reason for it. Nature, as a matter of course, 
 like a good surgeon, will do her best to .soothe one s hurts 
 on such an occasion, by some secret remedial processes of 
 her own. The fact is, I always found so much pleasure in 
 getting well on such occasions, that I found myself always 
 pulling and picking at the wound, just to keep up a sort 
 of irritation, so as to prolong the duration of the cure.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Comical! On the same plan, if you found a medicine^ 
 however nauseous, doing its work effectually, you will re- 
 
DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OP LOVE. 361 
 
 quire that the dose should be doubled, and take some of 
 the physic daily, with the same object the prolongation 
 of the benefit.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not so no! The analogy fails, Willie. The skin, 
 or flesh, is one thing; but the stomach is another quite. 
 No tampering with that! It is sacred to fish, flesh, fowl, 
 and physic is its abomination. I don t believe in physic, 
 though I do in the pleasure of flesh-wounds.&quot; 
 
 The tuning of the fiddle followed this philosophy; and, 
 under the sedative influences of an original fanta.sia which 
 might have afforded some new ideas to Ole Bull, William 
 Calvert sank off into a pleasant slumber, leaving Ned in 
 the midst of a backwoods- commentary on the nature, the 
 sources, and the methods of music, particularly of violin- 
 music, which he held to be the proper foundation of every 
 other sort. 
 
 Ned Hinkley thus, alternating between his sister s farm 
 stead and the house of his cousin --the two places being 
 some twelve miles apart continued to visit and console 
 William Calvert through the month of his confinement. 
 
 And this was no small sacrifice on the part of Ned, when 
 we are told that, in addition to the fatigue of such a ride 
 some three or four times a week, he was busily engaged in 
 all the rigors of a warm courtship. Of course, he told his 
 cousin the whole history of his wooing. 
 
 Well but, Ned, how is it that you have forborne all 
 description of Miss Bernard ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Sallie Bernard is indescribable, Willie. 
 
 &quot; What ! so very beautiful ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! I don t think that even a lover would call her 
 beautiful.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Is she so wise, then so highly endowed with intellect, 
 and the graces and accomplishments ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, I can t say that either ! The fact is, Willie, that 
 Sallie is nothing more than a clever country-girl a good 
 girl, a loving girl, a gentle girl, and a willing girl and 
 
 16 
 
3; j. BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 that word willing goes a great ways with me in a woman. 
 1 don t go for wisdom, and learning, and great talents, arid 
 great beauties, and charms, and graces, in a wife, Willie ; 
 I go for a woman a true woman that knows she s the 
 weaker vessel, and knows what s due to her lord and mas 
 ter. I am after a wife, not a philosopher in petticoats. 1 
 want a wife who will be the mother of my children ; not a 
 conceited fool, who is perpetually trying to show the world 
 that she is more of a man than her husband, as is the case 
 generally with all that sort of people, of whom your famous 
 Margaret Cooper was a particularly superb brimstone ex 
 ample.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nothing of her, Ned,&quot; said the- other sadly. &quot; Tell me 
 of your Sallie Bernard.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Well, perhaps I d better tell you in poetry. You know 
 that I too have written verses, and was no small fish at it, 
 as you remember. I am half disposed to think that my 
 verses were sometimes quite as good as yours. You re 
 member the lines I wrote upon the old mill at Chaiie- 
 mont?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes : they were really very good, Ned.&quot; 
 
 &quot; To be sure they were ! I doubt if you could do better, 
 try your best. Then there was the epitaph I made on poor 
 old Wolf, my bull-terrier. Gad! I liked it better than 
 Lord Byron s on his Newfoundland pup. But I ve done 
 better things since, that I never showed you ; and some of 
 my lines about Sallie are, to my thinking, quite good enough 
 to be put into a magazine.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Very likely, Ned and yet not make you sure of cedar- 
 oil immortality. But let s have your metrical portrait of 
 Miss Sallie.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You shall ! I m not squeamish about it ; and these 
 verses are just about the proper answer to your question. 
 They tell you just why I love Sallie, and for what a man 
 ought to seek a wife. They re rough yet, for I haven t had 
 time to pass the smoothing-iron over them. Cut I ll work 
 
DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 
 
 em out in ship-shape yet, and make a spiggot or spoil a 
 horn. Now, don t you begin to find fault, and stop me, 
 whenever you fancy there s a hitch in the verse. I ll bring 
 it all right when I turn in to smoothing out.&quot; 
 
 William Calvert gave the required assurance ; and, with 
 few more preliminaries for Ned Hinkley was a down 
 right, to-the-purpose, matter-of-fact fellow with little non 
 sense or conceit about him, a*id no affectations he recited, 
 or rather chanted, the following rude ballad, which, for the 
 backwoods muse, Calvert was inclined to think a very cred 
 itable performance ; and we quite agree with him, and could 
 wish to see it married to corresponding harmonies by some 
 such priest in music as Mr. Russell : 
 
 i. 
 
 &quot; You ask me why I love her 
 
 Why my heart, no longer free, 
 is no more a winged rover, 
 
 Like the forest-bird or bee : 
 Ah ! love still hath its season, 
 
 For the heart as for the tree ; 
 Would you have a better reason, 
 Then my love loves me ! 
 
 I know it well, I know it 
 My love loves me ! 
 
 n. 
 
 &quot; Yon say she is not beautiful, 
 And it may be so to you ; 
 But she s very fond and dutiful, 
 And she s very kind and true : 
 And there s beauty in the tenderness 
 
 That every eye can see, 
 And something more than loveliness 
 In the love she feels for mo 1 
 I know it well, &c. 
 
 in. 
 
 &quot; She s no strong-minded woman, 
 
 And in weighty things unwise ; 
 But a loving heart, all human, 
 * Is to me :v dearer prize : 
 
364 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 And there s a sovereign wisdom 
 
 In much loving, do you see ; 
 And a pure young soul, in a loving breast, 
 
 Makes a woman wise for me 1 
 I know it well, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 &quot; You may talk of stately damsels, 
 
 With keen wit and manners fine 
 But a true young heart s affections 
 
 Are the jewels dear to mine ! 
 And I own enough of splendor, 
 When her loving eyes I see ; 
 And I hear sufficient wisdom, 
 When she murmurs love to me ! 
 I know it well, &c. 
 
 v. 
 
 &quot; You may try her faith, and tell her 
 
 Of a prouder suitor still 
 One whose name and wealth may bring her 
 
 To whatever state she will ; 
 That I ve naught to boast of power 
 
 Neither wealth nor fame yet she 
 Will smile so well I know her 
 And still give her lore to me ! 
 I know it well, &c.&quot; 
 
 &quot;There you have it! 1ST ow, that s what I call good 
 sense, Willie Calvert, and no bad poetry either.&quot; 
 
 &quot;It is positively beautiful, Ned, and contains more of 
 the true philosophy of love and marriage than half the trea 
 tises ever written. Positively, Xcd, you surprise me ! 
 Your improvement is prodigious. You must set up the 
 poetical sign. Were you, now, in some of the great cities, 
 following up some of the popular singers, you could have 
 that ballad united to music which would make your name 
 famous.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I thought you d like it, Willie I knew you would. 
 It is a good ballad, Willie very good ; and it s true, Wil 
 lie. Sallie Bernard deserves it all She s the very woman 
 of the verses.&quot; * 
 
DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OP LOVE. 365 
 
 u And she has accepted you, Ned ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; On the fifteenth day of the very next November, Willie, 
 we go into cohoot for life God willing, and weather per 
 mitting.&quot; 
 
 William Calvert warmly congratulated his kinsman, and 
 closed the speech with a deep sigh from the very bottom 
 of his heart. 
 
 &quot; Don t sigh, William. Your time will come yet. Ah ! 
 if you had only fancied some such true, sweet, humble- 
 hearted, and devoted girl as Sallie, instead of that proud, 
 great-eyed, outlawed woman, Margaret Cooper &quot; 
 
 &quot; Hush, hush, Ned! name her not !&quot; 
 
 The other muttered something more, no doubt expressive 
 of the indignation which he felt at the treatment his cousin 
 had received from Margaret Cooper. The good fellow had 
 never admired that damsel. He was, in truth, afraid of 
 her. She was the only person that had ever fairly awed 
 him into distance and apprehension. While he still mut 
 tered, William .Calvert said : 
 
 &quot; Open that desk, Ned, and hand me the book in a blue 
 cover which you will find in it.&quot; 
 
 This was done. 
 
 &quot; I, too, have written some verses lately, Ned, which 
 somewhat relate to my own affections. They are, by no 
 means, so good as yours, but they will enforce my plea to 
 you for forbearance in reference to Margaret.&quot; 
 
 And, without further word, William read the following 
 apostrophe : 
 
 &quot; Speak not the name, in scorn or blame, 
 Nor link her thought with aught of shame, 
 Nor ask of me, the guilt to see 
 That tore my blossom from the tree ! 
 
 &quot; We may not crush the thought, or hush 
 The tale that still compels the blush : 
 Bat we may chide the speech, and hide 
 The shame, that else would torture pride ! 
 
BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Deep in the heart, a thing apart, 
 We shrine the memory of the smart ; 
 And only gaze on happier days, 
 When Love and Pride could gladly prais* 
 
 &quot; There let me hold, nor cheap nor cold, 
 The image shrined I loved of old ; 
 There let me know the charm, the glow, 
 And not the shame, the guilt, the wo ! 
 
 &quot; Beneath that spell, still let her dwell, 
 Pure, bright, as when I loved so well 
 Where, haply taught, the older thought 
 Can see of fall or frailty naught. 
 
 &quot; With Love for guest, the faithful breast 
 Shuts out all entrance to the rest, 
 And asks no more, from Memory s store, 
 Than what the heart can still adore. 
 
 &quot; Oh ! when she grew, no more in view, 
 The starlike thing that once I knew, 
 I deemed her fled, I wept her dead 
 Not frail, not shamed, but lost instead. 
 
 &quot; Her fall, though fraught with grief, has taught 
 Love s lesson to the sterner thought ; 
 And Grief s worst moan now takes its tone 
 From what young Memories loved alone !&quot; 
 
 a Ah ! Willie, that s a poetical huckleberry above my 
 sour rhyming persimmon. How well you do those things ! 
 Why, that s a sort of treble-shotted verse. Now, those 
 cursed rhymes won t come to me when I call for em ! 
 They are as obstinate as those abominable spirits of the 
 vasty deep that turned a deaf ear to Mr. Glendower. You 
 must help me, Willie, to polish my ballad, before I send it 
 to Sallie Bernard.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Don t touch it, Ned ; it needs no polishing. It is as 
 nearly perfect as you can make it. Its very carelessness 
 is in its favor as a song. It shows it to be an outpouring, 
 a gushing upward, of the fancy, which is the true proof of 
 a good thing for music. No, no ! don t touch it. Its sim- 
 
DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 
 
 plicity is its secret. One sees that the art has been entirely 
 subservient to Nature, as it always should be in such things. 
 But, go and ramble now, Ned, and leave me for a while to 
 slumber. Your talk and my own, with such subjects as we 
 have been dealing with, have left me a little too much ex 
 cited. Go, and write to Sallie.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Gad ! if she were here !&quot; cried the tall fellow, stretch 
 ing out his arms as if to embrace the universe 
 
 &quot; If she were only here smack!&quot; And, so saying, he 
 disappeared. 
 
BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVH. 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 &quot; And do we meet again, 
 
 After that mournful parting ! Both how changed ; 
 You with new pinions mine all soiled and broken !&quot; 
 
 IT was when William Calvert had regained his legs and 
 began to resume his customary vacations, that Ned H ink- 
 ley suddenly made hie appearance, one day, almost bursting 
 with excitement. The story of the Beauchampes had 
 reached his ears ; the marriage of Margaret Cooper with 
 Beauchampe, and the subsequent murder of Colonel Sharpe. 
 He was the first to re re^l the whole tragedy to the Cal- 
 vorts. 
 
 It was a story to make them gloomy enough to strike 
 them into silence. When they could speak of the subject, 
 it was only in language so inadequate that the topic was 
 dropped as by mutual consent. 
 
 &quot; Can we do anything for them ?&quot; was the question of 
 William Calvert. 
 
 It was one which all parties strove to answer but in 
 vain. 
 
 Ned Hinkley alone lingered over the subject. 
 
 &quot; It wao her doings, all. She, no doubt, beguiled the 
 youn? fool into marriage. She prompted him to avenge 
 her diohon r on the head of Sharpe. I would have done it 
 myself. Vita half an opportunity, but I would have shot my 
 self sooner lhari received the reward.&quot; 
 
THE MEETING. 369 
 
 William Calvert rebuked the speech in his sternest man 
 ner, and Ned Hinkley rode off, happy in the prospect of a 
 wife who was not a strong-minded woman. He left the two 
 Calverts to brood together over the melancholy narrative 
 which they had heard. 
 
 We have already formed a sufficient idea of the dwelling 
 which William Calvert occupied a dwelling in just corre 
 spondence with his improved fortunes. The reader will 
 please go with us while we re-enter it. Ned Hinkley has 
 been gone some two hours. We ascend the neat and always 
 well-swept porch, and pass through the common hall into 
 the parlor. It has now but a single occupant. Old Calvert 
 is there alone. His adopted son has retired to his cham 
 ber. He broods alone on the fate of Margaret Cooper, and 
 of the wretched young man to whom she has been a fate. 
 The old man broods also, sadly too on the same subject, 
 but he is so happy in his own protege, that his mind docs 
 not yield itself with any intensity, to the case of other par 
 ties, no matter what their futures. And this is a law of our 
 nature, else we should suffer unprotitably from those afflic 
 tions, to which we can offer no relief. 
 
 Old Calvert has become older since we last painted his 
 portrait. His hair has grown even more silvery and thin 
 and his forehead whiter, more capacious, more polished. 
 Tn other respects, however, he seems to have undergone but 
 little change. His skin is quite as smooth as ever ; but 
 little wrinkled ; the crows have not trampled very vigor 
 ously about the corners of his eyes. His heart is compara 
 tively at ease; his eye is bright as of old nay, even 
 brighter than when we last saw it dilating over the valley 
 of Charlemont : and, perhaps, with reason. His warmest 
 hopes have been gratified ; his worst doubts dissipated ; his 
 neart has become uplifted. He has realized the pride of a 
 iather without suffering the trials and apprehensions of one ; 
 aiid with heart and body cquall/ in health, he is still young 
 
 for a gentle spirit in age, is not a bad beginning of the 
 16* 
 
370 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 soul s immortality. He owes this state of mind and body, 
 to a contemplative habit acquired in youth ; to the presence 
 of a nice governing sense of justice, and to that abstinence 
 which would have justified in him the brag of good old 
 Adam, in u As You Like It :&quot; 
 
 &quot; For in my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; 
 Nor did not, with wibashful forehead woo, 
 The means of weakness and debility ; 
 Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
 Frosty but kindly.&quot; 
 
 The old man sits in the snug, well-cushioned armchair, 
 with his eyes cast upward. A smile mantles upon his face. 
 His glance rests upon a portrait of his favorite ; and as he 
 gazes upon the well-limned and justly-drawn features and 
 as the mild and speaking eye seems to answer to his own 
 the unconscious words tremble out from his lips ! Good 
 old man ! he recalls the early lessons that he gave the 
 boy; how kindly they were taken with what readiness 
 they were acquired ; and the sweet humility which followed 
 most of his rebukes. Then, he renews the story of the first 
 lessons in law his own struggles and defeats he recalls 
 only, as it would seem, to justify the exultation which an 
 nounces, under his guidance, the better fortunes of the 
 youth. 
 
 And thus soliloquizing, he rises, and mounting a chair, 
 dusts the picture with his handkerchief, with a solicitude that 
 lias seen a speck upon the cheek, and fancies a fly upon the 
 hair ! This was a daily task, performed unconsciously, and 
 under the same course of spiriting ! 
 
 While thus engaged a servant enters and speaks. Ho 
 answers, but without any thought of what he is saying. 
 The servant disappears, and the door is re-opened. The 
 old man is still busy at the heart-prompted duty. His lips 
 are equally busy in coating u;x&amp;gt;n the merits of his favorite. 
 He still wipes and rewipes the picture ; draws ba.ck to ei 
 
THE MEETING. 371 
 
 amine the outline ; comments upon eye and forehead ; and 
 dreams not, the while, what eye surveys his toils what ear 
 is listening to the garrulous eulogium that is dropping from 
 his lips. The intruder is Margaret Cooper Mrs. Beau- 
 champe we should have said but for a silent preference 
 for the former name, for which we can give ao reason and 
 will offer no excuse. 
 
 She stands in silence she watches the labor of the good 
 old man with mixed but not unpleasant feelings. She rec 
 ognises him at a glance. She does not mistake the features 
 of that portrait which exacts his care. She gazes on that, 
 too, with a very melancholy interest. The features, though 
 the same, are yet those of another. The expression of the 
 face is spiritualized and lifted. It is the face of William 
 Hinkley true but not the face of the rustic, whom once 
 she knew beneath that name. The salient points of feature 
 are subdued. The roughness has disappeared, and is suc 
 ceeded by the entreating sweetness and placid self-subjection 
 which shows that the moulding hand of the higher civiliza 
 tion has been there. It is William Ilinkley, the gentleman 
 the man of thought, and of the world whose features 
 meet her eye ; and a sigh involuntarily escapes her lips. 
 That sigh is the involuntary utterance of the self-reproach 
 which she feels. Her conscience smites her for the past. 
 She thinks of the young man, worthy and gentle, whom she 
 slighted for another and that other! She remembers 
 the youth s goodness his fond devotedness ; and, forget 
 ting in what respect he erred, she wonders at herself, with 
 feelings of increasing humiliation, that she should have re 
 pulsed and treated him so harshly. But, in those days she 
 was mad ! It is her only consolation that she now thinks 
 so. 
 
