 | LOUISA WILSON. Water-drops |  |
17. LOUISA WILSON.
The lady of his heart?—princess of life?—
Mistress of feast and favor?—Could I touch
A rose with my white hand, but it became
Fairer at once?
And is it not my shame
To have caus'd such woe myself, from all that joy?”
Miss Barrett.
“What! still a prisoner to this odious influenza?”
said a bright belle, as she gayly glided into the chamber
of her friend.
“Not exactly ill, Julia; but then such a hideous swollen
face, as you see, makes it quite impossible to appear.
I think my nose has grown large, too; don't you? And
this chill, cheerless November weather, makes it no great
trial to keep house.”
“Oh! but you might have put on a thick, green veil,
and wrapped yourself up in furs, just to have gone to
church, and seen the wedding of Frederick Wilson and
Louisa.”
“Is it possible! It is only a few days since I heard
of the return of Frederick Wilson, from Europe. What
a march they have stolen!”
“Not much of a stolen march, dear Emma. They
have been engaged full three years. Indeed, so long did
he stay on his travels, that many thought the marriage
would never take place at all.”
“Come now, lay aside your muff, and mantilla, and be
the good Samaritan, and tell me all about it. Yes,
please! What was the possible need of their being in
such a remarkable hurry?”
“I believe it was understood that the event would take
place immediately after his arrival; and they wished to
be established in their city-home before the winter.”
“Well, they might at least have given information of
the hour of their nuptials, to some of their old acquaintance.
Though, I presume, a little mystery gives a wonderful
zest to matrimony.”
“Their plan was to leave for their journey, in the
morning cars; and by appointing the ceremony at an
early hour, they hoped to avoid a dense crowd, and so
kill two birds with one stone.”
“Expert archers, without a doubt.—Did Louisa look
well?”
“Beautifully, as you know brides always do. She
wore a fair muslin, fine as a thought, and white as the
driven snow. It was fitted perfectly to her graceful
form, and her neck, and delicately rounded arms, were
like alabaster. Her flowing, bridal veil, was confined
above her sunny curls with pure jasmine and the orange-flower.
She wore no other ornament.”
“Why, who would have expected such remarkable
plainness from her? Has she turned Quaker?”
“No. It was the taste of the bridegroom, who is, I
suppose, a trifle more infallible than ever, from having
visited so many of the European courts.”
“I should think he would have become so accustomed
to splendor and elegance abroad, as to require it the
more at home.”
“They say it has rather led him to admire simplicity.
At any rate, Louisa never looked so well in her life with
those downcast eyes, their long fringes resting on her
glowing cheek, and that sweet air of dependence on him,
which is so winning. I understand he has brought her
the most magnificent things; sets of pearl, and diamonds,
and so forth, which will be worn at the parties, in the
high circles where they are to move.”
“I wonder if the old aunt who brought her up, will
be urged to make her appearance there?”
“She has been invited to take her residence with them,
but declines. Her age makes a quiet home more agreeable.”
“Perhaps Louisa might be ashamed of aunty's country
manners, among her new, fashionable friends.”
“Oh, Emma, I can never think her so heartless.”
“Nor I. But go on with your description of the
wedding, my dear creature. And pray, disencumber
yourself of those immense indian-rubbers, and take the
cozy.”
“Fred Wilson, you know, was always a jewel of a man,
so high-bred, so refined. He is still more polished by
foreign travel, which his wealth gave him every advantage
of making both improving, and extensive. I never
thought him so handsome as this morning; his intellectual
features were lighted up with such a beaming happiness,
like one who has gained a priceless treasure. Then, he
responded so touchingly, `till death us do part!' It
was both solemn and beautiful. I caught a glimpse of
the group at the church-door, while he was throwing her
cashmere round her, with perfect tenderness, as if he
feared the slightest visiting of the rude air for his precious
one. Every creature pressed forward, to get a
view of her, as she stepped into her coach, and there was
such a rush that I was glad to escape.”
“I never thought, for my part, Louisa more beautiful
than several others of our acquaintance, whom I could
name.”
“Perhaps not. But then she is exceedingly graceful,
and shows, in all she says and does, her accomplished
education. Then, you know, there is something so fascinating
about a bride, leaving as she does all the sacred
spots of early recollection,—the play-places, and playmates
of her childhood, the hearth-stone, where she was
trained and sheltered as a tender blossom,—to make to
herself a new home, to trust in new friends, to endure
her as a stranger, but is now to be more than all the
world besides: there is in this something sublime, yet
sad, even to tears.”
“Bless me, Julia, you are right eloquent. Did our
good clergyman preach a sermon on the occasion, and
you take notes, for the benefit and behoof of all spinsters?
