'Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant;Let the dead Past bury in dead;Act—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead!'
'Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant;Let the dead Past bury in dead;Act—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead!'
'Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant;Let the dead Past bury in dead;Act—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead!'
I can see the vigorous, upward fling of his arm, as shouting that last line, he shakes out his banner in the morning breeze! It thrills through every nerve, as I recite it."
"His is the true Bible philosophy," said Emma, "'living by the day,'—saying, as we fall asleep at night—
'To-morrow, Lord! isThine,Lodged in Thy sovereign hand;And if its sun arise and shine.It shines by Thy command!'
'To-morrow, Lord! isThine,Lodged in Thy sovereign hand;And if its sun arise and shine.It shines by Thy command!'
'To-morrow, Lord! isThine,Lodged in Thy sovereign hand;And if its sun arise and shine.It shines by Thy command!'
"Dear Lynn!" sighed Ida. "They sung that hymn at his funeral."
"'Looking mournfully!'" said Emma, in affectionate chiding.
"Yes! yet not repiningly. I was thinking, also, of the sure pleasure we have in the possession of our Father's love. We know that is pure, and cannot pass away; while our most sinless earthly attachments are enjoyed with trembling."
The Sunday-school, a novelty to all—the scoff of not a few, opened with fifty scholars and five teachers—Dr. and Mrs. Hall, Mr. Latham, a student of medicine andprotegéof the former, Ida and Emma. Classing the children according to their capacity and attainments, the Doctor apportioned an equal number to each of his assistants, and planted himself before a form, containing ten of the most unpromising. "There must be an awkward squad," he said, afterwards, "and who is more fit to command it?" Reinforcements were on the ground by the following Sabbath. The number of pupils constantly increased; some who came to see remained to teach; and others were pressed into service by the energetic superintendent. Having induced him to put his hand to the plough, Ida gave over her exertions in that quarter; he drove as straight and deep a furrow as she could have desired. She was a teacher in an obscure corner, and nothing in her appearance or that of her class, distinguished them from the crowd, but when the thread-like rill widened into a flood, bearing broadly, steadily onward, the wonder and praise of its early opponents, she felt an honest pride in the reflection, that the witch-wand of Christian charity which had bent to the source of the stream was hers. Dr. Hall was mindful of this, and with the mistaken, butwell-meant importunity of gratitude, begged her to occupy a more conspicuous post. She had contributed largely to the library, the selection of which was left wholly to her, and he entreated her to act as librarian. She declined, laughingly, and more positively, as he insisted; and at length, was driven to say, that "if it were for the actual good of the school, she would even do violence to her sense of propriety, and comply; as it was not, she hoped to be excused from occupying a stand, which was, for a lady, at best, but an honorable pillory." And the Doctor, finally comprehending what other men as wise and exemplary, are slow to admit—that to use one's talents does not imply the abandonment of the retiring modesty of womanhood—installed Mr. Latham in the vacant chair.
Ida was not too much absorbed in her numerous avocations to think of, and communicate with her absent friends. Her correspondence with Mrs. Dana, Carry and Charley was regular; John Dana wrote longer letters to her than to any one besides his wife; she heard, once in a while, from Alice Murray, and through her, learned that Mrs. Read was living in strict retirement at her father's, seeing none but her near relatives and friends; and that Richard was playing the lover to Lelia Arnold. "But," said the merry writer—"who angles for him, must bait one of these patent hooks, which hold, as well as catch." Ida sighed softly, as she read, and was unceasingly busy for the rest of the day; her infallible remedy for sombre thoughts. Mrs. Read had written once, while Ida was at Mr. Dana's—a mere note of remembrances and thanks. She might have supposed that Josephine had forgotten her existence, but for an uncomfortable suspicion that the cessation of Anna's friendly billets was owing to her influence. Ellen Morris wrote often, and spent a fortnight with her and Emma in August. Ida signalled Carry of the intended visit, and invited her to join in the re-union. She was eagerly expected each evening of Ellen's stay, and as often they looked in vain. The guest had been gone a week, before tidings came from Poplar grove. It was a double letter. Arthur wrote that the little Ida was recovering from an alarming illness. The crisis had passed now. They would have sent for her, but the child's danger was so imminent for manydays, that there was no certainty that she would survive until a letter reached Sunnybank. "If she had died"—and the strong physician's hand had trembled as he wrote it—"I should have taken our Carry to you. It was a heart-breaking trial to her—I trust, not an unsanctified one."
Carry's was a blotted sheet, penned in agitation or haste, but its contents were cheering wine to Ida's soul. There was much said of her unworthiness, and thankless reception of the goodness which had followed her all the days of her life, and thanksgivings for her child's restoration, with slight allusions to her harrowing anxiety, while it was suspended 'twixt life and death. "Pray, dear Ida," said she, "that I may forever cling to the cross, to which I fled in my distressful hour!"
"Another!" said Ida, with tearful gladness. "Oh! blessed Redeemer! is there not room in Thy fold forall?"
"Surely," she replied to Carry, "None of us liveth to himself, and none of us dieth to himself. My darling name-child, (may she be one of the Saviour's lambs!) has, in her unconscious infancy, led her mother to Him. My own Carry! this is what I have prayed for from the first hour in which I prayed at all. If the angels in heaven rejoice over repenting sinners, shall not we, who have sinned, suffered with them, rejoice the more at their emancipation from bondage? By what various avenues of approach do we arrive at the Cross! our Hope! Some fly, scourged by fears of the wrath to come; some are drawn by the gentle cords of love—attracted by the majestic sweetness of the Saviour's smile; others, like you, for comfort in sharp and sudden sorrow; and others yet, with myself, having quaffed in quick succession, the beaded nectar that knowledge, worldly applause, earthly loves gave to our parched lips, come weary, distraught—our blood drying with the fierce heat of the poison, to lie down beside the still waters. Oh! my beloved! the delights of sin may entice, and cavillers ridicule, as false professors cast reproach upon our holy religion; but let us make it the one object of life—all duties and pleasures subservient to it; let us love it—work for it; never raising our hands, to sink again idly, but striking blows which shall tell our zeal for Christ's kingdom!
"I long to see you and your dear ones. If you cannot come before, you are pledged to me for a part—say the whole, of October. The entire family—my guardian and your sister, Charley and the 'wee ones' are to celebrate my majority then. My nominal majority—virtually, I am as free as I ever expect to be. Emma is a treasure to me, and she seems happy. Who could have presaged, in our school days, that we would live and labor together!"
Laura Pinely was practising her music lesson in the parlor one day, when the entrance of a visitor transferred the motion from her fingers to her feet. "I only glanced at him as he bowed to me on my way out," she said to Ida. "He is tall and handsome."
"Have you ever seen, Mr. Dana?"
"Yes ma'am, and it is not he. This is a younger man, and much fairer."
"Who can it be?" pondered Ida, crossing the hall. "I wish he had sent in his name; I do not like to be taken by surprise."
But she was, as Richard Copeland rose to meet her.
"I had no thought of seeing you!" she said, expressing her pleasure at his coming. "I did not know you were in this part of the country."
"Nor was I, yesterday."
"You have been riding all day; have you dined?"
He arrested her movement towards the bell. "What are you about to do?"
"Order refreshments for yourself, and have your horse put up."
"'Entertainment for man and beast?'" he responded, with a sickly smile. "I dined on the road—my steed ditto; and he can stand where he is for a half-hour."
