“Come, Friendship, twine a wreath for me,And weave it with the choicest flowers,To cheat the ling’ring steps of time,And gladden all life’s passing hours.”Thetime now arrived when Theodore was to enter upon his professional studies, and he became engaged in the office of an eminent attorney in New-York. He frequently absented himself, however, to accompany Albert to visit his father’s family, and since his acquaintance with Alida, there was a charm that attracted him thither. If he had admired the manly virtues of the brother, could he fail to adore the gentle graces of the sister? If all the sympathies of the most ardent friendship had been drawn forth toward the former, must not all the softer sensibilities of the heart be attracted by the milder and more refined excellencies of the other?Bonville had become the admirer of Alida; of course he and Theodore sometimes met. He had made no serious pretensions, but his particularity indicated something more than fashionable politeness. His manners, his independent situation, entitled him to respect. “It is not probable, therefore, that he will be objectionable to her friends, or toAlida herself,” said Theodore, with an involuntary sigh, and as his visits became more frequent, an increasing anxiety took place in his bosom. He wished her to remain single; the idea of losing her by marriage, gave him inexpressible regret. What substitute could supply to him the happy hours he had passed in her company? What charm could wing the lingering moments when she was gone?How different would be the scene when debarred from the unreserved friendship and conversation of Alida. And unreserved it could not be, were she not exclusively mistress of herself. But was there not something of a more refined texture than friendship in his predilection for the company of Alida? If so, why not avow it? His prospects, his family, and of course his pretensions might not be inferior to those of Bonville.But perhaps he was preferred. His opportunities: his prior acquaintance with the lady. Distance was no barrier to his addresses. His visits became more and more frequent. Was it not then highly probable that he had gained her affections?Thus reasoned Theodore, but the reasoning tended not to allay the tempest that was gathering in his bosom. He ordered his carriage, and was in a short time at the seat of Alida’s father. It was summer, and towards evening when he arrived.Alida was sitting by the window when he entered the hall. She arose and received him with a smile. I have just been thinking of an evening’s walk, said she, but had no one to attend me, and you have come just in time to perform that office. I will order tea immediately, while you rest from the fatigues of your journey.When tea was served up, a servant entered the room with a letter which he had found in the yard. Alida received it. “’Tis a letter,” said she, which I sent by Bonville to a lady in the village, and the careless man has lost it. Turning to Theodore, I forgot to tell you, that your friend Bonville has been with us a few days; he left us this morning. “My friend,” replied Theodore, hastily. “Is he not your friend?” inquired Alida. “I beg pardon, madam,” said he “my mind was absent.” “He requested us to present his respects to his friend Theodore,” said she. Theodore bowed and turned the conversation.They now walked out, and took a winding path which led through pleasant fields until they reached the water, and continued to pursue their way along the shore till they came to a beautiful and shady grove, where the thick foliage afforded a delightful retreat from the warm rays of the sun, and at the extremity of which was a sloping eminence, whichcommanded an extensive prospect of the surrounding country, part of Long-Island sound and the junction of the bay with the eastern river.A soft and silent shower had descended. A thousand transitory gems trembled upon the leafy foliage, glittering in the western ray. A bright rainbow sat upon a southern cloud; the light gales whispered among the branches, agitated the young harvest to billowy motion, and moved the tops of the deep green forest with majestic grandeur; while flocks, herds, and cottages were scattered over the resplendent landscape.“This is a most delightful scene,” said Alida. “It is, truly,” replied Theodore, “do you think that New-York can boast of so charming a prospect?” “Yes, one,” answered she, it is the walk on the battery, the water prospect is similar to this, but the landscape is not so variegated.See that ship, Theodore, coming down the sound, how she ploughs through the white foam, while the breezes flutter in the sails, varying with the vivid rays of the sun. “Yes,” said Theodore, it bounds with rapid motions over the waves, and ere the day has departed it will probably safely reach the wharf of the city.They walked leisurely around the hill, and then moved slowly towards home. The sun was sinkinggradually behind the western horizon. Twilight arose dimly in the east, and floated along the air. Darkness began to hover around the woodlands and valleys. The beauties of the landscape slowly receded; the breezes had gone down with the sun, and a perfect calm succeeded.“I shall never forget this charming promenade,” said Theodore, as he approached the threshold of the door, with a deep drawn sigh, “and the remembrance of the sweet pensive scenery of this delightful spot, will ever continue to haunt my memory.”CHAPTER VIII.To lull affection’s sigh,And dry the tear of sensibility;I’ll think of thee, in all my lonely hours,Though thou, perhaps, may ne’er remember me.Thenext day Theodore returned to his studies; but different from his former visits to Alida, instead of exhilarating his spirits, this had tended to depress them. He doubted whether she was not already engaged to Bonville. His hopes would persuade him this was not the case; but his fears declared otherwise.It was some time before he renewed his visits again. In the interim he received a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood of Alida’s father; an extract from which follows: “We are soon to have a wedding here; you are acquainted with the parties—Alida M. and Bonville. Such at least is our opinion from appearances, as this gentleman is now there more than half his time. You will undoubtedly be invited. We had expected that you would have put in your claims, from your particular attention to the lady. She is a fine girl, Theodore.” I shall never be a guest at Alida’s wedding, said Theodore, as he hastily paced the room; but I must againsee her before that event takes place, when I shall lose her forever.The ensuing day he repaired to her father’s. He inquired for Alida; she was gone with a party to the shores of the sound, attended by Bonville. At evening they returned. Bonville and Theodore addressed each other with much seeming cordiality. “You have deserted us, Theodore,” said Alida, “we concluded you had forgotten the road to this place.” “Was not that a hasty conclusion?” said Theodore. “I think not,” she answered, “if your long absence should be construed into neglect. But we will hear your excuse,” said she, smiling, “by and by, and perhaps pardon you.”He thanked her for her condescension.The next morning Bonville set out to go to New-York. Theodore observed that he took particular leave of Alida, telling her, in a low voice, that he should have the happiness of seeing her again, within two or three weeks certainly.After he was gone, as Alida and Theodore were sitting in the room alone, “Well,” said she, “am I to hear your excuses, Theodore?” “For what, madam?” “For neglecting your friends.” “I hope it is not so considered, madam.” “Seriously, then, why have you stayed away so long? Hasthis place no charms in the absence of my brother?”“Would my presence have added to your felicity, Alida?” “You never came an unwelcome visiter here.” “Perhaps I might be sometimes intrusive when Bonville is your guest.” “I have supposed you were on friendly terms,” said she. “We are, but there are seasons when friendship must yield its pretensions to a superior claim.”“Will you answer me one question, Alida, are you engaged to Bonville?” “He has asked me the same question concerning you,” replied she, (blushing.)“Do you,” continued Theodore, “prefer him to any other?” Alida, (blushing deeply.) “He has made the same inquiries respecting you.”“I beg, madam, you will deal with me candidly,” said Theodore, (taking her hand with anxiety.) “I am entitled to no claims, but you know what my heart would ask. I will bow to your decision. Bonville or Theodore must relinquish their pretensions. We cannot share the blessing.”The cheeks of Alida were suffused with a varying glow, her lips were pale, her voice tremulous, and her eyes cast down. “My father has informed me,” she said, “that it is improper to receive the particular addresses of more than one. I am consciousof my inadvertency, and that the reproof is just. One, therefore, must be dismissed.” But, (she blushed deeper,) and a considerable pause ensued.At length Theodore arose. “I will not press you further,” said he. “I know the delicacy of your feelings; I know your sincerity; I will not therefore insist on your performing the painful task of deciding against me. Your conduct in every point of view has been discreet. I would have no just claims, or if I had, your heart must sanction them, or they would be unhallowed, and unjustifiable. I shall ever pray for your felicity. Our affections are not under our direction; our happiness depends on our obedience to their mandates. Whatever, then, may be my sufferings, you are unblameable, and irreproachable.”He took his hat in extreme agitation, and prepared himself to take leave. Alida had recovered in some degree from her embarrassment, and collected her scattered spirits.“Your conduct, Theodore,” said she, “is generous and noble. Will you give yourself the trouble, and do me the honour to see me once more?” “I will,” said he, “at any time you shall appoint.”“Four weeks, then,” said she, “from this day,honour me with a visit, and you shall have my decision, and receive my final answer.” “I will be punctual to the day,” he replied, and bade her adieu.Theodore’s hours from this time winged heavily away. His wonted cheerfulness fled; he wooed the silent and solitary haunts of musing, moping melancholy. He loved to wander through lonely fields, when dewy twilight robed the evening mild, or to trace the forest glen, through which the moon darted her silvery intercepted rays. His agitated thoughts preyed upon his peace incessantly, and deeply disturbed his repose.He looked anxiously to the hour when Alida was to make the decision. He wished, yet dreaded the event. In that he foresaw, or thought he foresaw, a withering blight to all his hopes, and a final consummation to his foreboding fears. He had pressed Alida, perhaps too urgently, to a declaration. Had her predilection been in his favour, would she have hesitated to avow it? Her father had advised her to relinquish one, and to retain the other, nor had he attempted to influence or direct her choice. Was it not evident, then, from her confused hesitation and embarrassment, when solicited to discriminate upon the subject, that her ultimate decision would be in favour of Bonville?While Theodore’s mind was thus in agitation, he received a second letter from his friend in the neighbourhood of Alida. He read the following clause therein with emotions more easily to be conceived than expressed: “Alida’s wedding-day is appointed. I need not tell you that Bonville is to be the happy deity of the hymenial sacrifice. I had it from his own declaration. He did not name the positive day, but it is certainly to be soon. You will undoubtedly, however, have timely notice, and receive an invitation.”“We must pour out a liberal libation upon the mystic altar, Theodore, and twine the nuptial garland with wreaths of joy. Bonville should devote a rich offering to so valuable a prize. He has been here for a week, and departed for New-York yesterday, but is shortly to return.”And why have I ever doubted this event? said Theodore. What infatuation hath then led me on in the pursuit of fantastic and unreal bliss? I have had, it is true, no positive assurances that Alida would be disposed to favour my addresses. But why did she ever receive them? Why did she enchantingly smile upon me? Why fascinate the soft powers of my heart by that winning mildness, and the favourable display of those complicated and superior attractions which she must have knownwere irresistible? And now she would have me dance attendance to her decision in favour of another—insulting; let Bonville and herself make it, as they have formed this farcical decision. I absolutely will never attend it. Why did she not spurn me from her confidence, and plainly tell me that my attentions were untimely and improper?But, I have engaged to see her at an appointed time; my honour is therefore pledged for an interview; it must take place. I shall endeavour to support it with becoming dignity, and I will convince Alida and Bonville, that I am not the dupe of their caprices. But, let me consider—What has Alida done to deserve censure or reproach? Her brother was my early friend; she has treated me as a friend to that brother. She was unconscious of the affection which her charms and mental graces had kindled in my bosom. Her evident embarrassment, on receiving my declaration, witnessed her surprise and prior attachment. What could she do to save herself the pain of a direct denial? She has appointed a day when her refusal may come in a more delicate and formal manner—and I must therefore meet it.CHAPTER IX.The time draws near when I shall meet those eyes, that may perchance look cold on me—“but doubt is called the beacon of the wise, thetest that reachesto the bottom of the worst.”Onthe appointed day, Theodore proceeded to the house of Alida’s father, where he arrived late in the afternoon. Alida had retired to a little summer-house at the end of the garden. A servant conducted him thither.She was dressed in a flowing robe of white muslin, richly embroidered. Her hair was in dishevelled curls; she was contemplating a bouquet of flowers which she held in her hand. Theodore fancied she never appeared so lovely. She arose to receive him.We have been expecting you for some time, said she; we were anxious to inform you that we have just received a letter from my brother, in which he desires us to present you his most friendly respects, and complains of your not visiting him lately so frequently as usual. Theodore thanked her for the information; said that business had prevented him; he esteemed him as his most valuable friend, and would be more particular in future.“We have been thronged with company severaldays,” said Alida. The last of them took their departure yesterday. And I have only to regret, that I have nearly a week been prevented from taking my favourite walk to the grove, to which place you attended me when you were last here. “We will walk there, then, if you have no objections, as no doubt it is much improved since that time,” said Theodore. They resorted thither towards evening, and seated themselves in the arbour where they sat some time contemplating the scenery.It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow hue was spread over the natural beauties of creation. The withering forest began to shed its decaying foliage, which the light gales pursued along the russet fields;—the low sun extended its lengthening shadows;—curling smoke ascended from the neighbouring village and the surrounding cottages;—a thick fog crept along the valleys;—a grey mist hovered over the tops of the distant hills;—the glassy surface of the water glittering to the sun’s departing ray;—the solemn herds lowed in monotonous symphony;—the autumnal insects, in sympathetic wafting, plaintively predicted their approaching fate.The scene is changed since we last visited this place, said Alida; “the gay charms of summer arebeginning to decay, and must soon yield their splendours to the rude despoiling hand of winter.”“That will be the case,” said Theodore, “before I shall have the pleasure of your company here again.” “That may probably be, though it is nearly two months yet to winter,” said Alida.“Great changes may take place within that time,” said Theodore. Yes, changes must take place, she answered, but nothing, I hope to embitter present prospects.As it respects yourself, I trust not, madam. “And I sincerely hope not, as it respects you, Theodore.” That wish, said he, I believe is vain.Your feelings accord with the season, Theodore; you are melancholy. Shall we return?“I ask your pardon, madam; I know I am unsociable. You speak of returning; you know the occasion of my being here. You cannot have forgotten your own appointment and consequent engagement?” She made no answer.I know, Alida, that you are incapable of duplicity or evasion. I have promised and now repeat the declaration, that I will silently submit to your decision. This you have engaged to make, and this is the time you have appointed. The pain of present suspense can scarcely be surpassed by the pang of disappointment. On your part you havenothing to fear. I trust you have candidly determined, and will decide explicitly.“I am placed in an exceedingly delicate situation,” answered Alida, (sighing.) “I know you are, madam,” said Theodore, “but your own honour, your own peace, require that you should extricate yourself from the perplexing embarrassment.”“That I am convinced of,” replied she. “I know that I have been inadvertently indiscreet. I have admitted the addresses of Bonville and yourself, without calculating or expecting the consequences. You have both treated me honourably and with respect. You are both on equal grounds as to standing in life. With Bonville I became first acquainted. As it relates to him, some new arrangements have taken place since you came here.”Theodore interrupted her with emotion. “Of those arrangements I am acquainted, I received the intelligence from a friend in your neighbourhood. I am prepared for the event.”Alida remained silent. “I have mentioned before,” resumed Theodore, “that whatever may be your decision, no impropriety can attach to you. I might add, indeed, from various circumstances, and from the information I possess, I perhaps should not have given you further trouble on the occasion, had it not been from your own direction. And I amnow willing to retire without further explanation, without giving you the pain of an express decision, if you think the measure expedient. Your declaration can only be a matter of form, the consequence of which I know, and my proposition may save your feelings.”