in my trunk," replied Mary, but her conscience gave her a remorseful
twinge as she uttered the _white lie_, for she had forgotten it, and
where she had left it, she could not remember. As Margaret had given
her several warnings, she was ashamed to acknowledge her negligence,
and took refuge in the shelter she had too often successfully sought.
Had she anticipated the fatal consequences of her oblivion, her bridal
felicity would have been converted into agony and despair. She had
left the paper containing the powder, yet undissolved, on the
mantelpiece of her chamber. The chambermaid who arranged the room
after her departure, seeing it and supposing it to be medicine, put it
in the box which Mrs. Astor devoted to that department, in the midst
of calomel, salts, antimony, &c. It was folded in brown paper, like
the rest, and there was no label to indicate its deadly qualities.
Mrs. St. Henry continued the guest of Mrs. Astor, for her
indisposition assumed a more serious aspect, and it was impossible to
remove her. She appeared feverish and restless, and a physician was
called in to prescribe for her, greatly in opposition to her wishes.
She could not bear to acknowledge herself ill. It was the heat of the
room that had oppressed her--a transient cold, which would soon pass
away--she would not long trespass on Mrs. Astor's hospitality. The
doctor was not much skilled in diseases of the heart, though he ranked
high in his profession. His grand panacea for almost all diseases was
calomel, which he recommended to his patient, as the most efficient
and speediest remedy. She received the prescription with a very ill
grace, declaring she had never tasted of any in her life, and had a
horror of all medicines. Mrs. Astor said she had an apothecary's shop
at command in her closet, and that she kept doses constantly prepared
for her own use. After the doctor's departure, Mrs. St. Henry seemed
much dejected, and her eyes had an anxious, inquiring expression as
they turned on Mrs. Astor.
"You say," said she to her, in a low tone, "that friends have been
kind in their inquiries for me? Most of them are strangers, and yet I
thank them."
"Mr. Hall has called more than once," replied Mrs. Astor, "he, I
believe, is well known to you."
"He is indeed," said Mrs. St. Henry--"I wish I could see him--but it
cannot be; no, it would not answer."
Mrs. Astor longed to ask the nature of their former acquaintance, but
a conviction that the question would be painful, restrained the
expression of her curiosity.
"Would you not like to send for some of your friends?" inquired Mrs.
Astor--"your husband? My servants shall be at your disposal."
"You are very kind," answered Mrs. St. Henry, quickly--"but it is not
necessary--my husband is too infirm to travel, and believing me well,
he will suffer no anxiety on my account--I think I shall be quite
well, after taking your sovereign medicine. Give it me now, if you
please, while I am in a vein of compliance."
She turned, with so lovely a smile, and extended her hand with so much
grace, Mrs. Astor stood a moment, thinking what a beautiful picture
she would make; then taking the lamp in her hand, she opened her
closet, and took down the medicine casket. It happened that the first
paper she touched was that which Mary had left, and which the servant
had mingled with the others.
"Here is one already prepared," cried she--"I always keep them ready,
the exact number of grains usually given, as we often want it suddenly
and at night."
She mixed the fatal powder with some delicious jelly, and holding it
to the lips of her patient, said with a cheering smile--"Come, it has
no disagreeable taste at all."
Mrs. St. Henry gave a nervous shudder, but took it, unconscious of its
deadly properties; and Mrs. Astor, praising her resolution, seated
herself in an easy chair by the bedside, and began to read. She became
deeply interested in her book, though she occasionally glanced towards
her patient to see if she slept. She had placed the lamp so that its
light would not shine on the bed, and the most perfect quietness
reigned in the apartment. How long this tranquillity lasted it is
impossible to tell, for she was so absorbed in her book, time passed
unheeded. At length Mrs. St. Henry began to moan, and toss her arms
over the covering, as if in sudden pain. Mrs. Astor leaned over her,
and took her hand. It was hot and burning, her cheek had a scarlet
flush on it, and when she opened her eyes they had a wild and alarming
expression.
"Water," she exclaimed, leaning on her elbow, and shading back her
hair hurriedly from her brow--"Give me water, for I die of thirst."
"I dare not," said Mrs. Astor, terrified by her manner--"anything but
that to quench your thirst."
She continued still more frantically to call for water, till Mrs.
Astor, excessively alarmed, sent for the doctor, and called in other
attendants. As he was in the neighbourhood, he came immediately. He
looked aghast at the situation of his patient, for she was in a
paroxysm of agony at his entrance, and his experienced eye took in the
danger of the case. "What have you given her, madam?" said he, turning
to Mrs Astor, with a countenance that made her tremble.
