MELROSE, Lizzie Heartwell's home, was a manufacturing village in the
northern part of a Southern State. A more picturesque or inviting
spot is seldom found. It crowned the summit of one of a range of
long, sloping hills, that stretched back from a river, as a diadem
crowns the brow of a monarch. The snowy houses, nestled amid the
clustering foliage, and the carefully trimmed hedge-rows, imparted
to the place an English air of aristocratic seclusion. The clear
silver river, too, which turned the spindles of the far-famed
factories, encircled this romantic village as a mother the child of
her love. These factories, that had been in successful operation for
nearly a quarter of a century, gave employment to scores of honest,
industrious people, that otherwise might have gone scantily clad and
miserably fed, perhaps have perished.
Mr. Caleb Schuyler, the superintendent and proprietor of these
factories, was a large-hearted New Englander, who had brought to
this Southern State his native thrift and enterprise, and had spent
a useful and comparatively long life in the work of building up and
improving Melrose. Enough intelligence and wealth had gathered there
to make the religious and educational advantages desirable, if not
superior. The houses were all well kept and attractive, and Melrose
was a charming place to live in, although remote from railways or
steamboats.
In the eastern part of the village, where the winding road began its
gentle descent to the river, stood a plain, but comfortable and
commodious school-room. It was erected years ago for a "Yankee
school teacher"; now it was occupied by Lizzie Heartwell, who had
been a favorite scholar of that same teacher years before, when she
was a very little girl. Consumption had long since laid that teacher
to rest, and time had brought that fair-haired little girl to fill
her place.
Over the bevy of factory-children, and those gathered from the
wealthier families too, Lizzie Heartwell now presided with great
dignity and grace, as school-mistress. In this sphere of life, her
faculties of mind, soul, and body, found full scope for perfect
development. Fond of children, loving study, happy always to help
those desiring knowledge, glad to enlighten the ignorant, Lizzie
Heartwell was happy, and useful too, in the work in which she was
employed. It was now more than three years since Lizzie left Madam
Truxton's, and she was now ending the second year of her teaching.
It was September. The woods were dying earlier than usual, in the
golden Indian summer. The days were sweet and delicious, and Melrose
was as attractive in its autumn loveliness as it had been in the
freshness of spring. It was toward the close of one of those
charming September days, when Lizzie Heartwell stepped to the door
of her school-room to watch the descending sun, and to see if she
were detaining the children too long. Instantly her attention was
arrested by the rumbling of the tri-weekly stage-coach, toiling up
the hill before her. For a moment she stood watching its slow
approach, apparently unmindful of the class that was already "in
line" upon the floor, eagerly awaiting the last recitation, which
would set them free. And yet the school-mistress gazed at the
stage-coach, which had at last reached the top of the hill, and the
horses, as if under new inspiration, were jogging along in a brisk
trot, and were rapidly approaching the school-house. Suddenly the
face of the young school-mistress grew pale, and then crimson, as
she caught a glimpse of a face that leaned wearily beside the
coach-door and looked out-a face not unfamiliar, and yet not well-
remembered; a handsome, manly face, overshadowed by a military
cap-and like a sudden flash came the thought that she had seen that
face before. Regaining her self-possession, Lizzie turned from the
door, examined the spelling-class as calmly as ever, commended all
for their perfection in recitation, and with a blessing dismissed
the eager little band for the day.
"Who was it?" she muttered, as she slowly donned the jaunty hat and
her mantle, and mechanically drew on her kid gauntlets, preparatory
to starting homeward. "I have seen that face before, I think, and
yet I am not sure. Can it possibly be George Marshall?" she said
slowly. "If so, time has changed him, yet only to improve, I think.
How the thought of ever seeing George Marshall again startles me!
But I am foolish, very foolish, to imagine such an absurd thing. Oh,
no, he will never come to Melrose. I wish he would," and she began
singing a low love-ditty half-unconsciously, half-fearfully, as she
trudged homeward.
An hour later, and a perfumed billet-doux bore to the widow's
cottage the compliments of Captain George H. Marshall, U. S. A. He
had, indeed, come to Melrose at last.
Obtaining a limited leave of absence from the army, he had come home
to visit his kindred, and his friend at Melrose. The time was
necessarily short. Only one week could he spend at Melrose-one short
seven days-days crowned with a golden halo in the after years. To
the young school-mistress these were days bright with hope and
happiness, bright as the effulgent sun that ushered them in, one by
one. Days, too, that she parted with regretfully, as each one's sun
went down. Six of these golden days were passed-passed in pleasant
converse, in singing, in reading, in hoping, and the seventh was
drawing nigh.
