"Will you remember me, Rosalie?"
"Yes!"
"Will you keep your hand for me for a year?"
"Yes!"
"Will you answer me when I write to you?"
"Yes!"
"One request more--O Rosalie, reflect that my life depends upon your
acquiescence--should I succeed, will you marry me in spite of your
uncle?"
"Yes," answered Rosalie. There was no pause--reply followed question,
as if it were a dialogue which they had got by heart--and by heart
_indeed_ they had got it--but I leave you to guess the book they had
conned it from.
'Twas in a green lane, on a summer's evening, about nine o'clock, when
the west, like a gate of gold, had shut upon the retiring sun, that
Rosalie and her lover, hand in hand, walked up and down. His arm was
the girdle of her waist; hers formed a collar for his neck, which a
knight of the garter--ay, the owner of the sword that dubbed him--might
have been proud to wear. Their gait was slow, and face was turned to
face; near were their lips while they spoke, and much of what they said
never came to the ear, though their souls caught up every word of it.
Rosalie was upwards of five years the junior of her lover. She had
known him since she was a little girl in her twelfth year. He was
almost eighteen then, and when she thought far more about a doll than a
husband, he would set her upon his knee, and call her his little wife.
One, two, three years passed on, and still, whenever he came from
college, and as usual went to pay his first visit at her father's,
before he had been five minutes in the parlor, the door was flung open,
and in bounded Rosalie, and claimed her accustomed seat. The fact was,
till she was fifteen, she was a child of a very slow growth, and looked
the girl when many a companion of hers of the same age had begun to
appear the woman.
When another vacation however came round and Theodore paid his
customary call, and was expecting his little wife as usual, the door
opened slowly, and a tall young lady entered, and curtseying, colored,
and walked to a seat next the lady of the house. The visitor stood up
and bowed, and sat down again, without knowing that it was Rosalie.
"Don't you know Rosalie," exclaimed her father.
"Rosalie!" replied Theodore in an accent of surprise; and approached
his little wife of old who rose and half gave him her hand, and
curtseying, colored again; and sat down again without having
interchanged a word with him. No wonder--she was four inches taller
than when he had last seen her, and her bulk had expanded
correspondingly; while her features, that half a year before gave one
the idea of a sylph that would bound after a butterfly, had now
mellowed in their expression, into the sentiment, the softness, and the
reserve of the woman.
Theodore felt absolutely disappointed. Five minutes before, he was all
volubility. No sooner was one question answered than he proposed
another--and he had so many capital stories for Rosalie, when she came
down--and yet, when Rosalie did come down, he sat as though he had not
a word to say for himself. In short, every thing and every body in the
house seemed to have changed along with its young mistress; he felt no
longer at home in it, as he was wont; and in less than a quarter of an
hour he made his bow and departed.
Now this was exceedingly strange; for Rosalie, from a pretty little
girl, had turned into a lovely young woman. If a heart looked out of
her eyes before, a soul looked out of them now; her arm, which formerly
the sun had been allowed to salute when he liked, and which used to
bear the trace of many a kiss that he had given it, now shone white
through a sleeve of muslin, like snow behind a veil of haze; her bosom
had enlarged its wavy curve, and leaving her waist little more than the
span it used to be, sat proudly heaving above it; and the rest of her
form which, only six months ago, looked trim and airy in her short and
close-fitting frock now lengthening and throwing out its flowing line,
stood stately in the folds of a long and ample drapery. Yet could not
all this make up for the want of the little wife that used to come and
take her seat upon Theodore's knee.
To be sure there was another way of accounting for the young man's
chagrin. He might have been disappointed that Rosalie, when five feet
four, should be a little more reserved than when she was only five feet
nothing. Romantic young men, too, are apt to fancy odd things. Theodore
was a very romantic young man; and having, perhaps traced for himself
the woman in the child--as one will anticipate, in looking at a peach
that is just knit, the hue, and form, and flavor of the consummate
fruit--he might have set Rosalie down in his mind as his wife in
earnest, when he appeared to call her so only in jest.
Such was the case. Theodore never calculated that Rosalie knew nothing
about his dreams--that she had no such vision herself; he never
anticipated that the frankness of girlhood would vanish, as soon as the
diffidence of young womanhood began its blushing reign; the thought
never occurred to him that the day would come when Rosalie would
scruple to sit on his knee--ay, even though Rosalie should then begin
to think upon him, as for many a year before he had thought upon her.
He returned from college the fifth time; he found that the woman which
he imagined in a year or two she would become, was surpassed by the
woman that she already was; he remarked the withdrawal of confidence,
the limitation of familiarity--the penalty which he must inevitably pay
for her maturing--and he felt repelled and chilled, and utterly
disheartened by it.
