 | The American lounger, or, Tales, sketches, and legends, gathered in sundry journeyings |  |
3. PART III.
On a pleasant afternoon in June, six days after
Charlotte had written the letter the reception of which
formed the introduction to our tale, the arrival of a
handsome close carriage, with dark bay horses, and a
footman, its pause at the stairs, leading on the outside
of the school house to Edward's room above, and the
descent from it of a beautiful young lady, created
quite a sensation throughout the gossiping village of
Covington. Before sunset, there was not a soul, from
the bedridden grandam to the squalling infant, that
did not know that the “elegant fine lady” was Isabel
Willis, sister of “that Mrs. Carrington” who had
come to pass a few days with her.
We pass over Isabel's sensations at witnessing
Charlotte's wretchedness, the half of which had not
been told her. She lost not a moment in looking for
a better house, and easily obtained, for she wore the
exterior of opulence, a neat white cottage, in a pleasant
situation. Paying the first quarter in advance,
and purchasing several necessary articles of furniture,
the next day she saw them take possession of it, both
far happier than they had been for a long period. The
wound around the columns, and climbed up
the windows, there was a white paling before it, enclosing
a little green front yard, and altogether their
new abode wore an air of comfort and seclusion that
was soothing to the senses. The first evening under
their new roof was sanctified by the erection of the
family altar. Edward's heart was touched by this
change in his condition, and he gave utterance to his
overloaded bosom, in grateful and humble thanksgivings.
They kneeled together there—a holy family;
the beautiful Isabel beside the bedside of her sister,
who lay with her transparent eyelids closed, her emaciated
fingers clasped and her lips parted—pale and
ethereal in her fading loveliness; while Edward, his
haggard, yet intellectual face lifted upward, his eyes
streaming with tears of penitence and gratitude poured
forth his soul in prayer. It was a scene for angels to
linger over, as they passed on their celestial messages.
But Isabel, although with the limited means her
father had allowed her, for her own expenses, she had
done so much to promote their comfort, could not release
Edward from the incubus—debt, which weighed
down his spirits, and continued to spread a blight
upon his reputation. Early, the morning after they
had taken possession of the cottage, Isabel settled a
small bill presented to her by a Shylock to whom her
brother was indebted. This soon got wind, and in
the course of the day nearly every debt he had incurred,
with interest added, was presented for settlement
to the “rich young Miss.” What could poor
Isabel do? Her only resources were from her father,
who limited them. She finally rid herself of the flock
of greedy cormorants, by promising on her return, to
state her brother's circumstances, and their claims, to
her father, and take measures for satisfying them.
This had the effect of a temporary cessation of hostilities,
and Edward, when he went into the village
as if he were a fellow being, instead of being pointed
at with the finger of rudeness and contempt, or dunned
and insulted.
Isabel had been nearly two weeks with her sister,
whose health and spirits daily improved, when one
morning Edward, once more wearing a cheerful countenance,
brought her a letter from the post office. It
was from her father, who was confined to his bed by
the gout, and earnestly requested, or rather commanded,
her immediate return. She entered Charlotte's
room to communicate its contents, and found her in
tears, her eyes wild, and her whole manner expressive
of the intensest alarm. “Dearest Charlotte, what
has distressed you?” she exclaimed throwing her
arms about her neck.
Charlotte, nervous from the state of her health, and
sensitive as the delicate plant that shrinks from the
touch, wept for a moment upon her sister's neck before
she spoke. “Oh, Isabel! such a dream! God
grant it may never be reality!”
“Only a dream, Charlotte! Why should a foolish
dream so distress you?”
“Oh, that it were only a dream, sister—but it was
a vision—so vivid—so real! And yet I thought I
was dead, too.”
“Dead! dearest Charlotte! Now banish such idle
fancies from your head. You are a little nervous, and
imagination magnifies trifles. Lie down, and I will
finish the tale of Eloise and Abelard.”
“No, no, Isabel,” replied the invalid, grasping her
sister's hand and looking very serious—“I must tell
you my dream, for it weighs heavy upon my mind.
Sit by my pillow, Isabel—nay, do not smile, dear sister—there
is something prophetic in what I have had
revealed. Poor dear Edward! has he not real trials
enough, that even dreams should arm themselves
against him?”
Charlotte's voice and manner were very solemn
and impressive, and it was with feelings allied to superstition
that Isabel took her sister's hand within her
own, and placed herself by her pillow.
“After Edward rose,” said Charlotte, shuddering
at the recollection of what she was about to relate,
“I slept and dreamed that I was dead—that I had
died by night in my bed, and that Edward was arrested
as my murderer. I thought I saw him tried,
condemned and borne to the gallows! I beheld the
rope placed about his neck, and saw the clergyman
leave him! The drop was just about to fall when you
entered and awoke me. Oh, God! how vividly real
it all is!” she said, pressing her fingers upon her eyes
as if she would shut out some appalling vision, while
her whole frame shook with intense agitation. Isabel
was not unmoved, yet tried every means to soothe
her sister, and divert her thoughts, in vain. But Charlotte
was not to be turned from the subject. “Sister,”
she said, “I feel your kindness, but you exert it in
vain. You may think me foolish—but I must make
one request of you. This ring,” she continued, with
increasing solemnity, taking the agate locket from her
finger, “was a gift from me to Edward, in happier
days. Write the particulars of my dream, the date
and circumstances, on a piece of tissue paper, enclose
it in the locket, and drive to Judge Ellice's and place
it on his finger, telling him that I desire him not to
remove it until you or I ask him for it. This request
may appear foolish to you, Isabel, but I entreat you
to comply with it, as my last and dying request.”
