EDITH PEMBERTON.

———

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

———

Oh! days of youth and joy long clouded,

Why thus forever haunt my view?

While in the grave your light lay shrouded,

Why did not memory die there too?

Moore.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton, drawing her needle through a very dilapidated stocking which she was darning, “my dear, do you know how much your old friend Ellis is worth?”

Mr. Pemberton looked up from his newspaper with some surprise, as he replied, “I can’t tell exactly, but I should think his property cannot fall short of one hundred thousand dollars.”

“That will be twenty thousand a piece for each of his five children,” said Mrs. Pemberton, apparently pursuing some hidden train of thought.

“I am not so sure of that,” returned her husband, with a smile, “it is difficult to calculate the fortune of a child during the life of a parent. Mr. Ellis is a hale hearty man, and may live long enough to double his fortune or perhaps to lose it all. But why are you so interested in his affairs just now, Sarah?”

“To tell you the truth, husband, I have been thinking that Edward Ellis would be a good match for Caroline.”

“Pooh! pooh! Carry is but sixteen, it will be time enough three years hence, to think of a husband for her.”

“But if a good opportunity should offer, it would be the height of folly to let it slip only on account of her youth. Edward is certainly very constant in his visits.”

“His intimacy with Charles, sufficiently accounts for his frequent visits, and his attentions, if they mean anything, are rather directed to Edith, as far as I can judge,” said Mr. Pemberton.

“Oh that is only because Edith is the eldest. I could easily manage to keep her out of the way, if she were to interfere with Caroline’s prospects.”

“But why not secure him for Edith, if you are so desirous of allying him to the family?”

“Mercy on me, husband, what should I do without Edith? I would not, upon any account, put such a notion into her head; nobody could supply her place if she were to marry just now.”

“Rotation in office, my dear, is the true and just system in family government, whatever it may be in politics; it is time that Caroline shared some of Edith’s manifold duties,” said Mr. Pemberton.

“How little men know of domestic affairs,” exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton; “do you suppose that such a giddy creature as Carry could ever be taught the patience, industry and thoughtfulness which seem so natural to Edith? No, no, I must keep Edith at home as long as possible.”

“So you have come to the conclusion that she is too useful to be allowed to seek her own happiness.”

“Oh, Mr. Pemberton how can you talk so? I am sure if Edith really loved any body I would never throw any obstacle in her way. She is quite contented now and I don’t believe marriage is necessary to the happiness of every body.”

“Why then are you so anxious to make matches for your girls? Why not wait and see whether Carry is not also content to be single?”

“Because Caroline is such a hare-brained, thoughtless girl, that nothing but domestic duties will ever give her steadiness of character, and therefore I am anxious to see her settled in life.”

“Well I don’t think you need waste any feminine manœuvres upon Edward Ellis, for whatever fortune his father may possess, he will never support his sons in idleness. He means that they shall work for themselves as he has done, and though he has given Edward a liberal education, he intends to make him a thorough merchant.”

“Edward wishes to study a profession.”

“I know old Ellis well enough to believe that he sets too high a value on time and money to consent to such a plan. He would never be willing to maintain Edward during the next ten years, as must necessarily be the case, if he adopted a profession.”

“Edward is a remarkably fine young man.”

“Yes, he possesses excellent talents and an amiable disposition, but his character is yet to be formed by time and circumstance.”

“He is two and twenty, husband; and you were married when you were not that age.”

“I know it, Sarah,” said Mr. Pemberton, drily, “and we both married five years too soon. I became burdened with the support of a family at the outset of life, and you were weighed down with domestic cares, while yet in your girlhood; the consequence to me has been, that I am now obliged to labour as hard for a living at forty-five as I did at twenty, and with as little prospect of making a fortune; while the result to you has been broken health and wearied spirits.”

“I am sure I never repented our marriage, my dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton half reproachfully.

“Nor I, my dear Sarah,” replied her husband kindly, “it would be but an ill requital for all your affection and goodness; but should we not be equally happy and less care-worn now, if we had deferred our union until we had been a little older and wiser?”

