3. LETTER THE THIRD.
Who would have thought a whole month would
pass before I wrote you again, you fond, true-hearted
Cousin Jane! And now I have so much to tell, but
I must tell it briefly, for I have another letter to write
to-day.
Will, and Caddie, and I are all alone again. Our
two guests are gone. Mr. Wyndham went first. It
is a week since he left. We went on, during his stay,
much as before. I bestowed my chief attention on
Mr. Fitz-Herbert, and yet I listened to every word
that Wyndham said. His is a noble soul. I am
proud that he loved me once. Jane, when I saw Lionel
Fitz-Herbert in the city, I did not know him. I
was dazzled by his gold and his name; I did not look
into his heart. Give me the country for knowing a
man as he is. Under the solemn sky, under the century-old
trees, with the free winds fanning the dust
from your path, there is little chance for artificial refinements
and conventional disguises. Only the true
and the real can lift up its face to those solemn heavens.
Well, I saw Fitz-Herbert as he was; nay, perhaps
he seemed to me even feebler and tamer than he is
when Philip Wyndham walked beside him with his
tall stature, his lofty port, his clear, far-seeing eyes;
above all, his high, far-seeing soul. But, despite this,
I persevered in my resolve to be the rich man's wife.
“I never would, I never could marry a poor man,” I
said to Caddie, when she asked me what I meant to
do.
One week ago Philip Wyndham left. He held my
hand in his for a moment when he bade me good-by.
We chanced to be all alone. He looked earnestly
into my eyes, and then he said,
“Miss Hamilton, if I could I would say God bless
you in the path you have chosen, but I can not. You
will have to account to Him for every crushed down
impulse for good, every stifled aspiration. I suppose
we shall never meet again, but I know you will forgive
my sincerity when you remember how truly I
was your friend.”
Oh, Jane, it seemed to me, in that moment, as if I
would have given every hour of my splendid future,
with its station, and wealth, and luxury, just to have
been folded to his heart—just to have heard him say,
“Helen, I trust you.” But he went away, and resolutely
I banished this longing. I would marry Lionel
Fitz-Herbert. This would make my parents happy.
It would relieve all papa's embarrassments. In short,
it was the only rational course for me to pursue. That
afternoon I went to ride with him. I had never been
more lively.
It was three days before he proposed to me. The
decisive moment came at evening. We had been over
to Oakland, and were pacing to and fro under the
trees. I do not know exactly what he said. I was
sensible he was asking me to marry him. I had, in
my mind, a prettily framed acceptance. Listen to
what I said. It was not I, surely; was it my guardian
angel speaking through my lips?
“Mr. Fitz-Herbert, until this very moment I have
meant to marry you, but I know now that I can not.
Do not be angry with me. Do not think that I have
done you wrong. I should do you ten times greater
wrong were I to perjure myself at the altar—to give
you my hand when my heart can never, never love
you. If you had asked me when we were both in
town—when the gaslight glowed above us, and diamonds
sparkled and repartees flashed by us, I should
have been your wife; but here, under this everlasting
sky, I must tell you the truth—I love another.”
I stopped. The influence within, which forced me
to speak, was gone. I looked at my auditor. I could
not have thought those smooth, small features could
have worn such an expression of impotent rage or
vindictive hate as crossed them there in the moonlight.
May I never see its like again. It passed away as
suddenly as it came, and then, in utter silence, he offered
me his arm, and we walked back to Hillside.
The next morning he left.
Oh, Jane, what shall I say to you? How shall I
make you feel the wild, glad sense of freedom that has
been with me ever since? Thank God, thank God
that I was not suffered to stain my soul with a lie.
The scales have fallen from my eyes. All the wealth,
all the splendor in the world could not now buy my
life, my heart, my free, independent self. Out here
where the sun shines, the winds blow, the birds sing,
and the dew-drops sparkle brighter than any diamonds,
I am glad, I am glad.
And yet, Jane, there is an under-current of sadness.
Low down in the deep heart of this mighty anthem
of joy which all nature seems chorusing together, I
can hear the half-smothered echo of a wail, and my
heart joins in it. Not for the vanished dream of pomp,
and pride, and splendor; not for the stately house, with
its velvet canopies, its gilded cornices, its gold and silver.
Once in life I had laid at my feet a pearl of
great price. I did not stoop to pick it up, and now it
can never sparkle on my bosom. I may go sorrowing
and mourning all the days of my life, but I can not
light again the ashes of a deal hope. Jane, I know
now that I love Philip Wyndham; that I have loved
him long with a love that is stronger than life or death.
But I will not waste my future in weak repining; I
will trust in God, and be thankful that I am not all
unworthy of a love that once was mine—thankful that
I am still free to cherish one blessed memory; and perhaps,
when the shrouding mists of time shall roll away
and disclose the distant hills of heaven, standing together
on those glory-crowned hill-tops, Philip Wyndham
may know my best self for what it is.
I said I had another letter to write. It is to papa
and mamma. I am going to entreat them to come
down here next week. I must have them share the
glories of this unrivaled summer. They love me too
well to refuse. After they have been here, you shall
hear again from your cousin
