The curtain arose and a murmur of applause greeted the beautiful scene
that appeared. An open window unclosed on a valley sleeping in the
moonlight, and the over-arching heavens glittering with its quiet stars.
Beside the window leaned the lady, her head half-turned from the page
who knelt at her feet, and clasped her hand between his tremulous
fingers: and she—oh how divinely fair was that girl! She represented
one of a royal race, and well did she look the character she had
assumed. The turn of the graceful head, the curve of the red lip
belonged to the royalty of beauty, and there was a pretty air of
condescension in the attitude she assumed toward the kneeling youth;
while he looked up to her and sent forth his soul in the deep gaze he
bent upon her face. The first fond dream of the enthusiast’s heart was
realized, and his spirit bowed in homage before the ideal of his young
imagination.
The curtain fell—the page raised her hand to his lips and passionately
kissed it. A faint flush came up to the cheek of the girl, and a
half-mocking smile flitted across her crimson lip.
“You forget, young sir, that we are only _acting_. One would suppose
from your manner that you are really in earnest.”
The tone jarred on the highly excited feelings of the youth, and he
sprang to his feet, the warm blood mantling his fine features with its
sunny glow.
“Your pardon, Miss Selwyn,—I forgot that we were acquaintances of but a
day’s standing: yet if you could read the dreamer’s heart, you would not
wear that smile which seems to mock my enthusiasm. You see before you a
boy in years, but if the age of man may be measured by the wild
aspirations—the burning hopes of a heart whose reveries are as
passionate realities, I am not a mere youth. Oh beautiful,”—he
continued, again kneeling before her, “my soul bows before the
incarnation of a lovely spirit, in a form fitted to enshrine it. I feel
that it is so, for _He_ who made you so gloriously lovely, would not
place a cold or selfish heart in so exquisite a casket. My fancy has
pictured such forms among the angels of heaven, and my unskillful hand
has essayed to sketch them, but ever without success. When we met, my
heart at once went forth to greet its predestined idol, and I felt that
my dreams had found a reality.”
The girl who listened to this wild rhapsody with a little fear and more
surprise, was one who had been reared amid the artificial refinements of
life, and it was probably the first genuine burst of feeling which had
ever met her ear. The daughter of a man of wealth, and a mother devoted
to fashion, her education had been carefully intended to model the
character of the future belle. The parents looked on her unrivaled
beauty with pride, and the vain mother anticipated the renewal of her
own triumphs in the person of her daughter. Flattered and spoiled from
childhood, it was quite wonderful that one natural trait should still
have remained in her vain little heart; but nature sometimes asserts her
power where art has done most to arrest and deface her beauties. Thus it
was with Julia Selwyn. Sincere feeling even to the world-hardened ever
finds an echo in the breast, and the mocking smile died from her lips as
she felt the deep charm of the young stranger’s singular avowal.
The two had met that morning for the first time. Arthur Mervin was the
son of one of Mr. Selwyn’s early friends, who had that day arrived in
Philadelphia, with a letter of introduction from his father, containing
a request that Mr. Selwyn would aid the youth in obtaining admittance
into the studio of a distinguished painter, as his pupil.
At the moment of his arrival, a party was rehearsing the tableau which
were to be presented in the evening at a splendid entertainment, given
in honor of Miss Selwyn’s _debut_ in the world of fashion. The most
important one;—the one in which the beauty was to burst on the
enraptured eyes of her father’s guests in all her loveliness, was the
lady and the page—and—oh, dire disappointment! The young cousin who
was to enact the page, had been seized with an inflammatory sore throat,
and his medical attendant positively prohibited his leaving his room.
What was to be done? Mrs. Selwyn glanced over the list of her young
acquaintances, and could not find one to appear in the tableau with her
fair daughter, who would not look coarse when placed in comparison with
her refined loveliness.
She wished the tableau to be perfect—to be talked of as the most
beautiful one of the season, and, in the midst of her perplexity, when
her husband ushered in the son of his friend, one glance at his graceful
person and fine features convinced her that she need look no
farther,—the page was found.
Her daughter was sent for, and after an animated conversation of
half-an-hour, the lady found means to introduce her request so naturally
and gracefully, that after a moment’s hesitation, with a glance at Julia
and a bright flush of the cheek which spoke volumes, Mervin consented to
play the part of the page.
