description. If ever I marry, I have no very great desire that my wife
should frequent the theatre or the ballroom. She might admire
artificial graces at the one and exhibit them in the other, but the
loveliest traits of her sex must fade and wither in the heated
atmosphere of both. And I am sure it is a divine office to go about
ministering to the wants of the poor and healing the sick. As to the
last item, I may not be a proper judge, but I do think a beautiful
woman reading the Bible to the afflicted and dying, must be the most
angelic object in the universe."
"Why, brother," said Mrs. Wentworth, "what a strange compound you are!
Such a rattle-brain as you, moralizing like a second Johnson!"
"I may be a wild rattle-brain, and sport like a thousand others in the
waves of fashion, but there is something here, Jane," answered he,
laying his hand half seriously, half sportively on his breast, "that
tells me that I was created for immortality; that, spendthrift of
time, I am still bound for eternity. I have often pictured the
future, in my musing hours, and imagined a woman's gentle hand was
guiding me in the path that leads to heaven."
Mrs. Wentworth looked at her brother in astonishment. There was
something in the solemnity of his expressions that alarmed her, coming
from one so gay and apparently thoughtless. Miss Hart was alarmed too,
but from a different cause. She thought it time to aim her shaft, and
she knew in what course to direct it.
"This Miss Carroll," said she, "whom you admire so much, has lately
lost her lover, to whom she was devotedly attached. He was her cousin,
and they had been brought up together from childhood, and betrothed
from that period. She nursed him during a long sickness, day and
night, and many thought she would follow him to the grave, her grief
was so great."
"Her lover!" exclaimed Henry, in a mock tragedy tone. "Then it is all
over with me--I never would accept the second place in any maiden's
heart, even if I could be enshrined there in heaven's crystal. Give me
the rose before the sunbeams have exhaled the dew of the morning, or
it wears no charms for me."
Miss Hart and Mrs. Wentworth laughed, rallied Henry upon his heroics,
and the beautiful stranger was mentioned no more. Miss Hart
congratulated herself upon the master stroke by which she had
dispelled his enchantment, if indeed it existed at all. She had often
heard Henry declare his resolution never to marry a woman who had
acknowledged a previous affection, and she seized upon a vague report
of Miss Carroll's being in mourning for a cousin who had recently
died, and to whom she thought she might possibly be betrothed, and
presented it as a positive truth. Finding that Henry's ideas of female
perfection were very different from what she had imagined, she was not
sorry when an opportunity offered of displaying those domestic
virtues, which he so much extolled. One night, when Mrs. Wentworth was
prepared to attend a private ball, she expressed her wish to remain at
home, declaring that she was weary of dissipation, and preferred
reading and meditation. She expected Henry would steal away from the
party, and join her in the course of the evening, but her real motive
was a violent toothache, which she concealed that she might have the
credit of a voluntary act. After Mrs. Wentworth's departure, she bound
a handkerchief round her aching jaw, and having found relief from some
powerful anodyne, she reclined back on the sofa and fell at last into
a deep sleep. The candles burned dim from their long, unsnuffed wicks,
and threw a very dubious light through the spacious apartment. She was
awakened by a tall, dark figure, bending over her, with outspread
arms, as if about to embrace her, and starting up, her first thought
was that it was Henry, who had stolen on her solitude, and was about
to declare the love she had no doubt he secretly cherished for her.
But the figure drew back, with a sudden recoil, when she rose, and
uttered her name in a tone of disappointment.
"Captain Wentworth," exclaimed she, "is it you?"
"I beg your pardon," said he, extending his hand cordially towards
her, "I thought for a moment it was my wife, my Jane, Mrs.
Wentworth--where is she? Is she well? Why do I not see her here?"
"Oh! Captain Wentworth, she had no expectation of your coming so soon.
She is perfectly well. She is gone to a quadrille party, and will
probably not be at home for several hours--I will send for her
directly."
"No, Miss Hart," said he, in a cold and altered voice, "no, I would
not shorten her evening's amusement. A quadrille party--I thought she
had no taste for such pleasures."
"She seems to enjoy them very much," replied Miss Hart, "and it is
very natural she should. She is young and handsome, and very much
admired, and in your absence she found her own home comparatively
dull."
The captain rose, and walked the room with a sailor's manly stride.
