“From that hour, sir, the major was a firm believer in destiny, and used to sigh whenever any one would talk of matrimony. He lived in constant fear lest his wife should find him out, and at last threw up his commission, only, I believe, that he might go to Europe, for better security. Some used to say it was only a drunken dream, out of which he had been awakened by falling upon the stones, but if the major heard it he was sure to challenge the slanderer, so that, in course of time, his story got to be believed by general consent. And now—you old curmudgeon—who’ll say marriages ain’t fixed by fate?”
“But, Jeremy, to credit your ghost story requires rather a good deal of credulity.”
“Credulity! Ghost story! what, egad, is life without a touch of romance, and what romance is so glorious as the one which deals in _diablerie_? Ah! my good fellow if I didn’t know that the major was generally credible, and therefore in this instance to be believed, I’d endorse his story just because it proves my assertion. Answer that, if you can!”
The wind moaned in low and fitful gusts around the mansion, sounding at times, as if the wailings of departed spirits were borne upon the blast, when Mary Levingston sat alone in the solitude of her chamber. Her lamp was hid in a recess at a distance, and casting its pale and feeble beams across the darkened room, scarcely disclosed her drooping figure, or the tears upon her cheek. It was not that the fearful tumult without had affected her imagination, nor the thought that her only brother might be exposed to all the dangers of the coast. Something that more deeply touched her happiness awoke her grief. Wild, tumultuous thoughts agitated her bosom, and mocked the storm that shook her casement, and roared in all its fury around her.
The substantial mansion of Mr. Levingston was situated in a delightful town in New Jersey. Here he had trained up an interesting and lovely family. Four of his daughters were married; three of them were settled in the same town with their father; the other resided in the city of New York. His only son, possessing many virtues, but a wild and roving disposition had, in opposition to his father’s advice, gone to sea, and had not been seen by any of his family for four years. Mary Levingston was the sole remaining daughter at home. She was the sun that lit up her father’s dwelling. Swift and light as the fawn had been her footstep till of late; when a cloud had passed over her gentle bosom, and obscured its brightness. A blast had swept over the flower and it was changed; but neither the cloud had been seen, nor the blast heard. Then wherefore this change?