“There stood a wretch prepared to change
His soul’s redemption for revenge.”
ROKEBY.
The day after the excursion to Woolwich, Charles Huyton had left
London for a short time. Perhaps had he been still in town, Isabel
Barham would not have so readily engaged to attend the ceremony. For
the last two years it had been the secret object of her life to make
herself Mr. Huyton’s wife; yet she was often obliged to confess with
regret, that she seemed no nearer to it than before. She managed well,
too, with much prudence and discretion and perhaps had not the heart
she besieged been pre-engaged, she might have been successful. But
such a pursuit could not elevate the tone of her mind, improve her
good feelings, or increase her susceptibility to generous emotions.
There was no heart in it; it was simply a mercantile transaction.
The unconscious worship which Gwyneth bestowed on an idea, embodied to
her fancy in the person of Mr. Ufford, was a far more ennobling
sensation. She was admiring, sincerely admiring virtue and worth; and
though deluding herself in supposing that these were inherent in an
extraordinary degree in her idol’s character, she was perfectly
unselfish and true in her feelings. When her time came to be
undeceived, she would not, at least, have to confess that she had been
mean and mercenary, that she deserved to be disappointed, and had no
right to complain. Not so Isabel Barham; she was entangling herself,
in her own endeavors to catch another; for if she escaped with
feelings uninjured by love, she had, at least, a mind debased by
cunning efforts, a heart soiled and profaned by being bent on mean
objects――worldly pomp and worldly riches. Disappointment was impending
over her. Disappointment of the bitterest kind!
Mr. Huyton came back to London rather earlier than had been expected;
and soon after walked up from his lodgings to Eaton-place, where, as
we have already noticed, he spent much of his time. Mr. Barham was
within, and after some discussion of political questions, in which he
had of late been trying to interest Charles Huyton, the elder
gentleman observed casually――
“Miss Barham and her sister are gone down to Woolwich!”
“Indeed, again! not to the _Erratic_, I suppose,” said Charles,
carelessly.
“Not exactly; but connected with the steamer, I believe their
engagement is.”
“There must have been some strong attraction there, to draw the young
ladies out so early.”
“Why, yes. I understand that one of Miss Barham’s young friends was to
be married this morning to an officer at Woolwich; and as a graceful
compliment to one whom she esteems as rightly occupying her proper
station in society, my daughter consented to attend as bridesmaid.”
“_Who_ is the bride?” inquired Charles, with quickness; a strange,
wild thrill of anger, pain, and bitter jealousy shooting across his
heart: something forewarned him whose name he should hear; it was with
difficulty he could control himself.
“A young lady you know, I believe; the daughter of the Vicar of
Hurstdene: a most respectable man he is, and one whose connection with
our family entitles him to more consideration from _us_, than it is
exactly requisite to show to others in the same station.”
“Ah!” cried Mr. Huyton, suddenly starting up. “I am sorry I have
forgotten――I have an engagement――I must hurry away, or I shall be too
late!”
“Shall we see you again to-day? my daughters will be sorry to miss
you,” said Mr. Barham, looking with a sort of speculative wonder at
Charles’s countenance. It was not surprising, that his face should
catch the attention of even the egotistical and self-centered man.
There was something so wild and strange in the expression.
“I don’t know! perhaps, if I can――; may be I shall leave town,” was
the incoherent reply, in a low, changed, husky voice.
“You are ill, I fear,” said the other, frightened, and laying a hand
on his arm; “let me ring for something.”
“No! no! only hurried, my dear sir,” said Charles, with a painful
smile. “Good-day.”