"Half-an-hour, Mr. Copeland! You are not in the city!"
"But my visit must be short. How has the world treated you since our parting?"
"Excellently well!" said she, gaily, but secretly ill at ease at the alteration she observed in him. His manner to her was subduedly respectful; but a reckless,blaséair hung about him, token of carelessness or dissipation.
"Your friends at home are well, I hope," she said.
"Quite well. Helen—" the remembered cloud lowered gloomily—"sent her regards."
"And you may carry my love back to her. I will not repay formality by formality."
"Love?" questioned he, with a keen glance.
"Yes—why not?"
"What reason have you to love her?"
"Certainly no cause for dislike," she replied. "She treated me kindly."
"'A dizzy man sees the world go round;'" quoted Richard.
"Mr. Copeland!" said Ida, with a grave sincerity, that always unmasked dissimulation. "For the short time we are together, let us speak as friends, who understand each other. Or do you prefer that I shall meet you upon your own ground of satirical innuendo?"
"Asfriends, Miss Ida! you have proved that the name is not meaningless. But we do not understand each other."
"Wedid!" said she.
"Partially. You have risen—I fallen in the scale of being, since then. Your conduct to my unhappy sister, has imposed a debt of gratitude upon us—upon me, especially, which words cannot liquidate. This is the one subject of mutual interest to Helen and myself. She is, in effect, a cloistered nun; an unsmiling ascetic;—atoning for the sins of youth by penances and alms. This phase of piety is the larvae stage, I imagine, Miss Ross?" A grieved look answered the sneer. "Pardon me! if your charity can make allowance for one, who has become a doubter from extraneous influences, rather than nature. Helen and myself have never exchanged a word, except upon common-place topics, during her widowhood, until three days ago. I had avowed my implacable hatred of her lover in her hearing. Other members of the family, have caught stray rumors here and there,—sent out, doubtless, by Miss Read; but their unbelief in them being settled by my silence, and Helen's apparent affliction, they have not noticed them except by a passing denial. But Helen knew that I watched her, and her surveillance of me was as jealously vigilant. I have seen her face blanch in an agony of alarm at my quitting her for an hour; and the most tender sister never wept and prayed for a brother's return, as she didfor mine. I should not have been here now, but for intelligence, received a week since, of Ashlin's death."
"Death!" ejaculated Ida, horrified. How had the "bold, bad man" gone to his account? Where was henow?
"He was killed in a duel in Bourdeaux," said Richard, coolly. "The villain escaped a less honorable fate by flight. Devoted as Helen was to him, the news was a relief,—removing as it did, her apprehensions of our meeting. So much for her. Thus ends the last chapter of that tragedy!" His countenance lost its bitter scorn.
"Miss Ida—before I met you, I never feared to speak what was in my thoughts. Policy or compassion may have deterred me—but cowardice never! I believed I had read every page in man's or woman's heart, and could flutter them with a breath. You were a study, taken up in curiosity, and baffling me by its very simplicity. You furnished me with a clue; but my skepticism cast it aside—to seek it again, and admit its efficacy in a solitary instance. Ingenuous in word and deed—you had yet, a hidden history. I felt it then, vaguely—not able to tell from whence the consciousness sprung. Can it be that virtue thrives only in the shade?"
He stopped again. Ida's face was crimsoning slowly with confusion and suspense.
"Itmustbe said!" resumed he, desperately. "I may probe a wound, or touch a callous heart. Miss Ross! will you state to me candidly, the character of your acquaintance with Mr. Lacy?"
Ida's tongue was palsied. She would have given her estate for power to say—"He was my friend;" but it was denied.
"Then bear with me awhile. The evening of our introduction, I imparted to you the information of Lelia Arnold's engagement; and your deprecation of her trifling seemed only the detestation of a pure and upright soul. If I saw mournful pity in the eyes, which were often riveted by her beauty, I suspected no more. Before leaving Richmond, I heard that he had been—perhaps was then your lover:—the direction of your preference was not known. In my superior sagacity, I opined that my friend Germaine was his fortunate rival. Your rejection of his suit recalled the gossip I had not thought worth remembering.Lelia was Helen's confidante; knew of her betrothal to Ashlin, and surmised, if she was not informed of the rupture, when it occurred. After Mr. Read's death, my mother mentioned incidentally, that her influence had been exerted to the utmost, to persuade her friend to accept him. Until I heard that, I had laughed at her snares to entangle me—the only man, it was said, who was invulnerable to her arts. I despised her before, I hated her now; yet the county rung with acclamations over my capture; and the fair Lelia, in her exultation, was beguiled into an impolitic show of tenderness. I have her picture, her ring, her letters. I could dash them into the sea, without a pang, and would plunge after them, sooner than marry her. I designed a punishment for her falsehood in friendship and love; but all the while, was haunted with an indefinite thought that you were to be affected by the result. If your lover had been wiled away by her machinations, or more likely—if she had played upon his imagination and sense of honor, in an unguarded hour—I could free him. I intended to see you, and tell you this, but Helen hastened the execution of the plot. Breaking our accustomed reserve, she implored me to quiet her fears touching my marriage. A glimmering of Leila's treachery had penetrated her mind;—she mistrusted that she was playing me false, and that she had deceived others. I struck a key, which I knew would give a true sound—her love for you. She had heard your name coupled with his, she said; and once, a direct assertion of your attachment for him, but it was from lying lips. If I have wearied and displeased you, intimate it. If not—here are the proofs to secure you revenge or happiness. Say the word, and the dupe is enlightened. She will not suffer more, that you connive at her disgrace. Her mortification will be public, and is inevitable. Where is Mr. Lacy?"
"I do not know, and would not tell you if I did!" cried Ida. "If I were dying of a broken heart, I would refuse the healing your cold-blooded scheme offered. She may be—I believe her unworthy of him; but when he sought her, he was shackled by no vows to me. He is not a vain boy, to be flattered into a courtship! if duped, she has cruelly deceived the noblest heart that ever beat. I honor him more for not discovering her snare,than you, for mastering her in duplicity. No! Mr. Copeland! I have no wrongs to avenge upon him or her—nor is it your prerogative, to retaliate for your, or your sister's injuries. We do not understand each other! You impute traits to me, which the weakest of my sex would blush to own; and I thought you generous—high-minded! 'Fallen,' indeed!" Her voice shook, and her head sank upon the table. The man of the world was confounded. The lofty tone of her principles lowered his plotted vengeance into unmanly spite.
He had been incited to it by the low standard of the sex, his sister's and her associate's conduct had set up in his mind; and a desire to betray the baseness of the currency the accomplished coquette was passing off upon society—backed by a justifiable displeasure at the evils of which she was the author.
"I am to understand that you disdain my offer to serve you?" he said, rising.
She looked up. "To serve me! how thankfully I would avail myself of such! I was hasty—unkind! Do not go yet!"
He sat down. "It is all so confused!" she said, apologetically. "You are engaged to Lelia Arnold, and do not love her:—yet you must have told her that you did!"
He colored, and did not reply.
"You are meditating a punishment for her—what has she done that you have not?"
"Falsehood—unprovoked falsehood is viler in a woman. I was driven to it."
"Viler in a woman—more despicable in a man! You should be above the petty vanity and ambition, that if cultivated, root up our better feelings. Selfishness, love of admiration, and in your case, pique, actuated her;—you have the bare plea of malice!"
"Miss Ross! malice!"
"Examine, and say if it is not so. Punishment, in this world, has cure for its object. Was this yours? or was it that she might endure the pain she had inflicted upon others?"