For a whole week he never returned to the house. Three days of a second
week elapsed, and still he kept away. He had been invited, however to a
ball which was to be given there the day following; and, much as he was
inclined to absent himself, being a little more inclined to go--he
went.
Full three hours was he in the room without once setting his eyes upon
Rosalie. He saw her mother and her father, and talked with them; he saw
'squire this and doctor that, and attorney such-a-one, and had fifty
things to say to each of them; he had eyes and tongue for every body,
but Rosalie--not a look, or a word did he exchange with her; yet he was
here and there and every where! In short he was all communicativeness
and vivacity, so that every one remarked how bright he had become since
his last visit to college!
At last, however, his fine spirits all at once seemed to forsake him,
and he withdrew to the library, which was lighted up for the occasion
as an anti-room, and taking a volume out of the book-case, threw
himself into a chair and began to turn over the leaves.
"Have you forgotten your little wife," said a soft voice near
him--'twas Rosalie's--"if you _have_," she added as he started from his
seat, "she has not forgotten you."
She wore a carnation in her hair--the hue of the flower was not deeper
than that of her cheek as she stood and extended her hands to Theodore
who, the moment he rose, had held forth both of his.
"Rosalie!"
"Theodore!"--He led her to a sofa, which stood in a recess on the
opposite side of the room, and for five minutes not another word did
they exchange.
At length she gently withdrew her hand from his--she had suffered him
to hold it all that time--"We shall be observed," said she.
"Ah Rosalie," replied he, "nine months since you sat upon my knee, and
they observed us, yet you did not mind it!"
"You know I am a woman now," rejoined Rosalie, hanging her head,
"and--and--will you lead off the next dance with me?" cried she,
suddenly changing the subject. "There now; I have asked you," added
she, "which is more than you deserve!"--Of course Theodore was not at
all happy to accept the challenge of the metamorphosed Rosalie.
One might suppose that the young lady's heart was interested, and that
Theodore was a far happier man than he imagined himself to be. The fact
was neither more nor less. Little Rosalie was proud of being called
Theodore's wife, because she heard every body else speak in praise of
him. Many a marriageable young lady had she heard declare--not minding
to speak before a child--that Theodore was the finest young man in
B----; that she hoped Theodore would be at such or such a house where
she was going to dine, or spend the evening; nay, that she would like
to have a sweetheart like Theodore. Then would Rosalie interpose, and
with a saucy toss of her head exclaim, nobody should have Theodore but
Rosalie, for Rosalie was his little wife, 'twas thus she learned to
admire the face and person of Theodore, who more than once paid for her
acquired estimation of them; for sometimes before a whole room full of
company she would march up to him, and scanning him from head to foot,
with folded arms, at length declare aloud, that he _was_ the handsomest
young man in B----. Then Theodore was so kind to her, and thought so
much of any thing she did, and took such notice of her! Often, at a
dance, he would make her his partner for the whole evening; and there
was Miss Willoughby, perhaps, or Miss Miller, sitting down, either of
whom would have given her eyes to stand up if only in a reel with
Theodore.
But when the summer of her seventeenth year beheld her bursting into
womanhood; when her expanding thoughts, from a bounding, fitful,
rill-like current, began to run a deep, a broad, and steady stream;
when she found that she was almost arrived at the threshold of the
world, and reflected that the step which marks a female's first
entrance into it is generally taken in the hand of a partner--the
thought of who that partner might be, recalled Theodore to her
mind--and her heart fluttered as she asked herself the question--should
she ever be indeed his wife? when, this time, he paid his first visit,
Rosalie was as much mortified as he was. Her vexation was increased
when she saw that he absented himself; she resolved, if possible, to
ascertain the cause; and persuaded her mother to give a ball, and
specially invite the young gentleman. He came: she watched him,
observed that he neither inquired after her nor sought for her; and
marked the excellent terms that he was upon with twenty people, about
whom she knew him to be perfectly indifferent. Women have a perception
of the workings of the heart, far more quick and subtle than we have.
She was convinced that all his fine spirits were forced--that he was
acting a part. She suspected that while he appeared to be occupied with
every body but Rosalie--Rosalie was the only body that was running in
his thoughts. She saw him withdraw to the library; she followed him;
found him sitting down with a book in his hand; perceived, from his
manner of turning over the leaves, that he was intent on any thing but
reading.--She was satisfied that he was thinking of nothing but
Rosalie. The thought that Rosalie might one day become indeed his wife,
now occurred to her for the thousandth time, and a thousand times
stronger than ever; a spirit diffused itself through her heart which
had never been breathed into it before; and filling it with hope and
happiness, and unutterable contentment, irresistibly drew _it_ towards
him. She approached him, accosted him, and in a moment was seated with
him, hand in hand, upon the sofa!