“No, Theodore,” replied she, “my reputation depends on my adherence to my first determination; justice to yourself and to Bonville also demand it. After what has passed, I should be considered as acting capriciously, and inconsistently, should I depart from it. Bonville will be here to-morrow, and you must consent to stay with us until that time; the matter shall then be decided.” “Yes,” said Theodore, “it shall be as you say, madam. Make your arrangements as you please.”Evening came on, and spread around her sombre shades;—the breeze’s rustling wing was in the tree:—the sound of the low, murmuring brooks, and the far-off waterfall, were faintly heard;—the frequent lights in the village darted their pale lustre through the gloom:—the solitary whip-poor-wills stationed themselves along the woody glens, the groves and rocky pastures, and sung a requiem to departed summer;—a dark cloud was rising in the west, across whose gloomy front the vivid lightning bent its forky spires.Theodore and Alida moved slowly towards home; she appeared enraptured with the melancholy splendours of the evening, but another subject engaged the mental attention of Theodore.Bonville arrived the next day. He gave his hand to Theodore with seeming warmth of friendship. If it was reciprocated, it must have been affected. There was no alteration in the manners and conversation of Alida; her discourse, as usual, was sprightly and interesting. After dinner she retired, and her father requested Theodore and Bonville to withdraw with him to a private room. After they were seated, the old gentleman thus addressed them:“I have called you here, gentlemen, to perform my duty as a parent to my daughter, and as a friend to you. You have both addressed Alida; while your addresses were merely formal, they were innocent; but when they became serious, they were dangerous. Your pretensions I consider equal, and between honourable pretenders, who are worthy of my daughter, I shall not attempt to influence her choice. That choice, however, can rest only on one; she has engaged to decide between you. I am come, to make in her name this decision. The following are my terms: no difficulty shall arise between you, gentlemen, in consequence of her determination; nothing shall go abroad respecting theaffair; it shall be settled under my roof. As soon as I have pronounced Alida’s declaration, you shall both depart, and absent my house for at least two weeks, as it would be improper for my daughter to see either of you at present; after that period I shall be happy to receive your visits.” Theodore and Bonville pledged their honour to abide implicitly by these injunctions.He then further observed: “This, gentlemen, is all I require. I have said that I considered your pretensions equal; so has my daughter treated them. You have both made professions to her; she has appointed a time to answer you. That time has now arrived, and I now inform you—that she has decided in favour of Theodore.”These words from Alida’s father, burst upon the mental powers of Bonville like sudden and tremendous thunder on the deep and sullen silence of night. Unaccustomed to disappointment, he had calculated on assured success. His addresses to the ladies generally had been honourably received. Alida was the first whose charms were capable of rendering them sincere. He was not ignorant of Theodore’s attentions to her; it gave him, however, but little uneasiness. He believed that his superior acquired graces would eclipse the pretensions of his rival. He considered himself a connoisseur in character,especially in that of the ladies. He conformed to their taste; he flattered their foibles, and obsequiously bowed to the minutia of female volatility. He considered himself skilled in the language of the heart; and he trusted that from his pre-eminent powers in the science of affection, he had only to see, to make use of, and to conquer.He had frankly offered his hand to Alida, and pressed her for a decisive answer. This from time to time she suspended, and finally named a day in which to give him and Theodore a determinate one, though neither knew the arrangements made with the other. Alida finding, however, the dilemma in which she was placed, and she had previously consulted her father. He had no objections to her choosing between two persons of equal claims to affluence and respectability. This choice she had made, and her father was considered the most proper person to pronounce it.When Bonville had urged Alida to answer him decidedly, he supposed that her hesitation, delay and suspensions, were only the effect of diffidence. He had no suspicion of her ultimate conclusion, and when she finally named the day to decide, he was confident her voice would be in his favour. These sentiments he had communicated to the person who had written to Theodore, intimating that Alida hadfixed a time which was to crown his sanguine wishes. He had listened, therefore, attentively to the words of her father, momentarily expecting to hear himself declared the favourite choice of the fair. What then must have been his disappointment when the name of Theodore was pronounced instead of his own! The highly-finished scene of pleasure and future happy prospects which his ardent imagination had depicted, now vanished in a moment. The bright sun of his early hopes was veiled in darkness at this unexpected decision.Very different were the sensations which inspired the bosom of Theodore. He had not even calculated on a decision in his favour; he believed that Bonville would be the choice of Alida. She had told him, that the form of deciding was necessary to save appearances; with this form he complied, because she desired it, not because he expected the result would be in his favour. He had not, therefore, attended to the words of Alida’s father with that eagerness which favourable anticipations commonly produce.But when his name was mentioned; when he found that he was the choice, the happy favourite of Alida’s affection, every ardent feeling of his soul became interested, and was suddenly aroused to therefinements of sensibility. Like an electric shock it re-animated his existence, and the bright morning of joy quickly dissipated the gloom which hung over his mind.CHAPTER X.“Dark gathering clouds involve the threat’ning skies,The billows heave with the impending gloom;Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise,Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm.”Severalweeks passed away, and Theodore felt all that anxiety and impatience which a separation from a beloved object can produce. He framed a thousand excuses to visit Alida, yet he feared a visit might be premature. He was, however, necessitated to make a journey to a distant part of the country, after which he resolved to see her.He performed the business he went on, and was returning. It was toward evening, and the day had been uncommonly sultry for the autumnal season. A rising shower blackened the western hemisphere; the dark vapours ascended in folding ridges, and the thunder rolled at a distance.Theodore saw he should be overtaken by the rain. He discovered an elegant seat about a hundred yards distant from the road; thither he hastened to gain shelter from the approaching storm.The owner of the mansion met him at the door, and politely invited him in, while a servant stood ready to take his horse.He was ushered into a large apartment, genteelly furnished, where the family and several young ladies were sitting. As he glanced his eye hastily around the room, he thought he recognized a familiar countenance. A hurried succession of confused ideas for a moment crossed his recollection. In a moment he discovered that it was Alida.By this unexpected meeting they were both completely embarrassed. Alida, however, arose, and, in rather a confused manner, introduced Theodore to the company as the friend of her brother.The rain continued most part of the afternoon. Theodore was urged by the family, and consented to stay the night. A moonlight evening succeeded the shower, which invited the young people to walk in an adjoining garden. Alida informed Theodore that the owner of the mansion was a distant relative of her father, who had two amiable daughters, not far from her own age. She had been invited there to pass a week, and expected to return within two days. “And,” she added, smiling, “perhaps, Theodore, we may have an opportunity once more to visit our favourite grove, before winter entirely destroys the remaining beauties of the summer.”Theodore felt all the force of the remark. He recollected the conversation when they were last atthe place she mentioned; and he well remembered his feelings on that occasion.“Great changes, indeed,” he replied, “have taken place since we were last there;—that they are productive of unexpected and unexampled happiness to me, is due, Alida, to yourself alone.”Theodore departed next morning, appointing the next week to visit Alida at her father’s house. Thus were the obstacles removed which had presented a barrier to their united wishes. They had not, it is true, been separated by wide seas, unfeeling parents, nor, as yet, by the rigorous laws of war; but vexations, doubts, and difficulties had thus far attended them, which had now happily disappeared, and they calculated on no unpropitious event which might thwart their future happiness.All the hours that Theodore could spare from his studies were devoted to Alida; and their parents began to calculate on joining their hands as soon as his professional term of study was completed.Hostilities that had previously commenced with England had been followed by several battles. “The panic and general bustle which prevailed at this time, will yet be remembered by many.” These circumstances were not calculated to impress the mind of Alida with the most pleasant sensations. She foresaw that the burden of the war must reston the American youth, and she trembled in anticipation for the fate of Theodore. He, with others, should it continue, must take the field in defence of his country. The effects of such a separation were dubious and gloomy. Theodore and herself frequently discoursed on the subject, and they agreed to form the mystic union previous to any wide separation. One event tended to hasten this resolution: The attorney in whose office Theodore was engaged received a commission in the new-raised American army, and marched to the lines near Boston. His business was therefore suspended, and Theodore returned to the house of his father. He considered that he could not remain long a mere spectator of the contest, and that it might soon become his duty to take the field, therefore concluded to hasten his marriage with Alida. She consented to the proposition, and their parents made the necessary arrangements for the event. The place was fixed upon which was to be their future residence. It was a pleasantly situated eminence, commanding an extensive prospect. On the west, forests unevenly lifted their rude heads, with here and there a solitary field, newly cleared, and thinly scattered with cottages. To the east, the eye extended over a soil at one time swelling into woody elevations, and at another spreading itself into vales of the most enchantingverdure. To the north it extended to the palisades, wooded to their summits, and throwing their shadows over intervals of equal wilderness, till at length the eye, wandering far beyond, was arrested in its excursions by the blue mist which hovered over the distant mountains, more grand, majestic, and lofty. The inhabitants around were mild, sociable, moral, and diligent. The produce of their own fields gave them the most of what was necessary, and they were happily free from all dissipation and luxury.Such was the site marked out for the residence of Theodore and Alida. They visited the spot, and were enraptured with its pensive, romantic beauties.“Here,” said Theodore, “we will one day pass our time in all the felicity of mind which the chequered scenes of life will admit. In the spring, we will roam among the flowers; in summer, we will gather strawberries in yonder fields, or raspberries from the adjacent shrubbery. The breezes of fragrant morning and the sighs of the evening gale will be mingled with the songs of the various birds which frequent the surrounding groves. We will gather the bending fruits of autumn, and will listen with pleasure to the hoarse, murmuring voice of winter—its whistling winds, its driving snow and rattling hail—with delight.”The bright gems of joy glistened in the eyes of Alida as Theodore described this pleasing scene of anticipation.Winter came on; it rapidly passed away. Spring advanced, and the marriage day was appointed. Preparations for the hymenial ceremony were making, and invitations had already gone abroad. Albert was particularly sent for, and all was approaching to readiness for this happy event.Theodore and Alida again promenaded to the spot which had been chosen for their habitation; they projected the structure of the buildings, planned the gardens, the artificial groves, the walks, and the green retreat of the summer-house; and already they realized in imagination the various domestic blessings and felicities with which they were to be surrounded.Nature was adorned with the bridal ornaments of spring; the radiant sun was sinking behind the groves, casting his sable shades over the valley, while the retiring beams of day adorned the distant eastern eminences with yellow lustre; the birds sung melodiously in the grove; the air was freshened by light western breezes, bearing upon their wings all the entrancing odours of the season; while around the horizon clouds raised their brazen summits, based in the black vapour of approachingnight; and as its darkening shades were advancing, Theodore and Alida returned home. They seated themselves awhile on the piazza, to contemplate the splendours of the evening, and to witness the beauties of one of the most picturesque draperies painted in the landscape of nature.CHAPTER XI.The dreadful din of war is heardWide spreading o’er the land and sea;The battle’s shout and cannon’s roarProclaim the nation shall be free.The nodding plumes, like waving pines,Are shaken by the morning breeze;The gilded armour brightly shines,And patriots sigh for victories.Thetumults of a second war with Great Britain still increased, and was not only exhausting the finances of the country, but called for a still greater sacrifice—all the bravest American youth. A large army of reinforcements was shortly expected from England to land on our shores, and the confused noise of the warriors, with more vigorous and intrepid combat, were already anticipated.Theodore had received a commission in a regiment of militia, and was pressed by several young gentlemen of his acquaintance, who had enlisted in the army, to join it also. He had an excuse: his father was a man in extensive business, was considerably past the prime of life, had a number of agents and clerks under him, but began to feel himself unable to attend to the various and burthensome duties and demands of a mercantile life.Theodore was his only son; his assistance, therefore, became necessary, until, at least, his father could bring his business to a close, which he was now about to effect.Theodore stated these facts to his friends; told them that on every occasion he should be ready to fly to the post of danger when his country was invaded, and that as soon as his father’s affairs became settled, he would, if necessary, join the army.The president was now active in making every exertion in his power, to rouse the feelings of his countrymen to act their parts with honour in the scene that was now before them. He knew that much of the responsibility rested on himself. The capacity he was in with regard to the nation, caused the most material and important business—of directing and superintending the weighty affairs of government—to fall upon his hands; and such was the situation of the country, that it not only called for the exertion, the wisdom, sound judgment, and policy of the presidential chair, but likewise of every patriotic bosom to participate in their endeavours to oppose the depredations against it. The chief executive was entered on a theatre in which he was to act a conspicuous part in this war of America with Great Britain, and to occupy a station in the page of history, where the interestingdetail will reach the ear of remotest ages in the dates of time.In the mean time, the father of Theodore had been absent for three or four days to one of the commercial seaports, on business with some merchants with whom he was connected in trade. He returned the next day after Theodore had got home; his aspect and his conversation were marked with an assumed and unmeaning cheerfulness. At supper he ate nothing, discoursed much, but in an unconnected and hurried manner, interrupted by long pauses, in which he appeared to be buried in contemplation. After supper he asked Theodore “if it were not possible that his union with Alida could be concluded within a few days?” Theodore, startled at so unexpected a question, replied, that such a proposal would be considered extraordinary, perhaps improper; besides, when Alida had named the day, she mentioned that she had an uncle who lived at a distance, whose daughter was to pass the summer with her, and was expected to arrive before the appointed time. It would, he said, be a delicate thing for him to anticipate the nuptials, unless he could give some cogent reason for so doing, and at present he was not apprised that any such existed. His father, after a few moments’ hesitation, answered, “I have reasons which, whentold,”—here he stopped, suddenly arose, hastily walked the room in much visible agony of mind, and then retired to his chamber.Theodore and his mother were much amazed at so strange a proceeding. They could form no conjecture of its cause, or its consequence. Theodore passed a sleepless night. His father’s slumbers were interrupted; he was restless and uneasy: his sleep was broken and disturbed by incoherent mutterings and plaintive moans. In the morning when he appeared at breakfast, his countenance wore the marks of dejection and anguish. He scarcely spoke a word; and after the cloth was removed, he ordered all to withdraw except Theodore and his mother; when, with emotions that spoke the painful feelings of his bosom, he thus addressed them:“For more than thirty years I have been engaged in commerce, in order to acquire independence for myself and my family. To accomplish this, I became connected with some English importing merchants, in a seaport town, and went largely into the English trade. Success crowned our endeavours. On balancing our accounts, two years ago, we found that our expectations were answered, and that we were sufficiently wealthy to close business, which some proposed to do; it was, however, agreed to make one effort more, as somefavourable circumstances appeared to offer, in which we adventured very largely, on a fair calculation of liberal and extensive proceeds. Before returns could be made, the war came on, embarrassments ensued, and by indubitable intelligence lately received, we find that our property in England has been sequestered; five of our ships, laden with English goods, lying in English harbours, and just ready to sail for America, have been seized as lawful prizes; added to this, three vessels from the Indies, laden with island produce, have been taken on their homeward bound voyage, and one lost on her return from Holland.