“Ah well,” sighed Mrs. Pemberton, feeling the truth of her husband’s remark, but unwilling to confess it, “there is no use in such retrospection; we have a large family around us, and there are no finer children than ours in the whole circle of our acquaintance. If I am broken down with the care of bringing them up, I can forget all my trouble, when I have so much cause to be proud of them. A better daughter than Edith, a more steady boy than Charley, and prettier girls than Caroline and Maria, are not to be found anywhere in society; and I dare say I shall be just as proud of the little ones in the nursery as they grow up.”

“I dare say you will, my dear,” said her husband, smiling good-humoredly, “it would be very strange if you were not, and quite as strange if I had not similar opinions; Edith is as good as she is handsome and I only wish young Ellis was in circumstances to marry her.”

“Don’t speak of such a thing, husband, I cannot consent to part with her for the next four or five years.”

“Yet you want to get rid of Caroline.”

“I have already told you my motives; there never were two sisters more unlike.”

“Edith has all the prudence and kindliness which befits a good wife, and therefore deserves to be well mated.”

“She does not seem to think of such a thing as marriage, and I am truly glad she is so indifferent about it, indeed I almost believe that Edith is destined to be an old maid.”

“It needs no great prophetic skill to predict that, if you keep her forever in the back-ground.”

“I am sure I do no such thing,” said Mrs. Pemberton, warmly.

“I don’t pretend to know much about these matters but I have noticed that when the girls are invited to a party it is generally Edith who is left at home.”

“It is not my fault, Mr. Pemberton, if she takes no pleasure in gay society.”

“Are you certain she always stays at home from choice?”

“I dare say she does, at least she is never controlled by me.”

“But you know as well as I do, that the slightest expression of a wish is sufficient to influence her. The truth is, Edith has made herself so useful in the family that we all depend upon her for a large portion of our comforts, and are too apt to forget that she often sacrifices her own. Do you suppose that she actually preferred staying at home to nurse little Margaret, the other night, to going to Mrs. Moore’s grand ball?”

“No, I can’t say she did, for she seemed rather anxious to attend that ball, and had trimmed a dress beautifully for the occasion.”

“The child was certainly not so ill as to require her attendance in addition to yours, and why, therefore, was she obliged to remain?”

“No, the baby was not very sick, but she cried so bitterly when she saw Edith dressed for the party, that I was afraid she would bring on a fever.”

“Therefore you disappointed Edith merely to gratify the whim of a petted infant.”

“I left her to do as she pleased; she immediately changed her dress, to pacify Margaret, and took her usual place by the cradle.”

“Yes, you left her to do as she pleased, after she had been allowed to discover exactly what you wished she should do. This is always the way, Sarah; the incident just mentioned, is only one out of hundreds, where Edith’s kind feelings have been made to interfere with her pleasures. I have long seen in the family a disposition to take advantage of her unselfish character, and it seems to me exceedingly unjust. I do not want to part with Edith, and should give her to a husband with great reluctance, but I insist that she should have a fair chance, and not be compelled to join the single sisterhood whether she will or not. You had better let match-making alone, Sarah; leave the girls to choose for themselves; only be careful that they have the right sort of admirers, from which to select their future master.”

Edith Pemberton was the eldest of a large family. Her father, immersed in business like most of our American merchants, spent the working days of every week at his counting room, only returning at evening, jaded and fatigued, to read the newspaper, and to doze upon the sofa till bed time. Governed by the erroneous ideas, which led men, in our country, to attempt the accumulation of a rapid fortune, in the vain hope of enjoying perfect leisure in their later years, Mr. Pemberton had become little more than a money-making machine. He loved his family but he had little time to devote to them. He spared no expense in the education of his children, liberally provided them with comforts, and punctually paid all the family bills, but he left all the management of household matters to his wife, who soon found it utterly useless to consult him on any domestic arrangement. His purse was always open to her demands, but his time he could not give. The consequence was that Mrs. Pemberton while endeavoring conscientiously to perform her duties, made the usual mistake, and fell into those habits which often convert our good wives into mere housekeepers and nurse maids; “household drudges” as our grumbling cousin Bull calls them. A rapidly increasing family, and her utter ignorance of her husband’s business prospects, induced her to practise the strictest economy which was consistent with comfort. Abandoning the elegant accomplishments which she had acquired with so much expense of time and labor at school, she secluded herself in her nursery, and in the care of her children and the duties of housekeeping found full employment.

