The web of our life is of aMingled yarn, good and ill together.All’s Well that Ends Well.
The web of our life is of aMingled yarn, good and ill together.All’s Well that Ends Well.
The web of our life is of a
Mingled yarn, good and ill together.
All’s Well that Ends Well.
“El Diamente,” to avoid the bad weather, usually met with in the Gulf Stream, had taken the eastern passage, and, after clearing the Bahamas, had held her course about east north-east, and getting far to the eastward, was rapidly ploughing toward her destination.
She had been fortunate in having fair winds and good weather, and the voyage to Don Manuel and his family had been a very pleasant one. In the security and calmness of this passage, Clara had nearly forgotten the dreadful horrors and mischances that can take place at sea, and which she had experienced on her former voyage.
It was after sundown, the day had been intensely warm, and Clara and Francisca were sitting on the ship’s high poop-deck, enjoying the pleasant, and now cool air, and admiring the placid beauty of the smooth sea.
“What is that dark object, sister?” asked Francisca, pointing to a large, black-looking substance, floating to leeward.
“Indeed, I don’t know, Niñetta! It looks like a whale.”
“Oh! I want to see one so much; call Captain De Vere, and tell him to bring the telescope, so that we can have a good look at it,” said Francisca.
Clara called her husband, who came laughingly upon the poop, with a telescope; and adjusting the glass, he looked through it to see that the focus was right, before giving it to the ladies.
But as he looked his countenance changed, and taking the glass from his eye, in a voice of pity, he said, “that is not a whale, ladies; buttwo poor men on a floating mast.” Both the ladies expressed the greatest pity, and begged De Vere to have the poor men picked up: this he intended to do; and calling to his side the captain of the ship, pointed out to him the floating wreck.
The captain was a kind-hearted man, and there is nothing that excites the sympathy of a sailor quicker than a wreck, for it is a peril to which they are all and always exposed, and he at once ordered the man at the wheel to keep away. Soon the figures of the men on the spar were visible from the deck, and they looked as if they were both dead.
Getting near them, the Diamente’s top-sail was hove aback, and a boat lowered, to bring the sufferers on board. When she brought them, both men were insensible, though their faint breathing gave evidence that life had not yet departed.
All the crew and passengers were gathered around the gangway, to see the rescued ones as they were passed on board. As Willis came over, Francisca, with the quick eye of love, recognized him, and, shocked at his dreadful appearance, fainted.
None else recognized the handsome slaver, in the begrimed, sunburnt, blood-stained, and skeleton figure before them. And attributing Francisca’s swoon to pity, for a sight so horrible, carried her below.
Mateo and Willis were laid on deck, for the purpose of being resuscitated before they were carried below. Willis, who was much the most debilitated of the two, from the loss of blood he had sustained, for a long time resisted all efforts to restore animation. But Mateo, who had swooned but a short time before they were discovered, more easily recovered his faculties. But only partially and confusedly had his mind been restored, for, startled by the noise and bustle around him, bewildered, and remembering the desperate fight before the schooner was blown up, and seeing bending over him the face of De Vere, whom he had always known as an enemy, he thought he was again in the hot andheady fight, and staggering to his feet, before any one could stop his movements, he had drawn his sheath-knife, and shouting feebly, in Spanish, “Give it to the English dogs!” he plunged his knife to the hilt in the breast of De Vere; and overcome by the exertion, sunk again senseless on deck; falling across the body of the English captain, who had dropped dead.
Clara sprung forward, and pitching off Mateo, took her husband on her lap, and eagerly tried to staunch the fast welling blood, but it was useless.
The spirit had already fled; in her arms she held but an inanimate corse! She fainted, and fell by the side of her husband, and looked as if her soul had also taken its departure. So cold and deathlike did she look, that it was impossible to tell in which the principle of life still existed, the husband or the wife.
The crew, ignorant of all former acquaintance between the murderer and the murdered, were exasperated that he had met his death from the hand of the man he was trying to aid, and would have thrown both Willis and Mateo again into the sea, from whence they had just taken them, had not Francisca, whose anxiety to learn the fate of Willis had brought her on deck again, told her father who the men were; and the old Don, getting between the crew of the Diamond and the objects of their fury, explained to them their obligations to one of the party, and begged them to pause. He promised to be responsible for Willis himself, and persuaded them to put Mateo in irons, and carry him into port to be tried, instead of executing him themselves.
By the next day both Clara and Willis sufficiently recovered to attend the solemn commitment of De Vere to his last resting-place. Solemn it is, and heart-touching at any time, to see a man committed to a sailor’s grave, but on this occasion the feelings of the lookers-on were peculiarly harrowing—and a gloom, dark and drear, was cast over the rest of the voyage, that had commenced so pleasantly.
Clara was deeply affected by the fate of her young husband, thus cut off in the prime of his manhood, without a moment’s warning. Her character was changed; no longer proud and haughty, she determined to devote the rest of her life to the service of God.
Francisca and Don Manuel were serious and sad at the thought of De Vere’s sudden death and Clara’s distress, though a feeling of joy, like a spring rill, trickled along the bottom of Francisca’s heart, at the sight of Willis’s daily improvement in health, and from knowing he was near her.
Even the crew looked glum and sulky, for there is a superstition amongst sailors, that a murder on board gives a ship bad luck—and they feared a fatal termination to their voyage.
Mateo, the cause of all this suffering and mental commotion, was the only one on board who was totally unaffected by it. He was placed under the break of the forecastle, heavily ironed, and was perfectly calm; and when Willis asked him how he came to kill De Vere, and told him he would certainly be hung when they arrived at Cadiz, he said that he was sorry he had knifed De Vere when he did, but it was no more than he had intended to do some time; and as for being hung, it was what he had always expected—and he would grace a rope as well as another.
Willis, who liked the man for his faithfulness and dogged courage, had all his physical wants attended to; but no change took place in Mateo’s hardened mind.
Don Manuel took an opportunity, before the ship got in, to tell Willis how grateful he felt, and how much he respected him for his conduct in saving the lives of Clara and De Vere; and that though the captain, unfortunately, had not lived long enough to express his feelings otherwise than in words, he hoped Willis would permit him to be his friend, and told him that he had left a hundred thousand dollars for him, in the hands of his agent in Havana, in case Willis returned there before he saw him again; but as he had been fortunate enough to meet him, he insisted upon being Willis’s banker, and begged him to go to Madrid, and then return to Havana with him.
Willis thanked Don Manuel for the high opinion he was pleased to entertain of him, and for the kindness he had shown by leaving the large amount of money for him in Havana, but begged Don Velasquez to excuse him from accepting it; and told him he would have returned the box of doubloons he had sent him, had not the loss of his schooner put it out of his power, and expressed his intention of proceeding to the Chinese seas, after their arrival in Cadiz, to prosecute his fortunes in a new field.
