another land, and the blood that was drained from him on my soul. My
father forbade him to see me--he was too feeble to bear the shock of
beholding me in the condition I then was. My real situation was
concealed from him. The only means of making the prohibition
effectual, was to word it as proceeding from myself. Thus, he believed
me cold and selfish to the last. My father talked to me of better
days, of the hope of my husband's speedy restoration, and of our
future reunion. I could only listen and weep. I dared not murmur. I
felt too deeply the justice of the judgment the Almighty had passed
against me. I had one ordeal yet to pass--an interview with Alice. She
also was under my father's roof, confined by increasing debility to
her own apartment. As soon as my strength allowed, I made it a
religious duty to visit the poor invalid. I was shocked to see the
ravages of her malady. Her eye of glassy brightness turned on me with
such a look of woe and remorse, it cut me to the heart. I took the
pale thin hand she extended towards me, and burst into tears. Yes! I
saw it but too clearly. Here was another victim. The steps of the
destroyer were fearfully accelerated. She had had a profuse hemorrhage
from the lungs, and her voice was so weak and husky, it was with
difficulty I could understand her. She drew me down near to her
pillow, and, placing my hand on her heart, said, in a careful
whisper--"Remorse, Cecilia, it is here. It is this which gives the
sting to death." She then drew from beneath her pillow a paper that
she had written for me, which she begged me to read when I was alone.
I did read it. It was the transcript of a warm, romantic heart, erring
and misguided, yet even in its aberrations discovering an innate love
for virtue and truth. Her whole soul was bared before me--all her
love, imprudence, and remorse. She described my husband as an angel of
light and purity, soaring high above the clouds of passion that
gathered darkly around herself. She spoke of that scene, followed by
such irremediable woe. "Even now," continued Alice, "wasting as I am
on the bed of death, with the shadows of earthly feeling dimly
floating round me, knowing that I shall soon turn to cold, impassive
clay, the memory of that hour presses with scorching weight on my
brain. I must have been mad. Surely I had not the control of my
reason. I had taken the previous night an unusual quantity of opium,
which, instead of composing me to sleep, had excited my nerves, and
strung them as with fire. Your husband came in only a short time
before your sudden entrance, evidently on some errand; and though he
kindly paused to speak to me, his looks expressed haste to depart.
Just as he was about to leave the room, I was attacked with one of
those spasms you have sometimes witnessed. He came to my relief--he
administered every restorative. I know not all I uttered, but when I
recovered I remember many wild expressions that escaped my lips. It
seemed to me that I was going to die, and while his arms thus kindly
supported me, I felt as if it would be joy to die. With this
conviction, was it so black a crime to breathe forth the love that had
so long pervaded my frail and lonely existence? Cecilia, he recoiled
from me with horror. He proclaimed his inviolable love and devotion
for you--his glance was stern and upbraiding. Then seeing me sinking
in despair, the kindness of his nature triumphed, and he sought to
calm my overwrought and troubled spirit. He expressed the affection of
a brother, the pity of a friend, the admonitions of a Christian.
"Above all," said he, "make a friend of Cecilia. She will always
cherish you with a sister's love." "Never!" I exclaimed, "she hates
me, she must ever hate me." The vision of an injured wife arrested my
unhallowed accents. You know the dreadful tragedy that followed. Never
since that hour have I had one moment's calm. Conscience, with her
thousand scorpions, lashes me--whether sleeping or waking there is no
rest. 'There is no peace,' saith my God, 'to the wicked,' Yet mine was
not deliberate guilt. Had I only wrecked my own happiness!--but the
wide desolation, the irretrievable ruin! I shudder, I weep, I lift my
feeble hands to that Power whose laws I have transgressed, and pray
for pardon. To you, whose home of love I have laid waste, dare I turn
my fading eyes, and hope for forgiveness? To him whom I have driven
from his native land, shorn of the brightness of his manhood--Oh!
sinful dust and ashes"----here the unhappy writer broke off--the blank
was stained with tears. Probably in that broken sentence the embers of
passion flashed out their last fires, through the "dust and ashes" of
withering mortality. Poor Alice! may'st thou be forgiven by a merciful
Creator as freely as thou art by me. Gentle be thy passage through the
valley of the shadow of death, to that country where no storms
desolate the heart, where passion and penitence are unknown. As for
me--why and for what do I live? For hope or despair? I pray for
tidings from the beloved exiles, yet dread to receive them. If the
night gale sweeps with hasty gust against the window, I tremble lest
they be exposed to the stormy deep. When I gaze on the moon and stars,
I ask myself if they are lighting the wanderers on their homeward way,
and sometimes gather hope from their heavenly brightness.