In childhood, Edith was what old ladies call ‘a nice quiet little girl.’ Her delicate features, fair complexion, and blonde hair, established her claim to infantile beauty, while her bright smile, sweet voice and graceful gentleness seemed to win the love of all who knew her. Endowed with no remarkable intellect, no decided genius, she yet managed, by dint of good sense, industry and perseverance, to maintain her place at the head of her classes, and to leave school, which she did at fifteen, with the reputation of a very good scholar. A plain, but thorough English education, a little French, a few not very ill done drawings in water colors; some velvet paintings and a profound knowledge of the art of stitching in all its varieties, were the fruits of Edith’s studies. Gentle reader, do not despise the scanty list of accomplishments which she could number. It comprised the usual course of education at that time, and perhaps, in point of real usefulness, would bear a fair comparison with the more imposing “sciences” and “ologies” which are now presumed to be taught in schools of higher pretensions. Her skill in needlecraft was a most valuable acquisition to the eldest daughter of so numerous a family, and Mrs. Pemberton availed herself fully of its aid. Edith returned from school only to take her place as an assistant to her mother in the nursery. The maid whose business it was to take care of the children, was not trustworthy, and it became the duty of Edith to watch over the welfare of the little ones, while she employed her busy fingers in shaping and sewing their multifarious garments. Kindly in her feelings, affectionate in her disposition, gentle and patient in temper, she was dearly loved by the children. It was soon discovered that her influence could do more than the clamor of an impatient nursemaid, or the frown of a mother whose natural good temper had been fretted into irritability. If a child was refractory, sister Edith alone could administer medicine, or smooth the uneasy pillow,—and in short Edith became a kind of second mother to her five sisters and three brothers.

Had her nature been in the slightest degree tainted with selfishness, she might have reasonably murmured against the heavy burdens which were laid upon her at so early an age. But Edith never thought of herself. To contribute to the happiness of others was her chief pleasure, and she seemed totally unconscious of the value of her daily sacrifices. If any particularly disagreeable piece of work was to be done, it was always concluded that Edith would not refuse to undertake it; if any one was compelled to forego some anticipated pleasure, the lot was sure to fall on Edith; and in short the total absence of selfishness in her seemed to be the warrant for a double allowance of that ingredient in the characters of all around her. Have you never met, friend reader, with one of those kind, affectionate, ingenuous persons who have the knack of doing every thing well, and the tact of doing every thing kindly? and did you never observe that with this useful and willing person, every body seemed to claim the right of sharing their troubles? Such an one was Edith Pemberton.

But Edith was not proof against that passion which is usually libelled as selfish and engrossing. Edward Ellis had cultivated an intimacy with her young and studious brother, solely on her account, and the patience with which the gifted “senior,” assisted the efforts of the zealous “sophomore,” might be attributed less to friendship than to a warmer emotion. Ellis was talented, ambitious and vain, but he was also warm-hearted, and susceptible to virtuous impressions. The perfect gentleness, the feminine delicacy, the modest beauty of Edith had charmed the romantic student, and her unaffected admiration of his superior mental endowments, completed the spell of her fascination. His parents, well knowing how strong a safeguard against evil influences, is a virtuous attachment, rather encouraged his intimacy with the Pemberton family, without enquiring closely into his motives; and Edward was content to enjoy the present, leaving the future to take care of itself. In compliance with his wishes, his father had given him a liberal education, but when, upon leaving college he requested permission to study some profession, he met with a decided negative. “I wish you to be a merchant, Edward,” said his father, “I have given you an education which will enable you to be an enlightened and intelligent one, but upon yourself it depends to become a rich one. Talents and learning without money are of as little use as rough gems; they are curiosities for the cabinet of the virtuoso, not valuables to the man of sense; they must be polished and set in a golden frame before they can adorn the possessor, or seem precious in the eyes of the multitude. If you are wealthy, a little wisdom will procure you a great reputation; if you are poor your brightest talents only serve as a farthing rush-light to show you your own misery!” Such were the views of Mr. Ellis, and though his son differed widely from him in feeling, yet he dared not gainsay the assertions which he deemed the result of experience and worldly wisdom.

