herself in a darkened chamber, the curtains of her bed closely drawn,
saving a small aperture, through which she could perceive a neat,
matronly figure, moving with soft, careful steps, and occasionally
glancing anxiously towards the bed. She attempted to raise herself on
her elbow, but she had not strength to lift her head from the pillow;
she could scarcely carry her feeble hand to her forehead, to put back
the moist hair which fell heavily over her brow.
"How weak I am!" said she faintly. "How long have I slept?"
"Be composed," said the stranger, approaching her gently, "and do not
speak. You have been very ill. Everything depends on your keeping
perfectly quiet."
Rosamond began to tremble violently as she gazed up in the stranger's
face. Why was she committed to _her_ charge? Was she forsaken by him
whom awakening memory brought before her as an injured and perhaps
avenging husband?
"Where is he?" cried she, in a voice so low, the woman bent her ear to
her lips, to hear.
"The doctor?" replied she. "Oh, he will soon be here. He said if you
waked, no one must come near you, and you must not be allowed to speak
one word. It might cost you your life."
Rosamond tried to gasp out her husband's name, but her parched lips
were incapable of further articulation. Her eyes closed from
exhaustion, and the nurse, supposing she slept, drew the curtains
closer, and moved on tiptoe to the window. At length the door slowly
opened, and the footstep of a man entered the room. Rosamond knew it
was not her husband's step, and such a cold feeling fell on her heart,
she thought it the precursor of death. She heard a whispered
conversation which set every nerve throbbing with agony. Then the
curtains were withdrawn, and she felt a stranger's hand counting the
pulsations of her chilled veins. "I am forsaken," thought she, "even
in my dying hour. Oh God! it is just." Again the chamber was still,
and she must have fallen into a deep slumber, for when she again
opened her eyes, she saw a lamp glimmering through the curtains, and
the shadow of her nurse reflected in them, seated at a table, reading.
She was reading aloud, though in a low voice, as if fearful of
disturbing the slumbers she was watching. Rosamond caught the sound,
"I the Lord thy God am a jealous God." She repeated it to herself, and
it gave her an awful sensation. The commanding claims of her Maker
upon her affections, for the first time rose before her in all their
height, depth, power, and majesty. "A jealous God!" How tremendous,
how appalling the idea. If she, a poor worm of the dust, was so severe
and uncompromising in her demands upon a fellow being, what terrible
exactions might a neglected Deity make from the creature he had formed
for his glory? She remembered the command from which that fearful
sentence was extracted. She had broken it, trampled it under her feet.
She had bowed down in adoration to an earthly idol, and robbed her
God, her _jealous God_, of the homage due to his august name. The
light that poured in upon her conscience was like the blazing of a
torch through a dark mine. She had felt before the madness of her
bosom passion, she now felt its sin and its sacrilege. "I am
forsaken," again repeated she to herself, "but I had first forsaken
thee, O my God! Thou art drawing me home unto thee." Tears gathering
thick and fast, fell down her pale cheeks, till the pillow they
pressed was wet as with rain-drops. She wept long, and without one
effort to restrain the gushing forth of her melting heart, when
exhausted nature once more sought relief in sleep. Her first
consciousness, on awakening, was of a soft hand laid gently on her
brow, a warm breath stealing over her cheek, and a trembling lip
gently pressed upon her own. Had she awakened in the abodes of the
blest, in the midst of the hierarchy of heaven, she could hardly have
experienced a deeper rapture than that which flooded her breast.
Slowly, as if fearing to banish by the act the image drawn on her now
glowing heart, she lifted her eyes, and met the eyes of her husband
looking down upon her, no longer stern and upbraiding, but softened
into woman's tenderness. The next moment he was kneeling by the
bedside, his face buried in the covering, which shook from the strong
emotion it concealed.
