Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.18 #105 (Feb 1859).
I am about to comply with your request, my dear friend, and give you some particulars of my rather remarkable history. It will be imposing a severe tax on your patience, but my hope is that the narrative may possess interest enough to offset it.
In order to give you a correct idea of the circumstances in which I was placed, we must go back for a starting-point to the period of my memory's birth. Tracing thence the incidents of my life, you will be forced to recognize the hand which, by causes apparently trifling and insignificant, restrained me from the commission of a crime that would have imbittered my whole existence.
The first thing which I distinctly remember was being held in my nurse's arms to look upon the ocean. I could not have been more than four years old, and the impression then made on my mind has never been effaced. The huge billows flashed with myriad sapphires and emeralds as the bright sunshine rested on them, their foaming crests seeming to be encircled with a dazzling effulgence of glory. Since that distant day I have never gazed on a body of water, especially under bright skies and in a mild clime, without being instantaneously carried back to this my earliest reminiscence.
Of the scenes which immediately succeeded I have no recollection. Either I was not old enough to comprehend, or, as is most probable, sleep, the sound healthy sleep of childhood, wrapped my senses in blessed oblivion. All is a blank until the period when many persons, men, women, and children, came to see me, taking my hands in their own and gazing earnestly into my eyes. Mothers held their little ones to touch and kiss me; girls and boys led me about a large hall, all vying with each other how first and most to attract my attention; and old men laid their hands on my head, tears flowing fast the while, I knew not why, as they repeated, mournfully,
"How strange! Floating on the water."
I can recall the curious way in which they scrutinized me as they crowded around, the eager questioning of each other, the long recital that I did not understand, and which always ended with, "Found floating on the water."
You, my dearest Evelyn, knew and appreciated the gentle being who permitted me to-call her mother, whose lavish affection and untiring care never suffered me to feel the loss of my own. Her image, when for the first time I beheld her, as she crossed that long hall and approached the spot where I stood, is at this moment before me vividly distinct as if the event had happened only yesterday.
My heart warmed toward her from the instant she first folded me in her arms and called me her dear child, her darling Christine. She took me away with her a long distance in a carriage. Its rocking motion lulled me to sleep. When I awoke, how astonished and delighted were my wondering senses to behold the little chamber which I was ever after permitted to call my own!
How fresh in remembrance is that narrow room with its tiny furniture; the little crib in which I awoke to happiness; the low shelves crowded with toys variously arranged and pretty enough to turn the head of any child; dolls nicely dressed; oh! how beautiful they seemed to me; little story books full of blue-frocked men and women with red-apple cheeks; miniature chairs, and especially one small rocker, on the back of which was inscribed in large letters,
For Papa's good Christine.
How these all stand out in the picture of my child-life! I somehow knew that they were not bought for me, and yet they were there when I awoke, and there they were always, part and parcel of that cozy chamber. On the walls were hung pleasant pictures, exceedingly pleasant to a child. How I used to lie and watch the grave, kind-looking dog, in the frame at the foot of my bed! I asked good Marny, my nurse,
"Is it my dog?"
"No; it was the pet of another little Christine. When she went to heaven poor Ponto sat on her grave and mourned till he died. This was his picture."
Then there was a wondrous print of Red Riding Hood, with her pot of butter and the sly old wolf grinning at her through the bushes; and a most attractive representation of the undying "Babes in the Wood," clad in scarlet frocks and weeping into blue handkerchiefs, while the cruel uncle, who sported white pantaloons and bright buttons, coolly walked away in the distance.
Few persons are aware how strong is the direct influence which picture stories exert over the minds of children. How many belligerent manifestos have I hurled at that "wicked old wolf!" How often have I clenched my little fists at the "cruel uncle!" To this day I never see any exhibition of meanness or deceit without having the same temptation to scowl and threaten beset me.
Surrounded by comforts, by luxuries even, my wishes granted for the asking, kindness and love were so showered upon me during my first remembered years, that I neither thought nor cared who I was or how I came to be an object of such affectionate devotion. I was sheltered as much as possible from every annoyance and from all vulgar observation by my beloved mother; and yet I often overheard her, to friends from a distance or to strangers, relating in low tones a long story, which somehow seemed to have reference to me, although evidently not intended for me to hear. Methinks I this moment feel her kind hand as she smoothed my long curls, and hear her kinder voice utter those words, which, from being so often repeated, became stereotyped on my memory—"When all was over, this dear child was found floating on the water."
