Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
HEART-HISTORIES AND LIFE-PICTURES.
BY
T. S. ARTHUR.
NEW YORK:
1853.
INTRODUCTION.
So interested are we all in our every-day pursuits; so given up,
body and mind, to the attainment of our own ends; so absorbed by our
own hopes, joys, fears and disappointments, that we think rarely, if
at all, of the heart-histories of others--of the bright and sombre
life-pictures their eyes may look upon. And yet, every heart has its
history: how sad and painful many of these histories are, let the
dreamy eyes, the sober faces, the subdued, often mournful tones, of
many that daily cross our paths, testify. An occasional remembrance
of these things will cause a more kindly feeling towards others; and
this will do us good, in withdrawing our minds from too exclusive
thoughts of self.
Whatever tends to awaken our sympathies towards others, to interest
us in humanity, is, therefore, an individual benefit as well as a
common good. In all that we have written, we have endeavored to
create this sympathy and awaken this interest; and so direct has
ever been our purpose, that we have given less thought to those
elegancies of style on which a literary reputation is often founded,
than to the truthfulness of our many life-pictures. In the
preparation of this volume, the same end has been kept in view, and
its chief merit will be found, we trust, in its power to do good.
T. S. A.
PHILADELPHIA, December, 1852.
CONTENTS.
THE BOOK OF MEMORY,
THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMON-PLACE,
JENNY LAWSON,
SHADOWS,
THE THANKLESS OFFICE,
GOING TO THE SPRINGS,
THE WIFE,
NOT GREAT BUT HAPPY,
THE MARRIED SISTERS,
GOOD-HEARTED PEOPLE,
SLOW AND SURE,
THE SCHOOL GIRL,
UNREDEEMED PLEDGES,
DON'T MENTION IT,
THE HEIRESS,
THE BOOK OF MEMORY.
CHAPTER I.
"THERE is a book of record in your mind, Edwin," said an old man to
his young friend, "a book of record, in which every act of your life
is noted down. Each morning a blank page is turned, on which the
day's history is written in lines that cannot be effaced. This book
of record is your memory; and, according to what it bears, will your
future life be happy or miserable. An act done, is done forever;
for, the time in which it is done, in passing, passes to return no
more. The history is written and sealed up. Nothing can ever blot it
out. You may repent of evil, and put away the purpose of evil from
your heart; but you cannot, by any repentance, bring back the time
that is gone, nor alter the writing on the page of memory. Ah! my
young friend, if I could only erase some pages in the book of my
memory, that almost daily open themselves before the eyes of my
mind, how thankful I would be! But this I cannot do. There are acts
of my life for which repentance only avails as a process of
purification and preparation for a better state in the future; it in
no way repairs wrong done to others. Keep the pages of your memory
free from blots, Edwin. Guard the hand writing there as you value
your best and highest interests!"
Edwin Florence listened, but only half comprehended what was said by
his aged friend. An hour afterwards he was sitting by the side of a
maiden, her hand in his, and her eyes looking tenderly upon his
face. She was not beautiful in the sense that the world regards
beauty. Yet, no one could be with her an hour without perceiving the
higher and truer beauty of a pure and lovely spirit. It was this
real beauty of character which had attracted Edwin Florence; and the
young girl's heart had gone forth to meet the tender of affection
with an impulse of gladness.
"You love me, Edith?" said Edwin, in a low voice, as he bent nearer,
and touched her pure forehead with his lips.
"As my life," replied the maiden, and her eyes were full of love as
she spoke.
Again the young man kissed her.
In low voices, leaning towards each other until the breath of each
was warm on the other's cheek, they sat conversing for a long time.
Then they separated; and both were happy. How sweet were the
maiden's dreams that night, for, in every picture that wandering
fancy drew, was the image of her lover!
Daily thus they met for a long time. Then there was a change in
Edwin Florence. His visits were less frequent, and when he met the
young girl, whose very life was bound up in his, his manner had in
it a reserve that chilled her heart as if an icy hand had been laid
upon it. She asked for no explanation of the change; but, as he grew
colder, she shrunk more and more into herself, like a flower folding
its withering leaves when touched by autumn's frosty fingers.
One day he called on Edith. He was not as cold as he had been, but
he was, from some cause, evidently embarrassed.
