CHAPTER I.
"THERE is a book of record in your mind, Edwin," said an old man tohis young friend, "a book of record, in which every act of your lifeis noted down. Each morning a blank page is turned, on which theday's history is written in lines that cannot be effaced. This bookof record is your memory; and, according to what it bears, will yourfuture life be happy or miserable. An act done, is done forever;for, the time in which it is done, in passing, passes to return nomore. The history is written and sealed up. Nothing can ever blot itout. You may repent of evil, and put away the purpose of evil fromyour heart; but you cannot, by any repentance, bring back the timethat is gone, nor alter the writing on the page of memory. Ah! myyoung friend, if I could only erase some pages in the book of mymemory, that almost daily open themselves before the eyes of mymind, how thankful I would be! But this I cannot do. There are actsof my life for which repentance only avails as a process ofpurification and preparation for a better state in the future; it inno way repairs wrong done to others. Keep the pages of your memoryfree from blots, Edwin. Guard the hand writing there as you valueyour best and highest interests!"
Edwin Florence listened, but only half comprehended what was said byhis aged friend. An hour afterwards he was sitting by the side of amaiden, her hand in his, and her eyes looking tenderly upon hisface. She was not beautiful in the sense that the world regardsbeauty. Yet, no one could be with her an hour without perceiving thehigher and truer beauty of a pure and lovely spirit. It was thisreal beauty of character which had attracted Edwin Florence; and theyoung girl's heart had gone forth to meet the tender of affectionwith an impulse of gladness.
"You love me, Edith?" said Edwin, in a low voice, as he bent nearer,and touched her pure forehead with his lips.
"As my life," replied the maiden, and her eyes were full of love asshe spoke.
Again the young man kissed her.
In low voices, leaning towards each other until the breath of eachwas warm on the other's cheek, they sat conversing for a long time.Then they separated; and both were happy. How sweet were themaiden's dreams that night, for, in every picture that wanderingfancy drew, was the image of her lover!
Daily thus they met for a long time. Then there was a change inEdwin Florence. His visits were less frequent, and when he met theyoung girl, whose very life was bound up in his, his manner had init a reserve that chilled her heart as if an icy hand had been laidupon it. She asked for no explanation of the change; but, as he grewcolder, she shrunk more and more into herself, like a flower foldingits withering leaves when touched by autumn's frosty fingers.
One day he called on Edith. He was not as cold as he had been, buthe was, from some cause, evidently embarrassed.
"Edith," said he, taking her hand--it was weeks since he had touchedher hand except in meeting and parting--"I need not say how highly Iregard you. How tenderly I love you, even as I could love a pure andgentle sister. But--"
He paused, for he saw that Edith's face had become very pale; andthat she rather gasped for air than breathed.
"Are you sick?" he asked, in a voice of anxiety.
Edith was recovering herself.
"No," she replied, faintly.
A deep silence, lasting for the space of nearly half a minute,followed. By this time the maiden, through a forced effort, hadregained the command of her feelings. Perceiving this, Edwinresumed--
"As I said, Edith, I love you as I could love a pure and gentlesister. Will you accept this love? Will you be to me a friend--asister?"
Again there passed upon the countenance of Edith a deadly palor;while her lips quivered, and her eyes had a strange expression. Thissoon passed away, and again something of its former repose was inher face. At the first few words of Florence, Edith withdrew thehand he had taken. He now sought it again, but she avoided thecontact.
"You do not answer me, Edith," said the young man.
"Do you wish an answer?" This was uttered in a scarcely audiblevoice.
"I do, Edith," was the earnest reply. "Let there be no separationbetween us. You are to me what you have ever been, a dearly prizedfriend. I never meet you that my heart does not know an impulse forgood--I never think of you but--"
"Let us be as strangers!" said Edith, rising abruptly. And turningaway, she fled from the room.
Slowly did the young man leave the apartment in which they weresitting, and without seeing any member of the family, departed fromthe house. There was a record on his memory that time would have nopower to efface. It was engraved too deeply for the dust of years toobliterate. As he went, musing away, the pale face of Edith wasbefore him; and the anguish of her voice, as she said, "Let us be asstrangers," was in his ears. He tried not to see the one, nor hearthe other. But that was impossible. They had impressed themselvesinto the very substance of his mind.
Edwin Florence had an engagement for that very evening. It was withone of the most brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating women he hadever met. A few months before, she had crossed his path, and fromthat time he was changed towards Edith. Her name was CatharineLinmore. The earnest attentions of Florence pleased her, and as shelet the pleasure she felt be seen, she was not long in winning hisheart entirely from his first love. In this, she was innocent; forshe knew nothing of the former state of his affections towardsEdith.
After parting with Edith, Edwin had no heart to fulfill hisengagement with Miss Linmore. He could think of nothing but themaiden he had so cruelly deserted; and more than half repented ofwhat he had done. When the hour for the appointment came, his mindstruggled awhile in the effort to obtain a consent to go, and thendecided against meeting, at least on that occasion, the woman whosecharms had led him to do so great a wrong to a loving and confidingheart. No excuse but that of indisposition could be made, under thecircumstances; and, attempting to screen himself, in his ownestimation, from falsehood, he assumed, in his own thoughts, amental indisposition, while, in the billet he dispatched, he gavethe idea of bodily indisposition. The night that followed was,perhaps, the most unhappy one the young man had ever spent. Dayspassed, and he heard nothing from Edith. He could not call to seeher, for she had interdicted that. Henceforth they must be asstrangers. The effect produced by his words had been far morepainful than was anticipated; and he felt troubled when he thoughtabout what might be their ultimate effects.
On the fifth day, as the young man was walking with CatharineLinmore, he came suddenly face to face with Edith. There was achange in her that startled him. She looked at him, in passing, butgave no signs of recognition.
