“In terms of choice I am not solely led
By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes.”
_Merchant of Venice._
“I want to ask you a question, Mildred, but I am afraid you will deem it
an impertinent one.”
“Ask me what you please, dear Emily, and be assured that you shall
receive a frank reply; we have known and loved each other too long to
doubt that affection and not mere idle curiosity prompts our mutual
inquiries respecting each other’s welfare during our separation.”
“When I bade farewell to my native land, Mildred, I left you surrounded
by a wide circle of admirers; you were beautiful and rich,—these gifts
alone would have won you many a suitor,—but you were also possessed of
the noblest qualities of heart and mind, and were as worthy to be loved
as to be admired. How has it happened then that from among the many who
sought your hand, you selected one so—so—”
“I understand you, Emily,—so misshapen and ugly, you would say; it is
precisely because I possessed a little more heart and soul than usually
belongs to a fashionable belle.”
“What do you mean, Mildred? when I parted from you I thought you were
more than half in love with the handsome Frank Harcourt.”
“And you return to find me married to his crooked cousin.”
“I did not know Mr. Heyward was related to your quondam admirer.”
“Ah, I see I must tell the whole story; ‘wooed an’ married an’ a’’ is
not enough for you; I must relate all the particulars which led to such
an apparently whimsical choice.
“You remember me doubtless as the _enfant gâtée_ of society; the spoiled
child of doating parents, and the flattered votary of fashion. My web of
life, unbroken by a single sombre thread, seemed woven only of
rose-color and gold. My mirror taught me that the world spoke truth,
when it assigned to me the brightest of all womanly gifts: experience
showed me my superiority in mind over the well dressed dolls of society:
and the earnestness of my affection for the friends of my youth,
convinced me that many stronger and deeper emotions still lay latent
within my heart. Yet with all these gifts, Emily, I narrowly escaped the
fate of a fashionable flirt. I could not complain, like Voltaire, that
‘the world was stifling me with roses,’ but I might have truly said,
that the incense offered at the shrine of my vanity was fast defacing,
with its fragrant smoke, the fine gold that adorned the idol.
Selfishness is a weed which flourishes far more luxuriantly beneath the
sunshine of prosperity than under the weeping skies of adversity; for,
while sorrow imparts a fellow-feeling with all who suffer, happiness too
often engenders habits of indulgence, utterly incompatible with sympathy
and disinterestedness. Wherever I turned I was met by pleasant looks and
honied words, everybody seemed to consider me with favor, and I was in
great danger of believing that the world was all sincerity and Miss
Mildred all perfection. The idea that I shone in the reflected glitter
of my father’s gold never occurred to me. Too much accustomed to the
appliances of wealth to bestow a thought upon them; entirely ignorant of
the want and consequently of the value of money, I could not suppose
that other people prized what to me was a matter of such perfect
indifference, or that the weight of my purse gave me any undue
preponderance in the scale of society. Proud, haughty and self-willed as
I have been, yet my conscience acquits me of ever having valued myself
upon the adventitious advantages of wealth. Had I been born in a hovel I
still should have been proud:—proud of the capabilities of my own
character,—proud because I understood and appreciated the dignity of
human nature,—but I should have despised myself if, from the slippery
eminence of fortune, I could have looked with contempt upon my fellow
beings.
“But I was spoiled, Emily, completely spoiled. There was so much
temptation around me,—so much opportunity for exaction and despotism
that my moral strength was not sufficient to resist the impulses of
wrong. With my head full of romantic whims, and my heart thrilling with
vague dreams of devoted love and life-long constancy; a brain teeming
with images of paladin and troubadour, and a bosom throbbing with vain
longings for the untasted joy of reciprocal affection,—I yet
condescended to play the part of a consummate coquette. But, no; if by
coquetry be meant a deliberate system of machinations to entrap hearts
which become worthless as soon as gained, then I never was a coquette,
but I certainly must plead guilty to the charge of thoughtless, aimless,
mischievous flirtation. If the Court of Love still existed,—that court,
which, as you know, was instituted in the later days of chivalry, and
composed of an equal number of knights and dames, whose duty it was to
try all criminals accused of offences against the laws of Love; if such
a tribunal still existed, I think it might render a verdict of _wilful
murder_ against a _coquette_, while only _manslaughter_ could be laid to
the charge of the _flirt_. The result of both cases is equally fatal,
but the latter crime is less in degree because it involves no _malice
prepense_. Do not misunderstand me, Emily, I do not mean to exculpate
the lesser criminal; for if the one deserves capital punishment the
other certainly merits imprisonment for life, and, next to the
slanderer, I look upon the coquette and habitual flirt as the most
dangerous characters in society. Yet I believe that many a woman is
imperceptibly led to the very verge of flirtation by a natural and even
praiseworthy desire to please. The fear of giving pain when we suspect
we possess the power, often gives softness to a woman’s voice and
sweetness to her manner, which, to the heart of a lover, may bear a
gentler interpretation. Among the chief of our minor duties may be
ranked that of making ourselves agreeable; and who does not know the
difficulty of walking between two lines without crossing either? You
think I am saying all this in exculpation of my past folly, and perhaps
you are right.
