 | Love Triumphant. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West |  |
7. Love Triumphant.
If there is any one who needs the philosophy of this
world's changes to make him wiser and better, by bringing
hope to his despair, or humility to his pride, let him take
a given number of individuals, and a given number of years
—say twenty of each—and observe the condition of the
different parties at the beginning and end of the time that
is named. The result in all cases will be astonishing—in
many it will be wonderful.
If old enough, reader, think back twenty years, and see
where and how you stood in the world then, with nineteen
others, selected at random from all you then knew. Take
the names that first present themselves to your memory,
and write them down, with the condition and prospeets of
each individual annexed; and then, underneath, write the
condition and prospects of each at the present moment;
and if you find not the result almost startling, and full of
moral philosophy, then has time dealt gently with you
and your friends, and you require not the lesson which
would otherwise be taught.
Twenty names and twenty years! Ah! here they come
—substance and shadow—the living and dead; but oh!
how great, how startling, the change between that time
and this—the past and the present!
Foremost of the group, I behold a bright, gay, fascinating
and beautiful little being, who seemed born to love
and be beloved. Her promise was a golden future of joy
—her reality an early rest in the dark, cold grave. Nineteen
years has her mortal form reposed in the quiet churchyard,
and few now living remember the name she bore.
Next I recall an aspiring youth—proud, wealthy, and
ambitious—bending his whole energies to academic honors
and collegiate distinction. His promise was a brilliant
career, with living applause and posthumous fame—his
reality a loss of sight, mental disease, and a suicide's
death.
The third comes up before me a poor, pale, blue-eyed
cripple, whom one loved, a few pitied, and the rest
despised. His promise was a short and miserable existence—his
reality an honorable position, great wealth, and
plenty of what the world calls friends.
And so I might go on, disposing of the number one by
one; but there are two whose names rise together and
blend in my memory, and who may more properly fill the
limits of my space—for theirs is a history “to point a
moral and adorn a tale.”
Twenty years ago, then, a slender, pale young man,
thinly but decently clad, was one cold, antumnal evening
hurrying his steps over the ground that divided his own
humble home from the large and somewhat aristocratic
dwelling of a neighbor. As he drew near the mansion,
which loomed up white, and seemingly cold and proud, in
the frosty, star-lit air, the pale features of the young man
flushed, and the hand that timidly knocked at the door
trembled not a little. The door, however, was almost
immediately opened, by a blooming, beautiful girl of
eighteen, who said, in a rather quick and apparently
excited tone:
“Ah! Walter—so it is you! Walk in!”
“I hope I see you well this evening, Mary!” returned
the young man, in a slightly tremulous tone, that seemed
to result from strong but partially suppressed emotions.
“Yes, I am well,” replied the girl, hurriedly, as she
closed the door and led the way to the sitting-room, where
she motioned her guest to be seated, though without showing
any inclination to sit herself. “You received my note,
I suppose?” she interrogatively asserted, in a quick and
flurried manner, hastily turning her flushing features from
the keen scrutiny of him she addressed.
“Yes, Mary Ellsworth,” replied the other, more slowly
and distinctly, “I received a line or two from you, saying
and you desired to see me alone for a few minutes.”
The young man paused, keeping his fine, hazel eyes
steadily fixed upon the other, who now, with averted head,
seemed much embarrassed and disconcerted. Stepping
forward a few paces, she dropped into a chair, and, still
without reply, appeared to busy herself in looking at the
jeweled rings on her fair, soft, lady-like-fingers.
“Mary,” spoke young Walter Harwood, after an impressive
silence of more than a minute, “what is the meaning
of this?”
She played nervously with her fingers, but still remained
silent.
“Mary,” continued Walter, placing a chair and seating
himself in such a position that he could catch a partial
view of her features, “let me remind you exactly how we
stand in regard to each other; and then speak frankly,
and say why you sent for me!”
He paused a moment, passing his hand rather quickly
and nervously along his high, white forehead, and up
through his dark, clustering hair, and then proceeded:
“I am four years your senior, Mary, and have loved you
from infancy. It was my delight as a child, when you
were a mere infant, to hold you in these arms; and even
then, young as I was, and strange as it may seem, I often
prayed that I might grow up a strong man, and be ever
of life.
“We were playmates when little—we grew up companions—and
there was never a period of your life that I
did not love you, and daily pray to be loved in return.
