EVELYN GRAHAME.
A TALE OF TRUTH.
———
BY ELLEN MARSHALL.
———
Itwas at the beginning of my third year at boarding-school, that—being at the time a parlor-boarder—I was called down one day into the drawing-room, to be introduced to a new scholar, who had just arrived. Upon entering, I perceived a young girl of apparently sixteen or seventeen years of age, seated upon an ottoman, and weeping bitterly. She did not raise her head until Madame B——, calling me by name, introduced the stranger to me, as Miss Grahame. The poor girl, whose parents I found had just left her, merely removed her handkerchief from her face, and bowed slightly, without looking at me.
“Ellen,” said Madame B—— to me, “Miss Grahame will share your room; perhaps she would like to be shown to it now.”
I approached, and taking the young girl’s unresisting hand, whispered a few words of encouragement, and led her up stairs to my little sanctum, where, after having assisted her in removing her hat and shawl, I left her, judging by my own experience that she would prefer being alone for a short time. About two hours after, as I was walking in the garden, I heard a soft, sweet voice call me by name. I turned, and saw my new room-mate, who, approaching, extended her hand, and said, in a trembling tone, “You must have thought me very rude, when you were so kind to me; but, indeed, I never was so unhappy before. I feel better now, and have come to ask pardon, and hope to be taken into favor.” It was impossible to resist her sad, winning look, and, with my usual impetuosity, I flung my arms around her, and pressed her to my bosom. From that moment we were sworn friends.
Evelyn was just sixteen; and never did a sweeter face, or a warmer heart, animate a lovely form. Her features were not regularly beautiful, but the expression of almost angelic purity which pervaded her countenance, when in repose, made her more beautiful than the most studied regularity of feature could have done. The extreme gentleness of her manners, the half-reluctant, half-confiding way she had of speaking of herself, made me think her weak and timid, until I knew her better. She was never gay, but always cheerful; and never did I see her polished brow ruffled by a frown. She was the only child of fond and wealthy parents, residing in Mobile; and the fame of Madame B——’s school had induced them to leave her in New York for a year, in order that she might finish her education.
Six months passed away, and Evelyn and myself were still inseparable. We unfolded to each other every secret of our hearts; and I often smile now to think with how much importance we treated a thousand trifling things. We would sit hours together by the window in our little room, laying plans for the future—that future so short and sad to my sweet friend. Beloved Evelyn, dear companion, thine was a sad lot, born to all that could make life joyous, yet doomed to so cruel a fate.
In one of our confidences, not long after her arrival, she spoke to me of one very dear to her—a cousin, a passed-midshipman in the navy. He had spent several months with her family, and had sailed on a short cruise to Brazil only a few days before she left home; but ere they parted, he had won her consent to an engagement, which was to be kept a secret from all until her return from school. “He will be home just about that time,” said she in conclusion; “he will then tell father all, and we shall be so happy!”
Oh! how often does her image come before me, as she stood and blushingly told me of her joyful hopes. What a blessed thing it is that we know not the trials the mysterious future may have in store for us. We can at least be happy in anticipation; and if our bright dreams are dissipated by a dark and mournful reality, memory can still lessen the gloom of many a lonely hour by recalling those pleasant visions.
Six months, as I have said, passed away, each day only endearing Evelyn Grahame more to my heart. About this time she received letters from home, announcing the death of Mrs. Grahame’s only sister, Mrs. Dutton; and, also, that the latter’s eldest child, a daughter, one year older than Evelyn, had been adopted by her aunt. Mrs. Grahame wrote in the most flattering manner concerning Sarah Dutton; and from the letters the young girl herself wrote Evelyn, I was led to entertain a high opinion of her mind and heart. Evelyn had often visited her aunt, and therefore knew her cousin well. She often spoke to me in the warmest manner of Sarah’s beauty and amiability.
In the meantime, Arthur Noel, Eva’s lover, remained at sea; but the time was drawing near when he would return. The months rolled swiftlyby; and as the period approached for her leaving school, Evelyn became more impatient each day. She was expecting her father to come on for her, when a letter arrived, telling her that it was impossible for him to leave his business, and that she would be obliged to remain at school for a few weeks longer, until some good opportunity offered for her to reach home.
Eva was very much distressed at this. She felt sure that Arthur would reach Mobile before her, and she had promised to meet him there. But she was forced to submit; and after some little persuasion, consented to accompany me to my father’s summer residence on the North River. She was charmed with the scenery of the Hudson, and arrived in much better spirits than I expected at “Lily Grove”—the fanciful name my dear mother had bestowed upon our dear, beautiful home. The day after our arrival, Evelyn received a letter, which had been forwarded to her from school, where it was directed. It was from Arthur Noel, the first she had ever received from him. How brightly her eyes beamed as she read it. Fourteen months of separation had failed to erase her image from his heart. He was at Pensacola, and thinking she would soon be on her return home, designed meeting her in Mobile.
“O, Ellen!” she exclaimed, when she had finished reading the precious missive, “I never felt before how truly, how devotedly I am his.” Poor Evelyn! she loved with a woman’s first, deep, passionate love—a love that either makes or mars her happiness—a love that rude neglect may chill, but naught but death destroy.