It was but a few days after the conversation just narrated that another of a different character took place between two of the parties interested. Edith was returning from a visit to a sick friend, just as evening was closing in, when she was met at her door, by Edward Ellis.

“Come with me, Edith,” said Edward hurriedly, “wrap your shawl about you, and walk with me on the Battery.”

“Not now, Mr. Ellis,” replied Edith, “it is quite late, and little Madge is waiting for me to sing her to sleep.”

“Psha! Edith, you are always thinking of some family matter; do you ever think of your own wishes?”

“Yes,” replied Edith, laughing, “and I confess I should prefer a pleasant walk with you to a warm and noisy nursery.”

“Then come,” said Edward, drawing her arm through his, “I have something of great consequence to say to you.”

Edith looked surprised, but the expression of Edward’s countenance was anxious and troubled, so she offered no further opposition. They entered the Battery, and walked along the river side, for some minutes in perfect silence, before Edward could summon courage to enter upon the subject nearest his thoughts. At length as they turned into a less frequented path, he abruptly exclaimed, “Do you know, Edith, that I am going away?”

Edith’s heart gave a sudden bound, and then every pulsation seemed as suddenly to cease, as with trembling voice she uttered a faint exclamation of astonishment.

“You are surprised, Edith, I knew you would be so, but have you no other feeling at this announcement of my departure? Nay, turn not your sweet face from me; I must know whether your heart responds to mine.”

Edith blushed and trembled as she thus listened, for the first time, to the voice of passionate tenderness. Feelings which had long been growing up unnoticed in her heart, and to which she had never thought of giving a name—fancies, beautiful in their vagueness,—emotions undefined and undetermined, but still pleasant in the indulgence,—all the

“countless things

That keep young hearts forever glowing,”

found in that instant their object and their aim. Edith had never thought of Edward as a lover, she had never looked into her heart to discover whether she really wished him to be such, but at the magic voice of affection, the mystery of her own heart was revealed to her, its secret recesses were unveiled to her gaze, and she knew that his image had long been there unconsciously enshrined. Her lover saw not all her emotions in her expressive countenance, but he read there no repulsive coldness, and as he clasped the little hand, which lay on his arm, he said:

“Listen to me, dear Edith; my father informed me, to-day, that he has made an arrangement with my uncle, (whom, as you know, has long resided at Smyrna,) by which I am to become the junior partner in the house, and he has directed me to be ready in three weeks, to sail in one of his ships, now lading for that port. How long I shall be absent, is uncertain, but as my uncle is desirous of returning to America, I presume that it is intended I shall take his place abroad. Years, therefore, may elapse ere I again behold my native land, and I cannot depart without telling you how dear you have long been to my heart. Yet let me not deceive you Edith: I have confessed to my father my affection for you,—he acknowledges your worth, and does not disapprove my choice, but he has positively forbidden me to form any engagement for the future. I am violating his commands in thus expressing my feelings to you.”

“What are his objections, Edward?” faltered the trembling girl.

“Oh it is the old story of over-prudent age; he says we may both change long before I return, and that it is best to be unfettered by any promise; then no harm can happen to either, and if you love me you will wait my return, without requiring any engagement to confirm your faith. Thus he argues and I can make no reply. I have no means of supporting a wife, therefore I dare not ask you of your parents, and my father’s caution deprives me of the only comfort which hope might have afforded me in my exile.”

Edith was deeply agitated, and her cheek grew pale, as she murmured: “You are right in obeying your father, Edward; happiness never yet waited on one who was deficient in filial duty.”

