Rising in the World CHAPTER 4.
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The youngest sister of Lawrence was much attached to Mary Lee, and met her frequently. It did not escape her eyes, that there was a change in her brother, and that Mary was unhappy. But the cause of that change had not occurred to her. That both her father and mother disapproved the selection which Lawrence had made, she was too well aware; but she approved it with all her heart, for she knew better than they did, and could better appreciate the virtues of his betrothed.
One evening Mary Dunbar called upon Mary Lee, and surprised her in tears. Drawing her arm about her neck, she tenderly inquired the cause of her affliction. Mary Lee tried to evade the question, but the sister of Lawrence, connecting the unhappiness of Mary with her brother, pleaded so strongly for her confidence, that she could not resist the earnest desire she had to utter what was in her mind.
"Lawrence is not what he once was!" she said, her tears flowing afresh.
"He is changed, but not to you, I hope," returned the sister.
"Yes, to me," replied Mary, after she had recovered herself enough to speak in a quivering voice. "I fear that he has ceased to love me. Weeks have passed since he was here."
"Weeks!"
"Yes, weeks. And when he does come, he is so cold and reserved — that his presence chills me!"
"Cold and reserved to you?" Mary spoke with surprise.
"And now, Mary," the maiden said, forcing down her feelings and speaking calmly, "have you any suspicion of the cause?"
"As I live, none," was the earnest reply.
"But I have."
"Then tell me, freely, what you think," said the sister.
"Either he is won by another, or — "
"Won by another, Mary! He is not so base as that. You wrong my brother!"
"God grant that I do! But he is changed to me, that I know. He has ceased to love me as he did; that, too, I know. As to the cause, it matters not, perhaps. Enough that I am no longer loved."
The face of the unhappy girl was pale, her eyes full of tears, and her lips quivering. Mary Dunbar did not reply for some time; for she did not know what to say. At last she looked up from the floor, and was about speaking, when a servant came to the door of the chamber in which they were sitting, and said that Mr. Dunbar was in the parlor.
"Know the cause this night, Mary," said the sister, rising. "Do not let him go without the fullest explanation of his changed manner towards you. I will retire; you need not mention that I was here."
The two friends parted, one to go home to her father's house and there await her brother's return, to whom she meant to speak freely as soon as she could see him — and the other to meet her estranged lover.
After parting with Mary Dunbar, Mary Lee spent nearly ten minutes in the effort to school her feelings so as to meet Dunbar without betraying the deep disturbance under which she was laboring. She then descended to the parlor.
"How do you do, Mary?" the young man said, as she entered the room, rising, and advancing do meet her. He smiled and extended his hand; but his smile was cold, and his manner constrained. Mary was equally cold and restrained. She allowed him to take her hand, but without returning the slight pressure he gave. Dunbar made no allusion to the fact of his not having visited her for an unusually long space of time.
"Have you been well, Mary?" he asked, in such a marked tone of indifference as caused a spot on the maiden's cheek suddenly to burn.
"Well, I thank you," she said, formally. Their eyes met, and remained fixed for a moment, then both fell to the floor.
"You do not look very well," remarked Dunbar, speaking with evident embarrassment.
Mary uttered no reply. There was a silence of some moments; then she said, with some firmness of tone —
"It is some time since you were here, Mr. Dunbar."
"Yes," he replied, "it is. About four weeks I think."
"A few months ago you did not allow so long a time to pass without seeing me." Mary's eyes were fully upon him, and their glance firm and penetrating.
"True," he replied. "I had more leisure on my hands then. But — "
The fixed look of the maiden, which seemed as if reading his very thoughts, disturbed him. He paused, stammered, and let his eyes fall to the floor.
"Lawrence Dunbar!" said Mary, in a quick, emphatic voice, "speak out plainly! There is, of course, a reason for your prolonged absence, and your present coldness. That reason, I have a right to know, and I claim an avowal of it now."
Lawrence still exhibited embarrassment, and made one or two ineffectual attempts to speak.
"You have ceased to love me!" said Mary.
"I — I — Mary. No. I — I can never cease to lo — love you. But — "
"But what?" The maiden's voice was quick and sharp, while her eyes, usually so mild in their expression, flashed with an indignant light.
"A marriage contract is a serious matter, and should not be entered into, except after the maturest deliberation. I see now that in the ardency of youth, I mistook mere passion for — "
"Lawrence Dunbar! Say no more. You are free, if that is what you want."
