Like a bird in the air,
Like a boat on the sea,
Like a fawn from its lair,
The maiden must flee.
While Myra was exchanging her drenched garments, and partaking of those
refreshments which her late and comfortless ride rendered so necessary,
she related to her young friends the cause of this sudden abandonment of
her home; and they, with all the warm enthusiasm and vivid romance of
youth, entered into her feelings and plans. There was no sleep for any
of the pretty group that night, but closeted in a little bedroom, with a
bright fire flashing and glowing over their lovely and eager faces, the
young girls plotted and held council together, sometimes laughing at the
miserable plight in which Myra had presented herself at the door;
sometimes listening with a start, as if amid the rush and pause of the
storm, they yet feared to detect the tread of some person in pursuit of
the beautiful fugitive.
“And now,” said Myra, after all had been told, “let us deliberate on the
best step. At daylight I must start for New Castle, and thence to
Baltimore in time to prevent Mr. Whitney taking the boat. He must not
approach Wilmington. Who will go with me? Where can I rest for a few
hours in secresy?”
“Who will go with you? why, father, of course,” exclaimed one of the
young girls, entering heart and soul into the interests of her friend.
“Where can you rest? Have we not a brother married and settled at New
Castle, who knows and loves you, even as we do? His wife will receive
you, and joyfully enough.”
Myra arose, her sweet face animated and sparkling with gratitude; she
threw her arms around the young girl and kissed her.
“Oh, what friends you are; how I love you,” she said, in her own frank,
joyous way, turning to the other sister and pressing her forehead with
lips that glowed with generous feeling. “It is worth while having a
little trouble, if it were only to prove such hearts as yours. I shall
never forget this night; never to my dying day.”
“Oh, it is quite like a romance, Myra,” exclaimed the younger of the
girls, shaking back her ringlets, with a light laugh. “Here we had been
for hours and hours watching at the window, with the rain beating and
pelting on the glass close to our faces, and exactly like two characters
in a novel. Then, between the flashes of lightning and the rain that
absolutely came down in sheets—I never saw any thing like it in my
life—you come toiling up to the door, like some poor little fairy shut
out in the storm—your face so wet and pale, and your eyes floating like
diamonds, and your black curls all dripping with rain. Upon my word,
Myra, there was something unearthly about it all.”
“Perhaps it was best,” said Myra, smiling at the vivid fancy of her
young friend. “Had the night been calm and every thing quiet, I should
have felt it more. The storm gave me courage. It seemed as if the very
rushing and outbreak of the elements excited a sort of heroism in my
heart. Had it been a soft moonlight evening, when I could have seen the
old trees, the flowers, and all those sweet objects that poor mamma and
I have loved to look upon so often when the moonlight was on them, I
could hardly have found strength to leave them all. Poor, poor mamma,
how she will grieve; it will be a sad morning for her.”
Myra bowed her head as she spoke, and her dark eyes filled with tears.
The young girls gazed upon her with saddened countenances. This sorrow,
so natural, so true, it was something to chill all their light ideas of
romance.
Myra still sat with her face bowed down, lost in painful thought. Her
heart was once more in its old home. She thought of the mother, the
kind, gentle woman, who had taken her, like a young bird from the parent
nest, and up to that very day had warmed her as it were with the pulses
of her own heart into life and happiness. She thought of the proud old
man, proud but full of strong affections; self-willed but generous; who
was dignified and grand even in his errors—of the old man who had loved
her so long and so well. She thought of him, too, and the tears rolled
fast and heavily down her cheeks. It was a terrible romance to her, poor
thing. Nothing but a firm sense of right could have induced her to
proceed a step further in it. She was no young heroine, but a noble,
strong-minded woman, suffering keenly, but firm because she believed
herself to be in the right. There was silence for a time, for the young
girls respected the grief of their friend, then the eldest arose and
leaning over Myra’s chair, began with gentle delicacy to smooth and
arrange the light tresses that had been so completely disordered by the
storm.