Was there a crowd at this pathetic ceremony?”
“Yes, notwithstanding it was at the early hour of
eight. Directly in front of me, were the three tall
Misses Astor, through whose interstices I was obliged to
gather, by skilful dodging, almost all that I saw; for, you
know, to look over their shoulders would be impossible
to any but a son of Anak. They had made their
toilet in a hurry, and could not wholly conceal, under
their smart, new hats, their hair en papillote. Here and
there was a heavy sprinkling of ancient maidens, who, I
think, had left breakfast uneaten, and were wanting it.
Even the fat, red-faced tavern-keeper waddled there, and
the lame lady over the way; and scores of boys hung
upon the columns and tops of pews like monkeys, though
the sexton did all in his power to keep them down.
Everybody looked good-natured and animated. Indeed,
it was a scene altogether worth going out for, this raw
morning. I am sorry you should have made choice of
such a time to wear a kerchief.”
“You are so kind, Julia, to come and amuse me with
your nice descriptions, that I believe I have lost nothing.
had been there myself; for your perceptive powers are
vastly better developed than mine. I declare, I feel
quite recovered from my inapposite illness, by your entertaining
talk.”
Thus renovated and cheered, the two friends started
upon a little tongue-race, alternately spurring and outstripping
each other, with exuberant fluency, and girlish
spirits. Louisa passed the usual anatomical process,
which the respective positions of engagement and matrimony
involve. Minute points were scanned, not from
censoriousness, but from the habit of analysis common
to the tact, and rapid movement of the female mind.
The catalogue of faults was, however, on the present
citation quite moderate; the most prominent one seeming
to be a sort of variation of mood and manner, not exactly
amounting to caprice, but verging at times towards
the extremes of sprightliness, and taciturnity. Finally,
with the good feeling common to their happy season of
life, they summed up the whole, with a preponderance
of agreeable properties, and a reiteration of their full
sense of her good fortune, in gaining a companion and an
establishment so eligible; and an admission, that in person
and education she was qualified to be an ornament to
both. This bridal gave similar materials for delineation
and discussion in other circles, throughout the township,
and an acceptable subject for sundry letters, between fair
and young correspondents; after which it gave place to
of things that were.
In the meantime, Frederick Wilson, and his young
wife, had become somewhat domesticated in their new
home. It comprised every element of comfort, with the
embellishments of taste. Its owner found a new impulse
in rendering it worthy of the chosen of his heart, and
was but too happy to hear her praise the mansion and
grounds of which he had made her the mistress, and the
works of art, with which the spacious apartments were
decorated. Nor was she an ungrateful recipient of his
tenderness and liberality; but repaid them with the fulness
of a susceptible heart, glorying in its first love. He
viewed her as the “purest pearl from ocean's deepest
cell,” and she turned to him as the flower to the sun,
confiding, and constant. Congeniality of taste heightened
the pleasure of their intercourse;—the same book, the
same picture, the same music delighted them, and the
claims of society were met, and discharged, with a kindred
satisfaction. He was charmed at the admiration
which her courteous manners and brilliant conversation
elicited, and she took pride in a husband, who, to every
manly accomplishment, added the good sense of prizing
more highly his own native land, after that comparison
with others, which is sometimes so perilous to patriotism.
Matrimonial life opened for them with an Eden splendor,
and it was long ere any shadow darkened amid its
bowers.
The first drawback to their felicity, was a species of
nonchalance or indifference, not on the part of the husband,
but the wife. Expecting a warm participation in
whatever interested him, this change vexed his sensibility.
He recalled every minutiæ of his own deportment,
fearing there might have been involuntary remissness,
and redoubled his assiduity to discover and gratify her
wishes. But these periods of abstractedness or stupor,
which originally occurred at long intervals, grew more
frequent, sometimes alternating with a mirth apparently
as causeless, and equally ungrateful. He became apprehensive
that her nervous system was unhinged, and
anxiously summoned medical skill to her aid.
These apparent caprices did not impair warmth of
heart, or vivacity of intellect, but were in painful contrast,
as the cloud with the sunbeam. To the earnest inquiries
of her husband, she was accustomed to speak lightly,
as of constitutional headaches, severe, but temporary.
Exceedingly did he dread their recurrence,—especially,
when the glance of any other observer was added to his
own; for such was the sensitive nature of his love, that
he shrank at the thought that the slightest reproach
should fall upon its object, and hoarded her praises as
the miser his gold.
