"For now that Hope's last ray is gone,
Sure Lethe's dream would bless:
In grief to think of bliss tha'ts flown,
Adds pangs to wretchedness."
ANONYMOUS.
A fortnight had passed, and again it was evening. In the small
dining-room of Florence Hamilton's humble home assembled the now
diminished family circle. Florence sat sadly apart, leaning her head,
with closed eyes, against the window. The tea bell rang; she lifted
her head, glanced round the room, and wearily dropped her brow again
on its resting-place. Mary approached, and taking her hand, said, in a
gentle, winning tone, "Come, Florry dear."
"Eat your supper, Mary; I do not wish any."
"But you have not eaten anything to-day, and need something; do try,
for my sake."
"I cannot. If you knew how both head and heart ache, you would not
urge me."
Mary turned away, and ate the usually joyous meal with a heavy heart.
Florence had left her seat, and was standing in the door: as her
cousin rose from the table she beckoned to her, and passed hurriedly
out. Mary strove to catch her arm but she hastened on, as if trying
to escape from herself. Suddenly she paused by the river side, and
clasped her hands convulsively over her head.
"Mary! Mary! you know not what I suffer."
"Florry, sit down, and lean your weary head on my shoulder."
She dipped her hand in the water, and dashed the cold, sparkling drops
on her cousin's burning brow, speaking the while in a low, soothing
tone. Florence rested a few moments in her cousin's arms, then threw
herself on a grassy bank, and covered her face; one long, deep groan
alone attesting her mental anguish. Mary wept more bitterly than
she had yet done; still, she was so quiet, none would have known her
grief, save from the tears that fell over her hand and arms. Can it
be, that the spirits of departed friends hover near us while on
earth, and draw closer in hours of woe? If so, why is it denied to the
suffering one to hear again the dear accents of the "loved and lost?"
Why may not their silver pinions fan the burning brow of sorrowing
mortality, and the echo of Heaven's own melody murmur gently, "Peace,
peace and joy for evermore?"
Florence stood up before her cousin; all trace of emotion had passed
away, and left her calm. The bright moon shone full on her face. Oh!
how changed since the morning she stood in Madame ----'s schoolroom.
The large dark eyes were sunken; the broad brow marked with lines of
mental anguish; the cheeks colorless, and her long raven hair tossed
back, and hanging like a veil below her slender waist. There was
a hollow, wasted look in every feature; the expression was one of
hopeless misery, and a something there was which made the heart ache,
yet the haughty glance of other days might still be seen.
"Mary, look at me!"
"Well, Florry, I have looked at you, and sad enough it makes me feel."
"I am changed Mary, strangely changed, am I not? Answer me truly."
"Yes, you look weary and ill; but why do you ask me such a question?
You have had cause to look pale."
"Ah! you say truly; but, Mary, have you never suspected that a secret
grief was freezing the life-blood in my cheeks?"
"Florry, what do you mean? I am afraid you are feverish!" and Mary
laid her hand anxiously on her cousin's. It was flung contemptuously
off.
"Mary, listen to what I have to say. I am in a strange mood to-night,
and you must not contradict me. Where shall I begin? When my mother
died I was four years old, they say, and a very delicate child. My
mother! how strange it sounds. Yet I can at times faintly remember
her beautiful face. Very faintly, as in a dream, I have seen an angel
visitant. My mother, why did you leave your hapless babe? Oh! why? my
mother! I was left much to myself, and followed unrestrained my
own inclinations. You know my fondness for books; that fondness was
imbibed in girlhood, as I wandered in my own sunny home--my lost home.
My father taught me to conceal my emotions--to keep down the rising
sob, to force back the glittering tear; and when I smiled over some
childish grief, applauded my stoicism. I became unnatural, cold,
haughty, but not unfeeling. I remember well how your pale face and
mourning dress touched my heart, and waked my sympathies. From that
hour I lavished my love on my father and yourself. Years passed and we
went to New Orleans--" Here Florence paused, and closed her eyes for
a moment, but quickly resumed--"You know how I studied. Mary, was it
merely from love of metaphysics and philosophy, think you? No. no!
