CHAPTER XII.

"O, happiness, deceitful in thy dream," Though wreaths all blooming hang upon thy brow, And quick dissolves the visionary gleam, Succeeded soon by various scenes of wo.

When Theodore returned to the house of his friend, he unfolded the plan he had projected.

"No sooner," said Raymond, "was I informed of your misfortunes, than I was convinced that Alida's father (whom I have known for many years) would endeavour to dissolve your intended union with his daughter. And however he may doat on his children, or value their happiness, he will not hesitate to sacrifice his better feelings to the accomplishment of his wishes to see them independent. It appears that you have but one resource left. You and Alida are now engaged by the most solemn ties, by every rite except those which are ceremonial; these I would advise you to enter into, and trust to the consequences. Mrs. Raymond has proposed the scheme to Alida, but implicitly accustomed to filial obedience, she shudders at the idea of a clandestine marriage; but when her father will proceed to rigorous measures, she will, I think, consent to the alternative. The world is before you, Theodore," continued he; "you have friends, you have acquirements which will not fail you. In a country like this you can scarcely help obtaining a competency, which, with the other requisites you have in your power, will not fail to insure your independence and felicity."

"But the times have changed," said Theodore, since the commencement of the war, and probably I may yet have to join the army. After I have made my visit on the morrow to Alida's father, we will discourse further on the subject.

In the meantime, Theodore proceeded on the morrow, to make his intended visit. As he approached the house, he saw Alida sitting in a shady recess at one end of the garden, near which the road passed. She was leaning with her head upon her hand in a pensive posture; a deep dejection was depicted upon her features, which enlivened into a transient glow as soon as she saw Theodore. She arose, met him, and invited him into the house.

Theodore was received with a cool reserve by all except Alida. Her father saluted him with a distant retiring bow, as he passed with her to the parlour. As soon as they were seated, a lady who had lately come to reside some time in the family, (who was a relative of her father's,) entered the room and seated herself by the window, alternately humming a tune and staring at Theodore, without speaking a word.

This interruption was not of long continuance. Alida's father entered, and requested the two ladies to withdraw, which was instantly done; he then addressed Theodore as follows:

"When I gave consent for your union with my daughter, it was on the conviction that your future resources would be adequate to support her honourably and independently. Circumstances have since taken place which render this point extremely doubtful." He paused for a reply, but Theodore was silent. He continued, "You, perhaps, may say that your acquirements, your prudence, and your industry, will procure you a handsome income; but to depend on these altogether for your future exigencies is hazarding peace, honour, and reputation, at a single game of chance. If, therefore, you have no resources or expectations but such as these, your own judgment will teach you the necessity of immediately relinquishing all pretensions to the hand of Alida, and from this time to break off all communication with my daughter." He then immediately left the room.

Why was Theodore speechless through the whole of this discourse? What reply could he have made? What were the prospects before him but misery and wo? Where, indeed, were the means by which Alida was to be shielded from indigence, if connected with his fortunes?

The idea was not new, but it came upon him at this time with redoubled anguish. He arose and looked around for Alida, but she was not to be seen. He left the house and walked slowly towards Raymond's. At a little distance he met Alida who had been strolling in an adjoining avenue. He informed her of all that had passed; it was no more than they both expected, yet it was a shock their fortitude could scarcely sustain. Disappointment seldom finds her votaries prepared to receive her.

Alida told Theodore that she knew her father's determinations were altogether unchangeable at present. Her brother, she said, would be at home in a few days; how he would act on this occasion, she was unable to say; but were he ever so far their friend, he would have but feeble influence with her father. "What is to be the end of these troubles," continued she, it is impossible to foresee. Let us trust in the mercy of Heaven, and submit to its dispensations.

Theodore and Alida, in their happier days, had, when absent from each other, corresponded. This method it was now thought best to resume. It was agreed, besides, that Theodore should frequently visit Raymond's, and Alida would resort there also, as she should find opportunity. Having concluded on this, Alida returned home, and Theodore to the house of his friend.

The next morning Theodore repaired to the dwelling where his aged parents now resided. His bosom throbbed with keen anguish when he arrived there: his own fate unconnected with that of Alida. His father was absent when he first reached home, but returned soon after. A beam of joy gleamed upon his countenance as he entered the house. "Were it not, Theodore, for your unhappy situation," said he, "we should once more be restored to peace and happiness. A few persons who were indebted to me, finding that I was to be sacrificed by my unfeeling creditors, reserved those debts in their hands, and have now paid me, amounting to something more than five thousand pounds. With this I can live as well and conveniently as I could wish, and can spare some for your present exigencies, Theodore."

