Chapter X (3)

Flora and Mary Leslie, though sisters, bore little resemblance to each other, either in person or character. Flora was the more beautiful. Her face was of a style rarely seen; pale as a marble statue and as cold: not a tinge of color ever mantled her cheeks. Her hair—black as night—she wore parted smoothly over her brow, and folded in rich braids on her classic head, with a simplicity that defied ornament. Her eyes were not black, but of a deep, dark blue, with long black lashes that swept over her cheeks, still paler from the contrast. Her figure was tall and exquisitely moulded. Her beauty did not, however, leave a pleasant impression. There was no woman’s gentleness, no warmth in her manner; one felt as in the presence of an iceberg. Her sister, on the contrary, seemed like a little sylph; and Robert Dennyn’s eyes rested so fondly upon her, as to cause Annie Morton’s heart to sink within her.

Mary Leslie’s hair floated in ringlets round her neck with a wild grace; her bright blue eyes gave so clear a light, and her laugh was so innocent and happy, that one felt certain that no guile was in her heart.

Annie Morton and the Leslies were daily companions; and when their hours of study were over, Charlie Morton and Robert Dennyn always knew where to find the young girls. Bright visions of the future rose up before them; and, was it strange that in the dreams of each, the gentle, loving Mary Leslie walked, side by side, through their life with them? Both the young men loved her. The elder sister was too cold. Charlie said she lacked sincerity; and Robert, though he admired her, felt a chill in her presence, the cause of which he did not seek to divine.

But, though the young men loved best to linger by the side of sweet Mary Leslie, Annie Morton was more with Flora. There was something in the boldness and haughtiness of Flora’s manner that agreed with her own impulsive temper, she gradually fell more and more under Flora’s influence. Mrs. Morton watched with pain the growing intimacy of the young girls; she felt—with a mother’s instinct—that Flora was a dangerous companion for her daughter, and often urged her to be more with Mary.

“Why should I not choose my own friends?” Annie would exclaim, when Mrs. Morton remonstrated with her. “What do you know against her, mother?”

“Nothing, my child; but I know my daughter has altered very, very much since she has been so intimate with her. Flora Leslie is not pure and guileless as her sister.”

But the mother’s counsels were unheeded by Annie—she was unhappy. She began almost to hate Mary Leslie. The jealous friend was constantly whispering that, but for Mary, Robert might be all her own. The thought tortured her night and day. A dark, sullen cloud settled over her brow—she became more and more unloving and unlovely. Robert turned from her—to breathe the calm atmosphere which surrounded Mary—with a sigh, that one so beautiful could display so little tenderness.

Mrs. Morton’s health grew more delicate, and Annie therefore more free to do as she willed; for Mr. Morton was too indulgent, and Charlie too much occupied with his own dreams, which were approaching their realization, to notice the change that had crept over Annie.

* * * * *

“I am going to B——, to-morrow, Charlie,” said Robert, the day after his examination; for the three years of study had passed thus quickly away, bringing our young friends over the threshold of manhood and womanhood.

“Leave us so soon! I did not expect this, Robert—what shall I do without you?”

“Surely, in the love of Mary Leslie you will find forgetfulness for all sorrow, or you do not half deserve so priceless a treasure,” said Robert, sadly.

“Mary Leslie!” Charlie stammered, blushed; then laughing off his confusion, said—“Yes, Robert, there will be a wedding, in the fall, at Longbrook—will you be my groomsman? I should have told you this long ago, but—” and he blushed again, and again hesitated.

“Say no more, my dear fellow, I know it all, and will come.”

And he did know all. Only that morning he had gone to Mary Leslie, and told her of his love, and how fondly he hoped it was returned. Tears came in Mary’s eyes while she listened; but she had plighted her faith to another—long ago had she given her heart to Charlie Morton; and, in gentle accents she told him so, while her blue eyes glistened as she saw the suffering she caused. Robert acquitted her of all blame.

