The countenance of the widow flushed with indignation; she spoke not, however, but turning her full dark eye upon him, prepared to hear what further this man had to say.
“It has pleased the Almighty,” he continued, “to give me one child, now nearly three years of age; but this child he has blasted with the most hopeless deformity. You have two beautiful children—then give me one, and receive to your maternal care my poor, blighted Agatha.”
“And are you afather! and can you talk thus easily of severing the holy bond of parent and child!” interrupted Mrs. Oakly. “Have you not a wife—is there nomotherto be consulted in your most unnatural scheme!”
“Yes—an unhappy mother; but she has already consented. Aware that in perfect retirement her poor child can alone know happiness, she is willing to yield her up to your gentle treatment, and will in return bestow her love and tenderness upon your own babe. Reflect, you will still have one lovely child to console you, while the future welfare of both your children will be secured by the sacrifice; furthermore, there will be the heartfelt pleasure of knowing that through your watchful care an unfortunate being is made happy.”
“Do you know aught of the pleasures ofduty, that you talk so feelingly?” said the widow, scornfully.
“Nay, reproach me not thus; look at your two children, those little beings confided to your care—can you see their little frames wasted by hunger, or sinking through toil; or, should you die, what then is there for them but a cold and bitter lot of poverty and death—or maybe a fate worse than death. You shudder; then why hesitate, when by simply yielding to my wishes you are all made comfortable and happy. I see you are moved. I have but one stipulation to make, should you consent, as I think you will; it may alarm you at first, but upon reflection you will see its propriety. It is this—you are to promise solemnly never to claim your child, but to acknowledge poor Agatha to beyours, and never, on any account or any emergency, divulge this important secret. Do not answer me,” said he, hastily, as he saw the widow was about to speak; “take time to consider my views—I will call at an early hour in the morning for your reply. Good night!” Then kissing the half-frightened children, the plausible brother of poor John Oakly softly closed the door, and once more entering his carriage, returned to the inn.
It is difficult to conceive the pain and agitation with which this interview filled the breast of the poor widow. Doubts distracted her; and decision either way filled her with dread. One moment she resolved to spurn the offered ransom from poverty, the next, as her eyes dwelt on her helpless little ones doomed by such decision to years of toil and want, she wavered, and almost consented to part forever with her darling Louisa, if by the sacrifice their comfort might be secured. Then her mind wandered to the poor, cast-off Agatha, whom, perhaps, cruelty and harshness might destroy. She had well divined the father’s selfishness, and should she refuse the charge, he might entrust her to other hands less faithful—for already she felt her heart warm toward the unfortunate.
Unconscious of their mother’s distress, the children had once more fallen asleep. Softly removing the little arm of the youngest from her neck, she carefully placed them on her humble bed, and then kneeling down beside them, she prayed that strength and resolution might be given her that she might decide justly and wisely. Mournfully the wind sighed around that dismal dwelling; the rain beat against the shattered windows—but she heard it not, knew it not. Through that long, long night, without lamp or food, unto the dawning of another dismal day, the widow remained on her knees by the bed-side of her beloved children. Years seemed added unto her by the sufferings of that night.
Her decision was made—made with an anguish which mocks at consolation.
Blame her not, fond mother, as, surrounded by all the comforts of life, you fondly circle your own dear babes to your bosom, and think no power but death can separate you from them. Blame her not, that in poverty and destitution, in forlornness and widowhood, to save her poor infants from a lot so wretched, she at length, with grief too deep for tears, decided to yield up forever toanother, her youngest born—her darling Louisa.
To a pleasant seaport town, many miles distant from the scene of the preceding chapter, and still further removed from the residence of Mr. Oakly, our story now takes us. We must allow, too, for a flight of years, which shall be as noiseless as those circling so swiftly around the head of the young and happy.
With the exception of one long street, consisting mostly of mechanics’ shops, a few stores, a rope-walk, and a tavern, the dwellings, clustered here and there in a most picturesque and delightful manner. The land rising rather abruptly a few rods from the shore, and slightly undulating, gave to each little cottage a distinct and pretty appearance, each with its little garden-plot of bright-green vegetables and brilliant flowers, some half hidden behind the huge brown trunks of forest-trees, others mantled with the vine or honey-suckle. To the south and west, the horizon rested upon the bosom of the majestic ocean; northward towered hill on hill until the blue sky kissed their dark summits; while to the east stretched a beautiful vista of finely cultivated fields, and glowing orchards, with the spires of distant villages proclaiming—God above all!
It was the hour of noon, on a bright June day. A band of happy, sportive children were just let loose from school, and with whoop and huzza, with careless laugh, and merry song, away bounded the gay young things, happy that the four brick walls of A B C-dom were behind them, yet now and then glancing back with a look of fondness to their school-mistress, as she slowly crossed the play-ground to her own residence. In the path before her gayly frolicked a beautiful girl of perhaps ten summers, the very embodiment of health and innocence, skipping and dancing onward, light as any fairy, or with sunny smiles bounding back with a flower and a kiss for the child her mother was so tenderly assisting. This poor little creature was not only very lame, but was terribly hunchbacked, and otherwise deformed. Although really older than little Ruth Oakly, (for in the school-mistress the reader finds the widow,) she was not taller than most children at five. One little hand was clasped in her mother’s, (she knew no other mother,) who, with the most tender care, guarded her steps, now and then, as the eyes of the child were lifted to hers, stooping down to kiss her, and encouraging her in the most endearing terms. The other hand held a wreath of flowers, which she had woven for her dear sister Ruth.
As they entered the gate opening upon the nicely graveled walk leading up to the cottage-door, Ruth ran and brought a little arm-chair on rollers, softly cushioned, and placed it on the grass beneath the shadow of a large apple-tree, whose pendant branches, nestling down amid the sweet clover, thus formed a beautiful bower for thechildren’s sports.
“There, Gatty,” cried Ruth, flinging herself down at her feet among the clover, “now let’s play the story you were reading this morning. You shall be queen, and I will be the little girl that was never happy; would it be wrong, Gatty, toplayyou were never happy—would it be telling a lie; for you know, Gatty, dear, I am very, very happy—aren’t you?”