The next week brought my dear Eva another tender letter. Arthur had reached Mobile, and though much disappointed at not meeting her there, felt obliged, he said, to smother his desire to fly to New York for her, as so sudden a move, before he had visited his own family, would cause “very unpleasant remarks.” Evelyn was chagrined at this, and so was I. We had both yet to learn how little of the world’s opinion a man is willing to sacrifice for the sake of the one he pretends to love. My friend said little upon the subject, however; but I saw that she anxiously awaited the coming of the following week, when she felt sure of hearing again from her lover. The week came, but brought disappointment—there was no letter. Three weeks more of great anxiety were passed, and still Evelyn heard nothing from home. She was beginning to be seriously alarmed, when one morning, at the beginning of the fourth week, I flew to her room with a letter that the servant had just brought from the village post-office. She grasped it eagerly—the superscription was Arthur’s. She broke the seal, but, as if a sudden presentiment of evil had come over her, she laid it down, and sinking into a chair, burst into tears. “Ellen,” said she, “you must read it first—I have not courage; I feel as if it contained bad news.” I laughed at her, but she insisted upon my reading it first. I took it up, opened it, and silently read as follows: —
Mobile, May 20, 18—.Dearest Eva,—You will be surprised upon receiving this, to find that I am still in your city instead of being with my own family in New Orleans. But you will, I fear, be pained to learn the object that detains me. Oh, Eva! would to God we had never met; or rather, would that I had died, ere I strove to win your fond, pure heart to myself. But, Eva, I know you well; beneath a gentleness which angels might covet, you bear a proud, firm spirit; and I know further, that you would rather learn the truth now, painful as it may be, than some time hence, when it would be too late to repair the evil. I came here, my Eva, with a heart full of love and joy at the prospect of seeing you again. I was disappointed, most sincerely so, at not meeting you. But another filled your place in the family circle—our orphan cousin, Sarah. I will not say aught in her praise, for you have seen and loved her; but—must I confess it—day after day found me lingering at her side, listening to the music of a voice that I have never heard equaled; and, ere long, I learned to know how sadly I had mistaken my feelings toward you, Evelyn. Condemn me, curse me, if you will—I love, madly love, Sarah! Oh, Evelyn! what words to write to you my own, noble-hearted cousin; but you may, perhaps, thank me for my candor. As yet, I have not committed myself to Sarah—all rests with you. To you I owe all my duty and my hand; say but the word, dear Eva, and it is yours forever. I do not ask you to release me from my engagement; but, having told you all, shall most anxiously expect your answer. My heart is breaking, dear Eva, at the thought of the pain this may cause you; but with your own brave spirit, cast from you the image of one who is unworthy of you; one who has so traitorously repaid your love.Arthur Noel.
Mobile, May 20, 18—.
Dearest Eva,—You will be surprised upon receiving this, to find that I am still in your city instead of being with my own family in New Orleans. But you will, I fear, be pained to learn the object that detains me. Oh, Eva! would to God we had never met; or rather, would that I had died, ere I strove to win your fond, pure heart to myself. But, Eva, I know you well; beneath a gentleness which angels might covet, you bear a proud, firm spirit; and I know further, that you would rather learn the truth now, painful as it may be, than some time hence, when it would be too late to repair the evil. I came here, my Eva, with a heart full of love and joy at the prospect of seeing you again. I was disappointed, most sincerely so, at not meeting you. But another filled your place in the family circle—our orphan cousin, Sarah. I will not say aught in her praise, for you have seen and loved her; but—must I confess it—day after day found me lingering at her side, listening to the music of a voice that I have never heard equaled; and, ere long, I learned to know how sadly I had mistaken my feelings toward you, Evelyn. Condemn me, curse me, if you will—I love, madly love, Sarah! Oh, Evelyn! what words to write to you my own, noble-hearted cousin; but you may, perhaps, thank me for my candor. As yet, I have not committed myself to Sarah—all rests with you. To you I owe all my duty and my hand; say but the word, dear Eva, and it is yours forever. I do not ask you to release me from my engagement; but, having told you all, shall most anxiously expect your answer. My heart is breaking, dear Eva, at the thought of the pain this may cause you; but with your own brave spirit, cast from you the image of one who is unworthy of you; one who has so traitorously repaid your love.
Arthur Noel.
The letter had evidently been penned in a state of great agitation. I thought it the wildest thing I had ever read, but at the moment, indignation mastered every other feeling. I continued silent for some moments after I had finished reading it—for I was too much distressed to speak. I did not know how to break the matter to my friend. I knew she had been watching my face for some seconds, and my feelings must have revealed themselves very strongly; for when she saw me standing so long silent, she said, “Tell me what that letter contains, to move you thus.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, but seeing me still silent, she sprung toward me, and grasping my hand, exclaimed, “have mercy on me, Ellen. Tell me what it is; I can bear all, any thing, so that Arthur is well!”
“He is well, Evelyn,” said I; “it would be better for you, poor girl, if he were dead.”
“Oh! say not that,” she again exclaimed, “you would have me think him false; but that cannot be.Arthur loves me; oh, God! say that he loves me still.”
She sunk at my feet as she said this, and burying her face in my dress, sobbed violently.
“Evelyn,” I cried, endeavoring at the same time to raise her, “Evelyn, you have a hard trial before you, but one which I know your woman’s pride will enable you to bear with fortitude. I will leave you; read that letter yourself, and when I come again in an hour, let me find that my friend has been true to herself.” I gently disengaged my dress from her clasp, placed the letter in her hand, kissed her cheek, and left the room.
I retired to my own room, and there wept for my friend, as I had never wept for myself. I trembled for the consequences that might ensue. I knew how deeply Arthur was beloved; and I could not but fear that even Eva’s firm spirit would not bear the blow with fortitude.
In an hour I knocked at her door, and called her by name. “Do not come in yet,” she said, but in a voice so hoarse and hollow, that I could scarcely believe it hers; “do not come in yet, I am not what you wish to see me.”
Once again that morning I attempted to see her, but she still refused to admit me; and it was not until eight o’clock in the evening that my maid came and told me that Evelyn wished to see me.
