———
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
———
How insufficient Nature’s light to guideOur world’s poor blinded, woful wanderers home!The wide spread universe—the azure dome—The stars which in their golden chariots ride,Divinity’s design and work proclaim—But can no further go. It may emitA sad, a sickening note of wo; yet it,When questioned of the “Great Restorer’s” name,Nor voice, nor answer e’er returns. ’Tis hereThy helplessness, O Nature! lies—Speakest thou but of Him who built the skies;“Things seen made not of things which do appear;”No Sun of Righteousness is ever known from thee;No vision and the people perish utterly.
How insufficient Nature’s light to guideOur world’s poor blinded, woful wanderers home!The wide spread universe—the azure dome—The stars which in their golden chariots ride,Divinity’s design and work proclaim—But can no further go. It may emitA sad, a sickening note of wo; yet it,When questioned of the “Great Restorer’s” name,Nor voice, nor answer e’er returns. ’Tis hereThy helplessness, O Nature! lies—Speakest thou but of Him who built the skies;“Things seen made not of things which do appear;”No Sun of Righteousness is ever known from thee;No vision and the people perish utterly.
How insufficient Nature’s light to guide
Our world’s poor blinded, woful wanderers home!
The wide spread universe—the azure dome—
The stars which in their golden chariots ride,
Divinity’s design and work proclaim—
But can no further go. It may emit
A sad, a sickening note of wo; yet it,
When questioned of the “Great Restorer’s” name,
Nor voice, nor answer e’er returns. ’Tis here
Thy helplessness, O Nature! lies—
Speakest thou but of Him who built the skies;
“Things seen made not of things which do appear;”
No Sun of Righteousness is ever known from thee;
No vision and the people perish utterly.
THE MOTHER’S PROPHECY.
———
BY MRS. JULIA C. E. DORR.
———
It was a cold, windy night in the winter of 179-. The tall pines that had climbed to the highest summits of the Green Mountains, bent beneath the rushing of the blast; and as the wind careered among their branches, gave out moans and shrieks that seemed in the darkness like the wailing of weird spirits. Ever and anon the air would be filled with tiny particles of ice and snow, and the cold, fitful gleaming of the moon, as it occasionally emerged from behind a cloud, only served to make the scene more desolate, as the tall, gaunt shadows were rendered distinctly visible.
But in the quiet little valley that lay nestling at the very foot of one of the tallest peaks, there were no traces of storm. The strife of the elements disturbed not its repose, for the encircling mountains bent over it lovingly, and with their giant arms seemed to ward off all dangers, and keep back all foes that might harass this—the pet lamb that rested in their embrace.
A single farm-house, rudely constructed of logs, stood beneath the shadow of forest-trees; and, indeed, but few of those ancient dwellers in the valley had as yet bowed their haughty heads at the stroke of the woodman’s axe. Every thing around the little dwelling betokened that it was the abode of one of the hardy pioneers who had left the sunny banks of the Connecticut for a home amid the wilds of Vermont. But there was a ruddy light gleaming from the small window, that spoke invitingly of peace and comfort within; and occasionally the sound of woman’s voice singing a low, soft lullaby fell dreamily upon the ear; or rather, might have done so, had there been an ear to listen.
In the principal apartment of the house—the one that served alike for kitchen and parlor, sat Andrew Gordon and his fair and gentle wife—Amy. A bright-eyed boy, apparently about four years old, played upon the nicely-sanded floor, and in the mother’s arms lay a babe, very lovely, but very fragile, upon whose face the eyes of Amy Gordon dwelt with a long, yearning gaze. Few words were spoken by the little group. The husband and father sat gazing thoughtfully upon the glowing embers; the wife rocked the child that was cradled upon her breast; and little Frederick silently builded his “cob-house,” stopping now and then to scan with a pleased eye the progress of his work, or uttering an exclamation of disappointment as the tottering fabric fell to the floor.
There was an air of refinement about the master and mistress of that little domicil, that contrasted somewhat strangely with their rude home and its appurtenances. The dress of the wife, although coarse and plain, was arranged so tastefully, sogenteely, as the young ladies of the present day would say, that you would scarcely have noted its texture, or the absence of ornament. Her slight figure, and the faint color upon her cheek, spoke of a delicacy of constitution hardly suited for the hardships and trials of an emigrant’s life; but the meek light within her eye, her calm, broad forehead, and the slight smile that lingered upon her lip, told that she possessed that truest of all strength—strength of mind and heart.
There was something in the face of Andrew Gordon that, to a close observer, was not exactly pleasing; and yet you could not have denied that it was a very handsome face—quite sufficiently so to warrant the unmistakable look of admiration that his wife occasionally cast upon it. Intellect was there—courage was there—firmness of purpose, and a resolute will; and there was a depth of affection in his eye whenever it dwelt upon the group around him that proved him the possessor of a kindly heart. Perhaps it was some early disappointment—some real or fancied wrong—some never-to-be-forgotten act of harshness or injustice on the part of another that, once in a while, cast such a shadow over his fine face, and gave such a bitter expression to his well formed mouth.