As soon as the dance was done,--"Rosalie," said Theodore, "'tis almost
as warm in the air as in the room! will you be afraid to take a turn
with me in the garden?"
"I will get my shawl in a minute," said Rosalie, "and meet you there;"
and the maiden was there almost as soon as he.
They proceeded, arm-in-arm, to the farthest part of the garden; and
there they walked up and down without either seeming inclined to speak,
as though their hearts could discourse through their hands, which were
locked in one another.
"Rosalie!" at last breathed Theodore. "Rosalie!" breathed he a second
time, before the expecting girl could summon courage to say "Well!" "I
cannot go home to-night," resumed he, "without speaking to you." Yet
Theodore seemed to be in no hurry to speak; for there he stopped, and
continued silent so long that Rosalie began to doubt whether he would
open his lips again.
"Had we not better go in?" said Rosalie, "I think I hear them breaking
up."
"Not yet," replied Theodore.
"They'll miss us," said Rosalie.
"What of that?" rejoined Theodore.
"Nay," resumed the maid, "we have remained long enough, and at least
allow me to go in."
"Stop but another minute, dear Rosalie!" imploringly exclaimed the
youth.
"For what!" was the maid's reply.
"Rosalie," without a pause resumed Theodore, "you used to sit upon my
knee, and let me call you wife. Are those times passed forever? dear
Rosalie!--will you never let me take you on my knee and call you wife
again?"
"When we have done with our girlhood, we have done with our plays,"
said Rosalie.
"I do not mean in _play_, dear Rosalie," cried Theodore. "It is not
playing at man and wife to walk, as such, out of church. Will you marry
me, Rosalie?"
Rosalie was silent.
"Will you marry me?" repeated he.
Not a word would Rosalie speak.
"Hear me?" cried Theodore. "The first day, Rosalie, I took you upon my
knee, and called you my wife, jest as it seemed to be, my heart was
never more in earnest. That day I wedded you in my soul; for though you
were a child, I saw the future woman in you, rich in the richest
attractions of your sex. Nay, do me justice; recal what you yourself
have known of me; inquire of others. To whom did I play the suitor from
that day? To none but you, although to you I did not seem to play it.
Rosalie! was I not always with you? Recollect now! did a day pass, when
I was at home, without my coming to your father's house! When there
were parties there, whom did I sit beside, but you? Whom did I stand
behind at the piano forte, but you? Nay for a whole night, whom have I
danced with, but you? Whatever you might have thought _then_, can you
believe _now_, that it was merely a playful child that could so have
engrossed me? No, Rosalie! it was the virtuous, generous, lovely,
loving woman, that I saw in the playful child. Rosalie! for five years
have I loved you, though I never declared it to you till now. Do you
think I am worthy of you? Will you give yourself to me? Will you marry
me? Will you sit upon my knee again, and let me call you wife?"
Three or four times Rosalie made an effort to speak; but desisted, as
if she knew not what to say, or was unable to say what she wished;
Theodore still holding her hand. At last, "Ask my father's consent!"
she exclaimed, and tried to get away; but before she could effect it
she was clasped to the bosom of Theodore, nor released until the
interchange of the first pledge of love had been forced from her
bashful lips!--She did not appear, that night, in the drawing-room
again.
Theodore's addresses were sanctioned by the parents of Rosalie. The
wedding day was fixed; it wanted but a fortnight to it, when a
malignant fever made its appearance in the town; Rosalie's parents were
the first victims. She was left an orphan at eighteen, and her uncle,
by her mother's side, who had been nominated her guardian in a will,
made several years, having followed his brother-in-law and sister's
remains to the grave, took up his residence at B----.
Rosalie's sole consolation now was such as she received from the
society of Theodore; but Theodore soon wanted consolation himself. His
father was attacked by the fever and died, leaving his affairs, to the
astonishment of every one, in a state of the most inextricable
embarrassment; for he had been looked upon as one of the wealthiest
inhabitants of B----. This was a double blow to Theodore, but he was
not aware of the weight of it till, after the interment of his father,
he repaired, for the first time to resume his visits to his Rosalie.
He was stepping up without ceremony to the drawing-room, when the
servant begged his pardon for stopping him, telling him, at the same
time, that he had received instructions from his master to shew
Theodore into the parlor when he should call.
"Was Miss Wilford there?"
