For several days Ernest absented himself from Mr. Allison’s house, but just as every body was beginning to wonder what could ail him, he came, and took his accustomed seat, as quiet and perhaps rather more silent than was his wont. He looked pale and care-worn, but his mother’s renewed paroxysm of illness was sufficient to account for his appearance, and though his lip quivered and his hand trembled as he offered his congratulations to Mary, yet no one could have dreamed that beneath his calm seeming he concealed an immolated heart. Mary’s pride rose to her aid when she beheld Ernest’s undisturbed demeanor. She almost despised herself for the weakness which made her shudder as with an ague, when he offered his wishes for her future happiness; and, resolutely closing her bosom against all such emotions, she determined to perform the duties she had undertaken with a firm and unyielding spirit.
The increasing illness of the invalid, Mrs. Melvyn, soon confined Ernest so closely to his home, during his leisure hours, that he thus escaped the torture of witnessing the arrangements for Mary’s marriage. It was perhaps fortunate for both, since the tie between them was now to be severed, that it should be done thus gradually, and from a sense of duty to others, rather than from selfish feelings. At times Mary half suspected that Ernest loved her, but the stern, self-sacrificing devotion of him who believed that she had chosen wisely and well, destroyed the fancy ere it became a hope. “She has fulfilled the wishes of her father—she has found love and happiness,” said Ernest to himself, “and not one shadow from the cloud which impends over my fate shall ever darken her path.” And with a courage far more exalted than that which binds the martyr to the faggot and the stake, did this noble-hearted being crush his own heart within him, lest he should mar the hopes of her whom he loved better than life.
Ernest did not see Mary wedded. On the very night of her bridal his mother died, and, in the awful stillness of the death-chamber, the voice of passion was hushed into silence. It was not until his only companion was laid in her humble grave, and the quiet of exhaustion had gradually stolen over the tortured feelings of the bereaved and heart-sick Ernest, that he ventured to approach the dwelling of Mr. Allison. Amid their festivities the family had not been regardless of his sorrow, and many an act of unobtrusive kindness had shown him that he was affectionately remembered among them. But he had learned some sad and solemn truths as he watched beside his dying mother. The nothingness of human cares, the vanity of human hopes, the fruitlessness of human affections had been deeply impressed upon his heart. His mother’s last lesson, imparted in the peacefulness of her dying hour, came with thrilling power to his bosom, and in the loneliness of his deep grief he learned life’s hardest lesson—“to suffer and be still.”
One more trial yet awaited him. Not long after his mother’s death, Mr. Allison took him aside and offered him a partnership in his lucrative business.
“I am old,” said the merchant, “and want to be released from toil; Charles Walton is to be the principal in our firm, and we wish to secure your future services, as well as to reward a fidelity which has never once failed in twenty years of duty. Indeed, Mary insisted that her husband should accept no proposition which did not include you. I require no capital from you; the profits arising from your yearly deposit in my hands have swelled your little fund to some ten thousand dollars, which I am ready to pay over to you before commencing our new arrangement.”
“You are kind—very kind, my dear sir,” was Ernest’s reply, while tears filled his eyes, and his emotions choked his utterance; “believe me, I am not ungrateful, and while life and health remain I shall ever be devoted to your service. But I cannot accept your noble offer—let me still be your clerk—your servant, if you will—I am no longer fitted for the responsibilities of a partner.”
“My dear fellow, you are as healthy, active, and industrious as ever you were; you are in the very prime of life, and must not talk of want of fitness.”
“The spring of life is gone,” said Ernest, mournfully, “I have no motive now for exertion.”
“You are dispirited, Ernest—the loss of your mother has saddened and depressed you. Think over my proposition in a calm and dispassionate manner, and I am convinced you will not refuse it.”
Ernest did think long and deeply on the subject, but his decision was unalterable.