Evenings at Donaldson Manor
M >>
Maria J. McIntosh >> Evenings at Donaldson Manor
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 | 15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20
"mellow light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies."
Edward Houstoun held a book in his hand, but it had long been closed,
while he was engaged in a far more interesting study. He had with a
delicate tact won his companion to speak as she had never spoken before
of herself--not of the few events of her short life, for these were
already known to him, but of the influence of those events on feeling
and character. Tenderness looked forth without disguise from the earnest
eyes which were fastened on her, as he said, "You say, Lucy, that you
have found friends every where, have met only kindness, and yet you
weep--you are sad."
"Do not think me ungrateful," she replied. "I have indeed found friends
and kindness--but these give exercise only to my gratitude--stronger,
tenderer affections I have, which no father, or mother, or brother, or
sister, will ever call forth."
"Nay, Lucy, were you not adopted by my father, and am I not your
brother?"
A glance whose brightness melted into tears was her only answer.
"Fie! fie! tears again? I shall have to scold my sister," said Edward
Houstoun. "What complaint can you make now that I have found you a
brother?"
Lucy laughed, but soon her face grew grave, and, after a thoughtful
pause, she said, "I believe those cannot be quite happy who feel that
they have nothing to do in the world. Better be the poorest drudge, with
powers fitted to your station, than to be as I am, an idler--a mere
looker-on at the world."
"Why, Lucy! what else am I?"
"You! You, with fortune to bless, and influence to guide hundreds!
What are you? God's representative to your less fortunate
fellow-creatures--the steward of his bounty. Oh! be sure that you use
your gifts faithfully."
Lucy spoke solemnly, and it was with no light accent that Edward
Houstoun replied--"You mistake, Lucy--you mistake--I am in truth no less
an idler than yourself--a looker-on, with no part in the game of life.
To the Lady Houstoun belong both the fortune and the influence." A
mocking smile had arisen to his lip, but, as he caught her look of
surprise, it passed away, leaving a gentle gravity in its place, while
he continued--"Do not think I mean to complain of my mother, Lucy. She
has been ever affectionate and indulgent to me. She leaves me no want
that she can perceive. My purse is always full, and my actions
unrestrained. I suppose I ought to be happy."
"And are you not happy?"
"No, Lucy, no! There has long been a vague restlessness and
dissatisfaction about me--and, now, your words have thrown light on its
cause. I am weary of the perpetual holiday which life has been to me
since I left the walls of a college. I want to be doing--I want an
object--something for which to strive and hope and fear--what shall it
be, Lucy?"
"I have heard Mr. Merton say that no one could choose for another his
aims in life, but were I choosing for myself, it should be something
that would connect me with the minds of others--something by which I
could do service to their spiritual beings. Were I a man, I should like
to write books--such books as would give counsel and comfort to erring
and sad hearts--"
Edward Houstoun shook his head--"Even had I an author's gifts, Lucy,
that would not do for me--I must have action in my life--"
"What say you to the pulpit?"
"The noblest of all employments, Lucy--but it is a heavenly employment
and needs a heavenly spirit. I would not dare to think of that. Try
again--"
"The law? Ah! now I see I have chosen rightly--you will be a lawyer--a
great lawyer, like Mr. Patrick Henry."
"You have spoken, Lucy--and I will do my best to fulfil your prophecy. I
may not be a Patrick Henry--two such men belong not to one age--but I
may at least hew out for myself a place among men, where I may stand
with a man's freedom of thought and action. The very decision has
emancipated me--has emboldened me to speak what a moment since I
scarcely dared to think--nay, turn not from me, beloved--oh how
passionately beloved! Life has now its object for me, Lucy--your
love--for that I will strive--hope--whisper me that I need not
fear--that when I have a right to claim my bride--"
When Edward Houstoun commenced this passionate apostrophe, he had
clasped Lucy's hand, and, overcome by his emotions and her
own--forgetting all but his love--conscious only of a bewildering
joy--she had suffered it to rest for one instant in his clasp. It was
but for one instant--the next, struggling from him as he strove to
retain her, she started to her feet, and stood leaning against the trunk
of the tree that overshadowed them, with her face hidden by her clasped
hands. He rose and drew near, saying, in low, tremulous tones--"Lucy,
what means this?"
