ASPASIA COOLIDGE
Six months later a cheerful group gathered in the breakfast-room of Lord
Dunforth’s house in London.
Brownie has taken the head of the table lately, as Lady Dunforth says
she is getting too old to have the responsibility of it, but in reality
she loves to sit and watch the lovely face beaming over the silver urns,
and the dainty little hands as they flutter like white doves about the
rich and glittering service.
And truly the beautiful young wife, although she makes a lovely picture,
presides with a gentle dignity all her own. Lord Dunforth has also
resigned his place to Adrian, and he and his wife now sit side by side.
He seems to grow more tender of his gentle companion of late, as if he
experienced a sort of remorse for the secret barrier which has stood
between them all these long years, and thus their lives are being filled
with a blessed content, as, with their faces turned toward the setting
sun, they calmly await the evening rest.
They have several guests this morning at their table, and one has a very
familiar, as well as a decidedly American appearance. It is Mr. Conrad,
who has lately arrived in England to return a portion of that property
which was intrusted to his care so many years ago.
The other guests are his wife, and ward—Miss Emily Eliot.
Brownie was delighted to receive a visit from them—it seemed almost to
link her to the old life once more, for she still had a tender regard
for her native land, although she never expected to make it her home
again.
Adrian had been giving him a dramatic account of his so-called runaway
marriage, and they had just concluded a hearty laugh at his expense,
when the butler entered with the mail-bag.
“Now for the letters!” said the young man, and he unlocked the bag and
began distributing them.
“Aha!” he said, with a mischievous glance across the table, as he took
up a heavy missive directed, in a round, bold hand, to his wife. “May I
inquire, madam, what gentleman correspondent you have in America?”
“When you get through inspecting the envelope, I will inspect the
contents, and then, perhaps, I’ll tell you,” replied Brownie, saucily.
“You see, Mr. Conrad,” said Adrian, turning to the lawyer, with mock
seriousness, “that although my wife is getting quite English in some
respects, yet the American independence will crop out occasionally. I
despair of ever eradicating that!” he added, with a fond look at the
bright face bent so earnestly over the closely written pages she had
unfolded.
Suddenly she looked up, with a little exclamation of delight and
surprise.
“Oh, Adrian!” she said, “I have such good news for you! Aspasia is going
to be married—and to whom do you think?”
“Get Mr. Conrad to guess—he knows more concerning your acquaintances
than I,” Adrian replied.
“But it is no one whom Mr. Conrad knows at all, and you are well
acquainted with him. Besides, he is a New Yorker.”
“I am sure I know of no one in New York who is marriageable, unless it
be——”
“Well, whom?” Brownie asked, with shining eyes, as he hesitated.
“Wilbur Coolidge,” he replied, with a peculiar expression.
“And why not?” she demanded, mischievously; and he laughed outright.
He had always been a trifle sensitive over that little episode in her
life. He could not bear the thought that another should even have
presumed to love her.
“Let me read you what she says,” Brownie went on. “Mr. Conrad knows all
about her, and of course you are all interested in my friends, and then
Aspasia was so kind when auntie died.” The sweet voice always softened
tenderly when speaking of auntie. “She begins her news by saying,” she
continued, referring to the letter:
“‘And now, darling, I have some wonderful things to tell you. In the
first place, I have abandoned, as I promised you, my trains, except for
evening wear, and I trust I have lengthened my charities, and received
much personal benefit thereby. I thought I would try short dresses
before the Paris Exposition, and get a little accustomed to them, for
another such experience as I went through with the 5th of one September
would finish me entirely. Speaking of the Paris Exposition brings me to
another important point. I am making extensive preparations for a
European tour, and, if nothing happens, I intend to run over to England
and take a look at my Brownie before I return. Now, the cream of my
letter lies in the fact that my contemplated tour is to be prefaced by a
brief ceremony, which will change Aspasia Huntington to Aspasia
Coolidge! Yes, dear, I am going to marry Wilbur Coolidge. He has told me
all about his liking for you, and I could not blame the dear boy in the
least; for I know if I had been a man I should have wanted to marry you
myself. I met Mr. Coolidge while in New York some five months ago, and
was at once attracted toward him on account of his manly independence.
