Spirit of the age. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1849-1865, 1853-11-02

: 90 cOnpIeUely udu 4 DCCn oOoOAUOu Al
my own painful reflections that their words
had fallen like meaningless sounds upon
my ears, and | dreamed not that they re-
ferred to me.
another and another hour passed a
gain and again had the tiny clock upon the
mantel chimed forth its silvery warning
| needed not the rustling of Times droop-
ing wing, though as he passed he left
shadow upon my spirit darker than any ev
er before cast there.
But at length, wearied and exhausted,
assembled to my chamber the lamp which
Ernest had used was dimly burning, but
the rosy glow which already glimmered in
the east rendered it unnecessary. Ap-
preaching the dressing table, / saw letter
directed to me in his handwriting. Hasti-
ly breaking the seal, glanced at it. 1t
needed but glance to impress those words,
as with pen Of fire, upon my heart. 1t
ran thus:
Mary, my fondly idolized one, for whose
sake my own life would have been deemed
as naught, could thy young spirit have
been made more happy-how have l loved
thee and oh, how fondly deemed [ that
thou vert my own-all, all my own. Alas,
how soon has the bright vision been dis
pellcd-how has the glowing sunshine been
succeeded by darkness and gloom that
naught save Heavens own blessed sunlight
can restore.
Having heard of the sudden illness of
your father, [ took the early train of cars,
and reached home sooner than expected
You were not there. | hastened to Mrs.
Clifford's, and was directed to the conserva-
tory, where indeed | saw you. How p
With the arm of Victor de Montreuil
clasping your waist, your head resting up
on his shoulder heard his low, passion
ate tones, but did not sec you spurn him
from you. That head which has so often
rested upon this breast, only dropped more
confdingly upon his! It was enough
yet l could not refrain from asking a
stranger, who personated the nun, ST.
Agnes ?-the reply was, Mrs. Ernest
Stanhope, | have been told
Florence had described your dress to
me, at breakfast, on the morning of my de-
parture, and now my last hope that it might
possibly be another, was gone-wh by need
[ say more The heart once fondly
deemed mine own has been given to an
other. Fool that | was-and yet, Mary,
it was because my love for thee was so true,
that doubted not thy constancy, no, not
even when l saw thee lavishing thy soft
looks and gentle words on that monster of
perfdity, Victor de Montreuil. But my
dream is passed. have awoke, but ah, it
Il cannot stay and look day after day
upon the face which has been to me as
pure, radiant star For me its brightness
is forever lost in gloom deeper and darker
than Egyptian midnight. How wildly I
have loved thee God only knows.
Farewell, Mary. Never more may 1
= gaze with loves unquestioning fondness in
t to those eyes which had seemed to reflect
only purity and holiness. Never more
g may l press my lips to those which have
i been polluted by the breath of Victor dc
3 Montrcuil Never more may l hold thee
d in my arms, and feel the pulses of that
o heart / once deemed so true, beating wild
e ly against my own.
$ Never more! Oh Mary, my heart seems
IS breaking-m my brain is crazed-I know no
z how to write to thee. Alas, that thou
n shouldst thus have blighted all the swee
Ii flowers in our Eden of happiness. Ours
r | say, for we'll do l know that earth's foun
l. tains held no waters pure enough to coo
the fever in thy soul-that there beam
lie upon it no sunlight, be it ever so radiant
rt that can restore the pure violets of Low
$. which once nestled in thy heart. Tho
oil hast made me very wrctched. God forgiv
s. thee. Farewell-forever
or Il read it through calmly, for 1 comprC
y hended not a syllable. [ seemed like on
" in trance, until l reached the last line
= a and then the horrible truth flashed upo
- - me, with terrific power. [ gasped fc
H0 breath, and wildly striving to utter h
J., name, sank upon the floor. When
~ woke to consciousness, found myself a
% " inmate of lunatic asylum. For man,
~ w many months, had l raved in all the vii
% % frenzy of delirium. l had given birth
~ thee, my child, while unconscious, but whe
80 a'' l first pressed my lips to thy fair bro
- a. thou vast revelling in the jOyousncss
nm,o m thy second summer Thou vert all Il
ny tie that bound me to earth Ny faith
~ ~ died shortly after Ernest left, craving
~. ~, blessing for the child who be imagined h
.o1 left him to die alone! He never knew
my wretchedness.
,rs Florence was the first who had disco
on cred me as lay on the floor, on that fat
,lv day. She staid not, striving with gen
ne tones and loving words to bring back t
=. spark of reason to its shrine. The frie
his of her school-days lay like crushed a
his broken lily-she raised not the droopi
! head and blessed it with the holy water
dc love and consolation. Oh mol Florer
m de Montreuil had too surely effected /
, il purpose, and shortly after she left the G.
tho with her brother. know not where th
are-their names have never passed !
sat lips since that day. l have no wish
" a evil in my heart for them; remorse Y
bic. make their cup one Of bitterness.
that murderer of domestic happiness will
late be allowed to 60 unpunished. If the m;
ords of Cain be not branded upon the brow
is stamped deeper and darker upon
,lete heart. And yet blame not Florence,
a 10 the world would do, for but too we'll l kr
en- It that my own undisciplined spirit sowed
seeds of that evil which yielded so deepl
trnst harvest.
sub i learned, when 1 became able to !