THERE is no time like these clear September nights, after sunset,
for a revery. If it is a calm evening, and an intense light fills
the sky, and glorifies it, and you sit where you can see the new
moon, with the magnificent evening star beneath it, you must be a
stupid affair, indeed, if you cannot then dream the most _heavenly_
dreams!
But Rosalie Sherwood, poor young creature, is in no dreaming mood
this lovely Sabbath night. Her heart is crushed in such an utter
helplessness, as leaves no room in it for hope: her brain is too
acutely sensitive, just now, for visions. The thistle-down, in
beautiful fairy-like procession, floats on and up before her eyes,
and as she watches the frail things, they assume a new interest to
her; she feels a human sympathy with them. Like the viewless winds
they come, from whence she knows not; and go, whither? none can
tell. They are homeless, and she is like them; but she is not as
they, purposeless.
If you could look into her mind, you would see how she has nerved it
to a great determination; how that, mustering visions and hopes once
cherished, she had gone forward to a bleak and barren path, and
stands there very resolute, yet, in the first moment of her resolve,
miserable; no, she had not yet grown strong in the suffering; she
cannot _this_ night stand up and bear her burden with a smile of
triumph.
Rosalie Sherwood was an only child, the daughter of an humble friend
Mrs. Melville had known from girlhood. _She_, poor creature, had
neither lived nor died innocent.
On her death-bed, Cecily Sherwood gave her unrecognised child to the
care of one who promised, in the sincerity of her passion, to be a
mother to the unfortunate infant. And during the eighteen years of
that girl's life, from the hour of her mother's death to the day
when she was left without hope in the world, Rosalie _had_ found a
parent in the rigid but always kind and just Mary Melville.
This widow lady had one son; he was four years old when her husband
died, which was the very year that the little Rosalie was brought to
Melville House. The boy's father had been considered a man of great
wealth, but when his affairs were settled, after his decease, it was
found that the debts of the estate being paid, little more than a
competency remained for the widow. But the lady was fitted, by a
life of self-discipline, even in her luxurious home, to calmly meet
this emergency. With the remnant of an imagined fortune, she retired
to an humbler residence, where, in quiet retirement, she gave her
time to managing household affairs, and superintending the home
education of the children.
Her son Duncan, and the young Rosalie, had grown up together, until
the girl's twelfth birth-day, constant playmates and pupils in the
same school. No one, not even the busiest busy-body, had ever been
able to detect the slightest partiality in Mrs. Melville's treatment
of her children; and, indeed, it had been quite impossible that she
should ever regard a child so winningly beautiful as Rosalie, with
other than the tenderest affection. Under a light and careless rein,
the girl had been a difficult one to manage, for there was a light
little fire in her eyes, that told of strong will and deep passions;
and besides, her striking appearance had won sufficient admiration
to have completely spoiled her, if a guardian the most vigilant as
well as most discerning, had not been ever at hand to speak the
right word to and do the right thing with her.
Mrs. Melville was a thoroughly religious woman, and seriously
conscious of the responsibility she incurred in adopting the infant.
She could not quiet her conscience with the reflection that she had
done a wonderfully good thing in giving Rosalie a home and
education; the chief pity she felt for the unfortunate orphan, led
her to exercise an uncommon care, that all tendency to evil should
be eradicated from the heart of the brilliant girl while she was yet
young; that a sense of right, such as should prove abiding, might be
impressed on her tender mind. And her labour of love met with a
return which might well have made the mother proud.
There had been no officious voice to whisper to Rosalie Sherwood the
story of the doubtful position which she occupied in the world. She
was an orphan, the adopted child of the lady whom she devoutly loved
with all a daughter's tenderness; this she knew, and it was all she
knew; and Mrs. Melville was resolved that she should never know
more.
The son of the widow had been educated for the ministry. He was now
twenty-two years old, and was soon to be admitted to the priesthood.
In this he was following out his own wish, and the most cherished
hope of his mother, and it seemed to all who knew him, as though the
Head of the Church had set his seal upon Duncan from his boyhood. He
was so mild and forbearing, so discreet and generous, so earnest and
so honest; meek, and holy of heart, was the thought of any one who
looked upon his placid, youthful face. Yet, he had, besides his
gentleness, that without which his character might have subsided
into a mere puerile weakness; a firmness of purpose; a reverence for
duty; a strict sense of right, equal to that which marked his mother
among women. Duncan Melville's abilities were of a high order;
perhaps not of the very highest, though, if his ambition were only
equal to his powers, they would surely seem so to the world.