Isabel was awed by the solemn earnestness of her
manner, and promised to obey. Charlotte smiled and
kissed her affectionately, and her face once more assumed
a cheerfulness to which it had long been a
stranger. Isabel religiously fulfilled her promise. She
drove that morning to Judge Ellice's mansion, nine
miles distant, in the country. The Judge had formerly
the daughter of his friend, Colonel Willis, with cordial
hospitality, and accepted the bequest of her sister, although
surprised at its singularity, and promised not
to remove it from his finger until requested to do so
by one of them. Isabel did not make him acquainted
with the contents of the locket, nor indeed that the
ring contained a concealed spring.
“I regret I did know your sister was residing so
near me, my dear Miss Willis,” he said, as he attended
Isabel to her carriage; “it is strange she should not
have let me know it. Good morning—I will keep
the ring safe—for my head is rather freely sprinkled
with snow, for me to hope for a repetition of such a
gift from fair hands. 'Tis odd enough,” he said to
himself, as the carriage drove down the avenue, “but
ladies at times will have strange whims in their
heads.”
The ensuing morning, Isabel left her sister, apparently
much improved in health and spirits, and travelling
rapidly homewards, arrived at Laurel Hill on
the evening of the third day, and found Colonel Willis
lying dangerously ill. Her presence and kind nursing
contributed, at first, to his convalescence; but the promise
of returning health was delusive. In a few days
after her return, he became so much worse, that he
made his will in favor of Isabel, to which, a few hours
before he expired, he voluntarily added a codicil, in
which he bequeathed “to the child or children of Edward
and Charlotte Carrington, the sum of ten thousand
dollars, to be placed in bank for their use, the interest
of which, until the children were of age, to be
drawn quarterly by Edward and Charlotte Carrington,
for their own proper use.” It further stated, that in
case the child or children should die before they were
of age, then the principal should be vested in Charlotte
Carrington, wife of Edward Carrington, in her own
right, but at her death, without further issue, the said
bequest.” The testator also expressed his entire forgiveness
of Charlotte, and shortly after expired.
Death, with his icy fingers upon the heart, is a wonderful
humanizer! The approach of death had softened
Colonel Willis's heart. When men feel that
they are soon to appear before the bar of God as
pleaders for pardon and mercy for themselves, they
then willingly forgive, as they hope to be forgiven!
After the funeral ceremonies were over, some days
were consumed by the executors in fulfilling the will
of the deceased. They immediately wrote to Edward,
informing him of the bequest in his favor. It was,
however, necessary for three months to elapse before,
by the accumulation of interest, he could derive any
benefit from it. Isabel, after the first deep passion of
filial grief had moderated, determined to invite her
brother and sister to make Laurel Hill their future
home. Circumstances prevented her writing for this
purpose, until three weeks after her father's death.
She had just completed a letter on the subject to Edward,
when Dr. Morton, one of the Executors of Colonel
Willis, unannounced, entered the library where she
was writing, and said hastily, without noticing her
invitation to be seated, “is not your brother-in-law's
name Carrington—Edward Carrington?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Isabel, agitated and foreboding
evil.
“A school teacher, or has been such?” he continued,
drawing a country newspaper from his pocket, and
loking steadfastly at a paragraph, “God forbid that it
should be him! Read that, my poor girl!” he said
with emotion, giving her the newspaper, and pointing
to a paragraph headed “Unparalleled Murder.” Isabel
grasped the paper convulsively, and read with a pale
cheek and glazed eye, the following characteristic
newspaper notice to its close.
“One of the most cold-blooded, deliberate, and atrocious
was perpetrated on the night of the 10th instant, in
the neighboring village of Covington. The victim,
was a lovely woman, the daughter of a distinguished
planter of this state, but recently deceased—the criminal,
her own husband, late a school-teacher in that
place. It appears, that by a long course of dissipation
and idleness, he had squandered away both his own
fortune and hers, which was large, and has for some
months past been notorious in that village, as a worthless
fellow—although a man of education and superior
talents—deeply in debt, and altogether unworthy
of confidence. For one or two highway robberies,
committed in the vicinity of his dwelling, he has been
before arrested, but for want of sufficient evidence he
was acquitted. While, from his occasionally having
sums of money in his possession, which he had no ostensible
means of coming honestly by, the presumption
is, that he is an old offender. The present crime, however,
leaves all others behind, and what adds to its
atrocity, is, it appears from subsequent information,
that his wife's father, the late Colonel W—, who
had disinherited her for making such an imprudent
match, in his will bequeathed her and her husband
the interest of twenty thousand dollars, the principal
being placed in bank, until the child, of which the lady
was then enceinte, should become of age. But if the
child should not live to that period, the principal was
vested in the mother, secure from the husband's control,
and in case of her death, without further issue,
the husband himself was to become sole inheritor of
this noble bequest. This was a will too favorable to
an unprincipled man, to be suffered to go unimproved
for his immediate personal benefit. On Tuesday
morning last, therefore, when the lady's confinement
was daily expected, she was found dead in her bed!
Suspicion was immediately directed to the husband,
which his character and the circumstances strengthened.
carried before a magistrate, who committed him to
prison, where he now lies awaiting his trial, which
will take place next Monday, the court being now in
session. The name of the murderer is Edward Carrington.”
Isabel, by a supernatural effort, read the paragraph
through, and then fell lifeless to the floor. For nearly
four weeks she was confined to her bed, a maniac.
When she recovered her reason, her first act was to
order her carriage, command the attention of Doctor
Morton, and proceed with all speed to Covington.
| The American lounger, or, Tales, sketches, and legends, gathered in sundry journeyings | |