How would that worldly mother have shrunk from allowing him admittance
within the charmed circle of her daughter’s fascination could she have
divined the effect this casual introduction was to have on that
daughter’s future life.
The son of a farmer of moderate means who was encumbered with a large
family, it appeared too absurd to guard against Mervin’s admiration.
Julia was born to be admired: she had been educated to glitter in the
sphere of fashion, and understood her own position too well to allow her
feelings to become interested in a mere flirtation with an obscure
artist.
The young painter was full of genius and enthusiasm; the walls of his
studio were ornamented with sybils, angels, and Madonnas, in each of
which might be recognized a striking resemblance to the face of his
young love, and his passionate soul poured forth his adoration in
“thoughts that breathe and words that burn.” The homage of genius gave
an eclat to her daughter which gratified the vanity of Mrs. Selwyn, who
fancied that she had sufficiently warned Julia against allowing her
heart to become interested, by speaking of the utter impossibility that
Mervin should for years be in a situation to ask her to share his
destiny.
“All this adulation is very pleasant my love,” said she, “and makes you
the envy of many a fair rival, but remember it is only as incense to
your vanity that it must be regarded. Mr. Mervin is clever, and has
talent enough to make a very agreeable addition to our _soirees_, but a
suitor to you it is quite impossible he should aspire to become.”
The rose faded from the cheek of Julia in an instant. “He is gifted with
extraordinary abilities, mother. A distinguished path is before him.”
“Yes—but think of the years of toil that must intervene. The best
portion of his life must be devoted to his exacting profession, and when
the pulse is fevered with application—the eyes dimmed, and the hair
blanched with time, he may be what is called great; but the spirit of
life, of love, and hope, will be exhausted in the struggle. From the dim
waste of the past, the voice of fame will sound but as a funeral dirge,
wailed over the courage and enthusiasm which bore him upward and onward
in his course.”
“Disappointment must come to all, mother; but in the exciting occupation
you describe there is much happiness to be found. The days of all must
fall into the ‘sere and yellow leaf,’ but the man of genius can at least
look back with pleasure to his toil, and reflect with just pride on the
rewards he has won. Ah how superior are such memories to those hoarded
by the mere butterflies of fashion, of a petty triumph over some
insignificant person whose wealth lifts them into ephemeral notoriety.”
“Child—Child! how you are running on! Your cheek is flushed, and your
eyes sparkling.—This will never do. I hope this young painter has not
made what romantic young ladies call ‘an impression’ on your heart, for
in that case my doors must be closed on him.”
Julia was calm in a moment. The pupil of the fashionable Madame Lecompte
had been assiduously taught the art of controling the outward show of
emotion, and young as she was, Julia Selwyn did not shame the lessons of
her preceptress.
“My dear mother, how can you have such a fancy! Mr. Mervin does not make
love to me without I construe his verses into declarations. Do you fear
that I shall be so unmaidenly as to give my heart unsought? He knows
that a union between us is impossible, but that does not prevent this
frail fading beauty from being his inspiration and his muse. A few
fleeting years, and some younger and fairer face will claim his homage,
while I shall pass down the stream of time only remembered as the
_ci-devant_ belle. When his fame is at its zenith, I shall be
forgotten.”
“I am glad that you have so much common sense, my dear. When we can
speak calmly of being forgotten by an admirer, it is a sure sign that
the feelings are not deeply interested in him. You were never intended
for the wife of a poor man, and there is one—but I must not betray your
father’s plans. He will never force you to accept any one who is
disagreeable to you, but there is a person in view who is so suited in
age, fortune, and in short, every thing, that we have set our hearts on
seeing you his bride. I will not name him, lest the knowledge of our
wishes should make you shy. I shall leave him to make his own way,
love—no questions—I am silent as death. Good-bye—I must see the new
case of millinery opened at Madam ——’s. I will bring you a Parisian
hat of the newest style.”
* * * * *
Julia buried her face in her hands and remained in deep and painful
thought. She had instinctively known all that her mother had just
expressed relative to Mervin; yet she would not reflect on it.
