University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
CONCLUSION.

Three months later, or a little more, — that
is to say, in the early part of the earliest of the
spring months, — while yet the air was frosty
and snow storms frequent, an assemblage of
unusual brilliancy might have been witnessed,
one evening, at the residence of the Sorrels.

We have no inclination to enter upon the
details of the wedding, — for such the occasion
was, — nor do we think a long description
would interest the reader. Of the several
guests we might say enough to fill quite
a number of chapters, each of respectable
length; dwelling upon the appearance of Mrs.
Nichols, (late Miss Lucy Fantom,) who was
present with her husband, the barbarian author
of the black eye which had once disfigured the
countenance of Mr. Joseph Sorrel; describing
more fully than we have yet done another of
the wedding guests — the redoubtable Major
Smith, whom Joseph no longer feared, having
learned that monstrous whiskers do not always

proclaim him who wears them to be a monster;
introducing to the reader other characters,
bright and shining lights of fashion in the
goodly village of Verfield; repeating all the
sayings of Mr. Joseph Sorrel himself, who was
in his element, gay, witty, and happy even on
the occasion of the marriage of his cousin, to
whom he had offered his hand, for the last
time, that very day. But we must overlook the
minor characters in this drama of life, to speak
of those whose fortunes form the subject of
our story.

The reader has, of course, divined who were
the pair wedded on that evening. Alice Silby,
the beautiful, the lovable, the good, — the girl
of mind and soul, whom her lover esteemed
superior to all her sex, — Alice gave her hand
to Albert Corrinton, who was the happier to
receive it, as it had been promised him in a
dark hour of his life, when others shunned him,
and his future looked dreary and dark.

Sudden had been the change in Albert's fortunes.
From being notorious he had become
truly famous; every body wished to know him,
and every body, for miles around, had hastened
to employ him in his professional capacity;

so that, in a short time, his immense popularity
had brought him more practice than his rivals,
Drs. Dosemore and Draper, enjoyed. Therefore,
with a profitable business on his hands, wealth
in prospective, and a beloved wife in possession,
Corrinton was happy; and if the truth
must be confessed, so was Alice.

But now we must turn to one of whom we
have said but little in this history, because we
could have said but little good; but of whom
we can now speak more freely, and with greater
satisfaction.

A handsome, well-made young man, with
quick, piercing, restless eyes, a pale brow, a
scornful lip, and a proud bearing, stood by
Mrs. Silby's side. He appeared scarcely twenty
years of age; but, young as he was, his
thoughtful cast of countenance proclaimed an
experience of the world which had been bitter.

Upon the handsome face of this young man,
the calm, mournful eyes of Mrs. Silby were
almost continually fixed. She followed his
motions, studied his fine features, looked sad
when a melancholy shadow crossed his face,
and smiled when she saw him pleased. The
mother was contemplating her long-lost son.

It was only on the morning of that day that
Edgar had returned. With what joy he was
received by Mrs. Silby and Alice, we leave the
reader to imagine. In the gratitude of their
hearts they welcomed him, forbearing to question
him concerning his absence, that the painful
past might be forgotten in the joys of the
present.

And of the past Edgar had said nothing;
only did he allude to it, when he exclaimed to
his mother, “I have repented! Forgive me,
and own me as your son!”

And she had forgiven him, and blessed him
for his return.

The evening wore on, and all seemed happy
— certainly all were gay — except the mother
and son. Their eyes met often; and there
seemed a sympathy of sadness between them,
which the gayety of others had not the power
to destroy.

At last Edgar approached his parent, and in
a tone full of sorrow, whispered, “I am dying
to speak with you alone!”

Mrs. Silby felt a thrill of pleasure, as she answered,
“Come with me, my son! I have a
mother's heart open to hear you!”

The widow led him into a side room,
whence, having covered her head, and thrown
a shawl upon her shoulders, she conducted him
from the house.

Although in the month of March, a thin
crust of snow covered the ground, and the air
was frosty. Not a cloud was on the sky, but
the blue firmament of heaven was spangled
with bright stars, which shed their pure light
on the earth's mantle of white. It was a calm,
solemn night; and the mother and son went
forth, invading the universal stillness with footsteps
which crushed the crackling snow against
the frozen ground.

“Mother,” said the young man, supporting
the widow on his arm, as she led him along a
trodden path, “had I expected such a kind reception
as this, I should have returned to you
long since.”

“A few months ago, my son,” answered
Mrs. Silby, “I might not have received you as
I now have done. I might have met you
with reproaches.”

“I was prepared for them even now,” added
Edgar, sadly, “for I have deserved rebuke.”

