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Portland
BY GOULD & ELWELL,
Office 80 Middle,
near Corner of Exchange St.
Cransompt,
TERMS: $1,50 PER
YEAR.
One Dollar for Eight Months, in advance
AN INDEPENDENT FAMILY JOURNAL OF LITBRATURS, NEWS, &&.
VOLUME XV.
PORTLAND, SATUR
DAY, JUNE 28,1851.
NUMBER 11.
A PRIZE TALE.
THE ESTRANGED HEARTS.
A TALE OF MARRIED LIFE.
BY CLARA MORETON,
CHAPTER I.
«The precocious germs of vanity and of the love of|
pleasure, choke the precious but more tardy seeds of de-
last; but what a Joss of hap,
ments; and what hopes of
danger of being thrown to the winds ?
Mavame Necker De Saussure.
passions find ;
in women, two almost divide the kind:
Those, only fixed, they first or last obey,
‘The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.””
Porr.
“ And you are really expecting to. go, Maggie ?”
“To be sure I am; you didn’t for a moment
think that I was going to be such a fool as to stay
at home, dif you ?” was the unrefined and hasty
answer.
Howard Dorrance’s proud lip curled, as he re-
i
“T confess that I have been so foolish as to think
that you would for once yield your wishes to mine.
You know very well how much I disapprove of
fancy parties, Mrs. Dorrance, and had you any. re-
gard for me and my opinions, you would have
spared me the pain of requesting you to desist from
any farther preparations, for I shall not accompany
ou.”
Margaret Dorrance’s eyes flashed. but looking
up at her husband, she met a glance as resolute as
her own. She had never yet openly defied him ;
and there was something now in that stern un-
swerving gaze, which checked the words that were
already trembling on her lips, With a violent ef-
fort, she suppressed the passionate emotions of her
heart, and answered, with a calmness that surprised
herself still more than her husband.
“Very well, sir, it will be as you say, of course.”
‘There was a long pause. | Mr. Dorrance had not
met the opposition that he expected, and his heart
was softened by the compliance which he never for
a moment doubted that his wife had given to his
request. He moved his chair nearer to her, and his
deep low voice expressed much tenderness, as he
said,
“I wish, Margaret, that we were better suited. to
each other.”
“TI wish we were,” she answered, laconically.
For a moment, he was chilled ; but, inflaenged by
the kind and gentle thoughts that now held their
sway in his bosom, he continued,
“Were I convineed that it would eventually
bring you trne happiness “my wife, to indulge in
che gaiety for which you have so much inclination,
I would not seck to deprive you of any portion of
it. Iwould, for your sake,’ renounce the home
pleasures in’ which I alone find enjoyment; but,
Margaret, such constant dissipation as your tastes
would lead you into, would not only deprive you
of that greatest blessing which God can give—the
blessing of health—bnrt your moral nature would
become blighted, and the best affections of your
heart would wither in the glare and heat of fash-
ionable life. I have seen but too often the effects
which it produces, and I would shield the wife of
my bosom from them. Will you not, love, place
your hand in mine as on our wedding-night, and
promise again to ‘love, honor, and obey?”
For a moment, but only for a moment, had Mar-
garet Dorrance relented. That unfortunate word
“ obey,” again aroused the evil within, which her
husband’s earnest tones had so nearly quelled.
She drew the hand he essayed to clasp rudely
from him.
“ You preach well,” she said, “but no eloquence
can disguise to me your motives. Remember, How-
ard Dorrance, you are ten years older than myself,
and, consequently, you have had ten more years of
gaicty. I married you at sixteen—foolish school-
ginl that I was, to throw away liberty and happi-
ness with a breath—now, at twenty, you would im-
mure me, nun-like, if you could; but Linsist upon
they have with you, and then I will stay at home
and abuse them to your heart’s content; but now,
yon ask too much of me.”
A wintry coldness settled on Mr. Dorrance's face,
as he listened to his wife’s unkind and heartless an-
swer.
“ You spoke of my motives, Margaret,” he said,
*as though they were other than I professed ; what
did you mean by that ?”
“ Why plainly this, if you will have me expose
At length she ceased to reproach herself. If she
had done wrong in not studying her busband’s
happiness more, she had in other respects done bet-
ter by him, than he by her; she had given him a
whole heart in exchange for a divided one. Thus
thinking, she determined upon a course of conduct
that shoald awaken in him the jealousy he had dis-
claimed.
“If he has one spark of love left for me, he shall
learn what jealousy is,” she thought, as, on the eve-
them. It is your jealousy of me, and of the atten- | ning of the fancy party, her maid arranged her in
tion which I receive, and the admiration which is
paid me at parties, which makes you so selfishly
desire to keep me from them.”
“ Margaret !”
“ What?”
There was no answer, and she continued.
Don’t look at me in that way, I beg of you; if
you have anything to say, say it out.”