I was not old enough to reason, yet to be an object of so much attention was gratifying to my pride even at this early age. With a disposition naturally enthusiastic and ardent, I loved every body, because every body loved or seemed to love me.
When I began to attend school, this was still more apparent. I seemed to be singled out for every favor, every little act of kindness, and in my simplicity I believed that all the world was good. My schoolmates universally asserted my right to be exempt from vexation, and the teachers appeared more lenient to me than to others.
"Don't tease Christine; she must not be vexed," was the expression of all. I was, in fact, the pet of the school. If a new pupil came she was immediately taken aside, and, in earnest, mysterious tones, informed why I was thus petted; the communication always ending, as I knew it would end, with—"Found floating on the water."
As I became more advanced in years these words were less frequently heard. It was becoming an old story. The present, with its tangible realities, was crowding out the, to me, uncertain past. Faces and forms which hitherto had indistinctly haunted my imagination gradually faded. In my solitary musings they would sometimes start out from the gathering oblivion, like spectres; and, like spectres, instantly vanish, if duty or pleasure recalled me to myself. I had always heard of another Christine—my angel sister. My playthings had been hers. Dreams of her in her far off home would come to me, as I reposed on her little cot and her good Ponto kept guard over my slumbers! All these appeared to me like the details of a pleasant story, some portions of which were fresher and more recent than the rest because they had happened lately.
When Marny laid me away for the night, my dear mother would come and sit beside me, sing me little songs, and tell me about the good children whom our Lord loved and blessed, and who were now gathered to His bosom. These she called "Angel Hymns." How I loved to hear her sing them! She would frequently lay some little toy on my pillow, which she called a dream-charm; and I, clasping it tightly in my hand, would unconsciously sail away, in sweet forgetfulness, to the shores of dream-land.
Every body knows what a passion children have for head-less, wheel-less, tail-less playthings. Give them the choice, and, five times out of six, a box of mutilated toys would be preferred to one that was perfect. It affords supreme pleasure to the little things to try on heads and set dislocated limbs. Many a time have I seen a stylish doll, decked with silks and lace, forsaken by a child for a rag baby with a flat head, limpsy neck and features, done in pen and ink. You recollect the story of the little prince who, surrounded by multitudes of toys, tired of them all and longed for the privilege of playing at mud-pies in a gutter. Some Scotch divine says that this example confirms the doctrine of innate total depravity; and there are times, perhaps, in the lives of all children, when mothers will be tempted to agree with him.
I certainly can not boast of a taste purer than that of my juvenile brothers and sisters; for I have often left my nicely-arranged play-shelves to tumble over a box of men and women maimed, or of mimic villages which looked as if they had been sacked and plundered. Among these ruins I one day found a little, well-worn shoe. My dear mother caught me in the act of trying to get it on over my own. Taking the little cast-off thing from me she pressed it to her lips, while the large tears which forced themselves through her closed eyelids revealed the intensity of her feelings. I marveled at her emotion then. Bereaved as I have since been, the love which stoops to kiss a little half-worn shoe has nothing mysterious in it.
"It was worn by angel Christine when she lived and walked on the earth!" said she.
"Is she my sister?" I asked.
"Once she came to live with me as you do now. Our Lord then called her to another home in the skies, and gave you to my love. Now I have two Christines—one in my home on earth, and one in my home above!"
"Wasn't God willing that you should have two little girls at the same time?"
"All little children belong to God," she answered. "He has a right to call them home when he pleases."
"Shall we ever see angel Christine?"
"We shall go to her; she can never return to us."
A loving kiss reconciled every thing that to my simple comprehension was obscure; and fully satisfied with the happy lot of one Christine, my childish mind gave itself no disquietude about the higher felicity of the other.
My mind matured with my years; and although those mystical words, "Found floating on the water" were not now heard, they were never forgotten. They had been too often repeated in my hearing to pass entirely out of mind. Occasionally, too, the suspicion would arise that I had not always lived in A—; that at some time other and different scenes had surrounded me. About this time, however, an incident occurred which tended to arouse my hitherto dormant curiosity.
