"Some wild desire, some sad mistake has cast
Severe remorse and sorrow for the past;
Some former fault shall present solace curb,
Or fair occasion lost, his peace disturb;
Some fatal chance has ruined every scheme,
And proved his brightest prospect all a dream."
About the year 18--, there lived in a populous neighborhood, in the
state of Virginia, a lady and gentleman named Sanford. They possessed
considerable wealth, which was to be inherited by their only son, whom
they called Hugh. The life of this worthy couple, was as quiet and
easy as an unruffled stream, save when some slight differences of
opinion would occasionally arise, respecting the management of Hugh.
But one point on which they always agreed, was, that he should never
be thwarted in any wish of his heart.
At the time our story commences, Hugh Sanford was twenty, and had just
left college. Whether he ever distinguished himself there, I have not
been able to ascertain. However, I know with certainty, that he was by
nature gifted with good sense, and he had many fine qualities of the
heart. I know not whether the reader will think so, from the sketch I
am about to write, but he must bear in mind, that Hugh's natural
disposition was so warped by continual indulgence, that not until the
fever of youth had subsided, was it truly developed.
A large party had been invited to spend several days at Mr. Sanford's,
and his wife had promised them a little dance. We shall pass over the
preparations which were made for the party, and which, in the country,
always produce so much bustle and excitement; we will even say nothing
of the more important business, (to the girls at least) of the
_toilette_; but shall follow them all to the drawing room, which was
brilliantly lighted.
Among the girls, Mary Linden, was the most commanding; her splendid
dress and jewelry, gave her quite a _magnificent_ air. She was the
daughter of a _rich_ widower. Ellen Lorval (the only child of a _poor_
lawyer,) was also much admired. Her light muslin dress and simple
wreath of wild flowers were peculiarly becoming.
"My dear Hugh," said Mrs. Sanford, "I wish to speak with you a moment
before the dancing commences. Does not Mary look beautiful? Do go and
engage her as your partner immediately."
"Not so fast mother," said he smiling.
"My son," said she, "I love Mary as my daughter: could I but think
that she would be one to me." She looked at him intently, but he
appeared not to understand her meaning, and turning the conversation,
he went to join a group of young men.
The scene changes. The enlivening sound of the violin is heard; the
couples are beginning to take their places on the floor, when Hugh, to
the dismay of his parents, is seen leading out Ellen Lorval. Mary
Linden is surrounded by beaux, and it seems has capriciously given her
fair hand to the least deserving of them, a would-be-wit, whose whole
conversation consists of long words and jests, which have been in
print for ages. The party went off well, and all seemed to enjoy
themselves, except some few unfortunate _wall-flowers_, for whom,
however, Mrs. Sanford procured partners towards the close of the
evening.
Hugh would probably never again have thought of his attentions to
Ellen, had not his mother kept him _in custody_ the next morning,
while she spoke _her_ mind on the subject. She represented to him "the
folly of falling in love with her, when Mary Linden was in the house;"
and she even went so far as to say that "there would be a _great
impropriety_ in his falling in love with Ellen."
Hugh was greatly astonished at hearing all this, for the idea of
falling in love had never entered his imagination. He was sorry to see
his mother pained, but since she had put such notions into his head,
he could not but see, that if he could be so fortunate as to fall in
love, and meet with opposition, it would give a peculiar zest to the
monotony of his country life. So he stalked off to the drawing room,
and _began_ to think Ellen very interesting. The few succeeding days
were passed as they usually are by a large party in the country. They
read, talked, rode and played at battledoor; but at length the guests
departed, and Mr. and Mrs. Sanford returned to the enjoyment of their
usual tranquillity; but Hugh did not feel quite at his ease, as he was
conscious that he had pained his parents, not so much by his
attentions to Ellen, as by failing to fall in love with Mary Linden.
Weeks passed on;--Hugh continued to meet Ellen at all the dinners and
parties in the neighborhood, and to pay her attention. Mr. and Mrs.
Sanford had seen all their hopes respecting Mary Linden laid low, and
they had fretted themselves into ill humor about Ellen: a calm was now
ensuing, they began to look on the bright side of things, and even to
fancy that Ellen was to be their future daughter.
"My son," said Mr. Sanford, "I wish you to consult your own happiness
in every thing. You love Ellen; you have now the consent of your
parents to address her."
"Really father, I----." He stammered out something that was
unintelligible.
"Say no more, I see you are embarrassed."
"Hear me father----."
"Not a word more at present; good bye."