Never, never shall I forget the look with which she received me. Her color was more brilliant than I had ever seen it, but her eyes were dull and fixed, and a ghastly smile played round her mouth, as she bade me enter; but the expression of her forehead, if I may use such a term, shocked me more than all else. It seemed to have grown old—twenty years in advance of the rest of her face. It was wrinkled, and literally old, with the agony of thought she endured.
“Ellen,” said she, in the same hollow tone with which she had addressed me at the door, “Ellen, I have sent for you, to ask you where is now all my boasted firmness; where my pride, my dignity? Ah, Ellen! I was never tried before. You think me calm—despair makes me so. I did not arrive at despair even without a hard struggle; and now, my heart, full freighted as it was with the fondest hopes girl ever cherished, lies crushed and dying beneath the waves of that gloom which will henceforth be my portion in life.” She ceased, and for a moment stood silent; then suddenly looking up, she said in a calmer voice, “I am very silly to talk in this way to you. Do not weep, dear Ellen; you see I can bear my sorrow without weeping. Read my answer, and tell me how you like it.” Mechanically I took the paper she handed me. Through my tears I read the following concise letter: —
“Miss Grahame presents her compliments to Mr. Noel, and is extremely happy that she has it in her power to gratify him. Mr. Noel might have spared himself any anxiety on the occasion, as, had he known Miss Grahame better, he would have felt sure that she would never have laid a serious claim to a midshipman’s promise, made to a thoughtless school-girl. He will, therefore, accept Miss Grahame’s congratulations on the prospect of felicity before him; and believe that no better wishes will follow him and his bride to the altar than will be offered by her.“Lily Grove, June 2d.”
“Miss Grahame presents her compliments to Mr. Noel, and is extremely happy that she has it in her power to gratify him. Mr. Noel might have spared himself any anxiety on the occasion, as, had he known Miss Grahame better, he would have felt sure that she would never have laid a serious claim to a midshipman’s promise, made to a thoughtless school-girl. He will, therefore, accept Miss Grahame’s congratulations on the prospect of felicity before him; and believe that no better wishes will follow him and his bride to the altar than will be offered by her.
“Lily Grove, June 2d.”
And this was the letter. Not one word of the breaking-heart; not a word of the anguish that had so wrung her gentle spirit that day. Ah, Evelyn! I did not mistake you, noble girl. I have since entertained a different opinion of that letter. It was sent, and for a day or two Evelyn was as cheerful, apparently, as usual; but I saw the effort with which she concealed her grief, and anxiously watched her. Gradually, however, her calmness left her, and she would sometimes give way to bursts of grief, fearful to behold. This continued until she received letters from home, urging her return, as Sarah and Arthur were soon to be married. There was no scorn on her lips as she read Sarah’s account of her approaching nuptials; but the words were perused again and again, and she seemed to drink in every syllable as if it were her last draught of happiness.
I must now hasten to the close of my sad tale. A friend of Mr. Grahame called on us a few days after Evelyn had received the letters urging her return, and informed her that he was about starting for Mobile, and would be pleased to act as her escort home. To my surprise, she excused herself by saying she still hoped her father would come on, and she would prefer waiting for him. When the gentleman left, she said to me, “Ellen, I do not wish to go until all is over, I can then meet them calmly, but now it would be impossible.”
Sarah was married without her, for Arthur had his own reasons for urging the matter. It will be remembered that no one but myself knew of Eva’s unfortunate attachment, and therefore there was no restraint in the letters she afterward received, giving a description of the wedding, and the happiness of the newly married pair. Alas! could one of them have seen the change that had come over Evelyn, happiness must have fled. A few weeks of misery had made sad havoc among the roses of her cheeks. She was now pale and drooping, her step had lost its lightness, and she seldom smiled.
As soon as the news of the marriage reached her, she made preparations for her return, and an opportunity offering shortly afterward, she left me, promising to write as soon as she reached home. I remember looking after her as she walked down the lawn, and wondering if I should ever see her again. Little did I then think how and where I should see her. I never received the promised letter from her, but one from her mother informed me of what I am about to relate. Arthur Noel had expected to leave for New Orleans a few days after his marriage; but an unexpected summons to attend as witness on a court-martial, then in progress inMobile, detained him; and he and his wife were still at Mrs. Grahame’s when Eva arrived. She had not been expected until the next day. The family were all assembled in the drawing-room, when the door was thrown open, and the old negro porter exultingly announced, “Miss Evelyn.” All sprung forward, except Arthur, and he stood spell-bound. Evelyn advanced hastily into the room, but as soon as her eye fell upon him, her early, her only loved—a shriek, so wild, so shrill, burst from her lips, that none present ever forgot it. With one bound she was at his side, and looking into his face with an expression of wo impossible to describe, she faltered out his name, and sunk senseless on the floor, for Arthur had no power to move. It was no time now for Mrs. Grahame and Sarah to inquire into the meaning of this. Arthur was aroused to lend his aid in placing the prostrate girl on a sofa. A physician was sent for, but she lay insensible for many hours; and when she did awake, it was only to make those who loved her so fondly, more wretched. Reason, which for weeks had been tottering on her throne, had fled forever—and Evelyn Grahame, the lovely, the idolized daughter, was a raving maniac!
It was in the Spring of ——, two years after the events related above, that, with a party of friends, I visited the city of ——. The morning after my arrival, the servant brought me up a card, and said a gentleman was waiting in the drawing-room to see me. I read the name—it was “Arthur Noel, U. S. Navy.” I started, and almost fainted.Thatname! how vividly it recalled the past. Eva, my never-forgotten friend, stood again before me in all her pride of beauty, and then—I shuddered, and dared not end my reflection. A hope, however, soon rose in my breast that Arthur might bring me cheering news; and with a lighter heart I descended the stairs. I had never seen Mr. Noel, but Evelyn had often described him to me; and I expected to see a very handsome man. What was my astonishment, therefore, when I entered the room, to behold a tall, pale, haggard-looking man, with a countenance so sad, that I almost trembled as I looked at him.