"What have you given me?" exclaimed Mrs. St. Henry, grasping her wrist
with frenzied strength--"You have killed me--it was poison--I feel it
in my heart and in my brain!"
Mrs. Astor uttered a scream, and snatched up the paper which had
fallen on the carpet.
"Look at it, doctor--it was calomel, just as you prescribed--what else
could it be!"
The doctor examined the paper--there was a little powder still
sticking to it.
"Good heavens, doctor," cried Mrs. Astor, "what makes you look
so?--what is it?--what was it?"
"Where did you get this?" said he, sternly.
"At the apothecary's--I took it from that chest--examine it, pray."
The doctor turned away with a groan, and approached his beautiful
patient, now gasping and convulsed. He applied the most powerful
antidotes, but without effect.
"I am dying," she cried, "I am dying--I am poisoned--but oh, doctor,
save me--save me--let me see him, if I must die--let me see him
again;" and she held out her hands imploringly to Mrs. Astor, who was
in a state little short of distraction.
"Only tell me, if you mean Mr. Hall."
"Who should I mean but Augustus?" she cried. "Perhaps in death he may
forgive me."
The doctor made a motion that her request should be complied with, and
a messenger was despatched.
What an awful scene was presented, when he entered that chamber of
death! Was that the idol of his young heart, the morning star of his
manhood; she, who lay livid, writhing and raving there? Her long, dark
hair hung in dishevelled masses over her neck and arms, her large
black eyes were fearfully dilated, and full of that unutterable agony
which makes the spirit quail before the might of human suffering. Cold
sweat-drops gleamed on her marble brow, and her hands were damp with
that dew which no morning sunbeam can ever exhale.
"Almighty Father!" exclaimed Mr. Hall, "what a sight is this!"
The sound of that voice had the power to check the ravings of
delirium. She shrieked, and stretched out her arms towards him, who
sunk kneeling by the bedside, covering his face with his hands, to
shut out the appalling spectacle.
"Forgive me," she cried, in hollow and altered accents--"Augustus, you
are terribly avenged--I loved you, even when I left you for another.
Oh! pray for me to that great and dreadful God, who is consuming me,
to have mercy on me hereafter."
He did pray, but it was in spirit, his lips could not articulate; but
his uplifted hands and streaming eyes called down pardon and peace on
the dying penitent. The reason, that had flashed out for a moment,
rekindled by memory and passion, was now gone for ever. All the rest
was but the striving of mortal pain, the rending asunder of body and
soul. In a short time all was over, and the living were left to read
one of the most tremendous lessons on the vanity of beauty, and the
frailty of life, mortality could offer in all its gloomy annals.
"This is no place for you, now," said the doctor, taking Mr. Hall's
arm, and drawing him into another apartment, where, secure from
intrusion, he could be alone with God and his own heart. There was
another duty to perform--to investigate the mystery that involved this
horrible tragedy. The apothecary was summoned, who, after recovering
from his first consternation, recollected that a short time before, he
had sold a quantity of corrosive sublimate to a little black girl,
according to her mistress's orders. The servants were called for
examination, and Dinah was pointed out as the culprit--Dinah, the
imputed destroyer of the mirror, whose terror was now deemed the
result of conscious guilt. Mrs. Astor vehemently protested she had
never sent her, that it was the blackest falsehood; and Dinah, though
she told the whole truth, how Mary had forbid her telling it was for
her, and she merely used her mistress's name on that account, gained
no belief. The chambermaid, who had found the paper and put it in the
chest, withheld her testimony, fearing she might be implicated in the
guilt. Everything tended to deepen the evidence against Dinah. The
affair of the broken looking-glass was revived. She had been heard to
say, after her memorable flagellation, that she wished her mistress
was dead, that she would kill her if she could; and many other
expressions, the result of a smarting back and a wounded spirit, were
brought up against her. It was a piteous thing to see the fright, and
hear the pleadings of the wretched girl: "Oh! don't send me to
jail--don't hang me--send for Miss Mary," she repeated, wringing her
hands, and rolling her eyes like a poor animal whom the hunters have
at bay. But to jail she was sent--for who could doubt her crime, or
pity her after witnessing its terrific consequences?--a damp, dreary
prison-house, where, seated on a pallet of straw, she was left to
brood day after day over her accumulated wrongs, hopeless of sympathy
or redress. Let those who consider a _white lie_ a venial offence, who
look upon deception as necessary to the happiness and harmony of
society, reflect on the consequences of Mary Ellis's moral
delinquency, and tremble at the view. She had not done more than a
thousand others have done, and are daily doing; and yet what was the
result? The soul of the lovely, the erring, and the unprepared had
been sent shuddering into eternity, a household made wretched, the
innocent condemned, a neighbourhood thrown into consternation and
gloom. Had Mary confessed her negligence to Margaret, instead of
telling an unnecessary and untempted falsehood, a warning message
could have then been easily sent back, and the wide-spread ruin
prevented. There is no such thing as a _white lie_; they are all black
as the blackest shades of midnight; and no fuller on earth can whiten
them.
