QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS.
We have already reported the return of Lucy Munro to the village-inn of
Chestatee. Here, to her own and the surprise of all other parties, her
aunt was quietly reinstated in her old authority--a more perfect one
now--as housekeeper of that ample mansion. The reasons which determined
her liege upon her restoration to the household have been already
reported to the reader. His prescience as to his own approaching fate
was perhaps not the least urgent among them. He fortunately left her in
possession, and we know how the law estimates this advantage. Of her
trials and sorrows, when she was made aware of her widowhood, we will
say nothing. Sensitive natures will easily conjecture their extent and
intensity. It is enough for the relief of such natures, if we say that
the widow Munro was not wholly inconsolable. As a good economist, a
sensible woman, with an eye properly regardful of the future, we are
bound to suppose that she needed no lessons from Hamlet's mother to make
the cold baked funeral-meats answer a double purpose.
But what of her niece? We are required to be something more full and
explicit in speaking to her case. The indisposition of Lucy was not
materially diminished by the circumstances following the successful
effort to persuade the landlord to the rescue of Ralph Colleton. The
feverish excitements natural to that event, and even the fruit of its
fortunate issue, in the death of Munro, for whom she really had a
grateful regard, were not greatly lessened, though certainly something
relieved, by the capture of Rivers, and his identification with the
outlawed Creighton. She was now secure from him: she had nothing further
to apprehend from the prosecution of his fearful suit; and the death of
her uncle, even if the situation of Rivers had left him free to urge it
further, would, of itself, have relieved her from the only difficulty in
the way of a resolute denial.
So far, then, she was at peace. But a silent sorrow had made its way
into her bosom, gnawing there with the noiselessness and certainty of
the imperceptible worm, generated by the sunlight, in the richness of
the fresh leaf, and wound up within its folds. She had no word of sorrow
in her speech--she had no tear of sorrow in her eye--but there was a
vacant sadness in the vague and wan expression of her face, that needed
neither tears nor words for its perfect development. She was the victim
of a passion which--as hers was a warm and impatient spirit--was doubly
dangerous; and the greater pang of that passion came with the
consciousness, which now she could no longer doubt, that it was entirely
unrequited. She had beheld the return of Ralph Colleton; she had heard
from other lips than his of his release, and of the atoning particulars
of her uncle's death, in which he furnished all that was necessary in
the way of testimony to the youth's enlargement and security; and though
she rejoiced, fervently and deeply, at the knowledge that so much had
been done for him, and so much by herself, she yet found no relief from
the deep sadness of soul which necessarily came with her hopelessness.
Busy tongues dwelt upon the loveliness of the Carolina maiden who had
sought him in his prison--of her commanding stature, her elegance of
form, her dignity of manner and expression, coupled with the warmth of a
devoted love and a passionate admiration of the youth who had also so
undesiringly made the conquest of her own heart. She heard all this in
silence, but not without thought. She thought of nothing besides. The
forms and images of the two happy lovers were before her eyes at all
moments; and her active fancy pictured their mutual loves in colors so
rich and warm, that, in utter despondency at last, she would throw
herself listlessly upon her couch, with sometimes an unholy hope that
she might never again rise from it.
But she was not forgotten. The youth she had so much served, and so
truly saved, was neither thoughtless nor ungrateful. Having just
satisfied those most near and dear to him of his safety, and of the
impunity which, after a few brief forms of law, the dying confession of
the landlord would give him and having taken, in the warm embrace of a
true love, the form of the no-longer-withheld Edith to his arms, he felt
that his next duty was to her for whom his sense of gratitude soon
discovered that every form of acknowledgment must necessarily prove
weak.
At an early hour, therefore--these several duties having been
done--Ralph made his appearance at the village-inn, and the summons of
the youth soon brought Lucy from her chamber.