When Rosamond learned that Cecil, instead of having left her to her
bitter consequences of her rashness, in just and unappeasable
resentment, had never left her in her unconsciousness, and since her
restoration to reason had hovered near the threshold of her chamber
day and night, forbidden to enter, lest his presence should produce an
agitation fatal to a frame apparently trembling on the brink of the
grave, she again reproached herself for believing he could have been
capable of such unrelenting cruelty. When she was assured too that
Eugenia was safe under the protection of an early friend, whom she had
most unexpectedly encountered, and only waited a passport from the
physician, to come to her bedside, her soul swelled with gratitude
that found no language but prayer.
"I have sinned against Heaven and thee, my husband!" exclaimed
Rosamond, from the depth of a penitent and chastened spirit--"I am no
more worthy to be called thy wife."
"We have both erred, my beloved Rosamond; we have lived too much for
the world and ourselves, regardless of higher and holier relations.
Never, till I feared to lose thee for ever, did I feel the drawings of
that mighty chain which links us inseparably to Him who created us.
Let us both commence life anew--awakened to our responsibilities as
Christians, and, profiting by the sad experience of the past, let us
lay the foundations of our happiness too deep and broad for the
storms of passion to overthrow. Let us build it on the Rock of Ages."
And who was the friend whom Eugenia had so providentially discovered?
When she left the dwelling of Cecil Dormer, to seek the lady who
wished for an instructress for her daughters, one of the first persons
who crossed her path was the terrific Mrs. Grundy. This woman, whose
hatred for her seemed implacable as the injuries she had inflicted
were deep, seeing her alone and in evident disorder of mind, began to
revile and threaten her. A stranger, observing the terror and loathing
with which a young and attractive-looking girl shrunk from a coarse
and masculine woman, paused and offered his protection. The remarkable
resemblance which Eugenia bore to her ill-fated mother led to a
discovery as unexpected as it was interesting. The melancholy stranger
was no other than her own father, who believed his wife and child had
perished in their flight, having heard of the destruction of the boat
in which they fled. Thus mysteriously had Providence transmuted into a
blessing, what seemed the greatest misfortune of her life.
The history of Mr. St. Clair and his unfortunate wife, which he
subsequently related to Cecil and Rosamond, was fraught with the most
intense interest. Like Rosamond, he had cherished a _bosom serpent_,
remorseless as death, "cruel as the grave;" but he had not, like her,
found, before it was too late, an antidote for its deadly venom.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET.
We were all seated in a piazza, one beautiful summer's night. The
moonbeams quivered through the interlacing vines that crept
fantastically over the latticework that surrounded it. My grandmother
sat in an arm-chair in the centre of the group, her arms quietly
folded across her lap, her hair white and silvery as the moonbeams
that lingered on its parted folds. She was the handsomest old lady I
ever saw, my revered grandmother, and in the spring of her years had
been a reigning belle. To me she was still beautiful, in the gentle
quietude of life's evening shades, the dignity of chastened passions,
waiting hopes, and sustaining religious faith. I was her favourite
grandchild, and the place near her feet, the arm laid across her lap,
the uplifted eye fixed steadfastly on her face, constant as the
recurrence of the still night hour, told a story of love and devotion
on my part, which defied all competition. As I sat this night, leaning
on her lap, I held her hand in mine, and the thought that, a few more
years, that hand must be cold in the grave, incapable of answering the
glowing pressure of mine, made me draw a deep inspiration, and I
almost imagined her complexion assumed an ashen hue, prophetical of
death. The weather was warm, and she wore a large loose wrapper, with
flowing sleeves, left unconfined at the wrist. As I moved her hand,
the folds of the sleeve fell back, and something pure and bright
glittered in the moonlight. She made a movement to draw down the
sleeve, but the eager curiosity of childhood was not to be eluded. I
caught her wrist, and baring it to the gaze of all, exclaimed--
"Only think--grandmother has got on a bracelet--a pearl bracelet! Who
would think of her indulging in such finery? Here are two sweet pearl
lilies set together in a golden clasp, with golden leaves below them.
Why, grandmother, you must be setting up for a bride!"
"It was a bridal gift," replied she, sliding the bracelet on her
shrunken arm; "a bridal gift, made long ago. It was a foolish thought,
child. I was looking over a casket, where I have deposited the
choicest treasures of my youth, and I clasped it on my wrist, to see
how my arm had fallen from its fair proportions. My mind became so
lost in thinking of the story of this gem, I forgot to restore it to
the place where it has so long lain, slumbering with the hoarded
memories of other days."
