View source for CHAPTER 6.Stories for Parents

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<p>One evening, near the hour of retiring, about two months from the time Markland had formally asked for her hand and been refused, she lingered about her father with a more than usually affectionate manner, and seemed half reluctant to part from him. At length she drew her arms about his neck, and laid her young cheek tenderly to his. Then, slowly withdrawing herself, and leaving a tear glistening upon his face, she retired to her chamber, bearing with her his fervently uttered blessing.<br><br>
  "God keep you, my sweet child!" he murmured, as he dashed the moisture from his own dimming eye.<br><br>
  When Margaretta entered her chamber, she carefully locked her door, and, seating herself by her bed, bent over, and buried her face in a pillow. She remained in this attitude for nearly an hour, when she slowly arose, the <em>tears </em>resting on her cheeks, that had become pale, and, going to her drawers, commenced taking out her clothes. She had not proceeded far in this, when her feelings overcame her, and she leaned her head down upon the bureau by which she was standing, and sobbed violently. From this state, she aroused herself with an effort, and went on with her strange employment, which consisted in taking from her drawers a portion of her clothing, and tying it up into two large bundles. This completed, she sat down by a table and tried to write a <em>note</em>. But for a time the tears blinded her eyes, so that she could not see — and when her vision became clear, her hand trembled too much to fulfill the dictates of her mind. At last, she accomplished her task, a brief note was written and addressed —<br><br>
  "To my dear father and mother."<br><br>
  It ran as follows:<br><br>
  "Do not be alarmed when you find that I have left my home, and forsaken the father and mother whom I love so deeply and so tenderly. Do not be angry with your child! Do not cast her off for this rash act. You know not the <em>anguish of mind </em>she suffers in taking such a step. But she cannot <em>obey </em>your wishes, without being miserable — neither can she<em>violate </em>them, without exquisite pain. In a little while, she will come back, a humble suppliant for your forgiveness and your love, without which she cannot live. Dear parents! Judge me not too harshly. Do not be angry with me. I cannot bear the thought of your displeasure. I love you, oh! how tenderly! I would sacrifice anything for your happiness, which I could sacrifice without my heart's breaking in the effort. Again I say, do not be angry with me. Do not determine to cast me off from your love. This would be too severe a punishment of one whose heart asks for you a blessing both night and morning. But, oh! <em>forgive </em>your child!"<br><br>
  After folding this with trembling hands, Margaretta threw a cloak over her shoulders, drew on a tight bonnet, and, taking up her bundle, moved towards the door. Pausing, with her hand upon the lock, she listened for some moments, to hear if anyone were stirring in the house. She heard, or imagined that she heard, a sound. This caused her to wait for nearly half an hour longer, during which time she sat almost as still as death — her feelings sometimes wrought up to a pitch of excitement which threatened temporarily to unsettle her reason, and then subsiding into half unconsciousness. At the expiration of this time, <em>strong doubts </em>in regard to the step she was about to take came suddenly into her mind, producing a most violent agitation. She arose, moved towards the door and placed her hand upon, it; but she seemed <em>held back by a strong invisible arm</em>. <em>Warmings</em>, almost audible, seemed whispered in her ear — along with <em>urgings </em>to go on as she had begun. Wild confusion reigned in her mind for many minutes, during which time she stood irresolute, with her hand upon the door.<br><br>
  At length, she grew calmer, and with this calmness, came back the <em>strength </em>of her rash purpose. Slowly she opened the door, after having extinguished her light, and stepped out into the dark passage. At that instant, the hall-door bell rang violently, the noise ringing up the passage, and penetrating every chamber. Margaretta shrank back, quickly, into her room, her heart throbbing audibly, and stood for some minutes at her half-open door. In a few moments, she heard a movement overhead — then a servant came grumblingly down-stairs, and proceeded to the front-door. She listened eagerly, but could hear no voice. Soon the door was closed with a heavy jar, and the half-asleep servant returned, indicating his progress by running first against a chair, then half-overthrowing a hat-rack, and then striking himself heavily on some forgotten corner.<br><br>
  At last he paused, and she could hear him tapping at her father's door. This was opened — a word or two passed, and then the servant went up again to his room in the attic. A<em>suspicion </em>flashed across her mind, that all might not be right. This was confirmed, in a few minutes, by hearing the doors of her father's and mother's chamber open, and someone commence ascending the stairs. Quick as thought, she threw her bundles, with her bonnet and shawl, under the bed, felt for the letter she had left upon the table, and securing it, jumped into her bed, and drew the clothes up tightly about her neck, closing her eyes at the same time, and <em>pretending sleep</em>. By the time this was accomplished, her chamber-door opened, and her mother came in with a light in her hand. She paused, and glanced around for a moment. Then coming up to the beside, she passed the light two or three times before the closed eyes of her daughter, who lay, apparently, in a <em>profound slumber</em>. After this, the mother quietly withdrew.<br><br>
  All this had passed, to Margaretta, like a <em>dream</em>; and, as if but half awake, her bewildered mind acted so incoherently, that it was a longer time before she could realize perfectly, the true position she occupied. By degrees, however, she recovered a distinct consciousness of her situation. The thought that in all this she was not acting alone — that Markland was anxiously awaiting <em>her</em> — caused her at length to rise from the bed, and again make preparations to leave her father's house. All was dark within, except the feeble light that came into her window from a sky lit up with its thousands of twinkling star-gems. Allowing about an hour to elapse from the time her mother had visited her chamber, she once more stepped forth, and <em>stealthily </em>moved along the dark passages and down the stairs. Her way was past her father's door. It seemed to her, as she drew near, that she could not go by it — that she could not thus leave him who had watched over her from infancy with such tender care, and go forth to cast the <em>rich treasures of her young heart </em>at the feet of a stranger. Her mother, too, whose bosom had so often and so long pillowed her head — whose arm had so long been around her — how could she turn away from her, all heedless of her solemn warnings — and take the path she had told her was so full of danger? Struggling with such thoughts and feelings, she moved on, until she was opposite that chamber she dreaded so to pass. At that instant, its door was thrown open, letting forth a blaze of light, and her father stood before her. She startled back in alarm, looked at him for an instant with a pale, frightened face, and then sank to the floor insensible!
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