I have had a shock! While writing alone here (almost all
have gone to church), I heard a step ascending the stair. What, I asked, if it
should be Will? Then I blamed myself for supposing such a thing possible.
Slowly it came nearer and nearer, I raised my head, and was greeted with a ghastly
smile. I held out my hand. “Will!” “Sarah!” (Misery discards ceremony.) He
stood before me the most woebegone, heartbroken man I ever saw.
With a forced laugh he said, “Where is my bride? Pshaw! I
know she has gone to Clinton! I have come to talk to you. Wasn't it a
merry wedding?” The hollow laugh rang again. I tried to jest, but failed. “Sit
down and let me talk to you,” I said. He was in a wayward humor; cut to the
heart, ready to submit to a touch of silk, or to resist a grasp of iron. This
was the man I had to deal with, and get from him something he clung to as to —
not his life, but — Miriam. And I know so little how to act in such a case,
know so little about dealing gently with wild natures!
He alarmed me at first. His forced laugh ceased; he said
that he meant to keep that license always. It was a joke on him yesterday, but
with that in his possession, the tables would be turned on her. He would show
it to her occasionally. It should keep her from marrying any one else. I said
that it would be demanded, though; he must deliver it. The very devil shot in
his eye as he exclaimed fiercely, “If any one dares demand it, I'll die before
giving it up! If God Almighty came, I'd say no! I'll die with it first!” O
merciful Father, I thought; what misery is to come of this jest. He must
relinquish it. Gibbes will force him into it, or die in the attempt; George
would come from Virginia. . . . Jimmy would cross the seas. . . . And I was
alone in here to deal with such a spirit!
I commenced gently. Would he do Miriam such a wrong? It was
no wrong, he said; let him follow his own will. “You profess to love her?” I
asked. “Profess? Great God! how can you? I adore her! I tell you that, in spite
of all this, I love her not more — that is impossible, — but as much as ever!
Look at my face and ask that!” burst from him with the wildest impulse. “Very
well. This girl you love, then, you mean to make miserable. You stand
forever between her and her happiness, because you love her! Is this love?” He
was sullenly silent. I went on: “Not only her happiness, but her honor is
concerned. You who love her so, do her this foul injury.” “Would it affect her
reputation?” he asked. “Ask yourself! Is it quite right that you should hold in
your hands the evidence that she is Mrs. Carter, when you know she is not, and
never will be? Is it quite honorable?” “In God's name, would it injure Miriam? I'd
rather die than grieve her.”
My iron was melted, but too hot to handle; I put it on one
side, satisfied that I and I only had saved Miriam from injury and three
brothers from bloodshed, by using his insane love as a lever. It does not look
as hard here as it was in reality; but it was of the hardest struggles I ever
had —indeed, it was desperate. I had touched the right key, and satisfied of
success, turned the subject to let him believe he was following his own
suggestions. When I told him he must free Miriam from all blame, that I had
encouraged the jest against her repeated remonstrances, and was alone to blame,
he generously took it on himself. “I was so crazy about her,” he said, “that I
would have done it anyhow. I would have run any risk for the faintest chance of
obtaining her”; and much more to the same purpose that, though very generous in
him, did not satisfy my conscience. But he surprised me by saying that he was
satisfied that if I had been in my room, and he had walked into the parlor with
the license, she would have married him. What infatuation! He says, though,
that I only prevented it; that my influence, by my mere presence, is stronger
than his words. I don't say that is so; but if I helped save her, thank Heaven!
It is impossible to say one half that passed, but he showed
me his determination to act just as he has heretofore, and take it all as a
joke, that no blame might be attached to her. “Besides, I'd rather die than not
see her; I laugh, but you don't know what I suffer!” Poor fellow! I saw it in
his swimming eyes.
At last he got up to go before they returned from church. “Beg
her to meet me as she always has. I told Mrs. Worley that she must treat her
just the same, because I love her so. And — say I go to Clinton to-morrow to
have that record effaced, and deliver up the license. I would not grieve her;
indeed, I love her too well.” His voice trembled as well as his lips. He took
my hand, saying, “You are hard on me. I could make her happy, I know, because I
worship her so. I have been crazy about her for three years; you can't call it
a mere fancy. Why are you against me? But God bless you! Good-bye!” And he was
gone.
Why? O Will, because I love my sister too much to see her
miserable merely to make you happy!
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 298-301
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