The next day was brilliant. Snow had fallen during the night, and the
sun, which arose without a cloud, was reflected back from it with
dazzling brightness, while every branch and spray glittered in its
casing of ice as though it had been a huge diamond. Before we met at
breakfast, the younger members of the party had decided on a
sleigh-ride. Even Col. Donaldson _malgré_ old age and rheumatism, found
himself unable to resist the cheerful morning and their gay
solicitations, and accompanied them. Mrs. Donaldson and I were left
alone, a circumstance which did not afflict either of us. Mrs. Donaldson
was never at a loss for pleasant occupation for her hours, and Annie had
given me something to do in parting.
"Remember, Aunt Nancy, we shall look to you for our entertainment this
evening; you shall be permitted to choose your subject. Is not that
gracious?" she added, with a laugh at her own style of command,
springing at the same moment from the sleigh in which Mr. Arlington had
already placed himself at her side, and running up the steps to the
piazza, where I stood, that she might give me another kiss, and satisfy
herself that she had not wounded the _amour propre_ of her old friend,
by speaking so much _en reine_. I was, in truth, pleased to be reminded
of the demand which might be made on me in the evening, while I had time
to glance over sketches intended only for myself, and ascertain whether
they contained any thing likely to interest others.
A late dinner re-united us, and the fatigues of the morning having been
repaired by an hour's rest in the afternoon, our party was more than
usually fresh and ready for enjoyment when we met in the evening. I had
availed myself of Annie's permission, and selected my subject. It was a
crayon sketch of a lovely lake, taken by Philip Oswald, the son of one
of my most valued friends. The sketch was made while all around remained
in the wilderness of uncultivated nature. Since that day, the stillness
has been disturbed by the sound of the axe and the hammer. Upon the
borders of that sweet lake, a fair home has risen, from which the
incense of grateful and loving hearts has gone up to the Creator of so
much beauty. The associations which made this scene peculiarly
interesting to me I had long since written out, and now give to the
reader under the title of
LOSS AND GAIN;
OR, HEARTS VERSUS DIAMONDS.
Winter had thrown its icy fetters over the Hudson, and stilled even the
stormier waves of the East River, as the inhabitants of New-York
designate that portion of the Harbor which lies between their city and
Brooklyn. The city itself--its streets--its houses--all wore the livery
of this "ruler of the inverted year"--while in many a garret and cellar
of its crowded streets, ragged children huddled together, seeking to
warm their frozen limbs beneath the scanty covering of their beds, or
cowering over the few half-dying embers, which they misnamed a fire. Yet
the social affections were not chilled--rather did they seem to glow
more warmly, as though rejoicing in their triumph over the mighty
conqueror of the physical world. Christian charity went forth unchecked
through the frosty air and over the snow-clad streets, to shelter the
houseless, to clothe the naked, to warm the freezing. Human sympathies
awoke to new-life, the dying hopes and failing energies of man; and the
sleigh-bells, ringing out their joyous peals through the day, and far,
far into the night, told that the young and fair were abroad braving all
the severities of the season, in their eager search after pleasure. In
the neighborhood of Waverley Place, especially, on the evening of the
16th of December, did this merry music "wake the silent air" to respond
to the quick beatings of the gay young hearts anticipating the fête of
fêtes, the most brilliant party of the season, which was that evening to
be given at the house of the ruler of fashion--the elegant Mrs. Bruton.
Instead of introducing our readers to the gay assemblage of this lady's
guests, we will take them to the dressing-room of the fairest among
them, the beautiful, the gay, the brilliant Caroline Danby. As the door
of this inner temple of beauty opens at the touch of our magic wand, its
inmate is seen standing before a mirror, and her eye beams, and her lip
is smiling with anticipated triumph. Does there seem vanity in the gaze
she fastens there? Look on that form of graceful symmetry, on those
large black eyes with their jetty fringes, on the rich coloring of her
rounded cheeks, and the dewy freshness of her red lip, and you will
forget to censure. But see, the mirror reflects another form--a form so
slender that it seems scarcely to have attained the full proportions of
womanhood, and a face whose soft gray eyes and fair complexion, and hair
of the palest gold, present a singular contrast to the dark yet glowing
beauty beside her. This is Mary Grayson, the orphan cousin of Caroline
Danby, who has grown up in her father's house. She has glided in with
her usual gentle movement, and light, noiseless step, and Caroline first
perceives her in the glass.
