“Methinks I feel this youth’s perfection.
Steal with an invisible and subtile stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes.”
Miss Bryarly was idolized by both her father and uncle, and her
education and accomplishments had been their joint care. The indulgence
of the latter toward her knew no bounds; the expensive presents he
lavished upon her, silently attested how well he loved her.
Mr. Pluribusi had never married. He was a man of a firm mind, of a
generous spirit, and would face danger, and stand up against oppression
as readily on behalf of others as himself; and at the bottom of all he
had a tenderness and delicacy of feeling which must not be passed by
without at least our humble commendation.
One day Mary and her uncle were sitting alone; he held a book in his
hand, and was apparently reading, while she had given herself up to one
of those thoughtful dreams, half joy, half sadness, in which she had
frequently indulged since the departure of Mr. Thatcher. She was aroused
by her uncle, who laughingly said,
“Well, Mary, can you tell me now what this passion of love is, that you
and I read and hear so much about?”
“Oh, uncle, how should I know?” replied she, blushing crimson.
“I am pretty sure,” said he, still laughing, “you will never again ask,
‘Uncle, what is love?’ You want no explanation now—no, no, not you; you
can now teach me what it is.”
“Nay, dear uncle, you know I am perfectly unacquainted with the
passion.”
“Perfectly, my dear; and you are perfectly unacquainted with a certain
tall, good-looking young man, who was here a few weeks since, watching
your every motion with so enamored a spirit, and so beseechingly
imploring a repetition of that sweet, enchanting air, called Puritani,
which you are never tired—no, not you—of singing, since he so
rapturously praised it. You did not see who was laughing behind you all
the time.”
“How can you be so ridiculous?” said Mary, half pouting, half laughing.
“And how can you treat such a discreet and trust-worthy personage as
your own uncle in this way, and make your heart, like the prison-house
of the ghost of Hamlet, the abode of untold secrets?”
“I don’t understand you, further than you think yourself very
clever—the very Newton of philosophers in the discovery of nothing.”
“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Mr. Pluribusi, with pretended surprise; “how
can you be so unamiable—you know that you have been attacked with that
particular malady called love, which you have so often wished me to
explain that—”
Here Mary ran to her piano and played an extempore prelude of crashing
chords, which completely drowned his voice, though it did not silence
him. She then sang, with a sweet voice, the saucy air of “cease your
funning.” Mr. Bryarly, who had entered during this colloquy without
being observed, now approached, and taking Mary’s hand, said, seriously,
“Let us have done with this ‘funning.’ Mary, I wish you to marry; and
Harry Thatcher I have deemed to be the hero of your destiny, graced as
he is with every quality to win and wear a maiden’s heart.”
The soft blush that had hitherto colored the cheek of our heroine was
pale to the crimson that now dyed its surface.
“Father,” said she, “you are rather precipitate. Pray allow Mr. Thatcher
to choose for himself.”
“I am certain he loves you, Mary,” said her father.
“He never told me so.” She spoke the truth literally in her reply; he
had never told her so in words; but there is a language which
speaks—the language of feeling, of intuition, and the force of such
communication had made its impression upon her—and she carried with her
a conviction of the conquest she had made of his heart.
“But he has told me so,” said Mr. Pluribusi; “and when industry and
economy win fortune, you will be the object of his choice, as you now
are of his love.”
“Why, uncle, do you, too, advocate marriage?” exclaimed she, feigning
surprise. “I thought you wished me to resemble you in every thing.”
“In every thing but remaining unmarried, Mary,” returned he.
“But you have been very happy—quite an enviable person.”
“I have never been exactly happy since they called me old bachelor,”
replied he, a little impatiently.
“Indeed!” exclaimed his niece with real surprise. “But did not you tell
me some three or four weeks ago that this passion which is ycleped love,
sometimes produces unhappiness as well as happiness?”
“That I also told you depended on the dispositions of the persons under
its influence. If they have sufficient common sense to avoid the many
dangers that intersect the way to happiness, they will find the passion
truly delightful; but should they overstep the limits marked out by
prudence, they will ultimately find they have pursued a shadow which has
ended in disappointment or blighted hopes.”
“Dear me! but, father, what do you say on the subject?”
“That the _parterre_, among which the most beautiful flowers blossom,
often conducts to a bed of thorns, if we deviate from the correct path.”
“It is surprising, then, dear father, that you should wish me to travel
a road so perilous.”
“Avoid the perils, daughter.”
“But what are they, father?”
“They consist of some of those errors of disposition that often produce
the misery of mankind—false-pride, want of confidence, anger,
jealousy—”
“But what is jealousy?” asked she, interrupting her father.
“Decidedly the greatest evil of the whole—’tis the bane to all
happiness. It is a want of that confidence which, did we not deny its
sway, would give to love a permanence that we seldom find on earth.”
“Dear me! I am sure I shall never be jealous,” said Mary.
“Never suspect the truth and constancy of the individual in whose hands
you are willing to place your happiness. Let nothing induce you to think
that another shares his affection.”
“I never will. I may love, as it seems, such a universal thing if it be
only to please you and uncle Pluribusi, but I can never be jealous.”