"I reached the military college, and here I might fairly begin a new career. I exerted myself to study—to obey—to conciliate. The applause that followed my endeavours gave me a little pleasure; but when I wrote to Alithea and her mother, and felt no weight on my conscience, no drawback to my hope, that I was rendering myself worthy of them, then indeed my felicity was without alloy; and when my fiery temper kindled, when injustice and meanness caused my blood to boil, I thought of the mild, appealing look of Mrs. Rivers, and the dearer smiles of her daughter, and I suppressed every outward sign of anger and scorn.
"For two whole years I did not see these dear, dear friends, while I lived upon the thought of them—alas! when have I ceased to do that?—I wrote constantly and received letters. Those dictated by Mrs. Rivers, traced by her sweet daughter's hand, were full of all that generous benevolence, and enlightened sensibility which rendered her the very being to instruct and rule me; while the playful phrases of Alithea—her mention of the spots we had visited together, and history of all the slight events of her innocent life, breathed so truly of the abode of peace from which they emanated, that they carried the charm of a soft repose even to my restless spirit. A year passed, and then tidings of misery came. Mrs. Rivers was dying. Alithea wrote in despair—she was alone—her father distant. She implored my assistance—my presence. I did not hesitate. Her appeal came during the period that preceded an examination; I believed that it would be useless to ask leave to absent myself, and I resolved at once to go without permission. I wrote a letter to the master, mentioning that the sickness of a friend forced me to this step; and then, almost moneyless and on foot, I set out to cross the country. I do not record trivialties—I will not mention the physical sufferings of that journey, they were so much less than the agony of suspense I suffered, the fear that I should not find my maternal friend alive. Life burnt low indeed—when I, at last, stepped within the threshold of her sick chamber; yet she smiled when she saw me, and tried to hold out her hand—one already clasped that of Alithea. For hours we thus watched her, exchanging looks, not speech. Alithea, naturally impetuous, and even vehement, now controlled all sign of grief, except the expression of wo, that took all colour from her face, and clouded her brow with anguish. She knelt beside her mother—her lips glued to her hand, as if to the last to feel her pulse of life, and assure herself that she still existed. The room was darkened; a broken ray tinged the head of the mourner, while her mother lay in shadow—a shadow that seemed to deepen as the hue of death crept over her face; now and then she opened her eyes—now and then murmured inarticulately, and then she seemed to sleep. We neither moved—sometimes Alithea raised her head and looked on her mother's countenance, and then, seeing the change already operated, it drooped over the wan hand she held. Suddenly there was a slight sound—a slight convulsion in the fingers. I saw a shade darken over the face—something seemed to pass over, and then away—and all was marble still—and the lips, wreathed into a smile, became fixed and breathless. Alithea started up, uttered a shriek, and threw herself on her mother's body—such name I give—the blameless soul was gone for ever.
"It was my task to console the miserable daughter; and such was the angelic softness of Alithea's disposition, that when the first burst of grief was over, she yielded to be consoled. There was no hardness in her regrets. She collected every relic, surrounded herself with every object that might keep alive the memory of her parent. She talked of her continually; and together we spoke of her virtues, her wisdom, her ardent affection, and felt a thrilling, trembling pleasure in recalling every act and word that most displayed her excellence. As we were thus employed, I could contemplate and remark the change the interval of my absence had operated in the beautiful girl—she had sprung into womanhood; her figure was surrounded by a thousand graces; a tender charm was diffused over each lineament and motion that intoxicated me with delight. Before I loved—now I revered her; her mother's angelic essence seemed united to hers, forming two in one. The sentiments these beings had divided were now concentrated in her; and added to this, a breathless adoration, a heart's devotion, which still even now dwells beside her grave, and hallows every memory that remains.
"The cold tomb held the gentle form of Mrs. Rivers: each day we visited it, and each day we collected fresh memorials, and exhausted ourselves in talk concerning the lost one. Immediately on my arrival I had written to my uncle, and the cause of my rash act pleading my excuse, it was visited less severely than I expected; I was told that it was well that I displayed affection and gratitude towards a too indulgent friend, though my depravity betrayed itself in the manner even in which I fulfilled a duty. I was bid at once return to the college—after a fortnight had passed I obeyed; and now I lived on Alithea's letters, which breathed only her eloquent regrets—already my own dream of life was formed to be for ever her protector, her friend, her servant, her all that she could deign to make me; to devote myself day after day, year after year, through all my life to her only. While with her, oppressed by grief as we both were, I did not understand my own sensations, and the burning of my heart, which opened as a volcano when I heard her only speak my name, or felt the touch of her soft hand. But, returned to college, a veil fell from my eyes. I knew that I loved her, I hailed the discovery with transport; I hugged to my bosom the idea that she was the first and last being to awaken the tumultuous sensations that took away my breath, dimmed my eyes, and dissolved me into tenderness.