It was at a merry-making—the birthday party of my friend, Marian Slade. She was nine years of age; and though larger and older than myself, we were on this occasion dressed alike, and I was second in importance only to her. Mirth and joy ruled the hour. While frolicking in a circle around Marian my playmates began to compare ages. It was the first time that the thought of my own age had ever entered my mind when one little girl, almost a stranger in A—, turned to me, and abruptly asked,
"How old are you, Christine?"
Chagrined at my inability to answer the question, my confusion became visible in my face. What could I say? How old was I? I had never asked myself the question before, and was now puzzled for a reason why no one else had ever asked it. There was a sudden glance of intelligence interchanged all round the circle, which was immediately broken, and the stranger girl drawn into a corner. From the fragments of whispers which I could catch they were telling her of some fatal calamity. Ah! it was the same old story. Either my ear caught or imagination supplied the words—"Found floating on the water."
Pained, reserved, I had lost all interest in the occasion, except so far as it had reference to the mystery of my own age. I saw that my companions were making every exertion to banish the incident from my mind, but I stood aloof, silent and unhappy.
For the first time in my life I was vexed at being an object of attention and curiosity. Why did my playmates look so pitifully upon me? Why did they patronize me? I needed not their protection. What was the meaning of those strange words? Was I "found floating on the water?"—I, who had such a kind mother, such a dear home? The idea was absurd! It could not be possible that she whom I loved so well was not indeed my real mother. Yet, had I always lived with her? There was certainly something which I did not understand; and I firmly resolved to have the mystery unraveled before another day.
That evening I went to my little bed wide awake and waited the accustomed visit. My mother soon came. I heard her voice, and the words alone of the hymn fell on my ear. My mind was elsewhere. This night "The Happy Land" had no charms for me. I was of the "earth, earthy." I soon interrupted her with the inquiry,
"Mother, when shall I have a birthday?"
"When you are a little older," she replied. "Marian is a great girl, nine years old."
"When shall I be nine?"
"Not for a great while," and the hymn immediately went on again. But I was not to be put off thus.
"Did I ever float on the water?" I asked.
For a moment she was silent. I could contain myself no longer. Bursting into tears, I opened to her my heart. The circumstances which had taken place at the party, my impressions, recollections, and suspicions, confused and faint as they were, were all narrated.
My mother saw at once that my mind was awake and must be satisfied; that the time had come for a revelation. Taking my hand she said,
"Shall I tell my dear Christine a story? A true story?"
"Yes, mother," I replied; "tell a story about me, about me when I was a baby."
Wrapping around me her large shawl and taking me in her arms, she seated herself in an easy chair by the side of my bed. Of that time or of that place I have never lost sight. Methinks I see her now, so gentle, so quiet, just as she sat in that still room. The twilight gradually fading left good Ponto in the shade. His head seemed to droop lower and lower, as if he was glad to resign his watch into the keeping of a friend. The wolf could not be seen in the dim light, and Riding Hood stood out in the foreground a picture of innocence and beauty. The charitable shadows hid the uncle and shrouded the babes in mourning.
There, in the silence of early night, my dear mother related to me, in simple and plain language, the calamity which, at one fatal blow, had probably deprived me of both parents, and made mean orphan. Not a syllable did I lose then; not one has since been forgotten. During that short period, and even while her words were being drunk in, I passed from babyhood to thoughtful, actual maturity. Ideas and impressions then stamped themselves on my mind in characters which to this hour are clear and ineffaceable. My intense curiosity, the painful interest with which I listened to her recital, the thrill of horror that crept over me as she proceeded, are as vivid now as, when pressed to her bosom, I for the first time learned the sad story of my orphanage.
In the spring of 18— a noble steamer left the quay at New Orleans, freighted with human life—happy fathers and mothers surrounded by their children, brothers and sisters, friends, comrades, and strangers, with bright hopes and cloudless anticipations of coming pleasure. On the eve of that happy day the bright sun went down amidst mirth and music and joy. On the morrow that same sun arose in his glory to behold sorrow and silence and death. In the calm midnight that ship-load of sound sleepers were suddenly aroused from their dreams of happiness by the awful cry of "Fire!" The steamer had caught amid-ships, and the doomed passengers awoke with death staring them in the face. To burn or drown were the only alternatives. Isolated from human aid, amidst smoke and bursting flame on one hand and the yawning sea on the other, shrieks of agony arose to God from those who had never before called on his name in prayer. The fire raged with fury. Wives plunged frantically into the deep calling in vain on their burning husbands. Mothers rushed madly into destruction, alike unconscious of the part they acted or of the fate of their offspring. Little children, terrified, distracted, helpless, called on parents whom death had rendered deaf to their call. In that wild night of terror brothers and sisters, friends, comrades, and strangers, were parted never again to meet on earth. Despair sat at the helm until the ship was burned to the water's edge, and when morning dawned the remorseless waves swept over a charred, unsightly wreck.