He hastened away. There was war in his heart; anger, jealousy,
outraged feeling, hopeless love; sickening pain, a burning desire of
revenge; a vindictive determination to do――he knew not what; any
thing, every thing, however miserable to himself, so that he might
return agony for agony; that he might make those suffer who had
injured him. Unconscious of external objects, he gained his own
apartments, and there locked in and safe from interruption, for hours
he gave way to his fiery passions. Words could hardly describe the
convulsive vehemence of the feelings that tore and shook his soul. The
old Greek fables of men possessed by the furies, seemed realized in
him. He was mad with rage; frantic with disappointed love; frenzied by
a wild jealousy――cruel, insatiable, dark, pitiless as the grave
itself. Whatever of hope he had hitherto entertained now rose to his
mind, but to torture him more; his very plans and expectations, built
on the uncertainty of his rival’s profession, and his chances of
supplanting him during a prolonged absence, now recurred to his memory
as a mockery and a torment. Lost! all lost! every chance, every hope,
every deep-laid scheme, swept away before the flood of his hated
rival’s success. Baffled, outwitted, triumphed over, scorned; such, no
doubt, he was. The sailor had understood his projects, seen through
his offers of friendship, and now laughed at them, having made sure of
his bride.
And was there nothing left for him yet; no hope! no revenge? Was he
helplessly the object of contempt; the disappointed, the rejected
lover; could he do nothing? Ah! the cold heart he had failed to touch
with love, might yet be bent by sorrow; and though he could not make
it his prize, he could, perchance, make it his victim!
He could wound her through another; and he would. No matter what it
cost him, no one should say he was the mourning lover, victim to an
unrequited affection. No! he would dash aside his love for her, forget
it, trample on it if needs must; but he would have revenge. If there
was one sentiment in the mind of Hilary, one affection which could
rival her attachment to her husband, he knew it was her love for her
brother; nay, he believed that it was the strongest, the deepest of
the two. It had been planted by nature, nursed by tenderness and
sympathy through every year of her life; it was one with which no
contemporary love could interfere, with which no past friendship could
compare, which no future regard could in the least degree replace.
The happiness of her brother was Hilary’s greatest joy; his
disappointment and sorrow would be her most bitter grief. And this he
had in his power, or, at least, he might have if he chose. He had made
himself master of Maurice’s secret, he had seen and understood his
passion for Dora, and he believed that to defeat him there, would
indeed be a bitter blow.
He could do this! he was convinced that he had only to speak, and Mr.
Barham would most gladly close with his offer; and as to Dora, he
thought too lightly of her affections to suppose them invariable.
Opposition he might meet with at first, but this would not daunt him;
the support of her father he might rely on, and time and perseverance
would do the rest. He did not doubt of ultimate success!
As to the result to himself, the securing a wife whom he neither loved
nor esteemed, he did not stop to calculate that; he saw nothing in his
mental visions but the feelings of others; he considered nothing but
the suffering he was preparing for those who had offended him. By a
strange misappreciation of the character of the woman whom he had
loved so long, and ought to have known so well, he even fancied that
an ambitious desire to see her brother united to the daughter of the
rich Mr. Barham, had influence with her: that she who had been unmoved
by the temptation of wealth and station for herself, had yet been open
to covetous desires for her brother’s advancement in life; and that
regret and mortification for the loss of the heiress, would help to
embitter the grief which a lover’s affection must occasion.
His plans determined on, his mind made up, and his spirits calmed by
resolution and despair, he returned to Eaton-place to dine with the
Barhams; and for the first time since the commencement of his long
intimacy with the family, he made a most marked difference in his
treatment of the two sisters. His manners to Dora were expressive of a
desire to please, such as he had never betrayed before, and such as
excited some surprise and disappointment in Isabel’s mind, which
required both spirit and good breeding to conceal.
How Dora herself received this change of manner might be gathered from
Isabel’s speech to her as they stood in the drawing-room afterward.
“Well, Dora, I really think you are the greatest and most relentless
flirt I ever saw.”
“Am I?” said the younger sister, languidly throwing herself on a sofa,
and turning away her face; “what have I been doing now?”
“Flirting to a degree beyond good manners with Mr. Huyton,” said Miss
Barham, looking at her own deepening carnation in a pier-glass
opposite to her.
