 | CHAPTER III. The actress of Padua, and other tales |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
Colonel Singleton had been twice married; Isabel
was the daughter of the first wife, and Mary of her
successor. There exists a vulgar prejudice against
step-mothers; and the conduct of the colonel's helpmate
towards Isabel, did not form an exception to the
prevalent opinion. She was a haughty, selfish woman,
and ambitious that all the honours and wealth
of the family should descend to her own daughter, to
the exclusion of Isabel; and when she heard that
aunt Penelope purposed making her nephew Arthur,
and the colonel's eldest daughter her heirs, she determined
that her own child's name should be inserted
in the will, in the place of that of her sister; and
what cannot woman accomplish when she devotes all
her energies to one object.
Isabel's life became one series of annoyance; her
step-mother's dislike was manifested on all occasions,
and finally the poor girl perceived that even the affection
of her father was in some degree alienated
from her. In order to make “assurance double sure,”
her step-mother proposed that she should be married
to a penurious old man, who, attracted by her beauty,
had solicited her hand, and the colonel was tempted
by the proposal, as the suitor was wealthy, which
encouraged his helpmate to press the matter zealously,
and at the same time enabled her to cloak her
threatened, and the poor girl whose mind had been
enfeebled by a series of persecutions, finding herself
about to be consigned to the arms of an old man she
despised, fell into convulsions, from which she narrowly
escaped with life; and when she was restored
to health her tears ceased to flow; her countenance
was changed; and the vacant glare of the eye denoted
an alienated mind. About a year after this
event, death issued his summons for her step-mother;
but in the mean time aunt Penelope had made her
will, as already recited.
Early in the morning, following the arrival of Arthur,
Isabel was alone in the parlour, arranging a
beautiful bouquet of spring flowers. She performed
her task with an air of caution, as if she wished to
avoid being detected, and her blushing countenance
was illuminated by a smile of satisfaction. When
her task was completed, she murmured as she stood
gazing at it, “I love flowers—those were his words.
This will afford him pleasure, and I shall be very
happy.” Arthur entered the apartment without perceiving
her—she ran to him and said,
“Arthur—yes, it is you. I knew your step.”
“Isabel!—what, here alone!”
“Alone! oh, no; you are here!” she replied,
placing her hand upon her heart.
“My charming cousin.”
“And you—have you thought about poor Isabel,
since we parted last evening?”
“Have I thought of you? Indeed have I, incessantly.”
“I am glad of that. I have thought of you until I
dreamt that you had returned. Tell me, you have
been far distant, and have at length returned.”
“Yes, Isabel.”
“Heavens! If she should also return!”
“Whom do you mean?”
“My mother. Hark! do you not hear her,” she
exclaimed wildly. “She comes—that is her voice!
—there—there! Ah! she threatens me.” She
mercy, mercy, I beseech you. Do not force
me,—I cannot marry him. My heart's another's.
Ah! approach me not,” she continued with increased
violence. “I cannot, will not—death sooner.” She
recoiled and threw herself, trembling, into the arms
of her cousin.
“Dear Isabel, recover yourself.”
“Where am I! Who calls me, in that kind and
gentle voice! Ah—is it you, Arthur, is it you!
What has happened? How I burn here,” she added,
touching her forehead.
“You suffer.”
“O, no;” she replied in a voice of tenderness, and
smiling fondly on him, “O, no!—I have seen you
once again, and that repays me for all. But who
was it told me you had gone away—forsaken me.
It is not true, is it? You would not give me pain.
You love me too much for that, Arthur?”
“Indeed do I.”
“Take care,” she continued with an air of mystery,
“if you deceive me, I shall soon discover it.”
She ran smiling to the vase of flowers, and taking
one of them, carefully stripped it of its leaves, one
by one. “You remember, this is the way I tested
your love in our childhood.”
They were interrupted by Mary, who now entered
the parlour, followed by old Cato, who stood erect
at the door. She spoke to him as they entered—
“It is well, Cato; if he returns, let me know. Fortunately
he has gone without seeing Arthur,” she
added, in a low tone.
