seriously, though not sadly on the world," said Mr. Hall, earnestly;
"who mourn from philanthropy over its folly and falsehood, not because
that falsehood and folly have blighted their dearest hopes, nay, cut
them off, root and branch, for ever."
Margaret was agitated, and for a moment the pencil wavered in her
hand. She knew Mr. Hall must have been unhappy--that he was still
suffering from corroding remembrances--and often had she wished to
pierce through the mystery that hung over his past life; but now, when
he himself alluded to it, she shrunk from an explanation. He seemed
himself to regret the warmth of his expressions, and to wish to efface
the impression they had made, for his attention became riveted on the
picture, which he declared wanted only one thing to make it
perfect--"And what was that?"--"Truth encircling the trio with her
golden band."
"It may yet be done," cried Margaret; and, with great animation and
skill, she sketched the outline suggested.
It is delightful to have one's own favourite sentiments and feelings
embodied by another, and that too with a graceful readiness and
apparent pleasure, that shows a congeniality of thought and taste. Mr.
Hall was not insensible to this charm in Margaret Howard. He esteemed,
revered, admired, he wished that he dared to love her. But all
charming and true as she seemed, she was still a woman, and he might
be again deceived. It would be a terrible thing to embark his
happiness once more on the waves which had once overwhelmed it; and
find himself again a shipwrecked mariner, cast upon the cruel desert
of existence. The feelings which Margaret inspired were so different
from the stormy passions which had reigned over him, it is no wonder
he was unconscious of their strength and believed himself still his
own master.
"Bless me," said Mary, who, entering soon after, _banished_, as she
said, Mr. Hall from her presence, for he retired; "if you have not
added another figure to the group. I have a great mind to blot Faith,
Hope, and Charity, as well as Truth from existence," and playfully
catching hold of the frame, she pretended to sweep her arm over their
faces.
"Oh! Mary, beware!" exclaimed Margaret; but the warning came too late.
The easel tottered and fell instantaneously against the magnificent
glass, upon which Mrs. Astor set such an immense value, and broke it
into a thousand pieces. Mary looked aghast, and Margaret turned pale
as she lifted her picture from amid the ruins.
"It is not spoiled," said she; "but the glass!"
"Oh! the glass!" cried Mary, looking the image of despair; "what shall
I do? What will Mrs. Astor say? She will never forgive me!"
"She cannot be so vindictive!" replied Margaret; "but it is indeed an
unfortunate accident, and one for which I feel particularly
responsible."
"Do not tell her how it happened," cried Mary, shrinking with moral
cowardice from the revealing of the truth. "I cannot brave her
displeasure!--Charles, too, will be angry with me, and I cannot bear
that. Oh! pray, dearest Margaret, pray do not tell her that it was I
who did it--you know it would be so natural for the easel to fall
without any rash hand to push it. Promise me, Margaret."
Margaret turned her clear, rebuking eye upon the speaker with a
mingled feeling of indignation and pity.
"I will not expose you, Mary," said she, calmly; and, withdrawing
herself from the rapturous embrace, in which Mary expressed her
gratitude, she began to pick up the fragments of the mirror, while
Mary, unwilling to look on the wreck she had made, flew out to regain
her composure. It happened that Mr. Hall passed the window while
Margaret was thus occupied; and he paused a moment to watch her, for
in spite of himself, he felt a deep and increasing interest in every
action of Margaret's. Margaret saw his shadow as it lingered, but she
continued her employment. He did not doubt that she had caused the
accident, for he had left her alone, a few moments before, and he was
not conscious that any one had entered since his departure. Though he
regretted any circumstance which might give pain to her, he
anticipated a pleasure in seeing the openness and readiness with which
she would avow herself the aggressor, and blame herself for her
carelessness.
