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•elegantly developed figure, and very beautiful
hair, 1 noticed at a first glance; and the same
look showed me that her whole style-was un
exceptionable, and that her present position
indicated great languor or dejection. Her j
little boy was pi ay ingather knee, occasional
ly addressing mama, and then running to his
nurse, as though impatient of his mother s ab
straction.
She arose on observing the company assem
bling for the evening, and calling her child to
her, prepared to leave the apartment. An
involuntary murmur of admiration followed
her, which was not diminished, when on
reaching the staircase, she took up the
little fellow, who putting his chubby white
arms around her neck, and his ringletted
head on her shoulder, said repeatedly, as she
toiled up the stairs with him, “darling mama
I love my darling mama.”
In this little scene and its actors, there was
something which riveted my attention and in
terest, so 1 turned to a friend less strange than
myself to the gossip of the house, and in
quired who that lovely lady might be.
“She is indeed lovely, poor Mrs. Elton,”
said the kind hearted lady.
“And why that sigh” I questioned, “and
why does she awaken your pity?”
“Because she is a sad example of the in
sufficiency of all the gifts of fortune to give
true happiness. During the five or six years
you have been absent from New England,
she has come upon the stage of life the ob
served of all, and the envy of half the world;
therefore she has been criticised, censured,
slandered, and l truly believe that now in
the very springtime of her life, endowed with
every gift of fortune, she is dying of a broken
heart, loathing the world, which has betrayed
her with a Judas-kiss. When 1 first saw her
she was not yet married, but the day was al
ready fixed which was to see her united to
Mr. Elton. She was known to be the heir
ess of great wealth, and her beauty, and the
fascination of her brilliant conversation and
manner, made her the belle of the season. I
nevdr saw her but she was in the gayest spir
its imaginable, and her irresistible merry
laugh or quick repartee, made her to be
the life of every circle she entered. But in
this mirth, it occasionally struck me, there was
something hollow and mocking—a shadow
would flit over her face—a bitter word escape
her unawares, or the light of happiness would
suddenly leave her large eyes; and all these
things told me, that there were hidden thoughts
and feelings, which were far from accordant
with her usual manner.
“In May a gay party assembled at Beech
wood, the residence of her idolising father,
(her mother had been dead, since she was a
child,) and there she was married. I heard
of the triumphs of her loveliness and wit in
the various cities whose fashionable circles
she graced like a wandering star, and at the
watering places where they tarried fora time.
That winter she spent at Boston, and there I
again met her. Her health did not allow of
her participation in the festivities of the sea
son, but her society was much courted. One
evening a gay party of intimate friends had
assembled in her rooms at the Tremont, when
a messenger riding with furious speed through
the streets, bore to her a letter from the house
keeper at Beech wood—her father was dying!
In an hour’s time she was on her way to him,
and the noon of the following day found her
at his bed. He died and did not recognize
her; she, his bis all in life was stung
with remorse, that she had reached the death
bed too late!
“Such agony as was hers, it was terrible to
witness. She would not leave his room even
when the corpse had been borne out from be
fore her, but refusing to be comforted, she
shut herself up there, and gave way to the
violence of a grief none could comprehend.
In that room after a few months she gave
birth to the son you saw with her, and then
when her health was reestablished, she sud-
a®®ifs aie an ih ii tb aa a v
denly returned to the world which mourned
its brightest star. Her gaiety was now more
reckless than ever, but her hours of depres
sion were become evident, and all learned to
know her, as one who laughed and danced,
and sung and jested to forget the throbbings
of an unquiet and aching heart.
“At length slanders, long in embryo in envi
ous hearts, were circulated, and had their usu
al effect on the tone of society around her;
friends of her own sex grew colder and more
formal in their intercourse with her, while
those of the other, who had only dared wor
ship at a distance the young wife and mother,
became familiar and insolent in the expression
of their admiration, She saw this change,
and after a while learned its cause. Oh ! the
effect this knowledge produced upon her ! 1
heard her once, when, roused by her wrongs,
she poured forth a torrent of eloquent but very
bitter sarcasm on the world’s false heart. I
wished then that her slanderers could have
listened to her: I believe they would for once
have had some perception of the distance be
tween their own little souls, and that of the
woman they sought to reduce to their level.”