“And when you have found Mr. Whitney, Myra, when you have prevented the
meeting, how will it all end? In a wedding, and a reconciliation at the
great house, no doubt,” said the sweet girl, anxious to draw her friend
from the painful reverie into which she had fallen.
“No,” answered Myra, brushing the tears from her eyes, “I expect nothing
like a reconciliation. When I abandoned D. Place last night, it was with
no thoughts of return. I gave up every thing then.”
“Every thing but love; every thing but the man who loves you,” whispered
her friend.
“Even love—even him—I gave up all. Do you think that I have a dream of
marrying him now? That I intend to surround myself with the vulgar
_eclat_ of a ‘runaway match?’ It was to save his life that I left my
home. I will meet him on the way, warn him of my father’s hatred, and
free him of all the engagements that have existed between us.”
“And where will you go then, dear friend?”
“I have relatives in the West Indies, as I have been told, and I had
resolved to seek their protection before leaving home.”
“Then there will be no wedding after all, and we shall lose you
altogether,” cried the young girl, half in tears at the thoughts of this
abrupt separation.
“Not forever; I am sure we shall meet again,” answered Myra, casting an
anxious glance through the window, for the conversation was arousing old
feelings too keenly within her. “But it will soon be daylight.”
“I have just aroused father, and told him all; he will go with you to
New Castle,” said the younger girl, who had been absent from the room.
“The stage starts by daybreak.”
Daybreak! The gray of morning was in the sky even then. Instantly there
was a bustle of preparation in that little bedroom. Myra’s garments,
that had been drying by the fire, were hastily crowded into the trunk; a
fathom or two was cut from the bed-cord, that her ill-secured luggage
might have the best protection their means afforded, and at the
appointed time all was ready for Myra’s departure. Amid tears and
affectionate embraces Myra parted with her young friends, and before the
deep blue of night had fairly left the sky, she was on her route to New
Castle.
The stage had no passengers except Myra and her kind attendant, so in
the stillness of the morning she had nothing to distract her thoughts
from the mournful channel into which they naturally turned. The storm
had swept over the earth, leaving only freshness and beauty behind. The
trees that bent over the road were vivid with moisture, over which the
rising sun fell with sparkling and genial warmth. Every spire of grass
bent as if with the weight of a diamond at its point. The vines and
creeping shrubs that grew along the fences seemed blossoming with gems,
so thick were the water-drops among their leaves; so bright were the
sunbeams that kindled them into beauty. The atmosphere was full of cool,
rich fragrance, and every gush of air, as it swept through the ponderous
vehicle that bore Myra from her home, was delicious to breathe.
Ever and anon, as the stage followed the windings of the highway, Myra
could obtain a view of her former home; silent, stately, and refreshed,
as it were, by the night storm, it rose before her tearful eyes. The
proud old mansion, lifted on a terrace of hills above the level on which
she traveled, could be seen for miles and miles around, and thus at
every turn the noble features of all that she had given up were spread
out before her gaze as if to mock her loneliness, or with their grandeur
tempt her return.
But Myra scarcely thought of the stately old mansion. Her affectionate
heart penetrated beyond its walls; she saw, as in a vision, one pale and
gentle head asleep on its pillow, dreaming of scenes that would never be
again. It was a memory of the slumbering household abandoned in its
unconsciousness, that filled the eyes of poor Myra with tears. She felt
no regret for the noble property that she had rendered up without a
sigh. But the household links that she had broken still quivered about
her heart, and Myra, as she cast her eyes back on her stately old home,
could not choose but weep.
Our young traveler found her friends at New Castle willing to aid her,
as the generous girls in Wilmington had been. It was arranged that an
old gentleman, father of the lady whose roof had given shelter to the
young girl, should proceed with her to Baltimore, and with this most
unexceptionable escort Myra set forth. With the gentleman whose house
she had left, she intrusted a note which was to be delivered to Mr.
Whitney, should he by chance have taken passage in the boat expected in
a few hours from Baltimore.
Anxious, hurried, and half ill with excitement, Myra and her companion
reached Baltimore just in time to learn that a gentleman bearing the
name of Whitney had taken passage in a boat which had passed them on
their way.
