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Updated: June 7, 2025
Harry and Dalton did not hear the words said, but one of those present subsequently told them much that was spoken at this last and famous conference. A man named Welford had recently cut a road toward the northwest through the Wilderness in order that he might haul wood and iron ore to a furnace that he had built.
Welford was altogether and emphatically what a libertine calls "a woman," such as a frivolous education makes a woman, generous in great things, petty in small; vain, irritable, full of the littleness of herself and her complaints, ready to plunge into an abyss with her lover, but equally ready to fret away all love with reproaches when the plunge had been made.
For two years from that date, all trace of her history was lost. At the end of that time what was Welford?
Emboldened by the interpretations of his vanity, and contrasting, as every one else did, his own animated face and glittering garb with the ascetic and gloomy countenance, the unstudied dress, and austere gait which destroyed in Welford the effect of a really handsome person, our lieutenant thought fit to express his passion by a letter, which he conveyed to Mrs. Welford's pew. Mrs.
The nearer the day came the more wretched I grew; I positively became ill with misery, and begged to be allowed to go home without waiting for the result. I had a long interview with the doctor before I quitted Welford; but no good advice of his, no exhortations, could alter my despair. "My boyhood has been a failure," I said to him, "and I know my manhood will be one too."
"As for that, I am very well satisfied with my own reasons for being displeased with Marston; and am perfectly willing to be responsible for my own action in this case. I will change very much from my present feelings, if I ever have any thing more to do with him." "God give you a better mind then," replied Mr. Welford. "It is the best wish I can express for you."
He had re-assumed his hereditary name; his early history was unknown; and no one in the obscure and distant town of had ever guessed that the humble Welford was the William Brandon whose praise was echoed in so many journals, and whose rising genius was acknowledged by all.
The face of Mephistopheles regarding Margaret and Faust might suggest some idea of the picture we design to paint; but the countenance of Welford was more lofty, as well as comelier, in character, though not less malignant in expression, than that which the incomparable Retsch has given to the mocking fiend.
She could not endure the thought of meeting the eye of one who had been the gainer by this ignominious barter; the foibles and weaknesses of the lover assumed a despicable as well as hateful dye. And in feeling herself degraded, she loathed him. The day after she had made the discovery we have referred to, Mrs. Welford left the house of her protector, none knew whither.
Welford eloped; but she felt a revived tenderness for her husband on the very morning that she did so.
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