"Soon after her mother's death she was placed as a parlour boarder at a school. I saw her once there, but I did not see her alone. I could not speak—I could only gaze on her unexampled loveliness; nor, strange to say, did I wish to disclose the passion that agitated me: she was so young, so confiding, so innocent, I wished to be but as a brother to her, for I had a sort of restless presentiment that distance and reserve would ensue on my disclosing my other feeling. In fact, I was a mere boy; I knew myself to be a friendless one and I desired time and consideration, and the fortunate moment to occur, before I exchanged our present guileless, but warm and tender attachment, for the hopes and throes of a passion which demands a future, and is therefore full of peril. True, when I left her I reproached myself for my cowardice; but I would not write, and deferred, till I saw her, all explanation of my feelings.
"Some months after, the time arrived when I was to embark for India. Captain Rivers had returned, and inhabited the beloved cottage, and Alithea dwelt with him. I went to see her previous to my departure. My soul was in tumults: I desired to take her with me, but that was impossible; and yet to leave her thus, and go into a far and long exile away from her, was too frightful. I could not believe that I could exist without the near hope and expectation of seeing her—without that constant mingling of hearts which made her life-blood but as a portion of my own. My resolution was easily made to claim her as mine, my betrothed, my future bride; and I had a vague notion that, if I were accepted, Captain Rivers would form some plan to prevent my going to India, or to bring me back speedily. I arrived at the cottage, and the first sight of her father was painful to me. He was rough and uncouth; and though proud of his daughter, yet treated her with little of that deference to which she had a right even from him—the more reason, I thought, to make her mine; and that very evening I expressed my desire to Captain Rivers: a horselaugh was the reply; he treated me partly as a mad boy, partly as an impertinent beggar. My passions were roused, my indignation burst all the fetters I sought to throw over it; I answered haughtily—insolently—our words were loud and rude; I laughed at his menaces and scoffed at his authority. I retorted scorn with scorn, till the fiery old sailor was provoked to knock me down. In all this I thought not of him in the sacred character of Alithea's father—I knew but one parent for her; she had, as it were, joined us by making us companions and friends—both children of her heart; she was gone, and the rude tyrant who usurped her place excited only detestation and loathing, from the insolence of his pretensions. Still, when he struck me, his age and his infirmities—for he was lame—prevented my returning the blow. I rose, and folding my arms, and looking at him with a smile of ineffable contempt, I said, 'Poor, miserable man! do you think to degrade me by a blow? but for pity, I could return it so that you would never lift up your head again from that floor—I spare you—farewell. You have taught me one lesson—I will die rather than leave Alithea in the hands of a ruffian, such as you.' With these words I turned on my heel, and walked out of the house.
"I repaired to a neighbouring public house, and wrote to Alithea, asking, demanding an interview; I claimed it in her mother's name. Her answer came, it was wetted with her tears—dear gentle being!—so alien was her nature from all strife, that the very idea of contention shook her delicate frame, and seemed almost to unhinge her reason. She respected her father, and she loved me with an affection nourished by long companionship and sacred associations. She promised to meet me if I would abstain from again seeing her father.
"In the same wood, and at the same midnight hour as when before she came to bring assistance and consolation to the outcast boy three years before, I saw her again, and for the last time, before I left England. Alithea had one fault, if such name may be given to a delicacy of structure that rendered every clash of human passion terrifying. In physical danger she could show herself a heroine; but awaken her terror of moral evil, and she was hurried away beyond all self-command by spasms of fear. Thus, as she came now clandestinely, under the cover of night, her father's denunciations still sounding in her ears—the friend of her youth banished—going away for ever; and that departure disturbed by strife, her reason almost forsook her—she was bewildered—clinging to me with tears—yet fearful at every minute of discovery. It was a parting of anguish. She did not feel the passion that ruled my bosom. Hers was a gentler, sisterly feeling; yet not the less intwined with the principles of her being, and necessary to her existence. She lavished caresses and words of endearment on me: she could not tear herself away; yet she rejected firmly every idea of disobedience to her father; and the burning expressions of my love found no echo in her bosom.
"Thus we parted; and a few days afterward I was on the wide sea, sailing for my distant bourn. At first I had felt disappointed and angry; but soon imagination shed radiance over what had seemed chilly and dim. I felt her dear head repose on my heart; I saw her bright eyes overbrimming with tears; and heard her sweet voice repeat again and again her vow never to forget her brother, her more than brother, her only friend; the only being left her to love. No wonder that, during the various changes of a long voyage—during reveries indulged endlessly through calm nights, and the mightier emotions awakened by storm and danger, that the memory of this affection grew into a conviction that I was loved, and a belief that she was mine for ever.
"I am not writing my life; and, but for the wish to appear less criminal in my dear child's eyes, I had not written a word of the foregone pages, but leaped at once to the mere facts that justify poor Alithea, and tell the tragic story of her death. Years have passed, and oblivion has swept away all memory of the events of which I speak. Who recollects the wise, white lady of the secluded cot, and her houri daughter? This heart alone; there they live enshrined. My dreams call up their forms. I visit them in my solitary reveries. I try to forget the ensuing years, and to become the heedless half-savage boy who listened with wonder, yet conviction, to lessons of virtue; and to call back the melting of the heart which the wise lady's words produced, and the bounding, wild joy I felt beside her child. If there is a hell, it need no other torment but memory to call back such scenes as these, and bid me remember the destruction that ensued.