THE JOURNAL

Tuesday night, June.—Well, ’tis over. To-day I arrived in my new home; and setting aside my longing after a home-feeling, which I have ever felt since the death of my dear, dear mother, there is no place that promises more domestic enjoyments than Alton; especially if Clare, my cousin, will love me and let me love her. She is a pretty girl, not beautiful, I admit, but sufficiently comely. My good, kind uncle, too! I can love him, I know; for how careful—how very, very tender was he of my feelings on our road hither. My room, also, is very nicely arranged; and as I glance around, I think I may again be happy, even, though I am dependent on my uncle’s bounty. I must to sleep now, for I am too sleepy now for aught else.

Monday.—Several days have elapsed since I last wrote; and I begin to love my old uncle in reality. There is yet another member of our small family circle, whom I did not see the first day of my arrival. It is an old lady, claiming cousinship with my Uncle Alton, and carrying herself with quite an “air” to myself. Very strict, too, she seems in her religious views; and yet sadly lacking in herself that charity for others which, in my eyes, is the light, “pure and undefiled.” Ah, me! I must stop, or I shall be wanting in that which I am so lauding. How lonely—how very lonely do I yet feel! no nearer my home of the heart yet, I fear me. My uncle I love; but—my Cousin Clare is so strange. Can she love, or is she like one of those incomprehensible characters of whom I have read, who keep all those feelings hidden deep within their heart of hearts, until they die away of themselves, leaving them in reality as callous as she now seems to me. I have tried to settle myself to my usual employments. I sew, I read, and tune my guitar occasionally; and often wander out, with my books, into those grand old woods around Alton, and sitting there under their deep, dark shadows, find companionship in my thoughts. My Cousin Clare I did ask once to accompany me, but was refused, on account of household duties; and Mrs. Dudley added, with an expression of countenance, to emphasize her speech, “Clare, Miss Walton, thinks of others besides herself. For my part, I never admired those tramps through the woods, of which some young ladies are so fond.” And her mouth was settled into that self-complacent expression, as if perfectly satisfied of the effect produced on me—imagining that poor I must be abashed into utter prostration before the majesty of her disapproval. Nevertheless, I still walk, and will continue doing so, with or without approval, which I neither value nor seek.

Thursday night, July.—What a difference will the arrival of an agreeable person make in a country-house. Now, yesterday and to-day are so rapid, compared with the preceding weeks. There has been an arrival at Alton. No less a personage than Col. Dudley, a nephew, by marriage, to my old plague. His health, it seems, is not very good—and he passes the summer here to re-establish it. He lives in the “sunny South,” and gives me some glowing descriptions of it. I have some one now who is in reality a companion; but, although this seems equally agreeable to me, and to himself, it does not seem to be relished as well by Mrs. Dudley.

Sunday, September.—Many weeks have elapsed since I have written in my journal. I have been so happy, that I took no note of time. Col. Dudley has been my constant companion; and Mrs. Dudley, his aunt, though always making little plans and plots to draw him into her own and Clare’s society—from which I am as much excluded by my own choice, as their habitual reserve—has not succeeded as yet. I am sure to find him at my side, whether in a walk or ride. And these same glorious woods—so old, so grand—how beautiful they are becoming now, as the “melancholy days” draw nigh. What made the poet say the autumn days were the “saddest of the year.” I am sure he must have been indulging in a poetical license, for to me they are infinitely joyous and gladsome. I know—I feel that Hugh Dudley loves me; and yet why does he not ask me to be his. Perhaps he waits for a manifestation of my feelings for him; but that I shall never evince, dearly as I love him. I know that he is proud—so much so, that much as I love a proud man, it becomes almost a fault in him. But I am also proud; and where I most love, there am I always the most reserved. I wish him to know “I would be wooed, and not unsought be won.”

