The Broken Heart CHAPTER 4.
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The hours passed heavily away; and long after the clock had struck twelve, did the mother and father wait in anxious suspense for the return of their child. The next hour had nearly closed, when Mary came home, in company with Morrison. The quick ears of the parents, soon detected the low murmur of their voices, as they lingered for some time at the door, to say their last words over and over again. Mrs. Ellis' anxieties had been so keenly felt, that she could not sit quietly and hear the sound of Mary's voice in conversation with one who was to her a stranger, and that, too, at the hour of midnight. She went at once to the door, and as she turned the key, Morrison bade Mary a hasty good-bye, and was out of sight by the time the door was fairly opened.
The parents asked Mary no questions then, nor remarked upon the lateness of the hour, but they noticed, with a new and keen sensation of pain, that in her eye was an expression heretofore a stranger in that mirror of the thoughts and feelings. Mary slept as little that night as did her parents. But how different were their thoughts. Towards day she fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that one with the countenance of Morrison, though brilliant and superhuman in its expression, had called for her at her mother's to ride into the country; and that she had accompanied him, in simple confidence. But that after he had taken her far away from the sight of any habitations, his face suddenly changed to that of ademon, and while he was in the act of dashing her shrinking form over an immense precipice — she awoke in terror!
On the next morning, Mary's appearance added another weight to the burden that was resting upon the feelings of her mother. But neither of her parents through the day, for reasons weighing with themselves alone, made any allusion to the peculiar emotions, which had agitated their bosoms.
On the second evening after the party, Morrison called, and after a formal introduction to Mr. and Mrs. Ellis, spent a few hours in alternate conversation with them and Mary. How different were the impressions made on the minds of the parents and child. The parents felt a strong dislike to him, from his own exhibition of himself; while the young girl, looking at him through a different medium, found some new cause for admiration in every word and in every movement. Which does the reader imagine were capable of forming the most rational judgment — the parents or the child? But let the sequel show.
For some weeks, Mary hid in her own bosom, the secret that Morrison had formally declared himself her lover, and that she had not discouraged his preference. But the time soon came to reveal all.
One evening, when Mary was dressing to go to a party, the attendance on which had been partially and mildly opposed by her parents, her mother asked her if she were going alone. She replied that Mr. Morrison was going to call for her.
"Do you know anything about this Mr. Morrison, Mary?" inquired her mother, in a serious tone of voice.
"O yes, ma'am, I know a good deal about him."
"Well, Mary, I would like to hear what you do know about him; for I think one so young as you, should be sure of the real character of the man you allow to keep your company."
"Why, mother, I know he is a very fine young man. His manners, his appearance, all, show him to be a gentleman."
"Older heads than yours have erred, my child — and older eyes been deceived. Have you no further evidence than your own observation?"
"Why, everybody likes him. Mary Jones is jealous enough of his attentions to me; and Jane Williams said no longer ago than Thursday, that I was a forward girl, and all because Mr. Morrison took but little notice of her, while he kept with me nearly the whole of the evening."
"My dear child, that is all of no account. The preference of Mary Jones or Jane Williams to anyone — is no argument to prove his worth. I am not at all in favor of Mr. Morrison; and neither is your father. We can see deeper into his real character than you can. He is selfish, and lacks stability and manliness. Unless I am much mistaken, the woman who marries him, will eat her bread in bitterness of spirit!"
"Oh mother! mother! how can you talk so?" said Mary, bursting into tears. "You have entirely misapprehended his character. I am sure he is the reverse of all you have thought him."
Mrs. Ellis was truly alarmed at this exhibition of feeling. She had spoken to guard her daughter against allowing her affections to be influenced by a stranger, whose worth, andcharacter she suspected, and lo! the fact that those affections were already deeply interested, was too plainly manifest. The embarrassed silence that ensued, told that the mother's perception of a right course of action was, for a time, perfectly clouded. She at length said,
"Mary, I see too plainly, that you have unwisely allowed yourself to indulge an undue preference for a stranger, without letting your mother, your only safe adviser, know of such a preference. Your own better judgment tells you, that in this you were wrong. Your pain of mind this evening, your tears — show that you have an internal conviction of wrong; for pain never follows a right action. Now, my child, what course is left for you? Why, this plain and simple one. Pause and reflect. Do not go out tonight. The matter under consideration is one that will affect for good or evil, for happiness or misery — your whole life! And, surely, one evening's privation is a small sacrifice to make where such great interests are involved."
