University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE YOUNG CLERGYMAN IN HIS STUDY.

The young girl bent forward in an attitude of the most eager attention,
her hands clasped, her eyes expanded, her body thrown forward,
and every faculty awakened by love.

“I am sent here by Edward Manning, as you suspect. He
commissioned me to speak with you. He is to pay me a large sum
if I succeed, much larger than the five thousand dollars your uncle
offered me for the papers. You see, now, why I refused that sum.
I resolved to retain the papers to use to bring you to Edward
Manning's arms. I, therefore, first proposed that you should
become my wife, that I might drive you to him! You see what
my success has been. But I confess I was not prepared to find you
were so ready to chime in with my purposes! I did not account
so much on your love for him! I reckoned more on your hatred of
me! But now that you understand my object, it is too late for you
to recede; for unless you consent to become the mistress of Manning,
yon shall be my wife!”

“The first, the first! Does he love me?”

“Yes. When you have consented in a note to him to become
his, you shall have these papers!”

“Then tell me quickly what I shall write. But, sir, how am I
to believe all this? He is a young gentleman of honor, and piety,
a clergyman, and —.”

“Were he an angel, it would make no less true that he loves you,
and wishes you to fly to him and make him happy. I said I had
proofs, here they are.”

As he spoke he took from his pocket-book two letters, one of
them was addressed “Simmins Satchell, Esq.” He held it before
her and asked her if she knew the hand-writing. She started with
pleasurable recognition, exclaiming,

“It is his!”

“Nay, look closely, for you may perhaps discover that it is a
forgery,” he said ironically.

“It is his, I am sure!”

“And whose is this?” he demanded holding up before her eyes
the superscription of the other.

“It is to me!” she exclaimed joyfully, extending her hand for it.

“But whose writing?”

“Edward Manning's.”

“Be positive! You will, perhaps, say I forged these letters,
unless you are satisfied perfectly of the writing.”

“I am satisfied! It is his!”

“Very well, now I will read to you the first, which is addressed

to me. Nay, don't be impatient, yours you shall see as soon as
this is read.” He then opened the letter, the seal of which was
already broken, and thus read aloud to her, she approaching and
looking eagerly over the page:

“Is it possible that he loves me thus?” she repeated with tears
in her eyes. “Oh, I will fly to him!”

“Yes, he adores you still. I went to see him, we talked over the
whole affair; he said that he intended to-day to let his wife go to
New York on a visit, but with the intention of never seeing her
again! That he should then be alone, and would be the happiest
of men if you would come disguised to his house. He will then
make known to you his plans for your future happiness!”

“Oh, joy, joy? Now let me read his letter to me, sir.”

He placed it in her hand. She pressed her lips to the seal, and
with trembling fingers broke it.

The deep, heartfelt joy of love was apparent in every lineament
of Caroline Kent's face, as she perused this letter. She kissed
again and again the signature, and then looking in Satchell's immovable
face, said,

“I am ready to go with you.”

“But not now. You must write him that he may be prepared.
I will take the note to him; and if he will see you to-night, I will
return for you. His wife will leave tomorrow; but perhaps he will
see you secretly in his library. Write at once your answer.”

Caroline sat down with a joy-beating heart, that made even her
fingers throb with its pulsations as she proceeded to write:

“That will do,” said Satchell, who had read what she wrote
over her shoulder. “I will at once take it to him.”

“Do,” she said, folding and sealing and directing it; “do, and I
will await your return. It is not eight o'clock yet; go, and if you
return with good tidings I shall forever bless you.”

“Did I not say you would bless the day you ever saw me, hateful
as I am, my pretty one?” said Satchell, as he took the note,
and with an air of peculiar and significant satisfaction placed it in
his pocket-book. He then unlocked the door and bowing, was
going out, when her hand arrested him:

“My uncle's papers!”

“True, I had forgotten them!” he said, laying the package upon
the table.

She caught it up and throwing it into the inner room, turned the
key and placed it in her bosom.

“You mean they shall be safe,” he said, smiling. “But they
are of no further use to me; I have your note and it is price
enough!”

He then went out, bowing and bidding her good evening.

“Has my note and it is price enough,” she repeated to herself as
she unlocked the door of the inner room; “what can he mean?”

She took the bundle of papers and began to open and read them.
She then tore her uncle's name and seal from each, and burned
them in the grate.

