CONFIDENCE.
Six years!
How much significance those two short words contain! To how many souls
they have brought joy and sorrow, weal and woe—some lifted to the
highest pinnacle of happiness, while others are driven to the deepest
depths of despair!
Hearts so gay and happy six years ago, now crushed with their weight of
trials and cares. Bright eyes have wept away their luster over hopes
that were born but to wither and die. The cankerous worm, sorrow,
gnawing at once happy hearts, has robbed the once rounded cheek of its
bloom and beauty, leaving in their place deep lines of pain and
suffering which time can never remove.
Sorrow! sorrow! The earth is full of sorrow! Yet a happy few there are
who move on in the even tenor of their way, growing each year more
beautiful and lovely, making the world glad, bright, and gay, dispensing
sunshine and joy along the pathway of their lives, giving and receiving
a full measure of earth’s choicest blessings—love, joy, happiness!
We will have nothing to do, dear reader, with life’s shady side just
now. Our lines are cast in more pleasant places, and we will enter for a
while the charmed circle of the careless and free.
Madame Alroyd’s elegant up-town mansion was all one glittering blaze of
light and beauty.
Every pane of glass in the high and lofty windows was like a star, and
every door-way and arch a constellation of stars; while every room and
hall was a floral temple, filling the air around with the richest
perfume.
Guests, young, gay, and lovely, clad in their richest and most becoming
robes, throng this modern palace to pay their compliments,
congratulations, and adieus to its fair young mistress and heiress, who
on the morrow is to leave her native land to travel among scenes new and
strange in the olden world.
It is Dora Dupont’s eighteenth birthday.
As she stands in all her royal beauty at one end of the spacious
drawing-room, clad in robes of glistening white, and receiving her
guests with faultless grace, one cannot marvel at the words and looks of
admiration and homage that fall from the lips and eyes of that brilliant
assemblage.
Yes, it is Dora Dupont! That “homely little squab,” to use Mr.
Ellerton’s phraseology, had sprung up into a tall and graceful woman,
beautiful as a dream, but in other respects the same laughing, happy
Dora as of yore.
The years had only added new graces, instead of robbing her of the old.
There were the same sunny blue eyes, and golden brown hair, only perhaps
with a deeper tint in their bright depths and silken sheen. The same
rosebud mouth and laughing dimples. Her manners were as free and simple
as when she ran skipping through the hall of the little white cottage to
meet Robert Ellerton on that bright, fine morning, six years ago. No
amount of city polishing could rob her of her freshness, and this alone
added tenfold to her charms.
But how came she here, surrounded by so much wealth and magnificence?
Ah! Death had again breathed his icy breath upon her home, and laid low
her fond and tender mother. But not to leave her friendless and alone,
as she feared, for before her grief had had time to sere her heart, she
was again surrounded by an atmosphere of tenderest love and care.
Ere she could realize to the full extent her great loss, she was plunged
into the lap of luxury, and into the arms of a doting, lonely old woman.
The years passed quickly away after Robert Ellerton’s departure for
Germany, despite the loneliness and dreariness which “Brightie” at first
thought would follow. Then her mother suddenly sickened and died, and
the poor girl thought she was desolate indeed—alone in a cold and
heartless world.
But the great Giver of Good did not so will it that this bright bird, so
full of promise, should wither and droop before its bloom.
One day an elegant barouche stopped before the little white cottage, and
a woman, attired to the extent of fashion, stepped to the ground and
entered.
It was Mrs. Dupont’s maiden aunt, who had cast her off when she
displeased her by marrying the poor doctor. She was sixty years of age,
but looked scarce fifty.
Many a time her heart had been lonely and sick for the want of a little
love; many a time her conscience had whispered that she had done wrong
in forsaking her own flesh and blood; but pride would not let her yield,
until her once darling and favorite was laid cold and silent beneath the
sod.
Then, in her grief and remorse, she pounced down upon poor, terrified
little Dora, and carried her off, to love, pet, and spoil her, if she
could, and to make a lady of her.
Everything that heart could wish was now hers, and she reigned a very
queen over a household of servants, and in the heart of Madame Alroyd,
and despite the shadows that had clouded her young life, she grew happy
as a bird, and bright and winsome as the day.
Her education was now completed, and for the past few months she had
reigned as a beauty and a belle in the first circles of New York.
But Dora had not forgotten her childhood, nor her boy husband.
Oh, no! Even now his picture lay against her throbbing heart, and not a
day passed but that it was taken from its hiding-place, and pressed
tenderly and passionately to her ripe, beautiful lips.
But it was _her secret_!
She had never dared to tell her aunt of that episode in her life,
fearing that the sacredness with which she regarded it would be laughed
to scorn.
And so the years came and went, until she arrived at young ladyhood, and
suitors by the score flocked around the wealthy beauty, seeking in vain
for a favorable response to their vows of eternal love and fidelity.