"Call it retribution."
"There is but one Retributive Being. He says 'Vengeance is mine!'"
"You are unsophisticated, Miss Ida. Your maxims are obsolete in the polity of the age."
"Because they are extracts from a changeless code. I am serious, Mr. Copeland. Your conscience assures you that you are in the wrong; that you have acted childishly—sinfully. That another debases God's gifts, is no reason why you should sully the fine gold of your heart. You have committed this outrage, or you could not talk of the sweetness of revenge."
"AndIam serious, Miss Ida. Unjust, as you say I have been to myself, I have the manliness to recognise the superiority of a character—the antipodes of mine. I repeat, I regret my inability to serve you. Good evening."
"Areyou going thus? What if we never meet again?"
"We part friends. Your reproaches, cutting as they were, have not diminished my esteem."
She could extort nothing more satisfactory. He would make no concessions—tender no pledges. Large tears gathered and dropped, as she beheld him mount and ride away; and other emotions than grief at her ill-success sent tributaries to the stream.
They prate senselessly who speak of forgotten loves or woes. As in neglected grave-yards, briars and weeds spring up, and delude the eye with the semblance of a smooth field, but when levelled to the roots, show the mounds they grow upon;—so above buried feelings, may wave memories and affections of later years—until some unforeseen event cuts, like a sickle-blade, through their ranks, and we see, with tears, as of fresh bereavement, the graves there still! Ida's was a brave spirit, but it trembled after the temptation was withdrawn. Richard had, unknowingly, been guilty of great cruelty in breaking the seal of her heart's closed chamber. Gingerly as he had handled its precious things, he had caused exquisite pain; and for hours and days, she felt that the door would not shut again. It was hard to smile—hard to concert plans for the future welfare of others, when before her, was blank darkness. But the whirling chaos was cleared and tranquillised in time; and even Emma was ignorant of the storm.
On the fifteenth of October, the heiress of Sunnybank would count her twenty-first birth day. The oldest negroes testifiedthat it had been the custom in the Ross family, for an hundred years, to signalise such occasions with appropriate festivities; and Ida waived her wishes for a quiet visit from her friends; and tried to be as much interested in the proposed illumination and feast as if she were not the personage to be honoured. She worked more willingly when the Danas wrote that they were all coming, the Saturday before the fifteenth, which fell on Tuesday. Emma's scholars had a vacation of four weeks; and Laura Pinely was at the house most of her time. The two vied with each other in the number and elegance of the decorations of the premises.
"What upon earth!" exclaimed Ida, stumbling over a heap of green boughs in the back porch. Both girls screamed—"Oh! take care!" Ida sat down upon a bench, and untwisted a long streamer of running cedar from her ancle.
"What is this for!"
"To dress the pictures and looking-glasses," said Emma.
"And to festoon upon the walls," chimed in Laura.
"And loop up bed and window-curtains," finished Emma.
"My dear girls! if the President and suit were expected, your preparations would not be more formidable. Why trouble yourselves so much?"
"Trouble!younever incommode yourself for other people! oh no!" replied Emma, in severe irony.
"We love the bustle and excitement of fixing," said Laura.
"And what is there for me to do?" questioned Ida, stooping over the pile.
"Nothing! you are to play lady and hold your hands. It is difficult, because unusual work—but please try!" laughed Laura.
Miss Betsey came along, with a rueful face. "Miss Ida—there's a dozen loaves of cake, and ever so many snow-ballswontget in the big sideboard, no how!"
"Put them in the light closet, Miss Betsey. I hope we shall be able to eat it all!" she continued to the girls.
"Never fear!" said Emma. "Your Richmond party could consume it in a week. How many are there?"
"Let me see! Arthur, Carry and my pet—three—Mr. and Mrs. Dana, three children and Charley—nine. They will be here to-morrow night—Ellen Morris, Monday or Tuesday. Ihave invited Anna Talbot and Josephine—but do not expect them. Then for Tuesday evening—from the neighborhood—Dr. Hall and lady—and a friend, who shall be nameless—" pinching Emma's cheek—"the Strattons—Kingstons—Frenches—and oh! I gave Charleycarte-blancheto ask any of my Richmond acquaintances—and all for what? To hear that Miss Ida Ross is—"
"'Free, white, and twenty-one!'" sang Emma, cheerily.
"Twenty-one! in four years, I shall be a spinster of a quarter of a century! Heigho!" She said it jestingly; but at nightfall, she was pacing the porch alone—Laura having gone home, and Emma asleep, wearied by her day's activity; and the thought returned to her. Twenty-one! the golden sands were slipping fast. The sky-meeting waves upon the horizon no longer blushed with sunset dyes, and nodded their bright crests, in luring welcome; her eyes were bent upon the regular swell of the Present, as she glided over it. The navigation of the unknown seas beyond, she trusted to the Pilot, who had engaged to see her safely to the desired haven. It was a holy, still hour.
Her swift step scarcely broke the silence—the firm, elastic tread of youth and health;—and an unruffled spirit was within;—a fulness of contentment and peace the world could not disturb or take away. She had conned that invaluable lesson—"It is better to trust than to hope."
"A letter, ma'am—no papers," said Will, sententiously.
"Thank you, uncle Will. Tell James to bring a lamp into the parlor, if you please. I almost dread to open this!" she said to herself. "My fears are always on the alert, to forebode evil to those I love. Iwillbe courageous—willhave faith!" and she walked resolutely into the lighted room. But the superscription sent a tremor to her heart—a minute elapsed before she opened it.
the letter.