“Yes—very happy,” said Agatha, thoughtfully, “but, Ruth, I cannot be queen, you know—how I should look! No, you must be queen; and see, I have made this pretty wreath on purpose for you. I will be the ugly old fairy, and ma’ma shall be Leoline, that was never happy—for, Ruthy, do you know I think dear ma’ma is sometimes very miserable. I wonder what makes her cry so; for every night when she kneels down by our bed-side I can feel the hot tears on my cheek as she kisses me.”
“Ah! and so can I—poor ma’ma!” said Ruth, and both children remained sad and thoughtful, the arm of Ruth thrown across the lap of her sister, whose little hand, still clasping the wreath, rested on Ruth’s shoulder. At length Agatha spoke, but her voice was low and broken.
“Ruth,” said she, “maybe ma’ma weeps for me, because—because—I am not more likeyou.”
“How like me?” said the little girl, raising her eyes to the sad face bent over her.
“Why you know, Ruth, you are so straight and so pretty, and can walk so nicely, while I—I—”
“You are a thousand times better than me, dear Gatty,” cried Ruth, springing up and throwing both arms around her weeping sister—for it was almost the first time she had ever heard Agatha allude to her deformity; “indeed you are a great deal prettier and better. Oh! how many times I have heard dear ma’ma say she wished I was as good as you.”
“Ruth,” said Agatha, laying her hand on her sister’s arm, and looking earnestly in her face, “Iama frightful looking child, am I not?”
“You, Agatha!” exclaimed little Ruth, “youfrightful! O, no; don’t every body love you, Gatty, dear?”
“Everybody is verykindto me,” said the child, unconsciously making the distinction—“but then, Ruth, sometimes I hear people say, ‘O, what an ugly little thing!’ ‘Did you ever see such a fright?’ and then sometimes the children call me aspider, and say I have arms like anape, and cry, ‘Hunch-Bunch, what’s in your pack?’ ”
“O, stop, dear Agatha!” said Ruth, tenderly kissing her, “don’t talk so—pray don’t! it is only rude stranger children that say so; it is because they don’t know what a sweet, dear child you are.”
“I pray to God every night,” continued Agatha, “to forgive them, for they don’t know what it is to be lame, and deformed, and helpless; and I pray God to makemegood and amiable, too, thatImay forgive them.”
“Don’t cry, Gatty, dear,” sobbed Ruth, and then both little heads sunk lovingly together in a paroxysm of tears.
When Mrs. Oakly came to call the children to dinner, she was surprised to find them both weeping and sobbing bitterly. There was never any concealment from their mother; so Ruth, in a simple, earnest manner, related the conversation between Agatha and herself. Mrs. Oakly was grieved to find the mind of her hitherto happy child dwelling on a subject so hopelessly calamitous. Raising the poor little girl in her arms, she fondly kissed her.
“My darling,” said she, “is it not better to be good and lovely in your heart, than to possess the most beautiful form, and yet be wicked, and have no love for God and his commandments? My dear little girl, listen to me; it was the will of the Almighty to strike you with lameness, and to render your frame less pleasing to the sight than that of other children; but reflect how many blessings he has also granted you. Suppose you were blind; suppose you could never look upon the face of your dear little sister Ruth, or your ma’ma’s; could not see the beautiful flowers, nor the grass, nor yonder ocean, which you now so much love to look upon, or the beautiful blue sky above you; or, Agatha, what if you were deprived of speech and hearing. Ah! my child, do not sorrow any more, for you see how good God has been; you must not let the speech of thoughtless children thus disturb you—will you promise me, Agatha?”
“I willtry, dearest ma’ma—I must not promise, for I may be wicked again, and forget that God is so good,” answered the child.
Mr. Alfred Oakly had so far fulfilled the promises he made the widow as to remove her from the wretched spot where he had first sought an interview with her to the home she now occupied. He had purchased the cottage, which was pleasantly located, and presented her with the title deed. He had furnished it neatly, adding also a piano, and a small collection of books, to the other equipments. Half yearly she received a stipulated amount of money, which, though small, would, with economy, have been sufficient for her support, had she chosen to avail herself of its uses. But this sum she considered sacred to Agatha. In case of her own death, she saw how utterly hopeless and dependent her situation would be, and she nobly resolved not to encroach upon it any more than was absolutely necessary for the first six months. She therefore exerted all her energies to support herself and the children, independent of this allowance. In this laudable endeavor she found the piano one great resource. She gave lessons in music, also in drawing and painting, and was engaged as teacher in the village school, in which capacity she was much beloved and respected both by parents and children.
Thus years rolled on. Although she still grieved for her darling Louisa, and wept in secret those tears of which none but amothermay know the bitterness, still she was most fondly attached to the unfortunate little Agatha, while the affection subsisting between Ruth and the poor deformed was truly lovely to witness. There could not be a much greater contrast than in the looks of these two children, although their dispositions were in perfect harmony. Ruth possessed a rich olive complexion, with cheeks which might vie with June roses, they were so bright and glowing; her eyes were black and sparkling; and her raven hair closely cut to her beautifully rounded throat, was parted on top of her finely formed head, and waved over each temple in one rich, glossy curl. Her figure, tall for her age, was light and graceful. The complexion of Agatha, on the contrary, was dazzlingly fair, save where dashed by the small, violet veins; her large, deep-hazel eyes possessed that peculiar brightness and intensity which usually designates those who suffer from like causes; long ringlets of light-brown hair, fell around her almost to the ground as if to hide within their beautiful redundance the mis-shapen form of their little mistress. But it was the expression of her innocent face which called forth the pity and kindness of every one; that look, so gentle, so confiding, as if pleading with every one to love her, though she knew how hard it would be to take to their hearts a helpless deformed little object such as she was.