She came freely and without hesitation, though her heart was tremulous
with doubt and sorrow. She had nothing now to learn of her utter
hopelessness, and her strength was gathered from her despair. Ralph was
shocked at the surprising ravages which a few days of indisposition had
made upon that fine and delicate richness of complexion and expression
which had marked her countenance before. He had no notion that she was
unhappy beyond the cure of time. On the contrary, with a modesty almost
akin to dullness--having had no idea of his own influence over the
maiden--he was disposed to regard the recent events--the death of Munro
and the capture of Rivers--as they relieved her from a persecution which
had been cruelly distressing, rather calculated to produce a degree of
relief, to which she had not for a long time been accustomed; and which,
though mingled up with events that prevented it from being considered
matter for rejoicing, was yet not a matter for one in her situation very
greatly to deplore.
Her appearance, however, only made him more assiduously gentle and
affectionate in the duties he had undertaken to perform. He approached
her with the freedom of one warranted by circumstances in recognising in
her person a relation next to the sweetest and the dearest in life. With
the familiar regard of a brother, he took her hand, and, placing her
beside him on the rude sofa of the humble parlor, he proceeded to those
little inquiries after her health, and of those about her, which usually
form the opening topics of all conversation. He proceeded then to remind
her of that trying night, when, in defiance of female fears, and
laudably regardless of those staid checks and restraints by which her
sex would conceal or defend its weaknesses, she had dared to save his
life.
His manner, generally warm and eager, dilated something beyond its wont;
and if ever gratitude had yet its expression from human lips and in
human language, it was poured forth at that moment from his into the
ears of Lucy Munro.
And she felt its truth; she relied upon the uttered words of the
speaker; and her eyes grew bright with a momentary kindling, her check
flushed under his glance, while her heart, losing something of the
chillness which had so recently oppressed it, felt lighter and less
desolate in that abode of sadness and sweetness, the bosom in which it
dwelt.
Yet, after all, when thought came again under the old aspect--when she
remembered his situation and her own, she felt the shadow once more come
over her with an icy influence. It was not gratitude which her heart
craved from that of Ralph Colleton. The praise and the approval and the
thanks of others might have given her pleasure, but these were not
enough from him; and she sighed that he from whom alone love would be
precious, had nothing less frigid than gratitude to offer. But even that
was much, and she felt it deeply. His approbation was not a little to a
spirit whose reference to him was perpetual; and when--her hand in
his--he recounted the adventures of that night--when he dwelt upon her
courage--upon her noble disregard of opinions which might have chilled
in many of her sex the fine natural currents of that godlike humanity
which conventional forms, it is well to think, can not always fetter or
abridge--when he expatiated upon all these things with all the fervor of
his temperament--she with a due modesty, shrinking from the recital of
her own performances--she felt every moment additional pleasure in his
speech of praise. When, at length, relating the particulars of the
escape and death of Munro, he proceeded, with all the tender caution of
a brother, softening the sorrow into sadness, and plucking from grief as
much of the sting as would else have caused the wound to rankle, she
felt that though another might sway his heart and its richer affections,
she was not altogether destitute of its consideration and its care.
"And now, Lucy--my sweet sister--for my sister you are now--you will
accede to your uncle's prayer and mine--you will permit me to be your
brother, and to provide for you as such. In this wild region it fits not
that you should longer abide. This wilderness is uncongenial--it is
foreign to a nature like yours. You have been too long its
tenant--mingling with creatures not made for your association, none of
whom are capable of appreciating your worth. You must come with us, and
live with my uncle--with my cousin Edith--"
"Edith!"--and she looked inquiringly, while a slight flush of the cheek
and kindling of the eye in him followed the utterance of the single word
by her, and accompanied his reply.
"Yes, Edith--Edith Colleton, Lucy, is the name of my cousin, and the
relationship will soon be something closer between us. You will love
her, and she, I know, will love you as a sister, and as the preserver of
one so very humble as myself. It was a night of danger when you first
heard her name, and saw her features; and when you and she will converse
over that night and its events, I feel satisfied that it will bring you
both only the closer to one another."
"We will not talk of it farther, Mr. Colleton--I would not willingly
hear of it again. It is enough that you are now free from all such
danger--enough that all things promise well for the future. Let not any
thought of past evil, or of risk successfully encountered, obscure the
prospect--let no thought of me produce an emotion, hostile, even for a
moment, to your peace."
