Myra

by Ann S. Stephens

But Myra scarcely thought of the stately old mansion. Her affectionate heart penetrated beyond its walls; she saw, as in a vision, one pale and gentle head asleep on its pillow, dreaming of scenes that would never be again. It was a memory of the slumbering household abandoned in its unconsciousness, that filled the eyes of poor Myra with tears. She felt no regret for the noble property that she had rendered up without a sigh. But the household links that she had broken still quivered about her heart, and Myra, as she cast her eyes back on her stately old home, could not choose but weep.

Our young traveler found her friends at New Castle willing to aid her, as the generous girls in Wilmington had been. It was arranged that an old gentleman, father of the lady whose roof had given shelter to the young girl, should proceed with her to Baltimore, and with this most unexceptionable escort Myra set forth. With the gentleman whose house she had left, she intrusted a note which was to be delivered to Mr. Whitney, should he by chance have taken passage in the boat expected in a few hours from Baltimore.

Anxious, hurried, and half ill with excitement, Myra and her companion reached Baltimore just in time to learn that a gentleman bearing the name of Whitney had taken passage in a boat which had passed them on their way.

Agitated by fresh fears, and wild with dread that the meeting between her father and her lover might take place in spite of all her efforts, the poor girl had no resource but to return with her companion, in the wild hope that her note might reach Mr. Whitney at New Castle, and thus prevent his proceeding on his route. By the return boat they reached the home of their generous friends once more, and there to her astonishment and dismay Myra found that a person of like name, but not the Mr. Whitney whom she sought to preserve from periling his life, had passed through New Castle.

It was now beyond the day appointed for her lover’s arrival, and, without any knowledge of the time when he would pass through Baltimore, Myra had no better means of meeting him on the way than by remaining quietly with her friends till he should reach New Castle. The kind clergyman, who had so kindly given his protection to the adventurous girl, arranged that a strict watch should be kept at the landing. Thus day after day passed by, during which poor Myra suffered all the irksome pains of suspense, hoping, yet dreading the appearance of her lover, and haunted with a fear that her incensed parent might find out her place of shelter, and thus render all her efforts to prevent mischief of no avail. But thus harassed and worn out, she had only one resource. To wait—wait. To a nature ardent and impetuous as hers, this was a weary trial. So long as she had any thing to do, the excitement of action kept up her courage, but this life of inactive expectation wore upon her nerves, and she began to droop like a bird fettered in its cage. Thus she had lingered three days, imprisoned by her own free will, in the solitude of her chamber, when the event which she had most feared brought new agitation to her already overtaxed spirit. After days of vain and anxious search her parents had found out the place of her retreat.

It often happens that persons of strong and powerful organization become the slaves of their own will, and act in opposition to their best feelings and cool judgment, merely because that will has been expressed. Pride, stern, commanding pride, such as must have been the characteristic of a man like Mr. D., shrinks from the confession of fallibility, which a change of purpose too surely acknowledges. Imperious from nature and from that right of command which is so readily yielded to the rich even in our republican country, he had expressed his dislike and opposition to Mr. Whitney, and maintained it, not that he believed his suspicions of unworthiness just, but because they had been once expressed; and he, though generous, noble, affectionate, and filled with love for his adopted child, was the slave of his own will—that which he had said must be.

Upon the night of the storm this man had walked hours upon the veranda in front of his house, with the thunder booming and clashing overhead, and with the fierce lightning glaring across his pale face—and why? Not that he did not feel his heart tremble with every roar of the thunder, not that each blaze of lightning did not take away his breath. He was afraid of lightning, and for that very reason chose to brave it. Even the fear that was constitutional, that had grown and strengthened with him from childhood must yield to his will.

After that night of storm, when the strong man had wrestled with his better feelings as he had wrestled with his fear, to conquer both, he awoke to find his daughter gone. Like the lightning, she had disappeared, leaving him nothing to contend against. At first he would not believe the truth; even the wild anguish of his wife, who had lost her child, and refused to be comforted, seemed groundless. He would not believe in the effect of his own violence; but when the day passed by, when messenger after messenger returned, bearing no tidings of his daughter, the anguish which he endured could no longer be held under control. Strong as his pride of authority, deep and earnest as his nature, was his love for the young girl just driven from beneath his roof. Why had she been forced to go? Even to his own heart he could give no answer, save that he had willed her to love according to his wishes, and found her unable to wrestle with her affections as he had wrestled with the lightning. And now all the injustice of this obstinate adhesion to his own will became palpable to him, as it had long been to those who had suffered by it. With the impulse of a heart really capable of great magnanimity, he longed to make reparation to his child. The half of his great possessions he would have given for the privilege of holding her once more to his bosom, without the painful necessity of explanation. But a sleepless night was again followed by search and disappointment. It was strange how lonely and desolate that spacious house seemed when Myra was away. He missed the silvery ring of her laugh as he passed from room to room. Her empty seat at the table seemed to reproach him. He missed her light tread at night when she no longer came like a child, as she still was at heart, to ask for the good-night kiss. The tears and pale sorrow of his wife distressed him more keenly even than the void which Myra had left in that lordly dwelling. Altogether it was a mournful family—mournful as if a funeral had just passed from its midst.

Thus day followed day, and at length the suspense, which had become terrible to bear, was relieved: Myra’s retreat at New Castle was made known to Mr. D.

It seems a matter of astonishment that high-minded and strong men should so often become dupes and victims to persons every way inferior, intellectually and morally; but when we reflect that the wise and generous are not only incapable of the low cunning and low motives which belong to the low of heart and mind, we can not marvel so much that they are incapable, also, of believing in the existence of these things, and thus from an unbelief in evil, leave themselves unguarded to the insidious meanness they can not recognize as a portion of humanity.