“I sigh when all my youthful friends caress—
They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
Love has for them a gentle power to bless,
While I shall moulder in my silent grave.
God of the just, thou gavest the bitter cup,
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.”
We had penetrated to the depth of the pine grove, and it was difficult
to find our way out through the tangled undergrowth and the unequal
hollows; but Malina had become thoughtful for others once more, and
though excitement no longer made her own progress easy, she guarded me
with double care; lifted me over the hollows and carried me in her arms
when the thickets were too intricate or the ground very uneven. She
kissed me as we reached a foot-path which led to our cottage, and,
pointing to the door, would have left me to go home alone; but when she
saw that I was troubled regarding my torn frock, kindness of heart
prompted her to come back. She led me to the house, explained my
misfortune, and went away. I sat down on the door-sill and watched her
till she entered the portico of her mother’s dwelling, and when they
remarked on her dejected looks, and questioned me of the cause, I
answered that Malina was tired with walking so long in the woods, for it
seemed as if the tears which I had seen her shed and the passionate
words which she had uttered were a secret which I should do wrong to
mention.
In about an hour Phebe Gray and our young minister stopped at the
door-yard gate to inquire for Malina. I told them that she had gone
home, and when Mr. Mosier lifted me in his arms, and, looking into my
face, asked what I had been crying about, I turned my head away to evade
his kiss and besought him to set me down. The contrast between his happy
face, the deep and almost brilliant expression of joy which lighted it
up, and the sorrowful look of poor Malina forced itself even on my
childish mind. I felt that which I had no power to comprehend, and from
that time never loved our minister nor Phebe Gray as I had loved them.
They walked home very slowly, she leaning on his arm with an air of
dependence and trustfulness which was full of feeling and feminine
delicacy; he would check their progress every few moments to point out
some familiar beauty in the landscape, as if they had never looked upon
it before. They loitered by the rock spring, and along the river road,
tranquil in their happiness, till the dusk almost concealed them as they
entered Mrs. Gray’s house.
Almost every evening, for a week, our minister and Phebe Gray took their
walk around the pine grove, and always alone. Malina was confined to the
house. She had taken cold, Mrs. Gray said, and the night air was bad for
her lungs. But often, when her sister was loitering along the river’s
bank, happy in the wealth of her newly aroused affections, Malina might
be seen at her chamber window, with her cheek languidly supported by a
hand which was becoming thinner each day, and gazing earnestly after the
two beings dearest to her on earth, but whose happiness she could not
witness without emotions that were well nigh killing her. Her mother saw
nothing of this. She only knew that Malina was quieter than usual and
not very well, that her eyes were heavy and her step languid as she
moved around the house. She did not see the heart struggling against
itself, the stern principle which grew strong in the contest. She never
dreamed of that desolate and lonely sensation which haunted her
daughter’s pillow with watchfulness, and made her waking hours a season
of trial cruel as the grave. She saw that Malina was strangely affected;
true, she smiled still, but it was meekly, sadly, and it seemed as if
the music of her laugh was exhausted forever; her eyes grew misty and
sorrowful in their expression, and tears would sometimes fill them
without apparent cause. Still it was gravely asserted that Malina had
only a slight cold, a nervous attack which would go off in a day or two!
But there was something in her illness which Phebe could not comprehend;
a wish for solitude, and a strange nervous dread of any thing like
intimate conversation with herself, which prevented an acknowledgment of
her own deep causes of happiness. Her sensitive modesty made her
desirous of some encouragement to unburden her heart of its wealth of
hope even to her sister, and when she saw that Malina shunned her, that
her eyes had a wandering and estranged look whenever they turned upon
her face, she felt checked and almost repulsed in her confidence. If any
thing could have disturbed the pure happiness which reigned in her
bosom, it would have been this extraordinary mood in one who had from
childhood shared every thought and wish almost as soon as it was formed.
It had a power to disturb, though it could not entirely destroy the
tranquillity of her mind.
“I will talk with her about it to-night,” murmured Phebe, as she opened
her chamber door one evening, after a long conversation with Mr. Mosier
in the portico. “I wish, though, she would ask some question, or even
look curious to know what keeps us together so much; I little thought to
have kept a secret from Malina so long.”
