companion, my familiar friend." He was sent to a distant college, and
I felt for a while as if I were alone in the world, for my father was
in public life, and it was only at evening he had leisure to indulge
in the tenderness of domestic feeling. He had never given up the hope
that I might recover my sight. When I was very small there was an
operation performed upon my eyes, but it was by an unskilful oculist,
and unsuccessful. After this I had an unspeakable dread of any future
attempt,--the slightest allusion to the subject threw me into such
nervous agitation, my father at last forbore to mention it. "Let me
live and die under this shade," I would say, "like the flower that
blooms in the cleft of the rock. The sunshine and the dew are not for
me." Time glided away. In one year more Henry would complete his
collegiate course. I was in the morning of womanhood, but my helpless
condition preserved to me all the privileges and indulgences of the
child. It was at this era--why did I here dash aside my pen, and press
my hands upon my temples to still the throbbings of a thousand pulses,
starting simultaneously into motion? Why cannot we always be children?
Why was I not suffered to remain blind?--A young physician came into
the neighbourhood, who had already acquired some fame as an oculist.
He visited in our family--he became almost identified with our
household. Philanthropy guided him in his choice of a profession. He
knew himself gifted with extraordinary talents, and that he had it in
his power to mitigate the woes of mankind. But though the votary of
duty, he was a worshipper at the shrine of intellect and taste. He
loved poetry, and, next to music, it was my passion. He read to me the
melodious strains of the sons of song, in a voice more eloquent, in
its low depth of sweetness, than the minstrels whose harmony he
breathed. When I touched the keys of the piano, his voice was raised,
in unison with mine. If I wandered in the garden, his hand was ever
ready to guide, and his arm to sustain me. He brought me the
wild-flower of the field, and the exotic of the green-house, and, as
he described their hues and outlines, I scarcely regretted the want of
vision. Here, in this book, I have pressed each faded gift. I remember
the very words he uttered when he gave me this cluster.--"See," said
he, "nay, _feel_ this upright stem, so lofty, till bending from the
weight of the flower it bears. It is a lily--I plucked it from the
margin of a stream, in which it seemed gazing on its white, waxen
leaves. Touch gently the briars of this wild rose. Thus heaven guards
the innocence and beauty that gladdens the eyes of the wayfaring man.
Cecilia, would you not like to look upon these flowers?" "Yes, but far
rather on the faces of those I love--my father's--my brother's. Man is
made in the image of his Maker, and his face must be divine." "Oh!"
added I, in the secrecy of my own soul, "how divine must be the
features of that friend, who has unfolded to me such unspeakable
treasures of genius and feeling, whose companionship seems a foretaste
of the felicities of heaven." It was then, for the first time, he
dared to suggest to me a hope that my blindness was not incurable. He
told me he had been devoting all his leisure to this one subject, and
that he was sure he had mastered every difficulty; that though mine
was a peculiar case, and had once baffled the efforts of the optician,
he dared to assure himself of complete success. "And if I fail," said
he, "if through my means no light should visit your darkened orbs,
then," continued he, with an expression of feeling that seemed wholly
irrepressible, "suffer me to be a light to your eyes and a lamp to
your feet. But if it should be my lot to bestow upon you the most
glorious of the gifts of God, to meet from you one glance of gratitude
and love, were a recompense I would purchase with life itself." Did I
dream? or were these words breathed to me?--me, the helpless, blind
girl! to receive the unmeasured devotion of one of the most gifted and
interesting of created beings. I had thought that he pitied me, that
he felt for me the kindness of a brother, that he found in me some
congenial tastes--but that he loved me so entirely, it was a
confession as unlooked for as overpowering. My heart ached, from the
oppression of its joy. Let not the cold-hearted and vain smile, when I
repeat the broken accents of gratitude, trust, and love, that fell
from my lips. My helplessness sanctified the offer, and I received his
pledge of faith as a holy thing, to be kept holy through time and
eternity.