A year had passed since the first impassioned declaration of the young
painter. His lips had uttered no word of love in that time, but his
devotion of manner had expressed all that the most exacting mistress
could have asked. Julia fancied that she received his homage merely as
the incense due to her unrivaled charms—that her own heart was still
unscathed—yet why did she listen for his step, and turn listlessly away
from her usual occupations until shared by him? Why did the faint
crimson steal to her cheeks as he sat beside her and spoke in those low,
earnest tones, so different from the _persiflage_ of the set in which
she habitually lived? Enthusiasm ever finds in the hearts of the young a
chord which vibrates to the touch of him who possesses it, and before
she was aware of her danger, that of Julia Selwyn was devotedly attached
to Mervin.
Nature and education were at war within her. The consent of her parents
would never be given to her union with him she well knew—and too much
of worldliness still clung to her, to be willing to descend from her
high estate to link her fortunes with those of her poor, though gifted
lover. Yet her heart shrank from the sacrilege of giving herself to
another. She might for years remain the idol of the hour, until her
beauty began to wane, and in those years, perhaps Mervin might achieve a
degree of celebrity that must lead to fortune—if not—she could then
fulfill the desire of her parents in bestowing her hand on some wealthy
suitor.
The lover destined for her by her parents made his appearance, and in
spite of her mother’s determination not to reveal his name, Julia at
once detected the anxiety of her parents that Mr. Herbert should succeed
in winning her. He was young, and rather handsome, with quiet,
gentlemanly manners; but when compared with the young painter he
appeared very commonplace.
Herbert was already in possession of a handsome estate, and owned a
large interest in the firm of which her father was the principal. He was
just the sort of person Julia felt safe in trifling with. He had no
romance, and was of an extremely indolent temper—for years he would be
content to creep toward an object he had once proposed to himself to
attain. He was not jealous, and with perfect calmness saw the girl he
contemplated as his future wife, flirt with the gayest and handsomest
men of the city. He seemed to possess some assurance in his own mind
that she must eventually yield to the fate which decreed her to become
Mrs. Herbert, and until that time arrived, she might enjoy her liberty
as best suited her inclinations.
In the meantime Mervin pursued his career with astonishing success. The
enthusiasm of his soul was thrown into all he attempted, and urged on by
the overpowering passion of his heart, it was no wonder that he
accomplished well whatever he undertook. Amateurs declared his talents
to be of the highest order, and brother artists acknowledged his
success, considering his years and opportunities for cultivation, to be
unprecedented. His future greatness was confidently predicted, and a few
of the patrons of the fine arts met together, and consulted on a
proposal to send him to Europe, that so promising a genius should
possess every facility for perfecting his style by the study of the old
masters.
A liberal fund was subscribed for that purpose, and offered with such
delicacy that Mervin felt no hesitation in accepting it as a loan, to be
repaid when his exertions had won the means of so doing.
His preparations were soon completed, and a farewell visit to his family
made. Then came the first bitter trial of his life—the parting from
Julia Selwyn. The inexperienced youth, ignorant of the conventional
distinctions of society, had uttered the first promptings of his heart
to the object of his suddenly awakened passion; but a few weeks sufficed
to show one of his quick perception and nice tact, the wide gulf that
separated the daughter of a reputed millionaire from the humble child of
genius. In words his passion had never since been expressed, yet Julia
felt that to the last throb of that impetuous heart she would be the
dearest of earthly objects.
He could not leave her thus—she had ever smiled on him, and from her
own lips he must learn his fate. The years of toil which lay before him,
would, for her sake, be sweet, and his heart trembled as he contemplated
his future if no such bright hope rose over its distant horizon. If it
were denied, deprived of all motive for exertion, he must sink at once
into insignificance. The pride of genius—the consciousness of powers
which raised him above the mass of his fellows, was bowed before the
consuming passion that formed the inspiration of his day dreams, and the
theme of his sleeping visions.
With feelings alternately elevated or depressed, as hope or fear
prevailed in his mind, he repaired to the mansion of Mr. Selwyn. He
found Julia alone, apparently awaiting the arrival of her party to
attend a ball, for her dress was in the latest style of elegance. As he
entered, she arose from the examination of a book of engravings, and
advanced to meet him.