But your father was rich, and mine was poor; and as I
grew older, I learned to feel the distinction which existed,
and still exists, between the families of Ellsworth and Harwood;
though I will do you the justice to say, that I do
not believe you ever intentionally made me perceive the
difference I allude to; but I did see, know and feel it;
and though loving you almost to madness, I dared not
venture to tell you so, lest my motive might either be
thought mercenary, or myself too presumptuous, and thus
all my brightest hopes and fondest dreams be in an evil
moment blasted.
“But why dwell upon this which I have many times
told you already? Rather let me come to the point at
once.
“About one year ago then, Mary,” the young man went
on, with deep feeling, while his listener grew deadly pale
and trembled violently, “such an opportunity presented
itself for declaring my passion, that to delay it longer
seemed flying in the very face of fortune; and carried
away by an almost uncontrollable impulse, I poured out
my very soul to your listening ear, and received in return
stronger term, that I went home the happiest being in the
wide, wide world. Ah! Mary—Mary—you may not love
me now—you may never have loved me—but you will
never be so loved by another as you are by the poor,
miserable being who now addresses you.
“Well, I went home happy, as I have said—but how
long did my happiness last? The very next time I met
you, you seemed troubled and displeased; the second time
you were dignified; the third reserved; the fourth cool;
the fifth cold; the sixth you scarcely noticed me; and
then we ceased speaking altogether, and I have been an
unhappy being ever since. Now, after a long, painful
lapse, your note has brought me to you, and I have come
trembling with hope and fear. Oh! Mary—dear Mary,
shall I venture to call you?—am I here to learn from your
lips that the past is forgotten? and that henceforth I am
to be again enraptured with your esteem, your regard,
your—”
“Hold!” interrupted Marry, suddenly starting to her
feet, and speaking in a tone that betrayed great agitation:
“I have let you proceed too far, Mr. Harwood. In
short,” she hurriedly went on, “I find, on examining
myself, I have not, do not, never can, esteem you as I
could wish; and I sent for you to-night, for the purpose
of telling you so, calmly, and asking your forgiveness for
forget me—that you will go in a friendly spirit, and have
no harsh and bitter feelings rankling in your heart. I
would like your good opinion as a friend, and as a friend I
shall always be pleased to meet you; but a warmer feeling
it is not in my power to bestow.”
“Can this be true? and am I thus suddenly made
wretched forever!” groaned young Walter Harwood, as he
buried his face in his hands, and rocked to and fro in an
indescribable agony of mind.
For a few minutes there was not another word spoken—
the young man swaying to and fro and breathing heavily
—and the fair maiden watching him with features pale,
anxious and troubled.
“Mary,” said Walter at length, raising a face so altered
and ghastly that his fair companion fairly started with
surprise and alarm, “answer me two questions, truly, as
God is your judge! First, has either of your parents ever
brought to your view the difference between yourself as
an heiress, and myself as a poor and humble young
man?”
“I cannot deny, Walter,” returned Mary, in great
agitation, “that something has been said to me on the
subject.”
“Secondly, then,” pursued the other, “is there any one
you esteem, or love, more than you do me?'
“I - I—would rather not answer that question!” replied
Mary, turning away her head in confusion.
“Enough!” rejoined Walter; “I am answered. I knew
that Henry Wilder had been a somewhat regular visiter
here for the last six months; but I did not allude to it
sooner, because I feared you would think me captious or
jealous. I understand all now!” he continued, rising and
presenting his hand, which the maiden took almost
mechanically. “Farewell!” he added, in a faltering voice,
his trembling form and quivering lips betraying his deep
and painful emotions. “Farewell, Mary Ellsworth! it is
not likely we shall ever meet again. Yet one word of
caution before we part! Beware of him I have named!
He is a mere adventurer, seeking you for your wealth.
He is not a true and honest man, and I speak from personal
knowledge. Oh! give him not your hand and heart,
as you value your peace and happiness! which will always
be dear to him you now reject. God bless you, and
prosper you, and guard you from the misery I now suffer,
shall ever be the prayer of him who now bids you an
eternal adieu!”
Saying this, he gave the hand he held a strong, nervous
pressure, and rushed madly from the presence of the fair
being he so wildly worshipped; who, for a few minutes,
remained as one speechless with a strange surprise, and
then gave way to her emotions in a flood of tears.
A week later it was known to all in the vicinity, that
Walter Harwood had gone abroad, perhaps never to
return. Three months later, a gay bridal party assembled
at the mansion of `Squire Ellsworth, to witness the beautiful
heiress give her hand to him against whom she had
been warned.
Nineteen years passed away—a short period or a long
one, according as existence has proved bright or gloomy,
happy or miserable—and in a Southern city, which shall
be nameless, the Governor of the State sat reading in his
library, when a servant in livery announced to his Excellency
that a lady in black most urgently craved a few
minutes audience.