Don Manuel listened until Willis had finished speaking, and then, taking his hand, he said, —
“Excuse me for what I am about to say, Captain Willis, but I am an old man, and mean nothing but kindness toward you. Pride, Captain Willis, I know, prevents your acceptance of my offer; but lay it aside as a favor to me, and believe that it is you who will be conferring the favor. The money to me is nothing, I have plenty of it, and have lived long enough to appreciate it at its just value; and I mean not to offend, but I must speak plainly. You are doing wrong to waste the fine feelings and mind that I know you to possess, in an occupation so much beneath you as that in which you have been engaged, or will be likely to get into without money or friends, so at the least promise me that you accompany us to Madrid, and give me a favorable answer to my request when we return.”
Willis was much affected by the kindness of the old Spaniard, and promised to stay with them until they were ready to return to Cuba.
Notwithstanding the fears of her crew the Diamente arrived safely in port, and Mateo was given up to the civil authorities to be tried. The evidenceagainst him was clear and conclusive; and he was condemned to be hung the day after his trial.
Willis accompanied him to the foot of the gallows; but Mateo gave no evidence either of fear or repentance, and remarked to the hangman, as he reached the platform, that the knot on the end of the noose was made in a d—d unseamanlike manner, and he was afraid it would jam—but it did not; and the sailor died as he had lived, in the midst of sin.
It gave Willis a sharp and disagreeable pang to think of the narrow escape he had in Havana from finishing his career in the same dishonorable manner; and he felt thankful he had been able to avoid it. Giving a priest a handful of doubloons to say masses for the soul’s rest of his departed shipmate, he returned to the hotel to report to Don Manuel the fate of Mateo.
The next day they all departed for Madrid; but though the season was unusually gay, none of the party experienced much pleasure from the gayeties of the city.
Don Manuel was treated with much attention; but every thing had changed since he had been there before. The friends of his youth had died, or were now all old men, and immersed in the cares of business or ambition, were vastly different from the youths he remembered, and his heart yearned to be back in Cuba, amongst the more familiar scenes and friends of his latter years.
Clara was too sad to be happy any where; and Francisca, finding pleasure in nothing but the society of Willis, liked not the flirtations and compliments of the Madrid gallants.
The death of De Vere did away the necessity of going to England; and Clara now had no desire to outshine the English belles—and the trip was given up. All were glad when Don Manuel told them, if they were willing, he would return to Cuba in the same ship in which they came out, as she would return to Havana.
They all expressed their satisfaction; and Willis was now so much enamored with Francisca, that the Don had but little difficulty in persuading him to accompany them.
Again was Don Manuel and his family on board the good ship Diamante; and with a fresh breeze, and with more pleasure than they had experienced for some time, they bade farewell to the shores of Spain, and were heading for home. Home! in that name there is something that excites pleasant feelings in the breast, no matter how torn by sorrow. Even Clara felt more happiness than she had known since the death of her husband.
It was a bright, star-light evening; the ship was slowly moving through the water, that rippled in small waves around her bows. All was still, silent, and beautiful; and Willis and Francisca were walking up and down the poop quarter-deck, which was untenanted, save by themselves; every thing seemed fitted for love and sentiment, and Willis—but I will not repeat what he said—sufficient is it that he confessed to Francisca the deep, deep love he entertained toward her; and she, happy girl, blushingly, acknowledged that it was reciprocated.
Happy, indeed, was Francisca that night; her day-dream and her night-vision of the last eight months had at last come to pass. Willis loved her, and had acknowledged his passion.
Willis had not intended to mention his feelings to Francisca until after he had spoken to her father. But the stillness of the evening, the fine opportunity, and a something in his heart, he knew not what, had overpowered his resolution, and he yielded to circumstances. He now sought Don Manuel to tell him, feeling as if he had been guilty of a crime; but the kindness with which the old Spaniard listened to him, soothed his agitation; and the cup of his happiness was running over when the old man gave his consent to his marriage.
The rest of the voyage passed away, to Willis and Francisca, like magic; and when the cry of “land ho!” resounded from the mast-head, they could not believe that it was Cuba; but the light-house ere long was visible, and they could doubt the evidence of their senses no longer. For the first time Willis felt really glad to enter the harbor; and the remembrance of his situation, and the manner in which he had left, when last there, added to the pleasantness of his present feelings.
A fortnight after the arrival of the Diamente in port, there was a gay bridal party before the high-altar of the Cathedral, and in the same church he had witnessed the nuptials of Clara and De Vere, now stood Willis, happy and proud, with his heart overflowing with gratitude, waiting to receive the benediction that would make the beauteous, the lovely, the pure, and virtuous being at his side, his own forever; and even as that benediction was being pronounced, he remembered the misery he had felt, when he stood behind the pillar at his right, and witnessed the ceremony of De Vere’s marriage, and felt that he was an outcast, branded, desperate, poor. But his fortune now was changed, the benediction was given, and Francisca, in the sight of God and man, was his for evermore.
Stooping over, he imprinted on her ruby lips the first warm kiss of love he had ever given her; for he respected her so much, and so keenly remembered what he had been, that he avoided every thing he thought could possibly shock her delicacy; and, overwhelmed by the congratulations of his friends, amongst whom none were as loud as the old duenna, the party left the church.
A gay and brilliant assembly there was that night at the mansion of Don Velasquez, crowded by theélite, the young, the fashionable of Havana; but prominent above all the couples in the mazy dance, or stately promenade, for grace and beauty, shone the new bride and bridegroom; and the appearance of perfect contentment and joy that lighted theircountenances, added a charm the most lovely, and without which the most perfect features lack beauty.
Shortly after the marriage of Francisca, Clara retired to the convent of our Lady of Mercy, and devoting the rest of her life to deeds of charity and acts of self-denial, endeavored to expiate the sins she thought her pride and haughtiness had made her commit in her earlier years.
At Francisca’s request, Don Manuel presented Willis with his plantation and the country-house on the bay, where, with his loved and lovely bride, he settled. And no one who had looked upon them four years afterward, would have recognized in the loving father playing with a little boy about three years old, and laughing as heartily as the child, Willis, the Slaver, had they not looked around and espied the beautiful Francisca, now a settled matron, with an infant on her knee, but as lovely as ever; and a little further off, through an open window that led to the piazza, was seen the cheerful face of Don Manuel. And glimpses might be caught of the old duenna, as she bustled about the house, in all the pride of chief manager.