"No." Theodore was shewn into the parlor. Of all savage brutes, the
human brute is the most pernicious and revolting, because he unites to
the evil properties of the inferior animal the mental faculties of the
superior one; and then he is at large. A vicious tempered dog you can
muzzle and render innocuous; but there is no preventing the human dog
that bites from fleshing his tooth; he is sure to have it in somebody.
And then the infliction is so immeasurably more severe!--the quick of
the mind is so much more extensive than that of the body! Besides, the
savage that runs upon four legs is so inferior in performance to him
that walks upon two? 'Tis he that knows how to gnaw! I have often
thought it a pity and a sin that the man who plays the dog should be
protected from dying the death of one. He should hang, and the other go
free.
"Well, young gentleman!" was the salutation which Theodore received
when he entered the parlor; "and pray what brings you here?"
Theodore was struck dumb; and no wonder.
"Your father, I understand, has died a beggar! Do you think to marry my
niece?" If Theodore respired with difficulty before, his breath was
utterly taken away at this. He was a young man of spirit, but who can
keep up his heart, when his ship, all at once, is going down.
The human dog went on. "Young gentleman, I shall be plain with you, for
I am a straightforward man; young women should mate with their
matches--you are no match for my niece; so a good morning to you!" How
more in place to have wished him a good halter! saying this, the
straightforward savage walked out of the room, leaving the door wide
open, that Theodore might have room for egress; and steadily walked up
stairs.
It was several minutes before he could recover his self-recollection.
When he did so he rang the bell.
"Tell your master I wish to speak to him," said Theodore to the servant
who answered it. The servant went up stairs after his master, and
returned.
"I am sorry, sir," said he, "to be the bearer of such an errand; but my
master desires you instantly to quit the house; and has commanded me to
tell you that he has given me orders not to admit you again."
"I must see Miss Wilford!" exclaimed Theodore.
"You cannot, sir!" respectfully remarked the servant, "for she is
locked in her room; but you can send a message to her," added he in a
whisper, "and I will be the bearer of it. There is not a servant in the
house, Mr. Theodore, but is sorry for you to the soul."
This was so much in season, and was so evidently spoken from the heart,
that Theodore could not help catching the honest fellow by the hand.
Here the drawing-room bell was rung violently.
"I must go, sir," said the servant; "what message to my mistress?"
"Tell her to give me a meeting, and to apprize me of the time and
place," said Theodore; and the next moment the hall door was shut upon
him.
One may easily imagine the state of the young fellow's mind. To be
driven with insult and barbarity from the house in which he had been
received a thousand times with courtesy and kindness--which he looked
upon as his own! Then, what was to be done? Rosalie's uncle, after all,
had told him nothing but the truth. His father had died a beggar! Dear
as Rosalie was to Theodore, his own pride recoiled at the idea of
offering her a hand which was not the master of a shilling! Yet was not
Theodore portionless. His education was finished; that term he had
completed his collegiate studies. If his father had not left him a
fortune, he had provided him with the means of making one himself--at
all events, of commanding a competency. He had the credit of being a
young man of decided genius, too. "I will not offer Rosalie a beggar's
hand!" exclaimed Theodore; "I shall ask her to remain true to me for a
year; and I'll go to London, and maintain myself by my pen. It may
acquire me fame as well as fortune; and then I may marry Rosalie?"
This was a great deal of work to be done in a year; but if Theodore was
not a man of genius, he possessed a mind of that sanguine temperament,
which is usually an accompaniment of the richer gift. Before the hour
of dinner all his plans were laid, and he was ready to start for
London. He waited for nothing but a message from Rosalie, and as soon
as the sweet girl could send it, it came to him. It appointed him to
meet her in the green lane after sunset; the sun had scarcely set when
he was there; and there, too, was Rosalie. He found that she was
Rosalie still. Fate had stripped him of fortune; but she could not
persuade Rosalie to refuse him her hand, or her lip; when, half-way
down the lane, she heard a light quick step behind her, and, turning,
beheld Theodore.
Theodore's wishes, as I stated before, were granted soon as
communicated: and now nothing remained but to say good by--perhaps the
hardest thing to two young lovers. Rosalie stood passive in the arms of
Theodore, as he took the farewell kiss, which appeared as if it would
join his lips to hers for ever, instead of tearing them away. She heard
her name called from a short distance, and in half-suppressed voice;
she started and turned towards the direction whence the pre-concerted
warning came; she heard it again; she had stopped till the last moment!
She had half withdrawn herself from Theodore's arms; she looked at him;
flung her own around him, and burst into tears upon his neck!--In
another minute there was nobody in the lane.
