CHAPTER X.

AN UNEXPECTED EVENT.

“Yet it may be more lofty courage dwells In one weak heart which braves an adverse fate, Than his whose ardent soul indignant swells, Warmed through the fight, or cheered through high debate.” MRS. NORTON.

A wedding was Mrs. Gardiner Green’s delight. In Maryland and Virginia, a country wedding promises festivity for weeks to come. The marriage ceremony takes place at _night_, in the presence of the _élite_ of all the neighboring counties. Visitors from a distance remain all night. The breakfast next morning is a state affair; it is followed by a dinner-party and ball, given at the house of the bridegroom’s parents or that of some of his friends. Then the nearest relations give balls in succession; then the most intimate friends. Generally the bride and bridegroom, with their attendants, remain all night at the house where the dinner and the ball are given. Thus a marriage in high life in the country throws a quiet neighborhood into convulsions for weeks, making it resemble a city in the height of the “season.” It is a downright windfall to the young men and girls, and it is a country proverb that “One marriage makes many.” In the approaching marriage of Miss Churchill and Mr. Withers there was one serious drawback to the pleasant anticipations of the young men and maidens. The bridegroom was a clergyman; therefore there could be no balls, only the wedding and dinner parties. Mrs. Green was in her glory—her preparations for display were magnificent; the wedding dresses, confectionery, &c., had been ordered from Baltimore and were arrived. And Sophie, she was now quite resigned; she had been the guest of Mrs. Green since the day of the inquest. Mr. Withers had recovered his composure, and was with her, as usual, a part of every day. Sophie’s brain and heart were in an apathy. The only action of her mind was an indolent surprise at the indifference she felt for everything going on around her, the deadness of all sensibility, the stillness of her nerves; even the frigid and formal kiss of Withers imprinted on her hand at meeting, or at parting, no longer sent an ague thrill through all her veins—the contentment of despair had come.

The evening of the marriage arrived; the handsomely furnished house of Mrs. Gardiner Green was elegantly decorated and thrown open from attic to cellar to the numerous expected visitors. Mrs. Green herself, elegantly attired, was superintending the bridal toilet of Sophie in the dressing-room of the latter. The dress of Miss Churchill, prepared by the taste of Mrs. Green, was a white satin skirt, and over that a white gauze embroidered all over with silver flowers, a large white lace veil, looped up above her brow by a single small diamond star, leaving room to the slight elegant wreath of orange buds that lightly rested on her smoothly braided hair. Rose Green and another young lady of the neighborhood attended her as bridesmaids. A murmur of admiration ran through the crowded parlors as Sophie was led in by Mr. Withers, and the bridal party took their stand in the centre of the room. The bishop of the diocese, summoned from Baltimore, was in attendance to perform the ceremony. He wore the usual full wide black gown of an Episcopal clergyman. The bridal party stood before him cheerily; the young bridesmaids and groomsmen stood in reverent _attitude_, their eyes bent upon the ground, but the corners of their lips full of dimples, scarcely repressing their smiles—stern and solemn stood the tall thin figure of the dark bridegroom, and cold and pale and quiet Sophie waited. Once she raised her eyelids, but her glance fell on the black gown and solemn countenance of the clergyman before her, and she quickly dropped them again. He seemed to her the incarnation of darkest doom. She felt a dreary sinking of the heart as the first words of the ritual fell upon her ear, as the sentence of death falls upon the criminal hearing. It was over. It was over—friends and neighbors crowded around her with their congratulations. First, Emily May drew her to her bosom, and imprinting a kiss upon her brow, whispered hastily—

“Courage, love! nothing is so illusory as the emotions of a bride; many a reluctant bride has become a loving and happy wife, many a hopeful and joyous bride has seen her happiness decay and die—courage, love.”

