Again we were all assembled in the parlor in which so many of our
cheerful evenings had been spent, but a shadow seemed to have fallen on
our little circle. The New-Year was now close in its approach, and
immediately after the commencement of the New-Year we must separate. Mr.
and Mrs. Dudley, with their children, and Mr. and Mrs. Seagrove, with
theirs, and Mr. Arlington and I, must all leave within a day or two of
each other, and a year, with all its chances and changes, will probably
intervene before we meet again. The very thought, as I have said, threw
a shadow upon us; but Col. Donaldson, who is a most inveterate foe to
sadness, would not suffer us to yield unresistingly to its influence. If
our time was short, the greater the necessity for crowding enjoyment
into its every moment, he said: we could spare none of it for
lamentations.
"Now, Aunt Nancy," he continued, "if I am not mistaken, you can match
Mr. Arlington's story with one quite as romantic, of an extraordinary
marriage in high life. Do you remember Lady Houstoun and her son Edward
Houstoun--"
"Oh, yes!" I cried, interrupting him, "and the beautiful Lucy Watson
too."
"Then I am sure you must have their story somewhere in your bundle of
romances."
"I believe I have," I replied, as opening my desk I drew out package
after package, the amusement of many an hour, which but for such a
resource might have been sad in its loneliness. Some were looking fresh
and new, and others yellow from age. Among the latter was that for which
I was searching, and which Annie insists that I shall give to the
reader, under the title of
LOVE AND PRIDE.
A proud and stately dame was Lady Houstoun, as she continued to be
called after the independence of America had rendered such titles
valueless in our land. Sir Edward Houstoun was an English baronet, whose
estates had once been a fit support to his ancient title, but whose
family had suffered deeply, both in purse and person, by their loyalty
to Charles the First, and yet more by their obstinate adherence to his
bigot son, James II. By a marriage with Louisa Vivian, an American
heiress possessed of broad lands and a large amount of ready money, Sir
Edward acquired the power of supporting his rank with all the splendor
that had belonged to his family in the olden time; but circumstances
connected with the poverty of his early years had given the young
baronet a disgust to his own circle, which was not alleviated by the
rapid changes effected by his newly-acquired wealth, and he preferred
returning to America with his young bride, and adopting her country as
his own. Here wealth sufficient for their most extravagant desires was
theirs--houses in New-York, and fertile acres stretching far away from
the city, now sweeping for many a rood the banks of the fair Hudson, and
now reaching back into the rich lands that lie east of that river. When
the separation of this country from England came, the representative of
her most loyal family, whose motto was "_Dieu et mon Roi_" was found in
the ranks of republican America. "He could not," he said, "recognize a
divine right in the House of Hanover to the throne of the Stuarts, or
justify by any human reason the blind subservience of Americans to the
ruinous enactments of an English parliament, controlled by a rash and
headstrong minister and a wayward king." Ten years after the
proclamation of peace Sir Edward died, leaving one son who had just
entered his twentieth year.
Young as Edward Houstoun was, he had a man's decision of character; and
when the question of his assuming his father's title, and claiming the
estates attached to it in England, was submitted to him, he replied that
"his proudest title was that of an American citizen, and he would not
forfeit that title to become a royal duke." He could therefore inherit
only his father's personal property, consisting principally of plate,
jewels and paintings. The property thus received was all which the young
Edward Houstoun could call his own. All else was his mother's, and
though it would doubtless be his at her death, the Lady Houstoun was not
one to relinquish the reins of government before that inevitable hour
should wrest them from her hand. She made her son a very handsome
allowance, however, and, with a higher degree of generosity than any
pecuniary grant could evince, she never attempted to control his
actions, suffering him to enjoy his sports in the country and amusements
in the city without constraint. The Lady Houstoun was a wise woman, as
well as an affectionate mother. She saw well that her son's independent
and proud nature might be attracted by kindness to move whither she
would, while the very appearance of constraint would drive him in an
opposite direction. On one subject he greatly tried her forbearance--the
unbecoming levity, as she esteemed it, with which he regarded the
big-wigged gentlemen and hooped and farthingaled ladies whose portraits
ornamented their picture gallery. For only one of these did Edward
profess the slightest consideration. This was that of the simple
soldier whose gallantry under William the Conqueror had laid the
foundation of his family fortunes and honors.
"Dear mother," said he one day, "what proof have we that those other
fine gentlemen and ladies deserved the wealth and station which, through
his noble qualities, they obtained?"
"Sir James Houstoun, my son, who devoted life and fortune to his king--"
"Pardon me, noble Sir James," interrupted Edward, bowing low and with
mock gravity to the portrait, "I will place you and your stern-looking
son there at your side next in my veneration to our first ancestor. Yet
you showed that, like me, you had little value for wealth or station."
"Edward!" ejaculated Lady Houstoun, in an accent of displeasure, "that
we are willing to sacrifice a possession at the call of duty does not
prove us insensible of its value."
"Nay, mother mine, speak not so gravely, but acknowledge that you would
be prouder of your boy if you saw him by his own energies winning his
way to distinction from earth's lowliest station, than you can be of him
now--idler as he is."
"There is no less merit, Edward, in using aright the gifts which we
inherit, than in acquiring them. There is as much energy, I can assure
you, demanded in the proper management of large estates, and the right
direction of the influence derived from station--ay, often more energy,
the exercise of higher powers, than those by which a fortunate soldier,
in time of war, may often spring in a day from nameless poverty to
wealth and rank."