There is an old saying, that "competition is the life of trade," and I
think it is no less true, that "opposition is the life of love," or of
something that is frequently mistaken for it by _greenhorns_, and very
young ladies just from school. Now that all opposition was at an end,
Hugh was somewhat surprised to find himself entirely OUT of love with
Ellen; and indeed, he shrewdly suspected he had never been IN love
with her. The gentle girl had seemed pleased with the attentions of
the handsome Hugh Sanford, though she acted with the most perfect
delicacy, nor have I ever found out whether she imagined him to be
serious. I am sorry to say, that the utmost partiality cannot throw a
veil over the conduct of Hugh in this instance; and many will say that
he does not deserve the title of a _hero_. "Pshaw!" says a little
girl, "I thought all heroes were perfect!" And so they are, in English
novels, but not in Old Virginia!
Mrs. Sanford had a widowed sister living in the southern part of the
state. Her name was Harrington, and she was the mother of two
daughters, who were dashing belles and beauties. Thither Hugh now
went, to pay a visit. On a bright evening, he came in sight of his
aunt's dwelling. It was situated on a smooth green hill, which
gradually sloped to the river ----, which was not very wide here. A
tiny canoe was presently visible in the middle of the stream, and much
to his surprise he perceived in it a single female figure. "Can that
be one of my cousins?" said he; "what mad freak could induce her to go
alone?" But, when he arrived at the house, he found both of his
cousins and his aunt sitting together. They received him cordially,
and while he was answering their inquiries, a light step was heard in
the passage, and an eager voice exclaimed: "Oh, Mrs. Harrington, my
pigeon flew away from me to the other bank, and I was so much afraid
of losing it, that I went over for it by myself." The speaker entered
the room, holding the bird triumphantly in her hand; but perceiving a
stranger, she was retreating, when Mrs. Harrington recalled her, and
she was introduced to Hugh by the appellation of Amy Larone. She was
bright as a sunbeam, and beautiful as the roses of spring. Her hazel
eyes were large; a delicate carnation bloomed on her cheek, and her
brown hair was parted over her smooth brow, and gracefully twisted at
the back of her head. She was below the middle size, and the plainest
suit of mourning was neatly fitted on her slender shape. Hugh's
interest was strongly excited by the air of mystery with which he
fancied she was surrounded, and he seized the first opportunity to
inquire who she was. Her simple story was soon told. She was nearly
sixteen, and was the orphan child of poor and obscure, though honest
parents. Her mother died when she was four years old, and she was left
to the care of her father, an illiterate, although well-meaning man,
who had no idea that education was at all necessary: if he could see
his daughter neatly dressed, and hear the neighbors say how beautiful
she was, he cared for nothing more. Her beauty and modesty were talked
of by rich and poor. Her father had not been dead more than seven or
eight months; and Mrs. Harrington pitying her forlorn condition, had
taken her to her house. Maria and Theresa Harrington were kind to her,
and were anxious to repair somewhat the total neglect of the education
of the warm hearted Amy. She was grateful, but as her taste for study
had not been formed in childhood, it was with reluctance that she now
attempted the _drudgery_ of learning, and, so far as concerned
herself, she wished that the makers of books had never existed.
She seemed, however, to possess an instinctive knowledge of what was
right and proper to be said or done, even on occasions that were
perfectly novel to her; and when a subject was started of which she
was ignorant, she acted _wisely_, and said _nothing_; or if in the
course of conversation a few errors were committed by her, her
transcendent beauty was sufficient to atone for all. True, her beauty
was not of the spiritual kind, "the rapt soul _beaming_ in the eyes;"
but it was just such as is always admired by enthusiastic young men.
Company came in, and Hugh obtaining a seat near Amy, entered into
conversation with her, in which to do her justice, she supported her
part quite well. He rallied her upon her excursion after her truant
bird. She replied--"It was the last thing my father ever gave me, and
I love it for his sake."
Several weeks had been passed by Hugh at his aunt's, and he had become
deeply interested in the orphan. Amy appeared dejected, and very
rarely joined the family party in the sitting room. This conduct only
strengthened Hugh's interest. He was now really in love--"fairly
caught," as the young ladies express it. Walking out one evening by
himself, he encountered Amy unexpectedly, and a gleam of joy lighted
up his handsome features.
"Miss Larone," said he, "why have you deserted us; the time has been
too, too long since we met."
"Three days, sir," said Amy, slightly smiling.
"I can hardly believe it possible," said he, "for it seems almost as
many months to me."
Amy assumed a look of coldness, and said she did not understand him;
but her countenance betrayed that she did.
