Mary Marlowe was a beautiful girl, and the only child of devoted
parents. Her father was a merchant in moderate circumstances, and
resided in one of the more secluded streets of the great emporium of our
land. The society to which they belonged was of the highest
respectability, but the life led by each member of this family was
distinguished for its peacefulness.
All the young men who were acquainted with the only daughter, were
charmed by her accomplished mind, personal beauty, and the sweetness of
her voice. But among those who aspired to win her hand and heart, was
one who had been received as an accepted lover. The parties were worthy
of each other, and the love which was daily uniting them almost into one
being, was eminently refined and pure. Charming beyond compare were the
scenes which the lover was constantly picturing to his mind, but the
smiles of his lady constituted the sunlight of every scene; and she,
too, cherished many a vision of unalloyed happiness, and the thought
never entered her mind that the world contained a single cloud that
could possibly cast a shadow over her heart. Like a young and vigorous
tree of the forest, the young man stood among his fellows; and like a
flower in a remote dell dwelt the heroine of our story, in her quiet
home.
It was the evening of St. Valentine’s Day, and Mary Marlowe was seated
before a comfortable fire; now thoughtfully peering into the glowing
grate, and anon enjoying some of the fine passages of her favorite
authors. Her father was absent from home on some charitable errand,
while her mother and a country cousin, who was making her a winter
visit, were spending the evening with a neighboring family. And it so
happened, too, that Mary’s lover was absent from the city, so the
beautiful damsel was entirely alone. Yes, she was indeed alone, but far
from being in a lonely mood, for her thoughts were with her lover, and
she amused herself by dwelling upon the treasures of her
newly-discovered ideal world.
But now the damsel is startled by the sudden ringing of the street door
bell, and the servant presently makes his appearance in the parlor with
a note addressed to Mary Marlowe. She recognizes the hand-writing—it is
from her lover, and quickly does she fix herself comfortably in the old
arm-chair to enjoy the anticipated luxury. She opens the letter, and
reads as follows:—
“My dear Mary—You are indeed dear to me, but at the same time I think
you are a cold-hearted girl, and I fear that you possess a timid and
bashful disposition, which would never be reconciled to my sterner
nature. In view of this deeply-rooted belief, I have conceived the
idea of bringing our intimacy of half a year to an immediate close.
And what more appropriate season could be selected for our separation
than the present, when, as I doubt not, you are well-nigh overwhelmed
with the missives of St. Valentine, and can, in a moment, select a
worthy lover from the many who have sought your hand? And now that I
may be in the fashion, I subscribe myself,
Your Friend and Valentine.”
The cruel arrow has pierced the maiden’s heart, and by the calm despair
now resting on her brow, we tremble for her fate. Tears come not to her
relief—the crimson current in her veins has ceased to flow, and she
falls into the hollow of her chair in a deep swoon. And now she is
visited by a dream, and if we are to believe the story of her
countenance, strange and fearful must be the character of that dream.
* * * * * * * *
It is now ten o’clock; the family have all returned, and our Mary has
recovered from her swoon. Laughingly does her mother talk to her about
her housekeeping duties, for her drooping eyelids intimate the idea that
she has enjoyed a comfortable nap. To this a pleasant reply is returned,
accompanied with a kiss for all present, but none, save our poor Mary,
can see the heavy cloud brooding upon the household. A few moments more,
and the family have all retired to their several apartments, and the
house is shrouded in silence.
As usual, Mary and her cousin are to occupy the same bed, and the
latter, being uncommonly drowsy, is soon lost in a sweet slumber. And
now let us watch with care the movements of her companion, who, when
last noticed by the sleeper, was poring over the pages of her Bible.
Noiselessly do her footsteps fall upon the carpet, as she goes to a
closet for a small vial, which she examines, and then places upon her
dressing-case. Drawer after drawer is opened, and on one or two chairs
are displayed the various articles which compose the dress of a bride.
And now the lady retires to her bath, and then comes forth with a ruddy
glow upon her cheek; her flowing hair is bound into its beautiful folds,
and in a short time she stands before her mirror decked in spotless
white, as if for a virgin festival. What does all this mean? Alas! our
Mary is “the queen of a fantastic realm.”
But, lo! another change. The lamp has been extinguished, and our Mary is
upon her knees at prayer, with her hands closely clasped, and her full
liquid eyes turned heavenward. The mellow moonlight steals sweetly
through the open curtains, adding an unwonted brightness, as it were, to
the figure of the praying girl. Not a sound is there to break the holy
silence of the place—no sound save the almost inaudible words of this
strange prayer:—
“Father in heaven, I cannot understand the decree of thy Providence, but
I submit to thy dispensation without a murmur. I knew that in my womanly
idolatry I was forgetting thee, and I now beseech thee, in thine
infinite love, to have mercy upon me, and wash my soul from every
transgression. Have mercy also, O God, upon him who has broken my heart;
comfort my parents in their declining years, and answer my prayer
through the merits of thy Son, the Redeemer of the world. I come to
dwell with Thee, if thou wilt receive me to thy bosom. Amen and Amen.”
* * * * * * * *
Morning dawned, and the pleasant sunshine was flooding the world with
beauty. Our Mary’s cousin was the first to awaken from slumber, when she
encircled her bedfellow with her arms, and imprinted an affectionate
kiss upon her lips; one moment more, and she was petrified with
horror—for Mary Marlowe was numbered with the dead.
On the third day after that of St. Valentine, the lover of the unhappy
suicide returned to the city. He found not his beloved in the pleasant
parlor of her father, but a sleeper in the voiceless and desolate tomb.
The fatal valentine was found and submitted to his inspection. He avowed
his utter ignorance of it, and having fallen into a settled melancholy,
is now a raving maniac. As to the thoughtless and wicked man who wrote
the foolish valentine, his name and purpose are alike unknown.
Note.—The prominent features of this incident actually occurred in the
city of New York in February, 1847.