“Margaret ! you cannot mean what you say !—
Jealousy! Selfishness! It was for your h:
ness full as much as my own, that I have so car-
nestly sought to give you a distaste for the amuse-
ments of fashionable life. Isee that my love, my
happiness is nothing to you: everything is to be
sacrificed on the shrine of yanity.. Ah, Margaret,
if you were foolish in throwing away your liberty
2
while still a school-girl, I was doubly so in commit-
ting my happiness into the hands of one.”
“TJ agree with you entirely, Mr. Dorrance; and
I wonder that you ever thought of me, when that
prim old maid, Miss Helen Graham, was so exact-
ly suited to you, and came near dying for you, eve-
ry one said. She was the very one for you, for she
detests parties as much as you can, and is always
preaching to me about domestic. happiness, and
such fol de rol.‘ It is a pity that you didn’t fancy
er, isn’t it 7”
Mr. Dorrance’s face reddened. He turned away,
and paced the room hurriedly.
His wife continued, “They say that before I
came home from school, you were very attentive
to her; now, seriously, don't you think she was
better suited to you then I?”
Mr. Dorrance paused beside his wife, and meet
ing her upturned gaze, he answered calgly,
“Yes, Margaret, I do.”
Nothing daunted by the serious tone in which
this was said, and fully convinced that there had
never been any idol save herself, on the throne of
her husband’s heart, and that at any moment she
could resume her power, she continued her’ badi-
nage.
« And now, if you had only taken compassion
on her, and married her—”
“I wish to God Ihad!” broke from Mr. Dor-
rance’s lips ; and his wife read traly in his now sad,
pale face, that with no idle meaning had those
words been wrung from his heart.
Ina moment she was subdued; she spoke no
more tauntingly, for the feelings which tender tords
had failed to awaken, sprang up in all their strength
at the first breath of that passion of which she had
so unjustly accused her husband.
From that night, Margaret Dorrance harbored a
new guest in her bosom—from that night, she felt
in her heart the truth of this Scripture passage,
“ Love is strong as death ; jealousy is cruel as the
grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which
hath a most vehement flame.” .
CHAPTER IL
“Vain tears are very apt to breed pride.”
Frivolous and heartless as. Margaret Dorrance
may have appeared in the preceding chapter, she
was not wholly so. - Gladly would she have thrown
her arms around her husband’s neck, acknowledg-
ing to him that of all the unkind things she had
said in anger, she had not meant one, could she
have been sure that he, with truthfulness, could
have said the same.
Often had he forgiven her impulsive words, and
she doubted not he would again. She had educed
emotions from his breast, which the dust of ‘Time
could never bury from her sight; and daily, the
knowledge of them grew more and more bitter to
her. In assumed levity, she disguised the work-
ings of her heart; and the stadicd coldness with
which her husband treated her, convinced her but
the more fully that she bad forfeited the love, which,
six more years of experience. Terhaps by that
time, the world’s pleasures will pall with me, as
when she possessed, she had yalued too lightly.
the becoming Spanish dress she had selected.
Her long tresses, which were of a glossy purplish
black, were folded over high up on her head, and
fastened with an immense and elegantly carved
comb of the rarest shell. Her velvet dress was re-
lieved by a fall of fine lace around her exquisitely
turned throat, and fastened. with a single ruby —
Jewels glittered on her arms and her fingers, and
radiantly beantiful she looked, as, standing before
the Psyche-glass, she directed her maid in arrang-
ing the heavy black lace veil, which, resting on her
head, fell in careless folds almost to her feet.
But Mrs. Dorrance was apparently dissatisfied,
for she glanced from her mirror to the toilet-table,
where a profusion of ornaments was scattered in
open caskets and cases.’ Her eycs fell upon her
superb bouquet: seizing it, she tore out a crimson
japonica, and removing the jewel which had looped
back the veil from her face, she replaced it. with
the flower,
It was all that was necded. Her dress was now
perfect, and wonderfully becoming, :
With her large dark eyes, and their heavy sweep-
ing fringe, and her rich, but transparently ‘clear
complexion, she well represented the nation whoze"!
costume she had chosen,
A carriage rattled over the stones, and drew up
in front of their mansion.
Mrs. Dorrance parted the curtains, and glanced
out. She saw a young man alight, and ascend the
s|
3
8.
“It is all right, Matty,” said she; “throw my
cloak around me, and tell Mr. Dorrance when he
comes home not to wait up for me.”
“Mr. Dorrance is in the library, marm; he came
in before the clock struck nine.” ”
“Very well; Iwill pass through as I go out;
and, Matty, you will sit up for me. I would rather
have you than Richard. You know you can sit
with the children after the other servauts have gone
to bed.”