Sophie scarcely knew who spoke these hasty words, or how she at last found herself seated with her husband and attendants by her side. Refreshments were served around, and that occupied the company for the next hour; then a low hum of suppressed gaiety was heard all over the room, among the lively young people brought together in the expectation of enjoyment, and now growing uneasy under the restraint put upon their gaiety. The young people voted the parson’s wedding a stupid affair—a disappointment—quite a failure. At last, Miss Rogers, the second bridesmaid of Sophie, a merry little maiden, not overladen with veneration, jumped up from her seat, and standing before the solemn bridegroom, said—

“Now, Mr. Withers, you are very happy, or you _ought_ to be, as folks call the bridegroom ‘_the_ happy man,’ and you ought to be willing for other people who are not ‘happy’ at least to be _merry_, poor souls. Now we young folks who are not brides and bridegrooms want to console ourselves by dancing—there! and you are worse than ‘the dog in the manger’ if you don’t let us dance.”

Mr. Withers answered,

“There is a higher authority than my own, present, Miss Rogers; I refer you to the bishop.”

The girl’s head slightly started back, and her eyes opened in an awe-struck gaze _an instant_, as she turned to look upon the high dignitary of the church. To Sophie’s sorrowing vision he had seemed the dark minister of a dark fate; to the merry maiden as she now looked at him, he appeared a jolly old gentleman enough, so she smiled merrily, and tripped up to him, and said with saucy shyness,

“I say, Dr. Otterback, we all—we girls—want to dance; _Solomon_ danced, you know; now have you any objection?”

The old gentleman took her chin in his fat hand and made her little teeth chatter like a pair of castanets, while looking down in her young face with a merry, genial kindness, he said—

“Yes, child! a very _serious_ objection.”

“Oh! Dr. Otterback, _now_, I don’t believe it; what is it? David danced, you know, and I never feel so happy, or thank God so much for making me, as when I am dancing; _now_, Dr. Otterback, what objection _can_ you have?”

“A very serious one, my child, I tell you—_this_—the sound of a fiddle plays upon my feet and legs like the fingers of little Miss Rogers upon the piano keys—sets them in motion; can’t help it; the merriment and the wickedness bubbles up from the bottom of my heart, and the old man Adam grows too strong for me; now you wouldn’t have me pirouetting and pigeon-winging it all around this room, would you?”

“Wouldn’t I? I should love churches and bishops better all my life after,” laughed the maiden.

He shook his head, patted her rosy cheek, and sent her off.

The rooms were crowded and close, though all the windows and doors were open; the night was warm, and the moon was shining brightly out of doors. At last one and then another couple began to stroll out into the lawn and garden. As a matter of etiquette the bridal party kept their seats much longer; all, except the little bridesmaid, Miss Rogers, who never minded etiquette; she mingled with the company on the lawn, until Mrs. Gardiner Green seeing her said—

“I am astonished at you, Miss Rogers; return to your post.”

Then the little maiden ran up the marble steps in front of the house, and there she paused, unwilling to enter the warm rooms. The company on the lawn had wandered off into the grove, and she stood there watching their departed footsteps. Her eyes wandered over the scene, and at last were fixed by a figure on the gravel walk approaching from the gate towards the house. The figure hurried nervously forward, sprang up the steps, and stood before her taking breath. He was a youth of perhaps seventeen, with a broad fair forehead and golden hair. He caught her hand and inquired anxiously,

“Are _you_ Miss Churchill?”

“No, indeed, thank Heaven, I am not Miss Churchill,” replied the maiden, wondering.

“Where is Miss Churchill—where is she? I must see her immediately.”

“Miss Churchill is no more; Mrs. Withers is in the drawing-room.”

“Good God! I am too late; it is all over then!”

“_Quite_; you should have come sooner; the bride-cake is even eaten up.”

“Young lady—what is your name?”

“Blanche Rogers.”

“Miss Rogers, you can procure me an interview with—with the bride.”

“I will take you in and present you with great pleasure, if,” laughed the young lady, “you will favor me with your credentials.”

“Miss Rogers, my name is Raymond—no, I cannot tell you now; will you be kind enough to go to Mrs. Withers, and tell her that one wishes to see her for a moment at the door.”

The maiden looked at him keenly, and saying to herself, “Such a boy can have no evil design,” replied, hesitatingly, “Yes,” and turned slowly to do his bidding, looking back, once or twice, suspiciously. She found Sophie alone with Mrs. Green. Mr. Withers was in conversation with the bishop in a distant part of the room.

“My dear Sophie,” said she, “there is a young man out in the piazza that asks to see you.”

“A young man?”