His brows were knit, his lips compressed, and his cheek flushed. She
saw the iron of jealousy was entering his soul, and she went on
mercilessly deepening the wound she had made.
"You will be delighted when you see Mrs. Wentworth--she looks so
blooming and lovely. You have reason to be quite proud of your
wife--she is the belle of every party and ball-room. I think it is
well that you have returned." This she added, with an arch, innocent
smile, though she knew every word she uttered penetrated like a
dagger, where he was most vulnerable. "How thoughtless I am!" she
exclaimed; "you must be weary and hungry--I will order your supper."
"No, no," said he, "I have no appetite--I will not trouble you. Don't
disturb yourself on my account--I will amuse myself with a book till
she returns."
He sat down and took up a book, but his eyes were fixed moodily on
the carpet, and his hands trembled as he unconsciously turned the
leaves. Miss Hart suffered occasional agony from her tooth, the more
as she had taken off the disfiguring bandage, but she would not
retire, anticipating with a kind of savage delight, the unpleasant
scene that would ensue on Mrs. Wentworth's return. The clock struck
twelve before the carriage stopped at the door. Mrs. Wentworth came
lightly into the room, unaccompanied by her brother, her cloak falling
from her shoulders, her head uncovered, most fashionably and elegantly
dressed. She did not see her husband when she first entered, and
throwing her cloak on a chair, exclaimed, "Oh! Miss Hart, I'm so sorry
you were not there, we had such a delightful party--the pleasantest of
the whole season." Her eye at this moment fell upon her husband, who
had risen upon her entrance, but stood back in the shade, without
making one step to meet her. With a scream of surprise, joy, and
perhaps terror too, she rushed towards him, and threw her arms around
him. He suffered her clinging arms to remain round his neck for a
moment while he remained as passive as the rock on the seabeat shore
when the white foam wreathes and curls over its surface, then drawing
back, he looked her steadfastly in the face, with a glance that made
her own to quail, and her lip and cheek blanch. She looked down upon
her jewelled neck and airy robes, and wished herself clothed in
sackcloth and ashes. She began to stammer forth some excuse for her
absence, something about his unexpected return, but the sentence died
on her lips. The very blood seemed to congeal in her heart, under the
influence of his freezing glance.
"Don't say anything, Jane," said he, sternly. "It is better as it
is--I had deluded myself with the idea, that in all my dangers and
hardships, to which I have exposed myself chiefly for your sake, I had
a fond and faithful wife, who pined at my absence and yearned for my
return. I was not aware of the new character you had assumed. No,"
continued he impetuously, entirely forgetful of the presence of Miss
Hart "I was not prepared for a welcome like this. I expected to have
met a wife--not a flirt, a belle, a vain, false-hearted, deceitful
woman." Thus saying, he suddenly left the room, closing the door with
a force that made every article of the furniture tremble. Mrs.
Wentworth, bursting into hysterical sobs, was about to rush after him,
but Miss Hart held her back--"Don't be a fool," said she; "he'll get
over it directly-you've done nothing at which he ought to be angry; I
had no idea he was such a tyrant."
"He was always kind to me before," sobbed Mrs. Wentworth. "He thinks
my heart is weaned from him. Now, I wish I had disregarded the sneer
of the world! It can never repay me for the loss of his love."
"My dear Mrs. Wentworth," said Miss Hart, putting her arms soothingly
round her, "I feel for you deeply, but I hope you will not reproach
yourself unnecessarily, or suffer your husband to suppose you condemn
your own conduct. If you do, he will tyrannize over you, through
life--what possible harm could there be in your going to a private
party with your own brother, when you did not look for his return? You
have taken no more liberty than every married lady in the city would
have done, and a husband who really loved his wife, would be pleased
and gratified that she should be an object of attention and admiration
to others. Come, dry up your tears, and exert the pride and spirit
every woman of delicacy and sense should exercise on such occasions."