Mr. Stewart's look of surprise and pleasure as, one by one, I mastered
various intricacies, was the meed for which I toiled. Mary, from the
first day we met, I loved him, for his was a master spirit I worshiped
him in my inmost soul, and he loved me in return. I know--I feel that
he did. Yet he was even prouder than myself, and would have scorned to
speak of love to one who never smiled in his presence. Oh! often when,
he stood beside my desk giving instruction, my heart has sprung to
him. I have longed to hear the words of tenderness that welled up from
his heart, but scorned to tremble on his lips. No look of love ever
fell on me. His glance was cold and haughty. Oh, how inconsistent
is woman! I yearned for his love; yet, had he tendered it, under my
haughtiness would have dropped my idol--have shivered it at my feet.
Weeks passed, and while near him I knew no sorrow; but the morning of
my life was destined to be short. The cloud that had lowered on the
horizon suddenly darkened around. That never-to-be-forgotten letter
came, and I saw a great gulf open at my feet. An invisible hand placed
Dudley Stewart on one brink, and I was left upon the other; and an
unknown messenger thundered the decree of separation--'Forget the past
and live again in the future!' I started as from a frightful dream.
The cold reality forced itself upon me. Mary, a suspicion stole into
my heart, and stung me. I thought for a brief time that Mr. Stewart
loved you, and whose hand may register the darkened thoughts that
crowded bitterly up? The morning we left New Orleans, I went into the
schoolroom for our books. Ah! who may know the agony of that hour! I
sat down in his chair, and laid my head on his desk, and groaned in
mine anguish of spirit. Oh! Mary, that was the blackest, bitterest
hour of my life. I had fancied he loved me: I feared I was deceived; I
hated--despised myself for my weakness. Yet I could not reproach him;
he had never sought my love.
"I had just risen from his desk when Mr. Stewart came in. He did
not seem to see me, but took a seat near the door. I was well-nigh
exhausted, but strove to appear as cold and indifferent as ever. I
gathered up my books and turned to go, then he laid down his pen, and
came to me.
"'I believe you and your cousin leave to-day?'
"'Yes. in this evening's boat,' I answered, much as usual.
"'I wish you a safe and pleasant voyage. My kindest adieux to your
cousin. Good-by, Miss Hamilton.'
"He held out his hand. I said 'good-by' as clearly and coldly as
himself. Our hands met but an instant: there was no pressure--no
warmth, and then he opened the door for me to pass. As he did so
our eyes met; his glance was calm and cold, but his lips were firmly
compressed. Had he looked sad, mournful, or tender, I should have
passed out and triumphed; but my overtasked strength gave way; a cold
shudder crept through my frame, and consciousness forsook me. I never
fainted before or since. When I revived, I raised my head and looked
about me, I was reclining on a couch; he kneeling beside me, calmly,
as he would have stood in class. He held my hand, and pressed it
warmly.
"'Are you better now, Florence?'
"'Oh, yes, thank you,' I said, and rose to my feet.
"He still held my hand. I withdrew it, and turned to the door. He
placed himself before it, and said--'Florence, it was well done; you
are an admirable dissembler, but I am not deceived. You love me, and
have for long, yet I freely acknowledge your love can never exceed my
own. I love you better than my life, though perfectly aware that
we are now parted forever. I am a poor tutor, dependent on my daily
exertions for subsistence; you the cherished daughter of a wealthy and
ambitious parent.'
"He drew me to him, and imprinted a long kiss on my lips; then put me
gently back, and left the room.
