Major Pierpoint (for he had once borne a commission in the National
Guards—so he loved proudly to designate the militia) was seated before
his cheerful grate, with the crimson curtains warmly drawn over the
closed shutters. The room was partly library and partly sitting room.
Rich cases filled with costly volumes adorned two of its sides, while
lounges and one or two luxurious patent easy-chairs occupied the other.
The floor was covered with a thick Wilton carpet that returned no sound
to the foot-fall, and a hearth rug of Turkish fabric lay before the fire
in the rich fleece of which the slippered feet of Mr. Leslie Pierpoint
were half buried. The whole apartment wore an air of comfort and elegant
ease, combined with that cheerful warmth and inviting repose which are
so delightful of a wintery night. There was a large round table near the
centre of the room, strewed with books, magazines, pamphlets, opened
letters, &c., &c. In the midst of it stood a tall bronzed lamp that shed
a soft, clear light over all. The table turned upon a pivot so that Mr.
Pierpoint, without moving from the comfortable arm-chair in which he was
reposing, wrapped in his brilliant Chinese _robe de chambre_ (a present
from his particular friend, Mr. Dunn), could revolve it by the slightest
touch and bring within his reach any book or paper lying on the side
opposite to his chair. Mr. Pierpoint was a wealthy bachelor, and,
therefore, was an epicure in luxuries of this description. Bachelors,
having nothing else to do but to make themselves comfortable, can carry
these little personal conveniences to their perfection. Having said that
Mr. Leslie Pierpoint was a bachelor, it becomes us to explain how he
came to be a bachelor. He possessed a handsome person and an ample
fortune—was not only well born, but a gentleman by education and
cultivated tastes—and even at this period of his life, when forty-one
years had passed over his head, a child might have numbered the gray
hairs mingled with the fine brown locks that shaded his noble forehead.
Why, then, was Leslie Pierpoint a bachelor? Let us go back twenty-years,
and inquire of by-gone days.
It is the year 1808. One of the most stately mansions in Third street,
then one of the most aristocratic portions of Philadelphia, is
brilliantly lighted. Its gorgeous rooms are thronged by the beauty and
chivalry of the city. We mingle with them also, dazzled by the flash of
jewelled brows, bewildered by the beauty of the wearers, confounded by
the music and moving forms, entranced, intoxicated by the whole scene of
enchantment! Let us retire a little to the silence and shade of this
verandah, where the moon finds its way to the marble floor through
trellised vines, and where the music and the sound of dancers’ feet
reach but faintly the ear. There are others here besides us who have
quitted the gay scene to seek refreshment of spirits in the quiet night
breeze and in the calm light of the moon. Hither approach us, leaning on
each other, arm fondly linked in arm, a noble pair. How stately _his_
carriage, yet how tenderly he bends till his lips breathe upon the cheek
of the fair creature he whispers to! They pause in the shadow of the
thick vines! Her eyes meet his upturned and swimming with
tenderness,—his arm glides around her waist—she is pressed to his
manly breast, and their lips meet! It is but for an instant—a footstep
is heard! and they move on again arm in arm. His lips bend over her
willing ear as they slowly promenade the verandah. She suddenly starts,
and with her face receding a little from his, says, in an earnest
manner:
“Indeed, Leslie, you wrong me. Nothing could change my love for you!”
“But, yet, there are circumstances which _might_ transpire, and which
might lead you to withdraw your affection, dear Clara.”
“No, no! nothing on earth. I feel I shall love you while I have a heart
to love. Dear, _dearest_ Leslie, how can you doubt me?”
“I do not doubt you, dear Clara,” he said laughing and lifting her hand
to his lips. “God knows,” he earnestly added, “I should be miserable to
doubt where all my hopes of happiness are centered.”
“Indeed, you should not—you ought not! What should I gain, Leslie, by
transferring my love to another? Certainly not a nobler person, a finer
face, a better fortune (if I may name this), a kindlier heart, or better
temper. Believe me, dear Leslie, when I say you are the handsomest man I
ever beheld, so that no higher degree of personal beauty could lead me
from you!”
“You are a silly flatterer, child, and I half believe, fell in love with
me because you thought me the ‘handsomest man you ever beheld!’”