Margaret found herself in a very unpleasant situation. She had
promised not to betray the cowardly Mary, and she knew that whatever
blame would be attached to the act, would rest upon herself. But were
Mrs. Astor to question her upon the subject, she could not deviate
from the truth, by acknowledging a fault she had never committed. She
felt an unspeakable contempt for Mary's weakness, for, had _she_ been
in _her_ place, she would have acknowledged the part she had acted,
unhesitatingly, secure of the indulgence of friendship and
benevolence. "Better to leave the circumstance to speak for itself,"
said Margaret to herself, "and of course the burden will rest upon
me." She sighed as she thought of the happy hours she had passed, by
the side of that mirror, and how often she had seen it reflect the
speaking countenance of Mr. Hall, that tablet of "unutterable
thoughts," and then thinking how _his_ hopes seemed shattered like
that frail glass, and his memories of sorrow multiplied, she came to
the conclusion that all earthly hopes were vain and all earthly
memories fraught with sadness. Never had Margaret moralized so deeply
as in the long solitary walk she stole that evening, to escape the
evil of being drawn into the tacit sanction of a falsehood. Like many
others, with equally pure intentions, in trying to avoid one
misfortune she incurred a greater.
Mrs. Astor was very much grieved and astonished when she discovered
her loss. With all her efforts to veil her feelings, Mary saw she was
displeased with Margaret, and would probably never value as they
deserved, the beautiful transparencies on which she had so faithfully
laboured.
"I would not have cared if any other article had been broken," said
Mrs. Astor, whose weak point Mary well knew; "but this can never be
replaced. I do not so much value the cost, great as it was, but it was
perfectly unique. I never saw another like it."
Mary's conscience smote her, for suffering another to bear the
imputation she herself deserved. A sudden plan occurred to her. She
had concealed the truth, she was now determined to save her friend,
even at the cost of a lie.
"I do not believe Margaret broke it," said she. "I saw Dinah, your
little black girl in the room, just before Margaret left it, and you
know how often you have punished her for putting her hands on
forbidden articles. You know if Margaret had done it, she would have
acknowledged it, at once."
"True," exclaimed Mrs. Astor; "how stupid I have been!" and glad to
find a channel in which her anger could flow, unchecked by the
restraints of politeness, she rung the bell and summoned the
unconscious Dinah.
In vain she protested her innocence. She was black, and it was
considered a matter of course that she would lie. Mrs. Astor took her
arm in silence, and led her from the room, in spite of her prayers and
protestations. We should be sorry to reveal the secrets of the
prison-house, but from the cries that issued through the shut door,
and from a certain whizzing sound in the air, one might judge of the
nature of the punishment inflicted on the innocent victim of unmerited
wrath. Mary closed her ears. Every sound pierced her heart. Something
told her those shrieks would rise up in judgment against her at the
last day. "Oh! how," thought she, "if I fear the rebuke of my
fellow-creature for an unintentional offence, how can I ever appear
before my Creator, with the blackness of falsehood and the hardness of
cruelty on my soul?" She wished she had had the courage to have acted
right in the first place, but now it was too late. Charles would
despise her, and that very day he had told her that he loved her
better than all the world beside. She tried, too, to soothe her
conscience, by reflecting that Dinah would have been whipped for
something else, and that as it was a common event to her, it was,
after all, a matter of no great consequence. Mrs. Astor, having found
a legitimate vent for her displeasure, chased the cloud from her brow,
and greeted Margaret with a smile, on her return, slightly alluding to
the accident, evidently trying to rise superior to the event. Margaret
was surprised and pleased. She expressed her own regret, but as she
imputed to herself no blame, Mrs. Astor was confirmed in the justice
of her verdict. Margaret knew not what had passed in her absence, for
Mrs. Astor was too refined to bring her domestic troubles before her
guests. Mary, who was the only one necessarily initiated, was too
deeply implicated to repeat it, and the subject was dismissed. But
the impression remained on one mind, painful and ineffaceable.