All met with the same firm yet gentle reply, and went away disappointed,
yet loving the more.
Two young men had lately appeared in society, who seemed more favored
than the others had been, and report said that one of these two would
receive the prize. Which—all were waiting eagerly to learn.
One was a young German, highly educated and refined, handsome and
wealthy. He had recently graduated at a celebrated seminary in his
native country, and was now making a tour of the United States.
His name was Fredrich Weimher.
The other was—_Ralph Moulton_!
Both hovered near Dora now, waiting anxiously to be favored with a smile
or a word.
A band of musicians, concealed by a floral screen, suddenly struck up
their inspiriting music, and both these young gentlemen stepped quickly
forward to secure her hand for the dance.
Fredrich Weimher, being first, secured the prize, and led her away,
leaving Ralph Moulton standing alone, angrily gnawing his lips and
frowning darkly.
Graceful as a willow was our heroine, and as gracefully Mr. Weimher bore
her through the mazes of the dance, and then led her away to get a
breath of fresh air.
Sweeping aside some heavy curtains, they stepped through a low window,
out upon a balcony, and were hidden from view of the guests within the
drawing-room.
“Miss Dora,” said Fredrich Weimher, gayly, “I have not yet offered you
my congratulations. Permit me to do so now.”
“I thank you, my friend, for I believe you sincere; which can be said of
very few out of the many who are here to-night.”
“All seem happy, nevertheless,” he replied.
“Yes,” replied Dora, half regretfully. “And I am happy, while at the
same time I am sad. I long to visit the old world, and yet it makes me
almost homesick to leave my native land, though I have not many kindred
ties to bind me here.”
“Your friends will miss you sadly, Miss Dupont.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Weimher, and I may reckon _you_ among them, I
trust,” she replied, smiling archly up at him.
“A friend! Oh, Dora, pardon me, but I can be still no longer. I brought
you out here to speak my farewell, for I _could_ not say it when others
were looking coldly on; and does not your heart tell you that I had more
than a formal farewell to say? Does it not tell you that I am more than
a friend? It is a cold word to apply to me, who loves you as deeply as I
do. Do not hide your face, my darling, but give, oh, give me the love I
crave.”
He would have taken her hand, but she held it from him, while a look of
pain swept over her fair face.
“Oh, Dora,” he went on, while a shade of keen disappointment clouded his
eyes, “have you not seen how dear you have become to me, how I have fed
and lived upon your smile? Has your heart no welcome for me? You do not
answer. Oh, my love, my love! do not send me from you, I pray! Give me
what I ask, else my heart will break.”
“Fredrich,” she began, and then hesitated.
“Ah, darling, thank you for uttering that one word. Bless you. You
_will_ give yourself to me—you _are_ mine!”
He passed his arm around her waist, and drawing her tenderly toward him
bent a look of eager love upon her fair face.
But she quietly disengaged herself from his embrace, and though the
tears were in her lovely eyes, and her voice trembled with every word
she uttered, there was a quiet firmness in her manner that crushed every
atom of hope from his breast.
“Mr. Weimher, I am pained beyond measure at your words, for they make me
feel as if I had deceived you with false hopes; but what you ask can
never be!”
She paused a moment, then went on, sadly:
“I have loved you—nay, hear me,” she added, quickly, as he flashed a
look of joy at her—“I have respected you as a friend, and loved you as I
would a brother, but I never dreamed you cherished a deeper feeling for
me. I thought Miss Nettie Allen had your heart’s best and deepest
devotion!”
“Oh, Dora, my lost love, I cannot bear this,” he groaned.
“Yes, my friend, you _must_ bear it, though it pains me to say it. I
have always treated you openly and frankly, have I not?”
“Yes, but—oh, cruel fate! I had so hoped there might be something deeper
beneath.”
“Forgive me, Fredrich, if I have unintentionally misled you. But I can
never give you more than a sister’s affection, and that you shall have.”
“But, Dora, I will give you time, and perhaps you can learn to love me
as something nearer. Oh, if you will try,” pleaded the disappointed man.
“My poor friend, it can never, never be. It is an utter impossibility!”
she replied, weeping bitterly. After a few moments spent in deep
thought, she continued:
“Listen, Mr. Weimher, and I will tell you a secret. No one knows it. It
is a story of the past, and I tell it to you to prove to you how
hopeless it is for you to love me. My friend, I may trust you? You will
not betray me?”
“Can you ask? You have but to command me, and I obey, even to the
yielding up of life itself.”
She sighed deeply. It pained her to know of such rare devotion, when she
had nothing to give in return. Bending toward him, she whispered:
“I love another. I am already married!”
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, leaning trembling and aghast against the
railing of the balcony.
“It is even so,” she returned, sadly. “But I doubt if I should even know
my own husband should I meet him now.”