At daylight a passing vessel came with swift wings to the rescue, alas! too late. All had perished with the exception of a single sailor, who miraculously clung to the burning timbers—all save one little child. When all was over his child was found floating on the water. I needed not my mother's assurance to convince me who that lone child was.
She then told me of herself. Just before this calamity occurred God had taken away her husband and an only child, a dear daughter, named Christine. Hearing of the little child whom both fire and waves had spared she hastened at once to adopt me. Heaven seemed to have directed her, for on the gold clasp of my sleeve-tie was found a single name, the name of her own dear child, Christine.
She arose, unlocked a small cabinet, and drew therefrom the little ornament which confined my sleeve when I was rescued from the water. Pointing to the name of Christine, engraven upon it, she said,
"Keep it, my child. Perhaps your own fond mother last clasped it on your arm. Never part with this little relic of your first years. I hoped for a time that it might lead to your discovery; but none have sought, none have claimed you. It may be that all your immediate relations perished on that fatal night. I can call you my own, my darling child, dear to my lonely heart when first found and with the passage of every day growing still dearer. My little Christine left me for a happier home, and you came to take her place in my affections. I clothed you with her garments; the playthings and books in which she took so much delight are yours, and now I shall lay you to rest in her bed."
All that had puzzled me was now understood. Light had broken in on obscurity, and my mind was relieved. For a little time I pondered on the fate of my parents, when sweet sleep vailed the scene and put to rest all my meditations.
Cast as I was into the arms of love, reposing in the lap of luxury, I had never known the absence of comfort or the lack of affection. Thoughts of the past, therefore, could occasion no regrets; and why should I sigh for friends and relations whom I had never known? Attachment for my adopted mother was no whit diminished. My only wonder was, if by possibility I could have loved my own mother more.
Life thus happily passed away until I was about seventeen years old. I then left school and received private instruction at home. The health of my beloved mother had already begun to fail, and she soon assured herself that the time had come when she must gather hopes for her last journey. What anguish wrung my bosom as I yielded to the conviction that my only friend on earth was about to leave me—forever!
My whole time was now spent at her sick pillow. Only one earthly care now engrossed her thoughts; this was, so far as human foresight and wisdom could avail, to secure my comfort and happiness.
Death hurried his coming. Peacefully and joyfully she bade adieu to her Christine on earth to rejoin her angel Christine in the better land. Although my head was bent for the blow its suddenness prostrated me. I can not portray, even faintly, how desolate, how disconsolate my heart was in that first hour of sorrow. How willingly would I have laid my head beside hers on that pillow of death, and, with her, gone down into the dark valley!
After my mother's death I went to reside with her only brother, Uncle Hugh, as I had been taught to call him, whom she had constituted my guardian. He was as a kind father to me; and yet the encouraging glance, the approving smile, the untiring love which I had enjoyed for so many years were wanting.
How could I fight the battle of life alone? Such consolation as the world has to bestow was profusely tendered; but who, in recent and bitter affliction, was ever thus consoled? My dear mother had been taken from me, and I had no one now to love. Where should I go for sympathy, for counsel? Twice in my short life Fate had made me an orphan. My heart yearned for affection; and many sad days and sleepless nights were passed in sorrow for the dead.
Time, however, blunted my grief, and, with the buoyancy and hopefulness of youth, I again sought pleasure with new friends and among new scenes. Uncle Hugh was a considerate man of fifty, who had buried his heart in early manhood. His housekeeper, a comfortable, cheery dame, carried sunshine wherever she went. But I did not forget my dear mother. She was now with my angel sister; and I took great comfort in looking forward to that reunion of us all which her faith had made certain to my mind would eventually take place.
Some time during the next year I met Harry Dyson, for the first time, at the house of a mutual friend. There was something about him which, at this first meeting, attracted—yes, almost fascinated me. The interest was mutual. With pleasure I heard him inquire who I was, and solicit an introduction. We met strangers—we parted friends. Every hour that we subsequently spent together endeared us to each other more and more. Still there was never any thing like rapture in our attachment. My feelings were the same as if I had always known and loved him. A quiet enjoyment of each other's society—a calm, contented happiness—always marked our intercourse, such as is wont to be the accompaniment of old and long-established friendships only.