“Well, yes; that is to say, a very young man—a boy.”

Sophie arose and passed into the piazza, and, except her cold pale face, like a radiant visitant from the skies she looked, as her dazzling raiment of white and silver flashed in the moonbeams. At the further end of the piazza, the moonlight fell upon a slight boyish figure clad in deep mourning, and leaning upon the balustrade. Sophie approached him; he raised his head and stepped forward; she met his eyes and started, suppressed a scream, and trembling violently, leaned against the parapet, as she recognised the slender form and wan face, the intense gaze, the ultra-marine blue eyes, and the floating golden locks of the wanderer, and—

“Have you, indeed, unhappy one, risen from the grave to reproach, to warn me?” involuntarily escaped her lips.

“Be calm, Miss Churchill; I do not know what you mean by your question, since I have never been dead, and do not remember even to have seen, far less reproached or warned you.”

“Who are you, then; I—I do not know whether I am sane or not. I am afraid my brain is reeling; who are you?”

“Dear young lady, I have startled you; _why_ I do not see; will you give me an interview in some place where we cannot be interrupted?”

“Tell me who you are?”

“You are not afraid of me?”

“No—oh, no; but I wish, of course, to know the name and business of one who calls me out at night for a private interview.”

“My name is Frank Raymond Withers; I am the only son, the only _child_ of the Reverend John Huss Withers, and Fanny Raymond.”

There was a dash of bitterness in the mock ceremonious manner with which he announced himself. Sophie heard him with clasped hands and earnest downcast brow. She remained in deep thought a moment; then suddenly catching his hand, she said,

“Yes, I _must_ have an interview with you, where none can overhear us. Come with me,” and retaining his hand and drawing him after her, she passed up the piazza, down the central marble steps, across the lawn, and taking a narrow path through the grove, led him down a deep dell, into a rustic arbor built over the spring, dropping into a seat, she said,

“Dip me up some cold water, that I may drink, and grow strong for this interview.”

He performed her bidding. She bathed her fevered hands and brow, she drank a deep draught of the lifegiving beverage, and then she composed herself, and said, as he stood before her,

“Sit down; I _too_ have something to reveal, as well as to learn.”

He took a seat opposite to her.

“First, what was your purpose in seeking me, this evening?”

“To save you from a marriage that could result in nothing but wretchedness and ruin.”

“Explain yourself!”

“Your husband, John Huss Withers, is—a lunatic!”

“What?”

“A _lunatic_!”

“Gracious heavens! Oh, yes! I see it all—_all now_!—that fearful light in his eyes!”

“And you will withdraw yourself from him before it is too late; you will reveal this fact and demand an immediate separation?”

“Stop, stop,” said Sophie, raising her hand to her brow, “Stop, I am dizzy, bewildered; how came this about? how has he so successfully concealed it for the months that he has been with us? and is it _hereditary_? Tell me all about it.”

“The malady is _not_ hereditary; no member of the family was ever known to have lost his or her reason; severe domestic affliction—trials, oh! trials that would have—that might have riven the strongest, firmest heart in two, that might have shaken into chaos the best regulated mind, clouded the clearest reason. Listen, Miss Churchill. Mr. Withers, my father, was morbidly proud, his pride was brought to the dust; he was delicately sensitive; he was stricken to the heart; his health gave way; his reason failed. With the strange cunning of a lunatic, and under the favor of circumstances, he has succeeded in concealing this malady from the world. In his first one or two attacks, _I_ was his keeper by chance; _after_ the first two or three, he learned by the premonitory symptoms when to seclude himself; and so, no symptom, no effect of his malady has yet appeared but this: the burning eloquence, the super-human power of intellect revealed in his occasional sermons; and, as long as it properly could be kept, in fact up to this moment, I have kept his secret; believing that if he knew it to be revealed, his proud and sensitive nature would be so shocked and wounded that the last light of reason would go out; that he would become a raving maniac. But, Miss Churchill, when I saw another person, a young girl, about to be sacrificed to him (for my father wrote to me, at college, of his approaching marriage, not deeming that I would interfere), I deemed it my duty to reveal his secret, at least, to his affianced bride. Now, Miss Churchill, you have your own fate and _his_ in your power; reveal his secret, save yourself. No one in the world could blame you for separating yourself from him.”

