No--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.
'Twas odor fled
As soon as shed:
'Twas morning's winged dream;
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:
Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.
Dr. Strickland and his pupil had been fairly ensconced, and for some
time past settled in the pretty, sunny rooms in the south wing of the
manor house. All the windows of the lower suite opened to the ground,
and overlooked and led into a Dutch flower garden, which, in accordance
with its name, was laid out in formal walks with high box borders on
each side, and stiffly-shaped flower beds of poppies, and tulips, and
marigolds, and clusters of monkshood, and the tall white lilies of
France, edged round with thyme and sweet basil. In the soft green turf,
were planted evergreen trees, which were cut and clipped into fantastic
shapes of peacocks, and pyramids, and cubes, and swans, and other
devices. Here and there were clumps of holly and yew, from the midst of
which some fawn or dryad, some Hebe or Flora, in Italian marble, had
long kept watch. Then there were the old cedars of Lebanon, with seats
encircling their great trunks, the ends of their long branches lying on
the grass, offering beneath them, rest and shade at any hour of the day.
The western side of the garden terminated in what was known as Lady
Dorothy's walk. A straight, long, gravel walk, bordered on either side
by a few feet of soft turf, and an avenue of yew trees two centuries
old. The small closely-growing foliage of these trees was so dense that
it formed a perpetual green wall, effectually shutting out all the
world, with the exception of the sun at noonday, and the stars and moon
at night. At the head of the walk was a sundial, and at the further end
a fountain. Not a great, noisy, conspicuous construction, suggestive of
the rush and turmoil of life, drowning in its splash all the sweet
sounds of bird and bee, and the marvelous music of nature, but a pure,
gentle, dainty little fountain, the sound of whose crystal drops, so
full of soothing and tenderness, fell upon the ear like the voice of the
one we love. Near the fountain was a rustic seat from which one might
look across the park with its forest trees, its green undulations, and
its lake, and still further away westward to the purple Welsh mountains.
In every way this was a beautiful garden, a place to dream of, and live,
and love, and die in.
Springtime had come, and Cecil and his tutor were sitting in their
study, looking out at the linnets flitting about the garden, and at the
primroses and blue violets which grew in front of the windows. The
lessons of the day were over, and the Doctor was pursuing his favorite
amusement, namely, drawing mathematical deductions, and coming to
logical conclusions upon all matters. Although he was a ripe scholar, he
would frequently forget himself, and break out in his strong Scotch
accent; but that signified nothing, as Cecil perfectly understood his
speech, and the family all liked him, for they knew he was a good man
and greatly interested in the well-doing of his pupil.
"Ye had a lang walk wi' your cousin this morning," said the Doctor. "I
hope ye understand her better than ye did."
"I am not sure that I do," answered Cecil. "I don't see why she moves so
quickly and is always well; I don't like people who are always well,
they cannot feel for others."
"Ye should no say that, Cecil, when ye look at your aunt; she's no
invalid, but she gi'es up her life for the sak' o' others. Did ye ken
that these verra rooms are the anes she likes most, the anes she lived
in till we came, and she gave them up that ye might enjoy the best she
had to offer?"
"O yes, I know that," said Cecil. "My aunt is very kind, but I was not
thinking of her when I spoke, I was thinking of Cousin Anna; she runs so
fast and when she is not singing, she is laughing, and I don't believe
she has any nerves, for the other day my pony got a stone in his shoe,
and she was off hers in a moment, seized my pony's fetlock and snatching
up something in the road, knocked out the stone and mounted in less time
than I have taken to tell you. Now none of the young ladies in India
would take a pony's fetlock in their hand, so I think Cousin Anna cannot
possess nerves."
"In one respect ye are right," said the Doctor, "Such a young leddie as
ony o' those we used to see in India, would ride on and leave ye, and
when she got home, she would tell one of the servants to tell some one
of the other servants to see aboot it, and when they had passed the
order through half a dozen, in the course of a few hours perhaps one of
them would be with you, and, in the meantime, she would be lying on the
sofa, with Shastri standing by, fanning her out of her nervous shock."
"But think of the first day I rode with my cousin, she surprised me so
when she picked up my whip, I thought then she had no nerves."
"Admitting such a statement to be true," replied the Doctor, "which we
are by nae means sure of, for the truth has no been logically proved, I
say, admitting that it be true, is it no' a gude thing for ye that your
cousin has nae nerrves, if ye are to gang aboot drapping things that ye
dar' na pick up again. In the sense that ye appear to desire your cousin
to hae nerrves, I dinna ken mysel' what use they wad be to a young
leddie wi' a speerit such as she has. I wad no' wish to see a lassie o'
her years hae nerrves; na, na, she wad no hae ony use for them;
Providence kens what is guide for us a', and will send her the nerrves
when she is fit to manage them."
"Still I don't see," said Cecil, "why she is not frightened sometimes.
