_Tuesday night, June._—Well, ’tis over. To-day I arrived in my new
home; and setting aside my longing after a _home_-feeling, which I have
ever felt since the death of my dear, dear mother, there is no place
that promises more domestic enjoyments than Alton; especially if Clare,
my cousin, will love me and let me love her. She is a pretty girl, not
beautiful, I admit, but sufficiently comely. My good, kind uncle, too! I
can love _him_, I know; for how careful—how very, very tender was he of
my feelings on our road hither. My room, also, is very nicely arranged;
and as I glance around, I think I may again be happy, _even_, though I
am dependent on my uncle’s bounty. I must to sleep now, for I am too
sleepy now for aught else.
_Monday._—Several days have elapsed since I last wrote; and I begin to
love my old uncle in reality. There is yet another member of our small
family circle, whom I did not see the first day of my arrival. It is an
old lady, claiming cousinship with my Uncle Alton, and carrying herself
with quite an “_air_” to myself. Very strict, too, she seems in her
religious views; and yet sadly lacking in herself that charity for
others which, in my eyes, is the light, “pure and undefiled.” Ah, me! I
must stop, or I shall be wanting in that which I am so lauding. How
lonely—how very lonely do I yet feel! no nearer my _home_ of the heart
yet, I fear me. My uncle I love; but—my Cousin Clare is so strange. Can
she love, or is she like one of those incomprehensible characters of
whom I have read, who keep all those feelings hidden deep within their
heart of hearts, until they die away of themselves, leaving them in
reality as callous as she now seems to me. I have tried to settle myself
to my usual employments. I sew, I read, and tune my guitar occasionally;
and often wander out, with my books, into those grand old woods around
Alton, and sitting there under their deep, dark shadows, find
companionship in my thoughts. My Cousin Clare I did ask once to
accompany me, but was refused, on account of household duties; and Mrs.
Dudley added, with an expression of countenance, to emphasize her
speech, “Clare, Miss Walton, thinks of others besides herself. For my
part, I never admired those tramps through the woods, of which some
young ladies are so fond.” And her mouth was settled into that
self-complacent expression, as if perfectly satisfied of the effect
produced on me—imagining that poor I must be abashed into utter
prostration before the majesty of her disapproval. Nevertheless, I still
walk, and will continue doing so, with or without approval, which I
neither value nor seek.
_Thursday night, July._—What a difference will the arrival of an
agreeable person make in a country-house. Now, yesterday and to-day are
so rapid, compared with the preceding weeks. There has been an arrival
at Alton. No less a personage than Col. Dudley, a nephew, by marriage,
to my old plague. His health, it seems, is not very good—and he passes
the summer here to re-establish it. He lives in the “sunny South,” and
gives me some glowing descriptions of it. I have some one now who is in
reality a companion; but, although this seems equally agreeable to me,
and to himself, it does not seem to be relished as well by Mrs. Dudley.
_Sunday, September._—Many weeks have elapsed since I have written in my
journal. I have been so happy, that I took no note of time. Col. Dudley
has been my constant companion; and Mrs. Dudley, his aunt, though always
making little plans and plots to draw him into her own and Clare’s
society—from which I am as much excluded by my own choice, as their
habitual reserve—has not succeeded as yet. I am sure to find him at my
side, whether in a walk or ride. And these same glorious woods—so old,
so grand—how beautiful they are becoming now, as the “melancholy days”
draw nigh. What made the poet say the autumn days were the “saddest of
the year.” I am sure he must have been indulging in a poetical license,
for to me they are infinitely joyous and gladsome. I know—I feel that
Hugh Dudley loves me; and yet why does he not ask me to be his. Perhaps
he waits for a manifestation of my feelings for _him_; but _that_ I
shall never evince, dearly as I love him. I know that he is proud—so
much so, that much as I love a proud man, it becomes almost a fault in
him. But I am also proud; and where I most love, there am I always the
most reserved. I wish him to know “I would be wooed, and not unsought be
won.”
