Part 3

Still her natural equanimity came in aid of her maidenly reserve to conceal from her lover the true state of her heart, and he felt by no means certain that his love was requited. But neither was he hopeless; and knowing that it would be difficult for him to carry himself toward her as he ought during the three months that still remained of his engagement with Mrs. Garrison without having an explanation with Caroline, which it would be improper for him to seek while he stood in his present relation to her, he determined to ask it as a favor of Mrs. Garrison that she would release him, which he did, of course, without assigning his principal motive.

The morning after this arrangement was made, Mrs. Garrison entered the school-room just as Caroline was finishing a recitation, and said, “Now, children, do your best to leave an agreeable impression upon the mind of Mr. Cleaveland, who is going to resign the charge of you in two weeks.”

Poor Caroline turned deadly pale, and the paleness was instantly succeeded by a deep blush. She took up her book and returned instantly to her seat, hoping she had been unobserved; but she was mistaken. Such a revelation is rarely lost upon a lover; and, in this instance, did not escape the observation of Mrs. Garrison.

At any other time, Mr. Cleaveland would have been gratified by the lively and most unaffected demonstrations of regret with which the announcement of his speedy departure had been received by the whole group of children. But now, one deep joy swallowed up all the rest; and his utter inability to reply to them would have been extremely embarrassing, had not Mrs. Garrison kindly and considerately relieved him by a request that he would look into a new school-book which she had just received.

His only trouble in life now, was the interminable duration of two weeks. That period of time overpast, he would declare his love, and then devote himself to his profession with the intent to hasten, as much as possible, the time when he might claim his bride. Meanwhile, Caroline had no resource but to put on, as far as possible, the appearance of being more than ever absorbed in her studies.

Mrs. Rutherford had not been unobservant of the signs of the times in regard either to Caroline or Cleaveland, and felt extremely uneasy and anxious. Her husband, on the contrary, she knew would like nothing better than just such a match for his daughter; and therefore she determined, in the present emergency, to keep her own counsels and act for herself.

During this last memorable fortnight, Cleaveland almost entirely suspended his visits to the Rutherfords, and his intercourse with Caroline, except as her teacher; because he found it almost impossible to carry himself toward her as circumstances required.

On the last day Caroline, although she had got up with a violent headache, would not remain at home for fear of exciting suspicion or remark; but her illness was so apparent, that Mrs. Garrison had insisted upon her leaving the school.

Cleaveland had not _seemed_ nearly as much occupied with herself, as usual, ever since his departure had been determined upon. She was in no state to solve the problem of this change by an argumentative process, and she began to think she had deceived herself—that she had been merely an agreeable and exciting circumstance in the present scene of his residence—no longer valued when he was so soon to exchange it for another. When she went home, therefore, she threw herself upon her bed, and burst into a flood of tears.

Meanwhile her lover with difficulty possessed his soul, until the hour of emancipation came, and he felt at liberty to throw himself at her feet. He then went in pursuit of her, in the sweet hope that by a few magic words—the lover’s sesame—he should unlock her carefully guarded heart, and find its wealth all his own. No one was at home but Mrs. Rutherford.

“Where is Miss Caroline?”

“She has gone to walk—”

“Gone?—which way?”

There was something in his manner which revealed, or, at least, led Mrs. Rutherford to suspect the nature of his errand. She believed that the crisis had come, and that now, if ever, was the moment for interference.

To his questions she only replied, evidently somewhat embarrassed, “Mr. Cleaveland, I want to speak a word with you.”

He was already on his way out, and turned most reluctantly.

“Walk into the parlor a moment, Mr. Cleaveland. I don’t know how Mr. Rutherford feels about this business, but I think that, as a mother, I have a better right than any one else to decide about it.”