The Lady Houstoun's still fine figure was elevated to its utmost height
as she spoke, and her dark eye flashed out from beneath the shadow of
the deep borders of her widow's cap. A stranger would have gazed on her
with admiration, but her son turned away with a slight shrug of the
shoulders and a curling lip, as he said to himself, "My mother may feel
all this, for she manages the estates, and she bestows the
influence--while I _amuse myself_. Mother," he added aloud, "they say
there is fine sport in the neighborhood of the Glen, and I should like
to see the place. I will take a party thither next week, if you will
write to your farmer to prepare the house for us."
"I will, Edward, certainly, if you desire it, but it has been so long
since any of us were there, that I fear you will find the house very
uncomfortable."
"So much the better, if it give us a little variety in our smooth lives.
I dare say we shall all like it very much. I shall, at least, and if the
rest do not, they can return."
The Glen was a wild rural spot among the Highlands, where Sir Edward had
delighted occasionally to spend a few weeks with his wife and child and
one or two chosen friends, in the enjoyment of country sports. For
several years before his father's death, Edward had been too much
engaged in his collegiate studies to share these visits. During the
three years which had passed since that event, neither Lady Houstoun nor
her son had visited the Glen, and it was not without emotion that she
heard him name his intention of taking a party thither; but she offered
no opposition to the plan, and in a little more than a week he was
established in the comfortable dwelling-house there, with Walter Osgood;
Philip Van Schaick, and Peter Schuyler, companions who were soon
persuaded to leave the somewhat formal circles of the city for a few
days of adventure in the country. They had arrived late in the night,
and wearied by fifteen hours' confinement on board a small sloop, the
visitors slept late the next morning, while Edward Houstoun, haunted by
tender memories, was early awake and abroad. Standing in the porch, he
looked forth through the gray light of the early dawn on hill and dale
and river, endeavoring to recall the feelings with which he had gazed
on them seven years before. Then he was a boy of scarcely sixteen,
eager only for the holiday sport or the distinction of the
school-room--now, he stood there--a boy still, his heart indignantly
pronounced, though he had numbered nearly twenty-three years. Edward
Houstoun was beginning to wake to somewhat of noble scorn in viewing his
own position--beginning to feel that to amuse himself was an object
hardly worthy a _man's_ life. Turning forcibly from such thoughts, he
sprang down the steps, and pursued a path leading by the orchard and
through a flowery lane, towards the dwelling of the farmer to whom the
management of the Glen had been intrusted, first by Sir Edward and
afterwards by Lady Houstoun. The sun was just touching with a sapphire
tint the few clouds that specked the eastern sky; the branches of the
wild rose and mountain laurel which skirted the lane on the right were
heavy with the dews of night, and the birds seemed caroling their
earliest song in the orchard and clover-field on the left, yet the
farmer's horses were already harnessed to the wagon, and through the
open door of the house Edward Houstoun as he approached caught a glimpse
of Farmer Pye himself and his men seated at breakfast. As he was not
perceived by them, he passed on, without interrupting them, to the
dairy, where the good dame was busy with her white pails and bright
pans. A calico bonnet with a very deep front concealed his approach from
Mrs. Pye until he stood beside her; but there was one within the dairy
who saw him, and whose coquettish movement in snatching from her glossy
brown ringlets a bonnet of the same unbecoming shape with that of Mrs.
Pye, did not escape his observation.
"Well, now--did I ever see the like! Why, Mr. Edward, you've grown clean
out of a body's memory--but after all, nobody couldn't help knowing you
that ever seen your papa, good gentleman--how much you are like him!"
Thus ran on Dame Pye, while Edward, except when compelled by a question
to attend to her, was wondering who the fair girl could be, who was
separated from her companion not less by the tasteful arrangement of her
dress--simple and even coarse as it was in its material--and by a
certain grace of movement, than by her delicate beauty. Her form was
slender in proportion to its height, yet gave in its graceful outline
promise of a development "rich in all woman's loveliness;" and her face,
with its dark starry eyes, its clear, transparent skin, and rich, waving
curls of glossy brown, recalled so vividly to Edward Houstoun's memory
his favorite description of beauty, that he repeated almost audibly:--
"One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
That waves in every glossy tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place."
His admiration, if not audible, was sufficiently evident to its
object--at least so we interpret her tremulous and uncertain movements,
the eloquent blood which glowed in her cheeks, and the mistakes which at
length aroused Mrs. Pye's attention.
"Why, Lucy! what under the sun and earth's the matter with you, child?
Dear--dear--to go putting the cream into the new milk, instead of
emptying it into the churn! There--there--child--better go in now--I'll
finish--and just tell Mr. Pye that Mr. Edward is here," said Mrs. Pye,
fearful of some new accident.
The discarded bonnet was put on with a heightened color, and the young
girl moved rapidly yet gracefully toward the house.
"I did not remember you had a daughter, Mrs. Pye," said Edward Houstoun,
as she disappeared.
"And I haven't a daughter--only the two boys, Sammy and Isaac--good big
boys they are now, and help their father quite some--but this girl's
none of mine, though I'm sure I love her 'most as well--she's so pretty
and nice, and has such handy ways, though what could have tempted her to
put the cream in the new milk just now, I'm sure I can't tell."
