We will go back to the last evening at Exeter, when we left Mr. Weston to
witness the result of Bacchus's attendance at the barbecue. There were
other hearts busy in the quiet night time. Alice, resisting the offers of
her maid to assist her in undressing, threw herself on a lounge by the open
window. The night air played with the curtains, and lifted the curls from
her brow. Her bloom, which of late had been changeful and delicate, had now
left her cheek, and languid and depressed she abandoned herself to thought.
So absorbed was she, that she was not aware any one had entered the room,
until her mother stood near, gently reproving her for thus exposing
herself to the night air. "Do get up and go to bed," she said. "Where is
Martha?"
"I did not want her," said Alice; "and am now going to bed myself. What has
brought you here?"
"Because I felt anxious about you," said Mrs. Weston, "and came, as I have
often before, to be assured that you were well and enjoying repose. I find
you still up; and now, my daughter, there is a question I have feared to
ask you, but can no longer delay it. By all the love that is between us, by
the tie that should bind an only child to a widowed mother, will you tell
me what are the thoughts that are oppressing you? I have been anxious for
your health, but is there not more cause to fear for your happiness?"
"I am well enough, dear mother," said Alice, with some irritation of
manner, "Do not concern yourself about me. If you will go to bed, I will
too."
"You cannot thus put me off," said Mrs. Weston. "Alice, I charge you, as in
the presence of God, to tell me truly: do you love Walter Lee?"
"It would be strange if I did not," said Alice, in a low voice. "Have we
not always been as brother and sister?"
"Not in that sense, Alice; do not thus evade me. Do you love him with an
affection which should belong to your cousin, to whom you are solemnly
engaged, who has been the companion of your childhood, and who is the son
of the best friend that God ever raised up to a widow and a fatherless
child?"
Alice turned her head away, and after a moment answered, "Yes, I do,
mother, and I cannot help it." But on turning to look at her mother, she
was shocked at the expression of agony displayed on her countenance. Her
hand was pressed tightly over her heart, her lips quivered, and her whole
person trembled. It was dreadful to see her thus agitated; and Alice,
throwing her arms around her mother exclaimed, "What is it, dearest
mother? Be not look so deathlike. I cannot bear to see you so."
Oh! they speak falsely who say the certainty of evil can be better borne
than suspense. Watcher by the couch of suffering, sayest thou so? Now thou
knowest there is no hope, thy darling must be given up. There is no
mistaking that failing pulse, and that up-turned eye. A few hours ago,
there was suspense, but there was hope; death was feared, but not expected;
his arm was outstretched, but the blow was not descending; now, there is no
hope.
Mrs. Weston had long feared that all was not well with Alice--that while
her promise was given to one, her heart had wandered to another; yet she
dreaded to meet the appalling certainty; now with her there is no hope. The
keen anguish with which she contended was evident to her daughter, who was
affrighted at her mother's appearance. So much so, that for the first time
for months she entirely forgot the secret she had been hiding in her heart.
The young in their first sorrow dream there are none like their own. It is
not until time and many cares have bowed us to the earth, that we look
around, beholding those who have suffered more deeply than ourselves.
Accustomed to self-control, Mrs. Weston was not long in recovering herself;
taking her daughter's hand within her own, and looking up in her fair face,
"Alice," she said, "you listened with an unusual interest to the details of
suffering of one whom you never saw. I mean Walter Lee's mother; she died.
I can tell you of one who has suffered, and lived.
"It is late, and I fear to detain you from your rest, but something impels
me that I cannot resist. Listen, then, while I talk to you of myself. You
are as yet almost unacquainted with your mother's history."
"Another time, mother; you are not well now," said Alice.
"Yes, my love, now. You were born in the same house that I was; yet your
infancy only was passed where I lived until my marriage. I was motherless
at an early age; indeed, one of the first remembrances that I recall is the
bright and glowing summer evening when my mother was carried from our
plantation on James River to the opposite shore, where was our family
burial-ground. Can I ever forget my father's uncontrolled grief, and the
sorrow of the servants, as they followed, dressed in the deepest mourning.
I was terrified at the solemn and dark-looking bier, the black plumes that
waved over it, and all the dread accompaniments of death. I remember but
little for years after this, save the continued gloom of my father, and his
constant affection and indulgence toward me, and occasionally varying our
quiet life by a visit to Richmond or Washington.
"My father was a sincere and practical Christian. He was averse to parting
with me; declaring, the only solace he had was in directing my education,
and being assured of my happiness.
"My governess was an accomplished and amiable lady, but she was too kind
and yielding. I have always retained the most grateful remembrance of her
care. Thus, though surrounded by good influences, I needed restraint, where
there was so much indulgence. I have sometimes ventured to excuse myself on
the ground that I was not taught that most necessary of all lessons: the
power of governing myself. The giving up of my own will to the matured
judgment of others.
"The part of my life that I wish to bring before you now, is the year
previous to my marriage. Never had I received an ungentle word from my
father; never in all my waywardness and selfwill did he harshly reprove me.
