The Breaking Heart—A Scene of Tenderness and Despair.
The pale slumberer lay perfectly still, and a close observer could
scarcely have perceived that he breathed. Thus had he lain a few
moments, when a side door slowly opened, and a fair feminine
countenance, a perfect blonde, surmounted with a profusion of flaxen
ringlets, was thrust gently into the apartment. Then the door opened
wider, and the symmetrical form of a young girl of seventeen years stood
in the aperture. She listened a moment, and then advanced one tiny foot
into the chamber; then the other; and finally she stood within the
apartment, but with the door left open behind her. There stood the
beautiful sylph trembling and pale, and sometimes looking back, as if
hesitating whether to proceed or return. At length she stept lightly
forward and fixed her eyes upon the countenance of the slumberer. She
instantly clasped her hands across her bosom, raised her large blue eyes
to heaven, and an expression of deep agony rested on those sunny
features, like a heavy thunder cloud passing over a beauteous landscape
in midsummer.
Her timidity seemed to have fled with the first glance that she had
bestowed upon the invalid. Turning her back towards him, she even
murmured aloud, ‘And all this he has suffered for the preservation of my
uncle’s property. Oh! why could he not have delegated that duty to
others more fitted for such rude work? Already had he performed a deed
sufficient to gild his name with perpetual glory—in saving an
accomplished—an—an—in saving human life; for it matters not who she was.
To save a life is enough, and at the risk of his own.’
She turned and looked once more at the sleeping youth; again she pressed
her hands against her heart, and, this time, she sighed deeply. A
footstep was heard in the passage way, approaching the door that opened
into the hall, and gliding through the one at which she had entered, the
young girl had retired, just as two other individuals entered the sick
chamber. One of those who now approached the couch of the invalid was a
tall, slender, middle-aged man, elegantly attired, and yet with a sort
of graceful negligence which drew the attention of the observer rather
to the manners and bearing of the gentleman himself, than to the garb in
which he was arrayed.
The other gentleman wore a plain suit of black, was of middling height,
with light hair and eyes, and probably thirty years of age.
‘Yes, doctor,’ said the latter gentleman, as they entered the room. ‘It
is as I tell you.’
‘But, sir,’ returned the other, ‘recollect the acquaintantship—female
timidity and the gentleness of the sex’s nature. To see one whom she had
so long known dangerously wounded, brought suddenly into the house, with
a mind unprepared; remember all the attendant circumstances, Mr.
Vandewater, and you will not be astonished that the poor girl exhibited
symptoms of agitation.’
‘Oh, yes, yes, my dear sir. Otherwise she would not be woman,’ replied
the merchant. ‘Agitation, sympathy, pity, all these were to be expected.
But, sir, she would have been frank in the expression of her sympathy if
all had been well. Instead of that, she strove to hide her concern. She
became as pale as chalk—as white as milk, sir; and moved off without
uttering a syllable, or making the least inquiry, and if my wife had not
followed her and supported her to her chamber, she would have fell
lifeless to the floor.’
‘His pulse is better,’ said the doctor, whose thoughts now ran in the
line of his profession, and who had taken the youth by the wrist. ‘He
will escape a fever—it was that I dreaded.’
‘And then her aunt has remarked her deportment while in the presence of
the young man.’
‘A fine constitution, sir. You must not throw him away—don’t give him up
yet. I think he will be restored to you, after all.’
‘She is the daughter of a beloved brother, whose death, some ten years
ago, occasioned me the most poignant distress, and I shall take care of
her as if she was my own child.’
‘You must not let him be disturbed, sir, and I will leave something to
be administered to him as soon as he wakes.’
‘I don’t think you heard my last observation, sir.’
‘Oh, yes—I heard, sir. You remarked that she was the daughter of your
esteemed brother: but, pray, sir, if the young people love one
another?—’
‘You don’t understand me, sir,’ was the quick _coup de parole_ of the
merchant. ‘I did not say that the young people loved each other.’
‘Ah! now I understand,’ said the surgeon, looking really concerned. ‘I
see—you wish to preserve your niece’s happiness, not to prevent it!’
‘Exactly, sir. There is not a man in the world to whom I would sooner
marry my niece, than to him who lies before you. Of unquestioned
integrity, candid, honorable, devoted to my interests, of elegant
manners, without being effeminate, humane as he is brave, well educated,
and of respectable parentage. I find no fault in Lorenzo Monteagle—none
at all, sir. But my niece shall be forced upon no man, sir. The king’s
son is not good enough for her, when it comes to that.’
‘But will he not, in time, admire Miss Julia, sir. It appears to me,
that if I were a bachelor—’
‘You shouldn’t have her if you were, sir—‘interrupted Vandewater with a
burst of laughter that made the wounded man start in his sleep, ‘would I
have a son-in-law or a nephew-in-law, think you, that carries about with
him such awful weapons—those horrible saws, gimlets, I know not what you
call them, I should never feel sure of my legs and arms one moment,
while he was in the house—ha! ha! ha!’