"Ah, Mary!" she exclaims, "I sent for you to put this diamond spray in
my hair; you arrange it with so much more taste than any one else."
Mary smilingly receives the expensive ornament, and fastens it amidst
the dark, glossy tresses. At this moment the doorbell gives forth a
hasty peal, and going to the head of the stairs, Mary remains listening
till the door is opened, and then comes back to say, "Mrs. Oswald,
Caroline, and Philip."
"Pray, go down and entertain them till I come, Mary"--and seemingly
nothing loth, Mary complies with the request.
In the drawing-room to which Mary Grayson directed her steps stood a
stately looking lady, who advanced to meet her as she entered, and
kissing her affectionately, asked, "Are you not going with us this
evening?"
"No; my sore throat has increased, and the Doctor is positive; there is
no appeal from him, you know; I am very sorry, for I wished to see some
of Philip's foreign graces," she said playfully, as she turned to give
her hand to a gentleman who had entered while she was speaking. He
received it with the frank kindness of a brother, but before he could
reply the door of the drawing-room opened, and Caroline Danby appeared
within it. Philip Oswald sprang forward to greet her, and from that
moment seemed forgetful that there was any other thing in life deserving
his attention, save her radiant beauty. Perhaps there was some little
regard to the effect of his first glance at that beauty, in her
presenting herself in the drawing-room with her cloak and hood upon her
arm, the diamond sparkling in her uncovered tresses, and the soft, rich
folds of her satin dress and its flowing lace draperies, shading without
concealing the graceful outline of her form. The gentleman who gazed so
admiringly upon her, who wrapped her cloak around her with such tender
care, and even insisted, kneeling gracefully before her, on fastening
himself the warm, furred overshoes upon her slender foot, seemed a fit
attendant at the shrine of beauty. Philip Oswald had been only a few
weeks at home, after an absence of four years spent in European travel.
The quality in his appearance and manners, which first impressed the
observer, was refinement--perfect elegance, without the least touch of
coxcombry. It had been said of him, that he had brought home the taste
in dress of a Parisian, the imaginativeness of a German, and the voice
and passion for music of an Italian. Few were admitted to such intimacy
with him as to look into the deeper qualities of the mind--but those who
were, saw there the sturdy honesty of John Bull, and the courageous
heart and independent spirit of his own America. Some of those who knew
him best, regretted that the possession of a fortune, which placed him
among the wealthiest in America, would most probably consign him to a
life of indolence, in which his highest qualities would languish for
want of exercise.
By nine o'clock Caroline Danby's preparations were completed, and
leaning on one of Philip Oswald's arms, while the other was given to his
mother, she was led out, and placed in the most splendid sleigh in New
York, and wrapped in the most costly furs. Philip followed, the weary
coachman touched his spirited horses with the whip, the sleigh-bells
rang merrily out, and Mary Grayson was left in solitude.
The last stroke of three had ceased to vibrate on the air when Caroline
Danby again stood beside her cousin. Mary was sleeping, and a painter
might have hesitated whether to give the palm of beauty to the soft,
fair face, which looked so angel-like in its placid sleep, or to that
which bent above her in undimmed brilliancy.
"Is it you, Caroline? What time is it?" asked Mary, as she aroused at
her cousin's call.
"Three o'clock; but wake up, Mary; I have something to tell you, which
must not be heard by sleepy ears."
"How fresh you look!" exclaimed Mary, sitting up in bed and looking at
her cousin admiringly. "Who would believe you had been dancing all
night!"
"I have not been dancing all night, nor half the night."
"Why--what have you been doing then?"
"Listening to Philip Oswald. Oh Mary! I am certainly the most fortunate
woman in the world. He is mine at last--he, the most elegant, the most
brilliant man in New-York, and with such a splendid fortune. I was so
happy, so excited, that I could not sleep, and therefore I awoke you to
talk."
"I am glad you did, for I am almost as much pleased as you can be--such
joy is better than sleep;--but all the bells in the city seem to be
ringing--did you see any thing of the fire?"
