On the evening of Mrs. W.'s ball, he was certainly charmed with the uncommon loveliness of Miss Acton's face, as well as the polished ease and elegance of her manners; and day after day, week after week, he found himself in her society: her beauty had thrown a spell around him, and while he flattered himself that he still retained the power of impartial judgment, every action was viewed through the medium most favorable to her wishes. Every body, that is, every body in the fashionable world, the ton had decided that it was quite the thing; and even the envious and disappointed, acknowledged they were just fitted for each other. They knew about as much of the fitness and propriety of the matter, as the world usually does, when it decides upon our character and intentions, and seeing only what meets the eye, constitutes itself a correct judge of the thousand nameless thoughts and motives which lie deep in the recesses of the heart. Eustis started one morning, as turning into the street in which Mr. Acton lived; a passing object brought to his recollection an old servant of his father's, who had once saved his own life, when in imminent danger; he wondered that he had never seen him since his return; "poor fellow !" thought he," he may be sick or needy, and he had always a spirit above asking charity.". As a penalty for his past neglect, he determined to change his course, to sacrifice his own gratification, and seek his humble friend, in preference to keeping an engagement, he had the day before formed with Grace: he went directly to the place where he had formerly lived, but was told no such person was there; his informant could not even recollect the name, yet on promise of a reward, believed, on second thoughts, he had heard it, and at last gave the information desired. As Eustis entered a low miserable dwelling, from which the cold air of a winter morning was but partially excluded, and saw, in the most abject poverty, the family whom he had believed at least above want, he drew back, bitterly reproaching his own neglect, and asking himself if he, who had so long forgotten them, had now a right to intrude upon their sorrows. But his indecision soon ceased, as one of the poor children came up to him, and pulling his coat, begged "the gentleman would come in, and do something for his poor father, to make him well again;" the appeal was too direct to be resisted, and approaching the bed, he saw the poor man indeed, in the last stages of consumption. At first, he gave no signs of recognition, and Eustis believed he had either forgotten his features, or that he was insensible to what passed around him; but when he looked again, a ray of former feeling brightened his pale face, and extending his emaciated hand, he pressed that of his young master. "But, my poor Robert, what has brought you to this?" The wife hastened to reply-it was a simple tale, such as the annals of the poor will often furnish. Their labor, (their only wealth,) while health continued, had placed them above want; but about a year before, the poor man had fallen from a building, received a severe blow upon his breast, and before he had recovered from its effects, by over exertion in completing the ornaments of a ball room, to oblige a young lady, one of his customers had brought on his old complaints. He refused to apply for medical aid, denied himself even the comforts which his situation required, saying, "he could not pay for them; that was what he blamed others for, and he would wait till the next week, or the next day; for then, the young lady had promised to pay for his own work, and that of his wife." But, when at last the physician did see him, he shook his head, and said if he had been called before, he might soon have been well; but now he feared. So entirely was Eustis engrossed with the suffering objects around him, and with listening to the recital of their misfortunes, that he did not at first observe he was not the only visiter in this wretched abode. When he did perceive Miss Worthington, the cousin of Grace, their mutual salutation spoke the surprise which each felt at their unexpected meeting but not till she had retired, did Eustis learn what had been her untiring kindness to the suffering man, her attention in procuring him comforts, her words of consolation to the wife, and her tenderness to the children, and how she had begged them all, never to mention her cousin's name, as the person who had caused them so much sorrow. "And I would'nt now, sir, but you seem to care so much about our affairs, and are so kind to my poor husband," said the woman," and besides that, perhaps you don't know her." Eustis started as he thought of the precipice on which he had stood. The spell was broken, an angel's form had concealed the harshest features of cruel selfishness, and heartless levity;" and it was to such a being," thought he, "that I am about to commit my happiness; nay, more, my very character; for are we not strongly influenced in our feelings, in our decisions, in our very modes of thought, by those with whom we are most intimately connected? Imperceptibly to ourselves, but not less surely, the delicacy of the moral sense is blemished, and our standard of moral excellence lowered." Elizabeth Worthington, was the orphan niece of Mr. Acton. Early matured in the school of