For half an hour they remained as we have pictured them above; and then the mother tenderly placed her little one upon the bed that stood in one corner of the room—cradles were a luxury unknown in those days—and glancing at the clock that pointed to the hour of eight, said,
“Come, Frederick, put away your cobs, dear. It is bed-time for little boys.”
“Oh, I wish it wouldn’t be eight o’clock so soon when I am making cob-houses,” replied the child; “just wait one minute, mamma, until I make a chimney—then my house will be done. There, now—isn’t it a nice one?” So saying, Freddy gave the finishing touch to his edifice—looked at it admiringly for a moment, then giving it a light pressure with his hand, his evening’s work was demolished in an instant. Laughing heartily at the havoc he had made, he hastily gathered the cobs in a basket near him, and sprang to his mother’s side.
Ah, Freddy, Freddy! how like you are to many a “child of larger growth,” who toils, month after month, year after year, building a temple, it may be to love, or wealth, or fame; and then, when it is nearly or quite completed, by a single false step, or a single ill-regulated action, destroys the shrine he has been rearing with so much care and labor! But here the similitude ceases. You laugh and clap your hands in childish glee at the downfall ofyourhouse,hesits down desolate and alone by the ruin he has made, and mourns over hopes and prospects buried beneath it.
Thoughts somewhat like these may have passed through the mind of Andrew Gordon, for there was a cloud upon his brow, as he watched his wife while she undressed the playful child, and smoothed his dark curls preparatory to the night’s repose. Then kneeling by her side, and folding his little hands together, Frederick repeated after her a simple prayer—a child’s prayer of love and faith, asking God’s blessing upon those dearest to him—his father, mother, and little sister, and His care and protection through the night.
“Now I must kiss papa good-night,” said the little boy; “and then, mamma, wont you please to sit by me, and tell me a pretty little story? I will shut my eyes up, and go right to sleepso quickif you will.”
The good-night kisses were exchanged; Frederick soon nestled closely in his soft, warm pillow, and true to his promise, closed his eyes, while his mother, in a low, soothing voice, told him a story of the birds and lambs and flowers. Presently he was fast asleep, and pressing the tenderest of kisses upon his rosy cheek, Amy returned to her seat by the fireside.
“Dear little fellow! how sweetly he sleeps,” said she, moving her chair as she spoke nearer to her husband. “I wonder what the future hath laid up in store for him,” she continued, musingly, with her eyes fixed upon the bright blaze that went roaring and crackling up the broad chimney. “And yet if the book of fate were laid open before me, I should fear to turn to the page on which his destiny is inscribed.”
“I hope, at any rate, that the wordwealthis written there,” said Andrew Gordon, speaking for the first time since he had taken his wonted seat by the fire that evening. “I am not a very great believer in books of fate or in irrevocable destiny. Man makes his own destiny, with some little help from others—and Frederick shall be a rich man before he dies, if my exertions are of any avail.”
“He may be taken from us, even in childhood, Andrew;” and the mother’s eye turned anxiously toward the little bed, as if the bare thought of death was enough to awaken her solicitude. “I would rather he would begreatthanrich—andgoodthan either.”
“He will be great if he is rich—that is, he will have influence, and be looked up to; and as for goodness—pshaw! who ever heard of a rich man’s doing wrong?” he continued, with that bitter smile, of which we have before spoken, curling his thin lip. “If a man possesses wealth, he may oppress the poor, strip the widow and the fatherless of their last penny, cheat his neighbors, and rob his own brother—but it is allright!”
“Then may God grant that our boy may never be a rich man, Andrew,” said his wife, solemnly. “But you speak too bitterly, dearest. Your own misfortunes have made you unreasonable upon this point.” And Amy lifted, caressingly, the dark locks that fell over her husband’s high forehead.
“Unreasonable, Amy! Have I not cause to speak bitterly? Have I not been defrauded of my just rights? Have I not been robbed—ay, literallyrobbedof the fortune my father left me when I was too young to know its value? Can I forget that one, one of my own kith and kin, too, lives in the dwelling of my forefathers, and calls their broad lands his, when he knows, and I know, and the world knows, that I am the rightful heir? Can I forget all this, and that I amhere?” he added, glancing contemptuously round upon the rough walls of his cottage. “And you, too, Amy—you, who were born and reared in a home of luxury—you, whose presence would grace the proudest drawing-room in the land; you, whom I wooed and won before I dreamed that I was to tread a path like this; and yet, angel that you are, you who have never breathed a word of reproach, or a syllable of complaint, your home, too, is here in this rude cabin”—and the proud man bowed his head, and something that looked strangely like a tear, glittered a moment in the firelight.
