“Paul—for I think I may call you so now—I know not how to answer
you. Your letter gave me great joy; but it gave me pain, too. I
can not—will not doubt what you say; I believe that you love me
better than I deserve to be loved, and I know that I am not
worthy of all your kind praises. But it is not this that pains
me; for I know that you have a generous heart, and would
forgive, as you always have forgiven, any weakness of mine. I am
proud, too, very proud, to have won your love; but it pains
me—more, perhaps, than you will believe—to think that I can not
write back to you as I would wish to write—alas, never.”
Here I dash the letter upon the floor, and with my hand upon my forehead
sit gazing upon the glowing coals, and breathing quick and loud. The
dream, then, is broken!
Presently I read again:
—“You know that my father died before we had ever met. He had an
old friend, who had come from England, and who in early life had
done him some great service which made him seem like a brother.
This old gentleman was my god-father, and called me daughter.
When my father died he drew me to his side and said: ‘Carry, I
shall leave you, but my old friend will be your father,’ and he
put my hand in his and said: ‘I give you my daughter.’
“This old gentleman had a son, older than myself; but we were
much together, and grew up as brother and sister. I was proud of
him, for he was tall and strong, and every one called him
handsome. He was as kind, too, as a brother could be, and his
father was like my own father. Every one said, and believed,
that we would one day be married, and my mother and my new
father spoke of it openly. So did Laurence, for that is my
friend’s name.
“I do not need to tell you any more, Paul; for when I was still
a girl we had promised that we would one day be man and wife.
Laurence has been much in England, and I believe he is there
now. The old gentleman treats me still as a daughter, and talks
of the time when I shall come and live with him. The letters of
Laurence are very kind, and though he does not talk so much of
our marriage as he did, it is only, I think, because he regards
it as so certain.
“I have wished to tell you all this before, but I have feared to
tell you; I am afraid I have been too selfish to tell you. And
now, what can I say? Laurence seems most to me like a
brother—and you, Paul—but I must not go on. For if I marry
Laurence, as fate seems to have decided, I will try and love him
better than all the world.
“But will you not be a brother, and love me, as you once loved
Bella—you say my eyes are like hers, and that my forehead is
like hers—will you not believe that my heart is like hers, too?
“Paul, if you shed tears over this letter—I have shed them as
well as you. I can write no more now.
“Adieu.”
I sit long, looking upon the blaze, and when I rouse myself it is to say
wicked things against destiny. Again all the future seems very blank. I
can not love Carry as I loved Bella; she can not be a sister to me; she
must be more or nothing! Again I seem to float singly on the tide of
life, and see all around me in cheerful groups. Everywhere the sun
shines, except upon my own cold forehead. There seems no mercy in
heaven, and no goodness for me upon earth.
I write, after some days, an answer to the letter. But it is a bitter
answer, in which I forget myself, in the whirl of my misfortunes—to the
utterance of reproaches.
Her reply, which comes speedily, is sweet and gentle. She is hurt by my
reproaches, deeply hurt. But with a touching kindness, of which I am not
worthy, she credits all my petulance to my wounded feeling; she soothes
me, but in soothing only wounds the more. I try to believe her when she
speaks of her unworthiness—but I can not.
Business, and the pursuits of ambition or of interest, pass on like
dull, grating machinery. Tasks are met, and performed with strength
indeed, but with no cheer. Courage is high, as I meet the shocks and
trials of the world; but it is a brute, careless courage, that glories
in opposition. I laugh at any dangers, or any insidious pitfalls; what
are they to me? What do I possess, which it will be hard to lose? My dog
keeps by me; my toils are present; my food is ready; my limbs are
strong; what need for more?
The months slip by; and the cloud that floated over my evening sun
passes.
Laurence wandering abroad, and writing to Caroline, as to a
sister—writes more than his father could have wished. He has met new
faces, very sweet faces; and one which shows through the ink of his
later letters, very gorgeously. The old gentleman does not like to lose
thus his little Carry! and he writes back rebuke. But Laurence, with the
letters of Caroline before him for data, throws himself upon his
sister’s kindness and charity. It astonishes not a little the old
gentleman, to find his daughter pleading in such strange way for the
son. “And what will you do then, my Carry?”—the old man says.
—“Wear weeds, if you wish, sir; and love you and Laurence more than
ever!”
And he takes her to his bosom, and says—“Carry—Carry, you are too good
for that wild fellow Laurence!”
Now, the letters are different! Now they are full of hope—dawning all
over the future sky. Business, and care, and toil glide, as if a spirit
animated them all; it is no longer cold machine work, but intelligent
and hopeful activity. The sky hangs upon you lovingly, and the birds
make music that startles you with its fineness. Men wear cheerful faces;
the storms have a kind pity, gleaming through all their wrath.
The days approach, when you can call her yours. For she has said it, and
her mother has said it; and the kind old gentleman, who says he will
still be her father, has said it, too; and they have all welcomed
you—won by her story—with a cordiality that has made your cup full to
running over. Only one thought comes up to obscure your joy—is it real?
or if real, are you worthy to enjoy? Will you cherish and love always,
as you have promised, that angel who accepts your word and rests her
happiness on your faith? Are there not harsh qualities in your nature
which you fear may sometime make her regret that she gave herself to
your love and charity? And those friends who watch over her, as the
apple of their eye, can you always meet their tenderness and approval,
for your guardianship of their treasure? Is it not a treasure that makes
you fearful, as well as joyful.
But you forget this in her smile; her kindness, her goodness, her
modesty, will not let you remember it. She _forbids_ such thoughts; and
you yield such obedience as you never yielded even to the commands of a
mother. And if your business and your labor slip by, partially
neglected—what matters it? What is interest or what is reputation
compared with that fullness of your heart, which is now ripe with joy?
The day for your marriage comes; and you live as if you were in a dream.
You think well, and hope well, for all the world. A flood of charity
seems to radiate from all around you. And as you sit beside her in the
twilight, on the evening before the day when you will call her yours,
and talk of the coming hopes, and of the soft shadows of the past, and
whisper of Bella’s love, and of that sweet sister’s death, and of
Laurence, a new brother, coming home joyful with his bride—and lay your
cheek to hers—life seems as if it were all day, and as if there could be
no night!
The marriage passes; and she is yours—yours forever.
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