meaning of his words--"it is not the office of a friend to
flatter--Allison never flattered--I always revered him for his truth."
"Yes!" exclaimed Clarence, "he has truth and integrity. They call him
upright, and honourable, and just; but is he not cold and senseless to
remain in banishment so long, leaving his beautiful wife in widowhood
and sorrow! and was he not worse than mad to send me here the herald
of himself, to expose me to the influence of your loveliness, knowing
that to see you, to be near you, must be to love, nay, even to
worship."
"You have driven me from you for ever!" cried Augusta, rising in
indignant astonishment, at the audacity of this avowal. "Allison shall
learn in what a friend he has confided."
"I am prepared for your anger," continued he, with increasing
impetuosity, "but I brave it; your husband will soon return, and I
shall leave you. Tell him of all my boldness, and all my sincerity;
tell him too all the emotions that are struggling in your heart for
me, for oh! you cannot deny it, there is a voice pleading for my
pardon, in your bosom now, and telling you, that, if it is a crime to
love, that one crime is mutual."
"Then I am indeed a wretch!" exclaimed Augusta, sinking down into a
chair, and clasping her hands despairingly over her face; "but I
deserve this humiliation." Clarence drew nearer to her--she
hesitated--he trembled. The triumphant fire that revelled in his eyes
was quenched; compassion, tenderness, and self-reproach softened their
beams. He was in the very act of kneeling before her, to deprecate her
forgiveness, when the door softly opened, and Mary Manning entered.
Her step was always gentle, and she had approached unheard. She looked
at them first with a smile, but Augusta's countenance was not one that
could reflect a smile; and on Mary's face, at that moment, it appeared
to her as a smile of derision. Clarence lingered a moment, as if
unwilling to depart, yet uncertain whether to remain or go--then
asking Mary for her father, he hastily retired, leaving Augusta in a
state of such agitation, that Mary, seriously alarmed, entreated her
to explain the cause of her distress.
"Explain!" cried Augusta. "You have witnessed my humiliation, and yet
ask me the cause. I do not claim your sympathy, the grief I now feel
admits of none; I was born to be unhappy, and whichever way I turn, I
am wretched."
"Only tell me one thing, dear Augusta, is all your grief owing to the
discovery of your love for Clarence, and to the sentiments with which
you have inspired him? There is no humiliation in loving Clarence--for
who could know him and not love him?"
Augusta looked in Mary's face, assured that she was uttering the
language of mockery. Mary, the pure moralist, the mild, but
uncompromising advocate for duty and virtue, thus to palliate the
indulgence of a forbidden passion! It could only be in derision; yet
her eye was so serene, and her smile so kind, it was impossible to
believe that contempt was lurking beneath. "Then you _do_ love him,
Mary, and I am doubly treacherous!"
Mary blushed--"with the affection of a sister, the tenderness of a
friend, do I regard him; I admire his talents, I venerate his
virtues."
"Virtues! oh! Mary, he is a traitor to his friend; what reliance is
there on those virtues, which, having no root in the heart, are swept
away by the first storm of passion?"
"Passion may enter the purest heart," answered Mary; "guilt consists
in yielding to its influence. I would pledge my life that Clarence
would never give himself up to the influence of a guilty passion."
"Talk not of him, let me forget his existence, if I can; I think of
one, who will return from his long exile, only to find his hopes
deceived, his confidence betrayed, his heart broken."
Here Augusta wept in such anguish, that Mary, finding it in vain to
console her, threw her arms around her, and wept in sympathy; yet
still she smiled through her tears, and again and again repeated to
her, that heaven had long years of happiness yet in store.
Augusta, in the solitude of her own chamber, recovered an appearance
of outward composure, but there was a deadly sickness in her soul,
that seemed to her like a foretaste of mortality. The slightest sound
made her tremble, and when Mary returned to her, softly, but
hurriedly, and told her her father wished to see her, she went to him,
with a blanched cheek and trembling step, like a criminal who is about
to hear her sentence of doom.
"I have something to communicate to you," said he, kindly taking her
hand, and leading her to a seat. "But I fear you will be too much
agitated."
"Is he come?" cried she, grasping his arm with sudden energy; "only
tell me, is he come?"