In my musing hours, like all young girls, I had often wondered if I should ever be in love. I had set up in my mind an ideal standard of the holy passion. This was higher and more absorbing than the love which now filled my heart. That I loved Harry was abundantly proved by the misery which the mere thought only of separation from him caused me. But my feelings were very different from what fancy had pictured as the rapture of first love. Our tastes were similar. Our hearts beat in unison. Undoubtedly this was love; only too tame, and possessing too little romance, to jump with my preconceived notions. These trifling doubts, however, did not disturb my general satisfaction. Harry and I were content. We talked over our attachment, and spoke of our marriage even, but always with the same calm, equable sensations, precisely as we discussed the love passages of our friends. Perhaps our intercourse was as remarkable for nothing else as for the perfect confidence and candor which characterized it. Strange as it may seem, we would freely discuss each other's faults without occasioning any thing like coldness between us. Contrary to the experience of most lovers, our reproof of one another seemed only to cement more strongly the bond of affection. Mutual friends unanimously declared that we were alike in disposition and temperament, and that our lives would flow on side by side, and get as one, like the gentle course of a river after the flood has abated and the wind is hushed to repose. Every body was satisfied that for us to perform the journey of life together had been written in the decrees of Heaven.
We were not engaged to be married—that is to say, no formal compact had been entered into—and yet, so well did we understand each other's feelings, that, in my mind, matrimony and Harry Dyson were inseparably connected. In fact, our plans were all laid, and we only waited the advent of a new year to cast in our lot together. Even now I shudder when I think of our near approach to what then seemed the consummation of happiness. Had we reached it, what a consummation of misery would it have been to us both!
Harry was in the full enjoyment of health, handsome in person, at the head of a large mercantile house, and possessed of abundant wealth. Some years previous he had come to A-- a stranger. With letters of introduction, independent of his position, which would have carried him into any society, he avoided notice. Passing by all others, he devoted himself to me. Autumn matured what summer had promised, and the coming winter was fixed upon as the season for our marriage.
One evening—I still remember it well—Harry begged the pleasure of introducing a friend to our little family circle. "I do not think Christine will like Frank Wallace," said he. "However, in spite of his dignified and distant manner, he is a good fellow. Upon familiar intercourse his reserve all wears away, and the genial qualities of his soul make themselves felt. If you can have patience with his manner at first, you will soon discover his worth."
Harry did no more than justice to his friend. Reserved, and at times so much so, indeed, that it almost amounted to austerity of manners, his soul always betrayed its sensitiveness to every touch of honor and every impulse of generosity. I soon discovered, indeed, that this seeming reserve was only the effect of prudence and stern principle. His profession, the law, accustomed him to speak and think logically ;while he was now and then so eloquent, so brilliant, that in listening to him one forgot he was ever any thing else. His fine figure, and certain nameless qualities which mark the true gentleman, prepossessed you in his favor at first sight. He struck me as being singularly handsome; yet to this hour I can not tell the color of his eyes, for when he speaks the light of his genius so flashes and dances in them that their hue is changed with every varying sentiment.
Such was Frank Wallace. He was received as Harry's friend, not as a stranger, and it very soon came to pass that all his leisure hours were passed in our society. From the first it was manifest that he approved of Harry's choice; that he was interested in me, and my woman's tact soon led me to suspect that he was not thus interested solely because I was the betrothed of his friend. I was aware, however, that to hint my suspicions would bring down upon me a shower of ridicule; for it was a favorite hobby of Harry's that women were always susceptible, and at all times prone to take too much for granted. By broaching the subject I should lay myself open to his satire, and I did not care to expose myself to it.
I therefore silently watched the growth of a passion which was constantly betraying itself: by look and gesture when I was present; by attention to my unexpressed wishes when absent; by a thousand circumstances trifling in themselves and generally brought about indirectly. He never breathed a syllable of love. I think he did not once dream that I had any suspicion of its existence in his heart. In many ways, however, and always unobtrusively, my pleasure was preferred, my taste adopted. The flowers I most loved were placed on my work-table without comment—never given to me. The poem I praised was ever on his lips. The walks, the drives, the views, which I preferred were his favorites. That which I most admired seemed, more than any thing else, to attract his attention. I loved Harry Dyson, and looked on him as my future husband beyond the spectre of a doubt; yet I often caught myself comparing the two, and more than once thought that if I did not already love the one I should most certainly love the other.