“God bless you, Mary,” said he, and they parted friends; and from thenceforth he felt she must be as a sister to him, when his heart was overflowing with love toward her.

* * * * *

The autumn came. The wedding was over. Robert Dennyn grasped the hand of his friend with sincere and earnest wishes for his future happiness. How could he but be happy with that guileless, loving creature for his bride; and Robert was able to meet her, not only with calmness, but without a wish that it should be otherwise.

A new love was beginning to dawn upon him, and he only wondered that the spell of Annie Morton’s loveliness had not been upon him long before. Instead, as of old, leaving her to pursue her walks and rides alone, he was now ever by her side. Annie did not repulse him. A deep purpose was in her heart; to bring this man to her feet who had neglected her in girlhood, and then refuse him, became her determination; and in this she was prompted by her subtle friend.

Flora Leslie saw the devotion of Robert with a bitter heart. The pale student first introduced to our readers had become a man. His figure, then sharp and angular, was now tall and graceful. The light of genius shone in his dark eye, and spread itself over his face, now beautiful to look upon in its manliness. His success, since his examination, had been such as answered the expectations of his friends, who predicted for him a brilliant career. Flora saw that his wife would occupy an enviable position in society. Her quiet country home had no charms for her. Her restless spirit pined for the gay scenes of a city life. Robert Dennyn’s wife would have the position for which she longed; and to prevent his marriage with Annie Morton, and to win him to herself, became the fixed purpose of her soul.

She poured into the mind of Annie suspicions of his truth; told her of his love to her sister, and of the scene to which she had been a witness without their knowledge, when he confessed his love to Mary. This scene she exaggerated until Annie was maddened by the thought that the only being he had ever loved was Mary Leslie; and when Robert, during the merry bridal season, told her of the newborn love that had sprung up in his heart for her, she laughed his love to scorn, and drove him from her with cold and haughty words, though she loved Robert with all the deep love of which her heart was capable.

Robert remained several weeks at Longbrook. He did not choose that Annie should see that her scornful rejection had given him pain, and he unconsciously devoted himself to Flora, who saw that her triumph was approaching. When they met, Annie could not avoid displaying agitation; but she struggled hard with her feelings.

“He shall never know how much I have loved him,” the poor girl would say.

In this Flora encouraged her. “Where is your woman’s pride, that you will permit him to see your wretchedness. This cold, proud man is scarcely worth all this display of affection.”

Just at this time an event occurred which prolonged the visit of Robert. Mrs. Morton died. Robert could not leave his friends in their deep affliction. Poor Annie! her grief was wild and ungovernable. She grew pale and thin; never now, as of old, did the light flash in her eye, and the color mount to her cheek.

How Robert’s heart yearned to fold her in his arms and soothe her agony. He determined to make one last effort to win her love; but again he was repulsed. Her evil genius whispered that now he sought her in compassion; he had seen what Flora called her weakness, and having won from her a confession of her love, would despise her for it.

Robert left her presence convinced that she did not love him, that her conduct toward him had been all coquetry. His first acquaintance with her, when she was scarcely more than a child, recurred to him. He said to himself as then, “She has no heart.”

In this mood he returned to Longbrook. Entering the drawing-room, the first thing that attracted his attention was Flora. She was bending over a table with a small miniature open before her. Her hands were clasped, her whole features convulsed. As he approached she started with well-feigned surprise, stammered a few words, and left the room.

Robert was amazed—who could she love? This cold creature, who had never before displayed the least sign of feeling! From her manner, he inferred, that that love, whoever its object, must be hopeless. He advanced to the table, the picture upon which her eyes had been riveted in such agonized hopelessness was his own. Robert staggered back into the seat which Flora had just quitted. A cold damp moisture settled on his pale forehead, now paler than ever—the coldness settled on his heart.

“Here,” said he, “have I wasted all the love which I possessed upon one incapable of returning it, while this noble creature—It shall not be! she shall not suffer upon my account! I will drive from my thoughts the idol I have cherished, and replace it by the image of this beautiful girl.”