"Oh yes! the whole sky at the southeast is glowing from the flames--the
largest fire, they say, that has ever been known in the city--but it is
far enough from us--down in Wall-street--and who can think of fires with
such joy before them? Only think, Mary, with Philip's fortune and
Philip's taste, what an establishment I shall have."
"And what a mother in dear, good Mrs. Oswald!"
"Yes--but I hope she will not wish to live with us--mother-in-laws, you
know, always want to manage every thing in their sons' houses."
Thus the cousins sat talking till the fire-bells ceased their monotonous
and ominous clang, and the late dawn of a winter morning reddened the
eastern sky. It was half-past nine o'clock when they met again at their
breakfast; yet late as it was, Mr. Danby, usually a very early riser,
was not quite ready for it. He had spent most of the night at the scene
of the fire, and had with great difficulty and labor saved his valuable
stock of French goods from the destroyer. When he joined his daughter
and niece, his mind was still under the influence of last night's
excitement, and he could talk of nothing but the fire.
"Rather expensive fireworks, I am afraid," said Caroline flippantly, as
her father described the lurid grandeur of the scene.
"Do not speak lightly, my daughter, of that which must reduce many from
affluence to beggary. Millions of property were lost last night. The
16th of December, 1835, will long be remembered in the annals of
New-York, I fear."
"It will long be remembered in my annals," whispered Caroline to her
cousin, with a bright smile, despite her father's chiding.
"Not at home to any but Mr. Philip Oswald," had been Caroline Danby's
order to the servant this morning; and thus when she was told, at twelve
o'clock, that that gentleman awaited her in the drawing-room, she had
heard nothing more of the fire than her father and the morning paper had
communicated. As she entered, Philip arose to greet her, but though he
strove to smile as his eyes met hers, the effort was vain; and throwing
himself back on the sofa, he covered his face with his hand, as though
to hide his pallor and the convulsive quivering of his lips from her
whom he was reluctant to grieve. Emboldened by her fears, Caroline
advanced, and laying her hand on his, exclaimed, "What is the
matter?--Are you ill?--your mother?--pray do not keep me in suspense,
but tell me what has happened."
He seemed to have mastered his emotion, from whatever cause it had
proceeded; for removing his hand, he looked earnestly upon her, and
drawing her to a seat beside him, said in firm, though sad tones, "That
has happened, Caroline, which would not move me thus, but for your dear
sake--I asked you last night to share my fortune--to-day I have none to
offer you."
"Gracious heaven!" exclaimed Caroline, turning as pale as he, "what do
you mean?"
"That in the fire last night, or the failures which the most sanguine
assure me it must produce, my whole fortune is involved. If I can
recover from the wreck what will secure to my poor mother the
continuance of her accustomed comforts, it will be beyond my hopes; for
me--the luxuries, the comforts, the very necessaries of life must be the
produce of my own exertion. I do not ask you to share my poverty,
Caroline; I cannot be so selfish; had I not spoken of my love last
night, you should never have heard it--though it had been like a burning
fire, I would have shut it up within my heart--but it is too late for
this; you have heard it, and I have heard--the remembrance brings with
it a wild delirious joy, even in this hour of darkness "--and the pale
face of Philip Oswald flushed, and his dimmed eye beamed brightly again
as he spoke: "I have heard your sweet confession of reciprocal regard.
Months, perhaps years may pass before I attain the goal at which I last
night thought myself to have already arrived--before I can dare to call
you mine--but in our land, manly determination and perseverance ever
command success, and I fear not to promise you, dearest, one day a happy
home--though not a splendid one--if you will promise me to share it.
Look on me, Caroline--give me one smile to light me on my way--with such
a hope before me, I cannot say my _dreary_ way."
