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Love After Marriage; and Other Stories of the Heart

by Caroline Lee Hentz · English · Gutenberg #43019 · 593,801 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Love After Marriage; and Other Stories of the Heart

Author: Caroline Lee Hentz


        
Release date: June 23, 2013 [eBook #43019]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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Transcriber's Note:

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  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.




     LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE;
     AND
     OTHER STORIES OF THE HEART.

     BY
     MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.

AUTHOR OF "LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE," "THE
BANISHED SON," "COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF
AMERICAN LIFE," "THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE; OR, SCENES IN MRS.
HENTZ'S CHILDHOOD," "EOLINE; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE; OR, THE HEIRESS OF
GLENMORE," "ERNEST LINWOOD; OR, THE INNER LIFE OF THE AUTHOR," "HELEN
AND ARTHUR; OR, MISS THUSA'S SPINNING-WHEEL," "RENA; OR, THE SNOW
BIRD," "THE LOST DAUGHTER," "MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS
SPRING," "ROBERT GRAHAM;" A SEQUEL TO "LINDA," ETC.

This volume contains some of the most charming stories ever written by
Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, among which will be found: "Love After
Marriage." "The Victim of Excitement." "The Blind Girl's Story." "The
Parlour Serpent." "The Shaker Girl." "A Rainy Evening." "Three Scenes
in the Life of a Belle." "The Fatal Cosmetic." "The Abyssinian
Neophyte." "The Village Anthem." "The Brown Serpent." "My
Grandmother's Bracelet," and "The Mysterious Reticule."

     PHILADELPHIA:
     T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
     306 CHESTNUT STREET.




     Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
     T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

     In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in
     and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.




MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS.

Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume.

_LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE._

_ROBERT GRAHAM. A SEQUEL TO "LINDA."_

_RENA; OR, THE SNOW BIRD. A TALE OF REAL LIFE._

_EOLINE; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE; OR, THE HEIRESS OF GLENMORE._

_MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING._

_ERNEST LINWOOD; OR, THE INNER LIFE OF THE AUTHOR._

_THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE; OR, SCENES IN MRS. HENTZ'S CHILDHOOD._

_HELEN AND ARTHUR; OR, MISS THUSA'S SPINNING-WHEEL._

_COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF AMERICAN LIFE._

_LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE._

_THE LOST DAUGHTER._

_THE BANISHED SON._

Price $1.75 each in Morocco Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of
the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage
pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,

     T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
     306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.




CONTENTS.


     LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE,                     Page 17

     THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT,                     40

     THE BLIND GIRL'S STORY,                       63

     THE PARLOUR SERPENT,                          81

     THE SHAKER GIRL,                             104

     A RAINY EVENING,                             127

     THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE,         135

     THE FATAL COSMETIC,                          151

     THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE,                     175

     THE VILLAGE ANTHEM,                          197

     THE BOSOM SERPENT,                           210

     MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET,                   234

     THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE,                     247




LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.


A stranger was ushered into the parlour, where two young ladies were
seated, one bonneted and shawled, evidently a morning visiter, the
other in a fashionable undress, as evidently a daughter or inmate of
the mansion. The latter rose with a slight inclination of the head,
and requested the gentleman to take a chair. "Was Mr. Temple at home?"
"No! but he was expected in directly." The young ladies exchanged
mirthful glances, as the stranger drew nearer, and certainly his
extraordinary figure might justify a passing sensation of mirth, if
politeness and good feeling had restrained its expression. His extreme
spareness and the livid hue of his complexion indicated recent
illness, and as he was apparently young, the almost total baldness of
his head was probably owing to the same cause. His lofty forehead was
above the green shade that covered his eyes in unshadowed majesty,
unrelieved by a single lock of hair, and the lower part of his face
assumed a still more cadaverous hue, from the reflection of the green
colour above. There was something inexpressibly forlorn and piteous in
his whole appearance, notwithstanding an air of gentlemanly dignity
pervaded his melancholy person. He drew forth his pocket-book, and
taking out a folded paper, was about to present it to Miss Temple,
who, drawing back with a suppressed laugh, said--"A petition, sir, I
suppose?"--then added in a low whisper to her companion--"the poor
fellow is perhaps getting up a subscription for a wig." The whisper
was very low, but the stranger's shaded though penetrating eyes were
fixed upon her face, and the motion of her lips assisted him in a
knowledge of their sound; he replaced the paper in his pocket-book--"I
am no petitioner for your bounty, madam," said he, in a voice, whose
sweetness fell like a reproach on her ear, "nor have I any claims on
your compassion, save being a stranger and an invalid. I am the bearer
of a letter to your father, from a friend of his youth, who, even on
his death-bed, remembered him with gratitude and affection; will you
have the goodness to present to him my name and direction?"

Then laying his card upon the table, he made a low bow and retreated,
before Miss Temple had time to apologize, if indeed any apology could
be offered for her levity and rudeness. She approached the table and
took up the card--"Gracious Heavens!" she exclaimed--"it cannot be
possible?--Sydney Allison--that bald, yellow, horrid-looking
creature--Sydney Allison! they described him as the perfection of
manly beauty--I never will believe it--he is an impostor--the wretch!"

The young lady who was with her, beheld with astonishment, the passion
that lighted up Miss Temple's face, and her looks besought an
explanation. "Have you not heard," said Miss Temple, "since you came
to this city, that I was betrothed; that I had been so from a child,
to a young gentleman residing in Cuba, whose uncle was the bosom
friend of my father? You must have heard it, for my father has always
taken pains to circulate the report, so that no one might presume upon
my favour. And this is the delectable bridegroom! the one who has been
represented as clothed in every grace calculated to fascinate a female
heart--and I, fool that I was, I believed it, and looked forward with
rapture to the hour of our first meeting." Here she paused, and
throwing herself back in her chair, burst into a passion of tears.

Mary Manning, her more rational companion, endeavoured to soothe the
excited feelings of her friend, and suggested to her, that whatever
disappointment she might feel with regard to his personal appearance,
his character might be such as to awaken a very ardent attachment.
"Indeed," added Mary, "I thought there was something quite interesting
in his address, and his voice was remarkably persuasive in its tones.
He has evidently been very ill, and his bad looks are owing to this
circumstance. He will become handsomer by and by. Besides, my dear
Augusta, what is mere beauty in a man? It is the prerogative of a
woman, and you are so highly gifted in that respect yourself, you
should be willing that your husband should excel in those qualities
which men generally arrogate to themselves."

"Husband!" repeated Augusta; "I would as soon take a death's-head for
my husband. I care nothing about mere beauty, provided there is
intelligence and spirit. But with such a bald, livid-looking wretch at
my side, such a living memento of mortality, I should sink into my
grave in a fortnight. I never will marry him, unless I am dragged to
the altar." Here Mr Temple entered the room, and interrupted her rash
speech. Miss Manning too retired, feeling that her presence might be
an intrusion. He looked astonished at the agitation of his daughter,
who handed him the card, and turning away leaned against the
mantel-piece, the image of woe.

"Sydney Allison arrived!" exclaimed Mr. Temple; "where is he? when was
he here? and why is he gone?--why--what is the matter with you,
Augusta? The first wish of my heart seems accomplished, and I find you
weeping. Tell me the meaning of all this?"

"Oh! father," sobbed Augusta, covering her face with her handkerchief,
"he is _so_ ugly, and you told me he was so _very_ handsome."

Mr. Temple could not forbear laughing at the piteous tone in which
Augusta uttered this melancholy truth, though he immediately resumed,
in an accent of displeasure, "I am ashamed of your folly--I have
always given you credit for being a girl of sense, but you talk like a
little fool;--ugly! if a man is not ugly enough to frighten his horse,
he is handsome enough. Besides, it is nothing but a whim; I saw him
when a child, and he was an uncommonly beautiful boy. I hope you did
not behave in this manner before him--why did you suffer him to go
away?"

"Why, I did not know him," said Augusta, in considerable trepidation,
for she feared her father's anger; "and he looked so thin and
woe-begone, I thought he was some foreigner asking charity, and when
he took out a paper I thought it a petition, and said something about
one--so he was angry, I believe, and went away, saying he had letters
for you, from a friend, who was dead."

"And is he dead!--the good old man!--the best, the earliest friend I
ever had in the world--dead and gone!" Mr. Temple leaned his face over
on his hands, and sat in silence several moments, as if struggling
with powerful emotions. After a while, Mr. Temple lifted his hands,
and fixed his darkened eyes upon his daughter. He took her hand with
affection and solemnity. "Augusta, you are the child of affluence as
well as of indulgence; you are my only child, and all the wealth,
which now surrounds you with luxury, will be at your disposal after my
death."

"Oh! father, do not speak of such a thing."

"Do not interrupt me. Mr. Allison, the uncle of this young man, was my
benefactor and friend, when all the world looked dark upon me. He
extricated me from difficulties which it is unnecessary to
explain--gave me the means of making an ample fortune, and asked no
recompense, but a knowledge of my success. It was through his
influence I was united to your now angel mother--yes! I owe everything
to him--wealth, reputation, and a brief, but rare portion of domestic
bliss. This dear, benevolent, romantic old man, had one nephew, the
orphan child of his adoption, whom he most tenderly loved. When
commercial affairs carried me to Cuba, about ten years ago, Sydney was
a charming boy,"--here Augusta groaned--"a charming boy; and when I
spoke with a father's pride of my own little girl whom I had left
behind, my friend gladdened at the thought, that the union which had
bound our hearts together would be perpetuated in our children; we
pledged our solemn promise to each other, that this union should take
place at a fitting age; you have long been aware of this betrothal,
and I have seen with great pleasure, that you seemed to enter into my
views, and to look forward with hope and animation to the fulfilment
of this contract. The engagement is now doubly binding, since death
has set his awful seal upon it. It must be fulfilled. Do not, by your
unprecedented folly, make me unhappy at a moment like this."

"Forgive me, my dear father, but indeed when you see him, you will not
wonder at the shock I have received. After all you had said of him,
after reading his uncle's letters so full of glowing descriptions,
after dwelling so long on the graceful image my fancy drew, to find
such a dreadful contrast."

"Dreadful contrast! why surely he cannot be transformed into such a
monster."

"You have not seen him yet," said she mournfully.

"No! you remind me of my negligence. After the strange reception you
have given him, it is doubly urgent that I should hasten to him. Have
a care, Augusta, you have always found me a very indulgent father, but
in this instance I shall enforce implicit obedience. I have only one
fear, that you have already so disgusted him with your levity, that he
may refuse, _himself_, the honour of the alliance."

"_He_ refuse _me_!" murmured Augusta, in a low voice, as she glanced
at herself in a mirror that shone above the mantelpiece. As the nature
of her reflections may be well imagined, it may be interesting to
follow the young man, whose figure had made so unfortunate an
impression on his intended bride, and learn something of the feelings
that are passing through his mind.

Sydney Allison returned to his lonely apartment at the hotel with a
chilled and aching heart. The bright day-dream, whose beauty had
cheered and gilded him, even while mourning over the death-bed of his
uncle, while languishing himself on the bed of sickness, and while, a
sea-sick mariner, he was tossed upon the boisterous waves--this dream
was fled. She, who had always risen upon his imagination as the
morning star of his destiny--this being he had met, after years of
romantic anticipation--what a meeting! He was well aware of the sad
ravages one of the violent fevers of a tropical clime had made upon
his beauty, but, never attaching much value to his own personal
attractions, he could not believe that the marks of a divine
visitation would expose him to ridicule, or unkindness; of an
extremely sensitive disposition, he was peculiarly alive to the stings
of satire, and the sarcastic whisper of Miss Temple wounded him to the
quick.

"What!" said he, to himself, as he folded his arms in melancholy
abstraction, in the solitude of his chamber, "what, if the dark
luxuriance of waving hair which once shadowed my temples, is now gone,
is not thought and intelligence still lingering on my brow? Are there
no warm and animated veins of feeling in my heart, because the tide of
health no longer colours my wan and faded cheek? These enfeebled eyes,
which I must now shelter from the too dazzling light, can they not
still emit the rays of tenderness, and the beams of soul? This proud
beauty! May she live to know what a heart she has wounded!"

He rose and walked slowly across the floor, pausing before a large
looking glass, which fully reflected his person. He could not forbear
a smile, in the midst of his melancholy, at the ludicrous contrast to
his former self, and acknowledge it was preposterous to expect to
charm at first sight, under the present disastrous eclipse. He almost
excused the covert ridicule of which he had been the object, and began
to pity the beautiful Augusta for the disappointment she must have
endured. It was under the influence of these feelings Mr. Temple found
him.

"My dear fellow," said the latter, warmly grasping his hand, and
gazing earnestly at him--"My poor boy! how ill you must have
been!--your uncle, too"--the warm-hearted man was incapable of
uttering another syllable, not more moved at that moment, by the
recollection of his friend, than affected by the transformation of the
blooming boy, whose waving locks were once so singularly beautiful.

His sympathy was so unaffected, his welcome so warm, and his affection
expressed in so heartfelt a manner, that Sydney, who had just been
arming himself with proud philosophy against the indifference and
neglect of the world, melted into woman's softness. He had been so
long among strangers, and those of rougher natures--had experienced so
cold a disappointment in his warmest hopes--he had felt so blighted,
so alone--the reaction was too powerful, it unmanned him. Mr. Temple
was a remarkable instance of a man who retained a youthful enthusiasm
and frankness of character, after a long and prosperous intercourse
with the world of business. The rapid accumulation of wealth, instead
of narrowing, as it too often does, enlarged his benevolent heart.
When, in a long and confidential conversation with Sydney, he learned
that Mr. Allison had left but a small fortune for his support, instead
of the immense one he had been led to expect, he was more than ever
anxious to promote his union with his daughter. However mysterious it
seemed that Mr. Allison's property should be so diminished, or have
been so much overrated, he rather rejoiced at the circumstance, as it
gave him an opportunity of showing his gratitude and disinterestedness.
But Sydney was proud. He felt the circumstance of his altered
fortunes, and, though not a poor man, was no longer the heir of that
wealth which was his in reversion when Mr. Temple had plighted his
daughter to him. In his short interview with her he had gained such an
insight into her character, that he recoiled from the idea of
appearing before her as her betrothed lover.

"Receive me as a friend," said he to Mr. Temple; "let your daughter
learn to look upon me as such, and I ask no more; unless I could win
her _affections_, nothing would induce me to accept of her hand--under
existing circumstances, I believe that impossible. Much as I feel your
kindness, and sacred as I hold the wishes of the dead, I hold your
daughter's happiness paramount to every other consideration. This must
not be sacrificed for me. Promise me, sir, that it shall not. I should
be more wretched than words can express, if I thought the slightest
force were imposed upon her sentiments."

"Be satisfied on that score; say nothing about it; only let her get
fully acquainted with you, and there will be no occasion to employ
_force_. You must forget the mistake of the morning. This yellow fever
makes sad work of a man when it gets hold of him, but you will soon
revive from its effects."

       *       *       *       *       *

Sydney Allison became a daily visiter at Mr. Temple's. Had he assumed
the privileges of a lover, Augusta would have probably manifested, in
a wounding manner, the aversion she felt for him in that character;
but it was impossible to treat with disdain one who never presumed to
offer any attentions beyond the civilities of friendship. Though
rendered vain from adulation, and selfish from indulgence, and though
her thoughtless vivacity often made her forgetful of the feelings of
others, Augusta Temple was not destitute of redeeming virtues. Nature
had gifted her with very ardent affections, and opened but few
channels in which those affections could flow. She had the great
misfortune to be the only child of a rich, widowed, and doting parent,
and from infancy had been accustomed to see every one around her
subservient to her will. She had reached the age of womanhood without
knowing one real sorrow, or meeting with a being who had excited in
any degree the affections of her heart. Her warm and undisciplined
imagination had dwelt for years on one image. She had clothed it in
the most splendid hues that fancy ever spread upon her palette; and
had poor Sydney appeared before her in his original brightness, the
reality would probably have been dim, to the visions of ideal beauty
by which she had been so long haunted. In the greatness of her
disappointment, she became unjust and unreasonable, violent in her
prejudices, and extravagant in the manifestations of them. But after
the first ebullition of her grief, she grew more guarded, from the
dread of her father's anger; and as Sydney continued the same
reserved and dignified deportment, she began to think her father's
prediction was fulfilled, and that their aversion was mutual. She did
not derive as much comfort from this supposition as might be
anticipated. She had dreaded his importunity, but she could not endure
his indifference. It was in vain Mr. Temple urged his young friend to
a different course of conduct; he always answered, "Let her cease to
dread me as a lover, then she may learn to prize me as a friend."

One evening, there was a concert at Mr. Temple's. Sydney, who was
passionately fond of music, forgot every cause of inquietude, while
abandoned to its heavenly influence. He stood near the fair songstress
of the hour, keeping time to the harmony, while in a pier-glass
opposite, he had a full view of the groups behind. Augusta was a
little in the rear, leaning on the arm of Miss Manning. He could gaze
on her image thus reflected, without her being conscious of the act,
and he sighed as he paid involuntary homage to her brilliant beauty.
Her figure was of superb proportions, her features formed on the model
of oriental symmetry, while her eyes glittered through their dark
sweeping lashes, like sunbeams through the forest foliage. She stood
with her head a little averted, and her profile presented the softened
outline of the lineaments ascribed to the beautiful daughters of
Judah. He forgot himself entirely, in the contemplation of her
loveliness, when he saw her turn, with an arch smile, and hold up her
hands in a whimsical attitude in the direction of his head, as if in
the act of warming them; for the full blaze of the chandeliers seemed
concentrated in that point, and all eyes, lured by Augusta's gesture,
were turned upon his illuminated skull. For one moment Sydney lost his
self-possession, and the angry spot was seen distinctly burning on his
sallow cheek. The next, he smiled superior to such weakness, and
retreating a few steps, bowed for her to pass forward. She had relied
on the shade that covered his eyes, for security from detection,
unconscious of the piercing glances that were darting beneath. Her
conscience now upbraided her for her folly, and she felt with
bitterness how low she must be in the opinion of the man whose
admiration she secretly coveted, notwithstanding the ridicule she
dared to throw upon his person. After the company dispersed, she
remained alone in the drawing-room, dissatisfied with herself and
sickening at the pleasure that surrounded her. The door softly opened.
It was Sydney, who had returned for his gloves, which he had left on
the mantel-piece. It was the first time she had found herself alone
with him, and she felt excessively embarrassed. In that tone, which
even _she_ acknowledged to be irresistibly sweet, he apologized for
his intrusion, and taking his gloves, was retiring, when she, ever
impulsive, arrested his motions.

"Stay one moment, Mr. Allison--you have great reason to despise me--I
have treated you with unpardonable levity and rudeness. Though I can
hardly hope your forgiveness, I cannot withhold this acknowledgment of
my errors; your calm forbearance has done more for my reformation,
than a thousand reproofs."

Surprised and softened by this unexpected avowal from the cold
sarcastic Augusta, whose fluctuating complexion and agitated voice
bore witness to her sincerity, Allison was at first incapable of
replying.

"Your present candour," at length he said, "would indemnify me for
much greater suffering than you have ever inflicted on me. Allow me,
Miss Temple, to take advantage of this first moment of confidence, to
disarm you of all fear on my account. The relative situation in which
we have been placed by others, has given us both much embarrassment;
but be assured my only wish is to be looked upon as your friend.
Consider yourself as entirely unshackled. In brighter hours I might
have aspired to the distinction our parents designed for me; but, worn
down by sickness, the shadow of my former self, I feel but too
sensibly, that the only sentiment I can now inspire in the female
heart, is that of compassion."

Augusta was so much impressed by his delicacy and generosity, she
began to hate herself for not having more justly appreciated his
worth. She raised her eyes to his face and sighed--"Ah!" said she to
herself, "I must respect and esteem, but I can never love him." Mr.
Temple, who had been absent the whole evening, returned at this
moment, and his countenance expressed his pleasure in finding them
thus alone, in apparently confidential conversation with each other.

"Do not go, Allison," said he; "I have been oppressed with business
to-night, and I want a little social enjoyment before I sleep.
Besides, I do not feel quite well."

They now observed that he looked unusually pale, and pressed his hand
upon his head, as if in pain.

"Father," said Augusta, "you do indeed look ill; you have fatigued
yourself too much. A glass of wine will revive you."