 He.r sigh arrests the attention of the old man and 
 awakens him from his grateful abstraction. He turns, be 
 holds the lady, and muttering something apologetically 
 about the rapid accumulation of dust and cobwebs, he de- 
 
872 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 scends from the chair. A step nearer to the visitor informs 
 him who she is. He starts, and trembles. 
 
 &quot; You, Miss Cooper : can it be ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is, Mr. Calvert ; but there is some mistake. I 
 sought for Colonel Calvert, the lawyer.&quot; 
 
 &quot; My son no mistake at all be seated, Miss Cooper.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Your son, Mr. Calvert?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes, my son your old acquaintance but here he 
 is!&quot; 
 
 William Calvert, the younger, had now joined the party. 
 His entrance had been unobserved. He stood in the door 
 way his eye fixed upon the object of his former passion. 
 His cheeks were very pale ; his features were full of emo 
 tion. Margaret turned as the old man spoke, and their 
 eyes encountered. What were their several emotions then ? 
 Who shall tell them ? What scenes, what a story, did that 
 one single glance of recognition recall. How mucli strife 
 and bitterness what overwhelming passions and what 
 defeat, what shame, and sorrow to the one ; and to the 
 other what triumph over pain what victory even from 
 defeat. To her, from pride, exultation, and estimated tri 
 umph, had arisen shame, overthrow, and certain fear. 
 Despair was not yet not altogether. To the other, &quot; out 
 of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came 
 forth sweetness.&quot; From his defeat he was strengthened ; 
 and from the very overthrow of his youthful passion, had 
 grown the vigor of his manhood. 
 
 The thought of William Calvert, as he surveyed the 
 woman of his first love, was a natural one: -&quot; Had she 
 been mine !&quot; but with this thought he did not now repine 
 at the baffled dream and desire of his boyhood. If the 
 memory and reflection were not sweet, at least the bitter 
 was one to which his lips had become reconciled by time. 
 Recalling the mournful memory of the past, his sorrow was 
 now rather for her than for himself. His regret was uot 
 that he had been denied, bu; that she had fa tlcc. He rec- 
 
THE MEETING. 373 
 
 ollected the day of her pride. He recalled the flashes of 
 that eagle spirit, which, while it won his admiration r had 
 spurned his prayer. The bitter shame which folded, 
 when, by crawling, the serpent had reached the summits 
 where her proud soul kept in an eyry of its own, oppressed 
 his soul as he gazed upon the still beautiful, still majestic 
 being before him. She too had kept something of that no 
 ble spirit which was hers before she fell. We have seen 
 how she had sustained herself: 
 
 &quot; Not yet lost 
 
 All her original brightness, nor appeared 
 Less than archangel ruined, and th excess 
 Of glory obscured ;&quot; 
 
 and still, as the youth gazed, he wondered and as he re 
 membered, he could not easily restrain the impulse once 
 more to sink in homage. But all her story was now known 
 to him. Of Sharpe s murder he was aware ; and that the 
 wife of the murderer was the same Margaret Cooper, in 
 whose behalf he had himself met the betrayer in single com 
 bat, he was apprized by a private letter from Covington. 
 
 While he thus stood beholding, with such evident tokens 
 of emotion, the hapless woman who had been the cause, 
 and the victim, equally, of so much disaster what were 
 her reflections at the sight of him ? At first, when their 
 eyes encountered, and she -could no longer doubt the iden 
 tity of the Colonel Calvert whom she sought, with the Wil 
 liam Hinkley whom she had so long and yet so little known, 
 her color became heightened her form insensibly rose, 
 and her eye resumed something of that ancient eagle-look 
 of defiance, which was the more natural expression of her 
 proud and daring character. She felt, in an instant, all the 
 difference between the present and the past ; between his 
 fortune and her own and, naturally assuming that the 
 same comparison was going on in his mind, necessarily 
 g to his exaltation at her expense, she was prepared, 
 
374 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 rith equal look and word, to resent the insolence of his 
 triumph. 
 
 But when, at a second glance, she beheld the unequivo 
 cal grief which his looks expressed when she saw still, 
 to at the fire in his heart had not been quenched that the 
 feeling there had nothing in it of triumph but all of a 
 deep abiding sorrow and a genuine commiseration, her man 
 ner changed the bright, keen expression parted from her 
 glance, and her cheek grew instantly pale. But her firm 
 ness and presence of mind returned sooner than his. She 
 advanced and extended to him her hand. 
 
 The manner was so frank, so confiding, that it seemed to 
 atone for all the past. It evidently was intended to convey 
 the only atonement which, in her situation, she could possi 
 bly oner. It said much more than words, and his heart was 
 satisfied. lie took her hand and conducted her to a seat. 
 He was silent. It was with great difficulty that he with 
 held the expression of his tears. 
 
 &quot; You know me, Colonel Calvert,&quot; sne at length said. &quot; I 
 see you know me.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Could you think otherwise, Margaret ?&quot; he succeeded 
 in replying. &quot; Could I forget ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! not forget, perhaps,&quot; she returned ; &quot; but you 
 Beem not to understand me. My person, of course, you 
 know who I was but not who I am ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Yes even that too I know.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Then something is spared me !&quot; she replied with the 
 sigh of one who is relieved from a painful duty. 
 
 &quot;I know the whole sad story, Margaret Mrs. Beau- 
 champe. Can I serve you, Margaret is it for this you 
 8eek me ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; It is.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I am ready. I will do what I can. But it will be ne 
 cessary to see Mr. Beauchampe.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Cat not that be avoi&amp;lt;i-&quot;i ? I confess, I come to you 
 without his sanction or authority. He is unwilling to seek 
 
THE MEETING. 375 
 
 assistance from the_law 1 and proposes either to argue his 
 own case, or to Teave it, unargued, to the just sense of the 
 community.&quot; 
 
 The youth mused in silence for a few moments, before he 
 replied. At length : 
 
 &quot;I will not hide from you, Margaret forgive me 
 Mrs. Beauchampe the danger in which your husband 
 stands. The frequency of such deeds as that for which he 
 is indicted, has led to a general feeling on the part of the 
 community, that the laws must be rigorously enforced. 
 But&quot; 
 
 She interrupted him with some vehemence : u But the 
 provocation of the villain he slew &quot; 
 
 She stopped suddenly. She trembled, for the truth had 
 been revealed in her inadvertence. 
 
 &quot; What have I said !&quot; she exclaimed. 
 
 &quot; Only what shall be as secret with me, Margaret, as with 
 yourself &quot; 
 
 &quot; Oh, more so, I trust !&quot; she ejaculated. 
 
 &quot; Do not distress yourself with this. Understand me. 
 It was to gather from Mr. Beauchampe the whole truth, 
 that I desired to see him. To do him justice, I must know 
 from him what may be known by others, and which might 
 do him hurt. It is to prepare for the worst, that I would 
 seek to know the worst. I will return with you to Frank 
 fort. I will see him. He, as a lawyer, will better under 
 stand my purpose than yourself.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ah! I thank you I thank you, William Hinkley. I 
 jfeel that I do not deserve this at your hands. You are 
 javenged amply avenged for all the past!&quot; 
 
 She covered her face with her hands. Memories, bitter 
 memories, were rushing in upon her soul. 
 
 &quot; Speak not thus, Margaret,&quot; replied the youth in sub 
 dued and trembling accents. &quot; I need no such atonement 
 as this. Believe me, to know what you were, and should 
 have been, Margaret, and see you thus, brings to me no 
 
876 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 feelings but those of shame and sorrow. Such promise 
 such pride of promise, Margaret &quot; 
 
 &quot;Ah! indeed! such pride such pride! and what a 
 fall ! there could not be a worse, William surely not a 
 worse ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; But there is hope still, Margaret there is hope.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You will save him !&quot; she said, eagerly. 
 
 &quot; I trust,&quot; said he, &quot; that there is hope for him. I will 
 try to save him.&quot; 
 
 &quot;I know you will I know you will! But, even then, 
 there is no hope. I feel like a wreck. Even if we founder 
 not in this storm even if you save us, William it will 
 be as if some once good ship, shattered and shivered, was 
 carried into port by some friendly prow only to be aban 
 doned as then no longer worth repair. These storms have 
 shattered me, William shattered me quite! I am no 
 longer what I was strong, proud, confident. I fear, 
 sometimes, that my brain will go wild. I feel that my 
 mind is failing me^ I speak now with an erring tongue. 
 I scarcely know what I say. But I speak with a faith in 
 you. I believe, William, you were always true.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah, had you but believed so then, Margaret ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; I did ! I did believe so !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah, could it have been, Margaret! could you have 
 only thought &quot; 
 
 &quot;No more say no more!&quot; she exclaimed, hurriedly, 
 with a sort of shudder. &quot; Say no more !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Had it been,&quot; he continued, musingly &quot; could it \\i\ve 
 been, there had been now no wreck. Neither of us had 
 felt these storms. We had both been happy !&quot; 
 
 &quot;No, no! speak not thus, William Hinkley!&quot; she ex 
 claimed, rising, and putting on a stern look and freezing 
 accent. &quot;The past should be is nothing now to us. 
 Nor could it have been as you say. There wa,s -a. fate to 
 humble me; and 1 am here now to sue for your succor. 
 You have nothing to deplore. You have fortune which you 
 
THE MEETING. 377 
 
 could not hope, fame which you did not seek everything 
 to make you proud, and keep you happy. * 
 
 &quot; I am neither proud nor happy, Margaret. You &quot; 
 &quot; Enough !&quot; she exclaimed. &quot; You have promised to 
 strive in his behalf. Save him, William Hinkley and if 
 prayer of mine can avail before Heaven, you will feel this 
 want no longer. You must be happy !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Happy, Margaret? I do not hope for it!&quot; 
 She extended him her hand. He took it, and instantly 
 released it, though not before a scalding tear had fallen 
 from his eyes upon it. Further farewell than this they had 
 none. She looked round for old Mr. Calvert, but he was 
 QO longer in the apartment. 
 
