 | CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LOVERS. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LOVERS.
It was just after the close of the trial of
her uncle, by which the law had decided
that the immense possessions of her father
had been wrongfully withheld from
herself and brother, and when she had in
a manner exchanged her humble state of
poverty and dependence for that of a brilliant
heiress of great wealth, and knew
that her hand would now be eagerly sought
for by thousands, who, a few weeks previous,
would have looked upon her with
pity and contempt—it was just at this period,
we say, when she had every inducement
to be vain and proud—had vanity or
pride formed a part of her nature—that
Virginia Courtly, still an honored guest of
the Mortons, who would not listen to
aught touching her departure, sat alone
with Dudley, in the splendid parlor of the
lawyer's elegant mansion, her fair features
very pale, and her soft blue eyes fixed with
a look of earnest surprise upon the one by
her side, as if he had just uttered a sentence
whose meaning she did not distinctly
comprehend. The eyes of Dudley were
looking tenderly into hers; but there was
a crimson hue on his cheek, a tremor in
his voice, and an embarrassment in his
manner, as he said:
“Yes, Virginia, I repeat, that for your
sake and that of your noble brother, I am
rejoiced to know you both will soon come
in possession of an immense fortune; but
still it makes me rather sad than otherwise
to think of it.”
“And wherefore, Mr. Dudley, should
you be sad?”
“Why, with wealth, you know, come
great expectations; and it sometimes happens,
poverty, suddenly become estranged when
fortune raises one above the other.”
“Why, surely, you cannot so wrong me,
as to suppose the mere acquisition of
wealth will alter my deep feelings of friendship
for you?”
“Do not say wrong you, Virginia, (and
his voice faltered to pathetic tenderness,)
for I would not wrong you for the world!
Neither can I conscientiously say I think
your friendship will be less sincere and ardent,
when you have become the heiress
of half a million, than at this present moment;
but, Virginia, (and his tone became
low and tremulous,) you are aware, doubtless,
there are sometimes aspirations in
the heart that reach beyond mere friendship,
and deepen into the stronger and holier
sentiment of love; and when this is
the case, where there is a great disparity
of position, he or she who stands the lowest
in the scale, can only hope tremulously,
or with a hope full of doubt, and fear,
and bordering on despair.”
As he spoke, with his eye fixed intently
upon her, the gaze of Virginia sank modestly
to the ground, her features flushed
and paled alternately, and her respiration
became somewhat irregular, showing that
his words had a power of meaning beyond
what they clearly expressed. After looking
at her a moment, Dudley, in a low,
tender tone, resumed:
“There was a time, Virginia—ere in
my mind there came a foretokening shadow
of the events which have since transpired,
and by which, as every one can foretell,
you are destined to take an exalted position
in society—when I gazed upon you
with a delight—a rapture—which, though
I was then able in a measure to mask, I
have not language now to describe—and
when I fondly looked forward to a no distant
period, and fancied that, as an humble
individual, I could ask your hand as an
equal, and fear not the rivalry of more
wealthy suitors.”
“And has that time passed?” inquired
Virginia, with a deeper blush, and in a faltering
voice.
“Perhaps not wholly; but you know, as
well as I, that as an heiress of half a mil
lion, you are a match for the most brilliant
spirits of the age, and can have a host of
admirers at your feet, who, if they cannot
equal you in fortune, can go so far beyond
him who has nothing but a name—”
“And shall I,” interrupted Virginia, now
raising her eyes, sparkling with animation,
to those of Dudley—“shall I, for these
puppets of the world—these butterflies of
fashion—relinquish the friends that came
nobly forward in my hours of adversity,
and raised my drooping spirits, when they
were sinking under the treble weight of
poverty, grief and despair, and taught me
there was something still to live for—to
hope for—that human nature was not all
corrupted and depraved—shall I, I say, because
fortune has chanced to smile upon
me once more, now prove myself ungrateful,
without nobility of soul, and forget the
latter and embrace the former—who would,
but for my money, turn from me with contempt—simply
because in the worthless
dross of this world (worthless beyond
what we need ourselves, or use to the benefit
of our fellows,) we are nearly equal?
No, Heaven forbid! What is their wealth
to me, if I have enough of my own? Oh!
I have suffered too keenly the pangs of
destitution, to prize those who look with
scorn upon the poor; and would rather
have one noble, generous, sympathising
soul by my side, though needy as Lazarus,
than be surrounded by the most brilliant
array of the hollow-hearted world, though
every glance from them bestowed my
weight in gold, and every smile became a
diamond fit for the crown of an emperor!”
“Nobly spoken!” cried Dudley, with an
enthusiastic gleam of delight. And then
his countenance seemed to change, as by
some painful recollection, and he immediately
added, in a subdued tone: “But all
who are rich are not hollow-hearted. There
are some, who, having almost boundless
wealth at their command, seem to seek
only the means of spending it to the best
advantage of their fellow beings, and who,
in every act of life, study to exalt themselves
and ennoble others. Of this class
there may be congenial spirits, who will
seek your hand, and who are possessed of
every requisite to make you happy. And
charge to execute for a friend, whom I esteem
as my own life; and who, having
seen you at various times, believes you the
very paragon of excellence. But read
this, and doubtless you will more fully
comprehend my meaning;” and he handed
Virginia a letter, beautifully folded and sealed
and stamped with care, on which her
own name was delicately traced in handsome
characters.