London is a glorious place for a man of talent to make his way
in--provided he has extraordinary good luck. Nothing but merit can get
on there; nothing is sterling that is not of its coinage. Our
provincial towns won't believe that gold is gold unless it has been
minted in London. There is no trickery there; no treating, no
canvassing, no intrigue, no coalition! there, worth has only to show
itself if it wishes to be killed with kindness! London tells the truth!
You may swear to what it says--whatsoever may be proved to the
contrary. The cause--the cause is every thing in London! Shew but your
craft, and straight your brethren come crowding around you, and if they
find you worthy, why you shall be brought into notice--even though they
should tell a lie for it and damn you. Never trouble yourself about
getting on by interest in London! Get on by yourself. Posts are filled
there by merit: or if the man suits not the office, why the office is
made to adapt itself to the man, and so there is unity after all! What
a happy fellow was Theodore to find himself in such a place as London!
He was certainly happy in one thing: the coach in which he came set him
down at a friend's whose circumstances were narrow, but whose heart was
large--a curate of the Church of England. Strange that, with all the
appurtenances of hospitality at its command, abundance should allow it
to be said, that the kindest welcome which adversity usually meets
with, is that which it receives from adversity! If Theodore found that
the house was a cold one to what he had been accustomed, the warmth of
the greeting made up for it. "They breakfasted at nine, dined at four,
and, if he could sleep upon the sofa, why there was a bed for him!" In
a day he was settled, and at his work.
And upon what did Theodore found his hopes of making a fortune, and
rising to fame in London?--Upon writing a play. At an early period he
had discovered, as his friends imagined, a talent for dramatic
composition; and having rather sedulously cultivated that branch of
literature, he thought he would now try his hand in one bold effort,
the success of which should determine him as to his future course in
life. The play was written, presented, and accepted; the performers
were ready in their parts; the evening of representation came on, and
Theodore, seated in the pit beside his friend, at last, with a
throbbing heart, beheld the curtain rise. The first and second acts
went off smoothly, and with applause.
Two gentlemen were placed immediately in front of Theodore. "What do
you think of it?" said the one to the other.
"Rather tame," was the reply.
"Will it succeed?"
"Doubtful."
The third act, however, decided the fate of the play; the interest of
the audience became so intense, that, at one particular stage of the
action, numbers in the second and third rows of the side boxes stood
up, and the clapping of hands was universal, intermingled with cries of
"bravo!" from every part of the theatre. "'Twill do," was now the
remark, and Theodore breathed a little more freely than he had done
some ten minutes ago. Not to be tedious, the curtain fell amidst shouts
of approbation, unmingled with the slightest demonstration of
displeasure, and the author had not twenty friends in the house.
If Theodore did not sleep that night, it was not from inquietude of
mind--contentment was his repose. His most sanguine hopes had been
surpassed; the fiat of a London audience had stamped him a dramatist;
the way to fortune was open and clear, and Rosalie would be his.
Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Theodore and his friend
repaired to the coffee-room. "We must see what the critics say,"
remarked the latter. Theodore, with prideful confidence,--the offspring
of fair success,--took up the first morning print that came to his
hand. _Theatre Royal_ met his eye. "Happy is the successful dramatist!"
exclaimed Theodore to himself; "at night he is greeted by the applause
of admiring thousands, and in the morning they are repeated, and echoed
all over the kingdom through the medium of the press! What will Rosalie
say when her eye falls upon this!"--And what, indeed, would Rosalie say
when she read the utter damnation of her lover's drama, which the
critic denounced from the beginning to the end, without presenting his
readers with a single quotation to justify the severity of his
strictures!
"'Tis very odd!" said Theodore.
"'Tis very odd, indeed!" rejoined his friend, repeating his words. "You
told me this play was your own, and here I find that you have copied it
from half a dozen others that have been founded upon the same story."
"Where?" inquired Theodore, reaching for the paper.
"There!" said his friend, pointing to the paragraph.
"And is this London," exclaimed Theodore. "I never read a play, nor the
line of a play upon the same subject. Why does not the writer prove the
plagiarism?"
"Because he does not know whether it is or is not a plagiarism,"
rejoined the other. "He is aware that several other authors have
constructed dramas upon the same passage in history; and--to draw the
most charitable inference, for you would not suspect him of telling a
deliberate lie--he thinks you have seen them, and have availed yourself
of them."
"Is it not the next thing to a falsehood," indignantly exclaimed
Theodore, "to advance a charge, of the justness of which you have not
assured yourself?"
"I know not that," rejoined his friend; "but it certainly indicates a
rather superficial reverence for truth; and a disposition to censure,
which excludes from all claim to ingenuousness the individual who
indulges it."
"And this will go the round of the whole kingdom?"
"Yes."
"Should I not contradict it?"
"No."