He ceased, yet Caroline neither looked upon him, nor spoke. Her cheek
had grown pale at his words, and she sat down with downcast eyes, cold,
still, statue-like at his side. Yet did not Philip Oswald doubt her
love. Had not her eye kindled and her cheek flushed at his whispered
vows--had not her hand rested lovingly in his, and her lip been yielded
to the first kiss of love--how, then, could he dare to doubt her? She
was grieved for his sake--he had been selfishly abrupt in his first
communication of his sorrow, and now he--the stronger--must struggle to
bear and to speak cheerfully for her sake. And with this feeling he had
been able to conclude far more cheerfully than he commenced. As she
still continued silent, he bent forward, and would have pressed his lip
to her cheek, saying, "Not one word for me, dear one,"--but, drawing
hastily back, Caroline said with great effort,
"I think, Mr. Oswald--it seems to me that--that--an engagement must be a
heavy burden to one who has to make his own way in life--I--I should be
sorry to be a disadvantage to you."
It was a crushing blow, and for an instant he sat stunned into almost
death-like stillness by it:--but he rallied;--he would leave no loop on
which hope or fancy might hereafter hang a doubt. "Caroline," he said,
in a voice whose change spoke the intensity of his feelings, "do not
speak of disadvantage to me--your love was the one star left in my
sky--but that matters not--what I would know is, whether you desire that
the record of last evening should be blotted from the history of our
lives?"
"I--I think it had better be--I am sure I wish you well, Mr. Oswald."
It was well for her, perhaps, that she did not venture to meet his
eye--that look of withering scorn could hardly ever have vanished from
her memory--it was enough to hear his bitter laugh, and the accents in
which he said, "Thank you, Miss Danby--your wishes are fully
reciprocated--may you never know a love less prudent than your own."
The door closed on him, and she was alone--left to the companionship of
her own heart--evil companionship in such an hour! She hastened to
relate all that had passed to Mary, but Mary had no assurances for
her--she had only sympathy for Philip--"dear Philip"--as she called him
over and over again. "I think it would better become one so young as you
are, to say, Mr. Oswald, Mary," said Caroline, pettishly.
"I have called him Philip from my childhood, Caroline--I shall not begin
to say Mr. Oswald _now_." Mary did not mean a reproach, but to
Caroline's accusing conscience it sounded like one, and she turned away
indignantly. She soon, however, sought her cousin again with a note in
her hand.
"I have been writing to Mrs. Oswald, Mary," she said; "you are perhaps
too young, and Mr. Oswald too much absorbed in his own disappointment,
to estimate the propriety of my conduct; but she will, I am sure, agree
with me, that one expensively reared as I have been, accustomed to every
luxury, and perfectly ignorant of economy, would make the worst possible
wife to a poor man; and she has so much influence over Mr. Oswald, that,
should she accord with me in opinion on this point, she can easily
convince him of its justice. Will you take my note to her? I do not like
to send it by a servant--it might fall into Philip's hands."
Nothing could have pleased Mary more than this commission, for her
affectionate heart was longing to offer its sympathy to her friends.
Mrs. Oswald assumed perhaps a little more than her usual stateliness
when she heard her announced, but it vanished instantly before Mary's
tearful eye, as she kissed the hand that was extended to her. Mrs.
Oswald folded her arms around her, and Mary sank sobbing upon the bosom
of her whom she had come to console. And Mrs. Oswald was consoled by
such true and tender sympathy. It was long before Mary could prevail on
herself to disturb the flow of gentler affections by delivering
Caroline's note. Mrs. Oswald received it with an almost contemptuous
smile, which remained unchanged while she read. It was a labored effort
to make her conduct seem a generous determination not to obstruct
Philip's course in life, by binding him to a companion so unsuitable to
his present prospects as herself. In reply, Mrs. Oswald assured Caroline
Danby of her perfect agreement with her in the conviction that she
would make a very unsuitable wife for Philip Oswald. "This," she added,
"was always my opinion, though I was unwilling to oppose my son's
wishes. I thank you for having convinced him I was right in the only
point on which we ever differed."
It cannot be supposed that this note was very pleasing to Caroline
Danby; but, whatever were her dissatisfaction, she did not complain, and
probably soon lost all remembrance of her chagrin in the gayeties which
a few men of fortune still remained, amidst the almost universal ruin,
to promote and to partake.
