"He loved--loved keenly; and he could not bow
To what seemed tyranny, and so he sought
His wonted happiness, at least the bliss
Of mutual tears, and vows of tenderness,
Never to leave their loves, but always cling
To the fixed hope, that there should be a time,
When they could meet unfettered, and be blest
With the full happiness of certain love." PERCIVAL.
_Wednesday, June 24th._
I forgot to mention last night that the services of the Doctor had been
requested at the Nabob's mansion, or "Lee Hall," as Joseph styles it. In
other words, when Frank went to his office in the village yesterday
morning, he found the following request upon the tablet. "Will Dr. Lenox
call at Squire Lee's residence this forenoon, to afford medical advice
and relief?" This was written by Joseph in a bold flourishing hand.
The Doctor called, and found Lucy was the patient. _Patient_, she
certainly was in one sense of the word, though not much sick. Frank
says, her trouble is beyond his reach. It is sorrow of heart. Lucy has
from a child been intimate with sister, and is of course well acquainted
with the Doctor. When he kindly enquired the symptoms of her complaint,
she did not speak, but just placed her hand upon her heart with a
sorrowful expression. He asked if there was nothing he could do for her
relief. She shook her head with such a woe begone look that he was
deeply moved. He could do nothing but recommend nourishing food, and
free exercise in the open air. He did not leave until she promised to
fulfil her engagement to take tea with us on the morrow, when he wishes
us, if possible, to cheer her spirits as the best means of restoring her
health.
_Thursday, June 25th._
Directly after breakfast I went with the Doctor to see Caroline, and
spent a delightful hour in reading to her, and in conversation on
religion. The Bible and subjects relating to it are her meat and drink.
Directly after my return, I wrote a note to Lucy Lee, begging her to
come to us at an early hour; and in consequence of my invitation, she
made her appearance about three o'clock. We were all moved by the
expression of meek and patient endurance upon her lovely countenance.
I purposely left her alone with Emily, for I thought that she might talk
more freely with her, and perhaps find relief from her sympathy and
affection. I had just returned from the cottage with Pauline, where
mother was occupied with Ruth in preparing for their return, when Emily
requested me to go into her room, to which she had invited Lucy, that
they might be free from interruption.
I found Emily in a state of great excitement, and poor Lucy with her
handkerchief to her face silently weeping.
"I say," exclaimed Emily passionately, "it's a disgrace to the town, for
such a system of persecution to go on, as has been, and is still pursued
toward her," pointing to Lucy, who had not looked up, "and not have it
inquired into and prevented." Emily had, for the time, forgotten her own
trials, in her indignation at the greater ones of her friend.
I sat down by the weeping girl, putting my arm around her waist. She
thanked me by a press of the hand, while Emily, who sat in a
rocking-chair opposite, (she was too excited to keep still a moment,)
continued, "Only think, Cora, of that rascally fellow Joseph." Poor Lucy
looked imploringly.
"Excuse me, poor girl; but much as I love you, I have always detested
your brother. He has nothing of the gentleman about him. But I never
could have believed he would have acted so cruelly."
I had been waiting in vain to hear the occasion of this ebullition of
feeling; and I interrupted my indignant sister, by saying, "You forget,
Emily, that I know nothing of the circumstances."
She then gave me, in substance, the following narrative:
From a child, Lucy has been attached to Allen Mansfield. In fact, they
can hardly remember the time when they did not love each other. While
Mrs. Lee lived, all went on well; and although a very gentle, loving
woman, she exerted a considerable influence over her husband, and
persuaded him to consent to their early betrothal. Allen's father, Mr.
Mansfield, is a merchant in this place, carrying on a prosperous
business; and, at the time of their engagement, his son was considered,
in point of wealth, a suitable match for Lucy. Allen was everything her
mother desired; honorable, upright and virtuous, of generous heart, and
noble principles. More than all, he and his beloved were united in the
most enduring tie of Christian friendship, and had together made a
public profession of religion.
