he smiled as he said, "I perceive your kind intention, but I can at
present think of nothing else. It will not injure me."
In the course of the interview he said that for many years he had been
longing to go home; but for the sake of his son, he had taken every
measure to prolong his life. "Eugene's," he added, "is a singular case.
I am not aware that he has a single relative on his mother's side; and
none nearer than two or three removes on mine. He has a lovely
disposition, though perhaps I may be deemed partial in saying so."
"His adopted mother says the same," I added.
With an ardent expression of gratitude, he continued, "but his yielding
temper only leaves him more at the mercy of a cold cruel world. Oh! how
many hours of sorrow I have spent in imagining his future, and fearing
he might be left to suffer like his father. Eugene remembers little or
nothing of his early life. I have never been able to converse with him
upon subjects connected with his"--The voice was so low I could not
distinguish the rest of the sentence. "I have prepared," he added,
"some papers which throw light upon some subjects, which it is natural
and right he should know at a proper age. I should be glad to leave them
in your hands when I go, with the request that he should have them when
he attains his majority. I should also be glad, if Eugene were so
inclined, to have him keep this small estate, that the cemetery may not
be molested. The steward, who has lived in it for many years, would be
glad to continue in it, and give him a suitable rent for the house and
furniture. One thing more, and I shall have done for this morning. I
fear that I have already taxed you too long. I wish a small monument in
every respect like the one in yonder grave yard, placed above my
remains, with the single word 'Harry' inscribed upon it. I have already
given directions to have my body placed by her side. Now," said he,
"receive once more the gratitude of a father, who perceives in your
pledge of kindness to his son, a new proof of forgiveness and assurance
of pardon and love from his heavenly Father."
_Friday, February 21st._
For several days I have spent much of my time with Colonel Clifford, who
after our interview respecting his son, appeared to fail rapidly. On
Monday morning the Doctor and I called, and Eugene took the opportunity
to go out for his exercise. "Dr. Lenox," said the invalid, "there is one
subject, I inadvertently omitted at our late interview, and which I may
as well mention at this time. My name is not Henry Clifford, as you
suppose, but Henry Clifford Shirley."
Frank sprang to his feet, and was on the point of catching his friend by
the hand, but remembering the feebleness of the Colonel, and the danger
to him of any sudden excitement, he resumed his seat.
"It is entirely immaterial to me which name Eugene retains," said he,
not appearing to have noticed anything unusual in the Doctor's manner,
"but as all his property stands registered in the name of Shirley, it
was highly desirable that you should be aware of the fact."
Frank walked back and forth across the room evidently very much
perplexed how to introduce the communication he wished to make. At
length he sat down by the side of the sufferer, and gently said,
"Colonel Clifford, many years ago I received a confession from a dying
man in relation to a gentleman by the name of Henry Shirley, who was a
Colonel in his Majesty's service. I have endeavored in vain to find such
a gentleman, in order to confide the confession to him, according to the
desire of the penitent man."
Colonel Clifford appeared much agitated, but at length said, "To what
did it relate?"
"To certain anonymous letters written to him while abroad, in India, I
think he said, with a regiment of the government troops. Shall I go on?"
With his handkerchief to his eyes the sick man bowed assent.
"As nearly as I can recollect," added Frank, "the gentleman, who was a
townsman of mine, met your wife while on a foreign tour, and made
proposals to her which she indignantly refused. In order to revenge
himself, he wrote to you intimating her guilt in connection with another
gentleman."
The distressed man with a dreadful groan fell forward, and would have
fallen to the floor had not the Doctor caught him in his arms. He
motioned to me to ring the bell, and with the help of a servant who
appeared, laid the unconscious man upon the bed. It was some time before
he recovered, and when he did, he looked so death-like, that we feared
the excitement would terminate his life. I remained until he fell
asleep, and then quietly left him with the Doctor.
When Frank returned, he said that the Colonel did not allude to the
exciting subject of the interview until just before he left, and then
said to him, "I am not equal to continuing the conversation. I have
written all that is necessary to my son"--he could go no farther. Since
that time the subject has never been alluded to. A holy peace has taken
the place of the melancholy expression of his countenance; and he hails
with delight every fresh symptom of dissolution. He said yesterday, "God
has granted me delightful views of heaven, and the honor and glory of
the Saviour, who is the chief among ten thousand, and the one altogether
lovely. Oh," he exclaimed in a rapture, "Eternity will be too short to
praise him who has redeemed my guilty soul."
This morning he is much revived, and asked the Doctor to pray that he
might be ready and waiting, but not be impatient for the coming of the
bridegroom. Eugene is tender, and affectionate as a daughter, in his
attentions. It often makes the tears start to my eyes, as I witness the
look of unuttered love which beams from the eye of the sufferer upon his
devoted son. Every day he insists that Eugene shall take exercise in the
open air; but this I fear he would be reluctant to do if it were not for
the company of his sisters. When released from the sick room he bounds
like a young doe to our door and calls them for a walk.
Pauline has often accompanied him to the grave of his mother. To-day he
requested me to do so; when the others were about to follow, with his
usual frankness he said, "no, dear Pauline, I want to walk with mamma
alone." As we passed his house, he ran in and brought out the stool.
When we reached the grave, he said as he placed the seat near by, "Dear
mamma, I have chosen this place to make a disclosure to you, that if I
have done wrong, the thought that my own mother has long been lying
here, and that the simple word 'Imogen,' is all I have of her memory,
may incline your heart to forgive."
I was very much affected. "Dear Eugene," I said, "I needed not the
influence of this sacred spot in order to do that. I have said that you
were to me as a son."
"Oh! let me be indeed a son," he exclaimed, throwing himself on the
ground before me. "I love my sister Pauline. I love her with an
intensity of which I have but lately become aware. Tell me that I have
not done wrong; that you and the Doctor approve my love; and I shall be
forever grateful."
"Does Pauline know of this?" I asked.
"Oh no!" he answered, "of course, I could say nothing without your
consent,--we are both young. I will wait years,--you shall set the time
for our marriage,--if you will only give me leave to love her, and she
will consent."
He uttered all this so rapidly, and so earnestly, I had not time to
think.
"You do not answer," said he, repressing a sigh; "you do not say you
forgive me for having unconsciously loved her. Remember," said he,
rising and standing sorrowfully before me, "remember that I have had no
mother to teach me to control my feelings," and he pointed sadly to the
grave.
"I do remember," I said, taking his hand. "You are a noble, honorable
youth, to tell me your feelings so frankly. I do not love you less, that
you love my Pauline; but this is a serious subject; there are many
things to be considered, and I must consult the Doctor."
He pressed his lips upon my hand. "Thank you," said he, "that you do not
deny me at once. Be assured I will not betray my feelings to her until
you give me leave."
As we passed his house on our return, I asked if he had conversed with
his father upon the subject.
He blushed as he replied that he had.
"And what was his wish?"
"He smiled when I told him, and said he thought us rather young; but
said he had the most implicit confidence in you and the Doctor. But I
determined at once, that the only honorable course for me to pursue, was
to tell you all."
"Well, my son," I answered, "I shall have great hopes that you will be a
useful man, if you carry out all your determinations as well as in this
case."
When we drew near the house, I saw Pauline watching us from the window.
Eugene asked in a low voice, "when may I hope for an answer from you?"
"I will walk with you again to-morrow," I answered.
He turned away with merely a bow to Pauline, and returned to his father.
I have come to my room to wait for Frank's return. I think
notwithstanding what he said, he will be astonished that his daughter
has been sought in marriage at so early a day. But Eugene is a noble,
ingenuous youth; what can I ask more, except that he may be a humble
Christian?
_Saturday, February 22nd._
Frank returned yesterday, with a letter long expected, and waited for,
from cousin Joseph Morgan, who says, owing to the protracted absence of
one of the firm, he has not been able to leave Paris; but hopes now to
be with us in a few days, when he intends by a long visit to make up for
this tedious delay.
When we had read and discussed the letter, I asked Frank to prepare
himself for some important business. Seeing I was in earnest he sat down
at once, and I related what had passed.
"Really," said he, "Eugene has well improved his time. I wonder how
Pauline feels. I never saw any particular evidence of affection on her
part. Now I always expected that when she felt young Cupid's dart, she
would do pretty much as you did under similar circumstances, blush up to
her eyes every time his name was mentioned, and always be out of the way
just when she was wanted. Come, come, I didn't mean to set you at it
again; but,
"Tell me the charms that lovers seek
In the clear eye and blushing cheek,
The hues that play
O'er rosy lips, and brow of snow.
Ah! where are they?"
"I have seen nothing of all this in Pauline, but there's no such thing
as calculating all the intricacies of a woman's heart. I've given up
ever since Emily's labyrinthian course in refusing a man whom she dearly
loved."
"Perhaps she had no idea of such a termination to his introduction to
the family; and probably is not aware of the state of her own feelings."
I determined, however, to sound her upon the subject before I met Eugene
again. During the evening, I made an excuse for calling her to my room,
that I would read her Joseph's letter, after which I desired some
conversation with her. "Here comes Frank's proof," I said to myself as a
rosy hue mantled to her very brow; but she immediately said, she would
run to her room for her crotcheting, and then return.
"I don't know," said I, when she had taken her seat, "as you remember
much of your cousin; you have not seen him for a number of years."
"Oh, yes, mamma! don't you recollect the visit he made us before he came
to France?"
"I had indeed forgotten it, my love; but he is soon to be here," and I
read her the letter. She said nothing, and I proceeded to talk of
Eugene. She raised her eyes at once, as if much interested. "You have
now had sufficient opportunity to become acquainted with him; are you
still pleased that he is to be one of us?"
"Certainly, mamma. I love him very much, and should be disappointed if
anything should occur to prevent it. Do you know of anything?" she asked
eagerly.
"No," I answered, fully assured of Eugene's success if it rested with
her.
This morning, the dear fellow came in at an unusually early hour, and
requested me to accompany him. He tried not to look at Pauline, for fear
he should be violating his promise to me. I pointed to the time-piece,
showing him it was an hour earlier than common, and he made rather a
blundering excuse. I hastened, however, to my room, and the Doctor
followed me to the stairs, saying in a whisper, "do go quick, and put
the poor soul out of misery. Don't you see how he is suffering? I know
how to feel for him."