When Mrs. Astor had recovered from the shock of these events in a
sufficient degree, she wrote to Mary a detailed account, begging her
and Margaret to return immediately, and cheer the home which now
seemed so desolate. The letter was long in reaching her, for the
travellers were taking a devious course, and could leave behind them
no precise directions. Mary was in one of her gayest, brightest
humours, when she received the epistle. She was putting on some new
ornaments, which Charles had presented to her, and he was looking over
her shoulder at the fair image reflected in the glass, whose brow was
lighted up with the triumph of conscious beauty.
"I look shockingly ugly to-day," said she, with a smile that belied
her words.
"You tell stories with such a grace," replied her flattering husband,
"I am afraid we shall be in love with falsehood."
"A letter from our dear Mrs. Astor; open it, Charles, while I clasp
this bracelet; and read it aloud, then Margaret and I both can hear
it."
Before Charles had read one page, Mary sunk down at his feet, rending
the air with hysterical screams. Her husband, who was totally unaware
of the terrible agency she had had in the affair, raised her in
indescribable alarm. Her own wild expressions, however, revealed the
truth, which Margaret's shivering lips confirmed.
"Oh! had you told me but the _truth_," cried Margaret, raising her
prayerful eyes and joined hands to heaven--"how simple, how easy it
had been--Charles, Charles," added she, with startling energy, "praise
not this rash, misguided girl, for the grace with which she _lies_--I
will not recall the word. By the worth of your own soul and hers,
teach her, that as there is a God above, he requires truth in the
inward heart."
Charles trembled at the solemnity of the adjuration; and conscience
told him, that all the agonies his wife suffered, and all the remorse
which was yet to be her portion, were just. Margaret sought the
solitude of her chamber, and there, on her knees, she endeavoured to
find calmness. The image of Mr. Hall, mourning over the death-bed of
her once so madly loved, the witness of her expiring throes, the
receiver of her last repentant sigh rose, between her and her Creator.
Then, that radiant face, that matchless form, which had so lately
excited a pang of envy, even in _her_ pure heart, now blasted by
consuming poison, and mouldering in the cold grave; how awful was the
thought, and how fearful the retribution! She, whose vain heart had by
falsehood endangered the very existence of another, was the victim of
the very vice that had blackened her own spirit. Yes! there is
retribution even in this world.
Mary returned, but how changed from the gay and blooming bride! Her
cheek was pale, and her eye heavy. She hastened to repair the only
wrong now capable of any remedy. The prison doors of poor Dinah were
thrown open, and her innocence declared: but could the long and lonely
days and nights spent in that weary, gloomy abode be blotted out?
Could the pangs of cold, shuddering fear, the dream of the gallows,
the rope, the hangman's grasp round the gurgling throat, the dark
coffin seat, the scoffing multitude, be forgotten? No!--Dinah's spirit
was broken, for though her skin was black, there was sensibility and
delicacy too beneath her ebon colouring. Could Mary bring back the
gladness that once pervaded the dwelling of Mrs. Astor? Everything
there was changed. The room in which Mrs. St. Henry died was closed,
for it was haunted by too terrible remembrances. Bitterly did Mary
mourn over the grave of her victim; but she could not recall her by
her tears. No remorse could open the gates of the tomb, or reclothe
with beauty and bloom the ruins of life.
Margaret, the true, the pure-hearted and upright Margaret, was not
destined, like Mary, to gather the thorns and briers of existence.