As these thoughts passed through her mind, Phebe Gray gathered up the
bed-drapery, and lying down by her sister, passing an arm caressingly
over her waist, laid her blushing cheek against the now pallid face
which rested on the pillow. She felt that tears were upon it, and that
the snowy linen under her head was wet as if Malina had cried herself to
sleep.
“Malina, wake up a minute, I have something to tell you,” murmured the
young girl, in a low, half timid whisper.
The moonbeams lay full upon the bed, and Phebe Gray was looking
earnestly in the face of the beautiful sleeper. She could see the silken
lashes quivering on her cheek, and a tremulous motion of the lips, nay,
it seemed to her as if a single tear broke through the lashes and rolled
over the pale cheek, and she was certain that something like a faint
shudder crept through the form which was half circled by her arm. But
Malina gave no answer, and the gentle questioner was too sensitive for
another effort to win attention. She quietly laid her head on the pillow
and sunk to sleep, but not to indulge in the sweet, unbroken dream of
happiness which had shed roses over her couch so many nights. There was
sadness at heart, a presentiment of coming ill, and a solicitude
regarding her sister which kept her anxious and rendered her slumber
broken and unrefreshing. About midnight, when the stillness of her
chamber rendered every sound more than usually audible, she was
disturbed by the broken and half stifled sobs which arose from her
sister’s pillow. Again she stole her arm over the weeping girl, and
questioned her regarding the source of her grief. Malina only turned her
face away, and sobbed more bitterly than before.
“Why will you not speak to me, Malina? what has come between us of
late?—speak to me, sister—you are in sorrow, and I have—oh how
much—cause for joy! yet we have all at once learned to conceal thoughts
from one another. Tell me what troubles you—for I cannot be entirely
happy while you are ill and so sad.”
Malina redoubled her sobs, but amid the tumult of her grief she
murmured, “Tell me all, Phebe, all you feel, all you wish; but I have no
secrets, no sorrow. There is a little pain in my side, sometimes, and
that makes me low spirited. I have always been so healthy, you know,
that a little illness frightens me. Do not mind me, but talk of
yourself. You are happy, Phebe, _very_ happy! were not those your words?
tell me all—I can be glad and rejoice in any thing that gives you
pleasure—any thing on earth—if my heart were breaking. So let us talk
it all over now, the room is so quiet and dark, and we shall neither of
us get sleepy—do you think we shall, sister?—you may, but I have
almost forgotten how to sleep,” and, as Malina ceased speaking, she
stole an arm around her sister’s neck, and, choking back her sobs,
composed herself to listen.
Phebe rose up in the bed, gathered the drapery around them, for the
moonbeams were bright enough to reveal her blushes, and, sinking to her
pillow, again murmured the story of her love, its return, and all the
bright anticipations that made her future so beautiful. Malina nerved
herself to listen; she uttered no word of distrust, and checked all
manifestations of discontent by a strong effort of self-control, when
all was told—when she was made certain that her sister and the only
being she had ever regarded with more than a sister’s love, were to be
married—that their wedding day was fixed, and, that the mother’s
sanction had already been granted—she remained silent for a moment, and
strove to gain the mastery over her feelings. When she spoke, her frame
shook with the bitter emotions which could not be altogether subdued,
but her voice was low and very calm. Mr. Mosier was poor, and Phebe not
yet of age. If he were installed in the old meeting-house, they would be
compelled to live with Mrs. Gray till something could be saved from his
small salary to purchase a dwelling and begin housekeeping. This thought
caused some anxiety to the engaged couple. The young clergyman had
learned something of Mrs. Gray’s real character, and was reluctant to
erect his domestic altar beneath her tyrannical auspices. Phebe, too,
longed for a quiet home of her own, a happy, free home, where she might
follow her own innocent impulses, unchecked and without fear.
“You shall have that home, my sister,” said Malina Gray, twining her
arms around her companion, and kissing her with a gush of true
affection; “there is the old parsonage house; you shall have that, and
the money which dear minister Brown left to me; all are yours and _his_.
You will be happy there—very happy. I know he loved the old place. Now,
good night, Phebe; let us go to sleep!” and with a low gasping sob,
which was not the less painful that it gave no sound, Malina turned away
her head.
Phebe was too disinterested and high-minded herself, for a thought of
refusing Malina’s generosity.