"And why should you think, my sweet girl, and with an air of such
profound sorrow, that such a thought must be productive of such an
emotion. Why should the circumstances so happily terminating, though
perilous at first, necessarily bring sorrow with remembrance. Surely you
are now but exhibiting the sometimes coy perversity which is ascribed to
your sex. You are now, in a moment of calm, but assuming those winning
playfulnesses of a sex, conscious of charm and power, which, in a time
of danger, your more masculine thought had rejected as unbecoming. You
forget, Lucy, that I have you in charge--that you are now my
sister--that my promise to your departed uncle, not less than my own
desire to that effect, makes me your guardian for the future--and that I
am now come, hopeful of success, to take you with me to my own country,
and to bring you acquainted with her--(I must keep no secret from you,
who are my sister)--who has my heart--who--but you are sick, Lucy. What
means this emotion?"
"Nothing, nothing, Mr. Colleton. A momentary weakness from my late
indisposition--it will soon be over. Indeed, I am already well. Go on,
sir--go on!"
"Lucy, why these titles? Why such formality? Speak to me as if I were
the new friend, at least, if you will not behold in me an old one. I
have received too much good service from you to permit of this
constraint. Call me Ralph--or Colleton--or--or--nay, look not so
coldly--why not call me your brother?"
"Brother--brother be it then, Ralph Colleton--brother--brother. God
knows, I need a brother now!" and the ice of her manner was thawed
quickly by his appeal, in which her accurate sense, sufficiently
unclouded usually by her feelings, though themselves at all times
strong, discovered only the honest earnestness of truth.
"Ah, now, you look--and now you are indeed my sister. Hear me, then,
Lucy, and listen to all my plans. You have not seen Edith--my Edith
now--you must be _her_ sister too. She is now, or will be soon,
something nearer to me than a sister--she is something dearer already.
We shall immediately return to Carolina, and you will go along with us."
"It may not be, Ralph--I have determined otherwise. I will be your
sister--as truly so as sister possibly could be--but I can not go with
you. I have made other arrangements."
The youth looked up in astonishment. The manner of the maiden was very
resolute, and he knew not what to understand. She proceeded, as she saw
his amazement:--
"It may not be as you propose, Mr.--Ralph--my brother--circumstances
have decreed another arrangement--another, and perhaps a less grateful
destiny for me."
"But why, Lucy, if a less pleasant, or at least a doubtful arrangement,
why yield to it--why reject my solicitation? What is the plan to which,
I am sad to see, you so unhesitatingly give the preference?"
"Not unhesitatingly--not unhesitatingly, I assure you. I have thought
upon it deeply and long, and the decision is that of my cooler thought
and calmer judgment. It may be in a thousand respects a less grateful
arrangement than that which you offer me; but, at least, it will want
one circumstance which would couple itself with your plan, and which
would alone prompt me to deny myself all its other advantages."
"And what is that one circumstance, dear Lucy, which affrights you so
much? Let me know. What peculiarity of mine--what thoughtless
impropriety--what association, which I may remove, thus prevents your
acceptance of my offer, and that of Edith? Speak--spare me not in what
you shall say--but let your thoughts have their due language, just as if
you were--as indeed you are--my sister."
"Ask me not, Ralph. I may not utter it. It must not be whispered to
myself, though I perpetually hear it. It is no impropriety--no
peculiarity--no wrong thought or deed of yours, that occasions it. The
evil is in me; and hence you can do nothing which can possibly change my
determination."
"Strange, strange girl! What mystery is this? Where is now that feeling
of confidence, which led you to comply with my prayer, and consider me
as your brother? Why keep this matter from me--why withhold any
particular, the knowledge of which might be productive of a remedy for
all the difficulty."
"Never--never. The knowledge of it would be destructive of all beside.
