University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Peace and quiet and rest for you at last!” cried Dr. Bryant,
as they drove into the village of Washington, and, by
dint of much trouble and exertion, procured a small and
comfortless house. But a bright fire soon blazed in the
broad, deep, old-fashioned chimney—the windows and doors
closed—their small stock of furniture and provisions unpacked,
and a couch prepared for Mary, now far too feeble
to sit up. The members of the safe and happy party gathered
about the hearth, and discussed hopefully their future
prospects. Dr. Bryant raised his eyes to the somewhat insecure
roof, through which the light of day occasionally
stole in, and exclaimed:

“Not such a one as greeted Mazeppa on regaining his
senses, Frank; rather insecure, 'tis true, yet somewhat better

than the canvas covering for which we have been so
grateful of late.”

Dr. Bryant leaned his elbow on the mantle-piece, and
fell into a fit of musing, not unusual to him since leaving
San Antonio. The servant disturbed his reverie by requesting
room for her cooking utensils. He raised his head as
she spoke, and then, as if utterly unconscious, dropped it
again, without reply.

“A cigar for your thoughts, Bryant!” said Mr. Stewart,
and linking his arm in that of his friend they turned
away.

Florence approached her cousin, and bending over the
wasted form, asked if she were not already better.

Mary lifted her arms to her cousin's neck, and for a moment
strove to press her to her heart, but strength had failed
rapidly of late, and they sank wearily by her side. Florence
sat down and took both hands between hers.

“Tell me, dear, if you are in pain?”

“No, Florry, I do not suffer much now; I am at present
free from all pain. I have not had an opportunity of
talking with you for some time. Florry, tell me, are you
very happy?”

“Yes, Mary, I am very happy—happier than I ever was
before; and far more so than I deserve. Oh! Mary, how
miserable I have been; and it is by contrast that the transition
is so delightful. I doubted the goodness and mercy
of God; and, in the bitterness of my heart, I asked why I
had been created for so much suffering. Oh, Mary! my
pure-hearted, angel cousin, how much of my present happiness
I owe to you. Suppose you had suffered me to wander

on in the maze of darkness. At this moment I should
have been a desolate, deluded, miserable nun; clinging to
a religion which, instead of Bible truths, filled the anxious,
aching heart with monkish legends of unattested miracles,
and in place of the pure worship of God, gives us mummeries
nearer akin to pagan rites! I thank God that I
am released from my thralldom. I see now the tissue of
falsehood so plausible in which all things were wrapped.
Blackness and deceit in the garb of truth and purity! And
it is horrible to think that he who so led me astray claims
to be my brother! Mary, Mary, how can I tell Mr. Stewart
this?—tell him that I have wandered from the true
faith—that I have knelt in confession to him who cursed
our common father! He will despise me for my weakness;
for only yesterday he said he first loved me for my
clear insight into right and wrong, and my scorn of deceit
and hypocrisy! Yet I deceived you; at least, tacitly—you
who have ever loved me so truly, you who have saved me
at last, and pointed out the road to heaven. Mary, forgive
me! I never asked pardon of any on earth before, but I
wronged you, good and gentle though you always were.
Forgive me, oh, my cousin!”

Mary clasped Florence's hands in hers, and though too
feeble to speak very audibly, replied:

“Florry, think not of the past; it has been very painful
to us both, yet I thank God that you are right at last.
You know how I love you: I would give every treasure
of earth to contribute to your happiness; and now that
you are so blest, listen to my counsel. Florry, there is a
cloud no bigger than a man's hand resting low on the horizon

of your happiness—be warned in time. You know
Mr. Stewart's firm, unwavering principles of Protestantism;
you know, too, the aversion with which he regards
the priests of Rome; it may be a hard task now, but it
will be tenfold more difficult a year hence. Go to him at
once, tell him you were misguided and deceived, and reveal
every circumstance connected with that unhappy
period. He will love you more for your candor. Florry,
you turn pale, as though unequal to the task. Oh, my
cousin, you prize his love more than truth; but the time
will come when he will prize truth more than your love!
Florry, let me beg you tell him all, and at once.” She
sank back, as if exhausted by her effort in speaking so long,
yet firmly retained Florence's hand.