“This wreck of fortune I might have survived, had I to sustain only my equal dividend of the loss; but of the merchants with whom I have been connected, not one remains to share the fate of the event—all have absconded or secreted themselves. To attempt to compound with my creditors would be of little avail, so that the consequence to me is inevitable ruin.“To abscond would not secure me, as most of my remaining property is vested in real estate; and even if it would, I could not consent to it. I could not consent to banish myself from my country, with the view to defraud my creditors. No: I have lived honestly, and honestly will I die. Byfair application and industry my wealth has been obtained, and it shall never justly be said that the reputation of my latter days were sullied with acts of meanness. I have notified and procured a meeting of the creditors, and have laid the matter before them. Some appeared favourable to me, others insinuated that we were all connected in fraudulent designs to swindle our creditors. To this I replied with becoming spirit, and was in consequence threatened with immediate prosecution. Whatever may be the event, I had some hopes that your happiness, Theodore, might yet be secured. Hence I proposed your union with Alida before our misfortunes should be promulgated. Your parents are old, a little will serve the residue of their days. With your acquirements you may make your way in life. I shall now have no property to give you; but I would still wish you to ensure to yourself that which you prize far above, and without which, both honours and emoluments would be unimportant and worthless.”At this moment a loud rap at the door interrupted the discourse, and three men were ushered in, which proved to be the sheriff and his attendants, sent by the more inexorable creditors of Theodore’s father and company, to levy on the property of the former, which orders they faithfully executed byseizing the lands, tenements, and furniture. We will not stop the reader to moralize on this disastrous event—the feelings of the family can better be conceived than described.Hurled, in a moment, from the lofty summit of affluence to the low vale of indigence, Christian philosophy after a while came to the aid of the parents, but who can realize the feelings of the son? Thus suddenly cut short, not only of his prospects of future independence, but even present support, what would be the event of his suit to Alida, and stipulated marriage? Was it not probable that her father would now cancel the contract? Could she consent to become his in his present penurious situation? and could he himself be willing to make her miserable?In this agitated frame of mind he received a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood of Alida, requesting him to come immediately to his house, whither he repaired the following day.This person had ever been the unchanging friend of Theodore; he had heard of the misfortunes of his family, and he deeply sympathized in his distress. He had lately married and settled near the residence of Alida’s father. His name was Raymond. When Theodore arrived at the house of his friend, he was received with the same disinterestedardour he had ever been before, in the day of his most unbounded prosperity. After being seated, Raymond told him the occasion of his sending for him was to propose the adoption of certain measures which he doubted not might be considered highly beneficial, as it respected his future peace and happiness. “Your family misfortunes,” continued he, “have reached the ear of Alida’s father. I know old people, generally speaking, too well to believe he will now consent to receive you as his son-in-law under your present embarrassments. The case is difficult, but not insurmountable. You must first see Alida; she is now in the next room; I will introduce you in; converse with her, after which I will lay my plan before you.”Theodore entered the room. Alida was sitting by a window which looked into a pleasant garden, and over verdant meadows where tall grass waved to the evening breeze; further on, low valleys spread their umbrageous thickets where the dusky shadows of night had began to assemble. On the high hills beyond, the tops of lofty forests, majestically moved by the billowy gales, caught the sun’s last ray. Fleecy summer clouds hovered around the verge of the western horizon, spangled with silvery tints or fringed with the gold of evening. A mournfully murmuring rivulet purled at a little distancefrom the garden, on the borders of a small grove, from whence the American wild dove wafted her sympathetic moaning to the ear of Alida. She was leaning on a small table as she sat by the window, which was thrown up. Her attention was fixed. She did not perceive Raymond and Theodore as they entered. They advanced towards her; she turned, started, and arose. With a melancholy smile she said she supposed it was Mrs. Raymond who was approaching, as she had just left the room. Her countenance was dejected, which, on seeing Theodore, lighted up into a languid sprightliness. It was evident she had been weeping. Raymond retired, and Theodore and Alida seated themselves.“I have broken in upon your solitude, perhaps too unseasonably,” said Theodore. It is however the fault of Raymond; he invited me to walk into the room, but did not inform me that you were alone.“Your presence was sudden and unexpected, but not unseasonable,” replied Alida. I hope that you did not consider any formality necessary in your visits, Theodore?“I once did not think so,” answered Theodore; now I know not what to think—I know not how to act. You have heard of the misfortunes of my father’s family, Alida?“Yes, I have heard the circumstances attending that event,” said she; an event in which no one could be more deeply interested, except the immediate sufferers, than myself.“Your father is also acquainted with my present situation,” said Theodore; and how did he receive the intelligence?“With deep regret,” replied Alida.Has he forbidden you to admit my addresses any longer? if even in an unqualified or indirect manner, it is proper I should know it.“It certainly is,” said Alida. Soon after we received the intelligence of your family misfortunes, my father came into the room where I was sitting: ‘Alida,’ said he, ‘your conduct has ever been that of a dutiful child,—mine, of an indulgent parent. My ultimate wish is to see my children, when settled in life, happy and honourably respected. For this purpose I have bestowed on them a proper education, and design suitably to apportion my property among them. On their part, it is expected they will act prudently and discreetly, especially in those things which concern materially their future peace and welfare: the principal requisite to insure this is a proper connexion in marriage.’ Here my father paused a considerable time, and then continued: ‘I know, my child, that your situationis a very delicate one. Your marriage-day is appointed; it was named under the fairest prospects. By the failure of Theodore’s father, those prospects have become deeply darkened, if not totally obliterated. To commit your fortune through life to a person in his present circumstances, would be hazardous in the extreme. The day named can at least be suspended; perhaps something more favourable may appear. At any rate, I have too much confidence in your discretion to suppose that you will, by any rash act, bring reproach either upon yourself or your connexions.’ Thus spake my father, and immediately withdrew.“In our present dilemma,” said Theodore, “what is proper to be done?”“It is difficult to determine,” answered Alida. “Should my father expressly forbid our union, or to see each other at present, it is probable he will carry his commands into effect. I would advise you to call on him to-morrow with your usual freedom. Whatever may be the event, I shall deal sincerely with you. Mrs. Raymond has been my friend and associate from my earliest years—Raymond you know. In them we can place the utmost confidence. From them you will be enabled to obtain information should I be prevented from seeing you. My reliance on Providence, I trust, willnever be shaken, but my future prospects, at present, are dark and gloomy.”“Let us not despair,” said Theodore; “perhaps those gloomy clouds which now hover around us, may yet be dissipated by the bright beams of joy. Worth and innocence are the care of Heaven,—there rests my hope. To-morrow, as you propose, I will call at your father’s. If I should be debarred in future from seeing you, I will write as formerly, and direct the letters to Raymond.”Alida now returned home, attended by Theodore. A whip-poor-will tuned its nightly song at a distance; but the sound which had so late appeared to them cheerful and sprightly, now passed heavily over their hearts.CHAPTER XII.
“Come, Friendship, twine a wreath for me,And weave it with the choicest flowers,To cheat the ling’ring steps of time,And gladden all life’s passing hours.”Thetime now arrived when Theodore was to enter upon his professional studies, and he became engaged in the office of an eminent attorney in New-York. He frequently absented himself, however, to accompany Albert to visit his father’s family, and since his acquaintance with Alida, there was a charm that attracted him thither. If he had admired the manly virtues of the brother, could he fail to adore the gentle graces of the sister? If all the sympathies of the most ardent friendship had been drawn forth toward the former, must not all the softer sensibilities of the heart be attracted by the milder and more refined excellencies of the other?Bonville had become the admirer of Alida; of course he and Theodore sometimes met. He had made no serious pretensions, but his particularity indicated something more than fashionable politeness. His manners, his independent situation, entitled him to respect. “It is not probable, therefore, that he will be objectionable to her friends, or toAlida herself,” said Theodore, with an involuntary sigh, and as his visits became more frequent, an increasing anxiety took place in his bosom. He wished her to remain single; the idea of losing her by marriage, gave him inexpressible regret. What substitute could supply to him the happy hours he had passed in her company? What charm could wing the lingering moments when she was gone?How different would be the scene when debarred from the unreserved friendship and conversation of Alida. And unreserved it could not be, were she not exclusively mistress of herself. But was there not something of a more refined texture than friendship in his predilection for the company of Alida? If so, why not avow it? His prospects, his family, and of course his pretensions might not be inferior to those of Bonville.But perhaps he was preferred. His opportunities: his prior acquaintance with the lady. Distance was no barrier to his addresses. His visits became more and more frequent. Was it not then highly probable that he had gained her affections?Thus reasoned Theodore, but the reasoning tended not to allay the tempest that was gathering in his bosom. He ordered his carriage, and was in a short time at the seat of Alida’s father. It was summer, and towards evening when he arrived.Alida was sitting by the window when he entered the hall. She arose and received him with a smile. I have just been thinking of an evening’s walk, said she, but had no one to attend me, and you have come just in time to perform that office. I will order tea immediately, while you rest from the fatigues of your journey.When tea was served up, a servant entered the room with a letter which he had found in the yard. Alida received it. “’Tis a letter,” said she, which I sent by Bonville to a lady in the village, and the careless man has lost it. Turning to Theodore, I forgot to tell you, that your friend Bonville has been with us a few days; he left us this morning. “My friend,” replied Theodore, hastily. “Is he not your friend?” inquired Alida. “I beg pardon, madam,” said he “my mind was absent.” “He requested us to present his respects to his friend Theodore,” said she. Theodore bowed and turned the conversation.They now walked out, and took a winding path which led through pleasant fields until they reached the water, and continued to pursue their way along the shore till they came to a beautiful and shady grove, where the thick foliage afforded a delightful retreat from the warm rays of the sun, and at the extremity of which was a sloping eminence, whichcommanded an extensive prospect of the surrounding country, part of Long-Island sound and the junction of the bay with the eastern river.A soft and silent shower had descended. A thousand transitory gems trembled upon the leafy foliage, glittering in the western ray. A bright rainbow sat upon a southern cloud; the light gales whispered among the branches, agitated the young harvest to billowy motion, and moved the tops of the deep green forest with majestic grandeur; while flocks, herds, and cottages were scattered over the resplendent landscape.“This is a most delightful scene,” said Alida. “It is, truly,” replied Theodore, “do you think that New-York can boast of so charming a prospect?” “Yes, one,” answered she, it is the walk on the battery, the water prospect is similar to this, but the landscape is not so variegated.See that ship, Theodore, coming down the sound, how she ploughs through the white foam, while the breezes flutter in the sails, varying with the vivid rays of the sun. “Yes,” said Theodore, it bounds with rapid motions over the waves, and ere the day has departed it will probably safely reach the wharf of the city.They walked leisurely around the hill, and then moved slowly towards home. The sun was sinkinggradually behind the western horizon. Twilight arose dimly in the east, and floated along the air. Darkness began to hover around the woodlands and valleys. The beauties of the landscape slowly receded; the breezes had gone down with the sun, and a perfect calm succeeded.“I shall never forget this charming promenade,” said Theodore, as he approached the threshold of the door, with a deep drawn sigh, “and the remembrance of the sweet pensive scenery of this delightful spot, will ever continue to haunt my memory.”CHAPTER VIII.To lull affection’s sigh,And dry the tear of sensibility;I’ll think of thee, in all my lonely hours,Though thou, perhaps, may ne’er remember me.Thenext day Theodore returned to his studies; but different from his former visits to Alida, instead of exhilarating his spirits, this had tended to depress them. He doubted whether she was not already engaged to Bonville. His hopes would persuade him this was not the case; but his fears declared otherwise.It was some time before he renewed his visits again. In the interim he received a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood of Alida’s father; an extract from which follows: “We are soon to have a wedding here; you are acquainted with the parties—Alida M. and Bonville. Such at least is our opinion from appearances, as this gentleman is now there more than half his time. You will undoubtedly be invited. We had expected that you would have put in your claims, from your particular attention to the lady. She is a fine girl, Theodore.” I shall never be a guest at Alida’s wedding, said Theodore, as he hastily paced the room; but I must againsee her before that event takes place, when I shall lose her forever.The ensuing day he repaired to her father’s. He inquired for Alida; she was gone with a party to the shores of the sound, attended by Bonville. At evening they returned. Bonville and Theodore addressed each other with much seeming cordiality. “You have deserted us, Theodore,” said Alida, “we concluded you had forgotten the road to this place.” “Was not that a hasty conclusion?” said Theodore. “I think not,” she answered, “if your long absence should be construed into neglect. But we will hear your excuse,” said she, smiling, “by and by, and perhaps pardon you.”He thanked her for her condescension.The next morning Bonville set out to go to New-York. Theodore observed that he took particular leave of Alida, telling her, in a low voice, that he should have the happiness of seeing her again, within two or three weeks certainly.After he was gone, as Alida and Theodore were sitting in the room alone, “Well,” said she, “am I to hear your excuses, Theodore?” “For what, madam?” “For neglecting your friends.” “I hope it is not so considered, madam.” “Seriously, then, why have you stayed away so long? Hasthis place no charms in the absence of my brother?”“Would my presence have added to your felicity, Alida?” “You never came an unwelcome visiter here.” “Perhaps I might be sometimes intrusive when Bonville is your guest.” “I have supposed you were on friendly terms,” said she. “We are, but there are seasons when friendship must yield its pretensions to a superior claim.”“Will you answer me one question, Alida, are you engaged to Bonville?” “He has asked me the same question concerning you,” replied she, (blushing.)“Do you,” continued Theodore, “prefer him to any other?” Alida, (blushing deeply.) “He has made the same inquiries respecting you.”“I beg, madam, you will deal with me candidly,” said Theodore, (taking her hand with anxiety.) “I am entitled to no claims, but you know what my heart would ask. I will bow to your decision. Bonville or Theodore must relinquish their pretensions. We cannot share the blessing.”The cheeks of Alida were suffused with a varying glow, her lips were pale, her voice tremulous, and her eyes cast down. “My father has informed me,” she said, “that it is improper to receive the particular addresses of more than one. I am consciousof my inadvertency, and that the reproof is just. One, therefore, must be dismissed.” But, (she blushed deeper,) and a considerable pause ensued.At length Theodore arose. “I will not press you further,” said he. “I know the delicacy of your feelings; I know your sincerity; I will not therefore insist on your performing the painful task of deciding against me. Your conduct in every point of view has been discreet. I would have no just claims, or if I had, your heart must sanction them, or they would be unhallowed, and unjustifiable. I shall ever pray for your felicity. Our affections are not under our direction; our happiness depends on our obedience to their mandates. Whatever, then, may be my sufferings, you are unblameable, and irreproachable.”He took his hat in extreme agitation, and prepared himself to take leave. Alida had recovered in some degree from her embarrassment, and collected her scattered spirits.