Trial and Triumph CHAPTER 13.
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The nearer the hour approached when Caroline Barker was to become the wife of Philip Emerson, the more troubled and anxious became Mary Lynn, and the more in doubt as to what was her real duty. Certainty in regard to the letter written to Mrs. Barker would have determined her course of action. But her mind was not clear on that subject. Who else could have written it? To that question, no answer came to her mind.
Daily affectionate fellowship with Caroline enabled Mary to see deeper into her heart; and the more that was laid open before her, the more fully satisfied did she become, that her marriage with Emerson would prove an unhappy one.
"You do look so sad, Mary," said Caroline, to her, one day, with tender concern in her voice. "I am really afraid you are not happy here. I'm sure we all like you very much, and I think you ought to like us."
"And so I do," quickly replied Mary, tears filling her eyes as she looked into the face of Caroline. "None could be kinder to me nor more considerate than all in this house."
"I wish you would try to be more cheerful, then," said the good-hearted girl, smiling as she spoke. "I'm as happy as I can be; and I can't bear to see a cloud on the face of any."
"Are you very happy?" asked Mary, in a serious voice.
"Indeed I am! And why not? A few days more, and I will be a bride. Is not that enough to make the heart glad?"
At this point, Caroline suddenly checked herself. A short time before, a person who knew Mary's early history, had told her something about a lover to whom she had been deeply attached in her better days; but who, from some cause, she had discarded. The name of this lover was not mentioned. The reason why Caroline checked herself, was in consequence of the thought that an utterance of the joy she felt at her approaching marriage, might throw the mind of Mary too painfully upon the past. She paused for a few moments, and then obeying an impulse to speak, said, in a changed voice, laying her hand upon Mary as she spoke, in a familiar, affectionate way —
"Perhaps I ought not to talk so freely of my own happiness. At least, not to you."
Caroline had not intended to say just this. But these were the words that came first into utterance.
"Why not to me?" asked Mary, with a surprise that was felt and manifested.
"Because," said Caroline, her mind a little confused, "it may throw your mind unpleasantly backward; and, Heaven knows that I would not utter a word calculated to give you a moment's pain."
"Did you think, for an instant, that I retained a single spark of regard for Phil — "
This much had fallen from 'the lips' of Mary, before a thought of what she was saying came to check further utterance. She was speaking with a quick energy and a flashing of the eyes that startled her auditor.
"Forgive me for having unwittingly pained you," said Caroline, in a voice which showed Mary that she was not understood, and that in her momentary forgetfulness she had not betrayed the secret that rested so heavily upon her heart. Her feelings, however, were so much disturbed, that she lost the mastery over them; and was borne away by their pressure. With many words of kindness and affection, did Caroline seek to soothe the heart in which she had awakened a tempest of emotion; and in this she was at last successful.
When calmness was restored, Mary sought her own room, to ponder over the one all-absorbing theme — her duty to the loving-hearted girl, who was about being sacrificed to a man in every way unworthy to lead her to the altar; and which sacrifice, a word from her could prevent. It was while seeking to know her duty on this occasion, that she resolved to see Emerson, and interrogate him on the subject of the letter, and if, in the interview, she were made entirely certain that he wrote it, to let that decide her course of action. As has been seen, he denied the authorship, and in a way that left her mind still in doubt; and in doubt it remained, day after day, until the one came that was to see the marriage of Caroline and Philip Emerson.
Mary was alone with Caroline a good many times during the day, and each time she was so much overcome by her feelings as to shed tears. Kindly and tenderly would Caroline seek to speak comforting words. Alas! how little power did they contain. To all the family, Mary's great distress of mind was apparent, and the members spoke together on the subject.
"Oh, that I knew my duty!" murmured the unhappy girl, as she sat alone, or thought that she was alone, a few hours before evening.
"If we all knew and performed our duty as well as you do," replied Mrs. Barker, who happened to enter the room at the moment, "it would be far better for us."
Mary startled, and a crimson flush overspread her pale face. She was on the verge of opening her whole heart to Mrs. Barker; but something held her back.
The lady paused a few moments, as if waiting for her to speak, and then passed on through the room.
"Oh! what shall I do?" sobbed the distressed girl, wringing her hands, and weeping again, bitterly.