Thus passed away the first year, and a portion of the
second of their matrimonial life. Louisa was amiable to
all around, benevolent to the poor, and devoted to the
happiness of her husband, with the exception of the variations
could not but apprehend, had a different, and deeper
source than the physical indispositions under which they
were sheltered. His penetration was not so far hoodwinked
as to mistake the fact, that they were in some
measure dependent on volition. His continued fear was,
that the same misgiving might spring up in the mind of
others; and he spread out, as it were, his whole being to
guard her from suspicion, until the effort was agony.
At length, with the frankness which was a part of his
nature, and the tenderness due to a wife, he warned her
of the fault to which he believed her to be addicted, and
set forth its inevitable consequences, with feeling, and
emphasis. Her reply was a reiterated assurance, that
she had used only a stimulating medicine, prescribed by a
physician, for the nervous headaches to which, from early
childhood, she had been subject; and passed into such
emotions of resentment, and passionate grief, that he
almost shuddered at the step he had taken, and fervently
hoped that his suspicions might have been groundless.
In retirement, Louisa's conscience keenly smote her.
She wept, and lay upon the earth. She detested herself
for her duplicity, and determined no longer to wreck the
peace of the husband whom she loved. She resolved to
forsake a habit on which she could not reflect without
abhorrence, and mourned that she had not possessed sufficient
moral courage to acknowledge it, and implore his
aid in its extirpation.
The eagle eye of the husband detected the change that
ensued with unspeakable gratitude. Louisa was now all
that he could desire. Her fine mind and large heart,
seemed enfranchised from a hateful bondage. Whatever
could be devised for her happiness, was sedulously obtained,
and her unspoken wishes studied. He said,
mentally, “How can I ever efface from her affectionate
heart the suffering I have inflicted, or reward her for the
struggle she has so successfully endured?” and he literally
overwhelmed her with the fulness of his love. She too
exulted in that love, and in being worthy of it. She felt
that she had achieved a victory; and secretly despised
those who, being in like manner enslaved, did not resolutely
break their chains.—But let him that thinketh he
standeth, take heed!
Pleasant would it be to linger on this period of conjugal
felicity. But the evil habit, of which we have
spoken, is like the “strong man armed,” and though Love
may wrestle with it, till the break of day, it will scarcely
prevail, unless it take hold of the strength of Omnipotence.
Frederick and Louisa both enjoyed refined society,
and were qualified to adorn it. From the earliest date
of their marriage they had discharged its claims, with a
disposition both to receive and impart happiness. In
those fashionable parties which require elaborate dress
and preparation, their position obliged them sometimes
to mingle, and their reception was always flattering. But
with a few chosen friends, where the flow of soul was
not impeded by the ice of ceremony. These pleasant
gatherings had been gradually laid aside, during the
domination of Louisa's tyrant foe. For though she had
always maintained sufficient caution to appear well on
public, and formal occasions, it was sometimes the reverse
in those visits which involved less restraint. She more
slightly armed herself, where the inspection was more
concentrated and critical.
Sometimes, Frederick had been compelled to meet
their invited guests, with the excuse of her having an
excruciating headache; and though he loathed to lend
his aid to what he deemed deception, and felt like a
divided being, while discharging alone the requisitions of
hospitality, still he considered it a duty to protect the reputation
of his wife, and was thankful when she did not,
by her presence, overthrow it. Now, that this reign of
terror was over, he indulged with a buoyant heart in his
favorite social entertainments; while his fair, kindred
spirit, presided with her characteristic elegance and grace.
One fine morning in summer, he came in, remarking
that he had met acquaintances from a distant city, to
whom he wished to show attention; and if she had no
other engagement, would invite them to a quiet cup of
tea, with a few of their neighbors and more intimate
friends. She concurred with an affectionate zeal in his
plans, and arranged on the mantel-pieces, with exquisite
their garden and conservatory. She busied herself to
see that everything was in order, and proposed, what
she knew would please him, to pour out the tea with her
own hand, at a table in the parlor where they should
assemble. He was partial to this mode, from the principle
of dispensing with ceremony, wherever it was possible,
and also from early recollection, having been accustomed
thus to see his mother entertain her friends; and knew
that on Louisa's part this was a submission to his preference,
which he did not fail to appreciate.
Their guests arrived at an early hour, and were admiring
the paintings and statuary that decorated the lofty
apartments, and inhaling the balmy air through the long
windows, opening upon a colonnade, whose pillars were
clasped by clustering vines, and adorned with blossoming
shrubbery. Frederick hastened to summon Louisa, and
was startled to find her not only in dishabille, but,—
with the headache.
He begged that he might excuse her, and advised, by
all means, that she should remain in her room. But she
was bent on descending, and by a strong effort, in which
she excelled, managed to welcome her visitants, with
tolerable grace. Yet those who were well acquainted
with her, could not fail to detect in her sleepy eyes, and
causeless repetitions in discourse, that she was not herself.