The bustling Mr. Joseph Jenkins, early as it was,
had already been at Singleton Hall, and this time
he determined to have an interview with his dulcinea,
for Joseph was as systematic in his love affairs
as he was in business, and he succeeded. The
interview was a brief one, and abruptly terminated
in the cotton spinner leaping on his hackney in a
huff, and starting off at a brisk trot, after bidding a
“Good morning, cousin. How do you like Singleton
Hall?” said Mary.
“It is a charming spot, and its inmates render it
more so. I have been conversing with Isabel. What
a strange existence. So young, so beautiful, and
for ever deprived of reason. But let us quit so painful
a subject. I thank you Miss, for the delicate
attention you have paid me.”
“How! in what manner?”
“I yesterday by chance, spoke of my taste for
flowers, and I find the parlour decorated with them.”
“No, cousin, it is not to me, but doubtless to old
Cato, that you are indebted for this attention.”
“At all events, allow me to present you this,” he
said, selecting a bouquet and presenting it to Mary.
Isabel, who watched him in silence, darted forward
and snatched the flowers from her sister, saying,
“That must not be. That bouquet is for me, me
only. It was I who gathered them.”
“You!” exclaimed Arthur.
“Yes. Why should that astonish you. I heard
you say that you loved flowers, and I remember a
little flaxen headed boy who used to gather the wild
flowers in the meadows with me; he loved them
much, and he loved me also.”
“It was for me then. Pardon me Isabel, I will
repair the wrong.” He took the bouquet and presented
it to her; she received it with a smile, and
pressed it to her heart, saying, “Now it shall never
leave me, but wither and fade there.”
“Truly, dear Arthur, you work miracles,” said
Mary. “Since your arrival she seems at times to
have some recollection.”
“Ah! look at her now. She has again fallen into
the reverie from which she escaped for a moment.”
Isabel stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the ground.
Cato entered, and said to Miss Singleton in an under
tone,
“Massa Jenkins come back again, Missus.”
“Tell him, I will see him presently.” She apologised
to Arthur for abruptly leaving him, and went
out of the room with the old servant.
“I am glad they are gone,” said Isabel, “We can
now talk together. Tell me, Arthur, what were
we speaking of when my sister interrupted us.
Help me to recall my thoughts. How terrible it is
to forget, and to know that one forgets!”
“Dear Isabel, do not dwell on this subject, it injures
you much.”
“It has injured me; it injures me still. It was of
my step-mother we were speaking.”
“You have been very unhappy in my absence,
have you not?”
“O, yes; for I was fearful. But that is over; you
have returned, and my fears are gone. You will
defend me, will you not?”
“Certainly, I will protect you, and be ever near
you.”
“How you encourage me! My good sister also
often strove to encourage me, but she did not succeed
so well. Your presence, your looks, the tone
of your voice inspire me with confidence. Speak,
speak, I love to hear you speak.”
“Dear Isabel, listen to me. Let us try to reason
together.”
“O yes, yes, let us reason,” she exclaimed, laughing
and rubbing her hands.
“There is one thing I must premise, and that is,
if you relapse into your terrors, I shall believe that
you don't love me.”
“O, don't believe any such thing. I no longer
fear, and as a proof of it, I am now thinking of my
step-mother, speaking of her, and scarcely tremble.”
“Since that is the case, let us dwell on the subject,
and you shall see that it will cease to alarm
you. It is long since you beheld her?”
“I have not forgot that. One day she slept so
profoundly that they could not awaken her. Her
face was as pale as the vestments in which they
wrapped her, and they bore her to the church and
My sister Mary wept much, and I also wept, because
she grieved. Then they clothed me all in black,
and since that time I have been very happy, except
when she comes back to threaten me.”
“But she will never threaten you again.”
“Ah! do you believe so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“If you are sure, then I am satisfied. What a
weight you have taken from my mind. I am now
tranquil; breathe freely, and it is to you that I owe
this happiness. How I love you!”
“Dear Isabel!”
“But if you should again leave me!”
“Be composed. I am coming, perhaps, to remain
here always—to marry your sister.”