As I came down equipped for the walk, Pauline said in an arch tone, "how
long are you intending to be so exclusive in your walks?"
Eugene started toward her, and began to say something, but stopped very
much confused, and I hurried him away. I need not tell you what I said,
indeed I don't remember. It is sufficient that he was more than
satisfied with the permission to ask her to return his love, and then
wait until we should be willing for them to marry. He cut short our
walk, and turned back to the house. As we reached the door, I looked up
to see a group of heads making themselves very merry at our expense. But
I took it very calmly, and walked in, requesting Pauline to take my
place. She called Nelly; but I told her Nelly must practise her music.
It was rather more than an hour before they returned. The Doctor was
watching for them with no little impatience, and curiosity. Pauline came
in leaning upon her lover's arm, who looked perfectly delighted, and
walked directly across the room, kissing me, and then her father.
Frank was astonished, and said almost audibly, "pretty cool, that! I
never could have believed it."
Eugene was too much excited to keep still, and calling her to the door,
begged her to go with him to his father. But she preferred to postpone
it until another day. Soon after he left, I went to my room, and Pauline
soon followed. "Well, my love," I said, "I suppose I hardly need ask you
what answer you gave Eugene, he looked so happy."
"Yes, mamma, I told him I loved him very much, but that I thought I was
too young to engage myself; and I had never thought of him in that
light."
"And was he satisfied?"
"Yes, mamma, he thanked me many times, and said he should try to make me
very happy." Pauline sat down, and her eyes grew dreamy, so I left her
to her meditations and went below.
CHAPTER XXXV.
"Ah me! from real happiness we stray,
By vice bewildered; vice which always leads,
However fair at first, to wilds of wo." THOMSON.
_Tuesday, March 4th._
Joseph came two days ago, accompanied by a young lady, Mademoiselle
Vinet, or Adele, as Joseph calls her. He went directly with her to her
uncle's, who lives about forty leagues from here, and then returned to
this place. We were much rejoiced to see our dear cousin. He has proved
all that his parents could wish. I was very glad to hear him say that he
hopes to be able to return to the United States nearly as soon as we do.
He longs for home.
Joseph accompanied the Doctor and myself in a walk, and communicated to
us some very sad intelligence. About three months ago, a servant from
one of the hotels in Paris called at his office requesting him to go and
see a young woman who was sick. Wondering not a little who she could be,
he went, and was shown up one flight of stairs after another until he
reached a most dreary and desolate apartment, destitute of every
comfort; and there, upon a miserable pallet, he beheld, to his surprise,
his once beautiful cousin Fidelia Schuyler. She was anxiously expecting
him, and exceedingly overcome by his presence and kindness. He wished to
remove her to a more comfortable and respectable apartment, to provide
her a good nurse, and to do everything in his power for her relief.
But she said, "I have only a few hours to live. Even now I am dying.
All I ask is, that you will remain near me while I live."
Joseph was affected even to tears as he related the heart-rending agony
of Fidelia, while she reviewed the last few years of her life. "Ever
since I left your house, years ago, though I have lived a gay life, in
the midst of fashion and luxury," she said, "I have never known
happiness, for I have lived a life of sin. I am known here as Mrs.
Arnold, having been his companion ever since my husband, incited almost
to madness by my wicked conduct, abandoned me. For three weeks, William
has not been near me. Leaving me only a few dollars, he deserted me; and
since his departure I have been removed to this garret, and have pawned
almost every article of my clothing and of jewelry to procure for myself
even the necessaries of life. Do you remember," she asked, "the wicked
attempt I made to stir up jealousy and strife between Frank and his
young wife? Oh! how I hated her, when I saw that with his whole soul he
observed her every movement and word! He worshipped the very ground on
which she trod. But I have suffered the keenest remorse for my conduct.
I have been constantly tortured with jealousy since I lived with
William, and with fear lest he should leave me to die alone in a strange
land."
Several times Joseph tried to soothe and comfort her as she lay panting
for breath, and sinking farther back upon her pillows. But she could
talk of nothing else. "Oh!" said she, "if I had borne with my husband as
I have had to bear with William, how happy we might have been! I have
been obliged to curb my temper, and to be a slave to one who has indeed
proved to be a hard master."
Joseph endeavored to point her to the Saviour. At first, she was
unwilling to hear a word on the subject, and begged him not to waste his
breath; but at length, as he earnestly pointed her to the Lamb of God,
able, willing and ready to save to the uttermost all who come unto God
by him, she burst into tears, and even besought him to pray with her. He
did so; and after remaining with her about three hours, he went out and
obtained a good woman to take care of her so long as she lived. He
supposed from her appearance that she was not so near her end as she
imagined. He made his arrangements to return and to watch with her in
company with her nurse during the night. After an hour he returned to
her room, and was surprised at the alteration which had taken place. She
was evidently dying.
Now her whole life stood out before her, and she trembled at the idea of
appearing in the presence of a holy God. Joseph prayed with her
repeatedly. He wept as he implored her to cast her burden of sin and
fear upon the Saviour. She listened as for her life, but could only cry
out "too late!--_too late!!_" This dreadful lament she continued until
near midnight, when Joseph read to her a few passages from the Bible, on
the abounding of divine mercy toward the chief of sinners, and renewed
his exhortation to her to repent and believe, saying, "turn ye, turn ye,
for why will ye die?"
"Oh! If I could live--only one hour--more!"--and as the words were on
her quivering lips, her countenance changed, her eyes were fixed, her
spirit departed!
CHAPTER XXXVI.
"I feel death rising higher still, and higher
Within my bosom; every breath I fetch
Shuts up my life within a shorter compass:
And like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less
And less each pulse, till it be lost in air." DRYDEN.
"Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God." PARNELL.
_Wednesday, March 5th._
I am really pained by Pauline's conduct toward her cousin. She shuns him
as much as possible. He feels it too. He always manifested so much
interest in her; but she avails herself of every excuse to walk with
Eugene, and avoids seeing Joseph. I can perceive that he is grieved, but
though he often gazes at her with a sad, inquiring expression, he does
not speak. I have never known her to be rude; but I felt it my duty to
speak with her to-day upon the subject. I am afraid I spoke too sternly,
for she immediately burst into tears. She made no excuse, only saying,
"I can't help it, mamma."
"Your cousin," I said, "has not deserved such treatment. He has always,
since you were a baby, taken a great interest in you;" and I related his
kindness in taking her to ride on horseback, and many other events,
which I was surprised to find she remembered.
But still she said nothing; and only cried the more. I don't know what
to make of her.
"Sometimes deep feeling hides itself in silence."
But I think she has had too much excitement of late, notwithstanding
she appeared so calm. When the bell rang for tea, she begged me to
excuse her from going down, and to tell Eugene, when he called, that she
was not able to go with him to his father as he had proposed.
"Are you ill, my dear," I asked.
"I have a very bad head-ache, which will be well by morning."
Joseph went out this morning early for a walk, and returned just as I
was called to breakfast. Pauline was in the room, and he went directly
to her, expressing his pleasure at seeing her down again. He took her
hand in his, and said, "I am deeply pained by seeing that you have
forgotten all your former friendship for me." He then assured her, she
should always have a warm friend in him.
Notwithstanding I had thought her wrong, I really pitied the poor girl's
confusion. She did not once raise her eyes; but blushed painfully as she
withdrew her hand when he had ceased speaking. I pitied Joseph, too. He
came to me soon after breakfast, and asked me to walk with him, when he
immediately entered upon the subject, saying he had never been so
disappointed in a young person, so artless and frank as she used to be.
He then asked if Eugene were a suitable companion for her, fearing it
was his influence that had so changed her for the worse.
I assured him it was not. Then feeling that from his long friendship for
us, he had a right to be treated with confidence, I told him in what
relation they stood to each other. Though I could see plainly that he
was displeased, I commenced at their singular introduction, and told him
all that had passed between Colonel Clifford and the Doctor. He listened
with the profoundest interest, but did not interrupt me until I had
done.
"How did you account for the agitation of Colonel Clifford?" he asked.
"Oh! a thousand ways," I replied. "He has been an invalid for many
years; and her sudden appearance would account for it in a great
measure."
"Perhaps so," he answered in a doubting tone; "but he evidently supposed
her to be a near friend."
"Yes," said I, "there is no accounting for the freaks of nature in these
close resemblances. I should be struck any where by her resemblance to
Frank; yet you know there is no connection."
"She must have a singular countenance," he replied, "I noticed yesterday
a strong likeness to young Clifford. Does she know of the circumstances
connected with her early history?"
"Not a word of it."
"Nor Clifford?"
"No."
"Then, my dear cousin, I tell you frankly, I think in this instance you
and the Doctor have erred--certainly you have not acted with your usual
frankness."
I made many excuses which had been satisfactory to my own mind. He said
no more, but only shook his head.
When we received Joseph's letter, I thought him the same light-hearted,
merry fellow as of old; but I find he has grown very grave. I was a
little troubled at what he said, and on conversing with Frank, I find
that he is of the same opinion, that we ought at least to communicate
the circumstances to Colonel Clifford, if we do not choose to tell
Pauline. But Frank says since talking with Mr. Percival, and finding
that he had no other child, he felt relieved of all doubt in relation to
their connection. But though the thought of it makes me almost sick, I
intend to-morrow to do what I know will give exquisite pain to Pauline,
by telling her she is my child only by adoption.
_Saturday, March 8th._
If my poor head will allow, I will try to give you an account of the
events of the last three days. But I have suffered so much I really
shrink from recurring to the subject.
In pursuance of my resolution to make the painful disclosure to
Pauline, I made necessary arrangements to be free from interruption, as
I feared the dear child's feelings would overcome her; and as I was far
from intending that Nelly or Frank should know it at present, I did not
wish unnecessarily to excite their curiosity. If the dear child were to
know it at all, I preferred she should hear it first from me; and having
procured the locket and package, I called her to my room, and went
through the story as if I were relating the history of another person,
and as briefly as justice to my subject would allow; but my great
agitation, which I could not avoid becoming apparent, must have made her
suspect that I referred to herself. She looked me full in the face, her
eyes more and more dilated until she turned deadly pale. I became
frightened that she did not give way to her feelings, and stopped, when
she said in the most heart-broken tone I ever heard, "Then I am not your
Pauline, mamma?" and leaned her head heavily on her hand.