"Mr. Houstoun," she exclaimed, removing her hands from her face, and
wringing them in passionate sorrow--"how could you speak those words?"
"Wherefore should I not speak them--are they so terrifying to you,
Lucy?"
"Can they be otherwise, since they must separate us for ever? Think you
that the Lady Houstoun would endure that the creature of her bounty
should become the wife of her son?"
"I asked, Lucy, that you would promise to be mine when I had won a right
to act independently of the Lady Houstoun's opinions."
"Has a son ever a right to act independently of a mother?"
"Is the obedience of a child to be exacted from a man? Is his happiness
ever to be at the mercy of another's prejudices? Does there never come a
period when he may be permitted to judge for himself?"
Edward Houstoun spoke with indignant emphasis.
"Look not so sternly--speak not so angrily," exclaimed Lucy. "I cannot
answer your questions--but my obligations, at least, are
irreversible--they belong to the irrevocable past, and while I retain
their memory I can never--"
"Hush--hush, Lucy! you will drive me mad. Is my happiness of less value
in your eyes than the few paltry dollars my mother expended for you?"
"Shall I, serpent-like, sting the hand that has fed me? No! no! would I
had never heard those words. We were so happy--you will be happy
again--but I--leave me, I pray you, for we must part now and for
ever--oh! leave me."
"No, Lucy, we will never part--I will never leave you."
He would again have drawn her to his side, but at his touch, Lucy roused
herself, and with a wild, half-frenzied effort, breaking from him, she
rushed rapidly, blindly forward. He would have followed her, but
stumbling against the root of a tree, before he could recover himself
she was at the outskirts of the wood, in sight of the farm-house, and
though he might overtake he could not detain her. He returned home, not
overwhelmed with disappointment, but with joy throbbing at his heart,
and hope beaming in his eyes. Lucy loved him--of that he felt
assured--and bucklered by that assurance he could stand against the
world. Life was before him--a life not of sickly pleasures and _ennui_
breeding indolence--but a life of contest and struggle and labor,
perhaps even of exhausting labor, yet a life which should awaken and
discipline his powers: a life of victory and of repose--sweet because
won with effort--a life to which Lucy's love should give its crowning
joy. Such are youth's dreams. In his case these dreams were somewhat
rudely dispelled by a summons from his mother's physician. Lady Houstoun
was ill--very ill--he must not delay, said the physician; and he did
not; yet a hastily pencilled line told that even at this moment Lucy was
not forgotten--it was a farewell which breathed love and faith and
hope.
On Edward Houstoun's arrival in New-York, he found his mother already
recovering from the acute attack which had endangered her life and
occasioned his recall. He soon unfolded to her his new views of life,
and the career which he had marked out for himself. New views
indeed--new and incomprehensible to Lady Houstoun! She saw not that the
life of indulgence, the perpetual gala-day, which she anticipated for
her son, would have condemned him to see his highest powers dwindle away
and die in the lethargy of inaction, or to waste in repinings against
fate those energies given to command success. Time moderated her
astonishment, and quiet perseverance subdued her opposition--subdued it
the more readily, perhaps, from the knowledge that her son could
accomplish his designs without her aid, by turning into money the plate,
jewels and pictures received from his father. Edward Houstoun's first
act, after securing the execution of his designs, was to inform Lucy of
the progress he had made. His own absence from New-York at this time
would have excited his mother's surprise, and might have aroused her
suspicions; but the haste with which he had left the Glen furnished him
with a plausible excuse for sending his own man to look after clothing,
books, &c., that had been forgotten, and by him a letter could, he knew,
be safely sent.