"Your husband _is_ arrived; I have just received tidings that he is in
the city, and will shortly be here."
Augusta gasped for breath, she pressed her hands on her bosom, there
was such a cold, intolerable weight there; she felt the letter of her
husband, which she had constantly worn as a talisman against the evil
she most dreaded. That tender, confiding letter, which, when she had
first received it, she had hailed as the precursor of the purest
felicity.
"It is all over now," sighed she, unconscious of the presence of Mr.
Manning. "Poor unhappy Allison, I will tell him all, and then I will
lie down and die."
"I hear a carriage approaching," said Mr. Manning; "the gate
opens--support yourself, my dear child, and give him the welcome he
merits." Augusta could not move, her limbs were powerless, but
perception and sensibility remained; she saw Mr. Manning leave the
room, heard steps and voices in the passage, and then the door reopen.
The shades of twilight were beginning to fall, and a mist was over her
eyes, but she distinctly recognised the figure that entered--what was
her astonishment, to behold, instead of the lank form, bald brows, and
green shade, marked in such indelible characters on her memory--the
graceful lineaments, clustering looks, and lustrous eyes of Clarence?
She looked beyond in wild alarm for her husband. "Leave me," she
exclaimed, "leave me, or you drive me to desperation!"
But Clarence eagerly approached her, as if defying all consequences,
and reckless of her resentment. He clasped her in his arms, he pressed
her to his heart, and imprinted on her brow, cheek, and lips,
unnumbered kisses. "My bride, my wife, my own beloved Augusta, do you
not know me? and can you forgive me for this trial of your love? I did
not mean to cause you so much suffering, but I could not resist the
temptation of proving whether your love was mine, through duty or
inclination. I have been the rival of myself, and I have exulted in
finding, that love in all its strength has still been mastered by
duty. Augusta, I glory in my wife."
Augusta looked up, in bewildered rapture, hardly knowing in what world
she existed. She had never dreamed of such a transformation. Even now
it seemed incredible--it could not be true--her present felicity was
too great to be real--"Can Allison and Clarence be one?"
"Yes, my Augusta, these arms have a right to enfold thee, or they
would not clasp you thus. No miracle has been wrought, but the
skeleton is reclothed with flesh, the locks of youth have been
renewed, the tide of health has flowed back again into the wasted
veins, lending a glow to the wan cheek, and a brightness to the dim
eye; and more than all, the worn and feeble spirit, always
sympathizing with its frail companion, as replumed its drooping wings,
and been soaring in regions of hope, and joy, and love."
Without speaking metaphorically, Augusta's heart actually ached with
its excess of happiness.
"I have not room here," she cried, "for such fulness of joy," again
laying her hand where that precious letter was deposited, but with
such different emotions. "My friends must participate in my happiness,
it is selfish to withhold it from them so long."
"They know it already," said Allison, smiling; "they have known my
secret from the first, and assisted me in concealing my identity."
Augusta now understood Mary's apparent inconsistency, and vindicated
her from all unkindness and wilful palliation of guilt. "I am not
quite an impostor," continued her husband, "for my name is Sydney
Clarence Allison--and let me still wear the appellation you have
learned to love. It was my uncle's, and he left a condition in his
will that I should assume it as my own. I find myself, too, the heir
of sufficient wealth to be almost a burden; for my uncle, romantic to
the last, only caused the report of the failure of his wealth, that I
might prove the sincerity of your father's friendship. My wife, my own
Augusta, is not his blessing resting on us now?"
Mr. Manning and his daughter sympathized largely in the happiness of
their friends. Their only sorrow was the approaching separation. Mary,
whose disposition was naturally serious, was exalted on this occasion
to an unwonted vein of humour. When she saw Augusta's eyes turning
with fond admiration towards her husband, she whispered in her
ear--"Is it possible, that bald, yellow, horrid-looking creature is
your husband? I would not marry him, unless I were dragged to the
altar."
And Allison, passing his hand over his luxuriant hair, reminded her,
with a smile, of the _subscription_ and the _wig_.
THE
VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT.
