Weeks have passed, and young Clara Gregory sits again, alone, at that
western window, pale and troubled. The letter which she holds in her
hand is the secret of her perplexity.
“He still loves me, then! He cannot give me up! He is so miserable--am I
not cruel to condemn to misery one whose only crime is loving me too
well? How gently he hints it--dear Brentford! But then a secret marriage
seems so mean. Father, too. Then I have refused once, so positively.
Shall I recant? I that am so inflexible! Indeed I should be ashamed to;
still nobody would know it but Brentford himself.
“I never did disobey my father in my life; still, as this letter says, I
am the best judge what is necessary to my own happiness--and it concerns
me only. Father did not consult my wishes about marrying himself, and so
he could not help forgiving me if I should disregard his. Shall I shut
myself up at home to see that detestable step-mother exult in her
success in frustrating my plans? No, Brentford, no! She shall not exult,
she shall know that there are no thanks to her that I am not yours. Yet,
but for her, I do not believe father would ever have objected. I will
not be thwarted by _her_! An elopement? What is that more than a
thousand ladies have consented to? Some of the very most perfect that
ever were imagined, too. Why should I set myself up above all the world
in my puritanism? It is no such shocking thing, after all.
“But father relies upon my honor and sense of propriety; oh, well, he
will be glad afterward, when he sees how happy I am, and will like me
the better, perhaps, for showing a little of his own energy. It will be
just the same in the end as though I were married at home, only a bit of
romance about it.”
And so the girl went on, zealously persuading her willing self that
nothing could be more excusable--justifiable--commendable, than for her
to abscond from her father’s house, and secretly to wed against his
will.
“Yes, I come, Brentford!” she exclaimed aloud; and seizing a pen, she
wrote and sealed a bond to that effect.
“Now I must go,” thought she, “for I have promised.”
That evening she asked her father’s permission to go on a few weeks’
visit to her friend Arabella, who had recently returned to her home.
“Oh yes, my dear, I shall be glad to have you go and enjoy yourself as
much as you can, and as fast, too, for we cannot spare you a long
while.”
Clara’s cheek burned as she thanked him, and turned away, for she knew
he little imagined how long or how eventful was the absence she
contemplated.
They thought she seemed strangely sad and agitated the next morning, as
she bade them adieu to start on her excursion. Her sister felt a tear
drop on her hand, as Clara embraced her and whispered,
“Good bye, dear, _dear_ Alice!”
How anxious she seemed to do every little kindness for her father that
morning, how solicitous to please him in all things! When he bade her
“good morning,” she seemed to wait for him to say something more; but he
only added,
“Be a good girl, my daughter.”
What a rush of emotions crowded each other through her mind, when she
found herself seated among strangers in the railway car, speeding away
like the wind from that sweet home, and the lifelong friends who loved
her as themselves; from the grave of her mother--whither? To the arms of
one of whose very existence she had been ignorant but a few weeks ago!
For his sake she had forsaken those tried and precious friends--had
parted from them with a _lie_ upon her lips. To him she was about to
give _herself_.
Perhaps a painful doubt crossed her mind of the honor of one who could
demand from one so young, so unadvised, such a sacrifice of truth, of
duty, of home, just for his sake. Perhaps a query arose whether there
was enough in him to compensate for all she lost--whether the charm of
his society would last through all the vicissitudes of life.
An old man sat before her, and from every wrinkle of his time-worn
visage, a quiet tone seemed to ask her,
“Will your heart still cling to its hero when the rust of poverty is on
his shining garments, and care has furrowed his fair forehead, and his
raven hair has grown gray, and his proud form bent, and his rich voice
wasted and broken?”
She felt, too, like a fugitive; she fancied that people looked
suspiciously at her. Especially was there an eye that vexed her; a
black, piercing eye, that peered out from a pale face through a mourning
veil. It looked as though it might read the inmost secrets of one’s
heart--and its frequent gaze became almost insupportable to Clara.
But they were rapidly approaching Burrill Bridge, the station where her
lover had promised to join her. How intently she gazed from the window,
as the Iron Horse began to halt, and the conductor shouted “Burrill
Bridge!”
There he stood, as distinguished as ever among the crowd. She felt a
thrill of pride as she marked the involuntary deference with which the
throng made way for his lofty form, and said within herself, “He is
mine!”
With him once more at her side, listening to his fascinating tones, she
felt that she was in little danger of making too great a sacrifice for
him; she reproached herself that she had ever faltered. Still she felt
guilty and unsafe, startled at every new entrance; and it was with an
emotion of dread that she glanced toward the stranger, whose observation
had been so oppressive to her. But her eye brightened with an expression
of relief as it caught the wave of her black garments passing into
another car.
After a long, long ride of nearly forty-eight hours, they stopped.
“Oh! how far I am from dear, quiet Vernon, in this great, strange city!”
thought Clara. But her heart fluttered as she heard Brentford order the
hackman to “drive to ---- church.”
“You shall be mine before we rest,” he whispered to her. Before another
hour had passed, the solemn, irrevocable words were spoken which sealed
her destiny! She felt their momentous import as she never had before.
A little group of loiterers in the vestibule gazed curiously at them as
they passed out, and behind them Clara saw the same black eye that had
annoyed her so much on the journey. Why should _she_ be there, in the
sultry noon, from the dust and weariness of travel?