"Edith," said he, taking her hand--it was weeks since he had touched
her hand except in meeting and parting--"I need not say how highly I
regard you. How tenderly I love you, even as I could love a pure and
gentle sister. But--"
He paused, for he saw that Edith's face had become very pale; and
that she rather gasped for air than breathed.
"Are you sick?" he asked, in a voice of anxiety.
Edith was recovering herself.
"No," she replied, faintly.
A deep silence, lasting for the space of nearly half a minute,
followed. By this time the maiden, through a forced effort, had
regained the command of her feelings. Perceiving this, Edwin
resumed--
"As I said, Edith, I love you as I could love a pure and gentle
sister. Will you accept this love? Will you be to me a friend--a
sister?"
Again there passed upon the countenance of Edith a deadly pallor;
while her lips quivered, and her eyes had a strange expression. This
soon passed away, and again something of its former repose was in
her face. At the first few words of Florence, Edith withdrew the
hand he had taken. He now sought it again, but she avoided the
contact.
"You do not answer me, Edith," said the young man.
"Do you wish an answer?" This was uttered in a scarcely audible
voice.
"I do, Edith," was the earnest reply. "Let there be no separation
between us. You are to me what you have ever been, a dearly prized
friend. I never meet you that my heart does not know an impulse for
good--I never think of you but--"
"Let us be as strangers!" said Edith, rising abruptly. And turning
away, she fled from the room.
Slowly did the young man leave the apartment in which they were
sitting, and without seeing any member of the family, departed from
the house. There was a record on his memory that time would have no
power to efface. It was engraved too deeply for the dust of years to
obliterate. As he went, musing away, the pale face of Edith was
before him; and the anguish of her voice, as she said, "Let us be as
strangers," was in his ears. He tried not to see the one, nor hear
the other. But that was impossible. They had impressed themselves
into the very substance of his mind.
Edwin Florence had an engagement for that very evening. It was with
one of the most brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating women he had
ever met. A few months before, she had crossed his path, and from
that time he was changed towards Edith. Her name was Catharine
Linmore. The earnest attentions of Florence pleased her, and as she
let the pleasure she felt be seen, she was not long in winning his
heart entirely from his first love. In this, she was innocent; for
she knew nothing of the former state of his affections towards
Edith.
After parting with Edith, Edwin had no heart to fulfill his
engagement with Miss Linmore. He could think of nothing but the
maiden he had so cruelly deserted; and more than half repented of
what he had done. When the hour for the appointment came, his mind
struggled awhile in the effort to obtain a consent to go, and then
decided against meeting, at least on that occasion, the woman whose
charms had led him to do so great a wrong to a loving and confiding
heart. No excuse but that of indisposition could be made, under the
circumstances; and, attempting to screen himself, in his own
estimation, from falsehood, he assumed, in his own thoughts, a
mental indisposition, while, in the billet he dispatched, he gave
the idea of bodily indisposition. The night that followed was,
perhaps, the most unhappy one the young man had ever spent. Days
passed, and he heard nothing from Edith. He could not call to see
her, for she had interdicted that. Henceforth they must be as
strangers. The effect produced by his words had been far more
painful than was anticipated; and he felt troubled when he thought
about what might be their ultimate effects.
On the fifth day, as the young man was walking with Catharine
Linmore, he came suddenly face to face with Edith. There was a
change in her that startled him. She looked at him, in passing, but
gave no signs of recognition.
"Wasn't that Miss Walter?" inquired the companion of Edwin, in a
tone of surprise.
"Yes," replied Florence.
"What's the matter with her? Has she been sick? How dreadful she
looks!"
"I never saw her look so bad," remarked the young man. As they
walked along, Miss Linmore kept alluding to Edith, whose changed
appearance had excited her sympathies.
"I've met her only a few times," said she, "but I have seen enough
of her to give me a most exalted opinion of her character. Some one
called her very plain; but I have not thought so. There is something
so good about her, that you cannot be with her long without
perceiving a real beauty in the play of her countenance."
"No one can know her well, without loving her for the goodness of
which you have just spoken," said Edwin.
"You are intimate with her?"
"Yes. She has been long to me as a sister." There was a roughness in
the voice of Florence as he said this.
"She passed without recognizing you," said Miss Linmore.
"So I observed."
"And yet I noticed that she looked you in the face, though with a
cold, stony, absent look. It is strange! What can have happened to
her?"
"I have observed a change in her for some time past," Florence
ventured to say; "but nothing like this. There is something wrong."
