CHAPTER IV.
Pale Disappointment! on whose anxious brow
Expectancy has deepened into pain;
Thou who hast pressed upon so many hearts
The burning anguish of those words—in vain;
Thy gloom is here; thy shadowy presence lies
Within the glory-light of those sad eyes!
Two years more had gone by since we glanced at Theresa last—years fraught to her with the fulfillment of ambition, and golden with the gifts of praise. Her name had become a familiar one to the lovers of art, and her society was eagerly sought for by the most intellectual men in one of our most refined cities. In the home of her artist friend she had been as a daughter, and cordially welcomed into the circles of talent and acquirement. It would have been well with her had that measure of success satisfied her, could she have returned then, without one hope turned into bitterness, to her early and tranquil home—but it was not so to be; and on the death of her friend, a year previous to this time, Theresa decided still to remain in the city, and follow alone the exciting glories of her art. In the meantime Amy's marriage had taken place; the cottage was deserted, and Mrs. Germaine found a home with her younger daughter. It was Gerald's wish that Theresa also should reside with them; but she had declined, affectionately, though positively; and she was now an exile from those who loved her best. Her engagements had proved profitable, she had acquired much more than was necessary for her simple wants; and all her surplus gainings were scrupulously sent to her mother. I, too, was frequently remembered in her generous deeds, and many a valuable book, far beyond my power to purchase, came with sweet words from the cheerer of my old age.
But this state of things was too prosperous to last always—the crowd does not permit without a struggle the continuance of such prosperity. Gradually the tide of public approval changed; rivals spoke slightingly of one who surpassed them; her impetuous words—and she was frank almost to a fault—were misrepresented, and envying lips whispered of the impropriety of her independent mode of life. Flatterers grew more cautious, professing friends looked coldly, and, one by one, her female acquaintances found various pretexts for withdrawing their attentions. Theresa was not suspicious; it was long before these changes were apparent to her, and even then she attributed them to accident. Confident in her own purity of motive, and occupied with her own engrossing pursuits, she had neither time nor inclination for disagreeable speculations. She felt her refuge was incessant employment; she dared not even yet allow herself leisure for contemplation and memory. A volume of her poems had just been published—its destiny filled her thoughts—for who cannot imagine the trembling, fearing solicitude with which the young poet would send forth her visions to the world? Her engagements in her profession, too, were ceaseless, and her health began to fail under the effects of a mode of life so constant in its labors, and so apart from the refreshing influences usually surrounding girlhood. And was she happy? Alas! she had often asked herself that question, and answered it with tears; ambition has no recompense for tenderness, womanhood may not lay aside its yearnings. Her letters to us contained no word of despondency; she spoke more of what she thought than of what she felt. Her heart had learned to veil itself; and yet, as I read her notes to me, the suspicion would sometimes involuntarily come over me that she was not tranquil, that her future looked to her more shadowy; and I longed to clasp her once more to the bosom that had pillowed her head in childhood, and bid her bring there her hoard of trial and care. She was, by her own peculiar feelings banished from our midst; how could she return, to dwell in Gerald's home, she who for years had striven in solitude and silence to still memories of which he made the grief? But she was no pining, love-sick girl; the high and rare tone of her nature gave her many resources, and imparted strength to battle with gentler impulses. But it was a painful and unnatural conflict between an ingenuous character and a taunting pride—a war between thought and tenderness. Wo to the heart that dares such a struggle! Aspiration may bring a temporary solace, excitement a momentary balm; but never yet, in all the tear-chronicled records of genius, has woman found peace in praise, or compensation in applause. It is enough for her to obtain, in the dangerous arena of competition, a brief refuge, a transient forgetfulness; love once branded with those words—in vain, may win nothing more enduring this side of heaven.
It was the twilight of a whiter evening; the lamps were just beginning to brighten the city streets, and the fire burned cheerfully in Theresa's apartment. Various paintings, sketches, and books, were scattered around, and on the table lay a miniature of Amy, painted from memory. It depicted her, not in the flush of her early womanhood, not in the gladness of her hope-tinted love, but as she was, years ago, in her idolized infancy. The lamp-light shone full upon that young, faultless face, brightening almost like life those smiling lips, and the white brow gleaming beneath childhood's coronet of golden hair.
