[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]

The two gentlemen reached Charleston in safety, and
were set down at the house of Mr. Brainard.

“Where is my uncle?” said Sidney to the servant
who appeared.

“At Mr. Atkinson's,” was the reply.

“When does he return?”

“Lack, sir, I don't know,” replied the servant—
“why, Mr. Atkinson is dying with a fit of the artiplax.”

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Stuart, “where is Zemira?”

“The old man's daughter I heard my massa say took
on desputly, and he feared she would die too.”

“Let us go, Romilly,” cried Stuart, “perhaps we may
save Zemira.”

Silently and hastily they proceeded to the lodgings of
Mr. Atkinson. In reply to their eager inquiries, the
servant said his master was still living.

“And where is his daughter?” asked Sidney.

“In her chamber, I believe.”

“Go to her and say Mr. Romilly wishes to speak with
her immediately, if she is able to hear him.”

“I will wait in the hall,” said Stuart, as Sidney opened
the door of the parlor, “till you apprise Zemira of my
arrival; should I appear suddenly, the effect might, in
her present low spirits, be overwhelming.”

Sidney had not passed many minutes in the parlor
before Zemira, pale, and her eyes swollen with weeping,

[figure description] Page 226.[end figure description]

entered, and, making an effort to speak, burst into
tears.

“My friend,” said Sidney, as he hastened towards her,
“you have allowed me that title—I may not aspire to a
dearer—I know your sorrow, and I need not tell you of
my sympathy. Is there any service I can perform for
you?”

“My father,” sobbed Zemira, “wishes to see you he
insists on pledging you my hand before he dies. O,
what shall I say to him! How can I so deceive him at
such a time, and who will protect me?”

“If your husband were here you would not feel so
destitute,” said Sidney, trembling almost as much as
she.

“O! no, no; but I have heard nothing from him since
I came to this city. He has, I suppose, sailed, and I fear
I shall never”—. Here her agitation overcame her,
and she wept aloud.

“Zemira, Zemira, be calm!” exclaimed Sidney. “You
will see your husband again—I pledge my life to restore
him to you.”

“When?”

“Now, whenever you can have fortitude to support
the interview.”

“Is he come?—is he here?—I am calm; let me but
see him, and I will be calm.” And she gazed eagerly at
the opening door.

Stuart entered: he had heard all, for the door was
not entirely closed, and at her pathetic entreaties he
could no longer restrain his impatience. He rushed forward
and caught her, as faintly uttering his name she
sunk into his extended arms.

Sidney did not dare trust himself to be a witness of
their rapture. He felt sick, oppressed for breath, and
hastened to the door with an intention of leaving the
house. A servant overtook him as he reached the street,
with a message from his uncle, requesting to see him.
He turned back, and was conducted into an apartment

[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]

adjoining that in which the sick man was confined, where
his uncle soon joined him.

After a few hurried inquiries, respecting what had so
long detained him, which Sidney evaded as well as he
was able, Mr. Brainard described the melancholy situation
of his friend, hinted the probability of his speedy
dissolution, and finally ended by telling him he had engaged
for his marrying Zemira.

“But,” continued he, “the old gentleman is anxious
to witness the performance of the ceremony, and I was
about despatching a messenger to hasten your return.”

“What a prize might have been mine!” thought Sidney;
“but I have begun to act the part of the self-denying,
philosophie lover, and must proceed.” He then
related to his uncle the story of Stuart, and the resolutions
he had himself taken.

Mr. Brainard listened to the recital with astonishment
and emotion; and when it was concluded, leaned his
head on his hand and sat for some time in deep and evidently
unpleasant reflection. Then suddenly starting up,
he drew his hand across his eyes, as if to shut some unpleasant
object from his view, while he said, in a melancholy
tone,—

“Sidney, I applaud your conduct, though my example
did not teach it. But you need not my praises, for I am
convinced integrity always imparts its own reward, and
your heart is now enjoying a happiness which the possession
of Zemira could not bestow; at least not for any
length of time. I know that connubial affection to be
lasting, must be reciprocal, and that if we would enjoy
felicity we must be able to confer it.”

He sighed, and Sidney, who suspected his sadness
arose from self-reproach for the ungenerous part he had
acted in supplanting Reuben Porter, changed the conversation
by inquiring how they might best communicate
the affair to Mr. Atkinson, or whether it was not better
to let him depart without a knowledge of his daughter's
marriage. After some discussion, they concluded to visit

[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]

the sick man, and consider what effect the intelligence
might have on his weak frame and agitated nerves.

His disorder was a fit of the apoplectic kind; and
although he had partially recovered from the shock, and
now possessed his reason, his enfeebled constitution was
sinking beneath the attack, and his wasted and livid
features struck Sidney with horror. At their approach,
he turned his dim, heavy eyes, upon them; death was
already glassed in their sunken orbs, yet there was something
like the lighting up of joy at the sight of Sidney,
as if earth still held one object on which they might rest
with confidence—one heart on which he might rely for
comfort.