_Wednesday night._—How happy! how immeasurably happy am I! I can hardly
realize these joyous feelings! I have just entered my chamber, too
excited for sleep; and seeing my journal lying close to the
writing-desk, have opened it to put in words, my joy. It appears
unaccountable to me, how, for one moment, I could have imagined myself
happy before, when I compare my present ecstatic feelings to what I can
remember of ever experiencing. It seems that my heart is opening in
love, to the whole world. I could even take Mrs. Dudley with the kindest
affection to it, if she would allow me; but why or wherefore she
_dislikes_ me, and _will_ manifest that feeling for me. Even my
perceptions of the beautiful have grown so much the more lively; and the
meanest thing of earth—the mossy trunk—the cloudlet—the sky—the
stream—the wild-flower—are _all_ floating in an atmosphere of light
and beauty. And why is all this? Oh! my proud heart, you are now
satisfied; and you can answer, why this ecstatic feeling. _I love_ and
_I am loved_! Hugh Dudley—_my own_ Hugh—has told me this in words—so
wondrously eloquent—and has, at last, sued me to become his wife. He
wished our marriage to take place at once; but for all sufficient
reasons, I have begged him to defer it till next summer. Then I will go
forth with him among strangers—with him who is my world. I have found
at last my _home_ of the heart. ’Tis in his love—his ardent,
disinterested love. And why did I not marry him at once, and go with him
to his own sunny home? I could not, proud heart that I am, bear to owe
the very dress in which I should be decked at the altar, to the bounty
of my uncle—how much less to Col. Dudley. Though I have a home with
them—that is, shelter and food—yet my right hand should be cut off,
ere I would take pecuniary aid from any. They all look cold upon me now,
even my uncle. I have ever conducted myself respectfully—nay, even
affectionately toward him; but, for some reason or other, he has altered
toward me, and I have drawn myself again into my reserve. I have
undoubtedly thwarted some cherished plan of his, with respect to Clare
and Dudley; but even my _dependence_ on him—_gratitude_ will not be
forced—will not allow me to regret what has happened. Oh! so
contented—so blest am I—that cold looks from the world are unregarded,
so long as I am conscious of his love. I had been sick, and sad, for two
days and more; my heart and head seemed bursting, for I could hear, in
my chamber (where sickness kept me prisoner) the sound of mirth and
enjoyment going on below. Even the unwonted laugh of Clare was echoing
merrily, as if my absence kindled a fire of joy in her bosom of ice; and
my jealous heart told me she was happy, because of the attentions of
Col. Dudley. I could not endure the thought of his wasting upon her one
smile—one word beyond those of common civility. Very, very wicked was I
on that bed of sickness; for every time I could hear the voice of Mrs.
Dudley calling upon my cousin, in a gladdened tone, I would half utter
aloud, “Yes! that vile old woman is satisfied now. She thinks he will
love that icicle—that automaton.” Yes, wicked I was, indeed; but then,
sick and suffering, I should have been treated with more sympathy by
those under whose roof I then was eating the bread of dependence, it
would have made it less bitter—not near so choking. _One_ ceremonious
visit for the day from Clare—one message of inquiry from my uncle, was
the sole interest that was bestowed upon me. How can it be wondered at,
then, if my heart grew bitter toward them; ay, even to him, for if he
inquired, it was never told me. But the bitterness I felt toward him was
different from that which I felt toward my uncle and cousin. When I
reflected on their conduct, there was a mingling of anger and revenge;
when on him, the tears would rush to my eyes, an aching feeling to my
heart, and I would say, “Could I only die now, would he shed one tear,
or be saddened by the cold, pale face of her whom he must have known
felt something for him beside mere friendship.” And then I would hide my
eyes in the pillow, and weep in pity over the sad fate of myself which I
thus pictured.
