Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE;
AND
OTHER STORIES OF THE HEART.
BY
MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
AUTHOR OF "LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE," "THE
BANISHED SON," "COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF
AMERICAN LIFE," "THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE; OR, SCENES IN MRS.
HENTZ'S CHILDHOOD," "EOLINE; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE; OR, THE HEIRESS OF
GLENMORE," "ERNEST LINWOOD; OR, THE INNER LIFE OF THE AUTHOR," "HELEN
AND ARTHUR; OR, MISS THUSA'S SPINNING-WHEEL," "RENA; OR, THE SNOW
BIRD," "THE LOST DAUGHTER," "MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS
SPRING," "ROBERT GRAHAM;" A SEQUEL TO "LINDA," ETC.
This volume contains some of the most charming stories ever written by
Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, among which will be found: "Love After
Marriage." "The Victim of Excitement." "The Blind Girl's Story." "The
Parlour Serpent." "The Shaker Girl." "A Rainy Evening." "Three Scenes
in the Life of a Belle." "The Fatal Cosmetic." "The Abyssinian
Neophyte." "The Village Anthem." "The Brown Serpent." "My
Grandmother's Bracelet," and "The Mysterious Reticule."
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in
and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS.
Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume.
_LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE._
_ROBERT GRAHAM. A SEQUEL TO "LINDA."_
_RENA; OR, THE SNOW BIRD. A TALE OF REAL LIFE._
_EOLINE; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE; OR, THE HEIRESS OF GLENMORE._
_MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING._
_ERNEST LINWOOD; OR, THE INNER LIFE OF THE AUTHOR._
_THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE; OR, SCENES IN MRS. HENTZ'S CHILDHOOD._
_HELEN AND ARTHUR; OR, MISS THUSA'S SPINNING-WHEEL._
_COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF AMERICAN LIFE._
_LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE._
_THE LOST DAUGHTER._
_THE BANISHED SON._
Price $1.75 each in Morocco Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.
Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of
the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage
pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.
CONTENTS.
LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE, Page 17
THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT, 40
THE BLIND GIRL'S STORY, 63
THE PARLOUR SERPENT, 81
THE SHAKER GIRL, 104
A RAINY EVENING, 127
THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE, 135
THE FATAL COSMETIC, 151
THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE, 175
THE VILLAGE ANTHEM, 197
THE BOSOM SERPENT, 210
MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET, 234
THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE, 247
LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.
A stranger was ushered into the parlour, where two young ladies were
seated, one bonneted and shawled, evidently a morning visiter, the
other in a fashionable undress, as evidently a daughter or inmate of
the mansion. The latter rose with a slight inclination of the head,
and requested the gentleman to take a chair. "Was Mr. Temple at home?"
"No! but he was expected in directly." The young ladies exchanged
mirthful glances, as the stranger drew nearer, and certainly his
extraordinary figure might justify a passing sensation of mirth, if
politeness and good feeling had restrained its expression. His extreme
spareness and the livid hue of his complexion indicated recent
illness, and as he was apparently young, the almost total baldness of
his head was probably owing to the same cause. His lofty forehead was
above the green shade that covered his eyes in unshadowed majesty,
unrelieved by a single lock of hair, and the lower part of his face
assumed a still more cadaverous hue, from the reflection of the green
colour above. There was something inexpressibly forlorn and piteous in
his whole appearance, notwithstanding an air of gentlemanly dignity
pervaded his melancholy person. He drew forth his pocket-book, and
taking out a folded paper, was about to present it to Miss Temple,
who, drawing back with a suppressed laugh, said--"A petition, sir, I
suppose?"--then added in a low whisper to her companion--"the poor
fellow is perhaps getting up a subscription for a wig." The whisper
was very low, but the stranger's shaded though penetrating eyes were
fixed upon her face, and the motion of her lips assisted him in a
knowledge of their sound; he replaced the paper in his pocket-book--"I
am no petitioner for your bounty, madam," said he, in a voice, whose
sweetness fell like a reproach on her ear, "nor have I any claims on
your compassion, save being a stranger and an invalid. I am the bearer
of a letter to your father, from a friend of his youth, who, even on
his death-bed, remembered him with gratitude and affection; will you
have the goodness to present to him my name and direction?"
Then laying his card upon the table, he made a low bow and retreated,
before Miss Temple had time to apologize, if indeed any apology could
be offered for her levity and rudeness. She approached the table and
took up the card--"Gracious Heavens!" she exclaimed--"it cannot be
possible?--Sydney Allison--that bald, yellow, horrid-looking
creature--Sydney Allison! they described him as the perfection of
manly beauty--I never will believe it--he is an impostor--the wretch!"
The young lady who was with her, beheld with astonishment, the passion
that lighted up Miss Temple's face, and her looks besought an
explanation. "Have you not heard," said Miss Temple, "since you came
to this city, that I was betrothed; that I had been so from a child,
to a young gentleman residing in Cuba, whose uncle was the bosom
friend of my father? You must have heard it, for my father has always
taken pains to circulate the report, so that no one might presume upon
my favour. And this is the delectable bridegroom! the one who has been
represented as clothed in every grace calculated to fascinate a female
heart--and I, fool that I was, I believed it, and looked forward with
rapture to the hour of our first meeting." Here she paused, and
throwing herself back in her chair, burst into a passion of tears.
