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The moment breakfast was finished on the following
morning, Sidney seized his hat and hurried into the
street, and continued sauntering through the city during
the whole forenoon. He would not have acknowledged,
even to himself, the motive which prompted him to this
singular display; yet, from the eagerness with which he
surveyed every lady he met, and the disappointment of
his air as he turned from each fair face, unequivocally
declared the object he wished to meet did not reward
his search; and restless and sad he entered the dining
room where his uncle was already seated.

“A fine afternoon we shall have,” said Mr. Brainard;
“I hope, Sidney, you are not engaged?”

“Why so?”

“Because, I have promised to spend the evening with
an old friend of mine, just come to town—a worthy gentleman
from Savannah, rich as Crœsus, and generous as
rich; and I have engaged you shall accompany me. He
is very anxious to cultivate your acquaintance.”

“I don't know,” answered Sidney, with as vacant a
look as hopeless love could well assume, “as I wish for
the introduction. I had rather forget half-a-dozen old
acquaintances than form one new one.”

“You will be interested this evening, or I'll forfeit a
cool hundred,” said his uncle; “so make no more objections,
for you must go.”

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Sidney never opposed any serious wish of his uncle,
and he prepared to go, although he had no inclination
for the visit, and would much have preferred spending
the evening at home, musing, like a faithful Quixotte, on
the unparalleled perfections of that unknown damsel
who had captivated his heart.

They went at an early hour, and were conducted into
an elegant drawing-room, where Mr. Atkinson waited to
receive them. He embraced Sidney with all the ardor
of friendship, telling him that his uncle's commendations
had prepared him to be pleased with Mr. Romilly; “but,”
added he, “your appearance and manners would have
been a sufficient passport to my favor.”

Sidney listened to all his compliments without being
able to answer one word; and Mr. Brainard, wondering
at his silence, almost cursed his stupidity, and resolved
to scold him heartily when they reached home.

But the truth was, Sidney at once recognized in Mr.
Atkinson, the old gentleman he had seen at the theatre
as the protector of that lovely girl, and surprise and joy
held him mute.

“Where is your daughter?” inquired Mr. Brainard;
“shall we not see her this evening?”

“She will attend us soon,” replied Mr. Atkinson.
“Ah! she comes now. Zemira, my love, let me introduce
you to Mr. Romilly, the nephew of Mr. Brainard,
my good friend here. You two must be friends as we
are.”

Zemira blushed deeply; yet it was only maiden bashfulness
at the appearance of a stranger; but poor Sidney
felt as if every drop of his blood were rushing back to
his heart. He hardly respired; and the sudden paleness
of his countenance alarmed his uncle, who hastily inquired
what ailed him.

The event was a fortunate one for our hero, as the
exertions he was obliged to make to convince them he
was “perfectly well—never better in his life,” enabled
him to conquer his surprise, and collect his thoughts.
He was soon convinced Zemira did not recognize him,

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probably had not noticed him, and he determined to
keep his own counsel, and let no one know the impression
her first appearance had made on his heart.

“They shall not know I was so weak as to fall in
love,” thought he: “I will first ascertain whether she is
worthy to be loved; and in the second place, whether
she will return my affection. Love at first sight, my
uncle has often told me, a declaration the first opportunity,
and a marriage without reflection, were the three
grand errors of his life, which no subsequent prudence
or sagacity on his part could remedy.”

So Sidney resolved to be circumspect, and guard his
heart, but armor is useless when we have already surrendered;
and so much did his passion speak in his eyes
when gazing on Zemira, and in the tremulous tones of
his voice when addressing her, that the old gentlemen
both perceived it, and with many sly winks and knowing
smiles, expressed their satisfaction at the attachment
which promised a consummation of their fondest wishes.

They had been friends from infancy, and wished to
perpetuate the friendship of their families; what better
method could be devised than to join in wedlock those
who were nearest and dearest to each? They both had
large estates: how could they be better preserved than
by uniting them? For several preceding years, the
nephew of the one, and the daughter of the other, had
always been mentioned in their letters to each other;
but it was only a short time since any explanation of the
views and hopes both had secretly entertained had been
suggested.

The ecclaircissement was first made by Mr. Atkinson.
In a letter, written a few months before his arrival at
Charleston, after mentioning his increasing infirmities,
and the difficulty of finding men with whom he could
entrust his business, he added, “I sometimes think if my
daughter were married to a worthy man, it would lessen
my anxieties. I am known to be very rich, and she, although
I say it myself, is very pretty. As soon as she
is introduced into the world, which I have not yet

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permitted her to be, these advantages will be sure to attract
a crowd of admirers. She has neither brother nor sister
to guard or counsel her, and the restraints and advice of
an old man are often, by the young, thought morose and
selfish. You have frequently mentioned your nephew,
Sidney Romilly, in terms of high commendation. Now,
Brainard, what if we should contrive a match between
him and Zemira? You, I know, will not object, and
from your description of him, and my knowledge of her,
I should think they would easily agree. My daughter
is young; too young, indeed, to be married, scarcely sixteen;
but my health is very poor, and I must either confine
the dear child at home with me, for a nurse, during
the bloom of her life, or let her go forth alone into a dangerous
world, or give her a protector suitable to her age
and feelings. What say you to my proposal?”

The answer of Mr. Brainard was in the affirmative;
for such an offer, what rich man would refuse! A large
estate always requires a balance of power, or the dignity
of the wealthy party is terribly sacrificed.

They settled the business thus: Mr. Atkinson was to
come, accompanied by his daughter, to Charleston, ostensibly
in search of health, spend the winter, and renew
his acquaintance with his friend Brainard. The intercourse
once established, Sidney and Zemira would, of
course, be often brought together, and their guardians
flattered themselves mutual affection would soon ensue.