“Marry, marry my sister! Then who will marry
me?” she said dejectedly, and her mind suddenly
relapsed, as she continued, without recognising
him—
“You know not how constant I am. I was once
to have been married formerly, to one of my cousins
named Arthur—but this is a secret, which I have
told to no one except yourself. We were both very
young, and I loved him more than a brother, he was
so good, so gentle and generous. How happy I was
when he was near me. All the marvellous stories
and old legends of the country, were related to me
by him, and we had bright visions of the future.
But alas! one day he was forced to leave us; he
went on board his ship, and I saw him no more, but
I have always thought of him—always.”
“You saw him no more, Isabel? You do not recollect
me, then?” demanded Arthur in a tone of increased
interest.
“How! not recollect you,” she replied with an air
of gaiety, “thou art Arthur; I recollected thee immediately.”
“I have been unconsciously guilty; each word renders
me more criminal still. Can you ever pardon
me?”
“Pardon thee! Ah, yes! I always forgive when
I am supplicated; it would be so cruel to refuse.”
She drew nigher to him, paused and gazed fondly in
his face, as she added, “To prove I haven't forgot
you, I will search for the ring you sent me from the
sea side. I have preserved it carefully, and no person
has seen it. Wait for me here, and I will return
directly. Arthur, I love thee,—do not forget that
I am your betrothed.” She ran away smiling, and
kissed her hand to him as she closed the door.
Our hero was as much perplexed as most heroes
are, when they get two women into their heads at
the same time. He was amazed to discover that the
silken web, that he had unconsciously woven in his
boyhood, had been so closely intertwined with the
thread of that fair creature's life, as to serve as a
clue to lead her wandering mind even through the
mazes of her madness; and was the sole idea to
which she fondly clung in the general wreck and
ruin. He was at a loss how to act; by marrying
the one, he would disinherit the other; and by fulfilling
the conditions of the will, he would for ever
extinguish the returning spark of reason, in the mind
of the delicate being so long and devotedly attached
to him. At length, he resolved to ascertain the true
state of Mary's fortune, and should it prove ample,
he would reject her, and enrich her sister with
his hand and aunt Penelope's legacy. Old Cato entered
opportunely, to throw some light on the subject.
“My mistress begs you to excuse her absence,
captain,” said the old man bowing, “she will be disengaged
presently.”
“Stand on no ceremony with me. Fine property
this, old Cato?”
“Splendid estate; none better on the Delaware,
sar.”
“Still affords a very handsome living?”
“None better, sar. A fortune might be made
from this farm; but the Singletons are above selling
stock, and loans, and mortgages—”
“Enough, I am satisfied; and with this assurance
I can no longer hesitate not to marry your mistress.”
“Not marry her, sar? Pardon me, captain, you
misunderstand me,” exclaimed the old servant,
somewhat disconcerted.
“No, no, I understand you perfectly. Your mistress
is at least in easy circumstances.”
“Better than that, sar,—very rich. The greatest
fortune in these parts.” The old fellow knew this
to be a lie; but felt satisfied that it ought to be true.
Mr. Joseph Jenkins happened to bustle into the
parlour at this critical moment, and overhearing Cato's
boastful speech, exclaimed,
“Rich! A great fortune! they deceive you, sir,
she is ruined, totally ruined.”
“Ruined, sir!” exclaimed Arthur.
“Will you be silent, sar! He don't know what
he says, sar,” exclaimed the old man in confusion.
“Examine for yourself, sir,” continued Joseph
Jenkins, producing papers. “Read these documents,
and you will perceive that Singleton Place belongs
to me. I am the master here.”
Arthur cast his eyes over the papers and returned
them saying, “It is true. I cannot recover from
my surprise. Miss Singleton reduced to a state of
poverty.”
“If you longer doubt, behold the confusion of this
old domestic,” continued Jenkins. “That speaks
more plainly than all my words.”
“My poor cousin in distress!” sighed Arthur, “In
that case I will marry her.”
“How! you marry her! What the devil do you
mean?” exclaimed Jenkins with increased restlessness.
“Go and inform your mistress, Cato, that I am
ready to make her my wife this evening if she consents,”
said Arthur. The faithful old fellow's ebony
visage, “creamed and mantled like a standing pool,”
“This now is, just like a Singleton. Gem'man all
over!” Jenkins, after making a few nervous circuits
around the parlour, suddenly stopped, and said,
“How! marry her this evening! Do you intend to
insult me, sir?”