“I was only paying him in kind,” replied Dora, undauntedly; “if he
meant nothing, nor did I; if he was in earnest, I have no objection.”
“You don’t mean to say that if Charles Huyton were to propose to you,
you would accept him?” said Isabel, turning full on her sister.
“Would not you, Isabel?” was Dora’s reply.
“Our tastes are not usually so similar that that should be any
answer,” said Isabel.
“Well,” said Dora, starting up, “I mean what I say; I was not flirting
with Mr. Huyton more than he was with me.”
“And if he were to ask you to marry him, you know you would say no, as
you did to Lord Dunsmore!”
“No, I would accept him on the spot,” cried Dora, giving way to a
desperate fit of pique and mortified feeling. “You need not look so
scornful, Isabel; I mean what I say.”
“Luckily you are not likely to be put to the test,” replied Miss
Barham. “But we must go and dress, or the countess will be here before
we are ready to go with her.”
Dora, however, did not follow her sister’s example; but when the other
quitted the room, she remained reclining on the sofa. Her head ached,
her heart ached still more; affection wounded, vanity and pride alike
outraged; sorrow, real sorrow, a sense of injustice in herself, and of
having been all through in the wrong, made her bosom throb, and
flushed her cheek, and really rendered her quite unfit for society.
She was still sitting languidly thinking, when her father and his
guest entered the room.
“What is the matter with you, Dora?” said the former, in a voice of
unusual kindness; “what makes you look so pensive?”
“I am very tired, papa.”
“And where is Isabel?”
“Dressing to go out.”
“And you,” said Charles, approaching her, and standing beside her sofa
with looks of devotion, “are you going?”
“No, I am tired.”
“That expedition to Woolwich was too much for you,” observed her
father.
“I believe it was,” said she, with tears, half sorrow, half anger,
starting to her eyes.
“Ah, we will have no more such freaks, little Dora,” said Mr. Barham,
“will we, Mr. Huyton? we must take more care of you, my child, in
future.”
The unusual kindness of her father’s tone went to Dora’s heart. Would
he only have been always so, she would have been saved from how much
unhappiness; she felt choking, and could make no answer, only laying
down her burning cheek upon the pillow.
Mr. Huyton drew a chair close beside the end of the sofa, and leaning
over toward her, was in the act of whispering some gentle sentiment in
her ear, when Isabel entered.
“What, Dora, you not dressed! and Lady Fitzurse has been announced as
waiting for us.”
“Never mind Dora, my love,” said Mr. Barham; “she is not going out
to-night; she is over-tired, and had much better stay at home. I shall
remain with her. How well you look, Isabel.”
So Miss Barham was forced to depart alone, and with rather a
rebellious heart, at leaving Dora and Mr. Huyton in such strange
proximity. There is sometimes an intuitive perception of what is about
to happen, which, against our will, seizes on the heart and forewarns
us of evil or disappointment. Isabel, in spite of every wish to the
contrary, felt at that moment that Charles Huyton was lost to her: and
Dora, with a tumult of emotion she could not attempt to understand,
perceived that his intentions were more serious than she had supposed.
Anger against Maurice for being more conscientious than herself;
regret for her own share in the past; gratified female vanity; a
desire of retaliation, disguised under a pretense of repentance, all
urged her on at this moment; and she allowed the advances of her new
lover with a graceful and encouraging simplicity, which at once
surprised him, and pleased her father.
“Mr. Barham,” said the visitor, after awhile, “I am going into the
library to look for that book you promised me; I know exactly where to
find it, I believe.”
He went, and the father taking immediate advantage of his absence,
with no small degree of gratified pride and ambition, which he mistook
entirely for parental affection, proceeded forthwith to detail to his
daughter the pleasing intelligence that Mr. Huyton had that very
evening made proposals for her hand; that nothing could be more
agreeable than such an alliance; it was a noble offer, and made in a
noble spirit; the settlements would be every thing that could be
desired; and as to the gentleman himself, there could not be two
opinions as to his character, or two sentiments as to his good
qualities.