She brought him the glass, but just as he took it from her hand with a
smile, a sudden spasm came over him, and he fell back in his chair,
speechless and convulsed. Augusta's piercing shriek alarmed the
servants, who, rushing in, beheld their master supported in the arms
of Allison, gasping for breath, while Augusta was trying to loosen his
cravat with hands nerveless from terror. A physician was directly
summoned, who bled him profusely, and after a few hours consciousness
was restored. He was removed to his chamber, and Allison remained with
him during the remainder of the night. Augusta sat by her father's
bedside holding his hand, almost stunned by the suddenness of the
calamity. Never, since her recollection, had her father known an
hour's sickness; and now to be prostrated at once, in the midst of
florid health, it was awful. She dared not ask the physician if there
was danger, lest he should confirm her worst fears. She looked at
Allison, and, in his pale and anxious countenance, she saw a
reflection of her own anxiety and sorrow. Towards morning Mr. Temple
opened his eyes, and looked earnestly round him.

"My children," said he, "come near me--both--both."

"Father," cried Augusta, "we _are_ near thee--oh! my father, say that
you are better--only say that you will _live_."

As she uttered the last word she bowed her head upon the bed cover,
and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.

"My child," said Mr. Temple, faintly, "you must call upon God to
sustain you, for there is need. I feel that the hand of death is on
me. Sudden and awful is the summons--but it must be obeyed. Doctor, I
would see my minister. Not to give peace to my parting soul--for all
is peace _here_," said he, laying his hand feebly on his heart, "peace
with God and man--but there is one thing I would witness before I
die."

Sydney, who stood at the bed's head, trembled at the import of these
words; Augusta in her agony comprehended them not.

"Sydney, my son, give me your hand; Augusta, is this your hand I hold?
My children, if you would bless my last hour, you must let my dying
eyes behold your union. It will gladden my friend, when I meet him in
another world, to tell him his last wishes are consummated. Do you
consent, my children?"

He looked up to Sydney, with that earnest expression which is never
seen except in the eye of the dying, and pressed their hands together
in his, already cold and dewy with the damps of death. Sydney sunk
upon his knees, unutterably affected. All the happiness of his future
life was at stake, but it seemed as nothing at that moment.

"Your daughter, sir?" was all he could utter.

"Augusta," repeated Mr. Temple, in a voice fearfully hollow, "will you
not speak?"

"Oh! my father," she murmured, "do with me as you will, only take me
with you."

The reverend figure of the minister was now added to the group that
surrounded that bed of death. Strange and awful was the bridal
ceremony, performed at such a moment, and attended by such
solemnities. Sydney felt that he was mysteriously and irresistibly
impelled on to the fulfilment of his destiny, without any volition of
his own; and he supported, with a firm arm, the sinking form of her he
was now to call his own. It was with bloodless lips and deadened
perceptions Augusta repeated her vows; but low as they were, they fell
like music on the ear that was so shortly to close to all earthly
sound.

"There is a blessing above, mingling with mine," faintly articulated
the dying man. "I bless you, my dear children, and ye will be
blessed."

These were the last words he ever uttered. Augusta fell almost
lifeless on her father's bosom, but what was a moment before the
temple of an immortal spirit, was now but dust and ashes. At the same
moment an orphan and a bride, she was incapable of comprehending the
startling realities of her situation. The images that flitted through
her mind, were like the phantasmagoria of a dream--a vague impression
of something awful and indescribable having occurred, a wild fear of
something more awful still impending, filled her imagination and
paralyzed her frame. But Allison had a full and aching sense of the
responsibilities so unexpectedly imposed upon him. He mourned for the
venerated and generous friend so suddenly snatched away; but he
grieved most of all, that his last act had placed in his keeping that
to which he felt he had no legitimate right. No selfish repinings
filled his heart--but to find himself _married_, joined irrevocably to
a woman who had given him so many proofs of personal aversion; who
never, till that evening, had evinced towards him the slightest
sensibility--a woman whom he did not love, and whose superior fortune
burdened him with a painful sense of obligation--there was something
inexpressibly galling and humbling in these circumstances, to the
sensitive and high-minded Allison. Tenderness, however, mingled with
the bitterness of his reflections; and even then, he could have taken
her to his heart, and wept over her tears of sympathy and sorrow, had
he not dreaded that she would recoil from his embraces. He did not
intrude on the sacredness of her grief, and for days she buried
herself in the solitude of her chamber. She admitted no one but her
chosen friend, Miss Manning, who represented her as inconsolable,
either sunk in a torpor, from which nothing could arouse her, or in a
state of nervous excitement still more distressing. He waited, hoping
that time would restore her to comparative composure, and that she
would be willing to receive from him the consolations of friendship.
Finding, at length, that she persevered in her system of solitary
grief, and that time, while it must, according to its immutable laws,
soften her anguish for her father's death, probably increased her
dread of the shackles that bound her, his resolution was taken. In a
short time everything was arranged for his departure to a foreign
land. The ship, in which he was bound a passenger, was ready to sail,
when he requested a parting interview with Augusta. A parting
interview!--Augusta was roused at that sound, from the selfishness of
her grief. He was going into banishment, and she was the cause. For
the first time since the bridal ceremony, the thought forced itself
into her mind, that _he_ too might have cause for sorrow, and that
_his_ happiness might be sacrificed as well as her own. Allison was
greatly shocked, to see the change wrought in her radiant face. He was
so much agitated, he forgot everything he purposed to say, and
remembered only the strangeness of their situation. He endeavoured to
repress his own emotion, that he might not increase hers; while she,
unused to self-control, abandoned herself to a passion of tears. He
approached her with tenderness and solemnity, and entreated her to
listen to him, as a _friend_, as one willing to promote her happiness
by any sacrifice she might require. "I go," said he, "Augusta, to
another clime, whose genial influence may restore me again some
portion of my former vigour. I go, too, in the hope, that in my
absence you will learn submission to a destiny which my presence
renders insupportable. If you knew the anguish that fills my heart,
when I think of myself as the involuntary cause of your wretchedness,
you would pity me, even as much as you abhor. Hear me, Augusta, while
I repeat with all the solemnity of the vows that bound us to each
other, that I will never claim the name of husband, till your own free
affections hallow the sacred title. In the mean time I leave you with
one who will be to you as a loving sister, in whose father you will
find a faithful and affectionate guardian--will you not part from me,
at least in kindness?"

Augusta sat, with her arms thrown around Miss Manning, weeping, yet
subdued. All the best impulses of her nature were wakened and active.
She would have given worlds to say something expressive of her remorse
and regret for her selfishness and waywardness. Clasping her hands
together she exclaimed, "Oh! forgive me, Sydney, that I cannot love
you;" then, conscious that she was only wounding more deeply when she
wished to heal, she only uttered, "what an unfortunate wretch I am!"

"We are both unfortunate," said he, moved beyond his power of
control--"but we may not be always miserable. Something whispers me,
that we shall meet again with chastened feelings, capable of
appreciating all that is excellent in each other, and both earnest in
the endeavour to merit the blessing that hallowed our nuptial tie. I
leave you that you may be restored to tranquillity--I may never
return--I pray to God, that he may find me a grave in that ocean to
whose bosom I am about to commit myself, if I am only to live for the
misery of others."

"No, no," cried Augusta, "this must not be, you must not become an
exile for me."

"Listen to her," said Miss Manning, earnestly, her whole soul wrought
up into the most painful excitement, at the sight of their mutual
distress--"indeed, sir, you are doing what is rash and uncalled
for--oh! why, with so much to bind you together, with qualities
capable of inspiring the strongest attachment in each other, will ye
close up your hearts in this manner, and resolve to be miserable?"

"I cannot now remain if I would, as I have taken steps which cannot
well be recalled--your father, Miss Manning, knows and approves my
intention. He is the delegated guardian and protector of Augusta. I
will not, I cannot prolong the pain of these moments. Farewell,
Augusta! think of me, if possible, with kindness--should I live to
return, I will be to you friend, brother, or husband, as your own
heart shall dictate."

He pressed her cold and passive hand in his--turned, and was gone.
Augusta would have spoken, but she seemed as if under the influence of
a nightmare. Her faculties were spell-bound; she would have returned
the parting pressure of his hand, but her fingers seemed icicles. She
shuddered with superstitious dread. Her father's upbraiding spirit
appeared to her imagination, armed with the terrors of the grave, and
threatening her with the retribution of heaven. Poor Augusta! her mind
required the stern, but salutary discipline of adversity, and that
discipline was preparing. How she profited by the teachings of this
monitress, whose lessons, however hard, have such high and celestial
bearings, the events of after years may show.

       *       *       *       *       *

Augusta and her friend are once more presented to the view of the
reader, but the destiny of the former is changed. They are seated in a
parlour side by side, but it is not the same, rich in all the
adornments of wealth and fashion, that Augusta once occupied. It is in
a neat rural cottage, in the very heart of the country, embosomed in
trees and flowers. A few words will explain the past. Mr. Temple's
open, generous, uncalculating disposition had exposed him to the
designs of the mercenary and treacherous. He never could refuse to
endorse a note for a friend, or to loan money when it was asked with a
look of distress. He believed his resources as exhaustless as his
benevolence; but by the failure of several houses with which he was
largely connected, his estate was involved in ruin, and his daughter
left destitute of fortune. Mr. Manning suffered so much himself in the
general loss, he was obliged to sell all that he still possessed in
the city and retire into the country, with limited means of
subsistence. But, though limited, he had sufficient for all the
comforts of life, and what he deemed its luxuries--books, music, the
socialities of friendship, and the exercise of the kindly charities. A
cherished member of this charming family, Augusta no longer the
spoiled child of fortune, but the chastened disciple of sorrow,
learned to estimate the purposes of her being, and to mourn over her
former perversity. With such ennobled views of life and its
enjoyments, she began to think she might be happy with a husband, with
such irreproachable worth and exalted attributes as Sydney Allison,
even though he had the misfortune to be bald and sallow. But him she
had banished, and when would he return? He had written to her once or
twice, in the most affectionate manner, as a brother would write; he
had spoken of amended health and reviving spirits, but he spoke of his
return as of something indefinite and even remote. She too had
written, and her letters were transcripts of the progressive elevation
of her character, and expressed with candour and warmth the just
appreciation she now had of his own. She was uncertain whether they
had ever reached him. It was long since she had received any tidings,
and she felt at times that sickness of the heart, which suspense unfed
by hope creates.

"I bring you a messenger, who I trust is the bearer of glad tidings,"
said Mr. Manning, entering, with a benevolent smile, and ushering in a
young gentleman, whom he introduced by the name of Clarence. "Augusta,
you will greet him with joy, for he comes with letters from Mr.
Allison, your husband."

Augusta sprang forward, scarcely waiting to go through the customary
form of introduction, and took the letter with a trembling hand. "Tell
me, sir, do you know him, and is he well?" The stranger bent his dark
and lustrous eyes upon her face, with a look of undisguised
admiration.

"I know him intimately, madam; when I last saw him, he was in perfect
health, and animated by the prospect of a speedy return."

Augusta waited to hear no more, but retired to her own chamber, to
peruse the epistle she had so anxiously anticipated. It was in answer
to her last, and breathed the language of hope and confidence. There
was a warmth, a fervour of sentiment, far different from his former
cold, but kind communications. He rejoiced in the knowledge of her
altered fortune, for he could prove his disinterestedness, and show
her that he loved her for herself alone, by returning and devoting
himself to the task of winning her affections. "Say not, my Augusta,"
said he in conclusion, "that I cannot win the prize. All the energies
of my heart and soul are enlisted for the contest. I could look on
your beauty, all dazzling as it is, without much emotion; but the
humility, the trust, the gentleness and feeling expressed in your
letter has melted me into tenderness. Dare I indulge in the blissful
dream, that even now gilds this page with the hues of heaven? Augusta,
the sad, reluctant bride, transformed into the fond and faithful wife,
cherished in my yearning bosom, and diffusing there the life, the
warmth, the fragrance of love!"

Augusta's tears rained over the paper. "Oh! Allison," she cried, "the
task shall not be in vain; I _will_ love thee for thy virtues, and the
blessing my dying father called down, may yet rest upon us." She was
about to fold the letter, when a postscript on the envelope met her
eye. "Receive Clarence," it said, "as my friend--he knows all my
history, and the peculiarity of our situation--he is interested in
you, for my sake--as a stranger and my especial friend, may I ask for
him the hospitable attentions of Mr. Manning's family?"

When she descended into the room, where Clarence was seated, she could
not repress a painful blush, from the consciousness that he was
familiar with her singular history. "He must despise me," thought she;
but the deference, and respect of his manner forbade such an
impression. Gradually recovering from her embarrassment, and finding
him directing his conversation principally to Mr. Manning, she had
leisure to observe one who possessed strong interest in her eyes, as
the friend of Allison. And seldom does the eye of woman rest upon a
more graceful or interesting figure, or a more expressive and glowing
countenance. There was a lambent brightness in his eyes, a mantling
bloom upon his cheek, that indicated indwelling light and conscious
youth. His hair clustered in soft waves round his temples, relieving
by its darkness the unsunned whiteness of his forehead. Yet the
prevailing charm was manner, that indescribable charm, that, like
sunshine in the summer landscape, gilded and vivified the whole. The
acquisition of such a guest gave life and animation to the domestic
circle. Mr. Manning was a man of varied information, and the society
of this accomplished traveller recalled the classic enthusiasm of his
earlier days. Mary, though usually reserved to strangers, seemed
fascinated into a forgetfulness of herself, and found herself a
partaker of a conversation to which at first she was only a timid
listener. Augusta, while she acknowledged the stranger's uncommon
power to please, was preoccupied by the contents of her husband's
letter, and longed to be alone with Mary, whose sympathy was always as
spontaneous as it was sincere. She was not disappointed in the
readiness of Mary's sympathy; but after having listened again and
again, and expressed her hope and joy that all would yet be for the
happiest and the best, she returned to the subject next in interest,
the bearer of this precious document. "Ah! my dear Augusta," said she,
"if Allison's noble spirit had been enshrined in such a temple, you
had not been parted now." Augusta felt the comparison _odious_. It
brought before her the person of Allison in too melancholy a contrast
with the engaging stranger. "I thought it was Mary Manning," answered
she in a grave tone, "who once reproved me for attaching too much
importance to manly beauty--I never thought you foolish or unkind till
this moment."

"Forgive me," cried Mary, with irresistible frankness; "foolish I may be,
indeed I know I am; but intentionally unkind to you--never--never."
It did not require the recollection of all Mary's tried friendship and
sincerity, for Augusta to accord her forgiveness. Mary was more
guarded afterwards in the expression of her admiration, but Augusta,
in her imagination, had drawn the horoscope of Mary's destiny, and
Clarence shone there, as the star that was to give it radiance. A
constant guest of her father's, she thought it impossible for him to
witness Mary's mild, yet energetic virtues, without feeling their
influence. She was interesting without being beautiful, and Clarence
evidently delighted in her conversation. To her, he was always more
reserved, yet there was a deference, an interest, a constant reference
to her wishes and opinions, that was as delicate as it was flattering.
He was the companion of their walks, and nature, never more lovely
than in this delightful season, acquired new charms from the
enthusiasm with which he sought out and expatiated on its beauties.
Mr. Manning was passionately fond of music, and every evening Mary and
Augusta were called upon for his favourite songs. Now the music was
finer than ever, for Clarence accompanied them with his flute, and
sometimes with his voice, which was uncommonly sweet and melodious.
One evening Augusta was seated at the piano; she was not an excelling
performer, but she played with taste and feeling, and she had
endeavoured to cultivate her talent, for she remembered that Allison
was a lover of music. She had played all Mr. Manning's songs, and
turned over the leaves, without thinking of any particular tune, when
Clarence arrested her at one, which he said was Allison's favourite
air. "Let us play and sing that," said he, repeating the words, "your
husband loves it, we were together when he first heard it; it was sung
by an Italian songstress, whom you have often struck me as resembling.
The manner in which your hair is now parted in front, with those
falling curls behind, increases the resemblance; it is very striking
at this moment."

Augusta felt a strange pang penetrate her heart, when he asked her for
her husband's favourite. There was something, too, in his allusion to
her personal appearance that embarrassed her. He had paid her no
compliment, yet she blushed as if guilty of receiving one. "I cannot
play it," answered she, looking up, "but I will try to learn it for
his sake." She could not prevent her voice from faltering; there was
an expression in his eyes, when they met hers, that bowed them down,
in shame and apprehension. It was so intense and thrilling--she had
never met such a glance before, and she feared to interpret it.

"Shall I sing it for you?" asked he; and leaning over the instrument,
he sang in a low, mellow voice, one of those impassioned strains,
which the fervid genius of Italy alone can produce. The words were
eloquent of love and passion, and Augusta, charmed, melted by their
influence, could not divest herself of a feeling of guilt as she
listened. A new and powerful light was breaking upon her; truth held
up its blazing torch, flashing its rays into the darkest corners of
her heart; and conscience, discovering passions, of whose very
existence she had been previously unconscious. She saw revealed in
prophetic vision, the misery of her future existence, the misery she
was entailing on herself, on others, and a cold shudder ran through
her frame. Mary, alarmed at her excessive paleness, brought her a
glass of water, and asked her if she were ill. Grateful for an excuse
to retire, she rose and took Mary's arm to leave the room; but as she
passed through the door, which Clarence opened and held, she could not
avoid encountering again a glance so tender and impassioned, she could
not veil to herself the language it conveyed. Augusta had thought
herself miserable before, but never had she shed such bitter tears as
bathed her pillow that night. Just as she had schooled herself to
submission; just as she was cherishing the most tender and grateful
feelings towards her husband, resolving to make her future life one
long task of expiation, a being crossed her path, who realized all her
early visions of romance, and who gently and insidiously had entwined
himself into the very chords of her existence; and now, when she felt
the fold, and struggled to free herself from the enthralment, she
found herself bound as with fetters of iron and clasps of steel. That
Clarence loved her, she could not doubt. Enlightened as to the state
of her own heart, she now recollected a thousand covert marks of
tenderness and regard. He had been admitted to the most unreserved
intercourse with her, as the friend of her husband. Like herself, he
had been cherishing sentiments of whose strength he was unaware, and
which, when revealed in their full force, would make him tremble. She
now constantly avoided his society. Her manners were cold and
constrained, and her conscious eyes sought the ground. But Clarence,
though he saw the change, and could not be ignorant of the cause, was
not rebuked or chilled by her coldness. He seemed to call forth, with
more animation, the rich resources of his mind, his enthusiasm was
more glowing, his voice had more music, and his smile more brightness.
It was evident she alone was unhappy; whatever were his feelings, they
inspired no remorse. She began to believe her own vanity had misled
her, and that he only looked upon her as the wife of his friend. She
had mistaken the luminousness of his eyes for the fire of passion. Her
credulity abased her in her own estimation.

One afternoon Clarence found her alone. She had declined accompanying
Mary and her father in a walk, because she thought Clarence was to be
with them. "I did not expect to find you alone," said he, taking a
seat by her side--"but since I have gained such a privilege, may I
ask, without increasing your displeasure, in what I have offended? You
shun my society--your averted looks, your altered mien"--he paused,
for her embarrassment was contagious, and the sentence remained
unfinished. The appeal was a bold one, but as a _friend_ he had a
right to make it.

"You have not offended me," at length she answered, "but you know the
peculiar circumstances of my life, and cannot wonder if my spirits
sometimes droop, when reflecting on the misery of the past, and the
uncertainty of the future."

"If," said he, "the uncertainty of the future makes you unhappy as it
regards yourself, you may perhaps have cause of uneasiness, but as it
respects Allison, as far as I know his sentiments, he has the fullest
confidence, and the brightest hopes of felicity. I once looked upon
him as the most unfortunate, but I now view him as the most blessed of
men. When he told me the circumstances of his exile, how lone and
hopeless seemed his lot! Now, when I see all that woos him to return,
angels might covet his destiny."

"You forget yourself," cried Augusta, not daring to take in the full
meaning of his words--"it is not the office of a friend to
flatter--Allison never flattered--I always revered him for his truth."

"Yes!" exclaimed Clarence, "he has truth and integrity. They call him
upright, and honourable, and just; but is he not cold and senseless to
remain in banishment so long, leaving his beautiful wife in widowhood
and sorrow! and was he not worse than mad to send me here the herald
of himself, to expose me to the influence of your loveliness, knowing
that to see you, to be near you, must be to love, nay, even to
worship."

"You have driven me from you for ever!" cried Augusta, rising in
indignant astonishment, at the audacity of this avowal. "Allison shall
learn in what a friend he has confided."