Cleaveland, at first, would not guess to what she referred; and, perceiving that he did not understand her, she continued: “I know it is a very delicate matter for me to take it for granted that you would like to marry Caroline. If I am mistaken, there is no harm done, and you will excuse me; if I am not mistaken, it would be too late, after you young people had settled the matter between you, for me to express my decided disapprobation of it, and therefore I do it now. I appeal to you, Mr. Cleaveland, as a mother, whose soul is bound up in her child, to give up all thoughts of a connection which would fall very far short of my hopes and wishes for my daughter.”

For a moment, poor Cleaveland sat like one stupified. Then, without any parting salutation to Mrs. Rutherford, without even a single word in reply to her strange harangue, he hastily left the house. He retreated to his own room; but experienced there a stifling sensation, which he thought to relieve by going into the open air; and pursuing his way to a favorite haunt, he met Caroline just emerging from the little grove he was about to enter.

Not daring to trust himself with her a moment, and unable to command his voice, he hastily passed her with hardly the seeming of a recognition. Her headache had left her much exhausted, and a dizzy faintness now came over her, so that it was with great difficulty that she reached her home, although not very far distant.

Meanwhile her lover was in a most piteous state of agitation and perplexity. Was he obliged in honor to heed the matrimonial veto? Believing that Caroline was attached to him, was it right to keep her in ignorance of his love? Her father, too, had given him the most undoubted proofs of his esteem; and so far from showing any jealousy or suspicion of him, had always acquiesced entirely in all those arrangements which had brought them together so much, might he not refer the matter to him? But to appeal to the husband against his wife—to the daughter against her mother—this would be neither manly nor delicate, perhaps not honorable; he was not quite sure. To fly, then, was his only refuge.

He wrote a note to Mrs. Garrison, complaining of illness, saying that he had been induced, by unexpected circumstances, to leave town, contrary to his first intentions, on the following day; but that, on the whole, he preferred not taking leave of them personally, as the parting would, on his part, be a very painful one. He thanked her, in glowing terms, for all her kindness, adding, that he never expected to be so happy again as under her roof.

Mrs. Garrison was surprised by this last expression; surprised by his hasty departure, and by his omitting to make his adieus in person; and had a vague idea of some mystery in the matter, which she hoped time might solve. He went off at two o’clock in the morning.

Mrs. Rutherford took especial care to conceal the fact of his having called to see her, from Caroline, who forbore to make any inquiries; and Mr. Rutherford being out of town, no investigation was made upon the subject.

Poor Caroline! her brightness was, for the present, all obscured. Her headache returned violently, and she was really ill for some days; but even after she had no longer an excuse for playing the invalid, her spirits did not return; she had sleepless nights and languid days, and her very soul seemed to have died away within her.

Her father was excessively distressed. At first he tried to rouse her spirits by a little raillery. “You remind me,” said he, “of a fine peach-tree which I came near losing last spring. It was in full life and beauty, just as you were, but suddenly a blight came over it which threatened its destruction. I dug around the root and found one little worm there—that removed, the tree flourished again.”

Poor Caroline made no reply, but burst into tears and retreated to her room.

“There _is_ a canker-worm at the root, you may depend upon it, wife; and it appears to me that you might detect it.”

Mrs. Rutherford looked as if she were a little disturbed at the idea of any investigation.

“If you do know, wife,” said he, “and don’t choose to reveal what you know, the responsibility rests with you, and her blood be upon your head. Tell me, now, what is your idea upon the subject, has not Caroline been unhappy ever since young Cleaveland went away?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever think that they were in love?”

“I thought _he_ was.”

“And yet he went off without broaching the matter at all. If it is all on her part, the thing must be submitted to; and yet it seems to me he could hardly help falling in love with her.”

“No, indeed!” said Mrs. Rutherford, gathering courage to do now what she had half resolved to do before, “he did fall in love with her.”

“Then why did he not tell her so?”

“Because I forbade him.”

“Did he apply to you on the subject?”

“No. I applied to him.”

“Then how could you be certain that he had any design of offering himself to her?”

“You would not have had any doubt of it had you seen him as I did; and besides, he would have denied it if it had not been so.”

