RETROSPECTIVE
James Mildred was a noble-hearted gentleman. At the age of eighteen he
quitted England to undertake an appointment in India, which he had
obtained through the interest of his uncle, an East Indian Director. He
remained abroad thirty years, and then returned, a stranger, to his native
land, the owner of a noble fortune. His manners were simple and
unassuming--his mind was masculine and well-informed--his generous soul
manifest in every expression of his manly countenance. He had honourably
acquired his wealth, and whilst he amassed, had been by no means greedy of
his gains. He dealt out liberally. There were many reasons why James
Mildred at the age of forty-eight returned to England. I shall state but
one. He was still a bachelor. The historian at once absolves the gentler
sex from any share of blame. It was not, in truth, their fault that he
continued single. Many had done their utmost to remove this stigma from
James Mildred's character; had they done less they might, possibly, have
been more successful. Mildred had a full share of sensibility, and
recoiled at the bare idea of being snared into a state of blessedness. The
woman was not for him, who was willing to accept him only because his gold
and he could not be separated. Neither was he ambitious to purchase the
easy affection of the live commodity as it arrives in ships from England,
with other articles of luxury and merchandize. After years of successful
exertion, he yearned for the enjoyments of the domestic hearth, and for
the home-happiness which an Englishman deserves, because he understands
so well its value. Failing to obtain his wish in India, he journeyed
homeward, sound in mind and body, and determined to improve the comfort
and condition of both, by a union with amiability, loveliness, and virtue,
if in one individual he could find them all combined, and finding, could
secure them for himself. It might have been a year after his appearance in
London, that he became acquainted with the family of Mr Graham, a
lieutenant in the navy on half-pay, and the father of two children. He was
a widower, and not affluent. His offspring were both daughters, and, at
the time to which I allude, full grown, lovely women. Their mother had
been a governess previously to her marriage, and her subsequent days had
been profitably employed in the education of her daughters; in preparing
them, in fact, for the condition of life into which they would inevitably
fall, if they were still unmarried at the dissolution of their father.
They were from infancy taught to expect their future means of living from
their own honourable exertions, and they grew happier and better for the
knowledge. Mildred had retired to a town on the sea-coast, in which this
family resided; and, shortly after his arrival, he first beheld the elder
of the lieutenant's children. She was then in her nineteenth year, a
lovely, graceful, and accomplished creature. I cannot say that he was
smitten at first sight, but it must have been soon afterwards; for the day
succeeding that on which he met her, found him walking and chatting with
her father, as familiarly as though they had been friends from infancy.
Before a week was over, the lieutenant had dined three times with Mildred
at his hotel, and had taken six pipes, and as many glasses of grog, in
token of his fidelity and good fellowship. From being the host of
Lieutenant Graham, it was an easy transition to become his guest. Mildred
was taken to the mariner's cot, and from that hour his destiny was fixed.
In Margaret Graham he found, or he believed he had, the being whom he had
sought so long--the vision which had not, until now, been realized. Six
months elapsed, and found the lover a constant visitor at the lieutenant's
fireside. He had never spoken of his passion, nor did any of the household
dream of what was passing in his heart, save Margaret, who could not fail
to see that she possessed it wholly. His wealth was likewise still a
secret, his position in society unknown. His liberal sentiments and
unaffected demeanour had gained him the regard of the unsophisticated
parent--his modest bearing and politeness were not less grateful to the
sisters. Mildred had resolved a hundred times to reveal to Margaret the
depth and earnestness of his attachment, and to place his heart and
fortune at her feet, but he dared not do it when time and opportunity
arrived. Day by day his ardent love increased--stronger and stronger grew
the impression which had first been stamped upon his noble mind; new
graces were discovered; virtues were developed that had escaped his early
notice, enhancing the maiden's loveliness and worth. Still he continued
silent. He was a shy, retiring man, and entertained a meek opinion of his
merits. The difference of age was very great. He dwelt upon the fact,
until it seemed a barrier fatal to his success. Young, accomplished, and
exceeding beautiful, would she not expect, did she not deserve, a union
with youth and virtues equal to her own? Was it not madness to suppose
that she would shower such happiness on him? Was he not over bold and
arrogant to hope it? Aware of his disadvantage, and rendered miserable by
the thought of losing her in consequence, he had been tempted once or
twice to communicate to Margaret the amount of wealth that he possessed;
but here, too, his reluctant tongue grew ever dumb as he approached the
dangerous topic. No; his soul would pine in disappointment and despair,
before it could consent to _purchase_ love--love which transcends all
price when it becomes the heart's free offering, but is not worth a rush
to buy or bargain for. Could he but be sure that for himself alone she
would receive his hand--could he but once be satisfied of this, how paltry
the return, how poor would be the best that he could offer for her virgin
trust? What was his wealth compared with that? But _how_ be sure and
satisfied? Ask and be refused? Refused, and then denied the privilege to
gaze upon her face, and to linger hour after hour upon the melody which,
flowing from her fair lips, had so long charmed, bewildered him! To be
shut out for ever from the joy that had become a part of him, with which,
already in his dreams, he had connected all that remained to him as yet of
life!--It is true, James Mildred was old enough to be sweet Margaret's
father; but for his _heart_, with all its throbbings and anxieties, it
might have been the young girl's younger brother's. A lucky moment was it
for Mildred, when he thought of seeking counsel from the straightforward
and plain-speaking officer. A hint sufficed to make the parent wise, and
to draw from him the blunt assurance, that Mildred was a son-in-law to
make a father proud and happy. "I never liked, my friend, superfluous
words," said he; "you have my consent, mind that, when you have settled
matters with the lass."
