A sudden thrill passed through my heart,Wild and intense—yet not of pain—I strove to quell quick, bounding throbs,And scanned the sentence o'er again.It might have been full idly pennedBy one whose thoughts from love were free,And yet as if entranced I read"Thou art most beautiful to me."Thou didst not whisper I was loved—There were no gleams of tenderness,Save those my trembling heartwouldhopeThat careless sentence might express.But while the blinding tears fell fast,Until the words I scarce could see,There shone, as through a wreathing mist,"Thou art most beautiful to me."To thee! I cared not for all eyesSo I was beautiful in thine!A timid star, my faint, sad beamsUponthypath alone should shine.Oh what was praise, save from thy lips—And love should all unheeded beSo I could hear thy blessed voiceSay—"Thou art beautiful to me."And Ihave heardthose very words—Blushing beneath thine earnest gaze—Though thou, perchance, hadst quite forgotThey had been said in by-gone days.While claspèd hand, and circling arm,Drew me nearer still to thee—Thy low voice breathed upon mine ear"Thou, love, art beautiful to me."And, dearest, though thine eyes aloneMay see in me a single grace—I care not so thou e'er canst findA hidden sweetness in my face.And if, as years and cares steal on,Even that lingering light must flee,What matter! if from thee I hear"Thou artstillbeautiful to me!"
Oh! look, my love, as over seas and landsComes shadowy Night, with dew, and peace, and rest;How every flower clasps its folded handsAnd fondly leans apon her faithful breast.How still, how calm, is all around us now,From the high stars to these pale buds beneath—Calm, as the quiet on an infant's browRocked to deep slumber in the lap of death.Oh! hush—move not—it is a holy hourAnd this soft nurse of nature, bending low,Lists, like the sinless pair in Eden's bower,For angels' pinions waving to and fro—Oh, sacred Night! what mysteries are thineGraven in stars upon thy page divine.gretta.
The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength and skillA perfect woman, nobly planned.Wordsworth.
In a large but somewhat scantily furnished apartment sat two young girls, in such earnest and apparently serious conversation that, but for their youthful and blooming countenances, one might have fancied them bending beneath the cares and sorrows of age. On the dark old table between them rested a magnificent work-box, whose rich implements they had been busily and skillfully using; but now the scissors and thread lay at their feet, their needles were dropped, and the younger of the two sat with clasped hands, while her companion's low tones appeared to awaken every emotion of her heart.
On the old-fashioned French bedstead were thrown dresses of various hues and expensive stuffs, while one only, a robe of the most delicate material, its graceful folds looped with orange flowers, seemed to attract the attention of the fair, fragile being, whose attitude was one of intense suffering. Her bright hopes had faded at sight of that colorless garb, and the bridal wreath was to wither on her brow! What to her sad soul were the costly things before her? The jewels that sparkled on their snow-white satin case, the long fairy veil of beautiful lace that lay side by side with the bridal dress?
Her companion continued speaking, and she bowed her face upon those clasped hands, while her slight frame shook with its contending emotions. A few moments more and she raised her head. She was pale, and her large, dark eyes dilated into fearful size. At length the big drops came slowly down her cheek, and she was able to speak.
"No more, Angela, no more! You love me, I know; but what you have done to day was no act of friendship. You have troubled the dark waters of my soul until they have become a torrent over which I have no control."
"And it is because I love you, Pauline, that I have made your future life manifest to you. Do not seek to make a merit of obedience to your proud mother's will. It is because you have been taught to fear her, that you have consented to perjure yourself, and marry a man you cannot love."
"For the love of heaven, spare me!" cried the girl, shrinking from her friend's words, "Is it to triumph over me that you thus seek to move me?"
Her friend gazed mournfully upon her, and rising from her seat, gently put her arm around her.
"My poor Pauline! my dear Pauline!" murmured she, "I have been cruel—forgive me."
Her answer was a fervent embrace—and throwing their arms round one another, they wept in silence.
At this moment the door opened, and a lady entered. She was tall and majestic, but there was an expression of pride and extreme hauteur on her countenance. She wore a handsome but faded dress, and the somewhat high-crowned cap bespoke a love of former fashions. She had a foreign air, and when she addressed her daughter, it was in French.
"How is this!" cried she, angrily. "What scenes are these, Pauline? As often as I enter your room I find you in tears. Is it to your advice, Mademoiselle Percy, that my daughter owes her red eyes?"
Angela was about to reply, but Pauline waved her back.
"Is it, then, a crime to weep, mamma? If there were no tears, the heart would break."