"But who is she, Mrs. Pye?"
"Who is she? Why, sure, and did you never hear of Lucy Watson? Oh!
here's Mr. Pye."
Edward Houstoun was too much interested in learning something more of
Lucy Watson, not to find a sufficient reason for lingering behind the
farmer, who was impatient to be in his hay-field. Mrs. Pye was
communicative, and he soon learned all she knew--that Lucy was the
daughter of a soldier belonging to a company commanded by Sir Edward
Houstoun during the war--that this soldier had received his death-wound
in defending his commander from a sword-cut, and that Sir Edward had
always considered his widow and only child as his especial charge. The
widow had soon followed her husband to the grave, and the child had been
placed by Sir Edward with the wife of a country clergyman. To Mr. and
Mrs. Merton, Lucy had been as an own and only daughter.
"The good old people made quite a lady of her," said Mrs. Pye. "She can
read and write equal to the parson himself, and I've hearn folks say
that her 'broidery and music playin' was better than Mrs. Merton's own;
but, poor thing! Mrs. Merton died, and still the parson begged Sir
Edward to let her stay with him--she was all that was left now, he
said--so Sir Edward let her stay. Mr. Merton died a year ago, and when
Mr. Pye wrote to the lady--that's your mother, Mr. Edward--about her,
she said she'd better come here and stay with us, and she would pay her
board, and give her money for clothes, and five thousand dollars beside,
whenever she should get married. I'm sure she's welcome to stay, if it
was without pay, for we all love her, but, somehow, it don't seem the
right place for her--and, as to marrying, I don't think she'll ever
marry any body around her, for, kind-spoken as she is, they wouldn't any
of them dare to ask her, though they're all in love with her beautiful
face."
In a week Edward Houstoun's friends had grown weary of ruralizing--they
found no longer any music in the crack of a fowling-piece, or any
enjoyment in the dying agonies of the feathered tribes, and, having
resisted all their persuasions to return with them, he was left alone.
"I shall report you as love-sick, or brain-sick, reclining by purling
streams, under shady groves, to read Shakspeare, or Milton, or Spenser,
for each of these books I have seen you at different times put in your
pocket, and wander forth with a most sentimental air--doubtless to make
love to some Nymph or Dryad."
"Make love! Ah! there, I take it, you have winged the right bird, Van
Schaick."
"If I had seen a decent petticoat since we took leave of Mynheer Van
Winkle and his daughter, on board the good sloop St. Nicholas, I should
think so too, Osgood."
"At any rate, it would be wise to report our suspicions to his lady
mother."
"Your suspicions of what--lunacy or love?" asked Edward Houstoun.
"A distinction without a difference--they are equivalent terms."
Thus jested his friends, and thus jested Edward Houstoun with them--well
assured that no gleam of the truth had shined on them--that they never
supposed his visits at Farmer Pye's possessed any greater attraction
than could be derived from the farmer's details of improvements made at
the Glen, of the increased value of lands, or the proceeds of the last
year's crop. They had never seen Lucy Watson, and how could they suspect
that while the farmer smoked his pipe at the door, and the good dame
bustled about her household concerns, he sat watching with enamored eyes
the changes of a countenance full of intelligence and sensibility, and
listening with charmed ears to a soft, musical voice recounting, with
all the simple eloquence of genuine feeling, obligations to the father
whose memory was with him almost an idolatry. Still less could they
divine that Shakspeare, and Milton, and Spenser were indeed often read
beside a purling stream, and within the dense shadow of a grove of oak
and chestnut-trees--not to Nymph or Dryad, but to a "mortal being of
earth's mould,"
"A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For simple pleasures, harmless wiles,
For love, blame, kisses, tears and smiles."
Here, one afternoon, a fortnight after the departure of his friends, sat
Edward Houstoun with Lucy at his side. They had lingered till the
sunlight, which had fallen here and there in broken and changeful gleams
through over-arching boughs, touching with gold the ripples at their
feet, had faded into that
"mellow light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies."
Edward Houstoun held a book in his hand, but it had long been closed,
while he was engaged in a far more interesting study. He had with a
delicate tact won his companion to speak as she had never spoken before
of herself--not of the few events of her short life, for these were
already known to him, but of the influence of those events on feeling
and character. Tenderness looked forth without disguise from the earnest
eyes which were fastened on her, as he said, "You say, Lucy, that you
have found friends every where, have met only kindness, and yet you
weep--you are sad."
"Do not think me ungrateful," she replied. "I have indeed found friends
and kindness--but these give exercise only to my gratitude--stronger,
tenderer affections I have, which no father, or mother, or brother, or
sister, will ever call forth."
"Nay, Lucy, were you not adopted by my father, and am I not your
brother?"
A glance whose brightness melted into tears was her only answer.
"Fie! fie! tears again? I shall have to scold my sister," said Edward
Houstoun. "What complaint can you make now that I have found you a
brother?"
Lucy laughed, but soon her face grew grave, and, after a thoughtful
pause, she said, "I believe those cannot be quite happy who feel that
they have nothing to do in the world. Better be the poorest drudge, with
powers fitted to your station, than to be as I am, an idler--a mere
looker-on at the world."
"Why, Lucy! what else am I?"
"You! You, with fortune to bless, and influence to guide hundreds!
