Events mark time more than years, and this truth, so much known, serves
me to tell the change wrought in Edith. A child in years, the beautiful
fable of Psyche was realized; and the next morning found her soul
awakened, and from her quiet, subdued manner, no longer the child but
the woman—ay, and with a woman’s loving and devoted heart. Mrs. Morton
had been informed—much to her surprise, of his proposal to her
daughter—by Charles, and though prepossessed in his favor, yet she
demurred giving her consent to their engagement on account of Edith’s
extreme youth. Charles told her of his isolated condition—his fortune;
and she at last, won by his earnest entreaties, and the bashful, asking
look from Edith—whom she chanced to see whilst hesitating—consented to
their correspondence and conditional engagement. And, now we must hurry
over the subsequent time which intervened before Lennard’s departure,
nor do I design to inflict the pangs of parting on any save the lovers
themselves.
January found Edith at her new school, and her days glided on tranquilly
and hopefully. She was assiduous at her studies, music, etc.;
determined, in the depths of her loving yet ambitious little heart, to
render herself worthy of her future husband.
Charles, carrying letters of introduction to persons of some
consideration, and having good credit at his bankers, soon found himself
admitted into circles of the _élite_ in England, France and Italy. But
every where did he carry about with him his vivid remembrance of Edith
the young and the loving. Unlike most heroes, he met with no stirring
adventures—no “accidents by flood or field”—no titled dames sued for
his love. He traversed England—knew London and its lions—admired its
gems; dwelt long enough in Paris to speak intelligently; sailed down the
Rhine; crossed the Simplon, and spent some time at Florence, Naples,
Venice, and at last settled down in Rome, to drag through the second
winter of his probation in Europe. And most constant had he been all
this time, thinking on Edith by day—dreaming of her by night, and
repeatedly sending his missives of love o’er the broad Atlantic, laden
with sighs sufficient to waft the bark of itself had not _steam_ deigned
to assist him.
It was in the month of March, when Lennard fell ill at Rome.
Alone—recluse and dreamy still in his habits—he had made but few
acquaintances, and would, I think, have fared but badly had it not been
for the attention of an American family, like himself, sojourning in the
“imperial city.”
Mr. Ashton, wife and daughter, were unremitting in their kindness to the
invalid, the former watching him with a parent’s care, and the daughter
cheering and amusing him during the listless and languid weeks of his
slow convalescence. Isabel, or rather Bel Ashton, was not beautiful; but
there was that nameless charm around her which often attaches more
powerfully than mere beauty. Partly educated in Europe, she had passed
much of her time in Paris and other cities of the continent, and
possessed by _des habitudes_, and by nature, that
“Grace of motion and of look—the smooth
And swimming majesty of step and tread;
The symmetry of form, which set
The soul afloat, even like delicious airs
Of flute and harp.”
Above all, her wit, sparkling and effervescing like champagne, and
almost as intoxicating. How swiftly and agreeably speeded on his days.
Every morning found Charles in the parlor of the _suite_ of rooms
occupied by the Ashtons, and as he gained strength, their escort in
rides and sight-seeing promenades. Yet, though he admired Bel Ashton
much, his betrothed Edith was not forgotten. He now, however, often
caught himself contrasting them together—wondering had she changed from
her _spirituelle_, radiant, girlish beauty, into any thing of more
earthy, coarser mould. With something unpleasant pulling at his
heart-strings, came the recollection that Edith’s mother had a great
resemblance to her daughter, but was too much _embonpoint_ to suit his
ideas of matron comeliness, and then a haunting vision would cross his
fastidious mind of his worshiped Edith becoming like her mother, a
Turkish _beauty_ as to her size. Bel, with her tact, her undulating,
graceful motion, her mannerism, _would_ come in comparison to this
_bug-bear_—we may almost call it—of his imagination; and, though when
he remembered her sweet, joyous temper; her appearance, as when standing
by the moonlit spring, with her graceful, girlish embarrassment—her
rare and dazzling beauty, her pure young love—Bel would yield instant
precedence to Edith; yet was he constantly haunted by these ever
recurring comparisons, until he began—the ingrate!—to feel his
engagement as a binding chain.
“I am now strong enough,” sighed Charles Lennard, one morning, “to think
of my preparations to return to America. ’Tis now May, and I must reach
Virginia sometime in July, on account of my then having reached my
twenty-first birthday, and am recalled by letters looking business-like,
in every way. When do you think of returning, Mr. Ashton?”
“I have been debating that question very often of late with my wife, and
we both have arrived at the conclusion that we have already been
absentees too long, and must wend our way ‘westward-ho’ also. What say
you, Mrs. Ashton, and you, _ma Belle_, to being traveling companions
with our friend Lennard?”
“With all my heart,” said Mrs. Ashton; whilst Bel, who had been seated
at the piano, ran over with taper and jeweled fingers a brilliant
symphony, adding to its melody that of her own rich, mellow voice, in
the words, “There is no home like my own.”
And thus ’twas decided; and Charles carried his unconscious tempter from
his allegiance along with him. Their intimacy, the effect—where any
agreeability exists at all—of being “alone on the wide, wide sea,” did
much to render him still more dissatisfied with his engagement, and
though he erred not in the _letter_, I fear the _spirit_ suffered in his
vows of fealty to his affianced Edith. Alas! for man’s love. It is
indeed
“_Of man’s life a thing apart_.”
Yet, one who thinks should not wish it otherwise, for it would then be
most unnatural. Man has a thousand and one things to call off his
thoughts from his love to passing events, glowing and changing as
rapidly as the evening clouds, tinging his thoughts and feelings,
chameleon-like, with all the tints and varieties of change, and calling
upon him to battle with the rough necessities of life. And all this
prevents him from thinking constantly o’er his dream of love, and
weakens, as a matter of course, the first passionate ardor which he felt
when under the influence of the smiles, bright glances, and loving
words. As Miss Landon most beautifully observes—“_He_ may turn
sometimes to the flowers on the way-side, but the great business of life
is still before him. The heart which a woman could utterly fill were
unworthy to be her shrine. _His_ rule over her is despotic and
unmodified, but _her_ power over him must be shared with a thousand
other influences.”
Whilst, on the other hand, woman goes steadily on with her domestic,
monotonous duties, till they call for no exertion of thought, becoming
purely mechanical, and the imagination having no healthy exercise, runs
riot in its indulgence of day-dreams. Many and many is the maiden who
sits sewing most industriously with bright smiles wreathing
unconsciously her lips—ask her the subject of her thoughts—her blush
will tell you better than my words. She is now feasting on her
imagination till her love, by constant thought, constant association
with her daily routine of duties and pleasures, becomes part and parcel
of her very existence.
They have all landed in New York—the home of the Ashtons—and still
Charles Lennard loiters. Day after day finds him among the groups who
crowd Mrs. Ashton’s parlors to welcome their return. At length Bel and
her parents decide to spend the summer at Old Point Comfort, and Charles
immediately finds it necessary for his health to enjoy the sea air and
bathing. And so he must answer Edith’s last letter, received whilst in
Europe, and announce his arrival—excuse himself, also, for not flying
at once to her presence!