Though my own eyes might be fixed on my work or my drawing, I very well knew, if he were present, that his were riveted on me. When he was absent I pitied him, to think that, young and gifted as he was, he should so misplace his affections. I wished that I had a sister to bestow upon him. My own heart assured me that I had inspired him with love—a love which would probably make him miserable—and yet I did not regret it. I took a guilty pleasure rather—so it then seemed to me—in watching for his coming, in listening to the fine intonations of his musical voice, in witnessing his repressed emotion. When Harry read aloud—you know how well he read poetry—and the sentiment was sad, the low, half-suppressed sigh at my side revealed a sympathy which duty forbade me to reciprocate. Neither could I give vent to hearty merriment, however witty the sentiment might be, knowing, as I did, that the heart of him who sat by my side was full of heaviness.
After he had gone, Harry and I would sit in the moonlight and talk of the future. To his vision all was brightness; for he had no glimpse of the dark cloud which threatened my horizon.
I was perplexed. What ought I to do? Was it possible that, by any change of circumstances, I could separate from Harry? The thought made me wretched. How was I to construe my emotions? Loving one tenderly, deeply, as I did, why should the heartaches of another interest me? Why should I be uneasy in his presence? Why moved by his sadness? Did I experience toward him a sensation of pity only, or was it a dearer and different sentiment? If I attempted an analysis of my feelings I had not the courage to complete it. I had no one else to speak to upon the subject but Harry, and he seemed to be stone-blind.
Meantime the preparations for our marriage were going forward. The wedding-day was at last appointed. Harry was calmly happy, I despairingly calm. In this conflict of feeling my affection for Harry never faltered for a moment. My love was constant, devoted, like that of a sister. But it occupied only a part of my heart, in no way interfering with that other embryo passion which now seemed ready to take joint possession and entirely destroy my peace of mind.
I sat alone, and the strange events in my early history occupied my thoughts. If my own parents had lived I should have probably been in a very different position. I should never have seen either Harry or Wallace. Should I not then have been far happier? When in all sincerity I loved him to whom I was betrothed, why did the slightest sigh of another have power to move me and cause my heart to flutter? This was inexplicable. Was I an anomaly among my sex? Did I love two at the same time? Certainly not; for if my affection for one was love, that which I bore the other was something else, so widely different in character and intensity were the feelings entertained toward each. How was I to understand my heart?
Harry came in as usual, and surprised me by asking, somewhat abruptly,
"Did it ever occur to you that our friend Wallace is in love?"
"Why do you ask?" I inquired, with as much calmness as I could command.
"Because his manner is strange at times, and his language somewhat confused. This has made me suspect that he is caught in Cupid's snare."
"Do you know on whom his affections are placed?" I inquired.
Harry laughed aloud.
"Why you take it seriously, as if the matter were settled. I am by no means certain that my suspicions are well founded. If they were, notwithstanding our almost constant intercourse, I should be puzzled to fix upon the object of his adoration. It must be the moon, or some bright particular star, or the last new poem, for he seldom leaves his office except to visit us, and therefore, to my knowledge, sees no woman but you."
"What reason have you, then, to suspect that he is in love?"
"Why, yesterday, in speaking of our marriage, contrary to his usual custom, he burst into a rhapsody about matrimony and misery, disappointment and love, which I could account for in no other way. But my suppositions may be all wrong. Perhaps he thought I expected him to say something, and at the moment he happened to be in a tragic humor. He intends to leave us and spend some months in travel as soon as we are settled."
My heart fainted within me. I lacked courage to tell Harry all, to brave his ridicule, or witness his disappointment. Could I suffer Wallace to go away lonely, wretched, in despair? Should I not thereby be guilty of a wrong, the remembrance of which would haunt me through life? Then again, how could I wound the noble spirit, the generous, unsuspecting nature of Harry, my best friend, my betrothed husband, by revealing to him the apprehension that I loved another? I despised myself on account of the desire which now arose in my mind, and refused to be quieted, the desire to remain as I was—unmarried. By so doing I could always esteem Harry as my best friend, without making another, who loved me so well, hopelessly miserable.