"Why?"
"'Tis beneath you; besides, the stamp of malignancy is so strong upon
it, that, except to the utterly ignorant, it is harmless; and even
these, when they witness your play themselves, as sometime or another
they will, will remember the libel, to the cost of its author and to
your advantage. I see you have been almost as hardly treated by this
gentleman," continued he, glancing over the paper which Theodore had
taken up when he entered the room. "Are you acquainted with any of the
gentlemen of the press?"
"No; and is it not therefore strange that I should have enemies among
them!"
"Not at all."
"Why?"
"Because you have succeeded. Look over the rest of the journals,"
continued his friend; "you may find salve, perhaps, for these
scratches."
Theodore did so; and in one or two instances salve, indeed, he found;
but upon the whole he was in little danger of being spoiled through the
praises of the press. "Why," exclaimed Theodore, "why do not letters
enlarge the soul, while they expand the mind? Why do they not make men
generous and honest? Why is not every literary man an illustration of
Juvenal's axiom?"
"Teach a dog what you may," rejoined his friend, "can you alter his
nature, so that the brute shall not predominate?"
"No," replied Theodore.
"You are answered," said his friend.
The play had what is called a run, but not a decided one. Night after
night it was received with the same enthusiastic applauses; but the
audiences did not increase. It was a victory without the acquisition of
spoils or territory. "What can be the meaning of this?" exclaimed
Theodore; "we seem to be moving, and yet do not advance an inch?"
"They should paragraph the play as they do a pantomime," remarked his
friend. "But then a pantomime is an expensive thing; they will lay out
a thousand pounds upon one, and they must get their money back. The
same is the case with their melo-dramas; so, if you want to succeed to
the height, as a play-wright, you know what to do."
"What?" inquired Theodore.
"Write melo-dramas and pantomimes!"
Six months had now elapsed, and Theodore's purse, with all his success,
was rather lighter than when he first pulled it out in London. However,
in a week two bills which he had taken from his publisher would fall
due, and he would run down to B----, and perhaps obtain an interview
with Rosalie. At the expiration of the week his bills were presented,
and dishonored! He repaired to his publisher's for an explanation: the
house had stopped! Poor Theodore! They were in the gazette that very
day! Theodore turned into the first coffee room to look at a paper:
there were, indeed, the names of the firm! "I defy fortune to serve me
a scurvier trick!" exclaimed Theodore, the tears half starting into his
eyes. He little knew the lady whose ingenuity he was braving.
He looked now at one side of the paper, and now at the other, thinking
all the while of nothing but the bills and the bankrupt's list.
_Splendid Fete_ at B---- met his eye, and soon his thoughts were
occupied with nothing but B----; for there he read that the young lord
of the manor, having just come of age, had given a ball and supper, the
former of which he opened with the lovely and accomplished Miss Rosalie
----. The grace of the fair couple was expatiated upon; and the editor
took occasion to hint, that a pair so formed by nature for each other,
might probably, before long, take hands in another, a longer, and more
momentous dance. What did Theodore think of fortune now?
"O that it were but a stride to B----!" he exclaimed, as he laid down
the paper, and his hand dropped nerveless at his side. He left the
coffee-house, and dreamed his way back to his friend's. Gigs,
carriages, carts rolled by him unheeded; the foot path was crowded, but
he saw not a soul in the street. He was in the ball room at B----, and
looking on while the young lord of the manor handed out Rosalie to lead
her down the dance, through every figure of which Theodore followed
them with his eyes with scrutinizing glance, scanning the countenance
of his mistress. Then the set was over, and he saw them walking
arm-in-arm up and down the room, and presently they were dancing again;
and now the ball was over, and he followed them to the supper room,
where he saw the young lord of the manor place Rosalie beside him. Then
fancy changed the scene from the supper room to the church, at the
altar of which stood Rosalie with his happy rival; and he heard the
questions and responses which forge the mystic chain that binds for
life; and he saw the ring put on, and heard the blessing which
announces that the nuptial sacrament is complete! His hands were
clenched; his cheek was in a flame; a wish was rising in his
throat--"Good news for you," said some one clapping him on the back: "a
letter from Rosalie lies for you at home. Why are you passing the
house?" 'Twas his friend.
"A letter from Rosalie!" exclaimed Theodore.--Quickly he retraced his
steps, and there on his table lay, indeed, the dear missive of his
Rosalie.
"Welcome, sweet comforter!" ejaculated Theodore, as he kissed the
cyphers which his Rosalie's hand had traced, and the wax which bore the
impress of her seal. "Welcome, O Welcome! you come in time: you bring
an ample solace for disappointment, mortification, poverty--whatever my
evil destiny can inflict! You have come to assure me that they cannot
deprive me of my Rosalie!"