“We shall, indeed, be happy,” she said; “you will come and live with us,
and by the time you are married, we shall have saved enough to pay all
the money back again. You _will_ live with us?”
Malina thought of the quiet grave-yard, which could be seen from the
parsonage window, and answered—
“I shall want no other home.”
Phebe talked on, more cheerfully than usual, and when her sister did not
answer, she thought her asleep; but Malina had fainted, and lay
senseless upon her pillow.
It was soon rumored through the village that our new minister was
engaged to Phebe Gray, and every body was delighted with the match.
Phebe was just the creature for a clergyman’s wife, quiet and gentle,
with manners that gave dignity to the softness of her disposition. In
the general satisfaction which reigned in the village, Malina was quite
overlooked. Her change of appearance was imputed to sadness at parting
with her sister; and, at times, when the wedding was talked of in her
presence, the rich color which burned over her cheeks, the brilliancy of
her eyes, and the flashes of wild merriment that sprung to her lips,
deceived the unobserving into a belief of her entire happiness. She
spent much of her time at the old parsonage, superintending the
arrangements of her sister’s home with a degree of taste and energy
which surprised all who witnessed her exertions. The rooms were all
newly arranged, delicate paper was purchased at New Haven for the walls,
new stepping stones were laid at the front door, green blinds gave a
look of elegance and seclusion to the windows; the profuse rose bushes
and lilac trees were pruned, and a white picket-fence hedged in the
little wilderness of flowers which blossomed in the front yard. The
cabinet maker, on School Hill, was busy with the furniture, all of a
superior kind. The carpet-weaver had borrowed two _quill-wheels_, and
all the spools, for a mile round, in order to expedite the progress of
sixty yards of striped carpeting through his cumbrous loom. The house
and its adornments were to be comfortable and elegant beyond any thing
that had been known in our village for a long time; and all was Malina’s
work. Her untiring assiduity created the little paradise which another
was to enjoy. Her money purchased the books which filled the little
study, whose window opened upon the most verdant corner of the orchard.
Her trembling hands placed a new inlaid flute on the little table, and
drew the easy chair close by, that the bridegroom might find every thing
ready and home-like in his new dwelling.
One afternoon Malina was left alone; the workmen had departed to their
suppers, and her task was finished for the day. She had just hung the
pet robin in his old place by the dining-room window; he seemed to
recognize the room, and flew about his cage, chirping and fluttering his
wings, as if to thank her for bringing him home once more. It was the
first hour of repose that Malina had known for many weeks, and now, that
she had nothing more to perform, painful thoughts and regrets that would
no longer be stifled, fell back upon her heart, and she was, oh, how
desolate! There, in her blooming youth, she sat hopeless and weary of
life—for what is life to a woman without affection? The heart was full
of warm and generous feelings, burthened with a wealth of tenderness,
and yet she had no future, nothing to hope for, nothing to dread; her
destiny seemed consummated there and then. Youth is in itself so
hopeful, that we can scarcely imagine a creature in the first bud of
life yearning for the grave. But Malina was very sad. She looked through
the open door into the orchard; the green old apple trees were heavy
with blossoms, and through the garniture of thrifty leaves, and the rosy
shower which blushed among them, a corner of the old meeting-house met
her gaze—a portion of the grave-yard, and a new tomb-stone, which
gleamed out from the young grass which had already started up from our
minister’s death place. How green and quiet it looked—and oh, how
earnestly Malina Gray longed to lie down in that still spot, and be at
rest. Yet Malina was young, and no human being dreamed how wretched she
was. The orchard was full of singing birds that day, and there had been
a time when the gush of sweet sounds, that rose and swelled amid the
foliage, would have made her heart leap, but now it filled her eyes with
tears. The sunshine that played and quivered among the leaves—the wind
that now and then gushed through the heavy boughs, scattering the grass
with rosy flakes, and sighing as it swept off to the open plain—all
seemed a mockery.
She was heart sick, and yearned to die. How cruel is that power by which
a broken heart draws thoughts of sadness from the sweet and beautiful
things of nature. Malina gazed through her tears at the change her own
hands had wrought. The unseemly plantains had disappeared from the back
door-step, and around the well-curb a bed of valley-lilies were just
forming their pearly buds.
“They will be in blossom for Phebe’s hair,” murmured the young girl,
“and for mine—for am I not to be bridemaid?”