His father has met with business reverses, which have reduced the family
from their former magnificence to almost a state of poverty. Wilbur has
proved himself a man in the emergency, putting his shoulder to the
wheel, devoting himself to his profession—that of the law—and has done
much toward the support of his mother and sisters; consequently, I am
very proud of him.
“‘Now, I want to tell you a little about Isabel and the rest of the
family, but particularly about her, for I know all that you have
suffered from her unkindness in the past, although you have never
written me a word about it.
“‘Mrs. Coolidge is a confirmed invalid, entirely broken down by
disappointment and their reduced circumstances; but Isabel, instead of
being the weak-minded, vain, and selfish being every one thought her to
be, has, like Wilbur, risen nobly above their calamities, takes the
whole charge of the household affairs and of her mother, with whom she
is as patient as an angel. But she is the saddest creature I ever saw,
and I believe that the girl’s heart is really broken, for her brother
tells me she did truly love and esteem Sir Charles Randal,
notwithstanding her inordinate desire to obtain a high position in the
world. She never speaks of herself or her sorrow, but devotes herself to
others. Whatever her past errors have been, she is atoning nobly for
them, and I believe will come out of this furnace a pure, good woman.
“‘The other girls, Viola and Alma, are charming, and they can never say
enough in praise of Lady Dredmond, as they persist in calling you.
“‘Now, dearest, you may expect to see me about the first of February,
and don’t I long to clasp you once again in my arms, my Brownie, for,
dear, it is to you I feel I owe the higher and better views which I now
have of life.
“‘Ever your loving friend,
“‘ASPASIA HUNTINGTON.’”
“I shall show this letter to Sir Charles,” she said, when she was alone
with Adrian, and had read it a second time.
“But what have you there?” she added, as she saw him examining another
letter with a puzzled expression.
“I am trying to make out whether this epistle is directed to you or to
me. The ‘Mr.’ or ‘Mrs.’ whichever it is, is very indistinct,” he
replied.
“I think it must be for me,” Brownie said, smiling. “It is a lady’s
hand, and the ‘Mrs.’ looks as if a tear had dropped upon it.”
“At all events, you may have the privilege of opening it,” said Adrian,
giving it to her.
She did so, and all doubt was removed as she read:
“MY DEAR MRS. DREDMOND:—If you will allow me to address you thus, after
all the trying events of the past. Since misfortune has come upon us,
and I now occupy an humbler position than even you did when you were
with us, my eyes have been opened, and I now see my wickedness in all
its enormity. I cannot rest until I tell you how sincerely I repent of
my unkindness to you, and ask you to forgive me if you can. Your lovely
spirit and example on that last dreadful day at Vallingham Hall shamed
while it maddened me, but the memory of it has since conquered me. I
grieve continually over my treatment of you, and the sinfulness which
has ruined my own life and wronged others; yet I can truthfully say that
I rejoice that the right triumphed, and that you are now happy.
“I do wrong, perhaps, to say that my life is ruined, for although much
of it has been wasted, and the crowning joy of womanhood denied me, yet
I can, God helping me, improve the future by making myself useful to
others, and, in so far as I am able, atone for the past. A word from you
will greatly comfort me.
“Very truly, yours,
“ISABEL COOLIDGE.
“NEW YORK, December 15, 1877.”
“Poor child! she was good at heart after all, only it was so covered up
by ambition and pride that no one was conscious of it,” Brownie said,
her tears falling fast.
“It is a very earnest, humble letter, and I honor her more to-day than I
did when she stood so high in society,” Adrian replied, heartily.
“How submissively yet hopelessly she speaks of her love for Sir
Charles.”