"A story!" we all eagerly exclaimed,--"please tell it--you promised us
one to-night."
"Ah! children, it is no fairy tale, about bright genii, and enchanted
palaces, and ladies so beautiful that they bewitch every one who comes
within the magic reach of their charms. It is a true tale, and has
some sad passages in it."
"Grandmother," said I, in a dignified manner, "I hope you don't think
me so silly as not to like anything because it is true. I have got
over the Arabian Nights long ago, and I would rather hear something to
make me feel sorry than glad--I always do feel sad when the moon
shines on me, but I can't tell the reason why."
"Hush! Mina, and let grandmother tell her story--you always talk so
much," said little Mitty, who sat on the other side of her venerable
relative.
The old lady patted with one hand the golden head of the chider, but
the arm clasped by the magic bracelet was still imprisoned by my
fingers, and as she proceeded in its history, my grasp tightened and
tightened from the intenseness of my interest, till she was compelled
to beg me to release her.
"Yes," said she, in a musing tone, "there is a story depending on
this, which I remember as vividly as if the events were of yesterday.
I may forget what happened an hour ago, but the records of my youth
are written in lines that grow deeper as time flows over them."
She looked up steadily for a few moments, appearing to my imagination
like an inspired sibyl, then began as follows:
"When I was a young girl, I had no brothers or sisters, as you have,
but was an only, I might say a lonely child, for my father was dead
and my mother an invalid. When I returned from school, I obtained
permission to invite a sweet young cousin of mine, whose name was
Eglantine, to be my companion. We were affluent, she was poor; and
when my mother proposed to make our house her home, she accepted the
offer with gratitude and joy. She was an interesting creature, of a
peculiar temperament and exquisite sensibility. She was subject to
fits of wonderful buoyancy, and equal despondency; sometimes she would
warble all day, gay and untiring as the bird perched on yonder spray,
then a soft melancholy would sit brooding on her brow, as if she
feared some impending misfortune. This was probably owing to the
peculiar circumstances of her infancy, for she was born during her
mother's widowhood, and nursed by a mother's tears. A poetical friend
had given her the name of Eglantine, and well did her beauty,
sweetness, delicacy, and fragility justify the name. In our girlhood
we grew together, like the friends of the Midsummer's Night, almost
inseparable in body, and never divided in heart, by those little
jealousies which sometimes interpose their barriers to young maidens'
friendships. But I see little Mitty has fallen asleep already. My
story is too grave for the light ears of childhood. I shall be
obliged, too, to say something about love, and even you, Mina, are
entirely too young to know anything of its influence."
"Oh! but I do know something, grandmother," exclaimed I, impulsively;
"that is, I have read--I have thought"--I stammered and stopped,
unable to express my own vague ideas.
"You may not be too young to sympathize, but certainly too young to
feel," said my grandmother, mildly; "but, ardent and sympathizing as
your nature is, it will be hard for you to carry back your mind to the
time when all the warm passions and hopes of youth were glowing in my
bosom. It is enough to say that there was one who came and rivalled
Eglantine in my affections, one to whom I was betrothed, and to whom I
was to be shortly wedded. It was on such an eve as this, so clear and
bright, that he gave me the pledge of our betrothal, this bracelet of
pearl, and clasped it on an arm which then filled the golden circlet.
Perhaps you wonder that the first token of love should not have been a
ring; but Ronald did not like to follow the track of other men, and
even in trifles marked out for himself a peculiar and independent
course. That night, when I retired to my chamber, I found Eglantine
seated at the open window, apparently absorbed in the contemplation
of the starry heavens. She sat in a loose undress, her hair of pale
gold hung unbound over her shoulders, and her head, being slightly
thrown back, allowed the moonlight to flood her whole face with its
unearthly radiance.
