its tones, "I feel the truth of what I utter, here," laying her wasted
hand on her breast, as she spoke. "I did hope that I might live to
hear once more the voice of him who taught me the way of salvation,
and revealed to my benighted mind the God who created, the Saviour who
redeemed me, that I might breathe out to him my parting blessing, and
hear his hallowed prayer rise over my dying bed. But oh, my dear
mother, it is for your sake, more than mine, I yearn for his
presence--I looked to him to comfort you, when I am gone." Mrs. Loring
here burst into a violent paroxysm of tears, and wrung her hands in
uncontrollable agony.
"Oh! I cannot give thee up," she again and again repeated, "my
beautiful Ellen, my good, my beautiful child!"
Mournfully, painfully did these exclamations fall on the chastened
ears of the dying Ellen.
"Recall not the image of departed beauty, oh my mother! I made it my
idol, and my heavenly Father, in infinite mercy, consumed it with the
breath of his mouth. Speak not of goodness--my life has been one long
act of sin and ingratitude. I can look back upon nothing but wasted
mercies, neglected opportunities, and perverted talents. But blessed
be God, since I have been led in penitence and faith to the feet of a
crucified Saviour, I dare to believe that my sins are forgiven, and
that my trembling spirit will soon find rest in the bosom of Him, who
lived to instruct and died to redeem me."
Ellen paused, for difficult breathing had often impeded her utterance;
but her prayerful eyes, raised to heaven, told the intercourse her
soul was holding with One "whom not having seen she loved, but in whom
believing, she rejoiced with joy unspeakable and full of glory." At
this moment, the door softly opened, and the gentle footsteps of him,
whom on earth she most longed to behold, entered the chamber. As she
caught a glimpse of that benign, that venerated countenance, she felt
a glow of happiness pervading her being, of which she thought her
waning life almost incapable. She clasped her feeble hands together,
and exclaimed, "Oh! Mr. M----." It was all she could utter, for tears,
whose fountains she had thought dried for ever, gushed into her eyes
and rolled down her pallid cheeks. Mr. M---- took one of her cold
hands in his, and looked upon her, for a time, without speaking.
"My daughter," at length he said, and he did not speak without much
emotion, "do you find the hand of God laid heavy upon your soul, or is
it gentle, even as a father's hand?"
"Gentle, most gentle," she answered. "Oh! blessed, for ever blessed be
the hour that sent you, heaven-directed, to guide the wanderer in the
paths of peace! Had it not been for you, I should now be trembling on
the verge of a dark eternity, without one ray to illumine the
unfathomable abyss. Pray for me once more, my beloved friend, and pray
too for my dear mother, that she may be enabled to seek Him in faith,
who can make a dying bed 'feel soft as downy pillows are.'"
Ellen clasped her feeble hands together, while Mr. M----, kneeling by
her bed-side, in that low, sweet solemn tone, for which he was so
remarkable, breathed forth one of those deep and fervent prayers,
which are, as it were, wings to the soul, and bear it up to heaven.
Mrs. Loring knelt too, by the weeping Agnes, but her spirit, unused to
devotion, lingered below, and her eyes wandered from the heavenly
countenance of that man of God, to the death-like face of that child,
whose beauty had once been her pride. She remembered how short a time
since, she had seen that form float in airy grace before the mirror
clothed in fair and flowing robes, and how soon she should see it
extended in the awful immobility of death, wrapped in the still
winding-sheet, that garment whose folds are never more waved by the
breath of life. Then, conscience whispered in her shuddering ear,
that, had she acted a mother's part, and disciplined her daughter to
prudence and obedience, the blasts of death had not thus blighted her
in her early bloom. And it whispered also, that _she_ had no comfort
to offer her dying child, in this last conflict of dissolving nature.