Mary Manning, her more rational companion, endeavoured to soothe the
excited feelings of her friend, and suggested to her, that whatever
disappointment she might feel with regard to his personal appearance,
his character might be such as to awaken a very ardent attachment.
"Indeed," added Mary, "I thought there was something quite interesting
in his address, and his voice was remarkably persuasive in its tones.
He has evidently been very ill, and his bad looks are owing to this
circumstance. He will become handsomer by and by. Besides, my dear
Augusta, what is mere beauty in a man? It is the prerogative of a
woman, and you are so highly gifted in that respect yourself, you
should be willing that your husband should excel in those qualities
which men generally arrogate to themselves."
"Husband!" repeated Augusta; "I would as soon take a death's-head for
my husband. I care nothing about mere beauty, provided there is
intelligence and spirit. But with such a bald, livid-looking wretch at
my side, such a living memento of mortality, I should sink into my
grave in a fortnight. I never will marry him, unless I am dragged to
the altar." Here Mr Temple entered the room, and interrupted her rash
speech. Miss Manning too retired, feeling that her presence might be
an intrusion. He looked astonished at the agitation of his daughter,
who handed him the card, and turning away leaned against the
mantel-piece, the image of woe.
"Sydney Allison arrived!" exclaimed Mr. Temple; "where is he? when was
he here? and why is he gone?--why--what is the matter with you,
Augusta? The first wish of my heart seems accomplished, and I find you
weeping. Tell me the meaning of all this?"
"Oh! father," sobbed Augusta, covering her face with her handkerchief,
"he is _so_ ugly, and you told me he was so _very_ handsome."
Mr. Temple could not forbear laughing at the piteous tone in which
Augusta uttered this melancholy truth, though he immediately resumed,
in an accent of displeasure, "I am ashamed of your folly--I have
always given you credit for being a girl of sense, but you talk like a
little fool;--ugly! if a man is not ugly enough to frighten his horse,
he is handsome enough. Besides, it is nothing but a whim; I saw him
when a child, and he was an uncommonly beautiful boy. I hope you did
not behave in this manner before him--why did you suffer him to go
away?"
"Why, I did not know him," said Augusta, in considerable trepidation,
for she feared her father's anger; "and he looked so thin and
woe-begone, I thought he was some foreigner asking charity, and when
he took out a paper I thought it a petition, and said something about
one--so he was angry, I believe, and went away, saying he had letters
for you, from a friend, who was dead."
"And is he dead!--the good old man!--the best, the earliest friend I
ever had in the world--dead and gone!" Mr. Temple leaned his face over
on his hands, and sat in silence several moments, as if struggling
with powerful emotions. After a while, Mr. Temple lifted his hands,
and fixed his darkened eyes upon his daughter. He took her hand with
affection and solemnity. "Augusta, you are the child of affluence as
well as of indulgence; you are my only child, and all the wealth,
which now surrounds you with luxury, will be at your disposal after my
death."
"Oh! father, do not speak of such a thing."
"Do not interrupt me. Mr. Allison, the uncle of this young man, was my
benefactor and friend, when all the world looked dark upon me. He
extricated me from difficulties which it is unnecessary to
explain--gave me the means of making an ample fortune, and asked no
recompense, but a knowledge of my success. It was through his
influence I was united to your now angel mother--yes! I owe everything
to him--wealth, reputation, and a brief, but rare portion of domestic
bliss. This dear, benevolent, romantic old man, had one nephew, the
orphan child of his adoption, whom he most tenderly loved. When
commercial affairs carried me to Cuba, about ten years ago, Sydney was
a charming boy,"--here Augusta groaned--"a charming boy; and when I
spoke with a father's pride of my own little girl whom I had left
behind, my friend gladdened at the thought, that the union which had
bound our hearts together would be perpetuated in our children; we
pledged our solemn promise to each other, that this union should take
place at a fitting age; you have long been aware of this betrothal,
and I have seen with great pleasure, that you seemed to enter into my
views, and to look forward with hope and animation to the fulfilment
of this contract. The engagement is now doubly binding, since death
has set his awful seal upon it. It must be fulfilled. Do not, by your
unprecedented folly, make me unhappy at a moment like this."
"Forgive me, my dear father, but indeed when you see him, you will not
wonder at the shock I have received. After all you had said of him,
after reading his uncle's letters so full of glowing descriptions,
after dwelling so long on the graceful image my fancy drew, to find
such a dreadful contrast."
"Dreadful contrast! why surely he cannot be transformed into such a
monster."
"You have not seen him yet," said she mournfully.
"No! you remind me of my negligence. After the strange reception you
have given him, it is doubly urgent that I should hasten to him. Have
a care, Augusta, you have always found me a very indulgent father, but
in this instance I shall enforce implicit obedience. I have only one
fear, that you have already so disgusted him with your levity, that he
may refuse, _himself_, the honour of the alliance."