"I have come home alone, dear friend, leaving our Annie asleep in a foreign land. Her day of suffering closed in ease and peace; her 'good night' was as calm, as though she were sinking into a slumber of hours, instead of ages. A lonely,stricken man, I retraced the route we had travelled in company, to find that I had never indeed missed and mourned her, until I saw her empty chamber at home. Here—'I cannot make her dead!' Oh! the desolation of that word, when applied to one, in whose veins ran the same blood as in ours, who lived and loved with us—partaker of our individuality! As love is immortal, we would believe the frail clay to which it clings, imperishable too. But in our grief, there is a mingling of praise that her rest is safe—that a merciful Father is also wise, and will not, in answer to our selfish lamentations, restore her to an existence replete with pain."The date of the above—a month back—may surprise you. I wrote a fortnight after I touched my native shore; contemplating such a letter as one friend might send to another;—to inform you of my bereavement, and solicit the sympathy none ever ask in vain from you. I was interrupted to read a communication which has changed—not the tenor of this alone, but the current of all my anticipations. It was from Miss Arnold; an annulment of the contract between us; a step, she says, foreseen from an early period of our engagement, when she discovered that the heart, she thought she had surrendered to me, was wholly another's. I omit much that would be uninteresting to you; and which, in honour, I ought not to transcribe. Briefly then—the facts stand thus. She never loved me; and when the owner of her heart sued for her hand, she pledged it, and asked for a release from her previous vow. I have no inclination to animadvert upon her course—singular and inconsistent as it has been throughout—but am obliged to refer to certain particulars, to make clear the explanation which follows."I have told you, Ida, that my attentions, from the beginning of our intercourse, until my conviction of your betrothal, were correct exponents of my feelings. I cannot deny that when compelled to acknowledge the uselessness of my efforts, I judged you harshly—was tempted to believe you an unprincipled trifler with my hopes, and the truth of your accepted lover. As my indignation and disappointment cooled before mature reflection, my faith in your sterling integrity revived."Not a word had escaped me which Friendship might not have dictated; and your manner to me was less confidingly affectionate than to Charley. You regarded me as a brother; and if in that capacity, any act or word of mine could conduce to your happiness it should not be withheld. Your committal of your lover's cause to me was a powerful appeal to every generous feeling. I solemnly resolved then, that you should never regret your implicit trust. At his death-bed, my thought was for you and him; at his grave, as I upheld your sinking form—my heart answering the heavings of yours, in our common sorrow—I renewed the promise never to desecrate the purity of your friendship, by a breath of a love, demanding reciprocation in that which had gone down with him into the tomb. In this illusion, I came home. You know whom I met here; and that her surpassing loveliness, her apparent artlessness and amiability captivated us all. Annie loved her fervently, and threw us together by many innocent manoeuvres—Dear girl! it was the blameless impulse of a loving heart—to unite two, who seemed to her hopeful perceptions to be destined for each other. I was amused at her fancy—then uneasy, lest it should be a restriction upon Miss Arnold's kindly feelings for the brother of her friend. I could not wound Annie by reproof or caution; so, after a while, descrying in Miss Arnold's demeanor, a touch of the dreaded embarrassment, I introduced the subject in a tone of light badinage. I may not describe the interview;—my sentiments and bearing had been utterly misconstrued. She did not express this in words, but her perturbation was unmistakeable. I reflected upon this unlooked-for disclosure with no enviable emotions. I was free; no hope ventured to point to you; and I might learn to love the beautiful, tender creature, whom I had unintentionally deceived. In honour—in conscience—in humanity—what could I do, but tell her that, although not offering the deep tenderness of a first love I would cherish her as faithfully, if not as fondly, as man ever did the woman he wooed and won? I cannot dwell upon the untold anguish of the moment when the fallacy of my impressions and reasonings was exposed. The tempter was at my ear. Violation of my plighted word—the downfall of her hopes were nothing! the barrier whichparteduswas down—the impossibility of our union was a chimera, dissolving in the beams of truth. You saved me! looking away from our divided lives, you reminded me that duty here writes our title-deeds to reward hereafter—and I submitted to the decree."Now—dear Ida!—but the rush of hope ebbs suddenly. The thought that flew towards you, the moment I was freed—now, that the slow weeks I allotted to rigid self-examination have rolled by—spreads its wings as eagerly still—but—you?"What was I to you? what may I hope to be? I have ascertained that you are unmarried—are you heart-free? May I come to you? Dare I say—reply at once? I would not wring from you a hasty decision, but remember my suspense. May every blessing be yours!Morton Lacy."
"I have come home alone, dear friend, leaving our Annie asleep in a foreign land. Her day of suffering closed in ease and peace; her 'good night' was as calm, as though she were sinking into a slumber of hours, instead of ages. A lonely,stricken man, I retraced the route we had travelled in company, to find that I had never indeed missed and mourned her, until I saw her empty chamber at home. Here—'I cannot make her dead!' Oh! the desolation of that word, when applied to one, in whose veins ran the same blood as in ours, who lived and loved with us—partaker of our individuality! As love is immortal, we would believe the frail clay to which it clings, imperishable too. But in our grief, there is a mingling of praise that her rest is safe—that a merciful Father is also wise, and will not, in answer to our selfish lamentations, restore her to an existence replete with pain.
"The date of the above—a month back—may surprise you. I wrote a fortnight after I touched my native shore; contemplating such a letter as one friend might send to another;—to inform you of my bereavement, and solicit the sympathy none ever ask in vain from you. I was interrupted to read a communication which has changed—not the tenor of this alone, but the current of all my anticipations. It was from Miss Arnold; an annulment of the contract between us; a step, she says, foreseen from an early period of our engagement, when she discovered that the heart, she thought she had surrendered to me, was wholly another's. I omit much that would be uninteresting to you; and which, in honour, I ought not to transcribe. Briefly then—the facts stand thus. She never loved me; and when the owner of her heart sued for her hand, she pledged it, and asked for a release from her previous vow. I have no inclination to animadvert upon her course—singular and inconsistent as it has been throughout—but am obliged to refer to certain particulars, to make clear the explanation which follows.
"I have told you, Ida, that my attentions, from the beginning of our intercourse, until my conviction of your betrothal, were correct exponents of my feelings. I cannot deny that when compelled to acknowledge the uselessness of my efforts, I judged you harshly—was tempted to believe you an unprincipled trifler with my hopes, and the truth of your accepted lover. As my indignation and disappointment cooled before mature reflection, my faith in your sterling integrity revived.
"Not a word had escaped me which Friendship might not have dictated; and your manner to me was less confidingly affectionate than to Charley. You regarded me as a brother; and if in that capacity, any act or word of mine could conduce to your happiness it should not be withheld. Your committal of your lover's cause to me was a powerful appeal to every generous feeling. I solemnly resolved then, that you should never regret your implicit trust. At his death-bed, my thought was for you and him; at his grave, as I upheld your sinking form—my heart answering the heavings of yours, in our common sorrow—I renewed the promise never to desecrate the purity of your friendship, by a breath of a love, demanding reciprocation in that which had gone down with him into the tomb. In this illusion, I came home. You know whom I met here; and that her surpassing loveliness, her apparent artlessness and amiability captivated us all. Annie loved her fervently, and threw us together by many innocent manoeuvres—Dear girl! it was the blameless impulse of a loving heart—to unite two, who seemed to her hopeful perceptions to be destined for each other. I was amused at her fancy—then uneasy, lest it should be a restriction upon Miss Arnold's kindly feelings for the brother of her friend. I could not wound Annie by reproof or caution; so, after a while, descrying in Miss Arnold's demeanor, a touch of the dreaded embarrassment, I introduced the subject in a tone of light badinage. I may not describe the interview;—my sentiments and bearing had been utterly misconstrued. She did not express this in words, but her perturbation was unmistakeable. I reflected upon this unlooked-for disclosure with no enviable emotions. I was free; no hope ventured to point to you; and I might learn to love the beautiful, tender creature, whom I had unintentionally deceived. In honour—in conscience—in humanity—what could I do, but tell her that, although not offering the deep tenderness of a first love I would cherish her as faithfully, if not as fondly, as man ever did the woman he wooed and won? I cannot dwell upon the untold anguish of the moment when the fallacy of my impressions and reasonings was exposed. The tempter was at my ear. Violation of my plighted word—the downfall of her hopes were nothing! the barrier whichparteduswas down—the impossibility of our union was a chimera, dissolving in the beams of truth. You saved me! looking away from our divided lives, you reminded me that duty here writes our title-deeds to reward hereafter—and I submitted to the decree.
"Now—dear Ida!—but the rush of hope ebbs suddenly. The thought that flew towards you, the moment I was freed—now, that the slow weeks I allotted to rigid self-examination have rolled by—spreads its wings as eagerly still—but—you?
"What was I to you? what may I hope to be? I have ascertained that you are unmarried—are you heart-free? May I come to you? Dare I say—reply at once? I would not wring from you a hasty decision, but remember my suspense. May every blessing be yours!
Morton Lacy."
Mr. Grant, wife and sister-in-law were "dear, nice old folks," who liked to see young people enjoy themselves, prim and staid 'though they were; and they had their fill of delight, that important Saturday; for three merrier mad-caps Sunnybank never held. Ida was the ringleader in the mirthful frolic.