“And is this all you can say, Edith,” exclaimed Edward passionately. “Is this cold approval all I can hope to receive from the object of my first and only love? Have not my every look and tone told you how deeply I loved you, and can you let me depart without one word of tenderness or regret? Must I remember your gentle face but as a dream of boyhood? Shall your low, sweet voice be but as the melody of by-gone years? May I not bear with me, in my banishment, a hope, faint and cold it may be as the winter sunbeam, yet lighting up my dreary path with something like a promise of future happiness? Edith I ask no plighted faith; I wish you not to pledge me your hand till I can come forward and claim it openly; but I would fain know whether my love is but as incense flung upon the winds. If you can offer no return to my affection, dearest, let me at once know my fate, and with all the force of an over-mastering will, shall my heart be silenced, if not subdued. Say that you love me not, Edith, and though the stream of my life must forever bear your image on its surface, yet you shall never know how dark has been the shadow it has cast. Say that you love me not, and you shall never hear a murmur from my lips, nor shall your peaceful existence be saddened by the gloom which must ever pervade mine. You are silent Edith—you cannot bear to utter the words which must condemn me to despair.”

Ellis paused, and strove to read in Edith’s face, the feelings to which she could not give utterance. But her eyes were bent upon the ground, while the big tears fell like rain from beneath the drooping lids and in her flushed cheek he saw only displeasure.

“I was right, Edith,” said he, sadly, “you do not love me; forgive and forget my folly, but let us not part in coldness.” He took her hand again, as he spoke: “I perhaps deserve punishment for my selfishness in thus asking the heart when I could not claim the hand; when I am gone, some happier lover will perhaps ask both and then⁠—”

“He will be denied,” interrupted Edith, hastily, turning her agitated face towards her suitor. “This is no time for maiden coyness, Edward; your happiness and mine are both at stake, and therefore I tell you, what till this moment was unknown even to myself, that my affections are in your keeping.”

“Dearest, dearest Edith, then am I supremely happy; I ask no more; let the only bond between us be the secret one of cherished love.”

“Not so, Edward; you have promised your father not to enter into any engagement, but I am bound by no such restraints. You are, and must remain free from all other bonds than those of feeling, but if it will add to your happiness to be assured of my faith during your absence, I pledge you my word that my hand shall be yours whenever you come to claim it.”

“But your parents, Edith,—what will they say, if they find you clinging to a remembered lover, and perhaps rejecting some advantageous settlement?”

“They will suffer me to pursue my own course, Edward, and will be satisfied with any thing that binds me to my childhood’s home. I am too much the companion of my parents to be looked upon in the light of an intruder, when I prolong the period of filial dependence.”

“Then be it so, dearest; bound by no outward pledge, we will cherish our affection within our hearts, and since we must part, you will still gladden your quiet home with your sweet presence, while I will wander forth to win the fortune which can alone secure me my future happiness.”

Three weeks after this interview, Edward Ellis sailed for Smyrna, and Mrs. Pemberton, as she witnessed the ill-disguised agitation of the lovers, was compelled to acknowledge that “after all, she really believed, if Edward had staid, there would have been a match between him and Edith.”

But Edith buried within her own bosom, her newly awakened emotions. Her manner was always so quiet, that if her step did become less light, and her voice grow softer in its melancholy cadence, it was scarcely noticed by her thoughtless companions. She had learned that she was beloved, only in the moment of separation, and therefore there were few tender and blissful recollections to beguile the weary days of absence; but

“Woman’s love can live on long remembrance

And oh! how precious is the slightest thing

Affection gives, and hallows!”

She was one of those gentle beings who draw from the font of tenderness within their own bosoms, a full draught of sympathy for the sufferings and wants of others. She returned to her self-denying duties with a more thoughtful spirit and a more loving heart. Her character, always full of goodness and truth, seemed to assume an elevation of feeling, such as nothing but a pure and unselfish attachment can ever create. A desire to become in all respects, worthy of him whom she loved, gave a new tone to all her impulses, and her vivid sense of duty became blended with her earnest desire to merit her future happiness. Edward wrote very punctually to his young friend Charles Pemberton, and every letter contained some message to Edith, but she alone could detect the secret meaning of the apparently careless lines. They afforded sufficient nutriment to the love which was rapidly becoming a part of her very being; and Edith was content to abide her time!

