The Lady's Book. May, 1838
Written for the Lady's Book.
THE SISTER'S REVENGE.
BY MISS M. MILES.
IT was a night of storms, but Mrs. Osmond, the wife of one of the wealthiest merchants in the city of P———, prepared herself to abide its pitiless beating. The tea hour was just over, and her son, whose talents had already rendered him conspicuous, entered the apartment which contained all the appurtenances of luxury. He hastily drew near her—
“My dear mother! this is kind, indeed, but you will surely have the carriage—'tis too stormy for you to venture from home.”
“No, Henly, poor Cato has been far from well to-day, and I will not call him out. You know it is but a step to Mrs. Delville's, and with the aid of your strong arm I shall succeed very well in my attempt. Have you heard how Therese is to-day?”
“I stopped as I came up,” replied her son. “She was very low; Florence told me that she needed no assistance to-night; but, dear mother, I fear for her. Her manner was so strange—I wish they were with us. How could her uncle leave her in that boarding house so destitute of all the comforts of a home?” and a dark flush rose to his forehead.
“Well, well, my son,” said the mother, soothingly, “I will not leave the sweet orphans 'till something better offers—come!”
Hour after hour passed by, and Florence Lancy sat by her dying sister's side. She heeded not the storm that was raging without, as her eye was fixed upon the changing countenance before her. Oh! those who have stood by the deathbed of the loved, alone can tell the bursting agony of such a moment. To feel they must go from us for ever, and the smile that has come as a gleam of gladness over our path, be quenched in death—that there must ever be one void place in our home, and a weary longing for the music of a voice whose melody is hushed. Such hours of anguish come as chasteners, to wean us from earth's ties. Deeper grew the shadows upon that young pale face, and Florence bent over the slumberer. She opened her eyes and a faint smile lit up her wasted countenance.
“Sister! dear sister!” she murmured in inexpressibly sweet and thrilling accents, “I am fast sinking to my rest—I thank you, dearest, for all your love to your wayward Therese. Do not mourn that I am early called away. Earth would have been but a weary place for the stricken heart; but, Florence, I would that I could have once more seen him,” and a faint flush tinged her pallid cheek, as she buried her face in her pale hands.
Florence sprung to her feet, and her dark eye flashed wildly as she cried, “Name him not, Therese, if you would have me keep my senses. Cold-hearted villain as he is, how can your heart even to the last so cling to him?” Then seeing the effect her vehemence had caused upon the sufferer, she became instantly calm, and bent above her with the fondest soothings.
“You will forgive, as I do, dearest,” whispered the dying girl, looking into her face with an expression of mingled resignation and fear. “I have long since ceased to think of him with anger, and have prayed long and earnestly for his happiness. Promise me to forgive”—
But ere Florence could make that promise, Mrs. Osmond entered, and but an hour had passed by, when the pure and gentle Therese was released from earthly suffering. The two sweet orphans had been left to the guardianship of an uncle, by Mr. Lancy, their father, a gentleman of fortune and respectability. He was totally unfit for the charge, although as regarded their pecuniary affairs, he was strictly honourable. He placed them at a fashionable boarding house in P———, unmindful of their need of a protector, and then set off upon a tour of the Western States. Therese, a few months after, left P——— to visit a friend in a neighbouring city, and whilst there, fell into the society of Liston Howard, a man of most fascinating exterior, and insinuating manners. He knelt in homage at the shrine of her youthful loveliness, and cast around her heart many a spell of power, until he made it all his own, and then triumphing in this offering to his vanity, he coldly forsook her. She had
“Pour'd her heart's rich treasures forth,
But was unrepaid for their priceless worth,”
“Oh, not an hour like this,
For bitterness, has earth,”
“Florence! my own Florence! let me lead you hence, this is too trying for you, love.”
“Your Florence!” she exclaimed wildly—“away! I know you all too well, you can smile with the lip, and teach the voice affection's music, and the heart be cold, cold. Oh! man! how will you crush the sweet hopes you kindle. Look! Henly Osmond, on that beautiful slumberer. Would you deem man's perfidy had broken her hear?” “'Tis even so,” she added, more wildly, “and never, never, sweet sister, till I take revenge for your injuries, will I rest satisfied!”
“Florence! Florence !” exclaimed her lover, for such he was, in great alarm, “come with me, dearest, and rest a while—my mother is here.”
“Henly Osmond, I tell you here, at this dread hour, that I never can be yours—never, never!” and with a fresh burst of grief, she was about to throw herself upon the bed, when Henly forcibly prevented her, and removed her from the room in an insensible state.
The uncle of Florence returned a day or two after these sad scenes, and she soon left P———. No expression of sorrow passed her lips, but her cheek was colourless as marble, and her brow strangely contracted for one so young and fair. There was a tear indeed in her eye as she received Mrs. Osmond's affectionate farewell, and she almost gasped for breath, so strong was her emotion, when she charged her with a letter for Henly, who was not at home. Little did the kind lady dream of the misery its contents would entail upon her noble-minded son.
Henly Osmond read that epistle in the solitude of his own apartment, and from that hour he went forth to his daily duties a changed man. She told him her sister's sad story, and in conclusion, said—
“I have told you, Henly, that I have only one aim in life to accomplish, and to do that, I must give you up. The sacrifice is made! Henly! in this parting hour, I may tell you how dear your love has been to the orphan; sweet visions of happiness with you, have mingled with my daily dreams, and oft when my spirit has been chilled by the coldness and indifference of the world, I have turned to you in the devotion of my lone spirit, and felt life was not all dark. But love may never again shed its sweet influence upon my path; and now, my noble-minded Henly, farewell! May you seek some happier bride to make the sunshine of your splendid home.”