Bright was his eye, and glistening while he spoke; but when he opened
the fair folds that conveyed to him thoughts of his mistress, its
radiancy was gone!
"THEODORE,
"I am aware of the utter frustration of your hopes; I am convinced that
at the end of a year you will not be a step nearer to fortune than you
are now; why then keep my hand for you? What I say briefly, you will
interpret fully. You are now the guardian of my happiness; as such I
address you. Thursday, so you consent, will be my wedding day.
ROSALIE."
Such was the letter, upon the address and seal of which Theodore had
imprinted a score of kisses before he opened it. "Fortune is in the
mood," said Theodore with a sigh, so deeply drawn, that any one who had
heard it would have imagined he had breathed his spirit out along with
it--"Fortune is in the mood, and let her have her humor out! I shall
answer the letter; my reply to her shall convey what she
desires--nothing more! she is incapable of entering into my feelings,
and unworthy of being made acquainted with them; I shall not condescend
even to complain!"
"ROSALIE,
"You are free! THEODORE."
Such was the answer which Theodore despatched to Rosalie. O the
enviable restlessness of the mind upon the first shock of thwarted
affection! How it turns every way for the solace which it feels it can
no more meet with, except in the perfect extinction of consciousness.
Find it an anodyne!--you cannot. A drug may close the eye for a time,
but the soul will not sleep a wink: it lies broad awake, to agony
distinct, palpable, immediate;--howsoever memory may be cheated to lose
for the present the traces of the cause. Then for the start, the spasm,
the groan which, while the body lies free, attest the presence and
activity of the mental rack! Better walk than go to sleep! A heath,
without a soul but yourself upon it!--an ink-black sky, pouring down
torrents--wind, lightning, thunder, as though the vault above was
crackling and disparting into fragments!--any thing to mount above the
pitch of your own solitude, and darkness, and tempest; and overcome
them, or attract and divert your contemplation from them, or threaten
every moment to put an end to them and you!
Theodore's friend scarcely knew him the next morning. He glanced at
him, and took no further notice. 'Twas the best way, though people
there are who imagine that it rests with a man in a fever, at his own
option to remain in it, or to become convalescent.
Theodore's feelings were more insupportable to him the second day than
the first. He went here and there and every where; and nowhere could he
remain for two minutes at a time at rest. Then he was so abstracted.
Crossing a street he was nearly run over by a vehicle and four. This
for a moment awakened him. He saw London and B---- upon the pannels of
the coach. The box seat was empty; he asked if it was engaged. "No." He
sprung up upon it and away they drove. "I'll see her once more,"
exclaimed Theodore, "it can but drive me mad or break my heart."
Within a mile of B---- a splendid barouch passed them. "Whose is that?"
inquired Theodore.
"The young lord of the manor's," answered the driver, "Did you see the
lady in it?"
"No."
"I caught a glimpse of her dress," said the driver. "I'll warrant she's
a dashing one! The young squire, they say, has a capital taste!"
Theodore looked after the carriage. There was nothing but the road. The
vehicle drove at a rapid pace, and was soon out of sight. Theodore's
heart turned sick.
The moment the coach stopped he alighted, and with a misgiving mind he
stood at the door which had often admitted him to his Rosalie. It was
opened by a domestic whom he had never seen before. "Was Miss Wilford
within?" "No." "When would she return?" "Never. She had gone that
morning to London to be married!" Theodore made no further inquiries,
neither did he offer to go, but stood glaring upon the man more like a
spectre than a human being.
"Any thing more?" said the man retreating into the house, and gradually
closing the door, through which now only a portion of his face could be
seen. "Any thing more?" Theodore made no reply: in fact he had lost all
consciousness. At last, the shutting of the door, which half from
panic, half from anger the man pushed violently to, aroused him. "I
shall knock at you no more!" said he, and departed, pressing his heart
with his hand, and moving his limbs as if he cared not how, or whither
they bore him. A gate suddenly stopped his progress; 'twas the entrance
to the green lane. He stepped over the stile--he was on the spot where
he had parted last from Rosalie--where she had flung her arms about his
neck, and wept upon it. His heart began to melt, for the first time
since he had received her letter: a sense of suffocation came over him,
till he felt as if he would choke. The name of Rosalie was on his
tongue: twice he attempted to articulate it, but could not. At last it
got vent in a convulsive sob, which was followed by a torrent of tears.
He threw himself upon the ground--he wept on--he made no effort to
check the flood, but let it flow till forgetfulness stopped it.
He rose with a sensation of intense cold.