* * * * *
Never shall I forget that moment, when the first ray of light
penetrated the long midnight that had shrouded my vision. It was in a
darkened apartment. My father, one female friend, and Clinton, the
beloved physician--these were around me. Faint, dim, and uncertain, as
the first gray of the dawn, was that ray, but it was the herald of
coming light, and hailed as a day-spring from on high. A bandage was
immediately drawn over my brow, but during the weeks in which I was
condemned to remain in darkness, the memory of that dim radiance was
ever glimmering round me. There was a figure kneeling, with clasped
hands and upraised head, pale and venerable--I knew it was my
father's--for the same figure folded me to his heart the next moment,
and wept like an infant. There was one with soft flowing outline, and
loose robes, by my side,--and bending over me, with eyes gazing down
into the mysteries of my being, shadowy but glorious, was he, who
received the first glance of the being he had awakened to a new
creation. Slowly, gradually was I allowed to emerge from my eclipse,
but when I was at last led from my darkened chamber, when I looked
abroad on the face of nature, clothed as she was in the magnificent
garniture of summer, when I saw the heavens unrolled in their majesty,
the sun travelling in the greatness of his strength, the flowers
glowing in the beams that enamelled them, I closed my eyes, almost
fainting from the excessive glory. I will not attempt to describe my
sensations when I first distinctly saw the lineaments of my lover.
Creation contained nothing so lovely to my sight. To see the soul, the
thinking, feeling, immortal soul, flashing with enthusiasm, or
darkening with tenderness, looking forth from his eyes, and feel my
own mingling with his! No one but those who have once been blind, and
now see, can imagine the intensity of my emotions. Next to my Creator,
I felt my homage was due to him, and surely it is not impious to apply
to him the sublime language of Scripture--"He said, let there be
light, and there was light."
Our mansion was transformed. My father gathered all his friends around
him to participate in his joy. My brother was summoned home. There
seemed one continual jubilee. I turned coldly, however, from all these
festivities, occupied almost exclusively with one feeling. I could not
feign an interest in others I did not feel. I began even at this early
period to experience the first symptoms of that passion, which has
since consumed me. Clinton, though still, as ever, the kind, devoted,
and watchful guardian, hovering round my steps, as if to shield me
from every danger, Clinton, I saw, shared in the pleasures of
sociality, and returned the smiles that kindled wherever he moved. He
was a universal favourite in society, and knew how to adapt himself to
others, not from a vague desire of popularity, but from a benevolence,
a sunny glow of feeling, shedding light and warmth all around. Even
then there were moments when I regretted my blindness, and wished I
had never seen those smiles and glances, which I would fain rivet for
ever on myself. Henry, my brother, once whispered to me, as I was
turning, in a languid manner, the leaves of a music book, not caring
to play because Clinton was not bending over my chair, "My dear
Cecilia, do not let Clinton see too glaringly his power over you.
There is scarcely a man in the world who can be trusted with unlimited
power. We are ungrateful creatures, my sweet sister, and you do not
know us half as well as we know each other. You ought to love Clinton,
for he merits it, but be mistress of yourself. Do not love him too
well for _his_ peace and your _own_." Alas! poor Henry--how little
have I heeded your brotherly admonitions? But when did passion ever
listen to the counsels of reason--when will it? When the cygnet's down
proves a barrier to the tempest's breath. We were married. I became
the inmate of a home, fashioned after the model of my own taste.
Everything was arranged with a view to my happiness. The curtains and
decorations of the house were all of the softest green, for the repose
of my still feeble eyes. Oh! thou benefactor of my life--friend,
lover, husband, would that I could go back to the hour when we
plighted our wedded vows, and live over the past, convinced, though
too late, how deeply I have wronged thee--confiding implicitly in thy
love and truth, we might live together the life of angels! And we were
happy for a while. We withdrew as much as possible from the gay world.