In all that vicinity, no one has a higher character for kindness, charity, or benevolence, than Don Carlos Willis; and no one is more ready to relieve the wants of his fellow man, either moral or physical; but none know that the good man, whose name they all unite in praising, was formerly the notorious slaver! the outlaw! the desperado of the “Maraposa!”
TO A CENTURY PLANT.
———
BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.
———
An hundred summers, and the sunHath poured on thee his light;An hundred winters, and the stormHath swept the earth in night.Yet thou, unhurt by sun or storm,Art standing firm and greenAs when by bright eyes long agoThy broad dark leaves were seen.Art standing stately in thy pride,While fragrant flowers unfoldFrom every branch of thy tall stem,As if thou wert not old.Not old! an hundred years has timeBorne silently away;Of all who saw thee first, not oneMay look on thee to-day.I would that every flower of thineWere gifted with a spell,Which, whispering to this heart of mine,Of all the past might tell.For much I love the olden time,And many an olden theme;Their pleasant memories haunt my heartLike shadows in a dream.And I from thee a tale would hearEre thou dost fade away,For thou, with all thy thousand years,Art hasting to decay!A true, true tale of human hearts,Of human hopes and fears,And I will give to joys a smile,To griefs will give my tears.And yet, mayhap, the wish is vain,To wake the solemn past,Or break the darkly-woven chainBy silence round it cast.Mayhap ’tis but a foolish wish,And yet the thoughtful mindWill love the lore of human hearts,That links it to its kind.Thou of the hundred years! what changeHast seen around thee wrought?Hast thou no voice, no truthful voice,To tell of buried thought?Still silent—but thy rustling leavesWhisper in spirit-tone,“Wouldst learn the tale of other hearts,Look, then, into thine own.“Think of the warm, bright hopes that sprungWithin thy youthful breast,Oh think what pangs thy heart have wrungFor dear ones laid at rest.Think what a mighty lore remainsStill to be read by thee;The past—the present—future—allBlended in one Eternity!”
An hundred summers, and the sunHath poured on thee his light;An hundred winters, and the stormHath swept the earth in night.Yet thou, unhurt by sun or storm,Art standing firm and greenAs when by bright eyes long agoThy broad dark leaves were seen.Art standing stately in thy pride,While fragrant flowers unfoldFrom every branch of thy tall stem,As if thou wert not old.Not old! an hundred years has timeBorne silently away;Of all who saw thee first, not oneMay look on thee to-day.I would that every flower of thineWere gifted with a spell,Which, whispering to this heart of mine,Of all the past might tell.For much I love the olden time,And many an olden theme;Their pleasant memories haunt my heartLike shadows in a dream.And I from thee a tale would hearEre thou dost fade away,For thou, with all thy thousand years,Art hasting to decay!A true, true tale of human hearts,Of human hopes and fears,And I will give to joys a smile,To griefs will give my tears.And yet, mayhap, the wish is vain,To wake the solemn past,Or break the darkly-woven chainBy silence round it cast.Mayhap ’tis but a foolish wish,And yet the thoughtful mindWill love the lore of human hearts,That links it to its kind.Thou of the hundred years! what changeHast seen around thee wrought?Hast thou no voice, no truthful voice,To tell of buried thought?Still silent—but thy rustling leavesWhisper in spirit-tone,“Wouldst learn the tale of other hearts,Look, then, into thine own.“Think of the warm, bright hopes that sprungWithin thy youthful breast,Oh think what pangs thy heart have wrungFor dear ones laid at rest.Think what a mighty lore remainsStill to be read by thee;The past—the present—future—allBlended in one Eternity!”
An hundred summers, and the sunHath poured on thee his light;An hundred winters, and the stormHath swept the earth in night.Yet thou, unhurt by sun or storm,Art standing firm and greenAs when by bright eyes long agoThy broad dark leaves were seen.
An hundred summers, and the sun
Hath poured on thee his light;
An hundred winters, and the storm
Hath swept the earth in night.
Yet thou, unhurt by sun or storm,
Art standing firm and green
As when by bright eyes long ago
Thy broad dark leaves were seen.
Art standing stately in thy pride,While fragrant flowers unfoldFrom every branch of thy tall stem,As if thou wert not old.Not old! an hundred years has timeBorne silently away;Of all who saw thee first, not oneMay look on thee to-day.
Art standing stately in thy pride,
While fragrant flowers unfold
From every branch of thy tall stem,
As if thou wert not old.
Not old! an hundred years has time
Borne silently away;
Of all who saw thee first, not one
May look on thee to-day.
I would that every flower of thineWere gifted with a spell,Which, whispering to this heart of mine,Of all the past might tell.For much I love the olden time,And many an olden theme;Their pleasant memories haunt my heartLike shadows in a dream.
I would that every flower of thine
Were gifted with a spell,
Which, whispering to this heart of mine,
Of all the past might tell.
For much I love the olden time,
And many an olden theme;
Their pleasant memories haunt my heart
Like shadows in a dream.
And I from thee a tale would hearEre thou dost fade away,For thou, with all thy thousand years,Art hasting to decay!A true, true tale of human hearts,Of human hopes and fears,And I will give to joys a smile,To griefs will give my tears.
And I from thee a tale would hear
Ere thou dost fade away,
For thou, with all thy thousand years,
Art hasting to decay!
A true, true tale of human hearts,
Of human hopes and fears,
And I will give to joys a smile,
To griefs will give my tears.
And yet, mayhap, the wish is vain,To wake the solemn past,Or break the darkly-woven chainBy silence round it cast.Mayhap ’tis but a foolish wish,And yet the thoughtful mindWill love the lore of human hearts,That links it to its kind.
And yet, mayhap, the wish is vain,
To wake the solemn past,
Or break the darkly-woven chain
By silence round it cast.
Mayhap ’tis but a foolish wish,
And yet the thoughtful mind
Will love the lore of human hearts,
That links it to its kind.
Thou of the hundred years! what changeHast seen around thee wrought?Hast thou no voice, no truthful voice,To tell of buried thought?Still silent—but thy rustling leavesWhisper in spirit-tone,“Wouldst learn the tale of other hearts,Look, then, into thine own.
Thou of the hundred years! what change
Hast seen around thee wrought?
Hast thou no voice, no truthful voice,
To tell of buried thought?
Still silent—but thy rustling leaves
Whisper in spirit-tone,
“Wouldst learn the tale of other hearts,
Look, then, into thine own.
“Think of the warm, bright hopes that sprungWithin thy youthful breast,Oh think what pangs thy heart have wrungFor dear ones laid at rest.Think what a mighty lore remainsStill to be read by thee;The past—the present—future—allBlended in one Eternity!”
