Alida; or, Miscellaneous Sketches of Incidents During the Late American War.

by Frank V. Webster

  CHAPTER IX.

  The time draws near when I shall meet those eyes, that may perchance look cold on me--"but doubt is called the beacon of the wise, the test that reaches to the bottom of the worst."

  On the appointed day, Theodore proceeded to the house of Alida's father,where he arrived late in the afternoon. Alida had retired to a littlesummer-house at the end of the garden. A servant conducted him thither.

  She was dressed in a flowing robe of white muslin, richly embroidered.Her hair was in dishevelled curls; she was contemplating a bouquet offlowers which she held in her hand. Theodore fancied she never appearedso lovely. She arose to receive him.

  We have been expecting you for some time, said she; we were anxious toinform you that we have just received a letter from my brother, in whichhe desires us to present you his most friendly respects, and complainsof your not visiting him lately so frequently as usual. Theodore thankedher for the information; said that business had prevented him; heesteemed him as his most valuable friend, and would be more particularin future.

  "We have been thronged with company several days," said Alida. The lastof them took their departure yesterday. And I have only to regret, thatI have nearly a week been prevented from taking my favourite walk to thegrove, to which place you attended me when you were last here. "We willwalk there, then, if you have no objections, as no doubt it is muchimproved since that time," said Theodore. They resorted thither towardsevening, and seated themselves in the arbour where they sat some timecontemplating the scenery.

  It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow hue was spread over thenatural beauties of creation. The withering forest began to shed itsdecaying foliage, which the light gales pursued along the russetfields;--the low sun extended its lengthening shadows;--curling smokeascended from the neighbouring village and the surrounding cottages;--athick fog crept along the valleys;--a grey mist hovered over the tops ofthe distant hills;--the glassy surface of the water glittering to thesun's departing ray;--the solemn herds lowed in monotonoussymphony;--the autumnal insects, in sympathetic wafting, plaintivelypredicted their approaching fate.

  The scene is changed since we last visited this place, said Alida; "thegay charms of summer are beginning to decay, and must soon yield theirsplendours to the rude despoiling hand of winter."

  "That will be the case," said Theodore, "before I shall have thepleasure of your company here again." "That may probably be, though itis nearly two months yet to winter," said Alida.

  "Great changes may take place within that time," said Theodore. Yes,changes must take place, she answered, but nothing, I hope to embitterpresent prospects.

  As it respects yourself, I trust not, madam. "And I sincerely hope not,as it respects you, Theodore." That wish, said he, I believe is vain.

  Your feelings accord with the season, Theodore; you are melancholy.Shall we return?

  "I ask your pardon, madam; I know I am unsociable. You speak ofreturning; you know the occasion of my being here. You cannot haveforgotten your own appointment and consequent engagement?" She made noanswer.

  I know, Alida, that you are incapable of duplicity or evasion. I havepromised and now repeat the declaration, that I will silently submit toyour decision. This you have engaged to make, and this is the time youhave appointed. The pain of present suspense can scarcely be surpassedby the pang of disappointment. On your part you have nothing to fear.I trust you have candidly determined, and will decide explicitly.

  "I am placed in an exceedingly delicate situation," answered Alida,(sighing.) "I know you are, madam," said Theodore, "but your own honour,your own peace, require that you should extricate yourself from theperplexing embarrassment."

  "That I am convinced of," replied she. "I know that I have beeninadvertently indiscreet. I have admitted the addresses of Bonville andyourself, without calculating or expecting the consequences. You haveboth treated me honourably and with respect. You are both on equalgrounds as to standing in life. With Bonville I became first acquainted.As it relates to him, some new arrangements have taken place since youcame here."

  Theodore interrupted her with emotion. "Of those arrangements I amacquainted, I received the intelligence from a friend in yourneighbourhood. I am prepared for the event."

  Alida remained silent. "I have mentioned before," resumed Theodore,"that whatever may be your decision, no impropriety can attach to you.I might add, indeed, from various circumstances, and from theinformation I possess, I perhaps should not have given you furthertrouble on the occasion, had it not been from your own direction. And Iam now willing to retire without further explanation, without giving youthe pain of an express decision, if you think the measure expedient.Your declaration can only be a matter of form, the consequence of whichI know, and my proposition may save your feelings."

  "No, Theodore," replied she, "my reputation depends on my adherence tomy first determination; justice to yourself and to Bonville also demandit. After what has passed, I should be considered as actingcapriciously, and inconsistently, should I depart from it. Bonville willbe here to-morrow, and you must consent to stay with us until that time;the matter shall then be decided." "Yes," said Theodore, "it shall be asyou say, madam. Make your arrangements as you please."