“But you are here with me in this rude cabin as you call it, dearest, you and our little ones; and how many times must I tell you that I would rather be here, provided I am by your side, than to sit upon the throne of the Indies without you? I believe you say these things,” she continued, playfully, kissing his flushed brow as she spoke, for she would fain have won him back to more cheerful thoughts, “I believe you say these things just for the sake of hearing me tell you over and over again how dearly I love you, and how happy I am with you. Is it not so, darling?”
But Andrew Gordon was not to be cheered even by the tender caresses of his wife. His mind would dwell upon themes, the contemplation of which was destroying his peace of mind, and fast changing his very nature.
“I tell you, Amy,” he said, rising and pacing the apartment with a hurried step, “I tell you, Amy, I will be rich! and Frederick shall be as rich, ay, richer, than if his father had not been cheated out of his inheritance. They think,” he added, with a flashing eye, “that they have trampled me in the very dust, but they cannot keep me there. I will be rich and influential; and as soon as Fred is old enough to learn the lesson, I will teach him how to make money, and how to keep it, too.”
“No, no, Andrew—spare me that last blow, I implore you,” said Amy, and tears were rapidly chasing each other down her pale cheeks. “If you will give up your whole mind and soul to the pursuit of wealth, as you have done for the last two years—if you will coin your very heart’s blood for gold, and allow this feverish thirst for gain to become, as it were, the very essence of your being, spare me this last blow. Teach not this lesson to our child. Teach him to be prudent, industrious, economical as you will, and my example and teachings shall be added to your own; but impress not upon his young mindthe doctrine that the acquisition of wealth is the chief end of his existence, and its possession the chief source of man’s enjoyment. Just as surely as you do is misery in store for him. A mother’s heart is a prophetic heart, and I repeat it—just as surely as you do is misery in store for him and you; just so surely will his sun and yours set in darkness and in gloom. Oh, Andrew, Andrew! for your own sake—for my sake—for the sake of these precious ones,” she added, drawing him to the couch where their children lay, “cease this struggle that is wearing your life away, and changing you so greatly, that at times I can scarcely recognize the Andrew Gordon of my early love.”
The fire upon the hearth had burned low; but, at that moment, a broad, ruddy glow filled the room, and Andrew Gordon stood with his eyes fixedsteadfastly upon his wife’s face. Who can tell the emotions that swept over his soul during those few, brief moments? Good and evil spirits were striving for the mastery upon the arena of his heart, and his countenance worked strangely as one or the other prevailed. At last, he turned hastily away, and muttering—as if to himself—“But Frederick must be a rich man,” he sought his pillow.
He had chosen his part!
——
Years, many years had passed since the conversation narrated in the previous chapter, and Andrew Gordon was no longer the sole tenant of the sweetest valley that slept beneath the shadow of the Green Mountains. A small, but pleasant village had sprung up around the site of his old log-house; and, upon the very spot where that had once stood, arose an imposing brick mansion, that seemed to look haughtily down upon the humbler dwellings around it. A small church—of simple, yet tasteful architecture—lifted its spire a few paces farther on; two merchants—rivals, of course—display their gilded signs on either side of the street just below, and numerous little heads might have been seen peeping from the windows of the schoolhouse over the river.
Andrew Gordon was a rich man. He had added acre to acre, and farm to farm. The factory—whose machinery moved so steadily from morning till night; and the grist-mill—whose wheels whirled round so incessantly, belonged to him; and it was more than hinted, that one of the stores—although managed in the name of another—was, in reality, his property.
Yes, Andrew Gordon was a rich man; but was he satisfied? Was that craving thirst for the “gold that perisheth” quenched at last? Ah! no; it raged more fiercely than ever. Amy—his pure and gentle Amy, slept in the little church-yard, where the white tombstones contrasted so beautifully with the deep-green turf, and where the willow-trees made a cool, refreshing shade even at noon-day.
She had pleaded and reasoned with him in vain. Day by day he became more and more deeply engrossed in the pursuit of wealth. With a mind capable of the highest things—with an intellect that might have soared above the stars—with eloquence at his command, by which he might have swayed the hearts of men, and led them captive at his will, he yet preferred to hover near the earth, and offer up genius, talent, even love itself, upon the altar of mammon.
Had any one told him that he had almost ceased to love his wife, he would have spurned the idea, and have laid the “flattering unction to his soul,” that he was indeed a pattern husband. Were not all his wife’s wants most liberally supplied? Was not money ever at her command? In short, did he ever deny her any thing?