It would be fatal--seek not, therefore, to know it--it would profit you
nothing, and me it would crush for ever to the earth. Hear me, Ralph--my
brother!--hear me. Hitherto you have known me--I am proud to think--as a
strong-minded woman, heedless of all things in her desire for the
good--for the right. In a moment of peril to you or to another, I would
be the same woman. But the strength which supports through the trial,
subsides when it is over. The ship that battles with the storms and the
seas, with something like a kindred buoyancy, goes down with the calm
that follows their violence. It is so with me. I could do much--much
more than woman generally--in the day of trial, but I am the weakest of
my sex when it is over. Would you have the secret of these weaknesses in
your possession, when you must know that the very consciousness, that it
is beyond my own control, must be fatal to that pride of sex which,
perhaps, only sustains me now? Ask me not further, Ralph, on this
subject. I can tell you nothing; I _will_ tell you nothing; and to press
me farther must only be to estrange me the more. It is sufficient that I
call you brother--that I pledge myself to love you as a sister--as
sister never loved brother before. This is as much as I can do, Ralph
Colleton--is it not enough?"
The youth tried numberless arguments and entreaties, but in vain to
shake her purpose; and the sorrowful expression of his voice and manner,
not less than of his language, sufficiently assured her of the deep
mortification which he felt upon her denial. She soothed his spirit with
a gentleness peculiarly her own, and, as if she had satisfied herself
that she had done enough for the delicacy of her scruples in one leading
consideration, she took care that her whole manner should be that of the
most confiding and sisterly regard. She even endeavored to be cheerful,
seeing that her companion, with her unlooked-for denial, had lost all
his elasticity; but without doing much to efface from his countenance
the traces of dissatisfaction.
"And what are your plans, Lucy? Let me know them, at least. Let mo see
how far they are likely to be grateful to your character, and to make
you happy."
"Happy! happy!" and she uttered but the two words, with a brief interval
between them, while her voice trembled, and the gathering suffusion in
her large and thickly-fringed blue eyes attested, more than anything
besides, the prevailing weakness of which she had spoken.
"Ay, happy, Lucy! That is the word. You must not be permitted to choose
a lot in life, in which the chances are not in favor of your happiness."
"I look not for that now, Ralph," was her reply, and with such hopeless
despondency visible in her face as she spoke, that, with a deeper
interest, taking her hand, he again urged the request she had already so
recently denied.
"And why not, my sweet sister? Why should you not anticipate happiness
as well as the rest of us? Who has a better right to happiness than the
young, the gentle, the beautiful, the good?--and you are all of these,
Lucy! You have the charms--the richer and more lasting charms--which, in
the reflective mind, must always awaken admiration! You have animation,
talent, various and active--sentiment, the growth of truth, propriety,
and a lofty aim--no flippancy, no weak vanity--and a gentle beauty, that
woos while it warms."
Her face became very grave, as she drew back from him.
"Nay, my sweet Lucy! why do you repulse me? I speak nothing but the
truth."
"You mock me!--I pray you, mock me not. I have suffered much, Mr.
Colleton--very much, in the few last years of my life, from the sneer,
and the scorn, and the control of others! But I have been taught to hope
for different treatment, and a far gentler estimate. It is ill in you to
take up the speech of smaller spirits, and when the sufferer is one so
weak, so poor, so very wretched as I am now! I had not looked for such
scorn from you!"
Ralph was confounded. Was this caprice? He had never seen any proof of
the presence of such an infirmity in her. And yet, how could he account
for those strange words--that manner so full of offended pride? What had
he been saying? How had she misconceived him? He took her hand earnestly
in his own. She would have withdrawn it; but no!--he held it fast, and
looked pleadingly into her face, as he replied:--
"Surely, Lucy, you do me wrong! How could you think that I would design
to give you pain? Do you really estimate me by so low a standard, that
my voice, when it speaks in praise and homage, is held to be the voice
of vulgar flattery, and designing falsehood?"
"Oh, no, Ralph! not that--anything but that!"
"That I should sneer at _you_, Lucy--feel or utter scorn--_you_, to whom
I owe so much! Have I then been usually so flippant of speech--a
trifler--when we have spoken together before?--the self-assured fopling,
with fancied superiority, seeking to impose upon the vain spirit and the
simple confidence? Surely, I have never given you cause to think of me
so meanly!"
"No! no! forgive me! I know not what I have said! I meant nothing so
unkind--so unjust!"
"Lucy, your esteem is one of my most precious desires. To secure it, I
would do much--strive earnestly--make many sacrifices of self.