Agitated by fresh fears, and wild with dread that the meeting between
her father and her lover might take place in spite of all her efforts,
the poor girl had no resource but to return with her companion, in the
wild hope that her note might reach Mr. Whitney at New Castle, and thus
prevent his proceeding on his route. By the return boat they reached the
home of their generous friends once more, and there to her astonishment
and dismay Myra found that a person of like name, but not the Mr.
Whitney whom she sought to preserve from periling his life, had passed
through New Castle.
It was now beyond the day appointed for her lover’s arrival, and,
without any knowledge of the time when he would pass through Baltimore,
Myra had no better means of meeting him on the way than by remaining
quietly with her friends till he should reach New Castle. The kind
clergyman, who had so kindly given his protection to the adventurous
girl, arranged that a strict watch should be kept at the landing. Thus
day after day passed by, during which poor Myra suffered all the irksome
pains of suspense, hoping, yet dreading the appearance of her lover, and
haunted with a fear that her incensed parent might find out her place of
shelter, and thus render all her efforts to prevent mischief of no
avail. But thus harassed and worn out, she had only one resource. To
wait—wait. To a nature ardent and impetuous as hers, this was a weary
trial. So long as she had any thing to do, the excitement of action kept
up her courage, but this life of inactive expectation wore upon her
nerves, and she began to droop like a bird fettered in its cage. Thus
she had lingered three days, imprisoned by her own free will, in the
solitude of her chamber, when the event which she had most feared
brought new agitation to her already overtaxed spirit. After days of
vain and anxious search her parents had found out the place of her
retreat.
It often happens that persons of strong and powerful organization become
the slaves of their own will, and act in opposition to their best
feelings and cool judgment, merely because that will has been expressed.
Pride, stern, commanding pride, such as must have been the
characteristic of a man like Mr. D., shrinks from the confession of
fallibility, which a change of purpose too surely acknowledges.
Imperious from nature and from that right of command which is so readily
yielded to the rich even in our republican country, he had expressed his
dislike and opposition to Mr. Whitney, and maintained it, not that he
believed his suspicions of unworthiness just, but because they had been
once expressed; and he, though generous, noble, affectionate, and filled
with love for his adopted child, was the slave of his own will—that
which he had said must be.
Upon the night of the storm this man had walked hours upon the veranda
in front of his house, with the thunder booming and clashing overhead,
and with the fierce lightning glaring across his pale face—and why? Not
that he did not feel his heart tremble with every roar of the thunder,
not that each blaze of lightning did not take away his breath. He was
afraid of lightning, and for that very reason chose to brave it. Even
the fear that was constitutional, that had grown and strengthened with
him from childhood must yield to his will.
After that night of storm, when the strong man had wrestled with his
better feelings as he had wrestled with his fear, to conquer both, he
awoke to find his daughter gone. Like the lightning, she had
disappeared, leaving him nothing to contend against. At first he would
not believe the truth; even the wild anguish of his wife, who had lost
her child, and refused to be comforted, seemed groundless. He would not
believe in the effect of his own violence; but when the day passed by,
when messenger after messenger returned, bearing no tidings of his
daughter, the anguish which he endured could no longer be held under
control. Strong as his pride of authority, deep and earnest as his
nature, was his love for the young girl just driven from beneath his
roof. Why had she been forced to go? Even to his own heart he could give
no answer, save that he had willed her to love according to his wishes,
and found her unable to wrestle with her affections as he had wrestled
with the lightning. And now all the injustice of this obstinate adhesion
to his own will became palpable to him, as it had long been to those who
had suffered by it. With the impulse of a heart really capable of great
magnanimity, he longed to make reparation to his child. The half of his
great possessions he would have given for the privilege of holding her
once more to his bosom, without the painful necessity of explanation.
But a sleepless night was again followed by search and disappointment.