It was a very few hours after the above words were spoken, that, either by
design or chance, Mildred and Margaret found themselves together. The
lieutenant and his younger daughter were from home, and Margaret was
seated in the family parlour, engaged in profitable work, as usual. Upon
entering the room, the lover saw immediately that Graham had committed him.
His easy and accustomed step had never called a blush into the maiden's
cheek. Wherefore should it now? He felt the coming and the dreaded crisis
already near, and that his fate was hanging on her lips. His heart
fluttered, and he became slightly perturbed; but he sat down manfully;
determined to await the issue. Margaret welcomed him with more restraint
than was her wont, but not--he thought and hoped--less cordially. Maidens
are wilful and perverse. Why should she hold her head down, as she had
never done before? Why strain her eyes upon her work, and ply her needle
as though her life depended on the haste with which she wrought? Thus
might she receive a foe; better treatment surely merited so good a friend?
"Miss Graham," said at length the resolute yet timid man, "do I judge
rightly? Your father has communicated to you our morning's conversation?"
"He has, sir," answered Margaret too softly for any but a lover's ear.
"Then, pardon me, dear lady," continued Mildred, gaining confidence, as he
was bound to do, "if I presume to add all that a simple and an honest man
can proffer to the woman he adores. I am too old--that is to say, I have
seen too much of life, perhaps, to be able to address you now in language
that is fitting. But, believe me, dear Miss Graham, I am sensible of your
charms, I esteem your character, I love you ardently. I am aware of my
presumption. I am bold to approach you as a suitor; but my happiness
depends upon your word and I beg you to pronounce it. Dismiss me, and I
will trouble you no longer. I will endeavour to forget you--to forget that
I beheld you--that I ever nourished a passion which has made life sweeter
to me than I believed it could become; but if, on the other hand"--
How strange it is, that we will still create troubles in a world that
already abounds with them! Here had Mildred lived in a perpetual fever for
months together, teazing and fretting himself with anxieties and doubts;
whilst, as a reasonable being, he ought to have been as cheerful and as
merry as a lark singing at the gate of heaven. In the midst of his oration,
the gentle Margaret resigned her work, and wept. I say no more. I will not
even add that she had been prepared to weep for months before--that she
had grown half fearful and half angry at the long delay--that she was
woman, and ambitious--that she had heard of Mildred's mine of wealth, and
longed to share it with him. Such secrets, gentle reader, might, if
revealed, attaint the lady's character. I therefore choose to keep them to
myself. It is very certain that Mildred was forthwith accepted, and that,
after a courtship of three months, he led to the altar a woman of whose
beauty and talents a monarch might justly have been proud. It is not to
the purpose of this narrative to describe the wedding guests and
garments--the sumptuous breakfast--the continental tour. It was a fair
scene to look at, that auspicious bridal morn. The lieutenant's unaffected
joy--the bridegroom's blissful pride--the lady's modesty, and--shall I
call it?--triumph, struggling through it; these and other matters might
employ an idle or a dallying pen, but must not now arrest one busy with
more serious work. Far different are the circumstance and season which
call for our regard. We leave the lovers in their bridal bower, and
pensively approach the chamber of sickness and of death.
It is ten years since Mildred wedded. He is on the verge of sixty, and
seems more aged, for he is bowed down with bodily disease and pain. His
wife, not thirty yet, looks not an hour older than when we saw her last,
dressed like a queen for her espousal. She is more beautiful, as the full
developed rose in grace surpasses the delicate and still expanding bud;
but there she is, the same young Margaret. How they have passed the
married decade, how both fulfilled their several duties, may be gathered
from a description of Mildred's latest moments. He lies almost exhausted
on his bed of suffering, and only at short intervals can find strength to
make his wishes known to one who, since he was a boy, has been a faithful
and a constant friend. He is his comforter and physician now.
"You have not told me, Wilford," said Mildred in a moment of physical
repose, "you have not told me yet how long. Let me, I implore you, hear
the truth. I am not afraid to die. Is there any hope at all?"
The physician's lip quivered with affectionate grief; but did not move in
answer.
"There is _no_ hope then," continued the wasting invalid. "I believe it--I
believe it. But tell me, dearest friend, how long may this endure?"