The tea-equipage was brought in. And now, the
a favor, was a new source of apprehension. Seating herself
at the table, behind her splendid service of silver, she
filled the cup nearest to her, and continued pouring, pouring,
pouring, until the overflowing tray discharged its superfluous
beverage upon the rich carpets. The agonized
husband affected not to observe it, and talked with his
friends rapidly, and at random. An elderly lady, a distant
relative of his mother, quietly approaching, begged
to relieve her of the office, on account of her indisposition.
“No, no, I thank you. I am fond of pouring out. I
am quite used to it, I assure you.”
Frederick, springing to her side, exclaimed,—
“I hope you will allow Mrs. Carlton to take your
place.”
“I have myself,” said that lady, in a low, soothing
tone, “been so troubled with severe nervous headaches
in my youth, as to be nearly blind; and quite too tremulous
for any effort like this.”
“But I have no headache now,—no,—just none at all.
I insist on helping my friends to refreshments, myself.
It is such a great,—a very great,—great,—pleasure, indeed.”
Frederick led her unwillingly to a sofa, where she half
reclined against one of its pillows. The servant, having
his tray restored to order, through the care of Mrs. Carlton,
commenced to serve the company, and was about
calling out,—
“Here, bring me a cup. Why do you pass me by?
I'll have you to know, that I'm your mistress.”
Then she fell into an immoderate fit of laughter, while
her husband, pale, and in torture, half persuading, and
half compelling, took her to her own room. At his
return he attempted no apology, and the guests, after a
few ineffectual efforts to converse and be at ease, excused
themselves, and departed.
Mrs. Carlton lingered awhile, after all others had gone,
and motioning towards a boudoir, said in a low, gentle
voice,—
“My dear Mr. Wilson, your mother's blood is in my
veins. I love you, and I love your wife. Can I be of
use to either of you?”
“Oh, no! at least I do not see how. These terrible
headaches are destroying her nervous system. She has
had them from early youth. I have applied to the best
physicians, but they give no relief.”
“Have you applied to the Great Physician?—Frederick
Wilson, I admire your conjugal tenderness and constancy.
But their utmost ingenuity cannot blind others
to a fault so palpable. I have long been aware of it.
Absolve your noble mind from the penance of this vain
disguise, which the eye of even the commonest servant
can penetrate.”
“Why do you seek to draw such a confession from
me?”
“That I may soothe the anguish that is eating away
your existence, and, if possible, help you both.”
Pacing the room, with rapid and disordered steps, he
at length paused opposite to her, repeating half unconsciously,—
“Help us! help us! How can that be?”
She took his hand in hers, and drawing him to a seat
by her side, said with maternal kindness,—
“Can you feel willing to confide in me so far as to say
whether you have ever spoken to Louisa of her destructive
habit?”
“I have.”
“Freely, and firmly, as a husband should?”
“Freely, and firmly—oh, yes. And she seemed to
have reformed. It is now a long,—long time since aught
of this kind has occurred. I thought she was my own
blessed angel again. Oh, my God!”
He covered his face with his hands, but through his
convulsed fingers the oozing tears found their way. The
sympathizing friend waited till the emotion had subsided,
and he exclaimed,—
“If you can do anything for us, do it, in Heaven's
name!”
“My dear Frederick, my heart bleeds for you. I am
old, and have seen something of the world. I know how
hard it is for a victim to escape these toils of the tempter.
indomitable pride, have been set in array against them,
and fallen. Believe me, you are not the person to manage
this matter. Will you leave it to me?”
“You have my everlasting gratitude for this heavenly
benevolence. I put myself under your control.”
“Then I shall require you to obey implicitly. I know
you wish to visit your estates in a distant county. Leave
the house early in the morning, without seeing Louisa.
I will remain with her, and watch over her during your
absence. My lone widowhood will enable me so to arrange
my family, that none will sustain injury. I feel this effort
to save her to be all-important.”
“But how will you explain the circumstance of my
departure?”
“I will inform her that you have left on business,
grieved to the heart, by her perseverance in error. If
necessary, I will even suggest that your return may depend
on her conduct.”
“My dear Mrs. Carlton, you are too severe. You
will drive her to desperation.”
“Have you not seen the futility of temporizing measures?—of
appeals to all the native emotions, and forms of
tenderness? I repeat to you, that I love Louisa, both
for your sake and her own. My feelings have been
strongly drawn out to her, from some personal resemblance
she bears to the last darling daughter, whom Heaven
took from my embrace to its own. I promise you to be
Do you trust to me?”
“I do.”
“Entirely?”
“Without reserve. May God forever bless you.”
“And now, my son, try to snatch a brief rest. May
He, who alone can give success to our endeavors, be with
us both.”