"I never saw him again, but did I doubt his love? No, no! I would
sooner doubt my own existence. We embarked, as you know, in the
evening. That night was beautiful--just such a one as this--serene and
heavenly. I stole out on deck when others slumbered, and for a long
weary hour paced to and fro. There was a wild tumult in my soul which
would not be stilled, and every restraining effort but fanned the
flame that raged within. A never-to-be-forgotten contest was waged
that night, and my heart was the arena. My guardian angel whispered
low, 'Forget the past as a feverish dream; it is not well for thee;
forget, forget!' But the heaven-born accents were suddenly drowned
by the wild shriek of my dark destiny--'Of Lethe's waters thou shall
never taste! I have shattered the goblet at thy feet, and scattered
the draught to the winds of heaven! Behold the apotheosis of thine
idol! At this shrine shalt thou bow evermore--evermore!'
"A new impulse was implanted within me; and, impotent to resist, I
was impelled onward, and onward, till a chasm yawned at my feet. Yet
a moment I trembled on the brink, then plunged desperately forward.
Mary, listen. I knelt on the damp, glistening deck, and implored
Almighty God to register my words in heaven. In his awful name and
presence, I solemnly swore to love Dudley Stewart alone--to be his
wife, or go down to the tomb as Florence Hamilton. I rose up
calm--the fierce warring was stilled. Yet it was not inward peace that
succeeded. My fate was sealed--the last page of destiny transcribed.
"Time passed on, oblivious of the darkened hours it bore on its broad
bosom. Mary, I have watched for one loved form, and listened for that
calm, proud step. I have loved, and trusted, and believed that we
should meet again. Deluded Florence! a period is put to thy hopes and
fears! Mary, he is married! All is over for me. The dull, heavy weight
resting upon my heart will soon crush out the life spark, and lay low
my proud head. Ah! I my cousin, you weep. I wish that I could; but
tears have been _too_ often scornfully repulsed; they come not now at
my call. Oh, Mary, I am weary, weary! I long for rest, even the rest
of the dark, still tomb! I have no hope--no wish. I am passive now.
At last nature has broken the bonds so long forced upon her, and the
reaction is strong indeed. You ask how I received my information: ah!
you need not doubt its authenticity. Aunt Lizzy and his mother were
old friends, and she received a letter the day before my father died,
announcing _his_ approaching union with a beautiful cousin! I am
deservedly punished: I worshiped the creature and forgot the God. I
needed a desperate remedy, and it is administered."
As Florence concluded she leaned heavily against a tree, and raised
her eyes to the jeweled vault above. Just then a dense black cloud,
which had floated up from the west, passed directly over the moon,
obscuring the silvery rays. She pointed to it, and said, in a low,
mournful voice--"How typical of my life and heart; shut out from joy
and hope in one brief hour, unlike it ever to be brightened again."
"Oh! Florry, dear Florry! turn to God for comfort and succor in this
hour of need. He will enable you to bear this trial, and go steadily
on in the path of duty."
"Mary, I have no incitement to exertion; nothing to anticipate. My
future is blank and dreary. I know my lot in life; I have nothing to
hope for."
"Not so, Florry. Your future life will be an active one. Are we not
dependent on our exertions for subsistence? and does not our little
school open to-morrow? Cheer up, darling all may yet be bright.
Bury the painful remembrances of the past; believe me, peace, if not
joyousness, will surely follow the discharge of your duties."
"I cannot forget the past. Had he sought my love, I could scorn him
for his baseness; but it is not so, I almost wish it were. Yet I know
and feel that he loves me; and oblivion of the past is as impossible
for him as, myself. I know not what strange impulse has induced me to
tell you all this. I did it half unconsciously, hoping for relief by
revealing that which has pressed so heavily on my heart. Mary, never
speak to me of it again; and, above all, do not mention his name. It
has passed my lips for the last time, and all shall be locked again
within my own heart. We will open the school to-morrow; and may God
help me, Mary, pray, oh, pray for me! I had no mother to teach me, and
prayer is a stranger to my lips."
She walked hurriedly to the house, and shut herself within her own
apartment.