"'You look very beautiful and romantic, dear Eglantine,' said I,
softly approaching her, and throwing my arms round her neck; 'but come
down from the stars a little while, my sweet cousin, and share in my
earthborn emotions.' My heart was too full of happiness, my spirits
too excited, not to overflow in unreserved confidence in her bosom.
She wept as I poured into her ears all my hopes, my recent vows, and
future schemes of felicity. It was her usual manner of expressing deep
sympathy, and I loved her the better for her tears. 'All I wonder at
and blame in Ronald is,' and I spoke this in true sincerity, 'that he
does not love you better than me. Never, till this evening, was I sure
of his preference.'
"Eglantine withdrew herself from my arms, and turned her face to the
shadow of the wall. There was something inexplicable in her manner
that chilled, and even alarmed me. A thought, too painful to be
admitted, darted for a moment to my mind. Could she be jealous of
Ronald's love for me? Was my happiness to be built on the ruin of
hers? No! it could not be. She probably feared my affections might
become alienated from her in consequence of my new attachment. Such a
fear was natural, and I hastened to remove it by the warmest
professions, mingled with covert reproaches for her doubts and
misgivings.
"I had a young waiting-maid, who, next to Eglantine, was the especial
object of my regard. She was the daughter of a gentlewoman, who, from
a series of misfortunes, was reduced to penury, to which was added the
helplessness of disease. To relieve her mother from the pressure of
immediate want, the young Alice offered herself as a candidate for a
state of servitude, and I eagerly availed myself of the opportunity of
securing the personal attendance of one so refined in manner and so
winning in appearance. Alice now came forward, as was her custom, to
assist me in preparing for my nightly rest. She was about to unclasp
the bracelet from my wrist, but I drew back my arm. 'No, no, Alice,'
said I, 'this is an amulet. Sweet dreams will come to my pillow,
beckoned by its fairy power. I cannot sleep without it. See how
beautifully the lilies gleam in the moonlight that gilds my couch.'
Alice seemed as if she could never weary in admiring the beauty of
the ornament. She turned my arm to shift the rays, and catch the
delicate colouring of the pearls, and looped up the sleeve of my
night-dress in a fantastic manner, to display it fully to her gaze.
Once or twice I thought I saw the eyes of Eglantine fastened upon it
with a sad, wistful expression, and the same exquisitely painful
thought again darted to my mind. I struggled against its admission, as
degrading both to myself and her, and at last fell asleep, with my arm
thrown on the outside of the bed, and the bracelet shining out in the
pure night-beams. Alice slept in a little bed by the side of mine, for
I could not bear that a creature so young and delicate, and so gentle
bred, should share the apartments devoted to the servants, and be
exposed to their rude companionship. She generally awoke me with her
light touch or gentle voice, but when I awoke the next morning, I saw
Alice still sleeping, with a flushed cheek and an attitude that
betokened excitement and unrest. Eglantine sat at her window, reading,
dressed with her usual care by her own graceful fingers. In the school
of early poverty she had learned the glorious lesson of independence,
a lesson which, in my more luxurious life, I had never acquired.
'Alice must be ill,' said I, rising, and approaching her bedside; 'she
looks feverish, and her brows are knit, as if her dreams were
fearful.' I bent down over her, and laid my hand upon her shoulder, to
rouse her from her uneasy slumbers, when I started--for the precious
bracelet was gone. Eglantine laid down her book at my sudden
exclamation, and Alice, wakening, looked round her with a bewildered
expression. 'My bracelet!' repeated I--'it is gone.' I flew to my
couch; it was not there. I looked upon the carpet, in the vain hope
that the clasp had unloosed, and that it had fallen during the night.
'Alice,' cried I, 'rise this moment, and help me to find my bracelet.
You must know where it is. It never could have vanished without aid.'
I fixed my eyes steadfastly on her face, which turned as hueless as
marble. She trembled in every limb, and sunk down again on the side of
the bed.
"'You do not think _I_ have taken it, Miss Laura?" said she, gasping
for breath.