I pressed her to my heart, and told her that she never was dearer to me
than at present; that she was my first, and I had almost said, my
dearest child.
But this has been a dreadful shock to the poor girl, who seems now to
feel that she has no claim upon us. I talked with her a long time,
telling her that I had never intended she should know of this; but that
her father thought it dishonorable not to tell her or Eugene; and that I
felt she ought to hear it from me.
"I think it would have killed me," she replied, "to have heard it even
from father." After a moment she added mournfully, "may I still call you
mamma?" when her pent up feelings burst forth with such violence as I
have never witnessed. She wept and sobbed until her whole frame shook
with emotion.
"My love, my own Pauline, you will break my heart if you do so. Our love
is the same; it can undergo no change. My affection for you has been so
selfish, that it has been my only fear with regard to you, that some one
would claim you as their child; or as has happened, that some one would
win your love from your mother."
"Oh, mamma," said she joyfully, "I will give him up. I understood it was
your wish. Indeed I told Eugene I did not wish him to consider it an
engagement. We are too young."
"Dearest Pauline, I only told you to show you how strong was my
affection for you."
After two hours, during which time I had but partially succeeded in
calming her excited feelings, I showed her the locket, which affected
her exceedingly, as also the letter from her mother to the servant. She
held the tiny robe in her hand, while her tears fell hot and fast upon
it. I told her that on no account would I allow Nelly and Franky to be
made aware of what had passed.
"I shall tell Eugene?" she said inquiringly.
"If you think it best, love."
"Of course, I only meant whether you or I should tell him. He asked what
I considered strange questions the second time I saw him. But I thought
it would only pain you to hear them, so I did not repeat what he said.
He asked if I had ever been abroad before. I told him "no." He then
asked if I were nearly connected with this family, when I laughed and
told him, 'my resemblance to father was proof of that fact.' He
apologized, and said he had only asked me to satisfy his father." She
took the locket, putting the chain around her neck, and bidding me good
night, left me.
But it was a sleepless night to both of us. The questions of Eugene, to
satisfy his father,--the doubts of Joseph were constantly recurring to
me. Frank comforted me by saying I had done right in telling her what I
had. After midnight I crept softly to her room, shading the lamp with my
hand, and found her eyes wide open. She had thrown her arm over her
sleeping sister, and had vainly tried to sleep.
"I have been trying to think who I am, mamma," said she in a sad voice.
"You are my own darling, Pauline," I said, kissing her again and again.
"She looks happy and kind," alluding to the picture, "but how could she
give me up so?"
I begged her to try to sleep, and returned to my bed to make the same
effort. The next morning she did not go down to breakfast, merely took a
cup of coffee in her room; but begged me to let her know when Eugene
came in. I did so, when she instantly came down to him equipped for a
walk.
I attempted to remonstrate, fearing she was not well enough; but she
said, "please, mamma," in so sad a voice, I could say no more.
It was nearly noon. Joseph had two or three times volunteered to go in
search of Pauline, for whom I felt great anxiety, when a man came
running, breathless with speed, begging me to go to Colonel Clifford. He
was dying.
I was on my way in a moment, Joseph attending me to the door. How can I
describe to you what I saw? In order to make it intelligible, I must
relate what the Doctor and Pauline afterwards told me. As soon as they
started on their walk, she communicated to Eugene the circumstances I
had related to her; and insisted that he should, without delay, make
them known to his father, saying, "perhaps he will withdraw his consent
when he hears that I am a foundling."
Eugene spurned the idea, as unworthy either of him or his father, and
protested that he only loved her the better. He earnestly implored her
to go with him, to which she reluctantly consented. He found the Doctor
by the bed side, and leaving his beloved in the next room, he went in.
Having requested the Doctor to remain, he went on to tell his father
briefly that Pauline was only an adopted child of Dr. Lenox, and that
she would not consent to their betrothal until he were made aware of the
circumstances, and had given his consent.
"Tell her, my son, that can make no difference in our feelings. Bring
her to me, I will tell her so." Eugene led her in; but no sooner did he
see her, than he started forward as if to take her in his arms, and then
with a loud scream fell back upon the pillows.
The Doctor and Eugene sprang forward in affright to raise him, and threw
water in his face, when he gasped for breath, and pointing his thin
finger to where Pauline stood, tried to speak, but for a moment was
unable. "Eugene," at length he gasped out, "she is your sister, Inez,"
and fainted.
Pauline, intensely surprised, and agitated, darted forward, and kissed
the face, brow and lips of the unconscious man, crying, "Oh! father,
bless me before you die."
When he opened his eyes, her sweet voice was pleading for a blessing. A
heavenly smile lit up his face, as he said, "Imogen, my own Imogen, I do
bless thee, sweet wife!" He thought her his lost Imogen. But he soon
knew her, and called her his beloved daughter Inez, whom he now saw for
the first time. She turned from him to Eugene, who sat bitterly weeping
with his head buried in his dying father's pillow; and putting her arms
tenderly about his neck, said, "Be comforted, dear Eugene, you have
gained a sister."
The Doctor administered a cordial to the Colonel, who he saw was fast
failing; and had sent for me.
When I entered the room, the dying man was passionately kissing the
little miniature contained in the locket; and from that, as well as his
instant recognition of the writing of his wife in the letter, there is
no longer any doubt that she is his child.
He requested the Doctor to open a pocket book, and take out a blank
envelope. Opening this, he showed some of the writing of Imogen, which
exactly compared with the other. Again, and again blessing his long lost
child, and bidding his children love each other as brother and sister,
he requested to be left alone with the Doctor; when he told him where to
find the packet directed to his son, to be left in his care. He
expressed renewedly his thanks that these disclosures had been brought
to light in season to prevent so unnatural a marriage. He gave some
directions, rendered necessary by the wonderful discovery. He then said,
calmly, "I have now done with earth," and requested the Doctor to call
his children to see him die.
Eugene threw himself upon the bed in an agony of grief. "My soul
cleaveth unto thee, my son," said the dying man. And again mistaking
Pauline for his beloved wife, he made an effort to reach her,
exclaiming, "I come, my Imogen--I--_come_!"
Scarcely had the last words ceased to echo through the room, when the
spirit of Colonel Clifford joined his companion in the world above.
_Thursday, March 13th._
The remains of our deceased friend have been laid by the side of her
whom he so tenderly loved, to rest until the morning of the
resurrection. The arrangements for keeping the sacred place from
intrusion are completed, and we are only waiting the arrival of the
monument, which the Doctor has ordered from Rome, before we take leave
of our respected friend, Mr. Percival, and depart for Paris.
"Thither where she lies buried,
That single spot is the whole world to me."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
"I had so fixed my heart upon her,
That wheresoe'er I fram'd a scheme of life
For time to come, she was my only joy,
With which I used to sweeten future cares;
I fancy'd pleasures, none but one who loves
And doats as I did, can imagine like them." OTWAY.
_Friday, March 14th._
To-day Joseph received a letter from Monsieur Vinet in reply to one he
wrote, stating the time of our leaving for Paris. He writes that he will
accompany Adele to Nice a day or two before that time, as she has a
strong desire to become acquainted with persons of whom she has heard so
much from her friend, Monsieur Morgan. For a few days past, I have
noticed that Pauline remained more in the room when Joseph was
conversing with the Doctor, and when thinking herself unnoticed, her
attention became absorbed, and her eyes flashed, while the color came
and went, giving her beautiful countenance a most bewitching variety of
expression.
But if cousin happened to turn his eye in that direction, though the
rich bloom on her cheek might assume a deeper tinge, yet the long silky
fringes instantly drooped over her tell-tale eyes. I am sometimes almost
vexed with Joseph. If he took half the pains to win her confidence that
he did formerly, this reserve and coolness might be exchanged for the
most delightful friendship. I wonder if he ever thinks of his request
when she was a baby, that I would train her for him. If he does, it is
only to laugh at the follies of his youth. But I suppose what Frank
suspects may be true; that he is attached to Adele. She will be here
shortly, and we shall see.
_Tuesday, March 18th._
This morning Franky, who is full of mischief, put his hand slyly into
Joseph's pocket and pulled out a letter. Cousin was busily reading, and
did not notice the theft until the young rogue put on his father's
glasses, and crossing the room to place himself in an elevated position,
began to read aloud. Pauline, though trying to restrain her mirth, yet
shook her head; but as I recognized the letter as the one from Monsieur
Vinet, and Joseph had read it aloud, I thought I would not spoil Master
Franky's sport. The young gentleman is by no means an expert at
deciphering a fine hand, and though the letter was written in English,
failed to make sense. He therefore turned to the postscript, and
elevating his voice to arrest attention, began, "Beloved friend,--The
time seems very long since we parted, and I know you will be pleased to
hear from your friend Adele"--
At the sound of that name, Joseph started, and with a quick glance
around the room, snatched the letter from Franky, saying, "didn't you
know it was very improper to read letters not directed to yourself?"
"I wouldn't have read it, Joseph, if I had known 'twas a love letter."
"Pshaw," said cousin, looking very much annoyed as he saw us laughing at
his expense.
Nelly, who is a great favorite, went and put her arms around her
cousin's neck, saying, "They shan't laugh, Joseph, you shall have just
as many letters as you please, and nobody but you and I shall read them.
Dear Jo," she asked in a whisper, "Is she a darling? Shall I love her,
when she is my cousin?"
Joseph started to his feet. "Who has put such nonsense into your head?
Coz," he continued, turning to me, "where did Frank get hold of that
letter?"
"He must answer for himself," I replied. As I looked up from my sewing,
I saw that Pauline had left the room. After due confession from the
delinquent, and a suitable shaking from Joseph, by way of reproof, which
made the house ring with his merry laughter, cousin continued his
reading for half an hour, when he started up, saying he would go and
meet the Doctor, who was at Mr. Percival's.
At that instant Franky returned to the parlor, with a very dolorous
expression upon his countenance. "Mamma," he exclaimed, "Pauline is
crying as if her heart would break, and she won't tell me what's the
matter with her, though I've asked her ever so many times."
