WHILE such happy prospects were opening on the
future life of her friend, the time of Charlotte
Henley was very differently occupied in the country.
There is, however, a tendency in youth to rise with
events that does not readily admit of depression,
and the disorder of George Morton was one of all
others the most flattering when near its close. Even
the more mature experience of his parents was
misled by the deceptive symptoms that his
complaint assumed in the commencement of
summer. They who so fondly hoped the result,
began to believe that youth and the bland airs of
June were overcoming the inexorable enemy. That
the strength of the young man lessened with every
succeeding day, was an event to be expected from
his low diet and protracted confinement; but his
brightening eyes, and the flitting colour that would
at times add to their fiery radiance, brought to the
youthful Charlotte the most heartfelt, though
secret, rapture. This state between reviving hope
and momentary despondency had prevailed for
several weeks, when the affectionate girl entered
an apartment that communicated with George's own
room, where she found the invalid reclining on a
settee apparently deeply communing with himself.
He was alone; and his appearance, as well as the
heavens and the earth, united to encourage the
sanguine expectation of the pure heart that
throbbed so ardently when its owner witnessed any
favourable change in the countenance of the young
man. The windows were raised, and the balmy air
of a June morning played through the apartment,
lending in reality an elastic vigour to the decaying
organs of the sick youth. The tinge in his cheeks
was heightened by the mellow glow of the sun's
rays as they shone through the medium of the rose-
coloured curtains of the window, and Charlotte
thought she once more beheld the returning colour
of health where it had been so long absent.
"How much better you appear this morning,
George," she cried, in a voice whose melody was
even heightened by its gaiety. "We shall soon have
you among us once more, and then, heedless one,
beware how you trifle again with that best of
heaven's gifts, your health. Oh, this is a blessed
climate! our summer atones with its mildness for
the dreariness and perils of our winter; it has even
given me a colour, pale-face as I am--I can feel it
burn on my cheek."
He raised his head from its musing position at the
first sounds of her voice, and smiled faintly, and
with an expression of anguish, as she proceeded;
but when she had ended, and taken her seat near
him, still keeping her eyes on his varying
countenance, he took her hand into his own before
he replied. A good deal surprised at his manner,
and at this act, which exceeded the usual
familiarity of even their affectionate intercourse,
the colour, of which Miss Henley had been so
playfully boasting, changed once or twice with rapid
transitions.
"Seem I so well, dear Charlotte?" he at length said
in a low, tremulous, and hollow voice, "seem I so
well? I believe you are right, and that I shall
shortly be better--much better."
"What mean you, George? feel you any worse? have
I disturbed you with my presence and my
thoughtless gaiety?"
The young man smiled again, but the expression of
his face was no longer mingled with a look of
anguish; it was a kind benevolent gleam of
gratitude and affection which crossed his ghastly
features, like a ray of sunshine enlivening the
gloom of a day in winter.
"You disturb me, Charlotte!" he answered, his very
voice trembling as if in sympathy with his frame: "I
do believe but for you I should have been long
since in my grave."
"No, no, George, this is too melancholy a theme for
us both just now; let us talk of your returning
health."
He pressed her hand to his heart before he replied--
"My health will never return; I am lost to this world;
and in fact at this moment I properly belong to
another in my body: would to God that I was purely
so in feelings also."
"Surely, George, you are alarming yourself
unnecessarily."
"I am not alarmed," he replied; "I have too long
foreseen this event, to feel alarmed at my
approaching dissolution--no, for that, blessed be
my God and my Redeemer, I am in some degree
prepared; but I feel it impossible to shake off the
feelings of this life while the pulse continues to
beat, and yet the emotions I now experience must
be in some measure allied to heaven; they are not
impure, they are not selfish; nothing can partake of
either, dear Charlotte, where your image is
connected with the thoughts of a future world."
"Oh, George! talk not so gloomily, so cruelly, this
morning--your whole countenance contradicts your
melancholy speech, and you are better--indeed you
are;--you must be better."
"Yes, I am better, I am nearly well," returned the
youth, pausing a moment, while a struggle of the
most painful interest seemed to engross his
thoughts. As it passed away, he drew his hand
feebly across his clammy brow, and, smiling faintly,
resumed his speech,--"on the brink of the grave, at
a moment when all thoughts of me must be
connected with the image of death, there can no
longer be any necessity for silence. You have been
kind to us, dear Miss Henley, as you are kind to all;
but to me your sympathy has been trebly dear, for
it has brought with it a consolation and pleasure
that you but little imagine."