The bright morning rose upon the departing husband,
and the faithful friend by the bedside of the inebriate.
Reason returned slowly, and then she was advised by
Mrs. Carlton to remain quiet, as if a sufferer from acute
disease. She took care that proper nourishment was
administered, and towards evening drawing the curtain,
said,—
“How are you now, dear Louisa? You know you
have been quite ill, and I am here to see to your comfort.”
“Ill! You here!—Where is Frederick?”
“He left home this morning.”
“Left! My husband gone!—Where?”
“On business, among his distant estates, which you
know he has long wished to transact.”
“Very singular, indeed. When is he to return?”
“There is some uncertainty about it. Perhaps the
time may depend somewhat upon you.”
“What can you mean?” leaping from the bed. “What
sort of language is this to me? I am sure you were
manner.”
“Dear Louisa, you have many accomplishments, and
virtues. I admire them, and love you. But I am constrained
to say, that you are under the dominion of a
fearful habit, that wrecks your husband's peace, and your
own reputation. Strive to arouse yourself.”
“Arouse myself? Indeed!—that I will do. And in
the first place, leave me directly; or I will inform my
husband of your intrusion, and strange behavior.”
“I am here by his permission. What I say to you,
has his sanction.”
“Either you are false, or I am most wretched.”
Pitying her distress, Mrs. Carlton would fain have
drawn her to her bosom.
“Let me be your comforter, my poor child. You have
never known a mother's care from your infancy. I will
be your mother. I will aid in restoring you to the
respect of those who love you, and to your own. Confide
in me.”
But she repulsed her, exclaiming that her husband had
deserted her, and she would have no other false friend, but
desired to die. Days passed, in which Mrs. Carlton was
resolutely shut from her presence, seeing no shadow of
success to her experiment, and had she not been the possessor
of singular perseverance, would have despaired.
She remained in the house of the unhappy woman, regulating
the servants, and laboring invisibly for her welfare.
to her apartment of anything that could intoxicate, it was
evident that she was in possession of some secret hoard
by which she was kept in a state of partial stupefaction.
Finding all appeals to her understanding and affections
alike fruitless, while reason was thus dethroned, and knowing
her mind to be much under the influence of imagination,
she conceived a design of calling that powerful
element to her aid.
The dusk of a summer twilight deepened, as Louisa reclined
upon her couch, apparently emerging from a long,
dream-like reverie. She alternately dozed and mused,
until the darkness of night gathered. Partially raising
herself to ring for lights, her eye was arrested by a circular
spot of ineffable brightness on the pannel of the wall
opposite her bed. It burst forth exactly between the
portraits of her father and mother,—trembled, expanded,
and became stationary. In its centre appeared a form,
tall, commanding, and wrapped in a long, dark mantle.
Its features were stern, and the glance of its piercing
eyes seemed the reproof of a spirit. Then a long bony
finger was raised, and moved with a warning gesture;
while from lips that seemed immovable came forth slow,
solemn intonations, every one sinking like molten lead
into her soul:—
The cup looks fair,
But its dregs are woe, and care:
Ruin,—ruin,—and despair.”
tightly over them. When she ventured to withdraw the
screen, the vision had departed. She rested upon her
pillow and trembled.
A strain of dulcet music, strange and wild, floated
along. A gush of perfume filled the room. Again, that
circle of almost ineffable brightness. It overspread the
curtain that shaded the full-length portrait of her mother.
From its centre glided a female form, clad in flowing
robes, with a countenance of radiant and solemn beauty.
For a moment it seemed inclined to hover with a tremulous
motion; then stood still; and, as if the dead canvas
had awoke to life and sound, uttered slowly, analyzing
every syllable,—
“Daughter!—Repent! and do the first works, or
else”—
Ere those deep, impressive, unearthly tones had ceased,
she sprang from the couch,—but all was darkness. She
stretched out her arms, as the fair being faded,—
“Oh, mother! Mother, stay! Hear me promise. I do
repent. I will try to do the first works. Blessed mother,
return to your unworthy child.”
Her cry of terror brought Mrs. Carlton to her side,
whose neck she eagerly clasped, hiding her face, with
sobs, in her bosom.
“Oh, dear, dear friend! I have been warned by unearthly
beings. A fair,—and a fearful form. One was
like the picture of that mother who died before my remembrance.
was so stern! His voice still sounds in my ears—
Ruin,—ruin,—and despair!'
Oh! that I had some one to love me.”
The pitying friend soothed her, promising to be a
mother and a guide. She now passed from the extreme
of aversion to that of childlike, enthusiastic attachment.
Unreserved confidence followed—free confessions, and
emphatic resolutions of amendment.