What are you? God's representative to your less fortunate
fellow-creatures--the steward of his bounty. Oh! be sure that you use
your gifts faithfully."
Lucy spoke solemnly, and it was with no light accent that Edward
Houstoun replied--"You mistake, Lucy--you mistake--I am in truth no less
an idler than yourself--a looker-on, with no part in the game of life.
To the Lady Houstoun belong both the fortune and the influence." A
mocking smile had arisen to his lip, but, as he caught her look of
surprise, it passed away, leaving a gentle gravity in its place, while
he continued--"Do not think I mean to complain of my mother, Lucy. She
has been ever affectionate and indulgent to me. She leaves me no want
that she can perceive. My purse is always full, and my actions
unrestrained. I suppose I ought to be happy."
"And are you not happy?"
"No, Lucy, no! There has long been a vague restlessness and
dissatisfaction about me--and, now, your words have thrown light on its
cause. I am weary of the perpetual holiday which life has been to me
since I left the walls of a college. I want to be doing--I want an
object--something for which to strive and hope and fear--what shall it
be, Lucy?"
"I have heard Mr. Merton say that no one could choose for another his
aims in life, but were I choosing for myself, it should be something
that would connect me with the minds of others--something by which I
could do service to their spiritual beings. Were I a man, I should like
to write books--such books as would give counsel and comfort to erring
and sad hearts--"
Edward Houstoun shook his head--"Even had I an author's gifts, Lucy,
that would not do for me--I must have action in my life--"
"What say you to the pulpit?"
"The noblest of all employments, Lucy--but it is a heavenly employment
and needs a heavenly spirit. I would not dare to think of that. Try
again--"
"The law? Ah! now I see I have chosen rightly--you will be a lawyer--a
great lawyer, like Mr. Patrick Henry."
"You have spoken, Lucy--and I will do my best to fulfil your prophecy. I
may not be a Patrick Henry--two such men belong not to one age--but I
may at least hew out for myself a place among men, where I may stand
with a man's freedom of thought and action. The very decision has
emancipated me--has emboldened me to speak what a moment since I
scarcely dared to think--nay, turn not from me, beloved--oh how
passionately beloved! Life has now its object for me, Lucy--your
love--for that I will strive--hope--whisper me that I need not
fear--that when I have a right to claim my bride--"
When Edward Houstoun commenced this passionate apostrophe, he had
clasped Lucy's hand, and, overcome by his emotions and her
own--forgetting all but his love--conscious only of a bewildering
joy--she had suffered it to rest for one instant in his clasp. It was
but for one instant--the next, struggling from him as he strove to
retain her, she started to her feet, and stood leaning against the trunk
of the tree that overshadowed them, with her face hidden by her clasped
hands. He rose and drew near, saying, in low, tremulous tones--"Lucy,
what means this?"
"Mr. Houstoun," she exclaimed, removing her hands from her face, and
wringing them in passionate sorrow--"how could you speak those words?"
"Wherefore should I not speak them--are they so terrifying to you,
Lucy?"
"Can they be otherwise, since they must separate us for ever? Think you
that the Lady Houstoun would endure that the creature of her bounty
should become the wife of her son?"
"I asked, Lucy, that you would promise to be mine when I had won a right
to act independently of the Lady Houstoun's opinions."
"Has a son ever a right to act independently of a mother?"
"Is the obedience of a child to be exacted from a man? Is his happiness
ever to be at the mercy of another's prejudices? Does there never come a
period when he may be permitted to judge for himself?"
Edward Houstoun spoke with indignant emphasis.
"Look not so sternly--speak not so angrily," exclaimed Lucy. "I cannot
answer your questions--but my obligations, at least, are
irreversible--they belong to the irrevocable past, and while I retain
their memory I can never--"
"Hush--hush, Lucy! you will drive me mad. Is my happiness of less value
in your eyes than the few paltry dollars my mother expended for you?"
"Shall I, serpent-like, sting the hand that has fed me? No! no! would I
had never heard those words. We were so happy--you will be happy
again--but I--leave me, I pray you, for we must part now and for
ever--oh! leave me."
"No, Lucy, we will never part--I will never leave you."
He would again have drawn her to his side, but at his touch, Lucy roused
herself, and with a wild, half-frenzied effort, breaking from him, she
rushed rapidly, blindly forward. He would have followed her, but
stumbling against the root of a tree, before he could recover himself
she was at the outskirts of the wood, in sight of the farm-house, and
though he might overtake he could not detain her. He returned home, not
overwhelmed with disappointment, but with joy throbbing at his heart,
and hope beaming in his eyes. Lucy loved him--of that he felt
assured--and bucklered by that assurance he could stand against the
world. Life was before him--a life not of sickly pleasures and _ennui_
breeding indolence--but a life of contest and struggle and labor,
perhaps even of exhausting labor, yet a life which should awaken and
discipline his powers: a life of victory and of repose--sweet because
won with effort--a life to which Lucy's love should give its crowning
joy. Such are youth's dreams. In his case these dreams were somewhat
rudely dispelled by a summons from his mother's physician. Lady Houstoun
was ill--very ill--he must not delay, said the physician; and he did
not; yet a hastily pencilled line told that even at this moment Lucy was
not forgotten--it was a farewell which breathed love and faith and
hope.