In the mean time, Philip Oswald was experiencing that restlessness, that
burning desire to free himself from all his present associations, to
begin, as it were, a new life, which the first pressure of sorrow so
often arouses in the ardent spirit. Had not his will been "bound down by
the iron chain of necessity," he would probably have returned to Europe,
and wasted his energies amidst aimless wanderings. As it was, he chose
among those modes of life demanded by his new circumstances, that which
would take him farthest from New-York, and place him in a condition the
most foreign to all his past experience, and demanding the most active
and most incessant exertion. Out of that which the fire, the failure of
Insurance Companies and of private individuals, had left him remained,
after the purchase of a liberal annuity for his mother, a few thousands
to be devoted either to merchandise, to his support while pursuing the
studies necessary for the acquirement of a profession, or to any mode of
gaining a living, which he might prefer to these. The very hour which
ascertained this fact, saw his resolution taken and his course marked
out.
"I must have new scenery for this new act in the drama of my life," he
said to his mother. "I must away--away from all the artificialities and
trivialities of my present world, to the rich prairies, the wide
streams, the boundless expanse of the West. I go to make a new home for
you dear mother--you shall be the queen of my kingdom."
This was not the choice that would have pleased an ambitious, or an
over-fond mother. The former would have preferred a profession, as
conferring higher social distinction; the latter would have shrunk from
seeing one nursed in the lap of luxury go forth to encounter the
hardships of a pioneer. But Mrs. Oswald possessed an intelligence which
recognized in that life of bold adventure, and physical endurance, and
persevering labor, that awaited her son in the prosecution of his plans,
the best school for the development of that decision and force of
character which she had desired as the crowning seal to Philip's
intellectual endowments, warm affections, and just principles; and,
holding his excellence as the better part of her own happiness, she
sanctioned his designs, and did all in her power to promote their
execution. He waited, therefore, only to see her leave the house whose
rent now exceeded her whole annual income, for pleasant rooms in a
boarding-house, agreeably situated, before he set out from New-York.
It is not our intention minutely to trace his course, to describe the
"local habitation" which he acquired, or detail the difficulties which
arose in his progress, the strength with which he combated, or the means
by which he overcame them. For his course, suffice it that it was
westward; for his habitation, that it was on the slope of a hill crowned
with the gigantic trees of that fertile soil, and beside a lake, "a
sheet of silver" well fitted to be--
"A mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters;"
and that the house, which he at length succeeded in raising and
furnishing there, united somewhat the refinement of his past life to the
simplicity of his present; for his difficulties, we can only say, he
met them and conquered them, and gained from each encounter knowledge
and power. For two years, letters were the only medium of intercourse
between his mother and himself, but those letters were a history--a
history not only of his stirring, outer life, but of that inner life
which yet more deeply interested her. Feeling proud herself of the
daring spirit, the iron will, the ready invention which these letters
displayed, yet prouder of the affectionate heart, the true and generous
nature, it is not wonderful that Mrs. Oswald should have often read
them, or at least parts of them, to her constant friend and very
frequent visitor, Mary Grayson. Nor is it more strange that Mary, thus
made to recognize in the most interesting man she had yet known, far
more lofty claims to her admiration, should have enshrined him in her
young and pure imagination as some "bright, particular star."
Two years in the future! How almost interminable seems the prospect to
our hopes or our affections!--but let Time turn his perspective
glass--let us look at it in the past, and how it shrinks and becomes as
a day in the history of our lives! So was it with Philip Oswald's two
years of absence, when he found himself, in the earliest dawn of the
spring of 1838, once more in New-York. Yet that time had not passed
without leaving traces of its passage--traces in the changes affecting
those around him--yet deeper traces in himself. He arrived in the
afternoon of an earlier day than that on which he had been expected. In
the evening Mrs. Oswald persuaded him to assume, for the gratification
of her curiosity, the picturesque costume worn by him in his western
home. He had just re-entered her room, and she was yet engaged in
animated observation of the hunting-shirt, strapped around the waist
with a belt of buckskin, the open collar, and loosely knotted cravat,
which, as the mother's heart whispered, so well became that tall and
manly form, when there was a slight tap at the door, and before she
could speak, it opened, and Mary Grayson stood within it. She gazed in
silence for a moment on the striking figure before her, and her mind
rapidly scanned the changes which time and new modes of life had made in
the Philip Oswald of her memory. As she did so, she acknowledged that
the embrowned face and hands, the broader and more vigorous proportions,
and even the easy freedom of his dress, were more in harmony with the
bold and independent aspect which his character had assumed, than the
delicacy and elegance by which he had formerly been distinguished. His
outer man was now the true index of a noble, free, and energetic
spirit--a spirit which, having conquered itself, was victor over
all--and as such, it attracted from Mary a deeper and more reverent
admiration, than she had felt for him when adorned with all the
trappings of wealth and luxurious refinement. The very depth of this
sentiment destroyed the ease of her manner towards him, and as Philip
Oswald took the hand formerly so freely offered him, and heard from her
lips the respectful Mr. Oswald, instead of the frank, sisterly Philip,
he said to himself--"She looks down upon the backwoodsman, and would
have him know his place." So much for man's boasted penetration!
