CHAPTER III.
“And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain!”
Tennyson.
“Yet, press on!
For it shall make you mighty among men;
And from the eyrie of your eagle thought
Ye shall look down on monarchs!”
— Willis.
A period of six years passed. Other houses had grown up
around the palace-home of Judge Wentworth. New York was
gayer than ever, and Aline Wentworth more beautiful. It was
an autumn afternoon. The country was glorious with the balmy
air, the trees heavy with their ripe fruit, and the fields rich with
waving grain. Something of this autumn glory had penetrated
the heart of the city, and was flooding the gorgeous furniture
in Aline Wentworth's boudoir.
Never had the Lady Aline been fairer. Her robe of many-shaded
India silk became well the clear olive of her gypsy-like
complexion. Her jetty hair seemed almost to emit sparks of
light, and her glorious eyes out-flashed the diamonds on her brow.
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A man, in the pride and prime of life, gallant and noble, was
kneeling beside her. His mien betokened one rather used to
command than to entreat; and yet there was a world of tenderness
in the voice which pleaded for that proud woman's love!
The lady rose at last, withdrawing her hand from his passionate
clasp, and stood before him, with her proud eyes, and full, stately
figure.
“I do not,” she said, very calmly, “I do not estimate lightly
the honor you have done me, General Howe. I am but the more
sensible of it when I know that it is profitless. I have listened
to your words, and they awoke no echo in my own heart. God
knows I wish it were otherwise; but so it is, and I will not
wrong your noble nature by giving you my hand without my
heart. Leave me now, and God grant you may be happier than
ever Aline Wentworth could have made you!”
For one moment he bowed his head over the fair hand that
was extended to him, and then Aline Wentworth was alone!
Sinking down among the velvet cushions of her boudoir, she
bent her head, and sobbed pitifully.
“O Ernest, Ernest!” she rather groaned than said, “have I
not been faithful? Wealth, and rank, and power, have tempted
me in vain. Every throb of my heart through all these weary
years has been but thine. Wilt thou never come back?”
Ah, Aline! that fierce pride is working out its own terrible
retribution.
It is a bitter cup, but thou shalt drink it to the dregs!
That same pleasant autumn day, in 1802, witnessed another
wooing.
One there was, in Napoleon's army of fierce spirits, whom
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men called “Bravest of the Brave.” He had charged on many
a battle-field, riding down men and spears like dust. His very
name was a host in itself; and where foe met foe, if but his legion
of invincibles hurled themselves into the fight, if but he thundered
upon the enemy, Napoleon would sit down calmly and
write, “The day is won!”
At first but an unknown soldier in the ranks, he had risen
rapidly, until now a Marshal's baton had been the reward of his
valor. And now there was peace, brief, indeed, but yet peace,
though the couch where the tired nations lay still and rested was
piled up on muskets.
In Paris rose many a stately palace, and in the grounds surrounding
one of the fairest walked he whom men called the
“Bravest of the Brave,” with a young girl by his side. Scarce
fifteen summers had deepened the rose-tint upon her cheeks, or
woven their sunshine in her hair. Her brow was like the large
white leaves of the water-lily, broad, and smooth, and fair. Her
eyes were of that rich, violet blue, something the color of the
lapis-lazuli, rarely seen but in the islands of the sea, and seldom
even there. Her figure was slight and fairy-like as a child's;
and the trust and unsullied purity of girlhood shone in her
clear eyes, as she turned them upon her companion.
“Sit down with me, Julie Augne,” at length he said, in a tone
of command better suited to camp than court, and yet with an
inexpressible tenderness.
And then, with that fair young creature sitting by his side,
the soldier told his love, while the shadow of her long lashes
drooped over the cheek of Julie Augne. Her lips quivered,
and her lithe little figure fluttered like a bird.
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“Julie,” he said, at length, “one learns but ill courtly phrase
in the mad encounter, where men hold their breaths, and war-horses
dash onward, with the bits between their teeth. And yet,
Julie, one learns there to protect the loved, to guard them, ay,
with one's life; and so would I guard thee, sweet one. Will
you trust me, my beautiful child?”
For one moment Julie Augne raised her clear, truthful eyes to
his, and he could see that the lashes were heavy with tears, and
then she spoke.
“But you, sir, how can you love me? Have you not loved
another? I have heard men say that the secret of your bravery
was because you had nothing more to lose, — because you had lost
all, with a lost love. Where Julie Augne cannot have all, she
scorns to share anything!” and the young girl turned away with
a pride scarcely less imperious than that of Aline Wentworth
herself. But her lover noticed it not, for he resumed,
“Listen to me, Julie, and you shall know everything. I am
not what it has been my interest to appear, the son of poor
French parents. I am an American, whose only heritage in his
orphan boyhood was a noble name, and bitter poverty.
“I was a student. I hardly know how I became one, but
alone and unaided I struggled upward.
“Years ago, when I was very young, I was introduced to one
whom the world would have called far my superior, — one
beautiful as the fairest dream of an opium-eater. I hardly
know whether I ever loved her. I only know she dazzled and
bewildered me, and my whole future seemed bounded by her
smiles.
“My passion for her was sudden; it did not grow up, like my
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love for you, from weeks of patient knowledge, while I read your
pure heart like a book.
“It was a dream, — and like a dream it vanished. She
refused to be mine, Julie, because I was poor and unknown;
and yet I know she loved me. She is free still, but I have no
wish to share with her my toil-won glory. She is to me as one
dead; but you, Julie, my beautiful darling, will you not be my
living love, my wife?”
Tears and smiles and blushes chased themselves over the
young girl's sunny face, as she placed her hand in his, and
returned to the house a plighted bride.
Brilliantly, as if for a festival, burned the tall wax tapers in
the cathedral of Notre Dame. Clouds of incense floated out
upon the air, and the organ melody from the lofty choir was
faint and sweet as the far-off anthems of angels. Before the
altar knelt Julie Augne. The first consul, Napoleon himself,
gave away the bride, and Julie rose from that silent prayer a
wife.
It boots not to write of festivals given in her honor, of the
love that surrounded her with luxury; for in the palace, as in the
cottage, the crown word and jewel of a woman's life is love.
Without it fame and glory are but as apples of Sodom, and the
sceptre mocks the hand that wields it.
But there was happiness in the palace-home of Julie Augne,
for she was beloved!
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Moulton, Louise Chandler, 1835-1908 [1854], This, that and the other. (Phillips, Sampson and Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf655T].