“Insult you? I was not thinking about you at
all.”
“Not thinking about me! But you shall think
about me. I will be thought about in this matter,
sir; and I demand the motives of your conduct,”
replied Joseph, testily.
“Indeed. But I am not in the habit of answering,
when interrogated in so gentle a manner,” replied
the other, coolly.
“Then there may be a mode of making you speak,”
said Joseph, with increased irritation.
“Pray, name it.”
“Pistols,” exclaimed the cotton spinner.
“Precisely. That is a branch of my business, and
I never neglect business.”
“I like you the better for that,” continued Jenkins.
“I have a pair of bull dogs in the next room;
I used to practise shooting at a mark with the old
colonel. We can jump into a boat, and be on the
Jersey shore in half an hour.”
“That's unnecessary trouble. You are at home
here, you know, and we can just step out behind the
stable, and settle the affair quietly. We shall avoid
both delay and trouble.”
“Zounds! you are right again!” exclaimed Jenkins.
“Do you know that you have risen fifty per
cent. in my esteem, and if I drill a hole through you,
I shall grieve for you, and do the decent thing by
your remains.”
“You are very good.”
“I give you my word and honour, sir.”
“Thank you; but I shall endeavour to dispense
with your grief.”
“A spirited young fellow!” exclaimed Jenkins. “I
begin to like him. A business man. I will go for
in five minutes.”
Jenkins bustled out, and at the same instant Isabel
rushed into the room, and threw her arms about
the neck of her cousin, who was about to follow him,
and exclaimed,
“Stay, stay, you shall not go. I know your fearful
purpose; but you shall not leave me. I'll hang
upon you.”
“Unfortunate! would you drive me to dishonour?”
“Would you drive me to despair?”
“Isabel, you will see me again in five minutes.”
“Yes, I shall see you again, as I saw my brother,
perhaps, brought back, pale and covered with blood.”
She shrieked and fainted in his arms. We omitted
to state in the proper place, that a son of Colonel
Singleton had been killed in a duel, and that Isabel's
aberration of mind was in some degree attributed to
the shock received on the occasion. It is of importance
to every family that one member, at least,
should be killed in a duel, as that circumstance alone
is sufficient to establish the courage and gentility of
all the survivors.
The shriek brought Miss Singleton and her major
domo into the parlour. Arthur consigned the unconscious
Isabel to the arms of her sister, and without
saying a word, hurried from the room. Isabel
slowly recovered; the expression of her countenance
was calm, and she assumed an air of gaiety, as she
said,
“Sister, if you only knew the good news I have to
tell you. She will never come back,—never! Then
there's going to be a wedding; do you know the
bride? I know her. And there will be a splendid
ball. I ought to open it with him. I love dancing
so much!”
The report of pistols was now heard, and Isabel
starting from her sister's arms, stood motionless for a
moment, then pressed her forehead with both hands,
and shrieked, “Ah! I remember now! Death is at
violently disengaged herself from Mary, who attempted
to restrain her, and rushed from the room.
Her sister and the old servant alarmed and amazed,
hastily followed her.
Isabel reached the spot where the combatants
stood opposed to each other, pistols in hand, ready
to fire a second time. She rushed between them,
her hair dishevelled, wildness in her looks, and
summoning all her energy, she shrieked, “Hold!
Forbear your murderous intent, I implore you, I
command you!” and fell senseless to the ground.
Our worthies forgot their angry feelings, in their
amazement at this singular interruption, and mutually
hastened to her assistance, and supported her
to the house. She was conducted to her chamber,
and the next moment the prompt and active Joseph
Jenkins was seen hurrying along the avenue, upon
his bay hackney, in pursuit of medical assistance,
without having intimated to any one his errand.
The doctor, like all prudent practitioners, could
not pronounce with certainty,—he was of opinion
that the fearful impressions she had received from
the duel, would have a decisive influence over her
mind; that a crisis had arrived, that would either
bring about a complete restoration to reason, or destroy
all hope of her recovery. This was considered
a sound, and certainly a safe opinion.