This was so unusual an occurrence that I started to my feet to go to
her, when Eugene threw down his pencil, (he was drawing a sketch of the
house where his mother was born,) and said, "let me go, mamma. Please
let me try my skill in soothing her grief."
I reluctantly resumed my seat. Joseph also replaced his hat in the hall,
and stood looking from the window. "We must hasten our departure," said
I. "Pauline is growing very nervous, which cannot be wondered at.
Joseph," said I, addressing him, "I almost regret having followed your
advice, to tell her she was not my own child. She grows thinner and
paler every day."
For a moment, Joseph remained silent, and I was almost vexed that he was
not more interested for Pauline, when he replied, in an unnatural voice,
"Cora, I hardly think you are aware what you say. Would you have had her
marry her brother?"
His tone conveyed such bitter reproof that my eyes filled with tears.
For the first time, he turned from the window, and looked at me. I saw,
with surprise, that he was very pale. He approached, holding out his
hand, "forgive me, cousin; I spoke harshly; but wouldn't it be better
for you to go to Pauline? She may not like to have Eugene witness her
grief."
"Why?" I asked. "She is very fond of her brother."
He walked quickly across the floor. "You forget," said he in a hoarse
voice, "how lately she loved him as her future husband. I have seen the
struggle in her mind, to overcome such an affection, or rather to change
it to the calm, though deep affection of a sister."
I looked at Joseph earnestly, as he walked back and forth across the
room, with knitted brow and closely shut lips, and tried to discover the
cause of his agitation. At length he stopped before me, and said, "will
you go to her?"
"Yes," I replied, laying aside my work. As I went above, I heard him
leave the house.
When I entered the school-room, I found Pauline sitting with her head
resting on her brother's shoulder, while his arm was around her. She had
ceased weeping, but still looked very sad. "Mamma," said Eugene, "I've
been telling her how very naughty it is for her to feel sorrow, and not
allow me to share it with her. She won't even tell me what makes her
weep." Pauline put her handkerchief quickly to her face to hide the
tears which were streaming unbidden down her cheeks. I motioned to him
to leave her with me. He kissed her tenderly and went below. I then led
the weeping girl into my own room, and having fastened the door, I sat
by her side, and begged her to tell me what had afflicted her.
"There is a shadow far within your eye,
Which hath of late been deepening. You were wont
Upon the clearness of your open brow
To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round
Joy, like this southern sun. It is not well,
If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul,
To hide it from affection. Why is this,
My Pauline, why is this?"
But after talking with her for nearly half an hour, I was no wiser than
at first. I could only get from her the confession that she was very
unhappy, and wished she were safely at home in Crawford. I hinted to her
what I suspected, that she found it difficult to change the nature of
her affection for her brother so suddenly. She looked up quickly, as she
replied, "Mamma, I was deceived as to the nature of my love for him. I
never could have _married_ Eugene; but he is very dear to me as a
brother."
Hearing the outer door open, she sprang upon her feet, painfully
embarrassed, and was going hastily from the room, but returned, and said
in a low voice, "Please, mamma, say nothing of this to any one; I will
endeavor to be cheerful."
When I went below, Frank had returned, and soon Joseph came in, and
seating himself near the window, commenced reading in the book which had
so much interested him when Franky stole his letter. I drew my husband
to a retired part of the room, and told him I wished to leave Nice as
soon as possible for the sake of Pauline.
After many questions on his part, and many replies on mine, I told him
what she said with regard to Eugene. "I think she speaks truly there,"
exclaimed Frank eagerly. "I am convinced she never loved him. I mean as
a suitor. I was almost sure of it at the time. She ought to be very
thankful it has turned out so well for her."
"She is so," I replied. "She says, he is a very dear brother."
Here Joseph threw down his book, and taking his hat walked away from the
house as if his very life depended upon his speed. The Doctor laughed
heartily, as he exclaimed, "what an odd fellow Joseph is! I wonder what
started him off on such a race. See there," he continued, approaching
the window, "he is almost out of sight."
Pauline begged to be excused from coming down to tea; but stole quietly
in as we were sitting talking in the moonlight. I hope she will feel
better in the morning.
_Wednesday, March 19th._
We were seated at the breakfast table this morning, when Ruth entered,
bringing an exquisite bouquet, and saying with an expressive grin,
"Here, Misse Pauline, dis bunch posies for you."
"Who brought them?" was eagerly asked by several voices. Franky took a
French leave of the company and rushed down the street after the boy who
had left them at the door. But he could not overtake him, and returned
to join in the curiosity expressed on all sides, to know the donor of so
tasteful a gift.
Ruth was questioned again and again, and asked to recollect if there was
no message. But she kept firmly to her original story; "He laugh and
say, he told, bring dat Misse Pauline; 'pears like he mighty pleased
heself."
The bouquet was passed from one to another and was much admired. Joseph
said, "whoever sent it might think himself well paid if he knew what a
sensation it has caused."
When Pauline came to dinner she had selected a bright scarlet verbina
with a few queen leaves and twined them around her dark tresses, which
gave quite a glow to her pale countenance. I saw cousin look very
earnestly at her as she was seated opposite him at table. The color
deepened as she met his gaze, and this greatly added to her beauty.
Nelly has just run up from the parlor for me to go below. Monsieur Vinet
has come with Adele. Now we shall leave Nice in a very few days.
_Thursday, March 20th._
We are all of us charmed with Adele. She said she had heard Monsieur
Morgan speak of us so often, she felt as if she were acquainted with us.
When her countenance is in repose, which to be sure is very seldom,
there is nothing about it to attract attention. But the moment she
speaks, her whole face lights up, and there is a wonderful play of the
features, which are ever changing their expression. She has handsome
hair and eyes. She wears her hair in quite a unique style, being parted
smoothly off her brow, and after being gathered, into a knot behind is
worn like a coronet around her head. She is very graceful and
fascinating; and we consider her an agreeable addition to our party.
When we came down to breakfast this morning, a vase was standing by
Pauline's plate filled with flowers still fresh with the dew. As I
stooped over them to inhale their fragrance, I saw a card among the
leaves with the words "For the lovely Pauline, with the best wishes of a
friend." The penmanship was delicate, like that of a lady; but we did
not recognize it.
When Nelly explained the mystery connected with the flowers to Adele,
she was quite enthusiastic upon the subject, and said gayly: "Oh! I do
so love a mystery. It is so romantic. It is charming!" But she was
unwearied in her efforts to unravel it. She first charged Eugene with
being the donor, which charge he stoutly denied. Then she shook her
finger at Joseph. "Ah, monsieur, you are the one. Now I'll call you to
account for this piece of coquetry."
But Joseph only looked annoyed and said, "I have not left the house this
morning."
After all had expressed an opinion, Pauline exclaimed, "I know who sent
it."
"Who? _who?_" questioned Adele and Nelly, both at once.
"Mr. Percival, dear Mr. Percival," she answered with enthusiasm. I
happened to meet Joseph's eye, which very much resembled the Joseph I
knew in B----; but he instantly looked down and bit his lip to keep from
laughing.
_Saturday, March 22d._
The last two days have been spent by the young people in visiting for
the last time all the favorite haunts and places of interest. Pauline's
conduct is an enigma to me. Sometimes she appears very cheerful, and
often when with Adele, I have heard her musical laugh ring through the
house like a sweet toned bell; but it is a forced laugh, and is almost
always followed by great sadness. To-day her appearance pleased me
better than it had for a long time. I thought her more natural. But this
evening she is worse than ever. From what Nelly told me to-night, I fear
this state of her spirits is somewhat connected with Joseph. During
their frequent rambles, Pauline has always clung closely to her
brother's arm before they left the house, to prevent the possibility of
walking with her cousin. But to-night I noticed that when they returned,
Adele accompanied Eugene, and his sister had taken Joseph's arm, while
Franky held his cousin by the hand. They were talking quite cheerfully
as they approached the house. I thought Joseph gazed down upon his
companion with something of the reverence with which he regarded her in
former years.
But after tea, Pauline happened to go with Nelly into the school-room,
and found Joseph sitting by the window with Adele. To use Nelly's words,
"Cousin Joe was holding her hand in his, and she was crying. She said,
'oh! Monsieur, I can't indeed! I can't bear such treatment.' I was just
going," Nelly continued, "to ask her what was the matter, but Pauline
pulled me away."
"Where is Pauline?" I asked.
"She is in her room, mamma." I went to her door, but found it locked.
This must not go on so. I am glad we are to leave here Monday morning.
_Paris, Monday, March 31st._
The Doctor, Joseph and Eugene are planning excursions enough to last for
a month. Adele, who resides with her uncle in this city, has promised to
accompany the young people to all its places of interest. Indeed she has
already begun to do so. Her uncle, who is also her guardian, is one of
the firm where Joseph is a partner; and it is thus she has become
acquainted with him. I have noticed that since Pauline saw Adele weeping
in the school-room with Joseph, she has avoided her cousin more
assiduously than ever. I am intending to renew some of my former
acquaintances, while the others are sight-seeing.
_Evening._
Pauline's bouquets have followed her to Paris. This evening she received
a magnificent one. She said, "I am now fully convinced father procured
them for me." I looked quickly at Frank, who only smiled.
"Oh! papa," said Pauline, throwing her arms about his neck with a
natural burst of feeling, "I thank you so much. How very, _very_ kind,"
and she kissed him affectionately. But the next moment with a convulsive
sob she sank back into her chair and wept bitterly.
Joseph flew to her side, and leaning forward said, "Dear Pauline, how
can I comfort you?"
Her father sent the children from the room, and took her tenderly on his
knee, where, drawing her head to his breast, he whispered, "Pauline, my
own dear child, cannot you tell your father the cause of your grief?"
I sat by her side while Joseph walked the room, stopping ever and anon
as if about to speak, and then checking himself with difficulty. After a
short time Pauline became more composed, so that she could speak, and
she raised her eyes mournfully to her father's face as she said, "I
forgot you were not my father, and I was so happy."
We were all much affected at the deep sadness of her tone, and Frank
said, "Let us all forget it, my daughter. Your father loves you truly
and tenderly;" and he pressed her in his arms as she lay like a child,
hiding her face in his bosom.