Virginia opened, glanced over it quickly,
marked the name at the bottom, and
then, with a heightened color, re-perused
it more leisurely.
“This is strange!” she said, as she finished
the epistle: “this is very strange!—
Are you uware, Mr. Dudley, what this billet
contains?”
“Nothing, I trust, offensive—or I shall
never forgive myself for being the messenger
of conveyance,” replied Dudley,
earnestly.
“No, it contains nothing offensive in
reality; aud yet I would it had never been
written.”
“And wherefore, Virginia?”
“Because I must disappoint the hopes
of the writer. It is, in a word, a declaration
of love from Clarence Malcolm, and
an offer of his hand.”
“And will you refuse to accept both,
when I assure you they are made in all
sincerity?” asked Dudley, coloring.
“I have heard much of Mr. Malcolm,”
replied Virginia, “and believe him all that
is generous and noble, and, as your own
most intimate friend, must ever hold him
in high esteem; but you must remember,
withal, I have never seen him; and even
if I had, and had found him as near perfection
as mortal man can ever become,
must still have rejected his suit.”
“On what grounds?”
“That I cannot give my hand where my
heart is not.”
“But an acquaintance with each other
might excite a mutual passion.”
“Never, Mr. Dudley; for she who truly
loves, can love but one.”
“Ah, then you love!” sighed Dudley.
Virginia hung her head, with a blush,
and was silent.
“And might I venture to inquire,” said
Dudley, after a pause, in a faltering, embarrassed
tone, “who is the fortunate rival
of my friend?”
“And can you ask that?” replied Virginia,
naively, turning away her head, and
seeming to search for something she had
lost.
Dudley started, and his voice was tremulous,
but eager, as he rejoined:
“Do I understand aright? Is it possible
that poor Dudley is preferred to his
wealthy friend? Speak, dear Virginia, and
keep me not in suspense? Let me not
soar aloft on the bright wings of hope,
only to be dashed back on the dark rocks
of disappointment and despair! As poor
Dudley, I have nothing to offer you but my
hand and heart; but if these will suffice,
they are yours; and my very existence
shall be devoted to add, by every means in
my power, to your happiness. Our acquaintance
has not been long, it is true;
but there are hearts which so harmonise
from the very first, that time can add nothing
but its own strength of years to an attachment
formed for endurance through
this life and the after life beyond the grave.
In a word, I felt I loved you from our first
meeting: and now that I have, perhaps
presumptuously, fancied a reciprocity of
feeling, I offer you my hand, and ask that
you will be mine. Speak, dear Virginia,
the single word, that will elevate me to
the very pinacle of rapture, or plunge me
far down the precipice of regret and disappointment!
Speak, dearest—will you
be mine!”
Virginia did not reply; but there was
that in her appearance and manner—a
certain silent language of the heart, shining
out in warm blushes upon her cheek,
and raising the pearly tear in her soft blue
eye, as tenderly and tremulously it beamed
upon his—that spoke with an eloquence
exceeding words. Quietly Dudley stole
her fair hand, and pressed it to his lips;
and then, emboldened by this, drew her
gently and unresistingly to his heart, and
sealed upon her ruby lips the first holy
kiss of eternal love and pledge of union
on earth and in the life immortal.
For the space of half an hour there was
the most eloquent in silence—and then
Dudley, with an arch smile on his countenance,
and in a cheerful tone, spoke:
“And now, dearest Virginia, say you wish
Clarence Malcolm joy in his triumph.”
“Joy in his triumph!” repeated Virginia,
with a look of surprise. “I do not understand
you. To what triumph do you
allude?”
“His triumph in winning you.”
“In winning me, Dudley? I am more
at a loss than ever to understand you.”
“I see you are, dearest,” he replied, dropping
gracefully upon one knee, taking her
hand, and looking tenderly into her sweet,
blue eye. “Dudley no more, then; but in
him who kneels at your feet, behold Clarence
Malcolm in propria persona!”
“You—you Clarence Malcolm?—Dudley
and Malcolm one?” cried Virginia, in
astonishment.
“Even so, dearest; and now, ere I rise,
I must have pardon for having in the least
deceived you; though by this deceit I have
been rendered happy above my deserts, in
knowing I have been accepted for myself
alone, and not for my possessions, which
are great beyond my wants. When first
I met you, I gave my name as Dudley,
without a design other than the whim of
the moment; but after circumstances induced
me to keep you in ignorance of my
real appellation, in which I have thus far
succeeded, though at the risk, many times,
of an exposure from others.”
“Does Edgar know of this?”
“He did not till quite recently, when
some one calling me by my real name in his
presence, I was forced to explain—though
I did it by exacting of him a promise to
withhold the secret from you.”
“And the Widow Malcolm, then, whom
I have so often visited with you—”
“Is my own mother.”