"Wasn't that Miss Walter?" inquired the companion of Edwin, in atone of surprise.
"Yes," replied Florence.
"What's the matter with her? Has she been sick? How dreadful shelooks!"
"I never saw her look so bad," remarked the young man. As theywalked along, Miss Linmore kept alluding to Edith, whose changedappearance had excited her sympathies.
"I've met her only a few times," said she, "but I have seen enoughof her to give me a most exalted opinion of her character. Some onecalled her very plain; but I have not thought so. There is somethingso good about her, that you cannot be with her long withoutperceiving a real beauty in the play of her countenance."
"No one can know her well, without loving her for the goodness ofwhich you have just spoken," said Edwin.
"You are intimate with her?"
"Yes. She has been long to me as a sister." There was a roughness inthe voice of Florence as he said this.
"She passed without recognizing you," said Miss Linmore.
"So I observed."
"And yet I noticed that she looked you in the face, though with acold, stony, absent look. It is strange! What can have happened toher?"
"I have observed a change in her for some time past," Florenceventured to say; "but nothing like this. There is something wrong."
When the time to part, with his companion came, Edwin Florence felta sense of relief. Weeks now passed without his seeing or hearingany thing from Edith. During the time he met Miss Linmorefrequently; and encouraged to approach, he at length ventured tospeak to her of what was in his heart. The young lady heard withpleasure, and, though she did not accept the offered hand, by nomeans repulsed the ardent suitor. She had not thought of marriage,she said, and asked a short time for reflection.
Edwin saw enough in her manner to satisfy him that the result wouldbe in his favor. This would have made him supremely happy, could hehave blotted out all recollection of Edith and his conduct towardsher. But, that was impossible. Her form and face, as he had lastseen them, were almost constantly before his eyes. As he walked thestreets, he feared lest he should meet her; and never felt pleasantin any company until certain that she was not there.
A few days after Mr. Florence had made an offer of his hand to MissLinmore, and at a time when she was about making a favorabledecision, that young lady happened to hear some allusion made toEdith Walter, in a tone that attracted her attention. Sheimmediately asked some questions in regard to her, when one of thepersons conversing said--
"Why, don't you know about Edith?"
"I know that there is a great change in her. But the reason of it Ihave not heard."
"Indeed! I thought it was pretty well known that her affections hadbeen trifled with."
"Who could trifle with the affections of so sweet, so good a girl,"said Miss Linmore, indignantly. "The man who could turn from her,has no true appreciation of what is really excellent and exalted inwoman's character. I have seen her only a few times; but, oftenenough to make me estimate her as one among the loveliest of oursex."
"Edwin Florence is the man," was replied. "He won her heart, andthen turned from her; leaving the waters of affection that hadflowed at his touch to lose themselves in the sands at his feet.There must be something base in the heart of a man who could triflethus with such a woman."
It required a strong effort on the part of Miss Linmore to concealthe instant turbulence of feeling that succeeded so unexpected adeclaration. But she had, naturally, great self-control, and thiscame to her aid.
"Edwin Florence!" said she, after a brief silence, speaking in atone of surprise.
"Yes, he is the man. Ah, me! What a ruin has been wrought! I neversaw such a change in any one as Edith exhibits. The very inspirationof her life is gone. The love she bore towards Florence seems tohave been almost the mainspring of her existence; for in touchingthat the whole circle of motion has grown feeble, and will, I fear,soon cease for ever."
"Dreadful! The falsehood of her lover has broken her heart."
"I fear that it is even so."
"Is she ill? I have not seen her for a long time," said MissLinmore.
"Not ill, as one sick of a bodily disease; but drooping about as onewhose spirits are broken, and who finds no sustaining arm to leanupon. When you meet her, she strives to be cheerful, and appear intorested. But the effort deceives no one."
"Why did Mr. Florence act towards her as he has done?" asked MissLinmore.
"A handsomer face and more brilliant exterior were the attractions,I am told."
The young lady asked no more questions. Those who observed herclosely, saw the warm tints that made beautiful her cheeks growfainter and fainter, until they had almost entirely faded. Soonafter, she retired from the company.
In the ardor of his pursuit of a new object of affection, EdwinFlorence scarcely thought of the old one. The image of Edith washidden by the interposing form of Miss Linmore. The suspenseoccasioned by a wish for time to consider the offer he had made,grew more and more painful the longer it was continued. On thepossession of the lovely girl as his wife, depended, so he felt, hisfuture happiness. Were she to decline his offer he would bewretched. In this state of mind, he called one day upon MissLinmore, hoping and fearing, yet resolved to know his fate. Themoment he entered her presence he observed a change. She did notsmile; and there was something chilling in the steady glance of herlarge dark eyes.
"Have I offended you?" he asked, as she declined taking his offeredhand.
"Yes," was the firm reply, while the young lady assumed a dignifiedair.
"In what?" asked Florence.
"In proving false to her in whose ears you first breathed words ofaffection."
The young man started as if stung by a serpent.
"The man," resumed Miss Linmore, "who has been false to EdithWalter, never can be true to me. I wouldn't have the affection thatcould turn from one like her. I hold it to be light as thethistle-down. Go! heal the heart you have almost broken, if,perchance, it be not yet too late. As for me, think of me as if wehad all our lives been strangers--such, henceforth, we must everremain."
And saying this, Catharine Linmore turned from the rebuked andastonished young man, and left the room. He immediately retired.
CHAPTER II.