He saw that I loved retirement, and he consulted my feelings as far as
was consistent with the duties of his profession. I might have been
convinced by this of the injustice of my suspicions. I might have
known that he loved me better than all the world beside. During the
day he was but seldom with me, as his practice was extensive, and
often called him to a distance from home, but the evening was mine,
and it seemed my peculiar province, for I shrunk from the full blaze
of sunlight. The brightness was too intense, but when the moon was
gliding over the firmament, in her sweet, approachable loveliness, and
the soft glitter of the stars was around, I could lift my undazzled
eyes, and marvel at the wonderful works of God. Clinton was a devout
astronomer--he taught me the name of every planet that burned--of
every star known to science. He was rich in the wisdom of ancient
days, and his lips distilled instruction as naturally and constantly
as the girl in the fairy tale dropped the gems of the Orient. I have
made mention of a female friend--she was the daughter of a deceased
friend of my father, and, as such, came under his especial
guardianship. Since my marriage she had remained with him, to cheer
his loneliness, but her health becoming very delicate, he sent her to
be my guest, that she might receive medical aid from my husband. She
was not a decided invalid, but her mother had died of a consumption,
and it was feared she had a hereditary tendency to that disease. Alice
was a pale, delicate-looking girl, with sometimes a hectic flush on
her cheek, a frail, drooping form, and extremely pensive cast of
countenance. The dread of this constitutional malady hung over her
like a death-cloud, and aggravated symptoms slight in themselves.
Though there was nothing very attractive in the appearance of this
poor girl, she was calculated to excite pity and sympathy, and surely
she had every claim to mine. I did pity her, and sought, by every
attention and kindness, to enliven her despondency, and rouse her to
hope and vivacity. But I soon found that my father had encroached
sadly on my domestic happiness by giving this charge to my husband.
Air, exercise, and gentle recreation, were the remedies prescribed by
the physician, and it was his duty to promote these by every means in
his power. She often accompanied him on horseback in his rides, a
pleasure from which I was completely debarred, for, in my blindness, I
was incapacitated, and the timidity which originated from my situation
remained after the cause was removed. It was some time before I was
willing to acknowledge to myself the pain which this arrangement gave
me. I felt as if my dearest privileges were invaded. I had been so
accustomed, from infancy, to be the sole object of every attention,
these daily offices bestowed upon another, though dictated by kindness
and humanity, were intolerable to me. Had I seen the congregated world
around her, offering every homage, it would not have given me one
envious pang--but Clinton, my husband, he was more precious to me than
ten thousand worlds. She leaned too exclusively on his guardian care.
I tried to subdue my feelings--I tried to assume an appearance of
indifference. My manners gradually became cold and constrained, and
instead of greeting my husband with the joyous smile of welcome, on
his return, I would avert from his the eyes which had received from
him their living rays. Frank and unsuspicious himself, he did not seem
to divine the cause of my altered demeanour. When he asked me why I
was so silent, or so sad, I pleaded indisposition, lassitude--anything
but the truth. I blamed him for his want of penetration, for I felt as
if my soul were bare, and that the eye of affection could read the
tidings revealed by my changing cheek and troubled brow. In justice to
myself, let me say, that Alice, by her manner, justified my emotions.