“Alas, dear friend! this fearful habit dates from early
years, when wine was associated with hospitality as an
element of happiness. My loneliness as an orphan, without
brother or sister, and the secluded habits of the aunt
with whom I resided, made me exceedingly delight in
those few social and festive seasons that varied the
monotony of our life. In these entertainments wine was
always prominent. I heard no odium attached to it, and
tasted and admired. Thus, even in childhood, was laid
the foundation of my shame.
“The long three years' absence of the lover whom I
adored were darkened with fears lest he might never return,
or at least, with an unchanged heart. In these
periods of depression wine was my comforter. I even
ventured to tamper with the fire of ardent spirits. Then
I first learned its power of excitement and the reaction
not; but the variation of manner thus caused, my young
companions designated as caprice and a fitful temperament.
“With this sin on my soul, I dared to enter the holy
bands of wedlock; not without a solemn vow to forsake
it, and innumerable struggles to keep that vow. How
false that vow,—how vain those struggles,—he best knows
whom most I love. But the shame, the deception, the
misery, the self-loathing, are scanned only by the Eye that
readeth the spirit.”
Days were spent in salutary conversations, during
which the venerable lady strove to impress the absolute
need of humility before God, and of trusting in Him for
that guidance and support, without which “nothing is
strong, nothing is holy.” She commiserated but did not
repress those searchings of heart, without whose discipline
she felt that reformation might be rootless. Earnestly
did she labor to impress that fear of the Almighty,
which is the beginning of wisdom.
In Christ renew'd, regenerate,
Of God's most blest decree,
That not a single soul should die,
Which turn'd repentant with the cry,—
Be merciful to me.'
This indefatigable friend held daily communications
with the absent and anxious husband, respecting every
tremulous from joy,—
Louisa is worthy of you.—Return.
The wings of the wind seemed to have brought the
summoned one. The meeting is not a subject of description.
It can be imagined only by those who know the
full force of the words,—repentant! forgiven! and beloved!
Mrs. Carlton returned to her abode, full of gratitude
for the privilege of this labor of friendship, and for its
blessed results. Ardent attachment, and the most filial
attentions from those whom she had thus been permitted
to serve were a part of her recompense, and brightened
her declining years. Scarcely a day was allowed to pass
without visit or message to the loved neighbor and benefactress.
One evening, while a chill storm was raging violently,
Mr. Wilson entered.
“My dear friend, I had not expected any one to dare
this dark conflict of the elements for my sake.”
“Did you suppose we could allow your birthday to
pass without recognition? I assure you, I had hard work
to keep Louisa from accompanying me, notwithstanding
the tempest.”
Opening a basket, he produced a cap and collar, elegantly
where camellias of the richest hues, and the mystic passion-flower
with its waving tendrils, and the heliotrope
and tuberose breathing over the dahlias a cloud of perfume,
and the crimson spire of the sage, and the white
bosom of the artemisia, were strongly contrasted with
the background of evergreen on which they reposed.
“Ah! such beautiful tributes of art and nature should
be for the fair and the flourishing, rather than for those
in the winter of their days. I cannot but wonder how
dear Louisa should thus have kept in mind the date of
my birth.”
“There is a tablet in both our hearts, running thus:—
Love will remember it,
Untold, unsaid.”'
“How much am I indebted to you both, for the unremitting
kindness that cheers the evening of my days.”
“Oh, dear Mrs. Carlton, you have no imagination of
the treasure I now possess in her. She is so gentle, so
radiant with intellectual life,—so earnest to efface the
memory of the past, so full of all good works, that I can
never adequately speak her praise, or my happiness.”
“Heaven be praised! She is indeed a lovely, talented
being, and most dear to us both. May her feet ever
stand firm upon the unfailing Rock.”
“Did you ever perfectly explain to me, the cause of
society, which occurred during my painful absence?”
“Perhaps I may need your pardon for the course pursued
in this particular, though certainly not for the
motive that prompted it. Her antipathy to me was so
great, and the stupor in which she lay so continued, that
I was ready to despair of gaining an opportunity to serve
her. I cast about for the best means that remained to
me, and not without misgiving, made a selection. None
can be much with her, and not perceive that imagination
is a prominent feature in her mind; and as the reasoning
powers were almost constantly dormant, I seemed driven
to make an appeal to that. A little device with the
magic lantern, which, had her intellect been unclouded,
she would have detected in a moment, wrought effects
surpassing my anticipation. It gave access to her presence,
from which I had before been excluded, and pitying
Heaven did the rest.”
“How far do you suppose she is aware of the measure
to which you resorted?”
“I doubt whether she has more than a dreamy remembrance
of the scene. Sometimes, I have thought I
would confess the whole to her and implore her forgiveness.