"She's so pleased 'cause Mars' Charles is comin'," said Rachel, in a pretended "aside" to Emma and Laura; and Ida laughed, instead of reproving the gratuitous explanation. "I do want to see Charley—Bless him!" said she.
"Is he averydear friend?" asked Laura.
"Verydear!" Ida emphasized as strongly;—"almost on a par with Carry. We will have fun while he is here;" and she launched into a recital of some of his freaks and stories; eliciting bursts of merriment from her listeners, which pealed even to the door of Miss Betsey's room, and hurried Mrs. Grant down stairs, "to hear what the joke was." The girls were upon the carpet in the middle of the large parlor, cutting pink and white paper roses. The graceful running cedar, they were to enliven, draped the walls, and hid the tarnished mouldings of the old portrait frames;—geraniums and mignionette breathed sweetly through the parted muslin curtains; but nothing was so fair in the dame's eyes as the centre group. Laura was a brunette—black eyes, nectarine bloom and pouting rosy lips—the handsomest of the trio; Emma's dove-like eyes, classic oval face and varying complexion placed her next. Ida sat between them, speaking with much animation of voice and action—the glee of a child, and the modulations of a clever elocutionist.
"Well!" said Mrs. Grant, when the narration was ended, "if you all ain't a happy set, I'll give up my judgment!"
"Don't do that, I beg!" said Ida. "We need it this minute, to tell us whether to mix these roses in the wreaths, or to dress this room with white ones, and the dining-room with pink."
Mrs. Grant set her head to one side, and her hand upon herhip. It was a serious question. "Well, I don't know exactly. Either way's very pretty. What doyousay?"
"Oh! but we agreed to leave it to you. White ones look best by lamplight."
"Sothey do! Well 'spose you put them in here, as the party meets in the parlor."
"Thank you, ma'am. I am of the same opinion myself."
"And I"—"and I"—said the others; and Mrs. Grant, pleased at having, for once in her life, expressed a decided opinion, "reckoned Becky and Molly wouldn't beat them beds half enough if she didn't follow them up."
The impromptu "rose case," upon which Emma and Laura rallied Ida, was finished before dinner; and resolving themselves into a "committee of inspection," they visited every room in a body, with Miss Betsey and Mrs. Grant as rear guard. Even the wainscotted chambers were cheerful—snow-drifts of beds—and window-hangings lined with pink—stainless toilette covers; painted bouquets upon the fire-screens, and real ones upon the dressing tables.
"Sunnybank deserves its name to-day," said Emma, leading Ida to a window.
The October sun was everywhere; playing with the laughing cascade which fell over the rock, at the foot of the sloping lawn; carpeting the forest with tesselated gold; and the sheen of Ida's pine-grove was as of millions of burnished needles.
"It is brighter here!" said Ida, laying her friend's hand upon her breast.
"You need not say so;—your smile shows it. It is like sunshine itself."
"Shall I tell her?" thought Ida. "Not yet! he will be here in a few days—andthen!"—and the heart-bound threw the blood, in a scarlet gush to her cheeks.
Love like hers is never selfish. When they were separating to dress, she called Laura into her room. Two dresses—a rose-coloured challé, and a white muslin were upon the bed. "No thanks, dear!" she said, as the delighted creature clasped her arms about her neck, in speechless gratitude. "You, who do so much for me and mine, deserve some token of regard.What! tears! Dry them instantly, and try your dresses. Ah! they fit! I thought we were nearly the same size,—so had them cut by my patterns. Emma! step in here! Are we not proud of our pupil?"
"She does not require fine robes to win praise from me," said Emma. "How handsome and becoming! just what one might expect from the donor."
"She is the best, dearest friend I have"—began Laura, smiling through her tears.
"Hush!" said Ida, threateningly. "Flatterers! both of you! be off and 'beautify' as Charley says. And Laura—do you hear? don't have eyes and dress to match! a contrast is better."
The main part of Sunnybank house was capped by a sort of belvidere, accessible by steps from the garret. Why it had been built was one of Ida's childish studies; and the acquisition of other knowledge was no help to the elucidation of this mystery. Emma said the founder of the mansion had an astronomical turn, and used it as an observatory;—Laura, that it was a belfry, from which the alarm-bell was sounded to collect the surrounding settlers, when an incursion was made by the savages; Ida's more matter-of-fact belief was that her ancestor had more fondness than taste for ornamental architecture, and so planned this tuft to the conical crown of his habitation. On the birth-night, this was to be illuminated; the brackets were prepared, and some of the candles in the sockets. Nearer and faster descended the darkness. Aunt Judy fidgeted from the kitchen to the house, and from the house to the kitchen, in mortal fear for the credit of her supper. Miss Betsey prognosticated upsettings and wheel-breakings, and "hoped the horses were sure-footed. That hill, the other side of Tim's Creek wasawfulof a dark night."
"I say, girls!" exclaimed Ida, "we will light the belvidere! They can see it six miles off. Anything but idle waiting!"
She was to stand in the yard, and direct the disposition of the lights—Laura, Emma and Will, who thought no whim of his "mistis" absurd, ascended to the roof. The breeze was at rest; and the rays shot forth, clear and straight, down the avenue,magnifying the proportions of the fantastic roof. The others came out to admire the effect with her.
"Hist!" said she. "Music!"
But there was not a sound.
"I heard it—I know!" said she, positively. "Come into the porch."
Another note was repeated by the hills. "I said so! they are coming—singing! Isn't that like Charley?" She distinguished voices as they approached;—Carry's soft alto; Mrs. Dana's soprano,—"Arthur—yes! that is his tenor—and Mr. Dana and Charley have the base!"
"The tune changes!" said Emma. "Auld Lang Syne—oh! how sweet!"
Ida's eyes were streaming,—her heart aching with joy. The carriages—two—and a buggy, drove up to the door; and with a scream of rapture she lifted Carry to the ground,—not knowing who came next—only that they were all there. All! no! where was Charley? She stopped upon the steps; Elle holding to her dress; one hand in Carry's, the other upon her guardian's arm.
"Charley! where are you?"
"Here!" with a muster-roll intonation. He raised her fingers to his lips—an unprecedented action with him—and holding them still, looked over his shoulder. "Here is a gentleman who is afraid you will shut your doors upon him, for coming without a special invitation."
"Mr. Germaine!" thought Ida, fearfully;—but his was not the figure that emerged from the shade,—nor the warm grasp, in which Charley, with a movement full of grace and feeling, placed her hand;—nor his the voice that said—"I do not doubt her hospitality, but my deserts."
"Do you forget your friends, that you expect a similar fate, Mr. Lacy?" said Ida.
His actual presence was the roseleaf upon the mantling cup of bliss. It did not overflow;—tumultuating passions were stilled into a calm, delicious ecstacy. She was more composed than she had been at any time since the reading of the letter,—saw everything, thought of everybody. Carry and Emma went up-stairs arm in arm, and Ida, her baby namesake, folded to herheart, was following Mrs. Dana, when she recollected Laura. She was standing, alone and overlooked, in the hall.
"Here, Laura! I confide my darling to your keeping. Gently! don't wake her. Is she not a lovely babe?"
"Beautiful!" said Laura, in proud gratification.
The sleepy children's suppers were brought up, and they were snug in bed before their elders were prepared for their meal. The gentlemen were in the yard, looking at the belvidere.
"Your beacon puzzled us considerably," said Charley to Ida. "It appeared to be upon the summit of a huge, shapeless height. We thought we had lost our road and wandered off to the Enchanted Mountains."