EVENING, with its passionless influences, was stealing softly down,and leaving on all things its hues of quiet and repose. The heart ofnature was beating with calm and even pulses. Not so the heart ofEdwin Florence. It had a wilder throb; and the face of nature wasnot reflected in the mirror of his feelings, He was alone in hisroom, where he had been during the few hours that had elapsed sincehis interview with Miss Linmore. In those few hours, Memory hadturned over many leaves of the Book of his Life. He would fain haveaverted his eyes from the pages, but he could not. The record wasbefore him, and he had read it. And, as he read, the eyes of Edithlooked into his own; at first they were loving and tender, as ofold; and then. they were full of tears. Her hand lay, now,confidingly in his; and now it was slowly withdrawn. She sat by hisside, and leaned upon him--his lips were upon her lips; his cheektouching her cheek; their breaths were mingling. Another moment andhe had turned from her coldly, and she was drooping towards theearth like a tender vine bereft of the support to which it had heldby its clinging tendrils. Ah! If he could only have shut out theseimages! If he could have erased the record so that Memory could notread it! How eagerly would he have drunk of Lethe's waters, could hehave found the fabled stream!
More than all this. The rebuke of Miss Linmore almost maddened him.In turning from Edith, he had let his heart go out towards the otherwith a passionate devotion. Pride in her beauty and brilliantaccomplishments had filled his regard with a selfishness that couldill bear the shock of a sudden repulse. Sleepless was the night thatfollowed; and when the morning, long looked for, broke at last, itbrought no light for his darkened spirit. Yet he had grown calmer,and a gentle feeling pervaded his bosom. Thrown off by Miss Linmore,his thoughts now turned by a natural impulse, as the needle, longheld by opposing attraction, turns to its polar point, again towardsEdith Walter. As he thought of her longer and longer, tendereremotions began to tremble in his heart. The beauty of her characterwas again seen; and his better nature bowed before it once more in agenuine worship.
"How have I been infatuated! What syren spell has been on me!" Suchwere the words that fell from his lips, marking the change in hisfeelings.
Days went by, and still the change went on, until the old affectionhad come back; the old tender, true affection. But, he had turnedfrom its object--basely turned away. A more glaring light haddazzled his eyes so that he could see, for a time, no beauty, noattraction, in his first love. Could he turn to her again? Would shereceive him? Would she let him dip healing leaves in the waters hehad dashed with bitterness? His heart trembled as he asked thesequestions, for there was no confident answer.
At last Edwin Florence resolved that he would see Edith once more,and seek to repair the wrong done both to her and to himself. It wasthree months after his rejection by Miss Linmore when he came tothis resolution. And then, some weeks elapsed before he could forcehimself to act upon it. In all that time he had not met the younggirl, nor had he once heard of her. To the house of her aunt, whereshe resided, Florence took his way one evening in early autumn, hisheart disturbed by many conflicting emotions. His love for Edith hadcome back in full force; and his spirit was longing for the oldcommunion.
"Can I see Miss Walter!" he asked, on arriving at her place ofresidence.
"Walk in," returned the servant who had answered his summons.
Florence entered the little parlor where he had spent so manynever-to-be-forgotten hours with Edith--hours unspeakably happy inpassing, but, in remembrance, burdened with pain--and looking aroundon each familiar object with strange emotions. Soon a light step washeard descending the stairs, and moving along the passage. The dooropened, and Edith--no, her aunt--entered. The young man had risen inthe breathlessness of expectation.
"Mr. Florence," said the aunt, coldly. He extended his hand; but shedid not take it.
"How is Edith?" was half stammered.
"She is sinking rapidly," replied the aunt.
Edwin staggered back into a chair.
"Is she ill?" he inquired, with a quivering lip.
"Ill! She is dying!" There was something of indignation in the waythis was said.
"Dying!" The young man clasped his hands together with a gesture ofdespair.
"How long has she been sick?" he next ventured to ask.
"For months she has been dying daily," said the aunt. There was ameaning in her tones that the young man fully comprehended. He hadnot dreamed of this.
"Can I see her?"
The aunt shook her head, as she answered,
"Let her spirit depart in peace."
"I will not disturb, but calm her spirit," said the young man,earnestly. "Oh, let me see her, that I may call her back to life!"
"It is too late," replied the aunt. "The oil is exhausted, and lightis just departing."
Edwin started to his feet, exclaiming passionately--"Let me see her!Let me see her!"
"To see her thus, would be to blow the breath that would extinguishthe flickering light," said the aunt. "Go home, young man! It is toolate! Do not seek to agitate the waters long troubled by your hand,but now subsiding into calmness. Let her spirit depart in peace."
Florence sunk again into his chair, and, hiding his face with hishands, sat for some moments in a state of a mental paralysis.
In the chamber above lay the pale, almost pulseless form of Edith. Ayoung girl, who had been as her sister for many years, sat holdingher thin white hand. The face of the invalid was turned to the wall.Her eyes were closed; and she breathed so quietly that the motionsof respiration could hardly be seen. Nearly ten minutes had elapsedfrom the time a servant whispered to the aunt that there was someone in the parlor, when Edith turned, and said to her companion, ina low, calm voice--
"Mr. Florence has come."
The girl started, and a flush of surprise went over her face.
"He is in the parlor now. Won't you ask him to come up?" added thedying maiden, still speaking with the utmost composure.
Her friend stood surprised and hesitating for some moments, and thenturning away, glided from the chamber. She found the aunt and Mr.Florence in the passage below, the latter pleading with the formerfor the privilege of seeing Edith, which was resolutely denied.
"Edith wants to see Mr. Florence," said the girl, as she joinedthem.
"Who told her that he was here?" quickly asked the aunt.
"No one. I did not know it myself."
"Her heart told her that I was here," exclaimed Mr. Florence--and,as he spoke, he glided past the aunt, and, with hurried steps,ascended to the chamber where the dying one lay. The eyes of Edithwere turned towards the door as he entered; but no sign of emotionpassed over her countenance. Overcome by his feelings, at the sightof the shadowy remnant of one so loved and so wronged, the young mansunk into a chair by her side, as nerveless as a child; and, as hislips were pressed upon her lips and cheeks, her face was wet withhis tears.