“Now you are mocking me, Leslie. But I will confess that the first time
I saw you promenading the ball rooms at the —— Assemblies with Miss
P—— on your arm, I was struck with your stately and elegant walk. I
had not seen your face, but followed you with my eye till you turned
and, and—”
“Met your gaze full fixed upon mine! That was not the first time _you_
had attracted my attention that evening, Clara. I had observed you on my
first entrance, and my heart from that instant became yours.”
Leslie Pierpoint pressed her to his heart as he spoke.
“It shall ever be yours, dearest Leslie,” was the softly whispered
response of the blushing girl; “nothing would turn my love from you.”
“Thank you for the pledge, dearest—I believe you. Come let us return
into the rooms—our absence will be remarked.”
After Leslie had plucked a “Forget me not” and placed it in her hair,
the lovers slowly returned from the verandah.
* * * * *
A few weeks passed, and Leslie Pierpoint had prevailed on the blushing
Clara to name the day when she would redeem her pledge given in the
verandah, and become wholly and irrevocably his own. It was now at hand,
and Leslie counted the hours which envious Time thrust between him and
his anticipated bliss. Leslie loved the chosen bride of his bosom with
the most impassioned ardor. His whole heart was involved in his
affection, and he had so given himself up to his passion that any
revulsion promised to make him miserable. The beautiful Clara Clayton,
on her part, was deeply enamored of Leslie, but it was rather with his
handsome person than with his mind; for of his fortune she thought
little, being equally wealthy. She was a gay, haughty, spoiled beauty,
with not half heart enough to measure Leslie’s broad love, nor half mind
enough to penetrate the superior powers of his intellect. But if they
married, they were both likely to be happy so long as one retained her
loveliness and the bewitching smile and flashing dark eyes that had
captured Leslie, and the other the elegant form, air and gait which had
first inspired Clara with an interest in him.
The week preceding his wedding day Leslie was commissioned a Major of
Militia, and the following day he turned out for review with the
battalion to which his regiment was attached. He had purchased a high
spirited horse for this occasion, and had but twice mounted him previous
to his appearance on parade; and though the animal evinced an
indomitable spirit, and had once proven nearly unmanageable, yet these
traits were regarded by the youthful officer rather as recommendations
for the military service for which he destined him than as serious
objections. He was, moreover, a finished horseman and well knew he could
so control the fiery animal’s impatient action as to render it
subservient to a more masterly display of his own horsemanship.
On the day of parade, therefore, Leslie Pierpoint made his appearance on
the field, the best mounted officer in the battalion. His steed, as he
pranced along, seemed to beat the air rather than the earth, so lightly
he moved over the ground, so daintily he bent his slight yielding
fetlocks to his rider’s weight.
“Ah, Major, a beautiful creature you have there,” said General ——,
whose aide-de-camp Leslie was that day; “you outshine us all. What an
eye! Will he stand fire?”
“I have not tried him, General. But a horse of his blood has no fear in
him. He can never be taken by surprise.”
“Do not trust him! See!” and the General suddenly flashed his sword
before his eyes.
The animal moved not from the statue-like attitude in which Leslie had
reined him up beside the General.
“Very well. He may do; but I advise you, Major Leslie, to be upon your
guard during the day, I don’t much like the beast’s eye. It looks
devilish.”
“I have no fears, General; let him do his worst,” answered Leslie
laughing, and in a moment afterwards he galloped along the line to
execute an order.
During the parade the beautiful steed behaved admirably, and elicited,
by the grace and swiftness of his movements, the universal admiration of
every eye. At length the firing by platoon commenced. At the first
discharge, he leaped bodily into the air with his rider and lit upon the
ground twenty feet distant; and Leslie’s superior horsemanship only
saved him from being thrown to the earth. He now sat more firmly and
watched him with hand and eye. But the successive discharges of
musketry, even by companies, had no further effect upon the animal, save
that there was a wider dilation of the pupil of the eye and a quick
erect movement of his delicately shaped ears. This favorable change not
only put Leslie off his guard but made him so self confident that he
resolved to ride up to a park of artillery about to be discharged, gaily
betting with General ——, as he triumphantly rode past this officer,
that he would not flinch even at that.
“_Nous verrons_, Leslie,” said the General smiling. “Do not be too
confident.”
