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expand2003 (1)
1Author:  Moulton Louise Chandler 1835-1908Requires cookie*
 Title:  This, that and the other  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Lionel: When your hand touches this sheet, I shall be far away. It is two hours since you left me, and I have been sitting here all the while, in a kind of stupor. I have loved you very fondly, Lionel, and there is no blame for you in my heart now, only sorrow, bitter, crushing sorrow. I will believe that you love me — that you did not mean to deceive me! I will even try to think that the fault, the misunderstanding, was all mine. My soul shall send back only prayers for you — my heart shall breathe only blessings. I love you, Lionel — O, how I love you! If I could coin my life-blood into a flood of blessing, and pour it on your head, I would do so gladly; if I might die for you, my soul would be blessed as the angels. I even have thought, — may God forgive me! — that I could give my soul to perdition for your sake; but I have no right to bring sorrow, and shame, and suffering, upon another. The lips that my little sister presses must be pure; the life consecrated by a dying mother's blessing must be unstained. “Blanche Leslie, — For something tells me you are Blanche Leslie yet — I have found you at last, after these weary years. Listen, and hear if it be not destiny. When you left me, Blanche, I was a heart-broken, miserable man. You did not know me, little darling, or you never would have gone. I did not know myself. I did not know how strong was the love I had for you. Blanche, believe me, for I swear it before heaven, I never would have asked you to make one sacrifice for my sake. You should have done nothing, been nothing, your own heart did not sanction. When I read your note, I awoke to the knowledge of my own soul. Then I knew that, without you, wealth, and fame, and honor, were worse than vanity, hollower than the apples of Sodom. I would have laid down everything I possessed on earth, to have called you wife. My soul cried out for you `with groanings that could not be uttered.' “No, no! Come not near me, Lionel Hunter! Disturb not the holy calm to which it has been the work of years to attain. I have wept much, suffered much, but I am stronger now. Talk no more to me of earthly love, now that my heart has grown old, and the beauty you used to praise has faded. Leave me, leave me! It is my prayer; it is all I ask. Over my night of sorrow dews have fallen, and stars have arisen; let me walk in their light! Only in heaven will I rest, if it may be so, my head upon your breast. Then, when the angels shall name me by a new name, I will steal to your side, and, looking back to earth, over the bastions of the celestial city, you shall call me “`Heaven forgive and pity me, life of my life, that I should be writing you, the night before our bridal, only to say farewell. Our bridal; yes, it shall be so. To-morrow my soul shall marry your soul, though I am far away. I have been mad, for two weeks past, Maud! The ashes of the bottomless pit have been upon my head, and its hot breath has scorched my cheek. I would not tell you, my beloved, because I wished not to drag you down with me to perdition. O, Maud, my darling! Maud, my beloved! Can it be, I never more must draw your head to my heart — never more must look into your blue eyes, or watch the blushes stealing over your cheek? But I am raving. “Can it be that only one sun has set and risen since Stanley Grayson called me his, — since another and a dearer life grew into mine, with the knowledge that I was beloved? O, joy! great, unutterable joy, whose seeds were sown in grief, and watered by the hot tears which made the flowers grow upon my mother's grave! Who shall say, if I had not been thus desolate, I could have felt so deeply this wondrous bliss of love? “A week has passed — a long, sunny week of happiness! Stanley says we must be married in September — his birth-day, September fifth. Papa, dear, good papa, has given me carte blanche as to money. He says I never did cost him anything yet, and have only been a help to him, all my life; and now, when he 's going to lose me, he will give me all he can. Poor papa! I fear, though he likes Stanley, he is hardly reconciled to the idea of my leaving home; for, when he spoke of my going away, the tears came to his eyes, and he looked so regretfully at his easy-chair, and the little ottoman where I always sit beside him! It seemed so selfish in me to go and leave him, — him who has always been so kind to me, — and for one, too, whom I had never seen, a few short months ago! The tears came to my eyes, and for the moment I was half resolved to send Stanley away without me; but, O, I know that already my soul is married to his soul, and I cannot give him up. Lizzie will come home in July, and she can stay with papa. Do I love Stanley better than papa? Why do I not say Lizzie will do for Stanley? And why would she not — she, so good, so young, so very beautiful? “O, how dear, how much dearer than ever, my future husband is every day becoming to my heart! How long a time since I 've written here before! but then I 'm so busy, and so happy! “O, how it rains! — Such a perfect wail as the wind makes, hurrying by, as if its viewless feet were `swift to do evil!' Poor Lizzie! she is inside the stage, I suppose; she will have a long, uncomfortable ride! I don't know why it is, but my soul seems to go out toward her to-night more than ever. I have thought of Stanley so much lately, that I 've not had so much time to think of my poor child, and now my heart is reproaching me. Sweet Lizzie! She and Stanley have never met. How proud I am of them both! I am sure they must be pleased with each other. Stanley is in his room now. I sent him up to put on his black coat, and that new vest in which he looks so well. “Yes, it was dear Lizzie. Stanley heard the horn too, and hurried down stairs. I bade him go and meet Lizzie; for it was raining, and