A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT.
Mrs. Savage was in a state of continual unhappiness. When a really
good-hearted woman swerves from the right path, either from policy or
interest, she is sure to be the greatest sufferer of all the parties in
interest. She saw her son come in and go out with that restless,
dejected air which often follows a great disappointment. He took no
interest in his old pursuits; and all the sweet confidence which had
existed between the mother and son was swept away from their lives. This
sprung mostly out of her own self-consciousness. She knew that her own
ruthless influence had broken up the best hope of his young life; and
remembering that cruel interview with Anna Burns, would not look her son
squarely in the face, or soften his melancholy with sweet caresses, as a
good mother loves to give while comforting her son. Horace felt this,
and it made him feel still more desolate. He congratulated himself that
his mother was ignorant of the humiliating attachment he had formed, and
gathered up all the strength of his manhood to meet the life which lay
before him divested of half its bloom.
Better than he thought Mrs. Savage understood all this. She saw that it
was no capricious liking that her son had to deal with; and, spite of
herself, the sweet face of Anna Burns, in its sad, pleading humility,
which was, after all, more dignified than pride, would present itself to
her memory; and in spite of the intellect which still protested that she
had done right, the heart in her bosom rose up against her, and called
her a household traitor, an unnatural mother, a hard woman, and some
other harsh names, that she would have been glad to forget.
Then there was the certainty that Georgiana Halstead never would be her
son’s wife. Mrs. Savage had loved this bright-faced girl with unusual
tenderness; and this conviction was a bitter disappointment. Altogether,
things were taking an unsatisfactory course with her—and she was a most
unhappy woman.
One day when Horace came in from business, and was going, as usual, to
his own room, Mrs. Savage called to him with a quiver of suffering in
her voice, that made him pause half way up the stairs and turn back.
“Is there any thing the matter, mother?” he said, entering her pretty
sitting-room, stiffly, as if he had been a stranger.
Mrs. Savage remembered the time when he would have come in with a laugh,
thrown himself on the stool at her feet, and with both arms folded on
her lap, told her of any thing that was uppermost in his heart. She
sighed heavily, and a weary look of pain came into her eyes.
“Oh, Horace! why is it that we seem so strange to each other?”
“Strange are we? I had not thought of it, mother.”
He was surprised and touched by her manifest unhappiness. Absorbed in
his own thoughts, he had scarcely noticed that she was not as cheerful
as usual.
“Dear old pet,” he said, making a strained effort at playfulness, “what
has come over you? Is it because her inhuman son has been making a
wretch of himself? Come, give him a kiss, he is sadly in want of it.”
Mrs. Savage kissed him on the forehead with quivering lips; and flinging
herself back in the chair burst into a passion of tears.
The startled son threw his arms around her.
“Why, mother, mother! what is the meaning of this?”
Mrs. Savage, superior woman as she was, answered like the most
commonplace female in the world.
“Oh, Horace! I am sure you hate me!”
“Hate you? Why, mother, what have I have done?”
“Nothing! Nothing in the world! It is I that am to blame!”
“But there is no blame between us. If all this is about Georgiana
Halstead, do understand, once for all, she does not want me, and never
cared for me in the least, only as a playmate and sort of brother. In
fact, she is almost engaged to young Gould.”
“I know it, I know it! She told me. Every thing goes wrong! I am the
most unhappy woman in the world!”
“Who makes you so unhappy, dear mother?”
She looked at him earnestly through her tears, gave a hysterical sob,
and sat upright in her chair, resolute and proud of look as he had seen
her of old.
“Horace, do you love that girl, Anna Burns?”
Savage started up, and his face flushed scarlet.
“Mother!”
“I knew all about it almost from the first, Horace.”
“You? And said nothing. That was kind. Is it this which has troubled you
so much?”
“Yes, it has troubled me—I am so sorry.”
“Do not reproach me, mother. It is the first time I ever went against
what I knew would be your wishes. You are right, there can be no
happiness in going beneath our own grade in life; but she seemed so
refined, so innocent, and good. I think a wiser man than I ever was
would have been interested. I had hoped that this little shame of my
life would never reach you or my father.”
“He does not know it; but I do—I do! Tell me, Horace, for you have not
answered my question yet. Do you love this girl?”
“I did love her dearly—better than my own life!”
“And now?”
“If you know all, mother, why wound me with that question?”
“Because I wish to know—because I must know.”
“She has the power to give me terrible pain, mother; beyond that I will
say nothing.”
“But you did love her?”
“I have said so.”
“And but for her unworthiness would love her yet?”
“We need not speak of what will be. There is misery enough in what is.”
“Sit down, my son, in the old place, at my feet; then turn your eyes
away. I do not like you to look at me so. Now say, if this girl were all
you first thought her to be, would you marry her?”
“What! against your consent, mother?”
“I did not say that. Ask your own heart, Horace; was the love you felt
for this girl such as runs through a man’s whole life; such as leads him
to make all sacrifices in its attainment?”