Yes, Andrew Gordon! You denied her what was of more worth to her than the gold and silver of Peru. You denied her a little of your precious time. So absorbed were you in your own pursuits, so fearful were you that every hour would not add something to your store, that you had no time to devote to her whose happiness was in your hands. You had no time for that sweet interchange of thought and feeling that she so valued; you had no time for those little attentions that woman so dearly prizes; you had no time for an occasional caress or word of endearment that would have cheered her in many a long, lonely hour, and the mere memory of which would have sustained her through suffering and through weariness. No, you had no time for trifles like these; and you could not remember—proud man that you were—that her nature was not like your nature, and that those things were as necessary to her existence as dew is to the drooping flower—as the warm sunlight to the ripening grain—as the draught of cool water to the pilgrim, fainting in the wilderness. You could not remember all this, and Amy pined day by day: her cheek grew pale and her step more languid. Do you say she should have had more strength of mind than to have been affected by such slight causes? I tell you she could not help it. Talk of strength of mind to a neglected wife! Woman’s true strength lies in her affections; and if wounded there she will droop and wither, just as surely as does the vine, when rudely torn from the tree to which it clung. She may struggle against it long and, for a while, successfully; the eye of man may mark no change upon lip or brow; but—it will come at last!
Amy slept in the church-yard; and the daughter who was cradled on her breast that winter evening when we saw her last, slept beside her. Frederick alone was left to Andrew Gordon, and he loved him with all the love he had to spare from his coffers. Had the son learned the lesson that the father was to teach him? We shall see.
One evening, at the close of a long, bright summer day, about sixteen years from the date when our story commences, a young man—who appeared as if he might be just entering the fifth lustrum of his life—might have been seen loitering along by the banks of a stream that came laughing and leaping down the mountain side, at some distance from the dwelling of Andrew Gordon. He had a gun upon his shoulder,but his game-bag was empty; and the pretty gray-squirrels hopped from tree to tree, rabbits stared curiously at him with their bright, saucy eyes, and even the wild partridge fluttered around him—unharmed, while he wandered on, wrapped in a somewhat moody reverie.
His thoughts seemed to be very variable—partly sad and partly glad; for, at one moment there would be a cloud upon his brow, a look of doubt and irresolution—and the next, a smile would break over his face, making it remarkably pleasing in its transient expression. His figure was tall and graceful; and his hair—that was black as night—fell over a forehead that would have been almost too white, had not the sun kissed it rather warmly.
It would have been difficult to have recognized in him our old friend Frederick Gordon, the hero of the cob-house—yet when that transient smile, of which we have before spoken, played over his features, the light in his dark eyes was the same as that which beamed there, when—pleading for a story—he sprung joyfully to his mother’s side.
He sauntered along for an hour or two, deeply buried in thought. At length—
“She is very lovely,” he murmured to himself, as if unconsciously. “She is, indeed, very lovely! What a pity it is that Dame Fortune has not added a few money bags to the list of her charms; for portionless as she is, she sorely tempts one to play the fool. I came very near committing myself last night at that boating party. What with the slow, dreamy motion of the boat, the moonlight sparkling on the waters, the heavy shadows on the opposite shore, in short, the exquisite beauty of the whole scene, combined with Lily’s almost ethereal loveliness, all the romance of my nature—and I really believe I possess a tolerable share—was aroused, and I nearly lost sight of my fixed purpose to marry a rich wife, if any. Yet, after all, does she not possess the truest wealth?” he added, “and I am almost sure she loves me. Pshaw! I wonder what my good father would say to nonsense like this?” and again he became lost in thought.
For nearly an hour he remained sitting upon the stump of a large oak, that had—together with many others—fallen a victim to the progress of civilization, with his head resting upon his hand, and his eyes fixed on a vacancy.
Suddenly, he was startled by the report of a gun—a moment, and a faint scream fell upon his ear; there was the quick tread of bounding feet, the crashing of branches, and a large deer rushed franticly through the thicket, and paused a moment, panting and breathless, almost at his side. He had only time to perceive that it was terribly wounded, when the antlered head was raised for an instant, the quick ear caught the distant baying of the hounds, and the poor creature again dashed onward, with all the energy of despair.
Frederick Gordon immediately sprung toward the thicket from which the deer had emerged; and with much difficulty succeeded in making his way through the tangled underbrush and reaching the cleared space beyond. But what a sight there greeted his vision! A sight that blanched his cheek, and made him cling involuntarily for support to a wild vine, that drooped over him, and nearly impeded his progress. Lily Grey—the subject of his recent reverie, the being who had awakened the first thrill of love that he had ever known, for he did love her, in spite of himself—lay before him, with not the faintest shade of color upon cheek or lip, and the blood slowly oozing from a wound upon her temple.
For a moment, Frederick gazed upon her as if spell-bound; then stealing softly forward, as if she were sleeping, and he feared that he might waken her, he knelt upon the green sward by her side. At first, he had no thought but the dread one of death. She lay there so still, so pale, so like death, that the idea of attempting to revive her did not even occur to him; and, in truth, it would have been hard to have told whose cheek was the palest—his, or that of sweet Lily Grey.
