Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 2 August 1848

"What matters it, beautiful as you always are."

"No, no, I cannot be married in black – I will not be married in black," she cried hurriedly, and with a forced effort to be gay; "wait ten minutes, I will but step to the chamber above and be with you again directly."

Florence disappeared through a door leading into the main portion of the building, while Jameson arose and went out to meet the two men, who were now close by the stoop, and looking about as if undecided what door to try at for admission.

"Let us take a stroll in the garden," he said, descending the steps, "the lady is not quite ready yet; how beautiful the morning is," and passing his arm through that of a man who seemed some years older than himself, and who had accompanied the clergyman, he turned an angle of the building. The clergyman followed them a pace or two, then returning sat down upon the steps that led to the stoop and took off his hat.

"This is a singular affair," he muttered, putting back the locks from his forehead and bending his elbows upon his knees, with the deep sigh of a man who finds the air deliciously refreshing, "I have half a mind to pluck a handful of flowers, step into my chaise and go back to the city again; but for the sweet young lady I would. There is something about the young man that troubles me – what if my good-nature has been imposed upon – what if old Mr. Hurst has deeper reasons than his pride – that I would not bend to a minute – and he gives no other reason if they tell me truly. This young man is his book-keeper, and so his love is presumptuous. Probably old Hurst has imported a cargo of aristocratic arrogance from Europe, and the young people tell the truth. If so, why I will even marry them, and let the stately gentleman make the best of it. Still, I half wish the thing had not fallen upon me."

Meantime the bridegroom and his friend walked slowly toward the water.

"And so you have snared the bird at last," said Byrne.

"I did not think you could manage to get her down here. When did she come?"

"Yesterday," said Jameson.

"Alone?"

"Quite alone; her father thinks her visiting a friend."

"But you left the city yesterday."

"Yes."

"And not with her?"

"She came down alone – so did I."

"But directly after – ha!"

Jameson smiled, that same crafty smile that had curled his lips even when they rested upon the forehead of Florence Hurst.

"And did she sanction this. By heavens! I would not have believed it – so proud, so sensitive!"

"No, no, Byrne, to do Florence justice, she supposes that I came down this morning; but the old house is large, and it was easy enough for me to find a nook to sleep in, without her knowledge."

"But what object have you in this?"

"Why, as to my object, it is scarcely settled yet; but it struck me that by this movement I might obtain a hold upon her father's family pride, should his affection for Florence fail. The haughty old don would hardly like it to be known in the city that his lovely daughter – his only child – had spent the night alone, in an old country-house, with her father's book-keeper."

"But how would he know this; surely you would not become the informant?"

"Why, no!" replied Jameson, with a smile; "but I took a little pains to inquire about the localities of this old nest up at the village. The good people had seen Miss Hurst leave the stage an hour before and walk over this way. It seems very natural that he may hear it from that quarter."

Byrne looked at his companion a moment almost sternly, then dropping his eyes to the ground, he began to dash aside the rich blossoms from a tuft of pansies with his cane.

"You do not approve of this?" said Jameson, studying his companion's countenance.

"No."

"Why, it can do no harm. What would the girl be to me without her expectations. I tell you her father will pay any sum rather than allow a shadow of disgrace to fall upon her. I will marry her at all hazards; but it must be kept secret, and in a little time some hint of this romantic excursion will be certain to reach head-quarters; and I shall have the old man as eager for the marriage as any of us, and ready to come down handsomely, too. I tell you it makes every thing doubly sure."

"It may be so," said the other, in a dissatisfied manner.

"Well, like it or not, I can see no other way by which you will be certain of the three thousand dollars that you won of me," replied Jameson, coolly.

Byrne dashed his cane across the pansies, sending the broken blossoms in a shower over the gravel-walks.

"Well, manage as you like, the affair is nothing to me, but it smacks strongly of the scoundrel, Herbert, I can tell you that."

"Pah! this little plot of mine will probably amount to nothing. The old gentleman may give in at once to the tears and caresses of my sweet bride up yonder. Faith, I doubt if any man could resist her."