On Edward Houstoun's arrival in New-York, he found his mother already
recovering from the acute attack which had endangered her life and
occasioned his recall. He soon unfolded to her his new views of life,
and the career which he had marked out for himself. New views
indeed--new and incomprehensible to Lady Houstoun! She saw not that the
life of indulgence, the perpetual gala-day, which she anticipated for
her son, would have condemned him to see his highest powers dwindle away
and die in the lethargy of inaction, or to waste in repinings against
fate those energies given to command success. Time moderated her
astonishment, and quiet perseverance subdued her opposition--subdued it
the more readily, perhaps, from the knowledge that her son could
accomplish his designs without her aid, by turning into money the plate,
jewels and pictures received from his father. Edward Houstoun's first
act, after securing the execution of his designs, was to inform Lucy of
the progress he had made. His own absence from New-York at this time
would have excited his mother's surprise, and might have aroused her
suspicions; but the haste with which he had left the Glen furnished him
with a plausible excuse for sending his own man to look after clothing,
books, &c., that had been forgotten, and by him a letter could, he knew,
be safely sent.
A few days brought back to him his own letter, with the intelligence
that Lucy had left Farmer Pye's family. Whither she had gone, they could
not, or would not tell. Setting all fears at defiance, he went himself
to the Glen--he sounded and examined and cross-examined every member of
the farmer's family; but in vain were his efforts. He learned only that
she had declared her intention of supporting herself by her own
exertions, instead of continuing dependent on the Lady Houstoun--that
she had returned the lady's last donation, through the farmer, with many
expressions of gratitude, and that she had left home for the house of
an acquaintance in New-York, from whom she hoped to receive advice and
assistance in the accomplishment of her intentions. She had mentioned
neither the name nor place of residence of this friend, and though she
had written once to the good farmer, she had only informed him that she
had found a home and employment, without reference to any person or
place. Edward asked to see the letter--it was brought, but the post-mark
told no secret--it was that of the nearest post town, and the farmer,
opening the letter, showed that Lucy had said she had requested the
bearer to drop it into that office. Who that bearer was, none knew.
Bitter was the disappointment of Edward Houstoun. A beautiful vision had
crossed his path, had awakened his noblest impulses, kindled his
passionate devotion, and then vanished for ever. But she had left
ineradicable traces of her presence. His awakened energies, his
passionate longings, his altered life, all gave assurance that she had
been--that the bright ideal of womanly beauty and tenderness, and
gentleness and firmness, which lived in his memory, was no dream of
fancy. He anticipated little pleasure now from the pursuits on which he
had lately determined, but his pride forbade him to relinquish them, and
when once they had been commenced, finding in mental occupation his
Lethe, he abandoned himself to them with all his accustomed ardor.
Two years passed away with Edward Houstoun in the most intense
intellectual action, and in death-like torpor of the affections. From
the last his mother might have saved him, had not her want of sympathy
with his pursuits occasioned a barrier of reserve and coolness to arise
between them fatal to her influence. During this time no token of Lucy's
existence had reached him: and it was with such a thrill as might have
welcomed a visitant from the dead, that, one morning as he left his own
house to proceed to the office in which he pursued his studies, he saw
before him at some distance, yet without any intervening object to
interrupt his view of her, a form and face resembling hers, though
thinner and paler. The lady was approaching him, with slow and languid
steps; but as her eyes were fixed upon the ground she did not perceive
him, and just as his throbbing heart exclaimed, "It is Lucy," and he
sprang forward to greet her, she entered a house and the door closed on
her. The inmates of that house were but slightly known to him, as they
had only lately moved into the street, yet he hesitated not an instant
in ringing the bell, and inquiring of the servant who presented himself
at the door, for Miss Watson.
"Miss Watson, sir?" repeated the man, "there is no such person living
here."
"She may not live here, but I saw her enter your door, and I wish to
speak to her." At this moment Lucy crossed the hall at its further end,
and he sprang forward, exclaiming "Lucy--Miss Watson--thank Heaven I see
you once more!"
A slight scream from Lucy, and the tremor which shook her frame, showed
her recognition of him. She leaned for an instant against the wall, too
faint for speech or action, while he clasped her hand in his; but a
voice broke in upon his raptures and her agitation--a sharp, angry
voice, coming from a lady who, leaning over the balustrade of the
stairs, had seen and heard all that was passing below.
"Lucy--Lucy--come up here--I am waiting for you--this is certainly very
extraordinary conduct--very extraordinary indeed."
"You shall not go," said Edward Houstoun, while the red blood flushed to
his brow at the thought that his Lucy could be thus ordered. Lucy's face
glowed too, and there was a proud flush from her eye, yet she resisted
his efforts to detain her, and when he placed himself before her to
prevent her leaving him, she opened a door near her, and though he
followed her quickly through it, he was just in time to see her rushing
up a private staircase. He would not leave the house without an
interview, and going into one of the parlors, he rang the bell, and
requested to see Mrs. Blakely, the lady of the house. She came, looking
very haughty and very angry. He apologized for his intrusion, but
expressed a wish to see a young lady, Miss Watson, who was, he
perceived, under her care. With a yet haughtier air, Mrs. Blakely
replied, "I am not acquainted with any young _lady_ of the name of
Watson. Lucy Watson, the girl whom you met in the hall just now--is my
seamstress. If you wish to see her, I will send her down to you, though
I do not generally allow my servants to receive their visitors here."