Coming in quickly after, the aunt took firmly hold of his arm andsought to draw him away, but, in a steady voice, the invalid said--
"No--no. I was waiting for him. I have expected him for days. I knewhe would come; and he is here now."
All was silence for many minutes; and during this time EdwinFlorence sat with his face covered, struggling to command hisfeelings. At a motion from the dying girl, the aunt and friendretired, and she was alone with the lover who had been false to hisvows. As the door closed behind them, Edwin looked up. He had growncalm. With a voice of inexpressible tenderness, he said--
"Live for me, Edith."
"Not here," was answered. "The silver chord will soon be loosenedand the golden bowl broken."
"Oh, say not that! Let me call you back to life. Turn to me again asI have turned to you with my whole heart. The world is stillbeautiful; and in it we will be happy together."
"No, Edwin," replied the dying maiden. "The history of my days hereis written, and the angel is about sealing the record. I am goingwhere the heart will never feel the touch of sorrow. I wished to seeyou once more before I died; and you are here. I have, once more,felt your breath upon my cheek; once more held your hand in mine.For this my heart is grateful. You had become the sun of my life,and when your face was turned away, the flower that spread itselfjoyfully in the light, drooped and faded. And now, the light hascome back again; but it cannot warm into freshness and beauty thewithered blossom."
"Oh, my Edith! Say not so! Live for me! I have no thoughts, noaffection that is not for you. The drooping flower will lift itselfagain in the sunshine when the clouds have passed away."
As the young man said this, Edith raised herself up suddenly, and,with a fond gesture, flung herself forward upon his bosom. For a fewmoments her form quivered in his arms. Then all became still, and hefelt her lying heavier and heavier against him. In a little while hewas conscious that he clasped to his heart only the earthlysemblance of one who had passed away forever.
Replacing the light and faded form of her who, a little whilebefore, had been in the vigor of health, upon the bed, Edwin gazedupon the sunken features for a few moments, and then, leaving a lastkiss upon her cold lips, hurried aware.
Another page in his Book of Life was written, There was anotherrecord there from which memory, in after life, could read. And sucha record! What would he not have given to erase that page!
When the body of Edith Walter was borne to its last resting-place,Florence was among the mourners. After looking his last look uponthe coffin that contained the body, he went away, sadder in heartthan he had ever been in his life. He was not only a prey tosadness, but to painful self-accusation. In his perfidy lay thecause of her death. He had broken the heart that confided in him,and only repented of his error when it was too late to repair theruin.
As to what was thought or said of him by others, Edwin Florencecared but little. There was enough of pain in his ownself-consciousness. He withdrew himself from the social circle, and,for several years, lived a kind of hermit-life in the midst ofsociety. But, he was far from being happy in his solitude; forMemory was with him, and almost daily, from the Book of his Life,read to him some darkly written page.
One day, it was three years from the time he parted with Edith inthe chamber of death, and when he was beginning to rise in a measureabove the depressing influences attendant upon that event,--hereceived an invitation to make one of a social party on the nextevening. The desire to go back again in society had been gainingstrength with him for some time; and, as it had gained strength,reason had pointed out the error of his voluntary seclusion asunavailing to alter the past.
"The past is past," he said to himself, as he mused with theinvitation in his hand. "I cannot recall it--I cannot change it. Ifrepentance can in any way atone for error, surely I have madeatonement; for my repentance has been long and sincere. If Edith cansee my heart, her spirit must be satisfied. Even she could not wishfor this living burial. It is better for me to mingle in society asof old."
Acting on this view, Florence made one on the next evening, in asocial party. He felt strangely, for his mind was invaded by oldinfluences, and touched by old impressions. He saw, in many a lightand airy form, as it glanced before him, the image of one long sincepassed away; and heard, in the voices that filled the rooms, many atone that it seemed must have come from the lips of Edith. How busywas Memory again with the past. In vain he sought to shut out theimages that arose in his mind. The page was open before him, andwhat was impressed thereon he could not but see and read.
This passed, in some degree, away as the evening progressed, and hecame nearer, so to speak, to some of those who made up the happycompany. Among those present was a young lady from a neighboringcity, who attracted much attention both from her manners and person.She fixed the eyes of Mr. Florence soon after he entered the room,and, half unconsciously to himself, his observation was frequentlydirected towards her.
"Who is that lady?" he asked of a friend, an hour after his arrival.
"Her name is Miss Welden. She is from Albany."
"She has a very interesting face," said Florence.
"And quite as interesting a mind. Miss Weldon is a charming girl."
Not long after, the two were thrown near together, when anintroduction took place. The conversation of the young ladyinterested Florence, and in her society he passed half an hour mostpleasantly. While talking with more than usual animation, in liftinghis eyes he saw that some one on, the opposite side of the room wasobserving him attentively. For the moment this did not produce anyeffect. But, in looking up again, he saw the same eyes upon him, andfelt their expression as unpleasant. He now, for the first time,became aware that the aunt of Edith Walter was present. She it waswho had been regarding him so attentively. From that instant hisheart sunk in his bosom. Memory's magic mirror was before him, andin it he saw pictured the whole scene of that last meeting withEdith.
A little while afterward, and Edwin Florence was missed from thepleasant company. Where was he? Alone in the solitude of his ownchamber, with his thoughts upon the past. Again he had been readingover those pages of his Book of Life in which was written thehistory of his intimacy with and desertion of Edith; and the recordseemed as fresh as if made but the day before. It was in vain thathe sought to close or avert his eyes. There seemed a spell upon him;and he could only look and read.
