University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

One day our party had traveled further than on any
previous occasion: long and tedious was the ride, still they
pushed on, hoping to reach some stream ere the tents were
pitched for the night, as an abundant supply of pure fresh
water was essential to the comfort of their camp. In the
metaphorical strain of a certain writer—“Phœbus drove
his steeds to be foddered in their western stables.” Slowly
twilight fell upon the earth, and, one by one, the lamps of
heaven were lit. The wagon in which Dr. Bryant and
Mary rode was rather in the rear of the party, as the riders
pressed anxiously forward. The cool night-wind blew fresh
upon the fevered brow of the invalid, and gently lifted and
bore back the clustering curls.

“I am very much afraid you will take cold:” and Dr.
Bryant wrapped his cloak carefully about her.

“Thank you:” and she sank back in its heavy folds, and

looked up to the brilliant firmament, where the stars glittered,
like diamonds on a ground of black velvet, in the
clear, frosty air.

“Orion has culminated; and how splendidly it glows
to-night, I think I never saw it so brilliant.”

“Perhaps it appears so from the peculiar position whence
you view it. You never observed it before from a wagon,
in a broad prairie, with naught intervening between the
constellation and yourself save illimitable space, though
I agree with you in thinking it particularly splendid. I
have ever regarded it as the most beautiful among the many
constellations which girt the heavens.”

“I have often wondered if Cygnus was not the favorite
of papists, Dr. Bryant.”

“Ah! it never occurred to me before, but, since you mention
it, I doubt not they are partial to it. How many superstitious
horrors are infused into childish brains by nurses
and nursery traditions! I well remember with what terror
I regarded the Dolphin, or, in common parlance, `Job's
Coffin,' having been told that, when that wrathful cluster
was on the meridian, some dreadful evil would most
inevitably befall all who ventured to look upon it; and often,
in my boyhood, I have covered my face with my hands,
and asked its whereabouts. Indeed I regarded it much
as Æneas did Orion, when he says:

The contemplation of the starry heavens has ever exerted
an elevating influence on my mind. In viewing its glories,
I am borne far from the puerilities of earth, and my soul
seeks a purer and more noble sphere.”

“Your quotation from Virgil recalled a passage in Job—
`Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth
the shadow of death into morning.' Oh! how inimitably
sublime is inspired language—and `turneth the shadow of
death into morning.' And how comforting the promise
conveyed,” said Mary, earnestly.

“Miss Irving, don't you admire Cassiopeia very much?”
said Dr. Bryant, wishing to turn the current of her thoughts.
“I think it very beautiful, particularly when it occupies its
present position, and, as it were, offers to weary travelers
so inviting a seat. Yet often I am strangely awed, in
gazing on the group so enveloped in unfathomable mystery.
Who may say when another of its jewels shall flicker and
go out? And when may not our own world to other
planets be a `Lost Star?' How childish associations cling
to one in after years. I never looked up at Cassiopeia,
without recalling the time when my tutor gave me as a
parsing lesson, the first lines of the `Task'—literally a task
to me (mind I do not claim the last as original, for it is a
plagiarism on somebody, I forget now who). My teacher
first read the passage carefully over, explaining each idea
intended to be conveyed, and at the conclusion turned to
an assistant, and remarked that `with Cassiopeia for a
model, he wondered chairs were not earlier constructed.' I
wondered in silence what that hard word could signify,
and at length summoned courage to ask an explanation. A
few nights afterward, visiting at my father's, he took me out,

pointed to the constellation, and gave the origin of the name,
while, to my great joy, I discovered the resemblance to a
chair. Ah! that hour is as fresh in my memory as though
I stood but last night by his side and listened to his teachings.

“Yes, who will deny the magic influence of association?
After all, Dr. Bryant, it is not the intrinsic beauty of an
object that affords us such delight, but ofttimes the memory
of the happy past, so blended with the beauty viewed as
scarcely to be analyzed in the soothing emotions which steal
into the heart. Such a night as this ever reminds me of
the beautiful words of Willis, in his `Contemplations;' and,
like Alethe, I often ask, `When shall I gather my wings,
and, like a rushing thought, stretch onward, star by star, up
into heaven?'”