"I shall be happy to see her wherever you please," was Edward Houstoun's
very truthful reply.
Mrs. Blakely left him, and he stationed himself at the door to watch for
Lucy. Minutes, which seemed to him hours, passed, and she came not. At
length, as he was about to ring again, steps were heard approaching; he
turned quickly, but it was not Lucy. The girl who entered handed him a
sealed note. He tore it open and read--"I dare not see you. When you
receive this I shall have left the house, and, as no one knows whither I
have gone, questions would be useless."
In an instant he was in the street, looking with eager eyes hither and
thither for some trace of the lost one. He looked in vain, yet he went
towards his office with happier feelings than he had long known. He knew
now where Lucy was, and a thousand expedients suggested themselves, by
which he could not fail to see her. If he could only converse with her
for a few minutes, he was assured he could prevail on her to leave her
present position, of which he could not for a moment bear to think. His
heart swelled, his brow flushed, whenever the remembrance of that
position flashed upon his mind, yet he never for an instant regarded it
as changing his relations with Lucy, or lessening his desire to call her
his. He recollected with pleasure two circumstances which had scarcely
been remarked at the moment of their occurrence. The man who had opened
the door to him, when he saw him spring forward to meet Lucy, had
exclaimed, "Oh! it was _Miss_ Lucy you meant, sir;" and the girl who had
handed the note had said, "_Miss_ Lucy has gone out, sir." It was
evident she was not regarded by the servants as one of themselves--she
had not been degraded by association with menials. This was true. Lucy
had made such separation on her part an indispensable necessity, and
Mrs. Blakely had been too sensible of the value of one possessing so
much taste and skill in all feminine adornments, to hesitate about
complying with her demand. This lady was one of the _nouveaux riches_,
who occupied her life in scheming to attain a position to which neither
birth nor education entitled her. The brightest dream connected with her
present abode had been that its proximity to Lady Houstoun's residence
might lead to an acquaintance with one of the proudest of that charmed
circle in which Mrs. Blakely longed to tread. Hitherto this had proved a
dream indeed, but Edward Houstoun's incursion into her domain, and the
developments made by it, might, she thought, with a little address,
render it a reality. It was with this purpose that she sent a note to
Lady Houstoun, requesting an interview with her on a subject deeply
connected with the honor of her family and the happiness of her son.
Immediately on despatching this note, the servants were ordered to
uncover the furniture in the drawing-room, while she herself hastened to
assume her most becoming morning dress. Her labors were fruitless. "Lady
Houstoun would be at home to Mrs. Blakely till noon," was the scarcely
courteous reply to her carefully worded note. It was an occasion on
which she could not afford to support her pride, and she availed herself
of the permission to call.
The interview between Lady Houstoun and Mrs. Blakely would have been an
interesting study to the nice observer of character. The efforts on the
part of the one lady to be condescending, and on that of the other to be
dignified, were almost equally successful. Mrs. Blakely had seldom felt
her wealth of so little consequence as in the presence of her commanding
yet simply attired hostess, and Lady Houstoun had never been more
disposed to assert the privileges of her rank, than when she heard that
her son had forgotten his own so far as to visit on terms of
equality--nay, if Mrs. Blakely were to be believed, positively to
address in the style of a lover--a seamstress--the seamstress of Mrs.
Blakely.
"This is very painful intelligence to me, Mrs. Blakely--of course you
must be aware that Mr. Houstoun could only have contemplated a temporary
acquaintance with this girl. I do not fear that in his most reckless
moment he could have thought of such a _mésalliance_--but this young
woman must be saved--she was a _protégé_ of Sir Edward Houstoun, and for
his sake must not be allowed to come to harm--may I trouble you to send
her to me?"
The request was given very much in the style of a command. Mrs. Blakely
would not confess that she had great doubts of her power to comply with
it, but this would have been sufficiently evident to any one who had
marked the uncertain air and softened tone with which Lady Houstoun's
wishes were made known to Lucy. Indignant as she was at Mrs. Blakely's
impertinent interference, Lucy scarcely regretted Lady Houstoun's
acquaintance with her son's feelings. We do not know that far below all
those acknowledged impulses leading her to comply with the lady's
request, there did not lie some romantic hope that influences were astir
through which
"Pride might be quell'd and love be free,"
but this she did not whisper even to her own heart.
"Better that the lady should know all--she will act both wisely and
tenderly--perhaps for her son's sake, she will aid me to leave
New-York." Such was the only language into which she allowed even her
thought silently to form itself.
Arranging her simple dress with as much care as though she were about to
meet her lover himself, Lucy set out for her interview with Lady
Houstoun. She had but a short distance to traverse, but she lingered on
her way, oppressed by a tremulous anxiety. She was apprehensive of she
knew not what or wherefore--for again and again her heart acquitted her
of all blame. At length she is at the door--it opens, and, with a
courtesy which the servants of Mrs. Blakely never show to a visitor who
comes without carriage or attendants, she is ushered into the presence
of Lady Houstoun. The lady fixes her eyes upon her as she enters, bows
her head slightly in acknowledgment of her courtesy, and says coldly,
"You are the young woman, I suppose, whom Mrs. Blakely was to send to
me?"