As these bitter, bitter thoughts careered through my brain—increasing
its ache—how did I sigh for the rest of the grave. “For the living know
that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they
any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. Also their
_love_, and their hatred, and their envy is now perished; neither have
they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done under the
sun.” I snatched my journal—in my longing to unburthen myself of my
weight of wo—and scribbled what I here transcribe, but which from shame
I have since torn out:
“Why, oh Father! didst thou see fit to throw me here in this bitter
world, to suffer and to struggle _alone_! Alone must I suffer—alone am
I in my love—alone in my despair—and when dying solitary, and I am
bore to the rest of the grave, I shall be unwept, unthought of. Well! be
it so; only, Father, teach me to bow in submission and to drink without
murmuring of the bitter cup. I already look upon the tomb, as the
storm-tossed mariner to his haven of safety, ‘where the wicked cease
from troubling and the weary are at rest.’ Ah! how few care what the
motherless one, cut off from the world by poverty and other adverse
circumstances, must endure. My wishes and my hopes are mine, and mine
_alone_. I feel, as I imagine the deaf and dumb one does, whose heart is
full of love, and bright, warm, beautiful fancies, and who cannot give
them words. To whom can I utter them? All, all these feelings must be
forever buried in the depths of mine own sad heart, and nothing but the
froth, the foam, and the weeds, be thrown on the surface for the world’s
gaze. Oh! how I envy those who have fond parents—a dear brother—a
loving sister. How I long for a sympathy—a resting-place for my
affections, which I despair of ever finding on earth, but which I hope I
may realize with Him, the Father, who has given me this capability of
loving.”
This was written after hearing what my imagination—heated with fever
and jealousy—construed into a light laugh from Dudley, immediately
under my window. I knew it was _him_, for I heard the crashing sound of
his boot-heel on the gravel, and the mingling tones of his aunt and
Clare. They had all been walking—for I sprang from the bed to ascertain
the fact. Yes, walking! For Clare was leaning on his arm; her sun-bonnet
dangling by the string from her hand, and to my jealous eye she had
never looked so near to beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed, and a smile
_almost_ loving parted her lips as she looked up into his face. They had
stopped to admire a flower, over which Mrs. Dudley still leaned, and
he—apparently—was describing some of the same kind he possessed. How I
hated Clare, at the moment, there standing with her hand upon his arm,
when there was no necessity for the support; loving him, too, as I knew
she must—though in what manner I could not picture to myself—for I had
ever thought from her impassable nature it was the blood of _fishes_
which filled her veins. As I looked upon the group my dejection became
intensified into agony. I felt utterly _alone_, and I wished for some
kind Samaritan to pour the oil of sympathy into my bleeding wounds. It
was then I wrote, and in the despair of my soul I felt that all was
vanity and bitterness, and that I had deceived myself entirely—yes,
blindly deceived myself. _He_ cared not for _me_—whilst I was writhing
in pain, _he_ was merrily and gleefully laughing with those whom he
knew, as well as I did, loved me not.
How changed my feelings now from those penned above, wrung from me by
jealousy and despair! ’Tis as if I had been groping in some dark,
noisome cave alone—ay, alone and fearful—and had suddenly entered an
inner chamber, before unknown, where a thousand lights are dancing and
reflecting against its brilliant columns and gem-like stalactites
pendent from its illuminated sides and dome—so beautiful—so sudden has
been the change. To begin at the beginning and tell how came this
change.
For three days had I kept my room. On the afternoon of the third I stole
out unobserved, as I thought, and made my way to the old, sombre-looking
forest—my favorite haunt—where, under its dark, umbrageous trees, amid
its gloom and solitude, I sought for companionship for my own sad
thoughts. Seated on a fallen tree, turning with my foot the dry leaves
listlessly, and hearing the moaning and sighing of the breeze through
the tree tops. No other sound reached me; but I started up wildly—for
sickness had made me nervous—as a hand was laid upon my arm, and
scarcely heard his loved voice, softened into tenderness, for the loud
beating of my own poor heart.