Certainly, for this object, I should be always truthful."
"You are, Ralph! I believe you."
"When I praised you, I did not mean merely to praise. I sought rather to
awaken you to a just appreciation of your own claims upon a higher order
of society than that which you can possibly find in this frontier
region. I have spoken only the simple truth of your charms and
accomplishments. I have _felt_ them, Lucy, and paint them only as they
are. Your beauties of mind and person--"
"Oh, do not, I implore you!"
"Yes, I must, Lucy! though of these beauties I should not have
spoken--should not now speak--were it not that I feel sure that your
superior understanding would enable you to listen calmly to a voice,
speaking from my heart to yours, and speaking nothing but a truth which
it honestly believes! And it is your own despondency, and humility of
soul, that prompts me thus to speak in your praise. There is no good
reason, Lucy, why you should not be happy--why fond hearts should not be
rejoiced to win your sympathies--why fond eyes should not look gladly
and gratefully for the smiles of yours! You carry treasures into
society, Lucy, which society will everywhere value as beyond price!"
"Ah! why will you, sir--why, Ralph?--"
"You must not sacrifice yourself, Lucy. You must not defraud society of
its rights. In a more refined circle, whose chances of happiness will be
more likely to command than yours? You must go with me and Edith--go to
Carolina. There you will find the proper homage. You will see the
generous and the noble;--they will seek you--honorable gentlemen, proud
of your favor, happy in your smiles--glad to offer you homes and hearts,
such as shall be not unworthy of your own."
The girl heard him, but with no strengthening of self-confidence. The
thought which occurred to her, which spoke of her claims, was that _he_
had not found them so coercive. But, of course, she did not breathe the
sentiment. She only sighed, and shook her head mournfully; replying,
after a brief pause:--
"I must not hear you, Ralph. I thank you, I thank Miss Colleton, for the
kindness of this invitation, but I dare not accept it. I can not go with
you to Carolina. My lot is here with my aunt, or where she goes. I must
not desert her. She is now even more destitute than myself."
"Impossible! Why, Lucy, your aunt tells me that she means to continue in
this establishment. How can you reconcile it to yourself to remain here,
with the peril of encountering the associations, such as we have already
known them, which seem naturally to belong to such a border region."
"You forget, Ralph, that it was here I met with you," was the sudden
reply, with a faint smile upon her lips.
"Yes; and I was driven here--by a fate, against my will--that we
_should_ meet, Lucy. But though we are both here, now, the region is
unseemly to both, and neither need remain an hour longer than it is
agreeable. Why should you remain out of your sphere, and exposed to
every sort of humiliating peril."
"You forget--my aunt."
"Ay, but what security is there that she will not give you another
uncle?"
"Oh, fie, Ralph!"
"Ay, she is too feeble of will, too weak, to be independent. She will
marry again, Lucy, and is not the woman to choose wisely. Besides, she
is not your natural aunt. She is so by marriage only. The tie between
you is one which gives her no proper claim upon you."
"She has been kind to me, Ralph."
"Yet she would have seen you sacrificed to this outlaw!"
Lucy shuddered. He continued:--
"Her kindness, lacking strength and courage, would leave you still to be
sacrificed, whenever a will, stronger than her own, should choose to
assert a power over you. She can do nothing for you--not even for your
security. You must not remain here, Lucy."
"Frankly, then, Ralph, I do not mean to do so long; nor does my aunt
mean it. She is feeble, as you say; and, knowing it, I shall succeed in
persuading her to sell out here, and we shall then remove to a more
civilized region, to a better society, where, indeed, if you knew it,
you would find nothing to regret, and see no reason to apprehend either
for my securities or tastes. We shall seek refuge among my
kindred--among the relatives of my mother--and I shall there be as
perfectly at home, and quite as happy, as I can be any where."
"And where is it that you go, Lucy?"
"Forgive me, Ralph, but I must not tell you."
"Not tell me!"
"Better that I should not--better, far better! The duties for which the
high Providence brought us together have been, I think, fairly
accomplished. I have done my part, and you, Mr. Colleton--Ralph, I
mean--you have done yours. There is nothing more that we may not do
apart. Here, then, let our conference end. It is enough that you have
complied with the dying wish of my uncle--that I have not, is not your
fault."