His voice had a sweet persuasive tone, that was fitted to _win_
souls, yet it could ring like a clarion, when the grandeur of his
themes fired his soul. With the warmest hopes and the deepest
interest, they, who knew the difficulties and trials attending the
profession he had chosen, looked on this young man.
Duncan and Rosalie had long known the nature of the tie which bound
them together--members of one family--and they never called
themselves brother and sister, after the youth came home a graduate
from college. For, from the time when absence empowered him to look
as a stranger would look on Rosalie, from that time he saw her
elegant and accomplished, and bewitching, as she was, and other than
fraternal affection was in his heart for her.
And Rosalie, too, loved him, just as Duncan, had he spoken his
passion, would have prayed her to love him. She had long ago made
him the standard of all manly excellence; and when he came back,
after three years of absence, she was not inclined to revoke her
early decision; therefore was she prepared to read the language of
Duncan's eyes, and she consecrated her heart to him.
During the years which followed his return from college, till he was
prepared for ordination, as a priest, he did not once _speak_ to her
of his love, which was growing all the while stronger and deeper, as
the river course that, flowing to the ocean, receives every day
fresh impetus and force from the many tiny springs that commingle
with it. Duncan Melville never _thought_ of wedding another than
Rosalie Sherwood.
It was, as I said, near the time appointed for his ordination, when
he felt, for the first time, as though he had a _right_ to speak
openly with her of all his hopes. He asked her, then, what, in soul
language, he had long before asked, a question which she had as
emphatically, in like language, answered--to be his partner for
life, in weal or woe.
He had tried to calmly consider Rosalie's character as a Christian
minister should consider the character of her whom he would make the
sharer of his peculiar lot; and setting every preference aside,
Duncan felt that she was fitted to assist, and to bear with him. She
was truthful as the day, strong-minded and generous; humane and
charitable: and though no professor of religion, a woman full of
reverence and veneration.
He knew that it was only a fear that she should not _adorn_ the
Christian name, that kept her back from the altar of the church, and
he loved her for that spirit of humility, knowing that she was "on
the Lord's side," and that grace, ere long, would be given to her,
to proclaim it in doing _all_ His commandments.
It was certainly with a joyful and confident heart that, after he
had spoken with Rosalie, Duncan sought his mother, to tell her of
the whole of that bright future which opened now before him.
How then was he overcome with amazement and grief when Mrs. Melville
told him it was a union to which she could never consent! Then, for
the first time in his life, the astonished young man heard of that
stain which was on the name poor Rosalie bore.
He heard the story to the end, and, with a decision and energy that
would have settled the matter with almost any other than his mother,
he declared,
"Yet for all that, I will not give her up."
"It would not be expected that you would fulfil the engagement.
Rosalie herself would not allow it, if she knew the truth of the
matter."
"But she need not know it. There is no existing necessity. Is it not
enough that she is good and precious _to me_? She is a noble woman,
whose life has been, thanks to your guidance, beautiful and lofty."
"God knows, I _have_ striven to do my duty by her, but I know what I
should have done if I had ever thought you would wish to change your
relations with her, Duncan."
"The world has not her equal! It is cruel--it is sinful--in you,
mother, to oppose our union."
"She _is_ a lovely woman; but, my son, there are myriads like her."
"No _not one_! Tell me you will never breathe a word of what you
have told me _to her_!"
"Never."
"Oh! thank you! thank you, mother! you could not wish another
daughter."
"But for that I have told you, I could not wish another."
"Then I say you must not work this great injustice on us. Rosalie
loves me. She has promised to be mine. You will break my heart."
"You are deluded and strongly excited, my son, or you would never
speak so to me," said the mother, with that persisting firmness with
which the physician resorts to a desperate remedy for a desperate
disease. Then she spoke to him of all the relations in life he might
yet be called upon to assume; of the misery which very possibly
might follow this union in after days. Hours passed on, and the
conference was not ended, until, with a crushed heart, and a
trembling voice, Duncan arose, abruptly, while his mother yet spoke,
and he said,
"If the conclusion to which you have urged me, in God's sight, is
just, He will give me--He will give Rosalie, too--strength to abide
by it. But I can never speak to her of this, and I must find another
home than yours and hers. You must speak _for me_, mother; and let
me charge you, do it gently. Do not tell her _all_. Let her think
what she will, believe, as she must, that I am a wretch, past
pardon; but do not blight her peace by telling _all_."