"I — I, Mary! Do not doubt that I loved you sincerely. But a wide interaction with the world, and — "
"Say no more! Say no more, in Heaven's name! I have told you that you were free!"
"But I would not part in anger, Mary. If I erred it was from weakness. Your beauty, your grace, your loveliness of charac — "
"Silence!" And the maiden, always so gentle and loving, stamped her foot imperiously.
"Silence! I will hear no more. Enough that you wish to be free. Go!" — her voice softened — "Go! And may you never feel — "
The maiden lost the self-control which, by a powerful effort, she had thus far been enabled to maintain. Her utterance was choked, and the tears came gushing from her eyes. Quickly turning away, she left her false lover alone in the room where their exciting interview had been held. Dunbar hurried from the house in no very happy frame of mind, yet feeling that a weight had been taken from his bosom. He was no longer betrothed in marriage to one who would have hindered his upward movement. He was free, and, even in his shame, rejoiced in his freedom.
When Mary Lee entered her own chamber, her face was ashy pale, her eyes almost fixed, and her frame quivering with agitation. She had just sufficient strength to reach her bed, and sink down upon it with a moan of anguish. It was after midnight before she arose from her prostrate position, and then it was merely to lay aside her outer garments, and sink back again upon the bed in helpless abandonment of feeling.
Instead of returning to the family with whom she was engaged as seamstress, Mary Dunbar, when she left her friend, went to her father's house, and there waited until her brother came home, which he did not long after. Her mind was made up to speak to him freely on the subject of Mary Lee.
"Can I say a few words to you alone, Lawrence?" she asked. And they withdrew from the rest of the family.
"On what subject?" the young man asked, as soon as they were alone.
"Mary Lee is the subject," she said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him.
The color mounted to his face as he replied —
"What of her?"
"You have not visited Mary for some time."
"You are mistaken; I saw her tonight."
"Though for the first time in several weeks. I saw Mary this evening also, and found her greatly distressed at your neglect and coldness."
"She will complain of it no more."
"Why?" quickly asked the sister.
"Because she no longer has a right to complain."
"Lawrence! What do you mean?"
"I don't know, Mary, that I ever gave you authority to interrogate me in regard to my actions."
"Though, by virtue of the love I bear you as your sister, I claim the right to do so in the present case." Mary spoke firmly. "It is no light thing, Lawrence," she continued, "to trifle with a young heart. Mary did not seek you. It was you that sought her; you that — "
"Mary," said the young man, interrupting her, "though I deny your right to question me in regard to my conduct, I will explain to you, although I have little hope of making you hear reason. My love for Mary Lee was a mere boyish imagination. She was bright and beautiful to my inexperienced eyes; and, in a moment of weakness, I committed the folly of asking her hand in marriage. Our father was justly displeased at this; and no very long time passed, before I saw clearly enough that I had done wrong, that a marriage with her would mar all my worldly prospects."
"How?" inquired Mary.
"To plod along in the humble sphere in which I was born, is not my intention. I mean to rise in the world as high, if possible, as the highest. Already I can perceive the upward movement. When I marry, therefore, I must choose one who can aid in my elevation. Wealth, high connections, superior education, and accomplishments — are indispensable. These Mary Lee cannot bring me, and, therefore, she can never become my wife. This is settled."
"Have you not entered into a solemn contract? Is not your honor pledged?" said Mary, in a deep, earnest voice.
"No contract exists, no pledges remain, I am free."
"And my brother has done this!" said Mary. "Lawrence, the day will come when, for this baseness — I can call it by no better name — when, for this baseness, you will repent. And this is your rising in the world! Oh! what a price to pay for elevation! Love, truth, honor — all trampled under foot. Faith broken — hearts crushed — hopes blighted. If this is the bud and blossom — what will be the bitter fruit?"
The young man was much disturbed. But, in his "upward movement," he had already begun to feel contempt for his humble, unaccomplished sisters, who had suffered wrong for his sake, and his spirit could ill brook a reproof from one of them.
"From this moment, Mary," he said, speaking with a contracted brow, and in an offended tone, "let your lips be sealed in silence on this subject. What I have done is done, and I do not repent. It was a strong trial, and I suffered in it. But the trial is past. The separation, good for both of us, has taken place. We shall not meet again, I think, for our ways are diverging; if we do meet, it will be as strangers. Good night!"
And the young man turned suddenly from his sister and left the room.
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