Distressed at my situation, ashamed of emotions which I could not control, the wretchedness which my marriage with Harry would entail upon me and his, if I refused to marry him, were clearly foreseen.
In either event, how would it be with poor Wallace? I was on the eve of my marriage, and dared not reflect on its consequences. How confused, how conflicting, how unsatisfactory were my reflections! These were the last moments I should be able to call my own. Tomorrow—yes, in a few hours—my hand, my heart, my liberty would be given into the keeping of another. Every thought and impulse of my soul would be schooled into subjection. Another's will must govern me; another's taste, another's pleasure, another's preferences be consulted before my own. Was the prospect before me, such as it should be, a future full of hope and promise? Were these strange contradictory emotions such as should fill the breast of a loving bride on tie eve of her marriage? What would Harry Dyson say if he could read my soul?
"Oh God!" I cried, in my extremity, "give me strength to do my duty!"
On the instant there arose within me a calm resolve to look Fate in the face. I determined to tell Harry Dyson all my doubts and all my fears; to open my whole heart. Hopes I had none. To one so brave, so good, so generous, it was a duty which I owed, either to give him all my love or none. His affection ought not to be trifled with. I could not deceive him, and would not impose upon him a divided heart.
And yet how could I bear an eternal separation from Harry, my best friend, and, as it then seemed to me, my only stay on earth? The thought overwhelmed me. Life seemed insupportable without his friendship. My heart was nigh to bursting when tears came to my relief. A gentle knock at the door told who was there, and for an instant my soul ascended to Him who knows all our infirmities.
"O God, the father of the orphan, have mercy upon me! Guide and guard my steps!"
Harry, surprised, as well he might be, to find me in tears, by no means attributed them to the right cause.
"'Tis hard, I know," said he, "to leave a pleasant home, but ours will be a happy one."
The happy, happy future, bright to him as the stars which paled or glistened above our heads, was, as usual, his favorite theme. Poor Harry! How could I say or do any thing to dim those bright anticipations, to make sad the heart which was so loving, so good, so true? Since our first acquaintance with each other no discordant note had ever marred the harmony of our intercourse. Not a harsh, not a cold, nor an unkind word had ever passed between us. Now I should appear cruel and deceitful: Harry would be wronged and indignant, and both of us be wretched. But the decisive moment had arrived. Either Harry or Wallace must be given up. To separate from one was misery, from the other despair. Harry saw my excited state, and, ever good, ever considerate, attributed it all to nervous sensibility on account of the approaching change in my situation. At one moment I almost determined to abide by my engagement at all hazards, marry Harry Dyson, and forget Frank Wallace. At the next the tall figure of the latter, as I had seen him on the evening previous, rose up before me. His full eyes, with their mournful expression; his face, pale and sad to heart-breaking; his low voice, tremulous with sadness; his hands, nervously clasped together; and the sigh which escaped him as he bade me farewell—all rushed upon me, begetting an almost irresistible desire to speak that word which would again recall him to his former self.
"Come, dear Christine," said Harry, affectionately taking my hand, "do not give way to sad anticipations. You know me too well to be afraid to intrust your happiness in my keeping."
"Dearest, best of friends!" cried I, with a calmness that astonished me, "I have a confession to make which you must hear this night or never. I have unintentionally deceived your trusting, generous heart. How shall I find words to say that your betrothed wife is unworthy of your love—that she loves another?"
"What mean you? In God's name explain yourself," stammered he, pale as death.
I then opened my heart to him. I revealed all my emotions, contradictory and inexplicable as they were. Nothing was kept back. After I had ceased speaking he stared for a minute into my face, as if he thought me bereft of reason. Uncertain how to construe my perfect calmness and self-possession, the idea of a rival rushed into his mind.
"O God!" he cried, in anguish of spirit, "is it my friend, my almost brother, who has done me this great wrong? Frank Wallace! Is this your honor? Never again will I put confidence in a human being. She whom I love better than life forsakes me. He whom I trusted as a brother betrays me."
"Oh, Harry!" I interposed, "Frank Wallace does not suspect my love, has never breathed his own. I alone am guilty."
"Christine," said he, and his voice was soft as music to my ear, "is all our love come to this? Is all my heart's devotion slighted, scorned even, for the love of one who is ignorant of your passion, and has never declared his own? Christine! Christine! Where, oh! where is your woman's pride?"