"I promise you, Duncan," was the answer, spoken through many tears,
and in the deepest sorrow.
An hour after, he was on the way from the village that he might
spend the coming Sabbath in another town.
And, after he was gone, the mother sought her younger, her dearly
loved child. Rosalie heard that familiar step on the stairway; she
had seen Duncan hurrying away from the house, and she knew the
conference was over; but she had no fear for the result. So she
hushed the glad tumultuous beating of her heart, and tried to veil
the brightness of her eyes as she heard the gentle tapping at her
door that announced the mother coming.
As for Mrs. Melville, her heart quite failed her when she went into
the pleasant room, and sat down close by Rosalie. In spite of all
the strengthening thoughts of duty which she had taken with her as a
support in that interview, she was now at a sore loss, for it had
been a bitter grief to her kind heart when, of old, for duty's sake,
she made her children unhappy. How then could sh endure to take away
their life's best joy, their richest hope? It was a hard thing; and
many moments passed before she could nerve her strong spirit to
utter the first word. Rosalie, anxious and impatient, too, but
unsuspecting, at last exclaimed,
"What can it be that so much troubles you, mother?"
Then Mary Melville spoke, but with a voice so soft and sad, so faint
with emotion, that it seemed not at all her voice. She said,
"I want you to consider that what I say to you, dear child, has
given me more pain even to think of than I have ever felt before.
Duncan has told me of your engagement to marry with him; and it has
been my duty, my most sorrowful duty, oh! believe me, to tell him
that such a tie must never unite you. He can never be your husband;
you can never be his wife."
She paused, exhausted by her emotion; she could not utter another
syllable. Rosalie, who had watched her with fixed astonishment as
she listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and she
tried to say, calmly,
"Of course, you have a reason for saying so. It is but just that I
should know it."
"It cannot _be_ known. If I had ever in my life deceived you,
Rosalie, you might doubt me now, when I assure you that an
impediment, which cannot be named, exists to the marriage. Have I
not been a mother to you always?" she asked, appealingly,
imploringly: "I love you as I love Duncan, and it cuts me to the
heart to grieve you."
"Has Duncan given you an answer?"
"Yes, Rosalie."
"And it--?"
"He has trusted to his mother!" she said, almost proudly.
"Rather than me," quickly interrupted Rosalie.
"Rather than do that which is wrong; which might hereafter prove the
misery of you both, my child."
"Where is he? Why does he not come himself to tell me this? If the
thing is really true, _his_ lips should have spoken it, and not
another's."
"Oh! Rosalie, he could not do it. I believe his heart is broken. Do
not look so upon me. Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that I
shall always deplore, having not foreseen the result of your
companionship? Say only that you do believe I have striven to do the
best for you always, as far as I knew how. I implore you, _say it_."
"Heaven knows I believe it, mother. When will Duncan come home
again?"
"Monday; not before."
When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie's room this letter
was found:--
"I cannot leave you for ever, Duncan; I cannot go from your
protecting care, mother, without saying all that is in my heart. I
have no courage to look on you, my brother, again. Mother! our
union, which we had thought life-lasting, is broken. I cannot any
longer live in the world's sight as your daughter by adoption. I
would have done so. I would have remained in any capacity, as a
slave, even, for I was bound by gratitude for all that you have done
for me, to be with you always--at least so long as you could wish.
If you had unveiled the mystery, and suffered me to stand before
you, recognising myself as _you_ know me, I would have stayed. I
would have been to you, Duncan, only as in childhood--a proud yet
humble sister, rejoicing in your triumphs, and sharing by _sympathy_
in your griefs. I would have put forth fetters on my heart; the
in-dwelling spirit should henceforth have been a stranger to you. I
_know_ I could have borne even to see another made your wife; but in
a mistaken kindness you put this utterly beyond my power. Too much
has been required, and I am found--wanting! If even the most
miserable fate that can befall an innocent woman; if the curse of
illegitimacy were upon me, I could bear that thought even, and
acknowledge the justice and wisdom that did not consider me a fit
associate for one whose birth is recognized by a parent's pride and
fondness.
"But, dear Mrs. Melville, I must be cognisant of the relation,
whatever it is, that I bear you. I cannot, I will not, consent to
appear nominally your daughter, when you scorn to receive me as
such.