“Miss M——, I presume,” said he. I bowed, and requested him to be seated.
“I arrived here this morning,” continued he, “from Norfolk, and seeing your name upon the register, have taken the liberty to call and ask a great favor of you.” He paused, and seemed to be endeavoring to suppress some violent emotion. He then resumed, in a faltering tone, “You were Evelyn Grahame’s dear friend.”
“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed, “what of Evelyn—how is she—where is she?”
His voice was stern, as he replied, “she is still what my baseness made her. Where she is, I will show you, if you will go with me. I must go—but I cannot go alone.”
I rang the bell, sent for my hat and shawl, and we went out together. I could not help shuddering, as I saw that my companion led the way to the Lunatic Asylum. As we walked along, I ventured to ask after his wife.
“She is dead,” said he; “she died in giving birth to a little girl, whom I have named Evelyn. Oh! Miss M——, if Eva could only be restored! It is the harrowing thought of my conduct toward her, that has made me what I am—a gloomy, forlorn man. I shun mankind, and feel unworthy to look my little daughter in the face. But the physician who attends dear Eva, has given me a hope that the sight of me might cause a reaction, which would give a favorable termination to her malady. Your presence at the same time may assist this.”
“God grant it!” I fervently ejaculated; and at that moment we entered the court-yard of the Asylum. The matron met us at the door, and Arthur, having given her a note from Dr. ——, she immediately led us to Eva’s apartment.
“She is asleep now,” said the good woman, “but you can go in, and wait until she awakes; she is perfectly gentle, and will give you no trouble.”
We entered the small, but very neat room, and approached the bed, whereon lay all that remained of Evelyn Grahame. I felt as if my heart would burst as I looked upon her. She lay upon her side, one arm supporting her head. Her breathing was soft and gentle as an infant’s. Her beautiful hair had long been cut away, and the exquisitely shaped head was fully exposed. Her beauty had all fled. She looked forty years old; and the contraction of the muscles about the mouth, peculiar to lunatics, gave her face so stern an expression, that I could scarcely believe she was the gentle Evelyn of happier days. My tears flowed fast, while Arthur stood and gazed intently upon her, his arms folded, and a look of settled misery on his face. We had stood at her side about ten minutes, when she suddenly started up—“Mother!—Arthur!” she cried.
“I am here, Eva, my own!” exclaimed Arthur, throwing his arm around her. Her face instantly flushed up, her eyes kindled; she leaned eagerly forward, and gazed upon him; it was but for a second—her head fell back, and she fainted.
Assistance was immediately called, and she soon opened her eyes, looked around, then closed them again. But that look was enough. We saw that reason had again assumed its empire. The wildness of the eyes was gone, and the mouth looked natural. Involuntarily Arthur and myself fell upon our knees. My heart was full of thankfulness, and I prayed; but he, burying his face in his hands, sobbed aloud. The noise roused Evelyn. She again opened her eyes, passed her hand across her brows, and then raising herself with an effort, said faintly, “Where am I—where have I been. Arthur! and you, too, Ellen! what does this mean; quick, some water! Oh, God! I am dying.”
Arthur sprung to his feet, and let her head droop upon his arm. She took his hand in hers, then motioning me nearer, grasped mine also; and for some moments did not move. She then looked in my face, and whispered, “I remember all, now; but Arthur—dear Arthur! I do not blame you. I hope you are happy—I soon will be. I feel that I am dying. Surely, Sarah would not grudge me the happiness I feel in breathing my last in your arms.”
“Oh, Evelyn!” cried Arthur, while his sobs almost choked his utterance, “you must not, you shall not die. You must live to forgive me, and let me make some reparation for the wrong I have done you. Speak to me, Eva! tell me that you will live.”
The poor girl made an effort to speak, but it was in vain—one grasp of the hand—a short sigh—and the pure spirit of Evelyn Grahame had fled to a brighter sphere.
Arthur Noel still lives, a poor, broken-hearted victim of remorse.
REALITY VERSUS ROMANCE,
OR THE YOUNG WIFE.
———
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.
———
Withthe engagement of Rupert Forbes and Anna Talbot, started up a host of scruples and objections among the friends of the parties—not only manifested in the ominous shakings of very wise heads upon several very respectable shoulders, in prophetic winks and upturned eyes—but also found vent in speeches most voluble and fault-finding.
Rupert Forbes was a young physician in moderate circumstances, yet in good practice, established in a pleasant country village, some two hundred miles from the metropolis. Anna Talbot, the youngest of the four unmarried daughters of a wealthy citizen; a pet, a beauty, and a belle, who had been educated by a weak, fashionable mother to consider all labor as humiliating, and to whom the idea of waiting upon one’s self had never broken through the accustomed demands upon man-servants and maid-servants, who from her cradle had stood ready at her elbow, so that there seemed to be after all some ground upon which the discontent of friends might justifiably rest.
“To think of Anna’s throwing herself away upon a country physician, after all the expense we have lavished upon her dress and education—it is absolutely ungrateful!” said Mrs. Talbot, stooping to caress a little lap-dog reposing on the soft cushion at her feet.
“To give up the opera and the theatre for the psalm-singing of a country church—horrible!” exclaimed Belinda, humming the last new air.
“So much for mama’s bringing Miss Anna out at eighteen, just to show her pretty face, instead of waiting, as wasourright!” whispered Ada to Charlotte. “Had she kept her back a little longer, we might have stood some chance.”