Since that time, however, Squire Lee, by means of his horrible traffic
in ardent spirits, has added house to house and farm to farm, until he
has been easily persuaded by his son, that his only daughter ought to
look higher in her choice of a husband. Not that brotherly affection was
so strong in Joseph. Dislike to Allen was his ruling motive. They had
been schoolmates; and though from love to the gentle sister, Allen had
tried to show, at least, kindness to her brother, yet he could not
always conceal his displeasure at Joseph's conduct. A slight or neglect
this haughty young man never forgot. He only waited his time to make
sure his revenge. Since Allen's intimacy with the family, he had indeed
treated him with outward politeness; yet he hated him on account of his
strong, and oft expressed disapprobation of the course he was pursuing,
and the character of his companions. In this way he had gradually worked
his mind into such a state, that there was no calamity too great for him
to visit upon Allen, had it been in his power.
Such was their relation, when it occurred to the poor drunken creature,
(for no less was he a drunkard because his wines were imported from
Europe at four dollars a bottle; and his Cogniac the best which could be
obtained,) to revenge himself upon Allen by depriving him of Lucy. He
neither thought, nor cared for the sorrow it would cause her loving
heart. He went to work with a zeal worthy of a better cause. By speaking
in a disparaging tone of him to his father, he gradually led him to view
the young man as no longer suitable in rank or station to be allied to a
daughter of their house.
Poor Lucy! At first she gently tried to defend her lover from inuendoes,
and insinuations which her brother took care should be in such general
terms, they could not be met and refuted. Every one is aware how much
worse than an open accusation are implications like the following:--"If
I were to tell what I know, Allen Mansfield would be hooted out of good
society. He is called clever, but I wouldn't ensure his honor nor his
virtue."
It was not strange that Squire Lee, who had long suffered himself to be
guided; nay, almost governed by his son, and who was much enfeebled in
mind by the free use of brandy, determined to break the match, nor that
he one day, when he had drunk so much that he could hardly stand, almost
broke her heart by commanding her to dismiss Allen, or he himself would
do it.
The wretched girl had had many doubts and misgivings whereunto these
things would grow, and had shed many bitter tears in secret; but as she
had no idea of the extent of her brother's malice, nor of the strength
of his determination upon revenge, she had never conceived so dreadful a
result.
For a week, she was obliged to keep her bed, being almost overwhelmed
with sorrow. Dear girl! the thought never entered her mind that it could
be possible to resist so unjust a sentence. Allen, however, was of
different temperament. Naturally gentle and kind, yet when his
indignation was roused, he had the courage of a lion.
Having heard that Lucy was sick, he hastened to inquire for her. It so
happened that he went to the house when Squire Lee was alone, and more
than usually under the influence of reason. Though he forbid his
visiting Lucy, or having anything more to say to her, as he expressed
it, yet he did so in a less offensive manner than on the occasion of his
interview with his daughter.
The consequence was that the young man did not feel called upon to obey
him, but in a day or two called again, having waited in vain for an
answer to several letters, he had written to Lucy. On this occasion,
however, his visit was not so well timed. Joseph was with his father,
who had not yet recovered from his heavy potations of wine and brandy at
dinner, and who, therefore, was easily strengthened by his son in his
cruel purpose.
A dreadful scene ensued. Allen, whose heart-interest was at stake,
determined, for the sake of her whom he loved, to be respectful to her
father. But he was not prepared to withstand the perfect torrent of
wrath which burst upon him. When he entered and inquired for Lucy,
Joseph sneeringly said, "My sister shall never marry a mean scoundrel
like you."
Paying no attention to this, which, however, made his blood boil, he
turned to the old gentleman, saying, "You surely cannot be in earnest in
trying to separate your daughter and myself. Your deceased wife was my
friend; and she as well as yourself gave a ready consent to our union."
In the midst of his wrath Squire Lee was a little softened by the tone
and manner of the young man, as well as by the mention of his wife,
whom he had loved next to himself. He was about to speak more kindly,
when Joseph, perceiving his intention, interrupted him.
"Lucy Lee will be an heiress; no wonder you are loath to give up her
wealth."
Allen turned deadly pale from suppressed emotion, but controlling his
feelings, said, "Squire Lee, I ask again the hand of your daughter. I
will gladly take her without one farthing of your hoarded wealth."