Wednesday night.—How happy! how immeasurably happy am I! I can hardly realize these joyous feelings! I have just entered my chamber, too excited for sleep; and seeing my journal lying close to the writing-desk, have opened it to put in words, my joy. It appears unaccountable to me, how, for one moment, I could have imagined myself happy before, when I compare my present ecstatic feelings to what I can remember of ever experiencing. It seems that my heart is opening in love, to the whole world. I could even take Mrs. Dudley with the kindest affection to it, if she would allow me; but why or wherefore she dislikes me, and will manifest that feeling for me. Even my perceptions of the beautiful have grown so much the more lively; and the meanest thing of earth—the mossy trunk—the cloudlet—the sky—the stream—the wild-flower—are all floating in an atmosphere of light and beauty. And why is all this? Oh! my proud heart, you are now satisfied; and you can answer, why this ecstatic feeling. I love and I am loved! Hugh Dudley—my own Hugh—has told me this in words—so wondrously eloquent—and has, at last, sued me to become his wife. He wished our marriage to take place at once; but for all sufficient reasons, I have begged him to defer it till next summer. Then I will go forth with him among strangers—with him who is my world. I have found at last my home of the heart. ’Tis in his love—his ardent, disinterested love. And why did I not marry him at once, and go with him to his own sunny home? I could not, proud heart that I am, bear to owe the very dress in which I should be decked at the altar, to the bounty of my uncle—how much less to Col. Dudley. Though I have a home with them—that is, shelter and food—yet my right hand should be cut off, ere I would take pecuniary aid from any. They all look cold upon me now, even my uncle. I have ever conducted myself respectfully—nay, even affectionately toward him; but, for some reason or other, he has altered toward me, and I have drawn myself again into my reserve. I have undoubtedly thwarted some cherished plan of his, with respect to Clare and Dudley; but even my dependence on him—gratitude will not be forced—will not allow me to regret what has happened. Oh! so contented—so blest am I—that cold looks from the world are unregarded, so long as I am conscious of his love. I had been sick, and sad, for two days and more; my heart and head seemed bursting, for I could hear, in my chamber (where sickness kept me prisoner) the sound of mirth and enjoyment going on below. Even the unwonted laugh of Clare was echoing merrily, as if my absence kindled a fire of joy in her bosom of ice; and my jealous heart told me she was happy, because of the attentions of Col. Dudley. I could not endure the thought of his wasting upon her one smile—one word beyond those of common civility. Very, very wicked was I on that bed of sickness; for every time I could hear the voice of Mrs. Dudley calling upon my cousin, in a gladdened tone, I would half utter aloud, “Yes! that vile old woman is satisfied now. She thinks he will love that icicle—that automaton.” Yes, wicked I was, indeed; but then, sick and suffering, I should have been treated with more sympathy by those under whose roof I then was eating the bread of dependence, it would have made it less bitter—not near so choking. One ceremonious visit for the day from Clare—one message of inquiry from my uncle, was the sole interest that was bestowed upon me. How can it be wondered at, then, if my heart grew bitter toward them; ay, even to him, for if he inquired, it was never told me. But the bitterness I felt toward him was different from that which I felt toward my uncle and cousin. When I reflected on their conduct, there was a mingling of anger and revenge; when on him, the tears would rush to my eyes, an aching feeling to my heart, and I would say, “Could I only die now, would he shed one tear, or be saddened by the cold, pale face of her whom he must have known felt something for him beside mere friendship.” And then I would hide my eyes in the pillow, and weep in pity over the sad fate of myself which I thus pictured.

As these bitter, bitter thoughts careered through my brain—increasing its ache—how did I sigh for the rest of the grave. “For the living know that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. Also their love, and their hatred, and their envy is now perished; neither have they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done under the sun.” I snatched my journal—in my longing to unburthen myself of my weight of wo—and scribbled what I here transcribe, but which from shame I have since torn out:

“Why, oh Father! didst thou see fit to throw me here in this bitter world, to suffer and to struggle alone! Alone must I suffer—alone am I in my love—alone in my despair—and when dying solitary, and I am bore to the rest of the grave, I shall be unwept, unthought of. Well! be it so; only, Father, teach me to bow in submission and to drink without murmuring of the bitter cup. I already look upon the tomb, as the storm-tossed mariner to his haven of safety, ‘where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.’ Ah! how few care what the motherless one, cut off from the world by poverty and other adverse circumstances, must endure. My wishes and my hopes are mine, and mine alone. I feel, as I imagine the deaf and dumb one does, whose heart is full of love, and bright, warm, beautiful fancies, and who cannot give them words. To whom can I utter them? All, all these feelings must be forever buried in the depths of mine own sad heart, and nothing but the froth, the foam, and the weeds, be thrown on the surface for the world’s gaze. Oh! how I envy those who have fond parents—a dear brother—a loving sister. How I long for a sympathy—a resting-place for my affections, which I despair of ever finding on earth, but which I hope I may realize with Him, the Father, who has given me this capability of loving.”