“I hope that I have not frightened you much, dear Florence. Have you, at
last, got well?”
“Not entirely; but I am better, Colonel Dudley, though still I have some
remains of my headache.” And I closed my eyes, which were rapidly
filling with tears, and turned from him my face, that he might not
observe them.
“Your illness has been a sad, sad trial to me, Florence,” said he,
softly. “I missed you more than I can tell you. My nights have been
sleepless from anticipation and from disappointment at not seeing you,
as I hoped each day to do, when I arose. How I sighed for your
companionship. Even after I went to my chamber last night, I again left
it when the whole house seemed to be quiet, and wandered _here_ to your
favorite spot where so oft I have listened to you. I have inquired each
day concerning you till I am fearful I tired the patience of both your
cousin and uncle. They said you were only slightly unwell, but that it
was your custom to keep your room when annoyed by companionship not
pleasing to your taste, made fastidious by a long residence in the city
and by novel-reading! You see how candid I am, but I have my reasons for
being thus explicit. I thought them unkind—I began to think if I were
the one who had wearied you, and memory, faithful to your charming ways,
said at once ‘no’—for I could see that my company was more welcome than
that of my aunt and your cousin. Nay, start not from me, dear Florence,
I mean nothing to injure the most sensitive delicacy, but to show you
the meditations to which I have been led by your sickness, and let you
decide for me whether my future is to be happiness, almost too great for
reality, or entire wretchedness. I blame you not for not seeking the
society of either your cousin or my aunt, for neither are, or could be
congenial; and who, I am sure, from some cause or other, are not
friendly to you. Tell me now, why did you not send me even one word,
formal though it might have been, to my bouquet—arranged with as much
skill as I possessed, and bearing its Oriental meaning for your eye to
read?”
“Your bouquet!” And in my surprise I turned to him my face, forgetful of
my tears. “When did you send it—and by whom?”
“Tears, dearest Florence! Did you not receive it? But say that, and a
load will have been lifted from my heart. Did not Miss Clare bring you
one from me yesterday morning?”
“Never; nor even the simplest inquiry has reached me from you.” And my
eyes looked the reproach I did not utter.
“Strange, very strange! What could have been their motives for this
conduct? Yesterday, dear Florence, I sent a bouquet, hoping that it
would commence what I have so long wished but feared to tell you. I sent
you a rose-bud and other flowers, of which you yourself told me the
language when we sat by the window, one rainy afternoon, longing to be
out for this same walk. You laughingly did as I requested you,
instructed me into their meaning, and I said that when I sent a bouquet
so arranged, the lady who might receive it must think it uttered what I
feared to say. Ah! Florence, I was sure that you knew I was speaking in
serious earnestness, for your face colored brightly, and I could see the
trembling of the little fingers as you began to untie the flowers,
though you carefully kept your face averted. Will you be angry with me
when I say, that I began _then_ to hope what I so earnestly wish to ask
from you? Do you not understand me, Florence?”
I answered not, but sat with face averted, and head bowed, to hide the
emotions his words caused.
“Your answer is needless, for I know that you long ago have understood
my heart. Yes; last night in this your favorite spot I sat me down to
think upon you, and your winning, artless character. I felt that with
you I should be content to exclaim,
‘Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her.’
And that fair spirit you are conscious, sweet Florence, must be
yourself. Say, will you be willing, dear one, to minister to me through
life?”
I could hardly repress the low cry of joy which sprung from my heart to
my lips, yet I did so, and sat apparently calm at his side, whilst he
continued still more passionately—
“Yes; _you_, dearest Florence, are the fair spirit whom I devotedly
love. Tell me, can you—will you be mine? And, though a desert be not
our dwelling-place, make with your love a paradise of my earthly
habitation. Say—answer me _now_, Florence, dear one—will you be my
wife?”