The manuscript of Cecilia here abruptly closes. It has fallen to the
lot of one who afterwards became the devoted friend of Clinton, to
relate the sequel of their melancholy history.
"It was in the spring of the year 18----, I was sitting on the deck,
watching the rapid motion of the boat, as it glided over the waves,
thinking earnestly of the place of my destination, when I first beheld
Cecilia, the wife of Clinton. I was a stranger on board, and gazed
around me with that indefinite expression, which marks the stranger to
the experienced eye. At length my glance was riveted by the appearance
of a lady, leaning on the arm of a gray-haired gentleman, slowly
promenading the deck. They passed and repassed me, while I continued
to lean over the railing, fearing, by a change of position, to disturb
the silent strangers. There was something in the figure of the lady
inexpressibly interesting. She wore a mourning-dress, and her eyes
were covered with a green shade. Notwithstanding her face was thus
partially obscured, the most exquisite beauty of outline and colouring
was visible I ever saw in any human countenance. She wore no bonnet or
veil, for the sun was verging towards the west, and its rays stole
soft and mellow over the golden waters. Fair and meek as the virgin
mother's was the brow that rose above the silken screen, defined with
beauteous distinctness by dark, divided hair, whose luxuriance was
confined by a golden band. At length they seated themselves very near
me, and began to converse in a low tone. There was a melancholy
sweetness in her accents, and I was sure they were speaking of some
sorrowful theme. We were now entering the ---- bay, and the boat
rocked and laboured as she plunged through the increased volume of the
waters. Now, just visible on the glowing horizon, was the topmast of a
vessel. On she came, with sails full spread, her canvas swelling in
the breeze, her majestic outline softened by the sunset hues. The
gentleman pointed out the object to his companion, who lifted the
shade from her brow, revealing as she did so, eyes of such melting
softness, I wondered I had thought her lovely before. She pressed the
arm of the gentleman, and gazed eagerly on the vessel which now bore
down 'majestically near.' She rose, she bent forward with earnest
gestures, her face kindled, and sparkled like the waters themselves.
The ship approached so near we could discern figures on the deck. The
boat had diverged from her path to give place to the nobler craft. She
was sailing with great rapidity, and the noise of the engine and the
dashing of the waves drowned the sound of the voices near me. I began
to feel a strange interest in the vessel on which the eyes of the
strangers were so earnestly riveted. Amid the figures that walked her
deck, I distinguished one, which was aloof from the others, of a more
lofty bearing--a cloak was gathered round him, and from this
circumstance, together with his extremely pallid complexion, I judged
him to be an invalid. From the rapid motion of both vessels, it was
but a glance I obtained, after we were near enough to trace these
lineaments. At this moment the lady sprang upon the bench beneath the
railing--she stretched forth her arms, with a startling cry. I saw her
for an instant, bending far over the edge of the boat. I rose and
rushed towards her to warn her of her danger, but a plunging sound in
the water, that closed darkly over her sinking form, froze my veins
with horror. 'Oh! my God!' exclaimed the father, 'save her! My
daughter! Oh, my daughter!' then fell back, almost paralyzed, on the
seat. To throw off my coat and plunge in after the ill-fated lady, in
whom I had become so painfully interested, was an instantaneous deed.
Alas! all my efforts were unavailing. The current was so powerful, I
found it in vain to struggle with its force. I relaxed not, however,
till my failing strength warned me that I was seeking a grave for
myself, without being able to rescue the victim for whom I had
willingly periled my life.
