CHAPTER XI.

MARION AND HERMAN BARNHURST.

Alone in my mansion, secluded from the world, I passed many months in harrowing meditations on the past. Oftentimes I saw the face of Walter dabbled in blood, and both awake and in my dreams, I saw, O, how vividly his _last look_! I was still rich, (although Walter, as I discovered, after his death, had recklessly squandered more than one-half of my fortune,) but what mattered riches to one devoured like myself by an ever-gnawing remorse? What might I have been had not Burley forced me into that unholy marriage? This question was never out of my mind for a long year, during which I wore the weeds of widowhood, and kept almost entirely within the limits of my mansion.

Toward the close of the year an incident occurred which had an important bearing on my fate. Near my home stood a church, in which a young and eloquent preacher held forth to the admiration of a fashionable congregation, every Sabbath-day. On one occasion I occupied a seat near the pulpit, and was much struck by his youthful appearance, combined with eloquence so touching and enthusiastic. His eagle eye, shone from his pallid face, with all the fire of an earnest, a heartfelt sincerity. I was struck by the entire manner of the man, and more than once in his sermon he seemed to address me in especial, for our eyes met, as though there was a mutual magnetism in our gaze. When I returned home I could not banish his face nor his accents from my memory; I felt myself devoured by opposing emotions; remorse for the past, mingled with a sensation of interest in the youthful preacher. At length, after much thought, I sent him this note by the hands of a servant in livery:--

REVEREND SIR,--

A lady who heard your eloquent sermon on "_Conscience_," on Sabbath last, desires to ask your advice in a matter touching the peace of her soul. She resides at No. ----, and will be glad to receive you to-morrow evening.

M. H.

This singular note was dispatched, and the servant directed to inform the Rev. Herman Barnhurst of my full name. As the appointed hour drew nigh, I felt nervous and restless. Will he come? Shall I unbosom myself to him, and obtain at least a portion of mental peace by confessing the deeds and thoughts which rest so heavy on my soul? At last dusk came; two candles stood lighted on the mantle of the front parlor, and seated on the sofa I nervously awaited the coming of the preacher.

"I will confess all!" I thought, and raising my eyes, surveyed myself in the mirror which hung opposite. The past year, with all its sorrow, had rather added to, than detracted from, my personal appearance. My form was more matured and womanly. And the sorrow which I had endured had given a grave earnestness to my look, which, in the eyes of some, would have been more winning than the glance of voluptuous languor. Dressed in deep black, my bust covered to the throat, and my hair gathered plainly aside from my face, I looked the grave, serious--and, I may add, without vanity--the beautiful widow. The Rev. Herman Barnhurst was announced at last,--how I trembled as I heard his step in the hall! He entered, and greeting him with an extended hand, I thanked him warmly for calling in answer to my informal note, and motioned him to a chair. There was surprise and constraint in his manner, but he never once took his eyes from my face. He stammered and even blushed as he spoke to me.

"You spoke, madam, of a case of conscience," he began.

"A case of conscience about which I wished to speak to you."

"Surely," he said, fixing his gaze earnestly upon me, and his words seemed to be forced from him, even against his will,--"surely one so beautiful and so good cannot have anything like sin upon her soul----"

Our gaze met, and from that moment we talked of everything but the case of conscience. All his restraint vanished. His eye flashed, his voice rolled deep and full; he was eloquent, and he was at home. We seemed to have been acquainted for years. We talked of history, poetry, the beautiful in nature, the wonderful in art; and we talked without effort, as though our minds mingled together, without even the aid of voice and eyes. Time sped noiselessly,--it was twelve o'clock before we thought it nine. He rose to go.

"I shall do myself the pleasure to call again," he said, and his voice faltered.

I extended my hand; his hand met it in a gentle pressure. That touch decided our fate. As though my very being and his had rushed together and melted into one, in that slight pressure of hand to hand, we stood silent and confused,--one feeling in our gaze,--blushing and pale by turns.

"Woman," he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "you will drive me mad," and sank half-fainting on his knees.

I bent down and drew him to my breast, and covered his forehead with kisses. Pale, half-fainting, he lay almost helpless in my arms.

"Not mad, Herman," I whispered, "but I will be your good angel; I will cheer you in your mission of good. I will watch over you as you ascend, step by step, the difficult steep of fame; and Herman, I will love you."

It was the first time that young brow had trembled to a woman's kiss.

"Nay,--nay,--tempt me not," he murmured, and unwound my arms from his neck, and staggered to the door.

But as he reached the threshold, he turned,--our gaze met,--he rushed forward with outspread arms,--

"I love you!" he cried, and his face was buried on my bosom.

* * * * *

From that hour the Rev. Herman Barnhurst was the constant visitor at my house. He lived in my presence. His sermons, formerly lofty and somber in their enthusiasm, became colored with a passionate warmth. I felt a strange interest in the beautiful boy; a feeling compounded of pure love; of passion; of voluptuousness, the most intense and refined.

"O, Marion, do you not think that if I act aright in all other respects, that this _one sin_ will be forgiven me?" said Herman, as one Sabbath evening, after the service was over, we sat, side by side, in my house. It was in a quiet room, the curtains drawn, a light shining in front of a mirror, and a couch dimly seen through the shadows of an alcove.

"One sin? what mean you, Herman?"

"The sin of loving you,"--and he blushed as his earnest gaze met mine.

"And is it a sin to love me?" I answered in a low voice, suffering my hand to rest upon his forehead.

"Yes," he stammered,--"to love you thus unlawfully."

"Why unlawfully?"

He buried his head on my breast, as he replied,--"I love you as a husband, and I am not your husband."

"And why--" I exclaimed, seizing him in my arms, and gently raising his head, so that our gaze met,--"and why can you not be my husband? I am rich; you have genius. My wealth,--enough for us both,--shall be linked with your genius, and both shall the more firmly cement our love. Say, Herman, why can you not be my husband?"

He turned pale, and avoided my gaze.

"You are ashamed of me,--ashamed, because I have given you the last proof which a woman can give to the man she loves."

"Ashamed! O, no, no,--by all that is sacred, no,--but Marion----"

And bending nearer to me, in faltering accents, he whispered the secret to my ears. He was betrothed to Fanny Lansdale, the daughter of the wealthiest and most influential member of his congregation. He had been betrothed long before he met me. To Mr. Lansdale, the father, he owed all that he had acquired in life, both in position and fame. That gentleman had taken him when a friendless orphan boy, had educated him, and after his ordination, had obtained for him the pastoral charge of his large and wealthy congregation. Thus, he was bound to the father by every tie of gratitude; to the daughter by an engagement that he could not break, without ingratitude and disgrace. My heart died within me at this revelation. At once I saw that Herman could never be lawfully mine. Between him and myself stood Fanny Lansdale, and every tie of gratitude, and every emotion of self-respect and honor.