"It is a crime, Pauline, to resist the will of your mother, when she has provided for your happiness in a manner suitable to your rank and birth. It is a crime to break the fifth commandment, which tells you to honor and obey your mother."
"And have I not done both," cried Pauline, indignantly. "Have you not sold my happiness? Have you not bartered perhaps my eternal welfare, that I might lay my aching head upon the downy pillows of the rich, that you might see me a wretched slave, writhing under chains not the less heavy because they are of gold?"
"Have you been reading Racine this morning? Or have you been studying for the stage?" said Madame Dumesnil, in a cold, scornful tone. "You are a good actress, certainly."
Pauline sank upon a chair, and her friend stood beside her, pressing her trembling hand. Her mother advanced and stood before her.
"We will have no more of this, Pauline. If I feel satisfied that my duty is done, you should rejoice in obeying me. I alone am the judge in this matter—children should ever be contented with allowing their parents to act for them; and allow me to say, that any interference of strangers upon an occasion like this, is exceedingly misplaced."
This was aimed at Angela Percy; but she only replied by a wondering and mournful gaze to the stern, cold woman before her. The old lady proceeded.
"Bathe your eyes, Pauline, and arrange your hair. Monsieur de Vaissiere is below. Perhaps," added she, with a sneer, "perhaps that Miss Percy will assist you in entertaining your lover."
Pauline started and shuddered, but by this time she had again yielded to her mother's influence. Going to the glass, she smoothed her dark hair, and endeavored to abate the swelling of her eyes. Bidding farewell to her friend, she descended to the parlor, where her affianced husband awaited her.
He was tall, and his appearancedistingué; but he, too, looked stern and cold as he rose to meet that young creature, whose nineteen summers were more than doubled by his years. He was handsome also; but where was the youthful ardor that should have been roused at the idea of winning that fair girl's love? Where were the sunny hopes to meet hers, the dreams of the future thathewanted? His willingness to accept the sacrifice was no proof of his gentleness; and the cheek of his betrothed grew pale, and her hand was cold, as he led her to a seat.
Pauline had been bred to the hard forcing-school of theancien régime. Her mother had left France on the terrible death of her beloved queen, Marie Antoinette, and had passed from the high post ofdame d'honneur, to poverty and exile in America. The sale of her magnificent jewels and massive silver, had enabled her to lease an old roomy mansion, deserted by its owners, and to live in peace and retirement. Here, with the recollection of the horrors of the revolution fresh within her memory, while her heart was still bleeding with the wounds it had received; while she still had before her the mangled remains of her sovereigns—the bleeding head of her husband, torn from her in the days of their early love; in the midst of these agonizing thoughts, she gave birth to a posthumous child—the heroine of our story. Clasping her babe to her breast, Madame Dumesnil bitterly recalled the many plans of happiness her murdered husband had made in anticipation of its coming—his affection forher—his anxiety for her safety—their parting, and the subsequent news of his execution. Those lips were mute whose words of tenderness were to soothe her in her hour of suffering; that hand was cold that would have rested on her brow; that heart was still that would have bounded with a father's love at sight of the tiny, helpless creature that lay upon her arm.
Madame Dumesnil, the young, the lovely, and the gentle, became silent, reserved, and harsh. Nothing could swerve her from a determination made, and with feelings of the deepest parental affection for her daughter, she had crushed and broken her spirit in the sweet spring-time of her childhood.
From the time Pauline was old enough to form a desire, she learned to hear it opposed. "Une petite fille attend qu'on lui donne se qui lui faut," was the invariable reply to all her childish longings. According to the old French system, every slight offence was followed by her mother's "Allez vous coucher, mademoiselle;" so that half her life was spent in bed, while she lay awake with the bright, broad daylight around her, the hour when other children are strengthening their little limbs in the active enjoyment of God's free, fresh air.
As she grew older, she was taught that "une demoiselle bien elevée n'a pas d'opinions," that her parents judged and decided for her; and while she sat erect upon a high stool, accomplishing her daily tasks in silence, her heart nearly burst with the pent-up feelings of her young imagination. Wherever she went her mother's old waiting-woman was behind her. "Miss Pauline, hold yourself straight; Miss Pauline, turn out your feet—your head, mademoiselle—your arms!" Poor girl! she was well-nigh distracted with these incessant admonitions.