"I will not attempt to describe the grief of the half-distracted
father. I never left him till he reached his own home. What a scene of
agony awaited him there! The husband and brother, so long absent, were
returned, yearning to behold once more that beloved being, whose
involuntary sin had been so fearfully expiated. It was Clinton whom I
had seen on the vessel's deck. As he afterwards told me, the dazzle of
the rays on the water, in that direction, had prevented him from
distinguishing the features for ever engraven on his heart. The hoarse
sound of the waves swallowed her drowning shriek--onward they bore
him, and he saw not the fond arms that would have embraced him, even
over that watery chasm. I have witnessed many a scene of sorrow, but
never saw I one like this. From the peculiar circumstances that
brought us together, I became almost identified with this unhappy
family. Clinton was the most interesting man I ever saw. He was a
confirmed invalid, never having recovered from the effects of his
wound. I never saw a smile upon his face, nor could I ever smile in
his presence. He seldom spoke, and never but once did he mention the
name of Cecilia. It was one night when he was unusually ill, and I was
sitting alone with him in his chamber. He gave me the manuscript for
perusal which is here transcribed, an act of confidence he considered
due to me, who would have been her saviour. Through the watches of
that night he poured into my ear the hoarded agonies of his grief.
Never before did I know how deep human sorrow could be, or how holy
was that love which clings to the memory of the dead.
"Alice dwelt in 'the dark and narrow house.' She was spared the
knowledge of the fatal catastrophe, for she died before her victim.
Yes--_her victim_! Had she guarded against the first inroads of a
forbidden passion, there might have been 'beauty for ashes, the oil of
joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of
heaviness.' The angel form that lies low, wrapped in the winding-sheet
of the waves, might now be moving in the light of loveliness, love,
and joy. But who shall dare to arraign the doings of the Almighty?"
THE PARLOUR SERPENT.
Mrs. Wentworth and Miss Hart entered the breakfast-room together, the
latter speaking earnestly and in a low confidential tone to the other,
whose countenance was slightly discomposed.
"There is nothing that provokes me so much as to hear such remarks,"
said Miss Hart, "I have no patience to listen to them. Indeed, I think
they are made as much to wound my feelings as anything else, for they
all know the great affection I have for you."
"But you do not say what the remarks were, that gave you so much
pain," answered Mrs. Wentworth. "I would much prefer that you would
tell me plainly, than speak in such vague hints. You will not make me
angry, for I am entirely indifferent to the opinion of the world."
Now there was not a woman in the world more sensitively alive to
censure than Mrs. Wentworth, and in proportion to her sensitiveness,
was her anxiety to know the observations of others.
"If you had overheard Miss Bentley and Miss Wheeler talking of you
last night as I did," continued Miss Hart, "you would not have
believed your own ears. They said they thought it was ridiculous in
you to make such a nun of yourself, because Captain Wentworth was
absent, and to dress so plain and look so moping. One of them said,
you did not dare to visit or receive visiters while he was away, for
that you were as much afraid of him as if you were his slave, and that
he had made you promise not to stir out of the house, or to invite any
company while he was gone."
"Ridiculous!--nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, "there never was
such an absurd idea. Captain Wentworth never imposed such a restraint
upon me, though I know he would rather I would live retired, when he
cannot attend me himself in the gay world. It is not despotism, but
affection, that prompts the wish, and I am sure I feel no pleasure in
dressing, shining, and mingling in society, when he is exposed to
danger, and perhaps death, on the far deep sea."
"I know all that, my dear Mrs. Wentworth," replied Miss Hart,
insinuatingly, "and so I told them; but how little can a heartless and
censorious world judge of the feelings of the refined and the
sensitive! It seems to be a general impression that you fear your
husband more than you love him, and that this fear keeps you in a kind
of bondage to his will. If I were you, I would invite a large party
and make it as brilliant as possible, and be myself as gay as
possible, and then that will be giving the lie at once to their
innuendoes."
"It is so mortifying to have such reports in circulation," said Mrs.
Wentworth, her colour becoming more and more heightened and her voice
more tremulous. "I don't care what they say at all, and yet I am half
resolved to follow your advice, if it were only to vex them. I _will_
do it, and let them know that I am not afraid to be mistress of my own
house while its master is absent."
"That is exactly the right spirit," answered the delighted Miss Hart;
"I am glad you take it in that way. I was afraid your feelings would
be wounded, and that is the reason I was so unwilling to tell you."