"I cannot say," replied the doctor; "a day or two, perhaps: I fear not
longer, Mildred."
"Fear _not_, old friend," said Mildred. "I do not fear. I thank my God
there is an end of it."
"Is your mind happy, Mildred?" asked the physician.
"You shall judge yourself. I die at peace with all men. I repent me
heartily of my sins. I place my hope in my Redeemer. I feel that he will
not desert me. I did never fear death, Wilford. I can smile upon him now."
"You will see a clergyman?"
"Yes, Wilford, an hour hence; not now. I have sent _her_ away, that I
might hear the worst from you. She must be recalled, and know that all is
fixed, and over. We will pray together--dear, faithful Margaret--sweet,
patient nurse! Heaven bless her!"
"She is to be pitied, Mildred. To die is the common lot. We are not all
doomed to mourn the loss of our beloved ones!"
"But, Wilford, you will be good and kind to her, and console her for my
loss. You are my executor and dearest friend. You will have regard to my
dying words, and watch over her. Be a father and a brother to her. You
will--will you not?"
"I will," answered the physician solemnly.
"Thank you, brother--thank you," replied the patient, pressing his
friend's hand warmly. "We are brothers now, Wilford--we were children,
schoolboys together. Do you remember the birds'-nesting--and the
apple-tree in the orchard? Oh, the happy scenes of my boyhood are fresher
in my memory to day than the occurrences of yesterday!"
"You were nearer heaven in your boyhood, Mildred, than you have been since,
until this hour. We are travelling daily further from the East, until we
are summoned home again. The light of heaven is about us at the beginning
and the close of life. We lose it in middle age, when it is hid by the
world's false and unsubstantial glare."
"I understand something of what you say. I never dreaded this hour. I have
relied for grace, and it has come--but, Wilford"--
"What would you say?"
"Margaret."
"What of her?"
"If you could but know what she has done for me--how, for the last two
years, she has attended me--how she has sacrificed all things for me, and
for my comfort--how she has been, against my will, my servant and my
slave--you would revere her character as I do. Night after night has she
spent at my bedside; no murmur--no dull, complaining look--all
cheerfullness! I have been peevish and impatient--no return for the harsh
word, and harsher look. So young--so beautiful--so self devoted. I have
not deserved such love--and now it is snatched from me, as it should be"--
"You are excited, Mildred," said the good doctor. "You have said too much.
Rest now--rest."
"Let me see her," answered Mildred. "I cannot part with her an instant
now."
And in a few minutes the angel of light--for such she was to the declining
man--glided to the dying bed. When she approached it his eyes were shut,
and his lips moved as if in prayer. At his side she stood, the faithful
tears pouring down her cheek, her voice suspended, lest a breath should
fall upon the sufferer and awaken him to pain. Quietly at last, as if from
sweetest sleep, his eyes unclosed, and, with a fond expression, fixed
themselves on _her_. Faster and faster streamed the unchecked tears adown
the lovely cheek, louder and louder grew the agonizing sobs that would not
be controlled. He took her drooping palm, pressed it as he might between
his bony hands, and covered it with kisses. Doctor Wilford silently
withdrew.
"Dear, good Margaret," the sick man faltered, "I shall lose you soon.
Heaven will bless you for your loving care."
"Take courage, dearest," was Margaret's reply; "all will yet be well."
"It will, beloved--but not here," he answered. "We shall meet again--be
sure of it. God is merciful, not cruel, and our happiness on earth has
been a foretaste of the diviner bliss hereafter. We are separated but for
an hour. Do not weep, my sweet one, but listen to me. It was my duty to
reward you, Margaret, for all that you have done for the infirm old man. I
have performed this duty. Every thing that I possess is yours! My will is
with my private papers in the desk. It will do you justice. Could I have
given you the wealth of India, you would have deserved it all."
Tears, tears were the heart's intense acknowledgment. What could she say
at such a time?
"I have thought fit, my Margaret, to burden you with no restrictions. I
could not be so wicked and so selfish as to wish you not to wed again"--
"Speak not of it, James--speak not of it," almost screamed the lovely wife,
intercepting the generous speaker's words. "Do not overwhelm me with my
grief."
"It is best, my Margaret, to name these things whilst power is still left
me. Understand me, dearest. I do not bid you wed again. You are free to do
it if it will make you happier."
"Never--never, dearest and best of men! I am yours in life and
death--yours for ever. Before Heaven I vow"--
Mildred touched the upraised hand, held it in his own, and in a feeble,
worn-out voice, said gravely--
"I implore you to desist--spare me the pain--make not a vow so rash. You
are young and beautiful, my Margaret--a time may come--let there be no vow.
Where is Wilford? I wish to have you both about me."
The following morning Margaret was weeping on her husband's corpse. Ten
years before, she had wept when he proposed for her, and ten years
afterwards, almost to a day, she was weeping on John Humphrys' pillow,
distressed with recollections that would not let her rest.
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