Henry Rambo married, and brought a new mistress to the farm-house.
Betty married, and migrated to a new home in another part of the
State. Leonard Clare went back to his trade, and returned no more in
harvest-time. So the pleasant farm by the Brandywine, having served its
purpose as a background, will be seen no more in this history.
Miss Bartram's inmost life, as a woman, was no longer the same. The
point of view from which she had beheld the world was shifted, and she
was obliged to remodel all her feelings and ideas to conform to it. But
the process was gradual, and no one stood near enough to her to remark
it. She was occasionally suspected of that “eccentricity” which, in
a woman of five-and-twenty, is looked upon as the first symptom of a
tendency to old-maidenhood, but which is really the sign of an earnest
heart struggling with the questions of life. In the society of cities,
most men give only the shallow, flashy surface of their natures to the
young women they meet, and Miss Bartram, after that revelation of the
dumb strength of an ignorant man, sometimes grew very impatient of the
platitudes and affectations which came to her clad in elegant words, and
accompanied by irreproachable manners.
She had various suitors; for that sense of grace and repose and sweet
feminine power, which hung around her like an atmosphere, attracted
good and true men towards her. To some, indeed, she gave that noble,
untroubled friendship which is always possible between the best of the
two sexes, and when she was compelled to deny the more intimate appeal,
it was done with such frank sorrow, such delicate tenderness, that
she never lost the friend in losing the lover. But, as one year after
another went by, and the younger members of her family fell off into
their separate domestic orbits, she began to shrink a little at the
perspective of a lonely life, growing lonelier as it receded from the
Present.
By this time, Leonard Clare had become almost a dream to her. She had
neither seen him nor heard of him since he let go her hand on that
memorable evening beside the stream. He was a strange, bewildering
chance, a cypher concealing a secret which she could not intelligently
read. Why should she keep the memory of that power which was, perhaps,
some unconscious quality of his nature (no, it was not so! something
deeper than reason cried:), or long since forgotten, if felt, by him?
The man whom she most esteemed came back to her. She knew the ripeness
and harmony of his intellect, the nobility of his character, and the
generosity of a feeling which would be satisfied with only a partial
return. She felt sure, also, that she should never possess a sentiment
nearer to love than that which pleaded his cause in her heart. But her
hand lay quiet in his, her pulses were calm when he spoke, and his face,
manly and true as it was, never invaded her dreams. All questioning was
vain; her heart gave no solution of the riddle. Perhaps her own want
was common to all lives: then she was cherishing a selfish ideal, and
rejecting the positive good offered to her hands.
After long hesitation she yielded. The predictions of society came to
naught; instead of becoming an “eccentric” spinster, Miss Bartram was
announced to be the affianced bride of Mr. Lawrie. A few weeks and
months rolled around, and when the wedding-day came, she almost hailed
it as the port of refuge, where she should find a placid and peaceful
life.
They were married by an aged clergyman, a relative of the bridegroom.
The cross-street where his chapel stood, fronting a Methodist
church--both of the simplest form of that architecture fondly supposed
to be Gothic,--was quite blocked up by the carriages of the party. The
pews were crowded with elegant guests, the altar was decorated with
flowers, and the ceremony lacked nothing of its usual solemn beauty.
The bride was pale, but strikingly calm and self-possessed, and when
she moved towards the door as Mrs. Lawrie, on her husband's arm, many
matrons, recalling their own experience, marvelled at her unflurried
dignity.
Just as they passed out the door, and the bridal carriage was summoned,
a singular thing happened. Another bridal carriage drew up from the
opposite side, and a newly wedded pair came forth from the portal of the
Methodist church. Both parties stopped, face to face, divided only by
the narrow street. Mrs. Lawrie first noticed the flushed cheeks of the
other bride, her white dress, rather showy than elegant, and the heavy
gold ornaments she wore. Then she turned to the bridegroom. He was tall
and well-formed, dressed like a gentleman, but like one who is not
yet unconscious of his dress, and had the air of a man accustomed to
exercise some authority.
She saw his face, and instantly all other faces disappeared. From the
opposite brink of a tremendous gulf she looked into his eyes, and their
blended ray of love and despair pierced her to the heart.
There was a roaring in her ears, followed a long sighing sound, like
that of the wind on some homeless waste; she leaned more heavily on her
husband's arm, leaned against his shoulder, slid slowly down into his
supporting clasp, and knew no more.
“She's paying for her mock composure, after all,” said the matrons.
“It must have been a great effort.”