Republican Herald

MISCELLANY.

From the Ladies' Companion.

THE WILL:
OR, LAW'S LABOR LOST.
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

"I love the heavens themselves do guide the state,
Money buys lands, but wives are sold by fate."
SHAKSPEARE.

(Concluded.)

Alas! for the frailty of human nature and the weakness of a lover's vow. In less than three hours after having made the wise resolution, he was at the side of the pretty widow, pacing that part of our beautiful Battery which has obtained the significant title of Declaration Avenue!-

The time, place and circumstance, were such as have proved irresistible temptations to many a prudent youth. The moonbeams, which shed a flood of light over the less sheltered walks, here fell in broken gleams through the thick foliage diffusing a sort of tender twilight which has always been found a fitting time for lovers to breathe their vows, and for ladies to hear them. There was a soft melancholy in the blue eyes of the fair widow, which might be the shadow of past grief, but which seemed much more like present tenderness. Her heavy black veil was thrown aside, and her white forehead, her delicately tinted cheek, her rosy mouth, had never appeared more lovely than when seen in that soft light. Frank felt his heart beating wildly at the touch of the small hand which rested on his arm, and, with the desperation of a man who finds himself on the brink of a precipice, without the strength to turn his steps aside, he yielded his whole soul up to the fascinations of the moment.

Those words, which—however after life may fail to fulfil their promise—are never forgotten—the words of earnest tenderness—the outpourings of a heart filled with passionate love—were uttered in the ear of his beautiful companion, and were answered by a look—a sigh, a broken murmur—which disclosed a volume of reciprocal affection.

The first delicious trance of youth!-
Who does not remember the moment when the voice of a dear one first breathed into the heart the exquisite music of a lover's vow? Who can forget the hour when the words never to be recalled—the burning words which told that the happiness of another was placed in our keeping—first fell upon the charmed ear?-
Who does not look back to that "green spot in memory's waste" with pleasant tears? Happy, thrice happy they, who, from the sweet shelter of domestic bliss, can look upon it, not as the oasis of a desert, but as the fountain of delight—the pure source of life-long happiness!

"They loved, they were beloved:—said I not all in saying this?"

Alas! no: life is not poetry, and something more than love is necessary to actual existence, since Anacreon Moore—a very Solomon in such matters—has declared that "not e'en Love can live on flowers." They parted at the widow's door, and while she retired to enjoy, in solitude, the excitement of a first affection, her lover returned to his home to reflect upon the irrevocable vow which he had uttered, and to ponder on his future prospects. His joy at finding himself beloved, did not blind him to the consciousness of his precipitancy, and while she, with a true woman's feeling, thought only of the love, prudential calculations were allowed to mingle their base alloy with the pure gold of his affections. Not that our friend, the doctor, was selfish or mercenary; far from it; but he dreaded the opinion of society—he feared to be considered interested in his views, and he was tortured by the thought that the beautiful widow would be accused of having bought him at the price for which she had formerly sold herself. A sleepless night was the result of his agitated feelings, and the morning found him a prey to both headache and heart-ache.

He was sitting sad and solitary in his office—feeling and looking more like a criminal than a successful lover, when a packet from his lady-love was placed in his hands. Without heeding the other matters, he opened her letter.

"Do not come to me to-day," she wrote. "I am too much disquieted to see you, and I would have you fully understand my feelings and my position, before we meet again.—I was scarcely six years of age when my mother, (whom the death of my father had reduced to poverty) obtained the situation of housekeeper to the late Mr. Brambleton. He was rich and eccentric, and pleased with my childish caresses, he determined to educate me as an adopted daughter. Of course my mother was rejoiced, and no pains were spared to inspire me with a lively sense of gratitude towards my benefactor. Peevish as he was to others, he was gentle to me, and as a child soon learns to love those from whom it receives daily kindness, I repaid all his bounty with sincere affection. I suppose I was the only living creature who did love him, and he was not insensible to the unusual gratification, for he certainly lavished upon me all the indulgence of a parent.