This was written after hearing what my imagination—heated with fever and jealousy—construed into a light laugh from Dudley, immediately under my window. I knew it was him, for I heard the crashing sound of his boot-heel on the gravel, and the mingling tones of his aunt and Clare. They had all been walking—for I sprang from the bed to ascertain the fact. Yes, walking! For Clare was leaning on his arm; her sun-bonnet dangling by the string from her hand, and to my jealous eye she had never looked so near to beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed, and a smile almost loving parted her lips as she looked up into his face. They had stopped to admire a flower, over which Mrs. Dudley still leaned, and he—apparently—was describing some of the same kind he possessed. How I hated Clare, at the moment, there standing with her hand upon his arm, when there was no necessity for the support; loving him, too, as I knew she must—though in what manner I could not picture to myself—for I had ever thought from her impassable nature it was the blood of fishes which filled her veins. As I looked upon the group my dejection became intensified into agony. I felt utterly alone, and I wished for some kind Samaritan to pour the oil of sympathy into my bleeding wounds. It was then I wrote, and in the despair of my soul I felt that all was vanity and bitterness, and that I had deceived myself entirely—yes, blindly deceived myself. He cared not for me—whilst I was writhing in pain, he was merrily and gleefully laughing with those whom he knew, as well as I did, loved me not.

How changed my feelings now from those penned above, wrung from me by jealousy and despair! ’Tis as if I had been groping in some dark, noisome cave alone—ay, alone and fearful—and had suddenly entered an inner chamber, before unknown, where a thousand lights are dancing and reflecting against its brilliant columns and gem-like stalactites pendent from its illuminated sides and dome—so beautiful—so sudden has been the change. To begin at the beginning and tell how came this change.

For three days had I kept my room. On the afternoon of the third I stole out unobserved, as I thought, and made my way to the old, sombre-looking forest—my favorite haunt—where, under its dark, umbrageous trees, amid its gloom and solitude, I sought for companionship for my own sad thoughts. Seated on a fallen tree, turning with my foot the dry leaves listlessly, and hearing the moaning and sighing of the breeze through the tree tops. No other sound reached me; but I started up wildly—for sickness had made me nervous—as a hand was laid upon my arm, and scarcely heard his loved voice, softened into tenderness, for the loud beating of my own poor heart.

“I hope that I have not frightened you much, dear Florence. Have you, at last, got well?”

“Not entirely; but I am better, Colonel Dudley, though still I have some remains of my headache.” And I closed my eyes, which were rapidly filling with tears, and turned from him my face, that he might not observe them.

“Your illness has been a sad, sad trial to me, Florence,” said he, softly. “I missed you more than I can tell you. My nights have been sleepless from anticipation and from disappointment at not seeing you, as I hoped each day to do, when I arose. How I sighed for your companionship. Even after I went to my chamber last night, I again left it when the whole house seemed to be quiet, and wandered here to your favorite spot where so oft I have listened to you. I have inquired each day concerning you till I am fearful I tired the patience of both your cousin and uncle. They said you were only slightly unwell, but that it was your custom to keep your room when annoyed by companionship not pleasing to your taste, made fastidious by a long residence in the city and by novel-reading! You see how candid I am, but I have my reasons for being thus explicit. I thought them unkind—I began to think if I were the one who had wearied you, and memory, faithful to your charming ways, said at once ‘no’—for I could see that my company was more welcome than that of my aunt and your cousin. Nay, start not from me, dear Florence, I mean nothing to injure the most sensitive delicacy, but to show you the meditations to which I have been led by your sickness, and let you decide for me whether my future is to be happiness, almost too great for reality, or entire wretchedness. I blame you not for not seeking the society of either your cousin or my aunt, for neither are, or could be congenial; and who, I am sure, from some cause or other, are not friendly to you. Tell me now, why did you not send me even one word, formal though it might have been, to my bouquet—arranged with as much skill as I possessed, and bearing its Oriental meaning for your eye to read?”