Joseph could restrain himself no longer, but rushed forward and stooping
down, took her unresisting hand. "Pauline, dearest Pauline, _I_ cannot
forget it, for the hour I learned that Eugene was your brother, was the
happiest of my life. Won't you look at me, dearest, to show you forgive
me?"
But the weeping girl clung to her father, while she absolutely shook
with emotion.
Just at this moment, Adele burst into the room with very evident marks
of excitement. Her eyes were much inflamed, and bore signs of excessive
weeping. She walked quickly up to Joseph, and requested to see him
alone.
Though evidently much annoyed, he led her into the next apartment, where
we heard their voices in earnest conversation for a short time; then she
wept aloud, and I could hear Joseph try to soothe her, and beg her to
compose herself. Soon after, he left with her in the carriage which
brought her to our hotel.
Frank looked much perplexed, and almost stern. Pauline wept so violently
he feared the effect upon her. She sobbed out, "Oh, papa!" and pressed
her hand to her heart. It was nearly an hour before we succeeded in
getting the poor child to her chamber, and when I left her she promised
to try to sleep. The Doctor is determined to wait for Joseph, and demand
an explanation of his conduct, and as I am too excited to sleep, I have
employed myself in writing.
_Tuesday, April 1st._
After sitting up to receive Joseph, who occupies rooms at our hotel,
until after two this morning, Frank retired to bed. I have rarely seen
him more displeased. He says Joseph has trifled with Pauline's
affections. I did not know what to think. I never saw anything in his
conduct which led me to suppose he loved her.
We were dressing for breakfast when a servant brought the Doctor a note.
It was from cousin, begging to see him as soon as possible. Frank
followed the servant, instead of sending an answer; and you can easily
imagine I awaited his return with no little impatience.
At length I went to see if Pauline were awake, and to my astonishment
found her up and dressed. Her countenance was pensive; but she tried to
smile as she came forward for her morning kiss.
We were hardly seated before her father knocked and begged me to
accompany Pauline to the parlor. He appeared so pleased, I could easily
see that Joseph had been able to explain his conduct satisfactorily.
When we entered the parlor, Joseph came quickly forward to meet us.
Pauline shrank back as if she wished to avoid the meeting; but Joseph
spoke a few words in her ear. What they were, I have not been able to
find out; but there must have been some kind of a charm about them, for
the dear girl started and gazed earnestly at him, when she seemed to
feel satisfied, and artlessly put her hand in his. After pressing the
dear little treasure again and again to his lips, he led her forward to
where I sat looking on with astonishment. "Cousin Cora," said he to me,
"fifteen years ago I asked the hand of your daughter. Your husband has
just now made me very happy by giving his consent. Will you give me
yours?"
"You are making a very bold request," I replied, as I drew the blushing
girl nearer to me. "What say you, my daughter, shall we encourage such a
suit?" "Just as you please, mamma."
"No, my love, not just as _I_ please. You must speak for yourself."
Joseph had thrown himself on one knee before us, and having made a
prisoner of her little hand, he poured out all the story of his
love--the agony he had experienced when he visited Nice and found her
affianced to Eugene, and the many, _many_ doubts and fears he had felt
on account of her cold manner toward him.
The poor girl trembled excessively, and when he ceased, seemed
absolutely unable to reply. He started to his feet and said, "O!
Pauline, beloved of my soul, can you, will you accept my love?"
Making a great effort, she said in a very low voice, "I do love you,
dear Joseph." I could hardly distinguish the words; but I suppose the
old saying is true, "for lovers' eyes are sharp to see and lovers' ears
to hear," for the loving Joseph appeared fully to hear and appreciate
her meaning, and was by no means sparing of his thanks on the occasion.
I took the first opportunity to leave the room, though Pauline was
almost frightened at the ardor of her lover, and clung to my dress, as I
attempted to pass her.
The Doctor has explained to me what appeared strange in the conduct of
our cousin, especially as connected with Adele. Her history I will give
you in a few words. She was left when a child to the guardianship of her
uncle. Being quite an heiress, he wished her to make what he called a
great match. But Mademoiselle, whose wishes had never been
crossed--whose slightest whim had been law to the whole household, had
fallen in love with a young man whose only inheritance was a heart full
of warm and generous impulses, united to a strength of determined
purpose, which would in the end surmount all obstacles in his path, to
riches and honor. All the wealth of his affections he had lavished upon
the charming Adele, and she fully reciprocated the attachment. But
Monsieur Vinet, her guardian, was very much enraged when the young and
ardent lover asked the hand of his niece, and positively refused his
consent. It was this which had caused him to send her for a time to his
brother near Nice, in the hope that absence would dissolve their foolish
fondness. Joseph had been made a confidant by each of the parties; and
it was a letter addressed to him by Monsieur Couvier that had so
distressed Adele while at Nice. It was a short postscript in relation to
this subject which had so much disturbed cousin, when Franky commenced
reading the letter aloud.
The crisis of her troubles which had occurred at a time so unfortunate
for poor Pauline, was caused in the following manner. Adele, driven
almost to despair by the inflexibility of her guardian, determined to
make an appeal to him in her own behalf. She had thrown herself at his
feet, and with all the enthusiasm of her impulsive nature, had begged
his consent to her union with the one she loved. She offered to give up
to him all her property, and in everything else, to be all that he could
desire. Monsieur Vinet really loved his niece after his own fashion, and
could not be made to understand why she should prefer a man so poorly
endowed by fortune, to one who, though of doubtful morals, and
questionable virtue, yet was of noble birth and princely estate.
Having sued in vain for his consent, and being in her violent grief
wholly unmindful of appearances, she had driven to our hotel to beg
Joseph to intercede for her. I need not stop to detail all that
followed. Suffice it to say that his influence, added to the distressing
agony of Adele which she took no pains to control or to conceal, at
length prevailed, and Joseph had the pleasure before he left them of
feeling that he had been the means of securing happiness to two
otherwise distracted hearts.
_Wednesday, April 2d._
This morning the mystery connected with the bouquets has been revealed.
After receiving her morning gift from the hands of the servant, Pauline
gracefully went to her father, and thanked him for giving her so much
pleasure.
Frank looked archly at Joseph, who quickly dropped his eyes, to conceal
the look of merriment which begins to show itself. "Thank you, my
daughter," Frank said, returning the kiss, "but I rather think you've
bestowed it on the wrong person."
Pauline started, while a beautiful rosy hue spread all over her face,
and gave one eager glance at her lover.
I saw it was with great difficulty that Joseph restrained himself from
pressing her to his heart; but he bent lovingly over her little hand,
and said something in a low, yet impassioned voice. If he intended to
drive away her blushes, he was unfortunate in his choice of words, for
they only deepened.
My husband and I have been talking over the whole of this novel
courtship from beginning to end, and I feel quite humbled as I am
obliged to come to the conclusion that, while Joseph for fifteen years
has never wavered in his affection for Pauline, who, he says, first
awakened him to a sense of his responsibility as a man and a Christian,
I, who have always prided myself upon my shrewdness in matters of the
heart, have been blind as a bat. We expect to be with you on the
twenty-second instant.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
"And lo! at last relieved from every toil,
They come! the wanderers view their native soil!
Then the bright raptures words can never speak,
Flash in their eyes, and mantle in their cheek!
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer,
Implored for them each guardian spirit's care;
In that blest moment all the past forget,--
Hours of suspense, and vigils of regret!" MRS. HEMANS.
_Crawford, Monday, August 4th._
DEAR MOTHER,--Since the hasty letter I wrote you, announcing our safe
arrival at home, my time has been so fully occupied that I have been
altogether unable to resume my journal. Our dear, lovely Pauline is to
leave us the first of October. It is fortunate for me that cares and
duties demand every moment of my time, else I fear, I should spend much
of it in the unprofitable employment of weeping. Indeed, there is a sad
weight at my heart, and sometimes when my darling child sits down before
me, and lays her head in my lap, I am completely overcome. How fully,
dear mother, I can enter into your sorrow, when I remember the
convulsive embrace with which you held me to your heart on the event of
my leaving home. I can again see the tears which flowed like rain down
your pale cheeks, and hear your broken voice saying, "May God bless you,
my own dear Cora, and comfort your mother in her loss."
I must relate to you one little circumstance in connection with Pauline,
as showing the length of her attachment to Joseph. Eugene was trying to
unlock a small work-box, (as I had always taken it to be,) with a key of
his own, his sister having playfully refused to allow him to see the
contents. She sat by laughing, perfectly secure that he had no key which
would fit the lock, when all at once the cover flew open. I had just
entered the room, when she said merrily, "There, Eugene, give it to me.
It's useless to try;" when, as she perceived his success, her tone
changed to one of such deep distress, as she eagerly tried to take it
from him. "Oh! my dear, _dear_ brother, do give it to me." I looked in
surprise. Eugene held the box behind him while she stood with anxious,
tearful distress, begging him to restore it. I stepped quietly behind,
and took the box with its precious contents from his hand.
"Eugene," said I, shaking my head at him, "you are a naughty boy to
tease your sister." He called Nelly, his inseparable companion and
adviser, and went into the garden. I still held the box, and when we
were alone, I presented it to her with a smile, saying, "It would be
safer, my dear, to put this out of Eugene's way, since he is so curious
to know the contents."
She held it tightly for a moment, a struggle evidently taking place in
her mind, when she said frankly, "Dear mamma, it is only some letters
you permitted me to keep."
"_Letters_ from whom?" I asked eagerly.
She put the whole into my hands, saying, "Dear mamma, you gave them to
me," and she hid her face on my shoulder. Judge of my surprise when I
found letters and scraps of letters dating back as far as 1836, when
Joseph was a gay boy. In truth almost every one of them contained some
message to his young friend.
Then there was a sheet of scribbling, with the names, Joseph Lenox
Morgan and Pauline De Lacy Lenox, written in every variety of
penmanship, in cousin's bold hand. These were interspersed with pictures
evidently drawn to please a young child; a tall gentleman leading a
little girl; then a young lady taking the arm of her companion, while
underneath were written the names "Joseph and Pauline." These were the
precious mementos which she had hoarded with as much care as the miser
does his gold; and she confessed with tears, that when Adele was with us
at Nice, almost her only comfort consisted in reading over and over
these messages of love.