Intemperance is a vice which is generally considered of the masculine
sex. In the pictured scenes of the ravages it has wrought woman is
seldom introduced but as the patient victim of brutality, or as the
admonishing angel of transgressing man. There are instances on record,
however, of a sad reverse. Not alone in the lower classes of life,
amid the dregs of society, but in higher walks, where intelligence,
wit, beauty, and wealth, virgin worth, wedded love, and Christian
grace, are all cast as unvalued offerings at the beastly shrine of
intemperance. One of these fatal examples (of which, to the honour of
our sex be it said, there are so few) once came under the observation
of the writer. Her character and history form the subject of the
following sketch.
Mr. Manly first met Anne Weston in a ball-room. It was on the evening
of the Fourth of July, and the fairest ladies of the country were
assembled to celebrate the national jubilee. He was a lawyer, and had
been the orator of the day; an eloquent one, and therefore entitled to
distinguished attention. He came from an adjoining town, of which he
had recently become an inhabitant, and now found himself in a scene
which scarcely presented one familiar countenance. He was a very proud
man, and had the air of one who felt himself too superior to the
multitude to mingle in the general amusement. He stood with folded
arms, as remote as possible from the dancers despising those who were
engaged in that exercise on such a sultry night. In vain the
obsequious master of ceremonies begged to introduce him to this and
that fair lady. He declined the honour with a cold bow, declaring his
utter disinclination to dancing. He was told that his disinclination
would cease as soon as Miss Weston arrived. She was the belle of the
place, the daughter of the richest gentleman in town--had received the
most finished education, and refused the most splendid offers. In
short, she was irresistible, and it was predicted that he would find
her so. It cannot be denied, that the fame of this all-conquering lady
had previously reached his ears, but unfortunately he had a
detestation of belles, and predetermined to close his eyes, and shut
his ears, and steel his heart against her vaunted attractions. He had
never yet sacrificed his independence to woman. He had placed his
standard of female excellence very high. He had seen no one that
reached its altitude. "No," said he to himself, "let me live on in
singleness of heart and loneliness of purpose, all the days of my
life, rather than unite myself with one of those vain, flimsy,
garrulous, and superficial beings who win the smiles, and fix the
attention of the many. I despise a weak woman, I hate a masculine one,
and a pedantic one I abhor. I turn with fear from the glittering
belle, whose home is the crowded hall, whose incense the homage of
fools, whose altar the shrine of fashion. Can _she_ sit down contented
in the privacy of domestic love who has lived on the adulation of the
world, or be satisfied with the affection of one true heart, who has
claimed as her due, the vows of all? No, better the fool, the pedant,
than the belle. Who can find that woman, whose price is above rubies?
Ah! 'tis certain I never shall marry." He was aroused from these
reflections, by a movement in the hall, and he felt a conviction that
the vaunted lady was arrived. In spite of his boasted indifference, he
could not repress a slight sensation of curiosity to see one who was
represented as so transcendent. But he moved not, he did not even turn
his eyes towards the spot where so many were clustering. "The late
hour of her arrival," said he, "shows equal vanity and affectation.