“We!” cried Charlotte, contemptuously. “I thank you, I am in no such haste to be married—do you thinkIwould stoop so low for a husband! For my part I am glad Anna will be punished for all her airs—she was always vain of her beauty—see how long it will last! If she has been such a simpleton as to snap up the first gudgeon her beauty baited, why, let her take the consequences!”
“To be forever inhaling the smell of pill-boxes—pah!” said Ada.
“Instead of a heavenly serenade stealing upon one’s blissful dreams—to be roused with, ‘Ma’am, the doctor’s wanted—Mrs. Fidget’s baby is cutting a tooth,’ or ‘Deacon Lumpkin has cracked his skull!’” added Belinda.
“And then such a host of low, vulgar relations—in conscience I can never visit her!” quoth Charlotte.
“Well, well, girls, I’m not sure after all but Anna has done wisely,” said Mr. Talbot. “Forbes is a fine young fellow, and will make her a good husband. Poor thing! she will have many hardships, I don’t doubt—on that account only, I wish her affections had been given to some one better able to support her in the style to which she has been accustomed.”
“I consider it, Mr. Talbot, a perfect sacrifice of her life!” said his good lady.
Such were a few of the remarks on the lady’s side, while on the part of the gentleman was heard:
“How foolish to marry a city girl! A profitable wife she’ll make, to be sure!” cried one.
“Why couldn’t he have married one of his own folks, I should like to know!” said a second.
“Well, one thing is pretty certain; Rupert Forbes never will be beforehand—he has got to be poor enough all his days, and it is a pity, for he is a clever lad!” exclaimed a third.
“And I warrant she will hold her head high enough above her neighbors,” chimed in a fourth.
“Pride must have a fall—that’s one comfort”—added another, “and I guess it wont be long first, either!”
In addition to which charitable speeches, Rupert received many long lectures, and many kind letters, warning him against the fatal step he had so unwisely determined upon.
Opposition is often suicidal of itself, by bringing about the very event it most deprecates. In the present case, certainly, it did not retard the anticipated nuptials, for upon a certain bright morning in May, Rupert bore off his lovely young bride from her gay, fashionable home to his own quiet little nook in the country.
When Anna exchanged her magnificent satin and blonde for a beautiful traveling dress, had any one demanded what were her ideas of the new life she was now entering upon, she would have discoursed most eloquently upon a cottageornée, buried amid honeysuckles and roses, where, on the banks of a beautiful stream, beneath the shadow of some wide-spreading tree, she could recline and listen to the warbling of the birds, or, more delightful still, to the music of Rupert’s voice, as he chanted in her ear some romantic legend of true love—from this charming repose to be aroused only by a summons from some blooming Hebe, presiding over the less fanciful arrangements of the cottage, to banquet, like the birds, upon berries and flowers!
Had the same inquiry been made of Rupert, as he looked with pride and love upon the young creature at his side, he would have traced a scene of calm domestic enjoyment, over which his lovely Anna was enthroned both arbitress and queen. To grace his home all her accomplishments were to be united with her native purity and goodness—her good sense was to guide, her approbation inspire his future career, and her sympathy alleviate all the “ills which flesh is heir to!”
This was certainly expecting a great deal of a fashionable young beauty, whose life might be summed up in the simple word—pleasure; and whose ideas of country life were gathered from very romantic novels, or perhaps a season at Saratoga! But then Rupert was very much in love—walking blindfolded, as it were, into the snares of Cupid!
One thing certainly the fair young bride brought to the cottage, along with her accomplishments—viz., a large trunk, filled with the most beautiful and tasteful dresses which fashion could invent—laces, handkerchiefs of gossamer texture, gloves the most delicate, fairy slippers, brooches, bracelets, rings, shawls, mantles, not omitting a twenty dollar hat, with bridal veil of corresponding value. Such was thetrousseauof the young physician’s wife!
Anna herself had no idea that such costly and fanciful articles were not perfectly proper for her new sphere, and if her mother thought otherwise, as most probably she did, her desire to impress the “country people” with a sense of her daughter’s importance, and of the great condescension it must have been on her part to marry a country doctor, overcame her better judgment.
——
“Look, my dearest Anna, yonder is our pleasant little village!” exclaimed Rupert, pointing as he spoke to a cluster of pretty houses, nestling far down in the green valley below, now for the first time visible as the carriage gained the summit of a hill, while here and there the eye caught bright glimpses of a lovely stream winding along the luxuriant landscape.
“What an enchanting spot!” cried Anna, pressing the hand of her husband to her lips—“how romantic!”
“It is indeed lovely, Anna—but remember ‘’tis distance lends enchantment;’ a nearer view may destroy some of its present beauty,” said Rupert.
“Yet it will be lovely still, dear Rupert, for our home is there!” exclaimed Anna.
No wonder the heart of the happy husband bounded with delight at such words from such beautiful lips!
“Now you can discern the church through those venerable elms, which were planted by hands long since mouldering in the dust,” said Rupert. “And see, dear Anna, as we draw nearer, how one by one the cottages look out from their leafy screens, as if to welcome you.”
“O it is all perfectly charming, Rupert! Now which of these pretty dwellings is to be our abode?” inquired Anna.
“Just where the river bends around yonder beautiful green promontory; do you see two large trees whose interlacing branches form as it were an arbor for the little cottage reposing in the centre? There, my beloved Anna, there is your future home!”
“O it is a perfect beauty spot—how happy, how very happy we shall be!” exclaimed Anna with enthusiasm.