Time moved on, and evening came.
But let us go back a little in the day, and see how it is with Emerson.
On the day previous, Baldwin had been suspended from his place in the bank, on suspicion that all was not right. The hints of Mr. Barker had been acted upon by the director, who called the attention of the board to the subject. By them, a secret investigation of the deposit ledger was made, under the direction of the Cashier and the Receiving and Paying Tellers, while Baldwin was enjoying a ride on one of his fast-going horses. The result was, a discovery of various discrepancies, and strange entries, that made them decide upon suspending the young man until a more thorough examination into the books could be made; and this, was accordingly done — greatly to his mortification and terror; and greatly to the alarm of Emerson.
"A nice business, that, of young Baldwin's," said William Barker to Emerson, as he called in at the store of the latter about mid-day.
"A bad business, certainly, for him," replied Emerson, as calmly as he could speak, "for, whether proved innocent or guilty, he is a ruined man. The stain of a suspicion like the one attached to him, is never fully wiped out."
"It certainly never will be wiped out in his case," said Barker, "for suspicion has given place to certainty. He has confessed his crime."
"What!" The color faded momentarily from the face of Emerson.
"It is true. He confesses to having abstracted over thirty thousand dollars from the bank, though he has, so far, concealed the means. But he speaks of an accomplice outside."
"He does!"
"Yes; but refuses to give his name. As that accomplice probably has the bulk of the money, strong efforts will be made to induce Baldwin to give him up. These efforts, backed by the intervention of Baldwin's friends, will, no doubt, bring the scoundrel to light."
The knees of Emerson trembled as he stood leaning on his counter. But for this support, he could hardly have borne the weight of his body.
"Bad business, certainly," he murmured. "Very bad business."
"Indeed it is a bad business," said William Barker. "Somebody will go to the penitentiary!"
From that time until evening, Emerson's mind was in a state of bewildering anxiety and fear. He could not hold back from meeting Caroline at the marriage altar, for he had no reason that he dared give for such an act; and he shrank from wedding anyone with the prospect of being arrested in an hour afterwards as an accomplice in a crime that might send him to the State's Prison. What the wretched man suffered during the few hours that elapsed before repairing to the house of Mr. Barker, is beyond description.
We now return to Mary Lynn. Evening had come, and in an hour more, Caroline would be a bride. The conflict in Mary's mind had been so severe as to make her really ill, and she had retired to her own room, where, depressed in mind and body, she had thrown herself across the bed. All the earnest persuasions of Caroline, and other members of the family, that she would be present at the wedding, had been resisted; and now, she had obtained a release from importunity by pleading illness — and the plea was no subterfuge.
Often, and with tearful earnestness, did Mary lift her heart to Heaven, during that last hour, and pray for direction. At length she fell asleep; but her dreaming thoughts moved on in the same current — not now guided by reason, but imagination. She was amid the company assembled below, to witness the holy rite of marriage. Emerson was there. He stood in the center of the rooms, to her a giant in form — his eyes red with an evil light, and lines deeply furrowed by cruel purposes on his forehead. By his side, shrunk, trembling, the pure-hearted Caroline, awaiting her sacrifice. Close around were the company — and, as Mary glanced from face to face, she saw in none a pitying emotion. Then the ceremony began, and was proceeding, when, in the anguish of her feelings, the sleeper cried out, "Will no one save her?"
"Save who, Mary?" came to her ears in a tone of affectionate concern, at the same time that she felt a kiss upon her cheek.
"Oh, Caroline!" exclaimed the waking girl, flinging her arms around the neck of Caroline Barker, who, all dressed in her bridal robes, had come to see her for a moment before joining the company who were waiting for the ceremony to begin.
For almost a minute Mary clung to the neck of Caroline, sobbing with unrestrained emotion. Then the latter sought to lift herself up, but Mary only clung to her the tighter, saying as she did so, in a low whisper, "I cannot let you go!"
"But they are waiting for me, dear," returned Caroline. "All is ready, and I have come to see you for a moment."
Still Mary did not withdraw her arms.
Caroline kissed her once more, wondering, all the while, at the girl's strange conduct, and again sought to get away from her.
