And those were sudden partings such as press
The life from out young hearts.
* * * * *
O who wad wear a silken gown
Wi' a poor broken heart,
And what 's to me a siller crown
If from my love I part.
* * * * *
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
It was springtime again, and the snowdrops were nodding their dainty,
little white heads, and the linnets were again building their nests in
the sweet old garden, when Anna's mother summoned her from Cecil's side
in Lady Dorothy's walk, to the oak-paneled drawing-room.
"My daughter," she began, "I regret that I must interrupt your present
happiness, but circumstances compel me to separate you and Cecil for the
present. It is time that you were presented at court, and it is time
that you passed a season in London. We have hitherto lead so secluded a
life that your name is not known beyond the limits of our county, and I
feel I am not doing my duty by you."
"But we are all very happy, mother," said Anna. "Why need we be more
known?"
"Yes, my daughter, we are happy now but changes must come to all
sometime. I may be called away from you."
"O my dearest mother do not say that, I cannot, I dare not think of what
life would be without you; you know I will do anything you wish, or give
up everything else in life, but I cannot give you up; it would break my
heart, I should die," cried Anna.
"Broken hearts don't die, my daughter, would to God that they did; few,
very few die of broken hearts, but many live with them. I have carefully
considered what is my duty toward you, and my reason and affection
coincide; now listen, in case I am called away by death, there is Cecil
to whose care and protection I could resign you, for I knew you loved
each other long before you knew it yourselves; I am happy that it is so,
but if Cecil were taken away also, there would be no very near relatives
to care for you, for the nearest members of your father's family are in
India, and mine in the colony of Virginia, and as you will inherit the
landed estates of your late grandfather as well as mine, it would be
better that you should make trustworthy friends before I leave you, I
see this pains you, dear daughter, I shall say no more on this subject.
In three days we shall set out for London as the season has already
begun, and we shall require some time to get our court dresses made."
The last evening at the manor house was passed by Anna and Cecil under
the light of the stars, in Lady Dorothy's walk. The next morning saw
the large, old yellow family coach at the door, drawn by four strong,
heavy horses, a coachman and groom on the box, a maid and a butler in
the rumble, and the widow and her daughter inside. Cecil who was
standing by one of the coach windows looking very pale and thoughtful,
tried to put on a smile as he said,
"We are to look for you both back again in the early autumn, you said,
aunt."
"Yes, Cecil, as soon as the first brown leaves fall."
The young people looked good by to each other, but said not a word, and
the heavy old coach moved away. In three days more the travelers were in
London, and in due course Anna was presented at court by her mother, who
had herself been presented on the occasion of her marriage. Then came
calls and cards and invitations to balls and routs and state dinners,
and the poor tired mother went through all these ceremonies as a duty
toward her daughter, and the daughter endured it because she loved her
mother, and desired to obey her wish. It was necessary that a young
heiress of her rank should be dressed in accordance with the fashion of
the day, but the young heiress longed to be released from the thraldom
of fashion, the fatiguing, heavy brocade dresses, the hoops, the stiff
ruff and the stomacher, the farthingale and high heeled shoes, and a
thousand times more than all, did she desire to be released from the
artificial and to her unsatisfactory life, from the flattery, the
coquetry, the idle, envious tattle, and to be back again with Cecil, in
her simple, healthy attire, and to live among honest hearts.
The autumn came, and the dry brown leaves began to fall from the trees.
Day after day, Cecil opened the harpsichord, and laid a bouquet of the
rich deep-hued flowers of the season upon it, and then he took his place
by the fountain, and watched the winding road through the park, so that
he might get the first sight of the coach when it returned. The autumn
leaves continued to fall, and Cecil kept his daily vigil until they were
lying deep on the ground, and the branches overhead were bare. Then came
a letter saying that Cecil's aunt was ordered by her doctor to pass the
winter in Italy, in the hope of curing a cough, which had of late
settled upon her, so that it would be spring before the ladies could
return to the manor house, hence they traveled to Italy and spent the
winter among its masterpieces of genius, both in music and art. The soft
air seemed all that was wanted to restore Anna's mother to health. Every
day, they found something beautiful that they desired Cecil to see, but
it was too late now to send for him, for spring was near. With the
spring, came back the cough, and again the medical order was change of
climate. This time, a sojourn of some months in Norway was prescribed
for Mrs. Vyvyan, bracing air, and much out-door life in the pine woods.
After many weeks of slow journeying, the ladies with two of their
servants reached Norway, and took up their abode in an old chateau, in
the midst of a pine forest so-called, but a forest really composed of
many varieties of fir and spruce, as well as pine. The combined aroma of
these woods made the air fragrant for many acres around the chateau, and
for a time, it appeared to have the most beneficial effect upon the
invalid. But one quiet eve, when the summer days had waned, and the
faded leaves of another autumn fell, a pang of anguish shot through
Anna's heart. The dearly loved mother was called away.
* * * * *
A short time only had elapsed since that event, and the servants were
packing, and making preparations for the return to the manor house, when
a mounted courier arrived at the chateau, with a large package of papers
addressed in Dr. Strickland's handwriting. Very long, and full of
feeling, and minute in every detail, was the letter the good man had
written, if letter so long a dispatch might be called. He told of
Cecil's conversations, of his watchings from beside the fountain; how
every day he picked flowers, and put them on the harpsichord, saying
this is the place she loves best; and how he faded and wasted day by
day, yet struggled so bravely against the hand of death, that he might
finish his last and best picture for Anna; and how on the last day of
his life, he had laid his flowers on the harpsichord as usual, and then
desired to be carried to the library and lifted into their
great-grandfather's chair to die,--the chair that Anna had placed for
him the first time they met.
When Anna had finished reading the final words of Dr. Strickland's
letter, she rose and moved quietly into the recess of one of the large,
heavily mullioned windows, and looked down a long vista into the forest,
to the tall dark pines under which was her mother's grave. Every vestige
of color had left both cheek and lip, and she stood in the great somber
room, as cold and white and as still as the statues which adorned its
walls. The extremes of grief and joy have no speech; she had none. No
cry of lamentation went forth; no tears of relief fell from her eyes;
she knew her life was ended, but she also knew that she could not die.
Three words only escaped her lips. "O God, alone."