In her walks she met Angela Percy and her father. They had lately settled in the neighborhood, and having no acquaintances, gladly made advances to the timid Pauline. Nothing daunted by her shyness and reserve, Angela, some years her senior, persevered, and overcame it. She was an enthusiastic, high-minded girl, and soon pointed out to her companion new views and new ideas of the world from which she had been excluded. The intimacy was formed ere Madame Dumesnil could prevent it, and at the instances of old Jeannette, who begged that Mademoiselle Pauline might have a friend of her own age—some one to talk to, besides two old women, she consented to allow the friendship to continue, provided Jeannette were present at every interview. This was easily promised, but the nurse's stiff limbs were no match for the agile supple ones of her young charges. Day by day she loitered behind, while Pauline and Angela, with their arms entwined, continued in eager and undisturbed enjoyment of one another's society. Jeannette remarked a glow upon her young lady's cheek, and a light in her eye—new charms in her hitherto pale, resigned countenance; and, wiser than her mistress, concluded that the acquisition of a youthful friend was fast pouring happiness into her lonely heart.
Three years passed in this pleasant intercourse, when the monotony of their lives was broken by the arrival of an old friend of Madame Dumesnil—a Monsieur de Vaissiere. When they had last met, she was in the morning of her beauty and bliss, he a handsome youth, for whom many a fair one had sighed, and in vain—as he was still unmarried. What a change! He could not recognize the lovely young countess, whose marriage had been attended with so much éclat—so many rejoicings; nor could she see one vestige of the blooming countenance, the delicate profile, and the jet-black wavy locks that once shaded his fair, open brow. But these works of time were soon forgotten, and the desire of the proud, harsh mother was accomplished when, after a few weeks, M. de Vaissiere proposed for the hapless Pauline. Unconsciously, but with the thoughtlessness of selfishness, Madame Dumesnil sacrificed her child to her prejudices. M. de Vaissiere's opinions andherswere the same; their admiration ofle vieux systeme—their fond recollection of the unfortunate monarch, whose weakness they had never reproached him with, even in their secret souls—their abhorrence of Bonaparte—their contempt forla noblesse Napoleonne—their upturned noses at their adopted countrymen,les Americains—their want of faith in hearts and love—the sinecure-ism of young people—their presumption—their misfortune being that theywereyoung andnot born old—and finally, the coincidence of opinions wherein both looked upon the white-headed suitor as a most eligible husband for the young, the blooming, the beautiful Pauline.
M. de Vaissiere settled adotupon hisfiancée, and ordered atrousseauand acorbeille, not forgetting thecachemire. The preliminaries were arranged, the day hinted at, and Pauline was informed with a flourish of trumpets that her destiny was fixed.
She listened to her mother's rhapsodies over the admirablepartiProvidence had enabled her to provide for her child in the wilderness of America; she heard her enlarge upon her own excellence as a parent, of the favor she had conferred upon her in bringing her into the world; of her consequent obligations, and the gratitude she owed her mother when she recollected that not content with giving her life, she had clothed, fed, and supported her until now. All this Pauline received in a silence that resembled stupor; but when M. de Vaissiere was again mentioned, she fell, with a scream of terror, at her mother's feet.
In vain she wept and entreated; in vain she protested against the disparity of age, the utter want of congeniality, the absence of all affection, Madame Dumesnil was too much incensed to reply. With a gesture that Pauline well understood, (for it was used to express maledictions of every description,) she left the room, and locking the door, kept her daughter prisoner for the rest of the day.
She treated this resistance to her will as one of the unhappy consequences of living in a republican country. She suspected Angela of communicating American ideas of independence to her daughter, and would have added to her wretchedness by forbidding further intercourse between the two friends. But Jeannette again interfered; she knew that Pauline's doom was sealed, and that it would be more than cruel to deprive her of the companion she loved. She herself carried the note that conveyed the intelligence of Pauline's coming fate to the indignant Angela, and extended her walks that her poor young lady might derive what consolation she could from her friend's willing sympathy. Many were the tears she shed, many the sighs that burst from her oppressed heart, as the poor old creature followed behind them. Once she had summoned courage sufficient to expostulate with her mistress upon the cruelty of her conduct to her daughter; but she was haughtily dismissed.
Every effort had been made, and at length Angela appealed to Pauline. She entreated her to be more firm, and to declare her resolution never to marry where she could not love.
"Rouse yourself, Pauline—the misery of a lifetime is before you, and it is not yet too late."
"I have done every thing, Angela," said Pauline, despairingly. "My doom is sealed, and I must bend to my bitter fate. I would fly, but that I could not survive my mother's curse."