“May your bright anticipations, my dear one, be realized,” said Rupert. “Sure I am that if the tenderness and devotion of a fond heart can secure you happiness, it will be yours—yet as on the sunniest skies clouds will sometimes gather, even so may it be with us, and our brilliant horizon be darkened.”
“No, no, talk not so gravely, Rupert,” cried Anna, “depend upon it, no clouds but the most rosy shall flit o’er our horizon! But do order the coachman to drive faster—I am impatient to assume the command of yonder little paradise.”
The carriage soon drew up within the shadow of those beautiful trees which Rupert had already pointed out to his fair young bride, and in a few moments Anna found herself within the walls of her new home, and clasped to the heart of her happy husband, as he fondly impressed upon her brow the kiss of welcome.
Like a bird, from room to room flitted the gay young wife, so happy that tears of tenderness and joy trembled on her beautiful eyelids. True, here were no costly mirrors to throw back the form of beauty—no rich couches of velvet inviting repose—the foot pressed no luxurious carpet, nor did hangingsof silken damask enshroud the windows; yet the cool India matting, the little sofa covered with snowy dimity, the light pretty chairs, and thin muslin curtains looped gracefully over windows looking out upon a charming shrubbery, were all infinitely more agreeable to Anna. No doubt, accustomed as she had ever been to all the elegancies of life, the very novelty ofsimplicityexerted a pleasing influence—still affection must claim its due share in her gratification. When at length every nook and corner had felt her light footstep, and echoed with her cheerful tones, they returned to the little sitting-room, and while the soft evening wind stole through the honeysuckles, and twilight deepened into darkness, the happy pair traced many golden-hued visions, stretching far into the dim future.
Professional duties summoned Rupert from home early the following morning, and Anna was left to her own disposition of time. While the dew-drops yet quivered on the fresh, green grass, she had tripped through the orchard, the meadow, and garden, inhaling the pure morning air, and listening with unspeakable delight to the music of the birds. To her uninitiated view the scene was perfectly Arcadian, where all her visions of rural felicity were to be more than realized. Anna was, perhaps, “born to love pigs and chickens,” for each in turn received a share of attention worthy even the heroine of Willis, and neither did the faithful dog, or more wheedling grimalkin escape her notice.
Somewhat tired at length with her rambles, she returned to the house, and now, for the first time, faint shadows of reality rested upon love’s romance. She was surprised to find the rooms in the same disorder she had left them—her trunks were yet unpacked, and the chamber strewed with all the litter of traveling. She wondered if the maid would never come to arrange things—it was certainly very shocking to have no place to sit down, properly in order. She looked for a bell—she might as well have looked for a fairy wand to summon the delinquent housemaid. That she could do any thing toward a more agreeableat-home-nesswas a fact which did not occur to her; so she threw herself upon the sofa, resolving to wait patiently the appearance of the servant. In the pages of a new novel she had already lost her chagrin, when the door was suddenly thrown wide open, and a tall, strapping girl—how unlike the Hebe of her imagination!—putting her head into the room, exclaimed, —
“Well, aint you coming to get up dinner, I should like to know; the pot biles, andhe’ll be here in a minute, for it’s e’en a’most noon!”
“Who are you speaking to?” said Anna.
“You must be smart,MissForbes, to ask that! Why, I guess, I’m speaking to you; I don’t see nobody else. Maybe you don’t know it’s washing-day; and I aint used to cooking and doing every thing on such days, I can tell you!”
Anna had good sense enough to know that the girl did not mean to be impertinent, so she answered mildly, “Very well, I will come.” And putting down her book, she followed her into the kitchen.
Kitty immediately resumed her station at the wash-tub, leaving her young mistress to solve alone the mysteries of that glowing fire-place, and heedless of her presence, struck up a song, pitching her voice to its highest key, and in the energy of her independence, splashing and swashing the glittering suds far above her head.
Poor Anna looked around despairingly. What wassheto do—whatcouldshe do! There was the pot boiling, fast enough, to be sure; so fast that the brown heads of the potatoes came bobbing up spitefully against the lid, as if determined to break through every obstacle in the way of their rising ambition. There, too, was a piece of meat, raw and unseemly, stretched out upon a certain machine, ycleped a gridiron, by old housekeepers, yet of whose use or properties Anna was sadly at fault. To extricate herself from her embarrassment she knew she must first crave light, so feeling as if about to address some pythoness of those mysterious realms, she humbly demanded, —
“Well, Kitty, what can I do?”
“Do—I guess you’d better lift off that pot pretty quick,MissForbes, or the ’taters will be all biled to smash!”
Lift off that pot—that great, heavy iron pot!She! Anna!whose delicate hands had never scarcely felt a feather’s weight! Anna was confounded.
“I wish you would do it for me,” she said.
“Well, I guess I aint going to crock my hands when I’m starching the doctor’s shirts!” quoth Kitty, with a toss of her head.
After many awkward attempts, poor Anna at length succeeded intiltingthe huge pot from off the hook which held it suspended over the crackling flames, though not without imminent danger of scalding her pretty feet.
“Sakes alive, what a fuss!” muttered the girl, “and a nice grease spot, too, for me to scour up!”
The mildness and patience of Anna, however, at length overcame the stubbornness of Kitty—so true it is that the most obstinate natures will yield to kindness and gentleness. Wiping her sinewy arms upon her apron, which she then took off and threw into a corner, she came forward, evidently rather ashamed of herself, to the assistance of the perplexed young housekeeper.
“I guess,MissForbes, if you’ll just set the table in there, beforehecomes, I’ll do the steak, and peel the ’taters; maybe you aint so much used to this sort of work.”