Without a moment’s hesitation he addressed a note to Flora, telling her that he had seen her agitation, and discovered the cause of it; frankly he admitted that he had not loved her—“But,” he wrote, “if you will accept a heart that has not been all yours, my life shall be spent in endeavoring to make you happy.”

Was Flora Leslie happy? Her end was well-nigh accomplished. She saw herself already mistress of a magnificent establishment, surrounded with splendor, receiving the homage due to her beauty; but happiness had fled from her bosom, sweet peace from her pillow, for she felt that she had trampled and crushed to the earth, the hopes of a breaking heart.

Charlie Morton was delighted when he learned the engagement. He hastened to tell Annie of it.

“I once hoped to have seen you his bride, Annie. I think he loved you; but if you did not love him, of course, you were right not to accept him.”

Annie listened calmly, and her good brother never knew that he was the messenger that brought darkness and despair to her soul. A new light broke upon her. Could her friend have been treacherous? But it could not be, Charlie must have been mistaken. She recalled Robert’s fond words, his despair, when he left her so short a time before.

“It cannot be,” she exclaimed; “he loves me still! I will not believe it! Even though it be true, he shall not marry this false girl! I will tell him all!” She wrote a hurried, passionate note to Robert, in which she confessed how much she loved him; there was no coldness now—all pride was gone—merged in the wild thought that she might yet recall him to her side.

Impatiently she waited for his answer, which she felt would be life or death to her. Who shall tell the agony of Robert Dennyn when he received the note, just as he was setting forth for his home in B.

“Once,” he wrote in answer, “Annie Morton knew that she might have asked any thing of me, even life itself—now I am irrevocably bound to another.”

Annie Morton received the note; she took it from the servant, as she stood trembling beside that same window where she sat when first presented to our readers; but how unlike the bright, beautiful girl who then sprang forth so gayly to meet her beloved father, and the strange youth who was to exert so great an influence upon her destiny. Beautiful she was still, for twenty summers had not yet passed over her head; and beauty cannot leave those she has loved so early—the gift will linger till many a year of suffering has passed over the heads of those upon whom she has bestowed the fairy talisman.

Annie read the note—a look of despair stole over her face—her eyes gleamed wildly. She crushed the note in her hand, then tore it into a thousand pieces. For a moment she stood gazing out. A carriage passed. She knew that Robert was in it—and as it rolled on, so passed away from Annie Morton all light and hope eternally. She left the spot where she had been standing, passed slowly up the broad staircase to her room, reached the bed, and consciousness left her. They found her there some hours after—but reason had left her. She had sown the wind in her folly, she was reaping the whirlwind in her misery.

Robert Dennyn and Flora Leslie were never married. The frantic words that fell from poor Annie Morton’s lips, during the first moments of her hopeless insanity, disclosed Flora’s treachery, and the engagement was broken.

Robert Dennyn went on his way, loved, honored, respected by all; but a lonely old age was his portion. He had too kind and good a heart to become a misanthrope; but the flowers of love in his heart were bruised and crushed—they bloomed no more for him.

* * * * *

=ADIEU.=

=BY E. A. L.=

Adieu! Adieu? In silent tears we parted,
To journey on, diverging, as two beams,
That from the equatorial line have started,
Bending their faces toward the earth’s extremes.
All day my bosom heaves with heavy sighs;
All day I sing thy favorite songs and weep;
All night I gaze into thy luminous eyes,
Or clasp thy shadow in my feverish sleep—
Oh! for the love that was for death too strong!
Oh! for the sweet charmed hours that sped too soon,
When thou didst steal from Beauty’s laughing throng
To meet me by the soft consenting moon,
Inclasp my hand in tremulous delight,
And bend on me thine eyes angelically bright.

* * * * *

=THE RANGER’S CHASE.=

=A WESTERN STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812.=

=BY J. L. M’CONNEL, AUTHOR OF “TALBOT AND VERNON,” ETC.=