"When Eugene told me of his affection for me," she added, with a slight
shudder, "I thought I ought to destroy them; but I had not the strength
to do it."
I pressed the artless child to my heart, as I said, "And when I blamed
you for treating Joseph so ill, did you love him then?"
"Oh! mamma," said she weeping, "how I longed to tell you all about it! I
never knew until Joseph came, how much I loved him. But then I knew also
that Eugene loved me and desired me to return his affection, and I
feared it would be wrong toward him, for me to show my strong attachment
to my cousin. Besides I thought Joseph would despise me if he saw my
regard for him while another sought my heart and my hand."
_Thursday, October 2d._
Yesterday morning, at eleven o'clock, my dear Pauline was married. I
cannot yet realize that she has left me. The young couple started
directly on their wedding tour, and will return in a fortnight to pass a
few days with us, before they go to B----, where she is to be for the
present, in the family of her father-in-law. It is their wish to give up
the whole management of the household to her. But Joseph prefers to wait
until she can determine for herself whether she will board with them, or
whether the new couple shall set up a separate establishment and keep
house by themselves. In the midst of all my sadness, I cannot but smile
at his treatment of her. He listens to her words, as to oracles of
wisdom, and is as tender of her as a father of an only and a feeble
daughter, while she is the very picture of health and cheerfulness.
But I forget that I have told you nothing of the wedding,--the
company,--the ceremonies and the bridal gifts. I allowed Pauline to make
her own arrangements, and was not a little surprised and delighted at
her characteristic choice of bridemaids. In all her plans, Eugene and
Nelly were zealous, if not able advisers; and I doubt whether any young
masters or misses were ever more elated than were those appointed to
this service.
Upon Monday evening, Joseph arrived with uncle and aunt Morgan. Uncle
presented his intended daughter with a splendid service of plate,
manufactured expressly for her; and aunt, with a bridal veil which
Joseph had imported for her. Tuesday evening a large box arrived from
Lee Hall, directed to "_Mrs. Joseph Morgan elect_." Poor Pauline was
kept very rosy from morning till night, by Eugene's continual practice
on the enunciation of this new name, that he might obtain its sweetest
and most approved accent. The dear girl was almost overcome by this
public recognition of her new title. On opening the box, it was found to
contain a magnificent silver urn with slop-bowl to match, lined with
gold. This gift was from our dear friend, Mrs. Mansfield. Many other
appropriate and rich presents were received from friends, which I have
not time to specify, as I must hasten to my account of the wedding.
It was private, but few being present, as Pauline is to meet her friends
on her return, and has appointed the twenty-first of October, her
father's birth-day, for her wedding party.
On Wednesday morning, at eleven o'clock, the time appointed for the
ceremony, Eugene ushered us into the parlor, where we found Allen and
Lucy, Dr. and Mrs. Clapp, Miss Proctor, uncle and aunt, Mr. Benson and
Emily, and our dear mother with our beloved pastor and his family, while
Cæsar, Phebe, Ruth and Ann filled up the back ground, and gave an
agreeable variety to the shading of the picture. Eugene formally
conducted the Doctor and myself to the seats of distinguished guests,
and then retired to fulfil his duty as master of ceremonies, which from
the youthfulness and inexperience of many of the company, and the
perfect order with which they entered the room, must have required no
little skill in the training.
First entered Eugene and Nelly; then Charles Karswell and Anna Reynolds,
who are shortly to be married; next Henry Marshall, grandson of our
friend the Attorney General, and Emily Lenox Mansfield; next Franky
Lenox and Susy Benson, while Willie Reynolds and little black-eyed Hatty
Clapp brought up the rear. These all walked, with the order and dignity
befitting the occasion, to their proper places, leaving a vacant space
in the centre for the young bride, who entered last, leaning on the arm
of him whom she had loved "from very childhood up."
Truly, they were a noble pair. He was tall and erect, with a broad, high
brow, and eyes beaming with fondness upon the fair face so confidingly
upturned to his own. She wore a white satin dress with an over-dress of
gossamer lace. Her hair, which she always wore in natural curls, falling
upon her neck, was looped up at the sides with a wreath of orange
flowers, that also confined her veil. Sister Emily, who, with Lucy
Mansfield's assistance, dressed the bride, and gave the finishing touch
to the dress of all the young men and maidens, was much delighted at the
complete success of her efforts. Rev. Mr. Munroe, by a few mystic words
made the twain one forever. Then after prayer for a blessing on the
happy union, all walked up to salute the bride.
Though my heart was overflowing, yet I had been able to command myself
until my husband led me to the bride. I tried to speak, but finding my
voice inarticulate, hastily kissed her and retired for a few moments to
recover myself. When I returned to the room, Cæsar was passing the cake,
while his countenance wore a ludicrous mixture of sorrow and delight. He
evidently felt a strong inclination to weep; but his duties rendering
this inappropriate and inconvenient, he tried to assume an expression of
the joy which he conceived to be more befitting the occasion.
Uncle and aunt Morgan will remain with us until after Pauline's return
and levee. A list of the persons to be then invited she put into the
hand of her brother Eugene. The day before she went, she consulted me
about the number she should invite. I replied, "just as many as you
please, and just whom you please."
From her choice of bridemaids, I rather think, there will be a
miscellaneous company. But if it gives the dear girl pleasure and
affords her an opportunity to take leave of friends, to whom she is
ardently attached, I shall be satisfied.
Both she and Eugene were delighted that the levee would occur on their
father's birth-day. Emily Benson has brought her babies to make us a
family visit while uncle and aunt Morgan are here, so that I have no
time to be lonely.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"How few, like thee, inquire the wretched out,
And court the offices of soft humanity!
Like thee, reserve their raiment for the naked,
Reach out their bread to feed the crying orphan,
Or mix the pitying tears with those that weep!" ROWE.
_Wednesday, October 22d._
Last evening the company began to assemble for the levee at an early
hour, and consisted of persons selected without any reference to the
accidental distinctions of wealth and rank. Mr. Marshall, the attorney
General, and Thomas Jones the reformed inebriate, but now one of the
most respectable and respected citizens of the town, were in close
proximity. Here too, were Mr. Allen and Mrs. Lucy Mansfield, at the head
of the wealthy aristocracy, in animated conversation with William and
Anna Reynolds, once so oppressed with poverty. Mr. Benson and Emily, who
would anywhere be recognized as persons of true refinement and grace,
bestowed special attention upon those present, who were unaccustomed to
such scenes, and on that account timid and reserved. A table was
extended the entire length of the dining room, and bountifully crowned
with delicacies and luxuries, of which at the proper hour all were
invited to partake. The bride and bridegroom with their train, who were
in attendance as at the wedding, mingled with the company and addressed
a kind word to each.
There were so many children and young people present who were obliged
to leave at an early hour, that the Doctor, after consultation with me,
requested Mr. Munroe to close this interesting interview with prayer.
Instead of complying immediately with this request, I noticed that Dr.
Clapp stepped forward and said something to the Doctor, and then
suddenly left the room in company with the reverend gentleman, Mr.
Marshall, Allen Mansfield, and one or two others. I looked at Frank,
wondering what this could mean. He whispered to me, that Dr. C. wanted
to have a little singing. I was still more puzzled when Emily Benson
touched my arm and desired to speak with me. "They have found out," said
she, "that it is Frank's birth-day, and want to sing a hymn in honor of
the event. Take his arm and keep him quiet, just where you are." She
then went and led mother and the children near me, and taking her
husband's arm, stood behind us.
The gentlemen returned, and Dr. Clapp, who is a fine singer, commenced
the following hymn, in which he was joined at first by nearly all the
company except our immediate family:
To him who e'er hast lent a hand
In hours of direst woe,
Who like a brother led the way,
And showed us how to go;
To him who oft has bowed the knee
Beside the lowly cot,
Here thanks we give, here thanks we pay,
On this thy natal day.
Kind benefactor, brother, friend,
Our words but feebly tell
The gush of love comes over us,
And in our bosoms swell,
For all thy kindness, all thy care
For souls by sin oppressed,
Here thanks we give, here thanks we pay,
On this thy natal day.
May He who in his precious word
Declares the giver blessed,
E'en far beyond recipients,
Pronounce thee doubly blessed;
And as swift years their circles speed,
May lover, children, friends,
Combine to bless thy natal day,
As we our thanks do pay.
I never knew Frank so much overcome. He put his handkerchief to his
eyes, and then made a movement as if he were meditating an escape from
the room; but I whispered, "don't leave me, Frank."
When the singing terminated, Rev. Mr. Munroe stepped forward and began
to make a speech. My heart beat very fast; and for a moment I felt as if
I were going to be married. I was so much overcome that I could not hear
all that was said, but the next hour was occupied with speeches
addressed to the Doctor, by Rev. Mr. Munroe, Mr. Marshall, Dr. Clapp,
and Thomas Jones; each of whom in a most delicate manner, spoke of his
happy influence and professional services. Mr. Munroe said, "No one
could fully estimate the value of the labors of a pious physician this
side of eternity." "Everywhere," he continued, "among this people, I
find occasion to bless God for locating me in a parish where those
labors abound."
Dr. Clapp thanked my husband for his kind attention, encouragement and
friendship, and concluded by saying "I owe all my present ease and
comfort to you, Dr. Lenox."
Allen Mansfield followed him, and in glowing terms spoke of the
blessings for which under God he and his were indebted to Frank, and to
our family.
Next Thomas Jones came forward to acknowledge his obligations. He
commenced in a lofty strain. "Dear sir, I speak not for myself alone,
but for a large class in the community, some of whom I see standing
around you and your worthy lady and family, persons who through your
instrumentality."--Poor man, his emotion choked his utterance, and he
suddenly stopped, caught the Doctor by the hand, and broke out in a more
natural and therefore impressive strain; "Oh, sir, think what I was when
you found me, took me out of the ditch, led me home by the hand,
encouraged and warned me, prayed with me and for me; think of me, a poor
besotted drunkard, frightening my own wife and children, and see what
your kindness has made of me and of them. I say with Dr. Clapp, that
under God, I owe all this to you, Doctor; and there's many here whose
hearts are saying the same thing. God bless you, Doctor, your beloved
wife and children; and may he also bless us, and gladden our hearts, by
many returns of your birth-day. Mr. Willard had prepared me a fine
speech for the occasion; but before I got through the first sentence I
forgot the whole of it." This frank acknowledgment suddenly turned the
sorrow that was suffusing so many eyes into a roar of laughter, in which
even the weeping Doctor could not but unite.