But, presently he fancied that her lips quivered a little, a very little: and that there was the slightest perceptible tremor of the deeply-fringed eyelids. Perhaps it was nothing but the dancing shadow of the leaves that were frolicking in the sunlight above him; but it gave him hope, and with that came the effort to restore her. He bound up the wound upon her temple; he chafed her cold, moist hands, and raised her in his arms, and bore her out from the shadow of the trees, that the cool breeze might play upon her cheek.
A world of pure, warm emotions crept over his soul, as she lay there so quietly in his embrace; he forgot the lessons of worldly wisdom that had been impressed upon him from his very childhood; he forgot, for the moment, all save his love—love, whose very existence he had hardly admitted before; and when he saw by the slight flush that mounted to her brow, that consciousness was returning, he murmured—
“Lily dear—dearest Lily—thank God that you are safe!”
The young girl started wildly, and he gently laid her upon the grass again, speaking low, soothing words, such as a brother might breathe in the ear of a younger and beloved sister, until she opened her eyes, and raising her hands to her brow, said—
“Frederick—Mr. Gordon—where am I? How came I here?”
“That you can best tell yourself, Lily,” replied Frederick gaily, for he wished to dispel all her fears. “I found you here in the woods, like the ‘faire ladyes’ we read of in the old romances, pale and breathless, with the blood flowing from your temple; and, of course, as a good and loyal knight should do, I did my best to restore you—that is all.”
“O, I remember now,” was the answer. “I had been to see old Mrs. Forster, in the cottage yonder: she is very lame this week. It was very warm, and I sat down under the shade of that maple to rest myself. I suppose I must have fallen asleep, for I was suddenly aroused by the report of a gun. In an instant, I felt a sharp blow upon my temple—a largedeer went bounding past me; and I must have fainted, for I remember nothing more, until, until—”
Lily paused, and a burning blush overspread her neck and face, as she recalled the words that had greeted her ear as consciousness returned.
Frederick drew her more closely to him, as he said—
“Go on, Lily—or shall I finish the sentence for you? Until you heard words that must have convinced you—of what, indeed, you could not have been ignorant before—that Frederick Gordon loves you. Was not that what you would have said, Lily?”
There was no reply: but, although Lily’s lip trembled, and her eyes were heavy with unshed tears, she did not shrink from his embrace, and Frederick Gordon felt that he was beloved.
“Forgive me, Lily, you are growing pale again—you are still weak. I should not have troubled you. Are you strong enough to walk home now, think you—dear one?”
“O, yes,” replied Lily, rallying herself. “I am quite strong now. I imagine my temple must have been cut by a sharp stone thrown up by the hoof of the deer, as it rushed past me.”
Few words were spoken by the young pair as they walked through the woods, in the dim twilight. Lily’s home—at least, her home for the time being—was but a short distance off, and with a mute pressure of the hand they parted at the gate.
——
That same evening there was a clear light gleaming from the window in Andrew Gordon’s mansion, usually occupied by himself. He—its owner—sat there alone, with his folded hands lying upon the table, and his head resting upon them. At length, he arose, and an observer might have seen that there was a bright, red spot upon either cheek, while his brow was knit, and there was an unusual, almost an angry gleam in his eye. Stepping to the window, and shading his eyes with his hands, he looked out for a moment, and then raising the sash, he called to a man who stood in the yard:
“John, tell my son to come hither.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the man, and Mr. Gordon returned to his seat by the table.
A few moments had elapsed when Frederick entered. His father did not appear to notice his entrance, and, after pausing awhile, the young man asked—
“Did you send for me, sir?”
“Yes,” was his father’s answer, as he pushed a chair toward him with his foot, and motioned him to be seated. “I have a few things to say to you, sir: I happened to be an eye-witness of the love-scene that took place in the woods, down yonder, this evening. No, I was no spy or eaves-dropper,” he continued, as the color flashed to Frederick’s face, and he half-rose from his chair: “You may as well keep cool, young man. I was passing near there, just as the girl was coming to her senses, and I could not well avoid seeing and hearing what passed. You were so taken up with her, that you had no ears for any one besides, else you must have heard me. Permit me to congratulate you,” he added, with a mocking smile, “upon enacting the lover most admirably. May I be allowed to inquire who was the fair damsel who played Juliet to your Romeo?”
“Lily Grey, sir,” was the laconic reply.
“Lily Grey! And who, pray, isshe?”
“She is a young lady from Massachusetts, I believe, who has been spending the last three months with Mr. and Mrs. Mason. I presume she is a niece of theirs, as she calls them uncle and aunt.”
“Poor as a church mouse then, of course,” said Mr. Gordon, quickly. “Frederick, do you love this girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have been foolish enough to tell her so, I conclude, as I had the pleasure of hearing the declaration a little while ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, sir, let me tell you, once for all, that this foolery must have an end. I can never receive Miss Lily Grey as my daughter-in-law.”
“I have inherited so much of my father’s meek and docile disposition,” said the young man proudly, with an ironical smile curling his lip, “that I shall doubtless be lead as a lamb in this matter. Allow me to say, that in matrimonial affairs I intend to do as I choose.”