Mr. Hall marked Margaret's conscious blush on her entrance, he had
heard the cries and sobs of poor Dinah, and was not ignorant of the
cause. He believed Margaret was aware of the fact--she, the true
offender. A pang, keen as cold steel can create, shot through his
heart at this conviction. He had thought her so pure, so true, so
holy, the very incarnation of his worshipped virtue--and now, to
sacrifice her principles for such a bauble--a bit of frail glass. He
could not remain in her presence, but, complaining of a headache,
suddenly retired, but not before he had cast a glance on Margaret, so
cold and freezing, it seemed to congeal her very soul.
"He believes me cowardly and false," thought she, for she divined what
was passing in his mind; and if ever she was tempted to be so, it was
in the hope of reinstating herself in his esteem. She had given her
promise to Mary, however, and it was not to be broken. Mary, whose
feelings were as evanescent as her principles were weak, soon forgot
the whole affair in the preparations of her approaching marriage with
Charles, an event which absorbed all her thoughts, as it involved all
her hopes of happiness.
Margaret finished her task, but the charm which had gilded the
occupation was fled. Mr. Hall seldom called, and when he did, he wore
all his original reserve. Margaret felt she had not deserved this
alienation, and tried to cheer herself with the conviction of her own
integrity; but her spirits were occasionally dejected, and the figure
of Truth, which had such a beaming outline, assumed the aspect of
utter despondency. Dissatisfied with her work, she at last swept her
brush over the design, and mingling Truth with the dark shades of the
back ground, gave up her office as an artist, declaring her sketches
completed. Mrs. Astor was enraptured with the whole, and said she
intended to reserve them for the night of Mary's wedding, when they
would burst upon the sight, in one grand _coup d'oeil_, in the full
blaze of chandeliers, bridal lamps, and nuptial ornaments. Margaret
was to officiate as one of the bridemaids, but she gave a reluctant
consent. She could not esteem Mary, and she shrunk from her flattery
and caresses with an instinctive loathing. She had once set her foot
on a flowery bank, that edged a beautiful stream. The turf trembled
and gave way, for it was hollow below, and Margaret narrowly escaped
death. She often shuddered at the recollection. With similar emotions
she turned from Mary Ellis's smiles and graces. There was beauty and
bloom on the surface, but hollowness and perhaps ruin beneath.
A short time before the important day, a slight efflorescence appeared
on the fair cheek and neck of Mary. She was in despair, lest her
loveliness should be marred, when she most of all wished to shine. It
increased instead of diminishing, and she resolved to have recourse to
any remedy, that would remove the disfiguring eruption. She
recollected having seen a violent erysipelas cured immediately by a
solution of corrosive sublimate; and without consulting any one, she
sent Dinah to the apothecary to purchase some, charging her to tell no
one whose errand she was bearing, for she was not willing to confess
her occasion for such a cosmetic. Dinah told the apothecary her
mistress sent her, and it was given without questioning or hesitation.
Her only confidant was Margaret, who shared her chamber and toilet,
and who warned her to be exceedingly cautious in the use of an article
so poisonous; and Mary promised with her usual heedlessness, without
dreaming of any evil consequences. The eruption disappeared--Mary
looked fairer than ever, and, clad in her bridal paraphernalia of
white satin, white roses, and blonde lace, was pronounced the most
beautiful bride of the season. Mr. Hall was present, though he had
refused to take any part in the ceremony. He could not, without
singularity, decline the invitation and, notwithstanding the blow his
confidence in Margaret's character had received, he still found the
spot where _she_ was, enchanted ground, and he lingered near,
unwilling to break at once the only charm that still bound him to
society. After the short but solemn rite, that made the young and
thoughtless, _one_ by indissoluble ties, and the rush of
congratulation took place, Margaret was forced by the pressure close
to Mr. Hall's side. He involuntarily offered his arm as a protection,
and a thrill of irrepressible happiness pervaded his heart, at this
unexpected and unsought proximity. He forgot his coldness--the broken
glass, everything but the feeling of the present moment. Margaret was
determined to avail herself of the tide of returning confidence. Her
just womanly modesty and pride prevented her _seeking_ an explanation
and reconciliation, but she knew without breaking her promise to Mary,
she could not justify herself in Mr. Hall's opinion, if even the
opportunity offered. She was to depart in the morning, with the
new-married pair, who were going to take an excursion of pleasure, so
fashionable after the wedding ceremony. She might never see him again.