“Think of the warm, bright hopes that sprung
Within thy youthful breast,
Oh think what pangs thy heart have wrung
For dear ones laid at rest.
Think what a mighty lore remains
Still to be read by thee;
The past—the present—future—all
Blended in one Eternity!”
THE RING.
OR FIBBERS AND FIBBING.
———
BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “AARON’S ROD,” “PRIZE STORIES,” ETC.
———
“I hopeno one will come in this morning,” said Alice Livingston to her cousin, Emma Percival. “I am tired after last night’s dancing, are not you Emma?”
“Yes,” replied her cousin, yawning, “and sleepy too.”
“I love a long, quiet morning now and then,” continued Alice; “and it looks so like rain that I think we are pretty safe to-day.”
“Don’t think it, my dear,” replied Emma. “This is just the kind of weather that people you don’t want to see are sure to call. I hate these cloudy mornings for that reason. You can’t say you are out such a day as this, and yet it don’t rain positively, so that others are obliged to stay at home, whether they will or no. Now there’s Mrs. Gardiner regularly chooses these days for her inflictions. I’ve no doubt, by the way, she will be here this very morning, for I met her yesterday, and she stopped to say she had not seen any of us for a long time, and all that. Beside she is sure to call in disagreeable weather.”
“What a strange fancy,” said Alice.
“Oh, she’s one of those restless gossips who cannot stay at home a day for her life,” replied Emma. “And then, beside, she’s a bore, and loves to pin you for half the morning; and, moreover, she’s only sure of getting in when you cannot possibly say you are out. Depend upon it she’ll be here this morning—I am sure she will. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, Ifeelthat something evil this way comes.’ ”
“I hope your mesmeric thumbs are mistaken this once,” said Alice, laughing.
“I’ve no doubt but that’s her ring now,” replied Emma; and, sure enough, as the door opened, Mrs. Gardiner entered.
“Ah! Mrs. Gardiner,” said Emma, going forward in the most gracious, pleasant manner, “I thought I knew your ring. We were just speaking of you, and I told Alice that I was sure it was you.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked pleased as she replied, “How came you to expect me just now?”
“I don’t know. It’s a mesmeric sympathy, I suppose,” replied Emma, smiling, “with which I am endowed. Alice was laughing at me just as you came in, for putting so much faith in my feelings. But you see, Alice,” she said looking at her cousin, “that my impressions are quite worth your anticipations. Alice,” she continued, addressing Mrs. Gardiner, “has been watching the clouds, thinking no one would take pity on us this morning; but I knew better.” And Emma again looked at her cousin with an expression of amusement that Alice, knowing what she meant, could not respond to. Being embarrassed between truth and civility, she made a slight and rather cold reply, which added considerably to Emma’s mirth.
“Is Mrs. Percival at home?” inquired Mrs. Gardiner, presently; and as she spoke, she rather turned to Alice, who replied, —
“Yes, I believe so.”
“No,” said Emma. “Alice, she went out some time ago.”
“It’s an unpleasant day for her to be out,” remarked Mrs. Gardiner, fixing her piercing eyes upon Emma with a very incredulous stare.
“She has gone to see old Mrs. Haight,” replied Emma. “She is quite ill, you know.”
“If she does not return soon, she will be caught in the rain,” pursued Mrs. Gardiner, who had heard the story of “mamma’s having gone to Mrs. Haight’s” too often, to put implicit faith in it; “it was sprinkling as I came in.”
“Is it?” said Emma. “She will probably stay and dine there, then. Mamma has not been there for some time, and so she will probably now ‘make a day on’t.’ ”
Mrs. Gardiner had nothing more to say on the subject; so the conversation turned to other things.
“By the way, Emma,” she said, presently, “did you get a hat the other morning? I left you, I believe, at Dudevant’s.”
“Oh, yes, I have one,” replied Emma.
“Do let me see it,” said Mrs. Gardiner, who took an intense interest in the subject of dress. Emma rung, and had her bandbox brought down.
Mrs. Gardiner eyed the bonnet suspiciously, as Emma presented it to her, and said, —
“Who made it, Emma?”
“It’s a French one,” replied Emma, promptly.
“Where did you get it?” pursued Mrs. Gardiner.
“At Dudevant’s,” said Emma, in the same decided manner.
“At Dudevant’s?” repeated Mrs. Gardiner, looking full at Emma. “Why I was there at the opening—I did not see this hat there.”
“It was in one of the cases,” replied Emma.
“Oh—!” said Mrs. Gardiner. The manner wasas if ‘that may be.’ “I did not look in the cases,” she added. “And what did Dudevant ask you for that hat, Emma?”
“That’s between me and my conscience,” replied Emma, laughing. “I never tell Dudevant’s prices.”
“She is an extortionate creature,” said Mrs. Gardiner; and there the subject dropped.
“Well, Emma,” said she, after some time, “if you think your mother will not be at home to dinner, there’s no use in my waiting for her, I suppose.”
“I do not think there is any chance of your seeing mamma this morning, Mrs. Gardiner, for I’ve no doubt she’ll stay and dine at Mrs. Haight’s. But won’t you stay with Alice and myself?”
“Thank you, my dear,” replied the lady. “I wanted to see your mother, but since she is out, I believe I must be going. Good morning.”
“Good morning;” and the door had hardly closed upon her, ere Emma exclaimed,—
“She’s gone at last, thank heaven! She came to spend the day, I expect. I was so afraid that mother might come in. I thought I actually heard her at one time on the stairs.”
“Why, is not your mother out?” inquired Alice, opening her eyes very wide.
“Lord, no, my dear,” said Emma, laughing. “Did you think she was?”
“Certainly,” replied Alice, “when you said so. And all that about Mrs. Haight’s illness is not true either? Oh, Emma!”
“Oh, that’s true enough, Alice. You need not look so shocked. The poor old soul has been ill ever so long; so I always send mamma there when I want to make an excuse for her. She does go, in fact, pretty often; butImake her the most attentive, devoted friend that ever was.” And Emma laughed heartily at her own cleverness, and seemed to enjoy the idea excessively; but Alice looked grave, as she said, —
“How can you, Emma?”
“How can I what, Alice?”
“Why, tell so many—what shall I call them—fibs, for nothing.”
“I never ‘fib for nothing,’ Alice,” replied Emma. “That would be downright extravagance and waste. My fibs always have a reason. I knew mamma did not want to see Mrs. Gardiner—so I said she was out.”
“Why, then, did you not say she was engaged?” pursued Alice, reproachfully.