Long did the fragrance of _her_ roses last, for she had not plucked
them with too rash a hand. She and Mr. Hall again met. The moral
sympathy that had drawn them together, was not weakened by the tragic
event that had intervened; it had rather strengthened through
suffering and sorrow. Mr. Hall could never forget the death scene of
Laura St. Henry. The love expressed for him at a moment when all
earthly dissimulation was over had inexpressibly affected him. Her
unparalleled sufferings seemed an expiation for her broken faith. It
was at her grave that he and Margaret first met after their sad
separation, when the falling shades of evening deepened the solemnity
of the scene. Sorrow, sympathy, devotion, and truth, form a holy
groundwork for love; and when once the temple is raised on such a
foundation, the winds and waves may beat against it in vain. Mr. Hall
found by his own experience, that the bruised heart can be healed, for
Margaret's hand poured oil and balm on its wounds. He could repose on
her faith as firmly as on the rock which ages have planted. He knew
that she loved him, and felt it due to her happiness as well as his
own, to ask her to be the companion of his pilgrimage. If they looked
back upon the clouds that had darkened their morning, it was without
self-reproach, and remembrance gradually lost its sting. Who will say
she was not happier than Mary, who carried in her bosom, through life,
that which "biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder?"
THE
ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE.
Adellan, an Abyssinian youth, approached one of those consecrated
buildings, which crown almost every hill of his native country. Before
entering, he drew off his shoes, and gave them in charge to a servant,
that he might not soil the temple of the Lord, with the dust of the
valley; then bending down, slowly and reverentially, he pressed his
lips to the threshold, performed the same act of homage to each post
of the door, then passed into the second division of the church,
within view of the curtained square, answering to the mysterious _holy
of holies_ in the Jewish temple. He gazed upon the pictured saints
that adorned the walls, long and earnestly, when, kneeling before
them, he repeated, with deep solemnity, his customary prayers. He
rose, looked towards the mystic veil, which no hand but that of the
priest was permitted to raise, and anticipated with inexplicable
emotions the time when, invested with the sacred dignity of that
office, he might devote himself exclusively to Heaven. From early
childhood, Adellan had been destined to the priesthood. His first
years were passed mid the stormy scenes of war, for his father was a
soldier, fighting those bloody battles, with which the province of
Tigre had been more than once laid waste. Then followed the dreadful
discipline of famine, for the destroying locusts, the scourge of the
country, had followed up the desolation of war, and year succeeding
year, gleaned the last hope of man. The parents of Adellan fled from
these scenes of devastation, crossed the once beautiful and fertile
banks of the Tacazze, and sought refuge in the ample monastery of
Walduba, where a brother of his father then resided. Here, he was
placed entirely under the protection of his uncle, for his father,
sickened with the horrors he had witnessed, and loathing the ties
which were once so dear to him, recrossed his native stream, became a
gloomy monk in another convent, where, with several hundred of his
brethren, he soon after perished a victim to those barbarities, which
had robbed him of all that gave value to life. Adellan had never known
the joys of childhood. The greenness and bloom of spring had been
blotted from his existence. Famine had hollowed his boyish cheek, and
fear and distrust chilled and depressed his young heart. After
entering the convent of Walduba, where all his physical wants were
supplied, the roundness and elasticity of health were restored to his
limbs, but his cheek was kept pale by midnight vigils, and long and
painful fastings. The teacher, whom his uncle placed over him, was
severe and exacting. He gave him no relaxation by day, and the stars
of night witnessed his laborious tasks. He was compelled to commit
lessons to memory, in a language which he did not then understand, a
drudgery from which every ardent mind must recoil. Yet, such was his
thirst for knowledge, that he found a pleasure, even in this, that
sweetened his toils. All the strains of the devout Psalmist were
familiar to his lips, but they were in an _unknown tongue_, for in
this manner are the youth of those benighted regions taught. Often,
when gazing on the magnificent jewelry of a tropical sky, shining down
on the darkness and solitude of night, had he unconsciously repeated
the words of the royal penitent--"The heavens declare the glory of
God. The firmament showeth his handy work." He understood not their
meaning, but the principle of immortality was striving within him, and
every star that gemmed the violet canopy, seemed to him eye-beams of
that all-seeing Divinity he then darkly adored.
Adellan left the enclosure of the church, and lingered beneath the
shade of the cedars, whose trunks supported the roof, and thus formed
a pleasant colonnade sheltered from the sun and the rain. Beautiful
was the prospect that here stretched itself around him. All the
luxuriance of a mountainous country, constantly bathed with the dews
of heaven, and warmed by the beams of a vertical sun, was richly
unfolded. Odoriferous perfumes, wafted from the forest trees, and
exhaled from the roses, jessamines, and wild blossoms, with which the
fields were covered, scented the gale. Borne from afar, the fragrance
of Judea's balm mingled with the incense of the flowers and the richer
breath of the myrrh. A cool stream murmured near, where those who came
up to worship, were accustomed to perform their ablutions and
purifying rites, in conformance with the ancient Levitical law.