In the mean time Mrs. Pemberton, who became an adept in match-making, busied herself in providing for her younger girls, and was fortunate enough to secure two most eligible offers. Caroline, at eighteen became the wife of a promising young lawyer, while Maria, who was nearly two years younger, married at the same time a prosperous merchant, who had lately set up his carriage and, as he had no time to use it himself, wanted a wife to ride in it. Mrs. Pemberton was in ecstasies, for she had succeeded in all her plans. Edith was still at home, as a sort of house keeper, head cook, chief nurse, etc. etc., sharing every body’s labors and lightening every body’s troubles, while the two giddy girls who had resolved not to become useful as long as they could avoid the necessity of it, were respectably settled in their own homes. She was never tired of extolling the talents of one son-in-law, and the fine fortune of the other, while she spoke of Edith as “that dear good girl, who, I am happy to say, is a confirmed old maid, and will never leave her mother while she lives.” But this manœuvre did not discourage several from seeking the hand of the gentle girl. Her father wondered when she refused two of the most unexceptionable offers, and even her mother felt almost sorry, when she declined the addresses of an elderly widower, endowed with a fortune of half a million, and a family of fine children. But a total want of congeniality of feeling in all her immediate friends, had taught Edith a degree of reserve which seemed effectually to conceal her deepest feelings. She was patient and trustful, she considered herself affianced in heart, and though conscious that not even the tie of honor, as the world would consider it, bound her lover to his troth, she felt no misgivings as to his fidelity. She trod the even tenor of her way, diffusing cheerfulness and comfort around her, thinking for every body, remembering every thing and forgetting only herself. None sought her sympathy or assistance in vain; in her own family—in the chamber of sickness or death, among her friends,—in the hovel of poverty and distress, she was alike useful and kindly. Every one loved her, and even those who tested her powers of endurance most fully, almost idolized the unselfish and affectionate daughter and sister.

Years passed on, and brought their usual chances and charges. Caroline became a mother, and fancied that her cares were quite too heavy for her to bear alone. Edith was therefore summoned to assist and soon found herself occupying a similar station in her sister’s nursery to that which she had long filled at home. The baby was often sick and always cross; nobody but Edith could manage him, and therefore Edith took the entire charge of him, while the mother paid visits and the nurse gossiped in the kitchen. Maria too began to assert claims upon her. She, poor thing, was entirely too young for the duties she had undertaken. Thoughtless, fond of dress, and profuse in household expenditure, she had no idea of systematic housekeeping, and Edith was called in to place matters on a better footing. But before Maria had attained her eighteenth year, her family was rather liberally increased by the addition of twin daughters, and again the agency of the useful sister was required. Her girlhood had been consumed amid womanly cares, and now her years of blooming womanhood were to be wasted in supplying the deficiencies of those who had incurred responsibilities which exceeded their powers. Yet Edith never thought of murmuring. She had been so long accustomed to live for others that self-sacrifice had now become habitual, and she never dreamed too much might be asked of or granted by sisterly affection.

It is a common remark that the years seem to grow shorter as we advance in life, and they who could once exclaim “a whole year!” in accents of unqualified alarm at its length, at last find themselves referring to the same space in the careless tone of indifference as “only a year.” Twelve months had seemed almost an eternity to Edith when her lover first bade her farewell, and the time that intervened between his letters to her brother seemed almost endless. But as she became engrossed in new cares, and her youth began to slip by, the years seemed to revolve with greater speed, even although Charles was now in a distant part of the country and the correspondence between him and her lover if it was still continued, never met her eye. She had formed an intimacy with Edward’s mother, and, as the old lady was very fond of needle-worked pin-cushions, net purses, worsted fire screens, and all such little nick nacks if obtained without expense, Edith was soon established in her good graces. She was thus enabled to see Edward’s letters to his parents, and though they were very business-like commonplace affairs, not at all resembling a lady’s beau-ideal of a lover’s epistle, still Edith was satisfied. It was strange that so strong, so abiding, so pervading a passion should have taken possession of a creature so gentle, so almost cold in her demeanor. But the calmest exterior often conceals the strongest emotions, and, if the flow of Edith’s feelings was quiet it was only because they worked for themselves a deeper and less fathomable channel.

