The International Monthly, Volume 2, No. 4, March, 1851

"Far be it from me, Fanny," she replied, with her wonted sweetness and benignity, "to ask any one to tamper with duty; but, my child, our faults, our pride frequently mislead us. You shall go to-night, if you please; but I wish, for my sake, you could stay at least till to-morrow morning. I have not offended you, Fanny?"

"Oh, dearest Mrs. Beauchamp!" and the poor girl burst into tears. "I wish—I wish I could only show you how I love you—how grateful I am for all your goodness; but you will never, never know."

Mrs. Beauchamp looked anxiously at her, and began, "Fanny"–But suddenly stopped, as if she knew not how to proceed. Immediately afterwards the young girl left the room, silently and passionately kissing Mrs. Beauchamp's hand as she passed her on her way to the door.

A few hours later in the day, as Mrs. Beauchamp sat reading in her boudoir, according to her custom at that particular hour, Edmund abruptly entered the little room in a state of agitation quite foreign to his ordinary disposition and habits.

"Mother!" he cried.

"My love! what is the matter?"

"Mother! I love Fanny Dalton—I love her with all my soul. I think her not only the loveliest and most charming of women, but the best and truest! I feel that she might make my life not only happier, but better. Oh, mother! is not love as real a thing as either wealth or station? Is it not as sufficient for all noble works? Is it not in some shape the only motive for all real improvement? It seems to me that such is the lesson I have been learning from you all my life long."

"And in that you have learned it I am deeply grateful, and far more than repaid for all my care and anxiety on your account; and now thank you for your confidence, my dear Edmund, though I think you might have bestowed it after a calmer fashion. It would have been better, I think, to have said all those violent things to Fanny than to me."

"I have said more than all these to Fanny, and—she has rejected me!"

"Rejected you! my dearest Edmund! I am grieved indeed; but I do not see how I can help you."

"And yet I should not be quite hopeless if you would plead my cause. Miss Dalton says that you have loaded her with kindness which she can never repay; that she values your affection beyond all expression; and that she is determined not to prove herself unworthy of it by being the means of disappointing the expectations you may have formed for your son, for whom, she says, she is no match either in wealth or station. She would not listen to me when I attempted to speak to her but this instant in the Laurel Walk, but actually ran away, positively commanding me not to follow; and yet, I do think, if she had decidedly disliked me, she would have given me to understand so at once, without mentioning you. Mother! what do you—what do you think?"

"You shall hear presently, Edmund; but in the first place let us find Miss Dalton."

They went out together, and had not sought her long, when they discovered her pacing perturbedly up and down a broad walk of closely-shaven grass, inclosed on both sides by a tall impenetrable fence of evergreens. As soon as she saw them, she advanced quickly to meet them, her face covered with blushes, but her bearing open and proud. Ere Mrs. Beauchamp had time to speak, she exclaimed, "Mrs. Beauchamp, I do not deserve your reproaches. Never till this morning was I aware of Mr. Beauchamp's sentiments towards me. Dear, kind friend, I would have suffered any tortures rather than that this should have happened."

Fanny was violently agitated; while Mrs. Beauchamp, on the contrary, preserved a calm exterior. She took one of the young girl's hands between both of hers, and answered soothingly, "Compose yourself, my dear Fanny, I entreat you. Believe me, I do not blame you for the affection my son has conceived for you."

"Oh thank you! Indeed you only do me justice."

"But, Fanny, I blame you very much for another reason."

"For what reason, then, madam?"

"For the same reason which now causes your eye to flash, and makes you call your friend by a ceremonious title. I blame you for your pride, which has made you think of me harshly and unjustly. Unkind Fanny! What reason have I ever given you to think me heartless or worldly? Do you not know that those who love are equals? and that if it be a more blessed thing to give, yet to a generous heart, for that very reason, it ought to be a pleasure to receive? Are you too proud, Fanny, to take any thing from us, or is it because my son's affection is displeasing to you that you have rejected him?"

Fanny was now in tears, and even sobbing aloud. "Oh, forgive me," she cried, "forgive me! I acknowledge my fault. I see that what I believed to be a sense of duty was at least partly pride. Oh, Mrs. Beauchamp, you would forgive me if you only knew how miserable I was making myself too!"

"Were you—were you indeed making yourself miserable?" cried Edmund. "Oh say so again, dearest Fanny; and say you are happy now!"

Mrs. Beauchamp smiled fondly as she answered, "I will do more than forgive you, my poor Fanny, if you will only love my son. Will you make us both so happy?"

Fanny only replied by a rapid glance at Edmund, and by throwing herself into the arms of Mrs. Beauchamp, which were extended to receive her. And as she was pressed to that fond, maternal heart, she whispered audibly, "My mother!—our mother!"

