"To begin, then, you must know that there's a part of the business which you must not know at present, and that is, the names of the people I am about to tell you of. These people occupy a very high position in society, and their case is the funniest thing in the world, considering their rank, life-time associations, and the man's official position in the world, or rather the one which he has held,—a very high one under the government. You must understand that he is old and wealthy, and that his wife is a young woman, comparatively speaking, though she had arrived at that degree of maturity before marriage which entitles a lady to the honors of an old maid. She is extremely well educated, comes of a good family, and has been a successful teacher in her day in a ladies' seminary. All things considered, she is, in the general way, rather the superior of her husband. This much to begin with, to give you a sort of inkling of how extraordinary the case is; for if they were simply a couple of fools, or ordinary people, the matter wouldn't have any spice in it."
"Well," I broke in as he paused, "go on, and satisfy my curiosity, counsellor, now that you've whetted it up."
"Be patient," said he, "and I will, but I am always choked with the comicality of the affair when I picture it to myself; and I was only stopping to gather a little dignity, to go on reciting the serious thing to you. The parties are very rich, and it's only a matter of some five thousand dollars anyhow—a bagatelle for them. They are ugly about it, considering the way they, or rather she, was duped,"—and here the lawyer fairly roared, as he slapped his hand upon his knee, over the thought of such people's being "taken in and done for" by the arts which usually prevail mostly among the ignorant. But there is no telling what the superstitious element in the mind may not lead to.
My friend went on to say, then, that about the time of the marriage of the old maid in question with the rich old man, she had, in brooding over her future, gotten it into her head in some way, that perhaps his affection,—of which she felt pretty contentedly sure for the time, however,—might wane and grow less, and she become but a slave to the old man and his money. Brooding over this, she got quite melancholy and "nervous." She really loved the old man, who was not only a man of ability and honors, but was very kind of soul. Of course, too, his great wealth was no objection to a woman who could appreciate the value of a comfortable home, or enjoy the refinements of a luxurious one.
"I would not wish to intimate," said the lawyer, "that she took this matter of wealth into consideration, even lightly; for I like to assure myself once in a while that there are to be found a few women in this populous vale of tears, who have considerations superior to the thought of wealth; and, verily, this woman looks to me like one of those."
But the woman got nervous. If his affection should fail, why, she would become only a prettily-dressed bird in a handsome cage, with enough to eat and drink, but without loving companionship; excluded, in fact, from the society of her old and poorer friends, and, to use a religious phrase, unhappy enough to be practically "without God in the world." She hardly dared to mention to any of her particular friends the dreadful thought that was knawing at her heart, and growing fiercer every day, for fear they would ridicule her.
"Ladies having passed a certain age are supposed to be peculiarly sensitive on matters touching love and marriage, you know," said my friend, with a very knowing wink in his eye.
No, she had no friend to pour out her soul to on the very point, of all things, the most dear to her. Her "intended" had exhibited some peculiarities of character which she did not understand, and now, while she was brooding over her especial grief, he was naturally enough more eccentric than ever. Possibly he, too, was undergoing fears,—fears that when he grew older, and older—and he was far in advance of her in years,—that her affection would wane, and then all that would bind her to him would be his money. Perhaps he had caught her disease unconsciously. Withal the condition of things generally between them, in their silent hearts, must have been anything but pleasant to both of them. The lady prayed for light to know her duty to herself and her coming lord,—in fact, to be taught from on high whether she would be doing a wrong or not to him, to marry him,—for her fever had burned on beyond the point of simple selfishness. The great question of duty and right had seized hold of her mind, and she had become religiously morbid thereon. But one thing she thought she knew for a certainty—that she not only loved him now, but would continue to love him, always. So she reflected that she should do no wrong to him in marrying; and she finally got to the resolution that she would patiently bear his coldness and neglect, and even his tyranny, if he should display anything of the last, as a good Christian woman ought to,—and the time set for the wedding was fast drawing near. But she found this resolution of Christian fortitude under the condition of unrequited love rather more than a good human nature could bear, or ought ever to be asked to bear; and it got to be an awful burden to her, meek and lowly though she was.
As the time grew shorter before the wedding, the lady's wakeful hours at night grew longer and more burdensome, and her friends began to notice their telling effect upon her countenance, and whole constitution, in fact. Such of them as were indelicate enough (and who ever knew many ladies, especially, who are not inclined to be indelicate at times on matters of love and marriage, or rather towards those indulging the one and contemplating the other?),—such, my friend went on to say, got to poking fun at her a little; said the condition she contemplated must be terrible, indeed, since it wore upon her so much, etc.—all of which did not seem to amend matters much.
But finally, only three or four days before the time set for the wedding, and not over an hour after her old lover had called, and rolled away in his carriage,—he having seemed very gloomy that day, too,—an old aunt of the lady came,—came from New Orleans to pass a few days with her niece,—and she found the latter in tears. She had heard of her niece's prospective marriage; and as she was a demonstrative old lady, and very sympathetic, she both pitied her niece, and spared no pains in attempting to console her, and finally won her great secret.