I did not answer—I could not; but I leaned my face against his
shoulder, and, as his arm encircled me, he bent down his head and
whispered what answer he wished me to make. We left _our_ favorite walk
engaged—with _one_ hope—_one_ love—_one_ joy. As if in charming
coincidence with our happiness, how gloriously beautiful was the aspect
worn by surrounding objects. And we asked one another, in sympathy,
could any thing in England, France, or Italy—in the way of trees—be
equal to our forests, as they then appeared? So many kinds—so many
shades—so differing in foliage: now dense and rich in living green—now
sparse, showing the satiny boughs of the elm, or the rich brown trunk of
oak, or its mossy covering—now the light, feathery foliage waving as in
spring—all so varying, yet commingling, and from their very contrasts
making the effect more striking, and forming a whole of harmony, like
unto some gorgeous picture. And then the sunset, as we stood on a rising
hill to gaze upon his setting, on this our happy evening! ’Twas as
glorious as ever Italia’s sky could boast. Little cloudlets of burnished
gold, whose upper edge wore a pale violet hue, were floating in a sea of
rose; whilst above and around was the pure azure canopy. And all these
were changing in form and tint, as lower, and still more low, sunk the
sun—like the fabled changes of the dying dolphin—till the whole
sobered down into the soft gray of twilight. Then we turned for our walk
home. How tenderly did he fold my shawl around me, and whisper lovingly
as he drew my hand under his arm, that I must be careful now of my
health for _his_ sake, if I would not for my own!
As we turned into the graveled walk leading directly to the house, we
met Clare and Mrs. Dudley. I saw them before he was aware they were
approaching, for his head was bent toward me as he uttered words of joy
which thrilled my heart, so long aching for sympathy and _his_ love,
with a happiness almost amounting to agony. How red grew my face as
their eyes looked full upon us! How surprised the stare, how cold their
passing salutation to us both! But little either of us recked now. Every
thing with me was forgotten but the certainty of his loving me, and my
promise to become his wife. When he has gone—ah! here comes the gloomy
shadow in my picture of light. I will form some plan to make sufficient
money, that I may not be dependent on any one for my simple outfit, and
then we will marry, as I said, next summer. Now, I can only think of my
happiness, which is too ecstatic for me yet to realize.
_Tuesday, Oct._—A fortnight has dragged on—ah! yes: how truly is it
described when I say _dragged_ since _his_ departure, and I wonder to
myself how was it possible that I ever should endure this place without
him—my sunlight!—my joy! In one of the literary papers which my uncle
takes is a notice of premiums, to be awarded to the successful
competitors, for tales, essays, etc. I have determined to become one. I
have often written—may I not succeed? I _will_ succeed. I have a good
plan, too, for a story, founded upon an incident in the life of my old
hero-like grandfather. So, adieu my old friend, my journal, for awhile;
for I must bend all my existent energies on my _prize_ story—as I
_will_ it to be. In doing that and answering Hugh’s letters, the time at
my disposal will be entirely taken up. The prizes will be awarded before
Christmas. I am beginning to think Mrs. Dudley and Clare suspect my
engagement to Hugh.
_November 28th._—Joy! joy! and now for the details—to confide to you,
my journal, in what that joy consists! My uncle opened the mail-bag, as
usual, this morning whilst we sat at breakfast. There were two gentlemen
present, beside our family circle, and one of them, a wealthy gentleman
from a neighboring city, and who has always shown himself peculiarly
polite and attentive, at the same time an interesting and intellectual
companion. Mrs. Dudley and Clare—I forever _couple_ them together, for
it seems to me they have only _one_ mind for their two bodies, and of
course, but a small portion for each—imagine I am “setting my cap” for
him; and according to their general custom, endeavor to set me in the
worst possible light in his eyes. Well! _revenons à nos moutons_, my
uncle placed two letters before me as my share of the precious bag,
remarking as he did so:
“One from your punctual correspondent at the South, and one from
Philadelphia. What beau in that city, Floy, do you write to?”