Theodore thanked his father for his kindness, but told him that from his former liberality, he had yet sufficient for all his wants. "But your affair with Alida," asked his father, "how is that likely to terminate?" "Favourably, I hope, sir," answered Theodore.

He could not consent to disturb the happy tranquillity of his parents by reciting his own wretchedness. He passed a week with them. He saw them once more comfortably seated at a calm retreat in he country; he saw them serenely blest in the pleasures of returning peace, and a ray of joy illumined his troubled bosom.

"Again the youth his wonted life regain'd, A transient sparkle in his eye obtain'd, A bright, impassion'd, cheering glow express'd The pleas'd sensation of his tender breast: But soon dark gloom the feeble smiles o'erspread; Like morn's gay hues, the fading splendours fled; Returning anguish froze his feeling soul; Deep sighs burst forth, and tears began to roll!"

His memory dwelt on Alida, from whom he had heard nothing since he had last seen her. He thought of the difficulties with which he was surrounded. He thought of the barriers which were now opposed to their happiness; and he immediately set out for the house of Raymond. He arrived at his residence near the close of the day. Raymond and his lady were at tea, with several young ladies that had passed the afternoon there. Theodore cast an active glance at the company, in hopes to see Alida among them, but she was not there. He was invited, and took a seat at table.

After tea was over, Raymond led Theodore into an adjoining room. "You have come in good time," said he. "Something speedily must be done, or you lose Alida forever. The day after you were here, her father received a letter from Bonville, in which, after mentioning the circumstances of your father's insolvency, he hinted that the consequence would probably be a failure of her proposed marriage with you, which might essentially injure the reputation of a lady of her standing in life; to prevent which, and to place her beyond the reach of calumny, he offered to marry her at any appointed day, provided he had her free consent. As Bonville, by the recent death of his father, had been put in possession of a splendid fortune, the proposition might possibly allure the father of Alida, to use his endeavour to bring his daughter to yield implicit obedience to his wishes. Were he to command her to live single, it might be endured; but if he should endeavour to persuade her to discard you from her thoughts entirely, and to give her hand to a person she could have no esteem for, would be to perjure those principles of truth and justice, which he himself had ever taught her to hold most inviolable. To add to Alida's distress, Bonville arrived there yesterday, and, I hope in some measure to alleviate it, Albert, her brother, came this morning. Mrs. Raymond has despatched a message to inform Alida of your arrival, and to desire her to come here immediately. She will undoubtedly comply with the invitation, if not prevented by something extraordinary."

Mrs. Raymond now came to the door of the room, and beckoned to her husband, who went out, but soon returned, leading in Alida, after which he retired. "Oh, Theodore," was all she could say, her further utterance was interrupted by her tears. Theodore led her to a seat, and overcome by sadness was unable to speak. Recovering at length, he begged her to moderate her grief.

"Where," said he, "is your fortitude, and your firmness, Alida, which I have so often seen triumphing over affliction?" Her extreme anguish prevented a reply. Theodore endeavoured to console her, though consolation was a stranger to his own breast.

"Let us not," said he, "increase our flood of affliction by a tide of useless sorrow. Perhaps more prosperous days are yet in reserve for us; happiness may yet be ours. Heaven cannot desert Alida," said Theodore; "as well might it desert its angels. This thorny path may lead to fair fields of light and verdure. Tempests are succeeded by calms; wars end in peace; the splendours of the brightest morning arise on the wings of blackest midnight. Troubles will not always last."

The grief which had almost overwhelmed Alida, now began to subside, as the waves of the ocean gradually cease their tumultuous commotion after the turbulent winds are laid asleep. Deep and long drawn sighs succeeded. The irritation of her feelings had caused a more than usual glow upon her cheek which faded away as she became composed, until a livid paleness spread itself over her features.

Raymond and his lady now came into the room. They strenuously urged the propriety and necessity for Theodore and Alida to enter into the bands of matrimony.

"The measure would be hazardous," remarked Alida. "My circumstances," said Theodore. "Not on that account," interrupted Alida, "but the displeasure of my father."

"Come here, Alida, to-morrow evening," said Mrs. Raymond. "In the mean time you will consider the matter and then determine." To this Alida assented and prepared to return home.

Theodore attended her as far as the gate which opened into the yard surrounding the dwelling. It was dangerous for him to go further, lest he should be discovered even by a domestic of the family. He stood here awhile looking anxiously after Alida as she walked up the avenue, her white robes now invisible, now dimly seen, until they were totally obscured, mingling with the gloom and darkness of the night, ere she reached the door of her father's mansion.