Incapable of joining in the sports of other children, Agatha devoted a great portion of her time to reading, of which she was passionately fond; and possessing a retentive memory, she was better informed, perhaps, at ten years of age than most children at fourteen. She had a great taste for drawing and for music; these Mrs. Oakly had assiduously cultivated, knowing what a source of comfort and amusement they would afford her, and also contribute to draw her from dwelling too much upon herself and her misfortunes, which would only tend to sour and destroy her happiness.
From its proximity to the sea, and consequent advantages of sea-bathing, the village in which Mrs. Oakly resided was, in the summer season, a frequent and favorite resort for invalids.
There was a certain wealthy bachelor of the name of Sullivan, who, for two successive seasons, had made this his place of residence. Every one granted his claim to invalidism the first season, but when with robust frame, and fresh, healthy countenance, he appeared the second, people shook their heads, and talked ofhypocondriacs. By and bye, it began to be whispered about that Mr. Sullivan was often seen coming from the little cottage of the Widow Oakly; and at last it was asserted that he was soon to bear off their good school-mistress as his bride. This was all true. Mr. Sullivan was talented, agreeable, good looking, and rich; one who, in his youthful days, need not fear the frown of any damsel, and who now, in the prime of manhood, might still have won the fairest. But the heart of the handsome bachelor seemed invulnerable, for nearly forty years resisting all the charms of beauty. He came to the seashore to restore his head, and lost his heart.
“When I said I should die a bachelor,I did not think I should live to be married,”
“When I said I should die a bachelor,I did not think I should live to be married,”
“When I said I should die a bachelor,I did not think I should live to be married,”
“When I said I should die a bachelor,I did not think I should live to be married,”
“When I said I should die a bachelor,
I did not think I should live to be married,”
thought he, blushing like a school-girl at his ridiculous plight.
The acquaintance between Mr. Sullivan and Mrs. Oakly commenced by means of the children. He one day met them on the beach as they were gathering shells, and being always interested in children—a sure sign that his heart was good—he stopped to speak with them. The beauty and vivacity of Ruth charmed him, while her unfortunate little companion filled him with deep sympathy and pity. By and bye he found himself thinking less of the children and more of the mother, until in fact he made the astonishing discovery that he was in love.
Mrs. Oakly, now in her thirty-eighth year, had preserved her beauty through all the troubles and vicissitudes of her life. There are some forms and faces we see, upon which time appears unwilling to lay his withering hand—and Mrs. Oakly was one of these. The rose yet lingered on her cheek; her eyes were still soft and brilliant; her mouth had not lost its freshness, nor her teeth their pearly hue, while the dark hair folded over her fine brow was as thick and glossy as in the days of girlhood.
You may be sure the bachelor was not for any long delay in the matter—that “Happy’s the wooing that’s not long a doing,” was precisely his idea—so he made proposals at once, and was accepted.
The evening previous to her marriage, Mrs. Oakly addressed a letter to Mr. Alfred Oakly, informing him of the event, though she entered into no particulars, not even giving the name of her intended husband. All the request she made was, that he would continue to place the same amount of money which he had previously forwarded to her, in some safe deposit, for the benefit of Agatha; that should she survive those whose happiness it was now to do for her, she might not be entirely thrown upon the cold charity of the world. Not one word did she breathe of her yearning for her own precious Louisa; she felt he would not understand her if she did, so she coldly bade him farewell.
The marriage was solemnized in the widow’s own little parlor; after which, amid the tears and blessings of the villagers, Mrs. Sullivan departed with her happy husband for his beautiful residence near Lake George.
——
We will now return to Mr. Alfred Oakly, and learn how the world in the interim has fared with him. Prosperity at the helm, his richly freighted vessels careered over the wide ocean, no devastating fires destroyed his dwellings, no whirlwinds up-rooted his forests, no blight or mildew stole over his fields to nip the golden harvest, and yet, with all this, there was many a beggar who gleaned the refuse from his kitchen, who knew more of happiness than did this cold, selfish man. In the first place his wife had never recovered from the shock to her affections in being forced to yield up her unfortunate child—not only her health but her temper suffered severely. Toward her husband in particular this change seemed pointed, and as much as she had loved him previously her coldness was now proportionate. Unhappily, too, for Louisa, the innocent cause of this rupture, it extended itself even to her, and thus childhood, that rainbow-tinted period of life was to her clouded and joyless. Her father, stern and morose, secluding her from playmates of her own age—her mother seldom greeting her with a word of affection or a smile of encouragement—her caresses met by both with coldness, and all the winning graces of childhood frowned down with disfavor. Her education, however, went on as though her frame were formed of iron. There was a stiff governess, whose cold gray eye was ever on her, to watch that she did not loll in sitting or stoop in walking—that her toes turned out and her elbows turned in—that she neither spoiled her mouth by laughing (little danger!) nor her eyes by crying. Then came the music-master with commands for six hours daily practice for those little fingers—and the dancing-master, saying “Ma’amselle, you must be very gay—you cannot never learn de dance ven you do look so vat you call fat-i-gued.” Then came the drawing-master, and the professor of languages; nor were these all to which her mind was tasked, for besides, were those branches which her governess professed to teach—her governess, Miss Pinchem, with whom in comparison Miss Blimber of Blimber Hall would have shrunk into insignificance!
Poor little Louisa!
She would sometimes wonder if the little children she read of in the Bible had to learn all such things to make them good—for Miss Pinchem was great on goodness—always beginning and ending her exhortations with, “Now, Miss Louisa, you must begood, and not raise your eyes from your book”—“You must play that tune with more scientific grace, Miss Louisa, or you will not begood”—“You must turn out your toes if you want to begood”—“You will never begoodif you don’t pronounce better”—in short there was a great deal of goodness on Miss Pinchem’s wiry tongue, let people say what they would, and though Louisa wonderedwhatmadeMiss Pinchemgood!