“Because, my dear, that would have been quite as much of a fib as the other, and not near as effectual. Mamma was not dressed to see company, and was only reading a novel. I could not very well say that, you know. I presume even your penchant for truth would not have carried you so far. Beside, every body is said to be ‘out’ when they don’t mean to see company. They are words, of course, to which no one attaches any ideas of either falsehood or truth.”
“I am not certain of that,” said Alice, “even as a general thing; but when a person enters into such particulars as you do, Emma, I am sure of the contrary. You not only sent your mother to Mrs. Haight’s, but kept her there to dinner. It really does seem to me that that was most gratuitous fibbing.”
“No such thing,” said Emma, laughing. “It was a very bright idea, that; for I saw she thought of waiting till mamma came home, and wanted, moreover, to dine here—and I had no idea of that, I assure you. I was tired to death of her as it was.”
“And yet you received her as if she were the very person you were wishing for,” continued Alice.
“I am sure,” said Emma, laughing, “I repeated, verbatim, what we had been saying.”
“Yes—but with such a different inference,” said Alice.
“Oh, if I keep to facts,” said Emma, gayly, “I do not feel responsible for other people’s inferences.”
“And about your hat,” continued Alice, reproachfully, “why, Emma, should you not have told the truth?”
“Because,” replied Emma, indignantly, “she would just have sent for Henrietta, and had hats made for both her girls precisely after mine, which, by the way, she would probably have sent to borrow as a pattern, if I had let her know she made it in the house. Mrs. Gardiner has no conscience, no decency about those things. She don’t scruple imitating any thing you have, if she can.”
Alice could not but smile in her turn at Emma’s ideas of ‘conscience,’ and ‘scruples,’ but she said,
“Do you think she believed you, Emma?”
“I don’t know whether she did or not, and I don’t care. She did not find out the truth, and that’s all I care about,” replied Emma, still quite indignant with Mrs. Gardiner. “No, I don’t suppose she did,” she continued, carelessly. “Nobody who saw the hat, and has eyes in their head, can mistake a home-made hat for a French one. But she could not tell me so, you know; and I don’t care what she thinks. I could not help laughing, Alice,” continued Emma, more in her usual gay manner, “to see you look so confounded when Mrs. Gardiner came in. You certainly have the most tell-tale face in the world. But it wont do, Alice. Now, as you have been lecturing me, I am going to return the compliment. Somethingisdue to thebienséancesof society, and you, with your truth, are really sometimes downright rude. Now last night, after Fanny Elton sung, you never said a word to Mrs. Elton, who sat beside you. Your coldness cost me a double dose of civility. I had to say all I could to make up for you. Do, pray, Alice, do your own civilities in future, for I have quite enough fibbing to do on my own account, without undertaking yours.”
“What could I say?” said Alice. “Youwouldask the girl to sing, and you know she has no voice, and is so dreadfully false, too. I really felt pained for her mother.”
“The more reason, my dear, why you should have said something civil to her,” replied Emma.
“But I could not, Emma. It was out of the question to say any thing complimentary; and so I thought it best to say nothing. How you could go on as you did, amazed me, for you gave me such a funny look, which, by the way, I was so afraid Mrs. Elton would see, when she came out with those horrid false notes.”
“It was dreadful, to be sure,” said Emma. “But I think it not only uncivil, but really unamiable, Alice, not to stretch the truth sometimes. I declare I was quite delighted with myself for making the old lady so happy as I did, by praising Fanny’s music; and as for not asking her, that would never have done. They think at home she is the greatest musician in the city. One hasgotto fib sometimes.”
“Oh, don’t say so,” said Alice, earnestly. “I do love the truth—it’s a —”
“A jewel, no doubt,” said Emma, interrupting her. “I agree with you; but it’s in bad taste to be in jewels always. If you persist in telling the truth in season and out of season, you’ll be asoutréas poor Mrs. Thatcher, with those eternal diamonds of hers. And then it’s so tiresome,” pursued Emma, “always to stick to facts so. You must embellish a little if you want to make a thing amusing.”
“There I entirely differ from you,” said Alice, decidedly. “The truth may not always be polite, but it’s always refreshing. I think there is nothing that is not only so beautiful, but soagreeableas the truth. It really sometimes has the effect of wit. There’s Mrs. Kemp, for instance, who everybody calls so agreeable; and I do think the great charm is in her being so perfectly true. She always gives you her real opinions and sentiments, and tells you things just as she sees them; and it gives a freshness to her conversation that very few people have. Most persons just repeat what others say, because they think it wont do to differ from the majority. Now truth gives life, freshness, individuality, every thing that is to me delightful, in both people and conversation.”
“Mrs. Kemp has an odd way of coming out with all that comes into her head,” replied Emma, “and I agree with you that it is amusing; but, really, I think it would hardly be put up with if she were not so rich, and a person of so much consequence as she is. I think people would call it right down impudence; and, moreover, she is a woman of a good deal of wit. If she were as dull as old Mrs. Elton, she might be as true as the sun, and she would never by any accident make you laugh. So, you see, my dear, it’s wit, and not truth, that is the refreshing quality. There’s Miss Ellis, who is not famous for her accuracy, and yet is one of the most amusing persons I know.”
“She would be, if one could place any reliance on her narratives,” replied Alice. “But the feeling of doubt and uncertainty that I have in listening to her anecdotes, dashes, if it does not destroy, the pleasure her conversation would otherwise give me.” Emma laughed as she answered, —
“Your dissatisfied look always amuses me when Miss Ellis is talking. But what difference does it make, after all, whether the thing is true or false, as long as it amuses? Half the time you don’t even know the people discussed. Where is the use of being so particular in trifles?”
“Oh, Emma,” said Alice, seriously, “don’t talk so. It’s a shocking habit. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness,’ is one of God’s own commandments.”
“Who is talking of ‘bearing false witness,’ Alice?” said Emma, quite angrily. “You good people are so civil! I do hate such exaggeration. One would really think that to fulfill the courtesies of society and to commit perjury, were equal crimes. Because I am good-natured enough to say a civil thing to an old woman, you are pleased to imply that I may ‘bear false witness against my neighbors.’ ”
“No, I do not, Emma,” replied Alice, firmly, “but the habit of trifling with the truth, is a fearful one; and you may depend upon it, that no one who ever was careful of it in little points, was ever led to swerve aside in great things. Those who are in the habit of yielding to small temptations are those who most readily fall under great ones.”
“May be,” said Emma, weary of the discussion, “but I think you had better cultivate the habit of not looking so tired when you are bored, and I’ll try and be rude the first opportunity that offers, if that will suit you; so now go and put on your bonnet, for the carriage is at the door.” And so the conversation ended.
——
“Is it not too bad,” said Emma, one day to Alice, “in Charles Cooper to wear that ring of mine; and before Mr. Dashwood, too?”