"More than probable – more than probable!" rejoined the other; "but I should not like to be within the sight of that girl's eye if she ever finds out the game you have been playing."

"Yes, it would be very likely to strike fire," replied Jameson, carelessly; "but she loves me, and there is no slave like a woman that loves. You will see that before the year is over, every spark that flashes from her eyes I shall force back upon her heart till it burns in, I can tell you. But there she is, all in bridal white, and fluttering like a bird around the old stoop. Come, we must not keep her waiting!"

Meantime, Florence Hurst had entered a little chamber, where, nineteen years before, she first opened her eyes to the light of heaven. It was at one end of the house, and across the window fell the massive boughs of an old apple-tree, heaped with masses of the richest foliage, and rosy with half-open blossoms. A curtain of delicate lace fluttered before the open sash, bathed in fragrance, and through which the rough brown of the limbs, the delicate green in which the rosy buds seemed matted, gleamed as through a wreath of mist.

The night before Florence had left a robe of pure white muslin near the window, exquisitely fine, but very simple, which was to be her wedding-dress. It was strange, but a sort of faintness crept over her heart as she saw the dress; and she sat down powerless, with both hands falling in her lap, gazing upon it. For the moment her intellect was clear, her heart yielded up to its new intuition. Her guardian spirit was busy with her passionate but noble nature. She felt, for the first time, in all its force, how wrong she was acting, how indelicate was her situation. It seemed as if she were that moment cast adrift from her father's love – from her own lofty self-appreciation. The heart that had swelled and throbbed so warmly a moment before, now lay heavy in her bosom, shrinking from the destiny prepared for it. Just then the sound of a voice penetrated the thick foliage of the fruit tree, and she started up once more full of conflicting emotions. It was Jameson's voice that reached her as he passed with his friend beneath the fruit trees. She heard no syllable of what he was saying, but the very tone, as it came softened and low through the perfume and sweetness that floated around her, was enough to fling her soul into fresh tumult. How she trembled; how warm and red came the passion-fire of that delicate cheek, as she flung the black garment from off her superb form, and hurried on the bridal array. It was very chaste, and utterly without pretension, that wedding-dress, knots of snowy ribbon fastened it at the shoulders and bosom, and the exquisite whiteness was unbroken save by the glow that warmed her neck and bosom almost to a blush, and the purplish gloss upon her tresses, that fell in raven masses down to her shoulders.

She took a glance in the old mirror, encompassed by its frame-work of ebony, carved and elaborated at the top and bottom into a dark net-work of fine filagree; she saw herself – a bride. Again the wing of her guardian angel beat against her heart. The unbroken whiteness of her array seemed to fold her like a shroud, and like that thing which a shroud clings to, became the pallor which settled on her features; for behind her own figure, and moving, as it were, in the background of the mirror, she saw the image of her lover and his friend, talking earnestly together. The friend stood with his back toward her, but his face she saw distinctly, and that smile was on his lips, cold, crafty, almost contemptuous. Was it Jameson, or only something mocking her from the mirror? She went to the window, drew aside the filmy lace, and looked forth. Truly it was her lover; through an interstice of the apple boughs she saw him distinctly, and he saw her – that smile, surely the gloomy old mirror had reflected awry. How brilliant, how full of love was the whole expression of his face. Again her heart lighted up. She took a cluster of blossoms from the apple-tree bough, and waving them lightly toward him, drew back. She left the room, fastening the damp and fragrant buds in her hair as she went along, for somehow she shrunk from looking into the old mirror again.

Now the guardian angel gave way to the passion spirit. Florence entered the little boudoir, trembling with excitement, and warm with blushes. The room was solitary, and she stepped out upon the stoop – for her life she could not have composed herself to sit down and wait a single instant. The clergyman was there sitting upon the steps, thoughtful, and evidently yielding to the doubts that had arisen in his kind but just nature too late. He arose as Florence came upon the stoop, and slowly mounting the steps, took her hand and led her back into the room.