"_Mother_--in my dear mother's name, I thank you for the generous
love you have ever shown me: for the generous care with which you
have attended to the development of the talents God gave me. For I
am now fitted to labour for myself. I thank you for the watchful
guardianship that has made me what I am, a woman--self-reliant and
strong. I thank you for it, from a heart that has learned only to
love and honour you in the past eighteen years. And I call down the
blessings of the infinite God upon you, as I depart. Hereafter,
always, it will be my endeavour to live worthily of you--to be _all_
that you have, in your more than charity, capacitated me to be.
Duncan, you will not forget me?
"I do not ask it. But pray for me, and live up to the fullness of
your being--of your heart and of your intellect. There is a happy
future for you. I have no word of counsel, no feeble utterance of
encouragement to leave you--you will not need such from _me_. God
bless and strengthen you in every good word and work--it shall be
the constant hope of the sister who _loves_ you. Mother, farewell!"
This letter was written on the Sabbath eve on which our story
opens--written in a perfect passion--yes, of grief, and of despair.
The anger that Rosalie may at first have felt, gave way to the
wildest sorrow now, but her resolution was taken, and her heart was
really strong to bear the resolution out.
After the sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother and
son sought long, and I need not say how anxiously, for Rosalie. But
their search was vain, and, at last, as time passed on, she became
to the villagers as one who had never been. But never by the widow
was she forgotten; and oh! there was in the world one heart that
sorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope for
her.
He had lost her, and Duncan sought for no other love among women.
When all his searching for Rosalie proved unavailing, the minister
applied himself with industry to the work of his calling, and verily
he met here with his reward; for as he was a blessing to the people
of his parish, in time they almost adored him. He was a spiritual
physician whom God empowered to heal many a wounded and stricken
heart; but there was a cross of suffering that he bore himself,
which could not be removed. It was his glory that he bore it with
martyr-like patience--that he never uttered a reproachful word to
her through whom he bore it.
As years passed away, the gifted preacher's impassioned eloquence,
and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul with
another love than that he wished to inspire, still he sought not
among any of them companionship, or close friendship. They said, at
last, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance of
duty, that "_he was too high-church to marry_,"--that he did not
believe such union consonant with the duties of the cloth! But the
mother knew better than this--_she_ knew a name that was never
spoken now in Rosalie's old home, that was dearer than life to the
heart of her son; and desolate and lonely as he oft-times was, she
never _dared_ ask him to give to her a daughter--to take unto
himself a wife.
In a splendid old cathedral a solemn ceremonial was going forward,
on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated.
A mighty crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, and the mother of
Duncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that company,
for it was on _her_ son that the high honour was to be laid.
How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who,
in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fill
that great office for which he was about to be set apart! He was a
man "acquainted with grief,"--you had known it by the resigned,
submissive expression of his face; you had known that the passions
of mortals had been all but chilled in him, by the holy light in his
tranquil eyes. Duncan _had_ toiled--he _had_ born a burden!
A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front where religion
undefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left for
themselves unmistakable evidences: and, more than all, one being
felt it who had not looked upon that man for years--not since the
lines of grief and care had marked the face and form of Duncan
Melville. There was reason for the passionate sobs of one heart,
crushed anew in that solemn hour; there was pathos such as no other
voice could give to the prayers which went up to God from one
woman's heart, in the great congregation, for him. Poor, loving,
still-beloved Rosalie! She was there, her proud, magnificent figure
bent humbly from the very commencement to the close of the
ceremonial; there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, and
grief, and despair, and pride; there, crushed as the humblest
flower--the glorious beauty!
And the good man at the altar, for whom the prayers and the praise
ascended, thought of her in that hour! Yes, in that very hour he
remembered how _one_ would have looked on him that day, could she
have come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the people
loved and honoured him. He thought of her, and as he knelt at the
altar, even there he prayed for her; but not as numbers thought upon
the name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also was soon to
appear before a throng, and there was a myriad hearts that throbbed
with expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour when they
should look upon her.
Bishop Melville had retired at noonday to his study, that he might
be for a few moments alone. He was glancing over the sermon (sic)
the was to deliver that afternoon, when his mother, his proud and
happy mother, came quickly into the room, laid a sealed note on the
table and instantly withdrew, for she saw how he was occupied. When
he had finished his manuscript, the bishop opened the note and
read--could it have been with careless eyes?
"Duncan, I have knelt in the house of the Lord, to-day, and
witnessed your triumph. Ten years ago, when I went desolate and
wretched from your house, I might have prophesied your destiny.
Come, to-night, and behold _my_ triumph--at--the opera-house!
"Your sister,