"I am prepared for your anger," continued he, with increasing
impetuosity, "but I brave it; your husband will soon return, and I
shall leave you. Tell him of all my boldness, and all my sincerity;
tell him too all the emotions that are struggling in your heart for
me, for oh! you cannot deny it, there is a voice pleading for my
pardon, in your bosom now, and telling you, that, if it is a crime to
love, that one crime is mutual."

"Then I am indeed a wretch!" exclaimed Augusta, sinking down into a
chair, and clasping her hands despairingly over her face; "but I
deserve this humiliation." Clarence drew nearer to her--she
hesitated--he trembled. The triumphant fire that revelled in his eyes
was quenched; compassion, tenderness, and self-reproach softened their
beams. He was in the very act of kneeling before her, to deprecate her
forgiveness, when the door softly opened, and Mary Manning entered.
Her step was always gentle, and she had approached unheard. She looked
at them first with a smile, but Augusta's countenance was not one that
could reflect a smile; and on Mary's face, at that moment, it appeared
to her as a smile of derision. Clarence lingered a moment, as if
unwilling to depart, yet uncertain whether to remain or go--then
asking Mary for her father, he hastily retired, leaving Augusta in a
state of such agitation, that Mary, seriously alarmed, entreated her
to explain the cause of her distress.

"Explain!" cried Augusta. "You have witnessed my humiliation, and yet
ask me the cause. I do not claim your sympathy, the grief I now feel
admits of none; I was born to be unhappy, and whichever way I turn, I
am wretched."

"Only tell me one thing, dear Augusta, is all your grief owing to the
discovery of your love for Clarence, and to the sentiments with which
you have inspired him? There is no humiliation in loving Clarence--for
who could know him and not love him?"

Augusta looked in Mary's face, assured that she was uttering the
language of mockery. Mary, the pure moralist, the mild, but
uncompromising advocate for duty and virtue, thus to palliate the
indulgence of a forbidden passion! It could only be in derision; yet
her eye was so serene, and her smile so kind, it was impossible to
believe that contempt was lurking beneath. "Then you _do_ love him,
Mary, and I am doubly treacherous!"

Mary blushed--"with the affection of a sister, the tenderness of a
friend, do I regard him; I admire his talents, I venerate his
virtues."

"Virtues! oh! Mary, he is a traitor to his friend; what reliance is
there on those virtues, which, having no root in the heart, are swept
away by the first storm of passion?"

"Passion may enter the purest heart," answered Mary; "guilt consists
in yielding to its influence. I would pledge my life that Clarence
would never give himself up to the influence of a guilty passion."

"Talk not of him, let me forget his existence, if I can; I think of
one, who will return from his long exile, only to find his hopes
deceived, his confidence betrayed, his heart broken."

Here Augusta wept in such anguish, that Mary, finding it in vain to
console her, threw her arms around her, and wept in sympathy; yet
still she smiled through her tears, and again and again repeated to
her, that heaven had long years of happiness yet in store.

Augusta, in the solitude of her own chamber, recovered an appearance
of outward composure, but there was a deadly sickness in her soul,
that seemed to her like a foretaste of mortality. The slightest sound
made her tremble, and when Mary returned to her, softly, but
hurriedly, and told her her father wished to see her, she went to him,
with a blanched cheek and trembling step, like a criminal who is about
to hear her sentence of doom.

"I have something to communicate to you," said he, kindly taking her
hand, and leading her to a seat. "But I fear you will be too much
agitated."

"Is he come?" cried she, grasping his arm with sudden energy; "only
tell me, is he come?"

"Your husband _is_ arrived; I have just received tidings that he is in
the city, and will shortly be here."

Augusta gasped for breath, she pressed her hands on her bosom, there
was such a cold, intolerable weight there; she felt the letter of her
husband, which she had constantly worn as a talisman against the evil
she most dreaded. That tender, confiding letter, which, when she had
first received it, she had hailed as the precursor of the purest
felicity.

"It is all over now," sighed she, unconscious of the presence of Mr.
Manning. "Poor unhappy Allison, I will tell him all, and then I will
lie down and die."

"I hear a carriage approaching," said Mr. Manning; "the gate
opens--support yourself, my dear child, and give him the welcome he
merits." Augusta could not move, her limbs were powerless, but
perception and sensibility remained; she saw Mr. Manning leave the
room, heard steps and voices in the passage, and then the door reopen.
The shades of twilight were beginning to fall, and a mist was over her
eyes, but she distinctly recognised the figure that entered--what was
her astonishment, to behold, instead of the lank form, bald brows, and
green shade, marked in such indelible characters on her memory--the
graceful lineaments, clustering looks, and lustrous eyes of Clarence?
She looked beyond in wild alarm for her husband. "Leave me," she
exclaimed, "leave me, or you drive me to desperation!"

But Clarence eagerly approached her, as if defying all consequences,
and reckless of her resentment. He clasped her in his arms, he pressed
her to his heart, and imprinted on her brow, cheek, and lips,
unnumbered kisses. "My bride, my wife, my own beloved Augusta, do you
not know me? and can you forgive me for this trial of your love? I did
not mean to cause you so much suffering, but I could not resist the
temptation of proving whether your love was mine, through duty or
inclination. I have been the rival of myself, and I have exulted in
finding, that love in all its strength has still been mastered by
duty. Augusta, I glory in my wife."

Augusta looked up, in bewildered rapture, hardly knowing in what world
she existed. She had never dreamed of such a transformation. Even now
it seemed incredible--it could not be true--her present felicity was
too great to be real--"Can Allison and Clarence be one?"

"Yes, my Augusta, these arms have a right to enfold thee, or they
would not clasp you thus. No miracle has been wrought, but the
skeleton is reclothed with flesh, the locks of youth have been
renewed, the tide of health has flowed back again into the wasted
veins, lending a glow to the wan cheek, and a brightness to the dim
eye; and more than all, the worn and feeble spirit, always
sympathizing with its frail companion, as replumed its drooping wings,
and been soaring in regions of hope, and joy, and love."

Without speaking metaphorically, Augusta's heart actually ached with
its excess of happiness.

"I have not room here," she cried, "for such fulness of joy," again
laying her hand where that precious letter was deposited, but with
such different emotions. "My friends must participate in my happiness,
it is selfish to withhold it from them so long."

"They know it already," said Allison, smiling; "they have known my
secret from the first, and assisted me in concealing my identity."

Augusta now understood Mary's apparent inconsistency, and vindicated
her from all unkindness and wilful palliation of guilt. "I am not
quite an impostor," continued her husband, "for my name is Sydney
Clarence Allison--and let me still wear the appellation you have
learned to love. It was my uncle's, and he left a condition in his
will that I should assume it as my own. I find myself, too, the heir
of sufficient wealth to be almost a burden; for my uncle, romantic to
the last, only caused the report of the failure of his wealth, that I
might prove the sincerity of your father's friendship. My wife, my own
Augusta, is not his blessing resting on us now?"

Mr. Manning and his daughter sympathized largely in the happiness of
their friends. Their only sorrow was the approaching separation. Mary,
whose disposition was naturally serious, was exalted on this occasion
to an unwonted vein of humour. When she saw Augusta's eyes turning
with fond admiration towards her husband, she whispered in her
ear--"Is it possible, that bald, yellow, horrid-looking creature is
your husband? I would not marry him, unless I were dragged to the
altar."

And Allison, passing his hand over his luxuriant hair, reminded her,
with a smile, of the _subscription_ and the _wig_.




THE

VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT.


Intemperance is a vice which is generally considered of the masculine
sex. In the pictured scenes of the ravages it has wrought woman is
seldom introduced but as the patient victim of brutality, or as the
admonishing angel of transgressing man. There are instances on record,
however, of a sad reverse. Not alone in the lower classes of life,
amid the dregs of society, but in higher walks, where intelligence,
wit, beauty, and wealth, virgin worth, wedded love, and Christian
grace, are all cast as unvalued offerings at the beastly shrine of
intemperance. One of these fatal examples (of which, to the honour of
our sex be it said, there are so few) once came under the observation
of the writer. Her character and history form the subject of the
following sketch.

Mr. Manly first met Anne Weston in a ball-room. It was on the evening
of the Fourth of July, and the fairest ladies of the country were
assembled to celebrate the national jubilee. He was a lawyer, and had
been the orator of the day; an eloquent one, and therefore entitled to
distinguished attention. He came from an adjoining town, of which he
had recently become an inhabitant, and now found himself in a scene
which scarcely presented one familiar countenance. He was a very proud
man, and had the air of one who felt himself too superior to the
multitude to mingle in the general amusement. He stood with folded
arms, as remote as possible from the dancers despising those who were
engaged in that exercise on such a sultry night. In vain the
obsequious master of ceremonies begged to introduce him to this and
that fair lady. He declined the honour with a cold bow, declaring his
utter disinclination to dancing. He was told that his disinclination
would cease as soon as Miss Weston arrived. She was the belle of the
place, the daughter of the richest gentleman in town--had received the
most finished education, and refused the most splendid offers. In
short, she was irresistible, and it was predicted that he would find
her so. It cannot be denied, that the fame of this all-conquering lady
had previously reached his ears, but unfortunately he had a
detestation of belles, and predetermined to close his eyes, and shut
his ears, and steel his heart against her vaunted attractions. He had
never yet sacrificed his independence to woman. He had placed his
standard of female excellence very high. He had seen no one that
reached its altitude. "No," said he to himself, "let me live on in
singleness of heart and loneliness of purpose, all the days of my
life, rather than unite myself with one of those vain, flimsy,
garrulous, and superficial beings who win the smiles, and fix the
attention of the many. I despise a weak woman, I hate a masculine one,
and a pedantic one I abhor. I turn with fear from the glittering
belle, whose home is the crowded hall, whose incense the homage of
fools, whose altar the shrine of fashion. Can _she_ sit down contented
in the privacy of domestic love who has lived on the adulation of the
world, or be satisfied with the affection of one true heart, who has
claimed as her due, the vows of all? No, better the fool, the pedant,
than the belle. Who can find that woman, whose price is above rubies?
Ah! 'tis certain I never shall marry." He was aroused from these
reflections, by a movement in the hall, and he felt a conviction that
the vaunted lady was arrived. In spite of his boasted indifference, he
could not repress a slight sensation of curiosity to see one who was
represented as so transcendent. But he moved not, he did not even turn
his eyes towards the spot where so many were clustering. "The late
hour of her arrival," said he, "shows equal vanity and affectation.
She evidently wishes to be conspicuous--studies everything for
effect." The lady moved towards that part of the hall where he was
stationed. She held the arm of one gentleman, and was followed by some
half-dozen others. He was compelled to gaze upon her, for they passed
so near, the folds of her white muslin dress fluttered against him. He
was pleased to see that she was much less beautiful than he had
expected. He scarcely thought her handsome. Her complexion was pale,
even sallow, and her face wanted that soft, flowing outline, which is
necessary to the perfection of beauty. He could not but acknowledge,
however, that her figure was very fine, her motions graceful, and her
air spirited and intellectual. "I am glad she is not beautiful," said
he, "for I might have been tempted to have admired her, against my
sober judgment. Oppressed by the heat of the apartment, he left the
hall and sauntered for a long time in the piazza, till a certain
feeling of curiosity, to know whether a lady whose bearing expressed
so much pride of soul, could be foolish enough to dance, led him to
return. The first object he beheld, was the figure of Miss Weston,
moving in most harmonious time, to an exhilarating air, her
countenance lighted up with an animation, a fire, that had as magical
an effect upon her features, as the morning sunbeams on the face of
nature. The deepest colour was glowing on her cheek,--her very soul
was shining forth from her darkening eyes. She danced with infinite
spirit, but equal grace. He had never witnessed anything to compare
with it, not even on the stage. "She dances entirely too well,"
thought he; "she cannot have much intellect, yet she carries on a
constant conversation with her partner through all the mazes of the
dance. It must be admirable nonsense, from the broad smiles it
elicits. I am half resolved to be introduced and invite her to
dance--from mere _curiosity_, and to prove the correctness of my
opinion." He sought the introduction, became her partner in the dance,
and certainly forgot, while he listened to her "admirable nonsense,"
that she was that object of his detestation--a _belle_. Her
conversation was sprightly, unstudied, and original. She seemed more
eager to listen than to talk, more willing to admire than to be
admired. She did not tell him that she admired his oration, but she
spoke warmly on the subject of eloquence, and quoted in the happiest
manner, a passage of his own speech, _one_ which he himself judged
superb. It proved her to have listened with deep attention. He had
never received so delicate or gratifying a compliment. His vanity was
touched, and his pride slumbered. He called forth those powers of
pleasing, with which he was eminently endowed, and he began to feel a
dawning ambition to make the conquest of a heart which so many had
found indomitable. He admired the simplicity of her dress, its fitness
and elegance. A lady's dress is always indicative of her character.
Then her voice was singularly persuasive in its tones, it breathed of
feminine gentleness and sensibility, with just enough spirit and
independence for a woman. Mr. Manly came to these wise conclusions
before the end of the first dance--at the termination of the second,
he admired the _depth_, as well as the brilliancy of her mind, and
when he bade her adieu for the night, he was equally convinced of the
purity of her feelings and the goodness of her heart. Such is the
strength of man's wisdom, the stability of his opinions, the
steadiness of his purpose, when placed in competition with the
fascinations of a woman who has made the determination to please. In
after years Mr. Manly told a friend of a dream which that night
haunted his pillow. He was not superstitious, or disposed to attach
the slightest importance to dreams. But this was a vivid picture, and
succeeding events caused him to recall it, as one having the power of
prophecy. He lived over again the events of the evening. The winning
accents of Miss Weston mingled in his ear with the gay notes of the
violin. Still, ever and anon, discordant sounds marred the sweet
harmony. The malicious whisper, the stifled, deriding laugh, and the
open scoff came from every corner. Sometimes he saw, through the
crowd, the slow finger of scorn pointing at him. As he turned, with a
fierce glance of defiance, Miss Weston seemed to meet him still,
holding a goblet in her hand, which she pressed him to drain. Her
cheeks and lips burned with a scarlet radiance, and her eyes sparkled
with unnatural brightness. "Taste it not," whispered a soft voice in
his ear, "it is poison." "It is the cup of immortality," exclaimed the
syren, and she drained the goblet to its last drop. In a few moments
her countenance changed--her face became bloated, her features
disfigured, and her eyes heavy and sunken. He turned with disgust from
the former enchantress, but she pursued him, she wound her arms around
him. In the vain struggle of liberating himself from her embrace, he
awoke. It was long before he could overcome the sensation of loathing
and horror excited by the unhallowed vision, and even when, overcome
by heaviness and exhaustion, he again slept, the same bloated phantom
presented her intoxicating draught. The morning found him feverish and
unrefreshed. He could not shake off the impression of his dream, and
the image of Miss Weston seemed deprived of the witchery that had
enthralled his imagination the preceding evening. He was beginning to
despise himself, for having yielded up so soon his prejudices and
pride, when an invitation to dine at Mr. Weston's, interrupted the
severe tenor of his thoughts. Politeness obliged him to accept, and
in the society of Miss Weston, graceful, animated, and intellectual,
presiding with unaffected dignity and ease at her father's board, he
forgot the hideous metamorphose of his dream.

From that day his fate was sealed. It was the first time his heart had
ever been seriously interested, and he loved with all the strength and
ardour of his proud and ardent character. The triumph, too, of winning
one whom so many had sought in vain, threw a kind of glory over his
conquest, and exalted his estimation of his own attributes. The
wedding-day was appointed. The evening previous to his nuptials, Anne
Weston sat in her own chamber, with one of the chosen friends of her
girlhood, Emily Spencer. Anne had no sisters, and from childhood,
Emily had stood to her almost in that dear relation. She was to
accompany her to her new home, for Anne refused to be separated from
her, and had playfully told Mr. Manly, "that if he married _her_, he
must take Emily too, for she could not and would not be parted from
her."

The thought of the future occupied the minds of the two friends. Anne
sat in silence. The lamp that partially illumined the apartment, gave
additional paleness to her pale and spiritual countenance. Her
thoughts appeared to have rolled within herself, and, from the gloom
of her eye, did not appear to be such as usually rest in the bosom of
one about to be wedded to the object of her affection and her trust.

"I fear," said she at length, as if forgetting the presence of her
friend, "that I have been too hasty. The very qualities that won my
admiration, and determined me to fix his regard, now cause me to
tremble. I have been too much accustomed to self-indulgence, to bear
restraint, and should it ever be imposed by a master's hand, my
rebellious spirit would break the bonds of duty, and assert its
independence. I fear I am not formed to be a happy wife, or to
_constitute_ the happiness of a husband. I live too much upon
excitement, and when the deep monotony of domestic life steals on,
what will become of me?"

"How can there be monotony," answered Emily, warmly, "with such a
companion as Manly? Oh, trust him, Anne, love him as he merits to be
loved, as you yourself are loved, and your lot may be envied among
women."

"He has awakened all the capabilities my heart has of loving," cried
Anne, "but I wish I could shake off this dull weight from my spirits."
She rose as she spoke, approached a side table, and, turning out a
glass of rich cordial, drank it, as if conscious, from experience, of
its renovating influence. Emily's anxious gaze followed her movements.
A deep sigh escaped her lips. When her friend resumed her seat, she
drew nearer to her, she took her hand in hers, and, while her colour
heightened, and her breath shortened, she said--

"Anne Weston, I should not deserve the name of friend, if in this
hour, the last, perhaps, of unrestrained confidence between us, I did
not dare--"

"Dare what?" interrupted Anne, shame and resentment kindling in her
eye.

"To tell you, that the habit you indulge in, of resorting to
artificial means to exhilarate your spirits, though now attended with
no obvious danger, may exercise most fatal influence on your future
peace. I have long struggled for resolution to utter this startling
truth, and I gather boldness as I speak. By all our friendship and
sincerity, by the past splendour of your reputation, by the bright
hopes of the future, by the trusting vows of a lover, and the gray
hairs of a father, I pray you to relinquish a habit, whose growing
strength is now only known to me." Emily paused, strong emotions
impeded her utterance. "What is it you fear?" asked Anne, in a low,
stern voice; "speak, for you see that I am calm." "You know what I
dread," continued Emily. "I see a speck on the bright character of my
friend. It may spread and dim all its lustre. We all know the fearful
strength of habit, we cannot shake off the serpent when once its coils
are around us. Oh, Anne, gifted by nature with such brilliancy of
intellect and gayety of heart, why have you ever had recourse to the
exciting draught, as if art could exalt the original buoyancy of your
spirits, or care had laid his blighting hand upon you?"

"Forbear," cried Anne, impetuously, "and hear me, before you blast me
with your contempt. It was not till bitter disappointment pressed,
crushed me, that I knew art could renovate the languor of nature. Yes,
_I_, _the_ courted and admired of all, was doomed to love one whose
affections I could not win. You knew him well, but you never knew how
my ineffectual efforts to attach him maddened my pride, or how the
triumph of my beautiful rival goaded my feelings. The world guessed
not my secret, for still I laughed and glittered with mocking
splendour, but with such a cold void within! I could not bear it. My
unnatural spirits failed me. I _must_ still shine on, or the secret
of my humiliation be discovered. I began in despair, but I have
accomplished my purpose. And now," added she, "I have done. The
necessity of shining and deceiving is over. I thank you for the warmth
of friendship that suggested your admonition. But, indeed, Emily, your
apprehensions are exaggerated. I have a restraining power within me
that must always save me from degradation. Habit, alone, makes slaves
of the weak; it becomes the slave of the strong in mind. I know what's
due to Manly. He never shall blush for his choice in a wife."