"Not my fault, Lucy, but truly my misfortune. But I give not up my hope
so easily. I still trust that you will think better of your
determination, and conclude to go with us. We have a sweet home, and
should not be altogether so happy in it, with the thought of your
absence for ever in our minds."
"What!--not happy, and she with you!"
"Happy!--yes!--but far happier with both of you. You, my sister, and--"
"Say no more--"
"No more now, but I shall try other lips, perhaps more persuasive than
mine. Edith shall come--"
His words were suddenly arrested by the energetic speech and action of
his companion. She put her hand on his wrist--grasped it--and
exclaimed--
"Let her not come! Bring her not here, Ralph Colleton! I have no wish to
see her--_will not_ see her, I tell you--would not have her see _me_ for
the world!"
Ralph was confounded, and recoiled from the fierce, spasmodic energy of
the speaker, so very much at variance with the subdued tone of her
previous conversation. He little knew what an effort was required
hitherto, on her part, to maintain that tone, and to speak coolly and
quietly of those fortunes, every thought of which brought only
disappointment and agony to her bosom.
She dropped his hand as she concluded, and with eyes still fixed upon
him, she half turned round, as if about to leave the room. But the
crisis of her emotions was reached. She sickened with the effort. Her
limbs grew too weak to sustain her; a sudden faintness overspread all
her faculties--her eyes closed--she gasped hysterically, and tottering
forward, she sank unconscious into the arms of Ralph, which were barely
stretched out in time to save her from falling to the floor. He bore her
to the sofa, and laid her down silently upon it.
He was struck suddenly with the truth to which he had hitherto shown
himself so blind. He would have been the blindest and most obtuse of
mortals, did he now fail to see. That last speech, that last look, and
the fearful paroxysm which followed it, had revealed the poor girl's
secret. Its discovery overwhelmed him, at once with the consciousness of
his previous and prolonged dullness--which was surely mortifying--as
with the more painful consciousness of the evil which he had unwittingly
occasioned. But the present situation of the gentle victim called for
immediate attention; and, hastily darting out to another apartment, he
summoned Mrs. Munro to the succor of her niece.
"What is the matter, Mr. Colleton?"
"She faints," answered the other hoarsely, as he hurried the widow into
the chamber.
"Bless my soul, what _can_ be the matter!"
The wondering of the hostess was not permitted to consume her time and
make her neglectful; Colleton did not suffer this. He hurried her with
the restoratives, and saw them applied, and waiting only till he could
be sure of the recovery of the patient, he hurried away, without giving
the aunt any opportunity to examine him in respect to the cause of
Lucy's illness.
Greatly excited, and painfully so, Ralph hastened at once to the
lodgings of Edith. She was luckily alone. She cried out, as he entered--
"Well, Ralph, she will come with us?"
"No!"
"No!--and why not, Ralph! I must go and see her."
"She will not see you, Edith."
"Not see me!"
"No! She positively declines to see you."
"Why, Ralph, that is very strange. What can it mean?"
"Mean, Edith, it means that I am very unfortunate. I have been a blind
fool if nothing worse."
"Why, what can _you_ mean, Ralph. What is this new mystery? This is,
surely, a place of more marvels than--"
"Hear me, Edith, my love, and tell me what you think. I am bewildered,
mortified, confounded."
He proceeded, as well as he could, to relate what had occurred; to give,
not only the words, but to describe the manner of Lucy--so much of it
had been expressed in this way--and he concluded, with a warm suffusion
of his cheeks, to mention the self-flattering conclusion to which he had
come:--
"Now, Edith, you who know me so well, tell me, can you think it possible
that I have done, or said anything which has been calculated to make her
suppose that I loved her--that I sought her. In short, do you think me
capable of playing the scoundrel. I feel that I have been
blind--something of a fool, Edith--but, on my soul, I can not recall a
moment in which I have said or shown anything to this poor girl which
was unbecoming in the gentleman."