It was for this world she had lived herself, it was for this world she
had taught _her_ to live, but for that untravelled world beyond, she
had no guiding hand to extend. It was to a stranger's face the fading
eyes of Ellen were directed. It was a stranger's prayers that hallowed
her passage to the tomb. The realities of eternity for the first time
pressed home, on that vain mother's heart. She felt, too, that _she_
must one day die, and that earth with all its riches and pleasures
could yield her no support in that awful moment. That there was
something which earth could not impart, which had power to soothe and
animate the departing spirit, she knew by the angelic expression of
Ellen's upturned eyes, and by the look of unutterable serenity that
was diffused over her whole countenance. The voice of Mr. M---- died
away on her ear, and an unbroken silence reigned through the
apartment. Her stormy grief had been stilled into calmness, during
that holy prayer. The eyes of Ellen were now gently closed, and as
they rose from their knees they sat down by her side, fearing, even by
a deep-drawn breath, to disturb her slumbers. A faint hope began to
dawn in the mother's heart, from the placidity and duration of her
slumbers.
"I have never known her sleep so calm before," said she, in a low
voice, to Mr. M----. Mr. M---- bent forward and laid his hand softly
on her marble brow.
"Calm indeed are her slumbers," said he, looking solemnly upward; "she
sleeps now, I trust, in the bosom of her Saviour and her God."
Thus died Ellen Loring--just one year from that night when Agnes
followed her retreating figure, with such a wistful gaze, as she left
her for the ball-room, exclaiming to herself, "Happy, beautiful
Ellen!" and Agnes now said within herself, even while she wept over
her clay-cold form, "Happy Ellen!" but with far different emotions;
for she now followed, with the eye of faith, her ascending spirit to
the regions of the blest, and saw her, in imagination, enter those
golden gates, which never will be closed against the humble and
penitent believer.
A few evenings after, a brilliant party was assembled in one of those
halls, where pleasure welcomes its votaries.--"Did you know that Ellen
Loring was dead?" observed some one to a beautiful girl, the very
counterpart of what Ellen once was. "Dead!" exclaimed the startled
beauty, for one moment alarmed into reflection; "I did not think she
would have died so soon. I am sorry you told me--it will throw a damp
over my spirits the whole evening--poor Ellen!" It was but a moment,
and the music breathed forth its joyous strains. She was led in haste
to the dance, and Ellen Loring was forgotten.
THE FATAL COSMETIC.
Charles Brown sat with Mr. Hall in a corner of the room, apart from
the rest of the company. Mr. Hall was a stranger, Charles the familiar
acquaintance of all present. The former evidently retained his seat
out of politeness to the latter for his eyes wandered continually to
the other side of the room, where a group of young ladies was gathered
round a piano, so closely as to conceal the musician to whom they were
apparently listening. The voice that accompanied the instrument was
weak and irregular, and the high tones excessively shrill and
disagreeable, yet the performer continued her songs with unwearied
patience, thinking the young gentlemen were turned into the very
stones that Orpheus changed into breathing things, to remain
insensible to her minstrelsy. There was one fair, blue-eyed girl, with
a very sweet countenance, who stood behind her chair and cast many a
mirthful glance towards Charles, while she urged the songstress to
continue at every pause, as if she were spell-bound by the melody.
Charles laughed, and kept time with his foot, but Mr. Hall bit his
lips, and a frown passed over his handsome and serious countenance.
"What a wretched state of society!" exclaimed he, "that admits, nay,
even demands such insincerity. Look at the ingenuous countenance of
that young girl--would you not expect from her sincerity and truth?
Yet, with what practical falsehood she encourages her companion in her
odious screeching!"
"Take care," answered Charles, "you must not be too severe. That young
lady is a very particular friend of mine, and a very charming girl.
She has remarkably popular manners, and if she _is_ guilty of a few
little innocent deceptions, such, for instance, as the present, I see
no possible harm in them to herself, and they certainly give great
pleasure to others. She makes Miss Lewis very happy, by her apparent
admiration, and I do not see that she injures any one else."
Mr. Hall sighed.
"I fear," said he, "I am becoming a misanthropist. I find I have very
peculiar views, such as set me apart and isolate me from my fellow
beings. I cannot enjoy an artificial state of society. I consider
_truth_ as the corner stone of the great social fabric, and where this
is wanting, I am constantly looking for ruin and desolation. The
person deficient in this virtue, however fair and fascinating, is no
more to me than the whited sepulchre and painted wall."
"You have, indeed, peculiar views," answered Charles, colouring with a
vexation he was too polite to express in any other way; "and if you
look upon the necessary dissimulations practised in society as
falsehoods, and brand them as such, I can only say, that you have
created a standard of morality more exalted and pure than human nature
can ever reach."