A silence ensued for several moments, and then the cry
of “Water!” “water!” fell refreshingly on the ears of the
wearied travelers, and the neighboring stream was hailed
as joyfully as was in olden time the well of Gem-Gem.

Soon the tents were pitched, and a bright crackling fire
kindled. Florence, declaring she was too much fatigued for
supper, threw herself on her pallet. Aunt Lizzy and Mrs.
Carlton were busily unpacking some of their utensils, and
Mary, closely wrapt up, stood by the blazing logs, thinking
how cheerful its ruddy light made every object seem, and
wondering if, after all, the Ghebers were so much to blame.
Mr. Carlton joined her; and after inquiring how she bore
their very fatiguing ride, remarked that in a few more days
their journeyings would be over.

“I shall almost regret its termination. This mode of

traveling seems very pleasant to me, and you, who are
strong and well, must enjoy it much more.”

Just then the sound of approaching hoofs caused her to
look toward their wagon; and she perceived two men
mounted, one in the act of descending, while Dr. Bryant
advanced quickly to meet him.

Mr. Carlton left her. Silently she looked on, wondering
who the strangers could possibly be, when the words
fell with startling distinctness on her listening ear:

“Dudley Stewart! do my eyes deceive me?”

“Frank Bryant is it possible I meet you here?”

The tones of the last speaker were too familiar to be mistaken.
She trembled from head to foot as the past rose
before her. Her first thought was of Florence.

“Oh, if he is married, this meeting will be terrible!”
and her heart throbbed violently as the gentlemen approached
her. Scarce conscious of her movements, she advanced
to meet Dr. Bryant, whose arm was linked in that of the
new comer. They met: the fire-light glowed on the face
of both.

“Mr. Stewart!” and the wasted hand was extended.

“Mary Irving! or is this an illusion?” Tightly the
hand was clasped.

“It is I—your old pupil, though so altered, I wonder not
that you fail to recognize me.” She lifted her eyes and
met Dr. Bryant's gaze, deep and piercing, as though he
were reading her inmost soul. Mr. Stewart looked long at
the face turned toward him.

“Frank, you did not tell me she was with you! Oh,
how changed—how wasted you are! But what means

this black dress?” and his fingers clutched her mourning
gown, while his deep tone faltered. Mary drew closer to
his side, and murmured:

“Florry is well; but my uncle has been taken from us.”
Her head sunk on her bosom as she spoke.

“Where is Florence?” and he tightly clasped her hand
between his own.

A shudder crept over Dr. Bryant, who had not heard
their words, and he walked quickly away.

“Florry is in the tent. Mr. Stewart, we heard that you
were married; can this be true?”

“No, no! Did your cousin credit the report?”

“Yes; and ere you make yourself known, let me in
some degree prepare her for the meeting.”

So saying, she sought Florence, and asked if she were
sleeping.

“No, Mary; can I do any thing for you?” and she
raised her head.

“Yes, Florry, come with me—I want to speak to
you.”

Her cousin accompanied her to the door, and standing so
that the tent intervened between them and Mr. Stewart,
Mary laid her hand on Florence's shoulder, and said:

“I have just learned, Florry, that Mr. Stewart is not
married.”

“Mary, Mary! why touch a chord which ever vibrates
with the keenest agony? There is no happiness for me on
earth—I have known that for long, and now I am striving
to fix my thoughts, and all of hope that remains, on
heaven.”

Mary linked her arm in Florence's, and gently drawing
her forward, replied:

“God has not promised heaven as the price of every
earthly joy and comfort. Can you not still hope for
happiness?”

“Mary, I am parted forever from him whom I have
loved so devotedly; yet I cease to repine. I know my lot, and
I will pass through life alone, yes, alone, without a murmur.”

“Not so, Florence—my own treasured Florence!”

She turned quickly, and was clasped to the heart of him
she had sworn to love alone.

