"Who?" asked Florence, quickly.
"A young lady from Albany."
"Miss Weldon?"
"The same."
"I was not aware that she was on terms of intimacy with your wife."
"She's an old friend of mine; and, in that sense a friend of Kate's."
"Then they have not met."
"Oh, yes; frequently. And are warmly attached. We look for a pleasant visit. But, of course, we shall not expect to see you. That is understood."
"I rather think you will; that is, if your wife will admit me on friendly terms."
"Why do you say that?" inquired the friend, appearing a little surprised.
"I thought, on the night of your wedding, that she felt my presence as unwelcome to her."
"And is this the reason why you have not called to see us."
"I frankly own that it is."
"Edwin! I am surprised at you. It is all a piece of imagination. What could have put such a thing into your head?"
"It may have been all imagination. But I couldn't help feelings as I did. However, you may expect to see me, and that, too, before Miss Weldon's arrival."
"If you don't present yourself before, I am not so sure that we will let you come afterwards," said the friend, smiling.
On the next evening the young man called. Mrs. Hartley, the bride of his friend, endeavored to forget the past, and to receive him with all the external signs of forgetfulness. But, in this she did not fully succeed, and, of course, the visit of Florence was painfully embarrassing, at least, to himself. From that time until the arrival of Miss Weldon, he felt concerned and unhappy. That Mrs. Hartley would fully communicate or covertly hint to Clara certain events of his former life, he had too much reason to fear; and, were this done, he felt that all his fond hopes would be scattered to the winds. In due time, Miss Weldon arrived. In meeting her, Florence was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment, never before experienced in her presence. He understood clearly why this was so. At each successive visit his embarrassment increased; and, the more so, from the fact that he perceived a change in Clara ere she had been in the city a week. As to the cause of this change, he had no doubts. It was evident that Mrs. Hartley had communicated certain matters touching his previous history.
Thus it went on day after day, for two or three weeks, by which time the lovers met under the influence of a most chilling constraint. Both were exceedingly unhappy.
One day, in calling as usual, Mr. Florence was surprised to learn that Clara had gone back to Albany.
"She said, nothing of this last night," remarked the young man to Mrs. Hartley.
"Her resolution was taken after you went away," was replied.
"And you, no doubt, advised the step," said Mr. Florence, with ill-concealed bitterness.
"Why do you say that?" was quickly asked.
"How can I draw any other inference?" said the young man, looking at her with knit brows.
"Explain yourself, Mr. Florence!"
"Do my words need explanation?"
"Undoubtedly! For, I cannot understand them."
"There are events in my past lifeI will not say how bitterly repentedof which only you could have informed her."
"What events?" calmly asked the lady.
"Why lacerate my feelings by such a question?" said Florence, while a shadow of pain flitted over his face, as Memory presented a record of the past.
"I ask it with no such intention. I only wish to understand you," replied Mrs. Hartley. "You have brought against me a vague accusation. I wish it distinct, that I may affirm or deny it."
"Edith Walter," said Edwin Florence, in a low, unsteady voice, after he had been silent for nearly a minute.
Mrs. Hartley looked earnestly into his face. Every muscle was quivering.
"What of her?" she inquired, in tones quite as low as those in which the young man had spoken.
"You know the history."
"Well?"
"And, regardless of my suffering and repentance, made known to Clara the blasting secret."
"No! By my hopes of heaven, no!" quickly exclaimed Mrs. Hartley.
"No?" A quiver ran through the young man's frame.
"No, Mr. Florence! That rested as silently in my own bosom as in yours."
"Who, then, informed her?"
"No one."
"Has she not heard of it?"
"No."
"Why, then, did she change towards me?"
"You changed, first, towards her."
"Me!"
"Yes. From the day of her arrival in New York, she perceived in you a certain coldness and reserve, that increased with each repeated interview."
"Oh, no!"
"It is true. I saw it myself."
Florence clasped his hands together, and bent his eyes in doubt and wonder upon the floor.
"Did she complain of coldness and change in me?" he inquired.
"Yes, often. And returned, last night, to leave you free, doubting not that you had ceased to love her."
"Ceased to love her! While this sad work has been going on, I have loved her with the agony of one who is about losing earth's most precious thing. Oh! write to her for me, and explain all. How strange has been my infatuation. Will you write for me?"
"Yes."
"Say that my heart has not turned from her an instant. That her imagined coldness has made me of all men most wretched."
"I will do so. But why not write yourself?"
"It will be better to come from you. Ask her to return. I would rather meet her here than in her uncle's house. Urge her to come back."
Mrs. Hartley promised to do so, according to the wish of Mr. Florence. Two days passed, and there was no answer. On the morning of the third day, the young man, in a state of agitation from suspense called at the house of his friend. After sending up his name, he sat anxiously awaiting the appearance of Mrs. Hartley. The door at length opened, and, to his surprise and joy, Clara entered. She came forward with a smile upon her face, extending her hand as she did so. Edwin sprang to meet her, and catching her hand, pressed it eagerly to his lips.
"Strange that we should have so erred in regard to each other," said Clara, as they sat communing tenderly. "I trust no such error will come in the future to which I look forward with so many pleasing hopes."
"Heaven forbid!" replied the young man, seriously.
"But we are in a world of error. Ah! if we could only pass through life without a mistake. If the heavy weight of repentance did not lie so often and so long upon our heartsthis would be a far pleasanter world than it is."
"Do not look so serious," remarked Clara, as she bent forward and gazed affectionately into the young man's face. "To err is human. No one here is perfect. How often, for hours, have I mourned over errors; yet grief was of no avail, except to make my future more guarded."
"And that was much gained," said Florence, breathing deeply with a sense of relief. "If we cannot recall and correct the past, we can at least be more guarded in the future. This is the effect of my own experience. Ah! if we properly considered the action of our present upon the future, how guarded would we be. All actions are in the present, and the moment they are done the present becomes the past, over which Memory presides. What is past is fixed. Nothing can change it. The record is in marble, to be seen in all future time."
The serious character of the interview soon changed, and the young lovers forgot every thing in the joy of their reconciliation. Nothing arose to mar their intercourse until the appointed time for the nuptial ceremonies arrived, when they were united in holy wedlock. But, Edwin Florence did not pass on to this time without another visit from the rebuking Angel of the past. He was not permitted to take the hand of Clara in his, and utter the words that bound him to her forever, without a visit from the one whose heart he had broken years before. She came to him in the dark and silent midnight, as he tossed sleeplessly upon his bed, and stood and looked at him with her pale face and despairing eyes, until he was driven almost to madness. She was with him when the light of morning dawned; she moved by his side as he went forth to meet and claim his betrothed; and was near him, invisible to all eyes but his own, when he stood at the altar ready to give utterance to the solemn words that bound him to his bride. And not until these words were said, did the vision fade away.