"Fatal error!" he murmured to himself, as he struggled to freehimself from his thraldom to the past. "Fatal error! How a singleact will curse a man through life. Oh! if I could but extinguish thewhole of this memory! If I could wipe out the hand-writing. Sorrow,repentance, is of no avail. The past is gone for ever. Why thenshould I thus continue to be unhappy over what I cannot alter? Itavails nothing to Edith. She is happy--far happier than if she hadremained on this troublesome earth."
But, even while he uttered these words, there came into his mindsuch a realizing sense of what the poor girl must have suffered,when she found her love thrown back upon her, crushing her heart byits weight, that he bowed his head upon his bosom and in bitterself-upbraidings passed the hours until midnight, when sleep lockedup his senses, and calmed the turbulence of his feelings.
CHAPTER III.
MONTHS elapsed before Edwin Florence ventured again into company.
"Why will you shut yourself up after this fashion?" said anacquaintance to him one day. "It isn't just to your friends. I'veheard half a dozen persons asking for you lately. This hermit lifeyou are leading is, let me tell you, a very foolish life."
The friend who thus spoke knew nothing of the young man's hearthistory.
"No one really misses me," said Florence, in reply.
"In that you are mistaken," returned the friend. "You are missed. Ihave heard one young lady, at least, ask for you of late, more thana dozen times."
"Indeed! A young lady?"
"Yes; and a very beautiful young lady at that."
"In whose eyes can I have found such favor?"
"You have met Miss Clara Weldon?"
"Only once."
"But once!"
"That is all."
"Then it must be a case of love at first sight--at least on thelady's part--for Miss Weldon has asked for you, to my knowledge, notless than a dozen times."
"I am certainly flattered at the interest she takes in me."
"Well you may be. I know more than one young man who would sacrificea good deal to find equal favor in her eyes. Now see what you havelost by this hiding of your countenance. And you are not the onlyloser."
Florence, who was more pleased at what he heard than he would liketo have acknowledged, promised to come forth from his hiding placeand meet the world in a better spirit. And he did so; being reallydrawn back into the social circle by the attraction of Miss Weldon.At his second meeting with this young lady he was still more charmedwith her than at first; and she was equally well pleased with him. Afew more interviews, and both their hearts were deeply interested.
Now there came a new cause of disquietude to Edwin; or, it might besaid, the old cause renewed. The going out of his affections towardsMiss Weldon revived the whole memory of the past; and, for a time hefound it almost impossible to thrust it from his mind. While sittingby her side and listening to her voice, the tones of Edith would bein his ears; and, often, when he looked into her face he would seeonly the fading countenance of her who had passed away. This was thefirst state, and it was exceedingly painful while it lasted. But, itgradually changed into one more pleasant, yet not entirely free fromthe unwelcome intrusion of the past.
The oftener Florence and Miss Weldon met, the more strongly weretheir hearts drawn toward each other; and, at length, the former wasencouraged to make an offer of his hand. In coming to thisresolutions, it was not without passing through a painful conflict.As his mind dwelt upon the subject, there was a reproduction of oldstates. Most vividly did he recall the time when he breathed intothe ears of Edith vows to which he had proved faithless. He had, itis true, returned to his first allegiance. He had laid his heartagain at her feet; but, to how little purpose! While in this stateof agitation, the young man resolved, more than once, to abandon hissuit for the hand of Miss Weldon, and shrink back again into theseclusion from which he had come forth. But, his affection for thelovely girl was too genuine to admit of this. When he thought ofgiving her up, his mind was still more deeply disturbed.
"Oh, that I could forget!" he exclaimed, while this struggle was inprogress. "Of what avail is this turning over of the leaves of along passed history? I erred--sadly erred! But repentance is now toolate. Why, then should my whole existence be cursed for a singleerror? Ah, me! thou not satisfied, departed one? Is it, indeed, fromthe presence of thy spirit that I am troubled? My heart sinks at thethought. But no, no! Thou wert too good to visit pain upon any; muchless upon one who, thou false to thee, thou didst so tenderly love."
But, upon this state there came a natural re-action. A peaceful calmsucceeded the storm. Memory deposited her records in the mind'sdimly lighted chambers. To the present was restored its betterinfluences.
"I am free again," was the almost audible utterance, of the youngman, so strong was his sense of relief.
An offer of marriage was then made to Miss Weldon. Her hearttrembled with joy when she received it. But confiding implicitly inher uncle, who had been for the space of ten years her friend andguardian, she could not give an affirmative reply until his approvalwas gained. She, therefore, asked time for reflection andconsultation with her friend.
Far different from what Florence had expected, was the reception ofhis offer. To him, Miss Weldon seemed instantly to grow cold andreserved. Vividly was now recalled his rejection by Miss Linmore, aswell as the ground of her rejection.
"Is this to be gone over again?" he sighed to himself, when aloneonce more, "Is that one false step never to be forgotten norforgiven? Am I to be followed, through life, by this shadow ofevil?"
To no other cause than this could the mind of Florence attribute theapparent change and hesitation in Clara Weldon.
Immediately on receiving an offer of marriage, Miss Weldon returnedto Albany. Before leaving, she dropped Florence a note, to theeffect, that he should hear from her in a few days. A week passed,but the promised word came not. It was, now plain that the friendsof the young lady had been making inquiries about him, and were inpossession of certain facts in his life, which, if known, wouldalmost certainly blast his hopes of favor in her eyes. While in thisstate of uncertainty, he met the aunt of Edith, and the way shelooked at him, satisfied his mind that his conjectures were true. Alittle while after a friend remarked to him casually--
"I saw Colonel Richards in town to-day."
"Colonel Richards! Miss Weldon's uncle?"
"Yes. Have you seen him?"