Dora listened in profound silence, with rosy cheeks and downcast eyes,
and fingers nervously playing with the tassel of the sofa cushion;
but, in spite of her external quietness, there was the fiercest war in
her heart. Love, anger, remorse, ambition, fear, doubt, vanity, all
struggled there. To refuse at once, and without a reason, a suitor
whom but just now she had visibly encouraged, was, she fancied,
impossible; to assign the real cause of the reluctance, she could not
but feel was more so still; better, she thought, it would be to
temporize, to adopt half measures, to conceal what she dared not own,
to brave what she could hardly endure to contemplate; to secure peace
and tranquillity for the present at least, come what would of the
future. To say yes, now, was not to bind herself irrevocably; to
accept Mr. Huyton as a suitor, by no means made it inevitable that she
should become his wife; circumstances might occur, unforeseen,
incalculable, to release her from an engagement; and meantime, perhaps
Maurice would regret his conduct, would wish he had not refused the
promise she had offered to make, would――she hardly knew what she
wished or expected, except the single desire to alarm him and arouse
his jealousy, by making him fear to lose her.
With these ideas floating in her mind, she at length brought herself
to the point of speaking, and when her father closed his harangue, she
looked up and said:
“Please, papa, tell Mr. Huyton I am much honored and happy, and――and
all that sort of thing.”
“You need not agitate yourself so, my dear little Dora,” said he,
smiling graciously, for Dora ended by a fit of tears; “there is no
occasion to be unhappy, I am sure; you do quite right to accept Mr.
Huyton’s proposal; but although I am ready to be your messenger, we
must not forget propriety and honor in the message. Desirable as the
connection is, we need not rush at it, as if we thought ourselves
receiving, and not bestowing a compliment. You must allow me to alter
the words, although not the meaning of your answer.”
“As you please, sir,” said Dora, faintly; rebellious recollections
were rising in her heart; and she had a struggle at that moment not to
shriek out a negative.
“I shall go and speak to Mr. Huyton,” said the father, quite
unconscious of his daughter’s agitation.
She was left alone, and burying her face in the cushions, she gave way
to the bitterest tears.
She was insensible to outward objects; memory had gone back to the
sunny days at Hurstdene, or tortured her with the happy hours so
recently spent on board the _Erratic_; she sobbed and trembled
violently, then thought again of the past, and thought was followed by
fresh agitation. In this state she was lying when her hand was touched
by some one, and starting up, she saw Charles Huyton beside her.
She felt guilty, and hurriedly tried to hide her emotion and drive
away her tears; could she have seen into his heart, she would have
discovered that these accompaniments to their betrothal were but too
suitable and fitting. She did glance at his face, and saw how little
his eyes wore the expression she thought that love should wear. They
were gloomy, sad, full rather of harsh resolve than joyful hopes. An
idea struck her suddenly. This abrupt proposal, this unhappy
appearance, whence did they spring? Had he loved her long, did he
really love her now? Was not Hilary the real object of his affections?
Had this new resolve any thing to do with her marriage? It rushed
through her mind that it was despair, not love, which prompted him,
and that though she might now accept his hand, he would himself, when
the moment of pique was over, be the first to regret this step, and,
perhaps, would not only be ready to cancel the engagement, but would
be glad to resign her to another.
She dried her eyes; he cleared his brow; he spoke of love, esteem,
honor; she listened, blushing, and faltered out an acquiescence, which
he read her too correctly not to see was half reluctant. But the
reluctance neither surprised nor distressed him. He knew he had a
rival to supplant, and it would have been but half a triumph to have
had her accept him readily. More decided opposition would have been
not unwelcome. But he knew her to be light and volatile; her
sailor-lover’s feelings were of a firmer texture, and so were his
sister’s also, and these were the hearts he sought to wound.