  Evening came on, and spread around her sombre shades;--the breeze'srustling wing was in the tree:--the sound of the low, murmuring brooks,and the far-off waterfall, were faintly heard;--the frequent lights inthe village darted their pale lustre through the gloom:--the solitarywhip-poor-wills stationed themselves along the woody glens, the grovesand rocky pastures, and sung a requiem to departed summer;--a dark cloudwas rising in the west, across whose gloomy front the vivid lightningbent its forky spires.

  Theodore and Alida moved slowly towards home; she appeared enrapturedwith the melancholy splendours of the evening, but another subjectengaged the mental attention of Theodore.

  Bonville arrived the next day. He gave his hand to Theodore with seemingwarmth of friendship. If it was reciprocated, it must have beenaffected. There was no alteration in the manners and conversation ofAlida; her discourse, as usual, was sprightly and interesting. Afterdinner she retired, and her father requested Theodore and Bonville towithdraw with him to a private room. After they were seated, the oldgentleman thus addressed them:

  "I have called you here, gentlemen, to perform my duty as a parent to mydaughter, and as a friend to you. You have both addressed Alida; whileyour addresses were merely formal, they were innocent; but when theybecame serious, they were dangerous. Your pretensions I consider equal,and between honourable pretenders, who are worthy of my daughter,I shall not attempt to influence her choice. That choice, however, canrest only on one; she has engaged to decide between you. I am come, tomake in her name this decision. The following are my terms: nodifficulty shall arise between you, gentlemen, in consequence of herdetermination; nothing shall go abroad respecting the affair; it shallbe settled under my roof. As soon as I have pronounced Alida'sdeclaration, you shall both depart, and absent my house for at least twoweeks, as it would be improper for my daughter to see either of you atpresent; after that period I shall be happy to receive your visits."Theodore and Bonville pledged their honour to abide implicitly by theseinjunctions.

  He then further observed: "This, gentlemen, is all I require. I havesaid that I considered your pretensions equal; so has my daughtertreated them. You have both made professions to her; she has appointed atime to answer you. That time has now arrived, and I now informyou--that she has decided in favour of Theodore."

  These words from Alida's father, burst upon the mental powers ofBonville like sudden and tremendous thunder on the deep and sullensilence of night. Unaccustomed to disappointment, he had calculated onassured success. His addresses to the ladies generally had beenhonourably received. Alida was the first whose charms were capable ofrendering them sincere. He was not ignorant of Theodore's attentions toher; it gave him, however, but little uneasiness. He believed that hissuperior acquired graces would eclipse t
he pretensions of his rival. Heconsidered himself a connoisseur in character, especially in that of theladies. He conformed to their taste; he flattered their foibles, andobsequiously bowed to the minutia of female volatility. He consideredhimself skilled in the language of the heart; and he trusted that fromhis pre-eminent powers in the science of affection, he had only to see,to make use of, and to conquer.

  He had frankly offered his hand to Alida, and pressed her for a decisiveanswer. This from time to time she suspended, and finally named a day inwhich to give him and Theodore a determinate one, though neither knewthe arrangements made with the other. Alida finding, however, thedilemma in which she was placed, and she had previously consulted herfather. He had no objections to her choosing between two persons ofequal claims to affluence and respectability. This choice she had made,and her father was considered the most proper person to pronounce it.

  When Bonville had urged Alida to answer him decidedly, he supposed thather hesitation, delay and suspensions, were only the effect ofdiffidence. He had no suspicion of her ultimate conclusion, and when shefinally named the day to decide, he was confident her voice would be inhis favour. These sentiments he had communicated to the person who hadwritten to Theodore, intimating that Alida had fixed a time which was tocrown his sanguine wishes. He had listened, therefore, attentively tothe words of her father, momentarily expecting to hear himself declaredthe favourite choice of the fair. What then must have been hisdisappointment when the name of Theodore was pronounced instead of hisown! The highly-finished scene of pleasure and future happy prospectswhich his ardent imagination had depicted, now vanished in a moment. Thebright sun of his early hopes was veiled in darkness at this unexpecteddecision.

  Very different were the sensations which inspired the bosom of Theodore.He had not even calculated on a decision in his favour; he believed thatBonville would be the choice of Alida. She had told him, that the formof deciding was necessary to save appearances; with this form hecomplied, because she desired it, not because he expected the resultwould be in his favour. He had not, therefore, attended to the words ofAlida's father with that eagerness which favourable anticipationscommonly produce.

  But when his name was mentioned; when he found that he was the choice,the happy favourite of Alida's affection, every ardent feeling of hissoul became interested, and was suddenly aroused to the refinements ofsensibility. Like an electric shock it re-animated his existence, andthe bright morning of joy quickly dissipated the gloom which hung overhis mind.