Finally, Mr. Marshall presented himself and said, "Dr. Lenox, there are
many persons in this company who have it in their hearts to reiterate
the remarks of Mr. Jones, Dr. Clapp and others who have addressed you;
but the lateness of the hour forbids them the pleasure. Enough has been
said to convince you, their esteemed friend and physician, that your
labors have been neither in vain, nor unappreciated. In their behalf and
in my own behalf, I thank you for your ministrations of kindness, for
your charity to the poor, and your relief of the distressed; and I
cordially unite with them in the desire that your life and valuable
services may be long spared to us, and to the community in which we
live. I conclude with this sentiment: "_Our beloved physician--he has
sown bountifully, may he also reap bountifully, harvesting esteem in
this world, and life eternal in the world to come._"
"Thy natal day--
And duly shall our raptured song,
And gladly shall our eyes
Still bless this day's return, so long
As thou shalt see it rise."
When he had closed, Mr. Marshall, perceiving that the Doctor was too
much overcome to attempt a reply, turned to the pastor, who concluded
the service with a solemn and impressive prayer. There was hardly a dry
eye in the room, while Cæsar and Phebe, who stood in the rear of our
family, sobbed aloud. The Doctor kept his handkerchief to his eyes, and
he told me afterwards, that it was with difficulty he could support
himself.
After prayer, the company bade us good night and retired. The next
morning, at family prayers, I was delighted to hear my husband pray that
he might not be led to take to himself that glory which was due to God
alone; but that the late scene might humble him and render him more
diligent in his master's service.
_Friday, October 24th._
This morning, before Pauline's departure, Eugene put into her hand,
legal documents conveying to her one half of their deceased father's
estate. Uncle and aunt Morgan are to return with the bride and
bridegroom. Charles Karswell and Anna Reynolds are to be of the party as
far as New York city, and Eugene to New Haven, where he is to resume his
place in the senior class in Yale College, which he entered at the last
commencement.
Now that they all have gone, I begin to realize that Pauline, the child
of my heart, has left me, and in spite of all my efforts at resistance,
a sadness steals over my spirits. I try to compose myself, and to
realize some comfort from the thought my dear husband holds up to my
view, that I have gained a son. But as yet I can only remember that I
have lost the society and companionship of my lovely daughter; I think
that Frank feels her loss almost as much as I do; for though he appears
very cheerful, yet there is a pallor about his mouth which I have
always noticed when his feelings are deeply moved. I heard him as he
left me to visit his patients humming a lively tune; but I knew that he
only did it, as boys whistle in the dark, to keep their courage up.
CHAPTER XL.
"When all the fiercest passions cease,
(The glory and disgrace of youth;)
When the deluded soul in peace,
Can listen to the voice of truth;
When we are taught in whom to trust,
And how to spare, to spend, to give;
(Our prudence kind, our pity just,)
'Tis then we rightly learn to live." CRABBE.
"_Papers relating to my beloved Imogen, to be read by my son on his
attaining his majority._ H. C. S.
"MY DEAR SON EUGENE,--When you unseal this packet, the hand which wrote
this brief account of your mother, will be mouldering in the dust. When
you have read it, you will need no farther explanation of the cause of
that sorrow which has brought me to the grave. Nor will you wonder that
I could never enter upon the subject so often and so naturally referred
to by you.
"My beloved Imogen, your mother was born in Nice, of highly respectable
and wealthy parents. The estate on which they lived, which has of course
much depreciated in value, together with funds in Paris, enabled them to
live in comfort, and to bestow upon their only child, Imogen, the best
advantages of education.
"In the autumn of 1828, I went to Rome for the winter. There I first met
her, whose image from that hour to the present has never left me. Though
her great personal beauty, both of face and figure, joined to her
remarkable mental endowments, rendered her the object of universal
admiration, yet I alone won the affections of her generous heart, a
heart which, though warm and impulsive beyond even the daughters of her
native clime, was pure as that of a vestal.
"But my throbbing pulse and trembling hand warn me not to delay at this
point of my story. Suffice it to say that I returned with my beloved
Imogen to Nice, and our betrothal receiving the sanction of her parents,
we were married; their only condition being a promise from me, that when
I was ordered abroad, (I was then in command of troops in his majesty's
service,) she should return to them to remain during my absence.
"No language can describe to you the happiness experienced by us during
the few years which followed. An amount of happiness not often
vouchsafed to man. Alas! _alas!_ I sought nothing beyond the felicity of
the present hour. I adored my wife, and lovely boy, but forgot even the
being of that God, who had blessed me so far beyond the common lot of
mortals. But early in the year of 1833, I was fully awakened to a sense
of my bliss, by the thought of the terrible separation which had now
become necessary. I received orders to join my regiment and go to India.
I had taken one furlough after another, but now there could be no more
delay. In the first frenzy of her despair at losing me, Imogen insisted
upon accompanying me. But earnestly as my heart seconded this appeal, I
could not be so rash as to allow it. It was within a few months of her
accouchement; and I determined not to leave her until she was safe in
Nice under the care of her parents. This, however, circumstances
compelled me to do. At this crisis, Ralph Mortimer, a young officer, who
was dear to me as a brother, arrived in England. He had sold out his
commission, and was intending to go to France to recruit his wasted
strength and spirits. I met him accidentally, and in a few moments had
communicated to him the nature and depth of my affliction. He was
somewhat roused from his melancholy by my distress; and without
detailing minutely what followed, it was at length decided that I
should remain with my family until the time of sailing, and then
Mortimer would proceed to Nice with Imogen and our boy. I presented
every possible inducement to him to remain in Nice, that I might feel in
case of her parents' death, or any unforeseen event, that my dear wife
would have a protector. She, however, in private informed me that she
feared constant intercourse with a man so morose and melancholy would
only prey upon her spirits. But I hoped much from her influence to
overcome this morbid state, and as there was no living being in whom I
had such entire confidence, I rather urged this upon her. My friend I
believed to be the very soul of honor and--But I cannot go on. I have
been thus particular to show you that I was the only mover in these
arrangements for her comfort during my absence; and that she unwillingly
agreed to them solely out of her affection for me; often repeating, that
in the society of her parents, and with the affection and nurture of her
beautiful boy, she should endeavor to pass away the time, and count the
months when I should return to her arms.
"Passing over the frantic grief of my loved Imogen from whom I was
obliged forcibly to tear myself away, I went mechanically on board the
vessel which I regarded with horror as the one that was to bear me far
from all I loved; nay, idolized. Mortimer accompanied me, and I was
startled from my brief unconsciousness and unconcern of what was
passing, by his approaching to take leave.
"Drawing him passionately to a retired part of the vessel, I there
extracted from my friend a promise that after accompanying her to her
parental home, he would under all circumstances watch over her with the
affection of a brother; that he would never cease his efforts for her
happiness or prosperity. All this, he solemnly promised out of regard to
our early and long tried friendship. Afterwards I let him go.
"During the ensuing year, I received letters from home announcing the
birth of a little daughter; and also the sudden death of my wife's
father, which latter event was quickly followed by the decease of her
mother.
"Imogen was now alone, and Mortimer, though still an invalid, prompted
by his desire to fulfil his promise to me, spent much of his time in her
blissful society, having his rooms at the hotel, which was near her
residence. It was his delightful privilege to watch the unfolding of our
two precious buds of promise, to administer consolation to his sorrowing
charge in her successive bereavements. Alas! _alas!_ while soothing her
grief, a pang entered his own soul. He suddenly awakened to the fact
that he loved one, whose innocent purity of thought and action were at
every meeting more and more apparent. He loathed himself for his perfidy
to the brother of his early affections; that he had thus returned the
generous confidence which had confided to him in perfect trust, the wife
of his youth, the chosen companion of his heart.
"But I am anticipating. Toward the close of the year 1834, I received a
letter, purporting to be from a gentleman residing in Nice, and who
professed great interest in me. This letter, though cautiously written,
yet more than hinted at the unfaithfulness of my wife, and the perfidy
of her companion, Ralph Mortimer. When I received it, like the bite of a
poisonous serpent, it instantly diffused itself through every vein in my
body. I gnashed my teeth that I could not get my hands upon the villain,
and tear him to pieces. But I was thousands of miles away, and must bear
my dishonor as best I might. After a night, spent in such horror as no
words can describe, I determined to resign my commission, to sacrifice
everything in order to get home. What was to become of me when there I
never thought. But before I could accomplish my wishes, the idea which
waking or sleeping was ever before me, of him whom I considered too
vile, even for the company of devils, in the constant society and love
of my hitherto adored wife--this idea so wrought upon a frame enfeebled
by a hot climate, that I was laid upon my couch with fever. So violent
was this attack, that there was no hope of my recovery. For weeks, I
lay unconscious; but when I recovered my reason, and was told I could
not live, I knew better. I was sure I should be allowed to unmask the
traitor, and expose Mortimer to infamy. I was right. I recovered so
rapidly that the most sanguine expectations of my friends were more than
realized; and far sooner than I had even dared to hope, I was ready to
sail for England. But I had nearly failed in this, for when about to
embark, having all my goods on board, I received another letter,
containing intelligence which had I doubted before, would now, alas!
have left no farther room for doubt. Burning with rage, I was carried on
board ship, where, by a dreadful relapse of fever, I was brought a
second time to the borders of the grave. Again mercy interposed, and I
partially recovered. But I felt no gratitude for restored health,--no
thanks to the Being who had preserved me amidst so many dangers. All the
feelings of my soul were concentrated into one burning desire for
revenge, and every moment which delayed this, was an age to my impatient
spirit.
"I landed in England, and without an hour's delay took passage for
Havre, from which place I proceeded to Nice.
"Oh, my son Eugene! I have taken up my pen many times, and unable to
relate, even to you, the awful, the shocking events which followed, have
again and again been obliged to lay it down. But justice to your
departed mother requires the sacrifice, and it shall be made.