“She knows that I am about to leave my native land, and yet she could
array herself for a ball,” thought Mervin, and his cheek grew paler than
before. Julia noted the emotion, and frankly extending her hand said—
“I knew you would come, and though ready to go to Mrs. Lacy’s party, I
feigned a headache, and staid at home to receive you. I did not know—I
did not hear that you had finally decided to leave, until we were nearly
ready to enter the carriage.”
Mervin pressed the hand she extended to him to his lips and heart in
uncontrollable emotion.
“Ah, beloved Julia! in this hour I must again pour into your ear the
passion that masters my whole being. As you shall answer this night,
will my fate for good or evil be decided. How I dare venture to ask you,
the beautiful, the flattered, to wait for years until a poor artist has
achieved independence, I know not, but the hope is in my heart, Julia,
that you will not deem me presumptuous. Oh, beloved, the future with its
bright promise of fame is cheerless, without the hope is given that I
may attain the idol of my youth. Speak—let me know my doom! I go forth
sanguine in hope, and certain of success speedily won—or I carry with
me a heart so crushed—so blighted by the disappointment of its dearest
wish, that the energy to accomplish any thing worthy of myself will
never revive.”
Tears were in Julia’s eyes. All her worldliness, all her hesitation had
vanished at the sound of his words: she was only the loving and beloved
woman, ready to share his lot, whether that lot were gloomy or bright.
“The hope is yours,” she whispered. “Is it not a brighter destiny to be
the artist’s love than the bride of him whose fortune is his only claim
to the station he holds? The day will come when my parents will be proud
to give me to you. When that time arrives, take with you the assurance
that you will find me free from other ties, with a heart glorying in the
reputation you have won by your own exertions.”
“With such a reward in view, what toil will be too great, what probation
too tedious to be borne! Oh, Julia, you have given me a motive which
will enable me to triumph over every obstacle. But in the years that
must elapse before I can rationally hope to claim my bride, how will you
evade the persevering pursuit of this Herbert?”
“Do not fear him, Arthur. He is like a tortoise in pursuit of a bird on
the wing, when following me. I can suffer him to belong to my train for
years and still be no nearer marrying him than now. Besides, the
inexplicable anxiety of my parents to see me united to him, will prevent
them from giving decided encouragement to the addresses of any other
lover. So you see it is rather on advantage to have so dilatory a
suitor.”
“The influence of your parents will be entirely in his favor—you will
be firm, my beloved—you will not yield. Remember, if you do, that you
will be answerable for one human destiny. Your confession of this night
has blended your fate, irrevocably with mine. You cannot draw back
without rending the ties that bind me to reason—perhaps life.”
“I shall have no wish to draw back, Arthur. Though vain and worldly,
there is enough nature still left in my heart to appreciate and return
your affection. When the last hope of life has departed, I may yield and
become another’s; but while your love remains as my beacon-light to
happiness, I will continue true to my plighted troth.”
Much further conversation ensued, and just as they parted, Mervin
repeated her own words, “Remember, love, till the last hope of life has
departed, you are mine, and mine alone.”
Julia repeated them solemnly, happily, unconscious in how different a
sense from that understood by the lover, they would be acted on.
* * * * *
Two years passed by. The most favorable accounts were received of the
progress of Mervin. He had passed the greater portion of that time in
Italy, and several beautiful specimens of his rapid improvement had been
transmitted to his friends in his native land. The lovers contrived to
keep up a correspondence, though the letters were few and far between,
as the greatest caution was observed to prevent the parents of the fair
_fiancée_ from suspecting the romantic attachment of their daughter.
Julia well knew that such a discovery would be followed by a command to
trifle no longer with the pretensions of Mr. Herbert.
Already they had manifested both impatience and displeasure at her
conduct to that gentleman. He still continued the same placid and
attentive lover; never elated by the smiles of his mistress, nor
depressed by her frowns; he pursued the “even tenor of his way,”
seemingly assured of final success where a more mercurial person would
have despaired.
At length the crisis in the destiny of the belle approached. One morning
her father entered her room and requested a few moment’s uninterrupted
conversation with her. Julia sent her young sister from the apartment
and prepared to listen to a remonstrance in favor of Mr. Herbert’s
pretensions.
