2. II.
Henry Rambo married, and brought a new mistress
to the farm-house. Betty married, and migrated to a
new home in another part of the State. Leonard Clare
went back to his trade, and returned no more in harvest-time.
So the pleasant farm by the Brandywine, having
served its purpose as a background, will be seen no more
in this history.
Miss Bartram's inmost life, as a woman, was no longer
the same. The point of view from which she had
beheld the world was shifted, and she was obliged to
remodel all her feelings and ideas to conform to it. But
the process was gradual, and no one stood near enough
to her to remark it. She was occasionally suspected of
that “eccentricity” which, in a woman of five-and-twenty,
is looked upon as the first symptom of a tendency to old-maidenhood,
but which is really the sign of an earnest
heart struggling with the questions of life. In the society
of cities, most men give only the shallow, flashy surface
of their natures to the young women they meet, and Miss
Bartram, after that revelation of the dumb strength of an
ignorant man, sometimes grew very impatient of the platitudes
and affectations which came to her clad in elegant
words, and accompanied by irreproachable manners.
She had various suitors; for that sense of grace and
repose and sweet feminine power, which hung around
her like an atmosphere, attracted good and true men towards
her. To some, indeed, she gave that noble, untroubled
friendship which is always possible between the
best of the two sexes, and when she was compelled to
deny the more intimate appeal, it was done with such
frank sorrow, such delicate tenderness, that she never lost
the friend in losing the lover. But, as one year after another
went by, and the younger members of her family
fell off into their separate domestic orbits, she began to
shrink a little at the perspective of a lonely life, growing
lonelier as it receded from the Present.
By this time, Leonard Clare had become almost a
dream to her. She had neither seen him nor heard of
him since he let go her hand on that memorable evening
beside the stream. He was a strange, bewildering chance,
a cypher concealing a secret which she could not intelligently
read. Why should she keep the memory of that
power which was, perhaps, some unconscious quality of
his nature (no, it was not so! something deeper than reason
cried:), or long since forgotten, if felt, by him?
The man whom she most esteemed came back to her.
She knew the ripeness and harmony of his intellect, the
nobility of his character, and the generosity of a feeling
which would be satisfied with only a partial return. She
felt sure, also, that she should never possess a sentiment
nearer to love than that which pleaded his cause in her
heart. But her hand lay quiet in his, her pulses were
calm when he spoke, and his face, manly and true as it
was, never invaded her dreams. All questioning was
vain; her heart gave no solution of the riddle. Perhaps
her own want was common to all lives: then she was
cherishing a selfish ideal, and rejecting the positive good
offered to her hands.
After long hesitation she yielded. The predictions of
society came to naught; instead of becoming an “eccentric”
spinster, Miss Bartram was announced to be the
affianced bride of Mr. Lawrie. A few weeks and months
rolled around, and when the wedding-day came, she almost
hailed it as the port of refuge, where she should find
a placid and peaceful life.
They were married by an aged clergyman, a relative
of the bridegroom. The cross-street where his chapel
stood, fronting a Methodist church—both of the simplest
form of that architecture fondly supposed to be Gothic,—
was quite blocked up by the carriages of the party. The
pews were crowded with elegant guests, the altar was
decorated with flowers, and the ceremony lacked nothing
of its usual solemn beauty. The bride was pale, but
strikingly calm and self-possessed, and when she moved
towards the door as Mrs. Lawrie, on her husband's arm,
many matrons, recalling their own experience, marvelled
at her unflurried dignity.
Just as they passed out the door, and the bridal carriage
was summoned, a singular thing happened. Another
bridal carriage drew up from the opposite side, and
a newly wedded pair came forth from the portal of the
Methodist church. Both parties stopped, face to face,
divided only by the narrow street. Mrs. Lawrie first
noticed the flushed cheeks of the other bride, her white
dress, rather showy than elegant, and the heavy gold ornaments
she wore. Then she turned to the bridegroom.
He was tall and well-formed, dressed like a gentleman, but
like one who is not yet unconscious of his dress, and had
the air of a man accustomed to exercise some authority.
She saw his face, and instantly all other faces disappeared.
From the opposite brink of a tremendous gulf
she looked into his eyes, and their blended ray of love
and despair pierced her to the heart. There was a roaring
in her ears, followed a long sighing sound, like that of the
wind on some homeless waste; she leaned more heavily
on her husband's arm, leaned against his shoulder, slid
slowly down into his supporting clasp, and knew no
more.
“She's paying for her mock composure, after all,”
said the matrons. “It must have been a great effort.”