With a mournful smile gleaming through her tears, Malina arose, and
tying on her bonnet, left the house. She met Phebe and Mr. Mosier near
the front gate. They were sauntering toward their new dwelling, tranquil
and happy; to them, every thing whispered of joy; the fragrant orchard,
the birds caroling within its shadows, and all the beautiful landscape
were full of pleasant associations. Every hope and thought in _their_
bosoms blossomed in unison with nature.
How true it is that thought and feeling, like the sun, give color to
outward things. The heart creates its own sunshine, or the cloud through
which nature is revealed to it. Phebe Gray and her betrothed husband
felt nothing but the sweet and the beautiful—their hearts were brimful
of sunshine. But, alas, for Malina, she looked through the cloud.
Malina walked on. The two contented beings by the gate were happy enough
without her. She strove to smile cheerfully as they spoke to her, and in
a tone of forced playfulness forbade them entering the house till their
wedding day.
Malina had gathered beneath the roof of that old parsonage house many
luxuries almost unknown in the neighborhood; every thing calculated to
gratify the fine taste of the young divine, or add to the comfort of her
sister, had been unsparingly purchased, till her patrimony was almost
exhausted. While this duty lasted, and the excitement of action was upon
her, Malina sustained the burthen of her sorrows with an aching, but
firm heart. She had taken no time for thought—scarcely for tears—but
worked on, as if toiling through a feverish dream. Her cheeks were
always flushed, and sometimes the music of her laugh rang loud and
strangely through the bridal chamber which she was decorating; but the
companions who assisted her were often startled by the reckless tone of
her laugh; it was too absent and wild for happiness or merriment,
entirely deficient in that low, rich melody, which had once made her
voice so full of healthy joy. Yet all the neighbors were commenting on
her generous conduct, and the brilliancy of her spirits; and it was
often remarked that Malina Gray was never so fond of company, so
careless in her mirth, or so startling in her wit, as she had been since
the engagement of her sister, and since she had recovered from the
slight cold which confined her to the house when that engagement was
first whispered in the village.
To a heart capable of self-sacrifice, there is no feeling so lonely as
that which follows exhausted power. No conviction, so keenly painful, as
a knowledge that a beloved being, who has cost us the hopes of a life in
resigning, can be happy without our aid—that we have nothing to render
up—no aim for exertion—nothing to do but sit down and gaze upon the
blank which existence has become. Her task was done. The excitement
over, and then came to the heart of Malina Gray the toil and pain of
concealed suffering; the aching restlessness which eats into the bud of
human life. Once more it was rumored that she was ill, and, but for
other and more absorbing subjects, Mrs. Gray might have been alarmed for
the safety of her child; but she was so intent on other things, that the
poor girl and her sufferings remained unheeded at home, save by the
gentle Phebe and her betrothed husband.
When Mrs. Gray invited our young minister to reside at her house, it was
probably with some vague expectation of the result which followed; and
when her consent was desired to his union with Phebe, it was given
promptly, and with evident satisfaction. But the young divine, though a
meek and true Christian, had a dignity of character and opinion which
sometimes proved at variance with the exactions of an ambitious and
arbitrary matron. She had expected that he would continue to reside in
her family, after the marriage, and looked forward to an extended
dominion in her own household, and increased influence in the church, to
be secured by this arrangement. But when he persisted in establishing an
independent home, in managing his own salary, and becoming the sole
protector of his future wife, whose state of moral servitude he could
not witness without pain, Mrs. Gray’s enthusiasm in favor of the match
gradually subsided, and when Malina insisted upon surrendering her newly
acquired property to the young couple, and giving them the parsonage for
a residence, the haughty woman became stern in her opposition, and while
she took every means to render her own house an unpleasant residence for
the parties, found some excuse to delay the wedding, from week to week,
and at last refused to sanction it, till Mr. Mosier should be regularly
installed in the pulpit, which he had now filled almost a year. Still
Mrs. Gray was not a woman to talk openly of a change in her opinions.
She was too calculating and subtle for useless words.