Joseph Jenkins returned to Singleton Hall, shortly
after the physician, and on entering the parlour, he
found Miss Singleton alone. She arose as he entered
and exclaimed in evident alarm—“Good heavens!
What is it brings you back after the scene which
has just passed? If my cousin should meet you!”
“Have no fear, Miss; I shall not be here long,”
replied Joseph, taking a stride or two across the
room.
“Ah! why speak to me so coolly. Can you believe”—
Now Joseph was any thing but cool, and he hastily
interrupted her with saying,
“No more of that, Miss. You have no need to
justify yourself to me. I came not here to reproach
you. If I have failed to please you, the fault is
mine, and not yours. You are handsome and lively,
—your cousin is a dashing, brave and generous
young fellow, but as for me, I am rough, plain and
without address. He is entitled to the preference;
but perhaps the future may prove that with all my
abruptness, I loved you as tenderly as he does. But
I do not wish that”—he turned his face to conceal
a starting tear. “I hope you may always be happy.
We are now about to part, but before we separate,
we have some affairs of importance to settle together.
Your father, at his death, owed to John Jones five
thousand dollars—here are the bonds; to me ten
thousand on mortgage—this is the instrument,” he
deliberately tore the papers into fragments, and
added, “now those debts are settled.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I restore the property to you unencumbered,
for I would not have your future husband
reproach the woman whom I have loved, with her
want of fortune.”
“Ah! Joseph, so much generosity.”
“No thanks, Miss. I only ask one thing from
you. If ever you should experience any reverse,
which is very possible, then think of your old friend.
Write to me, and the next mail will bring you a
satisfactory answer. Farewell, Miss, farewell.”
He bustled out of the room, and even Mary's tender
exclamation, of “Dear Joseph, listen to me,” in
no measure retarded his impetus. Finding he returned
no answer, and was already out of hearing,
she called aloud for Cato, who promptly obeyed the
summons, followed by the young lieutenant. She
turned to the old servant, and said in a low voice,
“Cato, hasten after Mr. Jenkins, who has just gone,
and tell him to defer his departure for an hour. I
wish to speak to him—must speak to him. Go.”
Cato left the room muttering, “what de devil signify,
running first after one, den after toder, and
were now seen from the parlour windows, scudding
along the avenue, at even a brisker gait than usual.
Possibly the horse felt that his master was several
thousand dollars lighter than when he came.
The young couple, finding themselves alone, again
attempted to broach the delicate subject of the will,
each feeling the impossibility of complying with its
conditions, and yet from generosity afraid to reject
the other. After much manœuvring and finesse on
both sides, without success, each came to the conclusion
that the other wished for nothing so ardently
as to have Aunt Penelope's will carried into effect,
and heaved a sigh of regret for the sudden and hopeless
passion. Old Cato entered at this critical juncture,
to inform Miss Singleton that he had despatched
a man on horseback after Mr. Jenkins, which
timely interruption relieved them from their mutual
embarrassment.
“What news have you of your mistress Isabel?”
demanded Arthur.
“You must see her directly, sar. She is looking
for you, and desires to speak to you.”
“To speak to me! Has she left her chamber?”
“Yes, sar. The doctor ordered that we should
obey her in every thing, and not contradict her.
Here she comes, sar.”
Isabel entered the apartment. Her manner had
undergone a striking change; it was now serious,
collected, composed. She calmly said:—
“Sister, I have caused you much trouble; is it not
so? But I am better at present—much better. I
thank you for all your attentions to me, but I have
a favour to ask; retire, for I would speak with my
cousin, alone.”
“Cousin, I leave you, and in a little time expect
to receive your answer,” said Mary, and left the
room, followed by Cato.
“What can she want with me? What is passing
in her mind? That singular air!” said Arthur,
mentally—“Isabel, my dear Isabel.”
“Sir.”
“Why this reserve?—why this coldness towards
me?”
“It becomes the position in which I find myself.”
“What do I hear! You, who seemed but yesterday—”
She proceeded, with slight emotion—“If my words
have not been always what they ought to be, it
would be generous on your part to forget the past,
as I shall study to forget it myself.”