Seventeen years,—a long period in the annals of time, and a longer in the records of the heart;—seventeen years passed ere Edward Ellis returned to his native land. He had left it a romantic warm-hearted youth and he returned a respectable, intelligent, wealthy man. The ambition which would have led him to seek literary fame, had been expended in search of other distinctions in the world of commerce. He had become a keen observer of men and an acute student of the more sordid qualities of human nature—in a word, he had devoted his fine energies to the acquisition of wealth, and as his father predicted, he had so well availed himself of his opportunities that he was both an enlightened and rich merchant. But the romance of his early days had long since passed away. The imaginative student was concealed or rather lost in the man of the world. Thrown upon his own resources, in a foreign land, and surrounded by strangers he had learned to think and act for himself. He had acquired the worldly wisdom which enabled him to study his own interests, and it is not strange that selfishness should have mingled its alloy with his naturally amiable character. During his long sojourn abroad no claims had been made upon his affections, he had lived unloving and unloved, and the warm current of his feelings seemed gradually to have become chilled. When seen through the mist of absence, or viewed through the long vista of time, the familiar faces of his distant home, faded into vague and indistinct images. He returned to the scenes of his youth with a feeling of strangeness and the remembrances at every step of his approach were rather mournful than pleasant to his soul.

Edward Ellis had been several days at home, he had fully answered all the claims filial and fraternal duty, and received the congratulations of the friends who are always found ready to note one’s good fortune, ere he bent his steps towards the dwelling of Edith Pemberton. His feelings in this as in most other things were materially altered. His early passion, like his aspirations after fame, had become but as a dream of the past, a shadow of some unattainable felicity. The hope which once made his love a source of anticipated happiness, had long since faded from his sight, and as time passed on, a tender and melancholy interest, such as one feels when regarding the youthful dead, was the only emotion which the recollection of Edith could inspire. He had outlived the affection which he had designed to be the measure of their existence. The flower had been blighted by the cold breath of worldliness, and so many sordid interests had occupied his heart since, that every trace of its beauty was lost forever. Not with a wish to revive old feelings, but from a morbid restless unsatisfied yearning towards the past, Ellis betook himself to the abode of his once loved Edith.

As he entered the hall, and ere the servant could announce his name, a young lady emerged from the drawing-room, and met him face to face. He started in unfeigned surprise, as he exclaimed:⁠—

“Miss Pemberton!—Edith—can it be possible?”

The lady looked a little alarmed, and opening the door through which she had just passed said:⁠—

“My name is Margaret, sir; did you wish to see sister Edith?”

He answered in the affirmative, and as he took his seat while the sylph-like figure of the beautiful girl disappeared, he could not help glancing at the mirror, where a moment’s reflection soon convinced him that the years which had so changed him could scarcely have left Edith untouched. The thought that Margaret whom he had left almost an infant should have thus expanded into the lovely image of her sister, prepared him in some measure for other changes.

Edith had expected his visit with a flutter of spirits most unusual and distressing. She was conscious that he would find her sadly altered in person, and she had been trying to school herself for the interview, which she well knew must be fraught with pain even if it brought happiness. But when her young sister came to her with a ludicrous account of the strange gentleman’s droll mistake, her prophetic soul, which had acquired the gift of prescience from sorrow, saw but too plainly the cloud upon her future. She descended to the drawing-room with a determination to control her emotions, and, to one so accustomed to self command, the task though difficult was not impossible. The meeting between the long parted lovers was painful and full of constraint. In the emaciated figure, and hollow cheek of her who had long passed the spring of life, Ellis saw little to awaken the associations of early affection, for the being who now appeared before him scarcely retained a trace of her former self. Time, and care, and the wearing anxiety of hope deferred had blighted the beauty which under happier circumstances might have outlived her youthfulness. Edith was now only a placid pleasant looking woman with that indescribable air of mannerism which always characterises the single lady of a certain age, and as Ellis compared her present appearance with that of her blooming sister, who bore a most singular resemblance to her, he was tempted to feel a secret satisfaction in the belief that her heart was as much changed as her person.