H78 BEAUCHAMPB. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 &quot; GUILTY ! 
 
 WE pass over the interviews between Beauchampo and 
 William Calvert. At none of these was the wile present. 
 The former was satisfied to accept the services of one who 
 approached him with the best manners of the gentleman, 
 and the happy union, in his address, of the sage and law 
 yer ; and he freely narrated to him all the particulars of 
 that deed for which he was held to answer. Calvert was 
 put in possession of all that was deemed necessary to the 
 defence, or rather of all that Beauchampe knew. 
 
 But, either the latter did not know all, or perjury was 
 an easily-bought commodity upon his trial. There were 
 witnesses to swear to his footsteps, to his voice, his face, 
 his words, his knife and clothes ; though he believed that 
 no living eye, save that of the Omniscient, beheld him in 
 his approaches to commit the deed. The knife which struck 
 the blow was buried in the earth. The clothes which he 
 wore were sunk in the river. Yet a knife was produced 
 on the trial as that which had pierced the heart of the vic 
 tim ; and witnesses identified him in garments which he no 
 longer possessed, and in which, according to his belief, they 
 had never seen him ! 
 
 It is possible that he deceived himself. There can be 
 no doubt that he wan just enough of the maniac, while car 
 rying but the monomania which made him so, to be con 
 scious of little else but the one stirring, all-absorbing 
 
GUILTY ! 
 
 379 
 
 passion in his miiid. Such a man walks the streets, and \ 
 sees no form save that which occupies his imagination ; 
 speaks his purpose in soliloquy which his own ears never 
 heed ; fancies himself alone, though surrounded by specta- 
 tators. His microcosm is within. He has, while the lead 
 ing idea is busy in his soul, no consciousness .of any world 
 without. 
 
 Could we record the argument of Calvert analyze for 
 the reader the voluminous and not always consorting testi 
 mony, as he analyzed it for the court and repeat, word 
 for word, and look for look, the exquisite appeal which he 
 offered to the jury we should be amply justified in occu 
 pying, in these pages, the considerable space which such a 
 record would require,. But we dare not make the attempt ; 
 the more particularly, as, however able and admirable, the 
 speech failed of its effect. Eyes were wet, sighs were au 
 dible at its close ; but the jury, if moved by the eloquence 
 of the advocate, were obdurate, so far as concerned the 
 prisoner. The verdict was rendered &quot; Guilty !&quot; and, with 
 the awful word, Mrs. Eeauchampe started to her feet, and 
 accused herself to the court, not only of participating in 
 the offence, but of prompting it. It was supposed to be a 
 merciful forbearance that Justice permitted herself to be 
 come deaf, as well as blind, on this occasion. Her wild 
 asseverations were not employed against her ; and she failed 
 of the end she sought to unite her fate, at the close, with 
 that of him to whom, as she warned him in the beginning, 
 she herself was a fate. 
 
 But, though she failed to provoke Justice to prosecution, 
 aiie was yet not to be baffled in her object. Her resolution 
 ^ as taken, to share the doom of her husband. For her he 
 had incurred the judgment of the criminal, and her nature 
 -vras too magnanimous to think~of~curviving him. She re 
 solved upon death in her own case, and at the same time 
 resolved on defeating, in hi?, that brutal exposure which 
 attends the execution of the laws But of her purpose she 
 
380 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 said nothing not even to him whom it most concerned. 
 With that stern directness of purpose which formed eo dis 
 tinguishing a trait in her character, she made her prepara 
 tions in secret. The indulgence of the authorities permit 
 ted her to see her husband at pleasure, and to share with 
 him, when she would, the sad privilege of his dungeon. 
 This indulgence was not supposed to involve any risk, since 
 a guard was designated to maintain a constant watch upon 
 the prisoner ; and it does not seem to have entered into the 
 apprehensions of the jailer to provide against any danger 
 except that of the convict s escape. 
 
 The dungeon of the condemned was a close cell, the only 
 entrance to which was by a trap-door from above. Escape 
 from this place, with a guard in the upper chamber, was not 
 an easy performance, nor did it seem to enter for a moment 
 into the calculation or designs of either of the Beauchnmpes. 
 The husband was prepared to die ; and the solemn, though 
 secret determination of the wife, had prepared her also. 
 The former considered his fate with the feeling of a martyr ; 
 and every word of the latter was intended to confirm, in 
 his mind, this strengthening and consoling conviction. The 
 few days which were left to the criminal were not other 
 wise unsoothed and unlighted from without. Friends came 
 to him in his dungeon, and strove, with the diligence of 
 love, to convert the remaining hours of his life into profit 
 able capital for the future grand investment of immortality. 
 Religion lent her aid to friendship ; and, whether Beau- 
 chain pc did or did not persist in the notion that the crime 
 for which he stood condemned was praiseworthy, at all 
 events he was persuaded by her unremitting cares and coun 
 sels that he was a sinner sinning in a thousand respects. 
 for which repentance was the only grand remedy which 
 could atone to God for the wrongs done, and left unre 
 paired, to man. 
 
 Among the friends who now constantly sought the cell of 
 the criminal, William Calvert was none of the least punctual 
 
&quot;GUILTY! 331 
 
 Beauchampe became very fond of him, and felt, in a short 
 time, the vast superiority of his mind and character over 
 those of his late tutor. The wife, meanwhile, with that 
 fearless frankness- which knows thoroughly the high value ^ 
 of the most superior truth for truth has its qualities ana 
 degrees, though each may be intrinsically pure had freely 
 told her husband the whole history of the early devotion 
 of William Gal vert, when she knew him as the obscure Wil 
 liam Hinkley ; how, blinded by her own vanity, and the 
 obscurity to which the very modesty of the young rustic 
 had subjected him, she despised his pretensions ; and, for 
 the homage of the sly serpent by whom she had been de 
 ceived beguiled with his lying tongue, and pleased with 
 his gaudy coat had slighted the superior worth of the 
 former, and treated his claims with a scorn as little de 
 served by him as becoming in her. Sometimes, Beauchampe 
 spoke of this painful past in the history of his wife and vis 
 itor, and the reference now did not seem to give pain, at 
 least to the former. The reason was good : she had done 
 with the past. The considerations which now filled her 
 mind were all of a superior nature ; and she listened to her 
 husband, even when he spoke on this theme in the presence 
 of William Calvert himself, with an unmoved and unabashed 
 countenance. The latter possessed no such stoicism. At 
 such moments his heart beat with a wildly-increased rapidity 
 of pulsation, and he felt the warm flush pass over his checks 
 as vividly and quickly now as in the days of his first youth 
 ful consciousness of love. 
 
 It was the evening preceding the day af execution. Tho 
 dark hours were at hand. The guard of the prison had 
 warned the visitors to depart. The divine had already 
 gone. The drooping sisters of Beauchampe were about to 
 go for the night, moaning wildly as they went, in anticipa 
 tion of the day of awful moan which was approaching. Fond 
 and fervent, and very sad, was the parting, though for the 
 only, which the condemned gave to these dear twin 
 
3 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 buds of his affections. It was a pang spared to him thai 
 Lis poor old mother was too sick to see him. &quot;When he 
 thought of her, and of the unspeakable misery which would 
 be hers were she present, he felt the grief lessened which 
 followed from the thought that their eyes might never more 
 encounter. 
 
 - But the sisters went all went but William Calvert, 
 and he seemed disposed to linger to the last permitted mo 
 ment. His thoughts were less with the condemned man 
 than with the wife. His eyes were fixed upon the same 
 object. His anxiety and surprise increased with each mo 
 ment of his gaze. Whence could arise that strange seren 
 ity which appeared in her countenance ? Where did she 
 find that strength which, at such an hour, could give her 
 composure ? Nor was it serenity and composure alone 
 which distinguished her air, look, and carriage. There 
 was a holy intentness, a sublime decision in her look, which 
 filled him with apprehension. He knew the daring of her 
 character the bold disposition which had always possessed 
 her to dare the dark and the unknown and his prescient 
 conjecture divined her intention. 
 