Joseph whispered something in his father's ear, who replied, "all very
fine, young man--_very fine_ talk" (hiccough) "indeed; but you--can't
have her. You see" (hiccough) "we've," with a cunning look at Joseph,
"other views for her."
Allen could contain himself no longer, and in a terrible voice denounced
both father and son as inhuman and brutal in their conduct. "The time
will surely come," he added, "when you will bitterly regret your cruelty
toward her, and your abuse of me."
Were these prophetic words?
Joseph, who was beside himself with rage, flew at Allen, and aimed a
violent blow at his head, which the young man dexterously warded off.
Poor Lucy, who had been attracted by the noise below, sprang from her
bed, and having thrown on a loose robe, rushed wildly into the room. All
stood for one moment speechless with astonishment at her presence, and
frightful pallor. She threw herself at her father's feet, begging him
not to break her heart. She frantically invoked the spirit of her
departed mother to intercede for her, but alas! to no effect. Squire Lee
sat motionless while Joseph in a fury rang the bell, and said to the
porter, "turn that rascal out of the house."
Allen, seeing there was no hope for him or his dearly beloved Lucy,
suddenly caught her in his arms, held her for one brief moment to his
breast, bade her farewell, and left the house. There was a sincerity in
his grief, a dignity in his manner, which made even the hard hearts of
both brother and father quail.
Here at Emily's request, Lucy continued the narrative. "I cannot
remember what immediately followed; but when I recovered my
consciousness, I was in my own room. Mrs. Burns the house-keeper, almost
my only friend and confidant, stood bathing my hands and face. From that
time I gave up all hope of happiness with Allen, though he has never
ceased to write me the most tender letters, urging me not to despair,
but to hope on, and hope ever."
"Love in the earnest mind is not a dream,
To fade in sorrow, or grow dim by age,
But a most true outpouring of the soul;
A pledge of faith, that looking from the past,
And through the present--sees beyond it all
Hope unaffected by earth's weary change."
"I have never written in reply, but have sent messages of unchangeable
and undying love. I begged Mrs. Burns, through whom alone we could
communicate, to tell my dear Allen, that though I could not marry him in
defiance of my father's command; yet I would not marry another. He would
never cease to be dearer to me than life."
The distressed girl wept so much, that Emily resumed. Weeks passed on,
and Joseph encouraged by her passive obedience, began to think he could
now bestow her hand to his own advantage.
Among the vile acquaintances which he had formed in a neighboring city,
was Mr. William Arnold, a man about thirty years of age, of whose
elegant dress and accomplishments Joseph was never tired of talking. He
was often at the house, and Lucy from an instinctive feeling of dislike
avoided him as much as possible. She was obliged to meet him at the
table, and to treat him with civility as a guest. She says she has
sometimes questioned herself as to the ground of her prejudice against
him. He is tall, of an elegant figure, and very free, easy manners. He
converses well, and has rendered himself a favorite with the old
gentleman; but there is a look in his eye which she says cannot be
trusted. Then the fact of his being so intimate with her brother is
strongly against him.
But when Mr. Arnold began to exhibit a fondness for her society, and
whispered soft nothings in her ear, she says "she absolutely loathed
him."
"His passionate eye," exclaimed Lucy, starting from her seat in great
excitement, "actually makes all my bones to shake. I would willingly
have confined myself to my room; but this I was not allowed to do. My
father," she added with a deep sigh, "no doubt instigated to such a
course by my brother, commands me to appear, as he says whatever company
he chooses to invite to the house is only too good for me. I pined and
wept in secret, but was required to appear cheerful in the presence of
my now avowed admirer."
With a look of horror, the wretched girl said "I had rather die than
marry him." She acknowledged, however, that she dared not openly resist
her brother's wishes. "When he has been drinking he is--" she checked
herself, "very unlike a brother," and she shuddered with fear at the
thought.
"I am willing to give up Allen, though he is so _very_ dear to me; but
why need they force me to marry this vile man." She said when the Doctor
called she longed to ask his advice; but fear restrained her; and then
she knew it could do no good. This was said almost in a tone of despair.