No sooner had Mr. Oakly accomplished his object in ridding his sight of the poor deformed, than he would fain have held himself excused from all obligation to the widow—but he dared not act out his wishes, fearful in such case that she would claim her own, and thus betray his disgraceful secret. When he received Mrs. Oakly’s letter informing him of her intended marriage, his apprehensions were anew awakened. Could it be possible she would keep the secret from her husband! Doubtless she would scorn the imputation that so unsightly a child as Agatha was her own offspring, and thus to preserve her maternal pride forfeit her word! O! a thorny pillow was that Mr. Oakly nightly pressed! How often in his dreams did the pale corse of his injured brother rise up before him, and ever in its fleshless arms it bore the shrunken form of Agatha! But as month after month rolled on, swelling finally to years, and hearing nothing further from the late Mrs. Oakly, he felt more at ease, so much so that he entirely forgot her request relative to the future advantage of his discarded child! an oversight very natural to such a man!
Louisa reached her seventeenth year, and as the bud gave promise so proved the flower, beautiful indeed and lovely. Mr. Oakly was really proud of this! He mentally contrasted her light elegant figure with theprobableappearance of Agatha, and congratulated himself that he had not to bear about the shame of acknowledging the latter! Still, he did notloveLouisa—strange that he almost hated her for possessing those very attributes of loveliness for which he had preferred her above his own offspring!
When Louisa emerged from the seclusion of the school-room to the brilliant circles of fashion, she was caressed, flattered, adored. Wealth and beauty tripping hand in hand seldom fail to win favor, and brought a throng of admirers to the feet of the heiress, who, however, did not seem easily moved; and many were the suitors to her favor who met with a kind but firm refusal. But, beware, Louisa, your affections will be held by your tyrant father just as much enslaved as your person; and now, wo to you, should they centre where he does not approve.
Moonlight, golden, twinkling stars, fragrant zephyrs, sweet from the lip of the lily, soft music from tinkling leaves, a murmur from the rippling river, and through the winding shrubbery, slowly along the path tesselated by the moonbeams, which glint through the leafy curtain, Louisa is straying—but not alone. A youth is by her side, one whose arm her own encircles, who clasps her willing hand in his; one whose whispers are of love, and to whom her own voice, gentle and low, speaks of hope and happiness in return.
Ah! foolish, foolish Louisa! what are you thinking of? Only a poor painter—andyouin love! True, he has talent, worth, grace, refinement, but—no money! And you, unfortunate youth, why did you love this beautiful maiden? Know you not that man of heartlessness and pride, her father, would gladly crush you to the earth for lifting your eyes heaven-ward to his daughter; that he would sooner buy her winding-sheet than that she should don her wedding-robe forthee! And yet, even now, closer and closer are you both riveting the chain, drawing heart to heart, which no hand but death can loose.
It was the second summer after Louisa’s initiation into the gay world that the Oakly family were once more assembled at Oak Villa, their annual resort during the warm months of July and August. With no taste for reading, a mind not attuned for meditation, and the querulousness of anungracefulold age gradually stealing upon him, Mr. Oakly found the time drag most wearily on amid those quiet groves. In his extremity an idea suddenly flashed across his brain, which he eagerly caught at, as it promised to relieve somewhat of that tedious vacuum between those hours when such a man and happiness may alone be said to look each other in the face: viz., the hour of meals—and this was to summon an artist to the villa, for the purpose of decorating the walls of the saloon with the portraits of its inmates. He had not thought of it before, but, quite luckily, it now occurred to him that he already had the address of a young artist in his pocket, for whom some friend of struggling genius had solicited patronage. Now he could kill two birds with one stone, as it were, secure the plaudits of the world by taking the artist by the hand in so flattering a manner, and at the same time pull away the drag from the wheels of time. He looked at the card—“Walter Evertson,”—and to Walter Evertson did he immediately address a letter, requesting his presence at the villa.
He came—a fine, handsome youth of three-and-twenty, with an eye like an eagle, and hair dark as a starless night—a dangerous companion, we must allow, for the gentle Louisa. He was met with condescending affability made most apparent by the master of the house, and by Mrs. Oakly, who seldom manifested much interest in any thing, with cool indifference. No wonder, then, that he turned with a thrill of pleasure tingling his heart-strings, to the gentle Louisa, whose manners, at once so courteous and refined, offered so agreeable a contrast.
There are some, perhaps, whose hearts have never yet felt the power of love, who rail about love at first sight as a theory too ridiculous to dwell upon—a chimera only originating in the heads of romantic school-girls and beardless shop-boys; very well, let them have it so; I only assert that both Louisa and the artist, at that first interview, were favorably impressed; and that a brief intercourse under the same roof cemented their young hearts with all the strength of a first and truthful affection. Love (himself a sly artist) traced each on the other a heart in fadeless tints. Sincere and unselfish was the love which Walter Evertson had conceived for Louisa; a love which he intended to bury within his own throbbing breast—for he dared not flatter himself that it would be returned—she, the heiress of thousands—he, the poor, unfriended artist. Vain resolve! It was the evening with which this chapter commences, that, in an unguarded moment, he had revealed to her his love, and received the blest assurance of her own in return. But their cup of joy was even then embittered by the consciousness that her father, in his cold, selfish nature, would tear their hearts asunder, even though he snapped their life-strings.
In the meantime the business which had brought him to the villa was being accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. Oakly saw themselves to the life on canvas, and now it only remained to consummate his work by portraying the features of Louisa. Delightful, yet difficult task! Mrs. Oakly had so far aroused herself from her usual lethargy, as to insist that the figure of Louisa herself should be but secondary in the picture about to be executed. She was tired, she said, of those stiff, prim figures on sombre-tinted ground, looking out from gilded frames with eye-balls ever coldly glaring upon one, and would have a large painting of rare design and skill—woods, fountains, birds, and flowers, to relieve the form and face of Louisa from this dull sameness. Various were the sketches brought forward for her approval; and whole days, which Evertson wished might never end, were spent in vain endeavors to settle upon some one of them for the purpose. Accident, however, at length furnished the desiredtableaualthough it would be doing injustice to Evertson to imply that he lacked talent or originality—fine as were his sketches, they failed to please Mrs. Oakly, because—she would not be pleased.