"The curse of the unrighteous availeth naught," replied her friend, solemnly. "Were you wrongfully opposing your mother's will, mine would be the last voice to uphold you; but now your very soul is at stake."
Pauline cast up her eyes in mute appeal to heaven. Her companion became excited as she proceeded, depicting the horrors of an unequal marriage. Pale and exhausted, her listener at length entreated her to forbear. She had been too long the slave of her mother's wishes to oppose them now; she had been drilled into fear until it was a weakness. This her bold-hearted, energetic friend could not understand; and it was on her reproaching Pauline with moral cowardice that she, for the first time, resented what had in fact been patiently borne.
We have seen how kindly Angela forgave the accusation, and how she wept over the effect of her words. The sudden entrance of Madame Dumesnil put an end to the conversation, and the friends separated.
The next morning Angela was at Pauline's side again. Silently she assisted in decorating the victim for the sacrifice. The bright jewels clasped her arm and neck; the long veil hung around her slender form; the orange wreath rested on the dark, dark tresses—and the dress was beautiful. But the bride! she was pale and ghastly, and her lips blue and quivering. Her eyes were void of all expression—those liquid, lustrous eyes; and ever and anon the large drops rolled over her face, oozing from the depths of her heart.
Poor Jeannette turned away, sobbing convulsively as the finishing touches were given to this sad bridal toilette. Angela remained firm and collected, but she, too, was pale; her cherished companion was gone from her forever—gone in such misery, too, that she almost prayed to see her the corpse she at that moment resembled.
Madame Dumesnil had remained below with the bridegroom and Mr. Percy, the sole witness to this ill-omened marriage. At length the hour came, Pauline was nearly carried down by Angela and Jeannette, and in a few moments bound forever to a man she loathed. The ceremony was ended, and the bride, with a convulsive sigh, fell back into the arms of her mother. Restoratives were procured, and at last she opened her eyes. They rested on the face of her friend, who hung over her in mute agony. Forcing a smile, which was taken by M. de Vaissiere for himself, Pauline arose, and hurried through her farewell. Her husband handed her into his carriage—and thus Pauline Dumesnil left her friends and her home.
Years had passed, and Pauline sat alone in her magnificent boudoir, the presiding deity of one of the finest hotels in Paris. Fortune had favored M. de Vaissiere. He had lived to rejoice over the downfall of the mighty Napoleon, and his mournful exile. He had returned to his beloved France, recovered his vast estates, and presented his young wife at court. His vanity was flattered at her gracious reception, and the admiration that followed her; his pride was roused, and, much against her will, Pauline found herself the centre of a gay circlethat crowded her vast saloons as often as they were thrown open for the reception of her now numerous acquaintances.
It was on one of these evenings that Pauline sought the silence of her private apartment ere she gave herself up to her femme de chambre. Her loosepeignoirof white satin was gathered round her, with a crimson cord tied negligently at the waist, and hanging, with its rich tassels of silver mixed, to the ground. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders, giving her a look of sadness that increased her beauty. Her eyes wandered around the room, and her lips parted into a melancholy smile, as she contemplated its delicate silk hangings, its heavy, costly furniture, her magnificent toilette, crowded with perfumes of every description, beautiful flacons, silver combs, and jewels that sparkled in and out of their cases. Her thoughts went back to her mother, whose pride had made her a childless, lonely widow; to Angela, whom she had so loved; to the misery of the day upon which they parted, perhaps forever—and her eyes were filled with tears that, rolling at length over her cheek, startled her as they fell upon her hand.
"And it was for this that I was sacrificed," murmured she, bending her head. "My poor mother! could you see me here,youwould feel that my happiness is secure; but, alas! how little you know of the human heart. This splendor lends weight to my chains, and makes me feel more desolate than ever! Night after night mingling in gay crowds, listening to honied words that fall unheeded on my ear; wearing smiles that come not from the heart, but help to break it; exposed to temptation, that makes me fear to mix with those of my own age; bound forever to a man whose only sentiment for me is one of pride—what part of happiness is mine?"
A sudden step aroused her, and her husband entered unannounced. He looked but little older. Time had dealt lightly withhim, and with the aid of cosmetics and a perfect toilette, M. de Vaissiere stood a remarkable looking man—for his age.
"How is this, madame—not dressed yet! Have you no anxiety to see Mademoiselle Mars to night?"
"I have, indeed," said Pauline, starting up and forcing a smile. "Is it so late, that I see you ready?"
"You must hasten Marie, or we shall be too late. How provoking! What can you do with that dishevelled hair? You have a bad habit of thinking—that is actually sinful. Why do you not take my example; I never reflect—it makes one grow old!"
