Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch

by Oliver Goldfinch (lit)

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  THE LOVERS.

  It was just after the close of the trial of her uncle, by which the law had decided that the immense possessions of her father had been wrongfully withheld from herself and brother, and when she had in a manner exchanged her humble state of poverty and dependence for that of a brilliant heiress of great wealth, and knew that her hand would now be eagerly sought for by thousands, who, a few weeks previous, would have looked upon her with pity and contempt—it was just at this period, we say, when she had every inducement to be vain and proud—had vanity or pride formed a part of her nature—that Virginia Courtly, still an honored guest of the Mortons, who would not listen to aught touching her departure, sat alone with Dudley, in the splendid parlor of the lawyer's elegant mansion, her fair features very pale, and her soft blue eyes fixed with a look of earnest surprise upon the one by her side, as if he had just uttered a sentence whose meaning she did not distinctly comprehend. The eyes of Dudley were looking tenderly into hers; but there was a crimson hue on his cheek, a tremor in his voice, and an embarrassment in his manner, as he said: "Yes, Virginia, I repeat, that for your sake and that of your noble brother, I am rejoiced to know you both will soon come in possession of an immense fortune; but still it makes me rather sad than otherwise to think of it." "And wherefore, Mr. Dudley, should you be sad?" "Why, with wealth, you know, come great expectations; and it sometimes happens, that those who have been friends in poverty, suddenly become estranged when fortune raises one above the other." "Why, surely, you cannot so wrong me, as to suppose the mere acquisition of wealth will alter my deep feelings of friendship for you?" "Do not say wrong you, Virginia, (and his voice faltered to pathetic tenderness,) for I would not wrong you for the world! Neither can I conscientiously say I think your friendship will be less sincere and ardent, when you have become the heiress of half a million, than at this present moment; but, Virginia, (and his tone became low and tremulous,) you are aware, doubtless, there are sometimes aspirations in the heart that reach beyond mere friendship, and deepen into the stronger and holier sentiment of love; and when this is the case, where there is a great disparity of position, he or she who stands the lowest in the scale, can only hope tremulously, or with a hope full of doubt, and fear, and bordering on despair." As he spoke, with his eye fixed intently upon her, the gaze of Virginia sank modestly to the ground, her features flushed and paled alternately, and her respiration became somewhat irregular, showing that his words had a power of meaning beyond what they clearly expressed. After looking at her a moment, Dudley, in a low, tender tone, resumed: "There was a time, Virginia—ere in my mind there came a foretokening shadow of the events which have since transpired, and by which, as every one can foretell, you are destined to take an exalted position in society—when I gazed upon you with a delight—a rapture—which, though I was then able in a measure to mask, I have not language now to describe—and when I fondly looked forward to a no distant period, and fancied that, as an humble individual, I could ask your hand as an equal, and fear not the rivalry of more wealthy suitors." "And has that time passed?" inquired Virginia, with a deeper blush, and in a faltering voice. "Perhaps not wholly; but you know, as well as I, that as an heiress of half a mil lion, you are a match for the most brilliant spirits of the age, and can have a host of admirers at your feet, who, if they cannot equal you in fortune, can go so far beyond him who has nothing but a name—" "And shall I," interrupted Virginia, now raising her eyes, sparkling with animation, to those of Dudley—"shall I, for these puppets of the world—these butterflies of fashion—relinquish the friends that came nobly forward in my hours of adversity, and raised my drooping spirits, when they were sinking under the treble weight of poverty, grief and despair, and taught me there was something still to live for—to hope for—that human nature was not all corrupted and depraved—shall I, I say, because fortune has chanced to smile upon me once more, now prove myself ungrateful, without nobility of soul, and forget the latter and embrace the former—who would, but for my money, turn from me with contempt— simply because in the worthless dross of this world (worthless beyond what we need ourselves, or use to the benefit of our fellows,) we are nearly equal? No, Heaven forbid! What is their wealth to me, if I have enough of my own? Oh! I have suffered too keenly the pangs of destitution, to prize those who look with scorn upon the poor; and would rather have one noble, generous, sympathising soul by my side, though needy as Lazarus, than be surrounded by the most brilliant array of the hollow-hearted world, though every glance from them bestowed my weight in gold, and every smile became a diamond fit for the crown of an emperor!" "Nobly spoken!" cried Dudley, with an enthusiastic gleam of delight. And then his countenance seemed to change, as by some painful recollection, and he immediately added, in a subdued tone: "But all who are rich are not hollow-hearted. There are some, who, having almost boundless wealth at their command, seem to seek only the means of spending it to the best advantage of their fellow beings, and who, in every act of life, study to exalt themselves and ennoble others. Of this class there may be congenial spirits, who will seek your hand, and who are possessed of every requisite to make you happy. And this reminds me, Virginia, that I have a charge to execute for a friend, whom I esteem as my own life; and who, having seen you at various times, believes you the very paragon of excellence. But read this, and doubtless you will more fully comprehend my meaning;" and he handed Virginia a letter, beautifully folded and sealed and stamped with care, on which her own name was delicately traced in handsome characters. Virginia opened, glanced over it quickly, marked the name at the bottom, and then, with a heightened color, re-perused it more leisurely. "This is strange!" she said, as she finished the epistle: "this is very strange!