He had looked pale, his face was now flushed high with excited
feeling.
"You have wronged me, Mr. Hall," said she, blushing, but without
hesitation; "if you think I have been capable of wilful deception or
concealment. The mirror was not broken by me, though I know you
thought me guilty, and afraid or ashamed to avow the truth. I would
not say so much to justify myself, if I did not think you would
believe me, and if I did not value the esteem of one who sacrifices
even friendship at the shrine of truth."
She smiled, for she saw she was believed, and there was such a glow of
pleasure irradiating Mr. Hall's countenance, it was like the breaking
and gushing forth of sunbeams. There are few faces, on which a smile
has such a magic effect as on Margaret's. Her smile was never forced.
It was the inspiration of truth, and all the light of her soul shone
through it. Perhaps neither ever experienced an hour of deeper
happiness than that which followed this simple explanation. Margaret
felt a springtide of hope and joy swelling in her heart, for there was
a deference, a tenderness in Mr. Hall's manner she had never seen
before. He seemed entirely to have forgotten the presence of others,
when a name uttered by one near, arrested his attention.
"That is Mrs. St. Henry," observed a lady, stretching eagerly forward.
"She arrived in town this morning, and had letters of introduction to
Mrs. Astor. She was the beauty of ----, before her marriage, and is
still the leader of fashion and taste."
Margaret felt her companion start, as if a ball had penetrated him,
and looking up, she saw his altered glance, fixed on the lady, who had
just entered, with a dashing escort, and was advancing towards the
centre of the room. She was dressed in the extremity of the reigning
mode--her arms and neck entirely uncovered, and their dazzling
whiteness, thus lavishly displayed, might have mocked the polish and
purity of alabaster. Her brilliant black eyes flashed on either side,
with the freedom of conscious beauty, and disdain of the homage it
inspired. She moved with the air of a queen, attended by her vassals,
directly forward, when suddenly her proud step faltered, her cheek and
lips became wan, and uttering a sudden ejaculation, she stood for a
moment perfectly still. She was opposite Mr. Hall, whose eye, fixed
upon hers, seemed to have the effect of fascination. Though darkened
by the burning sun of a tropical clime, and faded from the untimely
blighting of the heart, that face could never be forgotten. It told
her of perjury, remorse, sorrow--yes, of sorrow, for in spite of the
splendour that surrounded her, this glittering beauty was wretched.
She had sacrificed herself at the shrine of Mammon, and had learned
too late the horror of such ties, unsanctified by affection.
Appreciating but too well the value of the love she had forsaken,
goaded by remorse for her conduct to him, whom she believed wasting
away in a foreign land--she flew from one scene of dissipation to
another, seeking in the admiration of the world an equivalent for her
lost happiness. The unexpected apparition of her lover was as
startling and appalling as if she had met an inhabitant of another
world. She tried to rally herself and to pass on, but the effort was
in vain--sight, strength, and recollection forsook her.
"Mrs. St. Henry has fainted! Mrs. St. Henry has fainted!"--was now
echoed from mouth to mouth. A lady's fainting, whether in church,
ball-room, or assembly, always creates a great sensation; but when
that lady happens to be the centre of attraction and admiration, when
every eye that has a loop-hole to peep through is gazing on her
brilliant features, to behold her suddenly fall, as if smitten by the
angel of death, pallid and moveless--the effect is inconceivably
heightened. When, too, as in the present instance, a sad,
romantic-looking stranger rushes forward to support her, the interest
of the scene admits of no increase. At least Margaret felt so, as she
saw the beautiful Mrs. St. Henry borne in the arms of Mr. Hall through
the crowd, that fell back as he passed, into an adjoining apartment,
speedily followed by Mrs. Astor, all wonder and excitement, and many
others all curiosity and expectation, to witness the termination of
the scene. Mr. Hall drew back, while the usual appliances were
administered for her resuscitation. He heeded not the scrutinizing
glances bent upon him. His thoughts were rolled within himself, and
"The soul of other days came rushing in."