Mr. Atkinson raised his hand and Sidney extended
his, although shuddering while he did so; for the hand
he took was already cold, and the damps of death gave
a clammy chilliness to the long bony fingers, and he
trembled while involuntarily striving to release himself
from their convulsive grasp.

“I thank God that I see you once more,” said Mr.
Atkinson, at length, in a hollow, rattling tone. “I can
now depart in peace—you will protect my daughter.”

Sidney could not answer.

After a moment's pause, Mr. Atkinson made an effort
to raise himself, while he said with energy,—“Mr. Romilly,
you know my partiality for you, and I think—I
believe—I hope Zemira favors you also. Will you
promise me, in the name of that God before whom I
shall soon stand, to make her your wife, and by your
kindness console her for my loss? Ah! she will soon
be an orphan.”

Sidney's eyes glistened with tears as he turned them
on his uncle with an expression that supplicated his interference.

“My nephew,” said Mr. Brainard, comprehending the
appeal, “on account of some singular circumstances, is
not able to give you a decisive answer. If you will consent
he should retire, I will make the explanations, and
then we will agree to whatever shall be proper.”

[figure description] Page 229.[end figure description]

Mr. Atkinson released the hand he had held, and by
a motion of his head signified his assent; yet when Sidney
was leaving the room he called him to return, and
told him he hoped nothing had happened which would
impede his marriage with Zemira; “for,” said he, “my
sick heart cannot brook such a disappointment.”

“Oh! would to heaven she could be mine!” exclaimed
Sidney, thrown off his guard by the mention of a union
as possible, “but she is already”— married, he would
have said, had not his uncle caught his arm and hurried
him from the chamber.

Then returning to the bed-side, Mr. Brainard, after
much circumlocution, and many exhortations to the dying
father to consider what was past and inevitable as
designed by Providence, revealed the marriage of his
daughter and the return of Stuart.

It was some time before Mr. Atkinson could believe
the story; but when he learned the noble part Sidney
had acted, and the praises he bestowed on his rival, he
was conquered. Tears streamed down his cheeks, as he
faintly said, “I am satisfied; may God bless their union—
it was of his appointment.” Then turning his face
towards Mr. Brainard, continued, “My friend, the world
is fading from me; its riches, honors, and pleasures appear
now like the baubles that amused my childish
fancy. They have been bright, but now I see their vanity;
I wonder I could ever have prized them so highly.
A death bed, Mr. Brainard, a death bed reduces the
things of earth to their intrinsic value. I am passing
the dark valley, but it is the world only that is shadowed.
Heaven and goodness are bright and beautiful,
and in the scrupulous practice of christian duties, I
must acknowledge the superiority of Stuart. He bore
my unreasonableness, my rage and rebukes, with the
calmness of conscious innocence. I knew he was worthy
of Zemira, but he was poor—his poverty was the
objection I could not overcome. I thought a rich man
would add lustre to my name, and my name will soon
be known only on a neglected tablet of stone. I

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thought a rich man, by adding his wealth to mine,
might make great improvements on my estate, and now
my eyes are to be closed on everything below the skies.
I was providing for an earthly eternity—ah! that is a
provision no mortal need make!”

He had spoken so rapidly, Mr. Brainard could not
check him, although trembling for the consequences;
and his fears were realized, for Mr. Atkinson now sunk
down exhausted and apparently dying, and it was not
until after the application of many restoratives that he
recovered sufficiently to express his desire to see his
daughter and her husband.

“I will bless them,” said he, “before I go hence;
Zemira will live happier, and I shall die happier.”

Mr. Brainard summoned Sidney, and acquainting him
with the result of the conference, bade him go to Stuart
and Zemira, and conduct them to their father.

Sidney said he rejoiced te hear all would be so amicably
adjusted; yet his step, when proceeding to seek
them, was not a “tripping on the light airy toe” of unbridled
happiness. He lingered a moment in the hall,
endeavoring to assume a cheerfulness of countenance,
that he might not appear like a disconsolate lover; but
when he unclosed the door and saw the beautiful cheek
of Zemira resting on the shoulder of her husband, while
with his face declined towards hers, and an arm encircling
her waist, he was supporting her and soothing her
grief, the image of mutual love, confidence, and tenderness
was more than his disappointed feelings could endure,
and hastily closing the door, he paced the hall in
an agony of perturbation.

“And yet,” thought he, “I knew it would be thus.
I must control my passions—one effort of self-denial will
not make me good, or my friends happy. I will be consistent—
I have reunited the lovers, and now shall I mar
their felicity, and blast my own, by indulging in weak
and wicked repinings and envyings? I will not yield
to the suggestions of imagination. Zemira never can be

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mine, but tranquillity may, if I do not foolishly waste
my life in vain regrets.”