"Or that a remnant of Ghebers had an asylum among these hills," said Mr. Lacy. "You should have heard Charley's
'Fierce and highThe death-pile blued into the sky,And far away, o'er rock and flood,Its melancholy radiance sent!'"
'Fierce and highThe death-pile blued into the sky,And far away, o'er rock and flood,Its melancholy radiance sent!'"
'Fierce and highThe death-pile blued into the sky,And far away, o'er rock and flood,Its melancholy radiance sent!'"
"Was I the only rhapsodizer?" retorted Charley. "Who said, when a figure passed before the light—
"Hafed, like a vision, stoodRevealed before the burning pyre,Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire,Shrined in its own grand element?'"
"Hafed, like a vision, stoodRevealed before the burning pyre,Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire,Shrined in its own grand element?'"
"Hafed, like a vision, stoodRevealed before the burning pyre,Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire,Shrined in its own grand element?'"
"Why, that was uncle Will!" exclaimed Emma.
Amid the burst of laughter that replied, Charley pronounced poetry—"done."
"And having descended to real life, perhaps you do not object to more substantial food," said Ida. On the way to the house, some one took her hand.
"Has my impatience offended? I could not wait!" said a hasty whisper.
"No."
"Am I welcome?"
"In every sense of the word," was the ingenuous response. This was their plighting.
The sun was not up, when Ida raised the parlor windows next morning. Above the dun zone of forest, rested another, of silvery grey vapor, and higher, legions of fleecy cloudlets, fromall parts of the heavens, hung motionless, as angels may hover, in rapt adoration, over the crystal walls of the New Jerusalem. He arose! the "bridegroom of earth and brother of time!" and her simile changed—as assuming roseate and golden robes, the expectant host wove themselves into a gorgeous causeway, by which he seemed to mount the heavens. So "Jesus left the dead!" the Sun of Righteousness burst His prison gates; and the shining ones sang the consummation of a world's redemption. She was reading her Bible, alternately with the resplendent leaf Nature unfurled this autumnal Sabbath, when a step dispelled her trance.
"Good morning!" said Mr. Lacy. "You are an early riser."
"There is my reward!" pointing to the scene without.
"May I participate, in virtue of my second-best claim?" asked he, with his own beaming smile, seating himself before she assented. Ida's trifling embarrassment was transient. His behavior, open and free, as of old, had not a tincture of reserve, or significance to indicate that he thought of their new relation. The beauty of our lower sanctuary; the upper, which it dimly shadows forth; Annie's sickness and death; the Christian's work and hopes—were the matter of their conversation; and as the rest assembled, they were spared the disagreeable sensation one feels at interrupting a tête-à-tête.
"Is it time to ring the prayer-bell, Ida?" asked Emma, as the last loiterer came in.
"I think so. We breakfast early on Sunday mornings, that we may be at school in season," she said to Mrs. Dana.
It was her practice to lead in family worship, night and morning. Arthur had performed this office the evening before, and the servants having collected in the hall, she motioned him to the stand, where lay the Bible.
"I am hoarse," he said. "Lacy!"
The person addressed reddened slightly, but conquering himself instantly, did as he was requested; and Ida, too, although not so easily, lost the identity of the man in the reader, and was prepared to join, with solemnity and fervor of spirit, in his prayer.
By Charley's contrivance, they rode to church in the lightbuggy. Ida condemned herself for the feeling of disappointment that fell suddenly upon her, as the school-house appeared; and more for the fancies which strayed—starry-winged butterflies into the machinery of her morning's duties; but her pupils were unconscious of the visitants.
"Is that your regular pastor?" inquired Mr. Lacy, as they were driving back.
"Ir-regular, rather—if you speak of the seasons of his ministrations. Presiding over three—I am not certain it is not four congregations, he preaches for us once a month."
"Who officiates the three other Sabbaths?"
"Sometimes the pastor of the Hill-side church. The second Sabbath is his day in course; but he lives twelve miles off. If he is among the missing, we catch up a circuit-rider, or go sermonless."
"'These things ought not so to be.'"
"I know it—but theyare! Who is to remedy them? Palm-branch is a free church."
"And as often free of preachers, as of sectarianism, it seems," said he.
"More frequently. The war of polemic debate is waged as furiously there, as if the controversialists owned pulpit, pews and people. The number of communicants of our persuasion, in this neighborhood, is small; yet they are mostly persons in good circumstances, and able to have a church of their own, if they would think so."
"They should purchase this Palm-branch. There is more euphony than meaning in that name, when applied to a house."
"A free church, especially," answered Ida. "However, our Sabbath-school has vanquished its enemies, and may lead the church on to victory."
"Dr. Hall awards the merits of this enterprise to you. Has your residence here enlarged or contracted your sphere of usefulness?"
"Enlarged it. Not that this would be the case with most people. The city presents more facilities for benevolence generally; but my family had influence here; and my servants wanted a manager. There are more deprivations than I anticipated;the separation from my friends; want of general society; the dearth of books and intellectual recreations; and last and worst—abridgement of my church privileges. Still I do not repent my removal. My happiest days have been my Sunnybank life."
"Because you are in your right orbit. The evils you recount are not irremediable; we will discuss them at length, some day."
This was the only reference to the future, as theirs—into which he was betrayed all day; but it struck Ida dumb. She recovered her speech by evening; for she and Charley strolled in the garden, in close converse, until Mr. Dana sent Morton to warn them of the night dew. He perceived, as did the whole party, traces of emotion in her countenance; and Charley was very grave, although not melancholy. Music was proposed after tea; and Ida unlocked the parlor organ, a gift to Mrs. Ross from her husband, and still a fine instrument. Emma blushed so deeply at her nomination as organist, that Ida recalled the motion and occupied her accustomed place. Her fingers wandered; and Mr. Lacy, bending over to adjust the book, said softly, "Do not attempt to play, if you are indisposed." She smiled. "I am only weak and silly; I shall be better directly." And ere the first hymn was concluded her clear voice led the choristers, and the pealing chords rolled out in full strength and harmony.
The bell rang for prayers. Arthur glanced at Ida, and was arrested in the act of rising, by seeing her wheel a chair to the stand, and beckon to Charley. Yet more astounded were all that he took it. Unclasping the Bible, he read distinctly and reverently, a portion of its sacred contents; and they knelt with him at the mercy-seat. A stifled sob, and more than one sigh from surcharged bosoms, responded to his petitions; and Carry wept aloud at the "Amen." Arthur was equally moved. "God bless you, Charley!" was all he could say, as he wrung his hand.
"Hehasblessed him, and us," said Morton, joyfully. "I thought this would be the end of it, my good friend!"
"Not the end—the beginning!" said Ida, who stood by her adopted brother. "Only the beginning! is it not, Charley?"
"Youwere the beginning!" said he, smiling. "My mindhas been made up for some time; but it was proper that she should be the first apprised of it. I was stubborn and rebellious; and the consistent practice of one private Christian did more to convict me than the preaching of the entire apostolic succession—Saints Paul and Peter to head them—could have done."
"O, Charley! you are Charley still!" laughed Carry.
"And always will be, I hope!" rejoined Morton. "Religion, my dear Mrs. Dana, does notmakebutmend, the disposition."