“Your conduct, Theodore,” said she, “is generous and noble. Will you give yourself the trouble, and do me the honour to see me once more?” “I will,” said he, “at any time you shall appoint.”“Four weeks, then,” said she, “from this day,honour me with a visit, and you shall have my decision, and receive my final answer.” “I will be punctual to the day,” he replied, and bade her adieu.Theodore’s hours from this time winged heavily away. His wonted cheerfulness fled; he wooed the silent and solitary haunts of musing, moping melancholy. He loved to wander through lonely fields, when dewy twilight robed the evening mild, or to trace the forest glen, through which the moon darted her silvery intercepted rays. His agitated thoughts preyed upon his peace incessantly, and deeply disturbed his repose.He looked anxiously to the hour when Alida was to make the decision. He wished, yet dreaded the event. In that he foresaw, or thought he foresaw, a withering blight to all his hopes, and a final consummation to his foreboding fears. He had pressed Alida, perhaps too urgently, to a declaration. Had her predilection been in his favour, would she have hesitated to avow it? Her father had advised her to relinquish one, and to retain the other, nor had he attempted to influence or direct her choice. Was it not evident, then, from her confused hesitation and embarrassment, when solicited to discriminate upon the subject, that her ultimate decision would be in favour of Bonville?While Theodore’s mind was thus in agitation, he received a second letter from his friend in the neighbourhood of Alida. He read the following clause therein with emotions more easily to be conceived than expressed: “Alida’s wedding-day is appointed. I need not tell you that Bonville is to be the happy deity of the hymenial sacrifice. I had it from his own declaration. He did not name the positive day, but it is certainly to be soon. You will undoubtedly, however, have timely notice, and receive an invitation.”“We must pour out a liberal libation upon the mystic altar, Theodore, and twine the nuptial garland with wreaths of joy. Bonville should devote a rich offering to so valuable a prize. He has been here for a week, and departed for New-York yesterday, but is shortly to return.”And why have I ever doubted this event? said Theodore. What infatuation hath then led me on in the pursuit of fantastic and unreal bliss? I have had, it is true, no positive assurances that Alida would be disposed to favour my addresses. But why did she ever receive them? Why did she enchantingly smile upon me? Why fascinate the soft powers of my heart by that winning mildness, and the favourable display of those complicated and superior attractions which she must have knownwere irresistible? And now she would have me dance attendance to her decision in favour of another—insulting; let Bonville and herself make it, as they have formed this farcical decision. I absolutely will never attend it. Why did she not spurn me from her confidence, and plainly tell me that my attentions were untimely and improper?But, I have engaged to see her at an appointed time; my honour is therefore pledged for an interview; it must take place. I shall endeavour to support it with becoming dignity, and I will convince Alida and Bonville, that I am not the dupe of their caprices. But, let me consider—What has Alida done to deserve censure or reproach? Her brother was my early friend; she has treated me as a friend to that brother. She was unconscious of the affection which her charms and mental graces had kindled in my bosom. Her evident embarrassment, on receiving my declaration, witnessed her surprise and prior attachment. What could she do to save herself the pain of a direct denial? She has appointed a day when her refusal may come in a more delicate and formal manner—and I must therefore meet it.CHAPTER IX.The time draws near when I shall meet those eyes, that may perchance look cold on me—“but doubt is called the beacon of the wise, thetest that reachesto the bottom of the worst.”Onthe appointed day, Theodore proceeded to the house of Alida’s father, where he arrived late in the afternoon. Alida had retired to a little summer-house at the end of the garden. A servant conducted him thither.She was dressed in a flowing robe of white muslin, richly embroidered. Her hair was in dishevelled curls; she was contemplating a bouquet of flowers which she held in her hand. Theodore fancied she never appeared so lovely. She arose to receive him.We have been expecting you for some time, said she; we were anxious to inform you that we have just received a letter from my brother, in which he desires us to present you his most friendly respects, and complains of your not visiting him lately so frequently as usual. Theodore thanked her for the information; said that business had prevented him; he esteemed him as his most valuable friend, and would be more particular in future.“We have been thronged with company severaldays,” said Alida. The last of them took their departure yesterday. And I have only to regret, that I have nearly a week been prevented from taking my favourite walk to the grove, to which place you attended me when you were last here. “We will walk there, then, if you have no objections, as no doubt it is much improved since that time,” said Theodore. They resorted thither towards evening, and seated themselves in the arbour where they sat some time contemplating the scenery.It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow hue was spread over the natural beauties of creation. The withering forest began to shed its decaying foliage, which the light gales pursued along the russet fields;—the low sun extended its lengthening shadows;—curling smoke ascended from the neighbouring village and the surrounding cottages;—a thick fog crept along the valleys;—a grey mist hovered over the tops of the distant hills;—the glassy surface of the water glittering to the sun’s departing ray;—the solemn herds lowed in monotonous symphony;—the autumnal insects, in sympathetic wafting, plaintively predicted their approaching fate.The scene is changed since we last visited this place, said Alida; “the gay charms of summer arebeginning to decay, and must soon yield their splendours to the rude despoiling hand of winter.”“That will be the case,” said Theodore, “before I shall have the pleasure of your company here again.” “That may probably be, though it is nearly two months yet to winter,” said Alida.“Great changes may take place within that time,” said Theodore. Yes, changes must take place, she answered, but nothing, I hope to embitter present prospects.As it respects yourself, I trust not, madam. “And I sincerely hope not, as it respects you, Theodore.” That wish, said he, I believe is vain.Your feelings accord with the season, Theodore; you are melancholy. Shall we return?“I ask your pardon, madam; I know I am unsociable. You speak of returning; you know the occasion of my being here. You cannot have forgotten your own appointment and consequent engagement?” She made no answer.I know, Alida, that you are incapable of duplicity or evasion. I have promised and now repeat the declaration, that I will silently submit to your decision. This you have engaged to make, and this is the time you have appointed. The pain of present suspense can scarcely be surpassed by the pang of disappointment. On your part you havenothing to fear. I trust you have candidly determined, and will decide explicitly.“I am placed in an exceedingly delicate situation,” answered Alida, (sighing.) “I know you are, madam,” said Theodore, “but your own honour, your own peace, require that you should extricate yourself from the perplexing embarrassment.”“That I am convinced of,” replied she. “I know that I have been inadvertently indiscreet. I have admitted the addresses of Bonville and yourself, without calculating or expecting the consequences. You have both treated me honourably and with respect. You are both on equal grounds as to standing in life. With Bonville I became first acquainted. As it relates to him, some new arrangements have taken place since you came here.”Theodore interrupted her with emotion. “Of those arrangements I am acquainted, I received the intelligence from a friend in your neighbourhood. I am prepared for the event.”Alida remained silent. “I have mentioned before,” resumed Theodore, “that whatever may be your decision, no impropriety can attach to you. I might add, indeed, from various circumstances, and from the information I possess, I perhaps should not have given you further trouble on the occasion, had it not been from your own direction. And I amnow willing to retire without further explanation, without giving you the pain of an express decision, if you think the measure expedient. Your declaration can only be a matter of form, the consequence of which I know, and my proposition may save your feelings.”“No, Theodore,” replied she, “my reputation depends on my adherence to my first determination; justice to yourself and to Bonville also demand it. After what has passed, I should be considered as acting capriciously, and inconsistently, should I depart from it. Bonville will be here to-morrow, and you must consent to stay with us until that time; the matter shall then be decided.” “Yes,” said Theodore, “it shall be as you say, madam. Make your arrangements as you please.”Evening came on, and spread around her sombre shades;—the breeze’s rustling wing was in the tree:—the sound of the low, murmuring brooks, and the far-off waterfall, were faintly heard;—the frequent lights in the village darted their pale lustre through the gloom:—the solitary whip-poor-wills stationed themselves along the woody glens, the groves and rocky pastures, and sung a requiem to departed summer;—a dark cloud was rising in the west, across whose gloomy front the vivid lightning bent its forky spires.Theodore and Alida moved slowly towards home; she appeared enraptured with the melancholy splendours of the evening, but another subject engaged the mental attention of Theodore.Bonville arrived the next day. He gave his hand to Theodore with seeming warmth of friendship. If it was reciprocated, it must have been affected. There was no alteration in the manners and conversation of Alida; her discourse, as usual, was sprightly and interesting. After dinner she retired, and her father requested Theodore and Bonville to withdraw with him to a private room. After they were seated, the old gentleman thus addressed them:“I have called you here, gentlemen, to perform my duty as a parent to my daughter, and as a friend to you. You have both addressed Alida; while your addresses were merely formal, they were innocent; but when they became serious, they were dangerous. Your pretensions I consider equal, and between honourable pretenders, who are worthy of my daughter, I shall not attempt to influence her choice. That choice, however, can rest only on one; she has engaged to decide between you. I am come, to make in her name this decision. The following are my terms: no difficulty shall arise between you, gentlemen, in consequence of her determination; nothing shall go abroad respecting theaffair; it shall be settled under my roof. As soon as I have pronounced Alida’s declaration, you shall both depart, and absent my house for at least two weeks, as it would be improper for my daughter to see either of you at present; after that period I shall be happy to receive your visits.” Theodore and Bonville pledged their honour to abide implicitly by these injunctions.He then further observed: “This, gentlemen, is all I require. I have said that I considered your pretensions equal; so has my daughter treated them. You have both made professions to her; she has appointed a time to answer you. That time has now arrived, and I now inform you—that she has decided in favour of Theodore.”These words from Alida’s father, burst upon the mental powers of Bonville like sudden and tremendous thunder on the deep and sullen silence of night. Unaccustomed to disappointment, he had calculated on assured success. His addresses to the ladies generally had been honourably received. Alida was the first whose charms were capable of rendering them sincere. He was not ignorant of Theodore’s attentions to her; it gave him, however, but little uneasiness. He believed that his superior acquired graces would eclipse the pretensions of his rival. He considered himself a connoisseur in character,especially in that of the ladies. He conformed to their taste; he flattered their foibles, and obsequiously bowed to the minutia of female volatility. He considered himself skilled in the language of the heart; and he trusted that from his pre-eminent powers in the science of affection, he had only to see, to make use of, and to conquer.He had frankly offered his hand to Alida, and pressed her for a decisive answer. This from time to time she suspended, and finally named a day in which to give him and Theodore a determinate one, though neither knew the arrangements made with the other. Alida finding, however, the dilemma in which she was placed, and she had previously consulted her father. He had no objections to her choosing between two persons of equal claims to affluence and respectability. This choice she had made, and her father was considered the most proper person to pronounce it.When Bonville had urged Alida to answer him decidedly, he supposed that her hesitation, delay and suspensions, were only the effect of diffidence. He had no suspicion of her ultimate conclusion, and when she finally named the day to decide, he was confident her voice would be in his favour. These sentiments he had communicated to the person who had written to Theodore, intimating that Alida hadfixed a time which was to crown his sanguine wishes. He had listened, therefore, attentively to the words of her father, momentarily expecting to hear himself declared the favourite choice of the fair. What then must have been his disappointment when the name of Theodore was pronounced instead of his own! The highly-finished scene of pleasure and future happy prospects which his ardent imagination had depicted, now vanished in a moment. The bright sun of his early hopes was veiled in darkness at this unexpected decision.Very different were the sensations which inspired the bosom of Theodore. He had not even calculated on a decision in his favour; he believed that Bonville would be the choice of Alida. She had told him, that the form of deciding was necessary to save appearances; with this form he complied, because she desired it, not because he expected the result would be in his favour. He had not, therefore, attended to the words of Alida’s father with that eagerness which favourable anticipations commonly produce.But when his name was mentioned; when he found that he was the choice, the happy favourite of Alida’s affection, every ardent feeling of his soul became interested, and was suddenly aroused to therefinements of sensibility. Like an electric shock it re-animated his existence, and the bright morning of joy quickly dissipated the gloom which hung over his mind.CHAPTER X.“Dark gathering clouds involve the threat’ning skies,The billows heave with the impending gloom;Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise,Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm.”Severalweeks passed away, and Theodore felt all that anxiety and impatience which a separation from a beloved object can produce. He framed a thousand excuses to visit Alida, yet he feared a visit might be premature. He was, however, necessitated to make a journey to a distant part of the country, after which he resolved to see her.He performed the business he went on, and was returning. It was toward evening, and the day had been uncommonly sultry for the autumnal season. A rising shower blackened the western hemisphere; the dark vapours ascended in folding ridges, and the thunder rolled at a distance.Theodore saw he should be overtaken by the rain. He discovered an elegant seat about a hundred yards distant from the road; thither he hastened to gain shelter from the approaching storm.The owner of the mansion met him at the door, and politely invited him in, while a servant stood ready to take his horse.He was ushered into a large apartment, genteelly furnished, where the family and several young ladies were sitting. As he glanced his eye hastily around the room, he thought he recognized a familiar countenance. A hurried succession of confused ideas for a moment crossed his recollection. In a moment he discovered that it was Alida.By this unexpected meeting they were both completely embarrassed. Alida, however, arose, and, in rather a confused manner, introduced Theodore to the company as the friend of her brother.The rain continued most part of the afternoon. Theodore was urged by the family, and consented to stay the night. A moonlight evening succeeded the shower, which invited the young people to walk in an adjoining garden. Alida informed Theodore that the owner of the mansion was a distant relative of her father, who had two amiable daughters, not far from her own age. She had been invited there to pass a week, and expected to return within two days. “And,” she added, smiling, “perhaps, Theodore, we may have an opportunity once more to visit our favourite grove, before winter entirely destroys the remaining beauties of the summer.”Theodore felt all the force of the remark. He recollected the conversation when they were last atthe place she mentioned; and he well remembered his feelings on that occasion.