“My daughter,” he began, “the time has arrived when I can no longer
postpone the explanation of our position in regard to Mr. Herbert. You
have trifled with him so long, that I despair of ever seeing you
voluntarily become his wife.”
“And is there any absolute necessity that I should unite myself to a man
I can never love, father?”
“So much the worse, child. Love, at any rate, is a mere chimera—an
ignis fatuus, that misleads the young. At all events you must make up
your mind to marry Herbert, or I am a ruined man.”
“How can that result be brought about by my refusal to accept him?”
faltered poor Julia.
“It is a story, my dear, I would not care to tell you, if it could be
avoided; but I see no hope of influencing you by other means—so you
must e’en hear it. Sit down, and don’t look so alarmed. You are pale as
death, and trembling like a frightened dove.”
Julia sunk back in her seat, and prepared to listen with as much
calmness as she could command.
“The father of Herbert and myself commenced life together, and for many
years our united exertions were eminently successful. He decided to
retire from the firm, when an elegant sufficiency had been acquired. He
had but one child to provide for, and I made no objection; but as my
family was larger, I thought it incumbent on me to continue my
exertions. The half of Herbert’s gains was withdrawn from the firm, and
invested in real estate secured to his son. The other moiety continued
in my hands. At his death he bequeathed his claims on me to George, with
a bequest to you of half the funds in my possession, on the condition
that you shall become the wife of his son; if not, the whole amount is
to be paid to George Herbert on the day he attains his twenty-fifth
year. In two more weeks, if you do not accept Herbert, I shall be called
on to pay a sum amounting to more than my whole fortune. As my
son-in-law, he pledges himself to allow me to retain the use of this
money until I can advantageously settle with him, and altogether waives
his claim to the legacy left to you. My affairs are now in such a state
that it will be ruinous to me to attempt a settlement; so you must even
make the best of it, and give your hand to an honest man who will render
you as happy as the most of your sex.”
“And is this the _only_ alternative?” asked the pale girl. “Will not Mr.
Herbert grant you a longer time without demanding so great a sacrifice
on my part?”
“The truth is, Julia, you have flirted with Herbert long enough, and he
thinks you have not treated him quite well. If I make such an appeal to
him, his cold temper will be roused, and he will be off altogether,
which would be a misfortune of no common magnitude; for I must tell you
that there is not the least chance that I shall ever be able to pay a
fraction of this money; and only as the husband of my daughter can I
prevent him from taking such steps as will ruin me at once. On one hand,
it is a choice of poverty to all you love, and on the other, a good
husband with plenty of money. You are too sensible to be romantic; and
besides, as you have never yet fallen in love, you have no predilection
to plead.”
At his last words arose the appalling recollection of her clandestine
attachment—and she cast herself at the feet of her father.
“Pardon me, my father, and pity me! I have loved—I do love, with a
depth and truth that death alone can destroy. Ask me not to wed this
man, for I am plighted heart and soul to another.”
“To whom?” was the stern question. “I know of no one who receives the
encouragement of a lover, save Herbert.”
“One far away—seeking distinction in a foreign land. Oh, blight not the
promise of his young years by compelling me to falsehood and desertion.”
“What! that beggarly painter, Mervin! And is it for him you have
slighted the highest in station—the brightest in intellect! For two
years you have carried on this deception unsuspected—I have but one
atonement to demand for such duplicity. Accept Herbert, and it shall be
forgotten—refuse, and you are no longer a child of mine.”
Vain were the pleadings of the unhappy girl—vain her appeals to his
better feelings. Glad of a pretext to treat her with such harshness as
to drive her into his measures, Mr. Selwyn availed himself to the utmost
of the one which was offered. She was literally left no choice between a
marriage she detested, or expulsion from the paternal roof.
It is doubtful whether the parents would have carried their resentment
so far, had she finally refused compliance with their wishes; but there
was so much at stake, that both father and mother scrupled not to use
every endeavor to urge her into the proposed union.
The constitution of Julia had never been robust; and the conflict in her
feelings brought on a severe attack of illness, from which she very
slowly recovered; and there was a brightness in the large-pupiled eyes,
and a clear spot of rose upon her cheek, which seemed to speak of early
decay and death. She went out once more, and listened with apparent
acquiescence to the wishes of her parents in regard to her marriage.