With the reckless impetuosity of youth, and desirous of defending the
character of his favorite horse from his military friend’s aspersions,
Leslie spurred onward to the point. He drew up in the rear, within a few
paces of the ordnance, and awaited the signal for their discharge. There
were eight pieces of cannon and they were to be fired in rapid
succession. At the first loud, sharp report, the animal sprung, with a
mad leap, directly among the echoing artillery. Maddened by the
reiterated peals, he dashed, with the most terrific bounds, across the
line of fire and within a few feet of the muzzles of the pieces. At the
discharge of the last piece he became so terrified that he threw himself
headlong upon the earth and bit and pawed the ground with fury. Major
Leslie, who had maintained his seat with perfect skill and coolness,
fell beneath him and received his whole weight upon one of his legs and
his left side. Instantly the animal ceased his struggles, and when those
who hastened to Major Leslie’s assistance arrived on the spot, they
discovered that the horse had broken a blood vessel and was fast
bleeding to death. Leslie himself, though silent, was pale from
suffering.
On extricating him, it was painfully apparent that his leg was not only
broken but that his knee was crushed. He was immediately removed to his
mother’s residence and the most distinguished surgical skill called in
to his relief. But for many days he lay upon a bed of anguish during
which, Clara, joyfully embracing the sweet privileges of a betrothed
bride, watched over him like some angelic messenger of health and peace.
At length he was able to change his recumbent posture for an easy-chair;
but it was many weeks before he left it to attempt to walk about the
chamber. The first time he did so it was with Dr. M—— on one side and
Clara on the other. It was a painful effort, but two or three turns
about the room were accomplished with less difficulty than had been
apprehended. He walked very, very lame it is true, but that was to be
expected.
“He will soon get to his feet again as well as ever, won’t he, Doctor?”
asked Clara, partly to assure her own anxiety and partly to relieve the
foreboding of poor Leslie, who, by the expression of his face, she saw,
believed he should be lame for life.
Dr. M—— looked at Leslie, shook his head sadly and said,
“He will no doubt walk well enough in a few weeks, Miss Clayton. But
then that won’t make much difference,” he added, smiling, “since he has
no more conquests to make. If you should be lame, Major, you must regard
it a fortunate thing to have secured so fair a bride while possessing
all your natural attractions of person.”
“My God, Doctor! you talk as if you thought there was some possibility
that I might be lame for life. Do tell me if this lameness I now have
proceeds from physical weakness or from imperfection in the limb?”
“It is cruel to deceive you, my dear Major, though painful to tell the
truth,” answered Dr. M——, after a pause that did honor to his heart;
“your leg was broken in several places, producing an exceedingly
difficult compound fracture. It is improbable though not impossible that
the parts should ever perfectly re-unite. I fear, therefore, you must
bring both religion and philosophy to your aid, and try to endure it
cheerfully. This fair being who has so assiduously nursed by your pillow
will help you to bear it.”
Leslie did not look up in the Doctor’s face while he spoke. His head had
fallen upon the arm of his chair, and there, with his face buried in his
hands, he lay still several minutes after he had ceased to speak. His
chest heaved with suppressed emotion, some deep o’er-mastering feeling.
At length he groaned heavily and looked up with a faint attempt to
smile.
“This is a hard lot, Doctor, but I must attempt to bear it as well as I
can. I am not unprepared for this announcement. I have apprehended it
myself from the severe character of the injury I received.”
“You will not find it difficult, Major Leslie,” said the physician, with
sympathy in his tone, “to endure even lameness. Your mind, by several
weeks’ previous illness, is prepared to submit to still greater
suffering if necessary. In illness we bear things, and take things we
could not do in health. Nature prepares the body and Heaven the mind for
all it meets with on earth. Even death is met quietly and calmly by the
invalid exhausted by a lingering illness. The idea of lameness if
presented to you in full health would have shocked you. I dare say you
would have unhesitatingly said you preferred death to it.”
“I should have said so and thought so,” answered Leslie, earnestly.
“But you do not now. On the contrary, you have just expressed a cheerful
submission to your fate. The same spirit will enable you to endure it
with equanimity. Good morning! I will call in and see you once a day
till you can ride out.”