A year had passed away. Liston Howard had heard of the death of his victim, but it interrupted not his career of pleasure, and so heartless was his vanity, that he scarcely gave her memory one sigh, and now was assiduously attentive to a young and beautiful southerner.
A gay party was assembled at Mrs. Fortescue's—the sister of Howard, and Miss Pinckney was there. She stood apart, in seemingly abstracted mood, until the entrance of Liston; then her dark eye lighted up, and a radiant smile broke over a face, whose expression was “somewhat too cold.” He was soon at her side pouring upon her willing ear the honeyed words of flattery. Friends looked on with significant smiles, but, though all knew well his character, there was none to warn that artless and lovely girl. But Liston Howard was not now trifling. She had bowed his proud spirit as it never had been bowed before, and he was now really and sincerely in earnest in his devotion. He loved her with all the feeling of which his selfish heart was capable. Few knew aught of her parentage or fortune; but her dress was always in a style of costly magnificence, and her white hand was gemmed with many a jewel of rare value. She had come to ——— some months back, with one of its proudest inhabitants, and was the chosen friend of that gentleman's daughter.
Miss Pinckney and her friend joined not the merry dancers, but sat apart with Liston Howard. Agnes Gray, apparently absorbed in contemplation of the gay scene; and Ellen's cheek wearing a bright tint as she listened to the admiration of Howard. Suddenly Agnes bent over her friend and whispered a few words in a low tone. The bright flush faded, and taking her arm, she made good her retreat from the room by the side-door.
“What caprice is this?” muttered Liston, as some of his gay associates approached and began rallying upon his desertion.
In the ante-room, Ellen Pinckney lay half fainting on a sofa, and Agnes hanging over her in great perplexity.
“Command yourself, dearest, can you not?” she exclaimed, as she applied restoratives. “Try for one moment, whilst I seek papa,” and she glided hastily from the room.
Ellen tried to rouse herself, and thinking her friend had re-entered, said, faintly, “I am better, now, Agnes—come, let us go home.”
An exclamation of joy! and some one knelt at her side—“My own one, and will you make life to me a way of weariness? I have sought you 'midst garish crowds, and now will you give all your young affections to yon worldling? He cannot love as I love. Tell me I may yet hope, and I will go forth and wait through long, long years, till you again call me to your side.”
Deep and unutterable emotion was depicted upon the face of the young girl, and for a moment she suffered her hand to remain in his passionate grasp. A sudden resolution seemed to nerve her soul, and she said, calmly, “When I met Mr. Gray and his daughter, I thought I was dying—and they watched over me with tried disinterested friendship—I have told them all my wayward destiny—Liston Howard has sought my love, and only in the presence of those friends will I give either an answer. Come to me then on Tuesday evening, and now leave me.”
The young man was about to reply, but an impatient wave of the hand obliged him to withdraw.
Agnes and Ellen sat alone in the solitude of their chamber, at the still midnight hour—“And you will give this party, dearest,” said the latter. “Thank you, I have learned to think differently of the world since I have been under the influence of your gentle teaching. Many of my wild fancies have passed away, and I think my estimate of human nature has been somewhat wrong. I will not cast away my own happiness—but 'tis but just he should be made to feel.”
“It was the twilight hour, and the moonbeams stole gently in through the half-closed curtains of the parlour in which Miss Pinckney sat alone. There was no light in the room, and tears fell fast from her dark eye upon a picture over which she was bending. The senseless ivory was covered with her passionate kisses, and murmured words of strong affection broke from her lip. An opening door caused her to start up, and hastily concealing it in the folds of her dress, she wiped all traces of emotion from her countenance. Mr. Gray entered, and giving her a letter, said, “from Liston Howard, my dear.”
Ellen Pinckney retreated to her own room, and an indescribable expression passed over her face as she perused the epistle she held in her hand. She threw it from her, and paced the room with a proud step—“Yes, it must be so! Retribution is but just!” and hastily penning a line, she gave it to a servant.
All was brilliant and light in the spacious drawing-rooms of Mr. Gray. The beautiful heiress was simply dressed, and her only ornament a single diamond that sparkled upon the outside of her glove. Liston Howard was there, and the noble-looking stranger, both with anxious and perplexed countenances. She stood apart, her dark eye flashing brilliantly, and a deep flush on her cheek. Both the rivals approached to claim her hand for the dance. The circle round her dispersed, and she lightly said, “He to whom I give my hand for the dance, I give it to for life.” Liston Howard pressed forward, but waving him aside, with a proud gesture, she gave her hand to the other, and joined the waltzers. Words cannot describe the rage and disappointment painted upon the handsome features of Howard; but his hour of mortification was not yet over. He sought her as soon as the dance was concluded, as she stood surrounded by a chosen few—those too whose suffrages he most coveted, and, carried away by passion, demanded an explanation!
She drew her figure to its full height—“Liston Howard, in this very place, in the bosom of this family, you threw your serpent wiles round a young heart till you made it all your own. She went down to the grave with a blighted spirit, the victim of your heartless vanity—and here, in this public assembly, I denounce you as the cold-blooded destroyer of the peace of one too good and beautiful and pure, to have been loved by such a being as you. To do this, I have smiled when my heart has seemed breaking.” Her voice slightly faltered, but she recovered herself, and holding up her hand, added, “With this ring I have betrothed myself to one more noble and good. Away! the sister of Therese Lancy would not stoop to love such a one as you—but she has worn concealment long to fulfil the vow she made by that sister's death bed.” And whilst the conscience-stricken Howard rushed, humbly, from the room, Florence turned with a smile of softened feeling, to the noble and gifted Osmond, who had sought her long, and who, with all others, deemed that the retribution was just, and that he who deliberately wins woman's love to cast it from him as a worthless thing, deserves his punishment.
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