The Sea-Serpent [pp. 459-460]

1872.] THE SEA-SERPENT. 459
influenza. How you coughed! Worse, far
worse, than I do, and your head ached tortur ingly-mine seldom aches-and you were so
weak you could scarcely lift a finger, and yet
it was only influenza!"
"Only influenza," I echo, mechanically;
"influenza is nothing."
"Tell me," she says, a little reassured,
and looking into my face as if she would
wring from me the answer she longs for,
"yvou must have an opinion one way or the
other; do you think they meant me?"
"My dear," I say, driven into a corner,
"did I hear what they said? I only know
what you tell me; it-it is very conceited of
you to imagine that they must be always talk ing of you."
"People are so fond of killing their friends,
are not they?" she says, with the same wist ful, searching look in her great and lovely
eyes; "so are doctors, and very often the
killed outlive the killers after all."
"Very often."
"Next time that I pass their door I shall
run past with my fingers in my ears. Feel
how my heart is beating!"
"You are growing as bad as Sylvia," I
say, trying to speak gayly; "she is always
requesting me to feel how her heart is beat ing; if you both set up nerves, I shall decamp."
"You think I may make my mind quite
easy," she says, in a lighter tone, taking my
hand in her two hot, slender ones.
"Of course-of course."
"That they were talking of some one else
-or that, if it were me, they were utterly and
unaccountably mistaken?"
"To be sure!-to be sure!"
"But florid people often seem to think
that those who are not so red and bulky as
themselves must be in articulo mortis."
"So they do."
"Jemima!" (still strongly clasping my
hand in both hers), "if you believe it so firm ly, you will not mind swearing it."
"What is the use of oaths and assevera tions?" I ask, uncomfortably. "Will not a
simple assertion do as well?"
"You won't swear!" she cries, in a tone
of profound alarm. "Why not? Jemima, I
do not like your face! Your eyes will not
,meet mine-your lips are quivering-you are
half crying. I know that I am very sick' that I have not much peace, day or night-but
you do not think that it means any thing bad?
-that I am-O my God! I cannot say the
word!"
Her sentence breaks off, smothered in a
shuddering sob.
"I think nothing of the kind," I say,
hastily, thoroughly frightened at her agitation. "Why will you gallop away with an
idea?-O Charlie! do come here; she is so
impracticable-so unreasonable-she is talking such nonsense."
The door has opened, and Mr. Scrope is
looking doubtfully in. At my words he enters
hastily.
For the first time in her life she runs to
him of her own accord, and throws herself
into his arms. "0 Charlie!" she cries,
wildly, "you are the only person in the world
that is kind to me. They have been so cruel
to me-so cruel. They have been saying such
things of me-you would not believe it. That
man-that Mr. Lascelles-says I am not long
for this world, and Jemima quite agrees with
him."
"Jemima is a fool! " says Mr. Scrope, un justly, looking with a momentary expression
bf raging hatred at me over her prone head.
"Not long for this world!" she repeats,
with a sort of moan, lifting her face, and star ing pitifully into his. "Those were his very
words: I have not altered one."
"Lout! idiot!" cries Scrope, angrily;
"he had not an idea what he was saying! he never has. My darling" (closely straining
her to his heart, as if neither God, nor his fleet
angel, Death, should avail to tear her thence),
"please God, you are longer for this world
than he is-than I-or Jemima-or any of
us."
"Do you mean it, really?" she says, with
an awful anxiety in her tone. "Are you seri ous? 0 God! how I wish I could think so!"
"Are you so anxious to outlive us all?"
he asks, with a passionate melancholy. "Well,
I dare say-it is natural, I suppose. Why
should not you? Very likely you will have
your wish."
"I want to live to be quite old," she says,
hurriedly, not heeding his upbraiding eyes or
tone. "I want to live a great many years:
people are often happier when they are mid dle-aged than in youth; but it is pleasant to
be young, too. It is not all pleasure, but
there is a great deal. I do not complain-I
do not complain." (She is trembling violent ly). "Hold me!" she says, hysterically.