"_He_ refuse _me_!" murmured Augusta, in a low voice, as she glanced
at herself in a mirror that shone above the mantelpiece. As the nature
of her reflections may be well imagined, it may be interesting to
follow the young man, whose figure had made so unfortunate an
impression on his intended bride, and learn something of the feelings
that are passing through his mind.
Sydney Allison returned to his lonely apartment at the hotel with a
chilled and aching heart. The bright day-dream, whose beauty had
cheered and gilded him, even while mourning over the death-bed of his
uncle, while languishing himself on the bed of sickness, and while, a
sea-sick mariner, he was tossed upon the boisterous waves--this dream
was fled. She, who had always risen upon his imagination as the
morning star of his destiny--this being he had met, after years of
romantic anticipation--what a meeting! He was well aware of the sad
ravages one of the violent fevers of a tropical clime had made upon
his beauty, but, never attaching much value to his own personal
attractions, he could not believe that the marks of a divine
visitation would expose him to ridicule, or unkindness; of an
extremely sensitive disposition, he was peculiarly alive to the stings
of satire, and the sarcastic whisper of Miss Temple wounded him to the
quick.
"What!" said he, to himself, as he folded his arms in melancholy
abstraction, in the solitude of his chamber, "what, if the dark
luxuriance of waving hair which once shadowed my temples, is now gone,
is not thought and intelligence still lingering on my brow? Are there
no warm and animated veins of feeling in my heart, because the tide of
health no longer colours my wan and faded cheek? These enfeebled eyes,
which I must now shelter from the too dazzling light, can they not
still emit the rays of tenderness, and the beams of soul? This proud
beauty! May she live to know what a heart she has wounded!"
He rose and walked slowly across the floor, pausing before a large
looking glass, which fully reflected his person. He could not forbear
a smile, in the midst of his melancholy, at the ludicrous contrast to
his former self, and acknowledge it was preposterous to expect to
charm at first sight, under the present disastrous eclipse. He almost
excused the covert ridicule of which he had been the object, and began
to pity the beautiful Augusta for the disappointment she must have
endured. It was under the influence of these feelings Mr. Temple found
him.
"My dear fellow," said the latter, warmly grasping his hand, and
gazing earnestly at him--"My poor boy! how ill you must have
been!--your uncle, too"--the warm-hearted man was incapable of
uttering another syllable, not more moved at that moment, by the
recollection of his friend, than affected by the transformation of the
blooming boy, whose waving locks were once so singularly beautiful.
His sympathy was so unaffected, his welcome so warm, and his affection
expressed in so heartfelt a manner, that Sydney, who had just been
arming himself with proud philosophy against the indifference and
neglect of the world, melted into woman's softness. He had been so
long among strangers, and those of rougher natures--had experienced so
cold a disappointment in his warmest hopes--he had felt so blighted,
so alone--the reaction was too powerful, it unmanned him. Mr. Temple
was a remarkable instance of a man who retained a youthful enthusiasm
and frankness of character, after a long and prosperous intercourse
with the world of business. The rapid accumulation of wealth, instead
of narrowing, as it too often does, enlarged his benevolent heart.
When, in a long and confidential conversation with Sydney, he learned
that Mr. Allison had left but a small fortune for his support, instead
of the immense one he had been led to expect, he was more than ever
anxious to promote his union with his daughter. However mysterious it
seemed that Mr. Allison's property should be so diminished, or have
been so much overrated, he rather rejoiced at the circumstance, as it
gave him an opportunity of showing his gratitude and disinterestedness.
But Sydney was proud. He felt the circumstance of his altered
fortunes, and, though not a poor man, was no longer the heir of that
wealth which was his in reversion when Mr. Temple had plighted his
daughter to him. In his short interview with her he had gained such an
insight into her character, that he recoiled from the idea of
appearing before her as her betrothed lover.
"Receive me as a friend," said he to Mr. Temple; "let your daughter
learn to look upon me as such, and I ask no more; unless I could win
her _affections_, nothing would induce me to accept of her hand--under
existing circumstances, I believe that impossible. Much as I feel your
kindness, and sacred as I hold the wishes of the dead, I hold your
daughter's happiness paramount to every other consideration. This must
not be sacrificed for me. Promise me, sir, that it shall not. I should
be more wretched than words can express, if I thought the slightest
force were imposed upon her sentiments."
"Be satisfied on that score; say nothing about it; only let her get
fully acquainted with you, and there will be no occasion to employ
_force_. You must forget the mistake of the morning. This yellow fever
makes sad work of a man when it gets hold of him, but you will soon
revive from its effects."