She began with vehemence and ended with deliberation. There was
something in the cold composure of her manner that forbid a renewal of
the subject. Emily felt that she had fulfilled her duty as a friend,
and delicacy commanded her to forbear a renewal of her admonitions.
Force of feeling had betrayed her into a warmth of expression she now
regretted. She loved Anne, but she looked with many misgivings to
being the sharer of her wedded home. She had deeply studied the
character of Manly, and trembled to think of the reaction that might
one day take place in his mind, should he ever discover the dark spot
on the disk of his sun--of his destiny. Though she had told Anne that
the secret of her growing love for the exciting draught was _known_
only to herself, it was whispered among the servants, suspected by a
few discreet individuals, and had been several times hinted in a
private circle of friends. It had never yet reached the ears of Manly,
for there was something in his demeanour that repelled the most
distant approach to familiarity. He married with the most romantic and
enthusiastic ideas of domestic felicity. Were those bright visions of
bliss realized? Time, the great disenchanter, alone could answer.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was about five years after the scenes we have recorded, that Mr.
and Mrs. Manly took up their residence in the town of G----. Usually,
when strangers are about to become inhabitants of a new place, there
is some annunciation of their arrival; but they came, without any
previous intimation being given for the speculation of the curious, or
bringing any letters of introduction for the satisfaction of the
proud. They hired an elegant house, furnished it rich and fashionably,
and evidently prepared for the socialities of life, as enjoyed in the
highest circles. The appearance of wealth always commands the respect
of the many, and this respect was heightened by their personal claims
to admiration. Five years, however, had wrought a change in both, not
from the fading touch of time, for they were not of an age when the
green leaf begins to grow sere, but other causes were operating with a
power as silent and unpausing. The fine, intelligent face of Mrs.
Manly had lost much of its delicacy of outline, and her cheek, that
formerly was pale or roseate as sensibility or enthusiasm ruled the
hour, now wore a stationary glow, deeper than the blush of feminine
modesty, less bright than the carnation of health. The unrivalled
beauty of her figure had given place to grosser lineaments, over
which, however, grace and dignity still lingered, as if unwilling to
leave a shrine so worshipped. Mr. Manly's majestic person was invested
with an air of deeper haughtiness, and his dark brow was contracted
into an expression of prevailing gloom and austerity. Two lovely
children, one almost an infant, who were carried abroad every fair day
by their nurse, shared the attention their parents excited; and many
appealed to _her_ for information respecting the strangers. She was
unable to satisfy their curiosity, as she had been a member of their
household but a short time, her services having been hired while
journeying to the place. The other servants were hired after their
arrival. Thus, one of the most fruitful sources from which the
inquisitive derive their aliment, was denied to the inhabitants of
G----. It was not long before the house of Mr. and Mrs. Manly was
frequented by those whose society she most wished to cultivate. The
suavity of her manners, the vivacity of her conversation, her
politeness and disinterestedness, captivated the hearts of all. Mr.
Manly too received his guests with a cordiality that surprised, while
it gratified. Awed by the external dignity of his deportment, they
expected to be repulsed, rather than welcomed, but it was universally
acknowledged, that no man could be more delightful than Mr. Manly,
when he chose to unbend. As a lawyer, his fame soon rose. His
integrity and eloquence became the theme of every tongue. Amidst all
the admiration they excited, there were some dark surmises. The
malicious, the censorious, the evil-disposed are found in every
circle, and in every land. It was noticed that Mr. Manly watched his
wife with painful scrutiny, that she seemed uneasy whenever his glance
met hers, that her manner was at times hurried and disturbed, as if
some secret cause of sorrow preyed upon her mind. It was _settled_ in
the opinion of many, that Mr. Manly was a domestic tyrant, and that
his wife was the meek victim of this despotism. Some suggested that he
had been convicted of crime, and had fled from the pursuit of justice,
while his devoted wife refused to separate her destiny from his. They
gave a large and elegant party. The entertainment was superior to
anything witnessed before in the precincts of G----. The graceful
hostess, dressed in unwonted splendour, moved through her
drawing-rooms, with the step of one accustomed to the homage of
crowds, yet her smiles sought out the most undistinguished of her
guests, and the most diffident gathered confidence from her
condescending regards. Still the eye of Mr. Manly followed her with
that anxious, mysterious glance, and her hurried movements often
betrayed inexplicable perturbation. In the course of the evening, a
gentleman refused wine, on the plea of belonging to the Temperance
Society. Many voices were lifted in condemnation against him, for
excluding one of the gladdeners of existence, what, the Scriptures
themselves recommended, and the Saviour of men had consecrated by a
miracle. The subject grew interesting, the circle narrowed round the
advocate of Temperance, and many were pressing eagerly forward to
listen to the debate. The opinion of Mrs. Manly was demanded. She drew
back at first, as if unwilling to take the lead of her guests. At
length she seemed warmed by the subject, and painted the evils of
intemperance in the strongest and most appalling colours. She painted
woman as its victim, till every heart recoiled at the image she drew.
So forcible was her language, so impressive her gestures, so
unaffected her emotions, every eye was riveted, and every ear bent on
the eloquent mourner of her sex's degradation. She paused, oppressed
by the notice she attracted, and moved from the circle, that widened
for her as she passed, and gazed after her, with as much respect as if
she were an Empress. During this spontaneous burst of oratory, Mr.
Manly remained aloof, but those who had marked him in their minds as
the harsh domestic tyrant, were now confirmed in their belief. Instead
of admiring the wonderful talents of his wife, or sympathizing in the
applause she excited, a gloom thick as night lowered upon his brow,
his face actually grew of a livid paleness, till at last, as if unable
to control his temper, he left the drawing-room.

"Poor Mrs. Manly," said one, "how much is her destiny to be lamented!
To be united to a man who is incapable of appreciating her genius,
and even seems guilty of the meanness of annoying her."

Thus the world judges; and had the tortured heart of Manly known the
sentence that was passing upon him, he would have rejoiced that the
shaft was directed to _his_ bosom, rather than _hers_, which he would
fain shield from the proud man's contumely, though it might never more
be the resting-place of love and confidence. Is it necessary to go
back and relate the history of those years which had elapsed since
Anne Weston was presented to the reader as a triumphant belle, and
plighted bride! Is it not already seen that the dark speck had
enlarged, throwing into gradual, but deepening shade, the soul's
original brightness, obscuring the sunshine of domestic joy,
converting the home of love into a prison-house of shame, and
blighting, chilling, palsying the loftiest energies and noblest
purposes? The warning accents of Emily Spencer were breathed in vain.
That fatal habit had already become a passion--a passion which, like
the rising tide, grows deeper and higher, rolling onward and onward,
till the landmarks of reason, and honour, and principle, are swept
over by its waves--a tide that ebbs not but with ebbing life. She had
looked "upon the wine when it was red, when it gave its colour to the
cup," till she found, by fatal experience, that it biteth like a
serpent, and stingeth like an adder. It were vain to attempt a
description of the feelings of Manly when he first discovered the idol
of his imagination under an influence that, in his opinion, brutalized
a man. But a woman!--and that woman--his wife! In the agony, the
madness of the moment, he could have lifted the hand of suicide, but
Emily Spencer hovered near and held him back from the brink to which
he was rushing. She pleaded the cause of her unhappy friend, she
prayed him not to cast her off. She dwelt on the bright and sparkling
mind, the warm, impulsive heart that might yet be saved from utter
degradation by his exerted influence. She pledged herself to labour
for him, and with him, and faithfully did she redeem her pledge. After
the first terrible shock, Manly's passionate emotion settled down into
a misanthropic gloom. Sometimes when he witnessed the remorse which
followed such self-abandonment, the grace and beauty with which she
would emerge from the disfiguring cloud, and the strong efforts she
would make to reinstate herself in his estimation, a ray of brightness
would shine in on his mind, and he would try to think of the past as a
frightful dream. Then his prophetic dream would return to him, and he
shuddered at its confirmation--once it seemed as if the demon had
withdrawn its unhallowed presence, unable to exist in the holy
atmosphere that surrounds a mother's bosom.

For a long time the burning essence was not permitted to mingle with
the fountain of maternal tenderness. Even Manly's blasted spirit
revived, and Emily hoped all, and believed all. But Anne had once
passed the Rubicon, and though she often paused and looked back with
yearnings that could not be uttered, upon the fair bounds she had
left, the very poignancy of her shame goaded her on, though every step
she took, evidenced the shame that was separating her from the
affections of a husband whom she loved and respected, and who had once
idolized her. It has been said that when woman once becomes a
transgressor, her rapid progress in sin mocks the speed of man. As the
glacier, that has long shone in dazzling purity, when loosened from
its mountain stay, rushes down with a velocity accelerated by its
impenetrability and coldness, when any shameful passion has melted the
virgin snow of a woman's character, a moral avalanche ensues,
destroying "whatsoever is venerable and lovely, and of good report."

Manly occasionally sought to conceal from the world the fatal
propensities of his wife. She had occupied too conspicuous a station
in society--she had been too highly exalted--to humble herself with
impunity. Her father, whose lavish indulgence probably paved the way
to her ruin, was unable to bear himself up under the weight of
mortification and grief thus unexpectedly brought upon him. His
constitution had long been feeble; and now the _bowl was, indeed,
broken at the fountain_. The filial hand which he once hoped would
have scattered roses on his dying pillow, struck the deathblow.
Physicians talked of a chronic disease; of the gradual decay of
nature; but Anne's conscience told her she had winged the dart. The
agony of her remorse seemed a foretaste of the quenchless fire, and the
undying worm. She made the most solemn promises of reformation--vowed
never again to taste the poisonous liquor. She threw herself on the
forgiveness of her husband, and prayed him to remove her where her
name was never breathed; that she might begin life anew, and establish
for their children an unblemished reputation. On the faith of these
ardent resolutions, Manly broke his connexion with every former
friend--sold all his possessions, and sought a new home, in a place
far removed from the scene of their present unhappiness. Circumstances
in her own family prevented Emily Spencer from accompanying them, but
she was to follow them the earliest opportunity, hoping miracles from
the change.

Mrs Manly, from the death of her father, came into the possession of a
large and independent fortune. She was not sordid enough to deem money
an equivalent for a wounded reputation; but it was soothing to her
pride, to be able to fill her husband's coffers so richly, and to fit
up their new establishment in a style so magnificent. Manly allowed
her to exercise her own taste in everything. He knew the effect of
external pomp, and thought it was well to dazzle the judgment of the
world. He was determined to seek society; to open every source of
gratification and rational excitement to his wife, to save her from
monotony and solitude. His whole aim seemed to be, "that she might not
be led into temptation." If with all these cares for her safety, he
could have blended the tenderness that once softened his proud
manners, could he have banished from his once beaming eye the look of
vigilance and distrust; could she have felt herself once more
enthroned in his heart, gratitude might, perhaps, have completed the
regeneration begun by remorse. But Anne felt that she was an object of
constant suspicion and fear; she felt that he had not faith in her
good resolutions. She was no longer the sharer of his counsels--the
inspirer of his hopes--or the companion in whom his soul delighted.
His ruling passion supported him in society; but in those hours when
they were necessarily thrown upon each other's resources, he was
accustomed to sit in gloomy abstraction, brooding over his own
melancholy thoughts. Anne was only too conscious of the subject of
these reveries, and it kept alive a painful sense of her humiliation.
She had, hitherto, kept her promise sacred, through struggles known
only to herself, and she began to feel impatient and indignant that
the reward for which she looked was still withheld. Had she been more
deeply skilled in the mysteries of the human heart, she might have
addressed the Genius of the household shrine, in the language of the
avenging Moor, who first apostrophizes the torch that flares on his
deed of darkness:

     "If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
     I can again thy former light restore,
     Should I repent me--but once put out thine,
     I know not where is the Promethean heat
     That can thy light relume."

Mr. Manly was called away by professional business, which would
probably detain him many weeks from home. He regretted this necessity;
particularly before the arrival of Emily, whose coming was daily
expected. He urged his wife to invite some friends to remain as her
guests during his absence, to enliven her solitude. His request, so
earnestly repeated, might have been gratifying to her feelings, if she
had not known the distrust of her faith and strength of resolution it
implied. The last words he said to her, at parting, were, "Remember,
Anne, everything depends on yourself." She experienced a sensation of
unspeakable relief in his absence. The eagle glance was withdrawn from
her soul, and it expanded and exulted in its newly acquired freedom.
She had a constant succession of visiters, who, remarking the
elasticity of her spirits, failed not to cast additional obloquy on
Mr. Manly, for the tyranny he evidently exercised over his wife. Emily
did not arrive, and Mrs. Manly could not regret the delay. Her
presence reminded her of all she wished to forget; for her days of
triumph were returned, and the desire of shining rekindled from the
ashes of scorn, that had for a while smothered the flame.

It wanted about a week of Mr. Manly's return. She felt a strong
inclination to renew the splendours of her party. She had received so
many compliments on the subject:--"Mrs. Manly's delightful party!"
"Her conversational powers!" "Such a literary banquet!" &c.
Invitations were given and accepted. The morning of the day, which was
somewhat warm and oppressive, she was summoned by the kitchen council,
where the business of preparation was going on. Suddenly, however,
they came to a stand. There was no brandy to give flavour to the cake;
and the cook declared it was impossible to make it without, or to use
anything as a substitute.

Mrs. Manly's cheeks flushed high with shame. Her husband had retained
the key of the closet that contained the forbidden article. He was
afraid to trust it in her keeping. The mildest cordials were alone
left at her disposal, for the entertainment of her guests. What would
her husband think if she purchased, in his absence, what he had
himself secreted from her? What would the servants believe if she
refused to provide them with what was deemed indispensable? The fear
of her secret being detected, combined with resentment at her
husband's unyielding distrust, decided her conduct. She bought--she
_tasted_. The cook asserted there was something peculiar in its
flavour, and asked her to judge for herself. Would it not excite
suspicion, if she refused? She broke her solemn vow--she _tasted_--and
was _undone_. The burning thirst once kindled, in those who have been
victims to this fatal passion, it rages with the strength of madness.
In the secrecy of the closet where she hid the poison, she yielded to
the tempter, who whispered, that, as she had been _compelled_ to
taste, her promise had been innocently broken: there could be no harm
in a _little more_--the last that should ever pass her lips. In the
delirium of the moment, she yielded, till, incapable of self-control,
she continued the inebriating draught. Judgment--reason--at length,
perception, vanished. The approach of evening found her still
prostrate on her bed, a melancholy instance of the futility of the
best human resolutions, unsupported by the divine principle of
religion. The servants were at first struck with consternation. They
thought some sudden disease had overtaken her. But the marks of
intemperance, that, like the brand on the brow of Cain, single out its
votaries from the rest of mankind, those revolting traces, were but
too visible. They knew not what to do. Uncertain what guests were
invited, they could not send apologies, nor ask them to defer their
visit. The shades of evening were beginning to fall; the children were
crying, deprived of the usual cares of their nurse; and in the general
bustle, clung to their mother, whose ear was deaf to the appeal of
nature. The little one, weary of shedding so many unavailing tears, at
last crawled up on the bed, and fell asleep by her side, though there
was scarcely room for her to stretch her little limbs, where she had
found the means of climbing. As her slumbers deepened, her limbs
relaxed from the rigid posture they had assumed: her arms dropped
unconsciously over the bed, and she fell. In her fall she was thrown
against one of the posts, and a sharp corner cutting her head,
inflicted a deep wound. The screams of the little sufferer roused the
household, and pierced even the leaden slumbers of intemperance. It
was long, however, before Mrs. Manly came to a clear perception of
what was passing around her. The sight of the streaming blood,
however, acted like a shock of electricity. She sprang up, and
endeavoured to stanch the bleeding wound. The effusion was soon
stopped; the child sunk into a peaceful sleep, and the alarm subsided.

Children are liable to so many falls, and bruises, and wounds, it is
not strange that Mrs. Manly, in the confused state of her mind, should
soon forget the accident, and try to prepare herself for the reception
of her guests, who were already assembling in the drawing-room. Every
time the bell rung, she started, with a thrill of horror, conscious
how unfit she was to sustain the enviable reputation she had acquired.
Her head ached almost to bursting, her hands trembled, and a deadly
sickness oppressed her. The visions of an upbraiding husband, a
scoffing world, rose before her--and dim, but awful, in the dark
perspective, she seemed to behold the shadow of a sin-avenging Deity.
Another ring--the guests were thronging. Unhappy woman! What was to be
done? She would have pleaded sudden indisposition--the accident of her
child--but the fear that the servants would reveal the truth--the hope
of being able to rally her spirits--determined her to descend into the
drawing-room. As she cast a last hurried glance into the mirror, and
saw the wild, haggard countenance it reflected, she recoiled at her
own image. The jewels with which she had profusely adorned herself,
served but to mock the ravages the destroying scourge had made upon
her beauty. No cosmetic art could restore the purity of her
complexion; nor the costliest perfumes conceal the odour of the fiery
liquor. She called for a glass of cordial--kindled up a smile of
welcome, and descended to perform the honours of her household. She
made a thousand apologies for her delay; related, in glowing colours,
the accident that happened to her child, and flew from one subject to
another, as if she feared to trust herself with a pause. There was
something so unnatural in her countenance, so overstrained in her
manner, and so extravagant in her conversation, it was impossible for
the company not to be aware of her situation. Silent glances were
exchanged, low whispers passed round; but they had no inclination to
lose the entertainment they anticipated. They remembered the luxuries
of her table, and hoped, at least, if not a "feast of reason," a feast
of the good things of earth.

It was at this crisis Emily Spencer arrived. Her travelling dress, and
the fatigue of a journey, were sufficient excuses for her declining to
appear in the drawing-room; but the moment she saw Mrs. Manly, her
eye, too well experienced, perceived the backsliding of Anne, and
hope died within her bosom. Sick at heart, wounded, and indignant, she
sat down in the chamber where the children slept--those innocent
beings, doomed to an orphanage more sad than death even makes. Anne's
conscious spirit quailed before the deep reproach of Emily's silent
glances. She stammered out an explanation of the bloody bandage that
was bound around the infant's, head, assured her there was no cause of
alarm, and hurried down to the _friends_ who had passed the period of
her absence in covert sarcasm, and open animadversion on her conduct.

Emily sat down on the side of the bed, and leaned over the sleeping
infant. Though Mrs. Manly had assured her there was no cause of alarm,
she felt there was no reliance on her judgment; and the excessive
paleness and languor of its countenance, excited an anxiety its
peaceful slumbers could not entirely relieve. "It is all over,"
thought she, "a relapse in sin is always a thousand times more
dangerous than the first yielding. She is at this moment blazoning her
disgrace, and there will be no restraining influence left. Oh!
unfortunate Manly! was it for this you sacrificed home, friends, and
splendid prospects, and came a stranger to a strange land!" Absorbed
in the contemplation of Manly's unhappy destiny, she remained till the
company dispersed, and Mrs. Manly dragged her weary footsteps to her
chamber. Completely exhausted by her efforts to command her bewildered
faculties, she threw herself on the bed, and sunk into a lethargy; the
natural consequence of inebriation. The infant, disturbed by the
sudden motion, awakened, with a languid cry, expressive of feebleness
and pain. Emily raised it in her arms, endeavoured to soothe its
complaining; but it continued restless and wailing, till the blood
gushed afresh through the bandage. Greatly alarmed, she shook Mrs.
Manly's arm, and called upon her to awake. It was in vain; she could
not rouse her from her torpor. Instantly ringing the bell, she
summoned the nurse, who was revelling, with the other servants, over
the relics of the feast, and told her to send immediately for a
physician. Fortunately there was one in the neighbourhood, and he came
speedily. He shook his head mournfully when he examined the condition
of the child, and pronounced its case beyond the reach of human skill.
The injury produced by the fall had reached the brain. The very depth
of its slumbers was but a fatal symptom of approaching dissolution.
The tears of Emily fell fast and thick on the pallid face of the
innocent victim. She looked upon its mother--thought upon its father,
and pressed the child in agony to her bosom. The kind physician was
summoned to another chamber of sickness. He had done all he could to
mitigate, where he could not heal. Emily felt that this dispensation
was sent in mercy. She could not pray for the child's life, but she
prayed that it might die in the arms of its father; and it seemed that
her prayer was heard. It was a singular providence that brought him
that very night--a week sooner than he anticipated--urged on by a
restless presentiment of evil; a dread that all was not well.
Imagination, however, had not pictured the scene that awaited him. His
wife, clothed in her richest raiments, and glittering with jewels,
lying in the deep torpor of inebriation. Emily, seated by the side of
the bed, bathed in tears, holding in her lap the dying infant, her
dress stained with the blood with which the fair locks of the child
were matted. What a spectacle! He stood for a moment on the threshold
of the apartment, as if a bolt had transfixed him. Emily was not
roused from her grief by the sound of his footsteps, but she saw the
shadow that darkened the wall, and at once recognised his lineaments.
The startling cry she uttered brought him to her side, where, kneeling
down over his expiring infant, he gazed on its altering features and
quivering frame with a countenance so pale and stern, Emily's blood
ran cold. Silently and fixedly he knelt, while the deepening shades of
dissolution gathered over the beautiful waxen features and the dark
film grew over the eyes, so lately bright with that heavenly blue,
which is alone seen in the eyes of infancy. He inhaled its last, cold,
struggling breath; saw it stretched in the awful immobility of death;
then slowly rising, he turned towards the gaudy figure that lay as if
in mockery of the desolation it had created. Then Manly's imprisoned
spirit burst its bonds. He grasped his wife's arm, with a strength
that might have been felt, even were her limbs of steel, and calling
forth her name in a voice deep and thrilling as the trumpet's blast,
he commanded her to rise. With a faint foretaste of the feeling with
which the guilty soul shall meet the awakening summons of the
archangel, the wretched woman raised herself on her elbow, and gazed
around her with a wild and glassy stare. "Woman," cried he, still
retaining his desperate grasp, and pointing to the dead child,
extended on the lap of the weeping Emily, "woman! is this your work?
Is this the welcome you have prepared for my return? Oh! most
perjured wife and most abandoned mother! You have filled, to
overflowing, the vials of indignation; on your own head shall they be
poured, blasting and destroying. You have broken the last tie that
bound me--it withers like flax in the flame. Was it not enough to
bring down the gray hairs of your father to the grave? to steep your
own soul in perjury and shame, but that fair innocent must be a
sacrifice to your drunken revels? One other victim remains. Your
husband--who lives to curse the hour he ever yielded to a syren, who
lured him to the brink of hell!"

