The Broken Heart CHAPTER 3.
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It is a mild evening in June. We enter a room, brightly illuminated, the furniture of which is more showy than costly. This room is filled to overflowing with young people of both sexes. They seem to be in high spirits, if we may judge from the merry peals of laughter which fall from their lips. Let us trace out the cause of this hearty mirth. Ah! we have found it. A black waiter has handed a lady a glass of brandy in place of wine, and she has taken nearly the whole of it, before making the discovery.
But where is Mary Ellis? Oh! here she is, leaning, with too confiding an air, upon the arm of a gaily dressed young man, who is whispering something in her ear which seems to please her greatly. How sweetly she smiles! From the liquid depths of those soft eyes, look out the very soul of affection; and yet they are bright with a wealth of innocent joyfulness. In every movement there is grace, simple and natural; and her voice is music's own.
From a contemplation of her loveliness, we are startled by a vulgar laugh at one end of the room.
"Ha! ha! ha! Tom! Ha! ha! ha! Tom! She's more than a match for you!"
All eyes were turned to the scene of mirth.
"Why, what's the matter here?" asks a dozen voices; and one answers,
"Why, Tom, here, has attempted to clash wits with Miss Jameson, but she's more than a match for him. I tell you, though, she is hard to beat."
But see! all is again quiet, and interest and expectation sits on every face. Ah! the explanation is at hand. Here comes sundry waiters with wines, fruits, and desserts; the third round within an hour. See how earnestly they have all commenced eating, as though it were one of the chief pleasures of life. And their tongues are no less idle than their teeth.
This course of refreshments through, and all parties more or less stimulated by the wine, their merriment becomes more loud and less rational. The piano, which earlier in the evening was made to give out sweet and gentle music, now accompanies the "Lost Lover," "The Schoolmaster," or "Lord Lovel," followed by the half insane "bravos," and calls for a repetition of the piece.
As most of the assembly have conscientious scruples about dancing, and would be struck with pious horror at the sound of a violin — a promenade is substituted by way of variety.
"Will you take my arm, Miss Mary?" said young Morrison, as soon as he saw the movement; and in a few minutes they were in deep conversation, unnoticed, because in the promenade each individual was too much interested with his or her partner, to observe others.
Pressing her arm closely within his, Morrison, who was as really charmed with Mary as a thoroughly selfish man can be with a lovely woman — began to insinuate in more direct terms than he had ever yet done, that he felt for her a strong preference. Their acquaintance had been of but recent date; and with no knowledge of his character, a prudent girlwould have at once thrown him from the subject, and left his company as early as possible. But Mary was excited by the circumstances surrounding her, and her rational perceptions had been rendered indistinct, by the frivolous nonsense which had flowed all around, and in which she had been a willing participant. She had already been turning over in her mind, the question whether Morrison did really love her, and whether he would say so at once, or keep her in suspense — when she perceived with a woman's quickness, the real meaning of his distant allusions. Her young heart trembled, and beat quickly and heavily against her bosom, she felt agitated, but it was with a joyful feeling, mingled, it is true, with doubt and fear, and an indistinct perception of wrong. More and more direct did he become in his allusions, until, at last, he ventured to tell her, in terms that could not be mistaken, that until he had seen her, he had never felt a preference for any particular woman.
Poor girl! she hardly knew where she was, or what to say. Scarcely seventeen, she was yet no guide to herself, and one with no fixed principles had now her heart. At a promiscuous party of the young and thoughtless, she had met him as a stranger; and at another assemblage of the kind, he had renewed the attentions offered on the evening of their first acquaintance; and thus again and again renewed them, until, finally, he had declared himself her lover, and was, without hesitation, reflection, or consultation, accepted!
In this brief relation, how many a thoughtless though innocent girl's history can be traced. Does it not seem strange that parents — parents who love their children with the most devoted affection, will allow their daughters, young girls from sixteen to twenty, unacquainted with the world and unsuspecting — to mingle, unattended by any one, to whisper a friendly caution — in scenes of which the imperfect sketch just given; is but a faint picture! It is strange, but alas! how true. Who does not remember the vision of some sweet young face that has dawned upon him amid the crowd of the thoughtless and the mirthful? How the wonder arose in the mind why she was there, who seemed less a woman than an angel? How the lovely face grew familiar, and how a sweet young voice thrilled on his ear with a strange but pleasant music?
Months would pass away, and at last she would be missed from the mirthful circles, and to the inquiry, would be answered, she has married the dashing young Mr. Webster, or the idle spendthrift Mr. Dudley.
At once, she is consigned to forgetfulness. But after the lapse of a few brief years, you meet her, perchance on the street, perchance at some friend's — a sad, pale, sorrow-stricken creature, the miserable wreck of her who once glanced before your eyes like a being from another world.
All large parties, especially those into which a particular station in life, and not character, becomes the passport — are dangerous places for young girls. It makes little difference whether the social grade, so called, is the lower, the middle, or the highest — unless character and morality form the standard of admission. Why will parents shut their eyes to this fact?
"How shall we introduce our daughters into company?" asks an intelligent person, who, in the main, has correct views. I will tell you. No longer indulge a selfish and recluse spirit. Because you are married and have a family, it is no reason why you should shut yourself out from the world. Do not, however, pass from the extreme of seclusion, to the other extreme of fashionable party-going. But endeavor to form a small social circle of those who have moral worth. Cultivate a feeling of goodwill towards each member of this circle, and endeavor to introduce a oneness of social aim, that you may all be as one. Into this circle, introduce your sons and your daughters. Let a lack of moral principle always exclude from admission, even if it cuts off some of the members of families who formed a part of the circle. You will not only by this course, cease to live a life of selfish seclusion, but you will diffuse around you a pure moral atmosphere; and one which your own children may breathe with healthy enjoyment.
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