 She sat behind her husband, on his lowly pallet. Cal 
 vert occupied a stool at its foot. Beauchampe had been 
 speaking freely with all his visiters. He was only moved 
 by the feeling of his situation on separating from his sis 
 ters. At all other periods he was tolerably calm, and 
 sometimes his conversation ran into playfulness. When 
 we say playfulness, we do not mean to be understood as 
 intimating his indulgence of mere fun and jest, which would 
 have been as inconsistent with his general character as with 
 the solemn responsibility of his situation. But there was 
 an ease of heart about what he said an elastic freedom 
 which insensibly colored, with a freshness and vitality, the 
 idea which he uttered. 
 
 &quot;Sit closer to me, Anna,&quot; he said to his wife &quot;sit 
 closer. We are not to be so long together, that we can 
 
&quot; OUTLTY !&quot; 383 
 
 spare these moments. We have no time for distance and 
 formality. Calvert will excuse this fondness, however an 
 noying it might seem between man i;nd wife at ordinary 
 periods.&quot; 
 
 He took her hand in his as she drew nigh, and passed his 
 arm fondly about her waist. She was silent ; and Calvcrt, 
 thinking of the conjecture which had been awakened in his 
 mind by the deportment of the wife, was too full of serious 
 and startling thoughts to be altogether assured or what 
 Beauchampe was saying. The latter continued, after a 
 brief pause, by a reference of some abruptness to the past 
 history of the two : 
 
 &quot; It seems to me the strangest thing in the world, Anna, 
 that you should ever have refused to marry our friend Cal 
 vert. My days,&quot; he said, turning to the latter as he spoke 
 &quot; my days of idle speech and vain flattery are numbered, 
 Calvert ; and you will &quot;do me the justice to believe that I 
 am not the man to waste words at any time in worthless 
 compliment. Certainly I will not now. But, since I have 
 known you, I feel that I could wish to know no more desi 
 rable friend ; and how my wife could have rejected you for 
 any other person I care not whom I do not exclude 
 myself I can not understand, unless by supposing that 
 there is a special fate in such matters, by which our beat 
 judgments are set at naught, and our wisest plans baffled 
 Had she married you, Calvert &quot; 
 
 &quot; Why will you speak of it ?&quot; said Calvert, with an ear 
 nestness of tone which yet faltered. The wife was still 
 silent. Beauchampe answered : 
 
 &quot; Because I speak as one to whom the business of life is 
 over. I am speaking as one from the grave. The passions 
 are dumb within me. The strifes are over. The vain deli 
 cacies of society seem a child s play to, me now. Besides, 
 I speak regretfully. For her sake, how much better had 
 it been ! Instead of being, as she is now, the wife of a 
 convict, doomed to a dog s death ; instead of the long strife 
 
BEAUCHl^fS. 
 
 through which she has gone ; instead of the utter waste 
 of that proud genius which might, under other fortunes, 
 have taken such noUe flights, and attained such a noble 
 eminence &quot; 
 
 The wife interrupted him with a smile : 
 
 &quot; Ah, Beaucharape, you are supposing that the world has 
 but one serpent but one Alfred Stevens! The eagle in 
 his flight may escape one arrow, but who shall insure him 
 against the second or the third ? I suspect that few per 
 sons at the end of life of a long life looking back, with 
 all their knowledge and experience, could recommence the 
 journey and find it any smoother or safer than at first. He 
 is the best philosopher who, when the time comes to die, 
 can wash his hands of life the soonest, with the least effort, 
 and dispose his robes most calmly and so gracefully 
 around him. Do not speak of what I have lost, and of 
 what I have suffered. Still less is it needful that you should 
 . peak of our friend s affairs. We are all chosen, I suspect. 
 Our fortunes are assigned us. That of our friend was never 
 more favorable than when mine prompted my refusal of his 
 kind offer. I was not made for him, nor he for me. We 
 iright not have been happy together; and for the best rea 
 son, since I was too blind and ignorant to see what I should 
 have seen that the very humility which I despised in him 
 was the source of his strength, and would have been of my 
 security. I now congratulate him that I was blind to his 
 merits. JB.e will live ; he will grow stronger with each 
 succseiing day ; fortune will smile upon his toils, and fame 
 will follow them. At least, we will pray, Beauchampe, that 
 such will oe the case. At parting, William Hinkley I 
 can not call you by the other name now at parting, for 
 ever believe this assurance. You shall have our prayers 
 and blessings such as they arc truly, fondly, my friend, 
 for we owe much to your help and sympathy.&quot; 
 
 &quot; For ever, Margaret ! Why should you say for 
 over ?&quot; 
 
&quot; GUILTY !&quot; 385 
 
 Calvert fastened his eyes upon her as she spoke. She 
 met the glance unmoved, and replied : 
 
 &quot; Will it not be for ever ? To-morrow which deprives 
 me of him, deprives me of the world. I must hide from it. 
 I have no more business with it, nor it with me. I have 
 still some sense of shame some feelings of sacred sorrow 
 which I should be loath to expose to its busy finger. Is 
 not this enough, William Calvert?&quot; 
 
 &quot; But I am not the world. Friends you will still need ; 
 my good, old father 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 &quot; I know what you would say, William : I know all your 
 goodness of heart, and thank you from the very bottom of 
 mine. Let it suffice that, should I need a friend after to 
 morrow, I shall seek none other than you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Margaret,&quot; said William, impressively, &quot; you can not 
 deceive me. I know your object. I see it in your eyes 
 in those subdued tones. I am sure of what you purpose.&quot; 
 
 &quot; What purpose ? what do you mean ?&quot; demanded Bean- 
 champe 
 
 Before he could be answered by Calvert the wife had 
 spoken. She addressed herself to the latter. 
 
 &quot; And if you do know it, William Hinkley, you know it 
 only by the conviction in your own heart of what, if not un 
 avoidable, is at least necessary. Speak not of it give it 
 no thought, and only ask of yourself what, to me, to such a 
 soul as mine, would be life after to-morrow s sun has set ! 
 Go novr the guard calls. You will see us in the morn 
 ing.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Margaret for your soul s sake 
 
 The expostulation was arrested by the repeated summons 
 of tin guard, The wife put her finger on her lips in sign 
 of silence. Calvert prepared to depart, but could not for 
 bear whispering in her ears the exhortation which he had 
 begun to speak aloud. She heard him patiently to the 
 end, and sweetly, but faintly smiling, she shook her head, 
 
 7 
 
386 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 making no other answer. The hoarse voice of the guard 
 again summoned the visitor, who reluctantly rose to obey. 
 He shook hands with Beauchampe, and Margaret followed 
 him to the foot of the ladder. When he gave her his hand 
 she carried it to her lips. 
 
 &quot; God bless you, William Hinkley !&quot; she murmured. 
 &quot; You are and have been a noble gentleman. Remember 
 me kindly, and oh ! forgive me that I did you wrong, that 
 I did not do justice to your feelings and your worth. Per 
 haps it was Setter that I did not.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Let me pray to you, Margaret. Do not oh ! do not 
 what you design. Spare yourself.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Ay, William, I will! Shame, certainly, the bitter 
 mock of the many the silent derision of the few deceit 
 and fraud reproach without and within all these will 1 
 spare myself.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Come ! come !&quot; said the guard gruffly, from above. 
 u will you never be done talking ? Leave the gentleman to 
 hip prayers. His time is short!&quot; 
 
 And thus they parted for the night. 
 
FATAL PURPOSES. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 FATAL PURPOSES. 
 
 u WHAT did Calvert mean, Anna, when he said he know 
 your purpose ?&quot; was the inquiry of Beauchainpo, when she 
 returned to his side; &quot;what do you intend ? what pur 
 pose have you ?&quot; 
 
 She put her hand upon her lips in sign of silence, theu 
 looked up to the trap-door, which the guard was slowly 
 engaged in lotting down. When this was done, she ap 
 proached him, and drawing a vial from her bosom dis 
 played it cautiously before his eyes. 
 
 &quot; For me !&quot; he exclaimed &quot; poison !&quot; 
 
 A sort of rapturous delight gathered in his eyes aer he 
 clutched the vial. 
 
