I would await the turn of events. In Mary's circumstances, I would disregard a stepmother's commands without a minute's delay, for though, as a general rule, we are bound to obey our parents', in the matter of marriage, where the happiness of our whole life depends on our choice, we ought to exercise, in a measure, our own will, and if we have given our love to a worthy object and the opposition of our parents is factious and tyrannical, we ought to follow our own judgment and not theirs. It is true that young people are very apt to bestow their affections on unworthy objects and to imagine that their parents oppose their love unreasonably, and we should, therefore, be very cautious in marrying against the wishes of natural advisers. But in your case, there can be no doubt. I am older than you and married. I may advise you, therefore, with more freedom. But you come of a proud and spirited race, and I predict that since Mrs. Swanson has called you a fortune-hunter, you will not marry Mary when, if she were poor and could be brought to elope, you would wed her tomorrow."
"That, Mary, will never do; and though no doubt you are right in all you have said, yet I would rather my wife obey than disobey her parent, even when that parent's injustice and tyranny is clear."
"And I honor you for it. I should not, under the circumstances, blame Mary if she were to elope, but I love her more for her refusal," and with these words, the conversation closed.
Time passed. Now that Mrs. Swanson had learned that Henry Alford was her daughter's lover, all interviews between them were rendered impossible by her Argus eyes. Mary was closely confined to the house and allowed to see no one unless in the presence of her mother. The persecutions to which the poor girl was now subjected would have subdued many a weaker heart, but Mary, though yielding in little things, had a latent firmness which greater emergencies called forth, and she rose superior to all the taunts and vexations to which she was subjected, for the consciousness of rectitude cheered her amid all. Her constancy was the more self-sustained because she had not heard from her lover for weeks and because there was no female friend on whom she could lean in her distress; but left alone and unaided, she could only think of Henry and resolve to suffer all for his sake. It may seem strange that Mrs. Swanson should possess such power to tyrannize over her stepdaughter, but Mary's now deceased father had married his second wife late in life, and the bride, thus brought into his household, had soon managed to obtain such control over him that when he died, he left her a large portion of his fortune and the unlimited guardianship of his child. Perhaps if her stepmother had not been so specially invested in her father's authority, Mary would have paused and promised not to marry without her consent, but now she felt called on, as it were, by a voice from the tomb, to obey her mother's commands to that extent, though she could not make herself unhappy for life by marrying Mr. Bartlett.
Many were the attempts made by Henry Alford to obtain an interview with Mary or even to convey to her a letter, but in every instance without success. At length, conscious that Mary would never marry without Mrs. Swanson's consent and unable longer to endure the misery of being so near and yet not beholding her, Henry left the city for the far west, determined there to accumulate a fortune and return and claim Mary's hand. With this resolution, he found, at length, means to acquaint her and received in return assurances of her fidelity.
Years elapsed. Henry Alford was now a distinguished man and rapidly acquiring wealth when, one day, he was called to a neighboring village inn to see a sick lady. What was his surprise, on entering the room, to recognize Mrs. Swanson, now pale and emaciated and evidently dying? The room in which she lay, a scantily furnished garret, betokened that a change had befallen her worldly circumstances. Henry's heart fluttered, and he glanced his eye around the room in search of a well-known form. Mrs. Swanson was equally surprised by himself. She was, however, the first to speak, and it was in a humble and penitent tone.
"God be praised for this unexpected meeting," she said, raising her eyes to heaven, "for I can now repair a grievous wrong ere I die. Your eyes tell me that you seek my daughter. She is here," the sufferer exclaimed as Mary entered the room. "God bless you both, my children, and forgive me for the evil I intended for you."
We will not attempt to describe the meeting of the loving, separated lovers. A few words of explanation will close our narrative. Mary had remained firm to her troth under every persecution, and, at length, Mr. Bartlett withdrew in despair, though it was said that the loss of all Mrs. Swanson's fortune and that of her daughter, which about this time occurred, had no little influence on his determination. Misfortune softened the mother's heart, and she repented of all the wrong she had done, Mary, and would willingly have bestowed it on Henry. But, in pursuance of his resolution, he had kept his residence a secret, even from Mary, intending only to reveal it when he could claim her as his bride. At length, increasing poverty forced Mrs. Swanson and her daughter to seek refuge in the far west, and we have seen how opportunely they met with Henry. We have only to add that she saw the lovers united at her bedside when she died, which event took place in a short week after her journey had been stopped by her illness.
“Was I not right?" said the young bride to her husband, "for now we have no reproaches to make to ourselves for a want of duty."
"Yes!" said he, fondly kissing her.