Herbert was roused into something like interest, and his attentions were
unremitting. Julia received them passively—she felt herself a victim to
a fate she had no power to control, and yielded to the will of those
around her. Yet she could not write to Mervin; she could not tell him
who trusted her that she was about to wed another. No words could convey
to him the wearing persecutions of which she had been the victim, even
could a daughter bring herself to write such things of her parents. Her
energies were destroyed, and she felt herself borne forward on the
current of events, without the power to avert the doom they had awarded
her.
As the fall advanced, a slight cough alarmed her mother, and again the
physician was summoned. Julia earnestly desired to see him alone. He
found her in her room with a small parcel on the table before her.
“Doctor,” she said, with a faint smile, “you are called on to restore
health to the hopeless. You know that to be an impossible task. I wish
you to tell me honestly and truly, how long you think I can live.”
“Pooh! Miss Julia! you are too young to talk of dying. Many long and
happy years are, I trust, before you.”
“You would flatter me with a hope that is not dear to me. Long life I
now ask not—desire not. I ask you as a man of honor—as a Christian—if
you think it possible for me to recover? To die is now my only wish.”
“So the young always say when disappointment meets them. Your pulse is
quick—you are feverish; but I think these symptoms will pass away. A
winter in a warm climate I shall recommend to Mr. Herbert as the best
thing for you; and I hope to see you again quite restored.”
“In a warm climate? What country will you recommend?” she asked
abruptly.
“The South of France—or Italy.”
“Italy! Oh, let it be Italy! I could die contented there; but I will not
consent to go. I dare not consent to be united to Mr. Herbert unless you
will assure me that the last hope of life is past.”
The doctor looked at her as if doubting her sanity.
“You are young to lie down in the grave with resignation. There is some
mystery here, my young friend, which is wearing your life gradually
away. Can you not confide in me? I may be able to serve you.”
“Only in telling me the truth, and in writing a few lines for me to one
who is far away—not dreaming of the blow that is about to fall on him.
Poor Arthur! My grief is now more for him than for myself. You are a
friend of Mr. Mervin’s, Doctor. Write to him, and inform him of my
marriage; and tell him that my last promise was inviolate. I was his, so
long as a hope in life remained. You may tell him that there was no
escape from this loveless marriage, and the sacrifice of life itself
will test the truth of my affection for him. _Now_ will you order me to
Italy? that I may die amid the bland airs and lovely scenes which
surround him. The consciousness that I am in the same land, will gild
the remnant of my waning life.”
The physician was deeply touched. He saw that in her face which spoke to
his heart of her rapidly approaching fate, and his voice faltered as he
replied,
“You shall go to Italy—and I will fulfill your request. Mervin shall be
apprised in the gentlest manner of all you desire. Would that I could
serve or save you, but the wound lies too deep for my skill to reach.”
She smiled faintly. “It is a consolation to know that by the sacrifice
of the frail remnant of my existence, I can secure to my young
sister—to my parents, the enjoyment of a competence at least. Mr.
Herbert has promised me that the wealth bequeathed to me by his father,
on the condition that I became his bride, shall be secured to my sister,
encumbered with an annuity to my parents. You probably know that the
affairs of my father are inextricably involved, and this will be their
only dependence; but, doctor, I have made one proviso, to screen my
sweet Ellen from the misery that has been my portion. She is to enjoy
the absolute right of choosing her partner for life herself.”
“These,” she continued, taking the parcel from the table, “are _his_
letters. They are few—but very—very precious. Take them—destroy
them—I cannot do it—and I would not have them returned to him. It
would be too bitter to have the memorials of wasted affection thrown
back on the heart from which they emanated.”
* * * * *
A few more weeks rolled by, and the sacrifice had been completed—the
victim had been offered up at the shrine of selfishness and false pride.
The arrangements of Herbert were so liberal as to free Mr. Selwyn from
all apprehensions for the future. He was not avaricious; and in his
anxiety to please the fading bride his money had literally purchased, he
was willing to lavish his fortune with a profuse hand. He loved Julia as
much as his calm heart was capable of loving any thing; and in the sunny
clime to which they were bound, he confidently looked forward to her
recovery from the effects of what he called her slight cold. Her parents
had never for an instant allowed him to suspect that, on her part, there
was the least repugnance to the union; and she had coquetted with him so
long, that she shrank from laying before his cold gaze, the history of
her secret affection for his rival.