Miss Henley raised her tearful eyes from the floor to
his wan features, that now appeared illumined with
more than human fires, and her pale lips quivered,
but her voice was inaudible.
"Yes, Charlotte, I may now speak without injustice,
or the fear of being selfish: I have long loved you--
how tenderly, how purely, none can ever know; but
could I, with a certainty of my fate before my eyes,
with the knowledge that my days were numbered,
and that the sun of my life could never reach its
meridian, woo you to my love, to make you
miserable! No, dearest! your gentle heart will
mourn the brother and the friend too much for its
own peace; it needed not the sting of a stronger
grief."
"George, George," sobbed the convulsed girl, "think
not of me; speak not of me--if it can cheer you at
such a moment to know how much you are valued
by me, no cold reserve shall be found on my part."
The young man started, and fastened his eyes on
her face with an indefinable look of delight mingled
with sorrow.
"Charlotte!" he exclaimed, "do I hear aright? am I
so miserable! am I so happy! repeat those words--
quick--my eyes grow dim--my senses deceive me."
"Live, George Morton," said Charlotte firmly: "you
are better--your whole face bespeaks it; and if the
tender care of an affectionate wife can preserve
your health, you shall long live a blessing to all
who love you."
As Charlotte uttered, thus ingenuously, her pure
attachment, the youth extended his hand towards
her blindly. She gave him her own, which he drew to
his heart, and folded to his bosom with a warm
pressure for an instant, when his hold relaxed, his
form dropping backward on the sofa, and in that
attitude he expired without a struggle.
We shall not dwell on the melancholy scene that
followed. At the funeral of George Morton Miss
Henley was not to be seen, nor was it generally
understood that the young people had been
connected in the closest ties of feeling. She made
no display of her grief in her dress, unless the
slight testimonials of a few bright ribbands on the
virgin white of her robe could be called such, and
the rumour that was at first propagated of their
being engaged to each other was discredited,
because the traces of sorrow were not particularly
visible in the attire of Miss Henley. When the
season of gaiety returned, she appeared as usual in
her place in society. Though her cheeks were
seldom enriched with the faint glow that once
rendered her so beautiful, and she was less
dazzling in her appearance, yet, if possible, she
was more lovely and attractive. In the course of the
winter, several gentlemen approached her with the
evident intention of offering their hands. Their
advances were received with great urbanity, but in
most instances with that unembarrassed manner
that is fatal to hope. One of her admirers, however,
persevered so far as to solicit her hand: the denial
was mild, but resolute; like most young men who
think their happiness dependent on a lady's smile,
he wished to know if he had a successful rival. He
was assured he had not. His curiosity even went so
far as to inquire if Miss Henley had abjured
matrimony. The answer was a simple, unaffected
negative. Amazed at his own want of success, the
youth then intimated his intention of making a
future application for her favour.
In the mean time, Seymour Delafield, after casting
one longing, lingering look at Miss Henley, became
the husband of her friend, and made the fourteenth
in the prolific family of the Osgoods, where his
wealth was not less agreeable to the parents, than
his person to the daughter.
Many years have rolled by since the occurrence of
these events, and Miss Henley continues the same
in every thing but appearance. The freshness of her
beauty has given place to a look of intelligence.
and delicacy that seems gradually fitting her for her
last and most important change. The name of
George Morton is never heard to pass her lips. Mrs.
Delafield declares it to be a subject that she never
dares to approach, nor in her repeated refusals of
matrimonial offers has Charlotte ever been known
to allude to the desolation of her own heart. Her
father is dead; but to her mother Miss Henley has
in a great measure supplied his loss. With her
friends she is always cheerful, and apparently
happy, though the innocent gaiety of her childhood
is sensibly checked, and there are moments that
betray the existence of a grief that is only the more
durable, because it is less violent. In short, she
lives a pattern for her sex, unfettered by any
romantic and foolish pledges, discharging all the
natural duties of her years and station in an
exemplary manner, but unwilling to incur any new
ones, because she has but one heart, and that was
long since given with its purity, sincerity, and truth,
to him who is dead, and can never become the
property of another.
When Charlotte Henley dies, although she may not
have fulfilled one of the principal objects of her
being, by becoming a mother, her example will
survive her; and those who study her character and
integrity of feeling, will find enough to teach them
what properties are the most valuable in forming
that sacred character--while her own sex can learn
that, though in the case of Miss Henley, Providence
has denied the full exercise of her excellences, it
has at the same time rendered her a striking
instance of female dignity, by exhibiting to the
world the difference between affection and caprice,
and by shewing how much imagination is inferior to
Heart.