Mrs. Beauchamp then taking her hand, and placing it in that of her son, said with evident emotion, "Only make Edmund happy, Fanny, and all the gratitude between us will be due on my side; and oh, my children, as you value your future peace, believe in each other through light and darkness. And may Heaven bless you both!" She had turned towards the house, when she looked back to ask, "Shall I countermand the carriage, Fanny?" And Edmund added, half-tenderly, half-slyly, "Shall you go to-morrow?"

Fanny's tears were scarcely dry, and her blushes were deeper than ever, but she answered immediately, with her usual lively promptitude, "That depends upon the sort of entertainment you may provide as an inducement to prolong my visit."

And Edmund, finding that he had no chance with Fanny where repartee or badinage was in question, had recourse again to the serious vein, and rejoined, "If my power to induce you to prolong your visit were at all equal to my will, you would remain for ever, my own dearest Fanny."

We must now pass over a few months. The early freshness and verdure of spring had passed away, and the bloom and the glory of summer had departed. The apple-trees were now laden with their rosy treasures, the peach was ripe on the sunny wall, and the summer darkness of the woods had but just begun to be varied by the appearance of a few yellow leaves. It was on a September afternoon, when the soft light of the autumn sunset was bathing in its pale golden rays the grey turrets of Woodthorpe Hall, and resting like a parting smile on the summits of the ancestral oaks and elms, while it cast deep shadows, crossed with bright gleams, on the spreading lawns, or glanced back from the antlers of the deer, as they ever and anon appeared in the hollows of the park or between the trees, that a travelling carriage passed under the old Gothic archway which formed the entrance to Woodthorpe Park, and drove rapidly towards the Hall. It contained Edmund and Fanny, the newly-married pair, who had just returned from a wedding trip to Paris. They were not, however, the only occupants of the carriage. With them was Mr. Dalton, whom we knew in former days as Philip Hayforth, and who had been specially invited by Mrs. Beauchamp to accompany the bride and bridegroom on their return to Woodthorpe Hall.

And now the carriage stops beneath the porch, and in the arched doorway stands a noble and graceful figure—the lady of the mansion. The slanting sunbeams, streaming through the stained windows at the upper end of the oak hall, played upon her dress of dark and shining silk, which was partly covered by a shawl or mantle of black lace, while her sweet pale face was lighted up with affection, and her eyes were full of a grave gladness. Her fair hair, just beginning to be streaked with silver, was parted over her serene forehead, and above it rested a simple matronly cap of finest lace. Emily Beauchamp was still a beautiful woman—beautiful even as when in the early prime of youth and love she had stood in the light of the new-born day, clad in her robes of vestal whiteness. The change in her was but the change from morning to evening—from spring to autumn; and to some hearts the waning light and the fading leaves have a charm which sunshine and spring-time cannot boast. Having fondly but hastily embraced her son and daughter, she turned to Mr. Dalton, and with cordial warmth bade him welcome to Woodthorpe Hall. He started at the sound of the gentle, earnest tones which, as if by magic, brought palpably before him scenes and images which lay far remote, down the dim vista of years, obscured, almost hidden, by later interest and more pressing cares. He looked in Mrs. Beauchamp's face, and a new wonder met him in the glance of her large brown eyes, so full of seriousness and benignity, while the smooth white hand which yet held his in its calm friendly clasp seemed strangely like one he had often pressed, but which had always trembled as he held it. What could all this mean? Was he dreaming? He was aroused from the reverie into which he had fallen by the same voice which had at first arrested his attention.

"We must try to become acquainted as quickly as possible, Mr. Dalton," said Mrs. Beauchamp, "and learn to be friends for our children's sake."

Bowing low, he replied, "I have already learned from my daughter to know and to esteem Mrs. Beauchamp."

The more Mr. Dalton saw of Mrs. Beauchamp, the more bewildered he became. He fancied what appeared to him the strangest impossibilities, and yet he found it impossible to believe that there was no ground for his vague conjectures. His life had been one of incessant toil, lately one of heavy distress and anxious cares, which had frequently sent him to a sleepless pillow; but never had he spent a more wakeful night than this, his first under the stately roof which his daughter—his darling Fanny—called that of her home. He felt that he could not endure another day of this uncertainty. He must be satisfied at all hazards, and he resolved to make an opportunity, should such not spontaneously present itself. But he was spared the necessity; for after breakfast the following morning his hostess offered to show him the grounds—an offer which, with his desired end in view, he eagerly accepted. They commenced their walk in silence, and seemed as if both were suddenly under the influence of some secret spell. At last, in a hoarse voice and a constrained manner, Mr. Dalton abruptly inquired, "Pray, madam, may I ask—though I fear the question may seem an unceremonious, perhaps a strange one—if you have any relations of the name of Sherwood?"