“Am I dreaming?” said Florence, gazing eagerly up
into the noble face before her. He lifted his cap from his
brow, and bent his head that the light might fall full upon
it. A gleam of perfect joy irradiated her beautiful face,
and, leaning her head on his shoulder, she whispered:
“Forgive me—for I doubted you.”

He bent, and sealed her pardon with a long kiss.

Mary stole away to Mrs. Carlton to impart the good
news; Dr. Bryant had already communicated it. Warmly
she sympathized with them in again meeting an old friend;
but Mary heeded not her words, for her eyes were riveted
on Frank's stern brow and slightly curling lip. A mist
rose before her, and catching for support at the tent, she
would have fallen, had not his strong arm encircled her;
and soon she lay motionless in her tent. He stood and
looked on her a moment, then knelt and clasped the cold
hands. Mary had not swooned, though well-nigh insensible,
and a low moan of anguish escaped her lips, colorless,
and writhing with pain.

“Can I do nothing for you?”

“No, thank you; only do not tell Florry and Mr.
Stewart I am ill. It would only damp the joy of their
meeting.”

He left her, and met the lovers as they sought the remainder
of the party. He understood at a glance the position
of affairs, and with the sad conviction that Mary loved
Mr. Stewart, and loved him in vain, he strove to repress
his emotion and appear as usual.

Florence withdrew her hand from Mr. Stewart's clasp,
and, with a deep blush, passed Frank in order to reach the
tent. He placed himself before it.

“Miss Hamilton, I can't allow any one to disturb your
cousin; she is almost exhausted by our long ride, and I
forbid all company, as she needs rest and quiet.”

“I will not disturb her in the least, I assure you,
Doctor.” But he persisted, and she was forced to form one
of the circle that now gathered round the fire.

Mr. Stewart, in answer to Dr. Bryant's inquiries, replied
that he had long felt anxious to visit San Antonio, but had
been detained at home by important business till within a
few weeks, when he set out for Austin, and obtaining
there a sort of guide and companion, was hastening on,
hoping to reach the former place ere the arrival of the
Mexican forces.

“Having heard,” continued he, “that Mr. Hamilton's
death left his family somewhat unprotected, I felt particularly
anxious on their account. Seeing your camp-fire, attracted
us in this direction, and happy am I to meet so
many old friends”

To Florence he had been far more explicit, detailing the
causes which produced a most fortunate change in his circumstances,
and his immediate determination to seek her
in her Western home.

“You will return with us to Washington then, Stewart,
as we possess the treasure you are in search of?”

“Yes, if none of the party offer any objection,” replied
he.

“I don't know that any feel disposed to act so ungratefully:
suppose we inquire, however. Miss Hamilton, have
you any objection to receiving, as an escort and protector,
this amiable cavalier, who has wandered so far from home
to offer his services?”

“Frank, it is hardly fair to make her speak for the
party; some may differ with her, on so important a point.”

“You seem quite certain as to her sentiments on this
subject. Upon my word, Miss Florence, if I were you, I
should most assuredly take this occasion to teach him a
little humility; for instance, just tell him it makes no
difference with you—that it is perfectly immaterial.”

“In following your advice, Doctor, the responsibility will
be inevitably transferred to yourself; and I must thank
you for so politely relieving me.”

“I see no reason, Stewart, why you should not join our
party, and lend your assistance toward enlivening the tedious
hours yet in store for us; though only a few more days
of travel remain, thank Heaven.”

“One would suppose, from the fear of ennui which seems
to cloud your future, that Mary and I had not succeeded
so happily as we imagined, in our efforts to entertain you.”

“Pardon me, Miss Florence, if I have failed duly to
appreciate your kind efforts; though candor compels the
avowal, that I was not aware any extraordinary exertion
was made in my behalf.”

“Really, Frank, I should say you have made considerable
progress in raising yourself in your own estimation
since last I heard you converse. Mrs. Carlton, I am afraid
this climate is unfavorable for the growth of at least two
of the cardinal virtues.”