* * * * *
Sydney Allison became a daily visiter at Mr. Temple's. Had he assumed
the privileges of a lover, Augusta would have probably manifested, in
a wounding manner, the aversion she felt for him in that character;
but it was impossible to treat with disdain one who never presumed to
offer any attentions beyond the civilities of friendship. Though
rendered vain from adulation, and selfish from indulgence, and though
her thoughtless vivacity often made her forgetful of the feelings of
others, Augusta Temple was not destitute of redeeming virtues. Nature
had gifted her with very ardent affections, and opened but few
channels in which those affections could flow. She had the great
misfortune to be the only child of a rich, widowed, and doting parent,
and from infancy had been accustomed to see every one around her
subservient to her will. She had reached the age of womanhood without
knowing one real sorrow, or meeting with a being who had excited in
any degree the affections of her heart. Her warm and undisciplined
imagination had dwelt for years on one image. She had clothed it in
the most splendid hues that fancy ever spread upon her palette; and
had poor Sydney appeared before her in his original brightness, the
reality would probably have been dim, to the visions of ideal beauty
by which she had been so long haunted. In the greatness of her
disappointment, she became unjust and unreasonable, violent in her
prejudices, and extravagant in the manifestations of them. But after
the first ebullition of her grief, she grew more guarded, from the
dread of her father's anger; and as Sydney continued the same
reserved and dignified deportment, she began to think her father's
prediction was fulfilled, and that their aversion was mutual. She did
not derive as much comfort from this supposition as might be
anticipated. She had dreaded his importunity, but she could not endure
his indifference. It was in vain Mr. Temple urged his young friend to
a different course of conduct; he always answered, "Let her cease to
dread me as a lover, then she may learn to prize me as a friend."
One evening, there was a concert at Mr. Temple's. Sydney, who was
passionately fond of music, forgot every cause of inquietude, while
abandoned to its heavenly influence. He stood near the fair songstress
of the hour, keeping time to the harmony, while in a pier-glass
opposite, he had a full view of the groups behind. Augusta was a
little in the rear, leaning on the arm of Miss Manning. He could gaze
on her image thus reflected, without her being conscious of the act,
and he sighed as he paid involuntary homage to her brilliant beauty.
Her figure was of superb proportions, her features formed on the model
of oriental symmetry, while her eyes glittered through their dark
sweeping lashes, like sunbeams through the forest foliage. She stood
with her head a little averted, and her profile presented the softened
outline of the lineaments ascribed to the beautiful daughters of
Judah. He forgot himself entirely, in the contemplation of her
loveliness, when he saw her turn, with an arch smile, and hold up her
hands in a whimsical attitude in the direction of his head, as if in
the act of warming them; for the full blaze of the chandeliers seemed
concentrated in that point, and all eyes, lured by Augusta's gesture,
were turned upon his illuminated skull. For one moment Sydney lost his
self-possession, and the angry spot was seen distinctly burning on his
sallow cheek. The next, he smiled superior to such weakness, and
retreating a few steps, bowed for her to pass forward. She had relied
on the shade that covered his eyes, for security from detection,
unconscious of the piercing glances that were darting beneath. Her
conscience now upbraided her for her folly, and she felt with
bitterness how low she must be in the opinion of the man whose
admiration she secretly coveted, notwithstanding the ridicule she
dared to throw upon his person. After the company dispersed, she
remained alone in the drawing-room, dissatisfied with herself and
sickening at the pleasure that surrounded her. The door softly opened.
It was Sydney, who had returned for his gloves, which he had left on
the mantel-piece. It was the first time she had found herself alone
with him, and she felt excessively embarrassed. In that tone, which
even _she_ acknowledged to be irresistibly sweet, he apologized for
his intrusion, and taking his gloves, was retiring, when she, ever
impulsive, arrested his motions.
"Stay one moment, Mr. Allison--you have great reason to despise me--I
have treated you with unpardonable levity and rudeness. Though I can
hardly hope your forgiveness, I cannot withhold this acknowledgment of
my errors; your calm forbearance has done more for my reformation,
than a thousand reproofs."
Surprised and softened by this unexpected avowal from the cold
sarcastic Augusta, whose fluctuating complexion and agitated voice
bore witness to her sincerity, Allison was at first incapable of
replying.
"Your present candour," at length he said, "would indemnify me for
much greater suffering than you have ever inflicted on me. Allow me,
Miss Temple, to take advantage of this first moment of confidence, to
disarm you of all fear on my account. The relative situation in which
we have been placed by others, has given us both much embarrassment;
but be assured my only wish is to be looked upon as your friend.
Consider yourself as entirely unshackled. In brighter hours I might
have aspired to the distinction our parents designed for me; but, worn
down by sickness, the shadow of my former self, I feel but too
sensibly, that the only sentiment I can now inspire in the female
heart, is that of compassion."
Augusta was so much impressed by his delicacy and generosity, she
began to hate herself for not having more justly appreciated his
worth. She raised her eyes to his face and sighed--"Ah!" said she to
herself, "I must respect and esteem, but I can never love him." Mr.
Temple, who had been absent the whole evening, returned at this
moment, and his countenance expressed his pleasure in finding them
thus alone, in apparently confidential conversation with each other.
"Do not go, Allison," said he; "I have been oppressed with business
to-night, and I want a little social enjoyment before I sleep.
Besides, I do not feel quite well."
They now observed that he looked unusually pale, and pressed his hand
upon his head, as if in pain.
"Father," said Augusta, "you do indeed look ill; you have fatigued
yourself too much. A glass of wine will revive you."