In her indignation, Emily was for sending a police officer to take
father and son and lock them up in jail. I was silent from astonishment;
I had known of cases in France where children were forced to marry
against their will; but can it be so, thought I, in this free country?
Why then this boast of liberty? I am so much interested in this sweet
girl that I have given you a full account of her trials, embracing what
was told me during this interview, and what I learned from mother and
Frank after her departure. I gave the poor girl all my sympathy, while
Emily was very free with her advice, some of which from Lucy's shake of
the head, I foresaw it would be difficult, if not impossible, for her to
follow. But we both urged her to be firm in refusing to give her hand to
one whom she did not respect, and therefore could not love. In this
advice we were joined by my husband and mother.
After she left, we sat late talking about Squire Lee. I gathered from
what they said, that when the old gentleman first came to the village,
he was a poor boy, and was employed as a clerk in a grocer's store.
Being a shrewd, active lad, he had worked his way up to be a partner in
the firm. Then he married his partner's daughter, at which time they
increased their business, and built their distillery. This proved so
much more profitable than their grocery, that they sold out their store
and devoted themselves entirely to the manufacture of New England rum.
When his father-in-law died, the whole manufactory and trade fell into
his hands; and now he is possessed of great wealth. It was certainly
known that many houses and farms had passed into his hands; and that a
large number of families had been reduced from independence and comfort
to beggary through their connection with this ruinous business; this
soul-killing establishment.
Frank said his father had often remarked the deplorable effect this
traffic had upon the mind and character of his neighbor. From being
apparently a kind hearted man, he had gradually become hard, unfeeling
and inhuman. Mammon and Bacchus were his gods. Personal ease and
domestic tranquillity, neighbors and friends, family and home, his body
and his soul, he had sacrificed to these divinities.
_Friday, July 3d._
Great preparations are making for the celebration of the Fourth of
July, which is the anniversary of the national independence.
I really think Lucy's visit has been of service to Emily by taking her
mind from herself. She gave me a sealed note to-day directed to Rev.
Frederic Benson, which Frank has enclosed in a wrapper to Mr. Karswell.
_Saturday, July 4th._
On many accounts this has been a trying day to me. I suppose I do not
yet feel patriotic enough to bear the noise patiently. This morning we
were awakened with the first streak of light, by the booming of cannons
on a neighboring height. My poor little Pauline screamed and cried. When
I took her from her crib into my bed, her teeth chattered from her
affright. I tried to talk with her and soothe her; but in truth I had as
much as I could do to calm myself. The continued roar made me tremble so
much that I could easily sympathize with the frightened girl.
Doctor Frank expressed much sorrow for us, and would gladly have
prevented it, if possible; but he said there was no help for it but
patience. He comforted both Pauline and myself, by saying he would hurry
through his morning calls, as he has no very sick patients, and take us
all out into the country beyond the reach of the noise.
After an early dinner we started to rid ourselves of the noise of
cannons and bells, which were to commence again their tumult at noon. We
had a delightful ride and picnic in a grove. We carried cold chicken,
ham and condiments in a basket, and spread them out on a cloth under the
trees. Pauline forgot all her troubles, and amused us much by her
gayety. She danced and tried to sing in her delight.
When she was tired, she went to Frank and turned her back for him to
lift her up. He pretended not to know what she wanted, so as to have the
pleasure of hearing her say, "please, papa, take Pauline." It is really
amusing to watch them together. She goes quite as a matter of course to
him when he sits in the library, and asks him to "take her," waiting
patiently for half an hour, it may be, for him to finish reading his
paper. Then she is sure of a frolic.
It often makes me laugh till the tears run down my cheeks, to see him
dancing about the room, with Pauline perched upon his shoulder, holding
tightly to his hair. It is fortunate for the young miss, it is curly,
else her hold would not be quite so firm. I wonder what Madame Le Row or
Mademoiselle Blanche would say to see Dr. Lenox, "the graceful, refined,
but rather too serious Dr. Lenox," capering about the room in that
style.
"He will not blush that hath a father's heart,
To take in childish plays a childish part."