Mary did not reply for some time. But there was an evident struggle between inclination and duty. There was something so reasonable in her mother's appeal to her, that it seemed almost like madness, even in her own view of the case, to go in opposition to it. But when the image of Morrison came up before her mind, and she saw him disappointed at not finding her ready to accompany him, she hesitated, wavered, and at last said,
"Mother, indeed you are too serious in this matter. I am sure you have mistaken the character of Mr. Morrison altogether. I have seen more of him than you have, and I know you are mistaken. I am sure there is no cause for concern on your part — and none why I should not go to the party tonight. I would like to go very much, and will be expected. Do, mother, lay aside your objections. I don't want to go against your consent."
"I cannot lay aside objections founded on such serious considerations. But I will not command you to stay at home. You can go tonight. But you must expect, hereafter, that both your father and myself will think it our duty to require you to mingle less frequently in these parties of idleness and dissipation."
With a heavy heart, Mary made her arrangements for going to the party that evening. And with a heart much heavier, did her mother observe the preparations. Knowing that Morrison's reception on that evening could not, in the nature of things, be very cordial, she got all ready to go before the hour when he should call, and knowing his knock, she met him at the door dressed to go out.
Morrison soon discovered that all was not right, and to his repeated question as to what troubled her, she at length mentioned to him the objections of her mother.
"That is generally the way," he said, with some warmth, "with all parents. They are jealous over their daughters; and yet, one can't blame them so much for it. But their jealousy is always capricious and unreasonable. I believe no one can allege anything against my character. I am sure I am willing to challenge the world to produce a dishonorable action against me."
"I never doubted you, Mr. Morrison — and never will," replied Mary, earnestly.
"Thank you for your confidence," said he, in a tender tone, pressing her hand within his. "You shall never have cause to repent."
"But I fear," said Mary, "that my parents will positively object to our keeping company. Would it not be best for you to go at once to my father, and seek his approval?"
"I do not know why I should beg him to think well of me. If he has unfounded prejudices against me — I am the one to complain of injustice, and not the one to basely seek for favor."
"But, is he not my father?" asked his companion, roused for a moment to a proper sense of her lover's ungenerous remark.
"True! true! But I never could seek the favor of anyone, much less where an ill-founded prejudice was entertained against me."
"I am still unconvinced," said Mary. "A parent has a right to be consulted in regard to the disposal of his daughter's hand. And, even if he has a prejudice against the person, and the prejudice is without foundation — it can easily be removed; and steps should at once be taken to have it removed. A child cannot be happy — if her parents object to her marriage."
"There may be some truth in what you say," was the modified reply of Morrison, who, as he really loved, or thought that he loved, Mary, had no idea of offending her. "And if you really think that I had better see your father — why, I suppose I must do so."
"Certainly, I see no other right course," was Mary's answer.
Their conversation gradually changed from this unpleasant subject, and by the time they had reached the house where they were to spend the evening, Mary was listening with a pleasant thrill of delight to the honeyed words of affection stealing into her ear, like refreshing dews into the cup of the half closed violet.
In a few evenings after, Morrison called at the house of Mr. Ellis, for the purpose of formally asking for his daughter. His reception was not very cordial. Mary, who knew the real design of the visit, soon made an excuse to withdraw, and left Morrison alone with her parents. After some time, spent in an embarrassed silence, or a more embarrassed effort to carry on a conversation, Morrison came boldly to the point, and made his distinct avowal of a preference for Mary.
"Mary is much too young to even think of marrying," was the prompt reply of Mrs. Ellis, made before her husband could even form a thought upon the subject.
"Many are married much younger, madam," said Morrison.
"That is an example of wrong-doing in others — instead of being an argument in favor of such wrong being imitated, is a strong reason for others to shun a like evil."
"We are not thoughtless in regard to our daughter, Mr. Morrison," said Mr. Ellis, having now sufficiently gathered his thoughts into form as to allow him to take a part; "and we have long ago made up our minds, neither to consent to a very early marriage, nor to approve of a union with a stranger."
"Your rule, Mr. Ellis, may be, as a general thing, a good one," replied Morrison, "but no rule can apply to all cases. Yet even if I am, to a certain degree, a stranger to you — still I am known in this city, and I can readily be inquired after."
Mr. Ellis, who had already made sufficient inquiries to convince him that Morrison was no suitable companion for Mary, now fixed his positive objection on the age of his child, from which no argument could move him. Morrison was deeply chagrined on leaving the house, and being forced to leave, too, without a private interview with Mary; for the parents, with a oneness of purpose, determined not to leave them together.
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