affliction, the best feelings in her kind heart had been called forth for the children of sorrow; she had learned to feel that it was to the resources of her own mind, to the government of her own heart, rather than to external circumstances, that she must look for happiness. It was this which had preserved her from surrounding contagion; which had saved her from becoming a mere votary of pleasure, and idol of fashion, which had enabled her without one thought of envy, to view the superior attractions of her cousin. Elizabeth loved Grace with all her faults, and would have concealed those faults from every eye; for Grace, besides being the only companion of her childhood, had another powerful claim upon her-she was the daughter of an uncle, to whom she was bound by gratitude and affection; and insulated as she was from nearer ties, her heart sought objects for its love. She had often seen Mr. Eustis, but in situations which were calculated to call forth nothing either of moral or mental superiority. She thought him decidedly handsome, and as the destined husband of her cousin, (for so report said he would be, and Grace herself tacitly acknowledged) she felt for him a degree of interest; but for this, he might have mixed with the common visiters whom she met at her uncle's house. But under the humble roof of poor Robert, around the bed of death; it was there, that two hearts met and understood each other, which, in the circles of fashion, in scenes of heartless gaity, might have never excited a single feeling of mutual interest. Eustis now wondered that he had never sought the society of Elizabeth, never observed the full expression of her deep blue eye; never noticed that her beauty was of that attractive kind, which, once seen, is not easily forgotten. It was on a sweet sunny morning in April, when every object was cheered by the return of spring; one of those bright days, when the elastic spirit of youth, would imagine that this beautiful world, could be the receptacle only of happiness; and that brilliant sun, in all his course, could look down on no scenes of wo; it was on such a morning, that as Eustis found himself at the side of his humble friend, he saw a fearful change had been wrought; he breathed with difficulty, and the agonies of death were upon him. For a few hours life struggled, as if unwilling to resign its grasp then all was calm. Unused to such scenes, Eustis did not at first perceive, that the hand which he held was colder, or the face paler than before-that the spirit had departed. As he left the house of death, his mind full of the scene through which he had passed, and entered the busy street, crowded with the active and the gay, heard the varied sounds of business and of pleasure, and contrasted them with the death of the humble poor, the low miserable apartment, and the suffering hearts he had just left; he felt that it was for such scenes to teach us wisdom; he felt how vain is that distinction, whose duration is coeval only with our present exis tence. In a few months, Elizabeth Worthington became the wife of the admired and courted Mr. Eustis. His selection was a nine day's wonder, among the husband-seeking young ladies, and their managing mammas; and of surprise to all, that he had preferred the retiring Elizabeth to her charming cousin ; but to no one, more than Grace herself. Her fancy had been dazzled by the intended splendor of his establishment; besides, the little of heart, which flattery and the love of pleasure had left her, was his,—but who ever heard of a belle dying with a broken heart? It was not till some time after, that she learned the story of Elizabeth's charitable attention to Mrs. Means, of Eustis' interest in her husband, and the exposure of her own injustice; and never till then, did she acknowledge even to herself, she had paid too dearly for her pearl necklace. She still continued to haunt the scenes of her former triumph, unconscious that time will leave its ravages, on earth's fairest things; that while all else is changing, we are not stationary. Some of her admirers had discovered that they could not marry a portionless beauty, whose expenditure was that of an heiress; and others, that a beautiful set of features, and the eclat of marrying the most admired woman in the city, were not quite an ample security for domestic happiness. Mr. Eustis placed the family of his old servant in a situation of comfort-not one where they were dependent on his constant bounty, for he justly reasoned that the best charity is that which furnishes the poor with employment, and enables them to supply their own wants, not crippling their powers, and destroying their independence, by an habitual sense of obligation, and while he enjoyed the delights of his own domestic circle, and felt that "There is a Providence, that shapes our ends, he could not forget, that the poor widow had been the instrument of saving him from wretchedness, perhaps from vice. Portsmouth, Jan. 15th, 1831. L. E. To S., ON HER BIRTH DAY. Joy to thee, dearest! though darkness and sorrow Oh! who would be sad, when awaking in splendor, Away! it were treason to darken the feeling That rises responding to Nature's glad light,- Joy to thee, dearest! there's beauty above thee, Thou hast light in thy pathway, and hope for thy guide; January 6, 1831. KATHLEEN. |