“Where our mutual parents lived, there came one day a man of coarse and ruffianly aspect. He said he came to settle in the place, and seek a helpmate among the village maidens. None welcomed him, for his manner was harsh and brutal—an index of the mind. This man’s name was Andrew Britton.”
“Indeed!” said Ada.
“Yes, Andrew Britton, a smith. With unparalleled insolence he said he had fixed on me for his wife. I scorned his suit. He jested at my indignant refusal. I wept, for we were alone. He laughed at my tears. Then I threatened him with the resentment of him to whom I had already plighted my young heart, and Andrew Britton swore then a fearful oath that I never should be his.
“He whom I loved found me in tears, and after much solicitation, got from me the particulars of the interview that had just terminated with the Savage Smith. I would not tell him, though, until he had promised me he would not endanger himself by resenting—men heed not such promises. His young blood boiled with anger. He met the smith, and from words they came to mutual violence. Britton was much hurt, and he whom I loved came off the conqueror, to the joy of all.
“Britton then came, and asked my forgiveness. He said he was an altered man. He swore he repented of his passion, and we believed him. But, oh, girl! When a bad, wicked man speaks, you may fairly mistrust him. ’Tis the glitter of the eyes of the serpent that fascinate but to betray.
“The day of my union was at length fixed. There were no regrets—no grief—all was happiness. We wandered hand-in-hand the evening before to look at the last sunset ere we should be bound together in those holy ties which none dare impiously to break asunder.
“We wondered what could happen to make us unhappy. We saw no cloud in the clear horizon of our joy! Oh, what an hour of bliss was that! ’Tis needless to dwell on what we said or how we looked into each other’s eyes to see our own reflected happiness.
“The sun sunk to rest, and in the east uprose the silver moon ere we parted. With many lingering regrets, we said adieu. Oh, God! We never met again!”
Maud sunk on her knees, and, hiding her face upon her chair, she again gave way to a similar wild, awful passion of grief to what had before affected her.
Ada had been deeply impressed with poor Maud’s simple and affecting narrative, told as it was with a pathos which defies description. She did not speak but let the woman have her way, and after some minutes, the violence of her grief, as before, subsided and she rose to outward appearance calm again.