— Are you uware, Mr. Dudley, what this billet contains?" "Nothing, I trust, offensive—or I shall never forgive myself for being the messenger of conveyance," replied Dudley, earnestly. "No, it contains nothing offensive in reality; aud yet I would it had never been written." "And wherefore, Virginia?" "Because I must disappoint the hopes of the writer. It is, in a word, a declaration of love from Clarence Malcolm, and an offer of his hand." "And will you refuse to accept both, when I assure you they are made in all sincerity?" asked Dudley, coloring. "I have heard much of Mr. Malcolm," replied Virginia, "and believe him all that is generous and noble, and, as your own most intimate friend, must ever hold him in high esteem; but you must remember, withal, I have never seen him; and even if I had, and had found him as near perfection as mortal man can ever become, must still have rejected his suit." "On what grounds?" "That I cannot give my hand where my heart is not." "But an acquaintance with each other might excite a mutual passion." "Never, Mr. Dudley; for she who truly loves, can love but one." "Ah, then you love!" sighed Dudley. Virginia hung her head, with a blush, and was silent. "And might I venture to inquire," said Dudley, after a pause, in a faltering, embarrassed tone, "who is the fortunate rival of my friend?" "And can you ask that?" replied Virginia, naively, turning away her head, and seeming to search for something she had lost. Dudley started, and his voice was tremulous, but eager, as he rejoined: "Do I understand aright? Is it possible that poor Dudley is preferred to his wealthy friend? Speak, dear Virginia, and keep me not in suspense? Let me not soar aloft on the bright wings of hope, only to be dashed back on the dark rocks of disappointment and despair! As poor Dudley, I have nothing to offer you but my hand and heart; but if these will suffice, they are yours; and my very existence shall be devoted to add, by every means in my power, to your happiness. Our acquaintance has not been long, it is true; but there are hearts which so harmonise from the very first, that time can add nothing but its own strength of years to an attachment formed for endurance through this life and the after life beyond the grave. In a word, I felt I loved you from our first meeting: and now that I have, perhaps presumptuously, fancied a reciprocity of feeling, I offer you my hand, and ask that you will be mine. Speak, dear Virginia, the single word, that will elevate me to the very pinacle of rapture,
or plunge me far down the precipice of regret and disappointment! Speak, dearest—will you be mine!" Virginia did not reply; but there was that in her appearance and manner—a certain silent language of the heart, shining out in warm blushes upon her cheek, and raising the pearly tear in her soft blue eye, as tenderly and tremulously it beamed upon his—that spoke with an eloquence exceeding words. Quietly Dudley stole her fair hand, and pressed it to his lips; and then, emboldened by this, drew her gently and unresistingly to his heart, and sealed upon her ruby lips the first holy kiss of eternal love and pledge of union on earth and in the life immortal. For the space of half an hour there was little or nothing said—for true love is ever the most eloquent in silence—and then Dudley, with an arch smile on his countenance, and in a cheerful tone, spoke: "And now, dearest Virginia, say you wish Clarence Malcolm joy in his triumph." "Joy in his triumph!" repeated Virginia, with a look of surprise. "I do not understand you. To what triumph do you allude?" "His triumph in winning you." "In winning me, Dudley? I am more at a loss than ever to understand you." "I see you are, dearest," he replied, dropping gracefully upon one knee, taking her hand, and looki ng tenderly into her sweet, blue eye. "Dudley no more, then; but in him who kneels at your feet, behold Clarence Malcolm in propria persona!" "You—you Clarence Malcolm?—Dudley and Malcolm one?" cried Virginia, in astonishment. "Even so, dearest; and now, ere I rise, I must have pardon for having in the least deceived you; though by this deceit I have been rendered happy above my deserts, in knowing I have been accepted for myself alone, and not for my possessions, which are great beyond my wants. When first I met you, I gave my name as Dudley, without a design other than the whim of the moment; but after circumstances induced me to keep you in ignorance of my real appellation, in which I have thus far succeeded, though at the risk, many times, of an exposure from others." "Does Edgar know of this?" "He did not till quite recently, when some one calling me by my real name in his presence, I was forced to explain--though I did it by exacting of him a promise to withhold the secret from you." "And the Widow Malcolm, then, whom I have so often visited with you—" "Is my