“I was just nineteen, and in the full enjoyment of my triumphs in
society, when I officiated as your bridesmaid. I must confess, Emily,
that the marriage of such a pretty, delicate creature, as you then were,
with a man full twice your age, in whose dark whiskers glistened more
than one silver thread, and on whom time had already bestowed a most
_visible crown_, seemed to me one of the marvels of affection for which
I could not then account.”
“Now you are taking your revenge, Mildred, for my saucy question
respecting your husband; but if you can give as good a reason for your
choice as I found for mine, I shall be perfectly satisfied.”
“Let me gratify my merry malice, ladye fair; time has shown some little
consideration for you in this matter, for, while he has left no deeper
impress on your husband’s brow, he has expanded the slender girl into
the blooming, matronly-looking woman. You are now well matched, Emily,
and your husband is one of the handsomest men of—_his age_.”
The arch look of the speaker interpreted the equivocally-worded
compliment, and, with a joyous laugh, Mrs. Heyward resumed:
“It was about the time of your marriage, and shortly before your
departure for Europe, that I became acquainted with Frank Harcourt. You
must remember his exceeding beauty. The first time I beheld him, Byron’s
exquisite description of the Apollo Belvedere rose to my lips:
——“In his delicate form,—a dream of Love
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose heart
Longed for a deathless lover from above
And maddened in that vision, is exprest
All that ideal beauty ever blessed
The mind with in its most unearthly mood.”
His admirable symmetry of form, and a face of such perfect contour, such
exquisite regularity of feature, that its semblance in marble might have
been valued as a relic of Grecian ideal beauty, were alone sufficient to
attract the admiration of such a lover of the beautiful as I always have
been; but the charm of perfect coloring, the effect of light and shade
was not wanting in this finished picture. His full dark eye sparkled
beneath a snow-white forehead,—his cheek was bronzed by exposure and
yet bright with health,—his lips were crimson and velvet-like as the
pomegranate flower,—his teeth white as the ocean pearl,—his raven
curls fell in those rich slight tendrils so rarely seen except on the
head of infancy,—while the soft and delicate shadowing in his lip and
chin resembled rather the silken texture of a lady’s eyebrow, than the
wiry and matted masses of hair usually cherished under the name of
whiskers and moustache.”
“You are quite impassioned in your description, Mildred; what would your
husband say if he were to hear you?”
“He would agree with me in thinking that Frank Harcourt is the most
beautiful specimen of humanity that ever presented itself to my admiring
eyes.”
“He has less jealousy then in his nature than most of his sex.”
“A man has little cause to be jealous of a rival he has so utterly
discomfited.
“Harcourt soon professed himself my admirer and need I say that his
attentions were by no means displeasing to me. The buzz of admiration
which met my ear whenever he appeared,—the delight with which ladies
accepted his slightest civilities,—the manœuvres constantly practised
to secure his society, all tended to render me vain of his homage. Had
he been merely a beautiful statue,—a rich but empty casket, I should
soon have become weary of my conquest. But Harcourt possessed a mind
rather above mediocrity, fine taste, elegant manners, and, what was
especially useful to him, great skill in decyphering character and
consummate tact in adapting himself to its various peculiarities. When
those beautiful lips parted only to utter the language of high-toned
sentiment, or to breathe the impassioned words of Byron and Moore,—when
those bright eyes glistened with suppressed tears at the voice of
melancholy music, or sparkled with merry delight at the tones of gayety;
when that fine person swayed itself with inimitable grace to the
movements of the mazy dance, or bent its towering altitude with gentle
dignity over the slight form of some delicate girl, it is not strange,
that, even to my eyes, he should seem all that was noble and majestic in
mind as well as person. Flattered by his courtly attentions,
congratulated by my fashionable friends, and captivated by his brilliant
qualities, my imagination soon became excited to a degree which bore a
strong semblance to affection. He offered me his hand and was accepted.