‘However that may be,’ said the other, ‘if I were a young swain like
your paragon here, I should deem my self but too happy to try to win a
smile from that fair niece of yours, and if you are really willing that
the match should take place—’
‘It will never be,’ returned the merchant, gravely interrupting the
surgeon—‘Monteagle is very fastidious, even in his friendship. He is a
singular young man. It must be a particular woman that strikes his
fancy, possessed of decided qualities; none of your pretty faces and
piano songs will steal away his heart. Of that I am too well assured.
More than one young lady has tried her utmost skill—’
‘But has the man no heart?’
‘So decidedly one that it must have a decided choice,’ cried the
merchant, ‘before it can consent to own itself the property of another.
He likes the society of ladies; but he does not prefer one to another. I
am persuaded that he has never seen the woman he can love. He has known
Julia more than two years, and has never treated her differently from
other women. But it matters not. So you think the young man is fairly
out of danger?’
‘It might be going too far to say so, sir—but I think he will recover. I
would not be afraid to stake a hundred ounces on the event.’
‘Glad to hear that. I don’t doubt your skill, Doctor, so let us walk
below and finish that old Madeira before it gets any sourer.’
After another brief examination of his patient, the surgeon followed Mr.
Vandewater down stairs; and in half an hour afterwards might have been
seen mounting his horse and winding over the hills and through the
valleys towards the town of San Francisco.
Several days had passed since the occurrence of the events mentioned
above, when on a fair morning, a pale youth sat in a recess at the
bottom of the merchant’s garden. A staff stood by his side, an evidence
that he was not yet able to walk without support, and his white
attenuated hands were pressed together in his lap, while his large blue
eyes, which looked nearly black when contrasted with his white brow,
were fixed upon some object in the distance. His gaze rested on the
dwelling place of Senor del Castro; but what were his reflections, we
cannot pretend to divine; nor was he long permitted to indulge them
without interruption.
From behind a cluster of bushes near, sailed out a figure in a white
dress, which floating gently towards the invalid, placed one hand upon
his arm, and caused him to turn suddenly towards her.
‘Mr. Monteagle, I’m glad to see you abroad once more. Oh! it looks so
much more natural to see you up and stirring, that it really reminds me
of old times.’
With a smile slightly sarcastic, the youth replied—‘I am but too happy
to be the cause of reviving pleasant reminiscences in the mind of Miss
Vandewater.’
A deep blush passed over the cheek and brow of the fair girl as she
replied: ‘You are very severe, sir. I will say then, in downright
English, since I must, that I am rejoiced to see you improved in health,
with a fair chance of recovery. Now, Mr. Critic, are you satisfied?’
‘Oh! no doubt I ought to be, since Miss Vandewater has used the commonly
approved phrase which custom has made necessary for all like occasions.’
‘Nay, then I will send Inez del Castro to you: no doubt she will do the
honors of the occasion better—at least her mode will be more _original_
than mine.’
Miss Vandewater uttered the latter part of the sentence in a quick,
hurried manner, and in spite of herself, delivered the word ‘original’
in a tone of considerable bitterness. The tears rose to her eyes, and
she blushed deeper than ever. It was plain that she would have given
much to recall her words and manner; but it was too late. The youth
looked down and sighed.
The young lady heard that sigh, and it seemed to restore her to all her
dignity. She lifted her head and shook back the flaxen curls from her
snowy brow. ‘I know that you are not acquainted with Inez, though
she—fainted in your arms! It was very romantic.’
Monteagle had great self-possession; but he was obliged to turn his face
partly aside to conceal an expression of surprise and sorrow at the
broad raillery into which the young lady suffered herself to be betrayed
by feelings too palpable to be mistaken. The many instances in which she
had evinced jealousy of any attention showed by Monteagle to other
ladies, had long since let him into the secret—if secret it could be
called.
‘Miss Vandewater,’ said he, at length, ‘I have seen the daughter of
Senor del Castro but twice in my life, and have spoken to her, but on
one occasion. When I stood at the top of the ladder enveloped in flame,
I asked her to trust herself in my arms, and without betraying any
affected delicacy, yet with great feminine dignity she placed her foot
on the ladder and reclined upon my shoulder.’
‘And did she say nothing?’
“She said, ‘thanks, thanks, generous American—my father will bless your
name at the altar of his God!’ It was all she said, and the next moment
the smoke stifled her, and she became insensible on my bosom.”
‘And, oh! Monteagle!’ cried Miss Vandewater, clasping her hands and
looking upwards, ‘we heard that you were nearly perishing in the
flames!’
As she uttered these words, the tears gushed from her eyes, and throwing
herself upon a rock near the feet of the invalid, she covered her face
with her hands and wept aloud at the recollection of that bitter moment.
‘Ungrateful wretch that I am, how unworthy of this more than sisterly
interest which she takes in my welfare!’ said Monteagle to himself, and
placing one of his hands upon the head of the unhappy girl, he said—‘Oh!
it was not so bad as that a stream of water soon removed all
inconveniences, and a very trifling burn was all that I suffered.’
The girl looked up, seized the hand that had been extended to her,
kissed it vehemently, and fled, blushing, to the house of her uncle.
‘If the sacrifice of my life could make her happy!’ ejaculated
Monteagle, brushing the tears from his eyes which he could no longer
restrain.
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