Some weeks after the scene of our last chapter, Clara Medford was
sitting where the young attorney had first seen her. Jane Preston, an
intimate friend, who had called to pay a morning visit, sat by her side
on the sofa with bonnet and shawl still on.
“Well, Clara,” said she, changing their conversation, “you are now
secured in the possession of this house and all your uncle’s property;
my, what wealth! I’m sure I wish it may yield you all the happiness you
desire.”
“Thank you, Jane, for your kind wishes,” answered Clara mildly, “but I
have thought that wealth seldom confers as much real happiness as it
brings additional care and anxiety.”
“But your care, unlike that of others, ends for the best.”
“True, I have no disappointment to complain of,” said Clara, “but my
success is only a negative pleasure, after all.”
“I am sure I should think it a very positive one,” returned Miss
Preston, as she rose to go. Clara pressed her to stay longer, but,
pleading an engagement, she proceeded to the door.
“But, Clara,” said she, continuing their conversation on the steps, “do
tell me who young Lawyer Barton is?”
“I know little more of him than that he is very talented in his
profession,” replied Clara, slightly blushing, more at the manner in
which it was asked than at the question itself.
“I have heard he was very retired, and went but little into company,”
continued Jane, giving information when she found none was to be
obtained. “But every one agrees that he has conducted your late suit
with great ability, for which, I suppose, you are very grateful,” said
she, with an arch side glance at her companion.
“I am, sincerely so,” returned Clara seriously, but with a rapid change
of countenance she added, “Oh! Jane, I almost forgot to ask you whether
you have yet appointed a day to gratify your sighing swain?”
“Oh!” exclaimed she, blushing crimson in turn, “I’ll tell you when we’ve
more time, for it’s a long story. Good-by, Clara, don’t be too grateful
to the handsome Mr. Barton,” and with a ringing, joyous laugh, she
tripped lightly down the marble steps.
“Good-by,” returned Clara, gazing after her retiring form, and almost
envying her the happy spirit with which she was animated.
* * * * *
At the time the above conversation occurred, Oliver Barton was
meditating on his encouraging success in the late trial, alone in the
office where twice before we have seen him. There was a more than usual
melancholy in the expression of his countenance. His head rested on his
hand, and at intervals he would heave an involuntary sigh, as though his
thoughts were of no agreeable nature. One would have concluded that some
great misfortune, rather than triumphant success, had befallen him. At
length he was roused from his reverie by the sound of rapid footsteps in
the entry, and in another moment James Ashly had entered.
“Well, Oliver,” said he, “so you exerted your eloquence to some purpose.
I knew when I saw your eye that you intended carrying all before you.
But,” continued he, observing the dejected mood of his friend, “what is
the matter—have you heard of the death of any near relative?”
“No,” answered Oliver, “I ought, I know, to be very happy.”
“You have cause to be so, certainly; then what has made you look like a
man contemplating suicide.”
“Sit down, James,” said Oliver, in a calm tone, and composing himself as
with an effort, “and I will tell you the cause; I confide in your
friendship, because I know its sincerity. The truth is, my sentiments
toward Miss Medford are not those of mere admiration, they are warmer; I
feel that I love her,” and starting from his chair, he strode rapidly
across the room.
“And, Oliver,” urged James, when the first surprise of so unexpected an
announcement was over, “is it cause of grief to love a girl so amiable
and beautiful as Miss Medford? You are already esteemed by her, and time
may incline her heart to a more tender sentiment. There is but one short
step between friendship and love. This suit is now so happily
terminated—”
“You have named the most embittering reflection of all,” said Oliver,
stopping before him and speaking earnestly; “by that decision the
validity of a will is established, which deprives her of the right to
dispose of her hand. By its mandate she must resign all; and what could
I offer to compensate her for the sacrifice? The homage of my heart, and
the devotion of my life, are worthless trifles. I knew, while striving
to establish her rights, that if successful I sealed my own unhappiness,
and forever cut off all hope of calling her mine. I even debated with
myself whether I might not lose the case by mismanagement, and then win
the heart of the trusting, beautiful Clara. It was a great conflict for
a single moment, but the temptation yielded to a sense of honor and
justice. Her cause triumphed; and at least I have the melancholy
satisfaction left of knowing that I served the one I love.”
Oliver spoke with the eloquence of despair, and his friend listened,
engrossed in astonishment and admiration.
“I can appreciate the feelings which so trying a situation prompts,
but,” added he, the naturally sanguine disposition of his mind
prevailing over its first gloomy sensations, “trust to time for a happy
termination; for although your way is now overhung with clouds, as you
advance into the future, it will become brighter, and a glorious store
of happiness will be opened to your view.”
“Your words bid me hope,” answered Oliver, “but I fear while you utter
them your heart misgives you. No, no, James—I see no room for hope,
nothing to brighten my path with a solitary ray of comfort. I must try
to banish her image from my heart, and think of her only in connexion
with every thing lovely and perfect, never as my first and only love. I
can but make the effort, though I believe it will fail.”
James was sensible of all the deep despair and silently corroding
influence of “hope deferred;” its dreams and disappointments; its
moments of bright anticipation succeeded by still darker views of the
stern reality; its overwhelming anguish, and its rush of mad gayety more
dreadful than tears. He knew, too, the depth of passionate feeling of
which Oliver’s heart was capable, and shuddered as he thought that the
soul of one so generous and noble would be made the prey of that slow
and deadly poison, hopeless love. But by an effort he suppressed the
rising emotions of his breast, and continued to urge the possibility of
the future removing the obstacles which now appeared so formidable.
“It is not to be expected,” said he, “nay, it is impossible, that one so
young and beautiful should remain single, in mere obedience to the
foolish whim of an uncle, no longer living. If her heart become engaged,
she will soon resign the gold, which is but a useless burthen, and some
one less scrupulous will possess the hand that might be your own.
Besides, will she not appreciate the struggle you have endured, and the
sacrifice of self in your conduct? And these aided by the gratitude she
already feels, are sufficient to win the heart of any maiden.”
But the view thus presented, skillfully colored by the hand of
friendship, could not change the determination he had expressed.
“It was I,” said Oliver, “who undertook the case, and succeeded in
securing to her the full benefit of her uncle’s will; knowing, then, its
provisions, would it not be inconsistent, even fraudulent, in me to
attempt to defeat it now?”
To this James could oppose nothing, for he felt the delicacy of his
friend’s situation; he knew how deep was the suffering excited by that
absorbing passion of the soul when struggling with adversity or
oppression, and his own heart swelled with a generous sympathy, as he
grasped the hand of his friend on parting.