It was strange how lonely and desolate that spacious house seemed when
Myra was away. He missed the silvery ring of her laugh as he passed from
room to room. Her empty seat at the table seemed to reproach him. He
missed her light tread at night when she no longer came like a child, as
she still was at heart, to ask for the good-night kiss. The tears and
pale sorrow of his wife distressed him more keenly even than the void
which Myra had left in that lordly dwelling. Altogether it was a
mournful family—mournful as if a funeral had just passed from its midst.
Thus day followed day, and at length the suspense, which had become
terrible to bear, was relieved: Myra’s retreat at New Castle was made
known to Mr. D.
It seems a matter of astonishment that high-minded and strong men should
so often become dupes and victims to persons every way inferior,
intellectually and morally; but when we reflect that the wise and
generous are not only incapable of the low cunning and low motives which
belong to the low of heart and mind, we can not marvel so much that they
are incapable, also, of believing in the existence of these things, and
thus from an unbelief in evil, leave themselves unguarded to the
insidious meanness they can not recognize as a portion of humanity.
We have said, that in the house of Mr. D. there was a relative and
guest, to whom the departure of Myra from her home opened hopes of
influence and ultimate gain, which were strong enough to arouse all the
cupidity of his nature. This man had, with insidious meekness,
reanimated the disquiet of the household, and with his soft words and
silky manner, poured oil on the wrath of Mr. D., when he saw it yielding
to the generous dictates of affection. He had excited the fears which
drove Myra from her home, through the soft duplicity of his wife, and
now it was his great desire to prevent an interview, or the least chance
of reconciliation between the young girl and her parents. This man had
found little difficulty in tracing Myra from the first, but his
knowledge was kept secret until he found that Mr. D. was certain to hear
of her movements from other sources; then he openly claimed the merit of
great exertions in finding out her place of shelter, and volunteered,
with the most disinterested air imaginable, his influence in persuading
the young girl to return home.
Glad to save himself the humiliation and pain of entreaties, from which
his proud nature revolted, Mr. D. was well pleased to accept the
friendly offer, and it was this man’s arrival at New Castle, that
startled Myra from the little repose she had been enabled to obtain. Mr.
D. had authorized his messenger to induce Myra’s return by gentle
persuasion, by frank and generous promises that all should be forgiven,
all forgotten. He made no stipulation, no reserve. All that he desired
was the love and confidence of his child. To this was added many an
affectionate message from the mother, whom Myra loved so fondly, and
these were more than enough to have won the warm-hearted girl back to
the bosom of her family.
Myra saw this man, and he gave Mr. D.’s message faithfully, even the
caressing words of Mrs. D. were not withheld; but when he saw tears
swell up and fill the fine eyes which Myra turned upon him as he gave
the message—when he saw a gush of passionate tenderness sweep across her
face, the man changed gradually in his manner. His eye, his downcast
look, the compression of his mouth, all told that something had been
kept back. He seemed struggling with himself and Myra saw that all was
not as it should be. The young girl had no doubt of this man’s
sincerity—she had always believed him to be her friend. How then was she
to reconcile this restless manner, this sort of caution that gleamed in
his eyes and spoke in every feature of his face, with the frank message
of which he was the bearer?
After much anxious questioning the man consented to speak, but it was
only out of the deepest and most self-sacrificing friendship to her. It
was periling the favor of Mr. D. forever, but still he would speak. He
would not urge a creature so young and lovely to rush blindfold into the
power of a man exasperated as Mr. D. was against her. True, all these
promises had been sent; but in reality, the hate of her father had only
been aggravated against Mr. Whitney by her flight. Mr. D. was implacable
as ever, and instead of receiving his child with kindness, his sole
desire was to win her by false protestations into his power again, and
then punish her with all his haughty strength.
All this was repeated with the most perfect appearance of sincerity. The
truth seemed to have been wrested from this man’s heart, only by the
solemn obligations of friendship. Myra was very grateful for this
friendly warning, and the traitor left her strengthened in her purpose,
but with an aching and desolate heart.
Not an hour after this interview, Mr. Whitney arrived at New Castle.
Various reasons for delay had kept him behind his appointment, but
Myra’s agent had been vigilant, and her note reached him as he left the
boat. He came directly to the residence of her friend, ignorant of all
that had transpired to drive Myra from the protection of her own home.