She evidently wishes to be conspicuous--studies everything for
effect." The lady moved towards that part of the hall where he was
stationed. She held the arm of one gentleman, and was followed by some
half-dozen others. He was compelled to gaze upon her, for they passed
so near, the folds of her white muslin dress fluttered against him. He
was pleased to see that she was much less beautiful than he had
expected. He scarcely thought her handsome. Her complexion was pale,
even sallow, and her face wanted that soft, flowing outline, which is
necessary to the perfection of beauty. He could not but acknowledge,
however, that her figure was very fine, her motions graceful, and her
air spirited and intellectual. "I am glad she is not beautiful," said
he, "for I might have been tempted to have admired her, against my
sober judgment. Oppressed by the heat of the apartment, he left the
hall and sauntered for a long time in the piazza, till a certain
feeling of curiosity, to know whether a lady whose bearing expressed
so much pride of soul, could be foolish enough to dance, led him to
return. The first object he beheld, was the figure of Miss Weston,
moving in most harmonious time, to an exhilarating air, her
countenance lighted up with an animation, a fire, that had as magical
an effect upon her features, as the morning sunbeams on the face of
nature. The deepest colour was glowing on her cheek,--her very soul
was shining forth from her darkening eyes. She danced with infinite
spirit, but equal grace. He had never witnessed anything to compare
with it, not even on the stage. "She dances entirely too well,"
thought he; "she cannot have much intellect, yet she carries on a
constant conversation with her partner through all the mazes of the
dance. It must be admirable nonsense, from the broad smiles it
elicits. I am half resolved to be introduced and invite her to
dance--from mere _curiosity_, and to prove the correctness of my
opinion." He sought the introduction, became her partner in the dance,
and certainly forgot, while he listened to her "admirable nonsense,"
that she was that object of his detestation--a _belle_. Her
conversation was sprightly, unstudied, and original. She seemed more
eager to listen than to talk, more willing to admire than to be
admired. She did not tell him that she admired his oration, but she
spoke warmly on the subject of eloquence, and quoted in the happiest
manner, a passage of his own speech, _one_ which he himself judged
superb. It proved her to have listened with deep attention. He had
never received so delicate or gratifying a compliment. His vanity was
touched, and his pride slumbered. He called forth those powers of
pleasing, with which he was eminently endowed, and he began to feel a
dawning ambition to make the conquest of a heart which so many had
found indomitable. He admired the simplicity of her dress, its fitness
and elegance. A lady's dress is always indicative of her character.
Then her voice was singularly persuasive in its tones, it breathed of
feminine gentleness and sensibility, with just enough spirit and
independence for a woman. Mr. Manly came to these wise conclusions
before the end of the first dance--at the termination of the second,
he admired the _depth_, as well as the brilliancy of her mind, and
when he bade her adieu for the night, he was equally convinced of the
purity of her feelings and the goodness of her heart. Such is the
strength of man's wisdom, the stability of his opinions, the
steadiness of his purpose, when placed in competition with the
fascinations of a woman who has made the determination to please. In
after years Mr. Manly told a friend of a dream which that night
haunted his pillow. He was not superstitious, or disposed to attach
the slightest importance to dreams. But this was a vivid picture, and
succeeding events caused him to recall it, as one having the power of
prophecy. He lived over again the events of the evening. The winning
accents of Miss Weston mingled in his ear with the gay notes of the
violin. Still, ever and anon, discordant sounds marred the sweet
harmony. The malicious whisper, the stifled, deriding laugh, and the
open scoff came from every corner. Sometimes he saw, through the
crowd, the slow finger of scorn pointing at him. As he turned, with a
fierce glance of defiance, Miss Weston seemed to meet him still,
holding a goblet in her hand, which she pressed him to drain. Her
cheeks and lips burned with a scarlet radiance, and her eyes sparkled
with unnatural brightness. "Taste it not," whispered a soft voice in
his ear, "it is poison." "It is the cup of immortality," exclaimed the
syren, and she drained the goblet to its last drop. In a few moments
her countenance changed--her face became bloated, her features
disfigured, and her eyes heavy and sunken. He turned with disgust from
the former enchantress, but she pursued him, she wound her arms around
him. In the vain struggle of liberating himself from her embrace, he
awoke. It was long before he could overcome the sensation of loathing
and horror excited by the unhallowed vision, and even when, overcome
by heaviness and exhaustion, he again slept, the same bloated phantom
presented her intoxicating draught. The morning found him feverish and
unrefreshed. He could not shake off the impression of his dream, and
the image of Miss Weston seemed deprived of the witchery that had
enthralled his imagination the preceding evening. He was beginning to
despise himself, for having yielded up so soon his prejudices and
pride, when an invitation to dine at Mr. Weston's, interrupted the
severe tenor of his thoughts. Politeness obliged him to accept, and
in the society of Miss Weston, graceful, animated, and intellectual,
presiding with unaffected dignity and ease at her father's board, he
forgot the hideous metamorphose of his dream.
From that day his fate was sealed. It was the first time his heart had
ever been seriously interested, and he loved with all the strength and
ardour of his proud and ardent character. The triumph, too, of winning
one whom so many had sought in vain, threw a kind of glory over his
conquest, and exalted his estimation of his own attributes. The
wedding-day was appointed. The evening previous to his nuptials, Anne
Weston sat in her own chamber, with one of the chosen friends of her
girlhood, Emily Spencer. Anne had no sisters, and from childhood,
Emily had stood to her almost in that dear relation. She was to
accompany her to her new home, for Anne refused to be separated from
her, and had playfully told Mr. Manly, "that if he married _her_, he
must take Emily too, for she could not and would not be parted from
her."