She then related to him the story of her youthful marriage, with which
the reader is already acquainted; while Fredrich Weimher listened,
spell-bound, to the thrilling and startling events which had transpired
to bind for life one so young, beautiful, and good.
There was a look of hope in his eyes again when she had finished, and he
said, eagerly:
“Dora, do you not know that that marriage ceremony can be set aside now
if you so will it. If you will only give yourself to me, I will devote
my life to your service until you are free.”
“Nay—nay, my kind friend, you would but wreck my life then——”
“The fates forbid!” he interrupted, fervently.
“For,” she went on, “I love Robbie Ellerton still. Strange though it may
seem, when that evil-minded man made us man and wife, I gave myself
wholly to him. My love has grown with the growth of years, and I feel
that naught but death can ever break the link that binds us.”
“But, Dora, were you free—forgive me, but I must know—if by any chance
death should set you free, would you give yourself to me?”
He bent over her, holding his very breath, and his heart beat almost to
suffocation as he waited for her answer, for upon it depended his last
and only hope.
“Fredrich—Mr. Weimher, I beg—I entreat you will not harbor such a
thought for an instant,” she said, wildly. “He will not die—he shall not
die. It cannot be that I have loved him all these long years for naught.
It would shroud my life in a night of wild despair. No, he promised he
would come and claim me, and I feel—I know he will. Yes, I am Robert
Ellerton’s bride, and his alone will I be, whether it be a bride of life
or of death.”
He buried his face in his hands, and she could see the bright tears
trickling through his fingers and falling at his feet.
The sight of his sorrow recalled her to herself.
“Fredrich,” said she, almost tenderly, “forgive me, but I must tell you
the truth, and it is best you should know the worst at once. Go and seek
some one fairer and more worthy your love than I, and from my heart I
will say Heaven bless you.”
“Can you ask me to do that? can you bid my heart so soon forget its
allegiance?”
“Ah! but you would bid mine forget its own, and come to you,” she
replied, smiling.
He started at the reproof.
“Forgive me,” he said, repentantly; “I am selfish in my sorrow. I accept
my sentence, and will try to bear it patiently, and think myself blessed
if I can but merit your friendship; and should you ever need a faithful
friend, you have only to call upon Fredrich Weimher.”
“Thank you, I will,” she said, frankly holding out her hand to him,
while in her secret heart she honored him for his manly conduct. “And
now,” she added, “would you like to see my hero as he was then?”
She drew the hidden locket from its resting-place, touched the spring,
and held it up before him. He looked—started—looked again.
“Miss Dupont,” he exclaimed, “surely it cannot be—but it must be—it is
one of the dearest friends I have! Robert Ellerton! strange I did not
think before. Why, Dora, I know your boy husband—he and I have spent
many an hour in hard study together, though he is younger, and I
graduated a year ago. He is a splendid fellow, and worthy even of your
priceless love.”
She had listened in pale and silent amazement to his words, while she
trembled in every nerve with joyous excitement, and now poured forth a
perfect torrent of questions.
And he gave her the whole story.
When Robert Ellerton first entered the German institute he was a lonely,
sorrowful boy, always pale and silent, but a perfect scholar, never
knowing what the word failure meant. Fredrich Weimher, noble,
kind-hearted, and tender, pitied the stranger so far from his native
land, sought him out, and at once made friends with him.
They were more like brothers than friends, and were scarcely ever
separated until Fredrich graduated and started on his American tour.
One thing alone Robert would never talk about, and that was his home
affairs, seeming quite sensitive if the subject was even mentioned.
That, and that alone, was the only thing in which Fredrich did not share
his confidence.
“Heaven bless you, Dora, my friend!” cried Weimher, as he concluded his
recital, and smiling quite brightly. “I can give you up with one pang
less, now that I know you belong to my dearest friend.”
“Oh, Fredrich Weimher,” replied the delighted girl, “if I considered you
my friend before, you are doubly so now. I only regret that I did not
make a confidant of you sooner; it might have saved you pain, and given
me much happiness to hear directly from one who is so dear to me. But I
leave on the morrow, and must say farewell to you now and return to my
guests, or I shall be missed.”
He took the white-gloved hand held out to him, and pressed it fervently,
then gently drawing her toward him, he bent and respectfully kissed her
fair upturned brow, saying:
“Good-by, my friend—my sister. May old Neptune bear you safely on your
journey, and perchance we may meet abroad, for I shall shortly return to
my native country. God grant you may meet your own loved one, and that
unalloyed happiness may ever be yours.”
He turned quickly from her, and disappeared within, leaving her alone,
happy yet sorrowful, for his was too noble a heart to be rent with
unrequited love.
As Fredrich Weimher lifted the heavy curtains which concealed the
balcony on which he and Dora had stood, and stepped within the
drawing-room, a man moved quickly aside, scowling blackly upon him, yet
with a certain air of triumph. But his evil gaze was thrown away, for
its object passed on and soon left the mansion.