"I reached Nice, and with the fires of Etna raging within me, I drove
directly to the home of Imogen. She was not in. One of the servants
informed me she had gone out to walk with Mr. Mortimer.
"The old steward caught my hand, as without waiting to see my children,
I was rushing after the wanderers. "Thank God!" said he, "that you have
returned."
"Even in this cordial welcome, I read a confirmation of my dishonor.
Having learned the direction they had taken, I flew along the streets
until at length I saw my wife approaching with Mortimer. I instantly
crouched behind a wall, and as they passed, heard her imploring him to
leave Nice.
"He told her it was in vain for her to plead. The time had passed when
he might have done so; now it was no longer in his power to tear himself
from her presence.
"Had I not heard enough? A voice within me thundered why wait for more?
With one bound, I leaped like a tiger over the wall, and throwing him to
a distance from where she stood, I presented a pistol to his breast.
"The movement had been so sudden, and unexpected, that for an instant
they stood paralyzed. But recovering himself, Mortimer, though pale as
death, stood erect before me, saying, 'you can do me no greater favor
than to end a life so miserable as mine has become.'
"There was something about him which reminded me of the loved Ralph of
my boyhood, and my hand holding the pistol dropped to my side. But
Imogen rushed forward and threw herself at my feet. 'Spare his life! oh,
Harry! _spare his life!!_'
"In this appeal, I recognized only her love for the guilty wretch; and I
spurned her from me, calling her by the vilest of names. She fell
senseless to the ground, and I, maddened by the scene, only waited to
appoint a meeting for the morrow with Mortimer, when hastening to the
inn, where I had ordered my horse to be left, I flew rather than rode to
the next town. I cannot tell how I passed the night. At the time
specified, I was at the place, and soon Mortimer met me. I placed a
brace of pistols in his hand, and in a voice hoarse with passion, I bade
him take his choice.
"Mechanically he took one from me, and then stopped. 'Harry,' said he,
'one word before you fire. I alone am to blame. Imogen is'--he
hesitated--'_an angel_!'
"'Yes,' said I, drawing my breath with difficulty, 'but a _fallen_ one.'
"He groaned aloud. 'Oh, God forgive me that I should have made her
suffer!'
"I was beside myself as he thus dared to avow his love, and I ordered
him to stand, or I could not restrain myself. He stood around facing the
sun. Even in my rage, I would not take advantage of this, but pointed to
him to change his position.
"'No,' said he, 'I neither deserve nor wish to live. Fire, Harry,' he
continued, as I paused. 'I never will raise my hand against one I have
treated so treacherously!'
"'Ralph,' I exclaimed, 'You dare not refuse to give me satisfaction.'
"Without another word, he placed the pistol to his own breast, when,
with a spring into the air, he fell heavily to the ground. He had taken
his own life.
"I flew to him, and raised him in my arms. All my revenge was oozing out
with the blood which poured from his death wound.
"'Oh, Harry,' he said faintly, 'tell me before I die that you will
forgive Imogen. She is innocent. She never knew till yesterday that I
loved her, and then she implored me to leave her at once. She said her
heart was all yours.'
"I gasped for breath. 'Ralph,' I shouted, 'say again that she _is
innocent_, and I will willingly lie down beside you and die.'
"'Harry,' and the voice grew more and more faint. 'I would not deceive
you. Had she known the wicked feelings I have indulged, she would have
spurned me from her presence.'
"'And you?' I asked quickly.
"'I dared--to love her--whom you--so
trustingly--confided--to--my--care!'
"The last words were spoken so faintly, that by putting my ear to his
mouth, I could scarcely distinguish them. 'Oh, Ralph,' I exclaimed in an
agony of remorse, 'you must not die!' The blood had ceased flowing since
I had crowded into the wound a handkerchief torn from my neck, and I
began to hope he had but fainted. I shouted 'help!' Soon some men came
running from a field. I told them a man was dying from loss of blood,
and I wanted help to carry him to the inn.
"From that fatal moment, I remember nothing which passed for nearly a
month, except lying in a darkened room, while a figure dressed in white
floated around me. When I partly recovered my consciousness, I began to
listen for the light footstep, and looked up to see my nurse. She was
dressed in a gray robe, like the sisters of charity, with a hood which
nearly concealed her face. I turned my head to the wall and sighed; but
my thoughts soon wandered, and I forgot my disappointment. Whenever I
slept, I dreamed that my Imogen was by my side, but awoke only to see
the calm figure of the hooded nun. Twice I felt sure I heard violent
weeping in the room, but could never discover the cause.
"I had now regained my consciousness, but I dared ask no questions. The
nun never spoke. She performed the office of a nurse in the most tender
and devoted manner. But after I had begun to question her, she left me,
and her place was supplied by another. I asked my physician to restore
the one who had so kindly watched over me.
"'Her skill has saved your life,' was all his reply.
"I asked him how I came to this place.
"'When you are strong enough to bear it I will tell you.'
"This answer put me back several days. When at the worst, I one day
suddenly opened my eyes, and found the gray nun leaning over me. For an
instant the large lustrous eyes looked mournfully into mine, and I was
sure Imogen was before me, when turning partly aside, a calm, cold voice
asked me what I would have.
"The disappointment was too great. I buried my head in the bed clothes
and wept. I saw her no more. A week passed away; it was a full month
since I first asked the question; and I again implored my kind physician
to tell me what had happened during my sickness. I found Mortimer had
never spoken after he reached the house; and I had been discovered and
conveyed to my home, I never knew by whom.
"I had over-estimated my strength, and again relapsed. But this time I
had my reason. Then it was that my sins stared me in the face. I was a
murderer. Yes, though my hands had not shed blood except in battles, yet
in the sight of God, aye, and in my own sight, I was a murderer.
"But where were Imogen and my children? I had often asked this question,
but had never been able to obtain a reply. I now determined to ask Mr.
Percival; and taking advantage of an early visit, I put the question
directly to him, 'Where is my wife?'
"He shook his head mournfully.
"'I cannot be kept longer in suspense,' I exclaimed. 'Do not fear it
will injure me.'
"'I shall probably be able to impart some knowledge of her at our next
interview,' he replied, and soon took his leave.
"When he bent over my head at parting, I saw his eye was moistened by a
tear, and I loved him for sympathizing in my grief.
"Oh, my son! my hand almost refuses to record the pang which was soon to
seize my soul. During the days succeeding his visit, I arose from my
bed, dispensed with the services of a physician, and yet my kind friend
came not. I determined to wait no longer. Though hardly daring to hope
that my injured wife would forgive me, yet I longed to throw myself at
her feet, and sue for pardon. I called my servant and told him to send
for the clergyman.
"He replied, 'Mr. Percival is below, and will wait upon you.'
"Something in the manner of the man alarmed me, and sinking back in my
chair, under an apprehension of I knew not what, I impatiently awaited
my visitor. He came in, kind and gentle as ever, and sat by my side.
"'You promised,' said I eagerly, 'to tell me of my Imogen.'
"'I have come for that purpose, my son,' and again he paused.
"'Mr. Percival,' I said, catching hold of his hand, 'Have you no
compassion?'
"He put his handkerchief to his eyes. '_She is at rest!_'
"I sprang from my chair, and stood before him, only half comprehending
his meaning. 'Where?' I tried to articulate.
"He pointed upward. * * * * *
"I pass over the agony of that period. It was a long, _long_ time before
I could be reconciled to life. I could not endure the thought of leaving
the grave of my lost Imogen, and I sent my steward to England for our
children. My sympathizing friend, Mr. Percival, had directed me where to
find them. The steward returned with you, my son; but from that time to
the present, I have never been able to find the least trace of the
little Inez. She had started for England with her nurse to meet you, who
were there with our friends, and though I caused the strictest enquiries
to be made, and advertised in the papers for many months, yet nothing
could be learned. She was probably wrecked in a vessel reported as lost
at sea about that time.
"This loss was, however, but slight compared with the one which from the
hour I heard it, to the present, has pressed upon me with a mountain
weight. The conduct of your mother was so spotless, that,
notwithstanding the intimacy of Mortimer in the family, not a breath of
calumny had ever fallen on their intercourse. The loss of her parents
had been blessed to her soul, so that for a year she had been a humble
Christian. She came and watched over me during my sickness in the
disguise of a nun, the physician enforcing perfect silence as the only
condition of her presence. She arose from her bed to look upon me once
more, and then returned to the parsonage to die of a broken heart.
"My dear son, Eugene, I have now concluded my brief sketch of my crimes,
and of your mother's virtues. No motive less powerful than the desire to
do justice to her memory, together with the hope that you may be enabled
by the grace of God to avoid the one and to imitate the other, could
have induced me to make a record of this portion of my life.
"I have with great satisfaction observed that in the sweetness and
urbanity of your disposition, you resemble your lovely mother. Could I
feel that religion guided, and governed your thoughts and actions; that
the instructions I have endeavored to impress upon your mind, would be
sanctified to your heart by the Holy Spirit; that the daily and hourly
prayers I have sent up to heaven in your behalf would be accepted, and
answered, then indeed I could lay me down and die in peace.
"Oh, my dear son! Take warning by my crimes; by the sudden blighting of
all my fondest hopes; by my premature old age; but above all, by the
agony of remorse, which has in the prime of life, brought my gray hairs
in sorrow to the grave; take warning never to be governed and controlled
by passion. Never allow yourself to be influenced by what is falsely
called "_honor_," to raise your hand against your fellow.
"In every event of life you have a sure guide in the word of God. Read
it, my son; read it daily; read it prayerfully; endeavor to conform your
life to its precepts; so shall you be useful in life, peaceful in death,
and happy through all eternity.
"And now, my dearly beloved son, _farewell_! Though my sins have risen
up to heaven, yet the blood of my crucified Saviour has sufficed to wash
away their guilty stains. I leave myself with him, trusting solely in
his righteousness for pardon and salvation.
"Soon I hope to receive my summons to resign my earthly tabernacle, and
to join my Imogen in forever singing praises to him who died to redeem
my guilty soul.
"Eugene, my son, _Eugene_! FAREWELL!!"