"What my mother's views were, at that time, I cannot pretend to determine; she probably expected that he would make me his heir, and therefore sought to establish between us the relation of parent and child; but as I grew older, her ideas on the subject underwent a change. Mr. Brambleton's distant relations began to clamor against my mother's artifices, and they did not hesitate to avow their intention to dispute any will which might be made in my favor. This excited my mother's apprehension, and a scandalous rumor which was invented by the same persons, determined her to alter her plans. They dared to say that I was the natural daughter of Mr. Brambleton, and thus my mother's fame suffered from the kindness which had been lavished upon her child by a solitary old man. I will not detail the arts which were practised upon him and upon me. His implacable hatred to his relations, his old-fashioned ideas of propriety, his dread of leaving a stain upon his spotless character, influenced him to adopt my mother's suggestions, and to make me his wife, in order to prove to the world that I was not his child. As for me, I was scarcely sixteen—inexperienced and ignorant, loving my mother and Mr. Brambleton better than the whole world beside—judge, then how easily I was persuaded to adopt any course, which would rescue from obloquy their good name. The very idea of the slander was agony to my pure mind, and it was with a feeling of romantic heroism at which I could now smile, were it a less serious matter, that I consented to give my hand to my aged benefactor. I stood at the altar with a sense of self-devotion and self-sacrifice, worthy of the days of the old Romans, and fancied that by thus consecrating my life to gratitude, I was acting a similar part to the nun who condemns herself to a cloister from devoted piety. Do not smile at my folly, dear Frank: I was a romantic, novel-reading girl, full of enthusiastic feeling—can you wonder that I suffered myself to be misled?

"As I grew older, I learned my error and I found by sad experience, that the marriage which I considered an example of heroic disinterestedness, appeared to the world a grossly mercenary act. I have pain which I endured from this knowledge, first awakened me from the idle dreams of visionary youth, to a consciousness of womanly duties. But my life was now embittered by the quarrels between my mother and my husband. She had expected to assume a different station in his household, and to be treated as his mother in law, while he was determined she should never be any other than his hired house keeper; this, of course, led to perpetual disputes in which I was obliged to preserve a perfect neutrality. I had purchased at a heavy cost, the knowledge of my mother's mercenary spirit, and it was natural that I should distrust her councils for the future.—Mr. Brambleton, always prudent and watchful for my good, advised me, even as an anxious parent, and, of course, I was disposed to obey his wishes in preference to all others. A wearisome life has been mine during the last six years. I longed for quiet, even if it were to be found nowhere but in the hovel of poverty, and learned to realize the full force of the wise man's saying—"Better is a dinner of herbs, where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." During the last year of Mr. Brambleton's life, he seemed to distrust even me, for the ill judged importunities of my mother respecting his will, had led him to doubt the sincerity of my affection. When he was so suddenly cut off by death. I did not, (as you know) pretend to weep for him as if he had been the object of my passionate love; but I wept for him as a kind and indulgent parent. It was not until his will was opened that I discovered how deeply suspicion had taken root in his mind.

Frank, dear friend, will it disappoint you to learn that you have wooed one who, by loving you, has forfeited all her wealth? Do I not judge you aright, when I feel assured that it is my affection you seek, and not my fortune?—If not, then you are this moment free. If you sought only the heiress of Mr. Brambleton's estate, then do I release you from your vows, for, the moment that I promised to become your wife, I cease to have any claim to that estate. The provisions of the will are such that I enjoy the whole income during my widowhood, with the privilege of bequeathing the principal to whom I will, at my death—if I die a widow; but if I marry, an annuity of one thousand dollars is all I shall receive, while the bulk of the fortune is directed to be then bestowed upon the heirs of a certain lady to whom Mr. Brambleton was attached in his youth, and from whom he was separated on account of his poverty. It is a queer will but not more so than the testator."

"The deuce!" exclaimed Frank, as he read thus far, "then I am in a pretty scrape! How the deuce am I to live on a thousand a year, with a wife accustomed to spend more than that at the fancy shops?"

"Now, dear Frank, ponder well on what I have told you, and give me a candid expression of your feelings. I can cheerfully bear with poverty for your sake, but I will not increase the hardships of your lot. If you really love me, as I believe—and shall I add—hope you do, our course is plain."

"Yes, the course is plain enough," muttered Frank to himself. "We must either separate, or starve in each other's company—or—stay, there is one other alternative. We can pledge our faith to each other, and then wait for better times. But would it not be base and selfish to make that lovely creature waste the best years of her life in 'hope deferred?' Can I, as a man of honor, enter an engagement which I cannot fulfil for long years to come? No, no, dearest Julia, I will deal frankly with you—I will open my whole heart to you, and if you are willing to bide the time and share the fortune of a poor physician, we may yet be happy. But what's this," exclaimed he, as he picked up a paper which had dropped at his feet. It was inscribed—

"Copy of the Last Will and Testament of Solomon Brambleton."

