Tales of the Post-Office.
_THE VICTIM OF LOVE._
“Oh, grief beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate
In the wide world, without that only tie
For which it loved to live or feared to die!”
I was seated at my desk; the index-box was filled with letters,—the
great Southern mail having just arrived.
“Are there any letters for me, sir,—Henry Middleton?”
I glanced my eyes at the applicant: there was something in his voice,
look, and manner which for a moment riveted my attention. He appeared by
no means annoyed at my scrutiny of his person, no doubt ascribing it to
the nature of our situation. He was apparently about twenty-three years
of age; eyes dark and penetrating; a shade of melancholy passed over his
countenance and withered the sunshine of hope; a mouth of the most
marked character conveyed to the observer a knowledge of his; the lower
lip firmly compressed, and the curl of the upper denoted strong and
agitated feeling, and an irritable temperament. Having gathered this
much from Henry Middleton’s personal appearance, I took out from the box
M a handful of letters. One was addressed to him: the handwriting was
evidently that of a female. He seized it with a nervous grasp, a
momentary gleam of hope lighted up his shadowy countenance, and he
rushed out of the office. For the first time in my life I felt a degree
of curiosity to know the contents of another’s letter: it was a strange
and to me a new feeling. In vain I battled with the demon which seemed
rising within me; in vain I turned over letter after letter to withdraw
my mind from this dangerous focus of thought: it was utterly useless.
That night I dreamed of being condemned for breaking open letters
intrusted to my charge.
Towards evening on the day following, to my extreme joy Henry Middleton
stood at the window.
“I wish to pay the postage of this letter, sir.”
Twenty-five cents I informed him was the charge. The letter was in my
hand: Middleton had departed. The address, Miss Amelia Templeton,—a
small seal with the impression M upon it,—was the padlock to my
curiosity. My brain grew giddy with the intensity of desire. I held the
epistle up to the light,—the paper was coarse and thick. I peeped into
the folds: ah! what is that?—part of a sentence visible:—
“Love, Amelia, acknowledges no tie but that of its own creation.”
What a sentence! In vain I tried to follow it up; not a word beyond this
could I make out. Here I was left in the dark: then my imagination
completed a volume of surmises. He, Middleton, was endeavoring to
persuade Amelia to elope with him, or rather to follow him here, and the
above line constituted a portion of the argument used by him to effect
this object.
Such were my conjectures relating to the affair, derived from such
evidence as the reader is now acquainted with.
A month passed over, and my note-book contained several incidents of an
interesting nature; but the lovers, as I concluded them to be, occupied
so much of my thoughts that I could pay but very little attention to the
rest. I awaited impatiently the return of the mail which should bring
the answer from Amelia. At length it came. To Henry Middleton. I
instinctively caught it up. I felt as if I were an interested person,
and had a right to see—that is, without breaking the seal—as much of
the letter as I could; but Amelia had folded it so carefully that it
defied all attempts to gather any connected sentence. Gracious heavens!
what do I see? By turning up a portion of the inner fold with the blade
of my knife, I read,—
Yours, affectionately,
AMELIA SINCLAIR.
It was now certain that Amelia was lost to Henry. She had proved
faithless by marrying another. How would he bear up against the
thunderbolt aimed direct at his heart? I again endeavored to penetrate
further into this letter: another fold was carefully raised; the words,
“a parent’s curse,” “cruel necessity,” “your absence,” “forced into
marriage,” burst upon my sight. I had actually worked myself into a
fever, and had partly determined to keep the letter from Middleton,
feeling assured that its contents would prove a death-blow to his hopes.
While debating the subject with myself, he appeared at the window. I
held the letter in my hand. A tremor of almost conscious guilt passed
over me, and, if he had watched my countenance, he could not have failed
to detect something indicative of my crime. I handed him the letter: he
gazed upon the well-known hand, a smile of joy irradiated his visage; he
tore it open, hastily devouring its contents; a sudden and awful change
came over his face; the exclamation of “oh, God!” escaped him: he raised
his right arm, pressing the distended fingers against his forehead, and
fell upon the floor in horrid convulsions!