"No. I have not the pleasure of an acquaintance."
"Indeed! I thought you knew him. I heard him mention your name thismorning."
"My name!"
"Yes."
"What had he to say of me?"
"Let me think. Oh! He asked me if I knew you."
"Well?"
"I said that I did, of course and that you were a pretty cleverfellow; though you had been a sad boy in your time."
The face of Florence instantly reddened.
"Why, what's the matter? Oh I understand now! That little niece ofhis is one of your flames. But come! Don't take it so to heart. Yourchances are one in ten, I have no doubt. By the way, I haven't seenClara for a week. What has become of her? Gone back to Albany, Isuppose. I hope you haven't frightened her with an offer. By theway, let me whisper a word of comfort in your ear. I heard her saythat she didn't believe in any thing but first love; and, as you areknown to have had half a dozen sweethearts, more or less, and tohave broken the hearts of two or three young ladies, the probabilityis, that you won't be able to add her to tie number of your ladyloves."
All this was mere jesting; but the words, though uttered in jest,fell upon the ears of Edwin Florence with all the force of truth.
"Guilty, on your own acknowledgment," said the friend, seeing theeffect of his words. "Better always to act fairly in these mattersof the heart, Florence. If we sow the wind, we will be pretty sureto reap the whirlwind. But come; let me take you down to theTremont, and introduce you to Colonel Richards. I know he will beglad to make your acquaintance, and will, most probably, give you aninvitation to go home with him and spend a week. You can then makeall fair with his pretty niece."
"I have no wish to make his acquaintance just at this time,"returned Florence; "nor do I suppose he cares about making mine,particularly after the high opinion you gave him of my character."
"Nonsense, Edwin! You don't suppose I said that to him. Can't youtake a joke?"
"Oh, yes; I can take a joke."
"Take that as one, then. Colonel Richards did ask for you, however;and said that he would like to meet you. He was serious. So comealong, and let me introduce you."
"No; I would prefer not meeting with him at this time."
"You are a strange individual."
The young men parted; Florence to feel more disquieted than ever.Colonel Richards had been inquiring about him, and, in prosecutinghis inquiries, would, most likely, find some one inclined to relatethe story of Edith Walter. What was more natural? That story once inthe ears of Clara, and he felt that she must turn from him with afeeling of repulsion.
Three or four days longer he was in suspense. He heard of Col.Richards from several quarters, and, in each case when he wasmentioned, he was alluded to as making inquiries about him.
"I hear that the beautiful Miss Weldon is to be married," was saidto Florence at a time when he was almost mad with the excitement ofsuspense.
"Ah!" he replied, with forced calmness, "I hope she will besuccessful in securing a good husband."
"So do I; for she is indeed a sweet girl. I was more than halfinclined to fall in love with her myself; and would leave done so,if I had believed there was any chance for me."
"Who is the favored one?" asked Florence.
"I have not been able to find out. She received three or fouroffers, and went back to Albany to consider them and make herelection. This she has done, I hear; and already, the happyrecipient of her favor is rejoicing over his good fortune. May theylive a thousand years to be happy with each other!"
Here was another drop of bitterness in the cup that was at the lipsof Edwin Florence. He went to his office immediately, and, settingdown, wrote thus to Clara:
"I do not wrongly interpret, I presume, a silence continued farbeyond the time agreed upon when we parted. You have rejected mysuit. Well, be it so; and may you be happy with him who has foundfavor in your eyes. I do not think he can love you more sincerelythan I do, or he more devoted to your happiness than I should havebeen. It would have relieved the pain I cannot but feel, if you haddeemed my offer worthy a frank refusal. But, to feel that one I haveso truly loved does not think me even deserving of this attention,is humiliating in the extreme. But, I will not upbraid you.Farewell! May you be happy."
Sealing Up his epistle, the young man, scarcely pausing even forhurried reflection, threw it into the post office. This done, hesunk into a gloomy state of mind, in which mortification anddisappointment struggled alternately for the predominance.
Only a few hours elapsed after the adoption of this hasty course,before doubts of its propriety began to steal across his mind. Itwas possible, it occurred to him, that he might have acted tooprecipitately. There might be reasons for the silence of Miss Weldonentirely separate from those he had been too ready to assume; and,if so, how strange would his letter appear. It was too late now torecall the act, for already the mail that bore his letter was halfway from New York to Albany. A restless night succeeded to this day.Early on the next morning he received a letter. It was in thesewords--
"MY DEAR MR. FLORENCE:--I have been very ill, and to-day am able tosit up just long enough to write a line or two. My uncle was in NewYork some days ago, but did not meet with you. Will you not come upand see me?
"Ever Yours, CLARA WELDON."
Florence was on board the next boat that left New York for Albany.The letter of Clara was, of course, written before the receipt ofhis hasty epistle. What troubled him now was the effect of thisepistle on her mind. He had not only wrongly interpreted hersilence, but had assumed the acceptance of another lover asconfidently as if he knew to an certainty that such was the case.This was a serious matter and might result in the very thing he hadbeen so ready to assume--the rejection of his suit.
Arriving at length, in Albany, Mr. Florence sought out the residenceof Miss Weldon.
"Is Colonel Richards at home?" he inquired.
On being answered in the affirmative he sent up his name, with arequest to see him. The colonel made his appearance in short time.He was a tall, thoughtful looking man, and bowed with a dignifiedair as he came into the room.
"How is Miss Weldon?" asked Florence, with an eagerness he could notrestrain.
"Not so well this morning," replied the guardian. "She had a badnight."
"No wonder," thought the young man, "after receiving that letter."
"She has been. sleeping, however since daylight," added ColonelRichards, "and that is much in her favor."
"She received my letter, I presume," said Florence, in a hesitatingvoice.