A few days brought back to him his own letter, with the intelligence
that Lucy had left Farmer Pye's family. Whither she had gone, they could
not, or would not tell. Setting all fears at defiance, he went himself
to the Glen--he sounded and examined and cross-examined every member of
the farmer's family; but in vain were his efforts. He learned only that
she had declared her intention of supporting herself by her own
exertions, instead of continuing dependent on the Lady Houstoun--that
she had returned the lady's last donation, through the farmer, with many
expressions of gratitude, and that she had left home for the house of
an acquaintance in New-York, from whom she hoped to receive advice and
assistance in the accomplishment of her intentions. She had mentioned
neither the name nor place of residence of this friend, and though she
had written once to the good farmer, she had only informed him that she
had found a home and employment, without reference to any person or
place. Edward asked to see the letter--it was brought, but the post-mark
told no secret--it was that of the nearest post town, and the farmer,
opening the letter, showed that Lucy had said she had requested the
bearer to drop it into that office. Who that bearer was, none knew.
Bitter was the disappointment of Edward Houstoun. A beautiful vision had
crossed his path, had awakened his noblest impulses, kindled his
passionate devotion, and then vanished for ever. But she had left
ineradicable traces of her presence. His awakened energies, his
passionate longings, his altered life, all gave assurance that she had
been--that the bright ideal of womanly beauty and tenderness, and
gentleness and firmness, which lived in his memory, was no dream of
fancy. He anticipated little pleasure now from the pursuits on which he
had lately determined, but his pride forbade him to relinquish them, and
when once they had been commenced, finding in mental occupation his
Lethe, he abandoned himself to them with all his accustomed ardor.
Two years passed away with Edward Houstoun in the most intense
intellectual action, and in death-like torpor of the affections. From
the last his mother might have saved him, had not her want of sympathy
with his pursuits occasioned a barrier of reserve and coolness to arise
between them fatal to her influence. During this time no token of Lucy's
existence had reached him: and it was with such a thrill as might have
welcomed a visitant from the dead, that, one morning as he left his own
house to proceed to the office in which he pursued his studies, he saw
before him at some distance, yet without any intervening object to
interrupt his view of her, a form and face resembling hers, though
thinner and paler. The lady was approaching him, with slow and languid
steps; but as her eyes were fixed upon the ground she did not perceive
him, and just as his throbbing heart exclaimed, "It is Lucy," and he
sprang forward to greet her, she entered a house and the door closed on
her. The inmates of that house were but slightly known to him, as they
had only lately moved into the street, yet he hesitated not an instant
in ringing the bell, and inquiring of the servant who presented himself
at the door, for Miss Watson.
"Miss Watson, sir?" repeated the man, "there is no such person living
here."
"She may not live here, but I saw her enter your door, and I wish to
speak to her." At this moment Lucy crossed the hall at its further end,
and he sprang forward, exclaiming "Lucy--Miss Watson--thank Heaven I see
you once more!"
A slight scream from Lucy, and the tremor which shook her frame, showed
her recognition of him. She leaned for an instant against the wall, too
faint for speech or action, while he clasped her hand in his; but a
voice broke in upon his raptures and her agitation--a sharp, angry
voice, coming from a lady who, leaning over the balustrade of the
stairs, had seen and heard all that was passing below.
"Lucy--Lucy--come up here--I am waiting for you--this is certainly very
extraordinary conduct--very extraordinary indeed."
"You shall not go," said Edward Houstoun, while the red blood flushed to
his brow at the thought that his Lucy could be thus ordered. Lucy's face
glowed too, and there was a proud flush from her eye, yet she resisted
his efforts to detain her, and when he placed himself before her to
prevent her leaving him, she opened a door near her, and though he
followed her quickly through it, he was just in time to see her rushing
up a private staircase. He would not leave the house without an
interview, and going into one of the parlors, he rang the bell, and
requested to see Mrs. Blakely, the lady of the house. She came, looking
very haughty and very angry. He apologized for his intrusion, but
expressed a wish to see a young lady, Miss Watson, who was, he
perceived, under her care. With a yet haughtier air, Mrs. Blakely
replied, "I am not acquainted with any young _lady_ of the name of
Watson. Lucy Watson, the girl whom you met in the hall just now--is my
seamstress. If you wish to see her, I will send her down to you, though
I do not generally allow my servants to receive their visitors here."