“Great changes, indeed,” he replied, “have taken place since we were last there;—that they are productive of unexpected and unexampled happiness to me, is due, Alida, to yourself alone.”Theodore departed next morning, appointing the next week to visit Alida at her father’s house. Thus were the obstacles removed which had presented a barrier to their united wishes. They had not, it is true, been separated by wide seas, unfeeling parents, nor, as yet, by the rigorous laws of war; but vexations, doubts, and difficulties had thus far attended them, which had now happily disappeared, and they calculated on no unpropitious event which might thwart their future happiness.All the hours that Theodore could spare from his studies were devoted to Alida; and their parents began to calculate on joining their hands as soon as his professional term of study was completed.Hostilities that had previously commenced with England had been followed by several battles. “The panic and general bustle which prevailed at this time, will yet be remembered by many.” These circumstances were not calculated to impress the mind of Alida with the most pleasant sensations. She foresaw that the burden of the war must reston the American youth, and she trembled in anticipation for the fate of Theodore. He, with others, should it continue, must take the field in defence of his country. The effects of such a separation were dubious and gloomy. Theodore and herself frequently discoursed on the subject, and they agreed to form the mystic union previous to any wide separation. One event tended to hasten this resolution: The attorney in whose office Theodore was engaged received a commission in the new-raised American army, and marched to the lines near Boston. His business was therefore suspended, and Theodore returned to the house of his father. He considered that he could not remain long a mere spectator of the contest, and that it might soon become his duty to take the field, therefore concluded to hasten his marriage with Alida. She consented to the proposition, and their parents made the necessary arrangements for the event. The place was fixed upon which was to be their future residence. It was a pleasantly situated eminence, commanding an extensive prospect. On the west, forests unevenly lifted their rude heads, with here and there a solitary field, newly cleared, and thinly scattered with cottages. To the east, the eye extended over a soil at one time swelling into woody elevations, and at another spreading itself into vales of the most enchantingverdure. To the north it extended to the palisades, wooded to their summits, and throwing their shadows over intervals of equal wilderness, till at length the eye, wandering far beyond, was arrested in its excursions by the blue mist which hovered over the distant mountains, more grand, majestic, and lofty. The inhabitants around were mild, sociable, moral, and diligent. The produce of their own fields gave them the most of what was necessary, and they were happily free from all dissipation and luxury.Such was the site marked out for the residence of Theodore and Alida. They visited the spot, and were enraptured with its pensive, romantic beauties.“Here,” said Theodore, “we will one day pass our time in all the felicity of mind which the chequered scenes of life will admit. In the spring, we will roam among the flowers; in summer, we will gather strawberries in yonder fields, or raspberries from the adjacent shrubbery. The breezes of fragrant morning and the sighs of the evening gale will be mingled with the songs of the various birds which frequent the surrounding groves. We will gather the bending fruits of autumn, and will listen with pleasure to the hoarse, murmuring voice of winter—its whistling winds, its driving snow and rattling hail—with delight.”The bright gems of joy glistened in the eyes of Alida as Theodore described this pleasing scene of anticipation.Winter came on; it rapidly passed away. Spring advanced, and the marriage day was appointed. Preparations for the hymenial ceremony were making, and invitations had already gone abroad. Albert was particularly sent for, and all was approaching to readiness for this happy event.Theodore and Alida again promenaded to the spot which had been chosen for their habitation; they projected the structure of the buildings, planned the gardens, the artificial groves, the walks, and the green retreat of the summer-house; and already they realized in imagination the various domestic blessings and felicities with which they were to be surrounded.Nature was adorned with the bridal ornaments of spring; the radiant sun was sinking behind the groves, casting his sable shades over the valley, while the retiring beams of day adorned the distant eastern eminences with yellow lustre; the birds sung melodiously in the grove; the air was freshened by light western breezes, bearing upon their wings all the entrancing odours of the season; while around the horizon clouds raised their brazen summits, based in the black vapour of approachingnight; and as its darkening shades were advancing, Theodore and Alida returned home. They seated themselves awhile on the piazza, to contemplate the splendours of the evening, and to witness the beauties of one of the most picturesque draperies painted in the landscape of nature.CHAPTER XI.The dreadful din of war is heardWide spreading o’er the land and sea;The battle’s shout and cannon’s roarProclaim the nation shall be free.The nodding plumes, like waving pines,Are shaken by the morning breeze;The gilded armour brightly shines,And patriots sigh for victories.Thetumults of a second war with Great Britain still increased, and was not only exhausting the finances of the country, but called for a still greater sacrifice—all the bravest American youth. A large army of reinforcements was shortly expected from England to land on our shores, and the confused noise of the warriors, with more vigorous and intrepid combat, were already anticipated.Theodore had received a commission in a regiment of militia, and was pressed by several young gentlemen of his acquaintance, who had enlisted in the army, to join it also. He had an excuse: his father was a man in extensive business, was considerably past the prime of life, had a number of agents and clerks under him, but began to feel himself unable to attend to the various and burthensome duties and demands of a mercantile life.Theodore was his only son; his assistance, therefore, became necessary, until, at least, his father could bring his business to a close, which he was now about to effect.Theodore stated these facts to his friends; told them that on every occasion he should be ready to fly to the post of danger when his country was invaded, and that as soon as his father’s affairs became settled, he would, if necessary, join the army.The president was now active in making every exertion in his power, to rouse the feelings of his countrymen to act their parts with honour in the scene that was now before them. He knew that much of the responsibility rested on himself. The capacity he was in with regard to the nation, caused the most material and important business—of directing and superintending the weighty affairs of government—to fall upon his hands; and such was the situation of the country, that it not only called for the exertion, the wisdom, sound judgment, and policy of the presidential chair, but likewise of every patriotic bosom to participate in their endeavours to oppose the depredations against it. The chief executive was entered on a theatre in which he was to act a conspicuous part in this war of America with Great Britain, and to occupy a station in the page of history, where the interestingdetail will reach the ear of remotest ages in the dates of time.In the mean time, the father of Theodore had been absent for three or four days to one of the commercial seaports, on business with some merchants with whom he was connected in trade. He returned the next day after Theodore had got home; his aspect and his conversation were marked with an assumed and unmeaning cheerfulness. At supper he ate nothing, discoursed much, but in an unconnected and hurried manner, interrupted by long pauses, in which he appeared to be buried in contemplation. After supper he asked Theodore “if it were not possible that his union with Alida could be concluded within a few days?” Theodore, startled at so unexpected a question, replied, that such a proposal would be considered extraordinary, perhaps improper; besides, when Alida had named the day, she mentioned that she had an uncle who lived at a distance, whose daughter was to pass the summer with her, and was expected to arrive before the appointed time. It would, he said, be a delicate thing for him to anticipate the nuptials, unless he could give some cogent reason for so doing, and at present he was not apprised that any such existed. His father, after a few moments’ hesitation, answered, “I have reasons which, whentold,”—here he stopped, suddenly arose, hastily walked the room in much visible agony of mind, and then retired to his chamber.Theodore and his mother were much amazed at so strange a proceeding. They could form no conjecture of its cause, or its consequence. Theodore passed a sleepless night. His father’s slumbers were interrupted; he was restless and uneasy: his sleep was broken and disturbed by incoherent mutterings and plaintive moans. In the morning when he appeared at breakfast, his countenance wore the marks of dejection and anguish. He scarcely spoke a word; and after the cloth was removed, he ordered all to withdraw except Theodore and his mother; when, with emotions that spoke the painful feelings of his bosom, he thus addressed them:“For more than thirty years I have been engaged in commerce, in order to acquire independence for myself and my family. To accomplish this, I became connected with some English importing merchants, in a seaport town, and went largely into the English trade. Success crowned our endeavours. On balancing our accounts, two years ago, we found that our expectations were answered, and that we were sufficiently wealthy to close business, which some proposed to do; it was, however, agreed to make one effort more, as somefavourable circumstances appeared to offer, in which we adventured very largely, on a fair calculation of liberal and extensive proceeds. Before returns could be made, the war came on, embarrassments ensued, and by indubitable intelligence lately received, we find that our property in England has been sequestered; five of our ships, laden with English goods, lying in English harbours, and just ready to sail for America, have been seized as lawful prizes; added to this, three vessels from the Indies, laden with island produce, have been taken on their homeward bound voyage, and one lost on her return from Holland.“This wreck of fortune I might have survived, had I to sustain only my equal dividend of the loss; but of the merchants with whom I have been connected, not one remains to share the fate of the event—all have absconded or secreted themselves. To attempt to compound with my creditors would be of little avail, so that the consequence to me is inevitable ruin.“To abscond would not secure me, as most of my remaining property is vested in real estate; and even if it would, I could not consent to it. I could not consent to banish myself from my country, with the view to defraud my creditors. No: I have lived honestly, and honestly will I die. Byfair application and industry my wealth has been obtained, and it shall never justly be said that the reputation of my latter days were sullied with acts of meanness. I have notified and procured a meeting of the creditors, and have laid the matter before them. Some appeared favourable to me, others insinuated that we were all connected in fraudulent designs to swindle our creditors. To this I replied with becoming spirit, and was in consequence threatened with immediate prosecution. Whatever may be the event, I had some hopes that your happiness, Theodore, might yet be secured. Hence I proposed your union with Alida before our misfortunes should be promulgated. Your parents are old, a little will serve the residue of their days. With your acquirements you may make your way in life. I shall now have no property to give you; but I would still wish you to ensure to yourself that which you prize far above, and without which, both honours and emoluments would be unimportant and worthless.”At this moment a loud rap at the door interrupted the discourse, and three men were ushered in, which proved to be the sheriff and his attendants, sent by the more inexorable creditors of Theodore’s father and company, to levy on the property of the former, which orders they faithfully executed byseizing the lands, tenements, and furniture. We will not stop the reader to moralize on this disastrous event—the feelings of the family can better be conceived than described.Hurled, in a moment, from the lofty summit of affluence to the low vale of indigence, Christian philosophy after a while came to the aid of the parents, but who can realize the feelings of the son? Thus suddenly cut short, not only of his prospects of future independence, but even present support, what would be the event of his suit to Alida, and stipulated marriage? Was it not probable that her father would now cancel the contract? Could she consent to become his in his present penurious situation? and could he himself be willing to make her miserable?In this agitated frame of mind he received a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood of Alida, requesting him to come immediately to his house, whither he repaired the following day.This person had ever been the unchanging friend of Theodore; he had heard of the misfortunes of his family, and he deeply sympathized in his distress. He had lately married and settled near the residence of Alida’s father. His name was Raymond. When Theodore arrived at the house of his friend, he was received with the same disinterestedardour he had ever been before, in the day of his most unbounded prosperity. After being seated, Raymond told him the occasion of his sending for him was to propose the adoption of certain measures which he doubted not might be considered highly beneficial, as it respected his future peace and happiness. “Your family misfortunes,” continued he, “have reached the ear of Alida’s father. I know old people, generally speaking, too well to believe he will now consent to receive you as his son-in-law under your present embarrassments. The case is difficult, but not insurmountable. You must first see Alida; she is now in the next room; I will introduce you in; converse with her, after which I will lay my plan before you.”Theodore entered the room. Alida was sitting by a window which looked into a pleasant garden, and over verdant meadows where tall grass waved to the evening breeze; further on, low valleys spread their umbrageous thickets where the dusky shadows of night had began to assemble. On the high hills beyond, the tops of lofty forests, majestically moved by the billowy gales, caught the sun’s last ray. Fleecy summer clouds hovered around the verge of the western horizon, spangled with silvery tints or fringed with the gold of evening. A mournfully murmuring rivulet purled at a little distancefrom the garden, on the borders of a small grove, from whence the American wild dove wafted her sympathetic moaning to the ear of Alida. She was leaning on a small table as she sat by the window, which was thrown up. Her attention was fixed. She did not perceive Raymond and Theodore as they entered. They advanced towards her; she turned, started, and arose. With a melancholy smile she said she supposed it was Mrs. Raymond who was approaching, as she had just left the room. Her countenance was dejected, which, on seeing Theodore, lighted up into a languid sprightliness. It was evident she had been weeping. Raymond retired, and Theodore and Alida seated themselves.“I have broken in upon your solitude, perhaps too unseasonably,” said Theodore. It is however the fault of Raymond; he invited me to walk into the room, but did not inform me that you were alone.“Your presence was sudden and unexpected, but not unseasonable,” replied Alida. I hope that you did not consider any formality necessary in your visits, Theodore?“I once did not think so,” answered Theodore; now I know not what to think—I know not how to act. You have heard of the misfortunes of my father’s family, Alida?“Yes, I have heard the circumstances attending that event,” said she; an event in which no one could be more deeply interested, except the immediate sufferers, than myself.“Your father is also acquainted with my present situation,” said Theodore; and how did he receive the intelligence?“With deep regret,” replied Alida.Has he forbidden you to admit my addresses any longer? if even in an unqualified or indirect manner, it is proper I should know it.“It certainly is,” said Alida. Soon after we received the intelligence of your family misfortunes, my father came into the room where I was sitting: ‘Alida,’ said he, ‘your conduct has ever been that of a dutiful child,—mine, of an indulgent parent. My ultimate wish is to see my children, when settled in life, happy and honourably respected. For this purpose I have bestowed on them a proper education, and design suitably to apportion my property among them. On their part, it is expected they will act prudently and discreetly, especially in those things which concern materially their future peace and welfare: the principal requisite to insure this is a proper connexion in marriage.’ Here my father paused a considerable time, and then continued: ‘I know, my child, that your situationis a very delicate one. Your marriage-day is appointed; it was named under the fairest prospects. By the failure of Theodore’s father, those prospects have become deeply darkened, if not totally obliterated. To commit your fortune through life to a person in his present circumstances, would be hazardous in the extreme. The day named can at least be suspended; perhaps something more favourable may appear. At any rate, I have too much confidence in your discretion to suppose that you will, by any rash act, bring reproach either upon yourself or your connexions.’ Thus spake my father, and immediately withdrew.“In our present dilemma,” said Theodore, “what is proper to be done?”“It is difficult to determine,” answered Alida. “Should my father expressly forbid our union, or to see each other at present, it is probable he will carry his commands into effect. I would advise you to call on him to-morrow with your usual freedom. Whatever may be the event, I shall deal sincerely with you. Mrs. Raymond has been my friend and associate from my earliest years—Raymond you know. In them we can place the utmost confidence. From them you will be enabled to obtain information should I be prevented from seeing you. My reliance on Providence, I trust, willnever be shaken, but my future prospects, at present, are dark and gloomy.”“Let us not despair,” said Theodore; “perhaps those gloomy clouds which now hover around us, may yet be dissipated by the bright beams of joy. Worth and innocence are the care of Heaven,—there rests my hope. To-morrow, as you propose, I will call at your father’s. If I should be debarred in future from seeing you, I will write as formerly, and direct the letters to Raymond.”Alida now returned home, attended by Theodore. A whip-poor-will tuned its nightly song at a distance; but the sound which had so late appeared to them cheerful and sprightly, now passed heavily over their hearts.CHAPTER XII.