Enlightened by the sentiment in my own bosom, I could not but mark
that the hectic flush always became brighter when Clinton approached,
that her glance, kindling as it moved, followed his steps with a kind
of idolatry. Then she hung upon his words with an attention so
flattering. Was she reading, reclining on the sofa, apparently languid
and uninterested, the moment he spoke she would close her book, or
lean forward, as if fearful of losing the faintest sound of that
voice, which was the music of my life. I could have borne this for a
day, a week, a month--but to be doomed to endure it for an indefinite
term, perhaps for life, it was unendurable. A hundred times I was on
the point of going to my father, and, telling him the secret of my
unhappiness, entreat him to recall my too encroaching guest, but shame
and pride restrained me. Chilled and wounded by my coldness, my
husband gradually learned to copy it, and no longer sought the smiles
and caresses my foolish, too exciting heart, deemed he no longer
valued. Oh! blissful days of early confidence and love! were ye for
ever flown? Was no beam of tenderness permitted to penetrate the cold
frost-work of ceremony deepening between us? It is in vain to cherish
love with the memory of what has been. It must be fed with daily
living offerings, or the vestal fire will wax dim and perish--then
fearful is the penalty that ensues. The doom denounced upon the
virgins of the temple, when they suffered the holy flame to become
extinct, was less terrible. Alice, when the mildness of the weather
allowed, almost made her home in the garden. She must have felt that I
shrunk from her society, and I knew she could not love the wife of
Clinton. She carried her books and pencil there--she watched the
opening blossoms, and gathered the sweetest, to make her offering at
the shrine she loved. My husband was evidently pleased with these
attentions, flowing, as he thought, from a gentle and grateful heart,
and his glance and voice grew softer when he turned to address the
invalid.
Once during the absence of Alice I went into her chamber for a book I
had lent her, which contained a passage I wished to recall. I took up
several others, which lay upon the table. There was one which belonged
to my husband, and in it was a piece of folded paper, embalmed with
flowers, like some holy relic. It was not sealed--it was open--it was
a medical prescription, written by Clinton, thus tenderly,
romantically preserved. On another half-torn sheet were some broken
lines, breathing passion and despair. They were in the handwriting of
Alice, and apparently original, without address or signature, but it
was easy for my excited imagination to supply them. Poor victim of
passion--by the side of this record of all my fears was the composing
draught, prepared to check the consumptive cough--the elixir to
sustain the failing principles of vitality. How is it that we dare to
kindle an unhallowed flame, even on the ashes of decaying mortality? I
left the chamber, and retired to my own. I knew not in what manner to
act. I endeavoured to reflect on what I ought to do. Alice and myself
could not live long under the same roof, yet how could I bid her
depart, or betray her to my husband? I could not believe such feelings
could be excited in her without sufficient encouragement. I laid
myself down on the bed, and wished I might never rise again. I closed
my eyes, and prayed that the dark fillet of night might rest on them
again and forevermore. My cheeks burned as with consuming fire, but it
was in my heart. When Clinton returned, not finding me in the
drawing-room, he sought me in my own chamber. He seemed really alarmed
at my situation. He forgot all his former constraint, and hung over me
with a tenderness and anxiety that might have proved to me how dear I
was. He sat by me, holding my burning hand, and uttering every
endearing expression affection could suggest. Melted by his caresses,
I yearned to unbosom to him my whole heart--my pride, my jealousy was
subdued. I endeavoured to speak, but the words died on my tongue.
Confused images flitted across my brain--then came a dreary blank. For
weeks I lay on that bed of sickness, unconscious of everything around
me. My recovery was for a long time doubtful--but when I at last
opened my languid eyes, they rested on the face of my husband, who had
kept his unwearied vigils by my pillow, and still he held my feeble
hand in his, as if he had never unloosed his clasp. He looked pale and
wan, but a ray of divine joy flashed from his eye as he met my glance
of recognition.
Humbled and chastened by this visitation from heaven, renovated by the
warm and gracious influences exerted for my restoration, animated by
new-born hope, I rose from my sick-bed. The vulture had unloosened its
fangs, and the dove once more returned to its nest. I could even pity
the misguided girl who had caused me so much unhappiness. I treated
her with a kindness, of late very unwonted--but she evidently shunned
my companionship, and in proportion as my spirits rose from the weight
that had crushed them to the dust, hers became depressed and fitful.
Let me hurry on--I linger too long on feelings. Few events have marked
my brief history, yet some have left traces that all the waves of time
can never wash out.
