 | The coronal |  |
HARRIET BRUCE.
And whom I love I love indeed.”
Coleridge.
My friend Harriet Bruce was a healthy,
tall, English-looking girl; somewhat too large
and vigorous for genuine beauty, yet gifted
with a speaking expression, and a rich, perpetual
colouring, that would have made any
other face stylish and attractive. She was
no favourite with the gentlemen; but there
was an indescribable something about her
appearance and manners, which always compelled
them to inquire who she was. No
person ever talked with her without remembering
what she said; and every one criticised
what they could not forget. Yet it was not
intellect that made her unpopular—had she
chosen to affect reckless misanthropy, maudlin
sensibility, or any other “wart or stammer,”
would have found plenty of admirers and
imitators; but in her mind genius was checked
by manly philosophy; and she could ill
conceal her contempt of those who knew talent
only by its most common diseases. The
consciousness of mental power, that lighted
up her eye with such a burning spark of
pride, and the expression of scorn for ever
dancing on her lip-corners, ready to embody
itself in sarcasm, was unquestionably the true
reason why this splendid creature became the
Paria of the ball-room. She was a strange
sort of Di'Vernon—no, she was not a
Di'Vernon, either—and as I now remember
her, I cannot think of a single character, living
or imaginary, whom she did resemble.
She fascinated her enemies, but never pleased
her friends. Power! power! and, above
all, intellectual power! was the constant
dream of her wild ambition. To have been
sure of Madame de Stael's reputation, she
would have renounced human sympathy, and
lived unloving and unbeloved in this wide
world of social happiness—there was such
genius abroad, like a spark of electricity, to
be active and eternal,—defying education in
its form, duration, and power! Sometimes
I talked of love, and reminded her how Madame
de Stael herself had become its reluctant
victim. On this subject she often philosophized,
and always laughed. “Who,”
said she, scornfully, “who that has felt the
gush and the thrill attendant upon fame,
would be foolish enough to exchange dominion
over many for the despotism of one?” Thus
Harriet Bruce reasoned, and thus she actually
thought—but I knew her better than she
knew herself. Her affections were as rich
and overflowing as her mental energies; and
her craving for human sympathy was in direct
proportion to that intense love of beauty,
which, in her, amounted to an intellectual
passion. That she would love exclusively
and extravagantly, I had no doubt; and my
penetration soon singled out an object. At
a large party, I first saw her with George
Macdonough—the son of a rich southerner,
first in his class, and in the full flush of manly
that he was a Virginian,—and the hauteur
with which he received adulation, attracted
my attention, as the pawing of a high-mettled
horse would have done. His conversation
with Harriet seemed at first to be of a sober
and learned cast; but on her part it soon
became petulant. Now and then I heard
some remark which seemed to relate to a
transmigration of souls, and a continual rise
in intellectual existence. “Oh,” exclaimed
Harriet, “how that idea savours of New-England
house-keeping!—How can a Virginian
patronize a theory so economical?”
At that moment, a very lovely girl entered
the room; and the young man did not answer
Miss Bruce's question. “Ah, there is
the beautiful Baltimorean,” said he—“she
whom I told you reminded me of that fine
engraving of yours, `La belle Suisse.”' She
is beautiful,” said Harriet, with unaffected
warmth. “Her full dark eyes are magnificent—what
a pity it is they are not lighted
from within; that expression alone is wanting
to fill the measure of her glory!” The
for Macdonough's whole interest was absorbed
by the new-comer. A slight shade passed
over Harriet's face,—but it was too transient
to define the emotion in which it originated;
and she smiled, as she said, “You had best
go and talk with you powerful beauty—the
body should be where the spirit is.” “That
reproach is too severe,” replied the Virginian.
“I meant no reproach,” she answered; “I
have observed that beauty is your idol, and
I wish you to worship it.” “I did not think
Miss Bruce had observed my character sufficiently
to form any conclusion with regard to
my taste.” The pride of the proudest girl
in christendom was roused—and there was
something indescribably provoking in her
manner, as she answered, “I assure you, I
think you quite a specimen, in your way.
`Society is such a bag of polished marbles,'
that any thing odd is as valuable a study as
the specimens of quartz Mr. Symmes may
bring us. Your modesty has led you into a
mistake; I have really taken the trouble to
observe you.” “Truly, Miss Bruce, you
the offended southerner; “you never did,
said, or thought any thing like another person.”
“When a compliment is doubtful, Chesterfield
says one should always take it;
therefore I am obliged to you, Mr. Macdonough,”
replied Harriet. And so saying,
she turned abruptly from him, and directed
her attention to me.
During the remainder of the evening, I
saw no indications of a reconciliation. Harriet
danced but once—Macdonough and La
belle Suisse were near her in the set; and
they met frequently. The extreme nonchalance
with which she now and then exchanged
some casual remark, led me to suspect that
he had obtained more power over her extraordinary
mind than any other individual had
ever possessed; but Harriet was no trifler,
and I did not venture to prophesy.