“Your insinuation is contemptible, because utterly without
grounds. Miss Florence, I appeal to you, as worthy
the privilege of acting as umpire in this important discussion.
Have you ever observed aught in my conduct indicating
a want of humility?”

“Unfortunately, Doctor, should I return an answer in
your favor, it would be at the expense of a virtue equally
entitled to pre-eminence.”

“To the very candid Miss Hamilton, I must return
thanks for her disinterested and very flattering decision.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by a call to the
evening meal, and gladly they obeyed the welcome summons.

Florence glancing round perceived the absence of her
cousin, and inquired the cause.

“I dare say she is asleep, poor child,” said Aunt Lizzy.

“She is trying to rest, Miss Hamilton, and I would not
advise any interruption. She needs quiet, for she was sorely
tried by this day's fatigues,” observed Dr. Bryant.

“I am afraid so,” replied Florence, an anxious look
again settling on her face. “Oh, I wish on her account

we could reach a place of rest and safety. I fear she has
failed in strength since leaving San Antonio.”

“How sadly changed she has become: had she not
spoken in her old, familiar tones, I should not have known
her. I earnestly hope there is nothing serious in her attack,
and that she will soon regain her former bloom: it
pains me to see her so altered,” said Mr. Stewart.

“She can not possibly improve while subjected to the
fatigues of this journey. I feared she was scarce able to
endure it,” answered Frank.

The conversation turned on more agreeable topics, and
soon—by all but Frank, who could not forget her look of
anguish—she was for a time forgotten.

Mary heard from her couch of suffering the cheerful
blending of voices, though nothing distinct reached her
ear; and as none approached to soothe her by affectionate
inquiries, a sense of neglect stole over her. But too habitually
accustomed to judge gently of others and forget herself,
it passed quickly away. She knelt on her pallet, and
clasping her thin hands, raised her heart to God, in the low,
feeble tone of one well-nigh spent:

“My God, thou readest my heart! Thou knowest how,
day by day, I have striven to love thee more and serve
thee better. Yet, oh, Father of mercies! my soul is tortured
with unutterable agony! Oh! on the verge of the
tomb, my heart still clings to earth and its joys. Look
down in thy mercy upon me, and help me to fix my
thoughts on heaven and thee. For long I have known
the vanity of my hope, and the deceitfulness of human
things; yet I could not tear away the pleasing image, and

turn to thee alone for comfort. Oh, may peace be my
portion the few days I have to live, and when death comes,
be thou with me, my God, to comfort and take me soon to
my home above.”

She sank back in very weariness. “Oh, Frank, how
could you so mistake me?—you whom I have loved so
long, how could you believe I loved another?”

In the clear sunny light of morning, how cheerful all
things looked; and to a heart at peace with God, nature
seemed rejoicing. The deep blue vault arching illimitably
above—the musical murmuring of the creek, as it rushed
along its rocky bed—the mosquit, bent and glittering with
its frosty mantle, blended with the blazing camp-fire and
the busy hum of preparation for the day, stole pleasingly
into the heart. All the party, save Mary, stood about
the fire, warming their fingers and chatting on the various
occurrences of their long journey. All paused to welcome
the invalid, as she joined them with a slow, feeble
step; yet she looked better than she had done since leaving
her home. Restlessly she had tossed on her hard couch,
and now the hectic flush mantled the thin cheek and
brightened the deep blue eyes. The warm congratulations of
her friends on her improved appearance brought a sad smile
to her lip, and the expression of Dr. Bryant's countenance
told her that he at least realized her danger. Never had
Florence looked more beautiful, as the clear cold air brought
the glow to her cheek, added to the effect of her mourning
dress and the expression of quiet happiness, imparting an
indescribable charm to her lovely features.

“As you now stand, Miss Florence, looking so earnestly
toward the east, you seem to me a perfect realization of
Willis's Jeptha's Daughter:

As he looked upon her, these lines were uttered half
unconsciously; and then turning to Mary, he gently asked
if he might speak what was passing in his mind.

“Certainly, Frank—continue your quotation; the lines
never seemed so beautiful before;” said Mr. Stewart, glancing
at Florence as he spoke.