Mr. Gordon must change his tactics. Frederick said rightly—he is too much like his father to be driven.
There was silence between the two for many minutes, but they sat looking in each other’s eyes as if reading the soul there. Then Andrew Gordon rose, drew his chair nearer to his son’s, and taking his hand kindly in his own, said—
“I wish you to do as you choose, Frederick—all I hope is that I may induce you to choose wisely. Listen to me for awhile, and see if I do not present this matter before you in a different aspect. I came here as you know, my son, when this valley was an unbroken wilderness, a poor man, poor through the fraud and injustice of others; and I at once resolved, more for your sake than my own, to be rich. I toiled early and late; I struggled, in the early part of my career, with hardships and difficulties. But at length I was successful. My resources are ample;yoursI should have said, but I cannot consent that the wealth, to the accumulation of which I have devoted all the best years of my life, should go to enrich a beggar. With your talents, your fine person, your graceful and winning address, together with the fortune which I had intended to place in your hands upon your next birth-day, (to say nothing of your expectations at my decease,) with all these advantages, I say, you might select a wife from the highest and wealthiest family in the land. There is a young girl, the orphan daughter of one whom I knew in my boyhood, whom I selected years ago as my future daughter-in-law. Her fortune must be immense, and every advantage that wealth can give will be lavished upon her. She is—let me see—she is about fifteen now,and is said to be very beautiful. There is a clause in her father’s will, I am told, that will prevent her marrying before she is twenty-one. You have been long wishing to make the tour of Europe, and I was thinking, just previous to my unfortunate discovery this afternoon, that it would be well for you to start immediately, spend the next four years in traveling, and still have a year or two at your disposal, after your return, to secure you success with her. But of course it is useless to say any thing about it now, as you have made your own choice.”
Mr. Gordon ceased, and for a long time Frederick sat silently revolving his father’s words in his mind. He was not naturally the callous, cold-hearted being which the reader might judge him to be from the soliloquy we overheard in the woods. His noble and generous impulses had for many years given his father a deal of trouble, and even yet, as we have seen from his conduct this day, he occasionally acted without any regard to the “almighty dollar.” But these instances had, of late, been rare. Andrew Gordon was gradually moulding him to his will, and even before receiving the summons to his presence this evening, the effect of the lessons that he had been taking through his whole life was resuming its sway, and Ambition or Avarice—call it by which ever name best pleases you, was beginning to struggle with Love.
“What is the name of the young lady of whom you were speaking, sir?” he finally asked.
“Elizabeth Munro,” was the reply, and again there was a long pause.
“Let me retire now, if you please,” said Frederick, rising; “I would fain think over this matter in my own room.”
“Thank you—thank you, Frederick. That is spoken like my own son,” was Mr. Gordon’s answer, as he cordially shook his hand. “I have no fears that you will not gratify me, if you will but yield to the suggestions of your own good sense.”
Frederick Gordon slept not that night. We will not attempt to follow the workings of his mind. Suffice it to say, that the next morning, with a pale cheek, but with a voice that did not falter, he signified to his father his readiness to adopt the plan proposed by him the previous evening.
“Then you must go at once, this very day,” said Mr. Gordon; “there must be no time for foolish regrets and sentimental nonsense. The ‘Virginia’ sails for Europe upon the 20th of next month, and this—yes, this is the 17th. You have no time to lose—you must start for New York this evening, and you will then hardly have time to make the necessary preparations there.” And he hurried away to expedite his son’s departure.
——
We must now return to sweet Lily Grey, whom we left so unceremoniously at Mr. Mason’s gate, after her adventure in the woods with Frederick Gordon. When she entered the house, she did not, as usual, repair immediately to the common parlor or sitting-room as it was called, but ascending the stairs she sought her own chamber. Hastily throwing off her bonnet, she approached the small mirror, and slowly removing the handkerchief which was fastened around her temples, endeavored to ascertain the extent of the injury she had received. She found that it was nothing but a tolerably deep incision, made, apparently, by a very sharp stone. The bleeding had ceased, and she soon succeeded in closing the wound by the help of some narrow strips of plaster.
She then seated herself by the low window, and tried to recall the events of the day. Dear Lily Grey! what a fount of deep, pure, exquisite, yet strange happiness had welled up in her young heart since she went forth that summer afternoon upon hererrand of mercy to old Mrs. Forster’s cottage! Yet bright tear-drops were continually sparkling in her beautiful eyes, and her hands trembled so that she could scarcely smooth the shining curls that fell without restraint upon her shoulders.
For a long time she sat there by the window; darkness came on, but she heeded it not; there was no darkness of the spirit there, and her heart was illumined in its innermost recesses by light from within, light that depended not upon outward objects—light clearer than that of the sun at noonday.