The lady paused a moment, for she had
become much excited by her own recital, and
I asked her, “ where and what was Mr. El
ton —you do not mention him in this de
tail
“ He has not deserved to be mentioned in
the same hour with his wife. They are be
ings of different spheres, different natures and
souls. ‘ They say’ at one time he grew very
jealous of her and threatened a divorce. Ido
not know the particulars but I do know she
is an innocent, but much wronged and heart
broken woman.”
Long before tbe narrative was concluded
I had become convinced that I already well
knew its heroine, so I enquired of my friend :
“ Was not Mrs. Elton the beautiful Marian
Chadwick, and did not her father’s residence
once bear another name ? ”
“Yes, you are quite right. She was firsl
known as “the heiress of Limvood,” which is,
you recollect, one of the finest estates in the
country : but she wearied of her oft repeated
title and pursuaded her father to change the
name of bis seat, simply that she might have
the gratification of contradicting the asser
tion, by saying 4 am no longer heiress of Lin
wood.’ ”
I had listened to enough; in a few minutes
I was pressed to the weary heart of the dear
est friend of my childhood, while she was
sobbing out her joy at meeting me, and the
whole burthen of her sick heart. She told
me, when she had became more composed,
that her husband was absent, on an excursion
to the White Mountains, and would remain
with her but a day or two onhis'return, when
he would be off for Nahant, whose greater
gaiety would enable his summer to pass more
swiftly. She had decided not to accompany
him, but to retire to Beechwood for the re
mainder of the season.
I imparted to her my plans for the summer
and begged her to come and rest in my quiet
home. To this she gladly acceded, and in a
week’s time George Elton had given his con
sent to a plan which left him at liberty to
pursue his course of pleasure, and my friend
and her sweet child were installed in the
pleasantest rooms my cottage could boast.
There she gradually recovered somewhat of
her old cheerfulness, and one day when the
conversation had taken a turn which carried
us back to our girlhood, Marian gave me a
sketch of her life since we had parted, merry
hearted girls of twelve and thirteen. She
recalled to me many incidents of her school
days, related previously in her letters, and
then w r ent on to say:
“My health became so delicate in the
summer of 183 —, that my teachers decided
I had better not return to school for a few
months. My fond father, desirous of bestow
ing every advantage upon me, established me
at Portsmouth for the rest of the year, where
although I continued to take lessons in riding,
music, dancing, &c., 1 came to be considered
quite a young lady, and my reputation for
wealth having gone abroad 1 was much sought
by both ladies and gentlemen. In the course
of the winter I became acquainted with Henry
Pickens whom I then truly loved, little
dreaming he was to be the evil genius of my
after life. I think at that time he was worthy
of mv love; he has changed greatly since,
for then he professed to be governed by prin
ciples which were good and noble however
weak they showed themselves when severely
tested. The only thing which annoyed me
were his jests at religion and sometimes his
openly expressed contempt for it ; but I could
not blame him very much for this, for then
1 was quite ignorent myself of its power and
efficacy. Like myself Henry had been
motherless from infancy, and his father was
as rreligious as it was possible for a man to
be, and not forfeit entirely his claim to the
title of gentleman. Several other suitors came
forward that winter, and. when on the follow 7 -
in<r season I returned to Portsmouth a finished
young lady, I was readily hailed one of the
belles of the aristocratic circles there. I w*as
betrothed to Henry before the winter was
half gone and we were to be married in May.
Meanwhile George Elton had appeared
among us, a star of the first magnitude, a
“goodfellow” among the gentlemen, and “an
Adonis, and a rich one” too, in the eyes of
the mammas and their daughters. He was
one of a large firm in New York, accustomed
to the best society and the eclat of superior
fashion followed him. He singled me out as
the most eligible young lady in the town and
Henry was soon terribly annoyed by the en
couragement he fancied I gave him. It was
more mischief than coquetry which induced
me to act as I did, though, Heaven knows, I
dreamed not of the result.
“ Henry Pickens was a lieutenant in the na
vy, but being possessed of a large property,
he had decided to relinquish his profession
when he married. He had not yet announced
this determination when he was suddenly
summoned to join his ship. There had been
a slight pique between us the night before, in
reference to Elton, and when on calling that
morning to inform me of the order he had re
ceived, and of his proposed withdrawal, he
found I had gone into the country to spend
the day with Elton’s aunt, and that that
gentleman was my escort, the feelings of the
evening revived. He, scrawling on a card a
few hurried words of reproach revealing clear
ly the bitterness of his heart, proceeded to
join his ship, and when he returned from his
cruise after an absence of two years he found
me the wife of his rival.