"I shall be happy to see her wherever you please," was Edward Houstoun's
very truthful reply.
Mrs. Blakely left him, and he stationed himself at the door to watch for
Lucy. Minutes, which seemed to him hours, passed, and she came not. At
length, as he was about to ring again, steps were heard approaching; he
turned quickly, but it was not Lucy. The girl who entered handed him a
sealed note. He tore it open and read--"I dare not see you. When you
receive this I shall have left the house, and, as no one knows whither I
have gone, questions would be useless."
In an instant he was in the street, looking with eager eyes hither and
thither for some trace of the lost one. He looked in vain, yet he went
towards his office with happier feelings than he had long known. He knew
now where Lucy was, and a thousand expedients suggested themselves, by
which he could not fail to see her. If he could only converse with her
for a few minutes, he was assured he could prevail on her to leave her
present position, of which he could not for a moment bear to think. His
heart swelled, his brow flushed, whenever the remembrance of that
position flashed upon his mind, yet he never for an instant regarded it
as changing his relations with Lucy, or lessening his desire to call her
his. He recollected with pleasure two circumstances which had scarcely
been remarked at the moment of their occurrence. The man who had opened
the door to him, when he saw him spring forward to meet Lucy, had
exclaimed, "Oh! it was _Miss_ Lucy you meant, sir;" and the girl who had
handed the note had said, "_Miss_ Lucy has gone out, sir." It was
evident she was not regarded by the servants as one of themselves--she
had not been degraded by association with menials. This was true. Lucy
had made such separation on her part an indispensable necessity, and
Mrs. Blakely had been too sensible of the value of one possessing so
much taste and skill in all feminine adornments, to hesitate about
complying with her demand. This lady was one of the _nouveaux riches_,
who occupied her life in scheming to attain a position to which neither
birth nor education entitled her. The brightest dream connected with her
present abode had been that its proximity to Lady Houstoun's residence
might lead to an acquaintance with one of the proudest of that charmed
circle in which Mrs. Blakely longed to tread. Hitherto this had proved a
dream indeed, but Edward Houstoun's incursion into her domain, and the
developments made by it, might, she thought, with a little address,
render it a reality. It was with this purpose that she sent a note to
Lady Houstoun, requesting an interview with her on a subject deeply
connected with the honor of her family and the happiness of her son.
Immediately on despatching this note, the servants were ordered to
uncover the furniture in the drawing-room, while she herself hastened to
assume her most becoming morning dress. Her labors were fruitless. "Lady
Houstoun would be at home to Mrs. Blakely till noon," was the scarcely
courteous reply to her carefully worded note. It was an occasion on
which she could not afford to support her pride, and she availed herself
of the permission to call.
The interview between Lady Houstoun and Mrs. Blakely would have been an
interesting study to the nice observer of character. The efforts on the
part of the one lady to be condescending, and on that of the other to be
dignified, were almost equally successful. Mrs. Blakely had seldom felt
her wealth of so little consequence as in the presence of her commanding
yet simply attired hostess, and Lady Houstoun had never been more
disposed to assert the privileges of her rank, than when she heard that
her son had forgotten his own so far as to visit on terms of
equality--nay, if Mrs. Blakely were to be believed, positively to
address in the style of a lover--a seamstress--the seamstress of Mrs.
Blakely.
"This is very painful intelligence to me, Mrs. Blakely--of course you
must be aware that Mr. Houstoun could only have contemplated a temporary
acquaintance with this girl. I do not fear that in his most reckless
moment he could have thought of such a _mesalliance_--but this young
woman must be saved--she was a _protege_ of Sir Edward Houstoun, and for
his sake must not be allowed to come to harm--may I trouble you to send
her to me?"
