An American Story of Real Life CHAPTER 13.
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"Are you sure of that!" asked Ware eagerly, his whole expression and manner changing.
"O yes. He can be bought over to do anything. And this is a matter that will cost him neither risk nor labor."
"Will he take a promise to pay?"
"O yes. He will consider it a debt of honor, you know."
"Precisely. Go then, Tom, see him at once, and make sure of him at any price. When the arrangement is completed, just let me know the amount, and I will fork over my due bill in a little less than no time at all. It's all safe now, I can see. Hurrah!"
"H-u-s-h, Harry! don't go into theatrics," was the reply of Tom Handy, as he turned to the door, on his prompt errand to the gambler.
On the evening of the twentieth of May--an interview of touching interest occurred in one of the chambers of Mr. Martin's elegant mansion--an interview never forgotten by the two who alone were its participants. Those two were Bell Martin and the gentle, pure-minded, affectionate Mary, before introduced to the reader. Both were to become brides on that evening; but under what different external circumstances. A large and brilliant company had already begun to assemble in honor of the one; while the other was waiting the arrival of her humble lover, to convey her, alone with himself, in Mr. Martin's family carriage, to the minister's, from whence she was to be taken to a small house, which Mr. Lane had furnished neatly and modestly, and there to be introduced as its mistress. One was arrayed in rich and attractive garments, and adorned with a profusion of jewels--while the other had on a simple dress of pure white, and, as an ornament, a single rose, half concealed beneath the folds of her glossy hair. The one instantly attracted the eye, and awoke a sentiment of admiration; while the unobtrusive innocence and native gracefulness of the other, touched the heart with a feeling of tenderness and interest.
The imagination of Bell was full of undefined but pleasing images, and her eyes bright and sparkling. Mary had, on the contrary, a thoughtful, sad and subdued look, while her eyes swam in moisture, and the tears seemed ready at every moment to spring forth upon her cheek. The tender interest which was felt for Bell by the latter, would not permit anyone else to array her for the bridal occasion, even though her own marriage was to take place on the same evening. She felt it to be her last sad privilege to render this service, at the period when their paths, which had long run side by side through pleasant and flowery scenes, were about diverging; and thus feeling, she claimed the privilege.
The scene of busy preparation at last over, with the degree of interest which had prevented a free interchange of affectionate parting words between the two maidens, they now stood looking at each other with feelings of warmer affection than had ever yet swelled their bosoms--but the love of the humble maiden was deeper and tenderer than that of her companion.
"Dear Bell!" she said, laying her light hand gently upon her, and looking with a tearful smile in her face--"you must forgive the freedom with which I address you, for at this moment you seem so dear to me, as if you were my own sister--that I must speak as I feel. Will you sometimes think of me, Bell? I leave the only home and the only friends I have ever known; and even though I shall go to one who loves me tenderly, and who has my heart's first, best, purest affections, yet I shall often think of you, and sigh for the home and friends of my early and happy years."
"Think of you, Mary! Dear Mary! Sister Mary, I should rather say," Bell replied, in a voice of earnest affection, as. she drew her arm around the gentle maiden. "How can I ever forget the self-sacrificing companion of my childhood and maturer years? You have come to me, to all of us, Mary, a true and faithful heart. This we have ever felt, and for it, we have ever loved you. But now, as we are about separating, I feel for you a purer and deeper love. You are as my sister."
"For you," replied Mary, "I have long felt a like tender regard, and now, that a new, important and momentous change is about taking place in our histories, that feeling toward you assumes a hue of sadness that I cannot remove."
"Why should it be sad, Mary? I am happy--and before me is a brilliant prospect. Rather should the feeling be mine for you, thus rending all the pleasant ties of early years--thus leaving the bosom of that family in which you have been loved and cherished, to stand up alone in the world beside one, who, no matter how tenderly he may love you, cannot fill every place in a woman's heart."
"All that I feel. Bell," was Mary's reply, made in a tone which had recovered its calmness. "But I shall be happy, perfectly happy, according to the measure of my anticipations. You, I fear, will not."
"What reason have you for so fearing, Mary?"
"I have no brilliant expectations--you have. Rarely, I believe, so says the world's eventful history, are such expectations realized. If not in your case, then will come unhappiness. I have thought of this often and often, when I have heard your expressions of delight in anticipation of coming joy, and often have felt like checking them by a word. Tonight I cannot help doing so. O, then, remember, dear Bell! that the surest way to happiness--is to expect little from mere external things. These are ever changing and passing away. And, above all, let me urge you not to look for unalloyed pleasures in your married life. There will be--there must be in the very nature of things--uncongenialities between your husband and yourself, and if I have formed of man's character, a true idea--the wife will have much to learn in the way of submission. This lesson will be harder for you than for me."
"Why harder, Mary?"
"For this reason. Both Mr. Lane and myself have, thus far in life, moved in subordinate positions, and have been in the daily habit of submitting our wills to others--of preferring others to ourselves. Less, then, will be required of me in the way of submission to his will, and what is required, will cheerfully be given. But your case is different. Neither Mr. Ware nor yourself know much about this yielding to others. He will, as a man, from the confirmed habit of having his own way in almost everything, expect you to yield early, every point of difference to him. This you will find a hard lesson, indeed, to learn; and it will, unless you guard and deny yourself very much--be the fruitful source of much unhappiness."
"Why do you talk so strangely to me, at this time, Mary?" asked Bell, in a half-offended tone.
"Because I love you," was the quick reply of Mary, as she leaned her head upon the shoulder of Bell, and gave way to tears. The tone and words of the latter had wounded her feelings.
"Forgive me, Mary," said Bell, after a few moments, "for the unkind manner in which I spoke. Your words seemed like a reflection upon Henry--and that, with my present feelings toward him, I cannot bear."
"Mary, you are waited for," said a servant, opening the chamber door.
"Say that I will be ready in a few moments," replied Mary, and then the servant withdrew.
"And so the time has come, at last, for our parting," was the remark of Bell, in a tender and subdued voice, after they were again alone. "I shall miss you every day, and every hour, Mary--and so will everyone in this house. What you have just said, comes back upon me now, and it may be too true. If so, your way, humble and unseen though it is--will be a happier one than mine."
"With a sincere heart, fervently do I pray. Bell, that no shadow may ever fall upon you--that your path may be amid sunshine and flowers. But, should this not be the case--should it so happen, in the mysterious permission of Divine Providence, that, in some future time, your pillow become a thorny one--that even a single sorrow presses upon your heart--let it be my privilege to speak to you, if I can do no more, words of comfort--to pillow your head upon my bosom. If no other heart remains true to its first love for you, mine will still pour out its treasures of affection, and be blessed in giving."
Silently, and with full hearts, did the two maidens then fold each other in their arms. When, at last, this earnest embrace was over, tears were on the cheeks of both. Then came a long, fond gaze into each other's eyes, and an earnest grasping of the hands.
"Farewell, Bell!"
"Farewell, Mary"--were uttered with choking voices. In the next minute Bell stood alone in her chamber, and Mary's hand was in that of her lover.
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