"Thus," said Theodore, "fades the angel of peace from the visionary eyes of the war-worn soldier, when it ascends in the dusky clouds of early morning, while he slumbers on the field of recent battle." With mournful forebodings he returned to the house of his friend. After passing a sleepless night, he arose and walked out into an adjoining field; he stood for some time, leaning, in deep contemplation, against a tree, when he heard quick footsteps behind him. He turned around, and saw Albert approaching. In a moment they were in each other's arms, and mingled tears. They soon returned to Raymond's where they conversed largely on present affairs.

"I have discoursed with my father on the subject," said Albert; "I have urged him with every possible argument, to relinquish his determination to keep you and Alida separate. I fear, however, he is inflexible."

"To endeavour to assuage the grief which rent Alida's bosom was my next object, and in this I trust I have not been unsuccessful. You will see her this evening, and will find her more calm and resigned. You, Theodore, must exert your fortitude. The ways of Heaven are inscrutable, but they are right. We must acquiesce in its dealings; we cannot alter its decrees. Resignation to its will, whether merciful or afflictive, is one of those eminent virtues which adorn the good man's character, and will ever find a brilliant reward in the regions of unsullied happiness."

Albert told Theodore that circumstances compelled him that day to return to the city. "I would advise you," said he, "to remain here until your affair comes to some final issue. It must, I think, ere long, be terminated. Perhaps you and my sister may yet be happy."

Theodore feelingly expressed his gratitude to Albert. He found in him that disinterested friendship which his early youth had experienced. Albert the same day departed for New-York.

The shades of night came on almost insensibly, as Theodore was anxiously expecting Alida. He anticipated the consolation her presence would bestow. Albert had told him she was more composed. The evening passed on, but she came not.

Raymond assured him she would soon be there. He paced the room, and then walked out on the way whither she was expected to come. He hesitated some time whether to advance or return. It was possible, though not probable, that she might have come some other way. He hastened back to the house of his friend; she had not arrived.

"Something extraordinary," said Mrs. Raymond, "has undoubtedly prevented her coming. Perhaps she is ill." Theodore shuddered at the suggestion. He looked at his watch: it was past twelve o'clock. Again he hastily sallied out and took the road to her father's. The night was exceedingly dark, being illuminated only by the feeble glimmering of the twinkling stars. When he came within sight of the house, and as he drew near, no lights were visible, all was still and silent. He entered the yard, walked up the avenue, and approached the door. A solemn stillness prevailed around, interrupted only by the discordance of nightly insects. The dwelling was shrouded in darkness. In Alida's room no gleam of light appeared.

"They are all buried in sleep," said Theodore, deeply sighing, and I have only to return in disappointment.

Theodore now withdrew slowly from the place, and repassed the way he came. As he went back through the garden, he found a person standing at the foot of it, near the road. After a moment's scrutiny, he perceived it to be Bonville.

"What, my chevalier, why are you here?" said he to Theodore. "Hast thou, then, eluded the watchful eyes of Argus, and the vigilance of the dragon?"

"Unfeeling and impertinent intruder!" retorted Theodore, "dost thou add impudence to thy interference? Go," said he, "you are unworthy of my anger. Pursue thy grovelling schemes. Strive to win to your arms a lady who must ever continue to despise you."

"Theodore," replied Bonville, "You and I were rivals in the pursuit for the hand of Alida. Whether from freak or fortune the preference was given to you, I know not; and I retired in silence. From coincidence of circumstances, I think she will now be induced to give the preference to me, especially after her prospects of connecting with you are cut off by the events which ruined your fortune. You, Theodore, have yet, I find, to learn the character of woman. It has been my particular study. Alida, now ardently impassioned by first impressions, irritated by recent disappointment, her feelings delicate and vivid, her affections animated, it would be strange if she could suddenly relinquish premature attachments founded on such premises. But remove her from your presence one year, with only distant and uncertain prospects of seeing you again, admit me as the substitute in your absence, and she accepts my hand as freely as she would now receive yours. I had no design. It never was my wish to marry her without her free consent;--that I believe I shall yet obtain. Under existing circumstances it is impossible but that you must be separated. Then, when cool deliberation succeeds to the wild vagaries of fancy, she will discover the dangerous precipice to which her present inclinations lead. She will prefer indifference and splendour to love and a cottage. At present I relinquish all further pursuit; to-morrow I shall return home. When Alida, from calm deliberation, and the advice of friends, shall freely consent to yield me her hand, I shall return to receive it. I came from my lodgings this evening to declare these intentions to her father; but it being later than I was aware of, the family had gone to rest. I was about to return, but, looking back again at the house, to see if I could descry a light, I stood a moment by the garden gate, when you approached and discovered me." So saying, he bade Theodore good night, and walked hastily away.

"I find he knows not the character of Alida," said Theodore, as he pursued his way to Raymond's. When he arrived at the house of his friend, he related all that had passed between himself and Bonville; and from what he related, the Raymonds concluded that Alida must be watched and guarded.