"Do not let me go. You are the only person
in the world to whom it matters much whether
I die or live. Promise me that I shall not oh, that dreadful word!-promise me!"
"Ipromise, darling," he says, "I prom ise."
"You speak uncertainly!" she says,
wrenching herself out of his arms, and staring
at him in a distrustful agony; "you are like
Jemima-your face is all quivering. I believe
you are telling me falsehoods on such a sub ject! Great God! can there be any thing
wickeder than to deceive one-to tell one lies
-in such a case?"
"Oh, my dear, I am not telling lies! Before God, I am not! I confidently trust-I
altogether hope, that I shall yet see you strong
and well as ever again. If I thought the contrary, do you think I could bear my own life
for one minute?"
"What does it matter what you thinkwhat you hope?" she cries, roughly, with one
of her old, petulant movements; "will your
trusting and hoping keep it off? Will telling
lies about it make it any better?" (with an
angry flash of her lovely, miserable eyes at us
both). "Whatever you say-whatever you
do-it is coming!-it is coming!"
She flings herself down on the little sofa,
shuddering from head to foot, and buries her
face in the pillow, while her whole frame is
shaken by the violence of her sobs.
"My dearest child!" I say, half out of my
sober wits with fright and pain, advancing to
her, and gently touching her on the shoulder;
"for Hleaven's sake, do not be so excited!
You are not very ill now, really, you know;
you can go about a little, and walk, and talk,
like the rest of us; but, if you behave in this
way —"
"Where have my eyes been?" she inter rupts, sitting up again, and speaking connect.
edly, but not calmly, while the great tears
pour down her cheeks. "How is it that I
have not seen all your looks and signs? If
they had not thought me very bad, would the
Scropes have spoken to me the other night?
Not they! So I excited their compassion, did
I? I had no idea that I was an object of
pity! I never used to be. Oh, I am, in deed! They were right! I am, indeed!"
(breaking into a fresh tempest of great sobs,
and again hiding her face in the cushion).
"You are mistaken!" cries Scrope, be side himself at the sight of her agony, and
throwing himself on his knees. "Look up,
Lenore! Look up, beloved! Look in my
face, and see whether I am telling truth.
They talked to you the other night because
they knew that, if they were not civil to you,
I should never speak to them again-because
they dared not be impertinent to you. Why
should they pity you, except for being younger
and prettier than themselves?"
"You may save your breath," she answers,
looking at him fixedly, with a sort of resent ment; "there is no untrue thing that you
would not say to me now, to keep me quiet.
... It is very unjust," she cries out loud,
clasping her lifted hands in a frenzy; "it is
hard-there is no sense in it-that I, that am
the youngest, should go first!-I, that was so
pretty, and enjoyed my life so much! Some
people only half live. Until we went to Dinan I lived every moment of my life. Since
then I have been miserable, certainly-very
miserable, now and then-but it was not half
so bad as this! Oh, how gladly I would have
it all over again! At least, I was alive then,"
she says, trembling violently. "Nobody pitied me then! After all, what does it matter
what happens to one, so long as one is alive?
-that is the great thing! Sometimes I have
said I wished I was dead; but God knows I
did not mean it. One says so many things
that one does not mean. He cannot be so
cruel as to take me at my word! Oh, He
cannot! He cannot!"
Her voice dies in a wail-a wail of unspeakable fear.
"Good Heavens! what is the matter?"
says Sylvia, opening the door and entering,
her commonplace voice striking on us with a
painful incongruity. "Why are you all pulling such long faces?"
We none of us answer her.
[T o E oorTINU ED.]
THE SEA-SERPENT.
W HILE there is apparently some foun.
dation in fact for the stories about
the kraken, it is much more questionable
whether there is equal proof of the existence
of a sea-serpent. The myth of the kraken is
supported by the specimens of jaws of colossal cuttle-fish which must have been as large
as average-sized whales, and which are preserved in the museums of this country and
Europe. We might add to our accounts of
I
1872.]
THE SEA- SER PENT.
459