"My dear young lady," he said very gravely, "I would hear from your own lips what the impediments to this marriage really are. I scarce know how to account for it. Nothing has happened to change the aspect of affairs here; but within the last hour I have been troubled with doubts and misgivings. Has all been done that can be to obtain your father's consent?"

"I believe – I know that there has," replied Florence, instantly saddened by the gravity of the clergyman.

"And his objections arose purely from pride – aristocratic pride?"

"I never heard any other reason given for withholding his consent," replied Florence. "To me he never gave a reason. His commands were peremptory."

"And you have known this young man long?"

"I was but fifteen when he first came into my father's employ."

"And you love him with your whole heart?"

Florence lifted her eyes, and through the long black lashes flashed a reply so eloquent, so beautiful, that it made even the quiet clergyman draw a deep breath.

"Enough – I will marry them!" he said firmly. "I only wish the young man may prove worthy of all this – "

His soliloquy was cut short by the appearance of Jameson and his friend.

They were married – Florence Hurst, the only daughter and heiress of the richest merchant in New York, to Jameson, the protegée and book-keeper of her proud father.

They were married, and they were left alone in that picturesque old country-house. And now, strange to say, Florence grew very sad; and as Jameson sat by her, with one hand in his, and circling her waist with his arm, she began to weep bitterly.

"Florence, Florence – how is this! why do you weep, beloved?"

"I do not know," said the bride, gently; "but since the good clergyman has left us, my heart is heavy, and I feel alone."

"Do you not love me, Florence? Have you lost confidence in me?"

Florence lifted her eyes, shining with affection, and placed her hand in his.

"But this secrecy troubles me. Let us tell my father at once," she said, earnestly.

"But I have promised, shall I break a pledge, and that to the man of God who has just given you to me forever and ever. Florence?"

"Surely his consent may be obtained. He said nothing of concealment to me."

"And did you talk with him?" questioned Jameson, maintaining the same tone in which his other questions had been put, but with a certain sharpness in it.

"A little. He questioned me of the motives which induced my father to oppose our marriage."

"And that was all?"

"Yes; you came in just then, and the rest seems like a dream."

"A blessed, sweet dream, Florence, for it made you my wife," said Jameson.

Still Florence wept. "And now," she said, lifting her eyes timidly to his, "let us return to the city; while this secrecy lasts I must see you only in the presence of my father."

"Florence, is this distrust – is it dislike?" cried Jameson, startled out of his usual self-command.

"Neither," said Florence, "you know that. You are certain of it as I am myself. But I am your wife now, Herbert, and have both your honor and my own to care for. My father has no power to separate us now, so that fear which seemed to haunt you ever is at rest. But it is due to myself, to him, and to you, that when you claim me as your wife, he should know that I am such, though he may not approve."

Florence said all this very sweetly, but with a degree of gentle firmness that seemed the more unassailable that it was sweet and gentle. Before he could speak she withdrew herself from his arm, and glided from the room. When quite alone, Jameson fell into an unpleasant reverie, from which her return in the black silk dress, with a bonnet and shawl on, aroused him.

"Come," she said, with a smile and a blush, "let us walk through the oak woods, and across the meadows, we shall reach the village almost as soon as the good clergyman and your friend. The reverend gentleman will take care of me, I feel quite sure, and you can manage for yourself. Here we must not remain another moment."

"Florence!"

"Nay, nay – whoever heard of a lady being thwarted on her wedding-morning!" cried Florence – and she went out upon the stoop. Jameson followed, and seemed to be expostulating; but she took his arm and walked on, evidently unconvinced by all that he was saying, till they disappeared in the oak woods.

CHAPTER II

Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame;I hear thy name spoken,And share in the shame.They will name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o'er me —Why wert thou so dear? Byron.

Florence was in her father's house near the Battery, and looking forth into a large, old-fashioned garden, which was just growing dusky with approaching twilight; near her, in a large crimson chair, sat a man of fifty perhaps, tall and slender, with handsome but stern features, rendered more imposing by thick hair, almost entirely gray, and a style of dress unusually rich, and partaking of fashions that had prevailed twenty years earlier.

