“Well, dearest?” said he.
“He has rejected me for ever, Philip!” sobbed she, as she threw herself into his arms.
“Grieve not, my love!” said Denby, while his anxious look and heavy sigh betrayed how much he himself needed consolation—“are we not all in all to each other?” And, as he embraced his young and lovely wife, he forgot, for a moment, the world and all its cares. By the sale of his commission, he contrived to raise money enough to pay his trifling debts, and to support himself and his wife for some months in strict economy; but that temporary supply diminishing rapidly, he was obliged to apply to some of his numerous friends to exert their interest, or open their purses in his favour. Disappointment followed all his applications; and, harrassed in mind and wearied in body, he lay down on the bed of sickness and sorrow, from which he never rose again. He just lived long enough to see and bless his newly-born infant, leaving his wife to struggle with poverty and grief. Mrs Denby’s sorrow was at first excessive; and serious fears were, for some time, entertained by her medical man, for her life; but youth and a good constitution carried her through. She was a woman of warm and passionate feelings, and her grief soon exhausted itself by its violence. Besides, it is one of the blessings of poverty, that it allows no time for brooding over sorrow, but calls for active and constant exertion, to ward off the evils it entails. In her distress—for she was left almost destitute—she again applied to her father; but he continued inexorable, and sternly refused to see her. His example was followed by the rest of her family connections, all of whom were, or affected to be, indignant at her conduct. A maternal uncle, however, pitying her destitution, promised to settle a small annuity upon her, and to bring up and provide for her infant son, on condition that she would never interfere with his education, and would leave the country within six months.
Severe as these conditions were, she at last agreed to them, though to do so cost her many a bitter tear; but, when she thought of her own destitute condition, and of the brighter prospects which the proposed arrangement would open to her son, she struggled to suppress the fond yearnings of a mother’s affection, and to close with an offer which she hoped would be for her boy’s future benefit. It was with an agonised heart she tore herself from her little Philip, whose uncle received him with the greatest delight, and solemnly promised to be to him as a father. She then bade adieu for ever to her native land, after having again ineffectually endeavoured to obtain her father’s forgiveness. In two years’ time, she was again a wife and a mother. Mr Malcolmson, a respectable Scottish tradesman, when on a visit to some friends in Cork, had accidentally seen the young widow, at the time when her late bereavement, and her family’s cruel rejection of her, excited universal sympathy and commiseration; and when he afterwards met her in Edinburgh, where she was living in humble seclusion, he contrived to form her acquaintance; and, in a few months, made her a formal offer of his hand and fortune. Mrs Denby received his addresses with graceful and grateful acknowledgments; but told him that she had no heart to bestow, that her affections were buried in the grave with her husband, and that she could never love another. “If you cannot love me as your husband,” replied he, “you may respect and esteem me—you may look upon me as your friend, your guardian, your protector—as one whose pride and pleasure it will be to anticipate all your desires, and to shield you from all annoyances.” In her union with the worthy and amiable Malcolmson, Ellen Denby was blessed with a recompense for all her past distresses: for ten years he was to her the kindest of husbands, the most affectionate of friends; and the only unhappy moment she experienced during her union, was that on which it was about to be dissolved for ever. He left her comfortably provided for, with three children—two girls, and a boy, the hero of our tale. Edward Malcolmson, at the time of his father’s death, was a boy of excellent dispositions; and, as he grew up, he amply fulfilled the promise of his childhood. He was a young man of solid rather than brilliant talents; mild and gentlemanly in his manners; slow to form plans, but persevering and determined in following them out. He had received a medical education, and had distinguished himself by his close application to his studies, and by his rapid progress in professional acquirements. Through the interest of some of his late father’s friends, he had obtained an appointment on the Bengal establishment; and was, at the time of the commencement of our story, on his way to London, there to join the ship that was to convey him abroad. Mrs Malcolmson’s nearest neighbour in Edinburgh, was a widow lady, named Martin, who, like herself, was living in comfortable, though not affluent circumstances. Her only daughter, Jessie, was her mother’s darling, and well deserved the affection which was lavished upon her. She was about the same age as Edward Malcolmson, and, without being absolutely lovely, there was a charm in her simple, unaffected manners, and in the ingenuous expression of her countenance, which, added to an uncommonly fine figure and sweet voice, gave her the advantage over others who far excelled her in mere beauty of feature. Between her mother and Mrs Malcolmson, the closest intimacy had existed for several years; indeed, they had lived so secludedly, that they had hardly any acquaintances beyond the circle of their own families. The consequence was, that the young people were almost constantly in each other’s society; and their parents remarked, with pleasure, the mutual attachment which seemed to be springing up between them. They did, indeed, feel a warmer regard for each other than is often the result of such constant and close intimacy; for it is but too often the case with human character as it is with the face of nature—“’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.” But it was not till the time of Edward’s departure approached, that they became mutually aware how dear they were to each other. The morning before leaving Edinburgh, young Malcolmson called to bid adieu to his friends. Mrs Martin happened to be out walking, and Jessie was sitting alone in the parlour, when Edward was ushered in. She turned pale when she saw him; for her heart sunk at the prospect of their approaching separation.
“Jessie,” said he, after they had sat in silence some minutes, “I have come to bid you farewell.”
“I feared so,” said she, striving in vain to repress her tears.
“Do not—do not cry, dear Jessie,” exclaimed he, starting up, and seizing her hand, while his own eyes were dimmed with tears—“I cannot bear to witness your distress.”
“Would you have me look happy and cheerful, when my old friend and companion is going to leave me, perhaps never to return?”
“Companion, Jessie! friend!—these are cold words to me, whose whole heart is yours; who live but in the light of your smile; who love you as I have never before loved human being, and never shall love again. Jessie! dear Jessie! tell me that I do not love in vain; give me one word of hope to cheer me during my painful absence. Will you not answer, dearest?”
She turned her tearful eye up to his face, and then, hiding her blushing cheek upon his arm, she murmured—