University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Reader! I am about to close—about to
present to you the last scene of scenes I
shall ever give of this my drama of life.
I am about to bid you farewell, perchance
forever. May I not trust we part as
friends?—as boon companions, who have
together made a long pilgrimage, with an
ever cordial attachment and friendly understanding?
From the land of my nativity,
you have followed me through a
period of years, over the wilderness of the
far, Far West, back again to my native
land. You have seen me in prosperity
and adversity—in sickness and health—in
moments of ease and safety—in moments
of hardship and peril—in the calmness
of quiet meditation, and amid the turmoil,
and strife, and din of battle. From first
to last, I have been ever present to you—
made you my confident—laid bare to your
gaze the secret workings of my ardent
spirit. May I not trust I have had your
sympathy? that you have felt an interest
in my fate, and also in the fate of those
with whom my fortune has been so closely
connected? Yes! I will trust we part
as friends—that when you have perused
the last page of this, my humble scroll,
you will not cast it aside, as altogether
worthless—that you will long after spare
me and my friends a single thought of
pleasing remembrance. I cannot see you—
cannot hear your answer—and yet something
whispers me it is as I desire — that
we shall not separate but with mutual regrets.
Be this as it may, the farewell
must be said—the solemn farewell—

It was a brilliant scene. In a large saloon,
made gorgeous with all the luxuries
wealth could procure from all parts of the
habitable globe—with soft carpets from
Turkey, antique vases from China, old
paintings from Germany, and statues from
Florence—with long hanging mirrors, that
doubled the splendors of the scene—with
chairs, and sofas, and ottomans, cushioned
with the softest and most costly of velvets—with
everything, in short, to please,
dazzle, and fascinate the eye—over which
streamed a soft, bewitching, alabaster
light—where strains of melodious music
stole sweetly upon the enraptured sense
of the hearer; in such a gorgeous apart
ment as this, I say, were collected bright
faces, sparkling eyes, snowy arms, and
lovely forms—set off with vestures of
broadcloths, and silks, and satins, and ornamented
with chains of gold, and jewels
of diamond, and ruby, and pearl, and sap
phire. Ay! in such a place as this—in
the mansion of my father—were assembled
the elite of Boston, to witness the
nuptials of Evaline and Charles, Eva and
Elmer, Lilian and myself.

Need I dwell upon the scene? Need I
say it was as happy as gorgeous? Need
I add, that the fair maidens, led to the
altar, looked more sweet and lovely than
any had ever before seen them? No! it
is unnecessary for me to enter into detail
here, for the quick perception of the reader
will divine all I would say. Enough,
that the rough scenes of the wilderness,
through which we had passed, could not
be more strongly contrasted than on this
never-to-be-forgotten occasion of unalloyed
happiness.

The solemn nuptial rite was followed
with congratulations — with music, and
dancing, and festivities—and it was long
past the noon of night, ere the well pleased
guests departed, and a small circle of
happy friends were left to themselves.

When all had at last become quiet, and
none were present but the newly married
and their nearest and dearest relatives:

“Now,” said Madame Mortimer, with a
bland smile, “to add pleasure to pleasure
— to make the happy happier — I have a
joyful surprise for you all.”

“Permit me to doubt,” said I, “if aught
any one can say, can in any degree add to
the happiness of those here present. I
look upon the thing as impossible. However,
I may be too confident; but, at least,
I speak for myself.”

“And yet,” pursued the other, smiling
archly, “would it not add pleasure even to
you, Francis, were I to tell you a dark

mystery has been cleared up, and a wrong
matter set right?”

“What mean you?” asked I, while the
rest turned to her with eager curiosity.

“What would you think, should I now
proceed to prove to you, my friends, that
the person you have long known as Madame
Mortimer, is from this time forth to
be known as Marchioness of Lombardy?”

“How? what? speak!” exclaimed one
and all in a breath.

“Ay, such is the fact. Since my return,
I have received letters from England
and France, stating that my late husband
— for he is now dead — was none other
than the Marquis of Lombardy, who was
banished from France for some state intrigue,
and afterward restored to favor.
Fearing, before his death, that some future
revolution might again endanger his property,
he managed to dispose of sufficient
to purchase a large estate in England,
which he has generously bequeathed to
me and my heirs forever. Accompanying
his will, which I have now in my possession,
is a long letter, in which he asks forgiveness
for the wrong he had formerly
done me in separation, and wherein he
states as a reason for never mentioning his
title, that at some future time he had designed
taking me by surprise; but that
the news of the restoration of himself and
fortune, coming at a moment when his
worst passions were excited, he had left
me in an abrupt manner, taking Evaline
with him, whom, he sorrowfully adds, was
afterward lost or murdered: that of this
foul deed he had always suspected a near
relation of his — a villain who brought
him the intelligence of his fortune being
restored — and that in consequence he had
taken what precautions he could, to put
his property, in case of his sudden decease,
entirely beyond the other's reach. This,
my friends, is all I will tell you to-night;
but to-morrow you shall have proofs of all
I have said. And now, my daughters,
that you are happily wedded, I give you
this estate as a marriage portion.”

I will not dwell upon the emotions of
joyful surprise which this revelation excited
in the hearts of those who heard it. Suffice,
that it did add pleasure to pleasure,
and made the happy happier.

A sentence more, and I have done.
The words of the Marchioness of Lombardy
were subsequently verified in every
particular, and Charles Huntly, and Elmer
Fitzgerald, have had no cause, thus far,
even in a pecuniary point of view, to regret
the choice they made in the wilderness
of the Far West. Propitious fortune
now smiles upon all, and all are happy.

Thus is it ever. To-day we rise—to-morrow
fall — to rise again perchance the
next. Prosperity and adversity are ever
so closely linked, that the most trivial event
may make or mar our happiness. The
Past we know — the Present we see — but
who shall say aught of the Future.

So ends the scene.