“O wife! what _was_ your inducement? He is not _genteel_ enough for you, I suppose. Confound your genteel notions,” he continued, as, losing control of himself, he became exceedingly exasperated; “I would give all the gentility you ever had, or ever can have, for a few grains of sense or common maternal feeling. I knew you would give up health, and comfort, and good neighborhood, and your own soul, if necessary, for gentility; but I thought your child was dearer to you than your own soul.”

“Why, Mr. Rutherford, I do really think you are very unkind,” said the lady, bursting into tears.

“How the devil,” he continued, without heeding her emotion, “did you ever come to marry such an ungenteel fellow as I am, and thus establish a precedent for your daughter to follow? Go and comfort her, and say to her, ‘My dear, console yourself that I have saved you from the disgrace consequent upon such a connection as I had the misfortune to form.’ Tell her never to mind losing the chance of being made happy by a capital fellow whom she loves, and who loves her, because by-and-by, if she live long enough, she may possibly marry a money-purse, ride in a carriage, tread on Brussels carpets, and have a plenty of mirrors and glasses to see herself in, and couches to recline upon, and silver forks to eat with—who knows? Tell her it is all a mistake to suppose that happiness has anything to do with the mind or the heart; that it is all a thing of the eyes. Tell her its foundations are laid up in brick and mortar, and its superstructure is comprised of all the costly materials that can be gathered together from the four corners of the earth. Go now, quick, wife, call her down stairs, and bid her look at your best parlor—your better half—and tell her you expect she will have a whole suit of such apartments, only a great deal finer. Say to her, ‘Look at it, Caroline; gaze on it, my child, and forget the image of him who, though God’s noblest work, cannot afford to manufacture happiness for you out of cabinet-ware and upholsterers’ stuffs.’ Go, wife, and be eloquent.”

Having thus _exploded_, he left the house.

Poor Mrs. Rutherford had never heard her husband indulge in such a vein before. She was kind and attentive to his comfort, and his disposition led him to make the most, both to her and to himself, of whatever in her was good and commendable. She did not suspect, therefore, that there ever lurked in his bosom a feeling of contempt. It was a wretched day for the whole family.

In the evening, after Caroline bade good-night, the subject was renewed. Mr. Rutherford had thought much and deeply upon it. Had Cleaveland avowed his love, he might go to him at once, and tell him that his wife repented the step she had taken—but now, what was to be done? he could not tell.

Matters went on thus for about three months, during which Mrs. Garrison shared in the solicitude which Caroline’s parents felt on her account—although, in seeing her droop, she could only guess at the cause. She corresponded with Mr. Cleaveland, but he never mentioned Caroline—and she could only venture upon what might seem an accidental reference to her, and allusion to her poor health and spirits. At the end of three months she received from him the following letter:—

MY DEAR MRS. GARRISON—Your very great kindness, and your most generous sympathy so constantly manifested towards me, induces me to lay before you a matter that very nearly concerns me, for the purpose of obtaining your advice in circumstances of great delicacy and perplexity.

I think it could not have altogether escaped your observation, that, as would probably have befallen most other young men in like circumstances, I lost my heart to your fair young friend, my pupil. Nor was I a despairing lover—may my presumption be pardoned, in believing that I occasionally discovered through the veil of her most delicate and maidenly reserve, a certain tremulousness of feeling which that veil could not entirely disguise—an occasional agitation of manner on her part, from which I derived the flattering conclusion that it was sometimes given to me to touch “the electric chain with which she’s darkly bound.”

But I waited until one relation with her should be at an end before attempting to establish another; and just as I was on the point of declaring myself, her mother, suspecting my intention, interfered to prevent its fulfilment—saying, as nearly as I can remember, that such an union would fall far below her wishes and hopes for her daughter.

I do indeed feel that I am not worthy of such a treasure as Caroline Rutherford. But I suppose it would be doing Mrs. Rutherford no injustice to believe that my most striking deficiency in her eyes, would be made up at once, were I to come into possession of a fortune.