You look surprised, Emily; I thought you knew that I was actually
engaged to him.”
“Indeed I did not, Mildred, and I regret now to learn that such was the
case. There is something to me very wrong,—I might almost say
_disgraceful_ in the disruption of such bonds; and the levity with which
young ladies now _make_ and _break_ engagements, argues as ill for the
morality of society, as does the frequency of bankruptcies and
suspensions.”
“I agree with you, Emily, and since it has become the fashion to
consider the most solemn obligations only as a strait-laced garment
which may be thrown off as soon as we can shut out society from our
solitude,—since women pledge their hands without even knowing whether
they have such an article as a _heart_ to accompany it,—since men with
equal ease _repudiate_ their debts and their wives, I am afraid the next
generation has little chance of learning morality from their parents.
But sometimes, Emily, the sin is in _making_ not in _breaking_ the
engagement. However, hear my story, and then judge.
“All the world knew that I was affianced to the handsome Frank Harcourt,
and I was quite willing to enjoy my triumph as long as possible, before
I settled myself down to the dull routine of domestic life. This
disposition to defer my marriage might have led me to suspect the nature
of my feelings, for no woman will ever shrink from a union with one to
whom her soul is knit in the close bonds of affection. My lover was
respectably connected, but had been educated for no profession and was
not possessed of fortune. He had left his native village to find
employment, and, as he hoped, wealth, in the busy mart of the Empire
state. How he managed to satisfy my father, who, in the true spirit of
an old Dutch burgomaster, looked upon every man as a rogue if he did not
possess some visible occupation, I never could discover. He probably
flattered his self-love by listening to all his schemes for the
reformation of society; and, I am not sure that he did not draw up the
constitution and by-laws of a certain association which my father wished
to establish,—to be entitled a “Society for the Encouragement of
Integrity among men of Business,” and of which the old gentleman meant
to constitute himself president.
“It was agreed that our marriage should take place at the expiration of
a year, and my father (who was as fond of coincidents as a newspaper
editor) declared that on the very day of our nuptials, the name of
Harcourt should be added to the very respectable firm of Marchmont,
Goodfellow & Co. About this part of the arrangement I cared very little.
I enjoyed the present moment, and lavished my time, my thoughts and my
feelings as foolishly as I did the gold with which my father supplied
me. I was a mere child in my knowledge of the duties of life, and
perhaps there never was one of my age to whom the word
‘_responsibility_’ was so mystical a sound.
“I soon discovered that I had a serious rival in the affections of my
future husband. Frank Harcourt loved himself far better than he did his
mistress; and though his tact enabled him to avoid any offensive
expression of this Narcissus-like preference, it was still very
perceptible to me. Yet how could I blame him when I looked upon his
handsome person? Indeed I often found myself quoting Pope’s celebrated
couplet, but with a difference,
“If to his share a coxcomb’s errors fall,
Look in his face and you forget them all.”
The truth was, that my vanity induced me to excuse his weakness. I was
proud of exhibiting, as my lover, the man whom all admired; and I felt
redoubled satisfaction in hearing him applauded by the very people who
had already bestowed on me the meed of praise. I was even so foolish as
to be vain of his costume, and although I knew that he wasted hours upon
the adornment of his person, I delighted to see him appear attired in
that manner, so peculiarly his own, which gave a graceful negligence to
a toilet the most _soignée_ and made a fanciful poet once style his
dress ‘_an elegant impromptu_.’ Like some other (so-called) impromptus,
many a weary hour had been bestowed upon the task of making it _seem_
extemporaneous.