But she has never made any allusion to it, and I
have thought it better to fortify her virtue, than to stir
up the dregs of indistinct and harrowing recollection.
Possibly, my conscience has not always been perfectly
satisfied to have thus invoked stratagem; but the case
me, if I have erred through excess of zeal to arrest the
wanderer and save the lost.”
“We can never thank you as we ought, for all you
have done for us.”
“If I have been the means of any good, thank not
me, but Him from whom all good proceedeth. But the
whole of this life is a warfare, my dear young friend, and
it is never safe to lay aside that fear which drives us to
trust in Omnipotence.”
“All your counsel is to us most precious.”
“You are both to me as children; you seem to stand
in the places of those whom our Father has taken from
my house and heart, to whom I hasten. Your beautiful
wife is truly attractive, highly endowed, and full of love
to you; but in this our state of discipline and danger,
possibly she is not armed with that strong heart which
foils temptation by perfect trust in an arm Divine.
Teach her to expect difficult duty, and let it be your care
to gird her up for it by deepening her piety.”
“I feel the force of all you say, our blessed mother,—
so we speak of you to each other. Indulge us in that
sweet appellation.”
Pressing his hand between both of hers, she added,
solemnly and affectionately,—
“None may boast, my son, the seeds of evil habit are
dead, never more to quicken. Yet is there something
almost converting in maternal love, that, watching over a
feels its own infirmity, its own inadequacy to the
great work, and pours itself out in utter abandonment,
seeking refuge where only it can be found,—above. I
rejoice that at length such hopes are hers,—are yours;
may God crown and render them effectual. I have been
led to say more than I intended, for advancing age warns
me that this birthday may be my last. Should it so
prove, let this be my parting charge to our dear one:—
to put forth all her energies, to guard every avenue of
danger, to resist every wile of the tempter; yet not to
rely on any earthly helper, but cling ever closely to the
Hand that was pierced.”
Little could it then have been supposed, while there
was such a lingering of the health and even the beauty
of early years, around this inestimable friend, that her
parting intimation would so soon be verified. Yet ere
“another moon had filled its horn,” Frederick Wilson,
himself deeply mourning, was called to console his
weeping wife, who bent over the lifeless form of one
who had been to both as a mother.
“She has gone to the angels,” he said.
“To the angels, husband, in whose joy even on earth
she partook, over the sinner that repenteth.”
After the funeral obsequies, it was to them a mournful
satisfaction to devise and erect a monument, which
should consult both the simplicity of her taste and the
impulse of their gratitude. The green turf where her
and planted with her favorite flowers. At its entrance a
willow swept the ground with its long, drooping wands,
and over the arched gate crept the ivy, and the clematis
with its blue pendulous blossoms. In the centre rose a
plain stone of the purest marble. Its only inscription
was the name, with the simple dates of birth and death;
and beneath, cut deeply into the heart of the stone,—
Gone home.
On the reverse, two hands, exquisitely sculptured,
sprang from the marble, sustaining a vase, with the
words “Bring flowers,” enwreathed with acanthus leaves,
while its frequent supply of fresh water and the fairest
flowers, attested the constancy with which the memory
of the dead was cherished.
The loss of the hand that had steadily probed her
follies, and fostered her virtues, was sincerely deplored
by Louisa. Scarcely had the sadness in some measure
passed away, ere she was called to become a mother.
When she saw her husband press long and earnestly the
velvet lip of their first-born, and dividing between it and
herself his tearful, enraptured blessings, she felt more
than repaid for all the apprehension and agony with
which a Being of wisdom hath encompassed the entrance
of that holy relationship.
The ruling desire of Frederick Wilson's heart was
only had his native love of children led him to repine
that their union for years had been thus unblessed, but
he had secretly depended on the force of maternity to
dispel the only shade that darkened the history of his
wife. Often had he said mentally, while conflicting
with her depraved habit, “Were she but a mother!
those cares and joys would be her salvation.”
And now the blessing was granted, he was never
weary of watching the tender nursling of their hopes,
regarding every movement of the tiny limbs, and anticipating
the volitions of a mind that was to live forever.
It gave him pleasure to believe that it would have the
mother's eye of sparkling blue, and to trace the rudiments
of his own noble forehead amid its imperfectly
developed features. It was interesting to see him so
absorbed by this new affection. He was peculiarly gratified
that it was a daughter, that its companionship with
the mother might be more entire and its influence more
permanent. He hailed it as the little angel that had
stepped into the troubled pool, to heal the hearts that
waited to be whole. It was his first thought at waking,
his last when he lay down; and it even had part in his
dreams, tinging them with the hue of its own sweet helplessness.