“And I too have acted wrongly,” said the

widow. “I have been too stern, too exacting,
too severe. I have felt that I drove you away,
Edgar; and so thankful am I for your return,
that I am afraid I shall run into the other extreme,
and prove too indulgent. But O, my son!
you can find some excuse for me in your heart,
I am sure. Consider how I dreaded to have
you grow up without steady habits of business
— and you know why I had reason to dread
such a thing. Blame me for my unyielding
severity, but for nothing more. I had seen the
sad effects of a loose education; my experience
had taught me that habits of idleness and dissipation
were the breeders of misery and sin.
If I did not adopt the right course with you,
blame my judgment, not my heart. My love
for you was great, and my motives good.”

“So do I forget all — and forgive all, if I
have any thing to forgive!” exclaimed Edgar,
with emotion. “O my mother! why did I
not understand you better? Your severity I
took for unkindness, your discipline I regarded
as tyranny; therefore I rebelled. In an
hour of passion I left you, but my experience
of life since then has taught me my error. I
tremble now as I contemplate the gulf of ruin,

on the dizzy brink of which I have scornfully
stood and smiled. Thank Heaven, that in a
time of reason I saw my danger — and thought
of you, my mother! I resolved to return, and
be guided by you; for I feel that the very
discipline against which I once rebelled is required
to temper my perverse nature.”

Conversing thus, the mother and son walked
on, until they reached a melancholy field, where
dark mounds, from which the snow had been
swept by the wind, marked the white surface
of the ground, and marble slabs gleamed in
the clear starlight. The two had entered the
solemn precincts of a graveyard.

Mrs. Silby led her son among the cold tombs.
They passed on in silence, as if fearful of disturbing
the deep rest of the generation that
slept around them beneath frozen sods.

“Where are you leading me?” asked Edgar,
in a suppressed tone.

“Here!” answered the widow, pausing before
a low grave in a gloomy corner of the
churchyard.

“Why here?” inquired the young man,
shuddering, and drawing back. “This awful
place makes me feel strangely! Let us go.”

“Edgar,” responded the mother in a solemn,
impressive tone, “stay with me, and contemplate
this lowly grave. Only this rude plank,
you see, marks the resting-place of the mortal
who sleeps here; but let me tell you the story
of his life. The poor wretch who lies beneath
this cold clod was a murderer!”

“O, the man of whom you have told me,”
exclaimed Edgar. “Ah! the poor wretch!”

“You have not heard half the story, my son,”
replied the widow, gazing at the snow-covered
grave with a mournful aspect. “The rest is a
secret known only to myself.”

“Mother!”

“That secret is too much for my crushed
heart, Edgar. I must share it with another. I
cannot trust it with Alice — she is so good, so
pure! But you have been familiar with darkness,
my son; and the gloom of the picture
I will show you, will teach you to love the
light.”

“For God's sake, mother,” cried the young
man, shivering with awe and fear, “what do
you mean?”

“This, my boy!” replied the sad woman in
an impressive whisper. “This is the grave
of —”

“Of whom? Speak!”

“Of your FATHER!”

Edgar seized his mother's arm, and gazed
into her pale face with a look of horror; then,
sinking on his knees, he supported his dizzy
head against the slab which marked the murderer's
tomb.

“Yes, my poor boy!” continued the widow,
in a deep, tremulous voice; “this is his grave;
and I have thought it meet that you should
share the awful secret of his end with me.
He died not so early as I thought. He lived —
to sleep in this cold, cold spot at last!”

Edgar bent over the grave, and his cheeks
were bathed in tears. For some minutes
neither of the living spoke. At last the young
man arose, pressing his mother's hand, while
his pale face was turned to hers, and his sad
eyes still rested on the grave.

“Let the dead rest in peace!” he murmured.
“Mother, a new light has burst upon my soul.
It was the will of Heaven that the ruined father
should save the son from ruin. To this
man — if he be my father — I owe my escape
from the pit. He sought me out in the paths
of iniquity I followed, and spoke words of

warning, which, like seeds sown in good soil,
took strong root in my heart, and grew to bear
the fruit of resolution, which has at last
brought me back to you. I knew not my
father, for I thought him dead; but I fancied
him speaking as he whom I knew not spoke;
and now I know that what I fancied then was
truth. God help me to profit by the lesson
which this grief teaches me. O mother! tell
me, can a life of virtue and usefulness wipe
away the stain which I feel burning my brow?”

“Let not the living shame for the dead,” answered
Mrs. Silby. “My son, the sin of the
father attaints not the innocent child. You
have your own character to form, and you
make or mar it by your own acts, whether of
good or evil.”

“You console me, mother!” murmured the
youth, sadly. “You give me hope — and I
am more than ever ambitious of good. Mother,
you shall never blush for me!”

Half an hour later, the widow and her son
turned away from the cold and solemn graveyard,
and in mournful silence walked back to
the house, where the happy wedding party
was awaiting their return.