“Mary, if I do this, it is at the risk of losing his esteem,
which I prize even more than his love. And after all, I
can not see that truth or duty requires this humiliating confession.
Should he ever question me, I should scorn to
deceive him, and at once should tell him all. But he does
not suspect it, and I, being no longer in danger or blinded,
need not reveal the past.”

Mournfully Mary regarded her beautiful cousin.

“Florry, if you conceal nothing now, he will esteem you
more than ever for hazarding his love in the cause of truth.
If, in after years, he discovers the past, he will tell you
that, silently at least, you deceived him, and reproach you
with want of candor and firmness. Oh! there is a fearful
risk to run; he will never place confidence in you again—
be warned in time.”

The entrance of Aunt Lizzy and Mrs. Carlton prevented

further conversation, and unclasping Mary's fingers, Florence
disengaged her hand and left the room.

Two days passed in furnishing and arranging their new
home, and Mary saw but little of her cousin. As evening
closed in again, the invalid watched from her couch the
countenance of Mr. Stewart, as he sat earnestly conversing
with her aunt. Florence and Mr. and Mrs. Carlton were
out making some necessary purchases, and Dr. Bryant had
been absent on business of his own since morning.

“Florence is too young to marry, or even dream of it,
at present, Mr. Stewart; and besides, if I must be candid,
I have always entertained different views for her.”

“Pardon me, but I believe I scarcely comprehend your
meaning. You speak of other views for her; may I venture
to ask the nature of these?”

“I have never expected her to marry at all, Mr. Stewart.”

“And why not, pray? What can you urge in favor of
your wishes?”

“I had her own words to that effect, scarce a month
ago.”

A proud, happy smile played round his lips, and he replied:
“She may have thought so then, but I think her
views have changed.”

“But for Mary, she would have been the same:” and a
bitter look passed over her wrinkled face.

“Excuse me, if I ask an explanation of your enigmatical
language; there is some hidden meaning, I well know.”

“Mr. Stewart, your mother and I are old friends, and I
wish you well; but all good Catholics love their church

above every earthly thing. I should like to see Florence
happy, but her eternal good should first be secured; you
are a Protestant, and bitterly opposed to our Holy Church,
and I can not consent to see her marry a heretic, for such
you are: she is too far astray already.”

“If your niece were herself a Papist, your reason would
indeed be a cogent one; but, under existing circumstances,
I am puzzled to understand you.”

“Were it not for Mary's influence, Florence would even
now rest in the bosom of our Holy Church. She has done
her cousin a grievous wrong; may God and the blessed
Virgin forgive her!”

Mary groaned in spirit, as she marked the stern glance
of his eagle eye, and feebly raising herself, she said: “Mr.
Stewart, will you take this seat beside the sofa? I wish to
speak with you.”

Aunt Lizzy left the room hurriedly, as though she had
already said too much, and silently he complied with Mary's
request.

“You are pained and perplexed at what my aunt has
just said; allow me to explain what may seem a great
mystery. You are not aware that my uncle died a Papist.
Weakened in body and mind by disease, he was sought
and influenced in secret, when I little dreamed of such a
change. On his death-bed he embraced the Romish faith,
and, as I have since learned, exacted from Florry a promise
to abide by the advice of his priest, in spiritual as
well as temporal matters. He expired in the act of taking
the sacrament, and our desolation of heart can be better
imagined than described—left so utterly alone and unprotected,

far from our relatives and the friends of our youth.
I now marked a change in Florry, though at a loss to account
for it. An influence, secret as that exerted on her
lost parent, was like wise successful, and, to my grief and
astonishment, I found that she too had embraced papacy.”

The door opened and Florence entered. She started on
seeing her lover, but advanced to them much as usual.
He raised his head, and cold and stern was the glance he
bent on her beautiful face. She stood beside him, and
rising, he placed a chair for her in perfect silence. Mary's
heart ached, as she noted the marble paleness which overspread
her cousin's cheek. Mr. Stewart folded his arms
across his chest, and said in a low, stern, yet mournful
tone:

“Florence, I could not have believed that you would have
deceived me, as you have silently done.”

Mournfully Florence looked for a moment on Mary's
face, yet there was no reproach in her glance; it seemed
but to say—“You have wakened me from my dream of
happiness.”

She lifted proudly her head, and fixed her dark eye full
on her lover.

“Explain yourself, Mr. Stewart; I have a right to know
with what I am charged, though I almost scorn to refute
that of deceit.”

