Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1855-12-18
EVENING STAR
B E A I e ICE.
BY ElaIM Y. HAMILTON.

| shSiA aOdSnSI, III . liItto tcu SouoOt mouse, re
citing their spelling lesson, while tho remain
der of the pupils fdgetted in their seats, piled
and replied their books on their desks, anC
| cast restless, eager glances out at the oper
door and then the teachers face, for II wa
nearly time for dismissal, and weary of Ion:
afternoons confinement, the children soulC
hardly wait for the tinkle of the bell-the sig
nal for their release. AT last the spelinG
! class took their seats, the bell sounded, snc
instantly there was a scene Of confusion-boy
rushed out ofthe door, and gave vent to theil
pent up spirits In whoops, yells, and summer
sets; and girls, more quietly, but less gaily
ran out into the open air. Soon their merry
voices died away in the distance, and the
teacher was left alone in that just now crowded
| school room.
She was a young and striking looking girl
Her form was erect, her step stately, and her
features, though irregular, were pleasing her
abundant raven hair was wound in q sort OF
coronal around her head, in singular but not
unbecoming fashion; her complexion was a
clear olive, and her mouth firm in its express
ion, almost unpleasanty so when closed, but
when she smiled she was beautiful: then her
whole ceuntenance changed; her large, frey
eyes grew soft and tender, and the pride and
hauteur that spoke in her very lineament,
| marrlng Ger otherwise most perfect beauty,
disappeared.
Just now one OF those beaming smiles lighted
| up her countenance; she stood by her desk in
her usual erect position, holding a note, vet
| unopened, in her hand. 1t had been brought
to the school room during the session, and now
that she vas alone she was prepared to read
| it. She looked at the bold, firm handwriting,
and pressed it to her lips; then slowly unfold
| ing it she read
For some time past, Beatrice, have been
unhappy; you have observed it, and to your
IA Ifc II kor I.
evasive replies, but can deceive myself and
you no longer L sought you last night with
the determination to tell you all, but / could
not. You were SO kind, so confding, could
not utter the words that would, 1 felt. give
you so much pain. But / must do it, What
my tongue refuses to tell, L must trust to my
pen. ltis useless to hesitate, the sooner ali
is known the better for US both. Beatrice,
hnd that have mistaken the nature of nv
feelings towards yeu. As God is my witness.
when we were betrothed, 1 thought L loved
you, still appreciate your rare loveliness
and, better still, your many excellencies of
mind and heart; but our affections are beyond
our control, and, much as there is admirable
about you, no longer love you. AT first L de-
termined never to acquain you with the change
of my sentiments, but / shrank from a life
time of deceit. 1 could not at the altar per-
Jure myself by taking those solemn vows; and
knew, too, that you would spurn the
offered hand without the heart accompanied it,
1 have done very wrong in hastily entering
upon our engagement without proper kuowl-
edge Of my true feeling toward you 1 was
charmed by your beauty, dazzled by your
wit, and attracted by your virtues mistook
the whirl of emotions L felt fer love But it is
better for me to acknowledge my fault than
to commit sin in leading you to the altar
while my heart is anOther's. Farewell, and
may you find some one more worthy of yourlove
than your friend, Gf you will still allow me
to claim that title,) Louis MEREDIrH"
Every particle of color forsook Beatrice's
cheeks as she read-her lips were white, her
hands trembled so violently she could scarcely
hold the letter-a death-like paleness stole
over her, and she sank into chair and buried
her face in her hands
Not tear, not moan escaped her she
sat in silence, motiOnIess as a statue, but in
her heart what a whirlwind of emotions was
raging! How long she sat there she hardly
knew; when at last she looked up the twi-
light was deepening, and she arose with
| start from her seat. Her cOuntenance bore
the traces Of her sufering-she looked hag-
CARED and wan; the agony Of those few hours
had changed her fearfully, but her eyes
flashed with all their usual fire, and her lips
were firmly compressed together. She drew
herself up proudly as if she despised herself
for her weakness, crushed the letter which
had fallen from her trembling fingers, con-
temptuously under foot, and then picked it up
with look of disgust, as if it had been some
loathSOme thing, and putting on her hat aid
shawl she walked firmly out of the room
She went rapidly on till she reached low,
white cottage; she entered il, and passed
quickly through the little sitting room to her
own apartment. Here she took from an iplaid
box package of letters, and, adding that she
| had last received to the number, she hastily
collected every memento, however trihing,
which had been the gift of Louis Meredith
| and placed them securely together in readi-
ness to return to him. Then carefully ar
| ranging her toilet, she returned to the sitting
room An old lady, dressed with scrupulous
uicety, was its only occupant; she was quietly
knitting. The table was spread for the even
ing meal, and she had evidently been waiting
for her daughter return.
You are late tonight, Beatrice" she
said 81 but l suppose Louis came for you 10
90 to walk. II is so foolish Of him to take
such unreasonable hours for his walks. Tea
has been waiting this half hour"
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting,
mother" returned her daughters silvery
voice; "but those long walks will trouble you
no longer. Louis Meredith and are parted
forever
The old lady dropped her knitting work in
her lap, and looked at her daughter in aston
ishment: at last she spoke:
ooh, see; lovers squared. But you will
make it up in day or two, and be all the
happier for it Well, well-better disagree
before than after marriage"
"Mother, said Beatrice, "listen to me.
shall never marry Louis Meredith. Nothing
on earth could induce me to do so. As said
we are parted forever; and now let me beg
you never again to mention his name to me !;
let the subject never again be alluded to be-
tween US, let all be as if we had not known
him. Her voice softened. 6" You will not
be sorry, mother, dear, to have your Beatrice
again all your own ?' And she took her pa
rents shriyelled hand fondly between her
own.
Mrs. Lancaster was touched by this express
sion of tenderness; for Beatrice, though a
| most devoted daughter, in fact the only sup
port of her poor and widowed mother, rarely
made any demonstration Of her attachment,
and this caress, slight as it was, filled the
mothers heart with joy. She drew her child
to her side, and kissed her tenderly, but Bea-
| trice escaped from her embrace, and saying
| cheerfully, " Are we never to have supper?n
led the way to the table. She talked gaily
Al u Il