* * * * *
He lay upon the bed of death,—his eyes partly closed, and his hands
clasped together in convulsive agony. I stood beside him, awaiting the
result of the paroxysm. In a few moments he regained consciousness: he
gazed languidly around the room, exclaiming, “Where am I? Who did
this?”
“One,” I replied, “who is willing to serve you.”
“Oh, then, as you are my friend, burn that fatal letter! While it
exists, I am wretched: it is the curse of the few short moments I have
yet to live. I have read it until each word, nay, each letter, seemed as
a coal of fire consuming my very heart-strings. It is chained to my
brain, and each thought I bestow upon it acts as an electric shock to
heighten my misery. I essayed to destroy it; but dared not,—cannot.”
I took the letter and deliberately burned it: he watched its
disappearance with a maddening glare, and, when it was entirely burned
to ashes, he burst into a hysterical laugh, and fell back upon the bed.
It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader that, after the scene at
the post-office, I caused him to be conveyed to my room, and he had
continued in a state of delirium during the whole of that time. On
recovering from the hysterical affection caused by the excitement of
destroying the letter, he became more calm.
“I thank you,” he muttered; “I remember it all, and you have been my
true friend. Heaven will bless you for it: my prayers—they are all I
have to offer—shall be breathed for thee and thine.”
“Compose yourself,” I answered; “think of nothing now but your recovery
and return to your friends.”
“Friends!—ha, ha, ha! Who talks of friends? Ah! yes; you that are a real
one, and never felt the venomed tooth of a smiling hypocrite in your
flesh. No, I will speak; bear with me a while. Think, only! he was my
chum at college, the companion of my youth, the friend of my more
matured age, and we lived in the hope of ending our days beneath the
same roof; but now the broad canopy of heaven cannot shelter both of us
alive. One or the other should—must die, and fate accords it to me.”
“You distress yourself. Do not speak of these things.”
“I speak of them, my dear sir, to drive away the curse of recollection.
Left alone to dwell upon them, I would go mad. I will relate to you
something of my short but eventful history. It is simple; there is no
romance in it: it is one of those incidents which occur in every life
among men of the world. I was not suited for the world: it has crushed
me. Amelia has wounded the heart that loved her. But no more of that. We
were cousins, destined at an early age by our parents for each other. We
grew up in the perfect knowledge of the happiness which awaited us: we
were young, we were lovers. There is not a stream, there is not a
mountain of our native home, but could tell a tale of our early loves.
We have wandered over the one and sat beside the other, when the moon
shed her pale and silvery light upon its waters. There nature smiled
upon us, and we in return rejoiced that she was so good. Pardon my
folly, sir; but those were moments of pure, unalloyed bliss. There came
one among us, who, in my dreams and my waking hours of madness, I have
cursed. It was Sinclair, my friend. I will not enter further into the
details of my history. I will not relate to you the causes which induced
me to quit home: suffice it, however, to say that I was unfortunate. I
wrote to Amelia. The fatal answer and the result of it you are already
acquainted with, and it is to your kindness that I am indebted for those
few days added to a life of insupportable wretchedness. My nervous
system, susceptible of the slightest shock, my mind weakened by the
hereditary disease of our family, consumption, could not battle against
the accumulation of domestic misfortunes, and a jealous feeling which I
harbored of Amelia. I left home: my misery is now complete; my former
suspicions have proved true. She is faithless! This, sir, is all: bear
with me but a short time, and then I will tell you the rest. I feel
myself sinking; listen. Oh, God! oh, God!—I—I——” He gasped for breath;
the muscles of his face worked as if struggling to retain life; his eyes
became fixed; his lips muttered sounds,—they were unmeaning. I took his
hand: it was cold and stiff. I gazed upon his face: Death’s seal was set
forever!
* * * * *
In the Episcopal churchyard, near C—— Street, is to be seen a neat
marble slab, with the following inscription:—
_Sacred
to the
Memory of
HENRY MIDDLETON,
aged 24 years.
Sic transit gloria mundi._
_THE WIDOWED MOTHER._
“Though grief may blight, or sin deface
Our youth’s fair promise, or disgrace
May brand with infamy and shame.
* * * * *
A mother, though her heart may break,
From that fond heart will never tear
The child whose last retreat is there.”