One morning Louisa strolled out alone, and unconsciously pursued her ramble until she reached a beautiful meadow fringed with fine old trees, whose branches bent down to meet their dark, leafy shadows in the bright waters of the Susquehanna. Birds were singing merrily, butterflies sported their golden wings, and the grasshopper chirped, blithely leaping through the tall grass. Here and there, where the rays of the sun had not yet penetrated, were the gossamers of elfin broidery—mantles dropped by fairies on their merry rounds in the checkered moonlight beneath those old trees; there was a drop of bright nectar, too, left in the cup of the wild-flower, and the large, red clover-tops were sparkling with dew-gems. I cannot assert that Louisa saw all the beauties of this fine morning; for, absorbed in pleasing thoughts, upon which we will not intrude, satisfied as we ought to be that the artist occupied a full share, she seated herself beneath one of those shadowing trees, and resting her chin within the palm of her little hand, most likely, I am sorry to say, heard neither the warble of the birds, the cheerful chirping insect, or saw the bright glancing river, with the little boat which was just then dancing over its silver ripples.
The sound of voices approaching in the opposite direction suddenly broke in upon her trance, and she then, for the first time, reflected that she had passed the boundaries of her father’s land. The estate adjoining had lately been purchased by a wealthy Englishman, it was said. For many weeks repairs had been going on in the old mansion, which for several years had been tenantless; and the family were daily expected to arrive. That they had now done so was Louisa’s conclusion. The voices drew nearer; but, trusting to the thick foliage for concealment, she remained perfectly still; when apparently within but a few paces of her the party stopped.
“What a lovely view!” exclaimed a soft female voice. “I wish ma’ma had not turned back, she would have been so delighted.”
“It is truly fine,” was the reply, in a masculine tone; “it is even more beautiful than the view from the lawn we so much admired last evening; what if you were to sketch it.”
“If I had only brought my crayons, I would do so now. How lovely it is!” answered the lady.
“If you have strength for it after your long walk,” was the reply, “I will return for your portfolio; here is a nice shady seat for you—I will soon be back, but do not ramble away from this spot.”
Louisa heard the retreating footsteps, and was about to make good her own, when a beautiful Scotch air, very sweetly warbled, arrested her attention. The song ceased abruptly, giving place to a scream so loud and shrill, as blanched the cheek of Louisa with the hue of death. She sprang to her feet, and panting with terror, emerged from her shelter into the open meadow just as the scream was again repeated. She now almost breathlessly looked around to detect the cause of alarm. In a moment she saw it all. A noble stag, having probably leaped the park-pailings, came bounding swiftly across the meadow directly toward the spot where Louisa was now standing, no doubt with the intention of slaking his thirst at the tempting stream. The terrors of Louisa were at once allayed; and she now hastened to the spot whence the screams issued, to soothe, if possible, the fears of the unknown.
Trembling with fright, and clinging to a tree for support, was a female, dwarf-like in stature, and deformed in shape. Her countenance was deadly pale, and her eye-balls, almost fixed with terror, were strained upon the animal, as he came leaping onward. Ere Louisa could speak he had approached within a few paces, and, as if now first aware of their presence, he suddenly halted, arched his beautiful, glossy neck, and bending his antlered head, stood at bay. Seeing how utterly helpless was the poor unknown, Louisa sprung forward, and telling her not to be alarmed, quickly placed herself before her; but the noble stag, as if disdaining to war with women, after gazing upon them a few seconds with his wild eyes, suddenly turned, and tossing his head proudly, trotted off in another direction.
At that moment how rejoiced was Louisa to see her lover rapidly approaching—for the stranger had already fainted.
“Water! water!” she cried, “quick, or she will die!”
Without speaking, Evertson rushed to the river, and filling his hat with its cooling waters, was in a second at her side.
“Poor girl! she will die with terror, I fear. What fine features, and what beautiful hair!” said Louisa, as she swept back the long tresses from her neck and brow, purer than alabaster.
In a few moments the object of their solicitude opened her eyes. She could not speak, but pressing the hand of Louisa to her lips, pointed toward a mansion just discernible through a dense shrubbery at some distance.
“Shall I bear you home?” inquired Evertson.
The stranger looked her thanks; and lifting her in his arms as tenderly as if she were a babe, he proceeded with his almost lifeless burthen in the direction pointed out.
Thus met, for the first time, the discarded Agatha and the innocent usurper of her rights.
The fancy of Walter Evertson seized at once upon a scene so interesting as the one he had just witnessed. No sooner did he part with Louisa at the door of the saloon, than, hastening to his studio, he began sketching the outlines of his truthful conceptions. Rapidly did he hasten on his own misery—blissfully unconscious the while of the sad termination of his labors. Never had he wrought so well and so rapidly—not a stroke but told. There was the beautiful meadow, with its brave old trees, and the river gleaming through their branches; the fine stag, his antlered front bent toward the two females; the graceful form of Louisa standing beneath the old oak, shielding the terrified stranger, one arm thrown around her, the other slightly raised as if motioning the animal away. Love surely guided his hand; for, without a sitting, the artist had transferred from his heart to the canvas the gentle features of Louisa with an accuracy undisputable. Strikingly, too, had he delineated the form and face of the deformed—her long, waving tresses—her pale countenance—her large eyes fixed in terror upon the stag, and her small, mis-shapen figure. Something, too, had he caught, even in that short interview, of the features of Agatha. He could not, however, proceed in his task until it had received the approbation of the master and mistress of the mansion. He had purposely requested Louisa to be silent respecting the morning’s adventure, that he might, by surprise, obtain the mastery over the whims of Mrs. Oakly, so hard to be gratified. They were now respectfully invited to the picture-room, together with Louisa, to pass judgment upon his (to him) beautiful sketch.