The maiden looked at him curiously. At first there was something like an
arch smile playing upon her lips and in her light lively eyes. But when
she noted how real was his anxiety--how deeply and keenly he felt his
own doubt--she felt that the little jest which occurred to her fancy,
would be unseemly and unreasonable. So, she answered promptly, but
quietly--
"Pshaw, Ralph, how can you afflict yourself with, any such notions? I
have no doubt of the perfect propriety of your conduct; and I will
venture to say that Miss Munro entertains no reproaches."
"Yet, feeling so grateful to her, Edith--and when I first came here,
lonely, wounded and suffering every way--feeling so much the want of
sympathy--I may have shown to her--almost the only being with whom I
could sympathize--I may have shown to her a greater degree of interest,
than--"
"My dear Ralph, you are certainly one of the most modest young men of
the present generation; that is, if you do not deceive yourself now, in
your conjectures touching the state of Miss Munro's affections. After
all, it may be a sudden illness from exhaustion, excitement,
terror--which you have undertaken to account for by supposing her
desperately in love."
"Heaven grant it be so," answered Ralph.
"Well, whether so or not, do not distress yourself. I will answer for
it, you are not to blame. And here, let me whisper a little secret in
your ears. However forbidden by all the wise, solemn, staid regulations
of good society, there are young women--very few I grant you--who will,
without the slightest call for it, or provocation, suffer their little
hearts to go out of their own keeping--who will--I am ashamed to confess
it--positively suffer themselves to love even where the case is
hopeless--where no encouragement is given to them--where they can have
no rights at all, and where they can only sigh, and mourn, and envy the
better fortunes of other people. I have no doubt that Miss Munro is one
of these very unsophisticated persons; and that you have been all the
while, and only the innocent cause of all her troubles. I acquit you of
_lèse majesté_, Ralph, so put off your doleful faces."
"Don't speak so carelessly of the matter, Edith. We owe this dear girl a
heavy debt--I do, at least."
"And we shall try and pay it, Ralph. But you must leave this matter to
me. I will go and see Lucy."
"But she refuses to see you."
"I will not be refused. I _will_ see her, and she _shall_ see me, and I
trust we shall succeed in taking her home with us. It may be, Ralph,
that she will feel shy in thinking of you as a brother, but I will do my
best to make her adopt me as a sister."
"My own, my generous Edith--it was ever thus--you are always the noble
and the true. Go, then--you are right--you must go alone. Relieve me
from this sorrow if you can. I need not say to you, persuade her, if in
your power; for much I doubt whether her prospects are altogether so
good as she has represented them to me. So fine a creature must not be
sacrificed."
Edith lost no time in proceeding to the dwelling and into the chamber of
Lucy Munro. She regarded none of the objections of the old lady, the
aunt of her she sought, who would have denied her entrance. Edith's was
a spirit of the firmest mould--tenacious of its purpose, and influenced
by no consideration which would have jostled with the intended good. She
approached the sufferer, who lay half-conscious only on her couch. Lucy
could not be mistaken as to the person of her visiter. The noble
features, full of generous beauty and a warm spirit, breathing affection
for all human things, and doubly expanded with benevolent sweetness when
gazing down upon one needing and deserving of so much--all told her that
the beloved and the betrothed of Ralph Colleton was before her. She
looked but once; then, sighing deeply, turned her head upon the pillow,
so as to shut out a presence so dangerously beautiful.
But Edith was a woman whose thoughts--having deeply examined the minute
structure of her own heart--could now readily understand that of another
which so nearly resembled it. She perceived the true course for
adoption; and, bending gently over the despairing girl, she possessed
herself of one of her hands, while her lips, with the most playful
sweetness of manner, were fastened upon those of the sufferer. The
speech of such an action was instantaneous in its effect.
"Oh, why are you here--why did you come?" was the murmured inquiry of
the drooping maiden.
"To know you--to love you--to win you to love me, Lucy. I would be
worthy of your love, dear girl, if only to be grateful. I know how
worthy you are of all of mine. I have heard all."
"No! no! not all--not all, or you never would be here."
"It is for that very reason that I am here. I have discovered more than
Ralph Colleton could report, and love you all the better, Lucy, as you
can feel with me how worthy he is of the love of both."