“Why, Miss Walton”—in a most insulting tone, said Mrs. Dudley—“is not
this foolish correspondence with my nephew dropped by _him_ yet? If it
were not for its improbability, I should begin to fear there was
something serious in it; but, then your encouragement of his attentions
was so very open, that Clare and I said it could only have been for your
amusement and his, to make the time pass to two idlers. But, once for
all, pray inform me as _his_ aunt, did you ever dream of any reality in
your game?”
How the hot blood rushed to my temples as I convulsively grasped the
letters to place in my pocket. Yet my pride came to the rescue at this
wanton insult, and at which her assistant in her schemes, Clare, sat
smiling, triumphantly rejoicing in this vulgar attack—so turning to
her, with a light laugh of scorn, I replied:
“_Your nephew!_ Humph! Yes; your supposition does credit to your _ever_
rightly judging and far-seeing mind. My flirtation with _your kinsman_
could, of course, be only for one’s amusement in the country!”
I had paid her back, certainly, for the poor, wicked old creature’s face
colored up in anger as she said:
“Oh! very well, very well, indeed, Miss Walton. That is a nice speech
for a coquette to make about an absent gentleman in the presence of
another.”
I made _her_ no further answer, but finishing my coffee, left the room
to read my letters. I could not help making this answer to her at the
time; yet, I sincerely regret it now. It seems like treason against my
love to utter such a thing about _him_, even to retaliate upon her. The
first letter I opened was from Hugh Dudley—breathing the most devoted
love—begging me to shorten his term of exile, and let him come, at
once, to claim me for his own. The other was from the editor of the
——, and contained a check for one hundred dollars! My story had
obtained the second prize. Now, I _can_ think about what Hugh has
written, I will write to him to-morrow, and tell him I will consider his
proposition. I must not grant it at once, for I am ashamed to let him
see how much I love him.
_December 18th._—How busy they are preparing for Christmas; yet I
cannot enter into their feelings of mirth. A presentiment is haunting
me—a shadow, like the gloom of the grave, is around me. I cannot answer
why this is so. Foolish that I am! I have gone forth to my favorite
walk; I have recalled the words—the vows of love—his tender looks, as
he offered them; and yet the cold, dead feeling at my heart will not be
driven forth. As I entered the parlor yesterday, in the dim twilight,
softly—for I was thinking sadly, as I am wont _now_—I heard Mrs.
Dudley say to Clare, “_Depend on it, Hugh Dudley will not marry_ HER _at
least_.” I do not think she saw me; but Clare’s cold eyes rested on me
with a most malignant glance, as I quickly drew back, ere they should be
aware of my entrance. I know, oh, heart of mine! how foolish ’tis for me
to grieve. Is this the confidence I have in his love—his vows—his
honor—to be thus shaken for _one_ moment by the assertions of an
evil-minded and plotting old woman, who manifestly hates me. I _will_
tear this feeling from me. I will not despond—I will trust in you, my
own noble-hearted Hugh.
_January._—’Tis strange! no letters from Col. Dudley. Can he be ill?
Oh! this sickening suspense—this living death! I fancy, too, that my
enemies—for so I must call Mrs. Dudley and Clare—watch me
narrowly—triumphantly. What can it mean? Oh, Father! in thy mercy,
spare me this anticipated misery! Let the bitter cup pass from me, if
thou wilt; for I feel my utter weakness and inability to bear up under
these harrowing thoughts. Impossible! I will not pen any thing against
his truth. He must be sick. Not even to this mute witness of my love
will I own, that even in _thought_ I suspect him. I will show him this
one of these days yet to come, when the happiness I then shall feel will
repay me for all my sorrows—and then he will know how much he was
loved. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” says the song—and it is
true with me, at least, I wonder, is it the case with him. I will go
down now—for everybody is away to-day, shopping in the neighboring
town—and play all his favorites, and cheat myself with the belief that
he is beside me—that I feel his warm breath play among my curls—that,
on the lifting of my eye, I shall meet his glance, so full of love and
trust, as to shame me in my inmost heart for ever _thinking_ he could
prove false.