Notwithstanding the barrier of reserve thus erected between them, Philip
Oswald could not but admire the rare loveliness into which Mary
Grayson's girlish prettiness had expanded, and again, and yet again,
while she was speaking to his mother, and could not therefore perceive
him, he turned to gaze on her, fascinated not by the finely turned form
or beautiful features, but by the countenance beaming with gentle and
refined intelligence. Here was none of the brilliancy which had dazzled
his senses in Caroline Danby, but an expression of mind and heart far
more captivating to him who had entered into the inner mysteries of
life.
A fortnight was the limit of Philip Oswald's stay in the city. He had
come not for his mother, but for the house in which she was to live, and
he carried it back with him. We do not mean that his house, with all its
conveniences of kitchen and pantry, its elegances of parlor and
drawing-room, and its decorations of pillar and cornice fitly joined
together, travelled off with him to the far West. We do not despair of
seeing such a feat performed some day, but we believe it has not yet
been done, and Philip Oswald, at least, did not attempt it; he took with
him, however, all those useful and ornamental contrivances in their
several parts, accompanied by workmen skilled in putting the whole
together. Again in his western home, for another year, his head and his
hands were fully occupied with building and planting. For the first two
years of his forest life, he had thought only of the substantial produce
of the field--the rye, the barley, the Indian corn, which were to be
exchanged for the "omnipotent dollar"--but woman was coming, and beauty
and grace must be the herald of her steps. For his mother, he planted
fruits and flowers, opened views of the lake, made a gravelled walk to
its shore bordered with flowering shrubs, and wreathed the woodbine, the
honeysuckle, and the multiflora rose around the columns of his piazza.
For his mother this was done, and yet, when the labors of the day were
over, and he looked forth upon them in the cool, still evening hour, it
was not his mother's face, but one younger and fairer which peered out
upon him from the vine-leaves, or with tender smiles wooed him to the
lake. Young, fair, and tender as it was, its wooings generally sent him
in an opposite direction, with a sneer at his own folly, to stifle his
fancies with a book, or to mark out the plan of the morrow's operations.
More than a year had passed away and Philip Oswald was again in
New-York, just as spring was gliding into the ardent embraces of
summer. This time he had come for his mother, and with all the force of
his resolute will, he shut his ears to the flattering suggestions of
fancy, that a dearer pleasure than even that mother's presence might be
won. He had looked steadily upon his lot in life, and he accepted it,
and determined to make the best of it and to be happy in it; yet he felt
that it was after all a rugged lot. Without considering all women as
mercenary as Caroline Danby, which his knowledge of his mother forbade
him to do, even in his most woman-scorning mood, he yet doubted whether
any of those who had been reared amidst the refinements of cultivated
life, could be won to leave them all for love in the western wilds; and
as the unrefined could have no charms for him, he deliberately embraced
_bachelordom_ as a part of his portion, and, not without a sigh, yielded
himself to the conviction that all the wealth of woman's love within his
power to attain, was locked within a mother's heart.