The young artist was seated now in silent and profound abstraction—for twilight is the time the past claims from the present, and memory is summoned by silence. Theresa's feet rested on a low footstool, her hands were clasped lightly together on her lap, and she leaned back in the cushioned chair, in an attitude of perfect and unstudied grace she would have delightedly sketched in another. Have ever I described my favorite's appearance? I believe not; and yet there was much in her face and figure to arrest and enchant younger eyes than mine. I could not, if I would, delineate her features, for I only recall their charm of emotion, their attractive variety of sentiment. Her eyes were gray, with dark lashes, and their expression was at once brilliant and melancholy, and the most spiritual I have ever seen. Her hair was long and fair, with a tinge of gold glancing through its pale-brown masses, as if sunbeams were woven in its tresses. She was not above the average height, but the proportions of her figure were peculiarly beautiful, and her movements and attitudes had the indescribable gracefulness whose harmony was a portion of her being. She looked even younger than she really was, and her dress, though simple, was always tasteful and attractive, for her reverence for the beautiful extended even to common trifles, and all about her bespoke the elevating presence of intellectual ascendency. The glance that once dwelt on her returned to her face instinctively—so much of thought and feeling, of womanhood in its faculty to love and hope, of affection in its power to endure and triumph, so much of genius in the glory of its untested youth, lay written in lines of light on that pale, maidenly brow. Ah, me! that I should remember her thus! As Theresa sat there, she idly took a newspaper from the table to refold it, and as she did so, her own name attracted her attention. It headed a brief notice of her poems, which was doubtless written by some one her success had offended—there are minds that cannot forgive a fortunate rival. It was a cold, sarcastic, sneering review of her book, penned in that tone of contemptuous irony, the most profaning to talent, the most desecrating to beauty. There was neither justice nor gentleness in the paragraph, but it briefly condemned the work, and promised at some future period, a more detailed notice of its defects. It was the first time that Theresa had felt the fickleness of popular favor; and who does not know the morbid sensitiveness with which the poet shrinks from censure? To have her fair imaginings thus degraded, her glowing theories prostrated, the golden pinions of her fancy dragged to the dust—were these things the compensation for thought, and toil, and sacrifice? It was a dark wisdom to learn, one that would cast a shade over all future effort—and disappointed and mortified, Theresa threw down the paper, and wept those bitter tears which failure teaches youth to shed.
An hour of painful reverie had passed, when the door of the apartment was noiselessly opened, and with silent steps, the dark-robed figure of a woman entered and approached Theresa.
"I have intruded on you most unceremoniously," said the stranger, in a voice singularly soft and melodious, "and I have no apology to plead but the interest I feel in youth and genius, and this privileged garb;" and as Theresa glanced at her dress, she saw it was that of a Sister of Charity. It was an attire she had grown familiar with, during her abode at the convent, and the winning kindness usually distinguishing its wearers, had invested it in her mind with pleasant associations.
"You are welcome, nevertheless," replied Theresa, "for I know that in admitting your sisterhood we often entertain angels unawares."
The new comer seated herself, and the young artist strove in vain to recall her features; they were those of a stranger.
"You are personally unknown to me, Theresa," said the lady, after a brief silence, "but your father was one of my earliest friends. Nay—it matters not to ask my name; the one I then bore, is parted with now, and I would not willingly speak it again; under a different appellation I have been lowlier and happier."
"You knew my father, then," rejoined Theresa, eagerly, "in his younger and more prosperous days. His loss I feel more keenly as my experience increases; for I was too young at his death to appreciate in reality, as I now do in memory, all his character's high, and generous, and spiritual beauty."
"We met often in the gay world," replied the guest—and her words were uttered less to Theresa than to herself—"and our acquaintance was formed under circumstances which ripened into intimacy what might otherwise have proved only one of those commonplace associations that lightly link society together; but it is of yourself I would speak. I have opportunities in the fulfillment of my duties of hearing and seeing much that passes in the busy world about me; and I have been prompted by the old memories still clinging around me, to proffer you the counsel of a friend. Will you forgive me, if I address you candidly and unreservedly?"
And then, as Theresa wonderingly granted the desired permission, she proceeded gently to detail some of the efforts of malice, and to utter words of kind warning to one who, enfolded within her own illusions, saw nothing of the shadows gathering about her path.