_February._—Oh, God! how unspeakably miserable am I. And you, old
friend, that has been the record of my joy—my short dream of
happiness—be also the page upon which I chronicle my grief—my deep
despair. I am calmer now; I did think that I should have crazed under
the blow; but the Father has strengthened and borne me up. I had been
expecting an answer to my last letter from Hugh, (oh! how anxiously, for
’twas past the usual time,) when one day my Uncle Alton sent for me.
“Florence,”—as I entered—“I have a package for you, sent under cover
to myself. I am afraid that this will prove a sad trial to you; but as
you have your own self to thank for it, I am in hopes, for your sake, it
will not occasion you much heart-grief. I am playing the part of Job’s
comforters; but I cannot help saying to you, that you should remember
how you speak of the absent, for sooner or later, they always are
informed of bad speeches by some injudicious friend.”
“What does this long preface lead to, Uncle Alton,” said I, with a
smile, though my heart felt heavy as lead, and as cold. “Surely I am not
mixed up in any of the neighborhood slander, I hope. I always thought
that you did me the justice to imagine that I care little, and talk
less, of the worthies who compose the society attainable at Alton.”
My uncle, by this time, had handed me the package which he had been
separating from its envelop; and he now coldly, I may say sternly,
addressed me,
“Hugh Dudley, Florence, has written me that you and himself were
engaged—solemnly pledged to each other to wed the coming summer. From
your speech, made in public, in the presence of his friends and
relative, from whom he has received the information, he now releases you
from your chains, that he thinks must have been galling, to call forth
from you, in public, so unprovoked, so cruel a speech. What renders it
still more stinging, was the fact, that Mr. Hilton, one of the gentlemen
present, has ever been an enemy of Dudley’s, and on his return home (for
he lives not very far from him) repeated it among a certain set. After
Dudley heard of this he gave the more ready credence to his aunt’s
letter, which came whilst the subject was in agitation in his thoughts.
He wrote to me, as your nearest friend and protector, explaining his
conduct, and requesting me to hand you your letters. It has grieved me
to hear of this conduct, heartless as I must call it, from my sister’s
child.”
I felt like throwing myself at my uncle’s feet, and begging him to plead
for me with Hugh in my great misery; but, at this moment I looked up,
and saw Mrs. Dudley standing near the entrance, and peering on me with
such a smile of malicious triumph, that crushing back my real feelings
of agony with my al-conquering pride, I said lightly, though it seemed
as if my heart were weeping blood the while—
“Do not trouble yourself, uncle, about my incapacity for bearing this,
especially as you say it was brought on me by my own means. Inform Col.
Dudley when you write, that I accept my release with thanks, and never
have, nor could ever claim relationship with some of his kin, but with
the same feelings of loathing and disgust I experience when some hideous
and dangerous reptile crosses my path.”
I was nerved by my anger against Mrs. Dudley to say this, and to act the
part I assumed, of carelessness, for I took up the package with a light
laugh, thanked my uncle, and dropped a very lowly reverence to her as I
approached the door, saying, “I hope, my dear madam, that your truly
_Christian_ heart is now at rest, having seen the end of our game, begun
to relieve the tedium or worse of a country-house, blessed with such an
inmate as your venerable self.”
I have a dim recollection of seeing her eyes open wide and still wider
with perfect amaze, and the words “heartless flirt,” fell from her lips.
I reached my room, though my pride was fast ebbing, and locked myself
in. I opened the bundle—my own letters came tumbling therefrom, and
_one_ from _him_. I put it here, that with the record of my willful
error, its punishment may also be seen.