Lucy paused for a moment, to still the throbbing of her heart, before
she attempted to reply. The thought flashed through her mind, "I am a
woman, and young, and therefore she should pity me"--but she answered in
a low, sweet, tremulous tone, "I am the Lucy Watson, madam, to whom Sir
Edward Houstoun was so kind."
At that name a softer expression stole over the Lady Houstoun's face,
and she glanced quickly at a portrait hanging over the ample fireplace,
which represented a gentleman of middle age, dressed in the uniform of a
colonel of the American army. As she turned her eyes again on Lucy, she
saw that hers were fastened on the same object.
"You have seen Sir Edward?" she said in gentle tones.
"Seen him, lady!--I loved him--oh how dearly!"
"Honored him would be a more appropriate expression."
"I loved him, lady--we are permitted to love our God," said Lucy,
firmly.
Lady Houstoun's brow grew stern again.--"And from this you argue,
doubtless, that you have a right to love his son."
Lucy's pale face became crimson, and she bent her eyes to the ground
without speaking--the lady continued--"I scarcely think that you could
yourself have believed that Edward Houstoun intended to dishonor his
family by a legal connection with you."
The crimson deepened on Lucy's face, but it was now the flush of pride,
and raising her head she met Lady Houstoun's eyes fully as she
replied--"I could not believe that he ever designed to dishonor himself
by ruining the orphan child of him who died in his father's defence."
"And you have intended to avail yourself of his infatuation. The menial
of Mrs. Blakely would be a worthy daughter, truly, of a house which has
counted nobles among its members."
"If I have resisted Mr. Houstoun's wishes--separated myself from him,
and resigned all hope of even looking on his face again, it has not been
from the slightest reverence for the nobility of his descent, but from
self-respect, from a regard to the nobleness of my own spirit. I had
eaten of your bread, lady, and I could not do that which might grieve
you--yet the bread which had cost me so much became bitter to me, and I
left the home you had provided to seek one by my own honest exertions. I
have earned my bread, but not as a menial--not in the companionship of
the vulgar--and this Mrs. Blakely could have told you."
"If your determination were, as you say, to separate yourself from Mr.
Houstoun, it is unfortunate that you should have taken up your residence
so near us."
"I knew not until this morning that I was near you."
"If you are sincere in what you say, you will have no objection now to
leave New-York."
"I have no objection to go to any place in which I can support myself in
peace."
"As to supporting yourself, that is of no consequence. I will--"
"Pardon me, Lady Houstoun, it is of the utmost consequence to me. I
cannot again live a dependent on your bounty."
"What can you do? Has your education been such that you can take the
situation of governess?"
"Mr. Merton was a highly educated man, and Mrs. Merton an accomplished
woman--it was their pleasure to teach me, and mine to learn from them."
"Accomplished! There stands a harp which has just been tuned by a master
for a little concert we are to have this evening. Can you play on it?"
Lucy drew the instrument to her and played an overture correctly, yet
with less spirit than she would have done had her fingers trembled less.
"Can you sing?"
Elevated above all apprehension by the indignant pride which this cold
and haughty questioning aroused, Lucy changed the music of the overture
for a touching air, and, sang, with a rich, full voice, a single stanza
of an Italian song.
"Italian! Do you understand it?"
"I have read it with Mr. Merton."
"This is fortunate. I have been for weeks in search of a governess for a
friend residing in the country. I will order the carriage and take you
there instantly--or stay--return home and put up your clothes. I will
send a coach for you."
Again Lucy had vanished from Edward Houstoun's world, nor could his most
munificent bribes, nor most active cross-examination win any other
information from Mrs. Blakely's household, than that "Miss Lucy went
away in a carriage"--a carriage whose description presented a _fac
simile_ to every hackney-coach. Spite of all her precautions, he
suspected his mother; to his consciousness of her want of sympathy with
his pursuits, was therefore added a deep sense of injury, and his heart
grew sterner, his manner colder and more reserved than ever. Two years
more were passed in his studies, and a third in the long delays, the
fruitless efforts which mark the entrance on any career of profitable
exertion. During all this time, Lady Houstoun was studious to bring
around him the loveliest daughters of affluence and rank. Graceful forms
flitted through her halls, and the music of sweet voices and the gay
laughter of innocent and happy hearts were heard within her rooms, but
by all their attractions Edward Houstoun was unmoved. Courteous and
bland to all, he never lingered by the side of one--no quick flush, no
flashing beam told that even for a passing moment his heart was again
awake. Could it be that from all this array of loveliness he was guarded
by the memory of her who had stamped the impress of herself on his whole
altered being? If the gratification of the man's sterner ambition could
have atoned for the disappointment of the youth's dream of love, the
shadow of that memory would have passed from his life. Step by step he
had risen in the opinions of men, and at length one of the most profound
lawyers of the day sought his association with himself in a case of the
most intense interest, involving the honor of a lovely and much-wronged
woman. His reputation out of the halls of justice had already become
such that many thronged the court to hear him. Gallant gentlemen and
fair ladies looked down on him from the galleries--but far apart from
these, in a distant corner, sat one whose tall form was enveloped in a
cloak, and whose face was closely veiled. Beneath that cloak throbbed a
mother's heart, and through that veil a mother's eyes sought the face
she loved best on earth. He knew not she was there, for she rarely now
asked a question respecting his engagements, or expressed any interest
in his movements, yet how her ears drank in the music of his voice, and
her eyes flashed back the proud light that shone in his! As she listened
to his delineation of woman's claims to the sympathy and the defence of
every generous heart, as she heard his biting sarcasm on the cowardly
nature that, having wronged, would now crush into deeper ruin his fair
client, as she saw kindling eyes fixed upon him, and caught, when he
paused for a moment exhausted by the rush of indignant feeling, the low
murmur of admiring crowds, how she longed to cry aloud, "My son--my
son!" He speaks again. Higher and higher rises his lofty strain, bearing
along with it the passions of the multitude. He ceases--and, as though
touched by an electric shock, hundreds spring at once to their feet. The
emphatic "Silence!" of the venerable judge hushes the shout upon their
lips, but the mother has seen that movement, and, bursting into tears of
proud triumphant joy, she finds her way below, and is in the street
before the verdict which his eloquence had won was pronounced.