“I will keep these to show to my uncle,” she said, folding them
in a piece of paper. “There is no treason in these, and he can
then be satisfied that the originals are no more. Now to prepare

myself for the meeting, if it be to-night, with Edward. Oh, such
joy! How can I realize that he who has so long had my heart,
now loves me after all, and is ready to make me his; ready, for my
sake to divorce his wife! She who has been the object of my envy
and hatred, lovely as she is! But I must hate every woman who
loves where I love! He is mine! He sends for me! Oh, such
happiness is too much for me. I am to be Edward's at last! But,”
she said, suddenly pausing and turning pale and then deeply blushing,
“how am I to be his? with what the world calls dishonor!
Yet how can I choose? It was either to consent to this or be the
legal mistress of this hateful lawyer; One is no more degrading
than the other; but I have a secret hope that I shall be his wife,
this I shall aspire to be. If he loves not his bride, I will take her
place; I too must be his bride. I go not to him, fondly as I love
him, voluntarily to sacrifice myself! I have consented to see him,
but with the hope that he will yet make me his honored wife. I
know that he will; I know that he is too good and virtuous to
think of me with guilty thoughts. He says nothing in his note to
alarm my fears. The inference was only drawn by this evil Satchell!
I know he intends to make me his wife; but, should he
refuse, I am his so that he loves me.”

Such were the reflections of this young girl, who, it will be seen,
needed an element in her character to render her superior to the
temptation into which her strong and ardent feelings might lead
her. Without a mother's guiding hand, and left from childhood
pretty much to herself, and indulged by her “father” in every
whim, high-spirited, passionate and independent, without just
notices of feminine morals, it is not surprising that she should
prove a ready tool to the purposes which the wily lawyer had in
view. Her position, too, drawn as she was in the outset either to
accept Satchell, or bring dishonor on her father, and then the alternative
offered where her heart already was given, present a strong plea
in her behalf. But in no case can wrong be effectually pleaded away.
In no case can departure from virtue be defended. “It is better to
die,” says Seneca, “than to tell a lie!” much more do a greater
wrong!

Edward Manning was seated in his study; he was writing a
sermon for the ensuing Sabbath. It was to be his first since he had
accepted the charge of his parish, and he was pouring into it all the
impulse of his genius, of his piety, of his eloquence. His study
was an elegant apartment, lined to the wall with polished book-cases,
with gothic fronts; the windows were heavily and richly
curtained. A sofa or rather lounge, was drawn near the fire-place,
and soft, luxurious chairs were about. Near the centre of the room
stood a large oval table piled with books; at this he was writing,
wrapped in a dark brown dressing robe, his feet in Indian slippers.

No sound could be heard but the scratching of his pen over the
paper; his calm, high brow was expressive of intellect; his clear
eye beamed with intelligence and genius. At length he completed
his task and threw himself back in his chair, folded his hands and

closed his eyes. His lips moved as if he were putting up a prayer
for a blessing upon what he had written.

An inner door was gently opened; he turned and beheld his
young and beautiful bride. She entered with a smile, and her eyes
turned from him inquiringly to the writing-desk.

“Come in, dearest Gertrude,” he said; smiling, “and wish me
joy; I have written my first sermon!”

“Then I have come in just in time, Edward! I thought I would
not disturb you till you were through; though it was lonesome to
be away from you. Do you know that I am going to teach you to
write with your wife in your study?”

“I don't think I could, Gertrude,” he answered, smiling, and
folding his arm about her lovely form. “If I were a novelist and
writing a description of my heroine, then your presence would
inspire me; I should be sure to paint you to the life; and be assured
ne'er author had a fairer heroine than I should have! I should
make them all die of envy and despair!”

“You are a flatterer, Edward,” she answered, yet looking flattered
withal; “now am I to read your sermon?”

“Yes, or I will read it to you.”

“No, we will read it together,” she said, taking it and holding
upon one side while she gave him the other.

“You read aloud, Gertrude, I will follow you, and I can then
judge best as to its style and subject. It has been my aim to write
to the heart more than to the head, as you will see.”

She began to read in a low rich tone, and he to follow the words
with his eyes and to listen as she read.

She had turned but the first leaf, when a ringing was heard at
the door.

“I hope it is no one to disturb us, we are so happy at this moment,”
said Gertrude, looking up.

It was his father, Judge Manning, who said he had come in to
see if Edward had got through with his “first sermon.” He was
of course made an auditor. Gertrude had resumed and read but
three pages when a second ringing announced another visitor.