“Why, Lily dear!” exclaimed the cheerful voice of Mrs. Mason, “are you here? We thought you had not come in yet; and fearing you were lost or in some trouble or other, George started in pursuit of you some time ago. And now, while he is tramping through the woods in search of you, here you are, ensconced in your own little room safe as a saint in her niche. But bless me, child! why, what a wound upon your forehead,” and dropping the bantering tone she had before used, and approaching quickly to Lily’s side, the good lady asked seriously, “Whatisthe matter, Lily? What has happened?”
“There is nothing of consequence the matter now,” replied Lily, and she rapidly sketched the occurrences of the afternoon. She did not think it necessary to tell the whole story, and was thankful that the blush she felt rising to her very forehead, as she mentioned the name of Frederick Gordon, was concealed by the increasing darkness.
“Really, quite a romantic adventure you have had,” said her aunt, as Lily concluded her little story. “I suppose that, as in duty bound, you intend falling in love with Mr. Gordon forthwith. I fancy your bright eyes had done some mischief in that quarter already; and now wouldn’t it be funny if we should have a wedding here, eh Lily?” And thus she rattled on while they were descending the stairs, and proceeding to the parlor where tea was waiting, never once dreaming that there was any thing like truth in her playful jest. Had she done so she would have been very serious, for she well knew it was no light thing for a maiden to place that priceless treasure, her young heart’s pure love, in another’s keeping.
Lily escaped from the family circle soon after tea that evening, under plea of fatigue; and, in truth, shefelt the need of rest. She longed to be alone with her newly born happiness; to recall the looks and words that had so thrilled her heart. She was young, very young, almost a child in years; and she had not learned that the treasure she had found that day was one to be received with fear and trembling. She took the angel guest to her bosom, tearfully, itis true, but oh! most joyfully; and she lay down upon her couch that night to dream only of long, long days of bliss. She knew, indeed, that something of sorrow must fall to the lot of mortals; but would not eventhatbe sweet if shared withhim? With such thoughts as these she knelt to offer up her evening prayer, and to bless her Father in Heaven for the new well-spring of joy that had sprung up in her pathway.
How bright and beautiful was every thing in the outer world when Lily awoke next morning! There had been a shower during the night, and a thousand gems were sparkling upon every tree and shrub and flower. The mist was rolling up from the mountains, but it yet lay heavily above the bed of the river, marking its windings as far as the eye could reach. It seemed to Lily that earth was never so beautiful before; and there was melody in her young heart as she stood by the open window, listening to the trilling of the birds, the low murmur of the water-fall, and all the sweet sounds with which Nature welcomes the approach of the May god. When, her simple toilet completed, she descended to breakfast that morning, old Mr. and Mrs. Mason noted with surprise her unwonted loveliness. She was, indeed, as Frederick Gordon had said, very lovely at all times; but now her face was radiant with happiness—that most efficacious of all cosmetics—and her eyes beamed with added lustre. Perhaps, too, she might have arranged her dress with rather more care than usual; for in those primitive days it was not considered necessary to attend to the duties of the toilet half-a-dozen times a day, and Lily had whispered to herself, “Frederick will surely be here to-day.”
But the morning passed and no Frederick appeared. Hour after hour of the afternoon rolled away, and still he came not. She listened, with a beating heart to every approaching footstep, and wondered what could keep him from her side. At length she heard in the distance the sound of approaching wheels. She looked from the window and saw Mr. Gordon’s carriage slowly toiling up the hill, and, shrinking behind the curtain, she watched it as it drew nearer and nearer. There was a figure upon the back seat, closely muffled in a cloak, which did not seem to be particularly needed at that season of the year; and her heart told her that it was the figure of him for whom she had watched and waited through the day. But the noble steeds halted not; the carriage rolled slowly by, and the muffled figure drew the folds of the mantle still more closely about it, and shrank back still farther into its dark corner.
The young girl gazed upon the vehicle until it faded from her sight; then sinking back upon her seat she covered her face with her hands. When she removed them, although her cheek was pale as marble there was no other sign of suffering. She could not, even yet, doubt that the mystery would be explained—perhaps after all it was not Frederick, and with that thought her spirits returned.
Just at dusk Mr. Mason came in from the village, and turning to Lily, said—“Lily, why did you not tell us that Fred Gordon was to leave us to-day? Of course you knew, as you saw him yesterday?”
Lily was spared the necessity of replying, for her aunt immediately exclaimed—“Fred Gordon left us! where is he going, pray?”
“Why, he goes to-night,” was the reply, “in their own carriage as far as P——, and from that place takes the stage to-morrow for New York. His father tells me that he is to sail for Europe in the ‘Virginia’ next month, and will probably remain four or five years.”