“Come, Friendship, twine a wreath for me,And weave it with the choicest flowers,To cheat the ling’ring steps of time,And gladden all life’s passing hours.”
“Come, Friendship, twine a wreath for me,
And weave it with the choicest flowers,
To cheat the ling’ring steps of time,
And gladden all life’s passing hours.”
Thetime now arrived when Theodore was to enter upon his professional studies, and he became engaged in the office of an eminent attorney in New-York. He frequently absented himself, however, to accompany Albert to visit his father’s family, and since his acquaintance with Alida, there was a charm that attracted him thither. If he had admired the manly virtues of the brother, could he fail to adore the gentle graces of the sister? If all the sympathies of the most ardent friendship had been drawn forth toward the former, must not all the softer sensibilities of the heart be attracted by the milder and more refined excellencies of the other?
Bonville had become the admirer of Alida; of course he and Theodore sometimes met. He had made no serious pretensions, but his particularity indicated something more than fashionable politeness. His manners, his independent situation, entitled him to respect. “It is not probable, therefore, that he will be objectionable to her friends, or toAlida herself,” said Theodore, with an involuntary sigh, and as his visits became more frequent, an increasing anxiety took place in his bosom. He wished her to remain single; the idea of losing her by marriage, gave him inexpressible regret. What substitute could supply to him the happy hours he had passed in her company? What charm could wing the lingering moments when she was gone?
How different would be the scene when debarred from the unreserved friendship and conversation of Alida. And unreserved it could not be, were she not exclusively mistress of herself. But was there not something of a more refined texture than friendship in his predilection for the company of Alida? If so, why not avow it? His prospects, his family, and of course his pretensions might not be inferior to those of Bonville.
But perhaps he was preferred. His opportunities: his prior acquaintance with the lady. Distance was no barrier to his addresses. His visits became more and more frequent. Was it not then highly probable that he had gained her affections?
Thus reasoned Theodore, but the reasoning tended not to allay the tempest that was gathering in his bosom. He ordered his carriage, and was in a short time at the seat of Alida’s father. It was summer, and towards evening when he arrived.Alida was sitting by the window when he entered the hall. She arose and received him with a smile. I have just been thinking of an evening’s walk, said she, but had no one to attend me, and you have come just in time to perform that office. I will order tea immediately, while you rest from the fatigues of your journey.
When tea was served up, a servant entered the room with a letter which he had found in the yard. Alida received it. “’Tis a letter,” said she, which I sent by Bonville to a lady in the village, and the careless man has lost it. Turning to Theodore, I forgot to tell you, that your friend Bonville has been with us a few days; he left us this morning. “My friend,” replied Theodore, hastily. “Is he not your friend?” inquired Alida. “I beg pardon, madam,” said he “my mind was absent.” “He requested us to present his respects to his friend Theodore,” said she. Theodore bowed and turned the conversation.
They now walked out, and took a winding path which led through pleasant fields until they reached the water, and continued to pursue their way along the shore till they came to a beautiful and shady grove, where the thick foliage afforded a delightful retreat from the warm rays of the sun, and at the extremity of which was a sloping eminence, whichcommanded an extensive prospect of the surrounding country, part of Long-Island sound and the junction of the bay with the eastern river.
A soft and silent shower had descended. A thousand transitory gems trembled upon the leafy foliage, glittering in the western ray. A bright rainbow sat upon a southern cloud; the light gales whispered among the branches, agitated the young harvest to billowy motion, and moved the tops of the deep green forest with majestic grandeur; while flocks, herds, and cottages were scattered over the resplendent landscape.
“This is a most delightful scene,” said Alida. “It is, truly,” replied Theodore, “do you think that New-York can boast of so charming a prospect?” “Yes, one,” answered she, it is the walk on the battery, the water prospect is similar to this, but the landscape is not so variegated.
See that ship, Theodore, coming down the sound, how she ploughs through the white foam, while the breezes flutter in the sails, varying with the vivid rays of the sun. “Yes,” said Theodore, it bounds with rapid motions over the waves, and ere the day has departed it will probably safely reach the wharf of the city.
They walked leisurely around the hill, and then moved slowly towards home. The sun was sinkinggradually behind the western horizon. Twilight arose dimly in the east, and floated along the air. Darkness began to hover around the woodlands and valleys. The beauties of the landscape slowly receded; the breezes had gone down with the sun, and a perfect calm succeeded.
“I shall never forget this charming promenade,” said Theodore, as he approached the threshold of the door, with a deep drawn sigh, “and the remembrance of the sweet pensive scenery of this delightful spot, will ever continue to haunt my memory.”
To lull affection’s sigh,And dry the tear of sensibility;I’ll think of thee, in all my lonely hours,Though thou, perhaps, may ne’er remember me.
To lull affection’s sigh,
And dry the tear of sensibility;
I’ll think of thee, in all my lonely hours,
Though thou, perhaps, may ne’er remember me.
Thenext day Theodore returned to his studies; but different from his former visits to Alida, instead of exhilarating his spirits, this had tended to depress them. He doubted whether she was not already engaged to Bonville. His hopes would persuade him this was not the case; but his fears declared otherwise.
It was some time before he renewed his visits again. In the interim he received a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood of Alida’s father; an extract from which follows: “We are soon to have a wedding here; you are acquainted with the parties—Alida M. and Bonville. Such at least is our opinion from appearances, as this gentleman is now there more than half his time. You will undoubtedly be invited. We had expected that you would have put in your claims, from your particular attention to the lady. She is a fine girl, Theodore.” I shall never be a guest at Alida’s wedding, said Theodore, as he hastily paced the room; but I must againsee her before that event takes place, when I shall lose her forever.
The ensuing day he repaired to her father’s. He inquired for Alida; she was gone with a party to the shores of the sound, attended by Bonville. At evening they returned. Bonville and Theodore addressed each other with much seeming cordiality. “You have deserted us, Theodore,” said Alida, “we concluded you had forgotten the road to this place.” “Was not that a hasty conclusion?” said Theodore. “I think not,” she answered, “if your long absence should be construed into neglect. But we will hear your excuse,” said she, smiling, “by and by, and perhaps pardon you.”
He thanked her for her condescension.
The next morning Bonville set out to go to New-York. Theodore observed that he took particular leave of Alida, telling her, in a low voice, that he should have the happiness of seeing her again, within two or three weeks certainly.
After he was gone, as Alida and Theodore were sitting in the room alone, “Well,” said she, “am I to hear your excuses, Theodore?” “For what, madam?” “For neglecting your friends.” “I hope it is not so considered, madam.” “Seriously, then, why have you stayed away so long? Hasthis place no charms in the absence of my brother?”
“Would my presence have added to your felicity, Alida?” “You never came an unwelcome visiter here.” “Perhaps I might be sometimes intrusive when Bonville is your guest.” “I have supposed you were on friendly terms,” said she. “We are, but there are seasons when friendship must yield its pretensions to a superior claim.”
“Will you answer me one question, Alida, are you engaged to Bonville?” “He has asked me the same question concerning you,” replied she, (blushing.)
“Do you,” continued Theodore, “prefer him to any other?” Alida, (blushing deeply.) “He has made the same inquiries respecting you.”
“I beg, madam, you will deal with me candidly,” said Theodore, (taking her hand with anxiety.) “I am entitled to no claims, but you know what my heart would ask. I will bow to your decision. Bonville or Theodore must relinquish their pretensions. We cannot share the blessing.”
The cheeks of Alida were suffused with a varying glow, her lips were pale, her voice tremulous, and her eyes cast down. “My father has informed me,” she said, “that it is improper to receive the particular addresses of more than one. I am consciousof my inadvertency, and that the reproof is just. One, therefore, must be dismissed.” But, (she blushed deeper,) and a considerable pause ensued.
At length Theodore arose. “I will not press you further,” said he. “I know the delicacy of your feelings; I know your sincerity; I will not therefore insist on your performing the painful task of deciding against me. Your conduct in every point of view has been discreet. I would have no just claims, or if I had, your heart must sanction them, or they would be unhallowed, and unjustifiable. I shall ever pray for your felicity. Our affections are not under our direction; our happiness depends on our obedience to their mandates. Whatever, then, may be my sufferings, you are unblameable, and irreproachable.”
He took his hat in extreme agitation, and prepared himself to take leave. Alida had recovered in some degree from her embarrassment, and collected her scattered spirits.
“Your conduct, Theodore,” said she, “is generous and noble. Will you give yourself the trouble, and do me the honour to see me once more?” “I will,” said he, “at any time you shall appoint.”
“Four weeks, then,” said she, “from this day,honour me with a visit, and you shall have my decision, and receive my final answer.” “I will be punctual to the day,” he replied, and bade her adieu.
Theodore’s hours from this time winged heavily away. His wonted cheerfulness fled; he wooed the silent and solitary haunts of musing, moping melancholy. He loved to wander through lonely fields, when dewy twilight robed the evening mild, or to trace the forest glen, through which the moon darted her silvery intercepted rays. His agitated thoughts preyed upon his peace incessantly, and deeply disturbed his repose.
He looked anxiously to the hour when Alida was to make the decision. He wished, yet dreaded the event. In that he foresaw, or thought he foresaw, a withering blight to all his hopes, and a final consummation to his foreboding fears. He had pressed Alida, perhaps too urgently, to a declaration. Had her predilection been in his favour, would she have hesitated to avow it? Her father had advised her to relinquish one, and to retain the other, nor had he attempted to influence or direct her choice. Was it not evident, then, from her confused hesitation and embarrassment, when solicited to discriminate upon the subject, that her ultimate decision would be in favour of Bonville?
While Theodore’s mind was thus in agitation, he received a second letter from his friend in the neighbourhood of Alida. He read the following clause therein with emotions more easily to be conceived than expressed: “Alida’s wedding-day is appointed. I need not tell you that Bonville is to be the happy deity of the hymenial sacrifice. I had it from his own declaration. He did not name the positive day, but it is certainly to be soon. You will undoubtedly, however, have timely notice, and receive an invitation.”