Sophie remained with her hand pressed upon her brow, so still she might have been taken for a statue.

“I am ready Miss Churchill, to aid your release by my testimony. Your marriage can be dissolved in a few days, by legislative action; do not be cast down.”

“Oh! stop, hush!” said Sophie, “let me think—let me think. My God! help thy child!”

She pressed her hand upon her brow tightly, then she spoke.

“Say! you think the revelation of this secret would affect him very seriously?”

“It would destroy his reason utterly, irrevocably, I think.”

“You say that this malady is accidental, circumstantial, and not hereditary?”

“Entirely—entirely the result of overwhelming affliction.”

Sophie sighed deeply; “It is hard to ask a son to criminate his father; yet _justice_—tell me, were these afflictions brought about by _his sin_?

The youth paused, looked down, groaned heavily, and at last hesitatingly replied;—

“No; not by _his sin_; that were too harsh a term; by his error, or rather his _mistake_.”

Sophie sighed more heavily than before, then she said—

“Young man, you are the son of Fanny Raymond; who _was_ Fanny Raymond, your mother?”

“She was the wife of Mr. Withers, of course.”

“When did she die, and where, and under what circumstances?”

The youth abruptly turned and hurried from the arbor, walked distractedly up and down the plat before it for some minutes, then returning, said in faltering tones to Sophie—

“Do not ask me—_do not ask me_, I beg of you—be at ease—you are the bride of Mr. Withers, but you need not be his wife. Come, Sophie Churchill, I am ready to go with you to the house and say all, and if really needful, _more_, to the assembled company there than I have said to you. Come!”

“No,” said Sophie, passing her hand thoughtfully before her brow; “Stop—stop,” then after awhile she held out one hand behind her to where the youth was standing, and said, “Raymond, come to me—sit beside me—unlock your inmost heart to me, poor boy. Come—I am your friend; tell me now why do you wish to save me by exposing your father?”

He came and sat beside her, and fixing his sad blue eyes upon her face said—

“That I might not be accessary to your misery, Miss Churchill. I have kept his secret and borne the risk of concealment myself; I had no right to suffer the life of another to be risked by my silence.”

Sophie sighed again, with her head bowed upon her hand, and asked—

“Is he ever so violent and dangerous, then?”

“No, not positively violent, but _dangerous_, I fear, Miss Churchill.”

“He has never certainly had an attack since he has been here.”

“You do not know—has he never been absent?”

“Yes, for days, when no one knew where he was; for in his reserve he would not reveal his business, and no one durst ask him.”

“Ah! at such times, warned by the premonitory symptoms of his disease, he secluded himself—perhaps in the depths of the forest—perhaps threw himself on board of a packet and slipped up to Baltimore.”

“Oh! how wretched, how wretched he must have been, must still be, with no one here to whom he dare trust his dreadful secret.”

“And is it possible, Miss Churchill, that no one suspected it here—that no eccentricity of manner threatened to betray him to those that were about him every day?”

Sophie took his delicate hand in hers, and pressing it kindly, said—

“Raymond, do not call me Miss Churchill, or speak to me as a stranger, or as an indifferent acquaintance; I am so no longer; you must love me, and confide in me, Raymond; you and I have a mutual and a holy duty to perform.”

“Yes,” said he, with a bitter sigh, “we must go and make this known. Oh, my unhappy father!”

“Poor boy, you have misunderstood me; did you think,” she said, passing her hand over his troubled brow, smoothing away the golden ringlets, and looking kindly in his face, “did you think that I was going selfishly to expose and abandon your father? No, Raymond—no, poor boy—I am weak, and sometimes cowardly, but never cruel or selfish—I never wantonly destroyed the smallest insect, or wounded, purposely, the worst or the lowest human being; and since I have been sitting here, Raymond, I know not what sort of a strange strength has entered my soul! Yes, your arrival just now is providential, and with your words the spirit of God has descended upon me. The Lord has given me something to do for His sake, and endowed me with strength to do it. And you are my co-laborer, Raymond. To dress the wounds of this poor warrior, beaten and bruised, bleeding and fainting on the field of the battle of life; to raise and nurse him back to life and health—this is our work.”