I am very wretched—and it is possible that I am not alone in my wretchedness. It does not seem fitting that the destiny of two human beings capable of acting and choosing for themselves, should be controlled by idiosyncrasies of a third person. It does not seem fitting that if we are capable of loving and making each other happy, we should be separated by such a paltry wall of partition. I have a strong impression, too, that Mr. Rutherford would favor my suit. And yet, what can I do? How am I to break the fetters that Mrs. R. has thrown around me? Give me your counsel, I pray you, and add one more to the many obligations which you have already heaped upon.

Your very grateful and affectionate friend, CHARLES CLEAVELAND.

Mrs. Garrison was not long in deciding what to do. Her great kindness to Caroline, and the services which she had rendered her, entitled her to act in whatever concerned her welfare. Having provided herself with a store of arguments to overcome all objections, and set the matter in its true light, she determined to appeal directly to Mrs. Rutherford herself. To her surprise and joy, she found her most thankful to avail herself of the opportunity to retract her injunction. Her home once so pleasant, had become so cheerless, and her husband so estranged—to say nothing of Caroline—that in the exigencies of the present, she forgot all her visions for the future.

Of course Mrs. Garrison lost no time in communicating the result to her friend; and Mrs. Rutherford was no less eager to inform her husband of what had happened.

“Well, now,” said he, “Caroline shall know of this at once. She must have it explained to her sooner or later—why Cleaveland went off in so strange a manner; better hear it from me than from her lover; it will be awkward for him to tell it; and, besides, she has suffered enough already; and now, when better things are in store for her, the sooner she enters into the enjoyment of them the better.” * * * * Before Caroline slept that night, there was, for her, balm, and a physician—and her sorrows were all healed.

The next week the lovers met without explanation,—save the tears of Caroline, and the trembling lips and hand of Charles. They met, as if they had parted acknowledged lovers, and been, since that time, cut off from each other by some sore calamity. From their dark hour broke forth a rosy dawn which in time was kindled to perfect day. The bloom soon gathered again on Caroline’s cheek, and her eye was once more soul-lit.

Charles was not long in obtaining a respectable settlement. Caroline was henceforth permitted to manage her own affairs; to make her outfit such as became a country clergyman’s wife, with every provision for comfort and none for display; and to have a perfectly unostentatious wedding, without a supper—without even champagne.

She lived to realize her father’s beau-ideal of a woman’s happiness—to be the “all-in-all of pleasure” to a man in every way worthy of her.

AT HOME.

BY MRS. ANNA BACHE.

“Her storied lore she next applies, Taxing her mind to aid her eyes.”

BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

Thou lookest wearily, my love, but now the toil some day Is over, and the quiet eve its labors shall repay. Come, I will pull the sofa round, and pile the cushions higher, And Gheber-like, thou shalt adore this comfort-beaming fire. How shall I pet thee, weary one?—I love to tend on thee; Shall I sit here, and let thee rest thy head upon my knee? I will not light the tapers yet—I like this pleasant gloom, With the red blaze at intervals illumining the room,

Reflected in thy sparkling eye, and gleaming on thy brow: My prized, my own, my only one, how lovely look’st thou now! What happiness to gaze on thee! after the bitter years Of absence and uncertainty, of solitude and tears. Rememberest thou those dear, dear nights, so _very_ long ago, When love was younger, (not more true,) those nights of frost and snow, When thou didst make, through storm and shower, thy pilgrimage to me? Rememberest thou the forest walks, and the large willow tree, And the white wild-flowers? I should like that dear old place to see. What say’st thou, love?—a story, such as I told thee then. What shall it be?—thou dost not want the old ones o’er again. I’ve told thee all the tales I know, of witch and fairy lore, Though, since we parted, I have read at least a thousand more.