She brought him the glass, but just as he took it from her hand with a
smile, a sudden spasm came over him, and he fell back in his chair,
speechless and convulsed. Augusta's piercing shriek alarmed the
servants, who, rushing in, beheld their master supported in the arms
of Allison, gasping for breath, while Augusta was trying to loosen his
cravat with hands nerveless from terror. A physician was directly
summoned, who bled him profusely, and after a few hours consciousness
was restored. He was removed to his chamber, and Allison remained with
him during the remainder of the night. Augusta sat by her father's
bedside holding his hand, almost stunned by the suddenness of the
calamity. Never, since her recollection, had her father known an
hour's sickness; and now to be prostrated at once, in the midst of
florid health, it was awful. She dared not ask the physician if there
was danger, lest he should confirm her worst fears. She looked at
Allison, and, in his pale and anxious countenance, she saw a
reflection of her own anxiety and sorrow. Towards morning Mr. Temple
opened his eyes, and looked earnestly round him.
"My children," said he, "come near me--both--both."
"Father," cried Augusta, "we _are_ near thee--oh! my father, say that
you are better--only say that you will _live_."
As she uttered the last word she bowed her head upon the bed cover,
and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.
"My child," said Mr. Temple, faintly, "you must call upon God to
sustain you, for there is need. I feel that the hand of death is on
me. Sudden and awful is the summons--but it must be obeyed. Doctor, I
would see my minister. Not to give peace to my parting soul--for all
is peace _here_," said he, laying his hand feebly on his heart, "peace
with God and man--but there is one thing I would witness before I
die."
Sydney, who stood at the bed's head, trembled at the import of these
words; Augusta in her agony comprehended them not.
"Sydney, my son, give me your hand; Augusta, is this your hand I hold?
My children, if you would bless my last hour, you must let my dying
eyes behold your union. It will gladden my friend, when I meet him in
another world, to tell him his last wishes are consummated. Do you
consent, my children?"
He looked up to Sydney, with that earnest expression which is never
seen except in the eye of the dying, and pressed their hands together
in his, already cold and dewy with the damps of death. Sydney sunk
upon his knees, unutterably affected. All the happiness of his future
life was at stake, but it seemed as nothing at that moment.
"Your daughter, sir?" was all he could utter.
"Augusta," repeated Mr. Temple, in a voice fearfully hollow, "will you
not speak?"
"Oh! my father," she murmured, "do with me as you will, only take me
with you."
The reverend figure of the minister was now added to the group that
surrounded that bed of death. Strange and awful was the bridal
ceremony, performed at such a moment, and attended by such
solemnities. Sydney felt that he was mysteriously and irresistibly
impelled on to the fulfilment of his destiny, without any volition of
his own; and he supported, with a firm arm, the sinking form of her he
was now to call his own. It was with bloodless lips and deadened
perceptions Augusta repeated her vows; but low as they were, they fell
like music on the ear that was so shortly to close to all earthly
sound.
"There is a blessing above, mingling with mine," faintly articulated
the dying man. "I bless you, my dear children, and ye will be
blessed."
These were the last words he ever uttered. Augusta fell almost
lifeless on her father's bosom, but what was a moment before the
temple of an immortal spirit, was now but dust and ashes. At the same
moment an orphan and a bride, she was incapable of comprehending the
startling realities of her situation. The images that flitted through
her mind, were like the phantasmagoria of a dream--a vague impression
of something awful and indescribable having occurred, a wild fear of
something more awful still impending, filled her imagination and
paralyzed her frame. But Allison had a full and aching sense of the
responsibilities so unexpectedly imposed upon him. He mourned for the
venerated and generous friend so suddenly snatched away; but he
grieved most of all, that his last act had placed in his keeping that
to which he felt he had no legitimate right. No selfish repinings
filled his heart--but to find himself _married_, joined irrevocably to
a woman who had given him so many proofs of personal aversion; who
never, till that evening, had evinced towards him the slightest
sensibility--a woman whom he did not love, and whose superior fortune
burdened him with a painful sense of obligation--there was something
inexpressibly galling and humbling in these circumstances, to the
sensitive and high-minded Allison. Tenderness, however, mingled with
the bitterness of his reflections; and even then, he could have taken
her to his heart, and wept over her tears of sympathy and sorrow, had
he not dreaded that she would recoil from his embraces. He did not
intrude on the sacredness of her grief, and for days she buried
herself in the solitude of her chamber. She admitted no one but her
chosen friend, Miss Manning, who represented her as inconsolable,
either sunk in a torpor, from which nothing could arouse her, or in a
state of nervous excitement still more distressing. He waited, hoping
that time would restore her to comparative composure, and that she
would be willing to receive from him the consolations of friendship.