“Doubtless not, Stewart, because never so applied. Miss
Hamilton, your cousin looks more as did the Jewish maiden
at close of evening:

“Dr. Bryant, is it possible you so far forget yourself and
previously expressed opinions, as to make quotations? I
thought you a sworn foe to the practice.”

“On ordinary occasions, I am: and you may rest assured
it is the last time I commit such an absurdity by a
camp fire. I think you once asked me my objection—will

you hear it now? When I was quite young, I one day
read an anecdote of the celebrated Greek professor, Dr.
Porson, which gave me a strong bias against quotations,
particularly locating them, which necessarily follows. Porson
was once traveling in a stage-coach, when a young
Oxonian, fresh from college, was amusing some ladies with
quite a variety of small talk, among other things a quotation
from Sophocles, as he said. A Greek quotation in a
stage-coach roused Porson, who half slumbered in a quiet
corner. `Young gentleman,' said he, `I think you indulged
us, just now, with a quotation from Sophocles; I don't
happen to remember it there.'—`Oh, sir,' rejoined the tyro,
`the quotation is word for word, and in Sophocles too.'
The professor handed him a small edition of Sophocles,
and requested him to point out the passage. After rumaging
about for some time, he replied: `Upon second thought
the passage is in Euripides.' `Then,' said Porson, handing
him a similar edition of Euripides, `perhaps you will be so
kind as to find it for me in this little book.' Our young
gentleman returned unsuccessfully to the search, with the
very pleasant cogitation of `Curse me, if ever I quote Greek
again in a stage-coach.' The tittering of the ladies increased
his confusion, and desperate at last, he exclaimed
—`Bless me, how dull I am; I remember now perfectly
that the passage is in Æschylus.' The incorrigible professor
dived again into his apparently bottomless pocket,
and produced an edition of Æschylus; but the astounded
Oxonian exclaimed, `Stop the coach! Halloa! coachman,
let me out instantly; there is a fellow inside here that has
got the whole Bodleian library in his pocket. Let me out,
I say—it must be Porson or the devil!' Now previous to
reading this anecdote, I must confess to quite a penchant
for quotations, but I assure you a full year elapsed ere I
ventured on another; and for a long time the ghost of
our gentleman appeared, spectre-like, before me, whenever
I attempted one.”

When the merriment subsided, Mr. Stewart asked if it
was not of this same professor that a phrenologist remarked,
on examining his skull, that “the most important
question was, how the ideas found access to the brain—once
inside, and there are very solid reasons to prevent their getting
out again.”

“Yes, the same. Craniologists admit, I believe, that
his was the thickest skull ever examined; and it is related
that when he could no longer articulate English, he spoke
Greek with fluency.”

In a few moments the camp was broken up, and they
proceeded on their way. Mary cast a longing glance toward
her horse, now mounted by one of the servants, and
was taking her seat in the wagon, when Dr. Bryant said:

“Would you like to try your horse a little while this
morning? If it proves too fatiguing, you can return to
the wagon.”

“I should like it very much, if I felt strong enough,
but I could not sit upright so long. Doctor, will you be
so kind as to ride my horse for me to-day, and let William
drive?”

“Certainly, if you prefer it; but may I venture to ask
your reason?”

“You have long been separated from your friend, and

naturally wish to be with him. Do not, on my account,
remain behind the party, as you are forced to do in driving
the wagon, but join Florence and Mr. Stewart, who seem
in such fine spirits this beautiful morning. I feel too weary
and feeble to talk, and William will take good care of me.”

He fixed his dark eyes mourfully on her face: she could
not meet his gaze, and her head sunk upon her bosom.

“Believe me, Miss Irving, every other pleasure is second
to that of watching over and being with you. If, in the
proposed change, my feelings alone are to be consulted,
allow me to remain with you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Bryant, you are very kind to remember
me so constantly; my only object was to promote your
enjoyment of the day.”

They rode for some distance in silence.