But though Mrs. Wentworth boasted of her spirit and her indifference,
her feelings were deeply wounded, and she sat at the breakfast-table,
cutting her toast into the most minute pieces, without tasting any,
while Miss Hart was regaling herself with an unimpaired appetite, and
luxuriating in fancy on the delightful party, she had so skilfully
brought into promised existence, at least. She had no idea of spending
the time of her visit to Mrs. Wentworth, in dullness and seclusion,
sympathizing in the anxieties of a fond and timid wife, and listening
to a detail of domestic plans and enjoyments. She knew the weak side
of her character, and mingling the gall she extracted from others,
with the honey of her own flattery, and building her influence on
their ruined reputations, imagined it firm and secure on such a
crumbling foundation. It is unnecessary to dwell on the genealogy of
Miss Hart. She was well known as Miss Hart, and yet it would be very
difficult for anybody to tell precisely who Miss Hart was. She was a
general visiter; one of those young ladies who are always ready to
fill up any sudden vacuum made in a family--a kind of bird of
passage, who, having no abiding place of her own, went fluttering
about, generally resting where she could find the softest and most
comfortable nest. She was what was called _excellent company_, always
had something new and interesting to say about everybody; then she
knew so many secrets, and had the art of exciting a person's curiosity
so keenly, and making them dissatisfied with everybody but herself, it
would be impossible to follow all the windings, or discover all the
nooks and corners of her remarkable character. It was astonishing to
see the influence she acquired over the minds of those with whom she
associated, male as well as female. She was a showy, well-dressing,
attractive-looking girl, with a great deal of manner, a large,
piercing, dark eye, and an uncommonly sweet and persuasive tone of
voice. Mrs. Wentworth became acquainted with her a very short time
before Captain Wentworth's departure, and esteemed it a most
delightful privilege to have such a pleasing companion to charm away
the lingering hours of his absence. Acting upon the suggestions of her
friend, and following up the determination she had so much applauded,
she opened her doors to visiters, and appeared in society with a gay
dress and smiling countenance.
"What a change there is in Mrs. Wentworth!" observed Miss Bentley to
Miss Hart, as they met one morning at the house of a mutual friend. "I
never saw any one so transformed in my life. She looks and dresses
like the most complete flirt I ever saw; I suspect Captain Wentworth
has very good reason to watch her as he does."
Miss Hart shrugged her shoulders and smiled significantly, but did not
say anything.
"It must be a very pleasant alteration to you," continued Miss
Bentley, "the house seems to be frequented by gentlemen from morning
till night. I suppose you have the grace to appropriate their visits
to yourself."
"I have nothing to say about myself," answered Miss Hart, "and I do
not wish to speak of Mrs. Wentworth otherwise than kindly. You know
she is excessively kind to me, and it would be ungrateful in me to
condemn her conduct. To be sure I must have my own thoughts on the
subject. She is certainly very imprudent, and too fond of admiration.
But I would not have you repeat what I have said, for the world, for
being in the family it would have such weight. Be very careful what
you say, and above all, don't mention _my_ name."
Miss Bentley was very careful to repeat the remarks to every one she
saw, with as many additions of her own as she pleased, and the
unutterable language of the smile and the shrug was added too, to give
force to the comments. Mrs. Wentworth, in the mean while, unconscious
of the serpent she was nursing in her bosom, suffered herself to be
borne along on the current on which she had thoughtlessly embarked,
without the power to arrest her progress, or turn back into the quiet
channel she had quitted. The arrival of her brother, a gay and
handsome young man, gave additional animation to her household, and
company flowed in still more continuously. Henry More, the brother of
Mrs. Wentworth, was the favourite of every circle in which he moved.
With an uncommon flow of spirits, a ready and graceful wit, a fluent
and flattering tongue, he mingled in society unaffected by its
contrasts, unwounded by its asperities, and unruffled by its
contentions. He seemed to revel in the happy consciousness of being
able to impart pleasure to all, and was equally willing to receive it.