It had been settled in church council, that our young minister should be
installed a few weeks after the time appointed for his marriage, and the
young couple submitted to the imposed delay without a murmur. During
these intervening weeks, and while Malina was occupied in embellishing
the parsonage, Mrs. Gray was observed to be absent from home more
frequently than usual. There was scarcely an influential church member
near the old meeting-house, with whom she had not taken her knitting
work, to spend a social afternoon; and several tea-parties were given in
a quiet way at her own house, where she presided over the silver
tea-urn, and old fashioned china, with more than ordinary condescension
and dignity. But these were all impromptu meetings, and invariably took
place when Mr. Mosier and Phebe were invited elsewhere.
The parents of our young minister were aged and very respectable
farmers, residing in the vicinity of New Haven; but they were far from
wealthy, and the farm they cultivated was not their own property. A week
before the Sabbath appointed for the installation, Mr. Mosier
accompanied his intended bride and her mother on a visit to his parents,
where the haughty matron first learned that the man whom her daughter
was about to marry had been a _charity student_. A benevolent society
had paid his tuition at Yale College, at least that portion which he had
been unable to meet by his own exertions. There had been no concealment
of this truth on his part, for he had informed Phebe of the matter, and
believed Mrs. Gray already aware of it. But Phebe, in the generous
simplicity of her heart, never conceived it possible that the manner of
his education could be deemed a cause of reproach, and it had left no
impression on her mind; to her upright understanding there was no
degradation in the thought that her lover had been a _charity student_.
Mrs. Gray gave no demonstration of the displeasure which filled her
bosom on receiving this intelligence, but she quietly made an excuse for
returning home with her daughter the next day, and, with every
appearance of disinterested kindness, insisted that Mr. Mosier should
not interrupt his visit to accompany them. “She could easily drive
home,” she said, “the horse was gentle, and the roads perfectly good;
her son-in-law must remain with his family; it would be cruel to force
him away so abruptly.” Mrs. Gray said all this in her usual manner,
shook hands with the old people, allowed the young divine to assist her
into the chaise, and pretended to be very intently occupied in searching
for something in her traveling basket, while he placed Phebe in her
seat, and, with her slender hand clasped in his own, was whispering his
farewell.
“Remember, and be in readiness next Sabbath,” he said, in a low voice,
“tell Malina that she must take good care of you. I shall come on
Saturday evening.”
Phebe murmured that she would be ready; but as she returned the farewell
clasp of his hand, tears started to her eyes. She could not have told
the reason, but a strange feeling of melancholy came over her, and it
seemed as if the parting were forever. She looked back as the chaise
drove away—he was standing on the door step by his parents, and the
whole group waved their hands, smiling cheerfully, as they saw her turn
for a last glance. But still her heart was heavy.
What passed between Mrs. Gray and her daughter during their drive home,
we have no means of recording. But as Malina sat in her chamber window,
and saw the chaise toiling up the hill that afternoon, her sister leaned
forward, and she caught a glimpse of her face. It was white as marble,
and stained with tears. Malina had been ill, but she started up, hastily
girded her white morning wrapper to her waist, and went down. Mrs. Gray
loitered to give some directions to the “hired man” about her horse, and
Phebe was descending from the chaise without assistance. The moment her
foot touched the earth, she tottered, and would have fallen but for
Malina, who sprang forward, and flinging her arms around her, inquired
eagerly and kindly what had befallen her.
Phebe attempted to speak, but the words died on her lips, and the color
left them; she lifted her hand as if to grasp at something for support,
and fainted in her sister’s arms.
“Mother, what is the matter?—where is Mr. Mosier?—tell me, pray tell
me, what has made poor Phebe so ill, and why is she looking so
wretched?”
Mrs. Gray turned, and saw that her child was senseless.
“Go and bring some water,” she said to the man, “carry that basket in
with you, and make haste. Raise her head a little, you are crushing her
bonnet,” she continued, turning to Malina; “there, take it off—she will
come to, directly.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Gray calmly untied her daughter’s bonnet, and held it
till the man came with water, while Malina stood trembling beneath the
weight of the fainting girl, tenderly smoothing back the bright tresses
from her forehead, and wildly kissing her pale lips, amid a thousand
vague questions, which no one thought of answering.
Mrs. Gray took a pitcher of water from the man, who came panting from
the well, and laving her hands in it, laid them on the pale face which
Malina was still covering with tears and kisses. There was a faint
struggle, a gasping sigh, and after a little Phebe began to murmur upon
her sister’s bosom, like one just awaking from a dream. She shrunk from
her mother, when that stubborn woman would have assisted her to rise,
and clinging to Malina, walked with trembling steps toward the house.
