Long and interesting was the communion of that morning. All was told. The gentleman he had rescued was the long absent brother of his own Mary. The tale of love was revealed, and Edward persuaded to wait one week longer, that they might return together to their native land.
“I shall send despatches to my father by the vessel in which you expected to sail, this afternoon,” said Mr. Levingston, “and if he has any love for his only son, he must receive us as brothers.”
We now hasten back to Mary Levingston. After the departure of Edward, New York had lost its attractions for her. Mr. M—— returned home with Mary. She indulged strong hopes of influencing her father in favor of Mr. James, and inducing him to consent to his union with her sister. But she was destined to be disappointed. Mr. Levingston would not even listen to her. Ringing the bell, he ordered Mary to be summoned to his presence.
When Mary entered the room, her eye fell instantly beneath the steady gaze of her father.
“I have sent for you,” said he, “to express my deep displeasure at your conduct, and my utter abhorrence for the man who could impose upon such a child as you. Your sister says you love the son of one that has insulted and abused me. Can it be so, Mary, my child?” said he, bursting into tears.
In a moment Mary was on her knees before him. “Forgive me, dear father, I have sinned ignorantly. Forgive me,” she exclaimed, “for I here promise to renounce him forever.”
“If this is your determination,” said Mr. Levingston, “rise and receive your father’s blessing. May you long enjoy the consolation of knowing you rendered the last days of your father peaceful and happy.”
From that hour, Mary Levingston was calm and happy. Innocence and an approving conscience supported her.
“Never,” said Mary, to her sister, Mrs. M——, on the morning of her departure, “mention in your letters the name of Mr. James, who in future must be as one dead to me. Tell him, when he returns, that my determination is unalterable, and bid him seek some more congenial alliance.”
Weeks rolled round and found the calm quiet of the Levingston’s unbroken. The rose was still blooming on the cheek of Mary. No change had taken place in any except Mr. Levingston. It was very evident to all his friends that he rapidly failed. Every step of the hill he was descending seemed to fatigue him, and the only cordial that revived his fainting spirit, was the presence of his youngest child. Was not Mary Levingston, as she gazed on his pale face and feeble frame, rejoiced at the sacrifice she had made to secure his peace? Yes, the happiness she now felt was of a calm, enduring nature. She could lie down and rise up without listening to the upbraidings of a guilty conscience, without having to reflect that it was her rebellion which had dimmed the eye and paralyzed the step of her father. Every night before she retired, she received his embrace, and heard him say, “God bless you Mary, you have been a dutiful child.”