They embarked for Europe, and Julia bade a last farewell to the land of
her birth. As its shores faded in the distance, she felt the sad
conviction that her eyes had rested on them for the last time.
So far from renovating her exhausted frame, the sea-voyage had a
contrary effect; and when they at last entered the bay of Naples, the
young bride was carried on deck to breathe her last sigh in sight of the
land which contained the unconscious Mervin.
The letter of the kind physician had not reached its destination, and
Mervin was still pursuing his brilliant career with the fond hope of
soon being in a situation to claim his betrothed.
* * * * *
A solemn procession passed a group of artists collected together at a
corner of one of the principal streets. The corpse of a young female was
borne past them on a flower-strewn bier, to one of the principal hotels.
A close carriage followed, containing a single mourner. An inquiry was
made as to who the deceased was.
“A young American lady.”
An undefinable feeling of sympathy with his bereaved countryman, induced
Mervin to separate from the group, and join the procession. As it
entered the hotel, he was about to follow and offer his services, when
he met a servant belonging to the establishment to whom he was well
known. The man stopped and addressed him.
“The American signor who has just arrived wishes an artist to take the
likeness of his wife, before she is buried. As you are a
fellow-countryman, I was about to seek you, signor—for your pictures
are justly renowned, and this lady is even now very beautiful. The
gentleman is too deeply afflicted to see you himself.”
“What is his name, Guiseppe?”
“Signor Hibut, or Hobut—I cannot tell which.”
The sound of the name, in the Italian’s pronunciation, appeared so
little like the real one, that his old rival never once occurred to
Mervin—and without further hesitation he dispatched a servant to his
studio to bring the requisite materials for his task.
He was ushered into the chamber of death; and a cold thrill of emotion
almost unnerved him as he looked on the bier, with the sharp outline of
a human form clearly defined beneath the white coverlet that lay above
it. The withered flowers which were strewn over it, seemed but to mock
the stern conqueror who had laid his strong grasp on the marble form of
the dead, and he removed them, though he withheld his hand from raising
the veil which shrouded her features, until the servant who had been
sent to his studio had fulfilled his commission and departed.
It was a bright day, and the garish sun streamed into the room. With the
eye of his profession for effect, he lowered the crimson curtains before
the windows, that their reflection might throw the rosy hue of life on
the pallid features he was to delineate.
He paused as he stood beside the bier, with his hand upon the linen that
shrouded her features. Some deep emotion appeared struggling in his
mind, and he withdrew his hand. Ashamed of his hesitation, with a sudden
effort he threw back the covering, and with a cry, sunk upon the floor.
An hour passed, and with glazed eyes, and horror-struck visage, the
painter cowered beside the bier, with his immovable gaze fixed on the
still face before him.
“His wife!” he muttered at intervals; “His wife!—false—false to me—I
that loved her so madly—trusted her so fondly! His wife—his wife!”
At length he arose, and seizing his brush, commenced painting with a
rapidity and success that surprised himself. The picture speedily grew
under his hands into life and beauty; but it did not represent the dull
room with its lifeless inmate. The starry heavens, and the green vale
were faithfully delineated—a young girl, in the pride of successful
beauty, leaned against an open window—and he livingly portrayed the
peerless loveliness of the embodiment of his young ideal.
Before her knelt a youth wearing the features of the artist himself, but
so changed—so full of the anguish of a broken spirit, that one glance
revealed the history of his slighted love and maddened heart.
* * * * *
Mervin went forth from that apartment with faltering steps, and the cold
dew of agony upon his brow. How he reached his home he knew not. He
found a letter on the table—it was the long-delayed communication of
Dr. L——; he retained self-command enough to read and understand its
contents—but it was the last effort of his over-wrought mind.
His words to his lost love had been prophetic! The tie that bound him to
reason was rent—the bright promise of his opening years buried in the
grave of his young idol.
Some kind friend restored him to his native land; and he now wanders
about the home of his father, a melancholy and harmless wreck.
* * * * *