Anna, gladly yielding up her place, proceeded to prepare the little dining table, which she managed with more tact, yet keeping a watchful, inquiring eye upon the movements of Kitty, that she might be moreau faitto business another time. Still the high-bred beauty, as she continued her employment, missed many things which she had always considered indispensable—inquired for silver forks—napkins—andeven puzzled poor Kitty’s brain by demanding where the finger-glasses were kept.
“Silver forks!” cried Kitty, “I never heard of such a thing. Do tell, now, if city folks be so proud! Napkins! I guess you mean towels. Whyhealways wipes on that are roller in the backpizaz. Finger-glasses! Sakes alive!—what does the woman mean?Finger-glasses!Well, that beats all creation, and more too!” and with a hearty laugh, she slapped the steak upon the platter just as the gig of Rupert stopped at the gate.
The happy wife, now forgetting all annoyances, flew to meet her beloved husband, and while partaking of their simple dinner, greatly amused him by her artless details of that morning’s experience.
But Rupert was obliged to go out again immediately, leaving Anna once more solitary. She had, however, learned a lesson; and knowing it would be vain to look for Kitty’s assistance, she herself unpacked her beautiful dresses, feeling sadly at a loss for commodious bureaus and extensive wardrobes to contain her splendid paraphernalia. To hang up those rich silks and satins on wooden pegs against a white-washed wall, seemed desecration; so these she refolded, and placed once more in her trunk, determining in her own mind that Rupert must at once supply those essential articles, which she was very sure it would be impossible to do without. Countless bareges, cashmeres, and mousselines, however, cast their variegated tints through the chamber, and the one bureau, and the little dressing-table were loaded with finery.
After arranging every thing in the best manner she could, Anna exchanged her white morning negligée for a light silk, and drawing on a pair of gloves, went below to await the return of Rupert.
Hardly had she sat down, when she perceived several ladies coming up the walk, while a loud knocking at the street-door almost immediately, as certainly announced them to be visiters. Supposing, of course, Kitty would obey the summons, she remained quietly turning over a book of engravings. The knocking was several times repeated, and Anna beginning to feel uneasy at the delay, when —
“MissForbes!” screamed Kitty, from the kitchen, “why on arth don’t you let them folks in! I guess I aint a going to leave my mopping, and my old gown all torn to slits!”
For a moment indignation at the insolence of her servant crimsoned Anna’s brow. This was, indeed, an episode in the life of a city belle—to be ordered by a menial to attend the door—to appear before strangers in the capacity of a waiter.
Happily, the unceremonious entrance of the ladies relieved her perplexity. She received her visiters with that ease and grace of manner so peculiarly her own, at once placing the whole party upon the footing of old acquaintances, andalmostdisarming even the most prejudiced, by her affability and sweetness. To have wholly done so would have been a miracle indeed, so much were many of her new neighbors for doubting that any good or usefulness could pertain to one brought up amid the frivolities of the city.
——
The little village of D—— was primitive in its tastes and habits. Remote from any populous city or town, it was neither infected by their follies, nor rendered more refined by association. Railway speed had not there conquered both time and space; the journey to the city was yet a tedious one of days, over high hills and rocky roads, consequently, an event not of very frequent occurrence. Yet, however these “dwellers of the valley” might lack for refinement, or the high-bred polish of fashionable society, there was a great deal of honest worth and intelligence among them—true hospitality, and genuine benevolence both of precept and practice.
True, scandal here, as elsewhere, found wherewith to feed her craving appetite; and busy-bodies, more at home in their neighbor’s kitchens than their own, walked the streets inspectingly; yet, as the same may be said of almost every place, let not our little village be therefore condemned.
In the course of a week almost every person in the town had called to see Anna, from various reasons, no doubt; some from real neighborly kindness, others solely out of regard for the young doctor, and not a few from curiosity; yet as they carried not these motives in their hands, Anna, of course, could not determine by their pressure, whose welcome was the most hearty and sincere, and therefore extended to all the same courteous reception. Also, in the same short space of time, her work-basket was filled with all sorts of odd recipes for all sorts of odd things—candles, cake, bread, bruises, beer, puddings, pickles, pies, and plasters, soap and sausages, as gratuitous aids to the young, ignorant housekeeper, by her well-meaning neighbors.
The opinion, by the by, which Anna’s new acquaintances formed of her, may, perhaps, be best gathered from a colloquy which took place one afternoon at Mrs. Peerabout’s, over a social cup of tea.
“Well,” exclaimed that lady, who from her bitterness was generally considered as thealoesof the neighborhood, “well, I, for one, have been to see the bride, as you call her, and of all the affectedest rigged up creatures I ever see, she beats all.”
“She certainly has one of the sweetest faces I ever saw,” said another. “Don’t you think, Mrs. Peerabout, she is very pretty?”
“No, indeed, I don’t! ‘handsome is that handsome does,’ I say. Pretty! why I’d rather look at our Jemima’s doll, that her Aunt Nancy sent her from Boston. Gloves on!—my gracious! At home in the afternoon, a sitting down withgloveson, looking at pictures! A useful wife she’ll make Rupert Forbes, to be sure!”
“And they say, too,” said Miss Krout, “she can’teven cook a beefsteak, and almost cried because she had not a silver fork to eat her dinner with.”
“Yes,” added Mrs. Peerabout, “so she did, and could not even put on a table-cloth without help, Kitty says!”
“Well, but, Aunt,” interposed a pretty girl, “Kitty also said that she was so pleasant, and spoke so pretty to her, that she really loved to help her.”
“And what beautiful eyes she has!” exclaimed another.
“Well, I have not said any thing against her eyes, but just look at her rigging, Susan,” put in Mrs. Peerabout, draining her fourth cup.