The lava that had hardened over the ruin it created, melted anew, and
the greenness and fragrance of new-born hopes were lost under the
burning tide. When Mrs. St. Henry opened her eyes, she looked round
her in wild alarm; then shading her brow with her hand, her glance
rested where Mr. Hall stood, pale and abstracted, with folded arms,
leaning against the wall--"I thought so," said she, in a low voice, "I
thought so;"--then covered her eyes and remained silent. Mr. Hall, the
moment he heard the sound of her voice and was assured of her
recovery, precipitately retired, leaving behind him matter of deep
speculation. Margaret was sitting in a window of the drawing-room,
through which he passed. She was alone, for even the bride was
forgotten in the excitement of the past scene. He paused--he felt an
explanation was due to her, but that it was impossible to make it. He
was softened by the sad and sympathizing expression of her
countenance, and seated himself a moment by her side.
"I have been painfully awakened from a dream of bliss," said he,
"which I was foolish enough to imagine might yet be realized. But the
heart rudely shattered as mine has been, must never hope to be healed.
I cannot command myself sufficiently to say more, only let me make one
assurance, that whatever misery has been and may yet be my doom, guilt
has no share in my wretchedness--I cannot refuse myself the
consolation of your esteem."
Margaret made no reply--she could not. Had her existence depended on
the utterance of one word, she could not have commanded it. She
extended her hand, however, in token of that friendship she believed
was hereafter to be the only bond that was to unite them. Long after
Mr. Hall was gone, she sat in the same attitude, pale and immovable as
a statue; but who can tell the changes and conflicts of her spirit, in
that brief period?
Mrs. St. Henry was too ill to be removed, and Mrs. Astor was unbounded
in her attentions. She could hardly regret a circumstance which forced
so interesting and distinguished a personage upon the acceptance of
her hospitality. Margaret remained with her during the greater part of
the night, apprehensive of a renewal of the fainting fits, to which
she acknowledged she was constitutionally subject. Margaret watched
her as she lay, her face scarcely to be distinguished from the sheet,
it was so exquisitely fair, were it not for the shading of the dark
locks, that fell unbound over the pillow, still heavy with the
moisture with which they had been saturated; and, as she contemplated
her marvellous loveliness, she wondered not at the influence she
exercised over the destiny of another. Mr. Hall had once spoken of
himself as being the victim of falsehood. Could she have been
false--and loving him, how could she have married another? If she had
voluntarily broken her troth, why such an agitation at his sight? and
if she were worthy of his love, why such a glaring display of her
person, such manifest courting of the free gaze of admiration? These,
and a thousand similar interrogations, did Margaret make to herself
during the vigils of the night, but they found no answer. Towards
morning, the lady slept; but Margaret was incapable of sleep, and her
wakeful eyes caught the first gray tint of the dawn, and marked it
deepening and kindling, till the east was robed with flame, the
morning livery of the skies. All was bustle till the bridal party was
on their way. Mrs. St. Henry still slept, under the influence of an
opiate, and Margaret saw her no more. Farewells were exchanged, kind
wishes breathed, and the travellers commenced their journey.
Margaret's thoughts wandered from Mrs. St. Henry to Mr. Hall, and back
again, till they were weary of wandering and would gladly have found
rest; but the waters had not subsided, there was no green spot where
the dove of peace could fold her drooping wings. Charles and Mary were
too much occupied by each other to notice her silence; and it was not
till they paused in their journey, she was recalled to existing
realities. Mary regretted something she had left behind--a sudden
recollection came over Margaret.
"Oh! Mary," said she, "I hope you have been cautious, and not left any
of that dangerous medicine, where mischief could result from it. I
intended to remind you of it before our departure."