“Yes, poor fellow, this trouble has been a severe blow to him, also,”
said her husband.
“I think I shall drive over to Lady Randal’s to-day; and, Adrian, do you
think there would be any harm in my showing him both these letters?” the
young wife asked, with a wistful look in her dark eyes.
“What a forgiving little—or great heart you have, my darling,” he said,
as he read her thought.
“‘Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,’” Brownie repeated
with great earnestness.
Her husband stooped and kissed her.
“Do as you like, my own; I believe wherever you go you always carry
light and joy with you,” he said, almost reverently.
Accordingly, while Lord Dunforth took his guests to visit several points
of interest which he could best explain to them, Adrian drove his wife
over to call on Lady Ruxley, who, since she had lost her charming
companion, had taken a deep interest in her crippled nephew, and now
resided all the time with the family.
Brownie’s visits were always like gleams of sunshine to her, for Lady
Randal, since the developments which had resulted in such mortification
to her, and in the destruction of so many hopes, had been very
melancholy, and kept her own room nearly all the time, seldom seeing
visitors, and scarcely ever going abroad.
Her sons were both very kind to her, and exerted themselves to cheer and
comfort her, but her spirit had been crushed, and she could not rally
from the blow.
As for the young men themselves, they were congenial spirits—two noble
sons of a noble father! The tenderest ties of affection had united them
from the moment of their first meeting; their hopes, and aspirations,
and sympathies were the same, and wherever they went their aim was to do
good.
As soon as he felt he could do so, without offending Herbert, Charles
had proposed taking him to a noted surgeon in Paris to see if anything
could be done to remedy the deformity which was so wearisome to himself
and so unsightly to others.
The result had been beyond their expectations, although the operation
had involved infinite pain and patience. The twisted foot and leg had
been straightened, and that bowed head lifted, until the young man could
walk erect like others. But the withered hand, of course, could not be
restored, though the great surgeon had said much more could have been
done for him had he been treated in his early youth. This intelligence
the brothers did not impart to their mother, willing to save her an
added pang while she was suffering so much.
The cripple’s health had improved greatly since he had been able to have
plenty of out-door exercise, and his face lost much of that deep sadness
which had so touched Brownie’s tender heart when she first saw him, but
there was always a wistful look about his eyes which told of a life that
had had but little of joy in it.
Adrian’s wife Herbert Randal considered the essence of perfection, and
he spent many hours at her charming home, and often accompanied her upon
her errands of mercy among the poor, while she valued him among her
choicest friends.
Sir Charles also had the most profound respect for her, and to-day, as
she drove up to their elegant residence, he sprang to assist her to
alight, a most cordial welcome on his lips and shining in his eyes.
She lingered a moment in the hall with him, and putting her two letters
in his hands, said:
“Go away by yourself and read these carefully, while I make my call upon
your mother and Lady Ruxley, and then come and tell me if you can
forgive as I do.”
He looked at her a moment in astonishment, then at the address upon the
back of each letter. In an instant the color flamed into his face as he
recognized the handwriting upon one; he lifted his head haughtily, his
lip curled just a trifle in scorn, then, turning without a word, he
conducted her to Lady Ruxley’s apartments, dispatched a servant to tell
his mother that Mrs. Dredmond had called, and quickly withdrew with a
strange quickening of his heart-pulses.
Herbert had already taken Adrian off to inspect a new conservatory which
was being built.
An hour passed, which Brownie made bright and cheerful for Lady Ruxley,
Lady Randal having sent regrets that she was not able to see visitors
that morning. Then the gentlemen all came in together.
Sir Charles appeared very thoughtful, but there was a brighter and more
hopeful gleam in his eye than there had been for many a day.
He drew Mrs. Dredmond one side as soon as he could do so without
attracting too much notice.
“Thank you,” he said, as he gave back her letters. “They have comforted
me greatly, for I had felt, as she says, as if the crowning joy of life
was to be denied me forever.”