When the time to part, with his companion came, Edwin Florence felt
a sense of relief. Weeks now passed without his seeing or hearing
any thing from Edith. During the time he met Miss Linmore
frequently; and encouraged to approach, he at length ventured to
speak to her of what was in his heart. The young lady heard with
pleasure, and, though she did not accept the offered hand, by no
means repulsed the ardent suitor. She had not thought of marriage,
she said, and asked a short time for reflection.
Edwin saw enough in her manner to satisfy him that the result would
be in his favor. This would have made him supremely happy, could he
have blotted out all recollection of Edith and his conduct towards
her. But, that was impossible. Her form and face, as he had last
seen them, were almost constantly before his eyes. As he walked the
streets, he feared lest he should meet her; and never felt pleasant
in any company until certain that she was not there.
A few days after Mr. Florence had made an offer of his hand to Miss
Linmore, and at a time when she was about making a favorable
decision, that young lady happened to hear some allusion made to
Edith Walter, in a tone that attracted her attention. She
immediately asked some questions in regard to her, when one of the
persons conversing said--
"Why, don't you know about Edith?"
"I know that there is a great change in her. But the reason of it I
have not heard."
"Indeed! I thought it was pretty well known that her affections had
been trifled with."
"Who could trifle with the affections of so sweet, so good a girl,"
said Miss Linmore, indignantly. "The man who could turn from her,
has no true appreciation of what is really excellent and exalted in
woman's character. I have seen her only a few times; but, often
enough to make me estimate her as one among the loveliest of our
sex."
"Edwin Florence is the man," was replied. "He won her heart, and
then turned from her; leaving the waters of affection that had
flowed at his touch to lose themselves in the sands at his feet.
There must be something base in the heart of a man who could trifle
thus with such a woman."
It required a strong effort on the part of Miss Linmore to conceal
the instant turbulence of feeling that succeeded so unexpected a
declaration. But she had, naturally, great self-control, and this
came to her aid.
"Edwin Florence!" said she, after a brief silence, speaking in a
tone of surprise.
"Yes, he is the man. Ah, me! What a ruin has been wrought! I never
saw such a change in any one as Edith exhibits. The very inspiration
of her life is gone. The love she bore towards Florence seems to
have been almost the mainspring of her existence; for in touching
that the whole circle of motion has grown feeble, and will, I fear,
soon cease for ever."
"Dreadful! The falsehood of her lover has broken her heart."
"I fear that it is even so."
"Is she ill? I have not seen her for a long time," said Miss
Linmore.
"Not ill, as one sick of a bodily disease; but drooping about as one
whose spirits are broken, and who finds no sustaining arm to lean
upon. When you meet her, she strives to be cheerful, and appear into
rested. But the effort deceives no one."
"Why did Mr. Florence act towards her as he has done?" asked Miss
Linmore.
"A handsomer face and more brilliant exterior were the attractions,
I am told."
The young lady asked no more questions. Those who observed her
closely, saw the warm tints that made beautiful her cheeks grow
fainter and fainter, until they had almost entirely faded. Soon
after, she retired from the company.
In the ardor of his pursuit of a new object of affection, Edwin
Florence scarcely thought of the old one. The image of Edith was
hidden by the interposing form of Miss Linmore. The suspense
occasioned by a wish for time to consider the offer he had made,
grew more and more painful the longer it was continued. On the
possession of the lovely girl as his wife, depended, so he felt, his
future happiness. Were she to decline his offer he would be
wretched. In this state of mind, he called one day upon Miss
Linmore, hoping and fearing, yet resolved to know his fate. The
moment he entered her presence he observed a change. She did not
smile; and there was something chilling in the steady glance of her
large dark eyes.
"Have I offended you?" he asked, as she declined taking his offered
hand.
"Yes," was the firm reply, while the young lady assumed a dignified
air.
"In what?" asked Florence.
"In proving false to her in whose ears you first breathed words of
affection."
The young man started as if stung by a serpent.
"The man," resumed Miss Linmore, "who has been false to Edith
Walter, never can be true to me. I wouldn't have the affection that
could turn from one like her. I hold it to be light as the
thistle-down. Go! heal the heart you have almost broken, if,
perchance, it be not yet too late. As for me, think of me as if we
had all our lives been strangers--such, henceforth, we must ever
remain."
And saying this, Catharine Linmore turned from the rebuked and
astonished young man, and left the room. He immediately retired.