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Volume 3 (1858-1859) (592 pages)
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Page: of 592
162 HUTCHINGS’ CALIFORNIA MAGAZINE.
“Clare Mordaunt, as to the election of
your heart, I would have it pure and irrevocable; but, believe me, your future
is in your own hands. If Oscar loves
you, why should the sacrifice be all on
your side? If he loves you, why does he
implant in your pure heart the seeds of
distrust and scepticism ?—why drag you
from a luxurious home—from a circle
refined and appreciating—a victim to his
unbridled fancies? No, Clara; if he loves
you, bid him consider your happiness,
and if he flies from the hearthstone of
your gentle sphere, seek not to mate with
his flight, and leave the schemer to plot
his own ruin!”
“ Now, Frank, if you were not my own
dear brother, you should repent those
bitter words of poor Oscar, just bezause
he is not disagreeable and hum-drum.
And besides,” she continued, rallying,
“you are an artist, and poet, too, and I
never saw you sad in my life, until you
talked of parting with your pet cousin.”
“JT might have been happy,” said
Frank, “had I seen your happiness insured; but though 1 left the sick bed of
a mother, and traveled hundreds of miles
without rest to meet you, it is only to
spend a few days in bidding a sad adieu.
How little did I think, when, six months
ago, you pronounced Oscar Moreland’s
name after me for the first time, that I
was introducing to you the arbiter of
your happiness! that this reckless enthusiast, whose vagaries had so often enlivened our college-days, was to victimize
the fairest and purest in his snares or accursed fatalism !”
“Frank Besoir, are you insane, to address such language to me, and on the
very verge of marriage, too!” exclaimed
Clare, her great brown eyes flashing anger.
“Forgive me, forgive me! perhaps I
am insane. Listen, Clare: you say I am
a poet; every poet has his idol, whose
divine inspiration tunes his lyre. I had
mine. You say I am an artist; the same
idol was there enthroned queen of beauty,
and mocked the creations of my pencil.
She was my world—my thought—and
look at me! am I now happy?” And the
girl’s gaze fixed in mournful wonder on
the mighty sorrow of that face; the eyes
she had ever seen sparkling with rich
quaint fancies were now piercing hers.
darkened with a fathomless grief; the
lips, formed like her own, to express the
sunniest and brightest emotions of the
heart, lost their soft outlines in the firm
pressure with which the strong man
crushes his weakness. ‘“ No,’ he continued, vehemently, “my darling hopes so
tenderly cherished, my beautiful dreams
so fastidiously painted, are rudely trampled and tarnished—my world, my all—
gone in one hour!”
“Poor dear Frank,’ murmured the
pitying voice, artlessly; “have you indeed been so miserable, and your own
Clare not knowing it? how I have mocked your sorrow with my wild gayety!
Why did you not tell me before, dear
cousin ?”
“JT never meant to tell you, Clare;
honor and generosity alike forbade me,
and it would have passed in silence, had
I been sure of your welfare; but to lose
you”
“Me! me! oh, do not say you mean
cried Clare, clasping her hands in
woe. She saw the truth in Frank’s downcast face. “Oh, Frank, this is dreadful !
you, that have always been a brother to
me, why did you tell me?” and she sobbed in mingled grief and shame.
“Clare,” said the young man, bitterly,
“JT am now unworthy even of your sisterly love. I have been ungenerous, self
ish and ungrateful; but the fear for your
happiness, and the sudden death of mine
own, drove me beside myself. Forgive
me, some time, and then forget me; for,
when you are gone, I shall he yet more
unworthy and lost.” He turned to go,
but she recalled him.
me!”