At last the Plutonian shadows opened to receive the matchless man.  It was with no impossible burst of harmony he charmed away the terrors of this prison-house of injured innocence.  Whatever might have been the Orpheus of the fabled “long ago,” our modern hero was a plain, business-like man.  He thought a great deal of the daughter, but for her worn-out old hulk of a father he didn’t care a button.  Married he was determined to be, nolens volens; and that was the long and the short of it.  To a piteous plea to remain and enjoy the old man’s wealth, he turned the deafest of ears.  Business required his presence at home; where business commanded, he obeyed; and that was the long and the short of that. He didn’t propose to set up a museum of deformities, if the daughter did; or stay to witness a burlesque on the society he was brought up in, were she never so dutiful.

Oh, the misery of this reality!  When shall I forget the anguish on that cadaverous face, when the terror of the narration?  For nineteen years he had patiently plodded on, despised by the rich, hated by the poor, spurned by both.  He had driven hard bargains that she might drive her carriage; he had turned his wretched debtors houseless into the streets that she might be covered.  With every spark of love in his heart, with every instinct of tenderness in his soul, he had bowed down and worshiped her.  She had him all:  he would set to work anew, were it needful, for her sake; he would go in rags for her; he would starve for her; and this was his reward!—­his happiness filched from him by a whipster of a day’s acquaintance!

When two people, like the frogs of AEsop, conclude to plunge down a well for the waters of happiness, it is generally the “weaker vessel” who dallies.  Let no one suppose our Eurydice quitted the blissful innocence of nymphhood without a struggle, or coolly deserted her battered old father without a regret.

With all the golden halo that hung about the future, there were walks taken in those gardens in which the claw-like hands and tapering fingers clutched each other very tightly, and there were sudden bursts of emotion when the cadaverous cheeks were well-nigh smothered with kisses.  If you or I had had an interview with the pillow that adorned her chamber, it would have told us of many a scalding tear that damped its purity and many a smothered sob that fell on its feathery ears.  If there were red eyes and pallid cheeks at the breakfast-table on one side, there was a very dismal face on the other.  Step by step the hard fact sunk into it, and furrow after furrow marked the progress.  It was very glorious for Orpheus; but it was very gloomy for the Beast, and he knew it.  Bravely did the old man hold out, and grim and silent was the surrender.  Perhaps a dawning light of their ill-assorted association, and a fear for its influence on her happiness, might have opened the sally-port to the conqueror; but he never admitted it.  He laid down his arms as coldly and quietly as ever any old Spanish knight gave up his citadel.