“You must remember, Mrs. Peerabout,” said Mrs. Fay, the lawyer’s wife, “that Mrs. Forbes has never lived in the country, and has probably always been accustomed at home to dress just as much, if not more. You must excuse me if I say I really think you judge her too hard. For my own part, I confess myself favorably impressed by what I have seen of her. Recollect, she is entirely ignorant of our ways.”
“Then she had better have stayed in the city,” interrupted Miss Krout, spitefully; “for my part, Mrs. Fay, I don’t like such mincing fol de lol ways as she has got!”
“But she will learn,” said Mrs. Fay mildly, “she will conform to our customs I do not doubt.”
“Learn!I guess so—a sitting with gloves on and curls below her girdle—I aint a fool, Mrs. Fay!” said Aloes.
——
Although Anna was really much pleased with the majority of her new acquaintances, their manners and conversation, as also their style of dress, so entirely different from what she had been accustomed to, did not escape her criticism, yet, for the sake of her husband, she was resolved to overcome her prejudices, if so they might be called.
Speaking of them one day to Rupert, she said:
“No doubt they are very excellent, worthy people, but it does not appear to menowthat I can ever really learn to take any pleasure in their society—yet I hope I shall always treat them with perfect politeness, and kindness too, for they are very warm friends of yours, Rupert.”
“Thank you, Anna—they are indeed good friends of mine, and so will they be, too, of yours, when they know you better; and you also, my dearest, will find that beneath their plain exterior and homely speech they have warm hearts, and minds far above many of those who figure largely in what is termed thebest society.”
“I do not doubt it, Rupert,” replied Anna. “Well, I must try to conform myself to their habits, I see, and for your sake I hope they will love me, for it is very plain to me, from some words which one of the good ladies accidentally let fall, that they consider me now a most useless, unprofitable wife—a mere image for a toy-shop, and that I shall prove a perfect stumbling-block in the way of my dear husband’s advancement. Now tell me,” she continued, and tears filled her beautiful eyes, “what can I do to gain their friendship, and convince them that I prize my dear Rupert’s respect and affection too highly not to exert myself to be worthy of them—tell me, Rupert, what I can do?”
“Act yourself, my darling wife,” said Rupert, kissing her, “be as you ever are, kind and lovely. It is true many of my best friends do not approve of my choice, but do not trouble yourself about their approbation—only act in your new sphere as your own good sense and native kindness prompts you, and you will be sure of it. I sometimes think it was cruel in me to woo you away from your home of splendor to this retired, uncongenial spot. I fear you can never be really happy here, and in spite of your love for me, will often sigh for the luxuries you so cheerfully gave up for my sake.”
“O say not so, dear Rupert—I shall be most happy here, indeed I shall—with your love and approbation how can I be otherwise—they will stimulate me to conquer many false notions, inherent from my cradle. I will not deny,” continued Anna, “for I scorn evasion, and will make a clean breast of my follies, that I have alreadyfanciedthe necessity of many things to render me even comfortable—you smile, Rupert, and there have been moments ofennui, when I have felt almost contempt for things around me—I have even given way to anger at what I at first supposed insolence in Kitty. She is, to be sure, a rough, unmannerly girl, but it is because she has never been taught better; I know she has a kind heart, and that with a little management I shall soon be able to convince her of the impropriety of many things she now does from ignorance—not willfulness.”
“You must be cautious, Anna—Kitty will take umbrage at the slightest hint, and be off without a moment’s warning.”
“No, I think better of her,” said Anna. “We shall see. I have been thinking,” she continued, “how much many mothers are to be blamed for not better preparing their daughters for the duties of domestic life—that sphere where a woman’s usefulness and influence are most felt. There is no denying that almost before little Miss slips her leading-strings, she is taught to regard marriage as the chief aim of her life—she is taught to sing and dance—she has drawing-masters and music-masters, French and Italian—and for what reason? Why is she kept six hours at the piano, and scarcely allowed to speak her mother tongue?—why, that she may get married! That object cared for—thefutureis left a blank—”
“Yes,” interrupted Rupert, “very much like rigging out a ship with silken sails and tinseled cordage, and then sending her forth on a long voyage without provisions!”
“Exactly, Rupert. To my mind housekeepingin all its branches should be considered as much of an accomplishment in the education of young ladies, as a perfect knowledge of music or any of the fine arts! Had my parents spent one quarter the time and expense upon my acquirements as awife, which they did to render me fashionable and agreeable in the fastidious eyes oftheirworld, how much better satisfied I should feel—how much more confidence that I have not imposed upon your affection by a total unfitness for the duties of a wife—indeed, my dear Rupert,” said Anna, smiling, “you ran a great risk when you fell in love with me!”
We will not trace the daily walk of our heroine further, but leave it to the reader to fancy from what has already been said, how thickly the thorns mingled with the roses on her path of new married life!
But at the close of one year mark the result—one year of patient trial to our young wife! Many vexations, both real and imaginary, had been hers, yet she loved her husband, and resolved to overcome all the errors of her education, that she might be to him the helpmate—the friend—the beloved companion she felt he deserved. Where there is a will, it is said, there is always a way, and Anna bravely conquered the difficulties which at first presented themselves. Even those who most criticised her first attempts at housekeeping might now have taken lessons themselves from the neatness and order which reigned throughout her establishment.
The rebellious Kitty yielded gradually to the gentle dominion of her charming mistress. Miss Krout sweetened her vinegar visage, and even presented Anna with a jar of pickles of her own preparation, while Mrs. Peerabout acknowledged that the “Doctor’s city wife was wonderful—considerin’!”
May my simple story encourage the young wife to meet those trials in her domestic path, from which none are wholly exempt, with patience and meekness—let her remember that “Love considereth not itself,” and