“Oh, not there—up, to our own room, Malina,” said the poor girl, as her
sister would have led her into the parlor. She was obliged to sit down
more than once in ascending the stairs; and when at length Malina laid
her upon the bed in their own dear room, she looked sadly around, and
reaching up her arms, clasped the bending neck of her sister, and began
to weep.
“I must never see him again—never—never,” she said, while her voice
was broken with tears; “oh, Malina, did you think any human being could
be so cruel?”
Malina started, and for one instant a flash of pleasure broke into her
eyes. It was an unworthy feeling, and the next moment her face was
flooded with shame that she had known it; and when she sat down by her
sister, and besought her to say what had thus unnerved her, it was with
as true sympathy as ever warmed the heart of a noble and
self-sacrificing woman.
The cause of her sorrow was soon explained. Phebe had been commanded by
her arbitrary mother to give up all thoughts of a union with Mr. Mosier.
The gentle girl, for the first time in her life, had ventured to
expostulate with her parent. The hope of her young life was at stake,
and her heart trembled at the thought of separation from the man whom
she had learned to love so devotedly. It was all in vain. Mrs. Gray was
resolved, her prejudices were aroused, and to their gratification the
happiness of her child was as dust.
Phebe had been educated with almost holy reverence for the authority of
a parent, and though her heart broke, she dared not oppose her mother’s
command. Her spirit withered beneath it, like a flower trodden to the
earth, but she submitted. Not so Malina. Once more she ventured to
reason with and oppose her mother, but only to call down resentment on
her own head. This was no sudden resolution in Mrs. Gray; she had gone
steadily to work, and planned out her own results. She was one of those
cold pattern women who never know an impulse—whose virtues are
polished, like marble, and as cold. She had paved her way quietly and
well. The next morning, while her two children were sorrowing in their
room, she was driving from house to house, exerting her influence over
better hearts and weaker minds than her own, to the ruin of those who
had loved and trusted her. And while Phebe lay upon a sick bed, a vestry
council was called at the old meeting-house, and a decision passed by a
majority of a single man, which deprived our young minister of the
pulpit he was to have taken as his own the following Sabbath. Many good
and just men of the congregation protested against this cruel and unjust
act; but in churches, as in communities, the good and the merciful do
not always constitute a majority.
The decision of this church meeting was forwarded to Mr. Mosier, and
with it a letter from Mrs. Gray. The next morning he rode by our cottage
on horseback, slowly, and as one in deep and morbid thought. He crossed
the old bridge, and, as he did so, looked earnestly toward Mrs. Gray’s
dwelling. He paused a moment at the end, and then rode at a brisker pace
up the hill.
Phebe had been feverish, and very low, all that morning. Malina was
watching by her side, and as she lay with her eyes closed in an
imperfect slumber, the sound of a horse coming up the road made her
start from the pillow, and while her cheek burned with a more feverish
red, she fixed her eyes upon the open sash.
“It is he—I know it!” she said, clasping her hand, and looking into
Malina’s face; “I will get up; mother cannot refuse to let me see him
this once;” and with a kind of feverish joy the poor girl flung aside
the bed clothes, and stepped out on the floor. With trembling and eager
hands she gathered up her beautiful tresses, and began to braid them
about her head, earnestly beseeching Malina all the time to assist her
in getting ready to go down.
The kind hearted sister required no entreaty. She helped to array the
invalid, though her own breath came gaspingly, and her hands shook like
aspens in performing their duty.
“There, now—there, I am ready. See, do I look very ill, Malina?” said
the excited young creature, turning to her sister; “it will make his
heart ache to see how red my cheeks are. Do you think he will detect the
fever?” and dashing some lavender over her handkerchief with an
impetuosity all unlike her usual quiet movements, the half delirious
girl took her sister’s arm, and was hurrying from the room. But the
sound of a horse, rapidly passing the house, again came to her ear, and,
with a faint exclamation, she sprung to the window just in time to catch
a glimpse of her lover as he rode by. He lifted his face to the open
sash, and she saw that it was very pale. He saw her, checked his horse
an instant, half raised his hand, and then turning away with seeming
effort, he rode slowly down the hill.