She might have told him how her young life was embittered by the memory of days that were gone never to return; how she had grown old with thinking, and wore but the semblance of youth over a withered heart. But she had schooled herself to serenity with an effort almost superhuman—and seizing a silver bell at her side, she rang for her waiting woman.
"You must hasten, Marie—Monsieur de Vaissiere is already dressed. Bind up this hair beneath some net-work, my good girl; I have no time for embellishing this evening."
"Madame is more beautiful without her usual coiffure," said the girl, as she gathered up the dark tresses of her mistress. "I shall place her diamondaigrettein her hair, and she will turn all heads."
"I have no such ambition, my good Marie," said Pauline, laughing. "Give me my fan and gloves, and fasten this bracelet for me."
"Tenez, madame," said Marie, handing them; and Pauline ran down stairs, where her husband awaited her. He had just been fretted sufficiently to find fault with her dress.
"You never wear jewels enough. Do you think I bought them to ornament your boudoir?"
"I did not like to keep you waiting,mon ami. Shall I return and tell Marie to give me my necklace?"
"Yes, and your bracelet to match. Your white arm, madame, was made to ornament," added M. de Vaissiere, assuming an air of gallantry.
Pauline smiled, and ran back to her boudoir. In a few moments she returned blazing with jewels, inwardly lamenting the display, but ever ready to grant her husband's wish. He, too, smiled as she came forward, and taking her hand, led her to her carriage.
Shortly after they were seated, the door opened, and the young Vicomte de H—— entered the box. He placed himself behind Pauline, and remained there for the rest of the evening, in eager, animated conversation. He was not only one of the most agreeable men of the day, but added to wit and versatility of genius, a handsome face, graceful bearing, and a noble heart; and while Pauline yielded to the charms of so delightful a companion, full of the dreams and hopes of youth, uttering sentiments that years ago had been hers, her husband sat silent and moody beside her. A pang went through his heart as he gazed upon her bright countenance, and remembered her youth, whose sunshine was extinguished by her marriage with him. He looked at the smooth, full cheek of her companion, the purple gloss of his raven locks, the fire of his eye, and listening to his gay tones, his brilliant repartees, and enthusiastic expressions, pictured him with a shudder the husband of Pauline. What would have been her life compared to the one she led with him. How different would have been the bridal! He thought of her gentleness, her cheerful compliance with his wishes, her calm, subdued look, her lonely hours, the void that must be in her heart; and as all these things passed, for the first time, through his mind, he clasped his hands in despair.
He turned once more to look upon the wife he was but now beginning to appreciate. She, too, had fallen in a revery. Her beautiful head was bent, her long, dark lashes sweeping her cheek; and around her lips played a smile so sweet, that though he know her thoughts were far away in some pleasant wandering, he was sure he had no part in them.
For the first time since their wedded life, M. de Vaissiere was beginning to love his wife. He turned suddenly to look at the Vicomte de H——. He, too, was gazing upon Pauline with a look ofintense admiration, but so full of pity and respect, that it made the jealous pang that thrilled through the husband's frame less bitter—and with a deep sigh he turned to the stage. The play was one that gave him a lesson for the rest of his days. It represented a young girl like his Pauline, forced to wed one, like him, old enough to be her father. For a while all went smoothly; the giddy wife was dazzled by her jewels and her importance. But time passed, and she was roughly treated, her every wish thwarted, and her very servants taught to disobey her. Her angelic behaviour had no effect upon her brutal husband; her patience exasperated him. Wickedly he exposed her to temptation; and as he watched her mingle with those of her own age, and share their plans and pleasures, suspicion entered his mind. He removed her far from her friends, and intercepted her letters, making himself master of their contents, until by a series of persecutions he drove her to fly from him, and perish in the attempt.
Well for him was it that Monsieur de Vaissiere witnessed this play. How different might have been the effect of his newly awakened emotions, had they risen in the solitude of his apartment. The curtain fell, and Pauline looked up. Tears were standing in her eyes—for the fate of the heroine of the piece had affected her deeply, and her husband's sympathy was with her when he remarked them. He waited until he saw her give her arm to the vicomte, and walked behind them, another creature. He had determined to win his wife's love or die; to watch her, that he might warn her; to minister forever to her comforts.
