END OF UNCLE DANIEL’S STORY.
“Well, they were married at last, in the spring time, when the apple
trees were all in bloom, and the young leaves coming out in the woods.
There was no wedding to speak of, for Sarah, who was always so full of
life and loved company more than any thing, insisted on being married
almost alone, with no one but the family by. This surprised us all and
made a good deal of hard talk in the neighborhood, for all her old mates
insisted on it that Sarah was putting on airs, because her lover was a
city gentleman and rich. There was no truth in this, for instead of
putting on airs the dear gal appeared to grow more and more humble as
the day came on, and it seemed as if the saddest part of her life was
just before she married a man that I am sure she loved better than all
the world beside.
“Hetty, too, did nothing but cry—not that this was done before folks,
but you could see it in her heavy eyes and heavy step too. Poor gal, she
really seemed afraid of Mr. Bentley, and would turn away from him
sometimes with a scared look that no one could account for, for he was
gentle and pleasant as could be to us all.
“Well, as I said before, they were married one spring morning, with the
sunshine all around them, and the breath of the apple blossoms coming in
at the window. There was no bridesmaid, for Hetty would not stand up in
spite of all we could say; and, except my little wife, she was the only
young person there.
“That was one of Sarah’s beautiful mornings—I mean as regards herself.
She had thrown off all down-heartedness, and came down-stairs in her
white muslin dress, that floated around her like a cloud, looking more
like the angels we see in pictures than any thing else. She had a little
cluster of crab-apple blossoms in her bosom, and a wreath of elder
flowers and cherry blossoms around her head. She was handsome—yes,
Gillian, I think she was almost as handsome as you are now, on the day
of her wedding.
“It’s one of the pleasantest things in life to see a bright, wholesome
girl like her, brimming over with life, and with a will that no force
could control, tamed down by love, with those soft shadows under her
eyes, and the eyes themselves full of mist. I never loved my sister half
so much as I did on that day. When she turned from the minister, and
looked up to him with those eyes so mournful and tender the bridegroom
kissed her forehead. I did not wonder at it, for it seemed as if she had
just risen from a sacrament-table, with the holy wine on her lips, which
it would be wicked to touch.
“I think Hetty felt like this, for when the bride went up to her and
reached out her arms with a smile, I shall never forget how the poor gal
clung around her with both arms, and kissed her neck, her dress, and her
hands with a deep burst of crying; but when Sarah would have kissed her
sister’s lips she shrunk away trembling all over, and sobbing out
blessings on her dear, dear sister, to which the old man answered amen,
as if he had been in meeting.
“After this, Hetty and the bride went up-stairs together, and stayed a
long time. When Sarah came down in her travelling-dress, ready to leave
us forever, Hetty stayed behind, and we did not see her again that day.
“As Mr. Bentley’s carriage was driving away, Sarah looked back so
longingly to the old house that I beckoned the driver to stop, and went
up to say good-by once more.
“‘Dan,’ says she, as I came up, ‘Dan, that’s a good brother, bring me a
handful of lilacs and some snow-balls, from the old bushes, under
Hetty’s window: they will be something to remind me of home.’
“Mr. Bentley was ready to spring out and gather them for her. But she
said, with one of her smiles that was worth a sermon any day,
“‘No—no, let Dan bring them now; and you shall gather flowers for me all
the rest of our two lives.’
“I brought the lilacs and the snow-balls, and she gathered them up so
lovingly in her hands, it made my heart swell, I can tell you.
“He drove away slowly at first, for Sarah kept looking back toward the
house, and we all stood in the porch sending blessings after
her—old-fashioned, honest blessings that followed her to the grave I am
certain. But as they came near the hill, where the bridegroom had almost
lost his life, and his poor cousin was brought away a corpse, the driver
whipped up his horses, and they swept over the precipice like lightning,
and in that spot we lost sight of them.
“After this we were very lonesome at the homestead. Sarah wrote long
letters to us from her grand house in the city; but we missed her
dreadfully. Sometimes a little private letter to Hetty came in the
larger one, but we never knew what was in it: some secret always rested
between the two.
“Once, in the first year, Hetty went down to York, but she stayed at
Aunt Mary’s, only going now and then to see her sister.
“When we asked the reason of this, Hetty said that Sarah had so much
company, and lived in such a grand way, that she felt out of place
there. Sarah was just the same kind-hearted, noble creature, but Hetty
was more comfortable with Aunt Mary.
“I have little more to tell you, Gillian, about your mother; for, with
the exception of one or two visits to New York, when I put up at her
house, and found myself as welcome as a robin in the spring, we saw
little of each other. The old gentleman went to see her—that was after
you were born—and came home delighted.
“At last, when you were a little more than two years old, Sarah and her
husband came to the homestead again.”
“Yes,” said Gillian, who had listened to this long story with deep
attention, “yes, I remember that, and I remember how she looked. It
seems like a picture—the old place and all. But where did my parents go
after that?”
“They went to Europe not three months from that time. It was a sudden
thing, I am sure, for the mail that brought us this letter brought also
a paper, in which we found that they had sailed. The old man felt a
little hurt at this, I think, for he was getting so infirm and childish
that any thing like neglect from those he loved wounded him. Not long
after this he died, and mother followed him in three days, as old folks
are apt to do. So they never lived to be disappointed by not receiving
but one letter from sister Sarah, after she sailed for foreign parts; or
to grieve over the news of her death, when it came to us, as if we had
been strangers, in an open newspaper.”
“And this is all you know about my poor mother?” said Gillian, painfully
disappointed. “It is a great deal, certainly, but not all I expected.
Papa so seldom speaks of her; and after that one evening, in this same
old homestead, I remember nothing, for it seems they put me in a
convent-school directly after we reached Italy, and when I came out my
mother lay in the Campo Sante at Naples.”
“Have you seen her grave, niece Gillian?” inquired the farmer.
“Yes, my Italian servant—one who had been hired in the family when we
first went to Italy—often took me to one of those heavenly flower-nooks
in which the people of Naples lay their dead to sleep, and told me that
my mother was buried beneath the roses there.”
“And you read the tombstone?”
“A cross of marble—nothing more; but that was so like my father: you
know he never could endure to register his joy or grief before the
world. This is all I know of my mother’s death.”
“It is strange,” said Uncle Daniel, thoughtfully, “but your father will
not talk of her?”
Gillian answered, with tender sadness,
“Oh, that is like him too, dear, sensitive papa! I have often heard him
say that a human soul never dies, and should only be spoken of as
something too sacred for every-day speech.”
Daniel Hart sank down in his chair and heaved a deep sigh. Up to this
time a vague hope that his sister might have left some loving message
for him had unconsciously floated through his mind.
“Still,” said the good man, “still I will ask him more about her in the
morning.”
Gillian shook her head. “I think if there is any thing that will give
you pleasure, he will speak of his own accord,” she said; “if not, the
idea that he has inspired such a hope will give him pain. Let us wait,
dear uncle.”
Uncle Daniel gave up his hope with another profound sigh; and Gillian
arose from her stool at his feet, saddened, as if she too had partaken
of a wish that was destroyed.