'Twas morning! He had slept! "Would he had slept on!" He turned from
the sun, at it rose without a cloud, upon the wedding morn of Rosalie.
'Twas Thursday. He repassed the stile; and, in a few minutes, was on
his road to London, which he entered about eleven o'clock at night, and
straight proceeded to his friend's. They were gone to bed.
"Give me a light," said Theodore, "I'll go to bed."
"Your bed is occupied, sir," replied his servant.
"Is it?" said Theodore; "Well, I can sleep upon the carpet." He turned
into the parlor, drew a chair towards the table, upon which the servant
had placed a light, and sat down. All was quiet for a time. Presently
he heard a foot upon the stair; it was his friend's who was descending,
and now entered the parlor.
"I thought you were abed," said Theodore.
"So I was," replied his friend, "but hearing your voice in the hall, I
rose and came down to you." He drew a chair opposite to Theodore. Both
were silent for a time; at length Theodore spoke.
"Rosalie is married," said he.
"I don't believe it."
"She is going to be married to the young lord of the manor."
"I don't believe it."
"She came to town with him yesterday."
"I don't believe it."
Theodore pushed back his chair, and stared at his friend.
"What do you mean?" said Theodore.
"I mean that I entertain some doubts as to the accuracy of your grounds
for concluding that Rosalie is inconstant to you."
"Did I not read the proof of it in the public papers?"
"The statement may have been erroneous."
"Did not her own letter assure me of it?"
"You may have misunderstood it."
"I tell you I have been at B----; I have been at her house. I inquired
for her, and was told she had gone up to London to be married! Oh, my
friend," continued he, covering his eyes with his handkerchief,--"'tis
useless to deceive ourselves. I am a ruined man! You can see to what
she has reduced me. I shall never be myself again! Myself! I tell you I
existed in _her_ being more than in my own. She was the soul of all I
thought, and felt, and did; the primal vivifying principle! She has
murdered me! I breathe it is true, and the blood is in my veins and
circulates; but every thing else about me is death--hopes! wishes!
interests! there is no pulse, no respiration there! I should not be
sorry were there none any where else! Feel my hand," added he, reaching
his hand across the table, without removing his handkerchief from his
eyes; for the sense of his desolation had utterly unmanned him, and his
tears continued to flow. "Feel my hand. Does it not burn. A hearty
fever, now would be a friend," continued he, "and I think I have done
my best to merit a call from such a visitor. The whole of the night
before last I slept out in the open air. Guess where I took my bed. In
the green lane--the spot where I parted last from Rosalie!"--He felt a
tear drop upon the hand which he had extended--the tear was followed by
the pressure of a lip. He uncovered his eyes, and turning them in
wonderment to look upon his friend--beheld Rosalie sitting opposite to
him!
For a moment or two he questioned the evidence of his senses--but soon
was he convinced that it was indeed reality; for Rosalie, quitting her
seat, approached him, and breathing his name with an accent that
infused ecstasy into his soul, threw herself into his arms, that
doubtingly opened to receive her.
* * * * *
Looking over her father's papers, Rosalie had found a more recent will,
in which her union with Theodore had been fully sanctioned, and he
himself constituted her guardian until it should take place. She was
aware that his success in London had been doubtful; the generous girl
determined that he should no longer be subjected to incertitude and
disappointment; and she playfully wrote the letter which was a source
of such distraction to her lover. From his answer she saw that he had
totally misinterpreted her: she resolved in person to disabuse him of
the error; and by offering to become his wife, at once to give him the
most convincing proof of her sincerity and constancy. She arrived in
London. His friend, who had known her from her infancy, received her as
his daughter; and he and his wife listened with delight to the
unfolding of her plans and intentions, which she freely confided to
them. Late they sat up for Theodore that night, and when all hopes of
his coming home were abandoned, Rosalie became the occupant of his bed.
The next night, in a state of this most distressing anxiety, in
consequence of his continued absence, she had just retired to her
apartment, when a knock at the street door made her bound from her
couch, upon which she had at that moment thrown herself, and presently
she heard her lover's voice at the foot of the stair. Scarcely knowing
what she did, she attired herself, descended, opened the parlor door
unperceived by Theodore, and took the place of their friendly host,
who, the moment he saw her, beckoned her, and resigning his chair to
her, withdrew.
The next evening a select party were assembled in the curate's little
drawing-room, and Theodore and Rosalie were there. The lady of the
house motioned the latter to approach her, she rose and was crossing
Theodore, when he caught her by the hand, and drew her upon his knee.
"Theodore!" exclaimed the fair one, coloring.
"My wife," was his reply, while he imprinted a kiss upon her lips.
They had been married that morning.