“I am all bewilderment. I thought it
very strange I never met Clarence, but
supposed it purely accidental. Now, methinks,
I can recall a hundred scenes when
you were on the point of being exposed,
and many that looked mysterious to me,
though not sufficiently so to excite a suspicion
of the real cause.”
“Well, dearest, you forgive me!”
“Freely so, on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“That as Dudley you wooed, and as
Dudley you won me, I may still call you
by that endearing title.”
“So be it, dearest Virginia, and not
wholly call me wrongly; for as my mother's
maiden name was Dudley, I shall feel
myself entitled henceforth to sign myself
Clarence Dudley Malcolm, and seal it
thus;” and rising from his kneeling posture,
he imprinted a second kiss upon the
lips of her who was now pledged to him
forever.
It was a calm, beautiful, moonlight night,
and in the solemn “place of graves”—the
sacred sanctuary of those who have “shuffled
off this mortal coil” and gone down to
that silent, cold, untroubled rest that
knows no waking—two forms might be
seen moving slowly on together—the one
a noble youth in the first vigor of early
manhood—the other a maiden in all the
sweet, fresh loveliness of the opening
rose. Slowly these two beings moved on
together, with silent, solemn step, as if
their feet pressed the ground with a reverence
too sacred to jar the earth above the
final sleep of the dead. All was silent
here—though the busy hum of the city,
whose lights were sparkling not afar,
could be faintly heard like the roll of a
distant drum. All was still. Not a breeze
stirred the blade and plant, that had here
grown rank in their summer day, and had
fallen crisp and sere beneath the fatal
blasts and frosts of chilling autumn and
hoary winter. Not a breath rustled the
leaves, that, in their day, had made the
trees as sylvan bowers, but had long since
been stripped of their beauty, and now lay
withered and crumbling above the mortal
remains of those who had planted and
trained their supporters in infancy. The
fair moon, riding high in the clear heavens,
poured down her mellow beams
through the naked trees, upon the crisped
plants and blades; upon the faded flowers
that had bloomed and decayed above the
leaves, that now spread a funeral pall
over earth's best and fairest—over hearts
that had once beat high with hope and joy,
or, burning with the passionfires of unrequited
love, or failing ambition, or corroding
grief, or stinging remorse, had at last been
quenched in despair, and smothered in
death; upon sculptured marble, that told,
with ostentatious vanity, of the once opulent
dust that now reposed beneath; upon
plain marble stones, that marked the resting
place of those who, having followed
a middle course of life, had been quietly
“gathered to their fathers;” upon plain
mounds of earth, that covered such as had
fallen too recently, or too much in poverty,
or with friends too few, to have their
last homes more conspicuously marked; upon
the remains of wealth and poverty, virtue
and vice, the good and the bad; upon
the quick and the dead the fair moon shone
down—here brightening this object to bold
relief, there casting that in the gloom of
deep shadow—but still shining steadily
down, with a silvery, solemn light, as if
aware her beams fell upon a spot made
hallowed hy the frail dust of those who
had gone hence forever.
Slowly the two figures moved on together,
in silence, with even pace, past high-wrought
monuments and common stones—
past tombs of high and lowly born—past
graves of rich and poor—past light and
shade, and every where amid decay: slowly
they moved on, till, far aside from where
most lay buried, they paused over a small
rise of earth that had never yet been green
above its mortal tenant. Here the youth
took the hand of the maiden in one that
trembled with deep emotion; and while
with the other he brushed away the dew
that, from the fountain of his heart, had
gathered in his eye, he said:
“What place so fitting for sacred things
as above the remains of one we most dearly
prized in life! Here it is, beholding
the vanities of all things earthly, we feel
least tempted with its deceits, and most
sincerely desirous to embrace those pure
and holy joys, which, though intangible, are
still incorruptible, and, being beyond the
power of annihilation, can only by death
be changed to a more blissful state of existence.
Next to the pure enjoyment of
religion, is that of mutual love, pledged
by two hearts, that assimilate as the quiet
stream and placid lake, to become one
and undivided when once united. Edith,
(and the voice of the speaker became low
and tremulous,) we have been much together—in
the short space of weeks, I feel
we have known each other for years—the
sentiments of my heart are already in your
keeping—and here, on the most sacred
spot which earth holds for me, I offer you
my hand, and with it pledge you my unchangeable,
undying love!”
There was a silence, after the voice of
the speaker had ceased—a tremulous silence
on the part of the maiden—and then,
in a solemn, sweet, silvery, artless tone,
she replied:
“Edgar, as sacredly, as solemnly, and
sincerely as it is proffered, do I accept your
hand and heart, and in return yield you a
love as true as Heaven, and constant as
the needle to its bridal star.”
“Above thy mortal remains, witness it,
O mother, thou saint in Heaven! and thou,
Great Ruler of all! that here we freely
pledge ourselves to each other, and stamp
it with a seal of more than mortal affection;”
and upon the lips of the lovely,
trembling Edith Morton, Edgar Courtly
imprinted the first holy kiss of their mutual
and enduring love.
| CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LOVERS. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite | |