University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

A fortnight had passed, and again it was evening.
In the small dining-room of Florence Hamilton's humble
home was assembled the now diminished family circle.
Florence sat sadly apart, leaning her head, with closed eyes,
against the window. The tea bell rang; she lifted her
head, glanced round the room, and wearily dropped her
brow again on its resting place. Mary approached, and
taking her hand, said, in a gentle, winning tone, “Come,
Florry dear.”

“Eat your supper, Mary; I do not wish any.”

“But you have not eaten any thing to-day, and need
something; do try, for my sake.”

“I can not. If you knew how both head and heart
ache, you would not urge me.”

Mary turned away, and ate the usually joyous meal with
a heavy heart. Florence had left her seat, and was
standing in the door: as her cousin rose from the table she
beckoned to her, and passed hurriedly out. Mary strove to

catch her arm, but she hastened on, as if trying to escape
from herself. Suddenly she paused by the river side, and
clasped her hands convulsively over her head.

“Mary! Mary! you know not what I suffer.”

“Florry, sit down, and lean your weary head on my
shoulder.”

She dipped her hand in the water, and dashed the cold,
sparkling drops on her cousin's burning brow, speaking the
while in a low, soothing tone. Florence rested a few
moments in her cousin's arms, then threw herself on a
grassy bank, and covered her face; one long, deep groan
alone attesting her mental anguish. Mary wept more
bitterly than she had yet done; still, she was so quiet, none
would have known her grief, save from the tears that fell
over her hand and arms. Can it be, that the spirits of
departed friends hover near us while on earth, and draw
closer in hours of woe? If so, why is it denied to the
suffering one to hear again the dear accents of the “loved
and lost?” Why may not their silver pinions fan the burning
brow of sorrowing mortality, and the echo of Heaven's
own melody murmur gently, “Peace, peace and joy for
evermore?”

Florence stood up before her cousin; all trace of emotion
had passed away, and left her calm. The bright moon
shone full on her face. Oh! how changed since the
morning she stood in Madame —'s schoolroom. The
large dark eyes were sunken; the broad brow marked with
lines of mental anguish; the cheeks colorless, and her
long raven hair tossed back, and hanging like a vail below
her slender waist. There was a hollow, wasted look in

every feature; the expression was one of hopeless misery,
and a something there was which made the heart ache,
yet the haughty glance of other days might still be seen.

“Mary, look at me!”

“Well, Florry, I have looked at you, and sad enough it
makes me feel.”

“I am changed Mary, strangely changed, am I not?
Answer me truly.”

“Yes, you look weary and ill; but why do you ask me
such a question? You have had cause to look pale.”

“Ah! you say truly; but, Mary, have you never suspected
that a secret grief was freezing the life-blood in my
cheeks?”

“Florry, what do you mean? I am afraid you are
feverish!” and Mary laid her hand anxiously on her
cousin's. It was flung contemptuously off.

“Mary, listen to what I have to say. I am in a strange
mood to-night, and you must not contradict me. Where
shall I begin? When my mother died I was four years
old, they say, and a very delicate child. My mother!
how strange it sounds. Yet I can at times faintly remember
her beautiful face. Very faintly, as in a dream, I have
seen an angel visitant. My mother, why did you leave
your hapless babe? Oh! why? my mother! I was left
much to myself, and followed unrestrained my own inclinations.
You know my fondness for books; that fondness
was imbibed in girlhood, as I wandered in my own sunny
home—my lost home. My father taught me to conceal
my emotions—to keep down the rising sob, to force back
the glittering tear; and when I smiled over some childish