How beautiful she looked in her young devotion,—the moonlight fell upon her fair, pure brow, clothing it with an angelic radiance.

“Oh, but the sacrifice, will you immolate yourself thus, Miss Churchill?”

“Strange! but I do not feel it as such; I feel lifted up, elevated, strengthened, filled with light and a strange joy.”

“Beautiful inspired one!” exclaimed the boy, with enthusiasm.

“Come,” said Sophie, rising, “let us return to the house, I shall be missed; did your father expect you?”

“He wrote that I might come if I pleased; but has he never mentioned me, Miss Churchill?”

“Never.”

“Why was that?”

“Abstraction—forgetfulness—something.”

“Come with me, then, I will present you to him.”

“Oh, Miss Churchill—gentle Sophie—do you feel no inward resentment towards my unhappy father, for the marriage into which he has led you?”

“None in the world. Is not his reason clouded, his thoughts all jarred and out of tune? No, I feel that he was led by, to him, a blind impulse, really by Providence, to the only one who could nurse him back to health of mind and body. Raymond, we can cure this sick heart, clear this clouded brain, restore this ruin. Come!”

And they left the arbor, and took their way towards the house.

During the interview, a revolution had taken place in Sophie’s soul; all her deep religious feeling, her latent passion for self-devotion, her enthusiasm, her benevolence, had been called forth. Thus softened by pity, and inspired by her own high ideal of duty, she determined to devote herself to the tranquility of his shrunken and tortured life, with one purpose—his restoration to mental and physical health. She passed from the arbor no joyous or reluctant bride, but a high-souled devotee, in possession of duty for which she must live. An hour before, she had seemed a trembling, shrinking, suffering victim, offered in _useless, objectless_ sacrifice; now, she was a cheerful, self-possessed human soul, who had solved the problem of her life, and held the answer in her hands.

Among the passions of the human soul is one not often, if ever, mentioned as such by moralists and metaphysicians: the passion of self-devotion. Yet, that this certainly exists, and deserves to be classed with the others, is proved by the large number of human beings acting under its influence. It acts in religion, in love, in benevolence, in philanthropy, and patriotism—but it is totally distinct from and independent of each—a separate passion, sometimes acting alone.

This passion, in its right motion, inspires the highly beneficial devotion of the Sister of Charity—in its perverted action, kindles the barren enthusiasm of the nun. A philanthropist, a patriot, under the rational influence of this passion, becomes as the Sister of Charity, one of the greatest benefactors of his race; under its irrational influence, becomes as the secluded nun or monk, _lost_; or as the fanatic, mischievous or dangerous to society.

They returned to the house. Meeting Mrs. Green first, Sophie led the youth up to her, and presented him as the son of Mr. Withers, just arrived from college. The lady received him with much courtesy, asked him where she should send for his trunks, and whether he would not prefer being shown into a dressing-room before being introduced into the drawing-room. Expressing his thanks with a gentle grace, he named the village tavern as the place where his baggage lay, and declining the use of a _chambre de toilette_, bowed his leave, and giving his arm to Sophie, passed into the room; the rooms were thinned out considerably, most of the company had strayed out into the garden and groves.

Mr. Withers was standing near the window in conversation with the bishop. Sophie, leaving Raymond at a short distance behind, walked up to him, and laying her small hand upon his arm, said gently and cheerfully—

“Mr. Withers, your son has come at last—you expected him, I believe.”

Withers started, more at the cheerful, genial tone in which these words were spoken, than at the news they conveyed. The bishop, also, whose kindly affectionate nature scarcely let a young person pass him without a caressing word or gesture,—the bishop turned around, and patting her chin, said archly:—

“You have got over your terror, little lady; you seemed to think I was going to hang you when you stood up before me.”

But Sophie stepped back, and beckoning Raymond to approach, presented him.

“How do you do, Raymond? This is my son, Dr. Otterback,” were the only words of greeting or of introduction bestowed upon the youth by his father. Dr. Otterback immediately addressed his conversation to the young man, and Withers turned and looked in Sophie’s face; her countenance was serene, cheerful, kindly; what _could_ be the reason? he was at a loss to account for it; yet he felt the shadow and the weight lifting from his own heart, passing from his own brain. Love, charity, the very sun of the moral atmosphere when it shines out, how the vapors are lifted, how the clouds disperse, how all nature rises and smiles in its beams.