He paused suddenly--relaxed his iron hold, and fell back perfectly
insensible. It is an awful thing to see man fall down in his strength,
struck, too, by the lightning of passion. Anne sprang upon her feet.
The benumbing spell was broken. His last words had reached her naked
soul. She believed him dead, and that he had indeed died _her_ victim.
Every other thought and feeling was swallowed up in this belief; she
threw herself by his side, uttering the most piercing shrieks, and
rending her sable tresses, in the impotence of despair. Poor Emily! it
was for her a night of horror; but her fortitude and presence of mind
seemed to increase with the strength of the occasion. She turned her
cares from the dead to the living. She bathed with restorative waters
the pale brow of Manly; she chafed his cold hands, till their icy
chill began to melt in the warmth of returning animation. All the
while his wretched wife continued her useless and appalling ravings.

The morning dawned upon a scene of desolation. In one darkened room
lay the snowy corpse, dressed in the white garments of the grave; in
another, the almost unconscious Manly, in the first stages of a
burning fever; Anne, crouched in a dark corner, her face buried in her
hands; and Emily, pale and wan, but energetic and untiring, still the
ministering and healing spirit of this house of grief. Yes! darkness
and mourning was in that house; but the visitation of God had not come
upon it: Pestilence had not walked in the darkness, nor Destruction,
at the noon-day hour. Had Anne resisted the voice of the tempter, her
child might have still smiled in his cherub beauty; her husband might
have still presided at his board, and she, herself, at his side; if
not in the sunshine of love, in the light of increasing confidence.
Her frame was worn by the long, silent struggles of contending
passions, hopes, and fears. This last blow prostrated her in the
dust. Had _Anne resisted the voice of the tempter_, all might yet have
been well; but having once again steeped her lips in the pollution,
the very consciousness of her degradation plunged her deeper in sin.
She fled from the writhing of remorse to the oblivious draught. She
gave herself up, body and soul, irredeemably. She was hurrying on,
with fearful strides, to that brink from which so many immortal beings
have plunged into the fathomless gulf of perdition.

Manly rose from the couch of sickness an altered man: his proud spirit
was humbled--chastened--purified. Brought to the confines of the
unseen world, he was made to feel the vanity--the nothingness of
this--and while his soul seemed floating on the shoreless ocean of
eternity, the billows of human passion sunk before the immensity, the
awfulness of the scene. The holy resolutions, formed on what he
believed his death-bed, did not vanish with returning health. He saw
the bitter cup prepared for him to drain, and though he prayed that it
might be permitted to pass from him, he could say, in the resignation
of his heart, "Not my will, oh, Father! but _thine_ be done." He
looked upon his degraded wife rather with pity, than indignation. He
no longer reproached her, or used the language of denunciation. But
sometimes, in her lucid intervals, when she witnessed the subdued
expression of his once haughty countenance--his deep paleness--the
mildness of his deportment to all around him; the watchful guard he
held over his own spirit; and all this accompanied by an energy in
action--a devotedness in duty--such as she had never seen before--Anne
trembled, and felt that he had been near unto his Maker, while she was
holding closer and closer companionship with the powers of darkness.
The wall of separation she had been building up between them, was it
to become high as the heavens--deep as the regions of irremediable
woe?

Emily was no longer their guest. While Manly lingered between life and
death, she watched over him with all a sister's tenderness. Insensible
to fatigue--forgetful of sleep--and regardless of food, she was
sustained by the intensity of her anxiety; but as soon as his
renovated glance could answer her attentions with speechless
gratitude, and he became conscious of the cares that had done more
than the physician's skill in bringing him back to life, she gradually
yielded to others the place she had occupied as nurse--that place,
which she who should have claimed it as her right, was incapacitated
to fill. When Manly was restored to health, Emily felt that she could
no longer remain. There was no more fellowship with Anne; and the
sympathy that bound her to her husband she could not, with propriety,
indulge. Manly, himself, did not oppose her departure; he felt it was
best she should go. She took with her the little Anne, with the
grateful consent of her father. The opposition of the mother was not
allowed to triumph over what Manly knew was for the blessing of his
child. "Let her go," said he, mildly, but determinately; "she will not
feel the want of a mother's care."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a dark and tempestuous night. The winds of autumn swept against
the windows, with the mournful rustle of the withered leaves,
fluttering in the blast: the sky was moonless and starless. Everything
abroad presented an aspect of gloom and desolation. Even those who
were gathered in the halls of pleasure, felt saddened by the
melancholy sighing of the gust; and a cold, whispered mortality
breathed into the hearts of the thoughtless and gay. It was on this
night that Manly sat by the dying couch of Anne. Every one is familiar
with the rapid progress of disease, when it attacks the votary of
intemperance. The burning blood soon withers up the veins; the
fountain, itself, becomes dry. Fearfully rapid, in this instance, had
been the steps of the destroyer. Here she lay, her frame tortured with
the agonies of approaching dissolution, and her spirit strong and
clear from the mists that had so long and so fatally obscured it. She
saw herself in that mirror which the hand of truth holds up to the eye
of the dying. Memory, which acquires, at that awful moment, such
supernatural power, brought before her all the past--the _wasted
past_--the _irretrievable past_. Her innocent childhood--her bright
and glowing youth; her blasted womanhood, seemed embodied to her eyes.
Her father rose from his grave, and standing by her bedside, waving
his mournful locks, warned her of her broken oath. Her little infant,
with his fair hair dabbled with blood, came gliding in its shroud, and
accused her of being its murderer. Her husband! As her frenzied spirit
called up this last image, she turned her dim eye to him, who was
hanging over her couch with a countenance of such grief and
compassion, the dry agony of her despair softened into a gush of
remorseful tenderness: "Oh! no--no!" cried she, in difficult accents,
"you do not curse me; you live to pardon the wretch who has undone
herself and you. Oh! could I live over the past; could I carry back to
our bridal the experience of this awful hour, what long years of
happiness might be ours!"

The recollection of what she had been--of what she _might have
been_--contrasted with what she then was, and with what she still
_might be_, was too terrible. Her agonies became wordless. Manly knelt
by her side: he sought to soothe her departing spirit by assurances of
his own pardon; and to lead her, by penitence and prayer, to the feet
of Him, "in whose sight the heavens are not clean." He poured into her
soul the experience of his, when he had travelled to the boundaries of
the dark valley: his despair--his penitence, and his hopes. He spoke
of the mercy that is boundless--the grace that is infinite--till the
phantoms, accusing conscience called up, seemed to change their
maledictions into prayers for her behalf. Her ravings gradually died
away, and she sunk into a troubled sleep.

As Manly gazed upon her features, on which death was already fixing
its dim, mysterious impress,--those features whose original beauty was
so fearfully marred by the ravages of intemperance,--the waters of
time rolled back, and revealed that green, enchanted spot in life's
waste, where he was first gilded by her presence. Was that the form
whose graceful movements then fascinated his senses; or those the
eyes, whose kindling glances had flashed like a glory over his soul?
The love, then so idolatrous and impassioned--so long crushed and
buried--rose up from the ruins to hallow the vigils of that solemn
night.

The morning dawned, but the slumbers of Anne were never to be broken,
till the resurrection morn. In the bloom of life--the midst of
affluence--with talents created to exalt society, and graces to adorn
it; a heart full of warm and generous impulses; a husband as much the
object of her pride as of her affections; children, lovely in their
innocence, she fell a sacrifice to one brutalizing passion. Seldom,
indeed, is it that woman, in the higher walks of life, presents such a
melancholy example; but were there but _one_, and that one Anne
Weston, let her name be revealed, as a beacon, whose warning light
should be seen by the daughters of the land.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another year glided by. The approach of another autumn, found Manly
girded for enterprise. He had marked out a new path, and was about to
become a dweller of a young and powerful city, born on one of the
mighty rivers of the West. His child could there grow up, unwithered
by the associations of her mother's disgrace. Amidst the hopes and
anticipations gathering around a new home, in a new land, his own
spirit might shake off the memories that oppressed its energies. He
was still young. The future might offer something of brightness, to
indemnify for the darkness of the past.

He once more sought the native place of his unhappy wife; for his
child was there, under the cherishing care of Emily Spencer. He passed
that ball-room, in whose illuminated walls his destiny was sealed. The
chamber selected for the traveller's resting-place was the one where
the prophetic dream had haunted his pillow. His brow was saddened by
the gloom of remembrance, when he entered the dwelling-place of his
child; but when he saw the bright, beautiful little creature, who
sprang into his arms, with spontaneous rapture, and witnessed the
emotion that Emily strove vainly to conquer, he felt he was not alone
in the world: and the future triumphed over the past. He unfolded all
his views, and described the new scenes in which he was soon to become
an actor, with reviving eloquence.

"Are you going to carry me there too, father?" said the little girl,
whose earnest blue eyes were riveted on his face.

"Are you not willing to go with me, my child? or must I leave you
behind?"

"I should like to go, if you will take Emily, but I cannot leave her
behind," cried the affectionate child, clinging to that beloved
friend, who had devoted herself to her with all a mother's tenderness.

"We will not leave her," exclaimed Manly, a warm glow spreading over
his melancholy features, "if she will go with us, and bless our
western home."

Emily turned pale, but she did not speak--she could not, if her
existence had depended upon it. She was no sickly sentimentalist, but
she had ardent affections, though always under the government of
upright principles. Her mind was well balanced, and though passion
might enter, it was never suffered to gain the ascendancy. From her
earliest acquaintance with Manly, she had admired his talents, and
respected his character; but the idea of _loving_ the husband of her
friend, never entered her pure imagination. It was not till she saw
him borne down by domestic sorrow, on the bed of sickness, thrown by
the neglect of his wife on her tenderness and care, that she felt the
danger and depth of her sympathy. The moment she became aware of her
involuntary departure from integrity of feeling she fled, and in the
tranquillity of her own home, devoted to his child the love she
shuddered to think began to flow in an illegitimate channel. That
Manly ever cherished any sentiments towards her, warmer than those of
esteem and gratitude, she did not believe, but now he came before her,
freed by heaven from the shackles that bound him, and duty no longer
opposed its barrier to her affections, her heart told her she could
follow him to the ends of the earth, and deem its coldest, darkest
region, a Paradise, if warmed and illumed by his love! The simplicity
of childhood had unveiled the hearts of each to the other. It was not
with the romance of his earlier passion that Manly now wooed Emily
Spencer to be his wife. It was love, approved by reason, and
sanctified by religion. It was the Christian, seeking a fellow
labourer in the work of duty; the father, yearning for a mother to
watch over an orphan child--the man awakened to the loftiest, holiest
purposes of his being.

In a beautiful mansion, looking down on one of the most magnificent
landscapes unfolded in the rich valley of the West, Manly and Emily
now reside. All the happiness capable of being enjoyed around the
household shrine is theirs--and the only shade that ever dims their
brows, is caused by the remembrance of the highly gifted--but
ill-fated Anne.




THE BLIND GIRL'S STORY.


All is still and solitary--the lamp burns on the table, with wasting
splendour. The writing-desk is open before me, with the last letter
unfolded--the letter I have cherished so fondly, though every word
seems an arrow to my conscience. I cannot solace myself by the act,
yet I must give utterance to the feelings with which my heart is
bursting. On these unwritten sheets I will breathe my soul--I will
trace its early history, and, perchance, _his_ eye may see them when
mine are veiled in a darkness deeper than that which once sealed them.
Yet what shall I write? How shall I commence? What great events rise
up in the records of memory, over which imagination may throw its rich
empurpling dyes? Alas! mine is but a record of the heart--but of a
_blind_ girl's heart--and that Being who bound my eyes with a fillet
of darkness, till the hand of science lifted the thick film, and
flooded them with the glories of creation, alone knows the mysteries
of the spirit he has made. _His_ eye is upon me at this moment, and as
this awful conviction comes over me, a kind of deathlike calmness
settles on the restless sea of passion. Oh! when I was blind, what was
my conception of the All-seeing eye! It seemed to me as if it filled
the world with its effulgence. I felt as if I, in my blindness, were
placed in the hollow of that rock where Moses hid, when the glory of
the Lord passed by. Would that no daring hand had drawn me from that
protecting shade! The beams that enlighten me have withered up the
fountains of joy, and though surrounded by light, as with a garment,
my soul is wrapped in the gloom of midnight. I was a blind
child--blind from my birth--with one brother, older than myself, and a
widowed father--for we were motherless--motherless, sisterless--yet
blind. What a world of dependence is expressed in these few words!
But, though thus helpless and dependent, I was scarcely conscious of
my peculiar claim to sympathy and care.

My father was wealthy, and my childhood was crowned with every
indulgence that wealth could purchase, or parental tenderness devise.
My brother was devotedly attached to me, giving up all his leisure to
my amusement--for I was looked upon as hallowed by the misfortune
which excluded me from communion with the visible world--and my wishes
became laws, and my happiness the paramount object of the household.
Heaven, perhaps, as a kind of indemnification for depriving me of one
of the wonted blessings of life, moulded me in a form which pleased
the fond eyes of my relatives, and, as it was my father's pride to
array me in the most graceful and becoming attire, my sightless eyes
being constantly covered by a silken screen, I was a happy child. If
it had not been for the epithet, _poor_, so often attached to my name,
I should never have dreamed that mine was a forlorn destiny. "My
_poor_ little blind girl," my father would exclaim, as he took me in
his lap, after his return from his business abroad--"My _poor_ little
sister," was the constant appellation given me by my affectionate
brother, yet I was happy. When he led me in the garden, through the
odorous flowers, I felt a kind of aching rapture at the sweetness they
exhaled--their soft, velvet texture, was ecstasy to the touch, and the
wind-harps that played amid the branches of the trees were like the
lyres of angels to my ears. Then the songs of birds, with what
thrilling sensations would I listen to these harmonists of nature,
these winged minstrels of God's own choir, as they lifted their
strains of living harmony in the dim corridors of the woods! They
painted to me the beauty of the world, and I believed them--but I
could conceive of nothing so beautiful as sound. I associated the idea
of everything that was lovely with music. It was my passion, and also
my peculiar talent. Every facility which art has furnished to supply
the deficiencies of nature was given me, and my progress was
considered astonishing by those who are not aware of the power and
acuteness of touch bestowed upon the sightless. I love to linger on
the days of my childhood, when sunshine flowed in upon my heart in one
unclouded stream. The serpent slumbered in the bottom of the
fountain--had no one gone down into its depths, its venom might have
slumbered yet.

My first cause of sorrow was parting with my brother--"my guide, my
companion, my familiar friend." He was sent to a distant college, and
I felt for a while as if I were alone in the world, for my father was
in public life, and it was only at evening he had leisure to indulge
in the tenderness of domestic feeling. He had never given up the hope
that I might recover my sight. When I was very small there was an
operation performed upon my eyes, but it was by an unskilful oculist,
and unsuccessful. After this I had an unspeakable dread of any future
attempt,--the slightest allusion to the subject threw me into such
nervous agitation, my father at last forbore to mention it. "Let me
live and die under this shade," I would say, "like the flower that
blooms in the cleft of the rock. The sunshine and the dew are not for
me." Time glided away. In one year more Henry would complete his
collegiate course. I was in the morning of womanhood, but my helpless
condition preserved to me all the privileges and indulgences of the
child. It was at this era--why did I here dash aside my pen, and press
my hands upon my temples to still the throbbings of a thousand pulses,
starting simultaneously into motion? Why cannot we always be children?
Why was I not suffered to remain blind?--A young physician came into
the neighbourhood, who had already acquired some fame as an oculist.
He visited in our family--he became almost identified with our
household. Philanthropy guided him in his choice of a profession. He
knew himself gifted with extraordinary talents, and that he had it in
his power to mitigate the woes of mankind. But though the votary of
duty, he was a worshipper at the shrine of intellect and taste. He
loved poetry, and, next to music, it was my passion. He read to me the
melodious strains of the sons of song, in a voice more eloquent, in
its low depth of sweetness, than the minstrels whose harmony he
breathed. When I touched the keys of the piano, his voice was raised,
in unison with mine. If I wandered in the garden, his hand was ever
ready to guide, and his arm to sustain me. He brought me the
wild-flower of the field, and the exotic of the green-house, and, as
he described their hues and outlines, I scarcely regretted the want of
vision. Here, in this book, I have pressed each faded gift. I remember
the very words he uttered when he gave me this cluster.--"See," said
he, "nay, _feel_ this upright stem, so lofty, till bending from the
weight of the flower it bears. It is a lily--I plucked it from the
margin of a stream, in which it seemed gazing on its white, waxen
leaves. Touch gently the briars of this wild rose. Thus heaven guards
the innocence and beauty that gladdens the eyes of the wayfaring man.
Cecilia, would you not like to look upon these flowers?" "Yes, but far
rather on the faces of those I love--my father's--my brother's. Man is
made in the image of his Maker, and his face must be divine." "Oh!"
added I, in the secrecy of my own soul, "how divine must be the
features of that friend, who has unfolded to me such unspeakable
treasures of genius and feeling, whose companionship seems a foretaste
of the felicities of heaven." It was then, for the first time, he
dared to suggest to me a hope that my blindness was not incurable. He
told me he had been devoting all his leisure to this one subject, and
that he was sure he had mastered every difficulty; that though mine
was a peculiar case, and had once baffled the efforts of the optician,
he dared to assure himself of complete success. "And if I fail," said
he, "if through my means no light should visit your darkened orbs,
then," continued he, with an expression of feeling that seemed wholly
irrepressible, "suffer me to be a light to your eyes and a lamp to
your feet. But if it should be my lot to bestow upon you the most
glorious of the gifts of God, to meet from you one glance of gratitude
and love, were a recompense I would purchase with life itself." Did I
dream? or were these words breathed to me?--me, the helpless, blind
girl! to receive the unmeasured devotion of one of the most gifted and
interesting of created beings. I had thought that he pitied me, that
he felt for me the kindness of a brother, that he found in me some
congenial tastes--but that he loved me so entirely, it was a
confession as unlooked for as overpowering. My heart ached, from the
oppression of its joy. Let not the cold-hearted and vain smile, when I
repeat the broken accents of gratitude, trust, and love, that fell
from my lips. My helplessness sanctified the offer, and I received his
pledge of faith as a holy thing, to be kept holy through time and
eternity.

       *       *       *       *       *

Never shall I forget that moment, when the first ray of light
penetrated the long midnight that had shrouded my vision. It was in a
darkened apartment. My father, one female friend, and Clinton, the
beloved physician--these were around me. Faint, dim, and uncertain, as
the first gray of the dawn, was that ray, but it was the herald of
coming light, and hailed as a day-spring from on high. A bandage was
immediately drawn over my brow, but during the weeks in which I was
condemned to remain in darkness, the memory of that dim radiance was
ever glimmering round me. There was a figure kneeling, with clasped
hands and upraised head, pale and venerable--I knew it was my
father's--for the same figure folded me to his heart the next moment,
and wept like an infant. There was one with soft flowing outline, and
loose robes, by my side,--and bending over me, with eyes gazing down
into the mysteries of my being, shadowy but glorious, was he, who
received the first glance of the being he had awakened to a new
creation. Slowly, gradually was I allowed to emerge from my eclipse,
but when I was at last led from my darkened chamber, when I looked
abroad on the face of nature, clothed as she was in the magnificent
garniture of summer, when I saw the heavens unrolled in their majesty,
the sun travelling in the greatness of his strength, the flowers
glowing in the beams that enamelled them, I closed my eyes, almost
fainting from the excessive glory. I will not attempt to describe my
sensations when I first distinctly saw the lineaments of my lover.
Creation contained nothing so lovely to my sight. To see the soul, the
thinking, feeling, immortal soul, flashing with enthusiasm, or
darkening with tenderness, looking forth from his eyes, and feel my
own mingling with his! No one but those who have once been blind, and
now see, can imagine the intensity of my emotions. Next to my Creator,
I felt my homage was due to him, and surely it is not impious to apply
to him the sublime language of Scripture--"He said, let there be
light, and there was light."