He was delighted to find a fine-looking, amiable girl, an inmate of
his sister's dwelling, and immediately addressing her in his
accustomed strain of sportive gallantry, found that she not only lent
a willing ear, but was well skilled in the same language. Though Miss
Hart was still young, she had outlived the romance and credulity of
youth. She had a precocious experience and wisdom in the ways of this
world. She had seen the affections of many a young man, with a
disposition open and ingenuous as Henry's, won through the medium of
their vanity, by women, too, who could not boast of attractions equal
to her own. She believed that juxtaposition could work miracles, and
as long as they were the inmates of the same house, participating in
the same pleasures, engaged in the same pursuits, and often perusing
the same book, she feared no rival. She rejoiced, too, in the
close-drawing socialities of the winter fireside, and delighted when a
friendly storm compelled them to find all their enjoyment within their
own little circle. Mrs. Wentworth, who had once been cheerful and
serene in clouds as well as sunshine, was now subject to fits of
despondency and silence. It was only when excited by company, that her
eyes were lighted up with animation, and her lips with smiles. She
dreaded the reproaches of her husband on his return, for acting so
contrary to his wishes, and when she heard the night-gust sweep by
her windows, and thought of him exposed to the warring elements,
perhaps even then clinging to the drifting wreck, or floating in a
watery grave, and recollected the scenes of levity and folly in which
she was now constantly acting a part, merely to avoid the censures of
the very people she detested and despised, she sighed and wept, and
wished she had followed her bosom counsellor, rather than the
suggestions of the friend in whom she still confided, and on whose
affection she relied with unwavering trust. It was strange, she could
hear Miss Hart ridicule others, and join in the laugh; she could sit
quietly and see her breathe the subtle venom of slander over the
fairest characters, till they blackened and became polluted under her
touch, and yet she felt herself as secure as if she were placed on the
summit of Mont Blanc, in a region of inaccessible purity and
splendour. So blinding is the influence of self-love, pampered by
flattery, strengthened by indulgence, and unrestrained by religious
principle.
One evening, and it chanced to be the evening of the Sabbath day,
Henry sat unusually silent, and Miss Hart thought that his eyes were
fixed upon her face with a very deep and peculiar expression--"No," he
suddenly exclaimed, "I never saw such a countenance in my life."
"What do you see so remarkable in it?" asked she, laughing, delighted
at what she supposed a spontaneous burst of admiration.
"I don't know; I can no more describe it, than one of those soft,
fleecy clouds that roll melting away from the face of the moon. But it
haunts me like a dream."
Miss Hart modestly cast down her eyes, then turned them towards the
moon, which at that moment gleamed with pallid lustre through the
window.
"Your imagination is so glowing," replied she, "that it invests, like
the moonlight, every object with its own mellow and beautiful tints."
"Jane," continued he, without noticing the compliment to his
imagination, and turning to his sister, who was reading intently,
"Jane, you must have noticed her--you were at the same church."
"Noticed her!" repeated Miss Hart to herself, in utter dismay; "who
can he mean?"
"Noticed who?" said Mrs. Wentworth, laying down her book, "I have not
heard a syllable you have been saying."
"Why, that young lady dressed in black, with such a sweet, modest,
celestial expression of face. She sat at the right hand of the pulpit,
with another lady in mourning, who was very tall and pale."
"What coloured hair and eyes had she?" asked his sister.
"I could no more tell the colour of her eyes, than I could paint yon
twinkling star, or her hair either. I only know that they shed a kind
of glory over her countenance, and mantled her brow with the softest
and most exquisite shades."
"I declare, Henry," cried Mrs. Wentworth, "you are the most
extravagant being I ever knew. I don't know whether you are in jest or
earnest."
"Oh! you may be sure he is in earnest," said Miss Hart. "I know whom
he means very well. It is Miss Carroll. Lois Carroll, the
grand-daughter of old Mr. Carroll, the former minister of ---- church.
The old lady with whom she sat is her aunt. They live somewhere in the
suburbs of the city--but never go anywhere except to church. They say
she is the most complete little methodist in the world."
"What do you mean by a methodist?" asked Henry abruptly--"an
enthusiast?"
"One who never goes to the theatre, never attends the ballroom, thinks
it a sin to laugh, and goes about among poor people to give them
doctor's stuff, and read the Bible."