"What the deuce do I want with that?" thought Frank; "however, I may as well look at it. What a long winded affair it is."

"I, Solomon Brambleton, of the city and county of—, being in sound mind, etc., etc,"

"Fudge!"

"Ah! here is the pith and marrow of the business."

"But in case the said Julia Brambleton should marry a second time, thereby forgetting her duty to the husband of her youth, and a proper respect to his memory, then I do hereby authorize my said executors to pay to the said Julia, only the sum of one thousand dollars annually during the term of her natural life. In the event of the second marriage of my said wife, I do give, devise and bequeath all my estate, real and personal, (reserving only the sum of fifteen thousand dollars to be held in trust for the payment of the aforementioned annuity.) to Catherine Belford, formerly of Tiverton, in the county of Devon, England; and to her heir or heirs, wheresoever they may be found."

"What! can it be possible!" exclaimed the astonished Frank; he read on:

"In case no such heirs be found within ten years after such marriage of my said wife, then I give all my estate to be divided equally among the heirs-at-law. I wish them fully to understand, that I still hate them most cordially for reasons which they will remember, and I only give them this remote interest in my estate, in order to ensure full obedience to my wishes herein expressed, since their covetousness is my security that they will keep a watchful eye over the future conduct of my first named legatee."

Frank started up, flung the will to the ceiling, and caught it as it fell—tossed the widow's letter into the fire—snatched it out again, and begrimmed his face with coal-smoke as he pressed the rescued epistle to his lips. In short he acted like a mad-man for the next five minutes.

What did it all mean? Was he crazed with disappointment? We shall see.

Just one year after the death of Solomon Brambleton, Esq., a bridal party was assembled in the richly-furnished drawing room which had never before been thrown open to guests since it had admitted the old gentleman's funeral train. The bride looked very beautiful in her embroidered satin robe and Brussels veil; and those skilled in such mysteries, did not fail to notice that a band of diamonds occupied the place of the maiden wreath of orange blossoms. Quiet, calm, and self-possessed, she assumed no girlish airs of bashfulness but appeared gentle, dignified and womanly. Frank had never appeared to more advantage than when, with a flush of joy on his cheek, and a triumphant smile playing around his handsome mouth, he led his beautiful Julia into the room, in the full view of the whole assemblage.

Among the guests were two elderly gentlemen, and contemporaries of the late Mr. Brambleton, and executors of his whimsical will.-

"What a pity," exclaimed one, a jolly visaged good-humored old man, "what a pity that the widow should lose all this fine fortune for the sake of a young fellow's good looks. I only hope that she has not bought her husband at too high a rate."

"It's no pity at all," growled his vinegar-faced companion; "one husband is enough for a woman, and if she will be fool enough to take another she deserves to be punished. I mean to advertise to-morrow for the heirs of this Catherine Belford, whoever she is."

"What is the use of being in such a hurry about it?" said the other.

"Oh, because it is a troublesome business, and the sooner we get it off our hands, the sooner we shall get our commissions for managing the estate."

"Shall I save you the trouble of advertising, gentlemen!" said a voice behind them. Both turned in surprise, and beheld the handsome face of Frank Gordon. "Excuse me for having accidentally overheard your conversation, but I am thus enabled to spare you some inconvenience," said Frank, with a smile; "the heirs whom you seek are at this moment before you. Allow me to introduce you to my sister, Mary, and to inform you that she and your humble servant are the only living representatives of our maternal grandmother, Catherine Belford. The proofs of my assertion shall be laid before you to-morrow, and when you are fully satisfied of our identity, I can assure you, gentlemen, that your commissions shall be promptly and cheerfully paid."

"I don't believe a word of it," growled the cross old fellow.

"Ha, ha, ha!" shouted the other. "If this is not a hoax, it is a capital trick for cheating the ghost of a suspicious old husband. Does Mrs. Brambleton—does your wife, I mean, know all this?"

"To be sure she does; she was willing to forfeit her wealth for the sake of her lover, and she is now quite content to share the fortunes of her husband's heir. Nor must she be censured for obeying the impulses of a susceptible heart. Where there are no recollections of past tenderness to link the living with the dead even gold fetters are not strong enough to bind the affections."

BROOKLYN, L. I.