It was Sunday--it was the first time I had attended church since my
illness. My husband accompanied me, while Alice, as usual, remained at
home. The preacher was eloquent--the music sweet and solemn--the
aspirations of faith warm and kindling. I had never before felt such a
glow of gratitude and trust; and while my mind was in this state of
devout abstraction, Clinton whispered to me that he was obliged to
withdraw a short time, to visit a patient who was dangerously
sick--"but I will return," said he, "to accompany you home." My
thoughts were brought back to earth by this interruption, and wandered
from the evangelical eloquence of the pulpit. The services were
unusually long, and my head began to ache from the effort of
listening. I experienced the lingering effects of sickness, and
feeling that dimness of sight come over me, which was a never-failing
symptom of a malady of the brain, I left the church, and returned
home, without waiting for the coming of my husband. When I crossed the
threshold, my spirit was free from a shadow of suspicion. I had been
in an exalted mood--I felt as if I had been sitting under the
outspread wings of the cherubim, and had brought away with me some
faint reflection of the celestial glory. I was conscious of being in a
high state of nervous excitement. The reaction produced by the
unexpected scene that presented itself, was, in consequence, more
terrible. There, on a sofa, half supported in the arms of my husband,
whose hand she was grasping with a kind of convulsive energy, her hair
unbound and wet, and exhaling the odorous essence with which it had
been just bathed, sat Alice, and the words that passed her lips, as I
entered, at first unperceived by them, were these--"Never, never--she
hates me--she must ever hate me." I stood transfixed--the expression
of my countenance must have been awful, for they looked as if
confronted by an avenging spirit. Alice actually shrieked, and her
pale features writhed, as the scroll when the scorching blaze comes
near it. My resolution was instantaneous. I waited not for
explanations--the scene to my mind admitted none. The sudden
withdrawal of my husband from church, upon the pretence of an errand
of duty, the singular agitation of Alice--all that I saw and heard,
filled me with the most maddening emotions--all the ties of wedded
love seemed broken and withered, at once, like the withes that bound
the awakening giant. "Clinton," exclaimed I, "you have deceived
me--but it is for the last time." Before he could reply, or arrest my
motions, I was gone. The carriage was still at the door. "Drive me to
my father's, directly," was all I could utter, and it was done.
Swiftly the carriage rolled on--I thought I heard my name borne after
me on the wind, but I looked not behind. I felt strong in the
conviction of my wrongs. It would have been weakness to have wept. My
scorn of such duplicity lifted me above mere sorrow. It was in the
gloom of twilight when I reached my father's door. I rushed into the
drawing-room, and found myself in the arms of my brother. "Cecilia, my
sister! what brings you here?" He was alarmed at my sudden entrance,
and through the dusky shade he could discover the wild flashing of my
eyes, the disorder of my whole appearance. The presence of human
sympathy softened the sternness of my despair. Tears gushed violently
forth. I tried to explain to him my wretchedness and its cause, but
could only exclaim, "Clinton, Alice, cruel, deliberate deceivers!"
Henry bit his lip, and ground his teeth till their ivory was tinged
with blood, but he made no comments. He spoke then with his usual
calmness, and urged me to retire to my chamber, and compose myself
before my father's return. He almost carried me there in his arms,
soothing and comforting me. He called for an attendant, again
whispered the duty and necessity of self-control, then left me,
promising a speedy return. I watched for the footsteps of Henry, but
hour after hour passed away, and he returned not. I asked the servants
where he had gone? They knew not. I asked myself, and something told
me, in an awful voice--"Gone to avenge thee." The moment this idea
flashed into my mind, I felt as if I were a murderess. I would
convince myself of the truth. I knew my brother's chamber--thither I
ran, and drawing back the bed curtains, looked for the silver mounted
pistols that always hung over the bed's head. They were gone--and a
coat dashed hastily on the counterpane, a pocket-book fallen on the
carpet, all denoted a hurried departure on some fatal errand. The
agony I had previously suffered was light to what pierced me now. To
follow him was my only impulse. I rushed out of the house--it was a
late hour in the evening--there was no moon in the sky, and I felt the
dampness of the falling dew, as I flew, with uncovered head, like an
unblessed spirit, through the darkness. My brain began to be thronged
with wild images. It seemed to me, legions of dark forms were impeding
my steps. "Oh! let me pass," cried I, "it is my husband and brother I
have slain. Let me pass," continued I, shrieking, for an arm of flesh
and blood was thrown around me, and held me struggling. "Gracious
heavens, it is the voice of my Cecilia!" It was my father that spoke.