“You did give it to him, then?” said Alice, quickly. “I thought so; and yet you looked so unconscious, and joined in so carelessly when Mr. Dashwood was talking about it, that I supposed I must be mistaken.”
“Did I?” said Emma, evidently relieved. “I was so afraid I colored, or looked guilty; for I was so startled and frightened, that it was as much as I could do to command myself.”
“Oh, Emma,” said Alice, earnestly, “since you had given the ring, why did you not say so frankly?”
“How could I?” exclaimed Emma, looking aghast at the idea, “when Mr. Dashwood spoke of such things as beingvulgar. If he had not made use of that horrible word, ‘vulgar,’ may be I might; but I could not acknowledge it after that, you know.”
“What did he say?” inquired Alice. “I did not hear the commencement of the conversation. How came he to speak of it?”
“Oh, he happened to say he did not like Charles Cooper, (another reason, by the way, for my saying nothing of my old flirtation,) that he was so full of little vanities; and mentioned, as an instance, thathe wore a lady’s ring, which he was very fond of displaying and having noticed, which Mr. Dashwood said was ‘very contemptible;’ but the dreadful part of it was, that he added, ‘To be sure he did not suppose the lady could be very fastidious, or she would not have given a ring to such a man as Charles Cooper; and, indeed, for his part, he thought such flirtations vulgar things always.’ Ah! I almost gasped for breath; and I was so thankful I had not said the ring was mine, which I was on the point of doing, when he began the story.”
“Oh, how I wish you had!” exclaimed Alice, fervently.
“Heavens, Alice!” said Emma, reproachfully; “how can you? Do you really wish to see me lowered in his eyes?” and the tears gushed into hers at the bare suggestion.
“No, Emma,” said Alice, affectionately. “But that would have been far from the case. If you had said frankly, and in your playful way, ‘Ah, take care, forIgave him that ring,’ Mr. Dashwood would have thought nothing of it, or only admired you the more for your sincerity.”
“Do you think so?” said Emma, doubtingly. “If I thought that—yes—I believe you are right I wish I had; but I was so frightened at the time—and it’s too late now.”
“Oh, no, it is not, Emma,” said Alice, earnestly. “Do tell him this evening.”
“What, tell him I did a ‘vulgar’ thing, in the first instance, and told a fib about it afterward! Why, what can you be thinking of, Alice?” and Emma actually turned pale at the idea. “You know how scrupulous he is in such matters. You really seem anxious that I should make him despise me,” she added, reproachfully.
“No, indeed, Emma; but he is so noble and upright, that I cannot bear that you should deceive him in any thing; and I am sure you may trust his admiration and affection to any extent, Emma. Why should you be afraid of him? If you begin so now, what will it be after you are married?”
“Oh,” replied Emma, laughing, “when we are once married, he takes me ‘for better or worse,’ and so must put up with me, faults and all; so I shall not be afraid to tell him any thing.”
“Better begin now,” urged Alice.
“Well, I will next time,” said Emma, impatiently. “But there’s no use in bringing this up again. It has passed off now, and he’ll never think of it again; so let the matter rest—it is ended now.”
But here Emma was mistaken. She met Mr. Cooper at a small party in the evening; and to her annoyance, the ring was on his little finger. Some one said, “Cooper, what ring is that you are flourishing?” and the young man smiled in reply, and looked at his little finger caressingly, and said it was “a ring he valued very highly.” Whereupon some badinage followed; all of which Mr. Cooper took very kindly. Emma was excessively vexed and annoyed, although she commanded herself to look calm and indifferent; but afterward she took an opportunity to say to him, in a low voice, “You must return me that ring.”
“You surely are not in earnest. You will not be so cruel,” he replied in a tone equally low.
Just then she caught Mr. Dashwood’s eye, who looked surprised at the sort of intimacy with which they seemed to be talking, and she hastily turned away. Mr. Cooper caught the look at the same time; and the idea instantly occurred to him that Dashwood was jealous. The idea both gratified and amused him; and in a spirit of fun, which often animates young men under such circumstances, he determined to add to his uneasiness. Beside, he saw that Emma was decidedly annoyed; and as she had treated him with some caprice, he thought this a good opportunity for ‘paying her off;’ and so he took particular pleasure in displaying the ring whenever he could. Emma could bear it no longer; and the first time he was by her, and no one else in the group, she said,
“I wish you would give me that ring.”
“What, now?” said the young man, glancing his eye toward Mr. Dashwood, who was just then approaching.
“No,” she replied, almost with a shiver, feeling at once how that would betray her. “Not now; send it to me to-morrow.” And then, as Mr. Dashwood joined them, she continued, in the same tone, to talk of other things.
Cooper saw his power over her, and determined to use it, partly in the spirit of fun, and yet not without a dash of malice in it either. So the next morning he wrote her a few lines, enclosing another ring of more value than hers, and “begging that it might be substituted in the place of one he treasured so highly, he could not readily bring himself to part with it.”
Emma was exceedingly angry. “Did you ever know any thing so impudent?” she said to Alice, with tears in her eyes. “Hateful creature! how could I be such a fool as ever to have let him take it at all!” And she opened her writing-desk to take out some note paper, when Alice said,
“What are you going to do, Emma?”
“Why, return it to him, of course,” she replied, indignantly, “and insist upon having my own again.”
“Oh, don’t write to him, Emma,” said Alice; “pray don’t. Depend upon it, he will take advantage of it if you do.”
“What shall I do, then?” said Emma, despairingly.
“He will probably be here this evening,” replied Alice, “and if you take my advice, you will give it back to him before Mr. Dashwood, and ask for your own at the same time. He’s only trying now to annoy you, because he sees that you are afraid of Mr. Dashwood’s knowing the truth.”
“Well, so I am,” replied Emma. “That’s just the thing. If it was not for Mr. Dashwood, there would be no difficulty about it.”
“Ah, Emma, if you would——”
“But I wont, Alice,” said Emma, interrupting her impatiently. “I know what you are going to say—but I wont—I can’t tell Mr. Dashwood. If you can suggest nothing better than that, leave me to take my own way.”
“Don’t write, then,” said Alice, imploringly.
“Why, Alice, what else can I do!” replied Emma, much vexed. “You make objections to every thing, and yet don’t suggest anything better.” And so she wrote a few rapid lines, enclosing the ring, and dispatched a servant with it to Mr. Cooper’s. He was out. The note was left; and she received no answer that day.
The next morning, however, brought a reply, apologizing, in the first place, for not answering her immediately; but he had been absent from home; then, half expostulatingly, and half playfully, protesting against her exactions—in short, a veryflirtynote, and without the ring.