The thought of the future occupied the minds of the two friends. Anne
sat in silence. The lamp that partially illumined the apartment, gave
additional paleness to her pale and spiritual countenance. Her
thoughts appeared to have rolled within herself, and, from the gloom
of her eye, did not appear to be such as usually rest in the bosom of
one about to be wedded to the object of her affection and her trust.
"I fear," said she at length, as if forgetting the presence of her
friend, "that I have been too hasty. The very qualities that won my
admiration, and determined me to fix his regard, now cause me to
tremble. I have been too much accustomed to self-indulgence, to bear
restraint, and should it ever be imposed by a master's hand, my
rebellious spirit would break the bonds of duty, and assert its
independence. I fear I am not formed to be a happy wife, or to
_constitute_ the happiness of a husband. I live too much upon
excitement, and when the deep monotony of domestic life steals on,
what will become of me?"
"How can there be monotony," answered Emily, warmly, "with such a
companion as Manly? Oh, trust him, Anne, love him as he merits to be
loved, as you yourself are loved, and your lot may be envied among
women."
"He has awakened all the capabilities my heart has of loving," cried
Anne, "but I wish I could shake off this dull weight from my spirits."
She rose as she spoke, approached a side table, and, turning out a
glass of rich cordial, drank it, as if conscious, from experience, of
its renovating influence. Emily's anxious gaze followed her movements.
A deep sigh escaped her lips. When her friend resumed her seat, she
drew nearer to her, she took her hand in hers, and, while her colour
heightened, and her breath shortened, she said--
"Anne Weston, I should not deserve the name of friend, if in this
hour, the last, perhaps, of unrestrained confidence between us, I did
not dare--"
"Dare what?" interrupted Anne, shame and resentment kindling in her
eye.
"To tell you, that the habit you indulge in, of resorting to
artificial means to exhilarate your spirits, though now attended with
no obvious danger, may exercise most fatal influence on your future
peace. I have long struggled for resolution to utter this startling
truth, and I gather boldness as I speak. By all our friendship and
sincerity, by the past splendour of your reputation, by the bright
hopes of the future, by the trusting vows of a lover, and the gray
hairs of a father, I pray you to relinquish a habit, whose growing
strength is now only known to me." Emily paused, strong emotions
impeded her utterance. "What is it you fear?" asked Anne, in a low,
stern voice; "speak, for you see that I am calm." "You know what I
dread," continued Emily. "I see a speck on the bright character of my
friend. It may spread and dim all its lustre. We all know the fearful
strength of habit, we cannot shake off the serpent when once its coils
are around us. Oh, Anne, gifted by nature with such brilliancy of
intellect and gayety of heart, why have you ever had recourse to the
exciting draught, as if art could exalt the original buoyancy of your
spirits, or care had laid his blighting hand upon you?"
"Forbear," cried Anne, impetuously, "and hear me, before you blast me
with your contempt. It was not till bitter disappointment pressed,
crushed me, that I knew art could renovate the languor of nature. Yes,
_I_, _the_ courted and admired of all, was doomed to love one whose
affections I could not win. You knew him well, but you never knew how
my ineffectual efforts to attach him maddened my pride, or how the
triumph of my beautiful rival goaded my feelings. The world guessed
not my secret, for still I laughed and glittered with mocking
splendour, but with such a cold void within! I could not bear it. My
unnatural spirits failed me. I _must_ still shine on, or the secret
of my humiliation be discovered. I began in despair, but I have
accomplished my purpose. And now," added she, "I have done. The
necessity of shining and deceiving is over. I thank you for the warmth
of friendship that suggested your admonition. But, indeed, Emily, your
apprehensions are exaggerated. I have a restraining power within me
that must always save me from degradation. Habit, alone, makes slaves
of the weak; it becomes the slave of the strong in mind. I know what's
due to Manly. He never shall blush for his choice in a wife."