So the farce of that engagement was played out. He made love, and she
listened and assented; and when Mr. Barham rejoined them they had
exchanged promises of love and faith, while the heart of each, in
secret, entirely belied these spoken words.
It had been settled that the family party from Hurstdene should return
home on the Monday after Hilary’s marriage; and the girls having taken
leave of their friends, the young ladies of Eaton-place did not expect
to meet them again. Captain Hepburn had privately urged on Hilary the
advantage of inducing Gwyneth to remain some time longer with her
sister in London, and Sybil was extremely anxious to detain her; but
no persuasion or argument had the slightest effect upon Gwyneth
herself, who, having her own reasons for wishing to return, was not to
be induced to change her determination by any thing which could be
urged by the others. She said very little in reply to the suggestions
or wishes of the family, but calmly and passively persisted in her own
way; and, much to Hilary’s disappointment, they all returned together
as they had gone. The same evening saw Gwyneth once more strolling on
the green terrace with Mr. Ufford by her side, detailing to him all
the events which had occurred in London, and hearing in return most
pleasant assurances of how much they had been missed, and how glad he
was to have them home again. Gwyneth was very glad then that she had
not staid in London.
Hilary would not have minded being left to do all the necessary
arrangements, consequent on resettling at home, without help, if her
sister had been employed in a way which had been less questionable in
its utility; but she could not prevent it now; for though she sent
Nest to beg Gwyneth’s assistance, the young lady only promised to come
directly, and then apparently forgot all about the request.
“Poor Mr. Ufford!” said she to Hilary, when the curate having taken
leave, she had time to rejoin her sister, “he is in great distress!”
“Indeed,” said the elder sister, “what is the matter?”
“He has had such bad news from Italy; his little niece is certainly
dying, and her father, his eldest brother, seems very nearly as bad.
He has a great mind to go to them.”
“He should talk to my father about that, not to you, Gwyneth,” said
Hilary, gravely; “but why does he not? I am sure he had much better,
if Lord Dunsmore wishes it.”
“I told him if he could get help in the parish I was sure papa would
agree most readily,” continued Gwyneth; “and I think he means to
propose it. There is some idea of a college friend of his taking the
curacy, if papa approves, just to allow him time to go abroad.”
The next morning Mr. Ufford called again, and this time he mentioned
to the Vicar his half-formed scheme of going to Italy. Of course Mr.
Duncan could make no objection, but entered kindly and warmly into the
young man’s anxieties.
It required a great deal of talking, however, before Mr. Ufford could
decide on any plan. He came to the Vicar with only a great mind to
act, and he left him, having arrived no nearer to forming a definite
intention, or seeming to Hilary to have any serious idea of acting as
he talked! She felt a little annoyed at his indecision; it would form
an indisputable excuse for many visits, and much dawdling, and a
reason for putting off some useful plans regarding village
improvements, and deferring some alterations and amendments in the
church, which had been projected, and for which Lord Dunsmore himself
had contributed funds. She longed to put a little energy or decision
into his mind and actions; she wished she could make him resolve
either to go or stay, or that at any rate she could enlighten his
understanding sufficiently to make him comprehend his own desires, and
not pass the time for action in lingering between duty and her sister
Gwyneth.
The sort of expectations to which his conduct gave rise in the village
was more than once significantly hinted to Mrs. Hepburn, when
receiving the congratulations and good wishes of the many attached
parishioners who had known her from a child. The fear perpetually
expressed that her marriage would remove her from the neighborhood, as
Miss Sybil’s had done, was pretty generally followed by a more or less
broadly-worded hint that Miss Gwyneth’s choice would be a better one
for them, and that they hoped one of their young ladies at least would
never leave them; for young as Miss Gwyneth was, she was quite womanly
in her way and look, and was as well fitted to be mistress at the
Vicarage as young Mrs. Hepburn herself. And a remark which closed one
of these commentaries the first time they met her taught her what
accurate and penetrating notice those apparently indifferent
spectators took of their superior’s ways and proceedings.
