gcls_courant_012 2

82 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL
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He bent his head and kissed her curling lips. She
did not struggle to prevent it; but haughtily, scornfully
her words rang out on the night-air,--
"Harvey, you are the greatest sufferer. You began
the game of feigning affection for another. I learned the
lesson, and, before many days, shall be a wife--William
Murray's wife! Ah, you shudder, Harvey. It is all
your work; you drove me to it. Once I loved you, now
I scorn you. Go back to your gentle, trusting wife, and
learn to deceive her, and hide your misery. I do not
care now that we are parted; I have ceased to love any-
thing. But you can never forget; your nature is dif-
ferent. You will love me always; your passionate
heart is mine--mine forever! Good-bye, Harvey.--
Should we chance to meet in future years, I shall not be
troubled with memories."
She unclasped his arm and returned to the house, and
ten minutes afterward, I saw the two standing a few feet
from each other, talking with easy grace, and smiling as
calmly as though no aching hearts throbbed in their
bosoms. Harvey Young and his wife left the following
day for the North; and two weeks later, on the morning
of Blanch's marriage, I sought her in her study. She
testified neither fear, regret nor joy, at the step she was
about to take. Her countenance was cloudless as when
I first saw her; her pale broad forehead calm and smooth.
I felt the tears gather as I looked into her splendid mel-
ancholy eyes; and she said with the old smile,--
"You will miss me, Edgar; but remember I am mar-
rying a man of great wealth and distinguished eminence,
and you must not regret me. Take care of my globes
and maps, and be sure to keep my telescope in order.--
I shall come back some day and need them."
She stood up with her hand on Murray's arm, and in
five minutes she was his wife. They were going imme-
diately to New York to take the steamer for Europe, and
she came to tell me good-bye. I took her in my arms
and wept, but she smiled and passed her hand over her
brow, saying,--
"Take care of yourself, Edgar. When I come home
from Europe, we will renew the old days of study. Good-
bye. I wish you were going with me."
She stooped down and pressed her lips to my forehead,
then gave her hand to her husband and entered the car-
riage. As it passed, I caught a last view of a beautiful
marble face, with folds of golden hair on a noble, pure
brow, and delicate fixed lips that very rarely smiled, and
I knew that my cousin Blanch went to her elegant home
at ------- Court, a very hopeless, but proud and uncom-
plaining woman.
-----
CHAPTER IV.
I was very lonely without her. I missed the stately
form, and slow, measured tread; the calm clear voice,
and face of wonderful beauty. Months, years glided by.
She wrote occasionally, but generally of the society
which surrounded her, or the duties of her husband's
position. Of herself she never spoke, except to men-
tion the pleasure European museums of Art afforded her,
and I could only conjecture her feelings. I loved her
above everything else on earth, and finally resolved to
go to her. My arrangements for the journey were com-
pleted, and I intended to leave on the following day,
when my uncle gave me a letter. It was from my cou-
sin, and contained only these lines:
"Dear Edgar:--I do not know when I shall be able
to return home. Mr. Murray thinks it uncertain how
long he will remain here, and I want you to come to
me. You are very lonely in my old home, and here we
would be companions for each other. Bring me all my
maps, and, Edgar, don't forget my telescope; pack it
carefully. Your cousin,
BLANCH."
I sailed from New York a few days later, and after
some weeks of travel reached the city of my destination.
I went at once to the residence of the American Minis-
ter, but he was absent. The servants told me that my
cousin had been ill for a long time, and her husband had
taken her to a celebrated watering-place, in the hope of
restoring her health. My heart ached with painful ap-
prehension, and I hurried to that distant watering-place
It was late in the afternoon when I arrived at the hotel,
and found that Murray was in his room. I followed the
waiter instantly, and at the door met the Minister. He
was pale and worn, and one glance at him sufficed to
send a thrill of terror through my frame. I grasped his
arm.
"Murray, how is Blanch?"
He shaded his face with one hand, and pointing to
the room behind him, unclasped my fingers and hurried
away. As I entered the chamber a solemn stillness
reigned, and I heard only the sound of my own crutches.
A silken couch was drawn close to the western window,
and I knelt down beside it, and looked upon the face of
my cousin Blanch. She was dead! About three hours
before I arrived, she had fallen to sleep! and, man though
I am, I wept bitterly as I gazed upon her. Ah, I have
seen painting and statues, but nothing that equalled her
marvelous perfection. Her luxuriant glossy hair lay
like a veil around her shrouded form, and its golden
masses flashed, as the setting sun threw one last quiver-
ing ray on the head of the sleeper. Cold and marble-
like, silent and calm:
"Her palms were folded on her breast:
There was no other thing expressed,
But long disquiet merged in rest."
She was emaciated, but I could discover no wrinkle
on her noble snowy brow; and no lines of grief or suf-
fering about the matchless lips. I knew then that she
had struggled desperately with her proud heart, and
crushed it; though there was no trace of the conflict in
her passionless, peerlesss face, and I laid my head on her
pillow, and touched her polished cheek, and groaned
aloud. Then I heard a low bitter laugh near me, and
saw Harvey Young standing on the opposite side of the
couch. His face was gray and bloodless; his fierce,
wolfish eyes were riveted on her countenance, and he put
out his arms as if he longed to take her to his heart.--
Oh, I pitied that strong, stern, miserable man, as his
stony features writhed, in his remorseful agony. He
was tall and muscular, but now he trembled, and sank
down by the couch, and took the folded pearly hands in
his.
"Blanch, O, Blanch! my darling, speak to me!"
