The International Monthly, Volume 2, No. 4, March, 1851

Sometimes he thought that Emily might be ill; but then that did not seem likely, as her health was generally good; and she was, when she had last written, perfectly well, and apparently in excellent spirits. Should he write to her again? No, she owed him a letter, and if she loved him, would doubtless answer it as soon as circumstances would permit; and he 'would let that haughty old aristocrat, her father, see that Philip Hayforth, the merchant, had more of the spirit of a man in him than to cringe to the proudest blood in England. And as for Emily, she was his betrothed bride—the same as his wife; and if he was not more to her than any father on earth, she was unworthy of the love he had given her. Let her only be true to him, and he was ready to devote his life to her—to die for her.' As the time wore slowly away, he became more and more exasperated, fevered, wretched. Sometimes it seemed to him that he could no longer endure such torment; that life itself was a burthen too intolerable to be borne. But here pride came to the aid of a better principle. His cheek tinged at the thought of being spoken of as the slighted lover, and his blood boiled at the bare idea of Colonel Sherwood's contemptuous pity for the vain plebeian who had dared to raise his thoughts to an alliance with his beautiful, high-born daughter. He 'would show the world that he was no love-sick, despairing swain; and Miss Sherwood's vanity should never be gratified by the display of the wounds her falsehood had inflicted. He would very soon, he knew, forget the fair coquette who had trampled thus upon his most sacred feelings.' So he tried to persuade himself, but his heart misgave him. No: he could not forget her—it was in vain to attempt it; but the more his feelings acknowledged her power, even the more the pride she had wounded in its tenderest point rose up in wrath against her; and he chafed at his own powerlessness to testify towards her his scorn and contempt. At such times as these he seemed even to himself on the verge of madness. But he had saner moments—moments when his better nature triumphed, and pride resigned for a brief space her stormy empire to the benigner sway of the contending passion.

In the midst of those terrific tornados, which in the West Indies and elsewhere carry in their path, over immense districts, ruin and desolation, there is a pause, often of considerable duration, caused, the scientific inform us, by the calm in the centre of the atmospheric vortex of which they are composed. Such a calm would occasionally rest upon the mind of Philip Hayforth, over the length and breadth of which the whirlwind of passion had lately been tearing. One night, after one of those hidden transports, which the proud man would have died rather than any mortal eye should have scanned, he threw himself upon his bed (for he rarely went to bed now, in the accepted sense of the phrase) in a state approaching exhaustion, mental and bodily. By degrees a sort of dream-like peace fell upon his spirit; the present vanished away, and the past became, as it were, once more a living reality. He thought of Emily Sherwood as he had first seen her—a vision of loveliness and grace. He thought of her as he had beheld her almost the last time on that clear summer morning, and like refreshing dew on his scorched and desolated heart fell the remembrance of her gentle words and loving looks. Could they have deceived? Ah no! and his whole nature seemed suddenly softened. He seemed to see her before him now, with her angel face and her floating white robes; he seemed even yet to be looking into those soft, bright eyes, and to read there again, as he had read before, love unspeakable, truth unchangeable. His heart was filled with a yearning tenderness, an intense and longing fondness, and he extended his arms, as if to embrace that white-robed image of truth and gentleness: but she was not there; it was but her spirit which had come to still his angry passions with the calm of trust and love. And in the fond superstition that so it was, he sprang from his couch, seized a pen, and wrote to her a passionate, incoherent epistle, telling her that she had tried him almost beyond his strength, but that he loved and believed in her still, and if she answered immediately, that he was ready to forgive her for all the pain she had caused him. This letter finished, he threw himself upon his bed once again, and after a space, slept more soundly than he had done for many a long night before. When he rose in the morning he read over his letter, and felt, as he read, some faint misgivings; but these were put to flight by the recollection of Emily, as she had appeared to him in the vision of the previous night. As the post, however, did not go out till evening, he would keep the letter till then. Alas for the delay! It changed for ever his own fate and that of Emily Sherwood. It chanced that very afternoon that, taking up a provincial newspaper in a coffee-room into which he had strolled, on his way to the post-office, the following paragraph met his eye:—'We understand that there is a matrimonial alliance in contemplation between J– R–, Esq., eldest son of Sir J– R–, Bart., and the lovely and accomplished Miss Sherwood, daughter of Colonel Sherwood, late of the —th dragoons, and granddaughter of the late R. Sherwood, Esq., of – Park.' On reading this most unfounded rumor, Philip Hayforth waited not another moment, but rushed home as if driven by the furies; and tearing his letter in a thousand pieces, threw it and the purse, Emily's gift, into the fire, and vowed to bestow not another thought on the heartless woman who had perjured her own faith and sold his true and fervent love for riches and title. Oh how he scorned her! how he felt in his own true heart that all the wealth and grandeur of the earth would have been powerless to tempt one thought of his from her!