Our mansion was transformed. My father gathered all his friends around
him to participate in his joy. My brother was summoned home. There
seemed one continual jubilee. I turned coldly, however, from all these
festivities, occupied almost exclusively with one feeling. I could not
feign an interest in others I did not feel. I began even at this early
period to experience the first symptoms of that passion, which has
since consumed me. Clinton, though still, as ever, the kind, devoted,
and watchful guardian, hovering round my steps, as if to shield me
from every danger, Clinton, I saw, shared in the pleasures of
sociality, and returned the smiles that kindled wherever he moved. He
was a universal favourite in society, and knew how to adapt himself to
others, not from a vague desire of popularity, but from a benevolence,
a sunny glow of feeling, shedding light and warmth all around. Even
then there were moments when I regretted my blindness, and wished I
had never seen those smiles and glances, which I would fain rivet for
ever on myself. Henry, my brother, once whispered to me, as I was
turning, in a languid manner, the leaves of a music book, not caring
to play because Clinton was not bending over my chair, "My dear
Cecilia, do not let Clinton see too glaringly his power over you.
There is scarcely a man in the world who can be trusted with unlimited
power. We are ungrateful creatures, my sweet sister, and you do not
know us half as well as we know each other. You ought to love Clinton,
for he merits it, but be mistress of yourself. Do not love him too
well for _his_ peace and your _own_." Alas! poor Henry--how little
have I heeded your brotherly admonitions? But when did passion ever
listen to the counsels of reason--when will it? When the cygnet's down
proves a barrier to the tempest's breath. We were married. I became
the inmate of a home, fashioned after the model of my own taste.
Everything was arranged with a view to my happiness. The curtains and
decorations of the house were all of the softest green, for the repose
of my still feeble eyes. Oh! thou benefactor of my life--friend,
lover, husband, would that I could go back to the hour when we
plighted our wedded vows, and live over the past, convinced, though
too late, how deeply I have wronged thee--confiding implicitly in thy
love and truth, we might live together the life of angels! And we were
happy for a while. We withdrew as much as possible from the gay world.
He saw that I loved retirement, and he consulted my feelings as far as
was consistent with the duties of his profession. I might have been
convinced by this of the injustice of my suspicions. I might have
known that he loved me better than all the world beside. During the
day he was but seldom with me, as his practice was extensive, and
often called him to a distance from home, but the evening was mine,
and it seemed my peculiar province, for I shrunk from the full blaze
of sunlight. The brightness was too intense, but when the moon was
gliding over the firmament, in her sweet, approachable loveliness, and
the soft glitter of the stars was around, I could lift my undazzled
eyes, and marvel at the wonderful works of God. Clinton was a devout
astronomer--he taught me the name of every planet that burned--of
every star known to science. He was rich in the wisdom of ancient
days, and his lips distilled instruction as naturally and constantly
as the girl in the fairy tale dropped the gems of the Orient. I have
made mention of a female friend--she was the daughter of a deceased
friend of my father, and, as such, came under his especial
guardianship. Since my marriage she had remained with him, to cheer
his loneliness, but her health becoming very delicate, he sent her to
be my guest, that she might receive medical aid from my husband. She
was not a decided invalid, but her mother had died of a consumption,
and it was feared she had a hereditary tendency to that disease. Alice
was a pale, delicate-looking girl, with sometimes a hectic flush on
her cheek, a frail, drooping form, and extremely pensive cast of
countenance. The dread of this constitutional malady hung over her
like a death-cloud, and aggravated symptoms slight in themselves.
Though there was nothing very attractive in the appearance of this
poor girl, she was calculated to excite pity and sympathy, and surely
she had every claim to mine. I did pity her, and sought, by every
attention and kindness, to enliven her despondency, and rouse her to
hope and vivacity. But I soon found that my father had encroached
sadly on my domestic happiness by giving this charge to my husband.
Air, exercise, and gentle recreation, were the remedies prescribed by
the physician, and it was his duty to promote these by every means in
his power. She often accompanied him on horseback in his rides, a
pleasure from which I was completely debarred, for, in my blindness, I
was incapacitated, and the timidity which originated from my situation
remained after the cause was removed. It was some time before I was
willing to acknowledge to myself the pain which this arrangement gave
me. I felt as if my dearest privileges were invaded. I had been so
accustomed, from infancy, to be the sole object of every attention,
these daily offices bestowed upon another, though dictated by kindness
and humanity, were intolerable to me. Had I seen the congregated world
around her, offering every homage, it would not have given me one
envious pang--but Clinton, my husband, he was more precious to me than
ten thousand worlds. She leaned too exclusively on his guardian care.
I tried to subdue my feelings--I tried to assume an appearance of
indifference. My manners gradually became cold and constrained, and
instead of greeting my husband with the joyous smile of welcome, on
his return, I would avert from his the eyes which had received from
him their living rays. Frank and unsuspicious himself, he did not seem
to divine the cause of my altered demeanour. When he asked me why I
was so silent, or so sad, I pleaded indisposition, lassitude--anything
but the truth. I blamed him for his want of penetration, for I felt as
if my soul were bare, and that the eye of affection could read the
tidings revealed by my changing cheek and troubled brow. In justice to
myself, let me say, that Alice, by her manner, justified my emotions.

Enlightened by the sentiment in my own bosom, I could not but mark
that the hectic flush always became brighter when Clinton approached,
that her glance, kindling as it moved, followed his steps with a kind
of idolatry. Then she hung upon his words with an attention so
flattering. Was she reading, reclining on the sofa, apparently languid
and uninterested, the moment he spoke she would close her book, or
lean forward, as if fearful of losing the faintest sound of that
voice, which was the music of my life. I could have borne this for a
day, a week, a month--but to be doomed to endure it for an indefinite
term, perhaps for life, it was unendurable. A hundred times I was on
the point of going to my father, and, telling him the secret of my
unhappiness, entreat him to recall my too encroaching guest, but shame
and pride restrained me. Chilled and wounded by my coldness, my
husband gradually learned to copy it, and no longer sought the smiles
and caresses my foolish, too exciting heart, deemed he no longer
valued. Oh! blissful days of early confidence and love! were ye for
ever flown? Was no beam of tenderness permitted to penetrate the cold
frost-work of ceremony deepening between us? It is in vain to cherish
love with the memory of what has been. It must be fed with daily
living offerings, or the vestal fire will wax dim and perish--then
fearful is the penalty that ensues. The doom denounced upon the
virgins of the temple, when they suffered the holy flame to become
extinct, was less terrible. Alice, when the mildness of the weather
allowed, almost made her home in the garden. She must have felt that I
shrunk from her society, and I knew she could not love the wife of
Clinton. She carried her books and pencil there--she watched the
opening blossoms, and gathered the sweetest, to make her offering at
the shrine she loved. My husband was evidently pleased with these
attentions, flowing, as he thought, from a gentle and grateful heart,
and his glance and voice grew softer when he turned to address the
invalid.

Once during the absence of Alice I went into her chamber for a book I
had lent her, which contained a passage I wished to recall. I took up
several others, which lay upon the table. There was one which belonged
to my husband, and in it was a piece of folded paper, embalmed with
flowers, like some holy relic. It was not sealed--it was open--it was
a medical prescription, written by Clinton, thus tenderly,
romantically preserved. On another half-torn sheet were some broken
lines, breathing passion and despair. They were in the handwriting of
Alice, and apparently original, without address or signature, but it
was easy for my excited imagination to supply them. Poor victim of
passion--by the side of this record of all my fears was the composing
draught, prepared to check the consumptive cough--the elixir to
sustain the failing principles of vitality. How is it that we dare to
kindle an unhallowed flame, even on the ashes of decaying mortality? I
left the chamber, and retired to my own. I knew not in what manner to
act. I endeavoured to reflect on what I ought to do. Alice and myself
could not live long under the same roof, yet how could I bid her
depart, or betray her to my husband? I could not believe such feelings
could be excited in her without sufficient encouragement. I laid
myself down on the bed, and wished I might never rise again. I closed
my eyes, and prayed that the dark fillet of night might rest on them
again and forevermore. My cheeks burned as with consuming fire, but it
was in my heart. When Clinton returned, not finding me in the
drawing-room, he sought me in my own chamber. He seemed really alarmed
at my situation. He forgot all his former constraint, and hung over me
with a tenderness and anxiety that might have proved to me how dear I
was. He sat by me, holding my burning hand, and uttering every
endearing expression affection could suggest. Melted by his caresses,
I yearned to unbosom to him my whole heart--my pride, my jealousy was
subdued. I endeavoured to speak, but the words died on my tongue.
Confused images flitted across my brain--then came a dreary blank. For
weeks I lay on that bed of sickness, unconscious of everything around
me. My recovery was for a long time doubtful--but when I at last
opened my languid eyes, they rested on the face of my husband, who had
kept his unwearied vigils by my pillow, and still he held my feeble
hand in his, as if he had never unloosed his clasp. He looked pale and
wan, but a ray of divine joy flashed from his eye as he met my glance
of recognition.

Humbled and chastened by this visitation from heaven, renovated by the
warm and gracious influences exerted for my restoration, animated by
new-born hope, I rose from my sick-bed. The vulture had unloosened its
fangs, and the dove once more returned to its nest. I could even pity
the misguided girl who had caused me so much unhappiness. I treated
her with a kindness, of late very unwonted--but she evidently shunned
my companionship, and in proportion as my spirits rose from the weight
that had crushed them to the dust, hers became depressed and fitful.
Let me hurry on--I linger too long on feelings. Few events have marked
my brief history, yet some have left traces that all the waves of time
can never wash out.

It was Sunday--it was the first time I had attended church since my
illness. My husband accompanied me, while Alice, as usual, remained at
home. The preacher was eloquent--the music sweet and solemn--the
aspirations of faith warm and kindling. I had never before felt such a
glow of gratitude and trust; and while my mind was in this state of
devout abstraction, Clinton whispered to me that he was obliged to
withdraw a short time, to visit a patient who was dangerously
sick--"but I will return," said he, "to accompany you home." My
thoughts were brought back to earth by this interruption, and wandered
from the evangelical eloquence of the pulpit. The services were
unusually long, and my head began to ache from the effort of
listening. I experienced the lingering effects of sickness, and
feeling that dimness of sight come over me, which was a never-failing
symptom of a malady of the brain, I left the church, and returned
home, without waiting for the coming of my husband. When I crossed the
threshold, my spirit was free from a shadow of suspicion. I had been
in an exalted mood--I felt as if I had been sitting under the
outspread wings of the cherubim, and had brought away with me some
faint reflection of the celestial glory. I was conscious of being in a
high state of nervous excitement. The reaction produced by the
unexpected scene that presented itself, was, in consequence, more
terrible. There, on a sofa, half supported in the arms of my husband,
whose hand she was grasping with a kind of convulsive energy, her hair
unbound and wet, and exhaling the odorous essence with which it had
been just bathed, sat Alice, and the words that passed her lips, as I
entered, at first unperceived by them, were these--"Never, never--she
hates me--she must ever hate me." I stood transfixed--the expression
of my countenance must have been awful, for they looked as if
confronted by an avenging spirit. Alice actually shrieked, and her
pale features writhed, as the scroll when the scorching blaze comes
near it. My resolution was instantaneous. I waited not for
explanations--the scene to my mind admitted none. The sudden
withdrawal of my husband from church, upon the pretence of an errand
of duty, the singular agitation of Alice--all that I saw and heard,
filled me with the most maddening emotions--all the ties of wedded
love seemed broken and withered, at once, like the withes that bound
the awakening giant. "Clinton," exclaimed I, "you have deceived
me--but it is for the last time." Before he could reply, or arrest my
motions, I was gone. The carriage was still at the door. "Drive me to
my father's, directly," was all I could utter, and it was done.

Swiftly the carriage rolled on--I thought I heard my name borne after
me on the wind, but I looked not behind. I felt strong in the
conviction of my wrongs. It would have been weakness to have wept. My
scorn of such duplicity lifted me above mere sorrow. It was in the
gloom of twilight when I reached my father's door. I rushed into the
drawing-room, and found myself in the arms of my brother. "Cecilia, my
sister! what brings you here?" He was alarmed at my sudden entrance,
and through the dusky shade he could discover the wild flashing of my
eyes, the disorder of my whole appearance. The presence of human
sympathy softened the sternness of my despair. Tears gushed violently
forth. I tried to explain to him my wretchedness and its cause, but
could only exclaim, "Clinton, Alice, cruel, deliberate deceivers!"
Henry bit his lip, and ground his teeth till their ivory was tinged
with blood, but he made no comments. He spoke then with his usual
calmness, and urged me to retire to my chamber, and compose myself
before my father's return. He almost carried me there in his arms,
soothing and comforting me. He called for an attendant, again
whispered the duty and necessity of self-control, then left me,
promising a speedy return. I watched for the footsteps of Henry, but
hour after hour passed away, and he returned not. I asked the servants
where he had gone? They knew not. I asked myself, and something told
me, in an awful voice--"Gone to avenge thee." The moment this idea
flashed into my mind, I felt as if I were a murderess. I would
convince myself of the truth. I knew my brother's chamber--thither I
ran, and drawing back the bed curtains, looked for the silver mounted
pistols that always hung over the bed's head. They were gone--and a
coat dashed hastily on the counterpane, a pocket-book fallen on the
carpet, all denoted a hurried departure on some fatal errand. The
agony I had previously suffered was light to what pierced me now. To
follow him was my only impulse. I rushed out of the house--it was a
late hour in the evening--there was no moon in the sky, and I felt the
dampness of the falling dew, as I flew, with uncovered head, like an
unblessed spirit, through the darkness. My brain began to be thronged
with wild images. It seemed to me, legions of dark forms were impeding
my steps. "Oh! let me pass," cried I, "it is my husband and brother I
have slain. Let me pass," continued I, shrieking, for an arm of flesh
and blood was thrown around me, and held me struggling. "Gracious
heavens, it is the voice of my Cecilia!" It was my father that spoke.
I remember that I recognised him, and that was all. My cries were
changed to cries of madness. I was borne back raving. The malady that
had so recently brought me to the door of the grave, had renewed its
attack with increased malignancy. My brain had been too much weakened
to bear the tension of its agony. For long months I was confined
within my chamber walls, sometimes tossing in delirious anguish, at
others lying in marble unconsciousness, an image of the death they
prayed might soon release me from my sufferings. They prayed that I
might die, rather than be doomed to a living death. But I lived--lived
to know the ruin I had wrought.

My father was a man of majestic person, and time had scarcely touched
his raven locks. His hair was now profusely silvered, and there were
lines on his brow which age never furrowed. It was long before I
learned all that had transpired during this fearful chasm in my
existence, but gradually the truth was revealed. All that I was at
first told, was, that my husband and brother lived--then, when it was
supposed I had sufficient strength to bear the agitation, this letter
from my husband was given me.

"Cecilia, how shall I address you? I will not reproach you, for you
have had too bitter a lesson. I would fain have seen you before my
departure, but you decline the interview, and perhaps it is well.
Should I live to return--Oh! Cecilia, what wretchedness have you
brought upon us all! If your alienated heart does not turn from any
memento of me, you will read these lines, and I know you will believe
them. I have been, as it were, to the very threshold of the
presence-chamber of the King of Kings, and am just emerging from the
shadows of approaching death. This is the first effort of my feeble
hand. Most rash and misjudging woman, what have you done? How madly
have I doted on you, how blindly have I worshipped! yet all the
devotion of my life, my truth, love and integrity, weighed nothing in
the balance with one moment's mystery. I leave my vindication to
Alice. She will not deceive you. She will tell you that never did the
heart of man throb with a more undivided passion for another than mine
for you. She will tell you--but what avails it? You have cast me from
you, unvalued and untrusted. Your poor, unhappy brother! his avenging
hand sought my life--the life of him who he believed had betrayed his
sister's happiness, the wretch almost unworthy of a brave man's
resentment. In wresting the weapon from his frenzied grasp, I received
an almost deadly wound. His wrath was slaked in my blood. He believes
me innocent. He has been to me more than a brother. He will accompany
me to another clime, whither I am going, to try the effect of more
genial air on my shattered frame. Would to God we could have met
before we parted--perhaps for ever. Your father says you have been
ill, that you fear the effect of the meeting on both. You have been
ill--my ever adored, still tenderly beloved Cecilia, I write not to
reproach you. Bitter is the penalty paid for one moment of passion.
Had I ever swerved in my affection for you, even in thought, I should
deserve all I have suffered. I recall your sadness, your coldness, and
averted looks. I now know the cause, and mourn over it. Why did you
not confide in me? We might yet have been happy--but the will of God
be done. The vessel waits that is to bear us to a transatlantic
clime--farewell. Should I return, bearing with me some portion of my
former vigour, should your confidence in my love be restored, then,
perchance, through the mercy of heaven, two chastened and humble
hearts may once more be united on earth. If I am never permitted to
revisit my native soil, if I die in a foreign land, know, that,
faithful to you to my latest hour, my last thought, prayer, and sigh,
will be yours."

       *       *       *       *       *

And he was gone--gone--sick, wounded, perhaps dying, he was gone to
another land, and the blood that was drained from him on my soul. My
father forbade him to see me--he was too feeble to bear the shock of
beholding me in the condition I then was. My real situation was
concealed from him. The only means of making the prohibition
effectual, was to word it as proceeding from myself. Thus, he believed
me cold and selfish to the last. My father talked to me of better
days, of the hope of my husband's speedy restoration, and of our
future reunion. I could only listen and weep. I dared not murmur. I
felt too deeply the justice of the judgment the Almighty had passed
against me. I had one ordeal yet to pass--an interview with Alice. She
also was under my father's roof, confined by increasing debility to
her own apartment. As soon as my strength allowed, I made it a
religious duty to visit the poor invalid. I was shocked to see the
ravages of her malady. Her eye of glassy brightness turned on me with
such a look of woe and remorse, it cut me to the heart. I took the
pale thin hand she extended towards me, and burst into tears. Yes! I
saw it but too clearly. Here was another victim. The steps of the
destroyer were fearfully accelerated. She had had a profuse hemorrhage
from the lungs, and her voice was so weak and husky, it was with
difficulty I could understand her. She drew me down near to her
pillow, and, placing my hand on her heart, said, in a careful
whisper--"Remorse, Cecilia, it is here. It is this which gives the
sting to death." She then drew from beneath her pillow a paper that
she had written for me, which she begged me to read when I was alone.
I did read it. It was the transcript of a warm, romantic heart, erring
and misguided, yet even in its aberrations discovering an innate love
for virtue and truth. Her whole soul was bared before me--all her
love, imprudence, and remorse. She described my husband as an angel of
light and purity, soaring high above the clouds of passion that
gathered darkly around herself. She spoke of that scene, followed by
such irremediable woe. "Even now," continued Alice, "wasting as I am
on the bed of death, with the shadows of earthly feeling dimly
floating round me, knowing that I shall soon turn to cold, impassive
clay, the memory of that hour presses with scorching weight on my
brain. I must have been mad. Surely I had not the control of my
reason. I had taken the previous night an unusual quantity of opium,
which, instead of composing me to sleep, had excited my nerves, and
strung them as with fire. Your husband came in only a short time
before your sudden entrance, evidently on some errand; and though he
kindly paused to speak to me, his looks expressed haste to depart.
Just as he was about to leave the room, I was attacked with one of
those spasms you have sometimes witnessed. He came to my relief--he
administered every restorative. I know not all I uttered, but when I
recovered I remember many wild expressions that escaped my lips. It
seemed to me that I was going to die, and while his arms thus kindly
supported me, I felt as if it would be joy to die. With this
conviction, was it so black a crime to breathe forth the love that had
so long pervaded my frail and lonely existence? Cecilia, he recoiled
from me with horror. He proclaimed his inviolable love and devotion
for you--his glance was stern and upbraiding. Then seeing me sinking
in despair, the kindness of his nature triumphed, and he sought to
calm my overwrought and troubled spirit. He expressed the affection of
a brother, the pity of a friend, the admonitions of a Christian.
"Above all," said he, "make a friend of Cecilia. She will always
cherish you with a sister's love." "Never!" I exclaimed, "she hates
me, she must ever hate me." The vision of an injured wife arrested my
unhallowed accents. You know the dreadful tragedy that followed. Never
since that hour have I had one moment's calm. Conscience, with her
thousand scorpions, lashes me--whether sleeping or waking there is no
rest. 'There is no peace,' saith my God, 'to the wicked,' Yet mine was
not deliberate guilt. Had I only wrecked my own happiness!--but the
wide desolation, the irretrievable ruin! I shudder, I weep, I lift my
feeble hands to that Power whose laws I have transgressed, and pray
for pardon. To you, whose home of love I have laid waste, dare I turn
my fading eyes, and hope for forgiveness? To him whom I have driven
from his native land, shorn of the brightness of his manhood--Oh!
sinful dust and ashes"----here the unhappy writer broke off--the blank
was stained with tears. Probably in that broken sentence the embers of
passion flashed out their last fires, through the "dust and ashes" of
withering mortality. Poor Alice! may'st thou be forgiven by a merciful
Creator as freely as thou art by me. Gentle be thy passage through the
valley of the shadow of death, to that country where no storms
desolate the heart, where passion and penitence are unknown. As for
me--why and for what do I live? For hope or despair? I pray for
tidings from the beloved exiles, yet dread to receive them. If the
night gale sweeps with hasty gust against the window, I tremble lest
they be exposed to the stormy deep. When I gaze on the moon and stars,
I ask myself if they are lighting the wanderers on their homeward way,
and sometimes gather hope from their heavenly brightness.

