Chapter II

“She seldom smiled—and when she did,

It was so sad, subdued, and brief,

As though her mourning heart she’d chide,

And strove to smile away its grief.”

The attachment between Tomlinson and Miss Wilson, thus far, had been secretly kept from her parents, they preferring to make it known but a few weeks previously to their marriage-day. But Mrs. Wilson, with the watchfulness of a mother, perceived their intimacy, and, in a gentle manner, addressed her thus:

“Mary, for some time past I have noticed rather more than a friendly intimacy between you and Mr. Tomlinson, and, as a mother, I feel it my duty to give you advice on the subject. I would not do aught to give you pain; but I am not favorable to the addresses of Mr. Tomlinson.”

Miss Wilson, deeming it no longer prudent to keep the truth of the matter concealed from her mother, replied:

“Dear mother, I hope you will forgive my rashness, for we have long since been engaged. I hope you will overlook my disobedience.”

Their conversation was broken off by a quick ring of the bell, and Mary hastened to the door to respond to the call.

“I have a message from Mr. Tomlinson, and wish to see Miss Wilson alone for a few moments,” said the stranger.

“I am Miss Wilson. What is your business with me, sir?” she asked.

“I have,” he continued, “unfortunately to announce to you that Mr. Tomlinson, since he has lost so much in the misfortunes which have fallen on so many of the citizens of this city, deems it, at present, a rash undertaking to marry, while circumstances of such an aggravating character continue. I think it would be better for you to be as calm as possible, and wait with due patience until a more favorable turn of fortune, which I anticipate will not be very long.”

Had an ice-bolt entered the heart of that young girl, it could not have had a much greater effect. His words fell upon her ears like the solemn knell of all her hopes; for, since their misfortunes, she had fondly supposed that her marriage with Mr. Tomlinson would, in a great measure, retrieve the reputation of her father. She could not believe that Mr. Tomlinson would be guilty of such duplicity, and thought a stranger had imposed upon her. But how he, stranger as he was, knew any thing in regard to their engagement, was something more than she could solve—an enigma which cost her much anxiety and thought; for even her parents, until that moment, had not known it. Her mother saw the hectic flush mantle the cheek of her child, and felt conscious that something serious would be the consequence. That Mary loved Tomlinson was unmistakable. She read it in the deep blue of her eyes; she saw it in every lineament of her features; she discovered it in all her actions; and, with the sympathy of a mother’s own feelings, she endeavored to console her in that, her “hour of need.” But the effect was too much for her delicate constitution to bear. She “loved not wisely, but too well;” and, day after day, she sat pensively surveying the beautiful scenery before her, and silently reflecting on her own unhappy condition.

“Her silvery voice was heard no more⁠—

She sang not, and her breathing late,

Which never knew neglect before,

Now lies alone—forgotten, mute!

Or, if a passing strain she rang,

So mournfully its numbers rose,

That those who heard might deem she sang

A lorn soul’s requiem to repose!”

On a lovely autumn evening, just as the sun was shedding its last rosy beams on the tops of the surrounding hills, Mary looked from her chamber window, and drank in, at a glance, the golden glories of expiring day, and thought how calm it would be for her to die as sweetly as the sun was sinking to rest behind the hills, so that her memory might live, like the beauteous twilight, long after her frail body had mouldered again to dust. She called her mother to her side, and told her that she was dying! At such a beautiful hour, when the day began to close, and shadows were no longer broad-cast from the clouds, but were stretched along the surface of the earth by the interception of a tree, or hill-side, Mary breathed her last!

As these precious but fleeting scenes pass like sober thoughts across the face of earth, or intermingle side by side with gay and brilliant passages of light of equal evanescence, making all tender and beautiful, which otherwise had been lustrous and sparkling, they call up within the heart the memory of the past; and by an association we can scarcely trace, characters reappear of friends who have passed away before us.

Thus ended the life of Mary Wilson. Struck down in the vigor and bloom of youth, this young maiden has left many friends to mourn her loss. She was much esteemed; so much so, that every personal defect was forgotten in the charms of her spirit, with which she imparted to her friends a look of kindness and a blessing.

“Yon willow shades a marble stone,

On which the curious eye can tell

That underneath there lieth one

Who loved not wisely—but too well.”