"A letter came for her yesterday," was replied; "but as she was moreindisposed than usual, we did not give it to her."
"It is as well," said the young man, experiencing a sense of relief.
An hour afterwards he was permitted to enter the chamber, where shelay supported by pillows. One glance at her face dispelled from hismind every lingering doubt. He had suffered from imaginary fears,awakened by the whispers of a troubled conscience.
CHAPTER IV.
IN a few days Clara was well enough to leave her room, and was soonentirely recovered from her sudden illness. That little matter ofthe heart had been settled within three minutes of their meeting,and they were now as happy as lovers usually are under suchfavorable circumstances.
When Edwin Florence went back to New York, it was with a sense ofinterior pleasure more perfect than he had experienced for years;and this would have remained, could he have shut out the past; or,so much of it as came like an unwelcome intruder. But, alas! thiswas not to be. Even while he was bending, in spirit, over thebeautiful image of his last beloved, there would come between hiseyes and that image a pale sad face, in which reproof was strongerthan affection, It was all in vain that he sought to turn from thatface. For a time it would remain present, and then fade slowly away,leaving his heart oppressed.
"Is it to be ever thus!" he would exclaim, in these seasons ofdarkness. "Will nothing satisfy this accusing spirit? Edith! DearEdith! Art thou not among the blessed ones? Is not thy heart happybeyond mortal conception? Then why come to me thus with thosetearful eyes, that shadowy face, those looks of reproof? Have I notsuffered enough for purification! Am I never to be forgiven?"
And then, with an effort, he would turn his eyes from the page laidopen by Memory, and seek to forget what was written there. But itseemed as if every thing conspired to freshen his remembrance of thepast, the nearer the time approached, when by a marriage union withone truly beloved, he was to weaken the bonds it had thrown aroundhim. The marriage of Miss Linmore took place a few weeks after hisengagement with Clara, and as an intimate friend led her to thealtar, he could not decline making one of the number that graced thenuptial festivities. In meeting the young bride, he endeavored topush from his mind all thoughts of their former relations. But shehad not done this, and her thought determined his. Her mind recurredto the former time, the moment he came into her presence, and, ofnecessity his went back also. They met, therefore, with a certainreserve, that was to him most unpleasant, particularly as it stirreda hundred sleeping memories.
By a strong effort, Florence was able to conceal from other eyesmuch of what he felt. In doing this, a certain over action was theconsequence; and he was gayer than usual. Several times heendeavored to be lightly familiar with the bride; but, in everyinstance that he approached her, he perceived a kind of instinctiveshrinking; and, if she was in a laughing mood, when he drew near shebecame serious and reserved. All this was too plain to be mistaken;and like the repeated strokes of a hammer upon glowing iron,gradually bent his feelings from the buoyant form they had beenendeavoring to assume. The effect was not wholly to be resisted.More than an hour before the happy assemblage broke up, Florence wasnot to be found in the brilliantly lighted rooms. Unable longer toconceal what he felt, he had retired.
For many days after this, the young man felt sober. "Why haven't youcalled to see me?" asked the friend who had married Miss Linmore, aweek or two after the celebration of the nuptials.
Florence excused himself as best he could, and promised to call in afew days. Two weeks went by without the fulfillment of his promise.
"No doubt, we shall see you next week," said the friend, meeting himone day about this time; "though I am not so sure we will receiveyour visits then."
"Why not?"
"A certain young lady with whom, I believe, you have someacquaintance, is to spend a short time with us."
"Who?" asked Florence, quickly.
"A young lady from Albany."
"Miss Weldon?"
"The same."
"I was not aware that she was on terms of intimacy with your wife."
"She's an old friend of mine; and, in that sense a friend ofKate's."
"Then they have not met."
"Oh, yes; frequently. And are warmly attached. We look for apleasant visit. But, of course, we shall not expect to see you. Thatis understood."
"I rather think you will; that is, if your wife will admit me onfriendly terms."
"Why do you say that?" inquired the friend, appearing a littlesurprised.
"I thought, on the night of your wedding, that she felt my presenceas unwelcome to her."
"And is this the reason why you have not called to see us."
"I frankly own that it is."
"Edwin! I am surprised at you. It is all a piece of imagination.What could have put such a thing into your head?"
"It may have been all imagination. But I couldn't help feelings as Idid. However, you may expect to see me, and that, too, before MissWeldon's arrival."
"If you don't present yourself before, I am not so sure that we willlet you come afterwards," said the friend, smiling.
On the next evening the young man called. Mrs. Hartley, the bride ofhis friend, endeavored to forget the past, and to receive him withall the external signs of forgetfulness. But, in this she did notfully succeed, and, of course, the visit of Florence was painfullyembarrassing, at least, to himself. From that time until the arrivalof Miss Weldon, he felt concerned and unhappy. That Mrs. Hartleywould fully communicate or covertly hint to Clara certain events ofhis former life, he had too much reason to fear; and, were thisdone, he felt that all his fond hopes would be scattered to thewinds. In due time, Miss Weldon arrived. In meeting her, Florencewas conscious of a feeling of embarrassment, never beforeexperienced in her presence. He understood clearly why this was so.At each successive visit his embarrassment increased; and, the moreso, from the fact that he perceived a change in Clara ere she hadbeen in the city a week. As to the cause of this change, he had nodoubts. It was evident that Mrs. Hartley had communicated certainmatters touching his previous history.
Thus it went on day after day, for two or three weeks, by which timethe lovers met under the influence of a most chilling constraint.Both were exceedingly unhappy.
One day, in calling as usual, Mr. Florence was surprised to learnthat Clara had gone back to Albany.
"She said, nothing of this last night," remarked the young man toMrs. Hartley.
"Her resolution was taken after you went away," was replied.