The kind medical adviser then took his leave, and for a few moments
after his departure the lovers remained silent. At length Leslie looked
up to seek Clara’s face with a smile as if to tell her that he had
schooled his spirit to submission, with a smile as if to assure her that
so long as he was blessed with her love he cared not for any misfortune
that Providence should see fit, in its infinite wisdom, to send. But
Clara saw not the smile nor the beautiful submission expressed on his
pale features. Her face was buried in her hands and turned away from
him, while the heaving of her form and the sobs that broke from her
surcharged heart told how deeply Leslie’s misfortune sunk into it. He
was touched by her violent grief, and would have risen to approach her,
but was unable to move.
“Clara,” he said, in a low, soothing tone. She made no reply but
continued to be wholly absorbed in her affliction.
“Dearest Clara,” he again repeated still more tenderly, “come hither,
and do not give way to grief in this manner. I care not for it; so, if
these tears are shed for me, dry them and come sit by me. I assure you,
that I would prefer lameness with your love to fulness and perfection of
limb without it. Come and sit by me and let us converse calmly upon this
subject. It will tranquilize both our minds and give us strength and
patience to bear, as we should do, an ill seemingly so grievous. In the
end it may prove a blessing. _You_ ought not to mourn, for it will
ensure to you, as my wife, all my society. I can name two or three
brides,” he added, playfully, “that would thank Heaven for any accident
that would break their husbands’ legs so that it would confine them at
home with them. Come, Clara, cheer up!”
To this address from Leslie the lady made no reply save by increased
weeping; and his mother entering the chamber at the moment, she embraced
the opportunity to excuse herself and hurried from the room without
taking her kerchief from her face, or even giving her lover look or
reply.
“Poor Clara,” he sighed looking after her, “she feels this affliction
most deeply. For myself I could endure it. Books, friends, and, above
all, Clara’s dear society will make the time pass cheerfully. She will
yet be resigned to it. How strong must be that love which shows itself
by such profound and unextinguishable sorrow! Ah, mother! have you seen
the Doctor?”
“Yes, dear Leslie,” she answered with emotion.
“And he has told you I shall be lame for life?”
“Alas, my dear child, alas! may Heaven give you strength and patience to
bear this affliction!”
“It has, dear mother. I am perfectly resigned,” he answered calmly.
“God bless you—God be blessed!” and the mother wept in gratitude upon
her son’s neck.
There was a few moments’ silence which the invalid at length broke.
“I could bear this affliction, dearest mother, without a murmur if I
stood alone. But, dear Clara! She weeps as if her heart was breaking. I
fear it will be the death of her—she feels so much for me. I wish you
could convince her that I care nothing about it if she will not.”
Mrs. Pierpoint did not reply but shook her head gravely and sighed very
heavily.
“What means that sigh, mother?” asked Leslie with surprise and a
misgiving of he knew not what.
“Nothing, son. But I fear Clara’s tears are devoted rather to the shrine
of her own vanity than shed upon the altar of her love.”
“How mean you, mother?” demanded Leslie, with heightened color.
“Clara Clayton, dear boy, loves herself more than she loves any body
else. I have known Clara from a child. I should never have chosen her as
your wife; but you loved her and there was no alternative but
acquiescence. Though I approved not, I spoke not, knowing how vain a
parent’s words are with children in affairs of the heart. Clara is proud
that she has captivated the handsomest young man in the town whom all
the young ladies were sighing for; but she loves you not, Leslie, as a
true woman should love.”
“My dear mother, how you wrong the angelic girl! Has she not watched
over my sick bed like a sister, yea, like a beloved and loving wife? Has
she not sympathized in all my afflictions? Did she not just now quit the
chamber overcome by the intensity of her grief? You wrong her, dear
mother, indeed you wrong her!”
“I hope I do. Time will determine, my son.”
“But why this suspicion? What has Clara done?”
“Nothing. I judge from my knowledge of her character.”
“Then you do not know her, and have built your judgment upon a false
foundation. Clara is every thing I wish her to be. Send for her, mother;
I would see her. I will convince you that you are in error respecting
her. But should you be right, _I_ love _her_ and after we are married,
as I mean to be in a few weeks, we shall live very happy together, and
in time I shall teach her to love _me_ better than she loves _herself_.”
Mrs. Pierpoint made no answer and left the room to seek the fair subject
of their conversation. In a few seconds she returned with a grave look
and said that, leaving word with the footman to say to Mr. Leslie that
she did not feel well, Miss Clayton had ordered the carriage and driven
home.
“Poor Clara,” said Leslie with sympathy; “she is herself sick and needs
quiet and repose. The painful announcement of this morning has shocked
her nerves. Mother, why do you look so grave and sad—so incredulous?”
“I hope Miss Clayton had no other motive in so suddenly departing than
indisposition. But, my dear Leslie, I hope she will prove herself all
you hope and desire.”
“Of that I am sure, dear mother,” he answered warmly. “I only grieve
that you should have conceived a prejudice against one who is so soon to
become my wife and your daughter.”
“Let us speak no more upon this subject now, Leslie. You need repose.”
Mrs. Pierpoint then drew the curtains and darkened the room. The invalid
threw himself back in his easy-chair and soon, yielding to the soothing
influence of the soft twilight in his chamber, sunk into a refreshing
sleep.
* * * * *
Clara Clayton sprung from the carriage as it drew up at her own door,
and, without entering the parlor, hurriedly ascended to her own chamber.
Closing the door, she turned the key in the lock, and then with a hand
each firmly holding a string of her unloosed hair, and her mantle awry,
she paced the room several minutes with a quick, nervous tread. Her brow
was set and her face much flushed, and the expression it wore was grief
mingled with mortified pride. Yes, Clara Clayton’s pride was humbled.
She had loved Leslie Pierpoint for his personal beauty—the elegance of
his figure, his high-bred air and carriage, his manly tread and
distinguished appearance in the street. These first captivated her
fancy, and when at length chance threw them together, his admiration of
her, combined with the excellent qualities of his head and heart,
inspired her with love—love such as so selfish a person was capable of
feeling. She also felt flattered in the attentions of the handsomest man
of the day; and it was with the triumphant reflection of how envious
some score of her female rivals would feel that she surrendered her
heart (as much as she had, at least,) to the blinded Leslie. So their
ill-fared love went on, he loving her with the devotion of idolatry, she
loving herself with no whit less self-adoration. The handsome Leslie
administered to her vanity! It might all have gone on very well,
however, even to matrimony, as thousands of other similar attachments
have done, _similar_ save that the cases are more frequently reversed,
and the lover is, instead, the one whose vanity is administered to by
the beauty of the lady! But the untoward accident that befel Leslie
removed the veil! and often has he blessed his stars for it. A broken
leg is, doubtless, a much less affair than a broken manly heart!
Clara Clayton continued to pace her room in vexed and troubled thought.
From what has been said above, the reader will readily divine its
complexion! Suddenly she stopped and clenched her jewelled fingers
together and wrung them with a look of pitiable and painful despair.
“Oh, God! lame for life! A _cripple_! Miserable! miserable that I am!
How can I love him now? How can I marry a cripple? Walk Chesnut Street
leaning on a lame husband’s arm—or, no—worse still, perhaps, he
leaning on mine! Think of this morning as he walked the room! I never
saw any body go lamer! It is absolutely shocking! Then how can I dance
as he cannot! He will never give nor go to parties! A lame husband! The
idea is absolutely horrid!”
With this praiseworthy and very sensible utterance of her peculiar
feelings on the subject, Miss Clara Clayton threw her bonnet upon the
bed, her shawl upon the floor and herself into a chair. For a few
seconds she remained silent; at length her thoughts found their proper
language.
“Yes, it must be! I will address him a note this very morning, stating
plainly my reasons why I wish to withdraw from my engagement with him!
He is too generous to refuse me! He will see at once how it would break
a high-spirited woman full of youth and beauty to be tied down for life
to a sofa and arm-chair—a mere machine to hand him his crutches and
night-cap! He is too generous to wish it! I do wish he had not met with
this awkward accident. I don’t think I could have found a better husband
than poor Leslie! But then it is no use to dwell on this now. I cannot
think of marrying him after what has happened, and he can’t expect—no
one can expect it. I am decided. I will write to him frankly and request
him to release me from my engagement.”
With this determination, this sweet young lady sat herself down to her
escritoire to write poor Leslie’s sentence of death—death to confidence
in woman! She bent her graceful head over the gilt-edged note paper, and
nibbled her pen several seconds. At length she began to write:—