Yes! "Charley was Charley still!" The brothers were walking the piazza, Monday morning; and John's smile and Arthur's laugh applauded the quaint humor which came from his lips, as freely as respiration of the air his lungs had inhaled. He was a consummate actor; and his self-command balked the sharpest scrutiny when he chose; but his spirits, this morning, were not feigned. Mrs. Dana, Emma and Laura made their appearance, and at length, Charley's flow of talk could no longer delay the inquiry "Where are Ida and Mr. Lacy?"
"'Brushing the dew upon the upland lawn.'" said Charley. "Gone to ride."
"When did they start?" asked John.
"Just as you shut your eyes for a second nap—luxurious citizen that you are. 'When will they return?'—query the second.—You will see them on the top of that hill in a minute."
They cantered down the avenue in gallant style. Ida was an expert rider; and her escort appeared to as much advantage on horseback as on foot.
"A handsome couple!" said Arthur.
Charley made no reply. "You do your teacher justice," he said, as Ida leaped to the ground, barely touching Mr. Lacy's hand.
"And more could not be said for master or pupil;" she answered, saucily.
"Morning rides are wonderful cosmetics!" he whispered, following her into the hall. She snapped her whip at him, but those mischievous eyes were too searching, and she ran off "to change her dress."
"I am for a walk to the river. Who accompanies me?" said John Dana. Ida held the taper at which he was kindling a cigar—his invariable after-breakfast luxury—and the flame was paled by her vivid glow, as Mr. Lacy said quietly, "I will, sir, with pleasure."
In an hour they returned, and the summons—"Mr. Dana's respects, and if you please ma'am, he wants the pleasure of your company in the drawing-room," robbed her of the last spark of self-possession. She stopped at the door, to muster courage; but her guardian had heard her step, and opened it from within. "I have no lecture for you," he said, passing his arm assuringly around her. "This is an event, we fathers have to bear, as best we may. I am fortunate that your choice has my unqualified sanction. You have acted wisely, nobly, my daughter."
"DearMr. Dana! I feared you would think me uncommunicative; but I did not know it myself until within a day or two."
"I am advised of the incidents of your drama. Never try to convince me again, that you are an unromantic young lady! What is your evidence, Mr. Lacy?"
She had not seen, until this speech, that he was present. She bestowed one look upon him, and the magnetic charm of his smile equallized her nerves and thoughts. Mr. Dana would have left the room, but Morton stayed him. In succinct and manly terms, he thanked him for the expression of an esteem, it should be the study of his life to merit. "I am aware, sir, that it is arrant boldness to ask more from your kindness; but you engaged to intercede for me in another suit." Ida looked up, hurriedly. The gentlemen smiled; and Mr. Lacy whispered a sentence in her ear.
"Oh no! no!" she ejaculated, "too soon!"
"Why 'too soon?'" It was John Dana, who drew her away from her lover, and pushed back the shadowing curls from her forehead. "Think of Mr. Lacy and myself as old friends, and speak out the language of your own warm heart. Why 'too soon,' Ida? Don't you know him well, enough?"
Another glance was the signal for another smile.
"Will you ever know him better?" asked Mr. Lacy.
"I think not," she replied.
"You don't like him well enough, then?" pursued Mr. Dana. The curls drooped over her face, and she was mute.
"Perhaps you do not like the idea of resigning your freedom the very day you gain it?"
"No, Mr. Dana! youknowthat is not it."
"What then?" Mr. Lacy secured her disengaged hand. "If this proposal distresses you, Ida, I revoke it without a murmur, and will abide your convenience, or inclination patiently; but if it is a question of expediency, you cannot suppose that Mr. Dana or myself would urge a measure, we were not assured was reasonable and proper. Your dearest friends are with you—what renders delay necessary or advisable?"
"But what will they say?"
"An odd inquiry fromyou! What potent 'they' do you mean?"
"Carry—Arthur—Mrs. Dana—Charley—all of them."
"Charley has been my abettor from the beginning. From him I learned your locality; and he warranted me a friendly reception, if nothing more. I should not have had the confidence to propose this immediate union, if he had not favored my ardent wish. You trust in his judgment in other matters—why not now? As for the rest of those you name—when did they oppose anything you advocated?"
"But your friends—your mother?"
"Is prepared to love you as a daughter."
"She wishes me to decide, I see;" said John, dictatorially. "Therefore, silencing all disputes—the fatted calf is slain—the neighbors are bidden—and I, as this perverse maiden's lawful guardian—setting my face, like a flint, against wasteful improvidence—decree an occasion for the feast, instead of a feast for the occasion; and as this must be, the sooner we are rid of the trouble the better. Not a syllable, Miss Ross! you are still a minor; and I will indict you for insubordination, if you are refractory. I am going to tell Jenny to air my white vest for to-morrow evening."
Emma, Laura and Carry were in Mrs. Dana's apartment; and when the clamour of amazement lulled, not a hand was raised in the negative.
"She deserves the best husband that can be given her;" said Carry, "and from my knowledge of Mr. Lacy's character, I expect he is almost good enough for her."
"He would have been my choice from among all the gentlemenof my acquaintance," answered Mrs. Dana, "as she and Charley willnotmake a match."
"Ah, Jenny! did I not say you would have to abandon that air castle?" said her husband. "It was the only essay at match-making I ever caught you at."
"What is it, Laura?" inquired Carry, as her face brightened suddenly.
"I was thinking how strange we should have decorated the drawing-room with white roses, when we were not expecting a wedding!"
The news spread like wild-fire over the plantation. "Young Mistis was gwine to be married!" and never did tidings of a splendid victory produce a grander jubilee. The Grants, Miss Betsey, and Will, as sub-steward, had the programme of the performances and actors; but with the crowd, the Lacy and Dana factions ran high, to the amusement of the wise. Aunt Judy's climax was reported at the dinner-table by Miss Betsey, who must have shared in the general delirium of pleasure, as this is the only authentic record of her ever having spoken in "company," unless "spoken to."
"'Well!' says Aunt Judy—says she—'Dany or Lacy—they's both mighty fine, pretty-spoken gentlemen. Either on 'em 'll do; but it's been a-runnin' in my head what a mussiful Providence 'tis, hur husband happened along, jes' when the cake riz nicer than any I'se made since ole Marster's weddin! And young Mis' too—poor, lone, sweet cretur! ah, chillen! thingsisordered wonderful! wonderful!'"
"Don't blush, Ida! laughing suits the occasion better," said Carry, as every mouth spread at this apropos anecdote; and she did laugh merrily, as well as Mr. Lacy, who had tried to control his risibles until he heard her.
Ellen Morris arrived that night, attended by her brother, and at a feminine council, which sat until midnight, in the room of the bride-elect, a list of attendants was drawn up—Emma and Charley, Laura and Mr. Latham, Ellen and Mr. Thornton, who, she said, was certainly coming next day,—and Miss Kingston, one of the neighbors, with Robert Morris.
"Aunt Judy may well say, 'things is ordered wonderful!'"said Emma. "Who thought of this, a week ago? and here everything is arranged, as if expressly for a marriage. 'Not a screw loose or lacking!'"
"Ida will say it is a 'special Providence,'" said Mrs. Dana, "but Mr. Lacy and Charley had a hand in it."
"Who moved them?" asked Ida. "Depend upon it, my theory is irrefutable, because true. If a delusion, it is harmless and pleasant."
"You would make puppets of us;" said Ellen. "Chessmen—irresponsible for their motions."
"No, indeed! We are children, obeying a Father's orders, no matter how enigmatical; and having done our part, letting Him work out the answer to the puzzle. A so-called ignorant woman once furnished the best definition of Faith I ever heard;—'taking the Lord at his word.' It is safer to believe, than to argue, Ellen."