Matty yawned ; and after her mistress left the
room, she muttered to hersclf of the hardship it
was to work all day and sit up all night; but when
she went into the room adjoining, where the chil-
dren were sleeping, the frown upon her face was
chased away by a smile, for she loved the dear lit-
tle ones fondly. Drawing alow chair near their
couch, she leaned her head upon a pillow, and was
soon sleeping as soundly as they.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Dorrance descended to the li-
brary, and paused beside the door. Her heart beat
quickly ; she trembled at the thought of bearing
her husband’s displeasure, yet she dared not leave
the house without his knowledge. Summoning all
her courage, she entered the room.
“Tam sorry that you are not going with me this
evening, Howard, but I looked in to. say that you
need feel no anxiety about me; your friend, Mr.
Graham, is my courtier.” Her tones’ were kind;
but there’ was an air of embarrassment unusual to
her, that showed her conscience was not perfectly
at ease.
Mr. Dorrance looked sternly upon’ his wife as
he answered, “I did not expect this. You told me
you would not go to-night.”
“No, I did I said from: the first that I
should positively go. You said you would not ac-
company me, and I answered you that of course
that would be as you said.” ”
“ You misled me in that answer, Mrs. Dorrance,
and I presume, intentionally.”
Her face crimsoned ; but her husband continued,
“T think you will live to regret the step you have
taken to-night; I shall not molest you hereafter.”
Closing the door impatiently, she swept from the
room without answering.
Me heard the sound of their merry yoices, as
laughing and chatting they passed out—the car-
riage rattled off, and Howard Dorrance leaned back
in his chair, and in solitude and silence brooded
over the bitter emotions of his heart.
The present tortured him ; the futare,—he dared
not imagine that; and so he fell to thinking of the
ast.
, What was there in that to bring a deeper gloom
to his brow—a deeper sndness to his eyes ?
There were memories of wrong and injustice
which he had done another—a most cruel wrong.
From that sin was he now gathering its blighted
fruit.
Tieavier and heavier sank his heart within him,
as he recalled, step by step, the infatuation which
had lured him on to brenk his vows to the noble-
minded being whom he first had wooed. His breast
heaved tremulonsly, and his strong frame shivered
with the storm of thought that swept through him.
“ Yes, yes,” he mattered, as he arose, and with
a heavy step paced the floor, “ yes, yes, I deserve it
all! My punishment is just! How gladly would
I now exchange the wild and passionate worship
which I bore Margaret, for the calm love that once
beat within my heart for, another. But it is too
late ! too late!”
He paused beside a crayon sketch of his wife
which hung upon the wall; and now his lip quiv-
ered with tenderness as he continued,
“Ah, Margaret, how carefully would I have
guarded you from unhappiness ! how fondly would
Thave cherished you through all trials and all
changes !—God grant that you may never need the
love which you have sacrificed to your vanity.”
“He gazed long upon it, noting the faultless oval
of her face—the perfect regularity of her classical
features—the fascinating expression of her full ha-
zeleyes, and murmuring, “She is beautiful” he
turned away.
And now his heart grew cold and dead within
him, as he recalled the temptations to which she
would be exposed, in the alienation that must nee-
essarily follow the course of condact which she had
chosen to pursue, . . .
He thought of -the homage which she would
command from the world—the flattery which she
would receive, and which no woman can listen to
without inhaling its taint; and the reflection smote
upon his heart, that his wife, now only frivolous
and thoughtless, might become—oh, it was too hor-
rible to imagine!
Ile resolved that he would make one more effort
to save her from that vortex of fashion and folly,
which too often plunges in shame and degrada-
tion those who have madly trasted to its whirl—
He would plead with her for the sake of their chil-
dren—for his sake ? for, as he recalled their bridal
days, he could not smoother the conviction that be-
neath all her frivolity and worldliness, there smoul-
dered a flame which might yet spring up to warmth
and beanty.
Almost unconsciously, as he thought of his chil-
dren, he turned his steps to their room. He open.
ed their door. A night-lamp burned dimly upon
the mantel, but its rays were strong enough to. re
yeal to him the sleeping babes upon the couch
Babes they still were ; for little Harry, the eldest,
was scarce three years old, and Ida's second sum-
mer was but now approaching .
Mr. Dorrance bent over them, tracing in his boy’s
fine countenance the features of his wife; while
lightly round the plump and dimpled face of baby
Ida, fell curls that would have matched his own in
yhood. .
As he looked upon them, so beautiful in their
dependent and helpless infancy, he questioned
whether all his words might not prove powerless,
when even “the profound joys of maternity” had
failed to give his wife a fondness for home pleas-
‘ures.
And now, unfortunately, another change came
over him. -
“I will not stoop to plead,” he said. | “In marry-
ing, she assumed the duties of a wife and mother.
I will hereafter. be responsible for her fulfilling
them properly. My name shall not be disgraced,
nor shall these children receive a heritage of shame.
I have tried kindness in vain, and will now see
what a husband’s authority can accomplish.”
In this mood, ho returned to the library; he
drew his chair up to his writing-desk, and unlock«
ing a drawer, lifted from it, one by one, the
souvenirs of the past, that long had lain there hid~
den and undisturbed.
i