 &quot; Enough for both of us !&quot; was the answer. &quot; It is laud 
 anum.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Enough for both, Anna ! Surely you can not mean 
 
 &quot; To share it with you, my husband. To die with you, 
 as you die for me.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Not so! This must not be. Speak not think not 
 thus, my wife. Such a thought makes me wretched. There 
 is no need that you should die.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ay, but there is, Beaucliampc. 1 should suffer much 
 worse were I to live. Whore could I live ? How could I 
 live? To be the scorned, and the slandered to provoke 
 the brutal jest, or more brutal violence of the fopling and 
 the foul ! For, who that knows my story, will believe iu 
 
BKAUCHAMPE. 
 
 xay virtue ; and who that doubts, will scruple to approach 
 me as if he knew that I had none ! If I have neither joy 
 nor security in life, why should I live ; and if death keeps 
 us together, Beauchampe, why should I fear to die ? Should 
 I not rather rejoice, my husband ?&quot; 
 
 Ah ! but of that we know nothing. That is the doubt 
 the curse, Anna !&quot; 
 
 &quot; I do not doubt I can not. Our crime, if crime it be, 
 is one our punishment will doubtless be one also.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It were then no punishment. No, Anna, live ! You 
 have friends who will protect you who will respect and 
 love you. There is Colonel Calvert &quot; 
 
 &quot; Do not speak of him, Beauchampe. Speak of none. 
 I am resolute to share with you the draught. We tread the 
 dai-k valley together.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You shall not ! It is in my grasp no drop shall pass 
 your lips. It is enough for me only.&quot; 
 
 &quot; All, Beauchampe ! would you be cruel ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Kind only, dear wife. I can not think of you dying 
 BO young, so beautiful, and born with such endowments 
 so formed to shine, to bless &quot; 
 
 &quot; To kill rather to blight, Beauchampe ; to darken the 
 days of all whom I approach. This has ever been my fate : 
 it shall be so no longer. Beauchampe, you can not baffle 
 me in my purpose. See ! even if you refuse to share with 
 me the poison, I have still another resource.&quot; 
 
 She drew a knife from her sleeve and held it up before 
 his eyes, but beyond the reach of his arm. 
 
 &quot; Oh ! why will you persist in this, my wife? Why make 
 these few moments, which are left me, as sad as they are 
 short and fleeting.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I seek not to do so, dear husband ; nor should my reso 
 lution have this effect. Would you have me live for such 
 sorrows, such indignities, as I have described to you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You would not suffer them ! Give me the knife, Anna.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! my husband !&quot; She restored it to her sleeve. u I 
 
FATAL PURPOSES. 389 
 
 have sworn to die with you, and no powei on .artn. 
 persuade me to survive.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Not my entreaties my prayers, Anna!&quot; 
 
 u No ! Beauchainpe ! not even your prayers 
 change my purpose.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Nay, then, 1 will call the guard !&quot; 
 
 &quot;And if you do, Beauchainpe &amp;gt; the sound of your ?:&amp;gt;ice 
 shall be the signal for me tc strike. Believe me, husband , 
 1 do not speak id!/ !&quot; 
 
 The knife wac again withdrawn from her sleeve as she 
 spoko, and the bared point placed upon her bosom. 
 
 u Put it up, dearest ; I promise not to call. Put it up, 
 from sight. Believe me I will not call !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Do not, Beauchampe ; and do net, I implore you, again 
 ecek to disturb my resolution. Mcvs me you can not. I 
 have reached it only by calmly considering what I am, and 
 what would be left me when ycu are gone. I have seen 
 enough in this examination to make me turn with loathing 
 from the prospect. I know that it can not be more so be 
 hind the curtain : and we will raise it together.&quot; 
 
 &quot; The assurance, Anna, is sweet to my soul, but I would 
 gtii! implore you against this resolution. To be undivided 
 even in death conveys a feeling to my heart like rapture, 
 and brings back to it a renewed hope ; yet I dare not think 
 of your suffering and pain. I dread the idea, of death when 
 it relates to you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Think rather, my husband, that I share the hope and 
 the rapture of which you speak. Believe me only, that i 
 joy also in the conviction that in death we shall not be 
 divided. The mere bitter of the draught or the pain of the 
 stroke is not worthy of a thought. The assurance _lhat 
 there will be no interruption m our progress together 
 that death, with us, vrul be nothing but a joint setting forth 
 in company on a new journey and into another country 
 th.t ia worthy of every thought, and should be the only 
 
H90 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 &quot; Ay, but that country, Anna ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Can not be more full of wo and bitter than this hatb 
 been to us.&quot; 
 
 &quot; It may ! I have read somewhere, my wife, a vivid de 
 scription of two fond lovers fondest among the fond 
 born, as it were, for each other devoted, as few have beer 
 to one another ; who, by some cruel tyrant were thrown 
 into a dungeon, arid ordered to perish by the gnawing pro 
 cess of hunger. At first, they smiled at such a doom. They 
 believed that their tyrant lacked ingenuity in his capacity 
 for torture, for he had left them together / Together, they 
 were strong and fearless. Love made them light-hearted 
 even under restraint ; and they fancied a power of resist 
 ance in themselves, so united, to endure the worst forms of 
 torment. For a few days they did so. They cheereS each 
 other. They spoke the sweetest, soothing words. Their 
 arms were linked in constant embrace. She hung upon his 
 neck, and he bore her head upon his bosom. Never had 
 they spoken such sweet truths such dear assurances. 
 Never had their tendernesses been so all-compensating. 
 Perhaps they never had been so truly happy together, at 
 least for the first brief day of their confinement. Their 
 passion had been refined by severity, and had acquired new 
 vigor from the pressure put upon it. But as the third day 
 &amp;lt;vaned, they ceased to link their arms together. They re 
 coiled from the mutual embrace. They shrunk apart. Thcj 
 saw in each other s eyes, a something rather to be feared 
 than loved. Famine was there, glaring like a wolf. The 
 god was transformed into a demon ; and in another day 
 the instinct of hunger proved itself superior to the magnan 
 imous sentiment of love. The oppressor looked in on the 
 fourth day, through the grated-window upon his victims 
 and lo I the lips of the man were dripping with the blood, 
 drawn from the veins of his beloved one. His teeth were 
 clenched in her white shoulder : and he grinned and growled 
 
FATAL PURPObSS. 391 
 
 above his unconscious victim, even as the tiger, 7thc~&amp;gt; you 
 have disturbed ere ho has finished with his prey.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Horrible ! But she submitted she repined not. Hot 
 moans were unheard. .She sought not, in like manner, to 
 pacify the baser, beastly cravings, at the expense of him 
 she loved. Hers was love, Beauchampe his was pas 
 sion.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Alas ! my wife, what matters it by what name we seek 
 to establish a distinction between the sentiments and pas 
 sions ? In those dreadful extremes of situation, from which 
 our feeble nature recoils, all passions and sentiments run 
 into one. We love ! Before Heaven, my wife, I conscien 
 tiously say, and as conscientiously believe, that I love yon 
 as passionately as I can love, and as truly as woman evar 
 was beloved by man. It is not our love that fails us, in the. 
 hour of physical and mental torment. It is our strength 
 Thought and principle, truth and purity, are poor defences, 
 when the frame is agonized with a torture beyond what na 
 ture was intended to endure. Then the strongest man de 
 serts his faith and disavows his principles. Then the pares , 
 becomes profligate, and the truest dilates in falsehood, it 
 is madness, not the man, that speaks. It was madness, oc* 
 the man, that drunk from the blue veins of the beloved 00$, 
 and clenched his dripping teeth in her soft white she-aid^/. 
 The very superior strength of his blood, was the cause of 
 his early overthrow of reflection. As, in this respect, aho 
 was the weaker, so her mind, and consequently, ;he sweet 
 pure sentiments which were natural to her mind., tbe longest 
 maintained its and their ascendency, and preserved her 
 from the loathsome frenzy to which the a an was driven t 
 Ah, of this future, dear wife! This awf il, unknown fu 
 ture ! Fancy some penal doom like this fancy some tiger 
 rage in mo depriving me of the reason, and the sentiments 
 which have maie rie love you, and made me what I an - 
 fancy, in place of tee man, the frenzied beast, raging in 
 hip bloody thirst, rending in hio savage hunger --drinking the 
 
39 c BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 blood from tho beloved one s veins tearing the flesh from 
 her soft white shoulder ! This thought this fear, Anna &quot; 
 
 *&quot; IB neither thought nor fear of mine ! God is good and 
 gracious. I am not bold to believe in my own purity of 
 hcr.rt, or propriety of conduct. I am a sinner, Beauchampe 
 a proud, stern, fierce sinner. I feel that I am I would 
 that I were otherwise, and I pray for Heaven s help to be 
 come otherwise but, sinner as I am, I neither fear nor 
 believe, that such penal dooms are reserved for any degree 
 of sin. Tho love of physical torture is an attribute with&quot; 
 which man has dressed the Deity. As such torture can not 
 be human, so it can not be godlike. I can believe that we 
 iiiay be punished by privation by denial of trust by 
 degradation to inferior offices but it is the brutal imagi 
 nation that ascribes to God a delight in brutal punishments. 
 Nowhere do we see in nature such a feeling manifested. 
 Life is everywhere a thing of beauty. Smiles are in heaven, 
 sweetness on earth, the winds bring it, the airs breathe it, 
 stars smile it, blossoms store and diffuse it man, alone, 
 defaces and destroys, usurps, vitiates, and overthrows. It 
 was man, not God, who, in your story, was the oppressor. 
 He made the prison, and thrust the victims into it. It was 
 oot God ! And shall God be likened to such a monster ? 
 V^hat idea can we have of the Deity to whom such charac 
 teristics are ascribed ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; I go yet.farther,&quot; she added, after a pause. &quot; I do 
 not think, even if our sins incur the displeasure of God, that 
 nis treatment of us, however harsh, will be meant as pun 
 ishment. That it will be punishment, I doubt not ; but this 
 will be with him a secondary consideration. We are his 
 subjects, in his world, employed to carry out his various 
 purposes, and set to various tasks. Failing in these, we 
 are set to such as are inferior perhaps, not employed at 
 all, a being no longer worthy cf trust. I can not think of 
 a severer moral infliction. Where all ar? fcusy triumph 
 antly busy pressing forward Li the glorious tasks of a life 
 