Mr. Whitney had left the young girl gay, blooming, and brilliant, with
joyous anticipations—she met him now pale and drooping, her eyes heavy
with tears, her form swayed by the weight of her grief, like the stalk
of a flower on which the dew has fallen too heavily.
“And now,” he said, when she had told him all, “there is but one course
for us to pursue, and that, thank Heaven, is one to secure our
happiness. This man is not your father, and has no legal authority over
you. I will not speak of his injustice to me—of his harshness to you—for
in former years I know that he has been kind.”
Myra’s eyes filled with grateful tears. There was something in this
gentle forbearance that touched her deeply.
“Let us be united now, Myra; no one has authority over you. I am, in all
things, independent!”
It was hard to resist that pleading voice, those eyes so full of hopeful
tenderness, but Myra drew away her hand with an air of gentle dignity,
and a painful smile parted her lips.
“No,” she said, “no; I am here of my own will, unsolicited, unexpected.
It must not be said that your wife ran away from her father’s roof only
to be married.”
The proud delicacy with which this was spoken—so earnest in its
simplicity—left no room for a doubt. Mr. Whitney did not plead with her,
though greatly disappointed; he merely took her hand, with a smile, and
said:
“But this seems like rejecting me altogether. Surely there is too much
of pride here. Would you suffer thus to save a life, and then render
that life valueless, Myra?”
The color came and went upon Myra’s pale cheek. Now that he was by her
side, her hand in his, those eyes upon her face, the poor girl felt how
impossible it was to part from him forever.
“I have friends—relatives in the West Indies,” she said; “let me go to
them. Come to me there, with the frank and full consent of your parents
to our union, and I will be your wife.”
“No, not there, not so far. In Philadelphia—let me place you under the
protection of your friends there. I will visit my parents—their presence
and full consent shall sanction our marriage. Will not this arrangement
satisfy even your delicacy, beloved?”
Again the warm rose tinge came and went on Myra’s cheek, and the tears
that still swam in her eyes grew bright as diamonds with the smile that
broke through them.
“Yes,” she said, “this is enough.”
Three hours from that time Myra and her lover were on their way to
Philadelphia, but the good clergyman and his wife went with them from
New Castle, and left their sweet charge with her friends, while Mr.
Whitney proceeded to the home of his parents.
And now, when the necessity for resistance was gone, the reaction of all
this wild excitement swept over and prostrated her. Like a plant that
keeps green so long as the frost is in its leaves, but withers and
droops with the first glow of sunshine, her strength gave way, and there
was a time when her very life seemed in jeopardy.
Thus weak and feeble, poor Myra lay upon her couch in the quiet gloom of
her sick-chamber, and shrinking from the slightest sound, with that
sensitive dread which was itself a pain, she heard a noise upon the
stairs. It seemed like the hesitating tread of a man, blended with the
eager and suppressed remonstrance of some person who desired to check
his progress. Myra began to tremble, for even this was enough to shake
every nerve of her slight frame. She lifted her pale hand, put back the
tresses from her temple, and made a faint effort to lift her head from
the pillow, but in vain.
“My child—my child refuse to see her father? I will not believe it!”
“Father! father!” broke from the lips of that pale girl, and she sank on
her pillow gasping for breath.
All was hushed then, the door opened softly, and through the gloom which
hung around her couch, Myra saw the stately form of the old man who had
so long been her father. His face was pale, and tears stood upon his
cheek, as he bent down and kissed her forehead. Myra smiled, and drawing
a deep breath closed her eyes, and then opened them with a look of
touching love.
“Father!”
“My child!”
The old man sat down with her hand in his, and began smoothing the
slender fingers with his other palm, as he had done so often in her
childhood. This little act brought a world of pleasant old memories back
to Myra’s heart, one after another, like drops of cool dew upon a
half-blighted flower. She turned gently, and placed her other hand in
the old man’s palm.
He bent down and kissed the two little hands he clasped in his.
“And mamma!” whispered Myra.
“Your mamma has been pining for her child, Myra, and I am here to take
you home again.”