“Conduct her hither,” replied the Governor; and as
she appeared, he rose, advanced a few paces, politely
handed her a seat, and resumed his own.
The lady, who was dressed in deep mourning, with a
black, heavy veil entirely concealing her features, trembled
violently, as she hurriedly but silently reached forward a
paper to his Excellency, which he quietly and courteously
received.
“This,” he said, after a few minutes of silence, during
which he was engaged in unrolling and perusing a lengthy
document, “is a petition—signed, among others, by quite a
number of respectable and influential citizens—praying for
the pardon of one Thomas Calcraft, lately convicted and
the crime of forgery. Madam, what is this man to you?”
He is my husband, your Excellency,” faltered the
woman, trembling nervously.
I am sorry for it, madam—because it is hard for a man
of feeling to deny the petition of a wife in behalf of him
she has solemnly vowed to love and honor; but my sense
of duty becomes paramount to feeling, and I must refuse
your prayer. This man, though your husband, has no
redeeming antecedents, and I am sorry to say I do not
think he merits executive clemency!”
“Oh! say not so, your Excellency!” cried the poor
woman, suddenly starting from her seat, and dropping down
upon her knees before the Governor. “He always meant
to do right; but he has been unfortunate; and in a moment
of insanity—I can call it no less—insanity caused by want,
and a husband's and father's desire to give bread to his
starving wife and children—he wrote another man's name
to a note, and got it cashed, intending to take it up before
it came due; but was discovered, arrested, and is now
groaning out his life within the dark, gloomy walls of a
prison! Oh! pardon him, your Excellency! pardon him!
as you hope God to pardon you; and I solemnly declare
to you, he shall immediately leave the State, and never
again offend against its righteous laws!”
While she was thus speaking, in a wild, impassioned
revealed to the astonished gaze of her listener the pale,
careworn, but still beautiful features of a woman fast verging
upon forty. At the sight of this face, the Governor
started back, clasped his hands, and, like one petrified
with amazement, kept his eyes riveted upon hers, without
further gesture or motion, and with even his breath suspended.
“Do my eyes deceive me! or do I behold in this kneeling
figure the once happy Mary Ellsworth?” he exclaimed,
the moment her musical voice ceased.
“Just Heaven! who speaks that name?” almost shrieked
the kneeling petitioner, starting suddenly to her feet, clasping
her temples with her hands, and fixing her eyes in wild
amazement upon the ruler of a State.
“Mary,” he groaned, “it is Walter Harwood you see
before you—the once poor, penniless man, who always
loved you better than his own life, but whose suit you
rejected, and whose existence your rejection has ever since
rendered miserable; for though the Governor of a State,
Mary, and blessed, as men call it, with honors, wealth and
power, I am at heart a lonely, wretched being, who lives
because it is a duty, and with only the hope of finding
happiness in a better world. Would to God we had
never met again!”
The interview between these two beings, after a lapse
one already recorded. She freely told him of all her
troubles and sorrows; how her parents, having been
induced to sell their property to enable her husband to
enter into some speculation, had soon been stripped of
all, and had died in poverty; how her husband had since
squandered all he could lay his hands on, and then, falling
into habits of dissipation, had gradually sunk lower and
lower, till crime had been added to his other faults and
errors, and he was now, under the assumed name of
Thomas Calcraft, suffering the penalty of broken laws;
and, finally, how she herself, deserting him never, had,
through good and evil report, in weal and woe, wealth
and poverty, happiness and misery, clung to him as a
guardian angel might cling to the wicked for his salvation.
“Oh! had you only so loved me, Mary!” groaned
Governor Harwood, as he buried his face in his hands,
and gave vent to his emotions in scalding tears. “It is
well,” he added, in a solemn tone, “that we can think
God orders for the best! or else this life of trial and
tribulation would not always be supportable.”
When poor Mary Wilder left the presence of the
Governor, it was with the assurance that her husband
should soon receive a pardon, and the belief that herself
and his Excellency would never meet again on earth.
But “man proposes and God disposes.” That night
Thomas Calcraft, alias Henry Wilder, committed suicide,
by hanging himself to the bars of his cell; and beside
his dead body Mary Ellsworth and Walter Harwood met
again.
The sequel may be told in a few words. One year later,
the even round of twenty years, Governor Harwood was
united, by the holy rite of marriage, to his first and only
love; and it is the earnest prayer of all who know them,
that their future may be blessed with a happiness that
their past has never known.
Oh, what a strange world is this to him who sits down
to note the changes of a few revolving years!
| Love Triumphant. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West | |