Mrs. Wentworth listened, and the natural pride and waywardness of the
human heart strengthening the counsels of her treacherous companion,
her sorrow and contrition became merged in resentment. She resolved to
return coldness for coldness and scorn for scorn, to seek no
reconciliation, nor even to grant it, until he humbly sued for her
forgiveness. The husband and wife met at the breakfast-table without
speaking. Henry was unusually taciturn, and the whole burthen of
keeping up the conversation rested on Miss Hart, who endeavoured to
entertain and enliven the whole. Captain Wentworth, who had all the
frankness and politeness of a sailor, unbent his stern brow when he
addressed her, and it was in so kind a voice, that the tears started
into his wife's eyes at the sound. He had no words, no glance for her,
from whom he had been parted so long, and whom he had once loved so
tenderly. Henry, who had been absorbed in his own reflections, and who
had not been present at their first meeting, now noticed the silence
of his sister, and the gloom of her husband, and looking from one to
the other, first in astonishment, and then in mirth, he exclaimed,
"Well, I believe I shall remain a bachelor, if this is a specimen of a
matrimonial meeting. Jane looks as if she were doing penance for the
sins of her whole life, and Captain Wentworth as if he were about to
give a broadside's thunder. What has happened? Miss Hart resembles a
beam of sunshine between two clouds."
Had Henry been aware of the real state of things, he would never have
indulged his mirth at the expense of his sister's feelings. He had no
suspicion that the clouds to which he alluded, arose from estrangement
from each other, and when Mrs. Wentworth burst into tears and left the
table, and Captain Wentworth set back his chair so suddenly as to
upset the teaboard and produce a terrible crash among the china, the
smile forsook his lips, and, turning to the captain in rather an
authoritative manner, he demanded an explanation.
"Ask your sister," answered the captain, "and she may give it--as for
me, sir, my feelings are not to be made a subject of unfeeling
merriment. They have been already too keenly tortured, and should at
least be sacred from your jest. But one thing let me tell you, sir, if
you had had more regard to your sister's reputation, than to have
escorted her to scenes of folly and corruption during her husband's
absence, you might perhaps have spared me the misery I now endure."
"Do you threaten me, Captain Wentworth?" said Henry, advancing nearer
to him with a flushed brow and raised tone. Miss Hart here interposed,
and begged and entreated, and laid her hand on Henry's arm, and looked
softly and imploringly at Captain Wentworth, who snatched up his hat
and left the room, leaving Henry angry, distressed, and bewildered.
Miss Hart explained the whole as the most causeless and ridiculous
jealousy, which would soon pass away and was not worth noticing, and
urged him to treat the matter as unworthy of indignation. She feared
she had carried matters a little too far; she had no wish that they
should fight, and Henry, perhaps, fall a victim to excited passions.
She was anxious to allay the storm she had raised, and she succeeded
in preventing the outbreakings of wrath, but she could not restore the
happiness she had destroyed, the domestic peace she had disturbed, the
love and confidence she had so wantonly invaded. Nor did she desire
it. Incapable herself of feeling happiness from the evil passions that
reigned in her bosom, she looked upon the bliss of others as a
personal injury to herself; and where the flowers were fairest and the
hopes the brightest, she loved to trample and shed her blasting
influence. As the serpent goes trailing its dark length through the
long grasses and sweet blossoms that veil its path, silent and deadly,
she glided amid the sacred shades of domestic life, darting in ambush
her venomed sting, and winding her coil in the very bosoms that
warmed and caressed her. She now flitted about, describing what she
called the best and most ridiculous scene imaginable; and the names of
Captain Wentworth and his wife were bandied from lip to lip, one
speaking of _him_ as a tyrant, a bear, a domestic tiger--another of
_her_ as a heartless devotee of fashion, or a contemner of the laws of
God and man. Most truly has it been said in holy writ, that the tongue
of the slanderer is set on fire of hell, nor can the waters of the
multitudinous sea quench its baleful flames. One evening Henry was
returning at a late hour from the country, and passing a mansion in
the outskirts of the city, whose shaded walls and modest situation
called up ideas of domestic comfort and retirement; he thought it
might be the residence of Miss Carroll, for, notwithstanding Miss
Hart's damper, he had not forgotten her. He passed the house very
slowly, gazing at one illuminated window, over which a white muslin
curtain softly floated, and wishing he could catch another glimpse of
a countenance that haunted him, as he said, like a dream. All was
still, and he passed on, through a narrow alley that shortened his
way. At the end of the alley was a small, low dwelling, where a light
still glimmered, and the door being partially open, he heard groans
and wailing sounds, indicating distress within. He approached the
door, thinking he might render relief or assistance, and stood at the
threshold, gazing on the unexpected scene presented to his view. On a
low seat, not far from the door, sat a young lady, in a loose white
robe, thrown around her in evident haste and disorder, her hair partly
knotted up behind and partly falling in golden waves on her shoulders,
holding in her lap a child of about three years old, from whose
bandaged head the blood slowly oozed and dripped down on her snowy
dress--one hand was placed tenderly under the wounded head, the other
gently wiped away the stains from its bloody brow. A woman, whose
emaciated features and sunken eyes spoke the ravages of consumption,
sat leaning against the wall, gazing with a ghastly expression on the
little sufferer, whose pains she had no power to relieve, and a little
boy about ten years of age stood near her, weeping bitterly. Here was
a scene of poverty, and sickness, and distress that baffled
description, and in the midst appeared the outlines of that fair
figure, like a descended angel of mercy, sent down to console the
sorrows of humanity.