FATAL PURPOSES. 393 
 
 which is all soul to be the only idle spirit d enied to 
 dhare in any mighty consummation pitied, but abandoned 
 oy the rest the proffer of service rejected the sympathy 
 of joint action and enterprise denied a spirit without 
 wings a sluggish personification of moral sloth, and that 
 too, in such an empire as God s own in his very sight 
 millions speeding beneath his eye at his bidding all bid, 
 all chosen, all beloved but one ! Ah ! Beauchampe, to a 
 soul like mine so earnest, so ambitious as mine has been. 
 and is could there be a worse doom!&quot; 
 
 &quot; No, dearest ! But the subject is dark, and such specu 
 lations may be bold too bold !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Why ? Do I disparage God in them ? Docs it not 
 seem that such a future could alone be worthy of such a 
 present of such a God, as has made a world so various 
 and so wondrous-! mcthinks, the disparagement is in him 
 who ascribes to the Deity such tastes and passions as pre 
 side over the inquisitions and the thousand other plans of 
 mortal torture, which have made man the hateful monster 
 that we so frequently mid him.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Let us speak no more of this, Anna. The subject star 
 ties inc. It is an awful one !&quot; 
 Hers was the bolder spirit. 
 
 u And should not our thoughts be awful thoughts ? What 
 other should we have ? The future, alone, is ours will 
 be ours in a short time. A few hours will bring us to the 
 entrance. A few hours will lift the curtain, and the voics 
 that we may not disobey will command us to er/ter. ; 
 
 &quot; Not you, Anna oh ! not you 1 Let me brave it alone 
 I can not bear to think that you too should be cut off in 
 your youth with all that vigorous mind that beauty 
 that noble heart all crushed, blighted now, wheo bloom 
 ing brightest buried in the dust no more to speaa;, cr 
 sing, or feel. 
 
 &quot; But they do not perish, Beauchampe^ I might grow 
 coward !_ might cling to this life could I fancy there 
 
394 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 were no* other. But this faith is one of ciy strongest con 
 victions. It is an instinct. No reasoning will reach the 
 point and establish it, if the feeling be not in our heart of 
 hearts. I know that I can not perish quite. I know that 
 I must live ; and that poison -draught, or the thrust of tin? 
 sudden knife, I regard as the plunge which one makes, 
 crossing a frail trembling bridge, or hurrying through some 
 dark and narrow passage. Do not waste tho moments, 
 which are so precious, in the vain endeavor to dissuade me 
 from a sworn and settled purpose. Beauchampe, we die 
 together !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Lie down by me, Anna. You should sleep you are 
 fatigued. You must be weary.&quot; 
 
 &quot; No ! I am not weary. At such moments as these we 
 become all soul. We do not need sleep. With tho passage 
 of this night we shall never need it again. Think of that, 
 Beauchampe ! What a thought it is.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Terrible !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Glorious, rather ! Sleep was God s gift to an animal 
 to restore limbs that could be wearied to refresh spir 
 its that could be dull ! What a godlike feeling to know 
 that we should need it no longer! no more yawning no 
 more drowsiness and that feebleness and blindness, which, 
 without any of the securities of death, has all of its incom 
 petencies when the merest coward might bind, and the 
 commonest ruffian abuse, and trample on us. Ah ! the im 
 munities of death ! k How numerous how great! What 
 blindness to talk of its terrors to shrink from its glorious 
 privileges of unimpeded space of undiininishing time, 
 Already, Beauchampe, it seems tD me as if my wings are 
 growing. I fancy I should not feel any hurt from the 
 knife perhaps, not even taste the poison on my lipe.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Sit by iae. at ieast&amp;gt; if you will not sleep, Anna.&quot; 
 
 &quot; I will sit by you, Beauchampe nay, I wish to do so; 
 but you must promts not to attempt to dispossess me of the 
 knife. I puspeci you, my 
 
FATAL PURPOSES. 396 
 
 &quot; Why suspect me ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I perceive it in the tones of your voice : I koc77 what 
 you intend. But, believe me, I have taken my resolution 
 from which nothing will move me. Even were you now to 
 deprive me of the weapon, nothing would keep me from it 
 long. I should follow you soon, my husband ; and the only 
 effect of present denial would be to deprive me of the pleas 
 ure of dying with you !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Come to me, my wife ! I will not attempt to disarm 
 you. I promise you.&quot; 
 
 &quot; On your love, Bcauchampe ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; With my full heart, dearest. You shall die with me. 
 It will be a sweet moment instead of a bitter one. For 
 your sake only, my wife, would I have disarmed you 
 but my selfish desires triumph. I will no longer oppose 
 you.&quot; 
 
 &quot;Thanks thanks!&quot; 
 
 She sprang to him, and clung to his embrace. 
 
 &quot; Will you sleep ?&quot; he asked, as her head seemed to sink 
 upon his bosom. 
 
 &quot;No, no! I had not thought of that! I thought only 
 of the moment the moment when wo should leave this 
 prison.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Leave it ?&quot; 
 
 &quot;By death! I am tired, very tired, of these walls 
 these walls of life that keep us in bonds put us at the 
 mercy of the false and the cruel, the base and the mali 
 cious ! Oh, my husband, we have tried them long enough !&quot; 
 
 &quot; There is time enough !&quot; he said. &quot; I would see the 
 daylight once more.&quot; 
 
 &quot; You can only see it through those bars.&quot; 
 
 &quot; Still, I would see it. We can free ourselves a monies* 
 after.&quot; 
 
 Even while thay spoke together, Beauchampe sunk into 
 a pleasant slumber. She pillowed his head upcn her bo- 
 som, but had no feeling or thought of sleep. Through the 
 
396 BEATirtTAMPE. 
 
 grated -window she saw a fc\v flitting stars. One by one, 
 thev came into her sphere of vision, gleamed a little while, 
 and passed, like the bright, spiritual eyes of the departed 
 deaf ones. When she ceased to behold them, then she 
 knew that the day was at hand ; and the interval of time 
 between the disappearance of the stars and the approach 
 of dawn, though brief, was dark. 
 
 &quot; Such,&quot; she mused, will Ce that brief period of transi 
 tion, when, passing from the dim, deceptive starlight of this 
 life, we cuter into the perfect day. That will be momenta 
 rily dark, perhaps. It must be. There may be a state 
 of childhood an imperfect consciousness of the things 
 around us of our own wants and among these, possi 
 bly, a lack of utterance. Strange, indeed, that the inevi 
 table should still be the inscrutable ! But of what use the 
 details? The great fact is clear to me. Even now things&quot; 
 ure becoming clearer while 1 gaze. My whole soul seems 
 to be one great thought! How strange that he should 
 sleep so soundly, too-- -so like an infant! Ue does not 
 fear death, that is certain : but he loves life. T, too, love 
 life, but it is not this. Oh, of that other! Could I get 
 some glimpses but this is childish! I shall see it all 
 very soon !&quot; 
 
 Beauchampe slept late ; and, bearing his head still on 
 her bosom, the sleepless wife did not seek to awaken him. 
 Through the intensity of her thought, she acquired an 
 entire independence of bodily infirmities. .The physical 
 nature, completely controlled by the spiritual,. was passive 
 at her mood. But the soundness of Bcauchampc s sleep 
 continued, as it was, after day had fairly dawned, awakened 
 her suspicions. She searched for the vial of laudanum 
 where she had seen .him place it. It was no longer there. 
 She found it beside him on the couch it was empty! 
 
 But his breathing- was not suspended. His sleep was 
 natural, and, while she anxiously bent over him in doubt 
 whether to strike at once, or wait to see what further effects 
 
FATAL PURPOSES. 397 
 
 might l)e produced on him by the potion, he awakened. 
 His first words at awakening betrayed the still superior 
 feelings of attachment with which he regarded her. His 
 voice was that of exultation: 
 
 &quot;It is over and we are still together! We are not 
 divided !&quot; 
 
 u No ! but the hour is at hand !&quot; 
 
 &quot; What mean you, my love ? I have swallowed the 
 laudanum ! where am I ?&quot; 
 
 His question was answered as his eyes encountered the 
 bleak walls of his dungeon, and beheld the light through 
 the iron bars of his window. 
 
 &quot; God ! the poison has failed of its effect !&quot; 
 
 His look was that of consternation. Her glance and 
 words reassured him. 
 
 &quot; We have still the knife, my husband !&quot; 
 
 &quot; Ah ! we shall defeat them still !&quot; 
 
398 
 
 y 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 LAST WORDS. 
 
 &quot; ON the morning of the fifth of June, eighteen band red 
 and twenty-six,&quot; says the chronicle, &quot; the drums were heard 
 beating in the streets of Frankfort, and a vast multitude 
 was hurrying toward the gibbet, which was erected OE a 
 hill without the town.&quot; 
 
 At the sound of this ominous music, and the clamors of 
 that hurrying multitude, Beauchampe smiled sadly. 
 