They walked on in silence to the bank of the river, and Hugh looking
on the beautiful stream and its romantic banks, said, "Could I but
think that you would walk here after I am gone, and think of me--Amy,
I will confess that from the first moment I saw you, I felt the
strongest interest in you. Nay more, that I do now love you most
ardently. Will you give me your heart?" She remained silent and
agitated, and at length tears came to her relief. "Oh, why do you
weep? Say to me Amy, that I may at least hope you love me!" She raised
her mild tearful eyes, and that glance betrayed that her heart was
his.--"Now, heaven bless you Amy, let us record our vows, and you will
be my bride ere long." "Mr. Sanford," she said, "'tis true that I love
you, but yet I can never be yours. Your parents would never receive me
as their daughter." "Hush Amy," said he, "my parents love me too well
to withhold their consent." Struggling with her emotion, she said,
"There are other weighty reasons why I cannot be your wife. No, no, it
cannot be." "Amy, you distract me; whatever those reasons are, they
_shall_ be overcome." She shook her head, and darted off from him ere
he was aware of her determination. Hugh was bewildered; but he
resolved to seek another interview with Amy. The next day he entreated
her as a last favor, to walk with him. So _reasonable_ a request could
not be refused. He told her that unless she changed her determination,
on the morrow he would depart, whither he neither knew or cared. Her
_compassion_ was so much excited, that before their return to the
house, she had permitted him to hope. He told her he would set off
directly for his home, and that he would return in a few
weeks,--adding that he would write to her immediately. It was not
until after much entreaty, that she consented to receive his letters;
but when he requested her to _answer_ them, her agitation knew no
bounds. Poor Amy!
The next day he took leave of all; and ere long, a letter fraught with
expressions of the most tender regard, was handed to Amy. _She did not
answer it._ Another soon followed, gently chiding her for her silence.
After this, _all were answered_. Mrs. Harrington and Maria _were in
arms about the match_. His parents yielded a reluctant consent; and at
the appointed time they were married. Hugh wrote to his mother to
apprize her of it, and to appoint a time for their arrival at the home
of his childhood--he now thought himself perfectly happy. The
_honey-moon_ was nearly past, when, one day as he was gazing with
rapture on the loveliness of his young bride, Mrs. Harrington entered,
saying, "Here is a letter directed to 'Mrs. Hugh Sanford,' from my
sister, I think." She handed Amy the letter, with a look of peculiar
significance. Amy broke the seal mechanically, blushed deeply, and
bent her eyes on the ground.--"Amy," said Hugh, "why do you not read
my mother's letter?" She sank down, and could only say, "Forgive
me--oh, forgive me!" "For what, dearest? You that never in thought or
word offended. Look up, Amy," said he, smiling, "you have no need of
forgiveness." "Oh, you do not know; I--" She could scarce articulate;
but at length came the terrible confession, that she could scarcely
read, and _could not write!_
We have mentioned the total neglect of her education, and the
"_weighty_ reasons" which she told Hugh would prevent her from
marrying him. All is now explained. But how, you may ask, did she
manage to answer his letters, when she was unable to write? She made
Theresa Harrington her confidant; and _she_, without thinking of the
consequences, answered them in Amy's name. The deception was cruel;
but Amy's conduct is not entirely without some palliation. Her love of
Hugh, and the shame of her ignorance, combated fiercely in her bosom;
and _she did refuse him--partly_.
Hugh had first been won by her beauty and her destitute condition; her
refusal of his offered hand had only added fuel to the flame. Absence,
"making the heart grow fonder," and the letters he received, all
conspired to blind him. Sincerely was he to be pitied, for he
possessed many fine qualities, and was nobly disinterested. The veil
was now removed from his eyes, and the dream of love was fast
deserting him, like shadows of the morning, when the bright sunlight
rises o'er the hills. They went to his parents. We shall pass over the
various mortifications which Hugh had to endure. Amy idolized her
husband, and he was too kind-hearted to be proof against her fondness.
He exerted himself day after day to instruct her, but I do not believe
she went much beyond learning to read and write legibly. His parents
lived only a few years after these events, and his beautiful wife was
attacked about four years after they were married with a slight cough,
which was soon followed by that bright flush, which is too frequently
the harbinger of death. A southern climate, and every possible means
were resorted to, for her restoration to health, but in vain! Her last
prayers were offered up for her husband, and a daughter then two years
old. Hugh never married again. He continued to live at the family
mansion, occupied almost entirely with the education of Eva. When she
was ten years of age, she was sent to New York to school. Her life has
been attended with circumstances which are not without romance. Should
any curiosity be felt on the subject, I may at a future time give a
sketch of the life of Eva Sanford.
Years have passed since these events transpired, and the once young
and handsome Hugh Sanford is now an old man. His appearance is very
much changed, and his faults and foibles have been lost in his
progress through life, or have become softened by the hand of time.
Certain it is, he is now a very estimable man, and is looked up to
with reverence both in public and private life.