"Mr. Marshall," said Lizzie, on the evening of the sixth day, "will
you leave Melrose without seeing my school, and telling me what you
think of my avocation?"
"Certainly not, if you will allow me the pleasure, and to-morrow is
the only time I have left," he replied.
"Well, then, come to-morrow if you like, and see me enthroned in my
kingdom. My school opens at eight o'clock, for in this country we
teach a long, honest day. Our people know nothing of the five-hour
system," she replied merrily.
"Then, Miss Heartwell, if you will grant me the pleasure, I'll call
early in the morning, and we'll stroll by the river-side. I must
tell you further of my coming to Melrose, and then I'll see you in
your field of labor. Will you grant me this last request?" the young
man demanded nervously.
"I will, with pleasure," she replied. "I'll be ready by seven
o'clock, and I'll show you the place where tradition says an Indian
maiden jumped from the bluff into her lover's waiting skiff below,
to elude her angry father's pursuit, and lost her life on the
rocks."
"That was sad! 'Love's sacrifice' indeed, at a terrible cost!"
replied the young man thoughtfully. "I trust I'll be more successful
some day than the Indian lover was."
Lizzie trembled, and turning her eyes upon a vase of wild-flowers
that adorned the simple table, replied confusedly, "Poor Wenona!
hers was a sad fate."
"To-morrow, at ten o'clock, the stage-coach leaves. I can see you a
while in the morning, can I? So I'll bid you good night," and George
Marshall arose and extended his hand.
"Good night!" murmured Lizzie, with a sinking sensation at her
heart, and a dimness of vision that almost betrayed tears.
Night passed, and morning came-bright, clear, fresh morning; and the
young girl was awake with the dawn.
"Ah me!" she sighed, as she arranged the shining curls before her
simple mirror, "this is the last day. I am almost sorry he ever came
to Melrose. I was so interested in my school before; now, I fear
I'll be always thinking of the army. Yes, I'll put on this blue
ribbon-he likes blue, he admired the blue 'forget-me-not' I wore at
Madam Truxton's the first night I ever met him. And these violets
I'll pin on my bosom, they are blue too. I am a silly girl, I fear;
and yet there is a strange aching at my heart. Can it be--Alas! I
cannot speak it. Seven o'clock! He's coming! yes, he is here! I hear
him on the step."
George Marshall looked pale and troubled, as he bade adieu to Mrs.
Heartwell and stepped forth from her neat white cottage on this cool
September morning, accompanied by the young school-mistress. His
thoughtful face bore the impress of a sleepless night, and he was
taciturn and abstracted. By his side Lizzie chatted away, as though
bribed to dispel the gloom and silence that threatened to surround
them-chatted as though no other feeling than gayety filled her own
fearful heart-chatted till a curve in the white sandy road brought
them in view of the river, and under a cluster of wide-spreading
water-oaks that overshadowed a broken mass of stone.
"Miss Heartwell," said George abruptly, "sit here beside me, on
these moss-covered rocks, before we go any farther, and let me tell
you something I've kept unspoken long enough. Will you?"
Lizzie made no reply, but timidly followed where he led, and sat
beside him on the lichen-covered stones. As George Marshall looked
up, a tear stole from her true blue eyes, and moved by this evidence
of emotion, he said with deep-toned pathos:
"Miss Heartwell, I love you, and you know it. If it were not a sin
against the great God, I would say I adore you. May I not hope that
those crystal tears betray the existence of a kindred love for me?
Nothing but love, unalloyed and pure, love for yourself, ever
brought me to Melrose. May I go away with the assurance that my love
is returned, and bearing in my heart the hope to come again some
day, and claim you as my wife? May I?"
The tears still flowed from the pure fountain of Lizzie's innocent,
tender heart, and her head bowed as gently as a lily in the gale,
but she answered firmly, sweetly, truly, "Yes, I love you too, and I
promise, with God's blessing, one day to become your wife."
"Wipe away those tears then, and let me see, in the depth of your
innocent eyes, that your promise is solemn and unchanging."
"As my soul is undying, I am in earnest; and as Heaven is true, I
shall be faithful to your love. Never doubt me. Here, take these
innocent flowers, modest children of the wild-wood-these violets, as
a pledge of my unfeigned love;" and unclasping the golden brooch,
she let the delicate flowers fall into the open hand of her lover.
Gathering up the offerings of affection, George Marshall clasped the
slender hand that gave them, and imprinting a fervent kiss upon it,
said, "God bless you, my darling, and take this as the seal of my
benediction."
When the tri-weekly coach rolled out of Melrose on that charming
autumn day, and passed the schoolhouse of the maiden, the sigh she
cast after it was not without hope, and the one the lover wafted
back breathed a promise to come again some day, not far off, and
take her away from that school-room forever.