Among the passengers on a steamer homeward bound from England to
America were a man and his daughter who attracted much admiring
attention from all the other passengers.
The man was Leon Lyndon, and he was returning with his daughter
Jessie after nearly two years’ absence from New York. Lyndon, tall,
fair, middle-aged, with a most serious expression, did not cultivate
acquaintances, but rather repelled advances, preferring to devote
himself to his beautiful daughter, who in turn gave him all her
attention.
It was most provoking to all the young men, who were simply wild to
know the dainty beauty, and to tempt her to flirtations on the deck
these balmy September evenings when the sea shone like silver and the
full moon rode in gleaming majesty through the pathless blue sky.
It was too bad, they said, for her father to monopolize her always,
hanging around her chair with books that they read together all day,
and in the evenings strumming on his mandolin while she warbled tender
love songs in a voice so sweet that the very winds and waves seemed to
hush themselves to listen.
Curiosity was rife concerning the attractive pair, but no one could
satisfy it, and when they had been three days out no one had secured
anything but a bowing acquaintance with either.
It was about this time that a young man who had been confined to his
stateroom all these days by sea-sickness now made his appearance on
deck.
It was no less a person than Frank Laurier, who had been abroad almost
a year, and was returning at the summons of his betrothed.
It was almost two years since Cora’s terrible accident had so abruptly
interrupted their wedding, and never, since the first hour, had he been
permitted to gaze on her face.
The restoration of her health and beauty had consumed many months,
and though he had entreated to see her, the request had always been
sorrowfully denied.
Cora’s heart ached for the sight of his face and the touch of his hand,
but she dared not risk the shock he must have experienced at sight of
her poor, marred face. Still believing in his love that had ceased to
exist, she feared his disenchantment.
Afraid of the weakness of her own will, anxious to place herself out of
temptation, she entreated him to go abroad while she was in the hands
of the doctors, to remain until she summoned him with the glad news
that they might meet again to part no more forever.
He had been absent almost a year now, and they had corresponded in a
desultory fashion, when suddenly he received the letter of recall,
telling him she was well and beautiful again, and he must return,
because her heart was breaking to see him once more.
Laurier’s heart was touched by her faithful love, and he reproached
himself for the way he had neglected her letters, often not answering
them for weeks, almost forgetting her existence in the indifference
that had stolen over him and made him wish in secret that something
would happen to break the irksome bond that fettered his changed heart.
Many a man would not have hesitated to own that he had ceased to love,
and claimed his freedom from her hands, but not so Laurier, who prided
himself on his honor, and pitied Cora too sincerely to wound her loving
heart.
Doubt’s cruel whisper shall not break the spell,
Oh, thou whom to deceive is to befriend;
All shall be well with thee until the end,
Until the end believing all is well!
He was going home to marry her and make her as happy as he could. For
himself it did not matter greatly. Even if his heart was cold to her,
she had at least no living rival, and that must suffice.
That evening when he came on deck--the young men had persuaded
him--begging him to come and listen to the sweet voice singing in the
moonlight, the voice of a girl as lovely as an angel, but with such a
selfish, cruel papa that he would not permit any of them to approach
within arm’s length.
“I wish you would storm the citadel of her heart, Laurier, and avenge
us!” laughed one.
“You forget that I am going home to be married!” he replied gravely.
“Oh, a little flirtation beforehand need not matter.”
“I beg your pardon. A young girl’s love is too sacred to be trifled
with. I will go on deck and listen because I adore singing, but I shall
not try to make the young lady’s acquaintance.”
So in the silvery moonlight of that balmy September evening he went on
deck with his friends, and saw, sitting apart, the man lightly touching
the strings of a mandolin, while by his side stood his daughter, a
slender, classically gowned girl in a simple robe of warm, white
cashmere falling in straight folds, her pure, lovely face crowned with
golden hair, lifted to the sky while she sang in notes of liquid melody:
“Last night the nightingale woke me,
Last night when all was still,
It sang in the golden moonlight
From out the wooded hill.
I opened my window so gently,
I looked on the dreaming dew,
And, oh, the bird, my darling,
Was singing of you, of you!
“I think of you in the daytime,
I dream of you by night,
I wake, and would you were here, love,
And tears are blinding my sight.
I hear a low breath in the lime tree,
The wind is floating through,
And, oh, the night, my darling,
Is sighing, sighing, for you!
“Oh, think not I can forget you,
I could not though I would,
I see you in all around me
The stream, the night, the wood.
The flowers that slumber so gently,
The stars above the blue,
Oh, heaven itself, my darling,
Is praying, praying, for you!”
Frank Laurier stood apart, looking and listening spellbound, while
something sweet and tender to the verge of pain stabbed his heart.
What was there in the pure, uplifted face and in the sweet, sad voice
that seemed to strike a mournful chord in memory like some familiar
strain? He had never heard the song before, and surely never seen the
exquisite face, else it had never been forgotten.
He said to himself that she had only made him think of love again--love
that had grown a stranger to his heart, though once as sweet and
welcome as the song she sang.
She rested a few moments, without observing her rapt listeners, then
the sweet voice rose again, following the chords of the mandolin:
“Beneath the trees together
They wandered hand in hand,
Oh, it was summer weather,
And Love was in the land;
Their hearts were light,
The sun shone bright,
And as they went along,
With voices sweetly mingled,
They sang the old, old song:
“Love, I will love you ever,
Love, I will leave you never,
Ever to me precious to be.
Never to part, heart bound to heart!
Ever am I, never to say good-by!
“Beneath the trees together
They went along apart,
Oh, it was autumn weather,
And heart had turned from heart,
Across the wold the air came cold,
The mists rose dull and gray,
And in their ears, like a mocking voice,
They heard the well-known lay:
“Yet still while o’er the heather
They go their way alone,
Oh, it is wintry weather,
And all the summer’s gone!
They hear the air they love the most
Upon their fancy fall;
’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than not have loved at all.”
The sweet voice was inexpressibly pathetic. Laurier felt a lump rise in
his throat and a moisture in his eyes. He longed to clasp the singer in
his arms and soothe her tender grief.