“Not a week since, Florence, you heard me avow my
dislike of the tenets and practices of the Romish Church.
I said then, as now, that no strong-minded, intelligent woman
of the present age could consult the page of history
and then say that she conscientiously believed its doctrines

to be pure and scriptural, or its practices in accordance
with the teachings of our Saviour. You tacitly concurred
in my opinions. Florence, did you tell me you had once
held those doctrines in reverence? Nay, that even now
you lean to papacy?” Stern was his tone, and cold and
slightly contemptuous his glance.

A bitter, scornful smile wreathed the lips of his betrothed.
“I acknowledge neither the authority of questioning, nor
allow the privilege of any on earth to impugn my motives
or my actions. Had I felt it incumbent on me to acquaint
you with every circumstance of my past life, I should undoubtedly
have done so, when you offered me your hand.
I felt no obligation to that effect, and consequently consulted
my own inclinations. If, for a moment, you had
doubted me, or asked an explanation of the past, I should
have scorned to dissemble with you; and now that the
subject is broached you shall have the particulars, which,
I assure you, have kept well, though, as you suppose, sometime
withheld. I have been a member of the Church of
Rome: I have prayed to saints and the Virgin, counted
beads and used holy water, and have knelt in confession to
a priest of papal Rome. I did all this, thinking, for a time,
my salvation dependent on it. You know all now.”

Mr. Stewart regarded her sadly as she uttered these
words, and his stern tone softened as he noticed her bloodless
cheek and quivering lip.

“Florence, it is not your former belief or practice that
gives me this pain, and saddens our future. If you were
at this moment a professor of the Romish faith, I would
still cherish and trust you: I should strive to convince you

of your error—to point out the fallacy of your hopes. When
I recall the circumstances by which you were surrounded,
and the influences exerted, I scarcely wonder that, for a
time, you lent your credence and support. But, Florence,
full well you know that this is not what pains me. It is
the consciousness that you have kept me in ignorance of
what your own heart told you would show your momentary
weakness, and led me to suppose you entertained a belief
at variance with your practice. You have feared my
displeasure more than the disregard of truth and candor.
Florence, Florence! knowing how well I loved you, and
what implicit confidence I reposed in you, how could you
do this?”

“Again, Mr. Stewart, I repeat that I perceive no culpability
in my conduct. Had I felt it my duty, your love or
indifference would not have weighed an atom in my decision
to act according to my sense of right and wrong.”

He turned from her, and paced to and fro before the fire.
Florence would have left the room, but Mary clasped her
dress, and detained her.

“Mr. Stewart, you have been too harsh and hasty in
your decision, and too severe in your remarks. Florry has
not forfeited your love, though she acted imprudently. Ask
your own heart whether you would be willing to expose
to her eye your every foible and weakness. For you, like
all God's creatures, have faults of your own. Is there nothing
you have left untold relative to your past? Oh! if
you knew how deep and unutterable has been her love,
even when she never again expected to meet you, you
would forget this momentary weakness—a fault committed

from the very intensity of her love, and fear lest she
should sink in your estimation.”

“Mary, if she had said, Dudley, I have not always felt
as now, and my mind was darkened for a time, I should
have loved her, if possible, more than before, for her noble
candor. My own heart would have told me, This is one in
whom you may eternally trust, for she risked the forfeiture
of your love in order that truth might be unsullied. How
can I confide in one who values the esteem of man more
than the approval of her own conscience? You have said
her love was a palliation. No, you are wrong; it is an
aggravation of her fault. She should have loved me too
well to suffer me to discover by chance what should have
been disclosed in confidence. Mary, her love is not greater
than mine. None know how I have cherished her memory—how
I have kept her loved image in my heart during
our long separation. I would give every earthly joy or
possession to retain her affection, for it is dearer to me than
every thing beside, save truth, candor, and honesty. I have
nothing to conceal from her: I would willingly bare my
secret soul to her scrutiny. There is nothing I should wish
to keep back, unless it be the pain of this hour.”

He paused by her side, and looked tenderly on the pale,
yet lovely face of Florence.

“Mr. Stewart, shall one fault forever destroy your confidence
in Florry, when she has declared that had she
thought it incumbent on her to speak of these things—if
she had felt as you do, she asserts that nothing could have
prevented her revealing every circumstance.”