He saw her start, as she answered with forced composure, "Yes, Mr. Dalton, I have. It was indeed my own name before I married."

As she made this avowal, both stood still, it would seem by a sort of tacit, mutual consent, and earnestly looked at each other.

Philip Hayforth Dalton was now a man past the meridian of life; his once handsome and still striking countenance was deeply marked with lines of sorrow and care, and his dark luxuriant locks were thinned and grizzled, while his features, which had long been schooled to betray no sign of emotion of a transient or superficial nature, were now, as his eyes met those of Mrs. Beauchamp's, convulsed as by the working of a strong passion. A slight blush tinged Emily's usually pale cheek; she drew a rapid breath, and her voice faltered perceptibly as she said at last, "Yes, Philip Hayforth, I am Emily Sherwood!"

Not immediately did he reply either by word or look—not till she had asked somewhat eagerly, "We are friends, Mr. Dalton—are we not?"

Pride wrestled for a minute with the better nature of Philip Hayforth; but whether it were that his self-command was now greater than in the fiery and impassioned season of youth, or that it was difficult to maintain anger and resentment in the gentle, soothing, and dignified presence in which he now found himself, I undertake not to tell; but certain it is that this time at least he crushed the old demon down, and forced himself to answer, though with a formal manner and somewhat harsh tone, "Friends, Mrs. Beauchamp! Certainly, we are friends, if you wish it. Your goodness to my poor motherless Fanny has completely cancelled all wrongs ever done to Fanny's father. Let the past be forgotten!"

"Not so, if you please," she answered gently, "rather let it be explained. Mr. Dalton, we are neither of us young now, and have both, I trust, outlived the rashness of youth. Never till our mutual truth is made mutually clear, can we be the friends we ought to be—the friends I wish we were for Edmund's and Fanny's sake. Let us both speak plainly and boldly, and without fear of offence on either side. I promise, on mine, to take none at the truth, whatever it may be."

Mr. Dalton, as she spoke, regarded her earnestly and wonderingly, saying, as she finished, half in reverie, half addressing her, it would seem, "The same clear good sense, the same sweet good temper, which I had persuaded myself was but the effect of a delusive imagination! But I entreat your pardon, madam, and I promise as you have done."

"Tell me then, truly, Mr. Dalton, why you never answered the last letter I wrote to you, or acknowledged the receipt of the purse I sent?"

He started, as if he had received a pistol-shot; the formal, distant Mr. Dalton had disappeared, and the eager, vehement Philip Hayforth stood before her once more. "I did answer it, Emily. Out of the fulness of my heart—and how full it was I cannot tell you now—I answered your letter; but you, Emily, you never answered mine."

"Indeed I never received it."

It was some minutes after this announcement ere either was able to speak, but at last Mr. Dalton exclaimed, "Oh how I have wronged you? Emily, at this instant I catch, as it were, at the bottom of a dark gulf a glimpse of the evil of my nature. I begin to believe that I have cherished a devil in my bosom, and called it by the name of a good angel. Emily, if I am not too old to improve, you will have been the instrument of my improvement. I do not ask you to forgive me, generous woman, because I feel that you have already done so."

Mrs. Beauchamp felt what it must have cost the proud man to make this acknowledgment, and she honored him for the effort. "We have both been to blame," she said, "and therefore stand in need of mutual forgiveness. But it would be idle now to lament the past; rather let us rejoice that our friendship, re-established on the firm basis of perfect confidence, is cemented by the union of our dear children."

Mr. Dalton only answered by offering her his arm, with the kind and familiar politeness of an old friend, as she looked a little fatigued, and they walked together some distance in silence. At last Mrs. Beauchamp inquired, "Was Fanny's mother like herself?"

"No, Emily. My poor dead Fanny," and his voice trembled slightly, "was very sweet and amiable, but not at all like my living one."

"Your marriage was happy then? I am glad of that."

"I should have been the most ungrateful of men had it not been so; and yours too, Emily I hope"–

He stopt, he hardly knew why, while, with her eyes fixed on the ground, she answered slowly, "I am happy, very happy now!"

A feeling of profound respect and admiration held Mr. Dalton silent for a few seconds, and then he said, in the tone of one who expresses an earnest conviction, "You are the most noble minded woman I ever knew."

Mrs. Beauchamp made no answer, and it was not till they stood together in the hall, that she said in her natural tone of kind and calm cheerfulness, "And now, Mr. Dalton, let us look for Edmund and Fanny; and if you please, in order that they may learn of our mistakes that trust is the nobler part of love, we shall tell them this story of The Lost Letter."

From Frazer's Magazine