“The only one of Frank Harcourt’s family with whom I then became
acquainted, was his cousin Louis Heyward, and, among the whole circle of
my acquaintances, there was no one whom I so cordially disliked. His
form was diminutive and slightly misshapen, while his face would have
been positively ugly, but for the effect of a pair of large, dark, soft
eyes which seemed to speak a more fluent language than his lips. His
manners were cold, quiet and indifferent; he mingled but little in
society, and I think our well-filled library and my music alone induced
him to conquer his reserve sufficiently to become one of my habitual
visiters. To me he was always polite and gentlemanly but no more. He
never flattered,—never even commended, though he often looked as if he
would have censured, had he felt himself privileged to do so. Frank used
to take great pains to bring him out into company, (Heaven forgive me if
I wrong him in believing _now_ that he wanted him as a foil to his own
exceeding beauty,) but, excepting at our house, Louis was rarely seen in
society. He had devoted himself to the gospel ministry, and, in order to
support himself independently during the period of his theological
studies, he had engaged to give instructions in some of the higher
branches of education, at one of our principal schools. In fact Louis
Heyward was only a poor student, a school-master,—yet he dared to
criticise the conduct of the flattered and spoiled Mildred Marchmont;
and he alone,—of all the gifted and the graceful who bowed before her
power,—he alone—the deformed, the unlovely—seemed to despise her
influence.”
“Pray how did you discover that he was actuated by such feelings? he
surely did not venture to disclose them?”
“No, Emily; he was usually silent and abstracted in my presence. His
relationship to Frank, placed him at once on a familiar footing in our
family, and, we soon became accustomed to his somewhat eccentric
manners. When not listening to my harp or piano, he was often occupied
with a book, seeming utterly regardless of every one around him. But,
often, when I have been sitting in the midst of an admiring circle of
‘danglers’ bestowing on one a smile, on another a sweet word, on another
a trifling command, and, in short, playing off the thousand petty airs
which belles are very apt to practise in order to claim the attentions
of all around them,—I have stolen a glance at that cold, grave
countenance, and there has been such severe expression in his speaking
eyes,—such a smile of contempt on his pale lip, that I have blushed for
my own folly even while I hated the cynic who made me sensible of it. I
was constantly disputing with him about trifling matters of opinion, and
I delighted in uttering beautiful fallacies, which I knew he would
contradict. It was a species of gladiatorial game which I enjoyed
because it was new and exciting. I had been so long accustomed to assent
and flattery that it was quite refreshing to meet with something like
opposition, which could arouse the dormant powers of my mind. The
information with which my early reading had stored my memory,—the
quickness of repartee which generally belongs to woman,—the readiness
to turn the weapon of the assailant with a shield for our own weakness
which is so very _feminine_ a mode of argument,—all afforded a new
gratification to my vanity, and while I heartily disliked the disputant,
I yet eagerly sought the dispute. Louis at length discovered my motives
for thus seeking to draw him into discussions, and, after that, no
provocation could induce him to enter into a war of wit with me. In vain
I uttered the most mischievous sophistries,—in vain I goaded him with
keen satire; he smiled at my futile attempts, as if I were a petted
child, but deigned me no reply. It was not until then that I estimated
the treasures of his gifted mind, for when he no longer allowed himself
to be drawn from his reserve,—when his fine conversational powers were
no longer exerted, I felt I had lost a positive enjoyment which when in
my possession I had scarcely thought of valuing.
“I happened one afternoon to be walking on the Battery with the two
cousins, when we overtook an acquaintance who was unattended, except by
a young brother. We immediately joined her, and, with a feeling of
gratified vanity, (knowing that she had once diligently sought to
attract Mr. Harcourt,) I stepped back, and taking the arm of Louis, left
the lady in uninterrupted possession, _for a short time_, of my handsome
lover. There was a mean and petty triumph in my heart at which I now
blush, and, as I looked up into the face of my companion, after
performing the manœuvre, I was almost startled at the stern contempt
which was visible in his countenance.”
“‘Come, Mr. Heyward, do make yourself agreeable for once,’ I exclaimed,
with levity, ‘do tell me you are flattered by my preference of your
society.’
“‘I never utter untruths,’ was the cold reply.
“My first impulse was to withdraw my arm from his, but I restrained
myself, and flippantly said:
“‘You are as complimentary as usual, I perceive.’
“‘Would you have me to feel flattered by being made the tool of your
vanity, Madam?’ said he, while his cheek flushed and his eye sparkled;
‘do I not know that you only sought to gratify a malicious triumph over
your less fortunate rival?’
“A denial rose to my lips, but my conscience forbade me to utter it. I
was perfectly silent—yet, perhaps, there was something of penitence in
my countenance, for he immediately added:
“‘Good Heavens! Mildred,—Miss Marchmont, I mean—what capabilities of
mind,—what noble characteristics of feeling you are daily wasting in
society! How rapidly are the weeds of evil passion springing up amid the
rich plants of virtue which are still rooted in your heart! How awful is
the responsibility of one so nobly gifted as yourself!’