A deep sigh escaped the lips of the lovely sufferer, and her face was
again averted from the glance of her visiter. The latter passed her arm
under her neck, and, sitting on the bedside, drew Lucy's head to her
bosom.
"Yes, Lucy, the woman has keener instincts than the man, and feels even
where he fails to see. Do not wonder, therefore, that Edith Colleton
knows more than her lover ever dreamed of. And now I come to entreat you
to love _me_ for _his_ sake. You shall be my sister, Lucy, and in time
you may come to love me for my own sake. My pleasant labor, Lucy, shall
be to win your love--to force you to love me, whether you will or no. We
can not alter things; can not change the courses of the stars; can not
force nature to our purposes in the stubborn heart or the wilful fancy:
and the wise method is to accommodate ourselves to the inevitable, and
see if we can not extract an odor from the breeze no matter whence it
blows. Now, I am an only child, Lucy. I have neither brother nor sister,
and want a friend, and need a companion, one whom I can love--"
"You will have--have--your husband."
"Yes, Lucy, and as a husband! But I am not content. I must have _you_,
also, Lucy."
"Oh, no, no! I can not--can not!"
"You _must_! I can not and will not go without you. Hear me. You have
mortified poor Ralph very much. He swore to your uncle, in his dying
moments--an awful moment--that you should be his sister--that you should
enjoy his protection. His own desires--mine--my father's--all concur to
make us resolute that Ralph shall keep his oath! And he must! and you
must consent to an arrangement upon which we have set our hearts."
"To live with _him_--to see _him_ daily!" murmured the suffering girl.
"Ay, Lucy," answered the other boldly; "and to love him, and honor him,
and sympathize with him in his needs, as a true, devoted woman and
sister, so long as he shall prove worthy in your eyes and mine. I know
that I am asking of you, Lucy, what I would ask of no ordinary woman. If
I held you to be an ordinary woman, to whom we simply owe a debt of
gratitude, I should never dream to offer such an argument. But it is
because you _do_ love him, that I wish you to abide with us; your love
hallowed by its own fires, and purifying itself, as it will, by the
exercise of your mind upon it."
The cheeks of Lucy flushed suddenly, but she said nothing. Edith stooped
to her, and kissed her fondly; Then she spoke again, so tenderly, so
gently, with such judicious pleading--appealing equally to the exquisite
instincts of the loving woman and the thoughtful mind--that the
suffering girl was touched.
But she struggled long. She was unwilling to be won. She was vexed that
she was so weak: she was so weary of all struggle, and she needed
sympathy and love so much!
How many various influences had Edith to combat! how many were there
working in her favor! What a conflict was it all in the poor heart of
the sorrowful and loving Lucy!
Edith was a skilful physician for the heart--skilful beyond her years.
Love was the great want of Lucy.
Edith soon persuaded her that she knew how to supply it. She was so
solicitous, so watchful, so tender, so--
Suddenly the eyes of Lucy gushed with a volume of tears, and she buried
her face in Edith's bosom; and she wept--how passionately!--the sobbings
of an infant succeeding to the more wild emotions of the soul, and
placing her, like a docile and exhausted child, at the entire control of
her companion, even as if she had been a mother.
"Do with me as you will, Edith, my sister."
There was really no argument, there were no reasons given, which could
persuade any mind, having first resolved on the one purpose, to abandon
it for the other. How many reasons had Lucy for being firm in the first
resolution she had made!
But the ends of wisdom do not depend upon the reasons which enforce
conviction. Nay, conviction itself, where the heart is concerned, is
rarely to be moved by any efforts, however noble, of the simply
reasoning faculty.
Shall we call them _arts_--the processes by which Edith Colleton had
persuaded Lucy Munro to her purposes? No! it was the sweet nature, the
gentle virtues, the loving tenderness, the warm sympathies, the delicate
tact--these, superior to art and reason, were made evident to the
suffering girl, in the long interview in which they were together; and
her soul melted under their influence, and the stubborn will was
subdued, and again she murmured lovingly--
"Do with me as you will, my sister."