papa was n't half awake. I followed him to the door, and he received Lizzie in his arms. She thought it was papa, for, what with the night and the rain, it was quite dark; and she pressed her lips to his face again and again. But when he brought her into the pleasant, brightly-lighted parlor, and set her down, she pushed from her white shoulders her heavy cloak, and glanced around; that is, as soon as she could, for at first I held her to my heart so closely she could see nothing. When papa took her in his arms, and welcomed her, and bade God bless her, she glanced at his slippers and dressing-gown, and then at Stanley, who was looking at her with a shade of amusement at her perplexity, and yet with the most vivid admiration I ever saw portrayed on his fine features. At last he laughed out, merrily. “I am a little lonely, I 'm left so much alone now. The long rides over the hills continue, and of course I stay at home, for there is no horse for me to ride. Stanley comes and kisses me just before he goes off, and says, `You are always so busy, Katie!' but he says nothing of late about the reason I am so busy — nothing about our marriage. “Two days, and I am writing here again; but O, how changed! I have been struck by a thunderbolt. I have had a struggle, brief, but very fierce; and it is past. I was sailing in a fair ship, upon calm waters; there were only a few clouds in the sky. Sunlight rested on the waves, and in the distance I could see a floating pleasure-island, green and calm, made beautiful with tropic flowers, where gorgeous birds rested, and sang love-songs all the day. Merrily the bark dashed onward. Loved forms were by my side, and one dearer than all was at the helm; but from the clear sky a tempest-blast swept suddenly. It had sobbed no warning of the doom it was bringing us. “A month has passed since I wrote here last; I hardly know why, myself. It has been a long summer month. Days are so long in summer, and they have seemed like centuries of late. What a beautiful day it is! The sunshine smiles so pleasantly on the fields, and the bright-winged birds sing, and the insects hum lazily, or go to sleep upon the flowers. It seems to me I never saw such a scene of calm, quiet beauty; — as if Nature had on her holiday garments, decked newly for the sun, her lover. “Lizzie is married, and they have gone; surely no bride ever before looked so beautiful! Her long curls floated over her white robe like sunshine over snow; and her cheeks were fairer than ever, shaded so faintly by her rich veil. She trembled during the ceremony, and I could feel how firm and strong was the lover-like pressure with which Stanley clasped her waist. When we knelt in prayer, his arm was around her still; and I seemed quite to forget my own existence, so intently was I occupied in watching them, so fervent were my prayers for their happiness. It was the hardest when Stanley came back to me, after Lizzie had said good-by, and he had put her in the carriage. He took both my hands in his, and, looking into my eyes, whispered, Never mind Peepy, Mrs. Jellyby! Let the child cry, — let him fall down stairs, and break his nose. What are a thousand Peepies now present, to the mighty schemes of our modern Borioboola-Gha, which will affect the destinies of myriads of Peepies yet to come? Can you fritter away your attention on one man, and his little troop of children, when that new lawgiver — that Moses — that Stephen Pearl Andrews — has told us, woman's chief duty is to be “true to herself, and not true to any man”? Thanks, Mr. Andrews! We, little girl that we are, did n't know our duty before. We 've found out, now. Never mind if there were tears in his eyes, when he whispered, “I can't live, if you change!” We know our duty now, and it 's not much matter what he suffers in so good a cause. “Miss Adams: Perhaps it may give you some satisfaction to learn that, in compliment to you, I returned from New York last night, instead of this morning, as I at first intended. I went over to Oakwood, and, in the natural indulgence of a lover's curiosity, was a witness of the pleasant scene in your favorite bower. I presume it will be an occasion of heartfelt rejoicing to you to know that you are quite free from all the ties which have bound you to No, no, nothing but that! She has never derived any additional importance from linking her name with yours, imperial man! — never grown angelized by a wife's thrice-drugged potion of care and sorrow. She lives alone, in a little, lonely house, — alone, with her black cat, and her memories of the past! “Edward Gray: Ellen Adair is ill — dying. She will die to-night. I do not say if you ever loved her, for I know you did, but, if you love her now, come to us directly. “`I am surprised, Mr. Harding, at the acuteness which enables you to divine my wishes so readily. I trust the attachment which can so easily relinquish its object will not be difficult to overcome. For your kindness in procuring me this casket, I am infinitely obliged; but you must, of necessity, excuse my accepting it, as it is a present of too great value for a lady to receive from any but her lover. Enclosed you will find your miniature and letters, and a certain emerald ring, the pledge of a tie now broken. You will excuse me from coming down, as I have a head-ache this morning. I wish you God-speed on your journey, long life and happiness, and remain your friend, “Many months have passed since last we met. Summers and winters have been braided into years, and still on my heart is your name written; not one hieroglyph that you traced there has been obliterated. Heart and soul I am, what I always have been, yours! I married Clara the day succeeding our last meeting, and I love her very much. Can you reconcile this with what I have just written? I am yours, as I said; you, even you, my Agnes, are more to me than all the rest of earth; but it is much to feel we can make another human being entirely happy.
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