“‘What do you mean, sir?’ exclaimed I, startled at his earnestness.
“‘Have you never read the parable of the unfaithful steward who hid his
talent in the earth?’ was his reply: ‘God has given you beauty and
mental power, and wealth and influence; yet what is your beauty but a
snare?—What are your talents but instruments to gratify your vanity?
Where is your wealth expended if not in ministering to your luxuries?
What suffering fellow-being has ever been cheered by your sympathy?—or
what weak and erring mortal has ever been strengthened in duty, or
wakened to virtue by your influence?’
“I cannot describe how deeply I was shocked and pained at these
impressive words. An emotion resembling terror seized me;—I was
actually alarmed at the picture they abruptly presented to my view.
“Louis continued: ‘Forgive me, Miss Marchmont, if I have trespassed
beyond the limits of decorum. I speak the language of _truth_,—a
language you are but little accustomed to hear; but my conscience and my
heart have long reproached my silence.’
“‘You are a severe judge, Mr. Heyward,’ said I, with a faint attempt at
a smile; and just at that moment we were interrupted by some jesting
remarks from the party who preceded us. No opportunity was afforded for
renewing our conversation; but as we approached home, Louis lingered so
as to secure a moment’s time, and said in a low voice:
“‘I will not ask you to forgive my frankness, Miss Marchmont, for
something tells me that the time will come when you will not resent my
apparent rudeness. I owe to you some of the happiest, and, it may be,
some of the saddest moments of my life. Before we part, I would fain
awaken you to a sense of your own true value, for amid all the
frivolities which now waste your life, I have discovered that _you were
born for better things_.’ As he uttered these words, we found ourselves
at my father’s door, and with a cold bow he turned away.
“That night I was engaged to attend a brilliant ball, but my spirits
were depressed, and my brow clouded by unwonted sadness. Whether
wheeling in the giddy dance, or gliding with light words and lighter
laugh amid the groups of pleasure-seeking guests, still the deep voice
of Louis Heyward rung in my ears; and the words ‘_you were born for
better things_,’ seemed written upon everything that I beheld.
“‘You are _triste_ to-night, _ma belle_,’ said Frank Harcourt, as he
placed me in the carriage to return home: ‘I shall be quite jealous of
my crooked cousin, if a _tête-à-tête_ with him has such power to dim
your radiance.’
“Many a truth is uttered in the language of mockery. That walk with
Louis had become an era in my life. How I longed to weep in solitude!
The weariness and satiety which had long unconsciously possessed
me,—the unsatisfied cravings for excitement, which had long been my
torment, now seemed to me fully explained. Louis Heyward had unfolded to
me the truth,—he had revealed the secret of my hidden discontent, when
he told me _I was born for better things_. I had ‘_placed my happiness
lower than myself_,’ and therefore did I gather only disappointment and
vexation. Why did I not utter these thoughts to my affianced lover? Why
did I not weep upon his bosom and seek his tender sympathy? Because I
instinctively knew that he would not understand me. The charm which
enrobed my idol was already unwinding, and I had learned that there were
many subjects on which there could exist no congenial sentiments. For
the first time in my life, I began to reflect; and, with reflection,
came remorse for wasted time and ill-regulated feelings. Like the
peasant girl in the fairy tale, mine eyes had been touched with the
ointment of disenchantment, the illusion which had made life seem a
scene of perfect beauty and happiness was dispelled forever, and I now
only beheld a field where thorns grew beneath every flower, and a path
where duties were strewn far more thickly than pleasures.
“A circumstance which soon after occurred confirmed my melancholy
impressions. Do you remember little Fanny Rivers whom my mother took
while yet a child, with the intention of making her my confidential
servant and dressing-maid? She was about my age, and had grown up to be
very pretty,—with one of those sweet, innocent, child-like faces, which
are always so lovely in woman. Soon after your marriage she abruptly
left my service, and much to my regret I was unable to obtain any trace
of her. At the time of which I have just spoken, however, I received a
note from her. She was sick and in distress, and she requested from me
some pecuniary aid. I did not receive the appeal with indifference, and
instead of merely sending her assistance I determined to seek her in
person. I found her residing with a relative, a poor washerwoman, and as
I sat by the sick bed of the young invalid, I for the first time beheld,
with my own eyes, the actual life of poverty. Hitherto I had been lavish
of money in charity, from a thoughtless and selfish wish to avoid the
sight of suffering, but now I learned to sympathise with the poor and
unhappy. Poor Fanny was dying with consumption, and daily did I visit
her humble apartment, led thither as much by my morbid and excited
feelings as by my interest in the failing sufferer. But it was not till
she was near her death-hour that she revealed to me her painful story.