“Your bouquet!” And in my surprise I turned to him my face, forgetful of my tears. “When did you send it—and by whom?”

“Tears, dearest Florence! Did you not receive it? But say that, and a load will have been lifted from my heart. Did not Miss Clare bring you one from me yesterday morning?”

“Never; nor even the simplest inquiry has reached me from you.” And my eyes looked the reproach I did not utter.

“Strange, very strange! What could have been their motives for this conduct? Yesterday, dear Florence, I sent a bouquet, hoping that it would commence what I have so long wished but feared to tell you. I sent you a rose-bud and other flowers, of which you yourself told me the language when we sat by the window, one rainy afternoon, longing to be out for this same walk. You laughingly did as I requested you, instructed me into their meaning, and I said that when I sent a bouquet so arranged, the lady who might receive it must think it uttered what I feared to say. Ah! Florence, I was sure that you knew I was speaking in serious earnestness, for your face colored brightly, and I could see the trembling of the little fingers as you began to untie the flowers, though you carefully kept your face averted. Will you be angry with me when I say, that I began then to hope what I so earnestly wish to ask from you? Do you not understand me, Florence?”

I answered not, but sat with face averted, and head bowed, to hide the emotions his words caused.

“Your answer is needless, for I know that you long ago have understood my heart. Yes; last night in this your favorite spot I sat me down to think upon you, and your winning, artless character. I felt that with you I should be content to exclaim,

‘Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place,

With one fair spirit for my minister,

That I might all forget the human race,

And, hating no one, love but only her.’

And that fair spirit you are conscious, sweet Florence, must be yourself. Say, will you be willing, dear one, to minister to me through life?”

I could hardly repress the low cry of joy which sprung from my heart to my lips, yet I did so, and sat apparently calm at his side, whilst he continued still more passionately—

“Yes; you, dearest Florence, are the fair spirit whom I devotedly love. Tell me, can you—will you be mine? And, though a desert be not our dwelling-place, make with your love a paradise of my earthly habitation. Say—answer me now, Florence, dear one—will you be my wife?”

I did not answer—I could not; but I leaned my face against his shoulder, and, as his arm encircled me, he bent down his head and whispered what answer he wished me to make. We left our favorite walk engaged—with one hope—one love—one joy. As if in charming coincidence with our happiness, how gloriously beautiful was the aspect worn by surrounding objects. And we asked one another, in sympathy, could any thing in England, France, or Italy—in the way of trees—be equal to our forests, as they then appeared? So many kinds—so many shades—so differing in foliage: now dense and rich in living green—now sparse, showing the satiny boughs of the elm, or the rich brown trunk of oak, or its mossy covering—now the light, feathery foliage waving as in spring—all so varying, yet commingling, and from their very contrasts making the effect more striking, and forming a whole of harmony, like unto some gorgeous picture. And then the sunset, as we stood on a rising hill to gaze upon his setting, on this our happy evening! ’Twas as glorious as ever Italia’s sky could boast. Little cloudlets of burnished gold, whose upper edge wore a pale violet hue, were floating in a sea of rose; whilst above and around was the pure azure canopy. And all these were changing in form and tint, as lower, and still more low, sunk the sun—like the fabled changes of the dying dolphin—till the whole sobered down into the soft gray of twilight. Then we turned for our walk home. How tenderly did he fold my shawl around me, and whisper lovingly as he drew my hand under his arm, that I must be careful now of my health for his sake, if I would not for my own!

As we turned into the graveled walk leading directly to the house, we met Clare and Mrs. Dudley. I saw them before he was aware they were approaching, for his head was bent toward me as he uttered words of joy which thrilled my heart, so long aching for sympathy and his love, with a happiness almost amounting to agony. How red grew my face as their eyes looked full upon us! How surprised the stare, how cold their passing salutation to us both! But little either of us recked now. Every thing with me was forgotten but the certainty of his loving me, and my promise to become his wife. When he has gone—ah! here comes the gloomy shadow in my picture of light. I will form some plan to make sufficient money, that I may not be dependent on any one for my simple outfit, and then we will marry, as I said, next summer. Now, I can only think of my happiness, which is too ecstatic for me yet to realize.