“We must pour out a liberal libation upon the mystic altar, Theodore, and twine the nuptial garland with wreaths of joy. Bonville should devote a rich offering to so valuable a prize. He has been here for a week, and departed for New-York yesterday, but is shortly to return.”
And why have I ever doubted this event? said Theodore. What infatuation hath then led me on in the pursuit of fantastic and unreal bliss? I have had, it is true, no positive assurances that Alida would be disposed to favour my addresses. But why did she ever receive them? Why did she enchantingly smile upon me? Why fascinate the soft powers of my heart by that winning mildness, and the favourable display of those complicated and superior attractions which she must have knownwere irresistible? And now she would have me dance attendance to her decision in favour of another—insulting; let Bonville and herself make it, as they have formed this farcical decision. I absolutely will never attend it. Why did she not spurn me from her confidence, and plainly tell me that my attentions were untimely and improper?
But, I have engaged to see her at an appointed time; my honour is therefore pledged for an interview; it must take place. I shall endeavour to support it with becoming dignity, and I will convince Alida and Bonville, that I am not the dupe of their caprices. But, let me consider—What has Alida done to deserve censure or reproach? Her brother was my early friend; she has treated me as a friend to that brother. She was unconscious of the affection which her charms and mental graces had kindled in my bosom. Her evident embarrassment, on receiving my declaration, witnessed her surprise and prior attachment. What could she do to save herself the pain of a direct denial? She has appointed a day when her refusal may come in a more delicate and formal manner—and I must therefore meet it.
The time draws near when I shall meet those eyes, that may perchance look cold on me—“but doubt is called the beacon of the wise, thetest that reachesto the bottom of the worst.”
Onthe appointed day, Theodore proceeded to the house of Alida’s father, where he arrived late in the afternoon. Alida had retired to a little summer-house at the end of the garden. A servant conducted him thither.
She was dressed in a flowing robe of white muslin, richly embroidered. Her hair was in dishevelled curls; she was contemplating a bouquet of flowers which she held in her hand. Theodore fancied she never appeared so lovely. She arose to receive him.
We have been expecting you for some time, said she; we were anxious to inform you that we have just received a letter from my brother, in which he desires us to present you his most friendly respects, and complains of your not visiting him lately so frequently as usual. Theodore thanked her for the information; said that business had prevented him; he esteemed him as his most valuable friend, and would be more particular in future.
“We have been thronged with company severaldays,” said Alida. The last of them took their departure yesterday. And I have only to regret, that I have nearly a week been prevented from taking my favourite walk to the grove, to which place you attended me when you were last here. “We will walk there, then, if you have no objections, as no doubt it is much improved since that time,” said Theodore. They resorted thither towards evening, and seated themselves in the arbour where they sat some time contemplating the scenery.
It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow hue was spread over the natural beauties of creation. The withering forest began to shed its decaying foliage, which the light gales pursued along the russet fields;—the low sun extended its lengthening shadows;—curling smoke ascended from the neighbouring village and the surrounding cottages;—a thick fog crept along the valleys;—a grey mist hovered over the tops of the distant hills;—the glassy surface of the water glittering to the sun’s departing ray;—the solemn herds lowed in monotonous symphony;—the autumnal insects, in sympathetic wafting, plaintively predicted their approaching fate.
The scene is changed since we last visited this place, said Alida; “the gay charms of summer arebeginning to decay, and must soon yield their splendours to the rude despoiling hand of winter.”
“That will be the case,” said Theodore, “before I shall have the pleasure of your company here again.” “That may probably be, though it is nearly two months yet to winter,” said Alida.
“Great changes may take place within that time,” said Theodore. Yes, changes must take place, she answered, but nothing, I hope to embitter present prospects.
As it respects yourself, I trust not, madam. “And I sincerely hope not, as it respects you, Theodore.” That wish, said he, I believe is vain.
Your feelings accord with the season, Theodore; you are melancholy. Shall we return?
“I ask your pardon, madam; I know I am unsociable. You speak of returning; you know the occasion of my being here. You cannot have forgotten your own appointment and consequent engagement?” She made no answer.
I know, Alida, that you are incapable of duplicity or evasion. I have promised and now repeat the declaration, that I will silently submit to your decision. This you have engaged to make, and this is the time you have appointed. The pain of present suspense can scarcely be surpassed by the pang of disappointment. On your part you havenothing to fear. I trust you have candidly determined, and will decide explicitly.
“I am placed in an exceedingly delicate situation,” answered Alida, (sighing.) “I know you are, madam,” said Theodore, “but your own honour, your own peace, require that you should extricate yourself from the perplexing embarrassment.”
“That I am convinced of,” replied she. “I know that I have been inadvertently indiscreet. I have admitted the addresses of Bonville and yourself, without calculating or expecting the consequences. You have both treated me honourably and with respect. You are both on equal grounds as to standing in life. With Bonville I became first acquainted. As it relates to him, some new arrangements have taken place since you came here.”
Theodore interrupted her with emotion. “Of those arrangements I am acquainted, I received the intelligence from a friend in your neighbourhood. I am prepared for the event.”
Alida remained silent. “I have mentioned before,” resumed Theodore, “that whatever may be your decision, no impropriety can attach to you. I might add, indeed, from various circumstances, and from the information I possess, I perhaps should not have given you further trouble on the occasion, had it not been from your own direction. And I amnow willing to retire without further explanation, without giving you the pain of an express decision, if you think the measure expedient. Your declaration can only be a matter of form, the consequence of which I know, and my proposition may save your feelings.”
“No, Theodore,” replied she, “my reputation depends on my adherence to my first determination; justice to yourself and to Bonville also demand it. After what has passed, I should be considered as acting capriciously, and inconsistently, should I depart from it. Bonville will be here to-morrow, and you must consent to stay with us until that time; the matter shall then be decided.” “Yes,” said Theodore, “it shall be as you say, madam. Make your arrangements as you please.”
Evening came on, and spread around her sombre shades;—the breeze’s rustling wing was in the tree:—the sound of the low, murmuring brooks, and the far-off waterfall, were faintly heard;—the frequent lights in the village darted their pale lustre through the gloom:—the solitary whip-poor-wills stationed themselves along the woody glens, the groves and rocky pastures, and sung a requiem to departed summer;—a dark cloud was rising in the west, across whose gloomy front the vivid lightning bent its forky spires.
Theodore and Alida moved slowly towards home; she appeared enraptured with the melancholy splendours of the evening, but another subject engaged the mental attention of Theodore.
Bonville arrived the next day. He gave his hand to Theodore with seeming warmth of friendship. If it was reciprocated, it must have been affected. There was no alteration in the manners and conversation of Alida; her discourse, as usual, was sprightly and interesting. After dinner she retired, and her father requested Theodore and Bonville to withdraw with him to a private room. After they were seated, the old gentleman thus addressed them:
“I have called you here, gentlemen, to perform my duty as a parent to my daughter, and as a friend to you. You have both addressed Alida; while your addresses were merely formal, they were innocent; but when they became serious, they were dangerous. Your pretensions I consider equal, and between honourable pretenders, who are worthy of my daughter, I shall not attempt to influence her choice. That choice, however, can rest only on one; she has engaged to decide between you. I am come, to make in her name this decision. The following are my terms: no difficulty shall arise between you, gentlemen, in consequence of her determination; nothing shall go abroad respecting theaffair; it shall be settled under my roof. As soon as I have pronounced Alida’s declaration, you shall both depart, and absent my house for at least two weeks, as it would be improper for my daughter to see either of you at present; after that period I shall be happy to receive your visits.” Theodore and Bonville pledged their honour to abide implicitly by these injunctions.
He then further observed: “This, gentlemen, is all I require. I have said that I considered your pretensions equal; so has my daughter treated them. You have both made professions to her; she has appointed a time to answer you. That time has now arrived, and I now inform you—that she has decided in favour of Theodore.”
These words from Alida’s father, burst upon the mental powers of Bonville like sudden and tremendous thunder on the deep and sullen silence of night. Unaccustomed to disappointment, he had calculated on assured success. His addresses to the ladies generally had been honourably received. Alida was the first whose charms were capable of rendering them sincere. He was not ignorant of Theodore’s attentions to her; it gave him, however, but little uneasiness. He believed that his superior acquired graces would eclipse the pretensions of his rival. He considered himself a connoisseur in character,especially in that of the ladies. He conformed to their taste; he flattered their foibles, and obsequiously bowed to the minutia of female volatility. He considered himself skilled in the language of the heart; and he trusted that from his pre-eminent powers in the science of affection, he had only to see, to make use of, and to conquer.
He had frankly offered his hand to Alida, and pressed her for a decisive answer. This from time to time she suspended, and finally named a day in which to give him and Theodore a determinate one, though neither knew the arrangements made with the other. Alida finding, however, the dilemma in which she was placed, and she had previously consulted her father. He had no objections to her choosing between two persons of equal claims to affluence and respectability. This choice she had made, and her father was considered the most proper person to pronounce it.
When Bonville had urged Alida to answer him decidedly, he supposed that her hesitation, delay and suspensions, were only the effect of diffidence. He had no suspicion of her ultimate conclusion, and when she finally named the day to decide, he was confident her voice would be in his favour. These sentiments he had communicated to the person who had written to Theodore, intimating that Alida hadfixed a time which was to crown his sanguine wishes. He had listened, therefore, attentively to the words of her father, momentarily expecting to hear himself declared the favourite choice of the fair. What then must have been his disappointment when the name of Theodore was pronounced instead of his own! The highly-finished scene of pleasure and future happy prospects which his ardent imagination had depicted, now vanished in a moment. The bright sun of his early hopes was veiled in darkness at this unexpected decision.
Very different were the sensations which inspired the bosom of Theodore. He had not even calculated on a decision in his favour; he believed that Bonville would be the choice of Alida. She had told him, that the form of deciding was necessary to save appearances; with this form he complied, because she desired it, not because he expected the result would be in his favour. He had not, therefore, attended to the words of Alida’s father with that eagerness which favourable anticipations commonly produce.
But when his name was mentioned; when he found that he was the choice, the happy favourite of Alida’s affection, every ardent feeling of his soul became interested, and was suddenly aroused to therefinements of sensibility. Like an electric shock it re-animated his existence, and the bright morning of joy quickly dissipated the gloom which hung over his mind.
“Dark gathering clouds involve the threat’ning skies,The billows heave with the impending gloom;Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise,Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm.”
“Dark gathering clouds involve the threat’ning skies,
The billows heave with the impending gloom;
Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise,
Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm.”
Severalweeks passed away, and Theodore felt all that anxiety and impatience which a separation from a beloved object can produce. He framed a thousand excuses to visit Alida, yet he feared a visit might be premature. He was, however, necessitated to make a journey to a distant part of the country, after which he resolved to see her.
He performed the business he went on, and was returning. It was toward evening, and the day had been uncommonly sultry for the autumnal season. A rising shower blackened the western hemisphere; the dark vapours ascended in folding ridges, and the thunder rolled at a distance.
Theodore saw he should be overtaken by the rain. He discovered an elegant seat about a hundred yards distant from the road; thither he hastened to gain shelter from the approaching storm.
The owner of the mansion met him at the door, and politely invited him in, while a servant stood ready to take his horse.
He was ushered into a large apartment, genteelly furnished, where the family and several young ladies were sitting. As he glanced his eye hastily around the room, he thought he recognized a familiar countenance. A hurried succession of confused ideas for a moment crossed his recollection. In a moment he discovered that it was Alida.
By this unexpected meeting they were both completely embarrassed. Alida, however, arose, and, in rather a confused manner, introduced Theodore to the company as the friend of her brother.
The rain continued most part of the afternoon. Theodore was urged by the family, and consented to stay the night. A moonlight evening succeeded the shower, which invited the young people to walk in an adjoining garden. Alida informed Theodore that the owner of the mansion was a distant relative of her father, who had two amiable daughters, not far from her own age. She had been invited there to pass a week, and expected to return within two days. “And,” she added, smiling, “perhaps, Theodore, we may have an opportunity once more to visit our favourite grove, before winter entirely destroys the remaining beauties of the summer.”
Theodore felt all the force of the remark. He recollected the conversation when they were last atthe place she mentioned; and he well remembered his feelings on that occasion.
“Great changes, indeed,” he replied, “have taken place since we were last there;—that they are productive of unexpected and unexampled happiness to me, is due, Alida, to yourself alone.”
Theodore departed next morning, appointing the next week to visit Alida at her father’s house. Thus were the obstacles removed which had presented a barrier to their united wishes. They had not, it is true, been separated by wide seas, unfeeling parents, nor, as yet, by the rigorous laws of war; but vexations, doubts, and difficulties had thus far attended them, which had now happily disappeared, and they calculated on no unpropitious event which might thwart their future happiness.
All the hours that Theodore could spare from his studies were devoted to Alida; and their parents began to calculate on joining their hands as soon as his professional term of study was completed.
Hostilities that had previously commenced with England had been followed by several battles. “The panic and general bustle which prevailed at this time, will yet be remembered by many.” These circumstances were not calculated to impress the mind of Alida with the most pleasant sensations. She foresaw that the burden of the war must reston the American youth, and she trembled in anticipation for the fate of Theodore. He, with others, should it continue, must take the field in defence of his country. The effects of such a separation were dubious and gloomy. Theodore and herself frequently discoursed on the subject, and they agreed to form the mystic union previous to any wide separation. One event tended to hasten this resolution: The attorney in whose office Theodore was engaged received a commission in the new-raised American army, and marched to the lines near Boston. His business was therefore suspended, and Theodore returned to the house of his father. He considered that he could not remain long a mere spectator of the contest, and that it might soon become his duty to take the field, therefore concluded to hasten his marriage with Alida. She consented to the proposition, and their parents made the necessary arrangements for the event. The place was fixed upon which was to be their future residence. It was a pleasantly situated eminence, commanding an extensive prospect. On the west, forests unevenly lifted their rude heads, with here and there a solitary field, newly cleared, and thinly scattered with cottages. To the east, the eye extended over a soil at one time swelling into woody elevations, and at another spreading itself into vales of the most enchantingverdure. To the north it extended to the palisades, wooded to their summits, and throwing their shadows over intervals of equal wilderness, till at length the eye, wandering far beyond, was arrested in its excursions by the blue mist which hovered over the distant mountains, more grand, majestic, and lofty. The inhabitants around were mild, sociable, moral, and diligent. The produce of their own fields gave them the most of what was necessary, and they were happily free from all dissipation and luxury.