Never shall I forget her simple words:
“‘I used to think ma’m, that nothing was so desirable as fine clothes,
and when I saw you dressed in your beautiful silks and satins, I used to
cry with envy because I was only a servant. As I grew older this wicked
feeling increased, and often when you had gone to a party, I have locked
myself in your dressing-room, and put on your laces, and flowers and
jewels, just to see how I should look in such fine dress. I felt very
proud when the large glass showed me that I looked just like a lady; but
it only made me more envious and unhappy. At last my hour of temptation
came. One,—whose name I have sworn never to reveal,—came to me with
promises of all that I had so long wanted. He offered me silk dresses,
and plenty of money, and said I should have servants to wait on me if I
would only love him. He was so handsome, and he brought me such costly
presents,—he talked to me so sweetly and pitied me so much for being a
servant when I ought to be a lady, that I could not refuse to believe
him. He told me I should be his wife in the sight of Heaven, and he
ridiculed what he called my old-fashioned notions, until he made me
forget the prayers which my poor mother taught me and the Bible which
she used to read to me. I was vain and so I became wicked. I sold my
happiness on earth and my hopes of Heaven hereafter, for the privilege
of wearing fine clothes; for indeed, Miss Mildred, I never was happy
after I left your house.’
“I sought to learn no more of poor Fanny’s history, Emily; I scarcely
heard the tale of her subsequent desertion and destitution. My
conscience was awakened, and fearfully did she knell in my ears my own
condemnation. ‘Who made ye to differ?’ asked my heart, as I gazed on
this victim to vanity and treachery. Who taught this fallen creature to
value the allurements of dress beyond the adornment of innocence? Who
sowed in her bosom the seeds of envy and discontent, and nurtured them
there until they bore the poisoned fruit of sin? Was I guiltless of my
brother’s blood? Had not I been the _first_ tempter of the guileless
child? Here, then, was an evidence of my influence;—how fatally
exercised!
“Emily, I have repented in tears and agony of spirit:—I have prayed
that this weight of blood-guiltiness might be removed from my soul; and
I humbly trust my prayer has not been in vain:—but even now my heart
sickens at the recollection of the being whom my example first led
astray. It was at the bedside of the dying girl,—when my spirit was
bowed in humble penitence—that the words of religious truth first
impressed themselves upon my adamantine heart. I had listened unmoved to
the promises and denunciations of the gospel, when uttered from the
pulpit; but now, the time, the place, the circumstance gave them tenfold
power. I visited Fanny Rivers daily, until death released the penitent
from her sufferings, and then, I fell into a deep melancholy from which
nothing could arouse me, and for which no one could account.
“Frank Harcourt was annoyed and vexed at this change. He earnestly
pressed our immediate marriage, and talked about a trip to Paris as an
infallible cure for my ‘_nervous excitement_.’ But in proportion as my
better feelings were awakened, my attachment to him decreased, until I
actually shrunk from a union with him. He now appeared to me frivolous
in his tastes, and the light tone with which he spoke of moral duties,
though often listened to as an idle jest, in calmer times, now offended
and disgusted me. In vain I tried to recall my past feelings. In vain I
gazed upon his exquisite face and watched the movements of his graceful
form, in the hope of again experiencing the thrill of pleasure which had
once been awakened by his presence. The flame had been kindled at the
unholy shrine of vanity, and already the ashes of perished fancies had
gathered over it to dim its brightness. I could no longer cheat myself
into the belief that I loved Frank Harcourt. He was still as glorious in
beauty,—still the idol of society; but the spell was broken, and I
looked back with wonder to my past delusion.
“You will ask where, during all these changes, was Louis Heyward. The
very day after the conversation which had so awakened my remorse of
conscience, he bade me farewell, having been summoned to take charge of
a small congregation, and to ‘build up a church in the wilderness.’ I
would have given much for his counsel and his sympathy, but he was far
away, absorbed in noble duties, and had probably ceased to remember with
interest, the being whom his _one true word_ had rescued from
destruction. I was exceedingly wretched, and saw no escape from my
unhappiness. The approach of the period fixed upon for my marriage only
added to the horror of my feelings, and I sometimes fancied I should be
driven to madness.