Florence was pensive, and an air of painful depression hung about her. The presence of her father, who sat gazing upon her in silence, affected her much; the secret that lay upon her heart seemed to grow palpable to his sight, and though she appeared only still and pensive, the poor girl trembled from head to foot.

"Florence!" said Mr. Hurst after the lapse of half an hour, for it seemed as if he had been waiting for the twilight to deepen around them – "Florence, you are sad, child. You look unhappy. Do your father's wishes press so heavily upon your spirits – do you look upon him as harsh, unreasonable, because he will not allow his only child to throw away her friendship, her society upon the unworthy?"

Florence did not answer, her heart was too full. There was something tender and affectionate in her father's voice that made the tears start, and drowned the words that she would have spoken. Seldom had he addressed her in that tone before. How unlike was he to the reserved, stern father whose arbitrary command to part with her lover she had secretly disobeyed.

"Speak, Florence, your depression grieves me," continued Mr. Hurst, as he heard the sobs she was trying in vain to suppress.

"Oh, father – father! why will you call him unworthy because he lacks family standing and wealth? I cannot – oh I never can think with you in this!"

"And who said that I did deem him unworthy for these reasons? Who said that I objected to Herbert Jameson as a companion for my daughter because of his humble origin or his penniless condition? Who told you this, Florence Hurst?"

"He, he told me – did you not say all this to him, all this and more? Did you not drive him from your presence and employ with bitter scorn, when two weeks ago he asked for your daughter's hand?"

"He ask for my daughter's hand! he, the ingrate! the – Florence, did you believe that he really possessed the base assurance to request your hand of me?"

"Father! father! what does this mean? Did you not tell me on that very evening never to see him again – never to recognize him in the street, or even think of him! Did you not cast him forth from your home and employ because he told you of his love for me and of mine for him?"

"Of your love for him, Florence Hurst!"

There was something terrible in the voice of mingled astonishment and dismay with which this exclamation was made.

"Father!" cried the poor girl, half rising from her seat, and falling back again pale and trembling, "father, why this astonishment? You knew that I loved him!"

"Who told you that I did?"

"He told me, he, Herbert Jameson. It was for this you made him an outcast."

"It is false, Florence, I never dreamed of this degradation!" said Mr. Hurst, in a voice that seemed like sound breaking up through cold marble.

"Then why that command to myself – why was I never to see or hear from him again?" cried Florence, almost gasping for breath.

"Because he is a dishonest man, a swindler – because I solemnly believe that he has been robbing me during the last three years, and squandering his stolen spoil at the gambling-table!"

"Father – father – father!"

The sharp anguish in which these words broke forth brought the distressed merchant to his feet. Florence, too, stood upright, and even through the dusk you might have seen the wild glitter of her eyes, the fierce heave of her bosom.

"You believe, father, you only believe! should such things be said without proof – proof broad and clear as the open sunshine when it pours down brightest from heaven. I say to you, my father, Herbert Jameson is an honest, honorable man!"

"It is well, Florence – it is well!" said Mr. Hurst, with stern and bitter emphasis. "You have doubted my justice, you distrust that which I have said. You are foolishly blind enough to think that this man can love, does love you."

"I know that he does!" said Florence with a sort of wild exultation. "I know that he loves me."

"And would you, if I were to give my consent – could you become the wife of Herbert Jameson?"

"Father, I could! I would!"

"Then on this point be the issue between us," said Mr. Hurst, with calm and stern dignity. "Florence, I am about to send a note desiring this man to come once more under my roof," and he rang a bell for lights; "if within three hours I do not give you proof that he loves you only for the wealth that I can give – that he is every way despicable – I say that if within three hours I do not furnish this proof, clear, glaring, indisputable, then will I frankly and at once give my consent to your marriage."

"Father!" cried Florence, while a burst of wild and startling joy broke over her face, "I will stand the issue! My life – my very soul would I pledge on his integrity."

Mr. Hurst looked at her with mournful sternness while she was speaking, and then proceeded to write a note which he instantly dispatched.