Such was the site marked out for the residence of Theodore and Alida. They visited the spot, and were enraptured with its pensive, romantic beauties.
“Here,” said Theodore, “we will one day pass our time in all the felicity of mind which the chequered scenes of life will admit. In the spring, we will roam among the flowers; in summer, we will gather strawberries in yonder fields, or raspberries from the adjacent shrubbery. The breezes of fragrant morning and the sighs of the evening gale will be mingled with the songs of the various birds which frequent the surrounding groves. We will gather the bending fruits of autumn, and will listen with pleasure to the hoarse, murmuring voice of winter—its whistling winds, its driving snow and rattling hail—with delight.”
The bright gems of joy glistened in the eyes of Alida as Theodore described this pleasing scene of anticipation.
Winter came on; it rapidly passed away. Spring advanced, and the marriage day was appointed. Preparations for the hymenial ceremony were making, and invitations had already gone abroad. Albert was particularly sent for, and all was approaching to readiness for this happy event.
Theodore and Alida again promenaded to the spot which had been chosen for their habitation; they projected the structure of the buildings, planned the gardens, the artificial groves, the walks, and the green retreat of the summer-house; and already they realized in imagination the various domestic blessings and felicities with which they were to be surrounded.
Nature was adorned with the bridal ornaments of spring; the radiant sun was sinking behind the groves, casting his sable shades over the valley, while the retiring beams of day adorned the distant eastern eminences with yellow lustre; the birds sung melodiously in the grove; the air was freshened by light western breezes, bearing upon their wings all the entrancing odours of the season; while around the horizon clouds raised their brazen summits, based in the black vapour of approachingnight; and as its darkening shades were advancing, Theodore and Alida returned home. They seated themselves awhile on the piazza, to contemplate the splendours of the evening, and to witness the beauties of one of the most picturesque draperies painted in the landscape of nature.
The dreadful din of war is heardWide spreading o’er the land and sea;The battle’s shout and cannon’s roarProclaim the nation shall be free.The nodding plumes, like waving pines,Are shaken by the morning breeze;The gilded armour brightly shines,And patriots sigh for victories.
The dreadful din of war is heard
Wide spreading o’er the land and sea;
The battle’s shout and cannon’s roar
Proclaim the nation shall be free.
The nodding plumes, like waving pines,
Are shaken by the morning breeze;
The gilded armour brightly shines,
And patriots sigh for victories.
Thetumults of a second war with Great Britain still increased, and was not only exhausting the finances of the country, but called for a still greater sacrifice—all the bravest American youth. A large army of reinforcements was shortly expected from England to land on our shores, and the confused noise of the warriors, with more vigorous and intrepid combat, were already anticipated.
Theodore had received a commission in a regiment of militia, and was pressed by several young gentlemen of his acquaintance, who had enlisted in the army, to join it also. He had an excuse: his father was a man in extensive business, was considerably past the prime of life, had a number of agents and clerks under him, but began to feel himself unable to attend to the various and burthensome duties and demands of a mercantile life.Theodore was his only son; his assistance, therefore, became necessary, until, at least, his father could bring his business to a close, which he was now about to effect.
Theodore stated these facts to his friends; told them that on every occasion he should be ready to fly to the post of danger when his country was invaded, and that as soon as his father’s affairs became settled, he would, if necessary, join the army.
The president was now active in making every exertion in his power, to rouse the feelings of his countrymen to act their parts with honour in the scene that was now before them. He knew that much of the responsibility rested on himself. The capacity he was in with regard to the nation, caused the most material and important business—of directing and superintending the weighty affairs of government—to fall upon his hands; and such was the situation of the country, that it not only called for the exertion, the wisdom, sound judgment, and policy of the presidential chair, but likewise of every patriotic bosom to participate in their endeavours to oppose the depredations against it. The chief executive was entered on a theatre in which he was to act a conspicuous part in this war of America with Great Britain, and to occupy a station in the page of history, where the interestingdetail will reach the ear of remotest ages in the dates of time.
In the mean time, the father of Theodore had been absent for three or four days to one of the commercial seaports, on business with some merchants with whom he was connected in trade. He returned the next day after Theodore had got home; his aspect and his conversation were marked with an assumed and unmeaning cheerfulness. At supper he ate nothing, discoursed much, but in an unconnected and hurried manner, interrupted by long pauses, in which he appeared to be buried in contemplation. After supper he asked Theodore “if it were not possible that his union with Alida could be concluded within a few days?” Theodore, startled at so unexpected a question, replied, that such a proposal would be considered extraordinary, perhaps improper; besides, when Alida had named the day, she mentioned that she had an uncle who lived at a distance, whose daughter was to pass the summer with her, and was expected to arrive before the appointed time. It would, he said, be a delicate thing for him to anticipate the nuptials, unless he could give some cogent reason for so doing, and at present he was not apprised that any such existed. His father, after a few moments’ hesitation, answered, “I have reasons which, whentold,”—here he stopped, suddenly arose, hastily walked the room in much visible agony of mind, and then retired to his chamber.
Theodore and his mother were much amazed at so strange a proceeding. They could form no conjecture of its cause, or its consequence. Theodore passed a sleepless night. His father’s slumbers were interrupted; he was restless and uneasy: his sleep was broken and disturbed by incoherent mutterings and plaintive moans. In the morning when he appeared at breakfast, his countenance wore the marks of dejection and anguish. He scarcely spoke a word; and after the cloth was removed, he ordered all to withdraw except Theodore and his mother; when, with emotions that spoke the painful feelings of his bosom, he thus addressed them:
“For more than thirty years I have been engaged in commerce, in order to acquire independence for myself and my family. To accomplish this, I became connected with some English importing merchants, in a seaport town, and went largely into the English trade. Success crowned our endeavours. On balancing our accounts, two years ago, we found that our expectations were answered, and that we were sufficiently wealthy to close business, which some proposed to do; it was, however, agreed to make one effort more, as somefavourable circumstances appeared to offer, in which we adventured very largely, on a fair calculation of liberal and extensive proceeds. Before returns could be made, the war came on, embarrassments ensued, and by indubitable intelligence lately received, we find that our property in England has been sequestered; five of our ships, laden with English goods, lying in English harbours, and just ready to sail for America, have been seized as lawful prizes; added to this, three vessels from the Indies, laden with island produce, have been taken on their homeward bound voyage, and one lost on her return from Holland.
“This wreck of fortune I might have survived, had I to sustain only my equal dividend of the loss; but of the merchants with whom I have been connected, not one remains to share the fate of the event—all have absconded or secreted themselves. To attempt to compound with my creditors would be of little avail, so that the consequence to me is inevitable ruin.
“To abscond would not secure me, as most of my remaining property is vested in real estate; and even if it would, I could not consent to it. I could not consent to banish myself from my country, with the view to defraud my creditors. No: I have lived honestly, and honestly will I die. Byfair application and industry my wealth has been obtained, and it shall never justly be said that the reputation of my latter days were sullied with acts of meanness. I have notified and procured a meeting of the creditors, and have laid the matter before them. Some appeared favourable to me, others insinuated that we were all connected in fraudulent designs to swindle our creditors. To this I replied with becoming spirit, and was in consequence threatened with immediate prosecution. Whatever may be the event, I had some hopes that your happiness, Theodore, might yet be secured. Hence I proposed your union with Alida before our misfortunes should be promulgated. Your parents are old, a little will serve the residue of their days. With your acquirements you may make your way in life. I shall now have no property to give you; but I would still wish you to ensure to yourself that which you prize far above, and without which, both honours and emoluments would be unimportant and worthless.”
At this moment a loud rap at the door interrupted the discourse, and three men were ushered in, which proved to be the sheriff and his attendants, sent by the more inexorable creditors of Theodore’s father and company, to levy on the property of the former, which orders they faithfully executed byseizing the lands, tenements, and furniture. We will not stop the reader to moralize on this disastrous event—the feelings of the family can better be conceived than described.
Hurled, in a moment, from the lofty summit of affluence to the low vale of indigence, Christian philosophy after a while came to the aid of the parents, but who can realize the feelings of the son? Thus suddenly cut short, not only of his prospects of future independence, but even present support, what would be the event of his suit to Alida, and stipulated marriage? Was it not probable that her father would now cancel the contract? Could she consent to become his in his present penurious situation? and could he himself be willing to make her miserable?
In this agitated frame of mind he received a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood of Alida, requesting him to come immediately to his house, whither he repaired the following day.
This person had ever been the unchanging friend of Theodore; he had heard of the misfortunes of his family, and he deeply sympathized in his distress. He had lately married and settled near the residence of Alida’s father. His name was Raymond. When Theodore arrived at the house of his friend, he was received with the same disinterestedardour he had ever been before, in the day of his most unbounded prosperity. After being seated, Raymond told him the occasion of his sending for him was to propose the adoption of certain measures which he doubted not might be considered highly beneficial, as it respected his future peace and happiness. “Your family misfortunes,” continued he, “have reached the ear of Alida’s father. I know old people, generally speaking, too well to believe he will now consent to receive you as his son-in-law under your present embarrassments. The case is difficult, but not insurmountable. You must first see Alida; she is now in the next room; I will introduce you in; converse with her, after which I will lay my plan before you.”
Theodore entered the room. Alida was sitting by a window which looked into a pleasant garden, and over verdant meadows where tall grass waved to the evening breeze; further on, low valleys spread their umbrageous thickets where the dusky shadows of night had began to assemble. On the high hills beyond, the tops of lofty forests, majestically moved by the billowy gales, caught the sun’s last ray. Fleecy summer clouds hovered around the verge of the western horizon, spangled with silvery tints or fringed with the gold of evening. A mournfully murmuring rivulet purled at a little distancefrom the garden, on the borders of a small grove, from whence the American wild dove wafted her sympathetic moaning to the ear of Alida. She was leaning on a small table as she sat by the window, which was thrown up. Her attention was fixed. She did not perceive Raymond and Theodore as they entered. They advanced towards her; she turned, started, and arose. With a melancholy smile she said she supposed it was Mrs. Raymond who was approaching, as she had just left the room. Her countenance was dejected, which, on seeing Theodore, lighted up into a languid sprightliness. It was evident she had been weeping. Raymond retired, and Theodore and Alida seated themselves.
“I have broken in upon your solitude, perhaps too unseasonably,” said Theodore. It is however the fault of Raymond; he invited me to walk into the room, but did not inform me that you were alone.
“Your presence was sudden and unexpected, but not unseasonable,” replied Alida. I hope that you did not consider any formality necessary in your visits, Theodore?
“I once did not think so,” answered Theodore; now I know not what to think—I know not how to act. You have heard of the misfortunes of my father’s family, Alida?
“Yes, I have heard the circumstances attending that event,” said she; an event in which no one could be more deeply interested, except the immediate sufferers, than myself.
“Your father is also acquainted with my present situation,” said Theodore; and how did he receive the intelligence?
“With deep regret,” replied Alida.
Has he forbidden you to admit my addresses any longer? if even in an unqualified or indirect manner, it is proper I should know it.
“It certainly is,” said Alida. Soon after we received the intelligence of your family misfortunes, my father came into the room where I was sitting: ‘Alida,’ said he, ‘your conduct has ever been that of a dutiful child,—mine, of an indulgent parent. My ultimate wish is to see my children, when settled in life, happy and honourably respected. For this purpose I have bestowed on them a proper education, and design suitably to apportion my property among them. On their part, it is expected they will act prudently and discreetly, especially in those things which concern materially their future peace and welfare: the principal requisite to insure this is a proper connexion in marriage.’ Here my father paused a considerable time, and then continued: ‘I know, my child, that your situationis a very delicate one. Your marriage-day is appointed; it was named under the fairest prospects. By the failure of Theodore’s father, those prospects have become deeply darkened, if not totally obliterated. To commit your fortune through life to a person in his present circumstances, would be hazardous in the extreme. The day named can at least be suspended; perhaps something more favourable may appear. At any rate, I have too much confidence in your discretion to suppose that you will, by any rash act, bring reproach either upon yourself or your connexions.’ Thus spake my father, and immediately withdrew.
“In our present dilemma,” said Theodore, “what is proper to be done?”
“It is difficult to determine,” answered Alida. “Should my father expressly forbid our union, or to see each other at present, it is probable he will carry his commands into effect. I would advise you to call on him to-morrow with your usual freedom. Whatever may be the event, I shall deal sincerely with you. Mrs. Raymond has been my friend and associate from my earliest years—Raymond you know. In them we can place the utmost confidence. From them you will be enabled to obtain information should I be prevented from seeing you. My reliance on Providence, I trust, willnever be shaken, but my future prospects, at present, are dark and gloomy.”
“Let us not despair,” said Theodore; “perhaps those gloomy clouds which now hover around us, may yet be dissipated by the bright beams of joy. Worth and innocence are the care of Heaven,—there rests my hope. To-morrow, as you propose, I will call at your father’s. If I should be debarred in future from seeing you, I will write as formerly, and direct the letters to Raymond.”
Alida now returned home, attended by Theodore. A whip-poor-will tuned its nightly song at a distance; but the sound which had so late appeared to them cheerful and sprightly, now passed heavily over their hearts.