The plan was well devised, and could the impression
her first appearance would make on Sidney's heart have
been foreseen, would not many have wondered at the
sagacity of these match-makers, who had even seemed to
anticipate the intentions of Providence? And would
they not have pronounced the union to have been designed
by heaven?

They would have been mistaken, however.

Sidney, it has been shown, was already caught, and
his attentions to Zemira soon became so pointed and particular
that she could not mistake their meaning. But
still her pale cheek grew paler, and, except when beneath

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the eye of her father, whose glance always appeared to
make her tremble, she was pensive or silent.

Sidney sometimes thought she was unhappy, and sometimes
feared it might be from secret disappointment; but
her father said she had never had a suitor; her reserve,
therefore, was only bashfulness, and, in her lover's opinion,
it constituted her most delicate charm.

Many a time had he sighed on beholding some fair
lady, who, with glowing cheek and tender air, had been
listening to his compliments, smile just as sweetly on the
next admirer who approached her; and often had he repeated,
that at the shrine he worshiped, others must not
bow. And how rapturous to win the love of Zemira, so
young, so inexperienced in the world, and make her soft,
unhackneyed heart all his own!

The denouement, however, speedily arrived.

Urged on by the impetuosity of his passion, secure of
his uncle's approbation, and certain, from pretty broad
hints, he was favored by the father, Sidney thought he
might dispense with such a scrutiny of the sentiments of
the daughter as he had always determined to institute
before making a formal declaration to any woman on
earth.

How easily love leads captive the judgment of men!
Many reasons, plausible ones, too, now occurred to Sidney,
why a lady should never “tell her love;” no, not
even let it be suspected by any, certainly not by the object
of her partiality. It was a violation of maiden delicacy—
a sacrifice of female dignity—and he would not
marry with her who could “unsought be won.”

And there was truth in all this. The mischief was, he
did not consider the difference which would appear in
one whose heart was touched with the merit of her lover,
and in one who was indifferent or averse. And though
every particularity on his part only added to the reserve
or evident inquietude of Zemira, he still flattered himself
her decision would be favorable.

At length he made his avowal. I cannot tell whether
it was at a morning call, or an evening walk, in the

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parlor or garden—neither do I know the exact form of
speech used on the occasion. And of what consequence
would it be if I did?

There are specimens of this kind of eloquence already
extant, sufficient to furnish the vocabulary of every
pretty fellow who is incapable of wording his own petition;
and lovers of sense and honor, why, they will not
regret the omission, for they know the language which
would express their feelings must be their own.

Sidney told her, however, of his affection, ardent, sincere,
and undivided, and entreated a word or look to
assure him he might hope.

Her color went and came like the gleams of an April
day, but grief overpowered at last, and she burst into
tears.

There have been tears of joy, but her lover saw these
were not, nor was her confusion that of gratified surprise.

He took her trembling hand.

“My dear Zemira, do not cast me off!”

She struggled to release her hand.

“Oh! Mr. Romilly, you know not whom you address,
but I will tell you all—I am—I am—already a wife; I
have been married these three months.”

Sidney's feelings had been wrought up to such a height
of expectation he hardly believed disappointment possible;
certainly he never could have anticipated it in such
a shape. Her words fell like an ice-bolt on his heart.
He did not merely see, he felt his hopes annihilated. Cold
drops of sweat started on his forehead—he trembled—
her hand fell from his nerveless grasp, and leaning
against a support, he groaned aloud.

A long and death-like pause ensued; at length it was
broken by Zemira. Raising her tearful eyes to his, she
said—

“Mr. Romilly, before you blame me, listen to my story.

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If I have not mistaken your character, you have a kind,
generous heart. You profess to love me—oh, do not
prove my enemy! You can comfort, you can befriend
me; and though I cannot return your affection, I will
bless your kindness—I will accept your assistance—and
if you really wish to contribute to my happiness, you
now have it in your power. Say, will you not be my
friend?”

“Your friend, Zemira, your friend! when you have
thus pierced my heart?”

“Yet how could I avoid it? I endeavored to discourage
your addresses, but you persisted, and my father favored
you; he does not know my marriage. Oh, if he
should learn it at present, he will cast me off forever!
but he does not know it; and he gives you every opportunity
to approach me, and I have no resource left but
to throw myself on your humanity, your honor.”

“Where is your husband?” said Sidney, in a tone of
bitterness. “Your husband must protect you. Why
does he not claim you? Were you my wife, I should
not thus leave you to the casual interference of strangers”—
And he walked hastily away, as if intending to
depart.

“Mr. Romilly,” said she, and the despair of her heart communicated
itself to her voice—“listen to me one moment.
Hear my story—I ask no other favor—and then, if you
wish, publish it to the world;—I can but die.” And she
covered her face and burst into a hysterical sobbing.

Sidney hurried back, caught, and supported her to a
seat.

“Forgive—forgive me, Zemira; I am myself again.
You must not wonder at my unreasonableness; my disappointment—
but I will mention it no more. Now
tell me how, at your age, this strange marriage could
have been contracted without your father's consent or
knowledge.”

After a few moments' silence she began; but her narrative
was so often interrupted by her sighs or Sidney's
questions and exclamations, that it would not be as

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intelligible to my readers as a connected story. And besides,
there were circumstances she did not understand, and effects
whose causes she had not developed. None but the
author can know the hidden springs which move the
world of his creation; and the scholar and philosopher
who requires a reasonable apology for the unreasonable
marriage of Zemira must read carefully the three succeeding
chapters.

Every lady and every lady's man will surely peruse
them, and without skipping, when assured they are all
about love.