"You are not happy, Theresa!" continued the sister; "I know too much of woman's life to believe you are. I am aware of the motives from which you act; and while I reverence your purity of heart, and the pride which has tempted you to work out your own destiny, I easily trace the weariness your spirit feels. I, too, have had my visions; they are God's gift to youth, but I have lived sadly and patiently to watch dream after dream fade away. I see you have forgotten me, although I saw you frequently at the convent of ——; but I am not surprised at your forgetfulness, for the nun's sombre veil shuts her out alike from hearts and memories."
"Are you, too, then unhappy?" asked Theresa, as the low and musical voice beside her trembled in its tone; "you, whose footsteps are followed by blessings, whose life is hallowed by doing good? I have long ago learned to doubt the peace of the cloister, but I have ever loved to believe there was recompense in your more active career, and that if happiness exists on earth, the Sisters of Charity deserve and win it."
"In part, you are right," answered the nun, "but you have yet to realize that the penalties of humanity are beyond mortal control; that we cannot, by any mode of life, pass beyond their influence. All we can do, is prayerfully to acquire patient forbearance and upward hope; many a heavy heart beats beneath a veil like this, and carries its own woes silently within, while it whispers to others of promise and rest." The visiter paused, and Theresa interrupted a silence that began to be painful to both.
"I feel," she said, "that I have acted injudiciously in braving remark, and in proudly dreaming I could shape out my own course. But you, who seem to have divined my thoughts so truly, doubtless read also the one reason which renders my return home most depressing."
"I know it well," was the reply; and the speaker pressed Theresa's trembling hand within her own, "but your prolonged stay here will be fraught with continually increasing evils; and if you expect repose, it cannot be here, where envy and detraction are rising against you. We cannot sway the prejudices of society, Theresa; and in some respects even the most gifted must submit to their decrees. And now," she said, as she rose to take leave, "I must bid you farewell. I have followed an impulse of kindness in undertaking the dangerous task to warn and counsel. If you will listen to one fatally versed in the world's ways, you will cease to defy public opinion, and amid the more tranquil scenes of your home, you will acquire a truer repose than ever fame bestowed. In all probability we shall meet no more, yet I would fain carry with me the consolation of having rescued from confirmed bitterness of spirit, the child of a faithful friend, and pointed a yearning heart to its only rest." And before Theresa could reply, the door had closed, and the visiter was gone.
THERESA'S LETTER.
"My friend! the credulity is ended, the illusion is over, and I shall return to you again. There are reasons I need not mention now, which would render a residence with my sister painful, and with my old waywardness I would come to you, the kind sharer of my young impulses, and to your home, the quiet scene of my happiest days. I am listless and sick at heart; and the hopes that once made my future radiant, appear false and idle to my gaze. Success has bestowed but momentary satisfaction, while failure has produced permanent pain; and I would fain cease my restless strivings, and be tranquil once more. This is no hasty resolve; several weeks have elapsed since I was prompted to it first; and I believe it is wiser to submit than to struggle—to learn endurance, than to strive for reward. In a few days more I shall be with you, saddened and disheartened, and changed in all things but in love and gratitude."
She had, indeed, changed since I saw her last, nearly three years before. The world had wrought its work, hope had been crushed by reality. Her health was evidently fatally affected, and her voice, once so gay and joyous, was low and subdued. It was mournful to my loving eyes to mark the contrast between the sisters now; Amy, in the noiseless routine of domestic duties, found all her wishes satisfied; she was rendered happy by trifles, and her nature demanded nothing they could not offer. Without one rare mental endowment, or a single lofty trait, she had followed her appointed path, a serene and contented woman. A glance at the household circles around us, will prove this contrast a common one; the most gifted are not the most blessed—and the earth has no fulfillment for the aspirations that rise above it.
And what of Theresa, the richly and fatally endowed, she who, with all the faculties for feeling and bestowing gladness, yet wasted her youth away; she who sadly tested the beautiful combination of genius with womanhood, yet lavished her powers in vain—why need I trace the passing away of one beloved so well? My task is finished; and I willingly lay aside a record, written through tears. Wouldst thou know more? There is a grave in yonder church-yard that can tell thee all!