The vicomte returned with them, and soon the splendid salon was crowded with guests. Pauline passed from one to the other with graceful, winning smiles; and her husband's heart filled with pride and pleasure as he watched her, the object of admiration, glittering with diamonds, radiant with beauty, and remembered that she was his. Without a pang he saw the noble youth, whose coming had been to him salvation, lead her to supper, and seat himself at her side. He knew that she was pleased; he felt that she might have loved; but he knew, too, that she was as pure as an angel. How was it that suddenly her many virtues rose in array before him, and spoke to his heart?
One evening Pauline stood at the window overlooking the garden that was behind the Hotel de Vaissiere. The moonlight was glancing over the tops of the orange trees, and the perfume of their white blossoms came floating up like an incense of thanks to the Great Author of all, while fountains played beneath their shade, falling musically on the heart of the lonely watcher.
A shade was upon her brow—a shade of discontent; and busy were the thoughts that came creeping into her soul. She was judging her own heart—and bitterly did she reproach it as the image of another filled its space. Alas! she had feared this; and again she was roused into indignation as her mother's stern will was recalled to her—and she was carried back to the day whereon she had reproached her with hazarding the eternal welfare of her child. Throwing herself upon her knees, she prayed for strength—and her prayer was heard. Suddenly, as if struck with some impulse, she hurried from the window, through the hall, passed the long suite of apartments, and reached her husband's. Entering, she closed the door behind her, and rushed forward to M. de Vaissiere's chair with such passionate rapidity, that one might have thought she feared to fail in her resolution.
Her sobs and tears had nearly deprived her of utterance, but falling at her husband's feet, she confessed the momentary infidelity of her hitherto love-less heart, and besought him to take her from those scenes of gayety and temptation to some distant, quiet region, that she might expiate her fault in solitude.
Trembling she raised her eyes to his face. Instead of the fury, the reproaches she had expected, what was her surprise at seeing the tears coursing down his cheeks, to feel herself raised and clasped to his breast.
"My poor child!" said he, tenderly—and it was the first time he had ever so addressed her—"my poor child! I should have foreseen this; I should have warned you ere now. It was your mother's fault to marry you to me, and mine to have placed temptation in your way. But how could I tear you from those whose years were suited to yours, to shut you up with an old greybeard! Thus, while I watched over you, my pride in your success made me forgetful of your safety. It is not yet too late, my Pauline—all will be for the best. In time you will learn to love your husband, and to know how devotedly he has loved you since his stupid eyes were opened to your virtues."
With a smothered cry of joy Pauline threw herself upon his bosom. The poor stricken dove had at last found a shelter.
The next day, while the whole world was lamenting and wondering over the determination of the beautiful, brilliant, and courted Pauline de Vaissiere, to leave the gay metropolis in the midst of its pleasure, she sat once more in her boudoir. A holy calm had settled on her brow, peace had entered her heart; and though a deep blush overspread her features as she heard her husband's step approaching, she rose to meet him with a grateful look. Putting his arm around her, he drew her closer to him, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead.
"How many days of packing will you require, Pauline?" said he, smiling. "Poor Marie! she has nearly worn her arms out."
"She will complete her task to-night; and if you like, we can be off in the morning. But have you the carriages ready,mon ami? Are we not before-hand with you?" asked Pauline, in the same cheerful strain.
"We must summon François," said M. de Vaissiere, "and see if my orders have been executed."
François had been as prompt as usual; and three days after, we foundPauline gazing out at the windows, mournful and conscience-stricken—she was leaving Paris behind her as fast as four horses and cracking whips could carry her. As they drove on, losing sight of its towers and steeples, a sensation of freedom came over her, and she placed her hand in her husband's, as if to thank him for her safety. The wound upon her heart was not yet closed; but her firm principle, her love of right, and gratitude for her deliverance, and the indulgence of M. de Vaissiere were fast healing what she did not for a moment allow to rest within her mind.
Every thing delighted her; the ploughed fields, divided by green hedges; the farm-houses scattered far and near; the picturesque appearance of the peasantry and their groupings, as they gathered together to watch the travelers' suite; and when they stopped at a family estate of M. de Vassiere, her enthusiasm knew no bounds.
Here they remained until the spring was past and summer came, embellishing still more the beautiful woods around the little domain. But they lingered yet in this pleasant place, loving it for the peace it had given them, and the happiness they had learned to feel in being together.