To depict the scene which followed the withdrawal of the curtain he had placed before it would be impossible. Mrs. Oakly gave one look, and with a dreadful shriek, exclaiming, “My child!” fell senseless to the floor. Mr. Oakly, foaming with rage, his face livid and distorted, rushed upon the astonished artist, and in a voice choked with passion, cried,
“Out of my house, villain! Ha! do you beard me thus! Who are you, that have thus stolen my secret, and dare to show me that picture—dare to place that hateful image before me? Out of my house, I say, ere I am tempted to commit a worse crime!”
Astonished, bewildered, confounded, Evertson for a moment could not speak, nor would the enraged man hear him when he did. In vain Louisa, while striving to restore animation to her mother, interceded, explained, expostulated—alas! her tears and agitation only betraying to her father a new source of anger. Seizing her by the arm, and bidding her seek her chamber, he thrust her from the room, and then turning once more to the artist, as he raised the still inanimate form of his wife,
“I give you half an hour to make your arrangements for leaving my roof—beware how you exceed that time; when you are ready, you will find the sum due you in this cursed room—begone, sir!”
Without any attempt to see poor Louisa again, and trusting he might be able to communicate with her in a few days, Walter Evertson left the villa.
When Mr. Oakly next entered the painting-room the money of the artist was still there—but the fatal picture had disappeared.
A few years after his marriage, Mr. Sullivan took his family to Europe, where they remained until within a few months previous to the singular meeting of Louisa and Agatha.
In a beautiful cottage on the borders of Loch Katrine, their lives had been one uninterrupted scene of happiness—always excepting the yearning of a mother’s heart for her lost child. The education of Ruth and Agatha had formed their chief care, and was such as a kind-hearted, intelligent man like Mr. Sullivan was proud to give them, sparing neither money nor precept, and aided, too, by the superior judgment and example of their excellent mother. Ruth had grown up lovely and amiable, and at the time the family returned to America, was affianced to a fine young Scotchman. Poor Agatha had become even more unsightly in figure, yet retained all the simplicity and amiableness of her childhood. Whatever may have been her own private feelings upon her unfortunate deformity, it was rare, indeed, that she ever made allusion to it. When she did, it was with meekness and resignation to her Maker’s will; for early in life had Agatha given herself to Him whose love is more precious than all earthly advantages. She seldom mixed with society, yet when she did, even strangers, after a slight acquaintance, thought no more of her unshapeliness. The sweet expression of her countenance interested, her intelligence charmed them.
When Mrs. Sullivan took possession of her new residence on the Susquehanna, little did she dream how short the distance which separated her from her youngest born; and when Agatha related the fright she had received during her morning ramble, and spoke with such enthusiasm of the beautiful girl who had so nobly come to her assistance, how little did she thinkwhosearms had encircled the trembling Agatha,whosevoice it was had tried to soothe her fears.
Mr. Sullivan avowed his determination of calling immediately upon their neighbors to express his thanks to the fair maid, and the gallant young gentleman who had so opportunely come to the assistance of dear Agatha, his pet and favorite. He did so the next day, but he was too late—the house was deserted.
Agatha evinced much regret at the circumstance.
“How sorry I am!” said she; “O, I do hope we may hereafter meet again; the countenance of that charming girl haunts me like a dream—so lovely, and somehow so familiar to me—a stranger, sad yet not a stranger. Sometimes, ma’ma, when you look at me as you do now, I almost fancy her eyes are on me; and then again, only for being a blonde, it appears to me she greatly resembled dear Ruth.”
Mrs. Sullivan changed color, and evidently much agitated, she inquired of her husband if he knew the name of their late neighbor.
“I do not,” was his reply, “and our servants are as ignorant as ourselves. Ah! here comes an honest lad with berries to sell—and a fine tempting load, too. I will ask him while I purchase the fruit.”
As the boy measured out the berries, Mr. Sullivan said,
“Well, my son, can you tell me who lives in the fine old stone house just at the bend of the river?”
“Oakly, sir—SquireOakly we call him here.”
“Quick, quick, father, ma’ma is fainting!” screamed Ruth, springing to her side.
For a moment all was alarm and confusion; but at length Mrs. Sullivan slowly opening her eyes desired to be led to her chamber.
“I will lie down a few moments—I shall soon be better; it is nothing—nothing,” she answered to their affectionate solicitude.
When alone, then did she give way to her joy. What happiness! her dear Louisa—her long lost was found. She was good, too, and lovely; her kindness to a stranger proved the former, and the assertions of the grateful Agatha the latter. She might now hope by some fortunate chance to see her—they might now meet. O, how could she keep down her throbbing heart; how would she be able to refrain from clasping her to her bosom, and avowing herself her mother. When she thought she had recovered sufficient composure, she again joined the family; but it was almost as soon dissipated by the conversation which followed her entrance into the sitting-room.
“My dear,” said Mr. Sullivan, “do you know these foolish girls are for making out a relationship between themselves and our runaway neighbors—claiming a cousinship, even if several degrees removed, to the fair heroine of Agatha’s story—can it be so, think you?”
“This Mr. Oakly may possibly have been some connection of their father’s,” faltered Mrs. Sullivan.
“Had papa no brothers?” said Agatha.
“Yes, one; but some unhappy family disagreement, however, prevented any intercourse. They were as strangers to each other.”
“What if this Mr. Oakly should prove our uncle. Had he any family, ma’ma?” asked Ruth.
“I believe—one—one daughter,” was the almost inaudible reply.
“Do not say any more,” whispered Agatha to her sister, “don’t you see how it distresses ma’ma?”
Mr. Sullivan had observed the same thing, and the subject was dropped.
In a few days the papers announced among the list of passengers sailed for Havre, the name of Mr. Alfred Oakly, lady and daughter.
Another flight of years, and behold what changes in the fortunes of Mr. Oakly. Adversity had at last seized its victim, gorging to the full its revenge for those years when its existence had been but as a phantom to the wealthy merchant; he now felt its iron clutches to be something more tangible than shadows. The sea had swallowed his vessels; flames had greedily swept over his warehouses; blight had devastated his fields; failures of firms he considered as good as the bank—nay, even the bank itself failed; and in the short space of one year, Mr. Oakly found himself stripped of all save a mere pittance, which, with the most scrupulous economy, could hardly support his family. The teachings of adversity upon the cold, selfish heart, are sometimes blessed with happy fruits. And thus it proved with Mr. Oakly.