“But you hate him—you—you—” The poor girl broke off with a shudder.
“No, I will like him for your sake, love!” was the kind reply.
Myra closed her eyes, and tears broke through the dark lashes.
The old man now smiled, as he saw the tremulous joy his words had
brought to that pale face.
“We will have the wedding at D. Place, and when you go away again, Myra,
it must not be without a blessing.”
“Oh, papa, I am so happy,” whispered the poor girl, drawing a deep
breath. She did not unclose her eyes again, but a sweet placidity stole
over her face, and she fell into a calm sleep, the first that had
visited her eyelids in many a long day and night.
Never had D. Place looked more beautiful than it appeared on the day
when Myra returned to it, with her happy father. The fine old building,
with all its surrounding trees, was bathed in a flood of sunshine, that
hung over the whole landscape like the mist of a bridal vail. The
servants were all out to receive their young mistress as she alighted
from the carriage; even the hunting dogs came whining and yelping from
their kennels, riotous with joy, as so many politicians the day after an
election. Myra had smiles for all; but as her eyes fell upon the gentle
mother, who had loved her so devotedly, the young girl broke away, her
cheeks glowing, her eyes full of tears, and threw herself into the arms
that were joyously opened to receive her.
“Oh, mamma, I never expected to be so happy again!” she cried, shaking
back her curls, and gazing upon the face of her mother with a look of
thrilling affection. “But you are pale, mamma!”
“No, not now; but I am very, very happy, Myra.”
“But I have only brought her home that she may leave us again,” said Mr.
D., with a frank smile, as his wife held out one hand to welcome him,
while the other still clung to her child.
“I know, I know; but that is quite a different thing,” answered the
happy mother, drawing Myra into the house.
As Myra passed up to her old room she met the household traitor, who had
so deliberately misrepresented his friend. The man held out his hand.
“No,” said Myra, drawing back with quiet contempt; “for your children’s
sake I have not exposed your baseness, but there can be no friendship
between us in future.”
“So because your father has changed, I am to be censured for
misrepresentation,” answered the man with consummate self-possession.
“But this is the usual reward of an honest endeavor to serve.”
Myra passed on, without reply.
Mr. D. was not a man to make partial atonement for an error. A prompt
and urgent request was forwarded to Mr. Whitney and his parents, that
they should make D. Place, and not Philadelphia, the destination of
their journey. Meantime every arrangement was commenced for the wedding,
and thus Myra’s path of life lay among blossoms and in the sunshine
again. It was a pleasant thing to wait then, for a world of happiness
seemed dawning for her in the future.
Mr. Whitney came at last, and with him the revered parent, whose consent
to his son’s marriage had been frankly given. After all their trials and
adventures, the young couple were to be married quietly at last under
the shelter of home, surrounded by those who knew and loved them best.
You should have seen Myra Clark as she came down the massive staircase
in her bridal dress that wedding-night. Her _petite_ figure, graceful as
a sylph, was rendered still more ethereal by the misty floating of her
bridal vail. The fragrance of a few white blossoms floated through her
ringlets, and her small foot, clad in its slipper of snowy satin,
scarcely seemed to touch the stairs as she descended.
Whitney stood by the open door ready to receive his bride. With her own
peculiar and feminine grace she met him; the glow upon her cheek took a
deeper rose-tint as she laid her small hand in his. She trembled a
little, just enough to give a flower-like tremor to the folds of her
vail, and for one instant the shadow of deep thought swept over her
face.
The bridegroom was very tall, and this gave to Myra a look still more
feminine and child-like, as she stood by his side.
“Are you ready, dearest?” he said, bending gently over her.
She gave a faint start, and lifted her large brown eyes to his with a
smile of such deep love and holy trust, as seldom looks up from a soul
merely human. That smile was answer enough. The next moment they stood
within the broad light that flooded the drawing-room. A few words—a few
murmured blessings—perchance a few tears—for the tears of affectionate
regret are sometimes the brightest jewels that can be cast at the feet
of a bride—and then Myra Clark became a wife.