"I cannot claim the merit of _creating_ a standard, which the divine
Moralist gave to man, when he marked out his duties from the sacred
mount, in characters so clear and deep, that the very blind might see
and the cold ear of deafness hear."
Mr. Hall spoke with warmth. The eyes of the company were directed
towards him. He was disconcerted and remained silent. Miss Lewis rose
from the piano, and drew towards the fire.
"I am getting terribly tired of the piano," said she. "I don't think
it suits my voice at all. I am going to take lessons on the guitar and
the harp--one has so much more scope with them; and then they are much
more graceful instruments."
"You are perfectly right," replied Miss Ellis, the young lady with the
ingenuous countenance, "I have no doubt you would excel on either, and
your singing would be much better appreciated. Don't you think so,
Margaret?" added she, turning to a young lady, who had hitherto been
silent, and apparently unobserved.
"You know I do not," answered she, who was so abruptly addressed, in a
perfectly quiet manner, and fixing her eyes serenely on her face; "I
should be sorry to induce Miss Lewis to do anything disadvantageous to
herself, and consequently painful to her friends."
"Really, Miss Howard," cried Miss Lewis, bridling, and tossing her
head with a disdainful air, "you need not be so afraid of my giving
you so much pain--I will not intrude my singing upon your delicate and
refined ears."
Mr. Hall made a movement forward, attracted by the uncommon sincerity
of Miss Howard's remark.
"There," whispered Charles, "is a girl after your own heart--Margaret
Howard _will_ speak the truth, however unpalatable it may be, and see
what wry faces poor Miss Lewis makes in trying _not_ to swallow it--I
am sure Mary Ellis's flattery is a thousand times kinder and more
amiable."
Mr. Hall did not answer. His eyes were perusing the face of her, whose
lips had just given such honourable testimony to a virtue so rarely
respected by the world of fashion. A decent boldness lighted up the
clear hazel eyes that did not seem to be unconscious of the dark and
penetrating glances at that moment resting upon them. She was dressed
with remarkable simplicity. No decoration in colour relieved the
spotless whiteness of her attire. Her hair of pale, yet shining brown,
was plainly parted over a brow somewhat too lofty for mere feminine
beauty, but white and smooth as Parian marble. Her features,
altogether, bore more resemblance to a Pallas than a Venus. They were
calm and pure, but somewhat cold and passionless--and under that pale,
transparent skin, there seemed no under current, ebbing and flowing
with the crimson tide of the heart. Her figure, veiled to the throat,
was of fine, though not very slender proportions. There was evidently
no artificial compression about the waist, no binding ligatures to
prevent the elastic motions of the limbs, the pliable and graceful
movements of nature.
"She has a fine face--a very handsome face," repeated Charles,
responding to what Mr. Hall _looked_, for as yet he had uttered
nothing; "but to me, it is an uninteresting one. She is not generally
liked--respected, it is true, but feared--and fear is a feeling which
few young ladies would wish to inspire. It is a dangerous thing to
live above the world--at least, for a woman."
Charles availed himself of the earliest opportunity of introducing his
friend to Miss Howard, glad to be liberated for a while from the close
companionship of a man who made him feel strangely uncomfortable with
regard to himself, and well pleased with the opportunity of conversing
with his favourite, Mary Ellis.
"I feel quite vexed with Margaret," said this thoughtless girl, "for
spoiling my compliment to Miss Lewis. I would give one of my little
fingers to catch her for once in a white lie."
"Ask her if she does not think herself handsome," said Charles; "no
woman ever acknowledged that truth, though none be more firmly
believed."
He little expected she would act upon his suggestion, but Mary was too
much delighted at the thought of seeing the uncompromising Margaret
guilty of a prevarication, to suffer it to pass unheeded.
"Margaret," cried she, approaching her, unawed by the proximity of the
majestic stranger--"Mr. Brown says you will deny that you think
yourself handsome. Tell me the truth--don't you believe yourself
_very_ handsome?"
"I will tell you the truth, Mary," replied Margaret, blushing so
brightly, as to give an actual radiance to her face, "that is, if I
speak at all. But I would rather decline giving any opinion of
myself."
