40. XL.
THE HEART OF A CHILD.
There has survived the tempest of
these events which we are recording, a
little MS. volume in which Meta, the orphan,
wrote down her whole life. Many
pages of this book are painful; many
full of a strange pathos. It is a record
of the child's inner life, of her struggles,
pangs, happinesses, and unhappinesses,
naive, eloquent, moving—but sacred for
its very candor and unreserve.
From this record the following leaf
is taken, as necessary to the comprehension
of our history, which deals less with
Meta than with others. It was written,
as the reader will perceive, immediately
after her restoration to reason, and clearly
paints her life and feelings at the moment:
“After a long sleep, I seem to have
awakened, as it were—no longer a poor,
insane human creature, but, as mamma
taught me to read in the Holy Book,
`clothed, and in my right mind.'
“I have lived for years, I think, in a
sort of dream-life, like twilight when
the sun has gone down; and the world
around me now seems so strange, and
so sad! Naught surrounds me but unhappiness—and,
O me, he is the unhappiest
of all! Shall I write of him—and
of—myself? I scarce dare place this feeling
upon paper, but why should I not?
It was, and is, only love—the fond, simple
love of a poor child that I felt for
him—Edmund. I write the name, Edmund,
with a throb of the heart; but,
'tis written, and gives me strength to go
on. I loved him very, very much, and
love him as dearly now: but, no longer
to watch him, and scheme to make him
unhappy. Oh, no, no! I would give
my life for him—my poor, worthless life,
which I think will not last long. I think
I could die happy, telling him, `'Tis for
your happiness I die!'
“I must not write down these exclamations,
but remember what has happened,
rather than what I have felt. At
Rivanna, I was very, very vile—I was
nearly the death of my dearly-loved Honoria,
by frightening her so; and I then
acted from a base, wretched jealousy of
her. I was so vile that I could have
killed her to separate her and him!
Now, all is changed. It may be even
that I shall bring him happiness. By
my act, he is no longer a poor, penniless
boy, but the lord of Rivanna.
“This came about so strangely! In
the old chest, where I tried to hide that
night, I found many things which I hid
away, and, among others, a paper which
became mixed with my clothes, and was
so brought to the capital. Before I knew
any thing of this, came that strange
change in my whole life—the removal,
by Dr. Vandyke, my dear, good friend,
of the cause of my insanity. I remember
nothing of that, save a strange, dull
feeling, a sinking, and an awakening, to
find my reason, and my power of hearing
and speaking, all restored. Of my
rapture I cannot speak. It was like entering
a new world, and I recalled but
dimly what had taken place in all those
years, during which I was a poor, unreasoning,
cunning, scheming lunatic.
And it was just at this moment that,
looking in my travelling-trunk one day,
I chanced to discover the paper taken
from the old chest, and remembered
where I had found it. I read it with
wonder, and scarcely understanding it
at first, but soon its great importance
was plain to me. I had heard vague rumors
of another will of Colonel Seaton's,
and, now, here was this will, leaving all
his property to Edmund's mother!
“I held the paper in my hand, gazing
at it with a fixed look, and thinking.
To think was almost a pain to me, but
gradually I linked one thought to another,
and said to myself: `This paper,
which makes Edmund wealthy, gives him
Honoria. Her father would never consent
to Honoria's marriage with a penniless
youth; but, if the youth be a rich
suitor, the master of Rivanna, he will
consent!' That thought dazzled me,
and made me wretched. Then he and
Honoria would be happy—I should be
wretched! In my hand I held their future
life—it would be I who would give
her to him! I shook, and felt
the evil
spirit tempting me. To burn the paper
would be as easy as to produce it. Why
not burn it?
“I looked at the paper for a little
while, and then fell on my knees, and
prayed for strength to resist temptation;
and got up, and ran to dear aunt, and
cried: `Here it is!—here it is! Take
it—take it!' She looked at me in great
surprise, and wished me to tell her where
I had gotten the paper; but I burst out
crying, and for a long time went on
sobbing, as she clasped me in her dear
arms. Then I told her, and she hurriedly
called Uncle Brand, who came quickly,
and read the paper, turning very pale
as he did so. When he had read it in
silence, and turned it over, and examined
it, he groaned, and said: `This beggars
us; but there is but one thing to be
done. Rivanna is not ours, but his; and
must be surrendered to him.' He then
questioned me, and I told him of the
discovery of the paper, when he knit his
brows, but said no more, and left the
room, carrying the paper with him. A
painful scene followed this. I was led
by aunt one morning into the drawing-room,
and Edmund and Lord Ruthven
soon came, and Uncle Brand spoke of
the will. Edmund tore it in pieces, and
left the room — Lord Ruthven having
claimed, as he said, Uncle Brand's
`plighted word of honor' that he should
marry Cousin Honoria.
“Poor, poor, Honoria! There is no
hope for her or for him—Edmund! Uncle
Brand is not to be moved, and Honoria
and Lord Ruthven will surely be
married. I do not rejoice at it—oh, no
—no! My heart bleeds to think of his
unhappiness—of how much he will suffer.
Why, oh, why do such things happen
in this world? Why should his
heart be broken when he loves Honoria
so—and all that she may marry a lord?
What is a lord? Is he better than a
gentleman? Compare Edmund and Lord
Ruthven, and who shall say that Edmund
is not the better worth loving?
But there is no hope for him. Uncle
Brand would rather die, and have his
daughter made miserable, than break his
`word' when he has once given it. I
heard him say as much, but I do not
think that he understands or believes she
will be unhappy. He has said to aunt,
more than once, in my hearing: `Pshaw!
—this fancy for her cousin is nothing.
Lady Ruthven will soon be consoled;
women are fickle!' Are they? I know
not how it may be with others: but one
poor, weak girl—a girl, not a woman—
would die if she could buy thus the happiness
of one she has loved long, and
dearly, and faithfully!
“I am not well to-day. Exposure in
a thin dress at the great assembly, at the
governor's palace, has given me what
aunt calls `a cold,' and a sharp pang
strikes through my breast at times. I
feel so weak; but all is in God's hands.
He knows what is best for me. My life
is not sunshine that I should cling to it,
and I see little happiness for me in the
future. And, yet, I do not repine. He
can never love me; but I can love him,
and pray for him, and think night and
day of him. Oh, may he be happier,
and forget this misery, and be a good
man, and think sometimes, when I am
gone, of his poor Meta!—”
Tears had fallen on the page which
held this confession. You might see the
blots. On the next leaf was written:
“We leave Williamsburg to-morrow.
I have told no one, but I think I am going
to be ill—and that I shall not see the
spring flowers. God's will be done! I
have seen him no more. I think he has
left the capital—my poor Edmund!”