“Mary, I fear her code of morality is somewhat too lax;

and the fact that she acknowledges no fault is far more
painful than any other circumstance.”

“Mary, I have omitted one thing which I wish him to
know. I neglected to inform you, that the priest to whom
I confessed is my half-brother! I have now told you all;
and thinking as you do, it is better that in future we forget
the past and be as strangers to each other. That I
have loved you fervently, I can never forget—neither your
assertion that I am unworthy of your confidence.”

She disengaged her dress from Mary's clasp, and turned
toward the door. Mr. Stewart caught her hand, and firmly
held it. She struggled not to release herself, but lifted
her dark eyes to his, and calmly met his earnest glance.

“Florence!”

There was a mournful tenderness in the deep tone. Her
lip quivered, still her eyes fell not beneath his, piercing as
an eagle's.

“Mr. Stewart, you have wronged her; you have been
too severe.” And Mary clasped his hand tightly, and
looked up appealingly. He withdrew his hand.

“Florence, this is a bitter, bitter hour to me. Yet I may
have judged too harshly: we will forget the past, and, in
future, let no such cloud come between us.”

“Not so, Mr. Stewart: if I am unworthy, how can you
expect confidence from me? Think you I will change the
code which you just now pronounced too lax? Oh! you
know not what you have done. It is no light thing to tell
a woman of my nature she is unworthy of the love she
prized above every earthly thing!” Her voice, despite her
efforts, faltered.

“Florence, I have been too severe in my language, and
you too proud and haughty. Full well we know that without
the love of each other life would be joyless to both.
Ours is not a common love; and again I say, let us forget
the past, while, in future, need I ask you to keep nothing
from me?”

He drew her to him as he spoke, and passing his arm
round her, pressed her to his heart. A long time Florence
hid her head on his shoulder, as if struggling with her
emotion, and then a heavy sob relieved her troubled
heart. Closer he clasped her to him, and, laying his cheek
on hers, murmured:

“My own darling Florence, forgive me, if I misjudged
you; tell me that you will not remember my words—that
this hour shall be to us as a painful dream.”

She withdrew from his embrace, and, lifting her head,
replied:

“I was wrong to doubt your love, or believe that you
would think long of my weakness; but I am innocent of
the charge of dissimulation, and never let us recur to the
past.”

She held out her hand, and clasping it in his, Mr.
Stewart led her away.

An hour later Mary lay with closed eyes, too weary, from
overexcitement, even to look about her. All had left the
room, and a dim light from the hearth just faintly lighted
the large, comfortless apartment. With noiseless step Dr.
Bryant entered, and seating himself in the vacant chair,
near Mary's sofa, bent forward that he might look on the
wan face of the sufferer. His heart ached as he noted the

painful alteration of the last week, and gently and softly he
took one of the thin white hands between his own. It was
cold and damp, and, while he pressed it, the dark blue eyes
rested earnestly on his face.

“I hoped you were sleeping, did I wake you?” and he
laid the hand back, as she strove to withdraw it.

“No, I have not slept since morning.”

“Oh! I am troubled at your constant suffering; is there
any thing I can do for you?”

“No thank you, Doctor, I wish nothing.”

“All my arrangements are completed, and to-morrow I
return to your home. Can I deliver any message, or execute
any commission?”

For a moment Mary closed her eyes, then replied in
a low voice:

“If you should see Inez, tell her to remember my gift at
parting, and thank her, in my name, for her many, many
kindnesses.” She paused, as if gathering courage to say
something more.

“And tell her, too, that ere many hours I shall be
at rest. Tell her I have no fear, nay more, that I have
great hope, and that heaven is opening for me. Let her
prepare to join me, where there is no sorrow nor parting.”

There was a silence, as if each were communing with
their own hearts.

“You go to-morrow, Dr. Bryant? Then you will not
stay to see me die? I am failing fast, and when you return,
I shall have gone to that bourne whence no traveler
comes back to tell the tale. Let me thank you now, for
your unvarying kindness; many have been your services,

and a brother's care has ever followed me. Thank you;
I appreciate your kindness, and earnest and heartfelt is my
prayer that you may be very happy and blest on earth;
and when you, too, come to die, may your end be like
mine—free from all fear, and may hope and joy attend
your last moments!”

Her breathing grew short, and large drops stood on her
pure, beautiful brow.