The manuscript of Cecilia here abruptly closes. It has fallen to the
lot of one who afterwards became the devoted friend of Clinton, to
relate the sequel of their melancholy history.

"It was in the spring of the year 18----, I was sitting on the deck,
watching the rapid motion of the boat, as it glided over the waves,
thinking earnestly of the place of my destination, when I first beheld
Cecilia, the wife of Clinton. I was a stranger on board, and gazed
around me with that indefinite expression, which marks the stranger to
the experienced eye. At length my glance was riveted by the appearance
of a lady, leaning on the arm of a gray-haired gentleman, slowly
promenading the deck. They passed and repassed me, while I continued
to lean over the railing, fearing, by a change of position, to disturb
the silent strangers. There was something in the figure of the lady
inexpressibly interesting. She wore a mourning-dress, and her eyes
were covered with a green shade. Notwithstanding her face was thus
partially obscured, the most exquisite beauty of outline and colouring
was visible I ever saw in any human countenance. She wore no bonnet or
veil, for the sun was verging towards the west, and its rays stole
soft and mellow over the golden waters. Fair and meek as the virgin
mother's was the brow that rose above the silken screen, defined with
beauteous distinctness by dark, divided hair, whose luxuriance was
confined by a golden band. At length they seated themselves very near
me, and began to converse in a low tone. There was a melancholy
sweetness in her accents, and I was sure they were speaking of some
sorrowful theme. We were now entering the ---- bay, and the boat
rocked and laboured as she plunged through the increased volume of the
waters. Now, just visible on the glowing horizon, was the topmast of a
vessel. On she came, with sails full spread, her canvas swelling in
the breeze, her majestic outline softened by the sunset hues. The
gentleman pointed out the object to his companion, who lifted the
shade from her brow, revealing as she did so, eyes of such melting
softness, I wondered I had thought her lovely before. She pressed the
arm of the gentleman, and gazed eagerly on the vessel which now bore
down 'majestically near.' She rose, she bent forward with earnest
gestures, her face kindled, and sparkled like the waters themselves.
The ship approached so near we could discern figures on the deck. The
boat had diverged from her path to give place to the nobler craft. She
was sailing with great rapidity, and the noise of the engine and the
dashing of the waves drowned the sound of the voices near me. I began
to feel a strange interest in the vessel on which the eyes of the
strangers were so earnestly riveted. Amid the figures that walked her
deck, I distinguished one, which was aloof from the others, of a more
lofty bearing--a cloak was gathered round him, and from this
circumstance, together with his extremely pallid complexion, I judged
him to be an invalid. From the rapid motion of both vessels, it was
but a glance I obtained, after we were near enough to trace these
lineaments. At this moment the lady sprang upon the bench beneath the
railing--she stretched forth her arms, with a startling cry. I saw her
for an instant, bending far over the edge of the boat. I rose and
rushed towards her to warn her of her danger, but a plunging sound in
the water, that closed darkly over her sinking form, froze my veins
with horror. 'Oh! my God!' exclaimed the father, 'save her! My
daughter! Oh, my daughter!' then fell back, almost paralyzed, on the
seat. To throw off my coat and plunge in after the ill-fated lady, in
whom I had become so painfully interested, was an instantaneous deed.
Alas! all my efforts were unavailing. The current was so powerful, I
found it in vain to struggle with its force. I relaxed not, however,
till my failing strength warned me that I was seeking a grave for
myself, without being able to rescue the victim for whom I had
willingly periled my life.

"I will not attempt to describe the grief of the half-distracted
father. I never left him till he reached his own home. What a scene of
agony awaited him there! The husband and brother, so long absent, were
returned, yearning to behold once more that beloved being, whose
involuntary sin had been so fearfully expiated. It was Clinton whom I
had seen on the vessel's deck. As he afterwards told me, the dazzle of
the rays on the water, in that direction, had prevented him from
distinguishing the features for ever engraven on his heart. The hoarse
sound of the waves swallowed her drowning shriek--onward they bore
him, and he saw not the fond arms that would have embraced him, even
over that watery chasm. I have witnessed many a scene of sorrow, but
never saw I one like this. From the peculiar circumstances that
brought us together, I became almost identified with this unhappy
family. Clinton was the most interesting man I ever saw. He was a
confirmed invalid, never having recovered from the effects of his
wound. I never saw a smile upon his face, nor could I ever smile in
his presence. He seldom spoke, and never but once did he mention the
name of Cecilia. It was one night when he was unusually ill, and I was
sitting alone with him in his chamber. He gave me the manuscript for
perusal which is here transcribed, an act of confidence he considered
due to me, who would have been her saviour. Through the watches of
that night he poured into my ear the hoarded agonies of his grief.
Never before did I know how deep human sorrow could be, or how holy
was that love which clings to the memory of the dead.

"Alice dwelt in 'the dark and narrow house.' She was spared the
knowledge of the fatal catastrophe, for she died before her victim.
Yes--_her victim_! Had she guarded against the first inroads of a
forbidden passion, there might have been 'beauty for ashes, the oil of
joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of
heaviness.' The angel form that lies low, wrapped in the winding-sheet
of the waves, might now be moving in the light of loveliness, love,
and joy. But who shall dare to arraign the doings of the Almighty?"




THE PARLOUR SERPENT.


Mrs. Wentworth and Miss Hart entered the breakfast-room together, the
latter speaking earnestly and in a low confidential tone to the other,
whose countenance was slightly discomposed.

"There is nothing that provokes me so much as to hear such remarks,"
said Miss Hart, "I have no patience to listen to them. Indeed, I think
they are made as much to wound my feelings as anything else, for they
all know the great affection I have for you."

"But you do not say what the remarks were, that gave you so much
pain," answered Mrs. Wentworth. "I would much prefer that you would
tell me plainly, than speak in such vague hints. You will not make me
angry, for I am entirely indifferent to the opinion of the world."

Now there was not a woman in the world more sensitively alive to
censure than Mrs. Wentworth, and in proportion to her sensitiveness,
was her anxiety to know the observations of others.

"If you had overheard Miss Bentley and Miss Wheeler talking of you
last night as I did," continued Miss Hart, "you would not have
believed your own ears. They said they thought it was ridiculous in
you to make such a nun of yourself, because Captain Wentworth was
absent, and to dress so plain and look so moping. One of them said,
you did not dare to visit or receive visiters while he was away, for
that you were as much afraid of him as if you were his slave, and that
he had made you promise not to stir out of the house, or to invite any
company while he was gone."

"Ridiculous!--nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, "there never was
such an absurd idea. Captain Wentworth never imposed such a restraint
upon me, though I know he would rather I would live retired, when he
cannot attend me himself in the gay world. It is not despotism, but
affection, that prompts the wish, and I am sure I feel no pleasure in
dressing, shining, and mingling in society, when he is exposed to
danger, and perhaps death, on the far deep sea."

"I know all that, my dear Mrs. Wentworth," replied Miss Hart,
insinuatingly, "and so I told them; but how little can a heartless and
censorious world judge of the feelings of the refined and the
sensitive! It seems to be a general impression that you fear your
husband more than you love him, and that this fear keeps you in a kind
of bondage to his will. If I were you, I would invite a large party
and make it as brilliant as possible, and be myself as gay as
possible, and then that will be giving the lie at once to their
innuendoes."

"It is so mortifying to have such reports in circulation," said Mrs.
Wentworth, her colour becoming more and more heightened and her voice
more tremulous. "I don't care what they say at all, and yet I am half
resolved to follow your advice, if it were only to vex them. I _will_
do it, and let them know that I am not afraid to be mistress of my own
house while its master is absent."

"That is exactly the right spirit," answered the delighted Miss Hart;
"I am glad you take it in that way. I was afraid your feelings would
be wounded, and that is the reason I was so unwilling to tell you."

But though Mrs. Wentworth boasted of her spirit and her indifference,
her feelings were deeply wounded, and she sat at the breakfast-table,
cutting her toast into the most minute pieces, without tasting any,
while Miss Hart was regaling herself with an unimpaired appetite, and
luxuriating in fancy on the delightful party, she had so skilfully
brought into promised existence, at least. She had no idea of spending
the time of her visit to Mrs. Wentworth, in dullness and seclusion,
sympathizing in the anxieties of a fond and timid wife, and listening
to a detail of domestic plans and enjoyments. She knew the weak side
of her character, and mingling the gall she extracted from others,
with the honey of her own flattery, and building her influence on
their ruined reputations, imagined it firm and secure on such a
crumbling foundation. It is unnecessary to dwell on the genealogy of
Miss Hart. She was well known as Miss Hart, and yet it would be very
difficult for anybody to tell precisely who Miss Hart was. She was a
general visiter; one of those young ladies who are always ready to
fill up any sudden vacuum made in a family--a kind of bird of
passage, who, having no abiding place of her own, went fluttering
about, generally resting where she could find the softest and most
comfortable nest. She was what was called _excellent company_, always
had something new and interesting to say about everybody; then she
knew so many secrets, and had the art of exciting a person's curiosity
so keenly, and making them dissatisfied with everybody but herself, it
would be impossible to follow all the windings, or discover all the
nooks and corners of her remarkable character. It was astonishing to
see the influence she acquired over the minds of those with whom she
associated, male as well as female. She was a showy, well-dressing,
attractive-looking girl, with a great deal of manner, a large,
piercing, dark eye, and an uncommonly sweet and persuasive tone of
voice. Mrs. Wentworth became acquainted with her a very short time
before Captain Wentworth's departure, and esteemed it a most
delightful privilege to have such a pleasing companion to charm away
the lingering hours of his absence. Acting upon the suggestions of her
friend, and following up the determination she had so much applauded,
she opened her doors to visiters, and appeared in society with a gay
dress and smiling countenance.

"What a change there is in Mrs. Wentworth!" observed Miss Bentley to
Miss Hart, as they met one morning at the house of a mutual friend. "I
never saw any one so transformed in my life. She looks and dresses
like the most complete flirt I ever saw; I suspect Captain Wentworth
has very good reason to watch her as he does."

Miss Hart shrugged her shoulders and smiled significantly, but did not
say anything.

"It must be a very pleasant alteration to you," continued Miss
Bentley, "the house seems to be frequented by gentlemen from morning
till night. I suppose you have the grace to appropriate their visits
to yourself."

"I have nothing to say about myself," answered Miss Hart, "and I do
not wish to speak of Mrs. Wentworth otherwise than kindly. You know
she is excessively kind to me, and it would be ungrateful in me to
condemn her conduct. To be sure I must have my own thoughts on the
subject. She is certainly very imprudent, and too fond of admiration.
But I would not have you repeat what I have said, for the world, for
being in the family it would have such weight. Be very careful what
you say, and above all, don't mention _my_ name."

Miss Bentley was very careful to repeat the remarks to every one she
saw, with as many additions of her own as she pleased, and the
unutterable language of the smile and the shrug was added too, to give
force to the comments. Mrs. Wentworth, in the mean while, unconscious
of the serpent she was nursing in her bosom, suffered herself to be
borne along on the current on which she had thoughtlessly embarked,
without the power to arrest her progress, or turn back into the quiet
channel she had quitted. The arrival of her brother, a gay and
handsome young man, gave additional animation to her household, and
company flowed in still more continuously. Henry More, the brother of
Mrs. Wentworth, was the favourite of every circle in which he moved.
With an uncommon flow of spirits, a ready and graceful wit, a fluent
and flattering tongue, he mingled in society unaffected by its
contrasts, unwounded by its asperities, and unruffled by its
contentions. He seemed to revel in the happy consciousness of being
able to impart pleasure to all, and was equally willing to receive it.
He was delighted to find a fine-looking, amiable girl, an inmate of
his sister's dwelling, and immediately addressing her in his
accustomed strain of sportive gallantry, found that she not only lent
a willing ear, but was well skilled in the same language. Though Miss
Hart was still young, she had outlived the romance and credulity of
youth. She had a precocious experience and wisdom in the ways of this
world. She had seen the affections of many a young man, with a
disposition open and ingenuous as Henry's, won through the medium of
their vanity, by women, too, who could not boast of attractions equal
to her own. She believed that juxtaposition could work miracles, and
as long as they were the inmates of the same house, participating in
the same pleasures, engaged in the same pursuits, and often perusing
the same book, she feared no rival. She rejoiced, too, in the
close-drawing socialities of the winter fireside, and delighted when a
friendly storm compelled them to find all their enjoyment within their
own little circle. Mrs. Wentworth, who had once been cheerful and
serene in clouds as well as sunshine, was now subject to fits of
despondency and silence. It was only when excited by company, that her
eyes were lighted up with animation, and her lips with smiles. She
dreaded the reproaches of her husband on his return, for acting so
contrary to his wishes, and when she heard the night-gust sweep by
her windows, and thought of him exposed to the warring elements,
perhaps even then clinging to the drifting wreck, or floating in a
watery grave, and recollected the scenes of levity and folly in which
she was now constantly acting a part, merely to avoid the censures of
the very people she detested and despised, she sighed and wept, and
wished she had followed her bosom counsellor, rather than the
suggestions of the friend in whom she still confided, and on whose
affection she relied with unwavering trust. It was strange, she could
hear Miss Hart ridicule others, and join in the laugh; she could sit
quietly and see her breathe the subtle venom of slander over the
fairest characters, till they blackened and became polluted under her
touch, and yet she felt herself as secure as if she were placed on the
summit of Mont Blanc, in a region of inaccessible purity and
splendour. So blinding is the influence of self-love, pampered by
flattery, strengthened by indulgence, and unrestrained by religious
principle.

One evening, and it chanced to be the evening of the Sabbath day,
Henry sat unusually silent, and Miss Hart thought that his eyes were
fixed upon her face with a very deep and peculiar expression--"No," he
suddenly exclaimed, "I never saw such a countenance in my life."

"What do you see so remarkable in it?" asked she, laughing, delighted
at what she supposed a spontaneous burst of admiration.

"I don't know; I can no more describe it, than one of those soft,
fleecy clouds that roll melting away from the face of the moon. But it
haunts me like a dream."

Miss Hart modestly cast down her eyes, then turned them towards the
moon, which at that moment gleamed with pallid lustre through the
window.

"Your imagination is so glowing," replied she, "that it invests, like
the moonlight, every object with its own mellow and beautiful tints."

"Jane," continued he, without noticing the compliment to his
imagination, and turning to his sister, who was reading intently,
"Jane, you must have noticed her--you were at the same church."

"Noticed her!" repeated Miss Hart to herself, in utter dismay; "who
can he mean?"

"Noticed who?" said Mrs. Wentworth, laying down her book, "I have not
heard a syllable you have been saying."

"Why, that young lady dressed in black, with such a sweet, modest,
celestial expression of face. She sat at the right hand of the pulpit,
with another lady in mourning, who was very tall and pale."

"What coloured hair and eyes had she?" asked his sister.

"I could no more tell the colour of her eyes, than I could paint yon
twinkling star, or her hair either. I only know that they shed a kind
of glory over her countenance, and mantled her brow with the softest
and most exquisite shades."

"I declare, Henry," cried Mrs. Wentworth, "you are the most
extravagant being I ever knew. I don't know whether you are in jest or
earnest."

"Oh! you may be sure he is in earnest," said Miss Hart. "I know whom
he means very well. It is Miss Carroll. Lois Carroll, the
grand-daughter of old Mr. Carroll, the former minister of ---- church.
The old lady with whom she sat is her aunt. They live somewhere in the
suburbs of the city--but never go anywhere except to church. They say
she is the most complete little methodist in the world."

"What do you mean by a methodist?" asked Henry abruptly--"an
enthusiast?"

"One who never goes to the theatre, never attends the ballroom, thinks
it a sin to laugh, and goes about among poor people to give them
doctor's stuff, and read the Bible."

"Well," answered Henry, "I see nothing very appalling in this
description. If ever I marry, I have no very great desire that my wife
should frequent the theatre or the ballroom. She might admire
artificial graces at the one and exhibit them in the other, but the
loveliest traits of her sex must fade and wither in the heated
atmosphere of both. And I am sure it is a divine office to go about
ministering to the wants of the poor and healing the sick. As to the
last item, I may not be a proper judge, but I do think a beautiful
woman reading the Bible to the afflicted and dying, must be the most
angelic object in the universe."

"Why, brother," said Mrs. Wentworth, "what a strange compound you are!
Such a rattle-brain as you, moralizing like a second Johnson!"

"I may be a wild rattle-brain, and sport like a thousand others in the
waves of fashion, but there is something here, Jane," answered he,
laying his hand half seriously, half sportively on his breast, "that
tells me that I was created for immortality; that, spendthrift of
time, I am still bound for eternity. I have often pictured the
future, in my musing hours, and imagined a woman's gentle hand was
guiding me in the path that leads to heaven."

Mrs. Wentworth looked at her brother in astonishment. There was
something in the solemnity of his expressions that alarmed her, coming
from one so gay and apparently thoughtless. Miss Hart was alarmed too,
but from a different cause. She thought it time to aim her shaft, and
she knew in what course to direct it.

"This Miss Carroll," said she, "whom you admire so much, has lately
lost her lover, to whom she was devotedly attached. He was her cousin,
and they had been brought up together from childhood, and betrothed
from that period. She nursed him during a long sickness, day and
night, and many thought she would follow him to the grave, her grief
was so great."

"Her lover!" exclaimed Henry, in a mock tragedy tone. "Then it is all
over with me--I never would accept the second place in any maiden's
heart, even if I could be enshrined there in heaven's crystal. Give me
the rose before the sunbeams have exhaled the dew of the morning, or
it wears no charms for me."

Miss Hart and Mrs. Wentworth laughed, rallied Henry upon his heroics,
and the beautiful stranger was mentioned no more. Miss Hart
congratulated herself upon the master stroke by which she had
dispelled his enchantment, if indeed it existed at all. She had often
heard Henry declare his resolution never to marry a woman who had
acknowledged a previous affection, and she seized upon a vague report
of Miss Carroll's being in mourning for a cousin who had recently
died, and to whom she thought she might possibly be betrothed, and
presented it as a positive truth. Finding that Henry's ideas of female
perfection were very different from what she had imagined, she was not
sorry when an opportunity offered of displaying those domestic
virtues, which he so much extolled. One night, when Mrs. Wentworth was
prepared to attend a private ball, she expressed her wish to remain at
home, declaring that she was weary of dissipation, and preferred
reading and meditation. She expected Henry would steal away from the
party, and join her in the course of the evening, but her real motive
was a violent toothache, which she concealed that she might have the
credit of a voluntary act. After Mrs. Wentworth's departure, she bound
a handkerchief round her aching jaw, and having found relief from some
powerful anodyne, she reclined back on the sofa and fell at last into
a deep sleep. The candles burned dim from their long, unsnuffed wicks,
and threw a very dubious light through the spacious apartment. She was
awakened by a tall, dark figure, bending over her, with outspread
arms, as if about to embrace her, and starting up, her first thought
was that it was Henry, who had stolen on her solitude, and was about
to declare the love she had no doubt he secretly cherished for her.
But the figure drew back, with a sudden recoil, when she rose, and
uttered her name in a tone of disappointment.

"Captain Wentworth," exclaimed she, "is it you?"

"I beg your pardon," said he, extending his hand cordially towards
her, "I thought for a moment it was my wife, my Jane, Mrs.
Wentworth--where is she? Is she well? Why do I not see her here?"