The only alloy to his felicity was the physical
weakness of Louisa. Some infirmity of constitution left
her longer languid and a prisoner than was expected.
Both physician and nurse recommended the free use of
Tonics involving stimulants!
Did they not understand or perceive the baleful fires
they were rekindling? But he who did both understand
and perceive, interposed, though at the eleventh hour.
He forbade all use of what could intoxicate, or its entrance
into his house.
Louisa was astonished at the spirit which he had manifested.
She felt it great unkindness to withhold what
she believed she needed, as a restorative to health and
the means of affording nourishment to her babe. She
became silent and resentful, and was unappeased by his
anxious inquiries or affectionate treatment. One evening,
while she supposed him to be absent from home, she
imagined herself to be alarmingly feeble and in danger of
syncope. She therefore directed the nurse to go forth
silently, and purchase some of the prohibited beverage,
while, propped in her easy chair, she lulled the infant on
her bosom.
“Poor innocent!” she murmured, “hard that thou
must pine for thy natural food, and thy sick mother
suffer, because a cruel father denies the medicine that
would restore us.”
Ere the return of the nurse, her husband entered.
What met his horror-struck eyes?
His darling child in the fire, and the mother hanging
over the arm of her easy chair—asleep!
It seems that after the departure of the nurse she had
But as the opium-trance deepened, they had slidden from
their support, and the precious burden from her arms.
Fortunately, the wood was nearly consumed, and being
closely wrapped in flannels, its clothes had not ignited.
One fair cheek was scorched by the hearth where it lay,
but a hand and arm which it had thrust forth from its
envelope, came in contact with red coals and decaying
brands, and was burned to a crisp.
The agony of the father, as he caught the child to his
breast, was indescribable.
“Woman! See your own work!—the fruit of your
accursed, wilful wickedness!”
A consultation of surgeons pronounced amputation
above the elbow indispensable to life, and it was done.
The sufferings of the poor babe, and the hazardous illness
that followed, taught the bitterness of remorse to the
wretched mother. Its cries of anguish, and her husband's
stern adjuration, “Woman! see your own work!” haunted
her perpetually.
It was long ere that child was out of danger, or the
offended husband propitiated. But as health returned
to its pallid brow, he began to look on the wasted form
of his wife with commiseration. His heart was touched
with pity, and alive to tender remembrance; but the
respect that is essential to true love had fled forever.
This she perceived, and no longer desired to live. The
idea that he despised her took possession of her imagination,
for years been the pole-star of her existence had shrouded
itself. She was not content to gather up the scatered
coals from its forsaken altar, and be thankful they were
not wholly extinguished; and quicken them with the
breath of the patient heart, and pour incense upon them
that might have ascended to heaven. No; she could
be satisfied only with its first fervor, and that could return
no more. She no longer put forth any effort to
resist, scarcely to disguise her infirmity. She desperately
strove to drown her sorrow in the blood of the grape; to
consume it in the fire of distilled liquors; to stagnate it
in the sleep of the poppy. Her husband ceased to oppose
the current of her depraved appetite. This, also, appeared
to her unkindness, for she construed it into indifference.
Maternal love, in her nature, seemed an element of
secondary power. It had fallen on an ill-prepared, perverted
soil. It had come up like a plant under the storm-cloud,
blighted ere it could take deep root. The lisping
word “mother,”—that talisman of all tender emotion,
sometimes awoke a thrilling, delicious tear, but that lost
arm was a perpetual reproof, bringing anew the sound
of those terrible words, “Woman! see your own work!”
Short and sad was the remaining annal of her days.
One morning in the midst of her lofty parlor, she fell,
and rose not. She was borne to her chamber and bed,
where she breathed heavily, but spoke not. Long did
her coach, which she had ordered, stand in waiting at her
physicians, neighbors or domestics, remembered to say to
the coachman,—“The mistress is dead!”
In an inner room, haggard with grief, sat the disconsolate
husband, his mutilated child upon his knee. At the
deep sound of the funeral bell, he put the little one from
him, that he might kneel for the last time amid the voice
of prayer, by her side whom prayer would no longer
avail, and look for the last time on that bloated, discolored
face, once so beautiful.
As years passed on it was touching to see that melancholy
man, in his rich saloon, his spacious garden or his
favorite library, ever holding by her only hand his only
child, ever breathing into her ear precepts of wisdom,
ever pouring, as it were, the whole wealth of a sorrowing,
loving spirit into her tender bosom. From no effort of
duty or work of benevolence did he withdraw himself,
but the brightness of existence was gone forever; and in
his most cheerful moments, he was as one who had seen
the idol of his youth borne away by some black-winged
monster into outer darkness.
| LOUISA WILSON. Water-drops | |