A fortnight was again the allotted time of Philip Oswald's stay; but
when that had expired, he was persuaded to delay his departure for yet
another week. He had been drawn, by accompanying his mother in her
farewell visits, once more within the vortex of society, and his manly
independence and energy, his knowledge of what was to his companions a
new world, and his spirit-stirring descriptions of its varied beauty and
inexhaustible fertility, made him more the fashion than he had ever
been. He had often met Caroline Danby--now Mrs. Randall--and Mary more
than once delicately turned her eyes away from her cousin's face, lest
she should read there somewhat of chagrin as Mr. Randall, with his
meaningless face and dapper-looking form--insignificant in all save the
reputation of being the wealthiest banker in Wall-street, and possessing
the most elegant house and furniture, the best appointed equipage, and
the handsomest wife in the city--stood beside Philip Oswald with
"----a form indeed
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man,"
and a face radiant with intelligence, while circled by an attentive
auditory of that which was noblest and best in their world, his eloquent
enthusiasm made them hear the rushing waters, see the boundless
prairies, and feel for a time all the wild freedom of the untamed West.
Such enthusiasm was gladly welcomed as a breeze in the still air, a
ruffle in the stagnant waters of fashionable life.
Within two or three days of their intended departure, Mrs. Oswald
proposed to Philip that they should visit a friend residing near Fort
Lee, and invited Mary to accompany them. Among the acquaintances whom
they found on board was an invalid lady, who could not bear the fresh
air upon deck; and Mary, pitying her loneliness and seclusion, remained
for awhile conversing with her in the cabin. Mrs. Oswald and Philip were
on deck, and near them was a young and giddy girl, to whose care a
mother had intrusted a bold, active, joyous infant, seemingly about
eight months old.
"That is a dangerous position for so lively a child," said Philip Oswald
to the young nurse, as he saw her place him on the side of the boat; "he
may spring from your arms overboard."
With that foolish tempting of the danger pointed out by another, which
we sometimes see even in women, the girl removed her arms from around
the child, sustaining only a slight hold of its frock. At this moment
the flag of the boat floated within view of the little fellow, and he
sprang towards it. A splash in the water told the rest--but even before
that was heard, Philip Oswald had dashed off his boots and coat, and
the poor child had scarcely touched the waves when he was beside it, and
held it encircled in his arm.
"Oh, Mary! Mr. Oswald! Mr. Oswald!" cried one of Mary's young
acquaintances, rushing into the cabin with a face blanched with terror.
"What of him?" questioned Mary, starting eagerly forward.
"He is in the water. Oh, Mary! he will be drowned."
Mary did not utter a sound, yet she felt in that moment, for the first
time, how important to her was Philip Oswald's life. Tottering towards
the door, she leaned against it for a moment while all around grew dark,
and strange sounds were buzzing in her ears. The next instant she sank
into a chair and lost her terrors in unconsciousness. The same young
lady who had played the alarmist to her, as she saw the paleness of
death settle on Mary's face and her eyes close, ran again upon the deck,
exclaiming, "Mary Grayson is fainting,--pray come to Mary Grayson."
Philip Oswald was already on deck, dripping indeed, but unharmed and
looking nobler than ever, as he held the recovered child in his arms. As
that cry, "Mary Grayson is fainting," reached his ears, he threw the
infant to a bystander, and hastened to the cabin followed by Mrs.
Oswald.
"What has caused this?" cried Mrs. Oswald, as she saw Mary still
insensible, supported on the bosom of her invalid friend.
"Miss Ladson's precipitation," said the invalid, looking not very
pleasantly on that young lady; "she told her Mr. Oswald was drowning."
"Well, I am sure I thought he was drowning."
"If he had been, it would have been a pity to give such information so
abruptly," said Mrs. Oswald, as she took off Mary's bonnet, and loosened
the scarf which was tied around her neck.
"I am sure," exclaimed Miss Ladson, anxious only to secure herself from
blame,--"I am sure I did not suppose Mary would faint; for when her
uncle's horse threw him, and every body thought he was killed, instead
of fainting she ran out in the street, and did for him more than any
body else could do. I am sure I could not think she would care more for
Mr. Oswald's danger than for her own uncle's."