I remember that I recognised him, and that was all. My cries were
changed to cries of madness. I was borne back raving. The malady that
had so recently brought me to the door of the grave, had renewed its
attack with increased malignancy. My brain had been too much weakened
to bear the tension of its agony. For long months I was confined
within my chamber walls, sometimes tossing in delirious anguish, at
others lying in marble unconsciousness, an image of the death they
prayed might soon release me from my sufferings. They prayed that I
might die, rather than be doomed to a living death. But I lived--lived
to know the ruin I had wrought.
My father was a man of majestic person, and time had scarcely touched
his raven locks. His hair was now profusely silvered, and there were
lines on his brow which age never furrowed. It was long before I
learned all that had transpired during this fearful chasm in my
existence, but gradually the truth was revealed. All that I was at
first told, was, that my husband and brother lived--then, when it was
supposed I had sufficient strength to bear the agitation, this letter
from my husband was given me.
"Cecilia, how shall I address you? I will not reproach you, for you
have had too bitter a lesson. I would fain have seen you before my
departure, but you decline the interview, and perhaps it is well.
Should I live to return--Oh! Cecilia, what wretchedness have you
brought upon us all! If your alienated heart does not turn from any
memento of me, you will read these lines, and I know you will believe
them. I have been, as it were, to the very threshold of the
presence-chamber of the King of Kings, and am just emerging from the
shadows of approaching death. This is the first effort of my feeble
hand. Most rash and misjudging woman, what have you done? How madly
have I doted on you, how blindly have I worshipped! yet all the
devotion of my life, my truth, love and integrity, weighed nothing in
the balance with one moment's mystery. I leave my vindication to
Alice. She will not deceive you. She will tell you that never did the
heart of man throb with a more undivided passion for another than mine
for you. She will tell you--but what avails it? You have cast me from
you, unvalued and untrusted. Your poor, unhappy brother! his avenging
hand sought my life--the life of him who he believed had betrayed his
sister's happiness, the wretch almost unworthy of a brave man's
resentment. In wresting the weapon from his frenzied grasp, I received
an almost deadly wound. His wrath was slaked in my blood. He believes
me innocent. He has been to me more than a brother. He will accompany
me to another clime, whither I am going, to try the effect of more
genial air on my shattered frame. Would to God we could have met
before we parted--perhaps for ever. Your father says you have been
ill, that you fear the effect of the meeting on both. You have been
ill--my ever adored, still tenderly beloved Cecilia, I write not to
reproach you. Bitter is the penalty paid for one moment of passion.
Had I ever swerved in my affection for you, even in thought, I should
deserve all I have suffered. I recall your sadness, your coldness, and
averted looks. I now know the cause, and mourn over it. Why did you
not confide in me? We might yet have been happy--but the will of God
be done. The vessel waits that is to bear us to a transatlantic
clime--farewell. Should I return, bearing with me some portion of my
former vigour, should your confidence in my love be restored, then,
perchance, through the mercy of heaven, two chastened and humble
hearts may once more be united on earth. If I am never permitted to
revisit my native soil, if I die in a foreign land, know, that,
faithful to you to my latest hour, my last thought, prayer, and sigh,
will be yours."
* * * * *