“He is gone,” exclaimed the unhappy girl, “gone without a word, almost
without a look!”
And with a wavering step, Phebe Gray moved toward the bed, and amid the
confusion of her feverish thoughts, she called on Malina to come and
undo the bridal wreath which was girding her forehead so painfully.
But Malina was away. She had caught one glimpse at the pale face
uplifted to her window, and with a wild impulse to see the minister once
more, she flung a shawl over her head, and left the room. With the speed
of an antelope, she darted through the garden, and forcing a passage
through the brushwood which lined a hollow beyond, leaped down upon the
natural basin of granite, where the rock-spring poured its waves, just
as he had dismounted, and was proceeding to dip up the water in his
palm, and bathe his forehead with it. He looked care-worn and pale, and
the expression of his eyes, as he dropped the water from his hand, and
turned them suddenly on the young girl, was that of a strong heart in
ruins, and with its energies prostrated. He held forth his hand and
tried to smile, but the attempt was a painful one, and died in a faint
quiver of the lips.
Malina did not take his hand—she had no power—but stood with her left
foot half buried in the damp moss which lined the spring, and the other
planted hard against the granite basin; her hands clasped amid the
drapery of her shawl, and her eyes lifted to his, glittering with
excitement, and yet full of tears. The breath came pantingly through her
unquiet lips, and in the struggle of her emotions, the words of greeting
which she would have uttered, were broken into sobs.
“This is very kind of you, Miss Gray,” said the young clergyman, in a
low voice, which had something of proud constraint in its tones; “I
inquired for you at the house, but your mother informed me that you were
engaged, and that your sister did not wish to see me.”
“Not wish to see you!” exclaimed Malina, suddenly finding voice;
“Phebe—my poor Phebe—not wish to see you! Alas, for her, she cannot
see any one; this cruel business has broken her heart. Oh, Mr. Mosier,
why is it that such wrong can be done? why submit to it? what right has
my mother thus to interfere, to the unhappiness of her child?”
Mr. Mosier did not reply, his thoughts were far away, and, though he
gazed earnestly on the enthusiastic face lifted to his, Malina knew that
he was not thinking of her. She felt humbled, and turned away her face
as one who had been rebuked. So she stood gazing, with a look of patient
humility, on the waters sparkling in the basin at her feet, till at last
he aroused himself and spoke. But she, who felt every word he uttered as
if it were a tone of music, had no share in his speech or his thoughts.
Things all too precious for her were rendered to another, and she must
endure the pain.
“So she was ill, and _could_ not come. Yet she knew I was there, and sat
in the room all the time. I saw her at the window, and she looked—tell
me, Malina, my sweet, kind sister,” he added, suddenly, “did she wish to
see me?—would she come for a moment here or into the garden?”
The young man looked anxious, and his cheek flushed brilliantly as he
spoke, for the moment his well regulated mind had lost its balance, and
the passions of earth were strong within him. It was but for a moment;
before Malina had time to reply, the flush died from his face.
“No,” he added, with a sorrowful motion of the head, “it is wrong to
ask, foolish to desire an interview—comfort her, Malina, say that which
I cannot have permission to utter in her presence; say how deeply, how
earnestly I have loved her, how weary I am of the world, how lonely my
heart is now—say to her—alas! what message have I to send—I, who can
scarcely turn my face heavenward, the clouds are so dark that lie heaped
before me!”
These words were uttered in a tone of such despondency that Malina once
more lifted her eyes, and would have spoken words of encouragement which
she was far from feeling, for her own wretchedness seemed completed in
that of the beings she most loved; but, while her lips were parted, he
made a sudden effort at composure, and saying that all might yet be
well, in a broken and hurried voice, he drew Malina toward him and
stooped to press his lips to her forehead, without seeming conscious of
the act—but she was all too conscious, the blood rushed to her cheeks,
and she trembled in his arms like a frightened child. He saw it not, for
to his thought she was a sister only, and though his lips had pressed
her forehead for the first time, he did not think of it, but mounted his
horse and rode away before she had power to utter a word or make a
gesture to detain him.
He was gone forever, and she was alone—alone! how often is that word
misapplied; the loving and the loved are never alone—but so it was with
Malina Gray.