"This was a dreadful accident," said the young lady, "dreadful,"
raising her head as she spoke, and shading back her hair, revealing at
the same time the heavenly countenance which had once before beamed on
Henry's gaze. It was Lois Carroll, true to the character Miss Hart had
sarcastically given her, a ministering spirit of compassion and
benevolence.
"She will die," said the poor mother, "she'll never get over such a
blow as that. She fell with such force, and struck her head on such a
dangerous part too. Well, why should I wish her to live, when I must
leave her behind so soon?"
"The doctor said there was some hope," answered the fair Lois, in a
sweet, soothing voice, "and if it is God's will that she should
recover, you ought to bless Him for it, and trust Him who feedeth the
young ravens when they cry to Him for food. Lie down and compose
yourself to rest. I will remain here through the night, and nurse the
poor little patient. If she is kept very quiet, I think she will be
better in the morning."
"How kind, how good you are!" said the mother, wiping the tear from
her wasted cheek, "what should I do without you? But I never can think
of your sitting up the whole night for us."
"And why not for you?" asked Lois, earnestly. "Can I ever repay your
kindness to poor Charles, when he was sick, and you sat up, night
after night, and refused to leave him? And now, when you are sick and
helpless, would you deprive me of the opportunity of doing for you,
what you have done for one so dear to me?"
A pang shot through Henry's heart. This poor _Charles_ must have been
the lover for whom she mourned, and at the mention of his name, he
felt as if wakening from a dream. The love that bound the living to
the dead, was a bond his hand would never attempt to loosen, and
turning away with a sigh, he thought it would be sacrilege to linger
there longer. Still he looked back to catch one more glimpse of a face
where all the beatitudes dwelt. He had beheld the daughters of beauty,
with all the charms of nature aided by the fascinations of art and
fashion, but never had he witnessed anything so lovely as this young
girl, in her simplicity, purity, and gentleness, unconscious that any
eye was upon her, but the poor widow's and weeping orphan's. He had
seen a fair belle in ill-humour for an hour, because a slight accident
had soiled a new dress, or defaced a new ornament, but Lois sat in
her blood-spotted robes, regardless of the stains, intent only on the
object of her tenderness, and that a miserable child.
"Surely," thought he, as he pursued his way homeward, "there must be a
divine influence operating on the heart, when a character like this is
formed. Even were her affections free and not wedded to the dead, I
should no more dare to love such a being, so spiritual, so holy, so
little of the earth, earthy, than one of those pure spirits that live
in the realms of ether. _I!_ what has my life hitherto been? Nothing
but a tissue of recklessness, folly, and madness. I have been trying
to quench the heaven-born spark within me, but it still burns, and
will continue to burn, while the throne of the Everlasting endures."
Henry felt more, reflected more that night, than he had done for five
years before. He rose in the morning with a fixed resolve, to make
that night an era in his existence. During the day the poor widow's
heart was made to "sing for joy," for a supply was received from an
unknown hand, so bounteous and unlooked for, she welcomed it as a gift
from heaven. And so it was, for heaven inspired and also blessed the
act.
Miss Hart began to be uneasy at Henry's deportment, and she had no
reason to think she advanced in his good graces, and she had a vague
fear of that Lois Carroll, whom she trusted she had robbed of all
power to fascinate his imagination.
"By the way," said she to him, one day, as if struck by a sudden
thought, "have you seen that pretty Miss Carroll since the evening you
were speaking of her?"
"Yes," answered Henry, colouring very high, "I have met her several
times--why do you ask?"