His very tones were altered, and his massive head,
with its grizzled locks, sank on his broad chest. When
last I saw him, not one silver thread whitened his jetty
hair. Three years had sadly changed him. He knelt
there for some moments, and I saw him press his lips re-
peatedly to the delicate waxen fingers.
"Harvey, why are you here?"
"To see her once more, before the grave hides her
loveliness forever. The public knew that the wife of
the American Minister was dying; I heard it, and came
here. Yesterday evening she took her last ride. I stood
near the carriage, and saw her as they lifted her care-
fully in, and arranged the cushions for her to rest com-
fortably. She raised her glorious violet eyes, and saw
me. It was the first time since the night of my marri-
age, three years ago. I took off my hat and leaned for-
ward. She met my gaze steadily, and without a vestige
of emotion, save that I saw that blue vein swell on her
forehead; then she smiled proudly, defiantly, and turn-
ing away, nestled her head against the cushions. The
carriage rolled on, and from that moment I believe I
have been insane. I waited to see her as she returned,
but Murary bore her in his arms, and I could only see
her magnificent hair, and the outline of the hand, which
hung listlessly over his shoulder. Murray entered this
room, and now I see her for the last time! Oh, my own
haughty, queenly Blanch! my dead darling! my mur-
dered idol!"
He pressed his lips to hers, and severing one long
braid of hair, put it in his bosom, and left the room.
Some days after, Murray gave me a letter which
Blanch had written just before her death. He said she
sat up in her easy chair, and wrote it very calmly; and
he never suspected she would die so soon. She folded
it and laid it on her lap, and he went into the adjoining
room to speak to some one about obtaining some medi-
cine for her. Soon after he returned and spoke to her,
she sat quite still, but did not answer. He stooped down,
and lifting the bands of hair that had fallen over her
face looked at her. Her eyes were closed. She had
died all alone.
I opened the letter, and the characters were as firm
and legible as when she wrote in her diary, years before.
I could find no trace of weakness in body or mind.
"Edgar:--You will not arrive in time to see me. I
am sorry it has happened so. I would have written to
you earlier, if I had thought the end would come so soon.
I leave some calculations, which I have made with great
care. Revise them for me, and in my name send them
to the Astronomical journal I formerly contributed to.--
Edgar, my cousin, I wanted to see you before I died;
but it cannot be. I am very lonely in my last hour.--
May God have mercy on my soul. Life is short, and in
a little while you will join me. Good-bye, Edgar, I am
glad to die; very glad. If I could, I would not add a
day to my life, I suffer no pain now. Edgar, I am glad
to go. BLANCH."
I pondered that letter for a long time, and wept over
it. Then I took my crutches, and went to my own room,
and penned a brief account of what I had witnessed;
hoping that some noble-hearted, yet proud man, may be
warned by a recital of Harvey Young's life-long misery
and remorse; and that some lovly, but unbending wo-
man, may shudder in anticipating a fate similar to that
of my gifted Cousin Blanch.
(CONCLUDED.)
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THE PRICE OF BOOKS IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA.
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Dr. Shelton McKenzie, the assistant editor of the
Philadelphia Press, mentions that a new American
work, which is published and sold in this country, at
one dollar, is republished and sold in England at two
dollars and a half. The Dr. says:
There is no reason why it should not have been sold
in London at one dollar, the retail price here. The duty
on new American books imported into England is three
cents per pound. The Convalescent, (the volume in
question,) weighs twenty ounces, which would make the
import duty on each single volume about four cents.--
English publishers allow the trade twenty-five per cent.
profit, while the American publishers would give Low
& Son, of London, about thirty per cent. The five per
cent. difference would fully pay for the freight and duty,
leaving Messrs. Sampson, Low & Son precisely the same
profit, as if they sold an English book. An American
in England who desires to buy this new book, and knew
that its retail price is a dollar, must be thunderstruck in
Messrs. Lows' bookstore, in London, at being charged
two dollars and a half for it. This it is which makes
the sale of American books comparatively small in Eng-
land. This encourages piracy, to the inury of the Am-
erican author, by checking the sale of the American
printed books, in which he has an interest. Ought not
our authors and publishers look to it?
By way of contrast, we draw attention to another book.
The Harpers, of New York, have just published a new
domestic novel by Charles Reade, author of White Lies,
Never Too Late to Mend, and other extremely popular
works of fiction. The new book is called Love Me
Little, Love Me Long, and is one of the best, because
most natural, stories we have read for years. We place
it alongside of Adam Bede, and our very excellent
friend, Doctor Thorne. This book has not yet been
published in England--at least, not a fortnight ago.--
The Harpers purchased early proof sheets of it from the
author. It will be published by Trubner & Co., London,
in two volumes, price one guinea. The Harpers retail
the same book, handsomely printed in one volume of
435 pages, for 50 cents sewed, or 75 in cloth boards.--
Why do they put it thus low? To prevent competition,
and to secure a great sale. Perhaps, in the course of a
year, as Charles Reade is popular, 1,500 copies of his
book may be sold England, among 30,000,000 inhabit-
ants. Some 500 of these will give $5 for the the book,
for their drawing-room or library tables. The remaining
1,000 copies will be purchased by the circulating libra-
ries, who will lend out the volume to readers at twenty-
five cents per read--just half what the book can be
bought for in this country. Perhaps 25,000 copies will
be sold here.
With these facts before them, need any one wonder
that the Americans (thanks to cheap books in all depart-
ments of literature) are the greatest readers in the world,
and possess an unusually large amount of such general
information as books can give?
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