“Miss Walton,—I return you your letters, and your vows of
love—when the substance is not possessed, how worthless is the
shadow. I scorn myself for having loved one who could so
wantonly trifle with a trustful, loving heart, which has been
taken when proffered, to throw away as a worthless object. May
you be happy, but that I am afraid you will not be. I hope that
you will be more careful of the next heart that you may witch to
love you. At least, never say of him in the presence of either
friends or enemies, “he will do well enough to amuse one’s self
with in the country!” I again say, may you be happy, and as my
happiness can only be in forgetting you, I shall never seek to
hear of you; and rest easy that this will be the last letter
with which you will ever be troubled from the hand of
Hugh Dudley.”
It was over! and I sat long silent and motionless with the letters
before me. I then determined to bear uncomplainingly my fate, and never
let _him_ know the agony which his thus breaking _our_ engagement had
caused me. “Did I die from it,” was my proud resolution, “I will die in
silence. He, to believe so quickly, so readily, an assertion made
against me, by an enemy of his, and proved by an enemy of mine. Did he
ask me, ‘Was it so—and wherefore?’ No: but acted on the information,
careless of my pain—oh! well he knew that I loved him—and exulted in
it from revenge. Had he asked me, oh! how humbly would I have
acknowledged my fault, and throwing myself more trustingly on his love,
how would I have prayed for forgiveness, till the proud man, in his
strength, would have been softened by my tears, and taken me again in
love to his bosom.” But it was over, and she who had caused this misery
should not triumph. I jumped from my seat, bathed my eyes, curled my
hair elaborately, decked myself in a most becoming dress, and on seeing
my ashy cheeks, in the glance I gave into the glass, for the first time
painted them with carmine. I then descended into the drawing-room. Mr.
Harold, the wealthy merchant from the city, whom I have spoken of, had
returned the day before, on a visit to my uncle, and for him, and to
him, I played and sung. I was in my wildest spirits. I kept up this
farce for weeks whenever the eyes of the household were upon me, till I
thought in the struggle my mind must give way. At this crisis a letter
came from a cousin of my mother, to whom I had written to ask for an
asylum, gladly welcoming me to her home—for she was aged and infirm,
and wanted companionship. I accepted at once; received a cold
acquiescence from my uncle—a still more indifferent one from my
cousin—and set out for my new home in Kentucky, determined to hide
myself forever from the eyes of those whose triumph was built on the
ruins of my happiness. Oh! Hugh, could you have known how deeply I have
repented of that speech, wrung from my wounded pride, even you would
have forgiven me and loved me still—but you never, never loved as I did
you. But it is, as I said, all, all past; my dream is ended, and I now
walk sadly my allotted time on earth, a sorrower and a sojourner in a
vale of tears.
* * * * *
Here ended this sketch from her journal; and Cora Norton sat at first
meditating, with her head still leaning on her arm. Turning at last to
her aunt, who was dozing across the room, she said—
“What has become of Col. Dudley, Aunt Mary?”
“Ech! what!” exclaimed the old lady; and then being thoroughly roused,
she took her knitting from the floor, where it had slipped during her
nap, received from Cora her spectacles, and upon her niece repeating her
inquiry—
“He is now,” said Aunt Mary, gaping and rubbing her eyes, “the husband
of Clare Alton, and lives in his far distant home—at least so I heard
about five years since, the only time I ever heard of him. It is said
that the match was made up for him entirely by his aunt, and that Clare
is an excellent housekeeper—raises more chickens and turkies than any
lady in the neighborhood. She, as my informant told me, is quite the
_model_ housewife of her neighbors, and has finished a hexagon
bed-quilt, of I don’t know how many thousand patches. As to herself and
the colonel, they get along very politely I believe—
“Living together as most people do,
Suffering each other’s foibles, by accord,
And not exactly either one or two.”
And now, Cora love, it is bedtime. Need I ‘point a moral’ to the journal
you have read? Ah! no, you say. Well! when that little rattling tongue
of yours seems disposed to laugh and say flippant things about your
lovers, think of my girl-friend, Florence Walton, and profit by her
dear-bought experience.”
* * * * *