To follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions.
Othello.
A quiet happiness was now Mary’s—a happiness “which passeth show.”
Heaven had blessed her, she believed, beyond her dearest hopes. But,
alas! the joys of the heart are more fleeting than the days of spring.
Where is the mortal that can secure to himself the cup of happiness
without alloy? It dwells not under a regal canopy—for a diadem often
makes the head ache. Nor with the conqueror, however great his glory in
the battle-field—the mangled bodies—the reeking blood—the groans of
the dying would prevent it. The poet, then—all his happiness consists
in being very miserable. The learned—nay, all they acquire makes them
but the more dissatisfied with themselves—and self-dissatisfaction,
every one knows, tends not to the promotion of happiness. Then the
lover, with the draught in his hand, cannot say it will reach his lips.
A something may come between him and his bliss, and the cup may pass
away. The cup that Mary had longed to drain to the bottom, was about to
be dashed away. The glory that brightened the sky of her being was
beginning to darken—and the storm threatened to crush the flower of her
affections, even in its happiest moment of existence.
One day she received a letter, written in an unknown hand; she opened it
carelessly, but soon became absorbed as she read the following:
Miss Bryarly,—Believing you to be the affianced wife of Mr.
Thatcher, I take the liberty of writing to you to admonish you
of his conduct. If his engagement with you is not broken off, he
must either be a villain, or he is acting like one. I have had a
watchful eye on him for some time, during which he has been
paying the most constant and devoted attention to Miss Morton;
so far, indeed, has he gone, as to induce her family to believe
that he is about to make proposals for her hand. One of her
brothers so expressed himself to me a few days since. I hope you
will inform your father of these facts, that he may use every
precaution against the duplicity of one who would have deeply
injured you.
A Friend.
“This letter I pronounce a base falsehood,” said she, handing it to her
father, “and its author a calumniator, who, like an assassin, seeks
darkness to cover his evil deeds, for he has not dared to sign his
name.”
Mr. Bryarly also regarded the letter as a vile calumny, not worthy of
notice. Confiding in the truth of her lover, Mary had ceased to think of
its contents, when an insinuation to his discredit was again breathed in
her ear; then came a report that he was a confirmed flirt—a gay
deceiver; and as bold slander loses nothing in its busy progress, the
rumor was magnified until the seeds of discontent were sown in Mary’s
heart—and she was now absolutely jealous. That which she had once
imagined so repulsive as to scoff at the mere possibility of her own
actions ever being ordered by such a feeling, triumphed—and she was
unable to conquer the “green-eyed monster.” One evening she was
evidently very melancholy. In vain had she tried to elicit harmony from
the keys of her piano, and becoming weary of the fruitless effort, she
threw herself languidly on a sofa, and sighed deeply.
“Mercy on us! that was a terribly long and sentimental heigh-o! I wonder
which way it went! Ah! I see it now; it floats like a gossamer on that
glorious sunbeam, and goes in the direction of New Orleans,” laughed Mr.
Pluribusi.
“You are growing poetical, uncle; it is really charming to listen to
you—pray go on.”
“Mary,” said her father, who had been also observing her, “any one would
suppose all your perceptions were obscured by a thick, ugly, green
cloud.”
“Oh, father!” was all she could say.
“You know,” he continued, “there is nothing on earth so disagreeable to
me as a jealous woman—”
“Except, indeed, a prudish one,” chimed in Mr. Pluribusi.
“I have great cause, father, to be unhappy; for all the reports I have
heard, have been confirmed by Mrs. Webster since her return home.”
“My opinion is, that you are wasting an immense amount of sorrow, all
for nothing,” answered her father; “for with the characters of the
truest and most upright slander will sometimes be busy. Entertain not so
mean an opinion of your betrothed husband, as to believe he is capable
of change. The brightest part of love is its confidence. It is that
perfect, that unhesitating reliance, that interchange of every idea and
every feeling; and that perfect community binds two beings together as
closely as the holiest of human ties. It is only that confidence, that
community of all the heart’s secrets, and the mind’s thoughts, that can
give us permanent happiness.”
“Oh, father! could you but convince me that my doubts are unfounded.”
“I think I can settle the matter to your entire satisfaction, Mary,”
quietly observed her uncle.
“How, uncle?” asked she, eagerly.
“You must consent to use a little stratagem,” replied he.
“If you think it right, and father sanctions it, I am willing to do any
thing you propose,” she said, looking at her parent.
“Do as you think proper,” answered Mr. Bryarly.
“Have you answered Harry’s last letter?” inquired Mr. Pluribusi.
“How could I?—I am three deep in his debt.”
“So much the better for my plan, which is to arouse the demon of
jealousy in his bosom. Write to him immediately, and give him but the
shadow of a cause for distrust, and if he is not at your feet as soon as
the power of steam can bring him, why, then I will no longer believe in
the constancy of man.”
“And then I should no longer doubt his affection. But, uncle, what shall
I say to him?”
“Write a glowing description of me; dwell on the pleasant time we spend
together; then, if he does not yield a most loyal and ready obedience to
the ‘green-eyed monster,’ I will say he cares for another.”