The request was given very much in the style of a command. Mrs. Blakely
would not confess that she had great doubts of her power to comply with
it, but this would have been sufficiently evident to any one who had
marked the uncertain air and softened tone with which Lady Houstoun's
wishes were made known to Lucy. Indignant as she was at Mrs. Blakely's
impertinent interference, Lucy scarcely regretted Lady Houstoun's
acquaintance with her son's feelings. We do not know that far below all
those acknowledged impulses leading her to comply with the lady's
request, there did not lie some romantic hope that influences were astir
through which
"Pride might be quell'd and love be free,"
but this she did not whisper even to her own heart.
"Better that the lady should know all--she will act both wisely and
tenderly--perhaps for her son's sake, she will aid me to leave
New-York." Such was the only language into which she allowed even her
thought silently to form itself.
Arranging her simple dress with as much care as though she were about to
meet her lover himself, Lucy set out for her interview with Lady
Houstoun. She had but a short distance to traverse, but she lingered on
her way, oppressed by a tremulous anxiety. She was apprehensive of she
knew not what or wherefore--for again and again her heart acquitted her
of all blame. At length she is at the door--it opens, and, with a
courtesy which the servants of Mrs. Blakely never show to a visitor who
comes without carriage or attendants, she is ushered into the presence
of Lady Houstoun. The lady fixes her eyes upon her as she enters, bows
her head slightly in acknowledgment of her courtesy, and says coldly,
"You are the young woman, I suppose, whom Mrs. Blakely was to send to
me?"
Lucy paused for a moment, to still the throbbing of her heart, before
she attempted to reply. The thought flashed through her mind, "I am a
woman, and young, and therefore she should pity me"--but she answered in
a low, sweet, tremulous tone, "I am the Lucy Watson, madam, to whom Sir
Edward Houstoun was so kind."
At that name a softer expression stole over the Lady Houstoun's face,
and she glanced quickly at a portrait hanging over the ample fireplace,
which represented a gentleman of middle age, dressed in the uniform of a
colonel of the American army. As she turned her eyes again on Lucy, she
saw that hers were fastened on the same object.
"You have seen Sir Edward?" she said in gentle tones.
"Seen him, lady!--I loved him--oh how dearly!"
"Honored him would be a more appropriate expression."
"I loved him, lady--we are permitted to love our God," said Lucy,
firmly.
Lady Houstoun's brow grew stern again.--"And from this you argue,
doubtless, that you have a right to love his son."
Lucy's pale face became crimson, and she bent her eyes to the ground
without speaking--the lady continued--"I scarcely think that you could
yourself have believed that Edward Houstoun intended to dishonor his
family by a legal connection with you."
The crimson deepened on Lucy's face, but it was now the flush of pride,
and raising her head she met Lady Houstoun's eyes fully as she
replied--"I could not believe that he ever designed to dishonor himself
by ruining the orphan child of him who died in his father's defence."
"And you have intended to avail yourself of his infatuation. The menial
of Mrs. Blakely would be a worthy daughter, truly, of a house which has
counted nobles among its members."
"If I have resisted Mr. Houstoun's wishes--separated myself from him,
and resigned all hope of even looking on his face again, it has not been
from the slightest reverence for the nobility of his descent, but from
self-respect, from a regard to the nobleness of my own spirit. I had
eaten of your bread, lady, and I could not do that which might grieve
you--yet the bread which had cost me so much became bitter to me, and I
left the home you had provided to seek one by my own honest exertions. I
have earned my bread, but not as a menial--not in the companionship of
the vulgar--and this Mrs. Blakely could have told you."
"If your determination were, as you say, to separate yourself from Mr.
Houstoun, it is unfortunate that you should have taken up your residence
so near us."
"I knew not until this morning that I was near you."
"If you are sincere in what you say, you will have no objection now to
leave New-York."
"I have no objection to go to any place in which I can support myself in
peace."