“Yes; if ever a man loved honestly and devotedly I did. But it is all
over now.”
“But you are very unhappy?”
“Very.”
“Will you never forget her? Oh, Horace! will the old times never come
back to us?”
“I cannot tell, mother. When the heart has been betrayed into giving
itself up entirely, the reaction, if it ever comes, must be slow and
painful.”
“Horace!”
“Mother!”
“I—I wish to see you happy. My heart aches for you. I would do any thing
rather than see you looking so dispirited.”
“But you can do nothing. Yes, yes; I should not say that. Love me, and
bear with me awhile; this cannot last forever.”
“With you, perhaps, not; but with me it will last forever. My son, it is
your mother who has done this. She is the person you ought to hate. Anna
Burns is guiltless as an angel. I, your mother, says this; and you must
believe it.”
“Mother, mother! are you getting insane?”
“No, Horace; I heard of this attachment, and condemned it. My pride was
wounded, my ambition thwarted. I thought Georgiana loved you, and that
this girl had come in her way to cause all sorts of unhappiness. I
appealed to her generosity. I told her that nothing on this earth should
win our consent to your marriage with her. She told me how young Ward
had persecuted her; and I, unwomanly, ungenerous woman that I was, bade
her leave you in doubt, that you might be shocked out of your love. She
pleaded, she wept, she protested, but gave way at last, and pledged her
word to avoid you, and leave the suspicions in your mind to rest there.”
“Oh, mother, mother! this is terrible!”
“I know it, boy; but it is all true. God forgive me!”
Savage was standing before his mother, white as death, but with a glow
of deep thoughtfulness in his eyes.
“And she is innocent?”
“As an angel, I do believe. Innocent even of guessing the evil thoughts
you had of her. The worst she dreamed of was, that you supposed her
capable of marrying that young scapegrace.”
“Thank heaven for that! She will not have felt the insult so deeply! But
I was cruel with her, the innocent darling.”
“No, it was I who was most cruel. I, who forbade her to explain; I, who
left her, broken-hearted, to struggle against her honest affection, and
the shame of which she was unconscious. Can you ever forgive me,
Horace?”
“Forgive you! mother? Is that a question which you should ask of your
son? The question is, will Anna Burns ever forgive me?”
“She will—she must. I will go to her. I will humble myself as is
befitting one who has given way to her pride cruelly as I have. But
first, Horace, say that you will forget this, and love me in the old
way?”
Bright tears were in those fine eyes, the sympathetic mouth worked with
emotion. That look of yearning entreaty went to the son’s heart; he
knelt by her side, kissed her hands, her forehead, and the eyes which
were still heavy with repentant dew.
“Forget it? Oh, mother! how can I forget this nobility of soul which
gives back the bloom to my life. It was love for me that made you, for a
time, less than yourself. That I will forget.”
“And love me dearly, as of old?”
“Indeed, and indeed, I will.”
“This love of Anna Burns must not make you forget me.”
The lady said this with a piteous smile. It was hard to give him up.
“Mother, do you love my father less because of me?”
“No, no! How should I?”
“Love, like mercy, is not strained, mother. The heart that can feel it
at all in its perfection, grows larger and grander with each new object
of affection.”
The mother’s face became luminous with one of those smiles which flood
all the features with sunshine. She fell forward upon her son’s bosom,
sighing away the last remnants of her unhappiness.
“God bless you, my son! I will love Anna Burns dearly for your sake!”
“May I go to her now, mother?”
“Not yet. Wait a little till I have prepared your father. He knows
nothing. When you see her again it must be with full authority.”
“You are right, mother. I am happy and I can wait!”
A servant opened the door, bringing in a card.
“Mr. Gould—what can he want of me, I wonder?” exclaimed the lady,
looking at the card.
“I will leave you to find out,” answered Horace, kissing his mother’s
hand.
Scarcely had the son disappeared from one door, when old Mr. Gould came
in through another. He was grave and quiet, not to say stern, in his
manner toward the lady who came forward to receive him. With that
old-fashioned formality which is so pleasant in a gray-headed man, he
led Mrs. Savage back to the seat she had left, and drew a chair close to
it. Then he began conversing with her in a low, earnest voice. She heard
him at first with a little surprise; then her interest deepened, the hot
color came and went in her face; and more than once she broke out into
exclamations that seemed half pleasure, half disappointment. When the
old gentleman arose she gave him her hand, which he bowed over with a
reverence which was not without grace.
“I rejoice that you come too late,” she said, smiling upon him.
“And so do I. Such things bring back one’s old trust in human nature.”
“I, at least, ought to be thankful that all the atonement in my power
was made in time,” she said, graciously.
“You will all be punctual. I am an old business man, remember, and shall
expect you at the moment.”
“You can depend on us.”
They shook hands at the door with great cordiality, and the old man
smiled as he went down the steps.