Wherever Adellan turned his eyes, he beheld some object associated
with the ceremonies of his austere religion. In that consecrated
stream he had bathed, he had made an altar beneath every spreading
tree, and every rock had witnessed his prostrations. He thought of the
unwearied nature of his devotions, and pride began to swell his heart.
He knew nothing of that meek and lowly spirit, that humiliation of
soul, which marks the followers of a crucified Redeemer. He had been
taught to believe that salvation was to be found in the observance of
outward forms, but never had been led to purify the inner temple so as
to make it a meet residence for a holy God.
Near the close of the day, he again walked forth, meditating on his
contemplated journey to Jerusalem, the holy city, where he was not
only to receive the remission of his own sins, but even for seven
generations yet unborn, according to the superstitious belief of his
ancestors. He was passing a low, thatched dwelling, so lost in his own
meditations, as scarcely to be aware of its vicinity, when a strain of
low, sweet music, rose like a stream of "rich distilled perfumes."
Woman's softer accents mingled with a voice of manly melody and
strength; and as the blending strains stole by his ear, he paused,
convinced that the music he heard was an act of adoration to God,
though he understood not the language in which it was uttered. The
door of the cabin was open, and he had a full view of the group near
the entrance. A man, dressed in a foreign costume, whose prevailing
colour was black, sat just within the shade of the cedars that
sheltered the roof. Adellan immediately recognised the pale face of
the European, and an instinctive feeling of dislike and suspicion
urged him to turn away. There was something, however, in the
countenance of the stranger that solicited and obtained more than a
passing glance. There was beauty in the calm, thoughtful features, the
high marble brow, the mild devotional dark eye, and the soft masses of
sable heir that fell somewhat neglected over his lofty temples. There
was a tranquillity, a peace, an elevation diffused over that pallid
face, which was reflected back upon the heart of the beholder: a kind
of moonlight brightness, communicating its own peculiar sweetness and
quietude to every object it shone upon. Seated near him, and leaning
over the arm of his chair, was a female, whose slight delicate figure,
and dazzlingly fair complexion, gave her a supernatural appearance to
the unaccustomed eye of the dark Abyssinian. Her drooping attitude and
fragile frame appealed at once to sympathy and protection, while her
placid eyes, alternately lifted to heaven and turned towards him on
whose arm she leaned, were expressive not only of meekness and
submission, but even of holy rapture. A third figure belonged to this
interesting group: that of an infant girl, about eighteen months old,
who, seated on a straw matting, at the feet of her parents, raised her
cherub head as if in the act of listening, and tossed back her flaxen
ringlets with the playful grace of infancy.
Adellan had heard that a Christian missionary was in the neighbourhood
of Adorva, and he doubted not that he now beheld one whom he had been
taught to believe his most dangerous enemy. Unwilling to remain longer
in his vicinity, he was about to pass on, when the stranger arose and
addressed him in the language of his country. Surprised at the
salutation, and charmed, in spite of himself, with the mild courtesy
of his accents, Adellan was constrained to linger. The fair-haired
lady greeted him with a benign smile, and the little child clapped its
hands as if pleased with the novelty and grace of his appearance; for
though the hue of the olive dyed his cheek, his features presented the
classic lineaments of manly beauty, and though the long folds of his
white robe veiled the outlines of his figure, he was formed in the
finest model of European symmetry. The missionary spoke to him of his
country, of the blandness of the climate, the magnificence of the
trees, the fragrance of the air, till Adellan forgot his distrust, and
answered him with frankness and interest. Following the dictates of
his own ardent curiosity, he questioned the missionary with regard to
his name, his native country, and his object in coming to his own far
land. He learned that his name was M----, that he came from the banks
of the Rhine to the borders of the Nile, and, following its branches,
had found a resting-place near the waters of the beautiful Tacazze.
"And why do you come to this land of strangers?" asked the abrupt
Abyssinian.
"I came as an humble servant of my divine Master," replied the
missionary, meekly; "as a messenger of 'glad tidings of great joy,' to
all who will receive me, and as a friend and brother, even to those
who may persecute and revile me."
"What tidings can you bring us," said Adellan, haughtily, "that our
priests and teachers can not impart to us?"