University of Virginia Library

The Letter.

“Paul—for I think I may call you so now—I
know not how to answer you. Your letter gave me
great joy; but it gave me pain too. I cannot—will
not doubt what you say: I believe that you love me
better than I deserve to be loved; and I know that I
am not worthy of all your kind praises. But it is not
this that pains me; for I know that you have a generous
heart, and would forgive, as you always have forgiven,
any weakness of mine. I am proud too, very
proud, to have won your love; but it pains me—more
perhaps than you will believe—to think that I cannot
write back to you, as I would wish to write;—alas,
never!”

Here I dash the letter upon the floor, and with my
hand upon my forehead, sit gazing upon the glowing
coals, and breathing quick and loud.—The dream
then is broken!

Presently I read again:

—“You know that my father died, before we
had ever met. He had an old friend, who had come
from England; and who in early life had done him

some great service, which made him seem like a
brother. This old gentleman was my god-father, and
called me daughter. When my father died, he drew
me to his side, and said,—`Carry, I shall leave you,
but my old friend will be your father;' and he put my
hand in his, and said—`I give you my daughter.'

“This old gentleman had a son, older than myself;
but we were much together, and grew up as brother
and sister. I was proud of him; for he was tall and
strong, and every one called him handsome. He was
as kind too, as a brother could be; and his father was
like my own father. Every one said, and believed,
that we would one day be married; and my mother,
and my new father spoke of it openly. So did Laurence—for
that is my friend's name.

“I do not need to tell you any more, Paul; for
when I was still a girl, we had promised, that we
would one day be man and wife. Laurence has been
much in England; and I believe he is there now.
The old gentleman treats me still as a daughter, and
talks of the time, when I shall come and live with
him. The letters of Laurence are very kind; and
though he does not talk so much of our marriage as
he did, it is only I think, because he regards it as so
certain.

“I have wished to tell you all this before; but I

have feared to tell you; I am afraid I have been too
selfish to tell you. And now what can I say? Laurence
seems most to me like a brother;—and you,
Paul — but I must not go on. For if I marry
Laurence, as fate seems to have decided, I will try
and love him, better than all the world.

“But will you not be a brother, and love me, as
you once loved Bella;—you say my eyes are like
hers, and that my forehead is like hers;—will you not
believe that my heart is like hers too?

“Paul, if you shed tears over this letter—I have
shed them as well as you. I can write no more now.

“Adieu.”

I sit long looking upon the blaze; and when I
rouse myself, it is to say wicked things against destiny.
Again, all the future seems very blank. I cannot
love Carry, as I loved Bella; she cannot be a sister
to me; she must be more, or nothing! Again, I
seem to float singly on the tide of life, and see all
around me in cheerful groups. Everywhere the sun
shines, except upon my own cold forehead. There
seems no mercy in Heaven, and no goodness for me
upon Earth.

I write after some days, an answer to the letter.
But it is a bitter answer, in which I forget myself, in

the whirl of my misfortunes—to the utterance of
reproaches.

Her reply, which comes speedily, is sweet, and
gentle. She is hurt by my reproaches, deeply hurt.
But with a touching kindness, of which I am not
worthy, she credits all my petulance to my wounded
feeling; she soothes me; but in soothing, only
wounds the more. I try to believe her, when she
speaks of her unworthiness;—but I cannot.

Business, and the pursuits of ambition or of interest,
pass on like dull, grating machinery. Tasks
are met, and performed with strength indeed, but
with no cheer. Courage is high, as I meet the shocks,
and trials of the world; but it is a brute, careless
courage, that glories in opposition. I laugh at any
dangers, or any insidious pitfalls;—what are they to
me? What do I possess, which it will be hard to
lose? My dog keeps by me; my toils are present;
my food is ready; my limbs are strong;—what
need for more?

The months slip, by; and the cloud that floated
over my evening sun, passes.

Laurence wandering abroad, and writing to Caroline,
as to a sister,—writes more than his father could
have wished. He has met new faces, very sweet
faces; and one which shows through the ink of his
later letters, very gorgeously. The old gentleman

does not like to lose thus his little Carry; and he
writes back rebuke. But Laurence, with the letters
of Caroline before him for data, throws himself upon
his sister's kindness, and charity. It astonishes not
a little the old gentleman, to find his daughter pleading
in such strange way, for the son. “And what
will you do then, my Carry?”—the old man says.

—“Wear weeds, if you wish, sir; and love you
and Laurence more than ever!”

And he takes her to his bosom, and says—“Carry
—Carry, you are too good for that wild fellow Laurence!”

Now, the letters are different! Now they are full
of hope—dawning all over the future sky. Business,
and care, and toil, glide, as if a spirit animated them
all; it is no longer cold machine work, but intelligent,
and hopeful activity. The sky hangs upon you
lovingly, and the birds make music, that startles you
with its fineness. Men wear cheerful faces; the
storms have a kind pity, gleaming through all their
wrath.

The days approach, when you can call her yours.
For she has said it, and her mother has said it; and
the kind old gentleman, who says he will still be her
father, has said it too; and they have all welcomed
you—won by her story—with a cordiality, that has
made your cup full, to running over. Only one

thought comes up to obscure your joy;—is it real?
or if real, are you worthy to enjoy? Will you cherish
and love always, as you have promised, that angel
who accepts your word, and rests her happiness on
your faith? Are there not harsh qualities in your
nature, which you fear may sometime make her regret
that she gave herself to your love and charity?
And those friends who watch over her, as the apple
of their eye, can you always meet their tenderness and
approval, for your guardianship of their treasure? Is
it not a treasure that makes you fearful, as well as
joyful?

But you forget this in her smile: her kindness, her
goodness, her modesty, will not let you remember it.
She forbids such thoughts; and you yield such obedience,
as you never yielded even to the commands
of a mother. And if your business, and your labor slip
by, partially neglected—what matters it? What is
interest, or what is reputation, compared with that
fullness of your heart, which is now ripe with joy?

The day for your marriage comes; and you live as
if you were in a dream. You think well, and hope
well for all the world. A flood of charity seems to
radiate from all around you. And as you sit beside
her in the twilight, on the evening before the day,
when you will call her yours, and talk of the coming
hopes, and of the soft shadows of the past; and whisper

of Bella's love, and of that sweet sister's death, and
of Laurence, a new brother, coming home joyful with
his bride,—and lay your cheek to hers—life seems as
if it were all day, and as if there could be no night!

The marriage passes; and she is yours,—yours
forever.