"Don't go. Stay here with me. They won't find you," said Mary, in a wandering manner.
With a sudden effort, Caroline disengaged herself from the arms of Mary.
"Why do you say this?" she exclaimed. But seeing the flushed face and bright eyes of Mary, she comprehended, in a moment, that her mind was, from sickness or some other cause, partially unbalanced.
"There, there, dear," she said, in a soothing voice, laying her hand upon the hot forehead of the young girl. "Don't talk so."
Mary, regaining in a moment, the lost equilibrium of her mind, murmured,
"Forgive me. I hardly knew what I was saying."
Kissing her once more, Caroline turned from the bed whereon she was lying, and glided from the room. As she did so, Mary started up with a wild, distressed look, and bent her ear, hearkening to the sound of Caroline's retiring footsteps. Then banding her temples with her hands, she commenced moving about the room, the very picture of anguish and irresolution.
Meanwhile the ceremony had commenced below. Those who observed Emerson closely, marked an unusual pallor of countenance, accompanied with a restless wandering, or rather, darting of the eyes from point to point. It was plain that he was ill at ease, yet struggling hard to appear self-possessed.
Mr. Barker was standing near one of the doors that opened into the hall, looking first upon the face of the young man and then upon the pure, sweet face of his child, while his heart felt troubled and oppressed. He had never liked the idea of this union, and he liked it less than ever now. In his mind was an overpowering perception that his daughter was about entering upon a life of misery. But it was too late now to recede. No good reason for forbidding the marriage had heretofore been presented to his mind, and none were presented now. So he stood a passive witness of the ceremony as it proceeded.
A moment or two remained before Caroline was to give utterance to the brief words that made her the wife of Emerson, when Mr. Barker felt his arm suddenly grasped from behind. Turning quickly, he met the agitated, and almost colorless face of Mary Lynn, who said to him in an eager whisper,
"Oh, Mr. Barker! save her from this fate! If you love your child, save her!"
The father required no further prompting now. Instantly his voice filled the rooms with a peremptory command to stop the ceremony! A wild scene of confusion ensued, in which Caroline was borne, fainting, from the room. When this abated, and one and another looked around for Emerson, he was not to be found. In the first moment of excitement, he had left the house.
Scarcely had quiet been restored, before a gentleman came rushing in, asking in a loud voice for Mr. Barker.
"Is your daughter married yet?" he inquired, so soon as he found the person he sought.
"No, thank God!" replied Mr. Barker.
"You may well thank God," said the stranger, "for it has just been discovered that Philip Emerson is the accomplice of young Baldwin in robbing the Traders' Bank!"
"What an escape!" murmured the agitated father, as he clasped his hands together. "Yes," he added in a fervent voice, "thank God! thank God! For He has wrought for us this great deliverance."
A few months have glided by, since the troubled scenes just described, and there is another bridal assemblage in the house of Mr. Barker. But under what different circumstances, and with what different prospects for happiness do the parties now about to be united approach the marriage altar. Over them bends the cloudless sky, and beautiful vistas open far down into the future. Who is the bride? There she stands beside William Barker, pure and beautiful as Spring's earliest flowers. Her name is Mary Lynn. She has passed through her long night of trial, and this is the glad hour of virtue's triumph.
There is but one pale cheek and sad eye in that pleasant company. Caroline is there; and even while she feels a weight like a hand pressing on her bosom, she is thankful that it is with her as it is — and that she is not the wife of a man just proven guilty of crime, and sentenced to the punishment thereof, in the solitary and gloomy walls of a prison. No one looks with a tender and more loving eye upon the gentle bride than herself; nor rejoices with a deeper joy at the happiness that is in store for her.
Mrs. Lynn is there of course, and her worldly heart is swelling with a proud delight at this unlooked for elevation of her daughter and prospective change for herself. There is no one now who more loudly execrates the "villain Emerson," than she.
And here let us draw the curtain over the scenes we have introduced, with the simple remark that in all cases where a maiden discovers an overweening selfishness and lack of honest principle in a lover — her plain duty to herself is to discard him. To marry such a man, is a greater risk than any woman is justified in taking. Her virtues may win him from his evil avarices; but the chances are all against such a result; and we repeat, the risk is too great, and should not be taken!
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