“But bless you, miss,” said one old woman, “it would have been far
better for us had you taken the young ’Squire at ‘the Ferns,’ instead
of this captain from foreign parts. And they do say he will be fit to
hang himself, whensoever he comes to hear of your being married to
another.”
Hilary tried to look unconcerned, and to speak on some other subject.
News travels fast, and it soon became known to the village gossips
that Mr. Huyton did not intend to commit suicide on the occasion of
Hilary’s marriage.
But the first intelligence which reached the Vicarage of his plans
came directly from himself, in a letter to Mr. Duncan, which the
writer knew well must be read by Hilary herself.
“DEAR MR. DUNCAN,
“Although I am just on the point of leaving England for some
weeks on most important business, I must steal a few moments
to write to you, lest indifferent and gossiping tongues
should convey to you the report of what I wish to be the
first to communicate. Former friendship and bygone events
convince me that this intelligence will be received with
some degree of interest by the family at the Vicarage. I am
about to marry; it is no use seeking for elegant turns of
language to announce it; that is the plain fact. The lady,
who is already well known to you, has particularly
commissioned me to give you the information; and when I tell
you that she is no other than Miss Dora Barham, you may form
some idea of the happiness which gilds my future prospects.
I believe the ceremony will be celebrated immediately on my
return from Germany, or as soon after as can be conveniently
arranged. You can imagine the pleasure with which I
contemplate settling quietly at ‘the Ferns’ once more, with
such a companion and friend; and I trust her anticipations
are as pleasant and vivid as my own. Among these must, of
course, rank very highly the opportunity it will afford of
carrying on the friendly intercourse with your family, which
has already been so conducive to our happiness in past
years, and which it will be equally desirable and delightful
to establish on a permanent footing for the future.
“With kind regards to your family circle,
“Believe me ever,
“Yours faithfully,
“CHARLES HUYTON.”
It was well for Mr. Duncan’s peace and comfort, that loss of sight had
prevented his cognizance of many things which must else have come to
his knowledge: it was well, too, that he could not see his daughter’s
face as she read this letter. The bitter irony of those words was
concealed from him, but she felt it to her heart.
“Going to marry Dora!” said Mr. Duncan; “I am surprised. I thought he
would have taken Isabel.”
She was silent; she could not speak; the effort to read through these
words in an unbroken voice had been almost too great for her; she was
now recovering herself as well as she could.
Mr. Duncan thought a little, and presently observed――
“Well, I am glad he has resolved to marry at last; and to have your
young friend settled at ‘the Ferns’ will be pleasant for you, Hilary,
as long as you stay in the neighborhood. You must write him an answer
by-and-by, and we will tell him of your marriage, my child.”
“Do you want me just now, my dear father?” said she, compelling
herself to speak; “if not――”
“No――no, not at all at present; let Nest come to me in half-an-hour.”
Hilary escaped to her own room, carrying the cruel letter with her.
Engaged to Dora Barham! incredible! monstrous! could he ask her? could
she accept him? it seemed impossible: where was Dora’s love for
Maurice? where Charles Huyton’s knowledge of that love? Till this
moment she had not known how much she had depended on her constancy;
how completely she had built her hopes for her brother’s happiness on
some fortunate turn to their affairs. Well she knew how deep, how
true, how tender were her brother’s feelings, how entirely he had
surrendered his heart to this hapless affection; and though aware that
no engagement had passed between them, it seemed to her that their
recent intercourse in London had increased their mutual attachment.