 &quot; Strange, that men should delight in such a spectacle 
 the cruel death, the miserable exposure, of a fellow-man ! 
 that they should look on his writhings, his distortions, 
 his shame and pain, with composure and desire ! L trill 
 be cruel to disappoint them, Anna! &quot;Will it not ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; I think not of them, my husband. Oh, my husband, 
 could we crowd the few remaining moments with thoughts 
 of goodness, with prayers of penitence ! Oh, that I had 
 not urged you to the death of Stevens!&quot; 
 
 &quot; It was right !&quot; he answered sternly. &quot; I tell you, Anna, 
 the wives and daughters of Kentucky will bless the name 
 of Beauchampe !&quot; 
 
 &quot;They should, my husband, for your blow lias saved 
 many from shame and suffering has terrified many a 
 ; *rong-doer from his purpose. But, though right in you 
 to strike, I feel that jt was wrong in me to counsel.&quot; 
 
 &quot; That can not be ! Do not speak thus, my wife. Let 
 not our last moments be embittered by reproach. Let us 
 
LAST WORDS. 399 
 
 die in prayer rather. Hark! 1 hear visitors voices 
 some one approaches !&quot; 
 
 (&amp;lt; It is William rlinkley ! she exclaimed. 
 
 The guard was heard about to remove the trap-door. 
 Beauchampe looked up, and, a moment after, he heard 
 bfs wife, sigh deeply. She then spoke to him, faintly but 
 quickly : &quot; Take it, my husband ! It is not painful.&quot; 
 
 He turned to her, while a sudden coldness seized upon 
 his heart. She presented him the knife. 
 
 &quot; Have you struck ?&quot; he asked, in a husky whisper. The 
 wet blade of the knife, already clotty with the coagulating 
 blood, answered his question. 
 
 &quot; Take me in your arms quickly, quickly, dear husband 
 do not leave me ! I lose you oh, I lose you !&quot; 
 
 . &quot; No, never ! I come ! I am with you. Nothing shall 
 part us. This unites us for ever!&quot; 
 
 And, with the words, he struck the fatal blow, laid his 
 lips on hers, and covered her and himself with the blanket. 
 
 &quot; This is sweet !&quot; she murmured. &quot; I feel you, but I can 
 not see you, husband. Who is it comes ?&quot; 
 
 &quot; Calvert !&quot; 
 
 The young man descended a moment after. His appre 
 hensions were realized. Margaret Cooper was dying 
 dyiug by her own hands. 
 
 &quot; Was this well done, Margaret ?&quot; he asked reproachfully. 
 
 &quot; Ay, William,&quot; she answered firmly, but in feeble tones. 
 &quot; It was well done ! It could not be otherwise, and I find 
 dying sweeter than living. You will forgive me, William ?&quot; 
 :t But God, Margaret ? &quot; 
 
 &quot;Ah! pray for me pray for me! Husband ! am 
 losing you. I feel you not. This is death ! it was for 
 me it waa all for me ! Beauchampe ! &quot; 
 
 &quot; She is gone !&quot; cried the husband. 
 
 Calvert, who had assisted to support her, now laid the 
 inanimate form softly upon the couch. lie was dumb. But 
 the cry of &quot;Boanchampe had drawn the attention of the guard 
 
100 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 u What is this what s the matter?&quot; he demanded. 
 
 &quot;Ha! ha! we laugh at you we defy you!&quot; was th 
 exclamation of rcnuehainpe, holding wp the bloody knife 
 with which he had inflicted upon himself a second wcund. 
 We have slain ourselves.&quot; 
 
 &quot; God forbid !&quot; cried the officer, wresting the *eape-n 
 from the hands of the criminal. 
 
 ki You are too late, my friend : we shall spoil your sport. 
 You shall enjoy no public agonies of mine to-day.&quot; 
 
 They brought relief surgical help stimulants, and 
 bandages. They succored the fainting man, cruelly kind, 
 in order that the stern sentence of the laws might be car 
 ried into effect. The hour of execution, meanwhile, had 
 arrived. They brought him forth in the sight of the as 
 sembled crowd. The fresh air revived the dying man 
 awakening him into full but momentary consciousness. He 
 looked up, and beheld where the windows of some of the 
 neighboring houses were filled with female forms. He 
 lifted his hands to them with a graceful but last effort, 
 while he murmured : 
 
 &quot;Daughters of Kentucky ! you, at least, will bless the 
 name of Beauehampe ! &quot; 
 
 This was all. He then sunk back, as they strove to lift 
 liim into the cart. Before his feet had pressed the felon- 
 vehicle, his eyes closed. He was unconscious of the rest. 
 Earth and its little life was nothing more to him. He had 
 .also passed behind the curtain ! 
 
 And here oar narrative might fitly end. Wo have dis 
 posed of those parties whose superior trials and struggles 
 constituted tho chief interest of our story. But custom 
 requires something more ; and the curiosity of the reader 
 naturally seeks to kno^v Vnat of the fortunes of the subor 
 dinates such of the minor persons of the drama as, by 
 their virtues and good conduct, have established a claim 
 upon our regards. We, perhup?, need to know whether 
 
LAST WORDS. 401 
 
 Ned Ilinklcy, for example, found hia compensative happi 
 ness as he proposed it to himself in the affections of the 
 fair, simple Sallie Bernard, who had so much commended 
 herself to his love by forbearing all &quot; strong-minded* dem 
 onstrations. Well, we may satisfy this curiosity. Ned 
 and Sallie are still in the full enjoyment of life and a vig 
 orous old age, with troops of young Neds and Sallies about 
 them. We are persuaded that neither of thm regrets or 
 repents the union which they formed upon such moderate 
 expectations of what was due to each other and the public. 
 As they did not marry to please the public, so have they 
 proved themselves perfectly satisfied with the simple duty 
 of pleasing one another. 
 
 Of the mother of Margaret Cooper, the mother of Beau- 
 champe, and his sisters, we know nothing. They wisely 
 sheltered their bleeding hearts in obscurity. 
 
 Old Ilinkley and his wife, the parents of William Cul 
 vert, returned from Mississippi to Kentucky, where they 
 were living, at last advices, with their son. The success 
 ful career of the latter lias, singukuly enough, persuaded 
 the old man to believe that William s religion was not, 
 after all, of so doubtful a character. His own devotions 
 are maintained with the tenacity of his nature ; but, as he 
 is satisfied that God approves the virtues whenever he helps 
 the fortunes of the subject a notion which is exceedingly 
 current among the Pharisaical, whose self-esteem is the 
 chief guardian of their religion, and perhaps its only foe 
 so he teaves his son to settle his own account with the Deity, 
 conienifiig himself with an unusually long grace at table, 
 and a, frequent voluntary prayer for grace before the family 
 retires for the night. 
 
 The good old schoolmaster, who could not be lawyer or 
 politician, though with ambition and endowment enough for 
 ^C .h, has been gathered to his fathers. He had reached 
 I he rips old age of eighty-one before he yielded to the sa 
 cred slumber. He subsided from life, as the withered leaf 
 
402 BEAUCHAMPE. 
 
 drops from the tree in autumn, without an effort or strug 
 gle. lie died #hile he slept, and no doubt in a swee* 
 dream, and with the far-off sounds of angelic music in his 
 $2,r^, full of welcome and rejoicing. He was at peace with 
 the world. His last days were cheered by affectionate 
 sforej and the most loving solicitude. All that he beheld 
 and beard was grateful to his matured thoughts and his 
 innocent desires. His pride was unselfish, like his hopes. 
 It was all grounded in the prosperity of another ! 
 And that other ? 
 
 William Calvert continued to prosper. lie never mar 
 ried. He still lives, in a green and vigorous old age, in 
 the midst of a noble estate, the fruit of his own well-applied 
 industry and honorable energies. He concentrated all his 
 talents upon his profession, and his profession made him 
 prosperous in turn. His one experiment in politics satis 
 fied all his desires in that direction. For ever after, he 
 steadily refused all connection with political life. He was 
 wont to say that the sacrifice was quite too great for so 
 small an object ; and that, while politics in a democracy 
 were admirably calculated to intoxicate and stimulate vani 
 ty, they furnished very unwholesome and unsatisfactory food 
 for any real, craving, honest ambition. And he was right. 
 He still lives lives, as we have said, a bachelor with 
 lofty frame, erect carriage, fair, round face, benevolent 
 heart, and a calm, sedate mind, always equal to the occa 
 sion, and seeking after nothing more. His affections were 
 true to his first and only love ; and sometimes, as if speak 
 ing to himself rather than those about him, he will mention 
 the name of Margaret Cooper. This will be followed by a 
 deep sigh ; and then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he 
 will hurry out of the apartment, and seek refuge in his own. 
 
 And thus he still lives, in waiting and in hope! 
 
 Let us drop the curtain. 
 
 T (I F, R \ 0. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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