And what felt Edith at this meeting? She had lived on one sweet hope, and had borne absence, and sorrow, and the wasting of weary expectancy with the patience of a loving and trusting heart. It is true that, as years sped on, she lost much of the sanguine temper which once seemed to abbreviate time and diminish space. It is true that as time stole the bloom from her cheek and the brightness from her eye, many a misgiving troubled her gentle bosom, and the shadow of a settled grief seemed gradually extending its gloom over her feelings. But still hope existed,—no longer as the brilliant sunshine of existence,—no longer as the only hope which the future could afford,—but faded and dim—its radiance lost in the mist of years, yet still retaining a spark of its early warmth. She had many doubts and fears but she still had pleasant fancies of the future, which, cherished in her secret heart, were the only fountains of delight in the dreary desert of her wasted feelings. But now all was at an end. They had met, not as strangers, but, far worse, as estranged friends. The dream of her life was rudely broken—the veil was lifted from her eyes,—the illusion which had given all she knew of happiness, was destroyed forever. In the words of him who has sounded every string of love’s sweet lyre, she might have exclaimed in the bitterness of her heart:⁠—

“Had we but known, since first we met,

Some few short hours of bliss,

We might in numbering them, forget

The deep deep pain of this;

But no! our hope was born in fears

And nursed ’mid vain regrets!

Like winter suns, it rose in tears,

Like them, in tears it sets.”

Mrs. Pemberton at first formed some schemes, founded on the remembrance of Edward’s former liking for Edith, but when she learned his error respecting Margaret she began to fancy that if her eldest daughter was a little too old, the younger was none too young to make a good wife for the rich merchant. She expressed her admiration of his expanded figure, extolled his fine hair, which happened to be a well made wig, was in raptures with his beautiful teeth which owed their brilliancy to the skill of a French dentist, and, in short, left no means untried to accomplish her end. But she was doomed to disappointment. It is not easy to kindle a new flame from the ashes of an extinguished passion. There was a secret consciousness, a sense of dissatisfaction with himself, that made Ellis rather shrink from Edith’s society, and threw an air of constraint over his manner towards the whole family. He was not happy in the presence of her who appeared before him as a spectre of the past, bearing reproaches in its melancholy countenance, and after a few embarrassed attempts at carelessness in his intercourse with her, he ceased entirely to visit the family.

No one ever knew what Edith suffered, for no one suspected her long-cherished attachment. Her step became languid, her cheek sunken, her eye unnaturally bright, and when at length, a hacking cough fastened itself upon her lungs, every body said that Edith Pemberton was falling into a consumption. Some attributed it to a cold taken when nursing her sister through a dangerous illness,—others thought she had worn out her health among her numerous nephews and nieces. But the worm lay at the root of the tree and though the storm and the wind might work its final overthrow, the true cause of its fall was the gnawing of the secret destroyer. Gradually and quietly and silently she faded from among the living. Friends gathered round her couch of suffering and the consolations of the Book of all truth smoothed her passage to the tomb. With a world of sorrow and care sinking from her view, and an eternal life of happiness opening upon her dying eyes, she closed her useful and blameless life.

On the very day fixed upon for his marriage with a young and fashionable heiress, Edward Ellis received a summons to attend, as pall bearer, the funeral of Edith Pemberton. Of course he could not decline, and as he beheld the earth flung upon the coffin which concealed the faded form of her whom he had once loved, the heart of the selfish and worldly man was touched with pity and remorse. But he turned from Edith’s grave to his own bridal and in the festivities of that gay scene soon forgot her who, after a life spent in the service of others, had fallen a victim to that chronic heart-break which destroys many a victim never numbered in the records of mortality.

Gentle reader, I have told you a simple story, but one so like the truth, that you will be tempted to conjecture that the real heroine has been actually known to you. Will not the circle of your own acquaintance furnish an Edith Pemberton?—a gentle, lovely and loveable woman, who leads a life of quiet benevolence, and whose obscure and peaceful existence is marked by deeds of kindness, even as the windings of a summer brook are traced by the freshness of the verdure and flowers that adorn its banks? Have you never met with one of those persons on whose gravestone might be inscribed the beautiful and touching lines of the poet Delille?

“Joyless I lived yet joy to others gave!”

And when you have listened to the bitter jest, the keen sarcasm and the thoughtless ridicule which the young and gay are apt to utter against “the old maid,” has it never occurred to you that each of these solitary and useful beings may have her own true tale of young and disappointed affection?