Time passed on, and with it nearly passed
the remembrance of this skirmish of words,
and the thoughts thereby suggested. My
unmanageable friend seldom alluded to the
and when she did, it was done naturally and
briefly. Soon after this, I was obliged to be
absent for several months. I did not return
until two days before commencement at
—college; and Harriet's first exclamation
was, “You must go to Mr. Macdonough's
room—he is to have the first part; and his
friends expect every thing from him!” “But
I thought you considered commencement
days very stupid things,” said I; “So I do;
you know I always said life itself was a very
stupid thing. There is no originality above
ground: every thing that is true is dull, and
every thing new is false and superficial. But
there is no use in quarrelling with the world
—it is a pretty good world, after all. You
must go to hear Mr. Macdonough's opinion
of it: I am sure he will express it eloquently.”
Then you are on good terms, now?” said I.
She blushed painfully—excessively,—but
soon recovered self-command enough to reply,
“I always thought highly of him.” I
do not know whether my looks expressed
the warning voice my heart was yearning to
was reluctant and melancholy.
George Macdonough appeared most brilliantly
on that memorable day! Graceful
and dignified, handsome and talented, he sent
a thrill to all hearts, alive to the grandeur of
thought, or the beauty of language. During
this scene of triumph, I watched the countenance
of Harriet Bruce with the keenest interest;
and never before did I see a human
face through which the soul beamed with
such intensity. Genius, and pride, and joy,
and love were there! I then thought she
was intellectually beautiful, beyond anything
I had ever seen. Poor Harriet! It was the
brightest spot in her life, and I love to remember
it.
Macdonough's room was crowded; and
the compliments he received were intoxicating;
but in the midst of it all, I imagined I
could see the sparkle of his eyes melt into
softness, when he met a glance from Harriet.
Her looks betrayed nothing to my anxious
observation; but once I took notice she called
him “George,” and suddenly corrected
Had my friend indulged in habits of
girlish trifling, I should no doubt have playfully
alluded to this circumstance; but there
was something in her character and manners
which forbade such officiousness. I watched
her with the anxiety of sincere friendship.
I knew when she once selected an object of
pursuit, her whole soul was concentrated;
and I could not believe that the proud Virginian,
with all his high hopes, and his love
of dazzling beauty, would ever marry her.
I knew he was a very constant visiter, and I
frequently observed lights later than had
been usual in Mr. Bruce's quiet habitation;
and when he called to bid me farewell, a few
weeks after commencement, the deep gloom
on his countenance led me to think that the
pride and apparent indifference of my intellectual
friend might have surprised him into
love.
Weeks and months passed on, and I seldom
heard an allusion to the absent Macdonough.
Harriet's character and manners seemed
changing for the better. The perpetual
subsided, and the vagaries of her fancy became
less various and startling; yet there
was ever a chastened cheerfulness of manner,
and an unfailing flow of thought. By degrees
her seriousness deepened; and, at
last, she could not conceal from me that she
was unhappy. I attributed it to the illness
of her aged father,—for Harriet was motherless;
and she cherished her only parent with
a double share of love. But when the old
man was evidently recovering, and her melancholy
still increased, I knew there must
be another, and a deeper cause. One day,
as I stood by her, watching her progress in a
crayon drawing,—around which she had
thrown much of her early spirit and freedom,
I placed my hand affectionately on her
shoulder, and touching her forehead with my
lips, said, “You have always told me your
thoughts, Harriet—why not tell me what
troubles you now?” She contined her task
with a quick and nervous movement, and I
saw that her eyes were filling with tears. I
gently whispered, “is George Macdonough
sounded as if it made a rent in her very soul,
—and then the torrent of her tears poured
forth.
It was long before I ventured to say to her,
“Then it is as I feared? You do love
George Macdonough?” She looked in my
face with a strange and fixed expression, as
she replied, “I ought `to love, and honour,
and obey' him; for he is my husband!” I
started! “Your husband! how—when—
where were you married?”
“At Providence. Do you remember
when I asked you to go with me to Mr. Macdonough's
room, and you said, `So, then,
you are on good terms now?'—I had been
three weeks a wife!” “And your father—
does he know of it?” “Certainly,” she
said; “you know I would not deceive him.”
“Then why was so much secresy necessary?”
“I now think it was not really necessary;
at all events, that which needs to
be concealed is wrong. But George's parents
wished him to marry wealth, and he feared
to displease them. He has a moderate fortune
in possession; when he told my father this
circumstance, and added that he feared he
should be urged to marry against his inclination,
my father, in the blindness of his dotage,
consented to our immediate union.”
“Then why are you so unhappy?” I inquired;
“you have no doubt that your husband
will come and claim you?” “Oh, no!
The certificate is in my father's hands; and
if it were not, a sense of honour would lead
him here. But, oh! to have him come
coldly and reluctantly! my heart will break!
my heart will break!” said she, pressing her
hand hard against her forehead, and weeping
bitterly. “How could I forget, that they
who listen to passion, rather than to reason,
must always have a precarious influence on
each other?” I tried to console her—she
said nothing; but took a package of letters
from her desk, and handed them to me.