Finding, at length, that she persevered in her system of solitary
grief, and that time, while it must, according to its immutable laws,
soften her anguish for her father's death, probably increased her
dread of the shackles that bound her, his resolution was taken. In a
short time everything was arranged for his departure to a foreign
land. The ship, in which he was bound a passenger, was ready to sail,
when he requested a parting interview with Augusta. A parting
interview!--Augusta was roused at that sound, from the selfishness of
her grief. He was going into banishment, and she was the cause. For
the first time since the bridal ceremony, the thought forced itself
into her mind, that _he_ too might have cause for sorrow, and that
_his_ happiness might be sacrificed as well as her own. Allison was
greatly shocked, to see the change wrought in her radiant face. He was
so much agitated, he forgot everything he purposed to say, and
remembered only the strangeness of their situation. He endeavoured to
repress his own emotion, that he might not increase hers; while she,
unused to self-control, abandoned herself to a passion of tears. He
approached her with tenderness and solemnity, and entreated her to
listen to him, as a _friend_, as one willing to promote her happiness
by any sacrifice she might require. "I go," said he, "Augusta, to
another clime, whose genial influence may restore me again some
portion of my former vigour. I go, too, in the hope, that in my
absence you will learn submission to a destiny which my presence
renders insupportable. If you knew the anguish that fills my heart,
when I think of myself as the involuntary cause of your wretchedness,
you would pity me, even as much as you abhor. Hear me, Augusta, while
I repeat with all the solemnity of the vows that bound us to each
other, that I will never claim the name of husband, till your own free
affections hallow the sacred title. In the mean time I leave you with
one who will be to you as a loving sister, in whose father you will
find a faithful and affectionate guardian--will you not part from me,
at least in kindness?"
Augusta sat, with her arms thrown around Miss Manning, weeping, yet
subdued. All the best impulses of her nature were wakened and active.
She would have given worlds to say something expressive of her remorse
and regret for her selfishness and waywardness. Clasping her hands
together she exclaimed, "Oh! forgive me, Sydney, that I cannot love
you;" then, conscious that she was only wounding more deeply when she
wished to heal, she only uttered, "what an unfortunate wretch I am!"
"We are both unfortunate," said he, moved beyond his power of
control--"but we may not be always miserable. Something whispers me,
that we shall meet again with chastened feelings, capable of
appreciating all that is excellent in each other, and both earnest in
the endeavour to merit the blessing that hallowed our nuptial tie. I
leave you that you may be restored to tranquillity--I may never
return--I pray to God, that he may find me a grave in that ocean to
whose bosom I am about to commit myself, if I am only to live for the
misery of others."
"No, no," cried Augusta, "this must not be, you must not become an
exile for me."
"Listen to her," said Miss Manning, earnestly, her whole soul wrought
up into the most painful excitement, at the sight of their mutual
distress--"indeed, sir, you are doing what is rash and uncalled
for--oh! why, with so much to bind you together, with qualities
capable of inspiring the strongest attachment in each other, will ye
close up your hearts in this manner, and resolve to be miserable?"
"I cannot now remain if I would, as I have taken steps which cannot
well be recalled--your father, Miss Manning, knows and approves my
intention. He is the delegated guardian and protector of Augusta. I
will not, I cannot prolong the pain of these moments. Farewell,
Augusta! think of me, if possible, with kindness--should I live to
return, I will be to you friend, brother, or husband, as your own
heart shall dictate."
He pressed her cold and passive hand in his--turned, and was gone.
Augusta would have spoken, but she seemed as if under the influence of
a nightmare. Her faculties were spell-bound; she would have returned
the parting pressure of his hand, but her fingers seemed icicles. She
shuddered with superstitious dread. Her father's upbraiding spirit
appeared to her imagination, armed with the terrors of the grave, and
threatening her with the retribution of heaven. Poor Augusta! her mind
required the stern, but salutary discipline of adversity, and that
discipline was preparing. How she profited by the teachings of this
monitress, whose lessons, however hard, have such high and celestial
bearings, the events of after years may show.
* * * * *
Augusta and her friend are once more presented to the view of the
reader, but the destiny of the former is changed. They are seated in a
parlour side by side, but it is not the same, rich in all the
adornments of wealth and fashion, that Augusta once occupied. It is in
a neat rural cottage, in the very heart of the country, embosomed in
trees and flowers. A few words will explain the past. Mr. Temple's
open, generous, uncalculating disposition had exposed him to the
designs of the mercenary and treacherous. He never could refuse to
endorse a note for a friend, or to loan money when it was asked with a
look of distress. He believed his resources as exhaustless as his
benevolence; but by the failure of several houses with which he was
largely connected, his estate was involved in ruin, and his daughter
left destitute of fortune. Mr. Manning suffered so much himself in the
general loss, he was obliged to sell all that he still possessed in
the city and retire into the country, with limited means of
subsistence. But, though limited, he had sufficient for all the
comforts of life, and what he deemed its luxuries--books, music, the
socialities of friendship, and the exercise of the kindly charities. A
cherished member of this charming family, Augusta no longer the
spoiled child of fortune, but the chastened disciple of sorrow,
learned to estimate the purposes of her being, and to mourn over her
former perversity. With such ennobled views of life and its
enjoyments, she began to think she might be happy with a husband, with
such irreproachable worth and exalted attributes as Sydney Allison,
even though he had the misfortune to be bald and sallow. But him she
had banished, and when would he return? He had written to her once or
twice, in the most affectionate manner, as a brother would write; he
had spoken of amended health and reviving spirits, but he spoke of his
return as of something indefinite and even remote. She too had
written, and her letters were transcripts of the progressive elevation
of her character, and expressed with candour and warmth the just
appreciation she now had of his own. She was uncertain whether they
had ever reached him. It was long since she had received any tidings,
and she felt at times that sickness of the heart, which suspense unfed
by hope creates.