“All our friends are out upon the lawn—it is pleasant there. Will you come out, Mr. Withers?” she asked.

For the first time since she had known him, with an air of graceful self-possession and gallantry, he lifted her fair hand to his lips, drew her arm within his own, and led her forth. They sat down upon the bench in the piazza. At first she talked cheerfully of the nearest topics of conversation, the company, the night, the weather, the moon; but seeing that he relapsed into silence and dejection, she thought he felt compunction for all the ill he had wrought her, and that this compunction was awakened by her own kindness to him. She was not sorry that he felt this; yet now she wished to dissipate the gloom. Laying her hand timidly, gently, upon his brow, and raising from it the heavy mass of black hair that seemed to rest there like a cloud, she said:—

“Come, clear your brow, Mr. Withers, or you will make me fear that you regret taking under your wing a little girl like me.”

“And I _do_ regret it, Sophie—I _do_ regret it!” he said, and sighing heavily, he arose and paced up and down the piazza several times, and then threw himself into a seat far from her. She watched him there; at first from natural feelings of delicacy she hesitated to approach him; but when he dropped his head between his hands, and sigh after sigh and groan after groan rent his bosom, she paused no longer, but arising, crossed the piazza, and taking the seat by his side, and taking his hand, she pressed it between her own. He turned and gazed inquiringly into her eyes, his gaze no longer cold, brilliant, and chilling, but still piercing, and full of anguish. Suddenly he shut his eyes, and groaning “Oh Sophie!” turned away his head and attempted to withdraw his hand. She retained and pressed it, and again passing her soft, cool hand over his hot brow, she said, gently—

“Come, Mr. Withers, cheer up, have faith in me. I love you.—I _do_—not, indeed, with the glad love of a young bride for the young husband of her choice, but with a feeling that will stand you in better stead—that will perhaps last longer and bear more—with the serious, thoughtful love one earnest human soul that has known isolation and sorrow can feel for another, desolated, tortured, suffering, yet worthy in its anguish, of admiration and respect.”

He started up, then dropped into his seat again, exclaiming—

“Sophie! I do not understand you; what is the meaning of this? What has brought about this strange, this—ah! but for _one_ fact—blessed change in your feelings towards me?”

“That very fact you allude to—that _very_ fact!” then dropping her voice to its softest, gentlest tones she murmured—“You have a secret that corrodes and burns your heart out—a dreadful suffering that being suppressed has gained depth, and strength, and intensity—a fearful malady that being concealed has increased in power; let it be so no longer; relieve your overladen breast; pour all your sorrows into your wife’s bosom—she will never betray or forsake you. Oh! believe it. She partly knows your secret—she knows that sometimes—under some influences—a storm drives in your fine mind—that the clouds gather thick and black—the thunder roars and the lightnings flash, and that all is confusion, danger, and terror for a space—she also knows that when this storm has passed through your soul, the sun of reason shines out calm and bright. She knows all this, and she loves you for these sufferings.”

He had grown as pale as death while she spoke, his features wearing the expression of deepest despair; he dropped his head upon his hands, his elbows resting on his knees, and groaned.

“Then it is all at an end, this masquerade. When was it discovered—when did I betray myself, Sophie, and who knows of this besides yourself?”

“Except your son, no one besides myself; and it is indispensable that I should know it.”

“And he told you—curse—”

“Oh, do not say that!”

“I did not wish you to know it, Sophie; I was merciful, or selfish, or proud, and firm and cunning enough to keep it from you, Sophie, as I have kept it from every one else.”

“Yes, and increased your own suffering and danger, and diminished the chances of cure. And, Mr. Withers, you would have suffered more in concealing your illness from me than from any one else. You would have found more difficulty in it, and dreaded more the consequences of the constantly threatened discovery. Now you have a friend and confidant—now you will be at peace, will you not?”

He drew her to his bosom and blessed her. A summons to supper now called all the company in. He arose, and drawing her arm through his own, entered the house.