FIVE years ago, this fair November day,--five years? it seems but
yesterday, so fresh is that scene in my memory; and, I doubt not, were
the period ten times multiplied, it would be as vivid still to us--the
surviving actors in that drama! The touch of time, which blunts the
piercing thorn, as well as steals from the rose its lovely tints, is
powerless here, unless to give darker shades to that picture engraven on
our souls; and tears--ah, they only make it more imperishable!
We do not speak of her now; her name has not passed our lips in each
other's presence, since we followed her--grief-stricken mourners-to the
grave, to which--alas, alas! but why should not the truth be spoken?
the grave to which our careless words consigned her. But on every
anniversary of that day we can never forget, uninvited by me, and
without any previous arrangement between themselves, those two friends
have come to my house, and together we have sat, almost silently, save
when Ada's sweet voice has poured forth a low, plaintive strain to the
mournful chords Mary has made the harp to breathe. Four years ago, that
cousin came too; and since then, though he has been thousands of miles
distant from us, when, that anniversary has returned, he has written to
me: he cannot look into my face when that letter is penned; he but looks
into his own heart, and he cannot withhold the words of remorse and
agony.
Ada and Mary have sat with me to-day, and we knew that Rowland, in
thought, was here too; ah, if we could have known another had been among
us,--if we could have felt that an eye was upon us, which will never
more dim with tears, a heart was near us which carelessness can never
wound again;--could we have known she had been here--that pure,
bright angel, with the smile of forgiveness and love on that beautiful
face--the dark veil of sorrow might have been lifted from our souls! but
we saw only with mortal vision; our faith was feeble, and we have only
drawn that sombre mantle more and more closely about us. The forgiveness
we have so many tim es prayed for, we have not yet dared to receive,
though we know it is our own.
That November day was just what this has been fair, mild, and sweet; and
how much did that dear one enjoy it! The earth was dry, and as we looked
from the window we saw no verdure but a small line of green on the south
side of the garden enclosure, and around the trunk of the old pear-tree,
and here and there a little oasis from which the strong wind of the
previous day, had lifted the thick covering of dry leaves, and one or
two shrubs, whose foliage feared not the cold breath of winter. The
gaudy hues, too, which nature had lately worn, were all faded; there was
a pale, yellow-leafed vine clambering over the verdureless lilac, and
far down in the garden might be seen a shrub covered with bright scarlet
berries. But the warm south wind was sweet and fragrant, as if it
had strayed through bowers of roses and eglantines. Deep-leaden and
snow-white clouds blended together, floated lazily through the sky, and
the sun coquetted all day with the earth, though his glance was not, for
once, more than half averted, while his smile was bright and loving, as
it bad been months before, when her face was fair and blooming.
But how sadly has this day passed, and how unlike is this calm, sweet
evening to the one which closed that November day! Nature is the same.
The moonbeams look as bright and silvery through the brown, naked arms
of the tall oaks, and the dark evergreen forest lifts up its head to the
sky, striving, but in vain, to shut out the soft light from the little
stream, whose murmurings, seem more sad and complaining than at another
season of the year, perhaps because it feels how soon the icy bands of
winter will stay its free course, and hush its low whisperings. The soft
breeze sighs as sadly through the vines which still wreath themselves
around the window; though seemingly conscious they have ceased to adorn
it, they are striving to loosen their hold, and bow themselves to the
earth; and the chirping of a cricket in the chimney is as sad and
mournful as it was then. But the low moan of the sufferer, the but
half-smothered, agonized sobs of those fair girls, the deep groan
which all my proud cousin's firmness could not hush, and the words of
reproach, which, though I was so guilty myself, and though I saw them so
repentant, I could not withhold, are all stilled now.
Ada and Mary have just left me, and I am sitting alone in my apartment.
Not a sound reaches me but the whisperings of the wind, the murmuring of
the stream, and the chirping of that solitary cricket. The family know
my heart is heavy to-night, and the voices are hushed, and the footsteps
fall lightly. Lily, dear Lily, art thou near me?
Five years and some months ago--it was in early June--there came to our
home from far away in the sunny South, a fair young creature, a relative
of ours, though we had never seen her before. She had been motherless
rather less than a year, but her father had already found another
partner, and feeling that she would not so soon see the place of
the dearly-loved parent filled by a stranger, she had obtained his
permission to spend a few months with those who could sympathize with
her in her griefs.
Lily White! She was rightly named; I have never seen such a fair,
delicate face and figure, nor watched the revealings of a nature so pure
and gentle as was hers. She would have been too fair and delicate to
be beautiful, but for the brilliancy of those deep blue eyes, the dark
shade of that glossy hair, and the litheness of that fragile form;
but when months had passed away, and, though the brow was still marble
white, and the lip colourless, the cheek wore that deep rose tint, how
surpassingly beautiful she was! We did not dream what had planted that
rose-tint there--we thought her to be throwing off the grief which
alone, we believed, had paled her cheek; and we did not observe that
her form was becoming more delicate, and that her step was losing its
lightness and elasticity. We loved the sweet Lily dearly at first sight,
and she had been with us but a short time before we began to wonder how
our home had ever seemed perfect to us previous to her coming. And our
affection was returned by the dear girl. We knew how much she loved
us, when, as the warm season had passed, and her father sent for her to
return home, we saw the expression of deep sorrow in every feature, and
the silent entreaty that we would persuade him to allow her to remain
with us still.
She did not thank me when a letter reached me from her father, in reply
to one which, unknown to her, I had sent him, saying, if I thought
Lily's health would not be injured by a winter's residence in our cold
climate, he would comply with my urgent request, and allow her to remain
with us until the following spring--the dear girl could not speak. She
came to me almost totteringly, and wound her arms about my neck, resting
her head on mine, and tears from those sweet eyes fell fast over my
face; and all the remainder of that afternoon she lay on her couch. Oh,
why did I not think wherefore she was so much overcome?