“And now?” Brownie asked, eagerly.
“What! can you wish her happiness?” he demanded, more in reply to her
eager look than her words.
“Ah, yes, poor child, her suffering has been worse than mine. We do not
any of us know our own weakness until we have been tempted. You and I
might fall even lower than Isabel did under some peculiar temptation,
and shall we presume to judge one who trusted in her own weak strength,
and who, now sorrowing, has found, if I am not mistaken, a stronger arm
to lean upon?”
“What a peacemaker you are, Mrs. Dredmond—you conquer us all. You take a
very sweet way to be revenged upon your enemies,” Sir Charles exclaimed,
with a suspicious moisture in his fine eyes.
“I do not believe in that element at all,” she replied, gently, “but if
I could win Isabel’s love, and see you both happy, I should ask for no
greater triumph.”
“What greater triumph could any one have than to make a friend of an
enemy?” the young man asked, smiling; then he added, gravely: “I think
by another year I may visit the United States—it is always best to let
patience have its perfect work, you know; then, if it shall have
accomplished its mission, there may be happiness for two more human
beings in this world.”
Brownie’s face fairly shone at his words, then, seeing her husband
approaching, she shook him heartily by the hand, and bidding the others
good-morning, went away, leaving the house brighter for her coming.
The young man and wife rode in silence for several minutes. Then Adrian,
suddenly bending forward, scanned the fair, beautiful face eagerly.
“What is it, dear?” she asked, with a fond, bright smile.
He bent and touched her forehead with his lips.
“God bless you, my own wife!” was his reverend benediction.
He had caught Sir Charles’ last words, and knew that Brownie had
accomplished her mission.
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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In the Golden Days. BY EDNA LYALL.
In the Heart of the Storm. BY MAXWELL GRAY.
In the Schillingscourt. BY E. MARLITT.
Ishmael. (COMPLETE) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
It Is Never Too Late to Mend. BY CHARLES READE.
Ivanhoe. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Jane Eyre. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
Jefferson, Thomas, Life of. BY SAMUEL M. SCHMUCKER, LL.D.
Joan of Arc, Life of. BY JULES MICHELET.
John Halifax, Gentleman. BY MISS MULOCK.
Jones, John Paul, Life of. BY JAMES OTIS.
Joseph Balsamo. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Josephine, Empress of France, Life of. BY FREDERICK A. OBER.
Keats’ Poems. BY JOHN KEATS.
Kenilworth. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Kidnapped. BY R. L. STEVENSON.
King Arthur and His Noble Knights. BY MARY MACLEOD.
Knickerbocker’s History of New York. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
Knight Errant. BY EDNA LYALL.
Koran. TRANSLATED BY GEORGE SALE.
Lady of the Lake. (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Lady with the Rubies. BY E. MARLITT.
Lafayette, Marquis de, Life of. BY P. C. HEADLEY.
Lalla Rookh. (WITH NOTES.) BY THOMAS MOORE.
Lamplighter. BY MARIA S. CUMMINS.
Last Days of Pompeii. BY BULWER-LYTTON.
Last of the Barons. BY BULWER-LYTTON.
Last of the Mohicans. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Lay of the Last Minstrel. (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Lee, General Robert E., Life of. BY G. MERCER ADAM.
Lena Rivers. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Life of Christ. BY FREDERICK W. FARRAR.
Life of Jesus. BY ERNEST RENAN.
Light of Asia. BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
Light That Failed. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
Lincoln, Abraham, Life of. BY HENRY KETCHAM.
Lincoln’s Speeches. SELECTED AND EDITED BY G. MERCER ADAM.
Literature and Dogma. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Little Dorrit. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Little Minister. BY JAMES M. BARRIE.
Livingstone, David, Life of. BY THOMAS HUGHES.
Longfellow’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
Lorna Doone. BY R. D. BLACKMORE.
Louise de la Valliere. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Love Me Little, Love Me Long. BY CHARLES READE.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.