To conceal all suspicion of his sufferings from the world, and, if possible, banish their remembrance from his own mind, he now went even more than formerly into society; and when there, simulated a gayety of manner that had hitherto distinguished his most vivacious moments. He had always been a general favorite, and now his company was more sought after than ever. Among the young persons of the opposite sex with whom his engagements most frequently brought him in contact, was a young girl of the name of Fanny Hartley, pretty, gentle, excessively amiable, but without much mind, and with no literary taste whatever. She had nothing to say, but she listened to him, and he felt in her society a sort of repose, which was at present peculiarly grateful to his angry, troubled spirit. Her very silence soothed him, while the absorbing nature of his own feelings prevented him at first from thinking of hers. Philip Hayforth had certainly not more than an average share of human vanity, but he did at last suspect, partly from an accidental circumstance which had first drawn his attention to the subject, that he had created in the heart of the innocent Fanny a deeper interest than he had ever intended. He was touched, grateful, but at first grieved, for he "could never love again." But the charm of being loved soon began to work: his heart was less desolate, his feelings were less bitter, when he thought of Fanny Hartley, and began to ask himself if he were wise to reject the consolation which Providence seemed to offer him in the affection of this amiable and artless young creature. And when he thought of the pain she might perchance be suffering on his account, all hesitation upon the subject was removed at once. If she loved him, as he believed, his conduct, it seemed to his really kind heart, had already been barbarous. He ought not to delay another day. And accordingly that very evening he offered his hand to Fanny Hartley, and was accepted with trembling joy.

Their marriage proved a happy one. Fanny was as amiable as she had appeared, and in the conduct of the commoner affairs of life, good-feeling with her supplied in a great measure any deficiency of strong sense. Philip did perhaps occasionally heave a gentle sigh, and think for a moment of Emily Sherwood, when he found how incapable his wife was of responding to a lofty or poetic thought, or of appreciating the points of an argument, unless it were upon some such subject as the merits of a new dress or the seasoning of a pudding. But he quickly checked the rising discontent, for Fanny was so pure in heart, and so unselfish in disposition, that it was impossible not to respect as well as to love her. In short, Philip Hayforth was a fortunate man, and what is more surprising, knew himself to be so. And when, after twenty years of married life, he saw his faithful, gentle Fanny laid in her grave, he felt bereaved indeed. It seemed to him then, as perhaps, at such a time, it always does to a tender heart, that he had never done her justice, never loved her as her surpassing goodness deserved. And yet a kinder husband never lived than he had been; and Fanny had died blessing him, and thanking him, as she said, "for twenty years of happiness." "How infinitely superior," he now daily and hourly thought, "was her sweet temper and loving disposition to all the intellect and all the poetry that ever were enshrined in the most beautiful form." And yet Philip Hayforth certainly was not sorry that his eldest daughter—his pretty, lively Fanny—should have turned out not only amiable and affectionate, but clever and witty. He was, in truth, very proud of Fanny. He loved all his children most dearly; but Fanny was the apple of his eye—the very delight of his existence. He had now almost forgotten Emily Sherwood; but when he did think of her, it was with indifference rather than forgiveness. He had not heard of her since his marriage, having, some time previous to that event, completely broken off the slight acquaintance he had formed with her relations; while a short absence abroad, at the time of her union with Mr. Beauchamp, had prevented him from seeing its announcement in the papers.