"I bring you a messenger, who I trust is the bearer of glad tidings,"
said Mr. Manning, entering, with a benevolent smile, and ushering in a
young gentleman, whom he introduced by the name of Clarence. "Augusta,
you will greet him with joy, for he comes with letters from Mr.
Allison, your husband."
Augusta sprang forward, scarcely waiting to go through the customary
form of introduction, and took the letter with a trembling hand. "Tell
me, sir, do you know him, and is he well?" The stranger bent his dark
and lustrous eyes upon her face, with a look of undisguised
admiration.
"I know him intimately, madam; when I last saw him, he was in perfect
health, and animated by the prospect of a speedy return."
Augusta waited to hear no more, but retired to her own chamber, to
peruse the epistle she had so anxiously anticipated. It was in answer
to her last, and breathed the language of hope and confidence. There
was a warmth, a fervour of sentiment, far different from his former
cold, but kind communications. He rejoiced in the knowledge of her
altered fortune, for he could prove his disinterestedness, and show
her that he loved her for herself alone, by returning and devoting
himself to the task of winning her affections. "Say not, my Augusta,"
said he in conclusion, "that I cannot win the prize. All the energies
of my heart and soul are enlisted for the contest. I could look on
your beauty, all dazzling as it is, without much emotion; but the
humility, the trust, the gentleness and feeling expressed in your
letter has melted me into tenderness. Dare I indulge in the blissful
dream, that even now gilds this page with the hues of heaven? Augusta,
the sad, reluctant bride, transformed into the fond and faithful wife,
cherished in my yearning bosom, and diffusing there the life, the
warmth, the fragrance of love!"
Augusta's tears rained over the paper. "Oh! Allison," she cried, "the
task shall not be in vain; I _will_ love thee for thy virtues, and the
blessing my dying father called down, may yet rest upon us." She was
about to fold the letter, when a postscript on the envelope met her
eye. "Receive Clarence," it said, "as my friend--he knows all my
history, and the peculiarity of our situation--he is interested in
you, for my sake--as a stranger and my especial friend, may I ask for
him the hospitable attentions of Mr. Manning's family?"
When she descended into the room, where Clarence was seated, she could
not repress a painful blush, from the consciousness that he was
familiar with her singular history. "He must despise me," thought she;
but the deference, and respect of his manner forbade such an
impression. Gradually recovering from her embarrassment, and finding
him directing his conversation principally to Mr. Manning, she had
leisure to observe one who possessed strong interest in her eyes, as
the friend of Allison. And seldom does the eye of woman rest upon a
more graceful or interesting figure, or a more expressive and glowing
countenance. There was a lambent brightness in his eyes, a mantling
bloom upon his cheek, that indicated indwelling light and conscious
youth. His hair clustered in soft waves round his temples, relieving
by its darkness the unsunned whiteness of his forehead. Yet the
prevailing charm was manner, that indescribable charm, that, like
sunshine in the summer landscape, gilded and vivified the whole. The
acquisition of such a guest gave life and animation to the domestic
circle. Mr. Manning was a man of varied information, and the society
of this accomplished traveller recalled the classic enthusiasm of his
earlier days. Mary, though usually reserved to strangers, seemed
fascinated into a forgetfulness of herself, and found herself a
partaker of a conversation to which at first she was only a timid
listener. Augusta, while she acknowledged the stranger's uncommon
power to please, was preoccupied by the contents of her husband's
letter, and longed to be alone with Mary, whose sympathy was always as
spontaneous as it was sincere. She was not disappointed in the
readiness of Mary's sympathy; but after having listened again and
again, and expressed her hope and joy that all would yet be for the
happiest and the best, she returned to the subject next in interest,
the bearer of this precious document. "Ah! my dear Augusta," said she,
"if Allison's noble spirit had been enshrined in such a temple, you
had not been parted now." Augusta felt the comparison _odious_. It
brought before her the person of Allison in too melancholy a contrast
with the engaging stranger. "I thought it was Mary Manning," answered
she in a grave tone, "who once reproved me for attaching too much
importance to manly beauty--I never thought you foolish or unkind till
this moment."
"Forgive me," cried Mary, with irresistible frankness; "foolish I may be,
indeed I know I am; but intentionally unkind to you--never--never."
It did not require the recollection of all Mary's tried friendship and
sincerity, for Augusta to accord her forgiveness. Mary was more
guarded afterwards in the expression of her admiration, but Augusta,
in her imagination, had drawn the horoscope of Mary's destiny, and
Clarence shone there, as the star that was to give it radiance. A
constant guest of her father's, she thought it impossible for him to
witness Mary's mild, yet energetic virtues, without feeling their
influence. She was interesting without being beautiful, and Clarence
evidently delighted in her conversation. To her, he was always more
reserved, yet there was a deference, an interest, a constant reference
to her wishes and opinions, that was as delicate as it was flattering.