Aunt Judy's aphorism was bandied about on Tuesday until it was hacknied. Ida feared the appearance of her "Bubly Jock;" but her prime counsellor, Will, his stalwart arms bared to the shoulder, to turn an ice-cream churn, said confidently, that "she nor Miss Laura should be pestered with him that evening. I've got his written bond to stay at home, and eat the supper that will be sent to him. Mars' Charley and Mr. Lacy's been to see him too. They came while I was there, 'on a sociable visit,' they said, but before they went away, he was crying like a child—they talked so beautiful!"
The bridal paraphernalia was laid in array, and Emma and Laura tying up bouquets; Ida directing, but not permitted to assist.
"Ellen cannot find that arbor-vitæ surely!" said Emma. "I wish she had let me go!"
Ellen burst into the room, and flinging herself into a chair, laughed immoderately. "What has happened?" cried a trio of voices.
"The wheel of luck has turned! It is a 'wonderful ordering' that brings Josephine Read upon this, of all days in the year!"
"Josephine!" Ida seemed to behold a ghoul. She had invited her because propriety demanded she should not slightthe daughter of her former guardian, after living in the house with her six years; then she was fond of Anna Talbot, and a separate invitation was not to be thought of. The possibility of her coming had not entered her mind. How could she present herself at the door of her, whom she had denounced as her mortal foe? Emma stood aghast, and Laura in bewilderment, at the dismay depicted in the faces of her friends.
"I am sorry for you, Ida," continued Ellen; "and if I were a magician, would whisk her off to Guinea in the time it would take me to say 'Presto!' but if you did not feel so badly, I would delight in her spiteful rage, when she knows that she has come to your wedding—and with Mr. Lacy! Oh! it is transporting!"
"Worse and worse!" said Ida, sorrowfully. "Unkind as she has been, I would not wound her; and she will never be persuaded that the insult was unpremeditated."
"'Insult!' forsooth! who is insulted, pray, but yourself, by the intrusion of a woman, who has reviled and backbitten you, until the town cried out against her evil tongue! Oh! the shamelessness of a wicked gossip!"
"Where is she?" questioned Ida.
"In the north chamber. Anna Talbot, Messrs. Thornton and Villet came with her."
"Charley said he asked them—and I am glad Anna is here—but oh! Josephine! and I amen dishabille! Emma, will you run up to them? you are at home."
"Willingly." The kind-hearted girl emptied her lap of the flowers.
"And explain everything," said Ida.
"Yes—make all right! Comfort yourself;" and away she flew.
Her face, upon her re-entrance, boded well for Ida's hopes.
"What did she say?" inquired the latter, anxiously.
"They were unpacking their trunks. Anna was very cordial—so was Josephine—for her. 'We concluded yesterday, to come up,' said Anna. 'Pa made a point of it, and Ida's letter was so kind and polite, that we finally determined to accept.'
"'And Mr. Thornton and M. Villet were so desirous to have some Richmond girls here;' said Josephine."
"Aha!" interrupted Ellen.
Emma continued. "Anna did not notice her remark. 'The maid tells me Ida is to be married;' she said, eagerly. 'What a trick she has played us!' 'The queerest part of the story is, that she is more surprised than any body else,' I answered—'They have not been engaged a week! You know the groom?'"
"'O yes! he is a noble fellow! I am rejoiced she is to marry him at last.'"
"And what did Josephine say to this?" asked the inquisitive Ellen. "You need not pretend you have told us all."
"Oh! nothing of consequence. She spoke very carelessly,—of his 'being nothing extra,' and 'she is welcome to him,' with no symptoms of unusual malice."
"Maybe she does not care now, having transferred her attentions to Mr. Thornton. That harp will hang upon the willow, too, or my name is not Ellen Morris!"
A note was handed Ida.
"'Ossa on Pelion piled!' from your countenance," said the volatile bridesmaid.
Ida read it aloud. "Villet is with Thornton. Will your plans undergo any alteration in consequence?
"M. L."
"Josephine is the loose screw, Emma spoke of. I would gladly add M. Villet and Anna to my train—"
"Do it, and let her fret!" exclaimed Ellen.
"Oh, no!" said Emma, involuntarily.
"I cannot!" said Ida. She wrote upon the reverse of the billet—"Unless you object, the original order will be preserved."
There were no happier beings present that evening, than the acting host and hostess, and Carry and Arthur.
"I had resigned myself to Ida's perpetual spinsterdom," said Carry to her schoolmates. "She rejected several good offers from no apparent cause; and I imagined she had a prejudice against matrimony."
"She was very indifferent upon the subject;" said Anna. "She was a mystery to many. But those deathless friendshipsbetween ladies and gentlemen, are always suspicious, and I predicted how this one would end."
"Charley is delighted;" said Carry.
"Is that surprising?" asked Josephine, with a dash of irony.
"Hush! Here they are!" said Anna.
The clergyman stepped into the centre of the room. The fourth couple entered first.
"Only six attendants!" whispered Josephine, as Charley appeared in the doorway. A freezing night shut her in! through it she saw but two forms—a princely figure, his Antinous head erect in proud happiness—and the hated, injured rival, to whose house, curiosity and vanity had tempted her—the bridal veil falling in soft wreaths about her;—his bride! his wife! for emulous groups flocked around them.
"Oh! how could you deceive me so?" cried Anna, catching Emma, as Charley led her up. "Mr. Dana! we thought you were the bridegroom! The servant said—'Mars' Charley Dana!' Didn't she, Josephine?"
The frozen lips thawed into a stiff "Yes."
"Ah! how foolish in me to forget that Molly espoused the 'Dana cause!'" said Emma.
"And you believed the mistress would imitate the maid's example, Miss Anna?" returned Charley. "Are you inconsolable that I am single yet?"
"No! overjoyed! A change has come over my desperate spirit, since I discovered my mistake. Come Josephine! we must congratulate them."
Josephine was immovable. "I never pay congratulations."
"For decency's sake!" Charley heard Anna say, angrily. "Don't get into one of your surly humors to-night! Very well! stay where you are!" and she walked off with M. Villet.
"That sigh—what is its interpretation?" asked Mr. Lacy, of Ida, as they were watching and enjoying the lively company, which had none of the stiffness usual to weddings.
"Did I sigh? it was in thought—not in sadness, then."
"So I hoped. What was the weighty reflection?"
"I was running over the bridals and bridal-parties I have attended—each marking some important epoch in my history.At Mrs. Truman's—Ellen's sister—I met Lynn, and gained an insight into Charley's character."
"Those were pleasant data. Carry's was next—was it not?"
His chosen wife though she was, she hung her head. He had to bend to hear the faint accents. "I received a letter from you!"
"You may forget that. Go on."
"Mr. Read installed his new wife, and Lelia Arnold was her bridesmaid. Must I forget her also?"
"As I do—yes!" an unclouded eye answering hers.
"Mrs. Morris had a party in honour of her nephew's marriage; and a series of events succeeded, which occasioned me vexation and trouble; but I was not the principal actor."
"And the secret of another, you are not empowered to reveal. Right! The next?"
"Is this!"
"Out of three of the five you have mentioned, disaster and sorrow have arisen. The proportion of joy in this woeful life is variously estimated, from two-fifths to two-thirds. So we do no violence to natural laws, in assuming this to be a white mile-stone."