"'I do not know what to think,' I answered, in a raised tone; 'but it
is very mysterious, and your whole appearance and manner is very
strange this morning, Alice. You must have been up in the night, or
you would not have slept so unusually late----
"'Do not be hasty, Laura,' said Eglantine, in a sweet, soothing voice;
'it may yet be found. Perhaps it is clinging to your dress, concealed
in its folds. Let me assist you in searching.' She unfolded the
sheets, turned up the edges of the carpet, examined every corner where
it might have been tossed, but all in vain. In the mean while Alice
remained like one stupefied, following our movements with a pale,
terrified countenance, without offering to participate in the search.
"'There is no use in looking longer, Eglantine,' said I, bitterly. 'I
suspect Alice might assist us effectually to discover it, if she
would. Nay, I will not say suspect--I believe--I dare to say, I
know--for conscious guilt is written in glaring characters on her
countenance.'
"'Do not make any rash accusations, Laura,' cried Eglantine; 'I
acknowledge appearances are much against her, but I cannot think Alice
capable of such ingratitude, duplicity, and meanness.'
"Alice here burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and declared, with
wringing hands and choking sobs, that she would sooner die than commit
so base and wicked a deed.
"'Oh! Miss Eglantine,' she exclaimed, 'didn't you take it in sport? It
seems as if I saw you in a dream going up to Miss Laura, while she was
asleep, and take it from her wrist, softly, and then vanish away. Oh!
Miss Eglantine, the more I think of it the more I am sure I saw
you,--all in sport, I know,--but please return it, or it will be death
to me.'
"The blood seemed to boil up in the cheeks of Eglantine, so sudden and
intense was the glow that mantled them.
"'I thought you innocent, Alice,' said she, 'but I see, with pain,
that you are an unprincipled girl. How dare you attempt to impose on
me the burthen of your crime? How dare you think of sheltering
yourself under the shadow of my name?'
"The vague suspicions which the assertion of Alice had excited,
vanished before the outraged looks and language of the usually gentle
Eglantine. Alice must have been the transgressor, and in proportion to
the affection and confidence I had reposed in her, and the
transcendent value of the gift, was my indignation at the offence, and
the strength of my resolution to banish her from me.
"'Restore it,' said I, 'and leave me. Do it quietly and immediately,
and I will inflict no other punishment than your own reflections, for
having abused so much love and trust.'
"'Search me, if you please, Miss Laura, and all that belongs to me,'
replied Alice, in a firmer tone, 'but I cannot give back what I have
never taken. I would not, for fifty thousand worlds, take what was not
mine, and least of all from you, who have been so kind and good. I am
willing to go, for I would rather beg my bread from door to door, than
live upon the bounty of one who thinks me capable of such guilt:' with
a composure that strangely contrasted with her late violent agitation,
she arranged her dress, and was walking towards the door, when
Eglantine arrested her--
"'Alice, Alice, you must be mad to persist in this course. Confess the
whole, return the bracelet, and Laura may yet forgive you. Think of
your sick mother. How can you go to her in shame and disgrace?'
"At the mention of her mother, Alice wept afresh, and putting her hand
to her head, exclaimed--
"'I feel very, very sick. Perhaps we shall die together, and then God
will take pity on us. The great God knows I am innocent of this
crime.'
"Grandmother," interrupted I, unable to keep silence any longer, "tell
me if she was not innocent. I know she must have been. Who could have
taken it?"
"Do you think Eglantine more likely to have stolen it from her cousin,
who was to her, as it were, another soul and being?"
"Oh! no," I replied, "but I shall feel unhappy till I discover the
thief. Please, grandmother, go on. Did Alice really go away?"
"Yes, my child," answered my grandmother, in a faltering voice, "she
went, though my relenting heart pleaded for her to linger. Her extreme
youth and helplessness, her previous simplicity and truthfulness, and
her solemn asseverations of innocence, all staggered my belief in her
guilt. It was a mystery which grew darker as I attempted to penetrate
it. If Alice were innocent, who could be guilty--Eglantine? Such
thought was sacrilege to her pure and elevated character, her tried
affection for me, her self-respect, dignity, and truth. Alice returned
to her mother, in spite of our permission for her to remain till the
subject could be more fully investigated.