“Unhappy that I am!” he exclaimed—“She no
longer recollects me, no longer loves me! This apparent
flash of reason may be only a new feature of her
madness. My dear Isabel, in the name of heaven
listen to me—look at me. I am Arthur, your cousin,
your friend,—in one word, he who has chosen you for
his betrothed.”
She became more deeply affected as she replied,
“I recollect you perfectly, Arthur; but this word
betrothed recalls to me the object of this interview.
I was your betrothed, it is true—I have not forgotten
that; but I come to give you back your promise,
and the ring with which you sealed it. Take it—
be henceforth free; marry my sister, and receive
every wish that I can form for your happiness.”
“Heavens! What say you, Isabel! Can you
imagine”—
“I know all, have heard all—even at a time when
I could not comprehend its meaning. But singular
changes have taken place. It seems that until now
I have not lived. Even yesterday I spoke without
reflection; I answered without listening, or listened
without understanding; but now the cloud has
vanished, ideas crowd upon me, words rush to explain
my thoughts, and I am no longer an object of
pity. This happiness I owe to Arthur. When near
him I am animated, exalted; but without him I feel
that I should relapse into my former state. Ah,
stay, stay always near me—never leave me—be my
support, my guide, my husband. I live only in thee,
for thee, and shall be nothing without thee.”
“Dear Isabel, you are once more restored to me.
Do not repent of the avowal that insures my happiness.
Speak, will you be my wife. You cannot
refuse me?”
“How, refuse what I so much desire,” she replied,
artlessly.
“You no longer believe that I love your sister?”
“O, no, no. I rely on you. You would not deceive
me; it would render me so unhappy.”
“But reflect. I am poor, without resources.”
“Poor! I scarcely know what that means.”
“I cannot surround you with luxuries.”
“I shall not love you the less—and ask no other
luxury.”
“No dress—no equipage.”
“Shall I appear less attractive in your eyes? If
not, I care not.”
“I can no longer resist,” he exclaimed, and falling
on his knees, passionately kissed her hand. Mary
entered at the same instant.
“Ah! cousin, you refuse me then. I came for
your answer, but you have anticipated a reply to all
my questions.”
“No, coz, I don't refuse you,” said Arthur,
rising. “I love you very much, but will marry
Isabel. I don't want to ruin you—keep the fortune.”
“You will marry her, coz? Then I will have
nothing to do with this legacy, which constrains us
both, and thank you for having laid it at the feet of
my sister.”
“This generosity—”
“Is mixed up with a little selfishness, Arthur, as
you will see in the end,” replied Mary.
There was a noise at the door, and Joseph Jenkins
bustled in, followed by Cato. He entered just as
Arthur was in the act of gallantly kissing Mary's
hand, in gratitude for her generosity.
“Death and the devil!” exclaimed Joseph—“and
was it for this that you brought me back?”
“Dear Joseph, be a witness”—said Mary.
“Damn it, I have seen too much already,” exclaimed
Jenkins.
Arthur commenced—“Mr. Jenkins, I wish you to
understand—”
“I don't want to understand any thing more.”
Isabel ran to him, and placed her sister's hand in
his, saying, “There, understand that. She is yours—
Arthur is mine. Will you kill him now?”
“Ha! What! How! Bless my soul! Mary, is it
so?” ejaculated Jenkins. Mary smiled and blushed
in a manner plain to be understood by the dullest
physiognomist, and the cotton-spinner whirled about
like one of his jennies.
“All very strange! Don't understand!” muttered
Cato. “Captain, will you marry—”
“Love has restored her to reason.”
“More strange still. You told me love usually
turns young ladies' heads. Can't understand, no
how I can fix him.”
Arthur and Jenkins became fast friends, and the
fallen family was once again restored to its former
consequence, through the exertions of the worthy
and unpretending Joseph Jenkins. He called his
eldest son Reginald, after his old friend, the colonel;
but he protested against christening his daughter
after Aunt Penelope, as he could not forget the annoyance
that her absurd legacy had occasioned.
| CHAPTER III. The actress of Padua, and other tales | |