Oh! what could Dora mean then by thus abruptly abandoning him! What
would Maurice feel when he learned her inconstancy! If she had been
sincere to him, if her sentiments had been real, where was her faith
to Mr. Huyton! by what name could an engagement with him be
designated? and if she had been all this time trifling with Maurice!
if she had been gratifying her own vanity at the expense of his
happiness――but that was impossible! Dora was volatile, thoughtless,
imprudent, but she was not deceitful, she was not heartless, she was
not wicked. Hilary could not endure to think ill of her; there must be
something unexplained; there was some secret which had not reached her
yet. Perhaps compulsion had won from her an unwilling assent; moral
force, parental authority, persecution, might have been employed; she
knew Dora was weak, possibly she had not the strength of will to
withstand such influence; she might rather deserve pity than blame.
But for Mr. Huyton himself, what excuse could be urged! Maurice had
been his chosen friend; a hundred times had he made professions of
regard, or declarations of esteem for him; and he knew, or, at least,
he was strongly suspicious of this esteemed friend’s attachment to
Dora Barham! It was not a violent affection which misled him, and
blinded his eyes; Hilary believed him at the best, indifferent,
regarding Dora; he had always rather despised her intellect, and
slighted her charms; no! love for her was not his excuse: there was no
love in that cruel letter which Hilary now held in her hands. As her
eyes slowly perused the words again, her fancy presented to her mind
the terrible expression of his face when he had first heard of her own
engagement. It seemed to ring in her ear once more, the bitter tone in
which he had exclaimed, “You will wish rather that a demon had crossed
your path than that you had thwarted me;” and as she remembered this,
she felt that it was revenge he sought; a revenge for his slighted
affection, which she could not choose but feel deeply.
The happiness of Maurice and Dora was sacrificed, perhaps, to her own;
it was her hasty marriage which had brought this impending grief on
her darling brother!
“Oh, Maurice! Maurice!” sobbed she, as she buried her face in her
hands, “why am I to be a source of misery and disappointment to you?
Oh! brother, you who have never done any thing but comfort and love
me, are your hopes now to be blighted for my sake? Why did you love so
truly and so well? Why did you surrender that generous heart to one
who dared not own the affection she had created! Was it a crime to
love, that she should blush to be claimed by you! Oh! weak, foolish
Dora, your idle, childish terrors have caused all this.”
Very bitter the blow was, and rendered more so by the insulting tone
in which the news had been announced. Could this be Charles Huyton,
the man whom she had known so well, who had seemed so amiable, who had
professed such love for her! She shuddered as she contemplated such a
character, and tried to persuade herself that she had fancied more
than the truth. But yet in her secret soul there was something which
told her otherwise, which impressed on her the conviction that it was
a bad, unholy feeling now actuating her former lover, and that misery
must be the result to those concerned.
Oh! how she longed at that moment for the comfort of her husband’s
sympathy and love; how her heart ached to pour out its fears and
sorrows to him, knowing that there they would be understood and borne
with, and perhaps reasoned away, but this intense longing must be
checked, put aside, kept under, or it would soon grow up into an
overpowering cloud, darkening her hopes, numbing her feelings,
paralyzing her actions, and obscuring from her the bright sunshine of
trust and cheerful faith.
She turned her thoughts once more to Maurice and Dora; but what could
she do for them? Nothing but pray for them; and sinking on her knees
she did pray, long and earnestly, that if sorrow must come on her
beloved brother it might be borne with patience, and so bring a
blessing with it; and for the others, too, she prayed, that the angry
feelings might be softened, and the unkind intention converted into a
better mood; that the weak might be strengthened, the erring restored;
that they might both be saved from sinful weakness and sinful
passions; and that if their own willful ways brought suffering on
them, that suffering might be sanctified to a happy result.
Little thought the angry and vindictive man for whom she prayed, of
the only return she made to his unkindness; and little deemed he that
if his cruel letter had given her pain, it had also afforded her the
occasion of exercising faith, meekness, and charity; that her soul
rose the stronger for the blow which he had hoped would prostrate it.
She forgave him the injury he had, perchance, intended; and to forgive
from the heart is alone the blessed gift of that Spirit whose presence
brings peace and consolation.