Yet thoughts of thee, my absent one, so occupied my brain, Few traces of their incidents in memory remain. Shall I tell of Lady Eva and the brave Sir Agilthorn, The Brother Knights of Lombardy, the Fate of Adelmorn, The Legend of Sir Lancelot, the Fairy of the Well, Sir Ethelberg of Brittany, the Quest of Jorindell? Oh! glorious days of chivalry, what can with them compare?— When all the cavaliers were brave, and all the ladies fair; When hero-hands won tender hearts, and deeds of bold emprize Were paid with lays from minstrels’ lutes and looks from ladies’ eyes. Aye! love was worth the having then, and worth the giving too, When knightly honor deem’d it shame to proffer vows untrue, And nought but nature’s nobleness could beauty’s pride subdue. Alas! the “march of intellect” has crush’d these fairy bowers,

Our heroes dress in good broadcloth, and courtship’s _years_ are _hours_. Yet still from Love’s celestial fount some honeyed waters fall, Else were the cup of earthly life but an unmingled gall. And if thou’lt listen to a tale of _modern_ love and wo, I’ll tell thee a _true_ story, dear, that chanc’d not long ago.

* * * * *

The ship had quitted the glittering bay, And graceful sped on her ocean way. Stern eyes grew sad, as their native land Sunk from the view of the convict band. O’er tree and tower, and fortress wall, O’er slender spire and steeple tall, Distance drew her veil of haze; One, one lingering tear-fraught gaze, Earnest dwelt on the fading shore, That fled from those eyes for evermore. There was one cry, as if long-pent grief Mastered resolve, and sought relief. One indrawn gasp of the struggling breath— And the lip that drew it seemed still’d in death. They rais’d from the deck that senseless form, And even those crime-chill’d hearts grew warm With pity. They put back her raven hair, Bar’d her white neck to the cool sea air, And dash’d the spray on her forehead fair; Till slowly unclos’d her languid eyes, And Death relinquish’d his half-won prize.

· · · · ·

“So young, so lovely, are _thine_ a face And form for the brand of black disgrace? So innocent seeming—can it be true Thou art justly one of yon loathsome crew, Whose savage ire, and more savage glee, Mingle guilt, doom, and misery?”

“Oh! ask me, ask me not to speak Of why I bear this felon thrall; My senses reel, my heart grows weak, The stain of shame is on my cheek,— Yet would I not the past recall. I thank thee for thy pitying care, But must my lot unaided bear. Enough, I unreluctant go To banishment, disgrace, and wo.”

“Thy words are wild—I would not press Intrusive on thy heart’s distress; Nor do I seek thy griefs to know, But in the hope to balm thy wo, And point thee to that Mercy-seat, Where penitence and pardon meet. Heaven comfort thee, poor girl!” ——“And may That Heaven thy words with blessings pay! Stranger, all guilty as I seem, Do not too harshly of me deem. ’Tis long since pitying word or look To me were given—scorn I could brook; But sympathy’s sweet accents rest Like sunbeams on my frozen breast.”

Her bosom swell’d with choking sighs, Her small hands hid her streaming eyes. Those lily hands, of fairy mould, No tale of menial usage told; That slender youthful shape, though clad In homely weeds, rare graces had; And when stern effort had suppress’d The grief that shook her throbbing breast, Apart the veiling curls she flung, That o’er her face dishevelled hung. Though tear-strain’d, pale, and worn with care, Surpassing loveliness was there; And when she met the earnest eye Of kind, yet dubious scrutiny, O’er her chill paleness, rushing came From breast to brow the crimson shame.

—“My father bears a noble name, My birth-place was a lordly hall; In that proud hall an orphan dwelt, ’Tis no new tale—when young hearts melt And mingle, weak is Reason’s thrall, Fear’s whisper, Duty’s thunder-call, Alike unheard, unheeded all. Oh! lov’d, though unrelenting sire, Thou dost forget, in thy stern ire Against the daughter once so dear, _Thyself_ didst bring temptation near.