True, the change was not instantaneous; he lost not his property to-day, to become a Christian, a philosopher to-morrow. But as a drop of water will in time wear away the hardest rock, so, little by little, were the flinty feelings of his heart softened and purified. The wicked and selfish deeds of his past life arose up before him, each with its own accusing tongue. That fortune, for which he had risked his soul, had crumbled away, but these stood out plain and distinct, only to be effaced through the mercies of One whose most sacred obligations he had violated.
Mrs. Oakly met this reverse of fortune humbly and uncomplainingly. Happily, she was ignorant of the sin of her husband, in having, like a second Cain, destroyed his brother. Yet she felt that for another crime—the disowning of his own offspring—the punishment was just. Her own conscience, too, reproached her for the unjust feelings in which she had indulged toward the innocent Louisa; and now, almost for the first time in her life, she treated her as a daughter.
Kind, gentle, affectionate Louisa! only that she saw her parents deprived of many comforts which would have soothed their declining years, she would have rejoiced in a change of fortune which had brought with it their love. In her heart there was a secret sorrow which she might breathe to none—it was her love for Walter Evertson. Never, since that fatal day, had she seen or heard again from him; but that he was faithful, and would be faithful unto death, her trusting heart assured her. When ease and affluence surrounded her, this sudden separation from her lover, and under such afflicting and inexplicable circumstances, had seemed to paralyze her energies. Books, music, travel, all failed to excite more than mere mechanical attention; but now, in the sorrows of her parents, she lost the selfishness of her own, and strove in every way to comfort them.
What now had become of the once proud merchant? His name was no longer heard on ’change, unless coupled with a creditor’s anathema; and summer friends, like the sun on a rainy day, were behind the cloud.
It was a cold, cheerless day in December; one of those days when one hugs close to the fire-side, and when even a glance at the dull, sombrous out-of-door atmosphere makes, or ought to make, one thankful for the blessings of a pleasant fire, to say nothing of the society of a friend, or the solace of a book. With all these comforts combined, the family of Mr. Sullivan had assembled in the breakfast parlor. There was the grate, heaped to the topmost bar of the polished steel, with glowing anthracite; the soft carpet of warm and gorgeous hues; luxuriant plants of foreign climes, half hiding the cages of various little songsters, whose merry notes breathed of spring-time and shady groves; and the face of grim winter shut out by rich, silken folds of crimson drapery.
The pleasant morning meal was already passed, and the breakfast things removed, with the exception of the beautiful coffee-set of Sevre’s china, which Mrs. Sullivan was so old-fashioned as to take charge of herself; in preference to trusting it with servants. Seated at the head of the table, a snowy napkin in her hand, she was now engaged in this domestic office. Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Danvers (the husband of Ruth) had just gone into the study, to talk over some business affairs. Ruth had taken the morning paper, and upon a low ottoman by the side of her mother, was reading the news of the day—now to herself, or, as she found a paragraph of peculiar interest, aloud for the general entertainment. Agatha was reclining upon the sofa, and nestling by her side was a beautiful boy of two years old, playing bo-peep through the long, sunny curls of “Aunt Gatty,” his merry little shouts, and infantile prattle, quite overpowering ma’ma’s news.
“Why what can this mean?” suddenly exclaimed Ruth; “do hear this, ma’ma. ‘If the former widow of Mr. John Oakly (the name of her present husband unknown) be still living, or the children of said John Oakly, they are requested to call at No. 18 —— street, and inquire for A. O., or to forward a note to the same address, stating where they may be found.’ What can it mean, ma’ma?”
Without answering, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair; she trembled in every limb, and her countenance was deadly pale.
“Ruth, dearest,” said she, “ring the bell, and order the carriage immediately to the door.”
“Ma’ma, you surely will not go out alone,” said Ruth.
“Yes, alone! do not disturb your father,” answered Mrs. Sullivan; “alone must I meet this trial. My dear girls,” she continued, “ask me no questions. God knows what I am about to learn, whether tidings of joy or sorrow; but I trust all may be explained when I return.”
In a few moments the carriage was at the door, and tenderly embracing Ruth and Agatha, she departed upon her anxious errand.
After passing through so many streets that it seemed they must have nearly cleared the city, the carriage turned into a narrow street, or rather lane, and stopped at No. 18, a small two story wooden building. Mrs. Sullivan alighted and rang the bell. The door was opened by a little servant-girl, to whom she handed a card, on which she had written with a trembling hand, “A person wishes to speak with A. O.”
In a few moments the girl returned and ushered her up stairs into a small parlor. Her fortitude now nearly forsook her, and it was with difficulty she could support herself to a chair. As soon as she could command herself she looked around to see if she could detect aught which might speak to her of her child. Upon the table on which she leaned were books. She took up one, and turned to the title-page; in a pretty Italian hand was traced “Louisa Oakly.” Several beautiful drawings also attracted her eye—they, too, bore the name of “Louisa Oakly.” But before she had time to indulge in the blissful hopes this caused her, the door opened, and Mr. Oakly, with an agitation nearly equal to her own, entered the room.
Many years had flown since they met, and time on both had laid his withering hand; but while Mrs. Sullivan presented all the beautiful traits of a peaceful, happy decline into the vale of years, the countenance of Mr. Oakly was furrowed and haggard with remorse, and all those evil passions which had formerly ruled his reason. Quickly advancing, he extended his hand, and attempted to speak, but emotion checked all utterance, while the big tears slowly rolled down his cheek.
“O, speak—speak! tell me—Louisa!” cried Mrs. Sullivan, alarmed at his agitation.