No one replied to this insinuation; but that Philip Oswald heard it,
might have been surmised from the sudden flush that rose to his temples,
and from his closer clasp of the unconscious form, which at his mother's
desire he was bearing to a settee. Whether it were the water which oozed
from his saturated garments over her face and neck, or some subtle
magnetic fluid conveyed in that tender clasp, that aroused her, we
cannot tell; but a faint tinge of color revisited her cheeks and lips,
and as Philip laid her tenderly down, while his arms were still around
her, and his face was bending over her, she opened her eyes. What there
was in that first look which called such a sudden flash of joy into
Philip Oswald's eyes, we know not; nor what were the whispered words
which, as he bowed his head yet lower, sent a crimson glow into Mary's
pale cheeks. This however we do know, that Mrs. Oswald and her son
delayed their journey for yet another week; and that the day before
their departure Philip Oswald stood with Mary Grayson at his side before
God's holy altar, and there, in the presence of his mother, Mr. Danby,
Mr. and Mrs. Randall, and a few friends, they took those vows which made
them one for ever.
Does some starched prude, or some lady interested in the bride's
_trousseau_, exclaim against such unseemly haste? We have but one excuse
for them. They were so unfashionable as to prefer the gratification of a
true affection to the ceremonies so dear to vanity, and to think more of
the earnest claims of life than of its gilded pomps.
Mr. Danby had been unable to pay down the bride's small dower of 8000
dollars; and when he called on his son-in-law, Mr. Randall, to assist
him, he could only offer to indorse his note to Mr. Oswald for the
amount, acknowledging that it would be perilous at that time to abstract
even half that amount from his business. It probably would have been
perilous indeed, as in little more than a month after he failed for an
enormous amount; but fear not, reader, for the gentle Caroline: she
still retained her elegant house and furniture, her handsome equipage
and splendid jewels. These were only a small part of what the indignant
creditors found had been made over to her by her grateful husband.
Six years have passed away since the occurrence of the events we have
been recording. Caroline Randall, weary of the sameness of splendor in
her home, has been abroad for two years, travelling with a party of
friends. It is said--convenient phrase that--that her husband had
declared she must and shall return, and that to enforce his will he has
resolved to send her no more remittances, to honor no more of her
drafts, as she has already almost beggared him by her extravagance
abroad. Verily, she has her reward!
One farewell glance at our favorite, Mary Grayson, and we have done.
Beside a lovely lake, over whose margin light graceful shrubs are
bending, and on whose transparent waters lie the dense forest shadows,
though here and there the golden rays of the declining sun flash through
the tangled boughs upon its dancing waves, a noble-looking boy of four
years old is sailing his mimic fleet, while a lovely girl, two years
younger, toddles about, picking "pitty flowers," and bringing them to
"papa, mamma, or grandmamma," as her capricious fancy prompts. Near by,
papa, mamma, grandmamma, and one pleased and honored guest, are grouped
beneath the bending boughs of a magnificent black walnut, and around a
table on which strawberries and cream, butter sweet as the breath of the
cows that yielded it, biscuits light and white, and bread as good as
Humbert himself could make, are served in a style of elegant simplicity,
while the silver urn in which the water hisses, and the small china cups
into which the fragrant tea is poured, if they are somewhat antique in
fashion, are none the less beautiful or the less valued by those who
still prize the slightest object associated with the affections beyond
the gratification of the vanity.
The evening meal is over. The shadows grow darker on the lake. Agreeable
conversation has given place to silent enjoyment, which Mrs. Oswald
interrupts to say, "Philip, this is the hour for music; let us have some
before Mary leaves us with the children."
Full, deep-toned was the manly voice that swelled upon that evening air,
and soft and clear its sweet accompaniment, while the words, full of
adoring gratitude and love, seemed incense due to the heaven which had
so blessed them.
The last sweet notes had died away, and Mary, calling the children,
leads them to their quiet repose, after they have bestowed their
good-night kisses. Philip Oswald follows her with his eyes, as, with a
child on each hand, she advances with gentle grace upon the easy slope,
to the house on its summit. She enters the piazza, and is screened from
his view by its lattice-work of vines, but he knows that soon his
children will be lisping their evening prayer at her knee, and the
thought calls a tender expression to his eyes as he turns them away from
his "sweet home."
Contrast this picture with that of Caroline Randall's heartless
splendor, and say whether thou wilt choose for thy portion the
gratification of the true and pure household affections which Heaven has
planted in thy nature, or that of a selfish vanity?