"Ah! Margaret," persisted Miss Ellis, "I have heard you say that to
_conceal_ the truth, when it was required of us, unless some moral
duty were involved, was equivalent to a falsehood. Bear witness,
Charles, here is one subject on which even Margaret Howard dares not
speak the truth."
"You are mistaken," replied Miss Howard; "since you force me to speak,
by attacking my principles, I am very willing to say, I _do_ think
myself handsome; but not so conspicuously as to allow me to claim a
superiority over my sex, or to justify so singular and unnecessary a
question."
All laughed--even the grave Mr. Hall smiled at the frankness of the
avowal--all but Miss Lewis, who, turning up her eyes and raising her
hands, exclaimed, "Really, Miss Howard's modesty is equal to her
politeness. I thought she despised beauty."
"The gifts of God are never to be despised," answered Miss Howard,
mildly. "If he has graced the outer temple, we should only be more
careful to keep the indwelling spirit pure."
She drew back, as if pained by the observation she had excited; and
the deep and modest colour gradually faded from her cheek. Mr. Hall
had not been an uninterested listener. He was a sad and disappointed
man. He had been the victim of a woman's perfidy and falsehood--and
was consequently distrustful of the whole sex; and his health had
suffered from the corrosion of his feelings, and he had been compelled
to seek, in a milder clime, a balm which time alone could yield. He
had been absent several years, and was just returned to his native
country, but not to the scene of his former residence. The wound was
healed, but the hardness of the scar remained.
One greater and purer than the Genius of the Arabian Tale, had placed
in his breast a mirror, whose lustre would be instantaneously dimmed
by the breath of falsehood or dissimulation. It was in this mirror he
saw reflected the actions of his fellow beings, and it pained him to
see its bright surface so constantly sullied. Never, since the hour he
was so fatally deceived, had he been in the presence of woman, without
a melancholy conviction that she was incapable of standing the test of
this bosom talisman. Here, however, was one, whose lips cast no cloud
upon its lustre. He witnessed the marvellous spectacle of a young,
beautiful, and accomplished woman, surrounded by the artifices and
embellishments of fashionable life, speaking the truth, in all
simplicity and godly sincerity, as commanded by the holy men of old.
There was something in the sight that renovated and refreshed his
blighted feelings. The dew falling on the parched herbage, prepares it
for the influence of a kinder ray. Even so the voice of Margaret
Howard, gentle in itself and persuasive, advocating the cause he most
venerated, operated this night on the heart of Mr. Hall.
For many weeks the same party frequently met at the dwelling of Mrs.
Astor. This lady was a professed patroness and admirer of genius and
the fine arts. To be a fine painter, a fine singer, a fine writer, a
traveller, or a foreigner, was a direct passport to her favour. To be
distinguished in any manner in society was sufficient, provided it was
not "bad eminence" which was attained by the individual. She admired
Mr. Hall for the stately gloom of his mien, his dark and foreign air,
his peculiar and high-wrought sentiments. She sought an intimacy with
Margaret Howard, for it was a _distinction_ to be her friend, and,
moreover, she had an exquisite taste and skill in drawing and
painting. Mary Ellis was a particular favourite of hers, because her
own favourite cousin Charles Brown thought her the most fascinating
young lady of his acquaintance. Mrs. Astor's house was elegantly
furnished, and her rooms were adorned with rare and beautiful
specimens of painting and statuary. She had one apartment which she
called her Gallery of Fine Arts, and every new guest was duly ushered
into this sanctuary, and called upon to look and admire the glowing
canvas and the breathing marble. A magnificent pier-glass was placed
on one side of the hall, so as to reflect and multiply these classic
beauties. It had been purchased in Europe, and was remarkable for its
thickness, brilliancy, and fidelity of reflection. It was a favourite
piece of furniture of Mrs. Astor's, and all her servants were warned
to be particularly careful, whenever they dusted its surface. As this
glass is of some importance in the story, it deserves a minute
description. Mrs. Astor thought the only thing necessary to complete
the furnishing of the gallery, were transparencies for the windows.
Miss Howard, upon hearing the remark, immediately offered to supply
the deficiency, an offer at once eagerly accepted, and Mrs. Astor
insisted that her painting apparatus should be placed in the very
room, that she might receive all the inspiration to be derived from
the mute yet eloquent relics of genius, that there solicited the gaze.
Nothing could be more delightful than the progress of the work.