Their contents proved the mournful prediction
of her fears too true. At first, George
Macdonough wrote with impatient ardour;
then his letters were filled with amusing accounts
whose father had come to reside in their
neighbourhood; then he filled his pages with
excellent reasons for not visiting her as soon
as he intended; and finally, when Harriet
bowed down her pride, and entreated him,
if he valued her reputation, to come soon—
he sent a cold laconic answer, merely stating
the time at which he might be expected.
Poor Harriet! It was too evident she had
thrown away all that made existence joyful.
However, I tried to soothe her by the idea
that gentleness, patience, and untiring love,
might regain the affection on which her happiness
must now depend. She loved to listen
to such words—they were a balm to her
heart.
Mr. Macdonough came at the time he had
appointed, and publicly announced his marriage.
I did not see their meeting; but
during the few months he remained at her
father's, I observed his manner was uniformly
kind, though frequently absent and constrained.
An infant daughter formed a new bond
of union, and seemed to be the herald of happier
little object with the most intense delight;
and Harriet's half-subdued character seemed
entirely softened, in the doating fondness of a
mother, and the meek resignation of a wife,
loved, “but not enough beloved;” none
would have recognized the proud, ambitious,
and sarcastic Harriet Bruce.
I must not dwell minutely on particulars,
which I observed closely at the time, and
which afterward sunk deeply into memory.
Young Macdonough departed once more to
take possession of his estate, and prepare it
for the reception of his wife and child.
His farewell was affectionate; and his frequent
letters seemed to restore my imprudent
friend to something of her former buoyancy
of soul. The idea of separation from
her father was now her principal source of
unhappiness; but that trial was spared her—
the imbecility of the affectionate old man
daily increased, and, a few days before his
son's arrival, death relieved him from loneliness.
The young husband came, as he had promised;
looks more stern than formerly, though none
could say he failed in the fulfilment of his
duty. Harriet never spoke of any change;
her manner toward him was obedient, and
affectionate; but never fond. Her romantic
visions of human perfection, her proud confidence
in her own strength, were gone; and,
no doubt, she wept bitterly over their mutual
rashness. Knowing, as she did, that she
was a burthen, taken up merely from a sense
of honour, it is not wonderful her very smile
had a look of humility and resignation.
Their regrets were however kept carefully
concealed; whatever might have been their
feelings, both seemed resolved on a system
of silent endurance. There was something
in this course a thousand times more affecting
than the most pathetic complaints. I
shall never forget the anguish I felt, when
I saw Harriet bid farewell to the home of
her childhood,—that home where she had
ever been an idol and an oracle. The lingering
preparation of departure,—the heart-broken
expression,—the reluctant step,—the
with which she at last seized the arm
of a husband who loved her not, and who
was about to convey her among strangers,—
they are all present to me now!
Harriet's letter soon spoke of declining
health; and before three years had elapsed,
she implored me to come to her, if I ever
wished to look upon her again in this world
of shadows.
I immediately obeyed the summons.
Things were worse than I had expected.
She was evidently very weak; and though
she had every thing which wealth could
supply, or politeness dictate, the balm of
kindness never refreshed her weary and sinking
spirit. Mr. Macdonough never spoke
harshly—indeed he seldom spoke at all; but
the attentions he paid were so obviously from
a sense of duty, that they fell like ice-drops
on the heart of his suffering wife. I heard
no reproaches on either side; but a day seldom
passed without some occurrence more
or less painful to my friend. Once, when
little Louisa jumped into her father's arms,
you love me, papa?” he kissed her with much
fondness, and replied, “Yes I do, my child.”
—“And mamma, too?” inquired the little
creature, with a sort of half entreating tone,
so graceful in childhood,—he put her away
from him, and answered coldly, “Certainly,
my daughter.” I saw a slight convulsion in
Harriet's face, and in the motion of her
hands; but it soon passed. At another
time, when we were searching in his private
library for the latest number of the Edinburgh,
we discovered on a small open desk
the engraving of La belle Suisse, and near it
a newspaper giving an account of the marriage
of that young Baltimorean, whom George
had thought so strongly resembled the picture.
The surprise was so sudden, that Harriet
lost the balance of feelings she had hitherto
so well preserved. She rushed out of
the room,—and it was several hours before
I was admitted to her bedside.
Fortunately for my sensitive friend, this
mental struggle was too fierce to be of long
continuance. The closing scene of her life
as sleep to the weary. Sometimes the movements
of reluctant nature were visible in the
intense look of love she cast upon her child,
and the convulsive energy with which she
would clasp the little one to her bosom; but
otherwise all was stillness and hope.
One day, when she had been unusually
ill, and we all supposed she was about to die,
she pressed my hand feebly, and whispered,
“Will you ask George to see me once
more?” I immediately repaired to the library,
and told Mr. Macdonough the dying
request of his wife. At first, he made a motion
toward the door,—then, suddenly checking
himself, he said, in a determined tone,
“I had better not. It will be painful to both.
I will wait the event here.” I returned to
Harriet; but I had not courage to say her
request was refused. She listened eagerly
to every sound for awhile; then looking in
my face mournfully, she said, “He will not
come!” My tears answered her. She looked
upward for a moment, with an expression
of extreme agony; but she never spoke
again.
| The coronal | |