Emma was very angry, and foolishly wrote a spirited reply, which, of course, brought a rejoinder; and thus, in spite of Alice’s entreaties, several notes passed between them, and Emma was no nearer her object than before. When they met, he sometimes promised to give up the ring, sometimes playfully evaded the point; but still always kept her in hopes and suspense. Mr. Dashwood noticed the kind of growing intimacy that seemed to subsist between them, and noticed it, too, with displeasure; not that he was jealous at all—for he was of a noble, confiding temper; but he was a proud, reserved man, and did not like the peculiar manner in which Emma allowed Mr. Cooper to address her; and was still less pleased with the low, earnest tones in which he sometimes heard her speaking to him.
Mr. Dashwood was the soul of truth and honor himself, but was of a reserved and even stern temper, too; and in spite of the witchery Emma’s playfulness exercised over him, he would occasionally bend his eyes upon her with a stern look, that frightened the soul almost out of her body—for Emma, like all fibbers, was a coward. She was desperately in love with him, but at the same time desperately afraid of him.
“Oh, if I only get out of this scrape safely,” she said to Alice, “I’ll take care how I get into another.”
“Well,” said Alice, cheerfully, “that is the best thing I’ve heard you say yet, Emma. Pray tell him the truth always in future.”
“It was a pity I did not in the beginning,” said Emma; “for I do believe with you, that he would have thought nothing of it then. He does not suspect any thing now; but still it is unlucky.”
Emma had no feeling about deceiving one who trusted her so fully, but only thought that she was very ‘unlucky’ and in a ‘scrape.’
The next time she met Mr. Cooper, the subject of the ring was resumed. He protested he had it not with him, or he would give it to her. “Will you allow me to call this evening,” he said, “and I will bring it?”
She immediately remembered that Mr. Dashwood would be at her house in the evening, and she said,
“No, I shall not be at home. I am going to spend the evening with Miss Pearsall. Will you not be there?”
“If you are, certainly,” he replied, in a manner implying that it was an appointment, which was the fact, though Emma was vexed at his letting it appear.
Mr. Dashwood said to her afterward, “I will bring the book you wish this evening,” but she answered, to Alice’s surprise, “No, don’t, for I am going with mamma to old Mrs. Haight’s to drink tea; so you must pass the evening at the club for this once,” but, she added, holding out her hand, “come to-morrow; until when, good-by.”
“Why, Emma, what on earth takes you to Mrs. Haight’s to tea?” said Alice, afterward.
“I am not going to Mrs. Haight’s,” she coolly replied. “I am going to Ellen Pearsall’s. Mr. Cooper has promised at last to give me that tiresome ring, and my notes, too.”
Alice looked quite shocked.
“Emma, Emma!” she said. “How can you?”
“How can I what, Alice?” said Emma, impatiently. “You know I can’t let him come here, for Mr. Dashwood is always here.”
“But why say you are going to Mrs. Haight’s?”
“Oh, Alice, how tiresome you are? Because, if I had said I was going to Ellen’s, of course, Mr. Dashwood would have offered to go, or call for me. Now, he knows Mrs. Haight never receives any one but our family; so that matter is settled.”
“But suppose he finds it out?” persisted Alice.
“Oh, he wont find it out,” returned Emma, who was always confident in any expedient that saved her for the time being.
In the evening, it so happened, that one or two gentlemen called also at Miss Pearsall’s; and the circle was so small, that the conversation being general, as they sat round Miss Pearsall’s tea-table, Emma had no opportunity of effecting the object she came for; and she returned home quite provoked, and out of spirits. But it so happened, that one of the young men who had chanced to be there, on his way home, went into the very club-room where Mr. Dashwood was sitting.
“You are a very pretty fellow, are you not!” exclaimed the young man, gayly, as he saw Dashwood. “And this is your engagement, is it? ’Pon my word, I think Miss Percival is very good to make your apologies in this way, and let you come off to a club-room.”
“What are you talking of?” said Dashwood, looking up surprised.
“Why, of your letting Miss Percival go alone to Miss Pearsall, saying you were engaged. She has just gone home with her brother, while her mostdevoted of lovers sits smoking his cigar in a club-room.”
Mr. Dashwood could scarcely believe his senses. He doubted, for the moment, whether he was smoking—whether he was in a club-room—whether he was sitting or standing. But, too proud and reserved to betray his emotions to a casual acquaintance, he asked no questions; and observing that the room was cold, buttoned up his coat, and left the house.
The next day he said to Emma,
“Did not you tell me you were going last evening to Mrs. Haight’s with your mother?”
“Yes,” she replied, “mamma and I went early to an old-fashioned cup of tea.”
“Hawthorn told me,” he said, bending his eyes upon her with an expression that brought her heart to her lips in an instant, “that he met you at Mrs. Pearsall’s.”
“Yes,” she replied, with a presence of mind worthy of a better cause—for she felt it was what is vulgarly called “neck or nothing”—“yes, it was so dull, that I could not bear it long. All my humanity and kindness for poor old Mrs. Haight could not stand her prosing; so I left mamma there, and went into Ellen’s—they live next door, you know.”
“Hawthorn said you apologized for me, saying I was engaged,” he continued, not yet quite satisfied.
“I said nothing of the kind,” she said, feeling that her only resource was to deny thisin toto. “What could Mr. Hawthorn be thinking of? I said you were going to the club.”
His countenance cleared immediately; indeed, he was angry, and despised himself that he could have been uneasy, or doubted her for a moment. He grew animated and cheerful, and asked so pleasantly who she had met there, that, excited by her success, or “escape,” as she would have called it, she mentioned the gentlemen, among whom she even boldly named Mr. Cooper, who had been Miss Pearsall’s guests.
“Emma,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “perfect confidence must exist where there is perfect affection; so I will be frank with you at once. I do not like that gentleman’s manner toward you. It seems to me as if there were some secret between you;” and he fixed his searching eyes upon her with an inquiring expression.
She felt now that he had seen too much to be satisfied of the contrary, even if she denied it; so she said,
“Well, to be frank with you, there is something between us; but as it is not a secret of mine—I do not know that I am authorized to tell even you of it.”
He looked grave, as he replied,
“Certainly, if it is the secret of another, I have no right, nor wish, even, to inquire further. But I hope in future, Emma, you may have no secrets, even of others, from which I am excluded.”
It was half affectionately, half gravely said; and Emma promised most fully to have no reserves from him henceforth.
“Do you know,” continued he, smiling, though still not looking quite satisfied, “that I imagined it was something concerning that ring that Cooper sports?”
Emma felt again that she was treading on ice, that might give way the next instant, and that denial was unsafe, so she answered boldly,
“You are right again. And, upon the whole, I don’t know why I should not tell you the truth just as it is. I do not suppose Ellen will care about your knowing it, particularly as you, of course, will not repeat it. She gave him that ring, and wanted me to get it back for her.”
“Why did she not ask for it herself?” he said, somewhat sternly.
“She was afraid of her mother’s knowing it,” replied Emma. “You know what a prim, particular old lady Mrs. Pearsall is.”
“Foolish girl,” he said, contemptuously, “and worse than foolish, to be deceiving those she should most trust.”
Emma felt her heart die within her; but there was no help for her—so she agreed to all his animadversions on Miss Pearsall, and only said,
“Yes, so she is; but say nothing about it. Make no allusion to her, or to any one else.”
“Of course not,” he replied; and the subject dropped.
To Emma’s great relief she heard, a few days afterward, that Mr. Cooper was going to Europe very soon. Expected to sail, indeed, in the course of a fortnight.
“I have a little package for you,” he said; “when can I call,” he added, smiling, “when Mr. Dashwood is not at your house?”
Emma saw that he thought she was afraid of Mr. Dashwood, and supposed, too, that he was jealous; and the idea that he should presume to think Dashwood jealous, and of him, too, roused her temper; and she said with spirit,
“You may call whenever it suits you. Mr. Dashwood’s visits need not interfere with yours.”
“Indeed!” he said, looking at her inquiringly.
“Why,” said she, scornfully, provoked with his impudence, “do you imagine that Mr. Dashwood cares about that ring?”
“Does he know it to be yours?” he asked, with surprise.
“To be sure he does,” she boldly replied; and, to her great satisfaction, she saw at once that all the peculiar pleasure and interest in possessing the ring was dispelled.
“I will send you the package to-morrow,” he said, quietly, “if I have not time to call myself before I sail.”
He was very much occupied, however, during the day, and forgot it; but the evening prior to his departure, Dashwood called at his rooms to entrust him with some European letters. He found himmaking a few last arrangements, and a couple of gentlemen were with him. After some general conversation, just as Cooper was closing his writing-desk, where he had deposited Dashwood’s letters, his eye happened to fall upon Emma’s package, which he had forgotten in his hurry until then. Supposing that Dashwood knew all about it, and not wishing to mention names before the strangers, who were with him, he said, handing it to Dashwood, “I wish you would hand this to its fair owner; and tell Miss Percival,” he said, “that I should have called to make my adieux, if I had not been so pressed for time.”
It was a small package addressed to “Miss E. P.” which Dashwood, remembering his conversation with Emma, supposed he was to hand to Miss Ellen Pearsall; so, asking no questions, he put it in his pocket, and after bidding Cooper farewell, left him to go to a large party where he expected to meet Emma, and probably Ellen.
In the course of the evening he said,
“I have a small package for you, Miss Pearsall, which I will give you when you leave.”
“A package for me!” she exclaimed, with surprise. “What can it be! Oh, give it to me now.”
As Mrs. Pearsall, the “prim, particular old lady,” was not near, he handed Ellen the package, who instantly broke the seal of the envelope, from which fell two or three notes, while the young lady exclaimed,
“Why this is Emma’s ring. What were you thinking of, Mr. Dashwood?” she added, laughing. “You must be an absent gentleman, to be sure, to mistake me for Emma. Is not that a good joke?” and she laughed heartily, as he stooped to pick up the notes, which to his amazement he saw were directed, in Emma’s handwriting, to “Charles Cooper, Esq.”
“That Miss Percival’s ring?” he said, bewildered, and not knowing what to think.
“Yes, certainly!” she replied. “See, there is her name engraved inside”—and so it was. “Is not that amusing, mamma?” she continued, turning to her mother, and explaining what she seemed to think an excellent joke. Dashwood saw the truth at once in her tones and whole manner.
“What is that,” said Emma, crossing the room to join them, “that seems to be amusing you all so?”
“Only, my dear,” said Ellen, laughing, “that Mr. Dashwood has mistaken me for you. Very complimentary to me, certainly; though I don’t know what you’ll say to such compliments.”
“This package,” said Mr. Dashwood, gravely, without raising his eyes to Emma’s face, “is, it seems, addressed to you. Miss Pearsall broke the seal under a mistake. But there is no mistake now, I believe,” he added, with an emphasis that sent Emma’s blood tingling to the tips of her fingers. He handed her the package, slightly bowed and passed on.
Emma saw him no more that evening. Startled and terrified by the facts, which she felt even her powers of dissimulation were unequal to cover, she was yet more alarmed by the manner in which he had received them. Had he seemed angry, though frightened, she still would have had hope. Had he reproached her, she might have wept and apologized. But his manner had been cold and stern; he had merely bowed, he had not even looked at her, and left her.
She passed an agonized night of doubt and suspense.
He suffered no less than herself, but not from doubt and suspense. Unhappily, there was no room for that. He was a man of firm mind, and decided character. His sense of honor was fine, almost romantic; and he was the soul of truth and integrity. He was not angry, but worse than that, he was shocked; and, shall we say it, disgusted. He had been easily blinded, because he fully confided. He was too upright, too high-minded, readily to suspect others. But his eyes once opened, and his rapid, clear mind saw the whole at once. The falsehoods that Emma had told him, much as they pained him, were not to him the worst part of the affair. He remembered her innocent looks, her unconscious air, her apparently frank and careless manner; and his soul sickened—for he felt, in the emphatic language of the ritual, that “the truth was not in her.”
Confidence was destroyed forever. Happiness between them was out of the question. He wrote to her, “freeing her from an engagement with one whom she evidently not only did not trust, but feared.”
The letter was a manly, feeling letter; short, but breathing the anguish of a deeply wounded spirit.
Emma wept passionately over it; mourned, and mourned again, that she had not told him the truth in the beginning. “It was so unlucky,” as she kept repeating—for beyond that her sense of right did not go, even yet.
But Mr. Dashwood was on his way to New Orleans. He left the Percivals to tell what story they pleased; and it was soon announced by her friends that “Emma had dismissed him.”
When the reason was asked, Emma said “she felt she never could be happy with him;” and her mother intimated that his temper was a stern, unpleasant one.
“And I always should have been afraid of him,” said Emma to Alice, beginning to draw consolation as soon as she could from the first source that occurred to her. “He thought so much of trifles that I know that I should always have been in trouble, and horribly afraid of him.”
Alice sighed, for she believed so too. She had once hoped much from the influence of Dashwood’s superior character over her; but she now saw how fallacious those hopes would have been. Emma, she felt, was incorrigible, for she had no perception even yet of her fault. Dashwood had been right—“the truth was not in her.”