He was the companion of their walks, and nature, never more lovely
than in this delightful season, acquired new charms from the
enthusiasm with which he sought out and expatiated on its beauties.
Mr. Manning was passionately fond of music, and every evening Mary and
Augusta were called upon for his favourite songs. Now the music was
finer than ever, for Clarence accompanied them with his flute, and
sometimes with his voice, which was uncommonly sweet and melodious.
One evening Augusta was seated at the piano; she was not an excelling
performer, but she played with taste and feeling, and she had
endeavoured to cultivate her talent, for she remembered that Allison
was a lover of music. She had played all Mr. Manning's songs, and
turned over the leaves, without thinking of any particular tune, when
Clarence arrested her at one, which he said was Allison's favourite
air. "Let us play and sing that," said he, repeating the words, "your
husband loves it, we were together when he first heard it; it was sung
by an Italian songstress, whom you have often struck me as resembling.
The manner in which your hair is now parted in front, with those
falling curls behind, increases the resemblance; it is very striking
at this moment."
Augusta felt a strange pang penetrate her heart, when he asked her for
her husband's favourite. There was something, too, in his allusion to
her personal appearance that embarrassed her. He had paid her no
compliment, yet she blushed as if guilty of receiving one. "I cannot
play it," answered she, looking up, "but I will try to learn it for
his sake." She could not prevent her voice from faltering; there was
an expression in his eyes, when they met hers, that bowed them down,
in shame and apprehension. It was so intense and thrilling--she had
never met such a glance before, and she feared to interpret it.
"Shall I sing it for you?" asked he; and leaning over the instrument,
he sang in a low, mellow voice, one of those impassioned strains,
which the fervid genius of Italy alone can produce. The words were
eloquent of love and passion, and Augusta, charmed, melted by their
influence, could not divest herself of a feeling of guilt as she
listened. A new and powerful light was breaking upon her; truth held
up its blazing torch, flashing its rays into the darkest corners of
her heart; and conscience, discovering passions, of whose very
existence she had been previously unconscious. She saw revealed in
prophetic vision, the misery of her future existence, the misery she
was entailing on herself, on others, and a cold shudder ran through
her frame. Mary, alarmed at her excessive paleness, brought her a
glass of water, and asked her if she were ill. Grateful for an excuse
to retire, she rose and took Mary's arm to leave the room; but as she
passed through the door, which Clarence opened and held, she could not
avoid encountering again a glance so tender and impassioned, she could
not veil to herself the language it conveyed. Augusta had thought
herself miserable before, but never had she shed such bitter tears as
bathed her pillow that night. Just as she had schooled herself to
submission; just as she was cherishing the most tender and grateful
feelings towards her husband, resolving to make her future life one
long task of expiation, a being crossed her path, who realized all her
early visions of romance, and who gently and insidiously had entwined
himself into the very chords of her existence; and now, when she felt
the fold, and struggled to free herself from the enthralment, she
found herself bound as with fetters of iron and clasps of steel. That
Clarence loved her, she could not doubt. Enlightened as to the state
of her own heart, she now recollected a thousand covert marks of
tenderness and regard. He had been admitted to the most unreserved
intercourse with her, as the friend of her husband. Like herself, he
had been cherishing sentiments of whose strength he was unaware, and
which, when revealed in their full force, would make him tremble. She
now constantly avoided his society. Her manners were cold and
constrained, and her conscious eyes sought the ground. But Clarence,
though he saw the change, and could not be ignorant of the cause, was
not rebuked or chilled by her coldness. He seemed to call forth, with
more animation, the rich resources of his mind, his enthusiasm was
more glowing, his voice had more music, and his smile more brightness.
It was evident she alone was unhappy; whatever were his feelings, they
inspired no remorse. She began to believe her own vanity had misled
her, and that he only looked upon her as the wife of his friend. She
had mistaken the luminousness of his eyes for the fire of passion. Her
credulity abased her in her own estimation.
One afternoon Clarence found her alone. She had declined accompanying
Mary and her father in a walk, because she thought Clarence was to be
with them. "I did not expect to find you alone," said he, taking a
seat by her side--"but since I have gained such a privilege, may I
ask, without increasing your displeasure, in what I have offended? You
shun my society--your averted looks, your altered mien"--he paused,
for her embarrassment was contagious, and the sentence remained
unfinished. The appeal was a bold one, but as a _friend_ he had a
right to make it.
"You have not offended me," at length she answered, "but you know the
peculiar circumstances of my life, and cannot wonder if my spirits
sometimes droop, when reflecting on the misery of the past, and the
uncertainty of the future."
"If," said he, "the uncertainty of the future makes you unhappy as it
regards yourself, you may perhaps have cause of uneasiness, but as it
respects Allison, as far as I know his sentiments, he has the fullest
confidence, and the brightest hopes of felicity. I once looked upon
him as the most unfortunate, but I now view him as the most blessed of
men. When he told me the circumstances of his exile, how lone and
hopeless seemed his lot! Now, when I see all that woos him to return,
angels might covet his destiny."