to submit, in sad and gentle acquiescence, to her
fate. Those feelings, which had been the charm
of her young days, were gone, and, as she bitterly
felt, forever. For them there was no recall they
could not return; and, without complaint or reproach,
she yielded to what she felt was inevitable. It
was impossible to look at Mrs. Marston, and not to
discern, at a glance, the ruin of a surpassingly beautiful
woman; a good deal wasted, pale, and chastened with
a deep, untold sorrow, but still possessing the outlines,
both in face and form, of that noble beauty and matchless
grace, which had made her, in happier days, the admired
of all observers. But equally impossible was
it to converse with her, for even a minute, without
hearing, in the gentle and melancholy music of her
voice, the sad echoes of those griefs to which her
early beauty had been sacrificed, an undying sense
of lost love, and happiness departed, never to come
again.
One morning, Mr. Marston had walked, as was his custom
when he expected the messenger who brought from the
neighboring post office his letters, some way down
the broad, straight avenue, with its double rows of
lofty trees at each side, when he encountered the
nimble emissary on his return. He took the letter-bag
in silence. It contained but two letters—one
addressed to “Mademoiselle de Barras, chez M.
Marston,” and the other to himself. He
took them both, dismissed the messenger, and opening
that addressed to himself, read as follows, while he
slowly retraced his steps towards the house:—
Dear Richard,
I am a whimsical fellow, as you doubtless remember,
and have lately grown, they tell me, rather hippish
besides. I do not know to which infirmity I am
to attribute a sudden fancy that urges me to pay you
a visit, if you will admit me. To say truth,
my dear Dick, I wish to see a little of your part
of the world, and, I will confess it, en passant, to
see a little of you too. I really wish to make
acquaintance with your family; and though they tell
me my health is very much shaken, I must say, in self-defense,
I am not a troublesome inmate. I can perfectly
take care of myself, and need no nursing or caudling
whatever. Will you present this, my petition,
to Mrs. Marston, and report her decision thereon to
me. Seriously, I know that your house may be full,
or some other contretemps may make it impracticable
for me just now to invade you. If it be so, tell
me, my dear Richard, frankly, as my movements are
perfectly free, and my time all my own, so that I can
arrange my visit to suit your convenience.
—Yours, &c.,
P.S.—Direct to me at ——
Hotel, in Chester, as I shall probably be there by
the time this reaches you.