Perhaps she may be, but if so she will never say so; I don't think a
girl ought to be so fearless."
"Perhaps ye dinna ken that young leddies o' her rank in England are all
educated in that way. The English hae this proverb amang them. 'A
well-born woman is ever brave.' Your cousin inherits her courage a long
way back, she is no mongrel born; I wish ye to see for yourself, Cecil,
that it is a gude thing to be brave. There are mony ways o' showing it
beside being a soldier or a sailor." And then the Doctor dropped his
Scotch accent and spoke slowly, "We ought to be brave enough to do our
duty to others," said he. "And now I will give you six reasons for being
brave for the sake of those we love. Firstly, brave that we may inspire
them, with courage when their hearts are weary. Secondly, brave that we
may be patient and gentle when their nerves demand rest. Thirdly brave
that we may be kind and diligent and loving when they are sick.
Fourthly, brave that we may not be morbid and gloomy and thus depress
them. Fifthly, brave that we may be faithful and true in all things.
Sixthly, brave that we may endure without murmuring to the end."
Long after the Doctor had left the room, Cecil was still there, leaning
his head against the side of the window and thinking over this
conversation. He possessed a generous disposition, and could not bear
the idea of having misjudged his cousin. But he was of a sensitive
temperament and not having a robust constitution, the girl's gaiety of
spirit and great vital energy fatigued him. The cousins continued their
amusements and their studies steadily together for the next two years,
and although Cecil still called Anna as wild as a hawk, yet he never got
into any serious difficulty, but he applied to her to help him out of
it, whether it was in solving a problem or otherwise; carrying out Dr.
Strickland's teaching he appeared to feel that his strength lay with her
and she in her turn was rejoiced to help him.
There are natures which seem made to help others, they find their
greatest happiness in it; and so it was with Anna, the more he needed
her help the more she delighted in giving it. Cecil's health was greatly
improved by the climate of England, and with stronger health came
stronger nerves. He now no longer thought his cousin without them, but
he thought she knew how to control them; in fact, they had grown to love
each other with that certain kind of cousinly affection which one often
sees, and which is very true and lifelong, but has not the rapture, the
intensity, nor the anguish, which belong to really falling in love.
It was a day in sweet summer time, all roses and beauty, when the young
people met as usual in Lady Dorothy's walk; it was their favorite place,
and here they would ramble up and down, and sit by the fountain, and
talk, and paint, and read for hours together; and the next day it was
the same thing, and the next, and the next, for they never grew tired of
the place, or of each other. They were now pacing the long walk, and
although they were past the age of eighteen, they still continued their
studies, but were permitted to select them.
"What a pleasant thing it is, Cecil, to follow out one's own life and
study what we wish," said Anna. "I am so glad to be free, no more
construing sentences, no more conjugating verbs, no more solving
problems; I always hated all of that dry stuff."
"What are you going to do, then," inquired Cecil.
"Firstly, I shall spend more time with my mother, more time in the study
of my music, and read all the poetry I wish to, and ride on horseback,
and dance, and, of course, help my mother more in taking care of the
peasantry."
"Now, Cecil, what shall you do?"
"Firstly, I think I shall paint, and rove about among this beautiful
scenery," he replied. "I shall paint until I feel sure that I shall take
the first prize in the grand exhibition; I will not exhibit one stroke
of my brush until then."
"Well done, Cecil," said Anna, "that is the spirit I like."
For she knew as she looked at him, that he possessed a wealth which no
money can buy, a soul full of poetry, a mind full of genius, the
elements of true greatness in any art, and the only wealth that she
valued.
And Cecil went on with his painting, and progressed, and brought more
depth of tone and beauty into his pictures with every fresh attempt,
till the canvas seemed to live under his hand, and his poetic soul and
gentle nature spoke through his art. When any difficulty presented
itself, he would always seek Anna and have her near him, not that she
was an artist, but from some cause he could paint his best when she was
by; indeed they were together the greater part of the time, for if they
began the day in their different parts of the house, by some chance they
either found each other in the library, or Lady Dorothy's walk, long
before noon. They drifted to the same place, they scarcely knew how, but
they began to know that the presence of each one to the other, was
equally essential to their happiness. Cecil was a poet, not a writer of
rhymes or jingles, but as we have said a true poet in his soul. Anna
felt this in all her intercourse with him and heard it in the tones of
his voice when he spoke, a voice that had a ring in it, a resonance, and
that exquisite power of modulation which says more than the words
themselves. And so time went swiftly and sweetly by with their walks and
rides, and occupations, until they were twenty years old. Anna happy in
the possession of Cecil's love, with life as she wished it, pure, joyous
life, with music and beauty everywhere. A song ever on her lips, the
happiest, merriest maiden in all "Merrie England."
Cecil in his gentle way, deriving extreme pleasure from the study and
exercise of his art, and Anna's companionship. For the cousinly
affection of two years ago, had in both of them merged into deep intense
love, which ended only with their lives.