"Oh! Captain Wentworth, she had no expectation of your coming so soon.
She is perfectly well. She is gone to a quadrille party, and will
probably not be at home for several hours--I will send for her
directly."

"No, Miss Hart," said he, in a cold and altered voice, "no, I would
not shorten her evening's amusement. A quadrille party--I thought she
had no taste for such pleasures."

"She seems to enjoy them very much," replied Miss Hart, "and it is
very natural she should. She is young and handsome, and very much
admired, and in your absence she found her own home comparatively
dull."

The captain rose, and walked the room with a sailor's manly stride.
His brows were knit, his lips compressed, and his cheek flushed. She
saw the iron of jealousy was entering his soul, and she went on
mercilessly deepening the wound she had made.

"You will be delighted when you see Mrs. Wentworth--she looks so
blooming and lovely. You have reason to be quite proud of your
wife--she is the belle of every party and ball-room. I think it is
well that you have returned." This she added, with an arch, innocent
smile, though she knew every word she uttered penetrated like a
dagger, where he was most vulnerable. "How thoughtless I am!" she
exclaimed; "you must be weary and hungry--I will order your supper."

"No, no," said he, "I have no appetite--I will not trouble you. Don't
disturb yourself on my account--I will amuse myself with a book till
she returns."

He sat down and took up a book, but his eyes were fixed moodily on
the carpet, and his hands trembled as he unconsciously turned the
leaves. Miss Hart suffered occasional agony from her tooth, the more
as she had taken off the disfiguring bandage, but she would not
retire, anticipating with a kind of savage delight, the unpleasant
scene that would ensue on Mrs. Wentworth's return. The clock struck
twelve before the carriage stopped at the door. Mrs. Wentworth came
lightly into the room, unaccompanied by her brother, her cloak falling
from her shoulders, her head uncovered, most fashionably and elegantly
dressed. She did not see her husband when she first entered, and
throwing her cloak on a chair, exclaimed, "Oh! Miss Hart, I'm so sorry
you were not there, we had such a delightful party--the pleasantest of
the whole season." Her eye at this moment fell upon her husband, who
had risen upon her entrance, but stood back in the shade, without
making one step to meet her. With a scream of surprise, joy, and
perhaps terror too, she rushed towards him, and threw her arms around
him. He suffered her clinging arms to remain round his neck for a
moment while he remained as passive as the rock on the seabeat shore
when the white foam wreathes and curls over its surface, then drawing
back, he looked her steadfastly in the face, with a glance that made
her own to quail, and her lip and cheek blanch. She looked down upon
her jewelled neck and airy robes, and wished herself clothed in
sackcloth and ashes. She began to stammer forth some excuse for her
absence, something about his unexpected return, but the sentence died
on her lips. The very blood seemed to congeal in her heart, under the
influence of his freezing glance.

"Don't say anything, Jane," said he, sternly. "It is better as it
is--I had deluded myself with the idea, that in all my dangers and
hardships, to which I have exposed myself chiefly for your sake, I had
a fond and faithful wife, who pined at my absence and yearned for my
return. I was not aware of the new character you had assumed. No,"
continued he impetuously, entirely forgetful of the presence of Miss
Hart "I was not prepared for a welcome like this. I expected to have
met a wife--not a flirt, a belle, a vain, false-hearted, deceitful
woman." Thus saying, he suddenly left the room, closing the door with
a force that made every article of the furniture tremble. Mrs.
Wentworth, bursting into hysterical sobs, was about to rush after him,
but Miss Hart held her back--"Don't be a fool," said she; "he'll get
over it directly-you've done nothing at which he ought to be angry; I
had no idea he was such a tyrant."

"He was always kind to me before," sobbed Mrs. Wentworth. "He thinks
my heart is weaned from him. Now, I wish I had disregarded the sneer
of the world! It can never repay me for the loss of his love."

"My dear Mrs. Wentworth," said Miss Hart, putting her arms soothingly
round her, "I feel for you deeply, but I hope you will not reproach
yourself unnecessarily, or suffer your husband to suppose you condemn
your own conduct. If you do, he will tyrannize over you, through
life--what possible harm could there be in your going to a private
party with your own brother, when you did not look for his return? You
have taken no more liberty than every married lady in the city would
have done, and a husband who really loved his wife, would be pleased
and gratified that she should be an object of attention and admiration
to others. Come, dry up your tears, and exert the pride and spirit
every woman of delicacy and sense should exercise on such occasions."

Mrs. Wentworth listened, and the natural pride and waywardness of the
human heart strengthening the counsels of her treacherous companion,
her sorrow and contrition became merged in resentment. She resolved to
return coldness for coldness and scorn for scorn, to seek no
reconciliation, nor even to grant it, until he humbly sued for her
forgiveness. The husband and wife met at the breakfast-table without
speaking. Henry was unusually taciturn, and the whole burthen of
keeping up the conversation rested on Miss Hart, who endeavoured to
entertain and enliven the whole. Captain Wentworth, who had all the
frankness and politeness of a sailor, unbent his stern brow when he
addressed her, and it was in so kind a voice, that the tears started
into his wife's eyes at the sound. He had no words, no glance for her,
from whom he had been parted so long, and whom he had once loved so
tenderly. Henry, who had been absorbed in his own reflections, and who
had not been present at their first meeting, now noticed the silence
of his sister, and the gloom of her husband, and looking from one to
the other, first in astonishment, and then in mirth, he exclaimed,
"Well, I believe I shall remain a bachelor, if this is a specimen of a
matrimonial meeting. Jane looks as if she were doing penance for the
sins of her whole life, and Captain Wentworth as if he were about to
give a broadside's thunder. What has happened? Miss Hart resembles a
beam of sunshine between two clouds."

Had Henry been aware of the real state of things, he would never have
indulged his mirth at the expense of his sister's feelings. He had no
suspicion that the clouds to which he alluded, arose from estrangement
from each other, and when Mrs. Wentworth burst into tears and left the
table, and Captain Wentworth set back his chair so suddenly as to
upset the teaboard and produce a terrible crash among the china, the
smile forsook his lips, and, turning to the captain in rather an
authoritative manner, he demanded an explanation.

"Ask your sister," answered the captain, "and she may give it--as for
me, sir, my feelings are not to be made a subject of unfeeling
merriment. They have been already too keenly tortured, and should at
least be sacred from your jest. But one thing let me tell you, sir, if
you had had more regard to your sister's reputation, than to have
escorted her to scenes of folly and corruption during her husband's
absence, you might perhaps have spared me the misery I now endure."

"Do you threaten me, Captain Wentworth?" said Henry, advancing nearer
to him with a flushed brow and raised tone. Miss Hart here interposed,
and begged and entreated, and laid her hand on Henry's arm, and looked
softly and imploringly at Captain Wentworth, who snatched up his hat
and left the room, leaving Henry angry, distressed, and bewildered.
Miss Hart explained the whole as the most causeless and ridiculous
jealousy, which would soon pass away and was not worth noticing, and
urged him to treat the matter as unworthy of indignation. She feared
she had carried matters a little too far; she had no wish that they
should fight, and Henry, perhaps, fall a victim to excited passions.
She was anxious to allay the storm she had raised, and she succeeded
in preventing the outbreakings of wrath, but she could not restore the
happiness she had destroyed, the domestic peace she had disturbed, the
love and confidence she had so wantonly invaded. Nor did she desire
it. Incapable herself of feeling happiness from the evil passions that
reigned in her bosom, she looked upon the bliss of others as a
personal injury to herself; and where the flowers were fairest and the
hopes the brightest, she loved to trample and shed her blasting
influence. As the serpent goes trailing its dark length through the
long grasses and sweet blossoms that veil its path, silent and deadly,
she glided amid the sacred shades of domestic life, darting in ambush
her venomed sting, and winding her coil in the very bosoms that
warmed and caressed her. She now flitted about, describing what she
called the best and most ridiculous scene imaginable; and the names of
Captain Wentworth and his wife were bandied from lip to lip, one
speaking of _him_ as a tyrant, a bear, a domestic tiger--another of
_her_ as a heartless devotee of fashion, or a contemner of the laws of
God and man. Most truly has it been said in holy writ, that the tongue
of the slanderer is set on fire of hell, nor can the waters of the
multitudinous sea quench its baleful flames. One evening Henry was
returning at a late hour from the country, and passing a mansion in
the outskirts of the city, whose shaded walls and modest situation
called up ideas of domestic comfort and retirement; he thought it
might be the residence of Miss Carroll, for, notwithstanding Miss
Hart's damper, he had not forgotten her. He passed the house very
slowly, gazing at one illuminated window, over which a white muslin
curtain softly floated, and wishing he could catch another glimpse of
a countenance that haunted him, as he said, like a dream. All was
still, and he passed on, through a narrow alley that shortened his
way. At the end of the alley was a small, low dwelling, where a light
still glimmered, and the door being partially open, he heard groans
and wailing sounds, indicating distress within. He approached the
door, thinking he might render relief or assistance, and stood at the
threshold, gazing on the unexpected scene presented to his view. On a
low seat, not far from the door, sat a young lady, in a loose white
robe, thrown around her in evident haste and disorder, her hair partly
knotted up behind and partly falling in golden waves on her shoulders,
holding in her lap a child of about three years old, from whose
bandaged head the blood slowly oozed and dripped down on her snowy
dress--one hand was placed tenderly under the wounded head, the other
gently wiped away the stains from its bloody brow. A woman, whose
emaciated features and sunken eyes spoke the ravages of consumption,
sat leaning against the wall, gazing with a ghastly expression on the
little sufferer, whose pains she had no power to relieve, and a little
boy about ten years of age stood near her, weeping bitterly. Here was
a scene of poverty, and sickness, and distress that baffled
description, and in the midst appeared the outlines of that fair
figure, like a descended angel of mercy, sent down to console the
sorrows of humanity.

"This was a dreadful accident," said the young lady, "dreadful,"
raising her head as she spoke, and shading back her hair, revealing at
the same time the heavenly countenance which had once before beamed on
Henry's gaze. It was Lois Carroll, true to the character Miss Hart had
sarcastically given her, a ministering spirit of compassion and
benevolence.

"She will die," said the poor mother, "she'll never get over such a
blow as that. She fell with such force, and struck her head on such a
dangerous part too. Well, why should I wish her to live, when I must
leave her behind so soon?"

"The doctor said there was some hope," answered the fair Lois, in a
sweet, soothing voice, "and if it is God's will that she should
recover, you ought to bless Him for it, and trust Him who feedeth the
young ravens when they cry to Him for food. Lie down and compose
yourself to rest. I will remain here through the night, and nurse the
poor little patient. If she is kept very quiet, I think she will be
better in the morning."

"How kind, how good you are!" said the mother, wiping the tear from
her wasted cheek, "what should I do without you? But I never can think
of your sitting up the whole night for us."

"And why not for you?" asked Lois, earnestly. "Can I ever repay your
kindness to poor Charles, when he was sick, and you sat up, night
after night, and refused to leave him? And now, when you are sick and
helpless, would you deprive me of the opportunity of doing for you,
what you have done for one so dear to me?"

A pang shot through Henry's heart. This poor _Charles_ must have been
the lover for whom she mourned, and at the mention of his name, he
felt as if wakening from a dream. The love that bound the living to
the dead, was a bond his hand would never attempt to loosen, and
turning away with a sigh, he thought it would be sacrilege to linger
there longer. Still he looked back to catch one more glimpse of a face
where all the beatitudes dwelt. He had beheld the daughters of beauty,
with all the charms of nature aided by the fascinations of art and
fashion, but never had he witnessed anything so lovely as this young
girl, in her simplicity, purity, and gentleness, unconscious that any
eye was upon her, but the poor widow's and weeping orphan's. He had
seen a fair belle in ill-humour for an hour, because a slight accident
had soiled a new dress, or defaced a new ornament, but Lois sat in
her blood-spotted robes, regardless of the stains, intent only on the
object of her tenderness, and that a miserable child.

"Surely," thought he, as he pursued his way homeward, "there must be a
divine influence operating on the heart, when a character like this is
formed. Even were her affections free and not wedded to the dead, I
should no more dare to love such a being, so spiritual, so holy, so
little of the earth, earthy, than one of those pure spirits that live
in the realms of ether. _I!_ what has my life hitherto been? Nothing
but a tissue of recklessness, folly, and madness. I have been trying
to quench the heaven-born spark within me, but it still burns, and
will continue to burn, while the throne of the Everlasting endures."

Henry felt more, reflected more that night, than he had done for five
years before. He rose in the morning with a fixed resolve, to make
that night an era in his existence. During the day the poor widow's
heart was made to "sing for joy," for a supply was received from an
unknown hand, so bounteous and unlooked for, she welcomed it as a gift
from heaven. And so it was, for heaven inspired and also blessed the
act.

Miss Hart began to be uneasy at Henry's deportment, and she had no
reason to think she advanced in his good graces, and she had a vague
fear of that Lois Carroll, whom she trusted she had robbed of all
power to fascinate his imagination.

"By the way," said she to him, one day, as if struck by a sudden
thought, "have you seen that pretty Miss Carroll since the evening you
were speaking of her?"

"Yes," answered Henry, colouring very high, "I have met her several
times--why do you ask?"

"No matter," said she, petrified at this information; "I saw a lady
yesterday, who knows her intimately, and her conversation reminded me
of ours on the same subject."

"What does the lady say of her character?" asked Henry.

"What every one else does, who knows her--that she is the greatest
hypocrite that ever breathed. Perfectly selfish, self-righteous, and
uncharitable. She says, notwithstanding her sweet countenance, she has
a very bad temper, and that no one is willing to live in the same
house with her."

"You told me formerly," said Henry, "that she was _over_ charitable
and kind, constantly engaged in labours of love."

"Oh, yes!" answered she, with perfect self-possession; "there is no
end to the parade she makes about her _good works_, as she calls them,
but it is for ostentation, and to obtain the reputation of a saint,
that she does them."

"But," said Henry, very warmly, "supposing she exercised this same
heavenly charity when she believed no eye beheld her, but the poor
whom she relieved, and the sick whom she healed, and the God whom she
adores; would you call that ostentation?"

"Oh, my dear Mr. More," cried Miss Hart, with a musical laugh, "you do
not know half the arts of the sex. There is a young minister and young
physician too, in the neighbourhood, who know all her secret
movements, and hear her praises from morning till night--they say they
are both in love with her, but as her cousin hasn't been dead long,
she thinks it proper to be very demure--I must say frankly and
honestly, I have no faith in these female _Tartuffes_."

"Nor I neither," added Henry, with so peculiar a manner, that Miss
Hart started and looked inquisitively at him, with her dark, dilated
eyes. She feared she had hazarded too much, and immediately observed,

"Perhaps, in my abhorrence of duplicity and hypocrisy, I run into the
opposite extreme, and express my sentiments too openly. You think me
severe, but I can have no possible motive to depreciate Miss Carroll,
but as she herself stretches every one on the bed of Procrustes, I
feel at liberty to speak my opinion of her character, not mine only,
but that of the whole world."

Henry made some evasive reply, and turned the conversation to another
topic, leaving Miss Hart lost in a labyrinth of conjecture, as to the
impression she had made on his mind--where and when had he met Lois
Carroll, and why was he so reserved upon a theme, upon which he had
once been so eloquent?

She sat for half an hour after Henry left her, pondering on these
things, and looking at one figure in the carpet, as if her eyes grew
upon the spot, when her thoughts were turned into another channel by
the entrance of Captain Wentworth.

She believed that she stood very high in his favour, for he was
extremely polite to her, and showed her so much deference and
attention, that she had no doubt that if Mrs. Wentworth were out of
the way, he would be at no loss whom to choose as a successor. Her
prospects with Henry grew more and more dubious--she thought, upon the
whole, the captain the finer-looking and most agreeable man of the
two. There was no knowing but he might separate from his wife, and as
they seemed divorced in heart, she thought it would be much better
than to remain together so cold and distant to each other. There was
nothing she feared so much as a reconciliation; and as long as she
could prevent Mrs. Wentworth from manifesting any symptoms of
submission and sorrow, she was sure her husband's pride would be
unyielding. She had a scheme on hand at present, which would promote
her own gratification, and widen the breach between them.

There was a celebrated actor in the city, whom she was very desirous
of seeing, and of whom Captain Wentworth had a particular dislike; he
disliked the theatre and everything connected with it, and Miss Hart
had vainly endeavoured to persuade Mrs. Wentworth to go with her
brother, in open defiance of her husband. Henry manifested no
disposition himself, and never would understand the oblique hints she
gave him; she was determined to make a bold attack upon the captain
himself.

"Captain Wentworth," said she, carelessly looking over the morning
paper, "don't you mean to take Mrs. Wentworth to see this superb
actor? she is dying to see him, and yet does not like to ask you."

"She's at perfect liberty to go as often as she pleases," replied the
captain coldly--"I've no wish to control her inclinations."

"But she will not go, of course, unless you accompany her," replied
Miss Hart, "not even with her brother."

"Did she commission you to make this request?"

"Not precisely; but knowing her wishes, I could not forbear doing it,
even at the risk of your displeasure."

"If her heart is in such scenes, there can be no possible
gratification to confine her body within the precincts of home."

The captain walked several times up and down the room, as was his
custom when agitated, then abruptly asked Miss Hart if she wished to
go herself.

She wished it, she said, merely to avoid singularity, as everybody
else went; but had it not been for Mrs. Wentworth, she would never
have mentioned it.

The captain declared that if she had the slightest desire, it was a
command to him, and the tickets were accordingly purchased.

Late in the afternoon, Captain Wentworth sat in the dining-room,
reading. As the sun drew near the horizon, and the light grew fainter,
he sat down in a recess by a window, and the curtain falling down,
completely concealed him. In this position he remained while the
twilight darkened around him, and no longer able to read, he gave
himself up to those dark and gloomy reflections which had lately
filled his mind. He thought of the hours when, tossed upon the foaming
billows, he had turned in heart towards his home,

     "And she, the dim and melancholy star,
     Whose ray of beauty reached him from afar,"

rose upon the clouds of memory, with soft and gilding lustre. Now he
was safely anchored in the haven of his hopes and wishes, but his soul
was drifted by storms, wilder than any that swept the boisterous seas.
The very effort of preserving outward calmness, only made the tempest
fiercer within. This new instance of his wife's unconquerable levity
and heartlessness, filled him with despair. He believed her too much
demoralized by vanity and love of pleasure, ever to return to her duty
and allegiance as a wife.

While indulging these bitter feelings, Miss Hart and Mrs. Wentworth
entered the dining-room, unaware of his presence. Miss Hart, as usual,
was speaking in an earnest, confidential tone, as if she feared some
one was listening to her counsels.

"I beg, I entreat," said she, "that you would rally your spirits, and
not let the world see that you are cast down by his ill treatment. All
the fashionable people will be there tonight, and you must remember
that many eyes will be upon you; and pray don't wear that horrid
unbecoming dress, it makes a perfect fright of you, muffling you up to
the chin."

"It is no matter," replied Mrs. Wentworth, despondingly, "I don't care
how I look--the only eyes I ever really wished to charm, now turn from
me in disgust; I'm weary of acting the part of a hypocrite, of smiling
and chattering, and talking nonsense, when I feel as if my heart were
breaking. Oh! that I had not weakly yielded my better reason to that
fear of the world's censure, which has been the ruin of my happiness."

"I would never suffer my happiness to be affected one way or the
other," cried Miss Hart, "by a man who showed so little tenderness or
delicacy towards me. I wonder your affection is not chilled, nay
utterly destroyed by his harshness and despotism."

"Oh! you little know the strength or depth of a woman's love, if you
deem it so soon uprooted. My heart yearns to be admitted once more
into the foldings of his--a hundred times have I been tempted to throw
myself into his arms, implore his forgiveness, and entreat him to
commence a new life of confidence and love."

Miss Hart began to laugh at this romantic speech, but the laugh froze
on her lips when she saw the window-curtains suddenly part, and
Captain Wentworth rushing forward, clasp his astonished wife in his
arms, exclaiming "Jane, dear Jane, that life is begun!" He could not
utter another word.

When, after a few moments of intense emotion, he raised his head,
tears which were no stain upon his manhood, were glistening on his
dark cheek. Miss Hart looked on with feelings similar to those which
we may suppose animate the spirits of darkness, when they witness the
restoration of man to the forfeited favour of his Maker. There was
wormwood and bitterness in her heart, but her undaunted spirit still
saw a way of extrication from all her difficulties.

"Really, Captain Wentworth," exclaimed she, laughing violently, 

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