own mother." "I am all bewilderment. I thought it very strange I never met Clarence, but supposed it purely accidental. Now, methinks, I can recall a hundred scenes when you were on the point of being exposed, and many that looked mysterious to me, though not sufficiently so to excite a suspicion of the real cause." "Well, dearest, you forgive me!" "Freely so, on one condition." "Name it." "That as Dudley you wooed, and as Dudley you won me, I may still call you by that endearing title." "So be it, dearest Virginia, and not wholly call me wrongly; for as my mother's maiden name was Dudley, I shall feel myself entitled henceforth to sign myself Clarence Dudley Malcolm, and seal it thus;" and rising from his kneeling posture, he imprinted a second kiss upon the lips of her who was now pledged to him forever. It was a calm, beautiful, moonlight night, and in the solemn "place of graves"—the sacred sanctuary of those who have "shuffled off this mortal coil" and gone down to that silent, cold, untroubled rest that knows no waking—two forms might be seen moving slowly on together—the one a noble youth in the first vigor of early manhood—the other a maiden in all the sweet, fresh loveliness of the opening rose. Slowly these two beings moved on together, with silent, solemn step, as if their feet pressed the ground with a reverence too sacred to jar the earth above the final sleep of the dead. All was silent here—though the busy hum of the city, whose lights were sparkling not afar, could be faintly heard like the roll of a distant drum. All was still. Not a breeze stirred the blade and plant, that had here grown rank in their summer day, and had fallen crisp and sere beneath the fatal blasts and frosts of chilling autumn and hoary winter. Not a breath rustled the leaves, that, in their day, had made the trees as sylvan bowers, but had long since been stripped of their beauty, and now lay withered and crumbling above the mortal remains of those who had planted and trained their supporters in infancy. The fair moon, riding high in the clear heavens, poured down her mellow beams through the naked trees, upon the crisped plants and blades; upon the faded flowers that had bloomed and decayed above the remains of frail mortality; upon the withered leaves, that now spread a funeral pall over earth's best and fairest—over hearts that had once beat high with hope and joy, or, burning with the passionfires of unrequited love, or failing ambition, or corroding grief, or stinging remorse, had at last been quenched in despair, and smothered in death; upon sculptured marble, that told, with ostentatious vanity, of the once opulent dust that now reposed beneath; upon plain marble stones, that marked the resting place of those who, having followed a middle course of life, had been quietly "gathered to their fathers;" upon plain mounds of earth, that covered such as had fallen too recently, or too much in poverty, or with friends too few, to have their last homes more conspicuously marked; upon the remains of wealth and poverty, virtue and vice, the good and the bad; upon the quick and the dead the fair moon shone down—here brightening this object to bold relief, there casting that in the gloom of deep shadow—but still shining steadily down, with a silvery, solemn light, as if aware her beams fell upon a spot made hallowed hy the frail dust of those who had gone hence forever. Slowly the two figures moved on together, in silence, with even pace, past highwrought monuments and common stones— past tombs of high and lowly born—past graves of rich and poor—past light and shade, and every where amid decay: slowly they moved on, till, far aside from where most lay buried, they paused over a small rise of earth that had never yet been green above its mortal tenant. Here the youth took the hand of the maiden in one that trembled with deep emotion; and while with the other he brushed away the dew that, from the fountain of his heart, had gathered in his eye, he said: "What place so fitting for sacred things as above the remains of one we most dearly prized in life! Here it is, beholding the vanities of all things earthly, we feel least tempted with its deceits, and most sincerely desirous to embrace those pure and holy joys, which, though intangible, are still incorruptible, and, being beyond the power of annihilation, can only by death be changed to a more blissful state of existence. Next to the pure enjoyment of religion, is that of mutual love, pledged by two hearts, that assimilate as the quiet stream and placid lake, to become one and undivided when once united. Edith, (and the voice of the speaker became low and tremulous,) we have been much together— in the short space of weeks, I feel we have known each other for years—the sentiments of my heart are already in your keeping—and here, on the most sacred spot which earth holds for me, I offer you my hand, and with it pledge you my unchangeable, undying love!" There was a silence, after the voice of the speaker had ceased—a tremulous silence on the part of the maiden—and then, in a solemn, sweet, silvery, artless tone, she replied: "Edgar, as sacredly, as solemnly, and sincerely as it is proffered, do I accept your hand and heart, and in return yield you a love as true as Heaven, and constant as the needle to its bridal star." "Above thy mortal remains, witness it, O mother, thou saint in Heaven! and thou, Great Ruler of all! that here we freely pledge ourselves to each other, and stamp it with a seal of more than mortal affection;" and upon the lips of the lovely, trembling Edith Morton, Edgar Courtly imprinted the first holy kiss of their mutual and enduring love.