Tuesday, Oct.—A fortnight has dragged on—ah! yes: how truly is it described when I say dragged since his departure, and I wonder to myself how was it possible that I ever should endure this place without him—my sunlight!—my joy! In one of the literary papers which my uncle takes is a notice of premiums, to be awarded to the successful competitors, for tales, essays, etc. I have determined to become one. I have often written—may I not succeed? I will succeed. I have a good plan, too, for a story, founded upon an incident in the life of my old hero-like grandfather. So, adieu my old friend, my journal, for awhile; for I must bend all my existent energies on my prize story—as I will it to be. In doing that and answering Hugh’s letters, the time at my disposal will be entirely taken up. The prizes will be awarded before Christmas. I am beginning to think Mrs. Dudley and Clare suspect my engagement to Hugh.

November 28th.—Joy! joy! and now for the details—to confide to you, my journal, in what that joy consists! My uncle opened the mail-bag, as usual, this morning whilst we sat at breakfast. There were two gentlemen present, beside our family circle, and one of them, a wealthy gentleman from a neighboring city, and who has always shown himself peculiarly polite and attentive, at the same time an interesting and intellectual companion. Mrs. Dudley and Clare—I forever couple them together, for it seems to me they have only one mind for their two bodies, and of course, but a small portion for each—imagine I am “setting my cap” for him; and according to their general custom, endeavor to set me in the worst possible light in his eyes. Well! revenons à nos moutons, my uncle placed two letters before me as my share of the precious bag, remarking as he did so:

“One from your punctual correspondent at the South, and one from Philadelphia. What beau in that city, Floy, do you write to?”

“Why, Miss Walton”—in a most insulting tone, said Mrs. Dudley—“is not this foolish correspondence with my nephew dropped by him yet? If it were not for its improbability, I should begin to fear there was something serious in it; but, then your encouragement of his attentions was so very open, that Clare and I said it could only have been for your amusement and his, to make the time pass to two idlers. But, once for all, pray inform me as his aunt, did you ever dream of any reality in your game?”

How the hot blood rushed to my temples as I convulsively grasped the letters to place in my pocket. Yet my pride came to the rescue at this wanton insult, and at which her assistant in her schemes, Clare, sat smiling, triumphantly rejoicing in this vulgar attack—so turning to her, with a light laugh of scorn, I replied:

“Your nephew! Humph! Yes; your supposition does credit to your ever rightly judging and far-seeing mind. My flirtation with your kinsman could, of course, be only for one’s amusement in the country!”

I had paid her back, certainly, for the poor, wicked old creature’s face colored up in anger as she said:

“Oh! very well, very well, indeed, Miss Walton. That is a nice speech for a coquette to make about an absent gentleman in the presence of another.”

I made her no further answer, but finishing my coffee, left the room to read my letters. I could not help making this answer to her at the time; yet, I sincerely regret it now. It seems like treason against my love to utter such a thing about him, even to retaliate upon her. The first letter I opened was from Hugh Dudley—breathing the most devoted love—begging me to shorten his term of exile, and let him come, at once, to claim me for his own. The other was from the editor of the ——, and contained a check for one hundred dollars! My story had obtained the second prize. Now, I can think about what Hugh has written, I will write to him to-morrow, and tell him I will consider his proposition. I must not grant it at once, for I am ashamed to let him see how much I love him.

December 18th.—How busy they are preparing for Christmas; yet I cannot enter into their feelings of mirth. A presentiment is haunting me—a shadow, like the gloom of the grave, is around me. I cannot answer why this is so. Foolish that I am! I have gone forth to my favorite walk; I have recalled the words—the vows of love—his tender looks, as he offered them; and yet the cold, dead feeling at my heart will not be driven forth. As I entered the parlor yesterday, in the dim twilight, softly—for I was thinking sadly, as I am wont now—I heard Mrs. Dudley say to Clare, “Depend on it, Hugh Dudley will not marry HER at least.” I do not think she saw me; but Clare’s cold eyes rested on me with a most malignant glance, as I quickly drew back, ere they should be aware of my entrance. I know, oh, heart of mine! how foolish ’tis for me to grieve. Is this the confidence I have in his love—his vows—his honor—to be thus shaken for one moment by the assertions of an evil-minded and plotting old woman, who manifestly hates me. I will tear this feeling from me. I will not despond—I will trust in you, my own noble-hearted Hugh.