"No matter," said she, petrified at this information; "I saw a lady
yesterday, who knows her intimately, and her conversation reminded me
of ours on the same subject."
"What does the lady say of her character?" asked Henry.
"What every one else does, who knows her--that she is the greatest
hypocrite that ever breathed. Perfectly selfish, self-righteous, and
uncharitable. She says, notwithstanding her sweet countenance, she has
a very bad temper, and that no one is willing to live in the same
house with her."
"You told me formerly," said Henry, "that she was _over_ charitable
and kind, constantly engaged in labours of love."
"Oh, yes!" answered she, with perfect self-possession; "there is no
end to the parade she makes about her _good works_, as she calls them,
but it is for ostentation, and to obtain the reputation of a saint,
that she does them."
"But," said Henry, very warmly, "supposing she exercised this same
heavenly charity when she believed no eye beheld her, but the poor
whom she relieved, and the sick whom she healed, and the God whom she
adores; would you call that ostentation?"
"Oh, my dear Mr. More," cried Miss Hart, with a musical laugh, "you do
not know half the arts of the sex. There is a young minister and young
physician too, in the neighbourhood, who know all her secret
movements, and hear her praises from morning till night--they say they
are both in love with her, but as her cousin hasn't been dead long,
she thinks it proper to be very demure--I must say frankly and
honestly, I have no faith in these female _Tartuffes_."
"Nor I neither," added Henry, with so peculiar a manner, that Miss
Hart started and looked inquisitively at him, with her dark, dilated
eyes. She feared she had hazarded too much, and immediately observed,
"Perhaps, in my abhorrence of duplicity and hypocrisy, I run into the
opposite extreme, and express my sentiments too openly. You think me
severe, but I can have no possible motive to depreciate Miss Carroll,
but as she herself stretches every one on the bed of Procrustes, I
feel at liberty to speak my opinion of her character, not mine only,
but that of the whole world."
Henry made some evasive reply, and turned the conversation to another
topic, leaving Miss Hart lost in a labyrinth of conjecture, as to the
impression she had made on his mind--where and when had he met Lois
Carroll, and why was he so reserved upon a theme, upon which he had
once been so eloquent?
She sat for half an hour after Henry left her, pondering on these
things, and looking at one figure in the carpet, as if her eyes grew
upon the spot, when her thoughts were turned into another channel by
the entrance of Captain Wentworth.
She believed that she stood very high in his favour, for he was
extremely polite to her, and showed her so much deference and
attention, that she had no doubt that if Mrs. Wentworth were out of
the way, he would be at no loss whom to choose as a successor. Her
prospects with Henry grew more and more dubious--she thought, upon the
whole, the captain the finer-looking and most agreeable man of the
two. There was no knowing but he might separate from his wife, and as
they seemed divorced in heart, she thought it would be much better
than to remain together so cold and distant to each other. There was
nothing she feared so much as a reconciliation; and as long as she
could prevent Mrs. Wentworth from manifesting any symptoms of
submission and sorrow, she was sure her husband's pride would be
unyielding. She had a scheme on hand at present, which would promote
her own gratification, and widen the breach between them.
There was a celebrated actor in the city, whom she was very desirous
of seeing, and of whom Captain Wentworth had a particular dislike; he
disliked the theatre and everything connected with it, and Miss Hart
had vainly endeavoured to persuade Mrs. Wentworth to go with her
brother, in open defiance of her husband. Henry manifested no
disposition himself, and never would understand the oblique hints she
gave him; she was determined to make a bold attack upon the captain
himself.
"Captain Wentworth," said she, carelessly looking over the morning
paper, "don't you mean to take Mrs. Wentworth to see this superb
actor? she is dying to see him, and yet does not like to ask you."
"She's at perfect liberty to go as often as she pleases," replied the
captain coldly--"I've no wish to control her inclinations."
"But she will not go, of course, unless you accompany her," replied
Miss Hart, "not even with her brother."
"Did she commission you to make this request?"
"Not precisely; but knowing her wishes, I could not forbear doing it,
even at the risk of your displeasure."
"If her heart is in such scenes, there can be no possible
gratification to confine her body within the precincts of home."
The captain walked several times up and down the room, as was his
custom when agitated, then abruptly asked Miss Hart if she wished to
go herself.