"As to supporting yourself, that is of no consequence. I will--"
"Pardon me, Lady Houstoun, it is of the utmost consequence to me. I
cannot again live a dependent on your bounty."
"What can you do? Has your education been such that you can take the
situation of governess?"
"Mr. Merton was a highly educated man, and Mrs. Merton an accomplished
woman--it was their pleasure to teach me, and mine to learn from them."
"Accomplished! There stands a harp which has just been tuned by a master
for a little concert we are to have this evening. Can you play on it?"
Lucy drew the instrument to her and played an overture correctly, yet
with less spirit than she would have done had her fingers trembled less.
"Can you sing?"
Elevated above all apprehension by the indignant pride which this cold
and haughty questioning aroused, Lucy changed the music of the overture
for a touching air, and, sang, with a rich, full voice, a single stanza
of an Italian song.
"Italian! Do you understand it?"
"I have read it with Mr. Merton."
"This is fortunate. I have been for weeks in search of a governess for a
friend residing in the country. I will order the carriage and take you
there instantly--or stay--return home and put up your clothes. I will
send a coach for you."
Again Lucy had vanished from Edward Houstoun's world, nor could his most
munificent bribes, nor most active cross-examination win any other
information from Mrs. Blakely's household, than that "Miss Lucy went
away in a carriage"--a carriage whose description presented a _fac
simile_ to every hackney-coach. Spite of all her precautions, he
suspected his mother; to his consciousness of her want of sympathy with
his pursuits, was therefore added a deep sense of injury, and his heart
grew sterner, his manner colder and more reserved than ever. Two years
more were passed in his studies, and a third in the long delays, the
fruitless efforts which mark the entrance on any career of profitable
exertion. During all this time, Lady Houstoun was studious to bring
around him the loveliest daughters of affluence and rank. Graceful forms
flitted through her halls, and the music of sweet voices and the gay
laughter of innocent and happy hearts were heard within her rooms, but
by all their attractions Edward Houstoun was unmoved. Courteous and
bland to all, he never lingered by the side of one--no quick flush, no
flashing beam told that even for a passing moment his heart was again
awake. Could it be that from all this array of loveliness he was guarded
by the memory of her who had stamped the impress of herself on his whole
altered being? If the gratification of the man's sterner ambition could
have atoned for the disappointment of the youth's dream of love, the
shadow of that memory would have passed from his life. Step by step he
had risen in the opinions of men, and at length one of the most profound
lawyers of the day sought his association with himself in a case of the
most intense interest, involving the honor of a lovely and much-wronged
woman. His reputation out of the halls of justice had already become
such that many thronged the court to hear him. Gallant gentlemen and
fair ladies looked down on him from the galleries--but far apart from
these, in a distant corner, sat one whose tall form was enveloped in a
cloak, and whose face was closely veiled. Beneath that cloak throbbed a
mother's heart, and through that veil a mother's eyes sought the face
she loved best on earth. He knew not she was there, for she rarely now
asked a question respecting his engagements, or expressed any interest
in his movements, yet how her ears drank in the music of his voice, and
her eyes flashed back the proud light that shone in his! As she listened
to his delineation of woman's claims to the sympathy and the defence of
every generous heart, as she heard his biting sarcasm on the cowardly
nature that, having wronged, would now crush into deeper ruin his fair
client, as she saw kindling eyes fixed upon him, and caught, when he
paused for a moment exhausted by the rush of indignant feeling, the low
murmur of admiring crowds, how she longed to cry aloud, "My son--my
son!" He speaks again. Higher and higher rises his lofty strain, bearing
along with it the passions of the multitude. He ceases--and, as though
touched by an electric shock, hundreds spring at once to their feet. The
emphatic "Silence!" of the venerable judge hushes the shout upon their
lips, but the mother has seen that movement, and, bursting into tears of
proud triumphant joy, she finds her way below, and is in the street
before the verdict which his eloquence had won was pronounced.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 | 15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20