January.—’Tis strange! no letters from Col. Dudley. Can he be ill? Oh! this sickening suspense—this living death! I fancy, too, that my enemies—for so I must call Mrs. Dudley and Clare—watch me narrowly—triumphantly. What can it mean? Oh, Father! in thy mercy, spare me this anticipated misery! Let the bitter cup pass from me, if thou wilt; for I feel my utter weakness and inability to bear up under these harrowing thoughts. Impossible! I will not pen any thing against his truth. He must be sick. Not even to this mute witness of my love will I own, that even in thought I suspect him. I will show him this one of these days yet to come, when the happiness I then shall feel will repay me for all my sorrows—and then he will know how much he was loved. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” says the song—and it is true with me, at least, I wonder, is it the case with him. I will go down now—for everybody is away to-day, shopping in the neighboring town—and play all his favorites, and cheat myself with the belief that he is beside me—that I feel his warm breath play among my curls—that, on the lifting of my eye, I shall meet his glance, so full of love and trust, as to shame me in my inmost heart for ever thinking he could prove false.

February.—Oh, God! how unspeakably miserable am I. And you, old friend, that has been the record of my joy—my short dream of happiness—be also the page upon which I chronicle my grief—my deep despair. I am calmer now; I did think that I should have crazed under the blow; but the Father has strengthened and borne me up. I had been expecting an answer to my last letter from Hugh, (oh! how anxiously, for ’twas past the usual time,) when one day my Uncle Alton sent for me.

“Florence,”—as I entered—“I have a package for you, sent under cover to myself. I am afraid that this will prove a sad trial to you; but as you have your own self to thank for it, I am in hopes, for your sake, it will not occasion you much heart-grief. I am playing the part of Job’s comforters; but I cannot help saying to you, that you should remember how you speak of the absent, for sooner or later, they always are informed of bad speeches by some injudicious friend.”

“What does this long preface lead to, Uncle Alton,” said I, with a smile, though my heart felt heavy as lead, and as cold. “Surely I am not mixed up in any of the neighborhood slander, I hope. I always thought that you did me the justice to imagine that I care little, and talk less, of the worthies who compose the society attainable at Alton.”

My uncle, by this time, had handed me the package which he had been separating from its envelop; and he now coldly, I may say sternly, addressed me,

“Hugh Dudley, Florence, has written me that you and himself were engaged—solemnly pledged to each other to wed the coming summer. From your speech, made in public, in the presence of his friends and relative, from whom he has received the information, he now releases you from your chains, that he thinks must have been galling, to call forth from you, in public, so unprovoked, so cruel a speech. What renders it still more stinging, was the fact, that Mr. Hilton, one of the gentlemen present, has ever been an enemy of Dudley’s, and on his return home (for he lives not very far from him) repeated it among a certain set. After Dudley heard of this he gave the more ready credence to his aunt’s letter, which came whilst the subject was in agitation in his thoughts. He wrote to me, as your nearest friend and protector, explaining his conduct, and requesting me to hand you your letters. It has grieved me to hear of this conduct, heartless as I must call it, from my sister’s child.”

I felt like throwing myself at my uncle’s feet, and begging him to plead for me with Hugh in my great misery; but, at this moment I looked up, and saw Mrs. Dudley standing near the entrance, and peering on me with such a smile of malicious triumph, that crushing back my real feelings of agony with my al-conquering pride, I said lightly, though it seemed as if my heart were weeping blood the while—

“Do not trouble yourself, uncle, about my incapacity for bearing this, especially as you say it was brought on me by my own means. Inform Col. Dudley when you write, that I accept my release with thanks, and never have, nor could ever claim relationship with some of his kin, but with the same feelings of loathing and disgust I experience when some hideous and dangerous reptile crosses my path.”

I was nerved by my anger against Mrs. Dudley to say this, and to act the part I assumed, of carelessness, for I took up the package with a light laugh, thanked my uncle, and dropped a very lowly reverence to her as I approached the door, saying, “I hope, my dear madam, that your truly Christian heart is now at rest, having seen the end of our game, begun to relieve the tedium or worse of a country-house, blessed with such an inmate as your venerable self.”