While the servant was absent Mr. Hurst and his daughter remained together, much agitated but silent and lost in thought. In the course of half an hour the man returned with a reply to the note. Mr. Hurst read it, and waiting till they were alone turned to his daughter and pointed to a glass door which led from the room into a little conservatory of plants.

"Go in yonder, from thence you can hear all that passes."

"Father, is it right – will it be honorable?" said Florence, hesitating and weak with agitation.

"It is right – it is honorable! Go in!" His voice was stern, the gesture with which he enforced it peremptory, and poor Florence obeyed.

A curtain of pale green silk fell over the sash-door, and close behind it stood a garden-chair, overhung by the blossoming tendrils of a passion-flower. Florence sat down in the chair and her head drooped fainting to one hand. There was something in the scent of the various plants blossoming around that reminded her of that wedding-morning when the air was literally burthened with like fragrance. She was about to see her husband for the first time since that agitating day, to see him thus, crouching as a spy among those delicate plants, her heart beat heavily, she loathed herself for the seeming meanness that had been forced upon her. Yet there was misgiving at her heart – a vague, sickening apprehension that chained her to the seat.

She heard the door open and some one enter the room where her father sat, with a lamp pouring its light over his stern and pale features till every iron lineament was fully revealed. Scarcely conscious of the act, Florence drew aside a fold of the curtain, and with her forehead pressed to the cold glass looked in. Mr. Hurst had not risen, but with an elbow resting on the table sat pale and stern, with his eyes bent full upon her husband, who stood a few paces nearer to the door. In one hand was his hat, in the other he held a slender walking-stick. He did not seem fully at his ease, and yet there was more of triumph than of embarrassment in his manner. Florence observed, and with a sinking heart, that he did not, except with a furtive glance, return the calm and searching look with which Mr. Hurst regarded him.

"Mr. Jameson, sit down," began the haughty merchant, pointing to a chair. "I did hope after our last interview never again to be disturbed by your presence, but it seems that, serpent-like, you will never tire of stinging the bosom that has warmed you."

"I am at a loss to understand you, Mr. Hurst," replied Jameson, taking the chair, and Florence sickened as she saw creeping over his lips the very same smile that had gleamed before her in the mirror. "When I last saw you your charges were harsh, your treatment cruel. You imputed things to me of which you have no proof, and upon the strength of an absurd suspicion of – of – I may as well speak it out – of dishonesty, you discharged me from your employ; I am at a loss to know why you have sent for me, certainly you cannot expect to wring proof of these charges from my own words."

"I have proof of them, undoubted, conclusive, and had at the time they were first made! but you had been cherished beneath my roof, had broken of my bread, and I was forbearing! Was not this reason enough why I should have sent you forth as I did?"

Jameson gave a perceptible start and turned very pale as Mr. Hurst spoke of the proofs that he possessed; but the emotion was only momentary, and it scarcely disturbed the smile that still curled about his mouth.

"At any rate the bare suspicion of these things was all the reason you deigned to give," he said.

Florence heard and saw – conviction, the loathed thing, came creeping colder and colder to her bosom.

"But since then I have other causes for pursuing your crimes with the justice they merit, other and deeper wrongs you have done me, serpent, fiend, household ingrate as you are!"

"And what may those other wrongs be?" was the cold and half sneering rejoinder to this passionate outbreak.

"My daughter!" said the merchant, sweeping a hand across his forehead. "It sickens me to mention her name here and thus, but my daughter – even there has your venom reached."

"Perhaps I understand you," said the young man with insufferable coolness; "but if your daughter chose to love where her father hates how am I to blame? I am sure it has cost me a great deal of trouble to keep the young lady's partiality a secret. If you have found it out at last so much the better."

Mr. Hurst, with all his firmness, was struck dumb by this cool and taunting reply, but after a moment's fierce struggle he mastered the passion within him and spoke.

"You love" – the words absolutely choked the proud man – "you love my daughter then – why was this never mentioned to me?"

"It was the young lady's fancy, I suppose; perhaps she shrunk from so grim a confident; at any rate it is very certain that I did!"