“ Do not despise me when I tell you I have
never loved George Elton with a hundredth
part of the intensity a husband might claim
from my heart; he could not awaken such love
nor could he appreciate, or reciprocate it.—
You, who have grown up into womanhood,
shielded from all temptation to coquetry by a
pure affection which grew with your growth,
and who, since your marriage have dwelt in
an atmosphere of devoted love, apart from the
follies of fashionable life, can have little
sympathy, I know, with my wayward course.
I. was differently trained. I was not like
yourself educated in heart and soul, though I
professed to be. I was not fitted for useful
ness in any sense of the word, neither to be
happy myself nor to make others so. My
vocation was to shine, to dazzle and attract
admiration, not love. Do not interrupt me, I
must finish my recital now; I shall never have
courage to allude to it again.
“And now 1 must tell you what my husband
is : then, as still a good natured fellow, very
vain of his person, and showy manners, quite
au fait in the conventionalities of polished
society, indulgent when I do not interfere
with his comfort in any way, and without as
much heart and soul in his handsome person
as I hope the baby form of my little Charlie
holds. I saw at a glance that he was my
inferior, and that I never could love as a
husband, a man whom 1 could not respect.
The error of my life lay in becoming his wife,
in promising before God to love and honor
him. How fearfully has the soul within me
which I then wronged avenged itself on me,
in the total wreck of my earthly happiness,
and in its own degradation and Joss of vitali
ty-
“ My father alone discerned the truth and
warned me of my fault; but I had my own
way as I have always done, and I did not
awaken to a sense of my great sin against
truth and love, and my own soul, until I
looked on the lifeless body’ of him, whose
warning then sounded in my ears like the
knell of life and happiness—the prophecy of
my destiny. At this time I ceased writing to
you —for months I had not dcared to unbosom
myself to you, to tear away the veil I had
drawn over my heart, and when I had done
so, I could not in the intensity of my self
contempt, write the truth which continually
sprung up before me when I contrasted our
different destinies.
“ With the birth of child came better
thoughts. I stiffed my bitterness, or rather
I extinguished it for that time with the sweet
waters of a mother’s love, and I learned to re
gard more tenderly the father of my boy : in
deed he never knew my feelings towards him,
nor has he mind enough to become sensible
of the distance which will ever divide his
soul and mine. I believe I have passed in
the world for a happy wife, generally* speak
ing, at least until tbe one dark cloud rested
visibly over my fair fame.
“ How calmly I can speak now, of the agony
I p&ssed through during those months of doubt
and suspicion which followed Henry Pick
en’s return. Had he not come, all would
have gone well, I should have grow*n les&
sensitive, and gradually should have sunk to
the level of those about me. I met him again
in the very room where I had parted from
him, his bethrothed. I hushed my* heart
when I saw him approaching me, and greeted
him in an unembarrassed and friendly manner.
He was evidently surprised at this, but soon
took up his part, and in the most skillful
manner of attack ; by* playing with my* child,
and the most entirely respectful attention to
myself I was thrown off my guard, He took
advantage of my increasing friendliness to un
veil to me the sin lurking in hisheart. Good
Heavens! how the revelation startled me, how
my eyes were opened to his true character!
how 1 loathed where I had loved, how indig
nently I spurned his proffered heart and pro
tection’ Now’ I found I had been for some
time the victim of his boastful falsehoods,
and where he could, he bad blighted the good
name 1 bore. \ou have heard of George's
jealousy; his first impulse was to challenge
Pickens; they met and were both slightly
wounded, and then regardless of his wound
George started off to 8., to consult about a
divorce.
are wonderingat the calm manner in
w’hich I tell this—l was even calmer then .
I followed my husband to the city nor did 1
rest tilj 1 had proved to him my innocence,
wringing the avowal from the lips of Pickens
as I bent over his sick bed. All this I did
for my boy. He shall never bear the brand
of a mother’s .shame. George was most re
morseful ; his heart was really touched, and I
believe he loves me now more than ever be
fore. And I—l have forced him to believe
me innocent—l have made the lying world
take back its slanders, and now command it*
respect as in happier days its admiration. —
Even Henry Pickens shrinks from the public
condemnation he has drawn down upon him
self. I have tried to be a good wife to George
who now even treats me most kindly, and
you know I am a devoted mother to my dar
ling —but dear friend, lam dying?
Do not look so incredulous: see my* attenua
ted figure which I have learned so well to die-