I have a dim recollection of seeing her eyes open wide and still wider with perfect amaze, and the words “heartless flirt,” fell from her lips. I reached my room, though my pride was fast ebbing, and locked myself in. I opened the bundle—my own letters came tumbling therefrom, and one from him. I put it here, that with the record of my willful error, its punishment may also be seen.

“Miss Walton,—I return you your letters, and your vows of love—when the substance is not possessed, how worthless is the shadow. I scorn myself for having loved one who could so wantonly trifle with a trustful, loving heart, which has been taken when proffered, to throw away as a worthless object. May you be happy, but that I am afraid you will not be. I hope that you will be more careful of the next heart that you may witch to love you. At least, never say of him in the presence of either friends or enemies, “he will do well enough to amuse one’s self with in the country!” I again say, may you be happy, and as my happiness can only be in forgetting you, I shall never seek to hear of you; and rest easy that this will be the last letter with which you will ever be troubled from the hand of

Hugh Dudley.”

It was over! and I sat long silent and motionless with the letters before me. I then determined to bear uncomplainingly my fate, and never let him know the agony which his thus breaking our engagement had caused me. “Did I die from it,” was my proud resolution, “I will die in silence. He, to believe so quickly, so readily, an assertion made against me, by an enemy of his, and proved by an enemy of mine. Did he ask me, ‘Was it so—and wherefore?’ No: but acted on the information, careless of my pain—oh! well he knew that I loved him—and exulted in it from revenge. Had he asked me, oh! how humbly would I have acknowledged my fault, and throwing myself more trustingly on his love, how would I have prayed for forgiveness, till the proud man, in his strength, would have been softened by my tears, and taken me again in love to his bosom.” But it was over, and she who had caused this misery should not triumph. I jumped from my seat, bathed my eyes, curled my hair elaborately, decked myself in a most becoming dress, and on seeing my ashy cheeks, in the glance I gave into the glass, for the first time painted them with carmine. I then descended into the drawing-room. Mr. Harold, the wealthy merchant from the city, whom I have spoken of, had returned the day before, on a visit to my uncle, and for him, and to him, I played and sung. I was in my wildest spirits. I kept up this farce for weeks whenever the eyes of the household were upon me, till I thought in the struggle my mind must give way. At this crisis a letter came from a cousin of my mother, to whom I had written to ask for an asylum, gladly welcoming me to her home—for she was aged and infirm, and wanted companionship. I accepted at once; received a cold acquiescence from my uncle—a still more indifferent one from my cousin—and set out for my new home in Kentucky, determined to hide myself forever from the eyes of those whose triumph was built on the ruins of my happiness. Oh! Hugh, could you have known how deeply I have repented of that speech, wrung from my wounded pride, even you would have forgiven me and loved me still—but you never, never loved as I did you. But it is, as I said, all, all past; my dream is ended, and I now walk sadly my allotted time on earth, a sorrower and a sojourner in a vale of tears.

Here ended this sketch from her journal; and Cora Norton sat at first meditating, with her head still leaning on her arm. Turning at last to her aunt, who was dozing across the room, she said—

“What has become of Col. Dudley, Aunt Mary?”

“Ech! what!” exclaimed the old lady; and then being thoroughly roused, she took her knitting from the floor, where it had slipped during her nap, received from Cora her spectacles, and upon her niece repeating her inquiry—

“He is now,” said Aunt Mary, gaping and rubbing her eyes, “the husband of Clare Alton, and lives in his far distant home—at least so I heard about five years since, the only time I ever heard of him. It is said that the match was made up for him entirely by his aunt, and that Clare is an excellent housekeeper—raises more chickens and turkies than any lady in the neighborhood. She, as my informant told me, is quite the model housewife of her neighbors, and has finished a hexagon bed-quilt, of I don’t know how many thousand patches. As to herself and the colonel, they get along very politely I believe—

“Living together as most people do,

Suffering each other’s foibles, by accord,

And not exactly either one or two.”

And now, Cora love, it is bedtime. Need I ‘point a moral’ to the journal you have read? Ah! no, you say. Well! when that little rattling tongue of yours seems disposed to laugh and say flippant things about your lovers, think of my girl-friend, Florence Walton, and profit by her dear-bought experience.”