Ada L----and Mary R----, two friends whom I had loved from childhood,
I had selected as companions for our dear Lily on her arrival among us,
and the young ladies, from their first introduction to her, had vied
with me in my endeavours to dispel the gloom from that fair face, and to
make her happy; and they shared, almost equally with her relatives, dear
Lily's affections.
Ada--she is changed now--was a gay, brilliant, daring girl; Mary, witty
and playful, though frank and warm-hearted; but it made me love them
more than ever. The gaiety and audacity of the one was forgotten in the
presence of the thoughtful, timid Lily: and the other checked the merry
jest which trembled on her lips, and sobered that roguish eye beside the
earnest, sensitive girl; so that, though we were together almost daily,
dear Lily did not understand the character of the young ladies.
The warm season had passed away, and October brought an addition to our
household--Cousin Rowland--as handsome, kind-hearted, and good-natured
a fellow as ever lived, but a little cowardly, if the dread of the
raillery of a beautiful woman may be called cowardice.
Cousin Rowland and dear Lily were mutually pleased with each other, it
was very evident to me, though Ada and Mary failed to see it; for, in
the presence of the young ladies, Rowland did not show her those little
delicate attentions which, alone with me, who was very unobservant, he
took no pains to conceal; and Lily did not hide from me her blushing
face--her eyes only thanked me for the expression which met her gaze.
That November day--I dread to approach it! Lily and I were sitting
beside each other, looking down the street, and watching the return of
the carriage which Rowland had gone out with to bring Ada and Mary to
our house; or, rather, Lily was looking for its coming--my eyes were
resting on her face. It had never looked so beautiful to me before. Her
brow was so purely white, her cheek was so deeply red, and that dark
eye was so lustrous; but her face was very thin, and her breathing, I
observed, was faint and difficult. A pang shot through my heart.
“Lily, are you well?” I exclaimed, suddenly.
She fixed her eyes on mine. I was too much excited by my sudden fear
to read their expression, but when our friends came in, the dear girl
seemed so cheerful and happy--I remembered, afterwards, I had never seen
her so gay as on that afternoon--that my suspicions gradually left me.
The hours were passing pleasantly away, when a letter was brought in for
Lily. It was from her father, and the young lady retired to peruse it.
The eye of Rowland followed her as she passed out of the room, and I
observed a shadow flit across his brow. I afterwards learned that at the
moment a thought was passing through his mind similar to that which
had so terrified me an hour before. Our visiters remarked it, too, but
little suspected its cause; and Mary's eye met, with a most roguish
look, Ada's rather inquiring gaze.
“When does Lily intend to return home, S----?” she inquired, as she
bent, very demurely, over her embroidery. “I thought she was making
preparations to go before Rowland came here!” and she raised her eyes so
cunningly to my face, that I could not forbear answering,
“I hear nothing of her return, now. Perhaps she will remain with us
during the winter.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Ada, and her voice expressed much surprise. “I
wonder if I could make such a prolonged visit interesting to a friend!”
“Why, Lily considers herself conferring a great favour by remaining
here,” replied Mary.
“On whom?” asked Rowland, quickly.
“On all of use of course;” and to Mary's great delight she perceived
that her meaning words had the effect she desired on the young man.
“I hope she will not neglect the duty she owes her family, for the
sake of showing us this great kindness,” said Rowland, with affected
carelessness, though he walked across the apartment with a very
impatient step.
“Lily has not again been guilty of the error she so frequently commits,
has she, S----?” asked Ada, in a lower but still far too distinct tone;
“that of supposing herself loved and admired where she is only pitied
and endured?” and the merry creature fairly exulted in the annoyance
which his deepened colour told her she was causing the young man.
A slight sound from the apartment adjoining the parlour attracted my
attention. Had Lily stopped there to read her letter instead of going to
her chamber? and had she, consequently, overheard our foolish remarks?
The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open. There was a slight
rustling, but I thought it only the waving of the window curtain.
A half-hour passed away, and Lily had not returned to us. I began to be
alarmed, and my companions partook of my fears. Had she overheard us?
and, if so, what must that sensitive heart be suffering?
I went out to call her; but half way up the flight of stairs I saw the
letter from her father lying on the carpet, unopened, though it had been
torn from its envelope. I know not how I found my way up stairs, but I
stood by Lily's bed.
Merciful Heaven! what a sight was presented to my gaze. The white
covering was stained with blood, and from those cold, pale lips the
red drops were fast falling. Her eyes turned slowly till they rested on
mine. What a look was that! I see it now; so full of grief; so full
of reproach; and then they closed. I thought her dead, and my frantic
shrieks called my companions to her bedside. They aroused her, too, from
that swoon, but they did not awaken her to consciousness. She never more
turned a look of recognition on us, or seemed to be aware that we were
near her. Through all that night, so long and so full of agony to us,
she was murmuring, incoherently, to herself,
“They did not know I was dying,” she would say; “that I have been dying
ever since I have been here! They have not dreamed of my sufferings
through these long months; I could not tell them, for I believed they
loved me, and I would not grieve them. But no one loves me--not one in
the wide world cares for me! My mother, you will not have forgotten your
child when you meet me in the spirit-land! Their loved tones made
me deaf to the voice which was calling to me from the grave, and the
sunshine of _his_ smile broke through the dark cloud which death was
drawing around me. Oh, I would have lived, but death, I thought, would
lose half its bitterness, could I breathe my last in their arms! But,
now, I must die alone! Oh, how shall I reach my home--how shall I ever
reach my home?”