Edward Houstoun had fitted up a room in his mother's house as a study,
and over his accustomed seat hung his father's portrait. To that room he
went on his return from the scene we have described. Beneath the
portrait stood one who seldom entered there. She turned at the opening
of the door--the lip, usually so firmly compressed, was quivering with
emotion, and those stern eyes were full of tears. She advanced to him,
drew near, and resting her head upon his shoulder whispered, "I, too, am
a woman needing tenderness--shut not your heart against me, my son, for
without you I am alone in the world."
The proud spirit had bent, the sealed fountain was opened, and as he
clasped his arms around her, the tears of mother and son mingled; but
amidst the joy of this reunion Edward Houstoun felt more deeply than he
had done for long months the desolation that had fallen on his life. His
heart had been silent--it now spoke again, and sad were its tones.
It is summer. The courts are closed, and all who can are escaping from
the city's heat to the cool, refreshing shades of the country. Woe to
those who remain! The pestilence has stretched her wings over them. The
shadow and the silence of death has fallen on their deserted streets.
The yellow-fever is in New-York--introduced, it is said, by ships from
the West Indies. Before it appeared Edward Houstoun was far away. He was
travelling to recruit his exhausted powers--to Niagara, perhaps into
Canada, and in the then slow progress of news he was little likely to be
recalled by any intelligence from the city. His mother was one of the
first who had sickened. And where were now the fair forms that had
encircled her in health--where the servants who had administered with
obsequious attention to her lightest wish? All had fled, for no
gratified vanity--no low cupidity can give courage for attendance on the
bed of one in whose breath death is supposed to lurk. The devotedness of
love, the self-sacrifice of Christian Charity, are the only impulses for
such a deed. Yet over the sufferer is bending one whose form in its
perfect development has richly fulfilled its early promise, and whose
face is more beautiful in the gentle strength and thoughtfulness of
womanhood than it had been in all its early brightness. In her peaceful
home, where the reverent love of her young pupils and the confidence of
their parents had made her happy, Lucy had heard from one of Lady
Houstoun's terrified domestics of the condition in which she had been
left, and few hours sufficed to bring her to her side. Days and nights
of the most assiduous watchfulness, cheered by no companionship,
followed, and then the physician, as he stood beside his patient and
marked her regular breathing, her placid sleep, and the moisture on her
brow, whispered, "You have saved her."
We will not linger to describe the emotion with which Lady Houstoun,
awakening from this long and tranquil slumber, exhausted, but no longer
delirious, first recognised her nurse. At first, no doubt, painful
recollections were aroused, but with the feebleness of childhood had
returned much of its gentleness and susceptibility, and Lucy was at once
so tender and so cheerful, that very soon her ministerings were received
with unalloyed pleasure.
Sickness is a heavenly teacher to those who will open their hearts to
her. Lady Houstoun arose to a new life. She had stood so near to death
that she seemed to have looked upon earth in the light of eternity. In
that light, rank and title, with all their lofty associations and
splendid accompaniments, faded away, while true nobleness, the nobleness
which dwells in the Christian precept "Love your enemies--do good to
those that despitefully use you," stood out in all its beauty and
excellence.
As soon as Lady Houstoun could be removed with safety, she went, by the
advice of her physician, to her country-seat. Lucy would now have
returned to her pupils--she feared every day lest Edward Houstoun should
appear, and a new contest be necessary with his feelings and her
own--but Lady Houstoun still pleaded her imperfectly restored health as
reason for another week's delay, and Lucy could not resist her
pleadings.
It was afternoon, and Lucy sat in the library, which was in the rear of
the house, far removed from its public entrance. Spenser's Faery Queen
was in her hand, but she had turned from its witching pages to gaze upon
the title-page, on which was written, in Edward Houstoun's hand, "June
24th, 18--." It was the day, as Lucy well remembered, on which he had
first revealed his love, and chosen his career in life. She was aroused
from her reverie by Lady Houstoun's entrance. As she held the door open,
the bright sunlight from an opposite window threw a shadow on the floor
which made Lucy's heart throb painfully. She looked eagerly forward--a
manly form entered and stood before her. She could not turn from the
pleading eyes which were fixed with such intense earnestness on hers.
With a bewildered half-conscious air she rose from her chair. He came
near her and extended his arms. One glance at the smiling Lady Houstoun
showed Lucy that her interdict was removed, and the next instant she lay
in speechless joy once more upon her lover's bosom.