He steadily endeavored to impress on my mind a sense of the constant
presence of God. He would often say, 'Every moment, every hour of our
lives, places its impress on our condition in eternity. Live, then, as did
your mother, in a state of waiting and preparation for that account which
we must all surely give for the talents entrusted to our care.' Did I heed
his advice? You will hardly believe me, Alice, when I tell you how I repaid
his tenderness. I was the cause of his death."
"It could never be, mother," said Alice, weeping, when she saw the tears
forcing their way down her mother's cheek. "You are excited and distressed
now. Do not tell me any more to-night, and forget what I told you."
Mrs. Weston hardly seemed to hear her. After a pause of a few moments, she
proceeded:
"It was so, indeed. I, his only child, was the cause of his death; I, his
cherished and beloved daughter, committed an act that broke his heart, and
laid the foundation of sorrows for me, that I fear will only end with my
life.
"Alice, I read not long since of a son, the veriest wretch on earth; he was
unwilling to grant his poor aged father a subsistence from his abundance;
he embittered the failing years of his life by unkindness and reproaches.
One day, after an altercation between them, the son seized his father by
his thin, white hair, and dragged him to the corner of the street. Here,
the father in trembling tones implored his pity. 'Stop, oh! stop, my son'
he said, 'for I dragged my father here, God has punished me in your sin.'
"Alice, can you not see the hand of a just God in this retribution, and do
you wonder, when you made this acknowledgment to me to-night, the agony of
death overcame me? I thought, as I felt His hand laid heavily upon me, my
punishment was greater than I could bear; my sin would be punished in your
sorrow; and naught but sorrow would be your portion as the wife of Walter
Lee.
"Do not interrupt me, it is time we were asleep, but I shall soon have
finished what I have to say. My father and Mr. Weston were friends in early
life, and I was thrown into frequent companionship with my husband, from
the time when we were very young. His appearance, his talents, his
unvaried gayety of disposition won my regard. For a time, the excess of
dissipation in which he indulged was unknown to us, but on our return to
Virginia after an absence of some months in England, it could no longer be
concealed. His own father joined with mine in prohibiting all intercourse
between us. For a time his family considered him as lost to them and to
himself; he was utterly regardless of aught save what contributed to his
own pleasures. I only mention this to excuse my father in your eyes, should
you conclude he was too harsh in the course he insisted I should pursue. He
forbade him the house, and refused to allow any correspondence between us;
at the same time he promised that if he would perfectly reform from the
life he was leading, at the end of two years he would permit the marriage.
I promised in return to bind myself to these conditions. Will you believe
it, that seated on my mother's grave, with my head upon my kind father's
breast, I vowed, that as I hoped for Heaven I would never break my promise,
never see him again, without my father's permission, until the expiration
of this period; and yet I did break it. I have nearly done. I left home
secretly. I was married; and I never saw my father's face again. The shock
of my disobedience was too hard for him to bear. He died, and in vain have
I sought a place of repentance, though I sought it with tears.
"I have suffered much; but though I cannot conceal from you that your
father threw away the best portion of his life, his death was not without
hope. I cling to the trust that his sins were washed away, and his soul
made clean in the blood of the Saviour. Then, by the memory of all that I
suffered, and of that father whose features you bear, whose dying words
gave testimony to my faithfulness and affection to him, I conjure you to
conquer this unfortunate passion, which, if yielded to, will end in your
unceasing misery.
"There was little of my large fortune left at your father's death; we have
been almost dependant on your uncle. Yet it has not been dependance; he is
too generous to let us feel that. On your father's death-bed, he was all in
all to him--never leaving him; inducing him to turn his thoughts to the
future opening before him. He taught me where to look for comfort, and bore
with me when in my impatient grief I refused to seek it. He took you, then
almost an infant, to his heart, has cherished you as his own, and now looks
forward to the happiness of seeing you his son's wife; will you so cruelly
disappoint him?"
"I will do whatever you ask me, dear mother," said Alice. "I will never see
Walter again, if that will content you. I have already told him that I can
never be to him more than I have always been--a sister. Yet I cannot help
loving him."
"Cannot help loving a man whose very birth is attended with shame," said
Mrs. Weston; "whose passions are ungovernable, who has already treated with
the basest ingratitude his kindest friends? Have you so little pride? I
will not reproach you, my darling; promise me you will never see Walter
again, after to-morrow, without my knowledge. I can trust you. Oh! give up
forever the thought of being his wife, if ever you have entertained it.
Time will show you the justice of my fears, and time will bring back your
old feelings for Arthur, and we shall be happy again."
"I will make you the promise," said Alice, "and I will keep it; but I will
not deceive Arthur. Ungrateful as I may appear, he shall know all. He will
then love some one more worthy of him than I am."
"Let us leave the future in the hands of an unerring God, my Alice. Each
one must bear her burden, I would gladly bear yours; but it may not be.
Forget all this for a while; let me sleep by you to-night."
Alice could not but be soothed by the gentle tone, and dear caress. Oh,
blessed tie! uniting mother and child. Earth cannot, and Heaven will not
break it.