“But the _dénouement_,—a most unexpected one—came at length. The aunt
of poor Fanny, who was very grateful for my attentions to the unhappy
girl, accidentally heard that I was on the point of marriage with Mr.
Harcourt, and, instigated no less by revenge than by a sense of
gratitude to me, she revealed to me the _name_ which Fanny had _sworn_,
and she had _promised_ to conceal. You can imagine the rest, Emily. With
the indignant feeling of insulted virtue and outraged womanhood, I
instantly severed the tie that bound me to him. Did I not do right in
breaking my engagement?
“More than two years passed away. I had withdrawn from the follies,
though not from the rational enjoyments of society; and, having joined
myself to the church, I endeavored to live in a manner worthy of my
profession. Alas! all my good deeds were insufficient to make amends for
my wasted years and baleful example. The world ceased, at last, to
wonder and ridicule my sudden reformation, (which they kindly attributed
to my lover’s fickleness,) and I was beginning to enjoy the peace of
mind, always attendant on the exercise of habitual duty, when I was
surprised by the intelligence that Louis Heyward had been chosen to
succeed the deceased pastor of our church. The day when he preached his
first sermon for us will long live in my remembrance. Associated, as he
was, with my brightest and my darkest hours, I almost feared to see him,
lest the calm of my feelings should be disturbed by painful
recollections. But he now appeared before me in a new and holier light.
He was a minister of truth unto the people, and as I watched the rich
glow of enthusiasm mantling his pale cheek, and the pure light of zeal
illumining his dark eyes, I thought there was indeed ‘a beauty in
holiness.’
“Do not think I was in love with our young pastor. I fancied that my
heart was dead to such impressions, and it was only with quiet
friendship that I greeted him when he renewed his acquaintance with her
whom he had once known as the glittering belle of a ball-room. I saw him
frequently, for I now understood the value of wealth and influence when
they could be made subservient to the interests of religion and
humanity. My purse as well as my time was readily bestowed for the good
of others. Always in extremes, I was in danger of running into the error
of fanaticism, and I owe it to Louis that I am now a rational, and I
trust, earnest Christian. But a long time elapsed after this renewal of
our intercourse before I was permitted to read the volume of his heart.
It was not until he was well assured that the change which he beheld was
the result, not of temporary disgust with the world, but of a thorough
conviction of error, that he ventured to indulge the affections of his
nature. He had loved me, Emily, during my days of vanity and folly. His
cold, stern manner was a penance imposed upon himself, to expiate his
weakness, and while he strove to scorn my levity, he was, in fact, the
slave of my caprice. But he crushed the passion even in its bud, and
forced himself to regard me only as his cousin’s bride. Yet the glimpses
of better feelings which sometimes struggled through every frivolity,
almost overcame his resolution, and the conversation which first
awakened me to reflection, was the result of a sense of duty strangely
blended with the impulses of a hopeless passion.
“Perfect confidence now existed between us. My external life had been
almost an unbroken calm, but my heart’s history was one of change and
tumult and darkness. Louis wept,—aye, wept with joy, when he learned
that his hand had sown the good seed within my bosom. It is Madame de
Stäel who says that ‘Truth, no matter by what atmosphere it is
surrounded, is never uttered in vain;’ and I am a living proof that she
is right. I have now been five years a wife; and, though my husband has
not a face that limners love to paint and ladies to look upon,—though
his form is not moulded to perfect symmetry, and his limbs lack the
graceful comeliness of manly strength,—in short,—though he is a
_little, ugly, lame man_, yet I look upon him with a love as deep as it
is enduring, for the radiant beauty of his character has blinded my
feeble eyes to mere personal defects. Frank Harcourt was the sculptured
image,—the useless ornament of a boudoir, but Louis,—my own Louis is
the unpolished casket,—rude in its exterior, but enclosing a pearl of
price,—the treasure of a noble spirit.”
“And what has become of your former lover?”
“He is the ornament of Parisian saloons; living no one knows how, but
suspected to be one of that class, termed in England, ‘_flat-catchers_,’
lending the aid of his fine person and fascinating manners to attract
victims to the gaming-table. He is said to be as handsome as
ever,—dresses well, and is the admiration of all the young ladies as
well as the dread of all the mammas who are on the watch to avoid
‘_ineligibles_.’ And now that you have heard my story, Emily, are you
still surprised at my choice?”
* * * * *