He now again opened the door; the lovers were standing
evidently in a state of anxious expectation.

Sidney approached them with tolerable composure,
and related the approval of the old gentleman and his desire
to see them. Sudden felicity is usually in its first tumultuous
throb, more overwhelming than sorrow. Zemira
had never dared to expect such a result. Joy and
grief had been, for the last half hour, strangely commingled
in her bosom. She had been folded to the heart
of her husband, but she could not anticipate the happiness
of enjoying his society for any length of time without
associating it with the death of her beloved and only
parent. She dared not think of the future, for on every
side dark shadows were resting; but Sidney's intelligence
dispelled them all, and she who had borne sorrows
and separations patiently and calmly, now fainted
in the sunbeams of prosperity!

As soon as she recovered sufficiently she begged
to be conducted to her father. He had been strengthening
himself to take a last farewell of his daughter—
the world he had already shaken off.

Early independence, an ill directed education, and violent
passions, had involved Mr. Atkinson in many inconsistencies,
exposed him to many temptations, and it
must not be thought strange if he had at times yielded
to the allurements of pleasure and vice; yet of cold, premeditated
cruelty or villany he had never been guilty.
His impulses were usually on the side of goodness, when
his passions did not interfere; and had he in youth
been subjected to judicious discipline, or taught by necessity
to govern himself, he would have been an inestimable
man.

As it was, he had been prosperous, but never happy—
rich, but never contented; and instead of studying himself
and discovering from his disappointments the inadequacy
of the world to afford real or permanent enjoyment,
he had, by the failure of one ambitious scheme been

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stimulated to a more ardent pursuit of another, till they
centered as the schemes of life usually do in age, in a
desire of accumulating wealth, not for himself—for he
was sensible he could not long enjoy it—but for his
daughter. Such are the subterfuges of selfishness.

But the approach of death dissipated the illusions of
earth. He saw the broken reed on which he had been
leaning. His vices and follies sprung up like armed men
when the field was sown with dragons' teeth, to threaten
and destroy him. Oh! how gladly would he have given
all he possessed for the peace of a quiet conscience!

But peace is not to be purchased; it is won only by
goodness, or accorded to penitence. He could not claim
it for the first; he had not besought it in the humility
of the last. For some time he struggled to suppress his
feelings and his fears; but an alarmed conscience is not
easily hushed. His pride at length yielded to his terror,
and a clergyman was sent for—a sensible and pious man,
whose conversation and example were alike heavenly.
He listened to all the confessions and complaints of the
sick man with patience and pity, and gently as the dew
falls on the drooping plant, he breathed the words of consolation.

Mr. Atkinson became convinced the Bible he had so
long disbelieved, or at least doubted, was the only sure
guide to immortal life; and that the Saviour he had
neglected was indeed the kind physician who would heal
all his sufferings by forgiving all his sins. How rich now
appeared the promises of the gospel!—how glorious the
love of the Redeemer and the joys of heaven! He
believed; and while relying on the mercy of God, he
felt a spirit of benevolence towards his fellow men, which
he had never before cherished.

The pride which had so long elated him at the idea of
his vast possessions, was now humbled by the consciousness
of the little good he had performed with all his
advantages, and the utter nothingness of wealth to purchase
the favor of heaven.

He could now listen to the account of his daughter's

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marriage with a poor man, who he knew was rich in
merits, without feeling a degradation, and was eager to
press her to his bosom and give to her union with Stuart
the sanction of his approbation.

As they approached, he stretched forth his hand, saying,
while an attempt to smile gave to his sunken and distorted
features an unearthly expression.—“Ah! my
daughter, my darling, do I see you happy before I die.”

Zemira sprung from the support of her husband, and
throwing her arm around her father's neck, burst into a
passion of tears. It was more than his weakened frame
could endure, and the attendants had to separate them.
She was consigned to the care of Stuart, who succeeded
in calming her agitation by representing the fatal effect it
must have upon her father.

After a few minutes he again spoke and called on his
daughter and Stuart. They knelt by his bed-side and
took each a hand.

“My children,” said he, looking on them tenderly
while the difficulty of his respiration seemed increasing
every moment, “I have much to say, but death will soon
interrupt me. I feel his cold embrace. He is stealing on,
and this heart and pulse will soon cease to beat. Yet do
not grieve; my Saviour has interceded for me and God
will receive me. But, oh! do not love the world as I
have done. I could tell you—but I am going. God
bless ye—God bless ye, my children! Stuart, forgive
me—love Zemira—and be kind to my servants.”

As he ended he fell back on his pillow; his eyes were
raised and his lips moved as if in prayer; then drawing
his hand across his eyes, as if to shut his weeping friends
from his view, a low groan, a slight tremor, and the
spirit had gone forever!

p561-239

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