He had bent his head upon his bosom while she spoke,
but now he raised it, and, taking her hand, clasped it
warmly.

“Mary, Mary, if you knew what torture you inflicted,
you would spare me this!”

It was the first time he had called her Mary, and her
pale lip quivered.

“Forgive me, if I cause you pain!”

Bending forward, he continued, in a tone of touching sadness—“I
had determined, Mary, to keep my grief locked
in my own heart, and never to let words of love pass my
lips. But the thought of parting with you forever is more
than I can bear. Oh! Mary, have you not seen for weeks
and months how I have loved you? Long ago, when
first we met, a deep, unutterable love stole into my heart.
I fancied for a time that you returned it, till the evening
we met at my sister's, and you spoke with such indifference
of leaving me behind. I saw then I had flattered myself
falsely; that you entertained none save friendly feelings toward
me. Still, I thought in time you might learn to regard
me with warmer sentiments. So I hoped on till the
evening of our last ride, when your agitation led me to suppose

you loved another. I saw you meet Mr. Stewart,
and was confirmed in my supposition. I gave up all hope
of ever winning your affection in return. Now I see my
error in believing for a moment that you felt otherwise to
him than as a brother, as the betrothed of your cousin. I
know that you have never loved him, and pardon my error.
When I sought you just now, it was to say good-by, and
in absence and varied and exciting pursuits to shut out
from my heart the memory of my hopes and fears. Mary,
your words fill me with inexpressible anguish! Oh, you
can not know how blank and dreary earth will seem when
you are gone! I shall have no hope, no incitement, no
joy!”

As she listened to this confession, which a month before
would have brought the glow to her cheek and sparkle to
her eye, she felt that it came too late; still a perfect joy
stole into her heart. She turned her face toward him, and
gently said:

“I am dying; and, feeling as I do, that few hours are
allotted me, I shall not hesitate to speek freely and candidly.
Some might think me deviating from the delicacy of
my sex; but, under the circumstances, I feel that I am
not. I have loved you long, and to know that my love is
returned, is a source of deep and unutterable joy to me.
You were indeed wrong to suppose I ever regarded Mr.
Stewart otherwise than as Florry's future husband. I
have never loved but one.”

“Mary, can it be possible that you have loved me, when
I fancied, of late, that indifference, and even dislike, nestled
in your heart? We shall yet be happy! I thank God

that we shall be so blest!” And he pressed the thin hand
to his lips.

“Do not deceive yourself. Your confession has come too
late. I can never be yours, for the hand of death is already
laid upon me, and my spirit will wing its way, ere
long, home to God. Now that we understand each other,
and while I yet live, let us be as calm, as happy as the
circumstances allow. It may seem hard that I should be
taken when the future appears so bright, but I do not repine,
neither must you. God, ever good and merciful, sees
that it is best I should go, and we will not embitter the
few hours left us by vain regrets.” Too feeble to speak
more, she closed her eyes, while her breathing grew painfully
short.

Dr. Bryant bent forward, and gently lifting her head,
supported her with his strong arm, and stroked off from her
beautiful brow the clustering hair. A long time she lay
motionless, with closed eyes, and bending his head, he
pressed a long kiss on the delicately-chiseled lips.

“O God! spare me my gentle angel Mary,” he murmured,
as looking on the wan, yet lovely face, he felt that
to yield her up was more than he could bear.

At this moment Mrs. Carlton entered: he held out his
hand, and drawing her to his side, said, in a deep, tender tone:

“She is mine now, sister; thank God, that at last I
have won her, and pray with me that she may be spared
to us both.”

Fervently she pressed his hand, and a tear rolled down
and dropped upon it, as she bent down to kiss the sufferer.
Gently he put her back.

“She is wearied, and just fallen asleep; do not wake
her.”

He carefully depressed his arm that she might rest more
easily. Mrs. Carlton seated herself beside her brother, and
whispered:

“You will not go to-morrow, Frank?”

“No, no; I will not leave her a moment. Ellen, does
she seem very much thinner since leaving home? I know
she is very pale.”

“Yes, Frank; she is fearfully changed within the last
week.”

“Oh, Ellen! if she should be taken from me;” and
closer he drew his arm, as though fearing some unseen
danger.

“We must look to Heaven for her restoration, and God is
good,” answered his sister, turning away to conceal her
tears.