Meanwhile poor Emily's married life had not been so happy as that of her former lover. Mr. Beauchamp was of a pompous, tyrannical disposition, and had a small, mean mind. He was constantly worrying about trifles, perpetually taking offence with nothing, and would spend whole days in discussing some trivial point of etiquette, in the breach of which, he conceived himself aggrieved. A very miserable woman was his wife amid all the cold magnificence of her stately home. Often, very often, in her hours of loneliness and depression, her thoughts would revert to the brief, bright days of her early love, and her spirit would be rapt away by the recollection of that scene on the balcony, when Philip Hayforth and she had stood with locked hands and full hearts gazing at the sinking star and the sweetly breaking day, and loving, feeling, thinking, as if they had but one mind between them, till the present seemed all a fevered dream, and the past alone reality. She could not have been deceived then: then, at least, he had loved her. Oh, had she not wronged him? had there not been a mistake—some incident unexplained? He had warned her that his temper was proud and jealous, and she felt now that she ought to have written and asked an explanation. She had thrown away her happiness, and deserved her fate. Then she recollected that such thoughts in her, the wife of Mr. Beauchamp, were worse than foolish—they were sinful; and the upbraidings of her conscience added to her misery.

But Emily had a strong mind, and a lofty sense of right; and in those solitary struggles was first developed the depth and strength of her character. Partly to divert her thoughts from subjects dangerous to her peace, and partly from the natural bent of her inclinations, she sought assiduously to cultivate the powers of her mind, while her affections found ample scope for their exercise in the love of her infant son, and in considerate care for her many dependants, by all of whom she was loved and reverenced in no common degree. She learned thus the grand lessons—'to suffer and be strong,' and to make the best of destiny; and she felt that if she were a sadder woman, she was also a wiser one, and at any price wisdom, she knew, is a purchase not to be despised.

Mrs. Beauchamp had been married little more than five years when her husband died. His will showed, that however unhappy he had made her during his life, he had not been insensible to her merit, for he left her the sole guardian of their only son, and, while she should remain unmarried, the mistress of Woodthorpe Hall. In the childish affection and opening mind of her little boy poor Emily at last found happiness—unspeakable happiness, although it was of course qualified by the anxiety inseparable from parental love. She doted upon him; but her love was of too wise and unselfish a nature to permit her to spoil him, while her maternal affection furnished her with another motive for the cultivation of her own mind and the improvement of her own character. She was fired with the noble ambition of being the mother of her child's mind, as well as of that mind's mere perishable shrine.

II

Twenty-five years have passed away, with all their changes—their many changes; and now,

'Gone are the heads of silvery hair,And the young that were have a brow of care:'

And the babe of twenty-five years ago is now a man, ready to rush into the thickest and the hottest of the great battle of life.

It was Christmas time; the trees were bare on Woodthorpe Chase; the lawns were whitened by a recent shower of snow, and crisped by a sharp frost; the stars were coming out in the cold cloudless sky; and two enormous fires, high piled with Christmas logs, blazed, crackled, and roared in the huge oaken chimneys of the great oak hall. Mrs. Beauchamp and her son sat together in the drawing-room, in momentary expectation of the arrival of their Christmas guests—a party of cousins, who lived at about ten miles' distance from Woodthorpe Hall. Edmund Beauchamp was now a very promising young man, having hitherto fulfilled the hopes and answered the cares of his fond and anxious mother. He had already reaped laurels at school and college, and his enlightened and liberal views, and generous, enthusiastic mind, gave earnest of a career alike honourable and useful. In person and features, though both were agreeable, he did not much resemble his mother; but he had the same large, soft, thoughtful eyes, the same outward tranquillity of demeanour hiding the same earnest spirit. At present he was silent, and seemed meditative. Mrs. Beauchamp gazed at him long and fondly, and as she gazed, her mother's heart swelled with love and pride, and her eyes glistened with heartfelt joy. At last she remarked, "I hope the Sharpes's new governess is as nice a person as the old one."

"Oh, much nicer!" cried Edmund suddenly, and as if awakening from a reverie.

"Indeed! I used to think Miss Smith a very nice person."