grief, applauded my stoicism. I became unnatural,
cold, haughty, but not unfeeling. I remember well how
your pale face and mourning dress touched my heart, and
waked my sympathies. From that hour I lavished my
love on my father and yourself. Years passed and we
went to New Orleans—” Here Florence paused, and
closed her eyes for a moment, but quickly resumed—“You
know how I studied. Mary, was it merely from love of
metaphysics and philosophy, think you? No, no! Mr.
Stewart's look of surprise and pleasure as, one by one, I
mastered various intricacies, was the meed for which I
toiled. Mary, from the first day we met, I loved him, for
his was a master spirit. I worshiped him in my inmost
soul, and he loved me in return. I know—I feel that he
did. Yet he was even prouder than myself, and would
have scorned to speak of love to one who never smiled in
his presence. Oh! often when he stood beside my desk
giving instruction, my heart has sprung to him. I have
longed to hear the words of tenderness that welled up from
his heart, but scorned to tremble on his lips. No look of
love ever fell on me. His glance was cold and haughty.
Oh, how inconsistent is woman! I yearned for his love;
yet, had he tendered it, under my haughtiness would have
dropped my idol—have shivered it at my feet. Weeks
passed, and while near him I knew no sorrow; but the
morning of my life was destined to be short. The cloud that
had lowered on the horizon suddenly darkened around.
That never-to-be-forgotten letter came, and I saw a great
gulf open at my feet. An invisible hand placed Dudley
Stewart on one brink, and I was left upon the other; and
an unknown messenger thundered the decree of separation
—`Forget the past and live again in the future!' I started
as from a frightful dream. The cold reality forced itself
upon me. Mary, a suspicion stole into my heart, and
stung me. I thought for a brief time that Mr. Stewart
loved you, and whose hand may register the darkened
thoughts that crowded bitterly up? The morning we left
New Orleans, I went into the schoolroom for our books.
Ah! who may know the agony of that hour! I sat down
in his chair, and laid my head on his desk, and groaned in
mine anguish of spirit. Oh! Mary, that was the blackest,
bitterest hour of my life. I had fancied he loved me:
I feared I was deceived; I hated—despised myself for my
weakness. Yet I could not reproach him; he had never
sought my love.

“I had just risen from his desk when Mr. Stewart
came in. He did not seem to see me, but took a seat near
the door. I was well-nigh exhausted, but strove to appear
as cold and indifferent as ever. I gathered up my books
and turned to go, then he laid down his pen, and came to
me.

“`I believe you and your cousin leave to-day?'

“`Yes, in this evening's boat,' I answered, much as
usual.

“`I wish you a safe and pleasant voyage. My kindest
adieux to your cousin. Good-by, Miss Hamilton.'

“He held out his hand. I said `good-by' as clearly
and coldly as himself. Our hands met but an instant: there
was no pressure—no warmth, and then he opened the door
for me to pass. As he did so our eyes met; his glance was

calm and cold, but his lips were firmly compressed. Had
he looked sad, mournful, or tender, I should have passed out
and triumphed; but my overtasked strength gave way; a
cold shudder crept through my frame, and consciousness
forsook me. I never fainted before or since. When I
revived, I raised my head and looked about me. I was
reclining on a couch; he kneeling beside me, calmly, as he
would have stood in class. He held my hand, and pressed
it warmly.

“`Are you better now, Florence?'

“`Oh, yes, thank you,' I said, and rose to my feet.

“He still held my hand. I withdrew it, and turned to
the door. He placed himself before it, and said—`Florence,
it was well done; you are an admirable dissembler,
but I am not deceived. You love me, and have for long,
yet I freely acknowledge your love can never exceed my
own. I love you better than my life, though perfectly
aware that we are now parted forever. I am a poor tutor,
dependent on my daily exertions for subsistence; you the
cherished daughter of a wealthy and ambitious parent.'

“He drew me to him, and imprinted a long kiss on my
lips; then put me gently back, and left the room.

