And Edith? All this while of chances and changes how is the time passing
with her? See for yourself reader! Follow me gently into that well-known
parlor of her mother’s dwelling. There she sits, the beautiful one! as
light, as graceful, and still more lovely than when we saw her last; for
we now behold her a thinking, refined, intellectual woman, with all her
youthful, beaming charms, heightened into exquisite and womanly
perfection. She is leaning, rather pensively, on the arm of the chair,
drawn to the opened and perfume draped window, with her soft, dimpled
hand holding in its rose-colored palm the rounded chin; the neat, little
foot patting unconsciously the floor—her eyes bent on the flowers of
her garden, seeing them in all their floating hues, like the mingled
colors of a kaleidoscope, before her musing gaze. Her guitar leans
against her knee, and the other hand is straying across the strings,
awaking its echoes like the notes of an Eolian harp.
“Mother, I will go with cousin Frank and Sallie to Old Point. They are
so anxious I should do so.”
“And suppose, Edith, Mr. Lennard arrives in your absence, what shall I
tell him?” said Mrs. Morton, with a smile.
“Mother, you must forgive my first breach of confidence, for I was too
unhappy, too wounded in my pride and love to speak of what I am going to
tell you,” said Edith, her listless attitude now abandoned for one of
energy, and the usual musical tones were rapid and more harsh—“yes,
mother, my very first. Mr. Lennard will be at Old Point soon after I
reach there. Yesterday I received a letter from him, and such a letter!”
Edith’s voice faltered, but indignantly driving back the tears which
were filling her eyes, she drew from her pocket a letter, and handing it
to her mother, told her to read it. Whilst Mrs. Morton arranged her
glasses, Edith sunk back into the chair with a slight frown and
heightened color, and one could see from the clenched hand how
determined she was to overcome the agitation which was increasing by her
disclosures.
“_New York, June, 1847._
“Dear Edith,—You must pardon my seeming neglect in having left
unanswered so long your last. I have been very ill, and had it
not been for the unexampled kindness of an American family
resident in Rome, should long ere this have slept my last sleep.
And though barely recovered, I feel that my strength needs
recruiting ere I can be considered aught but an invalid, and
will therefore set out for Old Point Comfort the last of this
month. I hope I need not assure you that I feel my exile from
your presence most sensibly, and I anticipate the pleasure of
visiting you in A—— as soon as I am better. I know, my dear
Edith, that this is but a sorry return for your long and
affectionate letter to me; but I never did excel in putting my
thoughts and feelings upon paper, my weakness now, must excuse
even this poor attempt. I know your kind heart will make every
apology for me, and you will look upon this as only the
announcement, from myself, of my return to my native land, and
of course, to you. Believe me, dear Edith, as ever,
Truly yours,
Charles.”
Mrs. Morton folded the letter slowly, and gave it back to Edith.
“He may be as he says, Edith, too unwell and too weak to write as he
wishes.”
“Unwell!” said Edith indignantly; “were _I dying_ I would not have
written such a letter to _him_. Yes, I will go to Old Point, and show
Mr. Lennard that I can resign him, and still live: I am determined he
shall never triumph in the thought, that I, a foolish girl, would weep,
and pine away, because he has forgotten me,”—here the tears ran freely
from her beautiful eyes; and, with her voice broken by sobs, she
continued—as she knelt before her mother, burying her tear-stained face
in her lap—“and then, dear mother, I will be all your own Edith again:
no parting from you, for I will never, never love any one, or believe in
their love as I have done.”
Mrs. Morton suffered her to weep, knowing it was the best for that poor,
grieved heart thus to find vent from its bitterness; but she showed her
sympathy in her child’s first grief by her loving words, and by softly
smoothing the ringlets on her hot, throbbing brow, and by many a tender
kiss. And Edith, with her head resting on her mother’s lap, sat on the
floor as of old, when a little child she would listen to stories from
her parent; and Mrs. Morton, very judiciously, sought to impress upon
poor Edith, the instability of all things earthly, and begged her to lay
her griefs, in prayer, at the feet of that kind Father, who is never
tired of inviting the sorrowing and weary to lay their burthens upon
him, exhorting her to pray for strength, and firm faith, so as to say
from her heart—“Though thou slayest me, yet will I trust in _Thee_!”
Some days were passed in preparation for her trip; and, at the appointed
time, she accompanied her cousin Frank and his wife. The Hygeia Hotel
was crowded with fashionables and invalids from every section of the
Union, and our party found they had arrived in excellent time for the
fancy ball, to take place the ensuing week. Edith was only eighteen; and
though really grieved at Charles’ cold letter, and supposed
faithlessness, yet her indignation and wounded pride made her still bear
up against her sorrow, at the thought of rupturing her engagement with
Lennard—whom she really loved, with all the warmth of first and
trusting love, notwithstanding this rude shock it had received. But she
was hopeful and buoyant in disposition, and consoled herself with the
thought—as she looked into the mirror, and saw there her
loveliness—that she yet would win him back to love her still more
deeply: and pleased was she, very naturally, at the universal admiration
she excited among the gentlemen; looking forward, too, to her _first_
ball—thinking Charles Lennard would then see her in a dress, on which
she bent all her taste to render it bewitching—that he would feel proud
to be the husband-elect of one to whom so many eyes turned in ecstasy at
her exquisite beauty. All these, and many more thoughts of a like
nature, kept her from becoming a prey to her heart sickness, and she was
really as lively and gay as she intended appearing in his eyes. I hope
no one will deem my heroine heartless, because she was not as unhappy is
she first _expected_ to have been. No, very far was Edith Morton from
that: on the contrary, she possessed warm and ardent feelings, but—as I
said before—she was hopeful and confident—as what really beautiful
woman is not?—in the power of her attractions.