Leaning on her husband's arm, Pauline wandered amid the bright scenes with a light step, now stopping to admire some variety of foliage, and now pausing by the crystal stream that ran at the foot of the tall trees, murmuring like a hidden sprite, and mirroring the waving boughs, and the blue sky ofla belle France. She had forgotten the misery of her bridal-day, or remembered it but to contrast her present quiet enjoyment of life with her then wretchedness. She had forgotten her youth of terror, her husband's years and his coldness, and now, when she looked upon the silver hair that glittered beside her braids of jet, a feeling of gratitude filled her heart, as she recalled the hour when he might have cast her off with some show of justice, and sent her forth upon the wide world to die.
She had learned to love him, not with the heart-stirring love of youth for youth, but with the deep, holy affection of a prodigal child. Not all the temptations of the gay world could ever make her swerve from her allegiance to him. Like a good and pious daughter did she cling to him, providing for his comfort, and forseeing his every want.
One day he called her to him as she returned from her visit of charity to the surrounding peasantry. She had wept over their troubles and relieved them, and rejoiced with the happy. Her heart was over-flowing, and passing the little church, she entered, and offered up a prayer of thankfulness for her own blessings, and those she was able to confer on others.
Her husband watched her graceful form as she came at his call, and smilingly placed a letter in her hand. It was from her mother, and part of it ran thus:
"I am now very old, monsieur, and very infirm. I have often thought, in my lonely hours, of the unhappiness of my child on her marriage with you, and have doubted the wisdom of that authority which I exercised so severely over her. The vision of that pale, agonized countenance, comes upon me like a reproach; and although she has never hinted in one of her letters of unkindness from you, I have often thought that there was a mournful spirit pervading them. Pray God she may not be unhappy through my fault! I rely upon you, monsieur; be kind to my poor Pauline.
"I am now very old, monsieur, and very infirm. I have often thought, in my lonely hours, of the unhappiness of my child on her marriage with you, and have doubted the wisdom of that authority which I exercised so severely over her. The vision of that pale, agonized countenance, comes upon me like a reproach; and although she has never hinted in one of her letters of unkindness from you, I have often thought that there was a mournful spirit pervading them. Pray God she may not be unhappy through my fault! I rely upon you, monsieur; be kind to my poor Pauline.
Marie Therese Clemence Dumesnil
.
(Née de Villeneuve.)
Pauline's tears fell fast over this letter; and as she finished reading it, she cast herself upon her husband's bosom.
"She does not deserve a reply, does she, Pauline?" asked he, with a smile, and pressing her closer to him. "Think you there would be no more marriagesde convenanceif we were to give the benefit of our experience to the world? Would your mother even be sensible of her error, could she know how your suffering has ended—could she see how happy you make an old man."
"Let her think that we have been always so," cried the noble Pauline. "Why disturb her last years with a narrative of what may embitter them? Shall it not be so, my dear, kind husband?"
"It shall, my child," said he, touched by the generosity of her request. "And you, Pauline, shall write the answer—you, my patient, enduring, and admirable wife! Why is it that I alone know what you have suffered, forced thus to appreciate in silence your noble forbearance."
But there was another letter to be read—one from Angela. It contained an account of Madame Dumesnil's failing strength, and her earnest desire to embrace her child once more. Jeannette was long since numbered with the dead; and Angela, whose devotion to her father had made her refuse every offer of marriage, removed with him to the abode of her friend's mother, passing her life in dividing her cares.
But a short time elapsed and Pauline, with her husband, was sailing once more upon the broad bosom of the Atlantic. It was a long and tedious voyage; but she arrived in time to receive her mother's blessing, and close her eyes—the reward her filial piety had merited.
Mr. Percy soon followed his aged companion, and Angela returned with Pauline to France. Here she witnessed, with wonder and delight, the happiness that, through Pauline's virtue, was not incompatible with so great a disparity of age, and rejoiced when a few months after their arrival in Paris, Pauline gave birth to a son and heir. Nothing now was wanting to complete the domestic enjoyment of the circle gathered at the Hotel de Vaissiere; and while the same gay crowds graced its walls, and courted its fair mistress, Pauline never forgot to turn to her husband as the one whose smile was to her the brightest, whose praise the most valued, and whose approbation alone she loved and lived for.