"And you, no doubt, advised the step," said Mr. Florence, withill-concealed bitterness.
"Why do you say that?" was quickly asked.
"How can I draw any other inference?" said the young man, looking ather with knit brows.
"Explain yourself, Mr. Florence!"
"Do my words need explanation?"
"Undoubtedly! For, I cannot understand them."
"There are events in my past life--I will not say how bitterlyrepented--of which only you could have informed her."
"What events?" calmly asked the lady.
"Why lacerate my feelings by such a question?" said Florence, whilea shadow of pain flitted over his face, as Memory presented a recordof the past.
"I ask it with no such intention. I only wish to understand you,"replied Mrs. Hartley. "You have brought against me a vagueaccusation. I wish it distinct, that I may affirm or deny it."
"Edith Walter," said Edwin Florence, in a low, unsteady voice, afterhe had been silent for nearly a minute.
Mrs. Hartley looked earnestly into his face. Every muscle wasquivering.
"What of her?" she inquired, in tones quite as low as those in whichthe young man had spoken.
"You know the history."
"Well?"
"And, regardless of my suffering and repentance, made known to Clarathe blasting secret."
"No! By my hopes of heaven, no!" quickly exclaimed Mrs. Hartley.
"No?" A quiver ran through the young man's frame.
"No, Mr. Florence! That rested as silently in my own bosom as inyours."
"Who, then, informed her?"
"No one."
"Has she not heard of it?"
"No."
"Why, then, did she change towards me?"
"You changed, first, towards her."
"Me!"
"Yes. From the day of her arrival in New York, she perceived in youa certain coldness and reserve, that increased with each repeatedinterview."
"Oh, no!"
"It is true. I saw it myself."
Florence clasped his hands together, and bent his eyes in doubt andwonder upon the floor.
"Did she complain of coldness and change in me?" he inquired.
"Yes, often. And returned, last night, to leave you free, doubtingnot that you had ceased to love her."
"Ceased to love her! While this sad work has been going on, I haveloved her with the agony of one who is about losing earth's mostprecious thing. Oh! write to her for me, and explain all. Howstrange has been my infatuation. Will you write for me?"
"Yes."
"Say that my heart has not turned from her an instant. That herimagined coldness has made me of all men most wretched."
"I will do so. But why not write yourself?"
"It will be better to come from you. Ask her to return. I wouldrather meet her here than in her uncle's house. Urge her to comeback."
Mrs. Hartley promised to do so, according to the wish of Mr.Florence. Two days passed, and there was no answer. On the morningof the third day, the young man, in a state of agitation fromsuspense called at the house of his friend. After sending up hisname, he sat anxiously awaiting the appearance of Mrs. Hartley. Thedoor at length opened, and, to his surprise and joy, Clara entered.She came forward with a smile upon her face, extending her hand asshe did so. Edwin sprang to meet her, and catching her hand, pressedit eagerly to his lips.
"Strange that we should have so erred in regard to each other," saidClara, as they sat communing tenderly. "I trust no such error willcome in the future to which I look forward with so many pleasinghopes."
"Heaven forbid!" replied the young man, seriously.
"But we are in a world of error. Ah! if we could only pass throughlife without a mistake. If the heavy weight of repentance did notlie so often and so long upon our hearts--this would be a farpleasanter world than it is."
"Do not look so serious," remarked Clara, as she bent forward andgazed affectionately into the young man's face. "To err is human. Noone here is perfect. How often, for hours, have I mourned overerrors; yet grief was of no avail, except to make my future moreguarded."
"And that was much gained," said Florence, breathing deeply with asense of relief. "If we cannot recall and correct the past, we canat least be more guarded in the future. This is the effect of my ownexperience. Ah! if we properly considered the action of our presentupon the future, how guarded would we be. All actions are in thepresent, and the moment they are done the present becomes the past,over which Memory presides. What is past is fixed. Nothing canchange it. The record is in marble, to be seen in all future time."
The serious character of the interview soon changed, and the younglovers forgot every thing in the joy of their reconciliation.Nothing arose to mar their intercourse until the appointed time forthe nuptial ceremonies arrived, when they were united in holywedlock. But, Edwin Florence did not pass on to this time withoutanother visit from the rebuking Angel of the past. He was notpermitted to take the hand of Clara in his, and utter the words thatbound him to her forever, without a visit from the one whose hearthe had broken years before. She came to him in the dark and silentmidnight, as he tossed sleeplessly upon his bed, and stood andlooked at him with her pale face and despairing eyes, until he wasdriven almost to madness. She was with him when the light of morningdawned; she moved by his side as he went forth to meet and claim hisbetrothed; and was near him, invisible to all eyes but his own, whenhe stood at the altar ready to give utterance to the solemn wordsthat bound him to his bride. And not until these words were said,did the vision fade away.
No wonder the face of the bridegroom wore a solemn aspect as hepresented himself to the minister, and breathed the vows of eternalfidelity to the living, while before him, as distinct as if inbodily form, was the presence of one long since sleeping ill hergrave, who had gone down to her shadowy resting place through hisinfidelity.
From this time there was a thicker veil drawn over the past. Thememory of that one event grew less and less distinct; though it wasnot obliterated, for nothing that is written in the Book of Life isever blotted out. There were reasons, even in long years after hismarriage, when the record stood suddenly before him, as if writtenin words of light; and he would turn from it with a feeling of pain.
Thus it is that our present blesses or curses our future. Every actof our lives affects the coming time for good or evil. We make ourown destiny, and make it always in the present. The past is gone,the future is yet to come. The present only is ours, and, accordingto what we do in the present, will be the records of the past andits influence on the future. They are only wise who wisely regardtheir actions in the present.
THE END.
* * * * * * * * * * * *