"Oh, so she was—very good-natured and obliging; but Miss Dalton is altogether a different sort of person."

"I wonder you never told me you found her so agreeable."

"I—Oh, I did not–That is, you never asked me."

"Is she young?"

"Yes—not much above twenty I should think."

"Is she pretty?"

"I—I don't exactly know," he said, hesitating and colouring; "I suppose—most persons–I should think she is." "How foolish I am!" thought Edmund. "What will my mother think of all this?" He then continued in a more composed manner—"She is a very excellent girl at least. She is the daughter of a London merchant—a remarkably honourable man—who has been ruined by these bad times; and though brought up in luxury, and with the expectation of large fortune, she has conformed to her circumstances in the most cheerful manner, and supports, it seems, with the fruits of her talents and industry, two little sisters at school. The Sharpes are all so fond of her, and she is the greatest favorite imaginable with the children." Edmund spoke with unwonted warmth. His mother looked at him half-sympathisingly, half-anxiously. She seemed about to speak, when the sound of carriage wheels, and the loud knock of a footman at the hall-door, announced the arrival of the Sharpes, and Mrs. Beauchamp and her son hastened into the hall to welcome their guests. Mrs. Beauchamp's eye sought for the stranger, partly because she was a stranger, and partly from the interest in her her son's conversation had created. But Miss Dalton was the last to enter.

Edmund had not erred in saying she was a pretty girl. Even beneath the cumbrous load of cloaks and furs in which she was now enveloped, you could detect the exquisite proportions of her petite figure, and the sprightly grace of her carriage; while a pretty winter bonnet set off to advantage a face remarkable for the intelligence and vivacity of its expression. Her features, though not regular, were small, while the brilliancy of her colour, though her complexion was that of a brunette, lent a yet brighter glow to her sparkling dark eyes, and contrasted well with the glossy black ringlets which shaded her animated countenance. At this moment, however, her little head was carried somewhat haughtily, and there was a sort of something not unlike bashfulness or awkwardness in her manner which seemed hardly natural to it. The truth was, Miss Dalton had come very unwillingly to share in the festivities of Woodthorpe Hall. She was not acquainted with Mrs. Beauchamp, and report said she was a very dignified lady, which Fanny Dalton interpreted to mean a very proud one; and from her change of circumstances, rendered unduly sensitive, she dreaded in her hostess the haughty neglect or still haughtier condescension by which vulgar and shallow minds mark out their sense of another's social inferiority. And therefore it was that she held her head so high, and exhibited the constraint of manner to which I have alluded. But all her pride and shyness quickly melted before the benign presence and true heart-politeness of Mrs. Beauchamp. Dignified the latter certainly was; but her dignity was tempered with the utmost benevolence of expression, and the most winning sweetness of manner; and when she took the hand of her little stranger-guest between both of hers, and holding it kindly, said, "You are the only stranger here, Miss Dalton; but for my sake you must try to feel at home," an affection for Mrs. Beauchamp entered into the heart of the young girl, which has continued ever since steadily to increase. That she should conceive such an affection was not unnatural, for there was something in the appearance and manners of Mrs. Beauchamp, combined with her position in life, calculated to strike the imagination and touch the feelings of a warm-hearted and romantic girl such as Fanny Dalton, more especially one circumstanced as she was. Even her previous prejudice, with the reaction natural to a generous mind, was likely to heighten her subsequent admiration. But it is not so easy to account for the sudden interest the pretty governess created at first sight in the heart of her hostess. Many girls as pretty and as intelligent looking as Miss Dalton she had seen before, without their having inspired a spark of the tenderness she felt towards this unknown stranger. She could not comprehend it herself. She was not prone "to take fancies," as the phrase is; and yet, whatever might be the case, certain it was that there was a nameless something about this girl, which seemed to touch one of the deepest chords of her nature, and to cause her heart to yearn towards her with something like a mother's love. She felt that if Miss Dalton were all that she had heard, and that if she should really prove her son's choice, he should not be gainsaid by her.

