CHAPTER II.THE NEW SUITOR.
How! Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blessed,Unworthy as she is, that we have wroughtSo worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?—Shakspere.
How! Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blessed,Unworthy as she is, that we have wroughtSo worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?—Shakspere.
How! Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blessed,Unworthy as she is, that we have wroughtSo worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?—Shakspere.
How! Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blessed,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?
—Shakspere.
First came the news of the glorious victory of Yorktown—the final and signal triumph of the American arms. There were no railroads and telegraphic wires inthose days, and very few newspapers. The report, the re-echo of this splendid victory, rolled on toward their quiet neighborhood like a storm; in clouds of doubt, in thunder and lightning of astonishment, joy, and mad triumph. The most delirious rejoicing convulsed the whole village and neighborhood for days, before any newspaper arrived with an account of the battle.
And the same mail that brought the newspaper, with a long account of the battle, headed in great capital letters line below line, brought also a letter sealed with black that sped like a bullet through the foreboding heart of Mrs. Chester, a letter from Colonel Chester, announcing the glorious death of his two brave sons upon the field of victory.
Mrs. Chester was overwhelmed with grief by the twofold bereavement, the fall of both her gallant sons, of whom she was as proud as fond.
She did not dream of the calamity, worse than death, that had befallen Alice, in the disguise of a princely inheritance, destined to darken her whole life with sorrow, while it mocked her in the face of the world with its unreal light and splendor.
But there was one who was not so forgetful—Colonel Chester. He was still with the army, but another letter was received from him, announcing his speedy return home, accompanied by his friend and companion in arms, General Garnet, a young officer, who, though but thirty years of age, had risen to the highest rank in the army, and won an immortal fame.
Colonel Chester came at length, accompanied by General Garnet. He met Alice with great empressement—for it was scarcely great affection—praised her growth and her beauty, introduced General Garnet, and, excusing himself for a few moments, passed to the sick-chamber of his wife.
Left alone with her guest Alice examined him shyly, with the curiosity of a woman and the bashfulness of a country girl. General Garnet was what young ladies call a fine, military-looking man. He certainly had a fine, martial figure and bearing, or that which is our ideal ofit—a tall and elegantly proportioned figure, a calm, majestic carriage, yet withal suggestive of great reposing strength and fire. His voice was perfect harmony itself. His manner was dignified and imposing, or graceful, earnest, and seductive. Yet, sometimes, one in a sudden, vague astonishment, would feel that he was a man who could unite the utmost inflexibility, and even cruelty of purpose, with the most graceful and gracious urbanity of manner. With all his marvelous powers of fascination he was a man to darken, chill, repel a bright-spirited, warm-souled, pure-hearted girl like Alice. Yet she did the honors of her father’s house to her father’s guest until that guest merged into the lover, and then Alice felt and betrayed the utmost soul-sickened repugnance to him and his suit.
It was now that the object of Colonel Chester in inviting this distinguished visitor to Mount Calm became evident—that of bestowing the hand of his daughter and heiress upon him.
After a conversation with General Garnet he sent for Alice, and, without any preface at all, bade her make up her mind to a speedy marriage with the husband he had chosen for her, his distinguished and dear friend, General Garnet.
Alice passed from the room, mechanically pressing her hands to her temples, trying to awake as from a heart-sickening dream. And so she passed to her now frequent post of duty, her declining mother’s darkened room and sick-bed. The senses, or the intuitions, or the instincts of those on the confines of the unseen world are sometimes preternaturally acute. There was that in the falling footstep, in the very form and bearing, of Alice, as she glided through the shadows of that dark room, that revealed to the mother the existence of some heavy cloud teeming with sorrow, that was ready to burst upon the devoted head of her child.
She called Alice to her bedside, took her hand in her gentle grasp, looked with wondering sadness into her eyes—her eyes set in the stare of blank stupor—and murmured tenderly:
“What is the matter, Alice? Tell your mother?”
Her mother’s loving voice and touch unsealed the spellbound founts of tears and speech.
“Oh, mother! mother! I am ruined! ruined!” she wildly gasped, and, sinking down upon the floor, dropped her head upon the bed with hysterical sobs and gasps, and inarticulate wailings.
Her mother laid her gentle hand upon her child’s burning and throbbing head, and raised her tender eyes in silent prayer for her, while this storm raged, and until it passed, and Alice, exhausted, but calm, was able to rise, sit by her side, and while she held her hand, tell her what had happened.
“I will speak to him, Alice,” she then said. “I will tell him how you and Sinclair love each other—as you could not tell him, my child. I will show him how vain—oh, how vain! are wealth, and rank, and honor, and glory, in the hour of grief, by the bed of death, in the presence of God! how love, and truth, and faith are all in all! Yes! and I will make him feel it, too. And, though he should not realize it as I do, yet he will never refuse me a request now!”
And the next morning, directly after breakfast, Colonel Chester received a message from his wife, requesting him to come to her room for a few minutes, if convenient, as she wished to speak with him.
Colonel Chester went. What passed at that interview no one knew more than what might be guessed from what followed.
Colonel Chester came out of the room, banging the door after him, with a half-uttered imprecation upon “sickly fancies,” “irritable nerves,” and “foolish women.” But immediately after this interview Mrs. Chester became much worse; her fever rose to delirium, and she was alarmingly ill for several days. Milton Sinclair heard of her state, and, little suspecting the cause, came to see her. He was met by Colonel Chester, who informed him that his wife was too ill to receive even her pastor, and requested him to walk into the library. There Colonel Chester informed him that circumstanceshad occurred which made it his painful duty to beg that Mr. Sinclair would temporarily suspend his visits to Mount Calm.
“Alice!” exclaimed the young man. That name contained everything, and rendered a full explanation indispensable. It was given.
Deadly pale, Sinclair walked up and down the floor, pressing his head tightly between his two palms and groaning—groaning the name, the prayer, that in the bitterest agony of the soul starts to every lip:
“My God! oh, my God! have pity on me! God have mercy on me!”
The heart-broken tone of these words touched even that hard man of the world, Colonel Chester.
“Come, come, Sinclair; you must have been prepared for this for some months past. I did not violently and at once separate you from Alice when I first came home, although you must have known that all our plans were changed. I gave you time to wean yourself gradually off. In other circumstances, indeed, I should have felt myself most honored, most happy in the alliance; but we do not control our own destinies. Good-day, Sinclair. You will forget Alice.”