It was the leafy month of June,And joyous Nature, all in tune,With wreathing buds was drest,As toward the mighty cataract's sideA youthful stranger prest;His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe,And scarce he seemed his breath to draw,While bending o'er its brim,He marked its strong, unfathomed tide,And heard its thunder-hymn.His measured week too quickly fled,Another, and another sped,And soon the summer-rose decayed,The moon of autumn sank in shade,And winter hurled its dart,Years filled their circle, brief and fair,Yet still the enthusiast lingered there,While deeper round his soul was woveA mystic chain of fearful love,That would not let him part.When darkest midnight veiled the sky,You'd hear his hasting step go by,To gain the bridge beside the deep,That where its wildest torrents leapHangs thread-like o'er the surge,Just there, upon its awful verge,His vigil-hour to keep.And when the moon, descending low,Hung on the flood that gleaming bow,Which it would seem some angel's hand,With Heaven's own pencil, tinged and spanned,Pure symbol of a better land,He, kneeling, poured in utterance freeThe eloquence of ecstasy;Though to his words no answer came,Save that One, Everlasting Name,Which since Creation's morning brokeNiagara's lip alone hath spoke.When wintry tempests shook the sky,And the rent pine-tree hurtled by,Unblenching, 'mid the storm he stood,And marked sublime the wrathful flood,While wrought the frost-king, fierce and drear,His palace 'mid those cliffs to rear,And strike the massy buttress strong,And pile his sleet the rocks among,And wasteful deck the branches bareWith icy diamonds, rich and rare.Nor lacked the hermit's humble shedSuch comforts as our natures askTo fit them for life's daily task.The cheering fire, the peaceful bed,The simple meal in season spread,While by the lone lamp's trembling light,As blazed the hearth-stone, clear and bright,O'er Homer's page he hung,Or Maro's martial numbers scanned—For classic lore of many a landFlowed smoothly o'er his tongue.Oft with rapt eye, and skill profound,He woke the entrancing viol's sound,Or touched the sweet guitar.For heavenly music deigned to dwellAn inmate in his cloistered cell,As beams the solem star,All night, with meditative eyesWhere some lone, rock-bound fountain lies.As through the groves, with quiet tread,On his accustomed haunts he sped,The mother-thrush, unstartled, sungHer descant to her callow young,And fearless o'er his threshold prestThe wanderer from the sparrow's nest,The squirrel raised a sparkling eyeNor from his kernel cared to flyAs passed that gentle hermit by.No timid creature shrank to meetHis pensive glance, serenely sweet;From his own kind, alone, he soughtThe screen of solitary thought.Whether the world too harshly prestIts iron o'er a yielding breast,Or forced his morbid youth to proveThe pang of unrequited love,We know not, for he never saidAught of the life he erst had led.On Iris isle, a summer-bowerHe twined with branch and vine and flower,And there he mused on rustic seat,Unconscious of the noonday heat,Or 'neath the crystal waters lay,Luxuriant, in the swimmer's play.Yet once the whelming flood grew strong.And bore him like a weed along,Though with convulsive grasp of painAnd heaving breast, he strove in vain,Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide,Lone, as he lived, the hermit died.On, by the rushing current swept,The lifeless corse its voyage kept,To where, in narrow gorge comprest,The whirlpool-eddies never rest,But boil with wild tumultuous sway,The Maelstrom of Niagara.And there, within that rocky bound,In swift gyrations round and round,Mysterious course it held,Now springing from the torrent hoarse,Now battling, as with maniac force,To mortal strife compelled.Right fearful, 'neath the moonbeam bright,It was to see that brow so white,And mark the ghastly deadLeap upward from his torture-bed,As if in passion-gust,And tossing wild with agonyResist the omnipotent decreeOf dust to dust.At length, where smoother waters flow,Emerging from the abyss below,The hapless youth they gained, and boreSad to his own forsaken door.There watched his dog, with straining eye,And scarce would let the train pass by,Save that with instinct's rushing spell,Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue,And stiff and stony form, he knewThe master he had loved so well.The kitten fair, whose graceful wileSo oft had won his musing smile,As round his slippered foot she played,Stretched on his vacant pillow laid.While strewed around, on board and chair,The last-plucked flower, the book last read,The ready pen, the page outspread,The water cruse, the unbroken bread—Revealed how sudden was the snareThat swept him to the dead.And so, he rests in foreign earth,Who drew 'mid Albion's vales his birth:Yet let no cynic phrase unkindCondemn that youth of gentle mind—Of shrinking nerve, and lonely heart,And lettered lore, and tuneful art,Who here his humble worship paidIn that most glorious temple-shrine,Where to the Majesty DivineNature her noblest altar made.No, blame him not, but praise the PowerWho, in the dear domestic bower,Hath given you firmer strength to rearThe plants of love—with toil and fear—The beam to meet, the blast to dare,And like a faithful soldier bear;Still with sad heart his requiem pour,Amid the cataract's ceaseless roar,And bid one tear of pitying gloomBedew that meek enthusiast's tomb.