"You remember the strange misunderstanding that took place between
Clara Grant and young Fisher, about two years ago?"
"Very well. Poor Clara has never been like herself since that time."
"I was the cause of it."
"You!" said the wife, in astonishment.
"Yes. Clara used to make herself quite conspicuous by the way she acted
towards Fisher, with whom she was under an engagement of marriage. She
hardly saw anybody in company but him. And, besides, she made bold to
declare that he was about as near to perfection as it was possible for
a young man to come. She was always talking about him to her young
female friends, and praising him to the skies. Her silly speeches were
every now and then reported, much to the amusement of young men to
whose ears they happened to find their way. One evening, at a large
party, she was, as usual, anchored by the side of her lover, and
showing off her fondness for him in rather a ridiculous manner. A young
friend and myself, who were rather amused at this, determined, in a
thoughtless moment, that we would, just for the fun of the thing, run
Fisher down in a confidential undertone to each other, yet loud enough
for her to hear us, if a good opportunity for doing so offered. Before
long, we noticed her sitting alone in a corner near one of the
folding-doors. We managed to get near, yet so as not to appear to
notice her, and then indulged in some light remarks about her lover,
mainly to the effect that if his sweetheart knew him as well as we did,
she might not think him quite so near perfection as she appeared to do.
Shortly afterwards, I searched through the rooms for her in vain. From
that night, the lovers never again met. Clara refused to see Fisher
when he called on her the next day, and shortly afterwards requested
him, in writing, to release her from her marriage-contract, without
giving any reason for her change of mind."
"Henry," exclaimed Mrs. Mears, her voice and countenance expressing the
painful surprise she felt, "why did you not immediately repair the
wrong you had done?"
"How could I, without exposing myself, and causing perhaps a serious
collision between me and Fisher?"
"You should have braved every consequence," replied Mrs. Mears, firmly,
"rather than permitted two loving hearts to remain severed, when a word
from you would have reunited them. How could you have hesitated a
moment as to what was right to do? But it may not be too late yet.
Clara must know the truth."
"Think what may be the consequence," said Nears.
"Think, rather, what _have been_ the consequences," was the wife's
reply.
It was in vain that Mears argued with his wife about the policy of
letting the matter rest where it was. She was a woman, and could only
feel how deeply Clara had been wronged, as well as the necessity for an
immediate reparation of that wrong. For more than an hour, she argued
the matter with her husband who finally consented that she should see
Clara, and correct the serious error under which she had been
labouring. Early on the next day, Mrs. Mears called upon the unhappy
girl. A closer observation of her face than she had before made
revealed deep marks of suffering.
"And all this 'for the fun of it!'" she could not help saying to
herself with a feeling of sorrow. After conversing a short time with
Clara, Mrs. Mears said--
"I heard something, last night, so nearly affecting your peace, that I
have lost no time in seeing you."
"What is that?" asked Clara, a flush passing over her face.
"Two years ago, you were engaged in marriage to Mr. Fisher?"
Clara made no reply, but the flush faded from her face and her lips
quivered slightly for a moment.
"From hearing two persons who were conversing about him make
disparaging remarks, you were led to break off that engagement."
The face of Clara grew still paler, but she continued silent.
"By one of them, I am authorized to tell you that all they said was in
mere jest. They knew you could hear what they said, and made the
remarks purposely for your ear, in order to have a little sport. They
never dreamed of your taking it so seriously."
A deep groan heaved the bosom of Clara; her head fell back, and her
body drooped nervelessly. Mrs. Mears extended her hands quickly and
saved her from falling to the floor.
"This, too, 'for the fun of it!'" she said to herself, bitterly, as she
lifted the inanimate body of the poor girl in her arms, and laid it
upon the sofa.
Without summoning any of the family, Mrs. Mears made use of every
effort in her power to restore the circle of life. In this she was at
last successful. When the mind of Clara had become again active, and
measurably calm, she said to her--
"It was a cruel jest, and the consequences have been most painful. But
I trust it is not yet too late to repair the wrong thus done, although
no compensation can be made for the suffering to which you have been
subjected."
"It is too late, Mrs. Mears--too late!" replied Clara, in a mournful
voice.
"Say not so, my dear young friend."
But Clara shook her head.
It was in vain that Mrs. Mears strove earnestly to lift up her drooping
heart. The calmness with which she had been able to bear the
destruction of all her hopes, because there had seemed an adequate
cause for the sacrifice she had made, was all gone now. There had been
no adequate cause for the sacrifice. Her lover was as excellent and
honourable as she at first believed him to be, and she had cast him off
on the authority of a heartless jest. To all that her friend could say,
she had but one reply to make--
"It is too late now!"
"Not too late, I trust," said Mr. Mears, a good deal disturbed by his
wife's relation of her interview with Clara. "I must ascertain where
Fisher is, and write to him on the subject. Did she say any thing that
led you to believe that she recognised the voices of the persons whom
she heard conversing? Do you think she suspects me in the matter?"
"I do not think she does."
"So much the better."
The effect upon Clara of the information she had received was very
serious. Deeply as she had been afflicted, the consciousness of having
done right in refusing to marry a man who was destitute, as she had
accidentally discovered, of virtuous principles, sustained her. But now
it was revealed to her that he was as excellent as she had at first
believed him, and that she had been made the victim of a pleasant joke!
There was no longer any thing to hold her up, and accordingly her
spirits completely forsook her, and in less than two weeks she was
seriously ill.
The news of this deeply disturbed Mr. Mears, who had written to Fisher,
and was waiting impatiently for an answer.
"I am afraid we have made the matter worse," he said to his wife, who,
on returning from a visit to Clara, reported that, so far from
improving, she was too evidently sinking, daily. "If Fisher should have
entered into another engagement, or, if his pride has taken fire at
being thrown off on what may appear to him such slight grounds, I
really tremble for the consequences."
"Let us hope for the best," returned Mrs. Mears, "as we have acted for
the best. It was plainly our duty to do as we have done. On that
subject I have no doubt."
Two more weeks of painful suspense and anxiety passed. Clara did not
improve in the least. Mrs. Mears called to see her every few days, but
dared not venture to tell her that her husband had written to Fisher.
She was afraid to fill her mind with this hope, lest it should fail,
and the shock prove too severe. But, even as it was, life seemed to be
rapidly ebbing away.
At length there came a change. Nature rallied, and life, flowed, though
feebly still, in healthier currents through the veins of Clara Grant.
In a week from the time this change took place, she was able to leave
her bed and set up for a few hours each day. But all who looked into
her young face were grieved at the sight. There were no deep lines of
distress there, but the marks of patient, yet hopeless suffering.
One day, she sat alone, in a dreamy, musing state, with a book lying
upon her lap. She had been trying to read, but found it impossible to
take any interest in the pages over which her eyes passed, while her
mind scarcely apprehended the sense. Some one opened the door; but she
did not look around. The person, whoever it was, remained only for a
moment or two, and then withdrew. In a little while the door opened
again, and some one entered and came towards her with the tread of a
man. She started to her feet, while her heart gave a sudden bound. As
she turned, her eyes fell upon the form of her long absent lover. For
an instant, perhaps longer, she looked into his face to read it as the
index of his heart, and then she lay quivering on his bosom.
A few weeks later, Clara became the bride of Charles Fisher, and left
with him for the South. Neither of them ever knew the authors of the
wrong they had suffered. It was better, perhaps, that in this they
should remain ignorant.