Amid the hum of voices, the exclamations of surprise, the inquiries and surmises to which this intelligence gave rise—for be it remembered, a voyage to Europe was a much more formidable undertaking then than in these days of steamships—no one noticed Lily. It was as we have said just at dusk, and with a dread foreboding of she knew not what evil, she had glided to the farthest corner of the room, and remained there effectually concealed by the gathering shadows. When the words that to her seemed the death-knell of every hope were pronounced, she did not speak, she did not even sigh, but standing motionless for a moment, with her eyes fixed wildly upon the speaker, she threw up her white arms once, twice convulsively, and then sank slowly to the floor—breathless and inanimate. Poor, poor Lily Grey.
——
It had been a gala day in New York—a day of feasting and rejoicing—a day of triumphal processions and martial pageantry—one of America’s most honored sons, one whose days had been spent in the service of his country, and whose blood had flown more than once upon the battle-field, was the guest of the city, and its inhabitants laying aside for awhile their accustomed avocations, had assembleden masseto welcome him. The old Park theatre had been converted, for that one night, into a splendid ball-room, and as darkness came on, in hundreds of dressing-rooms, the young and the lovely, ay, and many who were neither, were decking themselves for the festive scene. At a later hour innumerable carriages were rolling through the streets, bearing their precious freight to the appointed place; and hosts of tiny, satin-slippered feet tripped lightly up the broad stone steps and were lost in the crowd within. It was a splendid pageant. There were dancing plumes and sparkling gems—flashing eyes and flower-wreathed curls—the waving of banners—and over all and surrounding all, a dazzling radiance, shed from the massive chandeliers that were suspended, at no distant intervals, from the lofty ceiling. Two young men—one of them, from his foreign dress and ignoranceof those around him, evidently a stranger—were leaning against one of the large pillars, engaged in earnest conversation. They used their opera-glasses quite freely, and were apparently commenting on the beauties around them. At length their attention was drawn toward the door by the hum of voices and murmurs of admiration that greeted the entrance of a young lady, who appeared leaning on the arm of a fine-looking man, old enough to be her father. She was, indeed, surpassingly beautiful, but it was the swan-like grace and elegance of her movements, the soul that breathed from her features, the depth of feeling in her violet eyes, that involuntarily fixed the attention of the observer, and awoke in his breast an interest for which he could scarcely account. She was magnificently attired in a tunic dress of light-blue satin, with a rich embroidery of silver—and costly pearls were clasped about her throat, her rounded arms, and gleamed amid the heavy masses of her braided hair.
The young men did not speak until she had crossed the room and was hidden from their sight by the intervening crowd; then drawing a long breath, the stranger asked of his companion—“Frank, in the name of all that’s beautiful, who is that lovely creature?”
“That,” said Frank Stanley, “that is Miss Munro, our belle and heiress.”
“Miss Munro!” exclaimed the other, while his color was considerably heightened, “is that Miss Munro?”
“Why yes. What is there so surprising about it? Do you know her?”
“No,” was the reply, “but I have often heard of her.” Then after a pause, he added, “Can you present me?”
“Certainly, if you wish it,” rejoined his friend, and they crossed the apartment.
“Miss Munro, permit me to present to you my friend, Mr. Gordon.” There was a low bow on the part of the gentleman, a courteous salutation on that of the lady, and after a few commonplace remarks, Elizabeth Munro was led to the dance by Frederick Gordon.
“The handsomest couple in the room by all odds,” said Frank Stanley. “I should not wonder if that should be a match yet. Gordon is half in love already, and if he undertakes to win her and does not succeed, I don’t know who can.” And with these words he turned away to join a group of friends who were chatting merrily at a little distance.
Arthur Talmadge, the young artist addressed, gazed upon the dancers sadly and earnestly for a few moments, and then murmuring—“Stanley is right—if he cannot win her who can?” he hurried from the ball-room. Nobly gifted, but poor and proud, he felt that he had nothing in common with that gay throng, and he bent his steps toward his own cheerless room.
And Frank Stanley and Arthur Talmadge were not the only ones who arrived at the same conclusion. One by one the admirers of Miss Munro—and their name was legion—dropped off until the field was left entirely to Frederick Gordon.
As may be supposed, he was not negligent in improving the advantage thus given him. Yet at the end of six months he felt no more secure of her favor than at the time of their first acquaintance. Her demeanor toward him was always courteous, and such as became a lady; she received his attentions frankly, but yet so calmly and quietly, that it was evident she felt none of the timidity of dawning love. Her cheek never brightened at his approach; her voice never faltered as she addressed him; her eye never wandered in search of him, neither did she repulse him, and so he hovered round her hoping that success would yet be his. She listened with a pleased ear to his glowing descriptions of other lands; her fine eyes were lit up with enthusiasm as he spoke of Italy, with her sunny skies, her gems of art, and her oppressed and degraded children; of Greece, with her temples, beautiful even in their decay; of Egypt, that land of fable and mystery, and of the East, thronging as it does with memories and associations that stir the heart to its innermost depths. He was a fine reader, his voice was deep and thrilling, and when he read or recited the finest passages from Shakspeare, Milton or Wordsworth,