The Christmas party at Woodthorpe Hall was generally a merry one; and this year it was even merrier than usual. Fanny Dalton was the life of the party; her disposition was naturally a lively one, and this hour of sunshine in her clouded day called forth all its vivacity. But Fanny was not only clever, lively, and amiable; her conduct and manners occasionally displayed traits of spirit—nay, of pride; the latter, however, of a generous rather than an egotistical description. Nothing was so certain to call it forth as any tale of meanness or oppression. One morning Miss Sharpe had been relating an anecdote of a gentleman in the neighborhood who had jilted (odious word!) an amiable and highly estimable young lady, to whom he had long been engaged, in order to marry a wealthy and titled widow. There were many aggravating circumstances attending the whole affair, which had contributed to excite still more against the offender the indignation of all right-thinking persons. The unfortunate young lady was reported to be dying of a broken heart.

Fanny, who had been all along listening to the narration with an eager and interested countenance, now exclaimed—"Dying of a broken heart! Poor thing! But if I were she, I would not break my heart—I would scorn him as something far beneath me, poor and unimportant as I am. No, I might break my heart for the loss of a true lover, but never for the loss of a false one!" As Fanny's eyes shone, and her lip curled with a lofty contempt, as her naturally clear, merry tones grew deeper and stronger with the indignation she expressed, a mist seemed suddenly to be cleared away from the eyes of Mrs. Beauchamp, and in that slight young girl she beheld the breathing image of one whom she had once intimately known and dearly loved—in those indignant accents she seemed to recognize the tones of a voice long since heard, but the echoes of which yet lingered in her heart. Why she had so loved Fanny Dalton was no mystery now—she saw in her but the gentler type of him whom she had once believed the master of her destiny—even of Philip Hayforth, long unheard of, but never forgotten. But what connection could there be between Philip Hayforth and Fanny Dalton? and whence this strange resemblance, which lay not so much in form or in feature, as in that nameless, intangible similarity of expression, gesture, manner, and voice, so frequently exhibited by members of the same family.

As soon as Mrs. Beauchamp could quit the table, she withdrew to her own room, where she remained for some time in deep meditation, the result of which was a determination to fathom the mystery, if mystery there was. It was just possible, too, that the attempt might assist her to find a key to the riddle of her own destiny.

Accordingly, on the afternoon of the same day, she took an opportunity of being alone with Miss Dalton and her son, to say to the former—"I think you told me, my dear, that your father was alive?"

"Oh yes, thank God, he is alive! How I wish you knew him, Mrs. Beauchamp! I think you would like him, and I am sure he would like and admire you."

"Does your father at all resemble you in appearance?"

"I am not sure. I have been told that I was like him, and I always consider it a great compliment; for papa is still a very handsome man, and was of course even handsomer when he was young, and before his hair became grey. I have a miniature likeness of him, taken before his marriage, which I have with me, and will show you, if you will so far indulge my vanity."

Mrs. Beauchamp having replied that she should like exceedingly to see it, Fanny tripped away, and returned in a few minutes, carrying in her hand a handsome, but old-fashioned, morocco case. Mrs. Beauchamp had never seen it before, but she well remembered having given directions for the making of a case of that very size, shape, and color, for a miniature which was to have been painted for her. Her heart began to beat. She seemed upon the brink of a discovery. Fanny now opened the case, and placing it before Mrs. Beauchamp, exclaimed, "Now, isn't he a handsome man?" But Mrs. Beauchamp could not answer. One glance had been sufficient. A cold mist gathered before her eyes, and she was obliged to lean for support, upon the back of a chair.

"Dear Mrs. Beauchamp, are you ill?"

"My dear mother!" cried Edmund.

"It is nothing," she answered, quickly recovering herself; "only a little faintness." And then with the self-command which long habit had made easy, she sat down and continued with her usual calm sweetness—"I could almost fancy I had seen your father; but I do not remember ever knowing any one of the name of Dalton but yourself."

"Oh, but perhaps you might have seen him before he changed his name; and yet it seems hardly likely. His name used to be Hayforth; but by the will of his former partner, who, dying without near relations, left papa all his money, he took the name of Dalton. The money is all gone now, to be sure," she continued with the faintest possible sigh; "but we all loved the dear old man, and so we still keep his name."