“Compose yourself,” replied Mr. Oakly, “Louisa is well. I have sought this interview, that I may make all the reparation now left me for my injustice and cruelty. You see before you, madam, a miserable man, haunted by remorse, and vain regrets for past misdeeds. From my once proud and lofty standing,” he continued, glancing around the apartment, “I am reduced to this. Yet think not I repine for the loss of riches. No! were millions now at my command, I would barter all for a clear, unaccusing conscience. Wealth, based on fraud, on uncharitableness, must sooner or later come to ruin. I once despised poverty, and cherished a haughty spirit toward those I arrogantly deemed my inferiors. Have I not my reward!”
“But my child—tell me of my child!” interrupted Mrs. Sullivan, scarce heeding his remarks, “where is she? May I not see her!”
“Bear with me a little while longer,” said Mr. Oakly, “in half an hour she shall be yours forever!”
“My God, I thank thee!” exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, bursting into tears of joy.
“Yes, I yield her to your arms,” continued Mr. Oakly, “the loveliest daughter that ever blessed a mother, and relieve you forever from the charge of an unfortunate, to whom my conduct has been both brutal and unnatural. Listen to me, madam, for a few moments.”
He then as briefly as possible made confession of the base part he had acted toward his brother, and the means employed to ruin him with his father; the selfish motives which led to the exchange of the children; related the incident of the picture, and consequent removal from Oak Villa—for well did he divinewhothe deformed was. He then spoke of Louisa; of her uniform loveliness of character, and the gentleness with which she had borne, as he acknowledged, his oft repeated unkindness.
“She knows all,” said he in conclusion, “and waits even now to receive a mother’s embrace. I will send her to you, and may her tears and caresses plead my forgiveness!” So saying, Mr. Oakly quickly withdrew.
A moment—an age to Mrs. Sullivan—the door gently unclosed and mother and child were folded in eachother’s arms!
There are feelings which no language can convey—and which to attempt to paint would seem almost a sacrilege!
In a short time Mr. Oakly re-entered, accompanied by his wife. The meeting between the mothers was painful—for each felt there was still another trial for them! Mrs. Oakly now really loved Louisa, and that Mrs. Sullivan was most fondly attached to poor Agatha the reader already knows.
“O she has been a solace and a comfort to me!” said she to Mrs. Oakly. “A more noble-minded—a more unselfish, pure being never lived than our dear Agatha! believe me, to part from her will cause a pang nearly as great as when I first gave my darling Louisa to your arms!”
Another hour was spent in free communion, and then tenderly embracing her new found daughter, the happy mother returned home—the events of the morning seeming almost too blissful to be real!
It was sometime ere she could command herself sufficiently to the task before her. At length summoning all her resolution she made known to her astonished husband and Ruth the strange secret she had so long buried in her breast.
Mr. Sullivan undertook to break the intelligence to Agatha.
Poor Agatha was very much overcome, and for several hours her distress was such as made them almost tremble for her reason. Although the circumstances were related in the most guarded and delicate manner, nor even a hint given as to the motives of an act so unnatural as her father had been guilty of toward her—her sensitive mind too well divined the cause.
“Yet how can I blame them,” said she, glancing in a mirror as she spoke, “who could love such a being! Ah forgive me,” she cried, throwing her arms around the neck of Mrs. Sullivan, who now joined them—“forgive me—you—youreceived me—my best, my dearest, my only mother—youtook the little outcast to your arms—youcould love even the mis-shapen child whom others loathed!”
Mrs. Sullivan strove by the most gentle caresses to sooth her agitation, and at length succeeded so far that Agatha listened calmly to all she had to say, and expressed her desire to be guided by her in every thing relating to this (to her) painful disclosure.
Almost in a fainting state was Agatha given to her mother’s arms, and at sight of her father she shuddered and buried her face in her hands.
O the pang that went to the soul of her wretched father as he witnessed this!
“Agatha, mychild, will you not then look upon me! will you not say you forgive me?”
She extended her hand wet with tears:
“Father, I have nothing to pardon. I am not now less hideous in form than when to look upon me caused you shame and sorrow. In giving me to my dearest aunt you gave me every blessing, every happiness, this world has for me—but do not, O do not now tear me from!”
“O God! I am rightly punished!” exclaimed Mr. Oakly—“my own child in turn disowns me!”
“Agatha,” said Mrs. Oakly, “will you not loveme—love your mother, Agatha?”
Agatha hesitated, and her beautiful eyes streamed with tears—
“Mother!I can give that name to butone!—here—hereis mymother!” turning and throwing her arms around the neck of Mrs. Sullivan.
Not so was it with Louisa. Like a dove long panting for its rest, she had at last reached that haven of love—a mother’s heart!
Indeed so much distress did the thought of being separated from her more than mother cause poor Agatha, that, fearful for her health, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan prevailed upon her parents to take up their residence with them for a few months, to which request they finally acceded.
Soon after her first interview with Mr. Oakly, Mrs. Sullivan presented him with a deed of the cottage, which so many years before he had given her, little dreaming that any reverse of fortune would ever makehimgrateful for so humble a shelter!
“The rent,” said she, “has been regularly paid into the hands of a faithful person, who also holds in trust the remittances which you from time to time forwarded me. I placed them there for the benefit of Agatha, should she survive me. It came from you originally—it is again your own—then hesitate not to receive it from my hands.”
“Excellent, noble woman!” exclaimed Mr. Oakly, overwhelmed with emotion, “how little have I merited this kindness!”
Indeed, together with principal and interest, what at first was but a trifling sum, had in the course of eighteen or twenty years amounted to quite a little fortune. It was now settled that as soon as the Spring opened Mr. and Mrs. Oakly were to take possession of the little cottage, and rather than be separated from their dear Agatha, the Sullivans were soon to follow and take lodgings for the summer months.
“But, my dear madam,” says the reader, “you have entirely forgotten to tell us what became of the unfortunate artist, the lover of Louisa, whom you appear to think happy enough in her present situationwithouta lover.”
“O no, dear reader—but this is not a love-story, you know—if it were I would tell you the particulars of a most interesting love scene between Walter Evertson and his adored Louisa. Suffice it to say, they were married, and that the picture which caused their unhappy separation occupies a conspicuous place in their beautiful villa, a few miles from the city of P——.”