“I never saw him again, but did I doubt his love? No,
no! I would sooner doubt my own existence. We embarked,
as you know, in the evening. That night was
beautiful—just such a one as this—serene and heavenly.
I stole out on deck when others slumbered, and for a long
weary hour paced to and fro. There was a wild tumult
in my soul which would not be stilled, and every restraining
effort but fanned the flame that raged within. A

never-to-be-forgotten contest was waged that night, and
my heart was the arena. My guardian angel whispered
low, `Forget the past as a feverish dream; it is not well for
thee; forget, forget!' But the heaven-born accents were
suddenly drowned by the wild shriek of my dark destiny—
`Of Lethe's waters thou shalt never taste! I have shattered
the goblet at thy feet, and scattered the draught to
the winds of heaven! Behold the apotheosis of thine idol!
At this shrine shalt thou bow evermore—evermore!'

“A new impulse was implanted within me; and, impotent
to resist, I was impelled onward, and onward, till a
chasm yawned at my feet. Yet a moment I trembled on
the brink, then plunged desperately forward. Mary, listen.
I knelt on the damp, glistening deck, and implored Almighty
God to register my words in heaven. In his awful
name and presence, I solemnly swore to love Dudley
Stewart alone—to be his wife, or go down to the tomb as
Florence Hamilton. I rose up calm—the fierce warring
was stilled. Yet it was not inward peace that succeeded.
My fate was sealed—the last page of destiny transcribed.

“Time passed on, oblivious of the darkened hours it bore
on its broad bosom. Mary, I have watched for one loved
form, and listened for that calm, proud step. I have loved,
and trusted, and believed that we should meet again. Deluded
Florence! a period is put to thy hopes and fears!
Mary, he is married! All is over for me. The dull, heavy
weight resting upon my heart will soon crush out the life
spark, and lay low my proud head. Ah! my cousin, you
weep. I wish that I could; but tears have been too often
scornfully repulsed; they come not now at my call. Oh,

Mary, I am weary, weary! I long for rest, even the rest
of the dark, still tomb! I have no hope—no wish. I am
passive now. At last nature has broken the bonds so long
forced upon her, and the reaction is strong indeed. You
ask how I received my information: ah! you need not
doubt its authenticity. Aunt Lizzy and his mother were
old friends, and she received a letter the day before my
father died, announcing his approaching union with a
beautiful cousin! I am deservedly punished: I worshiped
the creature and forgot the God. I needed a desperate
remedy, and it is administered.

As Florence concluded she leaned heavily against a tree,
and raised her eyes to the jeweled vault above. Just then
a dense black cloud, which had floated up from the west,
passed directly over the moon, obscuring the silvery rays.
She pointed to it, and said, in a low, mournful voice—“How
typical of my life and heart; shut out from joy and hope
in one brief hour, unlike it ever to be brightened again.”

“Oh! Florry, dear Florry! turn to God for comfort
and succor in this hour of need. He will enable you to
bear this trial, and go steadily on in the path of duty.”

“Mary, I have no incitement to exertion; nothing to
anticipate. My future is blank and dreary. I know my
lot in life; I have nothing to hope for.”

“Not so, Florry. Your future life will be an active one.
Are we not dependent on our exertions for subsistence?
and does not our little school open to-morrow? Cheer up,
darling! all may yet be bright. Bury the painful remembrances
of the past; believe me, peace, if not joyousness, will
surely follow the discharge of your duties.”

“I can not forget the past. Had he sought my love, I
could scorn him for his baseness; but it is not so. I almost
wish it were. Yet I know and feel that he loves me; and
oblivion of the past is as impossible for him as myself. I
know not what strange impulse has induced me to tell you
all this. I did it half unconsciously, hoping for relief by
revealing that which has pressed so heavily on my heart.
Mary, never speak to me of it again; and, above all, do not
mention his name. It has passed my lips for the last time,
and all shall be locked again within my own heart. We
will open the school to-morrow; and may God help me,
Mary, pray, oh, pray for me! I had no mother to teach
me, and prayer is a stranger to my lips.”

She walked hurriedly to the house, and shut herself
within her own apartment.