"Alas! Harry," I replied, "I love you, and therefore can not deceive you. The pages of my secret soul have been opened, not that Frank Wallace may read what is written there, but because you are too noble, too generous to be wronged. I could not impose on you a divided heart and a divided love."
He took my cold hand in his as he said,
"Forget it all, Christine. I forgive the fright you have caused me. Forget it. To-morrow is our wedding-day. When the nuptial rite has made this dear hand my own, we will laugh at all these foolish scruples. Let it all pass. You are mine in the sight of Heaven as religiously as if our vows had been already exchanged at the altar. Oh, Christine, my beloved, recall it all! Once again say you love me alone. In the wide world there is no one else for me to love but you. I have neither parents nor brother nor sister. An orphan in the widest sense of the term, will you too cast me off?"
Trembling, and with overflowing eyes, he drew me to his side. "Sit down by me," said he, "and listen to the sad story of my life." He then told me that when twelve years old he was left at school in his native city of New Orleans, while his parents traveled North. His only sister was with her nurse in the country. His parents were intending to take no one with them on their journey except a single faithful servant. They expected to be absent during the summer.
"My sister's name," said he, "was Christine, and the thought has sometimes entered my mind that I was first attracted toward you on account of your name."
"Was your sister's name Christine?" I asked, struck by the coincidence and with a sensation which words can not portray.
"Christine Dyson was my dear sister's name. Your name, and something which can not be called a resemblance and yet is very nearly akin to it—for it always reminds me of my dear mother—drew me toward you and laid the foundation of a love that has been increasing ever since we met."
"But, Harry," I cried, eagerly, "go on with your story. How did you lose your parents?"
"Oh!" said he, much affected, "theirs was a terrible fate. The remembrance of it always rends my heart. The vessel in which they took passage caught fire, and during the darkness of night was burned to the water's edge. My father and mother, with every soul on board, and with no one near to see or save, either perished in the flames or were drowned in mid-ocean."
"And your sister, your sister Christine?" I cried, trembling with the agony of doubt and conjecture, "your little sister! What became of her?"
"Alas!" continued Harry, "when the intelligence first arrived it paralyzed the whole community. Horror was depicted on every face. I was old enough to know and sensibly feel my loss. A sickness of weeks confined me to my bed. I had yet one consolation left. My dear little sister had been spared, and I was not alone. As soon as my health would allow, I was driven into the country to see her. How little was I prepared for the blow which stunned me! The last thing my mother did before her departure was to visit her darling child. Distressed with the thoughts of separation from both her little ones for so long a time, she suddenly concluded to take the youngest with her. It was an afterthought, consequently her hasty determination was not known to her friends. And so they perished, father, mother, sister, nurse, and servant, all in one dreadful night of terror. You see, my own Christine, I have nothing and nobody left to love, except this single treasured memento of my dear sister."
When he first mentioned his sister I was of course struck by the similitude of name. A suspicion was aroused which gained strength as his recital continued. The name, the incidents connected with his parents' death, so strangely like those of my own dear father and mother, the time, the circumstances, every thing, served more and more to strengthen my suspicion. Imagine then, if you can, the tumultuous, overwhelming tide of gratitude, love, and joy united which took possession of my soul when he took from the locket that was fastened around his neck a little golden sleeve-tie, the fac-simile of that intrusted to me by the mother of my adoption and ever since cherished as a sacred talisman. I had just strength enough to seize the armlet in my hand, hurry from the room, take its fellow from the repository and place them both in his hand, saying at the same time:
"Thank your God, Harry Dyson, that you have been spared from the crime of marrying your sister," when I fainted and fell in his arms.
On awaking to consciousness I saw that all had been explained. I had nothing to confess, nothing for which to ask forgiveness. My dearest and best friends were around me. Uncle Hugh was smiling through his tears; Dame Matilda bathing my brow. Harry, pale as death but supremely happy, with both my hands in his own, was on his knees before me. Another, need I say who? was in the back-ground. His beaming eyes told at first glance the love that was flooding his soul.
"Come, Frank," cried Harry, "kneel here with me. Dear Christine, he has told me all his heart. Look upon him and love him. You can not be my wife, but none can deny my right to claim you as a sister. Look up, darling Christine, and tell our dear Wallace, as I have done, that he is welcome to the little child who was found floating on the water."