“This is my birth-day; and how little I fancied, on the
last anniversary, that I should be so situated,” said Dr.
Bryant, as though speaking unconsciously.

“How one's feelings change with maturer years. I remember
well that, in my childhood, the lapse of time
seemed provokingly slow, and I wondered why, from year
to year, it seemed so very long. The last three years of
my life, though somewhat checkered, have flown too
quickly away. A month ago, I would willingly have recalled
them, but they are lost in the ocean of eternity, only
to be remembered now as a changing, feverish dream,”
Mary replied.

“Miss Irving, without the benign and elevating influence
of Hope, that great actuating principle from the opening
to the close of life, what a dreary blank our existence

would prove. In childhood it gorgeously gilds the future;
the tints fade as maturity gains that future, and then it
gently brightens the evening of life, while memory flings
her mantle of witchery over the past, recalling, in hours
of sadness, all of joy to cheer the heart, and banishing forever
the phantoms of terror—the seasons of gloom that once
haunted us.”

“Yes, how appropriately has the great bard of Time,
termed Hope `silver-tongued.' And then, its soothing accents
are felt and acknowledged in the darkest hour of
human trial. When about to sever every earthly tie—
when on the eve of parting with every object rendered
dear by nature and association—when the gloomy portals
of the silent tomb open to receive us, then comes Hope
to paint the joys of heaven. Our reunion with those we
have loved and lost—perfect freedom from sin—the society
of angels, and the spirits of the just made perfect; the presence
of our Saviour, and an everlasting home in the bosom
of our God.”

A look of unutterable peace and joy settled on the face
of Mary as she finished speaking and sank back, her hands
clasped, and her eyes raised as though in communion with
the spirits above.

Dr. Bryant's eyes rested with a sort of fascination on
her countenance.

“You have this hope; yes, already your soul turns from
earth and its vanities to the pure, unfailing fount of heavenly
joy. Oh! that I, like you, could soon find peace and
perfect happiness! I have striven against the bitter feelings
which of late have crept into my heart; still, despite

my efforts, they gather rapidly about me. I look forward,
and feel sick at heart. Turbid are all the streams of earthly
pleasures, and fully now I realize those lines, which once
seemed the essence of misanthropy—
For a time I found delight in intellectual pursuits, but soon
wearied of what failed to bring real comfort in hours of
trial.”

“You need some employment to draw forth every faculty:
in a life of active benevolence and usefulness, this will
be supplied. Do not give vent to feelings of satiety or ennui;
your future should be bright—no dangers threaten,
and many and important duties await you in life. God
has so constituted us, that happiness alone springs from the
faithful discharge of these. Every earthly resource fails to
bring contentment, unless accompanied by an active, trusting
faith in God, and hope of blessedness in heaven. Wealth,
beauty, genius are as nought; and fame, that hollow, gilded
bauble, brings not the promised delight, and an aching
void remains in the embittered heart. One of our most
talented authors, now seated on the pinnacle of fame, assures
us that

Pardon me if I have ventured too far, or wounded your
feelings: it was not my intention, and I have spoken half
unconsciously.”

“Thank you, Miss Irving, for your kind words of comfort
and advice. Fear not that ambition will lure me; I
know its hollow, bitter wages, and can not be deceived.
Yet there is a lonely feeling in my heart which I can not
dispel at will. Still my plans for the future are sufficiently
active to interest me; and I doubt not that a year hence
I shall feel quite differently. If I could always have your
counsel and sympathy, I should fear nothing.”

“In seasons of trial—in the hours of gloom and despondency—appeal
to your sister for comfort. Oh! she is far
more capable of advising and cheering than I, who only
echo her sentiments.” Mary pressed her hand to her side,
and leaning back, closed her eyes, as if longing for rest.

“I have drawn you on to converse more than was proper
—forgive my thoughtlessness; and, if it would not be impossible,
sleep, and be at rest.” He carefully arranged her
shawls, and as she lay a long while with closed eyes, he
thought her sleeping, but turning, after a time, was surprised
to perceive her gazing earnestly out on the beautiful
country through which they now rode.