Margaret was an enthusiast in the art, and her kindling cheek always
attested the triumph of her creating hand. Mrs. Astor was in a
constant state of excitement, till the whole was completed, and it was
no light task, as four were required, and the windows were of an extra
size. Almost every day saw the fair artist seated at her easel, with
the same group gathered round her. Mary Ellis admired everything so
indiscriminately, it was impossible to attach much value to her
praise; but Mr. Hall criticised as well as admired, and as he had the
painter's eye, and the poet's tongue, Margaret felt the value of his
suggestions, and the interest they added to her employment. Above all
things, she felt their _truth_. She saw that he never flattered, that
he dared to blame, and when he did commend, she was conscious the
tribute was deserved. Margaret was not one of those beings, who cannot
do but one thing at a time. She could talk and listen, while her hands
were applying the brush or arranging the colours, and look up too from
the canvas, with a glance that showed how entirely she participated in
what was passing around her.
"I wonder you are not tired to death of that everlasting easel," said
Mary Ellis to Margaret, who grew every day more interested in her
task. "I could not endure such confinement."
"_Death_ and _everlasting_ are solemn words to be so lightly used, my
dear Mary," answered Margaret, whose religious ear was always pained
by levity on sacred themes.
"I would not be as serious as you are, for a thousand worlds," replied
Mary, laughing; "I really believe you think it a sin to smile. Give me
the roses of life, let who will take the thorns. I am going now to
gather some, if I can, and leave you and Mr. Hall to enjoy all the
briers you can find."
She left the room gayly singing, sure to be immediately followed by
Charles, and Mr. Hall was left sole companion of the artist. Mary had
associated their names together, for the purpose of disturbing the
self-possession of Margaret, and she certainly succeeded in her
object. Had Mr. Hall perceived her heightened colour, his vanity might
have drawn a flattering inference; but he was standing behind her
easel, and his eyes were fixed on the beautiful personification of
Faith, Hope, and Charity--those three immortal graces--she was
delineating, as kneeling and embracing, with upturned eyes and
celestial wings. It was a lovely group--the last of the
transparencies, and Margaret lavished on it some of the finest touches
of her genius. Mary had repeated a hundred times that it was finished,
that another stroke of the pencil would ruin it, and Mrs. Astor
declared it perfect, and more than perfect, but still Margaret
lingered at the frame, believing every tint should be the last. Every
lover of the arts knows the fascination attending the successful
exercise and development of their genius--of seeing bright and warm
imaginings assume a colouring and form, and giving to others a
transcript of the mind's glorious creations; but every artist does not
know what deeper charm may be added by the conversation and
companionship of such a being as Mr. Hall. He was what might be called
a fascinating man, notwithstanding the occasional gloom and general
seriousness of his manners. For, when flashes of sensibility lighted
up that gloom, and intellect, excited and brought fully into action,
illumined that seriousness--it was like moonlight shining on some
ruined castle, beauty and grandeur meeting together and exalting each
other, from the effect of contrast. Then there was a deep vein of
piety pervading all his sentiments and expressions. The comparison of
the ruined castle is imperfect. The moonbeams falling on some lofty
cathedral, with its pillared dome and "long-drawn aisles," is a better
similitude, for devotion hallowed and elevated every faculty of his
soul. Margaret, who had lived in a world of her own, surrounded by a
purer atmosphere, lonely and somewhat unapproachable, felt as if she
were no longer solitary, for here was one who thought and sympathized
with her; one, too, who seemed sanctified and set apart from others,
by a kind of mysterious sorrow, which the instinct of woman told her
had its source in the heart.
"I believe I am too serious, as Mary says," cried Margaret, first
breaking the silence; "but it seems to me the thoughtless alone can be
gay. I am young in years, but I began to reflect early, and from the
moment I took in the mystery of life and all its awful dependencies, I
ceased to be mirthful. I am doomed to pay a constant penalty for the
singularity of my feelings: like the priestess of the ancient temples,
I am accused of uttering dark sayings of old, and casting the shadows
of the future over the joys of the present."
Margaret seldom alluded to herself, but Mary's accusation about the
thorns and briers had touched her, where perhaps alone she was
vulnerable; and in the frankness of her nature, she uttered what was
paramount in her thoughts.